#Secret Equation Man

[yourfaveisfriendshaped]

math-a-magician from istation secret equation man

Math-a-Magician is friend-shaped!

[jdontevenknowwhatimdoing]

Justin Bieber looking ass

[jalapenoscumbag]

not making any promises to post more of my art to tumblr, but since a secret equation man fandom seems like its starting to bloom here's a piece i made for an irl friend of pie face

[sloppypears-ash-sg]

I made a Donnie SEM ai bot

Since I didn't see any Istation bots on character.ai, I made him!

[diltonsstrangescience]

I wasn’t sure what I was expecting from the “do it yourself experiments”, but I thought it’d probably be something like a baking soda volcano that everyone’s seen a million times. Dilton, I’m sorry I doubted you and the publishers of comic books from the 80s. This is actually legitimately really cool.

[draxula]

is there a missus? | b. barnes

pairing: bucky barnes x fem!thunderbolt!reader

word count: 2.2k

warnings: nothing major. minor mentions of violence. not so secret secret wife. possible thunderbolts spoilers.

summary: bucky isn't coming clean about something. no matter how many times he's poked and prodded, he won't admit to his wrong doings.

author’s note: first fic in years. thunderbolts has done something to me. something short and sweet to kick it off.

Secrets would never make friends. 

They would only create division. Discontent amongst the already wound tight group, leaving room for far too much speculation. While they had slowly come to accept each other, it was still an uphill battle even on good days.

Knives, for the most part, were kept sheathed. Guns were kept holstered. Communication kept this misfit band afloat. Secrets would only bring it down.

And Bucky Barnes? He definitely had a secret.

Yelena, as she would later claim, was the first to notice. It was the soft upturn of his lips. A type of softness that looked out of place on his usual annoyed expression. The crinkling around his eyes as he stared down at his phone. A soft, breathless chuckle that doesn’t sound like it should come from him.

Jokes about his age danced on the tip of her tongue. It was low hanging fruit. It was far too easy to poke jabs about how he might need to get a better prescription to see the text. Or, if he wanted, she could help make his text bubbles bigger. Those jokes would be better directed at someone with a confused expression. 

John notices it a few days after her. This time that soft gaze of his isn’t directed at his phone but instead at you. Bob sits in between your feet, head tilted back into your hands as you work on detangling his hair. Self-care, as you preached to the rest of the Thunderbolts, was important. Something Bob was deprived of.

If looks could kill, John assumed that Bob would have been flat out on the floor. He should have been with the way Bucky was glaring.

His brows are pinched together, frown evident across his features. This time, there’s a quick downturn of his lips, quietly chewing on the inside of his cheek. Jealousy. An emotion John was surprised Bucky could even feel - let alone directing said emotion towards someone like Bob out of all people.

Now that he thought about it, the two of you have never been completely clear on the past. You came with Bucky. It was almost like a packaged deal, the two of you for the cost of one. Something or other about how to the two of you had been partner in the past. Whatever it was, John hadn’t been particularly listening to it. None of that felt very important at the time. Especially given the fact he hadn’t felt his little group would last any longer than a day.

The Void, and the subsequent voiding of New York, had been a far pressing matter.

Now, as John sits here, equating that expression on Bucky’s face to a man so bitterly jealous of the affection another man is getting, he can’t ignore the alarms sounding in his head.

-

Bucky could feel the stares from across the room. At first, he doesn’t want to look up. He doesn’t want to indulge them in whatever it is they have to pester him with today. As long as the city wasn’t on fire or flooding or both, he didn’t necessarily care in initiating conversation.

“Barnes.”

He groans, finally looking up. “Walker.”

It’s a relatively small exchange of works. Bucky knew he couldn’t look that busy with his phone in his hand. Even he knew his relaxed expression would do little convey that there was some pressing matter he needed to attend to. Nor did he think he could get away with claiming it was Valentina out of all people.

There was no way such a soft expression would be reversed for that woman. Besides, the way he was lazily thumbing through his texts conveyed it was someone he enjoyed talking to. When had he ever been thrilled to talk to Valentina.

“Who ya talkin’ to?” It’s a juvenile question. One that Bucky doesn’t even want to dignify with an answer of any kind. It would only add fuel to the fire he suspected was already burning. While they joked about how old he was, their conversations weren’t exactly falling on deaf ears.

“Your mom.” Comes Yelena’s response from across the room. A small chuckle from Ava’s direction follows shortly after. 

“No no - she wouldn’t talk to him. She would have better standards than this rough around the edges Jesus look.” John, for once, does well not to let it get too under his skin. There were far more pressing questions to be asked. A simple ‘your mom’ joke wouldn’t derail him from his quest of truth.

John, after a second or two of thinking, can only conclude that it must be you on the other end. Those stupid little looks were reserved for both you and his phone when you weren’t in the same room.

“You two are married, aren’t you?”

Bucky rolls his shoulders back in a shrug, tossing his phone to the side. As hard as he tries to appear as he doesn’t care, it’s a poor attempt. “I think something as big as that would be hard to hide, don’t you think?”

“Yes because an ex-assassin would have such a hard time hiding something so important.” Ava calls. From first look, it hadn’t looked like she was listening in on the conversation from behind her magazine. Yet as her eyes flicker above the pages, there’s obviously a look of amusement and intrigue. “Let alone the ex-assassin.”

“If that was my wife, everyone would know. No one would keep me quiet.” It’s Alexei’s voice this time. He slouches father down into the couch, lazily tilting his head to get a better view of the T.V. His hands jerk up into the air, waving them around as he speaks. “What kind of man keeps his wife a secret?”

“Alexei - you don’t get a say in the matter.”

“‘Lena, what I say is the truth. He should be proud.”

“Yeah yeah yeah. Stop taking the attention off of Bucky and his secret wife.” John continues. “Where is she anyway?”

“The grocery store.”

“So you know her each and every move?” 

“You just asked me where she was. Did you not hear her before she left? She’s getting food for all of us.”

"Oh yeah? You sure she's not out for just you."

“Besides you don’t keep up with the rest of us like that.” Yelena corrects. “Alexei was missing for days before you noticed. How did you not notice that?”

“To be fair, none of us really noticed it. The peace and quiet was almost too good to be true.”

“Ava - do not help him. He needs to tell the truth.”

Bucky huffs, rubbing his temples. Theses conversations were getting more and more exhausting by the minute. “There is no truth to tell. You guy are all making something out of nothing.”

“If it’s nothing, why are you getting so defensive over it?” 

Defensive wasn’t the word he would have used. Protective maybe. Secretive perhaps. But never ever defensive. That would insinuate that he wasn’t proud of his life decisions. That he wasn’t proud of you. Defensive would make him come off as insecure and unsure. Two things he would never ever feel about you.

“Look - you better text her if there’s anything you want. I’m not going back out for anything any of you forgot.” And that, for now, is enough to halt the conversation.

-

The secret was becoming harder and hard to keep. It was beginning to bubble over more and more with each passing day. His glances were becoming a little too longing. The way you laughed at his jokes was a little too sweet. The two of you stole glances at each other’s lips a little too often.

Things eventually were going to come to a head. Unsurprisingly, one bad mission was all it needed. One time of him limping back into the tower was all it took for things to come undone.

It was supposed to be a simple mission. One that was supposed to be finished within a day. Maybe two at the maximum. By the time he, Yelena and John returned, you have been festering just long enough in your own anxiety to forget any safe guards put around your relationship. And that came out in the way you said his name.

“James Barnes.” His government name, missing only his middle initial. He considered himself lucky for that. At the same time it was a government name no one else was allowed to use.

He didn’t want anyone else muttering his name. No one else could compare to the way you said it so breathlessly. Even as you marched over, hands placed firmly on your hips, you still managed to say his name so perfectly. So much so, he forgets where he is for the time being. As well as those standing to his side.

“What?”

“Don’t you dare ‘what’ me. Look at you.”

He flexes his fingers a few times, trying to find his words. What could he say to get you to drop the topic. Was there anything? He knew how you could be. Insisting on worrying about each and every little mishap. Despite being s supersoldier, you never failed to drive home the point that each day could be his very last. He wouldn’t dare to leave you alone like that, would he?

“I know, honey. I’m sorry.” It slips out of his mouth before he can stop himself. A small attempt to cool you off has ruined months and months of guarding a very personal secret. One he didn’t want broadcasted on every news station and outlet.

Somewhere a few steps ahead of him, he hears a loud sputter. John has stopped dead in his tracks, slowly turning to face you. Even with all his bruises and blood crusted to both his nose and lips, it’s easy to see the shift in his expression. It first goes from shock to realization then to joy.

“I knew it!”

“You have got to be kidding me. You were right.” Yelena can barely bring herself to sit down, sliding down the nearest wall onto her bum.

“You owe me and Bob ten bucks.”

“When did Bob get in on it?”

Bucky can feel his head throb. The yelling going on all around him does little to help. To know the team was now placing bets on his love life caused his skin to crawl. What would be next? Were they going to start taking bets on who would die first?

At the same time, he can’t find it in him to particularly care all that much. He’s too busy trying to come to terms with your anger. Now that you’re closer to him, he can definitely make out all the creases to your expression. Anger. Disappointment. Concern. He wasn’t sure which one won out against all the others.

“How long?” Yelena asks.

“How long for what?” Bucky retorts.

If he had it his way, he would continue deflecting until the day he died. Even as you move to sit him down on the closest couch, with your hands already frantically working to strip him of what bloody clothing you can, he would continue to deny it.

“You called her honey.”

“I’m delirious.” He continues. “It’s the bloodloss.”

He was as stubborn as they came. With a huff, you cut your eyes at him, grimacing at both the sight and feel of blood beneath your fingertips. “Can this conversation not wait? You two look like you’ve had better days. Bucky is claiming he’s lost that much blood. Bob looks like he might puke - please sit down dear, maybe away from them.”

“How long has it been?”

“A while.” You reply, squatting down in front of Bucky to get a better look at his torso. The largest gash is enough to cause your stomach to churn. All in all, it wasn’t that bad of a wound. It was more so the fact of who the said wound was on.

“How long is a while?”

“Two years?”

“Actually it’ll be three in a few weeks.”

“Right…I forgot. I’ve been having to keep up with them.”

Three years. He couldn’t believe it. Three years of marriage kept so tightly guarded that the rest of the group had begun to think they were making it all up. That they had to be hallucinating there was something going on between the two of you. The gas lighting coming from Bucky needed to be studied - should be studied. His nonchalant nature he brushed everything off with was almost… Concerning.

“You lied to us.”

Bucky shakes he head from side to side, denying the accusations that are thrown his way. As much as he wants to argue back, to claim that he has never once lied to them, he’s far too busy thinking about your fingertips against his skin. He would rather the two of you be in your rooms, conveniently placed across the hall from each other. In the dead of night, room swaps were made, sneaking into each other’s beds like love sick teenagers.

“I’ve never really be very good at keeping secrets.” You say, motioning for Bucky to lift his arms. As he does so, you twist him this way and that way, searching for any wounds that might be hidden in the curves of his body. Satisfied when you find none, you allow him to relax.

“It was bound to come out at some point.”

Secrets weren’t ever going to last very long in this tower anyway. The close proximity you all lived together would make things like that difficult. High stress situations were bound to cause things to come to a head - whether you liked it or not.

“Now that that’s out of the way - why aren’t you wearing a ring? Are you ashamed?”

Bucky can only sigh. There were far worse things than his secrets being exposed.

