#mcu imagine

[helaintoloki]

Can you write a fic between Bucky and an avenger reader (maybe she’s just a little older than Peter (like she’s in her mid 20s)and she always had a crush on Bucky)

notes: thank you for sending this in ! i hope you enjoy

warnings: fluff, mentions of night terrors

summary: you think you’re too young for Bucky to be interested in you. ironically, Bucky thinks he’s too old for you to be interested in him

“So how did that date go?” Wanda asks while watching you mindlessly scroll through the selection of movies Tony has on the entertainment room TV.

“I bailed,” Natasha admits shamelessly with an innocent shrug, prompting both Wanda and yourself to turn to her in shock. “I’m not really interested in giving up my personal time for something as trivial as a blind date.”

You hum thoughtfully at her response, only half listening as Wanda begins to pester her for more details about the man she had stood up. The three of you are enjoying a rare night of peace in the tower after forcing the men to vacate the premises and allow you to have the space to yourselves. The three of you are outnumbered on the team, so sometimes a break from the intense amounts of testosterone are needed for you all to decompress. Girl’s night is a simple tradition, but you all enjoy each other’s company more than anything.

“What about you, y/n?” Natasha prompts while gently nudging your side and breaking you from your daze. “Any guys out there you think are first date material?”

You shift uncomfortably now that the spotlight is on you and try to mask the embarrassment that washes over you in response to the question. You know your answer, but you think you’d rather die than admit the truth. You try to remain as nonchalant as possible by offering a seemingly uninterested shrug and answering with a quiet ‘No,’ but you unfortunately can’t hide the truth from a mind reader.

“She has a crush on Barnes,” Wanda blurts out before she can stop herself, causing your eyes to widen in horror at being exposed. Natasha lets out an amused huff while her counterpart quickly utters out apologies. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to say it. It’s just your thoughts get so loud when you think about him.”

“You don’t need to be a mind reader to know that,” Natasha jokes much to your dismay.

“Is it really that obvious?” You groan before allowing your head to fall back against the couch in defeat. Wanda pats your arm sympathetically, obviously still guilty about her slip up. You’re just thankful no one else is in the tower other than the three of you.

“Not to him,” the Widow consoles with a faint smile, “the man isn’t exactly the greatest at navigating social interactions. But I’ve seen the way you look at him from across the room and how your eyes light up when Steve puts you together on missions. You like him.”

“It’s pathetic, I know,” you admit with a defeated sigh, looking between the two in despair. “I don’t even know how it happened! One day we’re just teammates and the next I’m suddenly realizing just how blue his eyes are instead of paying attention to a debrief.”

“There’s nothing pathetic about your feelings,” Wanda says with a comforting smile, “it’s only natural. Maybe you should try talking to him about it.”

You look at her as if she’s grown a second head before scoffing at her suggestion. “You’re kidding, right? There’s no way I’d ever be his type. Besides, he probably sees me as some kid considering I’m only twenty-six and he’s basically a hundred years old.”

Natasha can’t help but to let out a small chuckle at your predicament before taking the remote from your fidgety hands. You don’t exactly appreciate her amusement towards your self-depreciating rant, but you know she means well, and you also know you have a tendency to be a bit dramatic.

“Don’t sell yourself short, y/n/n,” she advises before finally deciding to hit play on a random comedy movie. “Remember that you’re the prize, and any guy or girl would be lucky to have you. Besides, you’ll never know what could happen if you don’t give it a shot.”

The conversation ends there as your trio becomes engrossed with the movie, but her words linger on your mind for the rest of the night. You really doubt Bucky could have anything but platonic feelings for you, and it would be embarrassing to confess your feelings only to have him shoot you down. You don’t think you could show your face around the tower again if that were to happen, but you also know that you would give anything to win the super soldier’s heart.

Your inner turmoil persists, and you go to bed that night unsure of how to move forward.

~~~

“Barnes, y/l/n, how are you holding up?”

“We’re pretty much fucked, Cap,” you grunt into your earpiece after being slammed against a wall. You thought the room had been cleared, but you were soon proven wrong by the assailants who had been hiding in the shadows waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Bucky was currently taking on three on his own while you tried to fight off the woman who seemed hell bent on killing you. “If I survive this will I still be written up for swearing?”

“Focus, y/n,” Natasha’s voice chimes in. “Do you guys need backup?”

You manage to chance a glance over at Bucky and see that he’s fairing rather well on his own, and after returning your attention back to your own attacker, you swiftly lift your knee so that it slams into her gut and forces her to stumble back. It doesn’t take you long to disarm her and render her unconscious so that she no longer proves to be a threat, and you’re finally able to return to your own task.

“No, we’re good. Bucky should be able to hold them off while I plant the chip into the computer system,” you finally reply before setting to work. “It shouldn’t take long.”

“I hope so because they’ve got reinforcements already on the way,” Tony alerts over the earpiece. “You need to be out of there within the next five minutes.”

“Yep, you got it,” you affirm before looking over your shoulder to see Bucky finishing off the last of your attackers. His broad shoulders rise and fall with his labored breaths, hair falling perfectly into place and blue eyes looking up to meet your gaze. You swallow nervously and return your attention to the computer in an attempt to act inconspicuous. Luckily for you, the files you came for have been uploaded. “Alright, let’s get out of here before someone slams me up against another wall.”

“What?” Bucky retorts, eyebrows scrunched in confusion and cheeks slowly turning red at your poor choice of words. You pay him no mind and begin your trek towards the exit, though your stomach flips at the mere thought of having him cage you in against a wall and having you at his complete mercy. You shudder and try to shake the thoughts away, but it’s hard to do so when the man in question is right beside you matching your brisk pace.

“You okay?” He asks, eyes scanning your figure for any sign of injuries.

“Definitely going to have a bruise in the morning, but it’s nothing I can’t handle,” you note with an easygoing smile.

“I’m on dinner duty tonight,” Bucky notes thoughtfully before kicking down the doors and clearing your path to the outside. “You interested in lending a hand?”

“Oh, definitely. You and Steve can’t be trusted with dinner anymore after the last time.”

“I’ll have you know tuna casserole was a popular dish back in my day,” he retorts defensively only to make you laugh instead.

“Okay, grandpa, whatever you say,” you giggle much to his annoyance. He retaliates by playfully nudging your side with his elbow so that you stumble away, but he can’t hide the amused smile on his face at your antics.

“It’s about time,” Tony retorts impatiently after you two finally make it to the Quinjet. “I’d appreciate some sense of urgency, you know.”

“You said be back in five minutes, it’s only been three,” you reply defensively only to earn an eye roll from the man.

“You and Barnes can flirt with each other on your own time,” he quips to your dismay. You immediately feel yourself heat with embarrassment and do everything your power to avoid looking at Bucky who shifts uncomfortably beside you.

“We weren’t-“ Bucky starts to say only for Tony to interrupt.

“I don’t need the details, I just need both of your butts on the quinjet now.”

You’re mortified as you step foot inside where the rest of the team sits waiting. All eyes land on you and Bucky, and you try to ignore their gazes as you take your seat beside Wanda.

“If it makes you feel any better,” she whispers after leaning in closer to you, “his thoughts about you are loud, too.”

You swallow nervously and chance at a peek at the super soldier only to find he’s already looking right at you. You immediately turn your gaze towards the floor before sinking down sullenly into your seat.

It’s going to be a long flight home.

~~~

The tower is silent when you make your way to the living room in search of a distraction from the terrible nightmare you’d just endured. Your body still trembles with unease despite the blanket you have wrapped tightly around your figure, and it was times like these where you heavily contemplated begging Wanda to use her powers on you despite her reluctance to manipulate your mind.

There isn’t anything good playing this late on TV, but you don’t mind watching reruns of old sitcoms if it means you don’t have to sit in silence. You fixate your gaze on the screen, but you’re hardly paying any mind to your surroundings as you simply begin to dissociate. No one knows about the night terrors or the bad dreams that plague you after missions; you fear coming off as weak or unprepared for the life of an Avenger by telling any of your teammates about your dilemma, so you’ve learned to deal with it on your own by escaping through trivial distractions.

You’re so lost in thought that you don’t detect the presence of someone else in the room until a hand rests on your bare shoulder. You jump, obviously startled as your wide eyes look to the perpetrator sitting beside you. Bucky immediately yanks his hand back and raises his hands in surrender, his features apologetic at having startled you.

“Sorry, sorry,” he immediately says. “I tried calling your name first but you weren’t exactly responding. You okay?”

“Yeah, I um- sorry,” you utter with a soft shake of your head before swallowing, “I just got lost in thought I guess.”

“Anything you want to talk about?”

You normally would have insisted you were fine and tried to change the topic, but there was something about the gentleness in his eyes and the comfort his presence brought you that made it easier for you to open yourself up. You sigh, shifting in place so that you’re facing him now. He offers you a an encouraging smile and already you can feel yourself melting.

“Sometimes I have night terrors,” you confess quietly, almost embarrassed to admit it out loud. “They usually tend show up after a mission or an intense fight. When they happen I just come out here and watch some TV until my brain shuts up enough for me to get some sleep. Pathetic, huh?”

Despite the humorless laugh you let out, Bucky frowns before uttering, “I don’t think that’s pathetic at all. I get it. This job is tough, and sometimes you see things you can’t unsee no matter how hard you try. Don’t beat yourself up for having a normal human reaction to trauma.”

“You sound just like a therapist,” you tease, prompting him to let out a sheepish laugh in return.

“I may have picked up a thing or two in therapy myself,” he admits. A beat passes before he takes your hand in his own and gives it a reassuring squeeze. “Just know that if you ever need help chasing the nightmares away, I’m right here.”

Your heart pounds in your chest while the warmth of his hold encompasses your hand and spreads throughout your entire body. His eyes are full of sincerity, but you also detect something that you’ve never seen from him before. This look is different than the ones he normally gives you, more intimate, and you find yourself nervously biting the inside of your cheek while trying to decipher what it could be.

“Thank you,” you finally voice with a tired smile. Wanting to lighten the mood, you ask, “How come you’re up this late, anyway?”

“Made the mistake of having a cup of coffee after dinner,” he confesses with an embarrassed chuckle. “You mind if I keep you company?”

“Of course not, silly,” you retort as if it’s the most absurd question you’ve ever heard.

You and Bucky settle into a comfortable silence as you tune in to the sitcom playing on the TV screen. A sense of calm has washed over your body now that you’re no longer being tormented by the remnants of your nightmare, but there’s still a part of you that remains nervous around the man you secretly harbor feelings for. You find your mind drifting back to what Wanda had said you earlier and wonder if there was any truth to her words. What did she mean by it?

“Can I ask you something?” Bucky prompts after the episode ends.

“Anything,” you reassure him, grabbing the remote to lower the television’s volume so that he can have your undivided attention.

“I know it’s just your way of poking fun at me, but when you call me ‘grandpa’ or ‘old man,’ is that… that’s not how you see me, is it? Old?”

You’re honestly taken back by his comment, not expecting him to have thought this heavily into the subject. Of course you knew the man was out of his time, and if he had been given the chance to age naturally you most likely would not be sitting here on this couch with him, but you had never thought less of him because of the fact.

“No, of course not! Honestly sometimes I forget you’re technically 106.”

Bucky lets out a chuckle at that, but there’s still doubt lingering on his features as he self-consciously looks down at his hands in his lap. “I just see you with Peter and Wanda sometimes and wonder if I’m too old for you to be hanging around with.”

You shift closer to Bucky so that you can rest a comforting hand on his bicep, prompting him to lift his head and meet your softhearted gaze. Your entire being emanates warmth and tenderness, and it draws the soldier right in to you. You have no idea the effect you have on him or the way a single brush of your fingertips against his skin can satiate the yearning he feels every time he looks at you. Wanda had been telling you the truth; his thoughts are always loud when you’re around him.

“I guess sometimes it’s easier to connect with them considering we’re closer in age, but I like that you and I are so different because of it. I think there’s more to learn with you and more to appreciate. I genuinely enjoy any minute that’s spent with you,” you confess adamantly, prompting the corner of his lips to quirk up. “Besides, it’s going to take a lot more than a number to scare me away from you.”

Bucky only responds by wrapping his arms around your frame and pulling you into a long awaited hug. You try to stifle your gasp of surprise at suddenly being so close to him, and you hope he doesn’t pick up on the fact that your heart is nearly beating out of your ribcage. You feel his lips press to the top of your head and swear you must be dreaming this because there’s no way the Avenger you’ve pining after for months is now so boldly giving you his affection.

“How about we go away for a weekend?” He finally says after holding you in silence for some time.