[bakuhve]

i just. i just think katsuki would be the absolute best boyfriend in the world.

but at the same time… like.. it’s gonna take a fat minute to get to that point. my katsuki and reader are always gonna have the dynamic of she fell first and hard but he fell absolutely harder. like face smashed into the ground, concrete cracked beneath his body, harder.

your story was never mutual love at first sight, no. you fell first. the kind of fall that leaves you breathless and stumbling, but still willing to get up and run straight toward him again.

you admired katsuki in every way imaginable. his strength, his drive, the way he never wavered even when the whole world seemed to be against him. your admiration turned into something deeper, something that made your heart squeeze and stomach flip. and you didn’t bother hiding your crush.

why should you? why would you ever keep your adoration for the man you loved a secret?

so you let it show. you gravitated towards him during class breaks, in the little favors you did for him without him asking, in the shameless way you told him over and over again that you liked him.

but back then, katsuki was an idiot.

a dumbass so hyper-focused on hero training and his own ambitions that he barely spared a thought for anything else. he knew you had a crush on him- how could he not? but at the time, he equated it to nothing more than annoying persistence. some stalkerish, over eager need to be by his side.

and oh, how he wants to throttle his past self for thinking this way.

because somewhere along the line, after countless battles, after seeing you at your highest highs and lowest lows, after realizing that no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t shake you off- he started to not mind your presence.

then he started looking for it.

started craving it.

and like that, he fell.

only by the time he realized it, you weren’t the one constantly chasing anymore.

now it was him hovering near you at all times, subtly making excuses to be closer. he stole glances, catching himself staring at your hands and wondering what it would be like to just hold them.

and when you finally got together, when it turned into something real, katsuki was left fumbling into unfamiliar territory.

because he had no experience being this stupidly and sickeningly in love.

was he doing this right? was he too much? was he not enough? what the hell did a girl like you see in him?

and most of all, were his hands too damn clammy to be holding yours right now?

but then you squeeze his hand. and he squeezes yours back.

and just like that, all his doubts settle. because you’re his person. and he’s yours.

but yeah anyways lovesick reader and even more lovesick katsuki on top

[yunzyoi]

𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐃𝐚𝐦𝐧 𝐍𝐨𝐬𝐞 (s.jy)

[NSFW] That Damn Nose [Pt. 1] - jake x f!reader

𓂃۶ৎ [ 제이크] You were just trying to survive the last High School year. Just trying to get your shit together, trying be ready to be an adult. But you had one single distraction. Jake Sim, your math teacher.

٠࣪⭑ cw/tags: smut, soft!dom math teacher jake and sub f!reader student. almost no plot, porn, face riding, fingering, age gap (just two years), dirty talk, pussy eating, teasing, squirting, classroom, mdni. don't read if uncomfortable.

٠࣪⭑ wc: 2.1k

You had a huge crush on your math teacher since the year started. But what would you do if he felt the same attraction? ᯓ★

୨ৎ

You've always been an organized student. Good grades, smart, liked by every teacher. When the Senior Year started, you met your new Math teacher: Jake Sim. Oh, if only he knew the big fat crush you've got on him since the semester started. If only he knew about the secret pictures you got of him. If only he knew about the stalk account you cteated only to check his personal instagram.

Worse, if only he knew about the times you've rushed to the restroom right after his period just to get yourself off because you get so fucking wet at the sound of his voice. Even worse, if only he knew how there was not a single night in the entire year where you didnt touch yourself to his name and came like a fucking fountain. It was all your little secret, your little obsession. And you'd take it with you to graduation, and into college.

Jake was a young math teacher, he was 20, still in college but already imparting classes to High School students. He wasn't really trying to impress, never even tried to look at his students in a flirty way. Although you're sure he knows half the class is into him. But god it was just not normal, not healthy. You weren't just into him, you were at his feet. You'd do anything, anything at all to hear a damn praise from him.

That's part of the reason you did so good in his class, because every time that man passed by your desk, looked at your work and whispered a "good job" your entire system turned upside down. Your body shivering, your pussy pulsating, your legs squeezing together, wet at his look of approval, at his mere attention.

You just didn't know it, but on his side, Jake did. Jake knew how bad down you were for him. He loved seeing that blush spread across your cheeks when he landed his eyes on you every afternoon. He loved to see you working your brain off in class, for him, to get his attention, to get that little praise. That little praise he only gave you and no one else. "Good job" he whispered reading your sheet. "Adjust the equations, tho" And he walked away.

Legs pressed together, wet, for him, again.

God, it was the beginning of the class and you knew you were soaking wet for him already. He was walking around, checking last class' work wearing that V neck button up and square glasses.

You could melt looking at him, his face was like sculpted, brown eyes, thick lips, hair falling down. And then, that damn nose. It was that damn nose what made your mind spin around the idea of getting his face messy with your pussy. Riding his face was your dirtiest fantasy, along with riding his dick, of course. But no, you did not just wanted to ride his face, you wanted to leave him fucked up, ruin that pretty face for anyone else.

You sigh, shakily, coming back to reality when you smell his perfume too close. He was next to you again. Jake leans in, smirks trying to hide it. "Your sheet is blank" He says, his low voice mixed with that accent almost made you cum in that instant. "Do you need help with it?" You look at the sheet, but your thoughts are just raising more and more with each word that comes out of those pink, thick lips. You need him so badly you don't even know what he's saying.

You nod, not really knowing what you're nodding at. He chuckles and you shiver. "Stay after class"

It's not like you haven't noticed too. You can't lie to yourself. Sometimes you wanna believe you're delusional but sometimes, right after cumming to his name in your bed, you think about the way he acts around you. When he glancea at you, the smirk on his lips when you trip over your words. The tension is palbable. But you don't wanna admit it.

The class ends and you stand up gathering your things, totally forgetting that you'd stay after class. Jake calls your last name and you look up, meeting his eyes. You're almost shaking with the need to rush to the restroom and get off.

"Yes, Mr. Sim?" You gulp, now that you're alone with him in the classroom, he's staring at you, only at you.

"The worksheet" He reminds you but since you were too busy thinking of all the ways he could fuck you and how you'd let him, you have no idea what he's talking about. He notices and walks to you. "You said you needed some help with it, remember?"

You nod, not even sure but whatever you say, handsome. He nods and walks to his desk inviting you to follow him and you do with your worksheets. He sits down, adjusting his glasses, making your heart go wild. He looks up about to explain. You're barely holding it together, so close to him, god you could sit on his lap. You imagine it, sitting on his lap, grinding, feeling his dick get hard. Your lips part, a sigh escaping your lips. He notices.

Jake was always too aware of your presence, he sensed everything. Every move, every breath. Whenever you'd shake, when your eyes flick between his eyes and his lips, when you lick your own lips. Too aware, so much that it drives him crazy. He adjusts himself in the chair, praying hard not to get a boner right there. So unprofessional of him to be this attracted to one of his students. But he couldn't help it, you were so perfect. He laid his eyes on you since day one. Smart, cute, so easy to tease.

"You okay?" He asks. He knows you're not but settles with your little nod as an answer.

He starts explaining. But whatever he's saying about equations is nonsense in your brain right now. Your entire body is just vibrating at the sound of his voice and his thick accent. At the movementes of his hands gripping the pen over the paper. The veins pop slightly, without even flexing. Your legs feel like jelly. You know damn well that you crave him more than anything right now. The man that makes you have the best orgasms of your life at night when you're alone, is now one step away. Your mind raises, imagining how would it be to straddle him right now. To unzip his pants. To work him, to ride him.

"God you seriously gonna be like this?" He says. it throws you off. You snap out looking at him, confused. He smirks, corner of his lips curling up, teasing.

"What?"

Jake knows he should stay quiet, he knows he should ignore whatever is happening between the two of you. But he can't. He's tried, for months. But let's say you're not the only one having wild thoughts in class. His breath hitches when he hears you gasp. His hands aching to touch you. He chuckles, he just can't hide it anymore.

"Look at you, you can barely keep it together when you're in front of me." You heart dropped, sinked into the ground. What the hell did he just said. He didnt let you say anything. His knuckles brushed your inner wrist. The single ghost of his touch sending a jolt of electricity through your body. God you need him and you know it. And Jake knows it.

"Come here" He says, imviting, turning slightly his chair to face you. You walk closer, no hesitation, settling between his legs. He looks up, his breath failing to go through completely. You were so breathtaking like this. You chocked on your breath when you felt his hand on your waist.

Was this really happening?

Was Jake Sim, your Math Professor, really holding your waist with his big veiny hand and looking up at you with wild eyes.

Yes, this was real, so real that you couldn't breath. A second hand places on the other side of you waist, pulling you in, his chin resting on your belly. "You're such a bad actress" He whispers. "I can feel from a mile away the way you want me"

Fuck.

Goddamn. Your hands moved shakily to his shoulders. You were touching him now, god, a fucking dream already. He chuckled. "You're so nervous." He looks up. "Or perhaps so turned on?"

Oh lord. Your body was screaming to be touched. you squeezed your thighs. So wet. For him. And he nuzzled your belly, his hands slowly moving to slide up your top. His nose brushing your skin sending jolts of pleasure through your body. You gasp softly and Jake smirks, because he knows how bad you want him. He presses his lips on your stomach, a soft kiss, smiling after. You felt like your body was going to explode. He kept placing gentle kisses on your stomach, your hands tangling up in his hair while his hands moved to your bare thighs, sliding up, higher and higher, under your skirt.

You whined. Whined his name, his actual first name that you were not allowed to call him. And he loved it. He loved the way it came out from the deep bottom of your throat. Loved how it sounded fragile and innocent, sweet like fucking honey, yet so sinful. His hands moved higher until they reach your panties. Oh, Oh, What?

"Jake— Mr. Sim" You correct yourself and he chuckles.

"Shh, Jake is okay" He whispers and looks up as he tugs his fingers on the waistband of your panties. "Can I?" He asks, politely, willing to stop if you said no. It turned you on even more the fact that he can be so respectful. But you nodded. Yes.

He pulls them down half your thighs and looks down. Pink lacy panties soaked in your arousal. He bit his lips, all he wanted all year was to do this. His hands move higher again, reaching your pussy, fingers eager, tingling. "You're so wet" He whispers. You know it. He's the reason.

"All because of me" He says, cocky, teasing you, proud. "Will you let me help you?" You should've felt embarrassed at the desperate way in which you nodded. But you didn't, too lost in the feeling of his big hands around your thighs.

Before you know it, Jake is on his knees, in front of you, and your panties have been completely removed. You shiver, gasping at the sight. He leans and kisses your thighs moving to the inner side of them. "Open up" And you do it, spreading your legs a little, just so half his face fits. He can smell it, your arousal. His headd is under your skirt, you can feel his hot breath against your pussy.

Jake feels his cock straining his pants at the mere sight of your pussy. Damn he's been waiting for this for months. He presses a kiss on your clit making you gasp, followed by a lick. In a quick move, he puts your left leg over his shoulder and you have to hold onto the desk not to fall. Your breath cuts at a moan, loud, unexpected. His tongue, warm, wet, against your folds. He's licking you up, from your entrance to your clit and the other way around.

It's your first time actually, being eaten out. Not that it really matters but damn you were missing out. Or maybe not, maybe Jake Sim was simply good at eating pussy. So good that your legs are already shaking from the way his tongue is fucking your entrance and he rubs his face slightly against your pussy.

Jake is delighted. God, he never tasted a pussy so good in his life. Not a single pussy tasted as good as yours, it was somehow addictive. He just wanted to keep his tongue buried deep inside you. "Ride me" He whispers, sounding a little too desperate but luckily you were too distracted moaning his name.

"What?" You ask confused.

Jake noticed and relaizes this is probably the first time you find yourself in this situation. "Move your hips against my face, baby, rub it all over"

Your heart snaps when he calls you baby and asks you to do that. You fall into realization that this is your fucking fantasy becoming reality. Riding Jake's face. That perfect face, sharp nose, thick lips. Oh but again, that nose, lord, you could swear that god made his nose specifically to ride it. And you do, not completely experienced, but just doing what feels good. You can feel him doing his part, holding your hips, giiding you a little. Jake sucks your clit hard making you moan, having to cover your own mouth. This felt like a fucking wet dream, except that it was real. Wet and real.

You grab his hair roughly, grinding your pussy on his face, coating it with your sticky juices. You moan, now you're just getting off against his face, and he's absolutely loving it. Like a starved man. Like someone who have been in the dessert for 5 days with no water nor food. You feel yourself getting close, so close. What absolutely wreckes you, is when he slides his fingers in.

Fuck, it felt different from when you used your own fongers. His were longer, thicker, hitting places you can't reach yourself. his fingers curl up while you grind and it hits you, absolutely destroying you. You not only orgasm, you squirt all over his face. In fact, ruining his pretty face. You pant, still pulling at his hair, pussy clenching on his fingers, tongue against your folds.