“Go away?” You repeat, curiously peeking up at him.

“Leave New York, explore somewhere new,” Bucky reiterates, his features relaxed as he looks down upon you with an adoring gaze. “Be regular people for a few days.”

“I’d like that,” you profess quietly, sighing in contentment when the man pulls you against his chest once more before settling back against the couch. You can feel your eyelids already starting to become heavy, and the soothing circles he rubs into your back doesn’t help. You don’t want this moment with Bucky to end, but you also know that there’s so much to look forward to.

“Bucky?” You hum quietly after allowing your eyes to flutter shut.

“Yes, doll?”

“When we go away for the weekend, can we be regular people in a relationship?”

You feel his body gently shake from the quiet laugh he lets out at your response. You feel his lips press to your forehead as you drift to sleep, missing his answer when he replies, “I’d want nothing more.”

~~~

You slept through the rest of the night without issue; Bucky’s comforting presence was enough to lull you into a peaceful rest, and you entrusted him to chase away the nightmares for you. The two of you remained entangled together on the couch all the way until sunrise, and neither of you had bothered to consider the repercussions of your actions in the morning.

“I feel bad waking them,” Steve sighs, arms crossed over his chest as he and Natasha look down on your sleeping forms. There’s an almost proud smile on his face as he takes in the sight of his best friend holding the woman of his dreams in his arms.

“Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to let them sleep a little longer,” Natasha notes with a knowing smile before promptly ushering the blond out of the entertainment room. Unbeknownst to either of you, by the time you wake up you’ll be the talk of the tower.

“So how much do you owe Wanda?” Steve asks after quietly shutting the door behind him. Natasha lets out a disappointed sigh.

“I’m out twenty bucks. I bet it would take at least another week before they finally got their heads out of their asses and confessed. But I guess as long as they’re happy…”

“That’s all that matters,” Steve finishes for her with a nod.

The team is happy they’ll no longer have to endure your obvious pining over each other, and they make sure to tell you so when you finally wake up.

It’s an eventful morning to say the least.

[wynnerwynner]

As I said in May

just want to remind some writers that bob is a fully grown man with a conscience and a former drug addiction. he is not a child and some of y’all should stop infantilising him.

… that’s all.

[callsign-swan]

Superhero Thing

Bob has to do superhero things and save you. He's not great at it.

"Thank you for dinner, Mr Barnes."

You stood from the sofa, your hand still in Bob's. He tried to pull you back (easily could have, if he wanted to), but he didn't. Semi-unwillingly, he let you go.

You were good for Bob, the rest of the Thunderbolts (New Avengers?) thought so. He smiled more around you, seemed to be more confident in himself when you were there. Bob was fully gone for you, anyone could see.

"I'll walk you to the door," he mumbled as he stood up and slipped his hand into yours. That was as far as the affection went around his team. It wasn't that he was overly shy, wasn't that he felt uncomfortable showing you affection in front of his team, it just wasn't him.

Bob saved that for when you were alone. He loved holding you, making sure you were still there. In its own way, it was grounding.

"See you soon, kid," Bucky mumbled as you and Bob walked away. (Kid, you didn't understand why Bucky called you that. You weren't a kid, and neither was Bob. You were an adult, same as him. You had a job and an apartment and responsibilities).

Bob stood beside you as the elevator took you down to the ground floor. "Val wants me on a mission soon," he mumbled as he lifted your hand to his lips. Affection only for your eyes.

You turned towards him, lips pinched as you pushed his hair away from his forehead. A mission, that meant the return of the Blonde Bombshell. "How're you feeling about that?"

His shoulders raised in a shrug.

"Only do it if you feel ready, Bobert," you mumbled, hand resting on his cheek. "She can't make you. And, if she tries, she's gonna have to go through me."

The Bob Smile (a term you and Yelena started using when you got closer to the assassin) played on his lips before he kissed you. Hands squeezing your hips slightly, a reminder that he was strong, that he could definitely crush your pelvis if he wanted to.

When the doors opened, he let go of you. "Wanna come to mine at some point?" You asked him as you started towards the doors of the building.

"End of the week?"

"End of the week."

But the end of the week never came around. Well, it did, just not with Bob. He didn't come to your apartment to watch movies and eat takeout. He just... didn't show up.

(You wanted to be annoyed. You really wanted to be annoyed with him, but you couldn't. You'd met Valentina, you knew what she was like, you knew she wouldn't have given Bob an option if she really wanted him on that mission).

You didn't expect a knock at the window. You window on the fourth floor of you apartment. Grabbing the nearest thing to you (a cushion was a useless weapon, in hindsight), you threw open the curtains.

"Blonde bombshell," you breathed as you looked at him.

Cape billowing around him, blonde hair moving across his forehead, The Sentry floated in front of your window. No, not The Sentry. The blue eyes, the expression on his face. That was your Bob.

Throwing open the window, you let him into your apartment. "What in the actual fuck, Bob," you hissed as he flew through your window. You knew who he was, what he could do. You just never expected him outside of your apartment window.

Bob looked down at himself as you shut the window. He had clothes somewhere in your apartment, he knew. When he asked you about it, you ran off to grab said clothes as he struggled with the zipper in the back of his suit.

When you returned, you helped him to pull down the zipper. Bob disappeared into your bathroom with his clothes tucked under his arm. You watched him go, your features settled in a frown.

You weren't mad that Bob had shown up out of the blue. God no, you were so happy that you were the first place he came to after a mission. But it had never happened before. In the limited missions he'd been on, it had never happened before.

When Bob stepped out of the bathroom, he looked so damn cosy. But that seemed to be Bob's usual state. Cosy. His hair was back to it's natural colour and, honestly, you preferred it.

"How was the mission?" You tried to ask as he laid his suit over the back of your sofa.

Bob raised his shoulders in a shrug. "Dunno," he mumbled as he sat down. You sat with him, giving him whatever space he might have needed. "They didn't need me and I spent the entire thing thinking about you."

There was a second before you could respond, a second where you couldn't stop yourself from grinning.

"Gotta make it up to you," he mumbled and moved closer to you. "Gonna take you on a proper date."

"A proper date, huh?" You leaned back as Bob leaned over you. A position you didn't mind, not in the slightest. Your hands found his shoulders, firm with muscle, as he kissed you.

Jesus, kissing Bob made your head spin. He pulled the very breath from your lungs as he pressed his bodyweight on top of you.

Eventually, you pushed him away. "Tomorrow, Bobert," you mumbled. "Bet you're tired. Wanna stay the night?"

Bob didn't stay the night. He kept his suit tucked under his arm, hands shoved into his pockets, as he made his way back to the Watchtower.

Bob had yet to spend the full night at your place. He explained it to you once, what might happen if he spends the night, what he was afraid to put you through.

You were happy to give him time. All the time he needed.

In the morning, just as you were getting ready for work, there was a knock at your door. "I missed you too, Bobert, but I got work."

Not Bobert.

Certainly not Bobert.

"Grab her, boys."

Men dressed in black grabbed you and pulled you out of your apartment. A bag was placed over your head as they dragged you away.

***

Yawning, Bob made his way into the kitchen. Just a litte something to eat, to hold him over until he picked you up later.

A proper date. The two of you hadn't been on a proper date before. He was definitely excited, but the nerves were beginning to top the excitement.

But this was you. You loved him more than words could describe, he knew.

"Isn't this usually something saved for the briefing room?" Yelena asked as she walked in behind him.

Bob turned around. He had already seen the rest of the Thunderbolts (his preferred name) gathered around the kitchen table.

"What is it?" He mumbled as he wandered over.

To put it simply, it was you. Pictures of you, in a dingy warehouse, on a dirty chair with your hands tied behind your back. Bob had never seen you look so terrified before.

"Where is this?" He asked, voice shaking as he picked up the picture of you.

"Intel says she didn't leave her apartment before this."

"Must be near her building," John mumbled.

That was all Bob needed to hear. Still in his comfies, he flew through the window. The glass shattered around him, but he didn't much care.

He knew the way to your apartment like the back of his hand. Crowds of people stared, pointed at him like he was the mythical superman, but he kept going. Just to your apartment; he could figure out the rest from there.

If they hurt a hair on your head... Well Bob didn't know what he was going to do. He didn't hurt people, the Sentry side of him did. Even then, the Sentry side of him didn't want to.

(He wasn't even blonde. Just Bob, with the added power).

The warehouse. He knew he passed it on the way to yours before. For the life of him, he just couldn't remember where. A few streets away, at least.

Touching down on top of your apartment building, Bob looked around. The warehouse. Where was the warehouse. He scanned the surrounding streets until he found it.

The warehouse. The warehouse where you were held hostage. He didn't even know what they wanted you for, just knew he wanted you back.

Bob had never flown so fast in his life. He flew towards the warehouse, breaking the glass on his way through the window. It certainly announced his arrival.

Your eyes went wide. "Bobert!" You tried to say through your gag. But it came out all muffled and indistinguishable.

"Let her go or I'll..."

Bob raised his fists, but the threat wasn't there.

"Let her go or you'll what?" It was followed by a laugh, one that had you shaking. But he stepped closer, curled his fingers around your shoulder.

Somehow, you managed to get your gag out of your mouth. "Bobert!" You cried. "You-" But you stopped as you took him in. "You're not very good at this whole superhero thing, are you?" You couldn't help but ask.

He dropped his fist and stepped forward. They shot at him, but it did nothing but tear at Bob's clothes. All things you'd seen before. (All things you were happy to see, even with the danger you were in). "I'm trying," he said. "Just, how do I do it without killing everyone?"

"Just knock them out or something," you said, trying to keep your voice encouraging.

Bob did just that. They came at him all at once. But everything they did to him had no effect. He was pulling his punches, you knew. His fist could easily go through their heads if he wasn't careful.

But he knocked them out and freed you from your chair. "Had me so scared back there," he mumbled as his hands found your hips, holding you close.

You held his muscular shoulders. "I like watching you work," you mumbled as you looked into his eyes. "Wanna pick me up and fly me home like a real superhero?"

"I am a real superhero," he said and scooped you up.

[hard-core-super-star]

keep it confidential, you make me feel special [W.Maximoff + K.Bishop]

pairing: domme!wanda maximoff x sub!reader x kate bishop

summary: wanda's the infamous editor in chief of a prestigious magazine, you're her executive editor and kate's your newest, annoying, assistant. what could possibly happen when she stumbles into wanda's office at the wrong time and finds out you two are more than co-workers? nothing good.

warnings: SMUT, MINORS GO AWAY! -> established dom/sub dynamics; office sex; power play; fingering; grinding; finger sucking because my hand slipped; praise kink go brr; mommy kink go brr; slight voyeurism [kate is a bit of a perv and a peeping tom]; technically triple [legal] age gap?; someone needs to notify HR lmao; R goes from not wanting kate around to wanting to top her which is valid, i think; no threesome yet tho

wordcount: 2.6k

a/n: HI! i rewatched the devil wears prada a few months ago and this random idea came to mind and i just could NOT stop myself from writing it. and trust me, i tried 😅 i have no idea if anyone will be into this AU but i wanted to explore R in a different role than usual. but because of who i am as a writer, that will come in part two which i hope will be up sometime next week. wanda x kate HAS to be the rarest rareship but oh well, my hand slipped. anyway, please let me know what you think and if you'd like to be added to the taglist. for now, hope you enjoy <3

* * * * * * *

Your steps are hurried as you make your way to Wanda's office, ignoring her assistant and her warning that the older woman is busy. You know damn well she's not busy, considering the not safe for work texts she'd just sent you.

Surprisingly, that's not what has you so hurried, though.

You push open her office door, straightening up as her gaze falls on you. "Do you need something?"

Instead of instantly replying, you shut the door behind you, making sure the windows are fully covered before standing in front of her desk. "Out of all the applicants, you chose the Bishop girl? I said I wanted an assistant, not a pet."

Even though she knows exactly what you're talking about, she still raises her eyebrow just to see you shrink into yourself. "Excuse me?"

You stand your ground as your stubbornness wins out over your fear of disappointing her. "Oh, come on, Wanda, there's no one around."

"That still doesn't mean you can forget your place," she replies, her no-nonsense tone taking a stand.

Instead of asking for forgiveness, you simply roll your eyes and cross the space between you. Wanda's hands land on your waist and she helps you up onto her desk before sliding her chair closer until she's between your spread legs.

"I'm serious, Wands," you try again. "Why her?"

"Because I said so," she responds, clearly teasing you. "And she was the best candidate."

"I seriously doubt that," you scoff. "What were her qualifications? Eating from a silver spoon all her life?"

"Behave. Why are you doubting me so much?"

Even though you're still a little annoyed, you force yourself to swallow said annoyances briefly. The last thing you need is to get into an unnecessary argument and earn yourself the silent treatment until tomorrow.