"Fuck" He whispers. "Fucking heaven"

[Part 1] ₍^. .^₎⟆ - you're here ! (˶˃⤙˂˶)

[Part 2] ₍^. .^₎⟆

[Part 3] ₍^. .^₎⟆

[Prof Jake] ₍^. .^₎⟆

© yunzyoi 2025. all rights reserved.

[moonchild9350]

Napping With Stray Kids

Summary: Just my thoughts on napping with Skz!

Pairing: OT8 idol Stray Kids x reader

Word Count: 881

Genre: fluff, suggestive

Warnings: none (shocking for me lol)

Notes: This was fun to write and had to put something together real quick before life gets busy again! I'm happy this came up in our convos @jeonginsleftcheek! I hope you guys like it!

Likes, reblogs, and comments welcomed as always :)

Please do not copy, translate, modify, use, or repost this work elsewhere without my permission. ©moonchild9350 (2024)

Bangchan We all know Bangchan has insomnia and doesn’t sleep well or much at all but he’s more than happy to at least try to nap with you if you suggest it. He’ll hold off on his never ending to do list, because he’ll do anything for his baby girl. You snuggle into his arms, as he pulls the blankets up and around you to keep you warm. His fingers lightly drag up and down your spine, soothing you. He’ll even sing you a song to help you fall asleep if you want. Tucking your head into his chest, your breathing starts to slow as you fall asleep. Chan tries, he really does, to fall asleep and nap with you but he’s perfectly content watching you sleep in his arms.

Lee Know I’m convinced that if you try to nap with Minho, sleep won’t come right away. He’ll try and tickle you knowing how ticklish you are, giggling as you squirm and grab a pillow to throw it at him. He’ll tackle you and press kisses all over your face while you laugh and tell him to stop (even though you don’t want him to, not really). After retrieving the pillows off the floor, you’ll both settle in, Minho wrapping his arms around your waist and snuggling his head into your neck. If you’re lucky the kids will come nap with you guys too, Soonie napping by both of your heads, Doongie at your feet, and Dori snuggling into your side.

Changbin Changbin would be one to be watching videos on his phone like tik tok or YouTube and would giggle every two seconds at something funny. Every time you close your eyes to nap, his giggle would fill the room causing you to open your eyes and laugh back with him. You can’t help it, he’s just so darn cute! Eventually you do fall asleep, your head resting on your chest. Binnie notices you’re asleep (which is a miracle honestly because the man can’t multitask to save his life) and tries his best not to make a sound, you just look so peaceful and he wants to make sure his baby gets plenty of rest.

Hyunjin I believe that napping with Hyunjin would be the most poetic? Like you’re all curled up in his bed, blanket wrapped around you, your hair fanned out on his pillow. He’s sitting at his desk painting, cause when is he not. But you don’t mind. You watch him for a while, the way his hands move around the paper, the little face he makes when the color doesn’t come out the way he wants. You eventually drift off to sleep. Hyunjin notices, and smiles, happy you’re here with him. Little do you know, you’re sleeping form is the subject of his painting, as he thinks you look like an angel.

Han Han is the certified nap man, this is no secret. He is always down for a nap, add you in the equation and he’s the happiest man on earth. He’ll pull you into his arms, pressing sweet kisses and nuzzling his head into your neck. It doesn’t take long for you both to fall asleep. You’re just so cute together. And bonus points for the members if you guys fall asleep at the studio. They’re ohhhing and awwing at you two love birds, fast asleep together.

Felix On his off days, he’s at his computer, playing Genshin. It’s really the only time he has to play. But the moment you come over, he logs off and he goes to snuggle with you. You love looking at Felix’s face, tracing his freckles while he looks deep into your eyes. You’re both just so in love with each other. Your eyes slowly close, perfectly content in his arms. Felix would lean down to press a kiss on your nose, before closing his own eyes. He finds he sleeps best when you’re by his side.

Seungmin Now Seungmin could go both ways when it comes to napping with you. He could be a total menace by poking your face and tickling you. Making fun of your protests (lovingly of course) and not letting you sleep. Or he could be the exact opposite, a sweet puppy, pulling you close and softy singing you a song to help lull you to sleep. Either way he will end of falling asleep with you, mind blown at how he could have ended up with such a sweet person as you.

I.N. Now Jeongin is a middle child and hates skinship, this we all know. But I’m convinced if he’s going to snuggle and fall asleep with someone it’s you, the love of his life. It’s different when you touch him, he craves your touch more than he thought possible. He makes sure you’re all tucked in, nice and warm, but not so much so that he can’t feel you anymore. You’ll laugh at his actions, telling him you’re fine as long as he’s there. He doesn’t listen, he wants to make sure you have a nice rest and being warm and comfortable is part of that. To top it all off, he’ll drape your legs over his, and wrap his arms around you as you both drift off to sleep.

Taglist: @jehhskz @jeonginsleftcheek

[shypotatoes013-blog]

Can we fucking talk about this?

I may sound really bad when I say this but it pisses me off to no end that we can’t have this game without men crying for a male mc option or trying to erase the MC. Like no??? This game isn’t for you. The creators made it FOR AFAB PEOPLE specifically. We don’t have shit like that.

It’s always inclusivity this, inclusivity that.

There is PLENTY of BL and other games dedicated to people who enjoy that type of content. Go play it, go read it.

I used to like yaoi. I preferred it over hetero at one point but like there’s liking and then there is projecting in places and insisting everyone else get behind it. You just don’t fucking do that??

Is it really SO BAD that AFAB have something for themselves? Do you have to belittle us and erase us so badly that we just have no spaces for ourselves?

And then saying they’d have better chemistry with another man. 😭 Have you heard the secret times? Have you read the stories or the cards? They are absolutely infatuated with the female body (and I know I used female here I’m sorry but that’s what mc is portrayed as in game.)

It’s not a contest. You can like them, headcanon them with another man. You can do whatever because they’re fictional just STOP ERASING WOMEN. We are allowed to exist in media.

I’m sorry for anyone reading this. I can’t articulate this the way I want to. It just makes me so mad that we deal with so much misogynistic bullshit and can’t have anything. I don’t go around trying to assert myself in spaces that weren’t made for me and I can’t understand why this isn’t an understood concept.

Edit: Also in reblogs

I've already expressed that I did not know how to articulate at the time either and my intention is not to make enemies of anyone. I admit that I could have waited to word that better, thanks for the input. It wasn't well received by my very trans friend either, but she has corrected me on the usage of the term AFAB, amongst other things.

However, I do not care that they want or wish for representation. It's the aggressiveness that some of them exude that is off putting. It's not fair I used general and pointed language and I'll take full accountability.

The erasure is completely removing the MC from the equation when she is the central point of the game. It literally revolves around her. And it was said that she lacks chemistry and that the men would have more chemistry with another man.

Opinions are fine, but when you're deadass serious just because you can't stand to see a female with the LI, that's different and THATS what I'm talking about.

I expressed that it's fine in headcanon and fanfiction because it is fiction. I don't have an issue with that, if you'd read that instead of jumping to that conclusion. I don't give a shit that people ship them together or with other men.

I don't care that they even ship themselves, but the actual hate, and in all seriousness, in lads fandom is an actual thing. It is the lack of acknowledgment that they're (the shitheads) still coming into the fandom and demanding a front row seat because it's "not fair!"

The screens I provided aren't mine. It was sent from a friend, but this is not the first instance I have seen of this and regardless of if it was a joke, it sometimes doesn't feel that way. I could have tempered myself, but I am also tired of tempering my rage.

[jdontevenknowwhatimdoing]

[jalapenoscumbag]

hey have i said hear me out yet....

(whiteboard fox sketch)

i wasn't using istation when math-a-magician and spider queen were added to the game, but i wish i did

the absolute chokehold this silly little old man has on me is insane

[gay-dorito-dust]

Can you please do some headcanons of a reader who was dating Ford before he went into the portal and after stayed at gravity falls to help Stanley with the portal. Mabel calls reader their great aunt/uncle. Basically how they would interact with the twins and Stan! (And a little reunion with Ford if you feel up to it 🤭)

Watching helplessly as Ford got sucked into the portal hurt but what hurt more was thinking that you’ll never see the man you first met way back in college again, that he was lost to wherever that portal lead towards. That and the utter desperation on Stan’s face as he tried to pulling and pushing the heavy lever, looking back at the portal in hopes that it did something; it didn’t the portal remained dead.

You felt as though the wind was knocked out of you when you saw him vanish before your eyes, unable to do anything to stop it due to the distance between the two of you. You thought you had heard your heart break that day also when you felt the first string of tears fall from your eyes as you collapsed on the floor of the disheveled lab, only to be pulled into Stan’s arms as he too cried for the loss of his brother.

‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, we’ll get him back I promise you.’ He said again your shoulder as you both wept in the other’s arms. All you could think about was Ford and your memories with him.

Ford was gone and both you and Stan were left wishing this was all a bad dream before banding together in order to bring Ford back, the pain of loosing him was enough to give you and Stan a reason to stay in Gravity Falls, even when everything reminded you of Ford’s hard work and exploration into the unknown.

Even when you held his journals against your chest tight while looking for a place to hide them forever as per Ford’s instruction, only to settle to hide one in a secret compartment on Ford’s workbench. Going so far as to scattering the third one deep in the woods and the second journal god knows where in the hope that no one, not a single soul ever comes across them, all the while you and Stan spent a large chunk of your lives trying to withhold the biggest secret in known history.

Your relationship with Stan was not the greatest to begin with but after a brief moment on the rooftop of the shack, where he’d ask you what his brother was like, seeing as how at this point you knew his brother on a more intimate level then he did after so long with no contact with one another.

‘He’s like an enigma, a complex equation that couldn’t be easily solved, so complex yet simple that it made figuring him out all the more harder but it was made worth it in the end.’ You tell him with a smile on your face.

‘Sounds like Stanford alright.’ Stan muses as memories of his childhood with Ford flooded his mind. You hummed in agreement before looking up at the stars before noticing a familiar constellation. ‘Orion.’ You then said out of the blue.

‘What?’ Stan replied, confused as he searched the sky for the constellation you were on about.

‘One of Ford’s favourite constellations is Orion alongside the Ursa Major constellation.’ You explained to him before feeling a sense of melancholy filled your chest upon realising that Ford wasn’t here to gush over the multiple fact he knew about the infamous constellation.

‘Oh.’ Was all Stan said as he finally managed to spot the constellation you were talking about with fondness. You looked over to him and gave him a reassuring squeeze of the shoulder. ‘I’m sorry you lost your brother again.’ You say softly as Stan tries to hide his emotions by waving you off.

‘I’m sorry you lost your boyfriend.’ He echoed the sentiment as you both went back to watching the Orion constellation in comfortable peace, both hoping that wherever Ford was he was seeing his favourite constellation too in a desperate attempt to feel some connection to him again. From then on you and Stanley became somewhat friends that acted like siblings more often then not with the rough housing, the pranks and the occasional want to punch a shitty little teenager, he would often times call you his in-law on some occasions when it was just you and him in the shack.

‘I wish Ford would’ve married you.’ Stan tells you on the anniversary of the day Ford went through the portal. ‘Then you could’ve been my in law for real but I guess that doesn’t matter because I already see you as my annoying in law already, my family.’ He admits and you playfully punch his shoulder while feeling sentimental over his causal declaration.

‘Shut up you big goof ball.’ You said with a chuckle as you wiped away your tears. ‘You’re my family too and have been for a long while.’ You added.

You were there with Stan when Mason (Dipper) and Mable were born, you both loved the kids so much that you tried to leg it with them once because neither of you wanted to put them down for a single second. This had soon became a story you loved to retell the twins when they came to stay with you and Stan in Gravity Falls.

‘Grunkle/ great aunt y/n!’ Mabel cried as she dropped her bags before quickly running to you as you bend down to hold her close.

‘My little shooting star!’ You greeted her with equal excitement, pressing kisses to her forehead as she chuckled. ‘How have you been? Done anything fun and fabulous recently?’

‘Only bedazzle dippers face when he was sleeping once.’ Mabel stared proudly as you saw Dipper pout and his cheeks grow red from embarrassment. ‘Don’t tell grunkle/ great aunt y/n that! I spent a week trying to get those plastic rhinestones off of my face.’ He grumbled as he rubbed his cheek as though he was still trying to get the fake Rhinestones off of his face.

You chuckled at them and can’t help but be reminded of the stories Stan told you of him and Ford when they were younger, dipper and Mabel were more alike to their grunkles then they’ll ever know but you’d like to say you even saw bits of yourself in them also.

‘Well I’m sure we’re going to do a whole lot more bedazzling but just not on people’s faces.’ You said while pinching Mabel’s cheeks, causing her to laugh and swat her hands at you. ‘That tickles.’ She cries as you stop pinching and poking her cheeks to hold her hand as you both walk over to Dipper, just to lift his hat and ruffle his hair playfully. ‘And how’s my Little smart Dipper doing.’ You greeted as Dipper’s eyes light up as he told you about how he had beaten Mabel at chess, showed you his most recent doodles he had hastily shoved into his backpack.

One of his drawings was of the Orion constellation and the Ursa Major constellation respectively. ‘I know how much you liked these constellations from the last time we came to visit.’ He said as he handed you the drawing, a little embarrassed but you couldn’t help but feel a smile grow across your face as you held the drawing close to your chest. ‘Thank you dip and dots.’ You said softly as you pressed a kiss to the top of his hat. ‘I love it very, very much I shall treasure it forever my little genius.’

You loved Dipper and Mabel as though they were your own and you often spoilt the pair however you could by doing arts and crafts with Mabel one day while playing paranormal detective with Dipper as you kept him safe from harming himself the next. You encouraged them to be themselves no matter how many people might ridicule them for going outside of the norm, you wanted them to be happy as they are and feel not a single need to change for others.

You’d happily wear the sweaters and jewellery Mabel made with pride as your jumper said in loud and colourful colours; ‘proud Grunkle/Great aunt of a shooting star and a Dipper’ it made no sense to people outside of your family but it just felt right to you to wear regardless. That and it was your favourite thing to wear other than Stanford’s turtlenecks.

‘You’d love them Stanford, you’d love them as much as me and Stanley do.’ You said to no one in particular as you fell asleep on Ford’s bed that night, cuddling his pillow with an aching heart. ‘Please come back home in one piece…haven’t I suffered enough with your long absence from my life?’

They helped you enjoy life but that happiness and peace was then disturbed when the portal reopened and Stanford came out looking a lot hardened and rugged. it felt as though a being of a higher power had answered your prayer for your beloveds safe return home.

‘Stanford?’ You said in disbelief from beside Stan who looked equally in disbelief.

‘Stanford?’ Dipper asked as he looked between you and this mystery figure who picked up the first journal and pocketed it in his trench coat.

Stanford looked up at the sound of your voice and he felt like he was that giddy college student again seeing the most perfect person in his life. It had been far too long for Stanford’s liking as he noticed how you’ve aged beautifully since the last time he saw you in this very room it gave him a sense of Deja vu.

‘Y/n?’ He calls as you could only start to cry while smiling.

‘Yeah it’s me. I look a little grey here and there but-‘ you attempted to joke about your old age but Stanford had quickened his pace towards you before enveloping you in his arms, holding you close and you clung onto him just as tightly. ‘You came home.’ You whispered into his shoulder, burying yourself further into his chest in hopes of telling yourself that he was in front of you, and how this wasn’t a dream. Ford had come home.

‘Yes I’m home now my dear, I’m right here there’s no need to doubt that.’ Ford said as he rubbed up and down your back, resting his head against yours as he familiarised himself with you and your warmth and your scent once again after having been devoid of it during his time in the multiverse. ‘I’m right here.’ He repeats as he felt you grip onto him tighter while you wept into his turtleneck. He has so much to tell you about but decided to keep you in his arms instead.

You both needed this as he too had been looking at the Orion constellation, wishing that you were looking at it too with a smile on your face, after all it was your favourite constellation as a couple.

[balteredsworld]

wilson’s hypothesis. gregory house

🥼🩺 | according to wilson, house likes you and you like him. so, house confronts you with wilson’s hyposthesis.

masterlist: greg house n all

warnings/tags! fluff of sorts, angst if you squint, talks of self-sabotage, idiots in love, sherlocked reference!!! (just watched 8x18—house self-sabotages so bad my lord)

author's note: lowkey hate this but it's idk what're we thinking fellow ducklings???

"wilson thinks i like you," house airs.

you throw him a strange glance.

"crazy, right?"

"yeah? and you think i like cameron," you mimic, matching his dismissive detachment to comedic effect.

only, house is serious.

“no, wilson thinks i like you.” house ignores your joke, repeating wilson’s solemn hypothesis.

when you pause to look at his face, your mind goes off into complete nonsense like's just tipped you over and left you with internal bleeding in your brain, upon the realization that he does, in fact, mean those words he's telling you.

"what makes him say that?"

"i'm apparently connecting with you,” house indulges, relaxing into the cold bit of wall behind him. the moonlight hits him in a more subtle way, half hidden in the shadows. the blue of his wrinkled shirt melts into the glow it radiates.

you're not particularly sure what to say. thankfully, he elaborates.

“you share your food with me, i take your food, ergo it means something in wilson's romantic world,” house offers, before quickly dismissing the thought of his supposed feelings for you. "but you know wilson, he's always been a romantic. thinks he can diagnose emotions as easily as diseases."

you consider the argument, "well couldn't that just mean i can't finish my food and you don't wanna get your own?"

he squints at you, as if with drills for eyes. you're playing dumb, unless you really believe that. but you don't.

you clear your throat, "well, do you believe that?"

"well it's either that or i must obviously like you."

you gawk. "well, do you?"

"do i have to spell it out for you?"

"wilson had to," you snark back. "so, do you?"

"no," he says with a flat face.

something in your chest drops, just as your brows shoot up. "no?"

"no," he reaffirms.

you don't know if you manage to catch your frown. house doesn't say anything if you didn't. you're more than a little embarrassed, surely flushed. you're thankful that the two of you are under the dim veil of night.

"well good thing," you grumble.

house looks at you with a curious look, as if he was almost offended you would say that. "good thing?"

“we’re both lonely. lonely means self-sabotage,” you explain, fiddling with one of the main trinkets that line the ledge. you were sure you proving your point, coming up with an off-putting rationale to cover up your embarrassment. "two self-saboteurs, well, that's an equation with proven unresolved issues... so yeah, good thing."

you were internally cringing at the words you were spitting out, but you were trying to play it cool. it's something that's never worked in your favour though when you were near an attractive guy, and you always swore this was to make them repulse the inkling of interest. and you swore off doing this years ago, but the blunt rejection, if you could call it that, sprung the teenager out of you.

then again, house affects you like that. blue eyes and blue shirt and all.

he makes it no secret that he's a ladies' man, often hitching hookers into the hospital despite cuddy's gentle parenting to make him stop. but house does whatever he wants in the hospital, hence all the lawsuits you've had to deal with.

when you look at him again, he's somehow uncharacteristically quiet. you're unsure if his speculative eyes are because of a lightbulb moment, but one thing's for sure: he was thinking.

"you're thinking, aren't you?" you glean in a tilt.

house doesn't say anything, but turns away from you. when he does, you're unsure if you see his lip curl in disappointment—he hides it too well. some part of you hopes, but you know you're not his type. a bit too much like him in the overanalyzing and overthinking.

and maybe you're convincing yourself, but realistically speaking, your happy arrangement of sharing food in the middle of a hospital shift may work for lonely and misery, but not for anything else. two people who like self-sabotage is like a dumpster fire.

you'd rather have house like this, happy and alarmingly blue.

"aaand you've stopped listening. i shall take that as my cue to leave," you announce, hopping off the ledge in the same ginger fashion you had waltzing in.

when you land your feet, house airs his deduction, nodding along as if he was finally making sense of you and wilson’s hypothesis. 

“maybe he’s onto something.”

you turn to him with a tinge of a worrisome brow. 

“who knows? maybe i’ve been sending subtle signals that even i’m not aware of. so what do you think?” he croons his head, all ominous, arriving to a conclusion. you can practically see the cogs turn in his brain. “you like me.”

"i never said that.”

house looks at you, rising in a smooth motion, as if to showcase his towering height, forcing you to look up at him. sitting down, he's not so large, but now, all you can think is that he's tall.

"you might not, but your body does," he croons, dangerous smirk playing about his face. his eyes probe your face, confidently with a proven theory. "pupils dilated..."

house grabs your wrist, eyes practically lighting up in delight at his impending diagnosis.

"…and pulse elevated. i understand that wilson thinks that love's a mystery to me, but the chemistry's incredibly simple," he says, softening his grip on you.

house doesn't let go, lingering in this proximity, leaning closer like some ghost and spirit you'll always look for. your breath hitches, but house doesn't afford you time to quite think, capturing your lips in a kiss that you reciprocate, clutching onto his arms for balance.

you feel one of his hand snake to the nook of your back, pushing you flush against him. house keeps his other hand cupping your cheek and jaw, large enough to cover that expanse of your face. it's a little dry and rough, but you don't mind, all too preoccupied with his lips.

house makes good work on you. his lips are even better than you'd imagine, but you finally register his words and what you were doing, so you pull away. the furrow of your brows returning, apprehensive about his next words.

you whisper, “i thought you didn't like me.”

"i was lying," he shrugs. "i needed to see if i was right, and i was."

"so you figured me out?"

"you like me,” house concludes, triumphant. “i was right.”

“i thought this was wilson’s hypothesis?” you cock a brow.

“hypothesis,” he nods before flicking your head. “but i can’t give him the credit for my diagnosis.”

you let out an airy laugh, relieved that he didn't make you spell it out for him. "you're an ass, you know?"

his eyes are proudly heralding trumpets. you could practically hear the victory going off them.

"it comes with the sitting arrangement."

[urdreamydoodles]

MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

Your lover learns that you are a mutant, and decides to act against the world that hates your kind

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Bullseye, Marc Spector, Taskmaster, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Ben Grimm, Susan Storm, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa, Elektra Natchios, Muse, Victor von Doom, Peter Quill & Nova

Peter Parker (Spider-Man)

- Peter had always known there was something different about you. It wasn’t the kind of different that made his Spider-Sense tingle, nor was it something he could quite put his finger on. It was in the way you carried yourself, the way your eyes flickered with an unspoken sadness when the news blared stories of mutant riots, the way you tensed when someone spat out the word like it was venom on their tongue. But he never pushed—he knew what it was like to have secrets, to cradle them close like fragile things that could shatter in the wrong hands.

- But when you finally told him, when you stood before him with your hands trembling and your voice barely above a whisper, Peter felt his heart break for you. Not because you were a mutant—God, no—but because you had lived your whole life expecting rejection, even from him. His first instinct was to pull you into his arms, to wrap you in the warmth of his love, to whisper against your hair, "You could never be anything but perfect to me." And when he pulled back, cupping your face in his calloused hands, he met your gaze with unwavering devotion. "I'm so sorry the world made you feel like you had to hide from me."

- From that moment, Peter became your fiercest protector—not that you needed protecting, but love made him reckless. He confronted every slur, every cruel whisper, every venom-laced comment spat your way. When J. Jonah Jameson ran another anti-mutant headline in the Daily Bugle, Peter slammed the paper down on his desk and walked out, his voice shaking with rage. When a man sneered at you on the subway, Peter’s hand found yours, fingers threading together as he stared the man down until he looked away.

- But it wasn’t just anger that drove him—it was justice. He swung through the city, stopping hate crimes against mutants with the same ferocity he used against criminals. He used his platform, his voice, his every breath to push back against the tide of bigotry. "You think mutants are dangerous? Maybe you should look in the mirror." And when people asked why he cared so much, why Spider-Man fought so hard for them, he would simply smile under his mask and say, "Because someone I love is one of them. And I’ll be damned if I let the world treat them like anything less than extraordinary."

- At night, when the world was quiet, Peter would hold you like you were something sacred, tracing the lines of your hands with his fingertips, memorizing you like poetry. "You know, the only thing that ever scared me about you being a mutant," he would whisper against your temple, "is the thought that you'd ever think I could love you any less because of it." And then he would kiss you—soft, reverent, as if every heartbeat between you was a promise.