"It's not about doubting you," you reply with a sigh. "I just don't understand what your plan is."

The smirk on her face should tell you all you need to do, but you're far too distracted by her hands on your thighs to notice. "You don't need to understand, darling. You just need to trust me. I have no doubt the two of you will get along very well."

Her suggestive tone isn't lost on you, and yet you choose to ignore it. Maybe it's because of the trust you implicitly place in her or because her hands begin wandering, and she leans up to kiss you, and every thought in your head disappears.

Your argument is forgotten for the rest of the day (thanks to Wanda's skillful fingers) and you almost forget about Kate's existence.

Except, she shows up at the office, bright-eyed and smiley, two days later.

The mere sight of her makes you want to roll your eyes, but you force yourself to behave for Wanda. As much as you hated the solution, you were in dire need of an assistant and if the Bishop girl was your only option…well, you hated to admit it, but she was better than nothing.

Especially if having her around kept you from getting in trouble with your partner.

Despite your hesitations, the first few days were fine.

Kate was surprisingly good at listening when she wanted to be and her weird charm made her the best candidate for going out to fetch your lunch. Sure, it was a little juvenile to make her your errand girl, but what else was an assistant for? Your duties as editor-in-chief were overwhelming most days, thanks to how much of a perfectionist Wanda is, and an errand girl was exactly what you needed.

You hated it but…it turned out the Bishop girl wasn't the worst person for the job. Even you could admit that.

It certainly helped that she seemed to be quite…enthusiastic around you. You wrote it off as her being excited about finally having a job after being a trust fund baby all her life.

That became harder to do, though, when you saw the way she acted around Wanda.

The blush that stained her cheeks, the constant stammering only to ramble on about something completely unrelated to the topic at hand, the way she fidgeted with her hands when no one was looking. It was far more amusing than it should have been.

You were hardly the right person to judge considering the heart eyes you constantly threw Wanda, even at work. It wasn't like your relationship was forbidden, even if HR probably wouldn't be happy about it, but the two of you still preferred to keep things discreet. Not simply because of the nature of your relationship, even though that was a big part of it.

While your promotion to executive editor had come before getting romantically involved with Wanda, people still talked. She already faced so much adversity, you hardly needed to add fuel to the fire.

Maybe that's what made Kate's reactions so damn endearing. She was you if had allowed your real feelings to slip through the cracks all those months ago.

However, when you brought up your observations to Wanda, her reaction wasn't what you expected.

The two of you were in her office, far past 5 PM, sharing a bottle of wine and pretending like you were actually editing the newest batch of stories sent in by the writers for next month's issue. When the silence started lingering, you brought it up.

"I think Kate's got a crush on you," you say with a grin far too big for the topic at hand.

Wanda meets your eyes over the rim of her glass. "Me? Oh, darling, you're far too intelligent to be so oblivious."

Her words only serve to confuse you and you try to ignore the warmth in your cheeks as your head tilts to the side. "What are you talking about?"

She allows herself a laugh as she sets her glass down and pats her lap in invitation. You waste no time in following her wordless offer, the tension in your shoulders already starting to lessen. Her hands land on your waist and she pulls you in as close as physically possible.

Once you're settled on her lap, she speaks again, her eyes glancing behind you for a second. You assume it's her being overly vigilant as always so you pay no mind to it. "Darling, Kate is embarrassingly head over heels for you."

If her grip on you wasn't so tight, you would have squirmed away out of embarrassment. "What? That can't be true."

All she does is smile, her hands rubbing up and down your sides. You're not sure if she's trying to distract you or not, but your thoughts get scattered all the same. "Trust me, detka, she doesn't care about this place enough to be doing all your biding."

Slowly, the wires in your brain start connecting. The process is slower than normal, though, thanks to the wine in your system and Wanda's hands on your body. "Then why'd you hire her?"

Instead of answering, she simply continues her slow exploration of your body. Even though you know what she's doing, you can't find it in yourself to care. Especially when her hands slip under your shirt. "You keep questioning me and you'll end up over my lap with a sore ass."

It's technically a threat, and yet your hips move against her before you can stop them. Wanda catches you, of course. She's far too attuned to your body and the way it reacts to her words, even when you don't want it to.

Whatever her plan is, it's working perfectly. As usual.

And while you could sit there and take it, you much prefer to be a brat about it. Like always.

"Are you going to actually do something or just keep talking?" You ask, grinding against her firm thigh.

Her eyes shift again, that smug smirk marking her features once more. "But you like it when I talk you through it, don't you?"

Before you can answer, one of her hands moves up and she slides two fingers into your mouth. It's unexpected, but you respond instantly all the same.

Her other hand remains on your waist, guiding you against her thigh. It should be embarrassing you much you want her. How needy you are that even the briefest touch gets you so desperate.

Instead, it feels fucking incredible.

"Don't worry," she murmurs, pushing her fingers in deeper just to take in the face you make. "I've got you."

Her words are meant to be comforting, and in a way they are, but more than anything, they give you the permission you need to let go. To stop thinking so damn much after a day of nonstop work and worrying.

Wanda sees it. She always does. And even though she could tease you about it, a part of her always longs to take care of you. It's hard for her to trust anyone, let alone want them around. It's different with you, though. It's always been different.

She slips her fingers out of your mouth only to slip them down the front of your trousers, a wicked glint in her eye shining as she finds the wetness staining your panties. "Already, darling? Did you miss me that much today?"

"I always do," you reply, walking the line between vulnerability and desire.

"Oh, I know. You just need me that much, huh?"

Despite the question, she gives you no time to actually answer. Instead, she slips her fingers under your panties to tease your clit.

The contact makes you jump, your hips conflicted about whether to move away or closer. Wanda makes the choice for you, though, squeezing your waist while her fingers slip inside your cunt.

You clench around the intrusion, head falling back as the pleasure moves up your spine. The sight of bared skin only makes the older woman move closer, her lips latching onto your neck. She knows better than to actually leave behind any hickies, despite how badly you both want her to.

She doesn't give you any time to think about that, though, because all your focus is given to her fingers pistoning in and out of you. Her pace is just fast enough to keep you gasping for air in between moans yet slow enough to feel her knuckles grazing against your walls.

"Wanda-" You gasp, your hands blindly griping her flexing biceps as she works you up effortlessly. Well, almost effortlessly, if the way her muscles move beneath your hands is anything to go by.

"Nice try, sweetheart," she mutters as she grazes her teeth against your pulse point. "Just because we're still at work doesn't mean you can forget your manners."

You whine despite yourself. "Please, mommy."

"Much better."

Your reward, besides the sweet praise, is her thumb toying with your aching clit. Your hips buck against her hand as you chase after the release slowly building. It's almost unfair how quickly she gets you to this point.

Then again, it's a much better alternative than when she gets into a sadistic mood and edges you over and over again only to ruin your orgasm and leave you spent and shaking on her expensive sheets.

Today, it seems she's in a much nicer mood because she keeps her fingers moving. "Do you want to cum, baby?"

You nod instantly, the condescending tone in her voice making your brain melt. "Yes, mommy! Please."

She trails a few kisses down your throat while her thumb toys mercilessly with your clit. It's almost like she's waiting until your whole body starts trembling to give you the command you crave.

"Alright, sweet girl, let go for me."

That's all your body needed to hear.

Your orgasms crashes into you all at once, pulling you down until all that's left is the overwhelming pleasure pulsing through your core. You can feel Wanda smiling against your skin as she slows down her movements, not stopping until she's sure she's wrung out every drop of your release.

You shift away from her when the feeling of her touch grows to be too much and she relents with a quick kiss to your jaw. "Good girl. You did so well for me, sweetheart."

All you can do is hum, your body already slumping against her. She chuckles at the action as her fingers find their way back into your mouth.

You're halfway to a much needed nap when Wanda shocks you awake with one simple sentence.

"If you're going to keep staring, you might as well come in, Kate."

Her free hand moves to the back of your neck, holding you against her even though all you want to do is run away. You've never let anyone except Wanda see you like this and you're not exactly thrilled about changing that right now. But, her embrace is still warm and if she takes care of the brunette's bad timing on her own, maybe it'll be fine. At least she takes her fingers out of your mouth to save you the embarrasment.

"I'm so sorry, I realized I forgot to drop off some paperwork and I assumed no one was here and then I saw you guys and-"

"And you decided to stop and watch instead of leaving." You don't have to be looking at her to know the smirk the older woman is wearing. "I didn't realize you were such a slut, Kate."

Wanda's voice lacks the harshness you had been expecting, but a brief glance toward the younger woman tells you she doesn't realize that. It's…cute, in a way. She looks like the most flustered deer in headlights you've ever seen and it weirdly works for her.

Kate opens her mouth a few times, trying to form words but failing miserably. The sight makes you giggle which makes Wanda glance down at you.

None of you seem quite sure of where to go, you just know Wanda's not mad and you're coming around to Kate's presence. Especially if being flustered means she's not talking all the time.

"Kate, if all you wanted was to be topped by Wanda, you didn't have to get a job here," you pipe up.

Your words seem to stun the room into silence and you shift enough to be able to watch the brunette's face turn an even deeper shade of pink. "I didn't- that's not-"

"It's not?" Wanda's eyebrow raise is almost inbedded in her tone. "You're not a good enough liar to try right now."

For a second, it looks like Kate is ready to run away from the conversation. But after a beat of silence, she rolls her shoulders back and straightens up, her chin held a little higher. "That's not why I applied to work here…and it's none of your business who I want to be topped by."

"It's both of us, isn't it?"

Wanda's question makes the brunette's confidence fall flat. "I...well, yes."

Despite the blush on her cheeks, her words are loud and clear. And they make you freeze long enough to realize Wanda was right.

Which just complicates things even more.

What the hell are you supposed to do now?

Wanda comes up with the answer for that question before you can even blink. And before you know it, she's inviting the brunette to her place, a seductive promise of "working things out" is the only hint either of you get about what she has up her sleeve.

You ask her about it at least ten times after Kate leaves and the two of you start packing up to go home. She doesn't answer, of course, and you force yourself to behave and be patient even though the mere thought of the brunette being allowed into your private world makes your heart pound in your chest…and your cunt clench around nothing.

Maybe the Bishop girl isn't so bad after all.

[takenbypeter]

Ahem… I would like to request a fic with Bob where the reader has never been kissed before >:3 and is in love with him heh and is almost as nervous and awkward as he is

Case Of The Giggles

Bob Reynolds x reader 

Words: 971

A/N: you know I LOVE first kiss storiesssss! I actually have one ready for Bob that I’m planning on posting later but it wasn’t awkward enough so I wrote this one too! Anyways I hope you love it 🫶

Despite what people told you, you felt bad for being considered a late bloomer. 

It wasn’t some big secret that you hid, but it wasn’t something you bragged about either. 

Never been in a relationship. Never had your first kiss. 

Frankly you honestly just found it difficult to even talk to men. But then came Bob. 

Bob was simple. 

Not in his emotions but in the way he connected with people—the way he connected with you. 

It started with one simple conversation that led to a deep one and suddenly you two were like kindred spirits. Linked together. 

He found something hilarious? He had to show you. 

You saw a book you’d think he’d like? Shared it with him. 

You two shared your good days and bad days together and in time, the moments shared had you questioning if you had actual deep feelings for the man. And after some contemplating you realized…you did. 

Everything about that thought made you nervous. 

From the thought of what confessing could do to your friendship. To the idea of what would happen if you actually got together. It all created one huge tangled ball in your stomach, one that you clearly were not doing good at hiding. Eventually the ball of feelings came out, not from you first but actually from Bob. Which led to your first date which was why you two were sat, side by side on a picnic table a bit away from an ice cream stand. 

Bob mentioned an inside joke, one that always made you crack up and instead of the usual laugh that he loved hearing, he was met with a single smile as your eyes then went back to the cup in your hand. 

“Okay,” he set his own cold delicacy down, turning to you again, “Where are you?”

“Huh?” You asked, your mind coming back down to earth. 

“What are you doing?”

You shook your head at his question, “just thinking,” was what you said, “about how we ended up here,” you said and he laughed. 