Tony Stark (Iron Man)

- Tony had always been a man of logic, of science, of equations that made sense and theories that could be proven. But love was neither logical nor quantifiable, and when it came to you, he was hopelessly tangled in the chaos of it. He had seen the way you hesitated when mutant protests flashed across the screen, the way your fingers curled into your palms when politicians spoke of registration, control, fear. He had seen it, but he had never asked. He had always figured that if you wanted to tell him, you would.

- And then, one night, you did. The confession spilled from your lips like something fragile and broken, years of pain woven between every syllable. You had expected disgust, anger, maybe even that cold indifference the world had always shown you. But Tony Stark was not the world. He was Tony Stark, and he laughed—actually laughed—before pulling you into his arms. "Sweetheart," he murmured against your hair, "did you really think I'd care? You could have told me you were an alien princess from the Andromeda Galaxy, and it wouldn’t have changed a damn thing."

- But beneath the bravado, beneath the charm, there was fury—cold and sharp, pressing against his ribs like a blade. How dare the world make you feel this way? How dare they make you hide, make you think that love was something that came with conditions? The next time a senator spewed anti-mutant rhetoric at a gala, Tony took a long sip of his whiskey, smiled that sharp, wolfish smile, and said, "Funny, I was just thinking how the world would be a better place if we registered bigots instead."

- And then there were the grand gestures—because Tony Stark didn’t do things halfway. He poured billions into mutant advocacy programs, bought out entire networks to air pro-mutant campaigns, stood before the world in a press conference and said, "I’ve seen the future, and let me tell you—it’s not built on hate. It’s built on evolution, on progress, on people who are stronger than you could ever hope to be." And when people asked him why, when reporters pried for answers, he only ever said, "Because someone I love deserves better."

- In the quiet of the workshop, with only the hum of machinery and the glow of arc reactors around you, Tony would pull you onto his lap, pressing his lips against your temple. "You know," he murmured, "mutant, human, robot—whatever you are, you’re mine. And that’s the only thing that matters."

Steve Rogers (Captain America)

- Steve had fought wars—on battlefields, in back alleys, in the hearts and minds of the people. He had seen the worst of humanity, had watched hatred take root and grow like a disease. And yet, nothing prepared him for the way his heart ached when you finally told him the truth. It wasn’t anger, wasn’t disappointment—just a slow, dawning grief, not because you were a mutant, but because you had been afraid to tell him. "I fought against people like that," he whispered, his voice thick with sorrow. "People who thought they had the right to decide who was worthy of freedom. I won’t let them do that to you."

- From that day on, Steve became your shield in more ways than one. Not just in battle, but in life. He corrected people when they spoke with ignorance, stood in front of you when the world turned cruel. And when someone had the audacity to say, "But Captain, they’re a mutant—aren’t you afraid?" he would square his shoulders, fix them with that unshakable gaze, and say, "Afraid? Of someone stronger, braver, and better than you? Not in a million years."

- He marched in mutant rallies, stood before congressmen and looked them in the eye when they tried to push their agendas of fear. "I fought a war to stop people like you," he told them, voice steady, unwavering. "And I’ll fight another if I have to." His words spread like wildfire, his name became a beacon. If Captain America stood with mutants, then maybe—just maybe—the world would listen.

- But for all the battles he fought, for all the speeches and protests, what mattered most was how he loved you. In the early mornings, when the sun painted your skin in gold, he would trace slow, reverent lines along your arms, pressing kisses to every inch of you. "You are everything they’re afraid of," he murmured against your lips. "And that makes you extraordinary."

- And when the world felt too heavy, when the weight of their hatred threatened to drown you, Steve would hold you close, forehead pressed to yours, his voice a quiet vow. "They’ll never take this from us," he swore. "Not while I’m standing."

Thor

- Thor had seen many things across the realms—gods and monsters, heroes and villains, beings of power and light and darkness. But when you told him, when you stood before him with your heart in your hands, his reaction was as simple as the man himself. He laughed—a deep, joyous sound that shook the very walls—and swept you into his arms. "You think I would love you less for being different?" he asked, pressing a kiss to your brow. "My love, I am a god from another world. It is you who should look upon me with suspicion!"

- But beneath his laughter was rage—not at you, never at you—but at the world that had made you feel unworthy. He could not understand it, this Midgardian hatred for those who were different. On Asgard, power was revered, bloodlines celebrated. But here, on this fragile little world, fear turned to violence. And Thor had never been one to stand idly by in the face of injustice.

- When he heard men speak against mutants, he did not argue—he roared. His voice thundered through the halls of their governments, shaking the foundations of their hate. "You would condemn those who are stronger than you?" he bellowed. "Then I ask you—would you dare call ME an abomination?" And when they faltered, when they could not meet his gaze, he would smirk and say, "That is what I thought."

- But it was in the quiet moments that his love shone brightest. When he held you beneath the stars, his fingers tracing constellations against your skin. "You are power, you are fire, you are the storm itself," he whispered. "Let them fear you. Let them tremble. But know this, my love—I will stand beside you, always."

- And if the world would not change, if it refused to see the beauty in you, then Thor Odinson would remind them why the gods were to be feared.

Loki

- Loki had always known. He had known from the moment he first looked into your eyes, from the way you flinched at whispered slurs, the way your breath hitched when the world spoke of your kind like a disease. He knew, because he was the same. Always other, always different, always a thing to be feared rather than loved. So when you told him, when the words finally left your lips like a confession, he only tilted his head and smirked. "Did you think I would not see you for what you are?" he murmured, tracing a finger along your jaw. "Did you think I would ever love you less?"

- But behind his smirk, there was fire. Loki had spent his life at the mercy of those who saw difference as weakness, and he would not see you suffer the same. He did not fight with fists or shields—he fought with words, with illusions, with tricks that made fools of those who thought themselves mighty. He whispered secrets into the ears of kings, sowed doubt in the hearts of senators. And when they spoke against mutants, when they spat their venom into the world, Loki only smiled and made them choke on their own lies.

- He did not seek to change the world’s mind—he sought to burn it down. "Why should you suffer their hatred?" he asked one night, his voice soft, dangerous. "Why not take your place above them?" And when you shook your head, when you refused to become the monster they feared, he only sighed and kissed your forehead. "Then let them tremble," he murmured. "For you are far greater than they will ever understand."

- And when the nights were long and your heart was heavy, when the weight of the world pressed against your ribs like iron chains, Loki would pull you into his arms, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "Let them call us monsters," he whispered. "Let them fear us. But know this, my love—you will never stand alone."

- And as the fires of hatred raged across Midgard, Loki only smiled, watching as the world shifted and twisted in the palm of his hand. Because if there was one thing the Trickster God knew, it was this—love was the most dangerous magic of all.

Matthew Murdock (Daredevil)

Clint Barton (Hawkeye)

- Clint had always been good at spotting the things people tried to hide. It was an instinct sharpened by years of survival, a skill born from growing up in the gutters of a world that didn’t care if he lived or died. He could read people like maps, see the tells in their hands, the flickers in their expressions, the hesitations in their words. And he had seen it in you—the way you flinched at anti-mutant slurs, the way your shoulders stiffened at the news, the way your smile never quite reached your eyes when people spoke of them like they were a disease. But he never pushed. He just waited, patient as ever, because love wasn’t about forcing doors open—it was about letting someone hand you the key.

- When you finally told him, when the words left your lips in a whisper so fragile it could have shattered, Clint didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate. He only leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms behind his head, and smirked. “Well, that explains why you’re so much cooler than me.” The joke was light, effortless, but there was something in his eyes—something sharp, something raw. “You really think I’d care?” he asked, voice softer now. And when you looked away, when the weight of the world threatened to crush you, he reached for you, tugging you into his arms with a sigh. “Babe, I don’t care if you’ve got laser eyes or can turn people into frogs—I’m still gonna make bad jokes and steal the covers at night.”

- But beneath the easygoing attitude, there was fire. The next time someone sneered "mutie" under their breath, Clint didn’t let it slide. He was in their face before they even realized what was happening, blue eyes flashing like ice, his tone deceptively casual. “What was that, buddy? Didn’t quite catch it.” And when the man stammered, when he tried to backpedal, Clint only smirked. “That’s what I thought.” He didn’t need to throw punches—his words cut sharper than any arrow.

- But when words weren’t enough, when hatred turned to violence, Clint was the first to stand in front of you, bow drawn, eyes cold. “Pick on someone your own size,” he would say, voice a quiet promise of violence. Because if there was one thing Clint Barton never tolerated, it was bullies. And he wasn’t about to let the world take one more thing from you.

- At night, when the city lights flickered outside your window, when the weight of your past felt too heavy to bear, Clint would pull you close, pressing lazy kisses to your temple. “You don’t ever have to hide from me,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep. “Not from me, not from anyone. You’re stuck with me, sweetheart. Get used to it.”

Natasha Romanoff (Black Widow)

- Natasha had spent her entire life learning how to read people, how to peel them apart layer by layer until there was nothing left to hide. But you—you were the one puzzle she had never solved, the one mystery she never wanted to crack open with force. She had seen the way your hands trembled when the news spat their venom about mutants, the way your gaze flickered with something like fear when the subject came up. She didn’t push. She knew better than anyone that secrets were stitched into the skin, that some wounds bled even when they weren’t visible.

- But when you finally told her, when the words fell from your lips like something broken, Natasha only tilted her head, studying you with those sharp green eyes. And then, so softly you almost didn’t hear it, she whispered, “I know.” She had known for a while—had put the pieces together long before you ever spoke the words aloud. But she also knew that trust wasn’t something given freely, that love wasn’t about demanding answers. It was about waiting.

- And if you thought, for even a second, that Natasha Romanoff would love you any less, you didn’t know her at all. “Do you think I care?” she asked, voice steady, unwavering. “Do you think I would ever let the world decide how I see you?” And when your breath hitched, when your hands clenched into fists, she stepped closer, pressing her forehead against yours. “I have spent my life being what other people wanted me to be. I will never ask that of you.”

- But if she had been quiet before, if she had let comments about mutants pass unchallenged in the name of discretion, that changed. Natasha was no stranger to political warfare, to the slow, methodical dismantling of enemies without ever lifting a gun. When senators pushed for anti-mutant laws, she ruined them before they ever saw it coming. When anti-mutant organizations rose, they found their files wiped, their bank accounts drained, their secrets exposed. "You hurt them," she whispered into the ear of a man who had called for mutant executions, "and I will erase you."

- At home, in the safety of her arms, Natasha was softer. She kissed your knuckles like they were something sacred, traced patterns against your skin as if memorizing every inch of you. “You don’t have to hide anymore,” she whispered against your lips. “Not from me.”

Bucky Barnes (The Winter Soldier)

- Bucky knew what it was like to be feared. He knew what it was like to have people look at you like you were something less than human, like you were a weapon instead of a person. And when you finally told him, when you whispered the truth into the quiet of your shared apartment, his jaw clenched. Not at you, never at you—but at the world that had made you feel like this, that had made you afraid to tell the one person who loved you most.

- He didn’t speak right away, just reached for you, his metal fingers cool against your skin, his touch gentle. “Doll,” he murmured, voice rough with emotion, “I’ve done things that would make the devil blush. And you think I’d ever judge you for being born different?”

- But after that, something changed. Bucky had always kept his head down, had always stayed in the shadows when it came to politics and public opinion. But now? Now he was a storm waiting to break. He walked into rooms where men spoke of mutants like they were vermin and let his presence alone silence them. And when they still had the audacity to sneer, to whisper, he let them see the Winter Soldier lurking just beneath his skin. “Say it again,” he dared, voice low, dangerous.

- And God help anyone who laid a hand on you. Bucky didn’t just stop fights—he ended them. He didn’t care if it made him a threat, if it made people wary of him again. He had spent too many years fighting the wrong battles. He would not lose you to their hatred.

- But when the night was quiet, when the world faded away, Bucky was just Bucky. He held you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered, pressed his lips to your shoulder as if grounding himself in the feeling of you. “I know what it’s like to feel like a ghost in your own skin,” he murmured. “But you? You’re more alive than anyone I’ve ever known.”