“We took a cab.”

You shot him a look as a smile crept onto your lips, “you know that’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

You exhaled a deep sigh, closing your eyes and then opening them. “I’m thinking about how disastrous this could all go,” you said, sending him an unsure smile. You knew you should be happy about him and you—and you were. But you also had this gut wrenching feeling that you would do something to mess it up. And while you would be afraid to share that thought with anyone else you weren’t afraid to share it with Bob. 

“It’s not going to go disastrously,” he assured, finding himself being the positive one for once when usually you were. 

You two sat quietly, finding yourselves lost in your ice creams. His voice cut through the silence, “do you want to know what I’m thinking about?”

You nodded, setting your ice cream down, “sure.”

He took a breath, something he’s gotten into the habit of when he expressed himself, something he actually picked up from you. 

“I’m thinking about,” his eyes looked up and down your face, his features softening, finding solace in them, “how pretty you look under these lights.” Your lips curved but you did your best to contain your smile. He could easily see right through you. “I’m thinking about how lucky I am to have met you,” he paused again, his fingers grazing yours that sat on the bench between you two, “I’m thinking about how happy I am when I’m with you.”

After that one, you realized just how close you two were. You felt his body heat draw near as he did and just when he was going to meet you, you of course just had to get the nervous giggles. Laughing a bit you pushed him away from you creating a distance again. 

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” you said, “it’s not you I’m just…” you straightened again your laughter dying out more embarrassed now, “nervous.”

His expression shifted into one of surprise. 

“You’re nervous? Join the club.”

“You’re nervous?”

“Are you kidding me? You should see how twisted my insides are just thinking about even the possibility of getting to kiss you right now.”

You laughed again causing him to smile. 

“Don’t laugh!” He commanded. 

“I’m sorry!” You shouted back. 

You became serious just for a moment while he stared at you. At the forced silence you both burst into a light case of the giggles until it quieted down. 

“Okay stop. I’m gonna kiss you now.”

With your nerves still present but reduced, you straighten your posture, “okay, do it.”

You stood still, heart still awry as he neared. His hand reached up to your jaw holding you secure and after what felt like an eternity, his lips met yours. 

Your facial muscles that were ready to tug upwards into another fit of laughter instead relaxed as you followed his lead. 

Unlike you, Bob moved with purpose. Like he was giving his whole heart to you in this small innocent kiss and you were receiving it and giving your own right back to him. 

Although you were uncertain about how your limbs were moving you weren’t focused on that. Instead you were focused on the way he felt. 

His lips were warm against yours. 

Warm. Inviting. Sweet. Chocolatey and minty. 

You savored his taste, while he did yours until his lips smiled as he leaned away. 

You looked at him curiously, as he beamed back at you. “Now I have the privilege of telling people I was your first kiss,” he said, causing you to mirror his expression but he met you again for a quick kiss, “and your second.” He repeated the action again before saying, “and your third.”

[angelltheninth]

Prasing and Stroking Robert Reynolds Until He Can't Take It Anymore

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Reynolds x Fem!Reader

Tags: nsfw, smut, handjob, praise kink, mirror sex, overstimulation, cum shot, grinding, teasing, blushing

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions

A/N: This man is so pathetic, he is a sad cat, he is a god, he is powerful and I will make him whimper.

It was no secret that he didn't think to highly of himself or that he was the shy sort

Bob was a very giving lover, he would eat you out until his jaw started hurting and then some more until you lost the feeling in your legs

Didn't take long for you to notice his praise kink

How his cock twitched and jumped when you called him a good boy, when you told him he was making you happy or making you feel good, how perfect he was, how loving

Seemed to have a problem accepting pleasure so you decided to give him a hand, literally, you told him to kneel in front of the mirror and settled behind him, your hands roaming his body, down his abs and one wrapping around his cock

A strong blush took over his whole face as you stroked him

You didn't him touch himself, he had to listen to you, he had to let you do this for him, he had to let you give him pleasure as well

Kept telling him how pretty he was like this, on his knees, cock hard in your hand, his mouth open and drooling, his pre-cum dripping down onto your hand

The only thing you allowed him to use his hands for is to rub and pinch his nipples, which you knew would be more than sensitive by now

Bob was never one to keep his voice down when the two of you had sex and he sure as hell wasn't about to start now

You pressed against him, your soft tits against his back, your wet pussy against his soft ass

As you rubbed his sensitive cockhead his hips rocked forward into your hand, wanting, no, needing more

His ears were red as you praised his efforts, the simultaneous restraint and desperation

Feeling he was close you formed a tight ring with your hand and gripped the bottom of his cock, making him whimper, beg, plead with nearly inconsistent babble to let him come

You chuckled against his ear and pressed slow kisses against his neck, reaching down with your other hand to massage his full balls, feeling his hot cock pulsing in your hand

If he wanted to come he only needed to do one thing for you, he needed to repeat every nice thing you said about him, while looking at the mirror

Easy enough wasn't it, yet for someone like Bob, especially in this horny, overstimulated state, it was the most difficult task he had ever been given

With each praise that he managed to force out of his lips you stroked his cock, but each time it made it more difficult to get the next praise out

By the time he said the final praise he was a shaking, whimpering, pleading mess under your hands, his cock oozing with cum, the tip red and overstimulated and sensitive it only took one swipe of your thumb and calling him a good boy one more time to make him shoot cum right against the mirror

You kept stroking him through it until he had nothing more to give, just the needy, stuttering movements of his hips, unsure if he wanted more or if he wanted to move away

Bob turned to capture your lips in a sloppy kiss, his mind still playing catch up from the orgasm he just had

Quickly enough his sunshine smile greeted you and he turned to pull you against him, his arms slightly shaking as he held you, telling you that he still thinks that you're more than what he deserves

At the same time you make him so happy so he will try his best to the kind of man that does deserve you, even though in your mind he already is

[the-unidentified-author]

Crawl Inside This Body - Find Me Where I Am Most Ruined, Love Me There. | Robert 'Bob' Reynolds| Thunderbolts*

Warnings/ Tags: SMUT[NSFW], mentions of drug abuse, description of scars, descriptions of sex, explicit language, multiple orgasms, he is vocal in bed, filthy, talks you through it, consensual!

Fem!Reader

Summary: You catch bob in an intimate moment and decide to join him. This is FILTH.

Word Count: 6,686

A/N: I'm not happy with this one and I think I still need to edit it some more. I don't know why maybe its the flow. I have writers block right now and this was my attempt at getting rid of it and I don’t think its worked. READ THE WARNINGS FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!

Not my gif, if its yours and you would like me to remove it just ask <3

The party is a whirlwind of colour and sound, laughter echoing off the walls as glasses clink and bodies sway to the pulsing beat. It's a celebration of the Thunderbolts' latest successful mission, a rare moment of calm in their otherwise chaotic lives. Yelena's delighted laughter rings out above the din, her head thrown back in abandon, while Alexei's eyes narrow at a puddle of spilled vodka, his annoyance palpable. At the edge of your vision, Ghost flickers in and out of sight, her spectral form swaying to the music, a playful smile on her face as she enjoys the revelry.

You can't help but feel a little out of place amidst the revelry, your thoughts a jumble of conflicting emotions. On one hand, you're grateful for the reprieve from the constant danger and uncertainty of your work. But on the other, the noise and the crowds are a stark contrast to your usual quiet, solitary existence, and they're starting to make you feel just a little uncomfortable.

But it's Bob who draws your gaze, time and time again. Hunched in his oversized hoodie, the frayed edges of his baggy pants brushing the sticky floor, he lingers in the shadows, seemingly just as out of place as you feel. His fingers fidget with his drink, his eyes downcast, forever on the outside looking in.

As you watch him, you can't help but wonder what he's thinking, what secrets he might be hiding beneath his quiet, unassuming exterior.

You find your gaze drifting to him more times than you’d care to admit. Maybe it’s the way he avoids the spotlight, or the awkward way he fidgets with his drink. Occasionally, he catches you watching. And though he looks away quickly, his cheeks tinged with something you can’t quite name, there’s a glint in his eye.

What if she knew what I was really thinking? Bob muses silently, his gaze flickering back to you before darting away again. How the sight of her makes my heart race, my thoughts stray to places they shouldn't. The things I want to do…

He shifts uncomfortably, tugging at the hem of his hoodie as if to hide the flush creeping up his neck. Get it together, man.

Bob's fingers tighten around his drink, his grip almost white-knuckled as he tries to rein in his errant thoughts. She'd probably laugh if she knew. Or worse, pity me. He ducks his head, letting his hair fall across his face like a curtain, shielding him from the world. Just act normally, he tells himself, taking a deep, shaky breath. Don't let her see how much you care. How much you want…

He trails off, his thoughts too tangled, even in the privacy of his mind. Instead, he focuses on the drink in his hand, the ice bobbing in the glass, how cold it is in his hand, anything to keep from looking up and meeting your eyes again.

The chaos of the Thunderbolts ebbs and flows, but Bob stays on the periphery—always on the edge, half-hidden in half-light. He's like a shadow, forever present but never fully part of the party.

You glance around the room, taking in the swirl of colour and sound, the laughter and chatter of the people attending the party. As your eyes sweep the space, you realise that the corner where Bob had been standing is now empty.

With a furrow of your brow, you search the room, your gaze sweeping over the faces of the other guests. It's then that you catch a glimpse of him, slipping away from the noise and disappearing down a dimly lit corridor. His movements are quiet and subtle, the actions of someone who's practiced going unnoticed.

You hesitate for a moment, watching the play of light along the wall, the shadows dancing and flickering in the low light. The laughter and chatter of the party seem to fade into the background as your curiosity builds, tipping you forward like a magnet drawn to its pole. Your feet carry you along the edge of the laughter and noise, following Bob's retreating figure down the hallway. He moves with nervous purpose, his shoulders folded in as if trying to make himself smaller, hands deep in his pockets. His entire being seems intent on reaching the quiet sanctuary of his room, a place where he can shed the facade he wears like a second skin.

Unseen and silent, you let the rest of the party melt away. All your attention narrows in on Bob, now just a few steps ahead, unaware that you're there. The secret urge to follow—part daring, part longing—guides you further.

When he slips into his room, the door left slightly ajar, you pause just outside, watching. The muffled sounds of the party—laughter, music, the hum of voices—fade behind you, leaving only the quiet tension that hums through your body. The air smells faintly of his cologne—nothing overpowering, just a light, inviting scent that you can usually only catch if he’s walked past you. Now, it’s lingering in the quiet space of his room, warm and tempting.

Your gaze fixes on the crack in the door as your heart pounds louder than the distant bass. You know you should go back—this isn’t your place, his space—but curiosity, thick and insistent, keeps you rooted.

Inside, Bob's thoughts swirl, his mind alight with fantasies he's never dared voice. What would she think if she knew how much I want her? How my skin aches for her touch? He imagines your fingers trailing over his body, igniting sparks of pleasure with every caress.

Your eyes widen, practically glued, as Bob sets his drink down carefully beside the bed and climbs onto the mattress. His movements are deliberate, almost hesitant, as he reaches for the hem of his hoodie, lifting it just enough to reveal a glimpse of toned, muscular lower stomach. The fabric bunches under his fingers, and you catch the soft, nearly imperceptible moan that escapes his lips as his hand slips beneath the waistband of his trousers.

As you watch, you can't help but notice the way his tousled brown hair falls across his forehead, the soft curve of his lips parted slightly in anticipation.

I wonder if she ever thinks about me like this, Bob muses, his breathing growing ragged as his fingers brush against sensitive skin. If she dreams of me the way I dream of her.

You watch, breath hitching, as he begins to touch himself, fingers ghosting over skin with a slow, careful deliberation. His head tips back slightly, and though his hips remain pressed to the mattress, you can see the subtle movements of his arm, the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

God, I wish it was her hand on me, Bob thinks, his imagination running wild with the thought of you there beside him, your body pressed close, your lips on his skin. I want her so badly it hurts.

A rush of heat floods your chest, and you can't tear your eyes away. It’s raw, honest, and so intensely private that for a moment, you know you’re crossing a line. Still, you’re drawn to it—fascinated by the shy guy finally revealing what’s hidden underneath that quiet exterior. Your mind spirals with wild thoughts—what it would feel like if he knew you were watching, if you could be part of this clandestine moment.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, torn between the urge to stay hidden and the temptation to step closer. But for now, you hold your breath, caught in the dark—fascinated, eager, craving more of this secret unwrapping in the shadows of his room.