- The moment you told Matt, his expression barely flickered. No sharp inhale, no startled pause. He only tilted his head slightly, listening to the sound of your heartbeat thudding like a bird trapped in a cage. He had suspected, of course—Matt could hear the way your breath hitched when someone spat slurs against mutants, could feel the tension coil in your muscles when the news spewed their poison. But he had never pried. He knew what it was like to carry a secret, to guard it like a wound that might never heal.

- When you finished speaking, silence stretched between you, thick with something unspoken. And then, softly, Matt reached for you, his fingers brushing against your wrist before lacing through your own. "You really thought I'd turn away?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper. He lifted a hand to your cheek, tracing the shape of you as if committing it to memory all over again. "I know what it's like to be something the world hates. I know what it’s like to be called a monster." His voice was steady, but there was something fierce in it—something that said, I will never let them take this from us.

- After that, Matt stopped holding back. If he had once measured his words when it came to mutant discrimination, now he tore through lies like a blade through silk. In courtrooms, he dismantled anti-mutant legislation with the same brutal precision he used to take down criminals in the streets. "Your Honor, I wonder—if my client were anything other than a mutant, would we even be having this discussion?" And in the dead of night, when those same men conspired in alleyways and behind closed doors, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen made them regret every word.

- But when he was with you, when it was just the two of you in the quiet of your apartment, Matt was softer. He pulled you into his lap, let his hands roam as if learning every inch of you anew. "You're not a sin," he murmured against your skin. "You're not something to be ashamed of." And when you whispered that the world would never stop hating people like you, his grip tightened, his voice dark with promise. "Then let them fear me instead."

- Because if the world wanted a devil, Matt would give them one.

Frank Castle (The Punisher)

- Frank didn't react the way you expected. He didn’t ask why you hadn’t told him sooner. Didn’t ask how you’d been hiding it for so long. He just stared at you for a long moment, jaw tight, eyes unreadable. And then he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "That why you were afraid?" he asked, voice rough as gravel. "That I’d look at you different?" His brows furrowed, something dark flashing in his gaze. "You really think that little of me?"

- After that, Frank made his stance on mutants crystal clear. There were men—rich, powerful men—who thought they could wipe out mutantkind in silence, who thought they could hunt people like you without consequence. Frank made sure they learned otherwise. When a senator proposed mutant registration, he found his car a smoking ruin. When a high-ranking mutant-hating official disappeared, no one ever found the body.

- Frank didn’t fight for mutant rights in the public eye. He didn’t make speeches, didn’t march in protests. But when someone threatened you, threatened people like you, they disappeared. It wasn’t justice. It was punishment. It was war. And Frank Castle didn’t lose wars.

- But when he was with you, when the blood and the violence faded into the background, Frank was different. He held you close, his touch bruising but gentle, like he was afraid you’d slip through his fingers. "You ain't gotta be scared no more," he murmured against your hair. "Not while I’m breathin’."

- And God help anyone who ever tried to hurt you. Because Frank Castle didn’t believe in mercy.

Bullseye (Lester)

- When you finally told Bullseye, you braced yourself for disgust, for cruelty, for one of his sharp, cutting laughs. But instead, he just blinked at you once, twice—then tilted his head with a smirk. "That’s what you were scared of?" His voice was pure amusement, laced with something darker. "Oh, sweetheart. You should know by now—I don’t give a damn what you are. Long as you bleed like the rest of ‘em."

- And that was it. No anger, no questions, no sympathy. He didn’t treat you like you were fragile. Didn’t tell you that you were special. Bullseye loved destruction, loved chaos, and knowing that you were something the world feared? It only made you more interesting to him.

- But after that, something in him shifted. He took extra pleasure in tearing apart anti-mutant extremists, in carving his own brand of justice into their skin. If someone so much as looked at you wrong, he made sure they never did it again. "Gotta admit," he murmured one night, flicking a bloodstained knife between his fingers. "It’s fun, huntin’ those bastards down. Feels like a goddamn sport."

- But despite his cruelty, despite his madness, there were moments of startling softness. He would run his fingers through your hair absentmindedly, twirl a strand around his finger, murmur against your skin, "You really thought I’d hate you? Sweetheart, I’m not the one who’s ever gonna leave." And that was the most terrifying thing of all—because with Bullseye, love wasn’t gentle. It was obsession.

- He didn’t just accept you. He worshiped you. And in the end, that was the most dangerous thing of all.

Marc Spector (Moon Knight)

- Marc had always known you were hiding something. He saw it in the way your body tensed when people talked about mutants, in the way you flinched when a headline spat venom about the so-called "mutant problem." He had spent his life surrounded by secrets, drowning in them, and he could feel yours pressing against you like a second skin. But he never forced it out of you. Marc knew that secrets weren’t pried open—they were given, piece by piece, when the weight of them became too much to bear.

- When you finally told him, your voice was barely more than a whisper, as if the confession alone might break you. For a long moment, Marc didn’t say anything. He just stared, unreadable, his hands curling into fists at his sides. But then—"That’s it?" His voice was quiet, rough, like gravel scraping against pavement. He shook his head, almost scoffing. "You really thought I’d turn my back on you?" And then, softer, his hand reaching for yours, "I’ve been Khonshu’s blade, a mercenary, a killer. You think being born different is what’s gonna change how I see you?"

- After that, something in Marc burned hotter, fiercer. He had never been one to hold his tongue, but now? Now, he was ruthless. When a politician spewed anti-mutant rhetoric, their life crumbled overnight. When hate groups targeted mutants, they found themselves hunted in the dark, their screams lost to the night. He never let you see the worst of it—never let you know just how far he went. But when you traced the bruises on his knuckles, when you saw the fresh cuts on his skin, you knew.

- "They don’t get to win," he told you one night, his voice low, dangerous. "Not while I’m still breathing." And when you tried to tell him that you were used to it, that it didn’t matter, he caught your chin between his fingers, forcing you to look at him. "It matters to me."

- When the nightmares came, when the weight of it all became too much, Marc held you close, his breath warm against your hair. "I’m not going anywhere," he murmured against your temple. And even when his mind fractured, even when he got lost in the chaos of himself, he always found his way back to you.

Taskmaster (Tony Masters)

- Taskmaster was many things—a killer, a mercenary, a man whose entire life revolved around reading people. And he had read you like an open book the moment he met you. The tension in your shoulders, the hesitation in your voice whenever the topic of mutants came up—he had seen it all, memorized it. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew what you were. But he waited. If you wanted to keep your secret, he wasn’t going to be the one to take it from you.

- But when you finally told him, your voice tight with fear, he just… shrugged. "Yeah. And?" His tone was almost lazy, like it was the most uninteresting thing in the world. When you gaped at him, confusion written all over your face, he only smirked. "Sweetheart, I’ve worked for the worst people you can imagine. You think I care about something like that?" His smirk faded then, his voice turning serious. "You’re mine. That’s all that matters."

- After that, he didn’t just accept it—he weaponized it. If someone so much as looked at you wrong, they didn’t get a second chance. Taskmaster didn’t do morality, didn’t fight for justice. But he did fight for you. And if hurting anti-mutant extremists meant getting a fat paycheck at the same time? Even better.

- He never made speeches, never tried to convince people they were wrong. He just made them pay. When a high-ranking government official pushed for mutant registration, they woke up to find their security detail dead and Taskmaster sitting in their living room, twirling a knife between his fingers. "You’re gonna back off," he told them, voice dangerously calm. "Or I start making this personal." They always backed off.

- But at the end of the day, when it was just the two of you, he was softer in ways he’d never admit. He let you trace the scars on his arms, let you press your forehead against his without a word. "Told ya," he murmured one night, voice almost gentle. "I don’t give a damn what you are. Long as you’re mine."

Johnny Storm (Human Torch)

- Johnny didn’t notice at first. He was too busy being in love with you, too caught up in the way you laughed, the way your eyes shone when you looked at him. But when you finally told him, when the words left your lips like something fragile and breakable, he froze. For the first time in his life, Johnny Storm was speechless.

- And then, after a long, terrible silence, he just—laughed. "Babe," he grinned, pulling you into his arms, "I don’t care if you’re a mutant, an alien, or a wizard. You’re still you. And you’re still the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen." He kissed you then, like the whole world could burn and he wouldn’t care.

- But after that? Oh, he made sure everyone knew exactly where he stood. When people talked about mutants like they were a threat, Johnny cut them off with a sharp, "Oh, so now you’ve got a problem with my girlfriend? Say that again, I dare you." And when someone was dumb enough to throw insults in your direction, Johnny lit up, flames crackling around him. "Wanna say that one more time?" he grinned, voice dripping with dangerous amusement. They never did.

- He used his fame, his charm, his name to shift public opinion. He appeared on talk shows, flashing that easy grin, saying things like, "C’mon, guys, this is ridiculous. Mutants are just people. Get over it." And when protests got violent, when mutant kids were being hunted in the streets, Johnny was there, a burning shield between them and the world.

- But when it was just the two of you, when the flames had cooled, he was nothing but warmth. He pulled you against him, pressing soft kisses to your forehead. "I love you," he whispered into your skin, his voice quiet, serious. "And nothing is ever gonna change that."

Reed Richards (Mister Fantastic)

- When you finally told Reed, his first response was silence. Not because he was shocked, not because he needed time to process—but because he was calculating, rearranging every interaction you had ever shared, analyzing every moment where he had failed to see your fear. You had hidden it well, but now that he knew, the weight of it settled over him like a problem he had failed to solve.

- His hands found yours, his gaze steady. "You should have told me," he said, but there was no accusation in his voice. Only quiet regret. He lifted your fingers to his lips, his touch reverent, as if he could rewrite history with something as simple as love. "You’ve carried this alone for too long." And then, with something firmer, something unshakable: "You never have to again."

- From that moment on, Reed became your shield in ways you never expected. He wrote papers dismantling anti-mutant pseudoscience, tore down bigotry with cold, hard fact. When politicians spoke of mutant registration, he left them grasping for counterarguments they could never find. "You claim mutation is unnatural," he said in one televised debate, eyes sharp. "Tell me, Senator—what part of the human genome would you erase? What percentage of the population do you consider a mistake?" The silence that followed was deafening.

- But beyond the science, beyond the politics, there was Reed as your lover. He spent nights in his lab, creating devices to keep you safe, scanning your DNA not to change you, but to understand you. He memorized the nuances of your abilities, mapped them in ways even you hadn’t. "You are a marvel," he told you once, voice full of awe. And for the first time in your life, you believed it.

- And when you lay beside him in the quiet of the Baxter Building, when he pulled you against him with hands ink-stained from endless notes written in your defense, you realized something else: Reed Richards did not love in halves. He was methodical, relentless, infinite. And now, he was yours.

Ben Grimm (The Thing)

- When you told Ben, his first reaction was a long, slow blink. Then, without hesitation, he reached out and ruffled your hair like it was the most natural thing in the world. "That’s what you were scared of?" His voice was warm, gruff, edged with something heartbreakingly gentle. "C’mon, you really think that changes a damn thing?"

- But as much as he tried to downplay it, the knowledge did change something in him. Not in how he saw you, but in how he saw the world. He had always known what it was to be feared, to be hated for something beyond his control—but this? This was different. He started noticing the way people tensed when they spoke about mutants, the way fear bled into cruelty, the way their hatred was masked as logic. And suddenly, it wasn’t just talk. It was personal.

- When someone made a crack about mutants, Ben didn’t get political. He didn’t debate. He just stood up. Let his shadow stretch long, let his presence settle heavy over the room. "You wanna run that by me again?" he rumbled, voice all gravel and quiet fury. And somehow, they never wanted to.

- But with you, Ben was nothing but soft. He pulled you against his chest, let you rest against the solid warmth of him, held you like you were something fragile in a world that had never been kind. "Yer perfect, y’know that?" he muttered one night, fingers tracing mindless patterns against your skin. And when you tried to protest, to remind him of all the ways the world had told you otherwise, he only huffed. "Nah. They don’t get to decide that. Not about you."