Just as you’re about to tear yourself away, to leave Bob to his private moment, a whisper of sound escapes his lips and stops you in your tracks. It’s your name, muttered like a prayer, a benediction in the silence of the room as he touches himself.

Your heart stutters, a sudden flush rising to your cheeks. A confusing swirl of emotions rises within you—shock, flattery, a hint of guilt for invading this most intimate of moments. But beneath it all, a thrill of desire, a yearning to be the one eliciting those soft sounds, to be the focus of his hidden passion.

For a moment, you sway on your feet, caught between the urge to flee and the temptation to step into the room, to make your presence known, to turn his whispered fantasy into reality. But fear and uncertainty hold you back, your breath caught in your throat. As you watch, your arousal builds, a deep, throbbing ache that mirrors the tension in Bob's body. Your breathing quickens, your skin feels hot and too tight, and you can't help but press your thighs together, seeking some kind of relief. But it's not enough, not nearly enough, and the thought of leaving now feels impossible, unbearable.

Your eyes trace the lines of his body, the rise, and fall of his chest, the way his muscles tense and release with each careful stroke. You imagine the heat of his skin, the weight of him against you, the soft sounds of pleasure he’d make if you were the one touching him, bringing him to the edge. The thought sends a shiver down your spine, a pulse of want that makes your thighs clench and your heart race. But still, you hold back, caught in this breathless, stolen moment, your presence a secret between you and the shadows.

Your arousal builds as you watch, a deep, throbbing ache that mirrors the tension in Bob’s body. Your breathing quickens with each passing moment, your skin feels hot and too tight, and you can’t help but press your thighs together, seeking some kind of relief. But it’s not enough, not nearly enough, and the thought of leaving now feels impossible, unbearable. You know you should go, that this is a violation of his privacy, his trust. Yet, the temptation to stay, to watch him finish, to be a silent witness to his pleasure, is too strong to resist. As you shift your weight, trying to ease the ache between your thighs, your shoe scrapes against the floor, the sound shockingly loud in the quiet of the hallway.

Inside the room, Bob’s eyes fly open, his hand stilling as he realises he’s not alone. For a long, tense moment, you freeze, your heart pounding in your ears. But then Bob sits up, his eyes finding yours through the crack in the door. There’s a moment of hesitation, a flash of uncertainty crossing his face.

The hallway is silent save for your trembling breath; eyes fixed on the dim glow emanating from the slightly open door. Your heart pounds in your chest as you carefully push the door open, the wood soft and releasing a faint squeak that seems deafening in the quiet. Inside, the soft glow from a bedside lamp casts warm, flickering shadows across the room, illuminating Bob’s silhouette sitting upright on the edge of the bed, his hand stilling with shock as he sees you.

You enter slowly, your footsteps hesitant yet driven by an undeniable pull. You meet Bob's eyes, your voice low and steady, "I saw you leave the party, and I wanted to follow," your cheeks flush, but not with embarrassment. The words hang in the air, thick with your admission of purposeful trespass.

Bob's eyes widen slightly, surprise flickering across his face. "You… you followed me?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. "Why?"

Without hesitation, you step further into the room, closing the space between you and the bed. But then, an unexpected wave of confidence surges up from within, steadying your voice. "Because I wanted to be with you," you say simply, honestly.

You settle onto the edge, your gaze never leaving Bob’s. His eyes flick over you, a mixture of shyness and curiosity flickering across his face, muscles tense and unsure. Taking a deep, steadying breath, you lean forward a little, your lips close to his ear as you whisper softly, "Can I kiss you?"

Bob hesitates, his lips parting slightly, as if weighing his options. His initial shyness is palpable—he looks tentative, unsure whether to embrace this surprise intimacy or hold himself back. Yet, as your hand reaches out to gently cup his cheek, he seems to slowly surrender, closing his eyes briefly before responding.

With his silence as permission, you lean in carefully, your lips meeting his in a soft, tentative kiss. He’s hesitant at first, his lips barely moving against yours. As you feel his initial hesitation, your mind wanders to the last time someone kissed him, the last time someone touched him with the intent of inflicting pleasure and not pain. You can't help but wonder how long it's been since he's experienced tenderness, affection, desire.

But then, slowly, he begins to respond, his mouth opening beneath yours, his tongue slipping out to tangle with yours.

As the kiss deepens, Bob's hands become hungry, grabbing at your clothes with a surprising intensity. It's as if a switch has been flipped, his shyness giving way to a desperate need for contact, for closeness. His fingers skim over your skin, leaving trails of heat in their wake, and you can feel the urgency in his touch, the longing he's kept hidden for so long.

Carefully, as though he's asking for permission, he pulls you into his lap. You straddle him, your legs wrapping around his waist, your bodies pressed together so tightly it is almost as though he were trying to make you part of him. Through the thin fabric of your clothes, you can feel the heat of his skin, the hardness of his muscles, the growing bulge in his pants that sends a thrill through you.

His hands slide up your back, under your shirt, his fingertips grazing your spine, and you shiver at the contact, your own hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. As you touch him, you can feel the desperation in his movements, the way his fingers tremble slightly against your skin, as if he's been starving for this kind of contact for far too long.

Bob's touch is reverent, almost worshipful, as he explores every inch of your body he can reach, his hands roaming over your back, your sides, your arms, as if trying to map every curve and plane. He touches you like a man who's been lost in the desert, and you're the first drink of water he's had in years, like he's trying to memorise every detail, to soak up every bit of sensation.

And you're all too happy to give it to him, your own hands roaming over his body in turn, feeling the play of muscles under skin, the heat of him, the way he shivers at your touch. You lose yourself in the sensation, in the sheer joy of being this close to him, of finally being able to touch him the way you've wanted to for so long.

The desire to get closer to him becomes more intense, your hands wandering over his body with increasing urgency. You tug at the hem of his hoodie, suddenly desperate to remove any barriers between your skin and his, to see all of him, to map every inch of his body with your hands and lips and eyes.

But as you start to pull the fabric up, Bob suddenly goes still, his hands coming up to stop you, a shy, reluctant look on his face. You remember the stories you've heard, about the time he was caught in a hail of bullets, the projectiles harmlessly bouncing off his skin but tearing his shirt away, exposing him to the world. You want to see that, to see him, all of him, and you tell him as much, your voice low and earnest.

But Bob hesitates, and you can see the uncertainty in his eyes, the way he looks away from you, his cheeks flushed. "I… I used to use drugs," he admits, his voice low and rough with emotion. "My skin… it's not… there are scars. I don't… I don't want you to see me like that."

"Bob, I want you, scars and all," you murmur, your hands stroking his cheeks, his hair, trying to soothe him. "They don't change how I feel about you, how much I need you." He looks up at you, his eyes wide and vulnerable, and you can see the glimmer of hope there, the desperate yearning to believe you. Slowly, hesitantly, he nods, and his hands fall away from his hoodie, giving you silent permission to continue.

Slowly, carefully, you lift his hoodie, your eyes tracing over the scars that mark his skin. There's a small, round cigarette burn on his shoulder, the skin shiny and puckered. Track marks, faint and silvery, trace along the insides of his elbows, a roadmap of his past struggles with addiction. And there are other scars too, thin lines that crisscross his arms and chest, some fresher than others, the legacy of moments when the pain inside became too much to bear.

Your heart breaks for him, for the pain he's endured, the suffering he's inflicted on himself. But you know that your touch can be different, that you can show him gentleness, kindness, love. Your fingertips trace over each scar, your touch feather-light, as if you can erase all the times, he's been touched with cruelty by touching him with tenderness.

As you continue to touch him, you can see him starting to relax, his body opening. His eyes flutter closed, his head falling back as he surrenders himself to your touch, to the sensations you're coaxing from his body. Gently, you lift his wrist to your lips, pressing a soft kiss to the scars there. At the touch of your lips, a strangled sort of gasp leaves Bob's lips, his body shuddering with the intensity of the sensation, the overwhelming feeling of being seen, being accepted, being loved.

You take your time, exploring every inch of his skin, kissing each scar, your lips soft and reverent. You want to show him that you see him, all of him, and that you're not afraid or disgusted by his scars, but that you accept them, accept him, as he is. Your touch is a promise, a vow that you'll be gentle with him, that you'll treat him with the care and love he deserves, even if he's never experienced it before.

Emboldened by your tender kiss on his scars, Bob surges forward, capturing your lips in a hard, intense kiss. His hands grab at your hips, fingers digging into your skin with passionate urgency. With a swift, careful motion, he twists, strong arms holding you close as he manoeuvres you both so that you're lying beneath him on the bed.

Bob's kiss is fierce, almost bruising in its intensity, his lips claiming yours with a desperation born of long-denied desire. His tongue tangles with yours, stroking, teasing, tasting, as if he's trying to devour you whole. You can feel the heat of his body against yours, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress, and you revel in the sensation, your own arms coming up to wrap around his neck, pulling him closer.

His hands roam over your body, tracing the curves of your hips, your waist, your ribs, before coming to rest on the buttons of your shirt. At first, he fumbles with them, his fingers trembling slightly, breath quick against your cheek as he tries to work the small fastenings loose. The slow click of buttons draws out the tension, your chest rising with each soft brush of his knuckles. But longing overtakes patience—suddenly, he hooks his fingers into the fabric, eyes hot and wild, and with a swift, desperate motion, tears the shirt open. The sharp sound of popping buttons ricochets through the room, a jolt of reckless need, and the parted fabric falls away from your shoulders, baring you fully to him. Cool air washes over your newly exposed skin.

As the last button slips free, Bob pulls back slightly, his eyes dark with desire as he takes in the sight of you, laid out beneath him like an offering. You can see the hunger in his gaze, the raw, aching need, and it sends a thrill through you, knowing that you're the one he wants, the one he needs. And then he's dipping his head, his lips tracing a searing path down your throat, over your collarbone, until he reaches the curve of your breast.

Bob's hands slide down your body, greedy with the need to explore every inch of you. His fingertips skim over your ribs, tracing the curve of your waist before slipping lower, to the waistband of your pants. With deft fingers, he undoes the button and zip, tugging the fabric down your hips, exposing you completely to his hungry gaze.

He looks up at you, his eyes dark with desire, seeking permission. You nod, your breath catching in your throat, and he smiles, a slow, wicked thing that sends a shiver down your spine. Then he's dipping his head, his lips brushing against your inner thigh, making you squirm with anticipation.

He works you over with his tongue, each lick a deliberate, sensual caress that sets your nerves alight. He traces every inch of you, his tongue swirling around your most sensitive spots before dipping inside you, tasting you deeply. The sensation is almost too much to bear, and you find yourself writhing beneath him, your fingers tangling in his hair as you try to hold on.

As Bob works his tongue, you can't help but moan softly, telling him how good it feels. "Yes, Bob, just like that," you gasp, your fingers tightening in his hair. "You're so good at this, it feels incredible."

Bob responds with a deep, appreciative moan, the vibrations sending delicious shivers through your body. He seems to be spurred on by your words, his tongue moving with renewed enthusiasm as he licks and sucks at your most sensitive spots. "Fuck, Bob," you pant, your hips bucking up to meet his mouth. "I'm so close, don't stop, please don't stop."

Bob obeys, his tongue never faltering as he drives you closer and closer to the edge. You can feel your orgasm building, coiling tighter and tighter inside you, and you can't help but let out a stream of filthy encouragement.

"That's it, Bob, make me come," you moan, your voice breathy and desperate. "I want to come all over your face, I want you to taste me."

Your words seem to push Bob over the edge, and he doubles his efforts, his tongue moving in firm, hard strokes against your clit. Finally, after what feels like an eternity of exquisite torment, Bob gives you what you need, his tongue pressing hard against your clit as he sucks you deep into his mouth. The sensation sends you flying over the edge, your orgasm crashing over you in waves of pure, blissful pleasure. Bob rides out your release with you, his tongue never stopping, until you're left spent and gasping on the bed, your body feeling boneless and sated. The pleasure is almost unbearable, and you find yourself crying out, your hips bucking wildly as your orgasm crashes over you.

Bob rides out your release with you, his tongue never stopping, until you're left spent and gasping on the bed.

As you come down from the high of your orgasm, you realise your fingers are still tangled tightly in Bob's hair, pulling him close. You start to loosen your grip, but then you notice the way he's leaning into your touch, the soft hum of pleasure that vibrates against your skin. It seems he enjoys the sensation of having his hair pulled, the sharp prickle of pain mingling with the pleasure of tasting you. You tighten your grip again experimentally and are rewarded with a deep moan that sends a fresh shiver of desire through you. Bob looks up at you, his eyes dark and dilated with lust, and you can't help but pull him up into a deep, filthy kiss, tasting yourself on his lips and tongue, murmuring "You're so fucking good, Bob," against his lips.

As you pull back from the kiss, you can't help but let your hands roam over Bob's body, tracing the lines of his muscles, the heat of his skin. Your hands come to rest on the waistband of his trousers, fingers toying with the button there.

Bob's eyes widen slightly, a hint of shock and shyness flickering across his face. It's clear he's not used to being on this side of things, to being the one touched and explored. But even as he hesitates, you can see the longing in his eyes, the way he leans into your touch almost unconsciously.

Slowly, gently, you guide him down onto the bed, helping him lie back against the pillows. You climb to kneel beside him, your hands moving back to the waistband of his trousers. You can feel him tremble slightly under your touch, but he makes no move to stop you, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded as he watches you.

Carefully, you undo the button and zip of his trousers, tugging the fabric down over his hips. Bob lifts slightly, helping you shimmy the material down his legs and off, leaving him in just his boxers. You can see the bulge there, the evidence of his arousal, and it sends a thrill through you, knowing you have this effect on him.

You glance up at Bob, meeting his eyes as you hook your fingers in the waistband of his boxers. He nods slightly, giving you permission, and you slowly tug the fabric down, freeing him. His cock springs up, hard and leaking, and you can't help but lick your lips at the sight. You reposition yourself, kneeling between Bob's spread legs. His eyes track your every movement, drinking in the sight of you there, poised above him. You can see the anticipation thrumming through him, the way his muscles tense and his breath quickens.

Slowly, teasingly, you lean down, letting your hair fall forward to brush against his sensitive skin. Bob shivers at the contact, his hands fisting in the sheets beside him. You let your breath ghost over his cock, watching the way it twitches in response, before finally giving in and taking him into your mouth.

Bob's head falls back against the pillows, a deep, guttural moan escaping his lips as your mouth envelops him. You start slow, letting your tongue swirl around the head of his cock, savouring the taste of him, before slowly taking him deeper. Your hands come up to brace against his hips, holding him steady as you work him over with your mouth. You can feel Bob's thighs trembling on either side of you, can hear the harsh pant of his breath above you.

As you work him over with your mouth, Bob pants above you, his fingers tightening in your hair. "I won't come quickly," he gasps, his voice rough. "I've learned to edge myself, to hold back. It's the only way I feel like I have any sense of control."

You can hear the vulnerability in his voice, the hint of shame that lingers there. But there's also a sense of trust, of openness, as if he's sharing a secret part of himself with you. It makes your heart clench, even as your body thrums with desire.

But before you can double your efforts, before you can try to push him over the edge, Bob's hands are tugging at your hair, pulling you off his cock. You look up at him, confused, but the look in his eyes stops any questions in your throat.

"I need to feel you," he says, his voice low and rough, almost desperate. "I need to be inside you. Please."

The shy, hesitant Bob is gone, replaced by a man driven by need, by desire. And you can't help but respond to it, your body arching towards him instinctively. You nod, your throat tight with anticipation, and Bob moves quickly, flipping you over onto your back and settling between your thighs.

He pushes inside you in one smooth thrust, filling you up, stretching you almost to the point of pain. But it's a good pain, a delicious ache that makes you moan and writhe beneath him. Bob sets a punishing pace, his hips slamming into yours, his cock hitting that perfect spot inside you with every thrust. It's hard, and fast, and almost brutal, but it's precisely what you both need at that moment.

As he moves inside you, Bob's hands roam over your body, tracing the lines of your curves, the planes of your muscles. He touches you like a man starved for contact, like he's trying to memorise every inch of your skin. And you respond in kind, your hands clutching at his back, his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin, leaving marks, branding him as yours. Bob's hands grip your hips tightly, his fingers digging into your skin as he holds you in place. You can feel the strength coiled inside him, the power he's holding back even as he loses himself in the sensation of being inside you.

"I don't want to hurt you," he grits out, his voice strained as he slows with the effort of holding back. "But fuck, I want you so much. I need you."

His words send a shiver down your spine, a thrill of desire that only intensifies the pleasure building inside you. You can feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter, your body straining towards release.

"Harder," you gasp, your hands fisting in the sheets beside you. "I won't break, Bob. I need you, all of you."

Your words seem to snap the last of his control, and he surges forward, his hips slamming into yours with a force that steals your breath away. But it's undoubtedly what you need, the perfect amount of pleasure, to send you hurtling over the edge into oblivion. But Bob doesn't let you come, not yet. He pulls back, his cock slipping out of you, leaving you empty and aching. You whimper, your hips bucking up, seeking more, but Bob just smiles, a dark, wicked thing that sends a thrill through you.

He flips you over onto your stomach, his hands gripping your hips and pulling them up, positioning you on your hands and knees. You feel exposed, vulnerable, but so fucking turned on you can hardly breathe.

Bob runs his hands over your body, tracing the curve of your spine, the swell of your ass. He squeezes, his fingers digging into your flesh, and you moan, pushing back into his touch. Then, unexpectedly, his hand comes down on your ass, a sharp, stinging slap that makes you gasp and jerk forward.

He soothes the sting with a gentle rub, his fingers trailing over the heated skin, before pulling back and spanking you again. You lose yourself in the sensation, in the sharp sting of pain followed by the soothing caress, your body trembling, your skin flushed and hot. Just when you think you can't take any more, Bob pushes inside you again, his cock sliding deeper, filling you up. He sets a slow, grinding pace, his hips rolling against yours, hitting that perfect spot inside you with every thrust.

You moan, your head dropping between your shoulders, your hands fisting in the sheets. Bob's hands roam over your body, pinching and squeezing, his touch just this side of too rough, too much.

But you need it, and you can feel yourself climbing higher and higher, your body coiling tighter and tighter. You're close, so fucking close, your breath coming in sharp pants, your skin flushed and damp with sweat.

Bob leans over you, his chest pressing against your back, his breath hot against your ear. "Come for me," he whispers, his voice low and rough, sending a shiver down your spine. "Come all over my cock."

His words send you flying over the edge, your body clenching around him, your orgasm crashing over you in waves of pure, blissful pleasure. But he isn't done yet, no, that super serum coursing through his veins might just be the death of you.

His thrusts make you moan, gripping the bedsheets even tighter, your body responding to his touch even as it still trembles from your orgasm. You can feel his cock inside you, still hard, still pulsing, and you know he's far from finished.

As he continues to move inside you, you can't help but marvel at the transformation that's come over him. Quiet Bob, who has had little to no control in all his life, is now drunk on it, his only objective pulling as many orgasms from your body as he can.

It's a heady thought, knowing that you're the one who's done this to him, the one who's brought out this dominant, controlling side. And you can't help but love it, love the way his only focus is you.

"You thought you were done?" he growls in your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "You thought I was done with you? No, I’m gonna make you feel so good, baby."

Bob's hand slides up from your waist, his fingers finding your throat and wrapping around it, not tight enough to cut off your air, but tight enough to remind you who's in control. "I'm going to fuck you until you can't walk straight," he promises, his voice low and rough. "Until you can't remember your own name. Until the only thing you can think about is my cock inside you."

His thrusts get harder, faster, his cock slamming into you with enough force to make you gasp. You're still sensitive from your last orgasm, your body feeling like it's been electrified, and every movement sends sparks shooting through your veins.

But you don't want him to stop, you don't want this feeling to end. Even as your body feels like it's being pushed to its limits, you can feel another orgasm building, coiling tight in your belly.

"Fuck, Bob," you moan, your voice breathy and desperate. "I'm gonna come again." The words come as a strangled gasp.

Your words spur him on, his thrusts getting even harder, even faster. You can feel his cock throbbing inside you, feel the way he swells even larger.

"Come for me," he growls in your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "Come all over my cock. Let me feel you."

And with his words, you're lost. Your orgasm crashes over you, even more intense than the last, and you scream his name, your body clenching around him, your nails digging into the flesh of his forearm as he holds you against his chest. As your orgasm fades, Bob's thrusts slow, becoming gentler, almost lazy. He lowers you down to the bed, his cock still inside you, still hard and pulsing. His thrusts are slow and sloppy now, dragging against your sensitive walls, adding to the overstimulation.

After a moment, he pulls out, leaving you feeling empty and aching. He turns you onto your back, his body hovering over yours, his cock resting against your swollen clit. He leans down, his lips brushing against yours in a gentle kiss.

"Are you ready to go again?" he asks, his voice low and rough.

His words send a shiver down your spine, your body responding to his touch even as it still trembles from your orgasm. You can feel his cock against your clit, hard and throbbing, and you know he's ready for more.

"Yes," you breathe, your voice barely a whisper, your brain reduced to nothing more than primal urges that want nothing more than to feel his release erupt within you. Bob smiles, and you get just a tiny hint of the shy bob from before, and he leans down to kiss you again, it was careful, delicate.

As he pushes inside you, you can feel the overstimulation washing over you, your body still sensitive from your previous orgasms. Every nerve feels like it's on fire, every touch sending sparks shooting through your veins. It's almost too much, almost painful, but at the same time, you don't want it to stop.

You can feel Bob's cock inside you, thick and hard and pulsing, and you know he's not done with you yet. He starts to move, his thrusts slow and deep, but with a devilish sort of control. His hips roll against yours, his cock dragging against your sensitive walls, and you can't help but moan into his mouth, your hips bucking up to meet his thrusts.

He swallows the sound, his tongue stroking against yours, his lips sealed over yours in a searing kiss. You can feel the heat of his body against yours, the weight of him pressing you down into the mattress, and it's enough to make your head spin.

"More," you moan, breaking the kiss to gasp for air. "More, Bob. I need more." Bob smiles, and he obliges, his thrusts getting faster, harder, his cock slamming into you with enough force to make you gasp.

"Just one more, baby," he whispers, his breath hot against your skin. "One more from you and I'll join you. Do you want that, baby? Do you want me to come inside you?"

"Yes," you breathe, your voice barely a whisper. "Yes, Bob. I want you to come inside me. I want to feel you fill me up."

Bob groans at your words, his hips jerking against yours, his cock twitching inside you. "Fuck, baby," he gasps, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. "You're gonna make me come. You're gonna make me come so hard."

His words send you flying over the edge, your body clenching around him, your orgasm crashing over you in waves of pure, blissful pleasure. And with a guttural groan, Bob follows you over, his cock pulsing inside you, his hips jerking against yours as he spills himself deep inside you.

You can feel the heat of his release, the way it fills you up and drips down out of you, and it's enough to send aftershocks rippling through your body. Bob's hips continue to jerk, his cock twitching and pulsing as he rides out his orgasm, his breath hot and heavy against your skin.

He collapses on top of you, his body slick with sweat, his chest heaving with the effort of catching his breath. You can feel the pounding of his heart against your own, the way his body trembles and shakes, and you know he's just as affected by what just happened as you are.

Slowly, gently, Bob pulls out of you, his cock slipping from your body, you're almost embarrassed by it by how completely your body had reacted to him, but not quite. You whimper at the loss, your body feeling empty and aching without him, but he quickly wraps you in his arms, holding you close as he rolls to the side.

Bob's arms tighten around you, pulling you closer, as if he can't bear to have any space between you. "You have no idea what you do to me," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your hair. "The way you make me feel, the way you respond to my touch. It's like nothing I've ever experienced before."

You smile, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his chest. "I could say the same about you," you reply, your voice soft and sleepy.

Bob presses one last kiss to your forehead before settling back against the pillows, his arms still wrapped tight around you. "I think you might be the death of me." he echoes, his voice a low rumble in his chest.

A Link to My Complete Inventory

[leascorner]

j.b.b. | No words

Summary: It felt domestic, in a comforting kind of way. You liked having him here, with you. It made you feel at safe. Loved, even. Of that kind of love that needed no word.