- And so he stayed. Through every sneer, every whispered slur, every fight that came too close to home. He stayed because you were his, and Ben Grimm had never walked away from something he loved.

Susan Storm (Invisible Woman)

- When you finally found the courage to tell Sue, she didn’t gasp, didn’t recoil—she simply reached for you, her hands framing your face with a tenderness that made your breath catch. "Oh, sweetheart," she murmured, brushing her thumbs against your skin. "You must have been so scared."

- And just like that, it was no longer about what you were, but about what the world had done to you. About the weight you had carried alone, about the fear that had burrowed into your bones. And Susan Storm, for all her grace, for all her composure, had never been one to stand by while the world hurt the people she loved.

- She became fierce. Not just in words, but in action. She used her influence, her name, her power to carve out space for mutants where there had been none before. She protected, she fought, she defended. And when the world pushed back, she pushed harder.

- And when the nights were quiet, when it was just the two of you tangled together beneath the covers, she let the walls fall. "You don’t have to be strong all the time," she whispered against your temple. "Not with me."

- And maybe, just maybe, for the first time in your life, you believed her.

Felicia Hardy (Black Cat)

- Felicia’s first reaction was a slow, sharp grin. "Oh, baby," she purred, tracing a finger along your jaw. "Did you really think I’d care?" And then, with a soft chuckle, "I love you. Not whatever label the world wants to slap on you."

- But after that, things changed. Not between you and her—Felicia had always been ride-or-die—but between her and the rest of the world. She started stealing from anti-mutant organizations, draining their bank accounts, erasing their influence. She exposed corrupt politicians, left damning evidence in the hands of journalists who wouldn’t bury the truth. She didn’t just defend you—she made sure they suffered.

- And when someone dared to insult you to her face? Oh, that was a mistake. Felicia was many things—a thief, a liar, a woman who played by her own rules—but she had never been forgiving.

- But when it was just the two of you, when the world fell away, she was something softer. She pulled you close, her touch feather-light, her lips brushing against your ear as she whispered, "You don’t ever have to hide from me."

- And she meant it. With Felicia, there were no masks, no secrets—just you, raw and real and loved.

Stephen Strange (Doctor Strange)

- You told Stephen in the dead of night, in the hush between flickering candlelight and the whispered hum of ancient spells. The words barely left your lips before you regretted them, before the years of fear coiled around your ribs like iron chains. You had seen the world turn its back on you before—had watched the disgust, the pity, the cold, clinical rejection in the eyes of those who should have loved you. And so, when Stephen only sighed, when he looked at you with something impossibly gentle, it felt like the weight of the universe shifted.

- He did not recoil, did not hesitate. Instead, he reached for you, fingers tracing the lines of your wrist as if following the constellations of your existence. "My love," he murmured, voice steeped in something ancient, something infinite, "I have walked the hidden paths of the multiverse, have spoken with beings older than time itself. Do you truly believe that something as arbitrary as human prejudice could alter the way I see you?"

- After that, Stephen became an immovable force against those who dared to speak against you. His words were blades sharper than any steel, cutting through the ignorance of men who cloaked their hatred in rhetoric. He did not rage—he did not need to. He dismantled their arguments with the ease of a scholar correcting a student, left them floundering in the wake of his intellect. And when words were not enough, when cruelty turned to violence, Stephen stood between you and the world with a shield of eldritch fire.

- He wove spells into the fabric of your existence, sigils of protection hidden in the way his hands lingered on your skin. No force, mortal or divine, could lay a hand upon you without answering to him. He would break reality itself before he allowed harm to come to you. "They will not touch what is mine," he vowed, and the universe itself seemed to bend to his will.

- And yet, in the quiet hours, when the world faded away and it was just the two of you wrapped in the sanctuary of the Sanctum, he was simply Stephen. He kissed away your fears with the patience of a man who had once lost everything, who knew what it meant to find something worth keeping. "You are not cursed," he told you one night, his voice woven with something that felt like devotion. "You are celestial." And in his arms, you could finally believe it.

Namor (The Sub-Mariner)

- The weight of your secret had always been heavier in his presence. Namor was not a man accustomed to softness, not a man who bent to the whims of others. His love was a tempest, fierce and unrelenting, and you had never known if that storm would hold you or tear you apart. But when you finally told him, when the truth finally slipped past your lips like a confession carved in blood, the air between you went still.

- He did not speak for a long moment. His gaze was unreadable, sharp as a blade honed for war. And then—"You feared I would turn from you?" His voice was quiet, but there was something dangerous lurking beneath it, something ancient and offended. "You feared Namor, King of Atlantis, would forsake his beloved for being what she has always been?" His hand found your chin, tilting your face up toward him, his expression dark with something that looked like fury—not at you, but at the world that had made you believe he could be so small.

- The moment passed, and then his lips were on yours, fierce and possessive, a declaration written in salt and fire. "You are mine," he murmured against your mouth. "Let them speak against you, if they dare. I will drown their cities in ruin before I let them lay a hand upon you." And you knew, with every inch of your soul, that he meant it.

- After that, Namor made no secret of where he stood. When leaders of the surface world spoke of mutants as a threat, they found themselves facing the cold fury of a king who had toppled empires. "Your hatred is as weak as the land you stand upon," he sneered at them, voice like a blade slicing through their feeble protests. "And just as easily shattered." His presence alone sent waves of terror through the political landscape—because an enemy of mutants was now an enemy of Atlantis.

- But beneath all the fire, beneath the war cries and the kingdom that bowed to his will, there was Namor, the man who held you like the most precious thing in the ocean’s depths. "You are of the sea now," he told you once, his voice quieter, reverent. "No one—no thing—will ever take you from me." And when you lay beside him in the deep silence of his kingdom, you knew that, for the first time, you were not alone.

Johnny Blaze (Ghost Rider)

- You had seen the fire in Johnny’s eyes, had traced the inferno that lived in his veins. And yet, when you told him—when you finally let the weight of your truth spill from your lips—you expected him to burn you with it. You expected the same rejection you had spent your life swallowing, expected the words that had been carved into your skin since childhood: monster, mistake, unwanted.

- But Johnny only exhaled, running a scarred hand through his hair before looking at you with something impossibly tender. "That’s what you were scared of?" He let out a breathless, almost disbelieving laugh, before reaching for you, pulling you against him with a gentleness that contradicted the hellfire in his soul. "Sweetheart, I sold my goddamn soul to the devil. You think I got room to judge anybody?"

- And that was it. No questions, no hesitations—just love, steady and unshaken. But the world was not so kind, and Johnny saw it. Saw the way they looked at you, the way their hatred curled like poison in the air. And something dark stirred in him, something ancient and vengeful. The Rider did not abide by human morality, did not hesitate to pass judgment. And when Johnny let him loose, when the skull and chains and fire consumed him, the wicked burned.

- "You wanna know what real monsters look like?" he snarled at those who spat hatred at you. "Take a good, long look." And then the fire came, and the screams followed. The guilty never walked away the same. Some never walked away at all.

- But when the flames died, when the smoke settled, it was just Johnny again. Just the man who traced circles against your back, who kissed your knuckles like a silent vow. "Ain’t nothin’ in this world that could make me love you less," he murmured against your skin. "You hear me? Nothin’." And for once, in a world that had never made space for you, you believed it.

Eddie Brock / Venom

- You expected the worst. Eddie had always been a man of absolutes, of raw emotion barely restrained beneath the surface. And Venom? The symbiote was a creature of instinct, unpredictable and feral. You had spent days, weeks, months dreading the moment—wondering if love would turn to disgust, if loyalty would be drowned beneath the tide of prejudice you had known your whole life.

- But when the words finally left your lips, when you admitted what you were with a voice tight and brittle, Eddie just stared. Not with anger. Not with fear. Just silence, long and unreadable. And then—"That’s what had you so freaked out?" His voice was almost bored, like you had just confessed something as mundane as forgetting to lock the door. Venom slithered over his shoulder then, black tendrils shifting, its alien voice a deep, guttural purr. "WE ARE NOT AFRAID," it growled. "WE LOVE YOU."

- And that was that. Eddie never treated you differently. There were no long speeches, no reassurances—you didn’t need them. You were his. That was the only thing that mattered. But the world? The world didn’t see it that way. And Eddie, for all his temper, had never cared much for the opinions of cowards. "You wanna talk to me about monsters?" he snarled at a reporter who dared to spew anti-mutant rhetoric. "You think you know what ‘dangerous’ looks like? Let me introduce you." And then the symbiote spread its maw, teeth glinting, hunger rising. The fear in their eyes was enough.

- Venom became your guardian, your shadow, your monster in the dark. When the bigots came, they never came twice. "They are WEAK," the symbiote cooed in your ear. "THEY WILL NOT TOUCH YOU." And Eddie, for all his gruffness, only pulled you against his chest, arms solid and safe. "They gotta go through me first," he muttered. And no one—no one—was getting through him.

- But in the quiet moments, when the world wasn’t looking, he was just Eddie. Just a man who held you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to humanity. "You think I’m the normal one in this relationship?" he joked one night, pressing a kiss against your forehead. "Sweetheart, you’re the best damn thing that ever happened to me." And maybe, just maybe, you could finally believe it.

T’Challa (Black Panther)

- You had spent your life preparing for rejection, bracing for the moment love turned to loss. You had seen kings pass judgment on your kind before—had heard their decrees of condemnation, their insistence that you were too different, too dangerous. And T’Challa—T’Challa—was a king before anything else.

- But when you finally told him, when you spoke your truth in the sanctuary of his chambers, his expression did not waver. He watched you with the patience of a man who had already known the answer, as if he had long suspected the secret you carried. "I see," he murmured, his voice like the softest roll of thunder. And then, after a long pause, he took your hands in his, his grip steady, unshaken. "You are afraid I will turn from you?" He exhaled slowly, as if the thought alone was offensive. "Beloved, you insult me."

- It was not pity in his gaze—it was understanding. Wakanda had spent centuries fighting against the world’s judgment, against the fear and greed that sought to tear it apart. He had felt the weight of being seen as other, as a threat. And so, his response was not outrage, not shock, but something far more powerful. Acceptance.

- And the world listened. When leaders spoke of mutant registration, of control, of suppression, they found their words met with the unwavering will of the Black Panther. "Wakanda will not stand with cowards," he declared, his voice carrying across the United Nations floor like the strike of a war drum. "You speak of protecting humanity, yet you wield fear as a weapon. We have seen this before. We have lived it. And we will not allow history to repeat itself."

- But when it was just the two of you, when the weight of kingship faded and it was simply T’Challa, he was nothing but gentle. He pulled you close, his lips tracing the curve of your shoulder, his voice a low, steady murmur. "You are my heart," he whispered against your skin. "And my heart does not fear."

Elektra Natchios

- Elektra had always been a blade honed to perfection—silent, deadly, unforgiving. You had never known if her love was something sharp or something soft, had never been certain if you were an exception or just another inevitable loss waiting to happen. And so, when you told her, when you let your secret slip between breaths, you braced yourself for the cut.

- But Elektra did not flinch. Did not look at you with fear, or pity, or hesitation. Instead, she tilted her head, assessing you with the same cold precision she reserved for the battlefield. And then, after a long, heavy silence, she smirked. "You thought I would care?" she mused, her voice like silk over steel. "Darling, I’ve murdered kings. I’ve torn empires apart with my own hands. Do you think something as small as genetics could change how I see you?"

- After that, she became merciless with those who sought to harm you. The Hand, the government, the cowards who whispered venom against mutants—none of them were safe. When a senator proposed a bill to restrict mutant rights, he disappeared. When a crime syndicate funneled money into anti-mutant propaganda, their bodies were found in the river, their throats slit with precision. Elektra did not argue with bigots. She ended them.

- But in the quiet, when the blood was washed from her hands, she was something else. She traced the line of your jaw with a touch that was almost reverent, as if memorizing the shape of you. "They will never touch you," she promised one night, her voice a whisper against your lips. "Not while I still breathe." And you knew, with bone-deep certainty, that she meant it.

- Because Elektra’s love was not gentle. It was not tender. It was a promise carved in blood and steel. And it was yours.

Muse

- Telling Muse was like spilling ink into water—unpredictable, shifting, impossible to contain. He stared at you for a long moment, his head tilting in that unnatural way of his, as if dissecting your words, peeling them apart layer by layer. And then, he laughed. Not cruelly. Not mockingly. But with something like delight.

- "You think I would care?" he mused, his voice thick with amusement, with something almost manic. "Darling, normal is boring." He leaned closer then, his breath warm against your ear. "But you? You’re art."

- After that, the world became a canvas. The walls of Hell’s Kitchen bled with murals of your face, with paintings that whispered of something divine. He did not defend you with words—he did not care for words. Instead, he let the city see you the way he saw you. Mutant? Human? It didn’t matter. You were beautiful.

- And when someone dared to insult you, when they let their fear curl into something ugly, Muse did not argue. He simply disappeared for a night. And when he returned, there was red on his hands, on his lips, staining his teeth like war paint.

- But in the quiet, when the madness faded, he was just Muse. Just the man who traced shapes into your skin, who whispered things that made your breath catch. "You are my greatest masterpiece," he murmured, his fingers ghosting over your pulse. And you knew, with absolute certainty, that he meant it.

Victor von Doom (Dr. Doom)

- You told him in a whisper, in the shadowed halls of Latveria’s castle, your voice barely more than a breath. Doom had never been a man to suffer surprises, and you knew—knew—how he viewed the world. His vision was absolute, his standards uncompromising. You had braced yourself for fury, for cold dismissal, for a sharp-edged rejection that would carve itself into your bones. But when the words left your lips, Victor merely turned his head, his green cloak billowing behind him as he regarded you in silence.

- His mask gave away nothing, but his voice, when he finally spoke, was steady. "You believe Doom would be swayed by such trivialities?" There was no outrage. No scorn. Only the weight of certainty. "You are mine. That has not changed." And just like that, your fear seemed foolish. Doom had never cared for the prejudices of lesser men—why would he start now?

- But what did change was how the world suffered for its ignorance. The moment the anti-mutant hysteria reached Latveria’s borders, it was met with swift, merciless retribution. "Mutants are under my protection," he declared, standing before the United Nations, his voice like the strike of a hammer. "Those who threaten them threaten Doom. And Doom does not forgive." Countries that passed anti-mutant laws found their infrastructure failing overnight, their leaders waking to nightmares of iron gauntlets closing around their throats.

- Doom did not merely defend you—he reshaped reality itself to ensure that no hand dared rise against you again. When a coalition of world leaders tried to enforce mutant registration, their satellites fell from the sky, their wealth turned to ash. "They will learn," he murmured, his fingers ghosting over your cheek, "or they will burn."

- But in the quiet, when the weight of sovereignty slipped from his shoulders, Victor held you differently. He traced the line of your jaw with ungloved hands, his voice no longer the decree of a ruler, but the murmur of a man. "You are beyond them," he told you one night, his lips ghosting over yours. "And Doom does not bow to the small-minded."

Peter Quill (Star-Lord)

- The moment the words left your mouth, Peter blinked, his brows furrowing like he had misheard you. "Wait—hold up. That’s what’s been eating you?" He let out a breathless, incredulous laugh, raking a hand through his hair. "Babe, I thought you were gonna tell me you had, like, a killer ex or some galactic bounty on your head."

- He took your hands then, squeezing them with the kind of reckless, unwavering devotion that only Peter Quill could offer. "I don’t care about that mutant stuff, okay? You’re you. That’s what matters." And just like that, the weight on your chest vanished. Because Peter—sweet, ridiculous, infuriating Peter—had never cared about things like labels. You were his. That was the only thing that mattered.

- But when the galaxy did care, when the whispers of mutant hatred spread beyond Earth, Peter changed. Gone was the easygoing smuggler, the charming rogue. In his place was the son of a warlord, a man who had seen entire planets fall to fear. "You wanna go after mutants?" he snarled at a Kree ambassador who dared to suggest mutant containment. "Lemme tell you something, pal—mutants don’t need protecting from people like you. You need protecting from them."

- The Guardians became your fiercest defenders. Rocket rigged explosives to anti-mutant ships, Drax openly challenged bigots to duels (none survived), and Gamora—gods, Gamora—made sure that the universe learned a very simple lesson: you do not come for what belongs to the Guardians of the Galaxy.

- But when it was just you and Peter, when the weight of the cosmos faded, he was still the same dork who danced with you in the cockpit, who pressed forehead kisses against your skin, who whispered, "You’re my favorite person in the whole galaxy." And you believed him.

Richard Rider (Nova)

- Rich had always been a man caught between two worlds—human and cosmic, soldier and survivor. You knew, deep down, that he understood what it was to be other, to be shaped by forces beyond his control. And yet, when you finally told him the truth, you still braced for the worst.

- He just stared at you. Not in shock. Not in horror. Just… processing. And then, after what felt like eternity, he exhaled and scrubbed a hand over his face. "Jesus, babe, I thought you were gonna tell me something bad." He let out a shaky laugh, shaking his head. "I don’t give a damn about that. You think being a mutant makes you different? I’ve been half-space-god since I was a teenager. You’re nothing compared to the weird crap I’ve seen."

- But when Earth made it clear that it did care, when mutants were hunted and vilified, Rich stepped up. Hard. The Nova Corps had always been neutral, but Rich? Rich was not. He tore through fleets of Sentinels, shut down space stations funding anti-mutant research, and made sure the Shi’ar never forgot what happened when they overstepped. "Mutants are under my protection," he declared, his voice carrying through the void. "Come for them, and you answer to Nova Prime."

- And when the anti-mutant rhetoric reached Earth, when humans whispered about control and containment, Rich snapped. "You people don’t get it, do you?" he spat during a live broadcast, his helmet in his hands, his blue eyes furious. "The universe is full of things that would eat you alive. And you’re wasting your time fighting mutants? Jesus Christ, you people never learn."

- But when it was just you and him, when the war was distant and the stars were quiet, he pulled you into his arms and pressed a lingering kiss against your temple. "You’re my whole damn universe," he murmured, his voice thick with exhaustion, with love. "And I’m never letting anything happen to you."

[backtothefanfiction]

ONE | The Drone

Summary: Joaquin gets his very own version of Red Wing. Little does he know, there’s an actual person on the other end of the drone.

Warnings: none for this part, Joaquin just being his usual cute boyish self, reader insert

Word Count: 1.1k+

A/N: so after having this thought this morning I’m running with it. I don’t know how often I’ll update these but this is more an introduction to the premise. I have a couple ideas planned for this mini series but the idea is they are just quick things I can write. If I end up writing any spicy chapters I will mark them, but seeing as they are both at a distance from each other, this will be more slow burn fluffy pining. Anyway, enjoy!

“What is this? My birthday?” Joaquin asked eagerly as Sam approached him with a very fancy top secret looking briefcase.

“You wish.” Sam retorted stepping forward and swinging the briefcase up onto the deck.

Joaquin was practically bouncing from one leg to the other with excitement, his hands rubbing together in desperate need to touch whatever was inside. “What is it?”

There was a snap as Sam popped the locks on the case, but instead of opening it himself, he stepped back, his hand ushering his young protege forward to take a look.

Joaquin couldn’t believe his eyes. His fingers ghosted over the bird like drone inside the case, almost too scared to touch it as he took in the expensive and highly delicate piece of tech. His head whipped to the side, his eyes alight and giddy as the sought out Sam’s. “I get my own red wing!” He exclaimed.

Sam smiled at the younger man’s infectious and eager energy and almost let out a laugh. “Not quite. Red wing is mine. This is F.E.A.R.N,” he quickly explained. “Stands for Field, Environment, Artillery, Reconnaissance and Navigation. Your extra pair of eyes and back up in the field.” Sam said as Joaquin tried to keep his cool and seem at least a little professional. “You can talk to it and everything.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. Why don’t you give it a go.” Sam encouraged,

“What is it? That button there?” Joaquin asked only slightly hesitantly as he let his finger hover just above the button directly on top of the drone.

“That’s the one.”

“This one?” Joaquin said again, as if seeking his Father’s approval in case he did something wrong.

“Yup, that’s the one.”

“And I just press it and it starts?” Joaquin asked, checking yet again with a nervous yet giddy smile on his face.

“Yeah man, just press it!”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

You swivelled back and forth on your chair bored. First day of your new job and most of it had just been spent sitting around. Luckily this new job meant you could work from home- seeing as you were on call pretty much 24/7 for whenever the new Falcon was sent on a mission- meaning you could just sit around eating super noodles, read your book and drink endless cups of tea, but you were eager to do something. You knew that Captain America was handing over the new bit of tech you were hired to help man today, you just didn’t know when.

So far you had been waiting three hours, which had equated to 7 book chapters read, four games of solitaire won, 3 cups of tea and a freshly painted set of toe nails. You were just fanning them dry with your fingers when your computer started beeping to let you know the new drone had been activated. You quickly pushed your feet off the floor to wheel yourself back to your desk, your fingers quickly hitting a couple of buttons that allowed the sound and video feed to pop up on the screen and you immediately began to hear voices crackle through the speakers as you reached to put on the headset draped over the top of the monitor.

“Well why don’t you say hello,” Sam’s voice came out loudly through the speaker before switching to the headset as the Bluetooth connected.

“Umm, hello?” A nervous voice said, unsure what would happen.

“Hello, Joaquin,” you said cheerfully into the mic at your lips and you had to stop yourself from laughing and remain professional as his whole body practically jumped at hearing your response.

“It knows my name,” Joaquin said, turning to Sam in disbelief. “It knows my name!!!” He said more giddily, his fingers latching onto Sam’s shoulders in excitement. You couldn’t help but smile at the Lieutenant’s boyish reactions.

“I know a lot more than just that.” You responded playfully, your eyes glancing back over the file on your desk again.

“Really? Nothing bad I hope.” He beamed and it really took all your effort to be professional. You knew he was attractive and his track record spoke for itself as far as what had been written down on paper, but no one had prepared you for his personality and you could already feel yourself growing weak at the knees.

“Now, now.” Sam said, breaking up the conversation to get things back on track. “Now you know how Red Wing works?” Sam prompted the younger recruit, his tone changing.

“Yeah,” Joaquin responded.

“Okay, well think of FEARN as being like Red Wing but on steroids. She can not only check the area for you and provide back up, but she’s your quick access to information. Anything you need, just ask.”

“So say I was on a mission in Budapest and I needed to find the closest toilet?”

“Uhh yeah, she can do that?” Sam said, slightly confused by the example Joaquin had used.

“Or if I needed a background check run on someone?” He said, his eyebrows raising as if to silently ask if that was a better question and Sam nodded. “Oh this is so cool!” Joaquin gushed again and another smile spread across your face as you watched them from the safety of your living room.

“Okay, so how do I control it. Is there a remote control type thingy or…”

“Just tell her where you want her to go, she’ll do it.” Sam said.

“Oookay, uh, FEARN?” Joaquin asked politely.

“Yes, Joaquin,” you responded with equal politeness.

“Take a lap of the room.” He said.

You nodded, although he couldn’t see you, before you began to use your controls to navigate the small bird like drone around the room, sweeping over and under the beams in the rafters of the warehouse before dipping back down to where Sam and Joaquin stood.

“Sweet!” Joaquin exclaimed and you beamed. “Do a flip.” He said and you once again used your controls to roll the small bird over. “Nice.”

“Come on now, let not break it before we get a chance to get it out in the field.” Sam said stepping forward, encouraging Joaquin to pack FEARN away until his next mission.

“Uhh, how do I-?” Joaquin fished, trying to work out the right command to get the drone to dock itself again,

“Just ask her to go home.”

“Okay. FEARN time to go home.”

At Joaquin’s instruction you began to manoeuvre the drone carefully back into its dock before you shut it off, your connection to the two men cutting out with it until the next time you were called upon.

In the sudden silence you couldn’t help but curl your freshly painted toes in happiness as you beamed from ear to ear over your new job and partner. After doing a couple of spins in your chair to alleviate some of the giddiness, you reached back over to the file on your desk and flipped to the picture that had been included of Joaquin Torres and sighed at your good fortune. He was the perfect work partner; cute, polite and a great personality and you couldn’t wait to work with him.