Pairing:  Neighbour!Bucky x you!reader

Warnings: use of "you" pronoum, more or less gender neutral, it's pretty much two idiots in love, it's short and sweet and I like him so much

Word Count: 1.5k

Masterlist

A slight knock on your door made you reached out to your phone on the nightstand. 9:30 p.m. on a Tuesday night. A smile immediately appeared on your face. This could only mean one thing.

Leaving your soft office (or more simply put: your bed), you moved through your living room and onto the hall of your apartment. A quick check through the spyhole to make sure it was who you thought it was, and you opened the door.

There was standing Bucky, your downstairs neighbour, leaning on the doorframe, wearing his typical night outfit, the one you had seen one too many times. He had a dark T-shirt on, and his hands buried deep into his sweatpants’ pockets.

Typical Bucky.

"Sam again?" you asked, and he only nodded with a shy smile.

You opened the door wider and let him in. Bucky gave you a slight embrace on his way in and let you lock the door behind him. This was kind of a routine at this point. He would then get to your living area, pretending to inspect one of your plants, while you would get back to your bed. When you were sat back on the hot spot you had spent your entire evening on, he would be besides the doorframe of your bedroom, a few feet away from the couch. He knew that you wouldn't let him go sit – or sleep for the matter – on your tiny couch, but he still let you the choice.

He let you the space.

"Come on! Here?" you patted the other half of the bed and like he always did, Bucky wore this look on his face. The same one he wore the first time this whole situation happened. A mix of awkwardness and not wanting to overstep either. "Please?"

And like every other time, he didn't need much more convincing. He silently made his way to your bed, moved the decorative pillows and sat beside you. He stayed on his side, making sure not to crumple the papers that you had spread all other the bed cover.

As always, Bucky would find you grading your students’ test of the day. Today, you were correcting a written expression. You had shown them the picture of a family peacefully walking in the forest and requested them to write whatever it would inspire them: it could be how they ended up in the forest in the first place, what they would eat when they got home or how the parents had met.

All in all, the story itself didn’t really matter to you; it was only a mean for them to practise their English. And your student never disappointed. Though their grammar wasn’t always the best - they were still learning after all, they all made efforts, and it made your heart swell with pride.

Bucky watched you grade the papers in silent; sometimes trying to pry over your shoulder to read the paper that was currently making you smile or chuckle to see who had written it. He had met your class once this year, during Career Day a few weeks ago that both Sam and he had attended to discuss their work. All the kids had liked him so very much that, a few days after, you had brought home an extensive number of drawings and cards. All of them for him.

With a content sigh, you put the last paper on the graded pile. On your side, Bucky had gone to scrolling on his phone - patiently waiting for you to finish before getting ready for bed. It was how it was most nights; you would finish your bedtime routine before laying down and discussing whatever crossed your mind until you fall asleep. Other nights, he was the one that you would find already asleep by the time you had finished, slightly snoring, arms wrapped around one of your decorative pillows, like his life depended on it.

Seeing your small, tired eyes behind your glasses, Bucky grabbed the papers and pencils and put them on the desk in the corner of your room.

“Teeth?”

You only nodded before making your way to your en-suite bathroom. Near the sink were sitting your toothbrush and the other one that you kept for Bucky - he was staying so often with you that you had finally brought one for him. You put some toothpaste on the brushes before handing him his.

You brush your teeth in silence, watching each other through the mirror above your sink. It felt domestic, in a comforting kind of way. You liked having him here, with you. It made you feel at ease. Safe. Loved, even. Though you two were only “just friends”. Friends that, over the last couple of months, had slept in the same bed more than twice a week.

It had all started over a year or so ago, when Bucky’s roommate – Sam – had come home with someone. While Sam had enjoyed a nice night in, Bucky had discovered - much to his distress - that the wall between their bedroom was as thin as paper. Leaving him with only one option: fleeing their flat. How he had ended up going up the stairs and at his neighbour door, he didn’t really recall. Nevertheless, you had welcomed him and refused to let him sleep on your tiny couch.

Over the next couple of months, it happened a few more times. Until it just became… frequent. Bucky showed up every time with a different reason. Because Sam had started to date someone and that he couldn’t bear to hear them going at it. Or because he was simply lonely. You always welcomed him. And, one by one, the pillows you used to put in between you two in the bed - a sort of barrier to keep you safe - had started to disappear. Nowadays, it wasn’t rare that you would fall asleep in each other’s arms.

Your relationship didn’t have a label. It was clear to everyone - except maybe the two of you - that whatever this was, wasn’t just friendship. In reality, it didn’t really matter. You were just you.

It still made your heart swell when you watched him put away his toothbrush, right besides yours. Feeling a little bolder than usual, you couldn’t help to say:

"You know we should just move in together."

Bucky nearly chocked on the water he was using to rinse his mouth. When he turned around to answer, you were already walking in your bedroom. It was like a perfectly rehearsed ballet. You putting away the decorative pillow. Him handing you one of the pillows from his side - because yes, you wouldn’t sleep with less than three pillows.

He watched as you sat down, your back to his. You took off your glasses and applied some hand cream on. He didn’t know if you did it on purpose to give him the privacy to remove his sweatpants. But you always did. And he appreciated you for that.

When you turned back to him, he was already wrapped in the blanket, looking at you expectantly… Like he wanted you to continue what you were talking about earlier.

"I am just saying you are here every other week, ‘might as well clear one of my drawers for you."

"I could just go if you want."

"That is not what I said," you smiled softly, reaching out to turn the lights off. "I like it, you being here and all."

Even though you couldn’t see him, he smiled back, his tummy fuzzy. He didn’t have the word to tell you, but he liked it too, him being here and all. So he did what he knew best. One of his hands found your elbow, bringing you close. As close as he could, really. Your head found the crook of his neck, the tip of your nose tickling his jaw. And he held you. Silently promising to never let you go.

In the dark, you listened to his faint respiration. Smelt the soft odour of his shampoo. Felt his skin against the bare skin of your arms. The heat radiating from his body enveloped you, carrying you slowly in the arms of Morpheus.

Bucky could feel the way your lips stretched in a small smile against his skin. You seemed so content, he didn’t have the heart to confess his truth. For weeks now, he had promised himself to finally let you know the reason he couldn’t bear to sleep in the cold sheets of his own bed so often. It had been a while since Sam had got anyone over. It actually had been a while since Bucky had any reason to come to you.

With you already drifted to sleep, nestled in his arms, little did he know he didn’t need to.

You already knew.

Just like you knew that he loved you.

And just like he knew that you loved him.

Of that kind of love that is yours both; yours and only yours.

That kind of love that needed no word.

[fandomnerd9602]

Bambi!Wanda jumps onto Y/N’s lap, her tail wiggling happily…

Wanda: cuddle with me, detka

Y/N: (chuckles) baby I have to finish this paper for Stark for the meeting tomorrow

Wanda: can you multitask? Please.

The young doe gives the pouty lip and puppy eyes…

Y/N: you know I can.

Y/N kisses her cheek and resumes typing…

Wanda giggles and nuzzles her lover…

[sunshine-lux]

Clueless (iv.)

summary: training sessions and friend hangouts! all while Y/N is very slowly coming to terms with her emotions. Forgetful Peter but who cares when Y/N's secret life is being threatened by the city's most desirable bachelor.

pairings: Stark!reader x MCU!peter parker, slight gwen stacy x MCU!peter parker, slight Y/N x harry osborn (surprise!)

warnings: i think maybe 2 tiny mentions of death (nothing serious!), peter being silly and forgetful, f!reader

word count: 9k!!! enjoy!!

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Tuesday afterschool

The afternoon light spilled through the high windows of the AvengersTower training room, casting golden shadows across the room. The padded mats beneath them smelled faintly of sweat and floor cleaner — comforting in a weird, familiar way.. The silence was broken only by the sound of rapid footsteps and the occasional electric zap coming from the Stark girl.

Vision hovered a few feet off the ground, hands behind his back, watching the teenagers.

“Focus on control, Miss Stark. Strength without discipline is noise.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but nodded. Across from her, Peter adjusted the tape on his wrists, shaking out his arms.

“She’s been in a mood today,” Peter mumbled under his breath, trying to smile at her.

“Say that again and i’ll fry your webshooters,” Y/N responds as she steps back into the mat. 

Vision shakes his head as he watches the interaction. “Threats defeat the purpose of sparring, though I admit — creative, Miss Stark.”

Y/N ducked Peter’s incoming swing, pivoted, then sent a short, sharp burst of electricity toward his torso. He yelped and stumbled back

“Okay, rude,” Peter said, breathless but grinning. “That’s, like, the third time you’ve zapped me today.”

“Stop yapping mid-fight and maybe I’ll stop electrocuting you,” Y/N shot back, smiling sweetly as she rolled her shoulder.

Peter blinked. “What? I thought you loved my yap—ow!”

Another pulse of energy flared through her palm and knocked him clean off his feet. He hit the mat with a soft thud, groaning dramatically.

“Oh, come on!” he said from the floor.

Y/N stood over him, hands on her hips. Her hair had come loose from its braid, a few strands sticking to her forehead with sweat, and her cheeks were flushed from exertion. She looked dangerous and golden in the overhead light. Charged. Alive.

Peter narrowed his eyes, then, in a blur of movement, lunged upward and tackled her. They hit the mat hard — Peter on top of her, pinning her wrists gently to the floor.

“Not fair!” she gasped, squirming under him, sparks crackling faintly at her fingertips. “I wasn’t ready!”

Peter grinned down at her, hair falling into his eyes. “Gotta keep you on your toes, ms. Stark.”

Her breath caught.

They were too close. Like too close.

She could feel the heat of him, the rise and fall of his chest against hers, the weight of his hands on her wrists — careful but firm. The moment stretched like a rubber band, taut and charged.

“You’re sparking,” he murmured.

“Am not.”

“You kinda are.”

She stared up at him. “Then maybe you should move.”

He didn’t. Not right away. His gaze flicked down to her lips for just a second — a blink, maybe less. So quick she almost thought she hallucinated it. But she saw it. She felt it.

And then—

“I believe that’s enough for today,” Vision’s voice cut in from across the room, startling both of them.

Peter scrambled to his feet like he’d been electrocuted again — cheeks flushed, hair sticking up wildly.

Y/N lay there a second longer, staring at the ceiling, before letting out a sigh and letting her hands fall against the mat with a light zap.

“Very productive,” Vision added dryly. “Although perhaps next time, we’ll focus more on defense and less on… grappling.”

He floated out through the wall like it was nothing. Which, for him, it was.

Peter offered her a hand, still not quite meeting her eyes. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to tackle you like that.”

Y/N took it, letting him pull her up. “You didn’t not mean it either.”

He laughed nervously. “Fair.”

They stood there awkwardly for a beat.

“Hey,” she said, brushing her hair behind her ear. “So… there’s this Oscorp gala on Friday.”

Peter perked up. “Yeah?”

“I was gonna ask if you’d wanna go with me. As friends. I mean—not like that has to mean anything, it’s just—”

Peter winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “Ah, crap. I actually have plans with May Friday night. She’s set on us learning how to make Pho.”

Her smile didn’t falter. Not really. Just tightened slightly.

“Oh. Yeah. No worries. I totally get it.”

“I mean, if she cancels—”

“Peter,” she said, cutting him off gently. “It’s fine.”

It wasn’t. But she was getting really good at pretending.

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The lights in Y/N’s room were off, except for the dim glow of the arc reactor nightlight sitting on her desk — a gag gift from Happy, one she’d never admit she kept because it made the dark feel less empty.

She lay sprawled on her bed, one leg dangling off the edge, a pillow hugged to her chest as her eyes traced the tiny glow in the dark stars on her ceiling. Her hair was still damp from the shower, but she couldn’t bring herself to move. Not when her heart was still racing.

Not from sparring. Not really.

“Calm down,” she muttered. “Get it together.”

She was fine.

Totally, completely fine.

Except she wasn’t. And she hated that.

God, she thought bitterly. He probably thinks I’m losing it.

And maybe she was.

Because lying there—heart buzzing, skin tingling—she could still feel the ghost of his hands on her wrists. Still see the way his eyes dropped to her lips. Still hear the stupid way he said “You’re sparking.”

She threw a pillow at the ceiling.

“Stupid,” she muttered. “Stupid powers. Stupid Peter.”

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. A text from MJ: u zapped him again didn’t u 😒 pls don’t electrocute our friend into a coma thx

Y/N didn’t reply.

Instead, she stared at the screen, then let it go dark again. She hated that she cared. Hated that not going to the gala with Peter felt like more than just a missed hangout. It felt like a crack in something she didn’t want to name.

They were just friends. Best friends. That was it.

She sighed and rolled onto her side, pulling her knees to her chest like she could squeeze the feeling out of her.

“I need to stop being so weird about this,” she whispered. “It’s not a big deal. I’m fine. I’m fine.”

But as her chest buzzed again—soft and electric—Y/N Stark knew exactly what this feeling was.

And she was not fine.

She reached over, grabbing her charger from the nightstand. The screen lit up, but just as she tapped it, a static jolt zapped from her fingers and the phone shut off.

“Amazing. Love that for me,” she muttered, tossing it across the bed.

Her hands sparked faintly in the dark, fingertips pulsing silver-blue. It was always worse when she was emotional. Tony used to say she’d fry the Tower one day if she didn’t learn to get a grip.

She squeezed her eyes shut, dragging in a slow breath.

“Push it down,” she whispered to herself. “Push the feeling down. Bury it. Electrocuting your crush isn't a valid coping strategy.”

The word crush echoed in her head like a slap. She groaned again and shoved the pillow over her face, muffling her frustrated screams.

Just a crush. It didn’t mean anything.

It couldn’t.

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Wednesday morning came in soft and sunny, the kind of warm that made you forget anything had ever felt heavy.

Y/N sat beside Peter in AP Bio, her notebook flipped open but still blank. She had every intention of taking notes — truly — but then Peter had leaned over five minutes into the lesson and whispered, “Do you think if I set off a mini explosion, we’d get out early?”

“Don’t tempt me,” she whispered back, grinning.

He snorted, low under his breath. “You could actually do it though.”

She arched a brow, scribbling in the corner of his page: u think i won’t???

They were back to their usual rhythm — quiet jokes, exchanged glances, half-stifled laughter every time their teacher mispronounced something. Peter’s knee kept bumping into hers under the table, neither of them bothering to shift away. It was easy. Familiar. Safe.

Y/N let herself sink into it.

See? she told herself. This is normal. I missed this. That’s all it was. Not jealousy. Not some stupid crush. Just nostalgia or whatever.

She doodled a little cat in the margin and rolled her eyes at herself.

God, pull it together. You’re not twelve. You’re not spiraling over some boy.

Peter nudged her with his elbow and gestured to her empty page. “You’ve got nothing on there except doodles. At least copy my notes so we both don’t fail.”

Y/N smiled, copying his scribbles without really looking. “What would I ever do without you, Parker?”

He gave her that crooked half-smile that always made her stomach flip — the one that started on one side of his mouth and always reached his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said softly, “I wonder the same thing.”

Y/N laughed and nudged his shoulder.

And just like that, the calm started to unravel again — slowly, gently, like a loose thread being tugged from the center of her chest.

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The sun hung low in the sky, casting golden stripes across the metal bleachers as the group settled in after school. A soft breeze rustled the leaves of the trees lining the field, and the faint sounds of the varsity team warming up echoed in the background—distant grunts, whistles, and the rhythmic thud of cleats against turf.

MJ slumped down onto the second row, her boots clanging against the metal as she pulled a bag of sour candy from her coat pocket like it was contraband. “We’re breaking and entering,” she said dryly. “We don’t even go here after 3 p.m.”

Peter laughed as he climbed up behind her. “Pretty sure sitting on bleachers is legal, MJ.”

“That’s what they want you to think.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but smiled as she sat on the edge of the top row, her legs stretched out in front of her, shoes tapping absently against the rail. Her cardigan sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, exposing a faint, almost invisible flicker of light sparking along the inside of her wrist. She quickly pulled the sleeves down to hide it.

Gwen arrived last, slightly out of breath from jogging across the field. “Okay, I’m here, sorry—my chem teacher kept me like ten years after class.”

Peter scooted to the side so she could sit next to him, and Y/N’s jaw tensed, only for a second. Barely a second.

“You didn’t miss anything,” Ned said from his seat beside MJ. “Except for MJ accusing us of trespassing and Y/N threatening to sue the football team if they hit us with a ball.”

MJ tossed a sour gummy worm at him. “As she should.”

Gwen let out a laugh, catching her breath. “God, I love you guys. I’ve only been here, like, a week and a half and I already feel like I’ve known you forever.”

“That’s because we’re the best,” Ned said, beaming.

“Or the most unhinged,” Y/N offered.

“Mutually inclusive,” MJ added, popping a candy into her mouth.

They all settled into a comfortable rhythm, conversation drifting from school gossip to dumb TikToks to who would survive a zombie apocalypse. (MJ insisted it would be her. Peter said it would be Y/N. Gwen said she’d just lay down and accept her fate.)

But the moment shifted slightly when Gwen leaned over and gently brushed Peter’s hair out of his eyes—fingers light, her laugh soft.

Peter let her.

He smiled at her.

Something cold and sharp bloomed in Y/N’s chest. She choked slightly on her matcha, coughing into her elbow.

“You good?” MJ asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Fine,” Y/N said quickly, choking a little. “Just swallowed wrong.”

Ned side-eyed her but didn’t push.

Gwen turned toward the group, seemingly unaware of the shift. “Hey, so…  I’ve never been to a high school football game before. Next week’s supposed to be the big one, right? Rivalry game?”

Ned perked up. “Oh, the one against Hudson High? Yeah, that’s like the only game people care about. Whole school makes a thing out of it.”

Gwen looked around, hopeful. “So… are we going?”

Peter nodded, already warming to the idea. “Could be fun.”

MJ squinted at him. “Since when do you care about school spirit?”

“Since Gwen hasn’t been to a game and wants to go,” Y/N muttered before she could stop herself.

Everyone turned to look at her. She blinked.

“What?” she said. “I didn’t say anything.”

Gwen grinned, nudging Y/N’s foot with her own. “You’re coming too, right?”

Y/N forced a smile. “Yeah. Of course.”

MJ caught the look in her eye—just a flicker of something fragile—and glanced away with a thoughtful expression. She didn’t say anything. Not yet. But she clocked it.

“I’ll bring snacks,” Ned offered proudly.

“You always bring snacks,” MJ said. “That’s your entire personality.”

“Better than being emotionally unavailable,” Ned replied with a grin.

MJ threw another gummy worm at him.

And for a moment, it all felt normal again.

But deep in the back of her mind, as she watched Peter and Gwen laugh about some inside joke from tutoring, Y/N couldn’t stop thinking: I’m being crazy. Peter’s just my best friend. I love spending time with him. That’s all this is.

She clung to the lie like a lifeline. Because if she let go of it, she wasn’t sure what would be left.

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After a while, the group went their separate ways. It was Wednesday, which meant Peter and Gwen had their usual tutoring session and project work to catch up on.

They sat at the Stacy family’s dining table, worksheets scattered between them. Despite taking countless breaks to scroll through TikToks on Gwen’s phone — or entertain her little brother, who kept wandering in just to talk with Peter — they’d actually managed to get a surprising amount of work done.

“Hey, so,” Gwen said suddenly, fiddling with the edge of a paper. “I wanted to ask you something. And you can totally say no — seriously, no pressure! I’m just wondering…”

She trailed off, looking unsure.

“Wondering what?” Peter asked, raising an eyebrow.

Gwen immediately hid her face in her hands, her cheeks turning a light pink. “Ahh, sorry! I don’t know why I’m getting nervous.”

Peter chuckled. “It’s okay. What do you want to ask me? I’ll even look away if that helps,” he teased, dramatically turning in his seat.

That made her laugh, easing the tension in her shoulders. Somehow, Peter always had that effect on her.

“Well… I know it’s super last minute, so I totally get it if you can’t — but my family got invited to this Oscorp gala thing. And my dad said I could bring someone… so I was wondering if you might wanna come with me?”

Peter blinked. Oh. Right. The gala.

“Sure! Yeah, I’ll come with you,” he said easily. “I actually had plans with May, but she canceled earlier today. I think she has a date or something.”

Gwen’s eyes lit up as she exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Wait, really?”

Peter laughed. “Yes, really.”

“You’re the best,” she grinned, reaching over to gently squeeze his hand. “Y/N will be there too! So we’ll all get to hang out — I’m sure she’ll like that.”

Y/N.

“Yeah,” Peter said, his smile softening. “I think she’ll be surprised to see me.”

He forgot to tell her. He could already picture her face when he walked into the ballroom — that bright, electric smile.

And for a second, he let himself hope she'd be happy to see him. Just as much as he’d be happy to see her.

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Friday evening

The sun had just started to set behind the skyline when MJ stood behind Y/N’s chair, a curling wand in one hand and a smug look on her face.

“You really didn’t think I’d let you go to a gala with limp hair, did you?” she said, reaching over to section off a strand of Y/N’s thick waves.

Y/N sat cross-legged in front of the mirror, dabbing concealer under her eyes. “I didn’t think you’d voluntarily spend your Friday evening helping someone get ready for a rich people party, actually.”

MJ smirked. “Don’t get it twisted, Stark. I’m only here for the snacks Pepper promised me.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but smiled, tipping her head slightly to give MJ better access as she started curling. The scent of product and soft hum of the wand filled the room, mixing with the music coming from Y/N’s speaker.

“So,” MJ said casually, “what’s your game plan for tonight? Anyone you’re excited to see?”

Y/N shrugged. “I mean, not really. Peter had plans with May, so he’s not coming. Gwen’s the only person I really know who’ll be there that’s our age.”

MJ gave a noncommittal hum. “What about Harry Osborn?”

Y/N snorted. “Oh yeah, he’ll totally be thrilled to see me.”

MJ paused, curling wand mid-air. “What’d you do?”

“I may or may not have punched him in the face at a tech summit three and half years ago.”

MJ blinked. “Okay, I’m gonna need context.”

Y/N looked up at her in the mirror, lips twitching. “He was being a jerk. Some comment about ‘daddy’s money’ and me not being as smart as I think I am or whatever.  He insulted my project. I had a reflex. My reflex just happens to be violence.”

MJ let out a laugh. “God, I love you.”

Y/N grinned. “He probably doesn’t even remember me, though. We were kids. I was homeschooled and completely anti-social.”

MJ curled the last strand and dropped the wand onto the vanity with a small flourish. “Well, if he does remember, I’d hope he’s had some personal growth. Unless he wants to get  punched again .”

“That’s if we’re lucky.”

They both laughed. For a moment, the air was light.

MJ eyed her reflection in the mirror. “You look good, by the way. Like… stupid good. This dress with the hair and everything — it’s a whole thing.”

Y/N gave a small smile, fiddling with a silver earring. “Thanks.”

“Still nervous?”

“A little. I guess I just thought the gala would be more fun with Peter there,” she admitted softly. “Now it’s just me, Gwen, and the world’s most uncomfortable shoes.”

MJ nudged her. “Hey. If you’re bored, just shock a wine fountain or something. Stir up a little chaos.”

Y/N grinned. “You’re a menace.”

MJ shrugged. “And you’re hot. We all have our roles.”

As Y/N slipped on her silver heels and tested a few poses in the mirror, MJ sprawled out across the bed behind her, tapping lazily at her phone. The soft thrum of their shared playlist still played in the background, until a gentle knock on the door broke through.

Before either of them could answer, Pepper poked her head in — wearing a tailored cream dress.

“Whoa,” she said, stepping in fully. Her gaze swept over Y/N and then landed on MJ. “Now this is a sight. I feel like I just walked into a Vogue feature on the rise of girlbosses.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “You’re so dramatic.”

Pepper smiled warmly, turning to MJ. “You did her hair?”

MJ lifted a shoulder, pretending to scroll. “Just a few curls. She did her own makeup.”

“Well, you’ve got a good eye,” Pepper said. “It’s balanced — strong but soft. I like it.”

“Thanks,” MJ said, slightly surprised. “I don’t usually… do this kind of thing.”

“I figured.” Pepper gave her a knowing glance. “Which is why I came to ask why you’re not coming with us. I have at least three backup gowns in the guest closet that would look amazing on you.”

MJ let out a dry laugh. “Oh no. No, thank you. I’m not really into the whole ballroom thing. I’m not media trained, and those crowds freak me out a little.”

Pepper’s smile widened, but her tone softened. “Smart lady. Protect your peace while you still can — events like these have a way of trying to chip away at it.”

MJ nodded, grateful for the way Pepper just… got it.

“I’ll be here,” she said, “eating your lemon cookies and finishing the book you sent me.”

Pepper gave a playful wink. “That’s why I adore you. Also, that book was excellent, wasn’t it?”

“The essay about female-led journalism in the AI age changed my life, actually.”

“I knew it would.”

Y/N looked between the two of them, mouth slightly open. “Wait—are you guys… reading buddies?”

Pepper raised an eyebrow. “We’ve exchanged a few books.”

MJ shrugged. “And articles.”

“You’re both so annoying,” Y/N muttered, though the smile tugging at her lips gave her away.

Pepper stepped forward and gently fixed one of Y/N’s earrings. “You look stunning, Y/N/N. And very grown up tonight.”

“Thanks,” Y/N whispered.

“Oh, and—” Pepper glanced at the clock on her phone. “We’re leaving in forty. Meet me downstairs for a couple quick press photos before the chaos starts.”

MJ groaned from the bed. “I’d say ‘break a leg’ but that feels like tempting fate when Y/N’s wearing those heels.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes at her friend. “And if I do it’ll be your fault.”

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Gwen checked herself one last time in the mirror, adjusting the delicate straps of her blush pink gown and smoothing down the soft layers of chiffon. Her mom had helped her blowout her hair earlier, and now the curtain bangs framed her face just the way she liked — soft, effortless, like the girls in those Pinterest photos she never thought she could pull off.

She turned at the sound of the doorbell. Her heart kicked.

“He’s here!” her little brother shouted from downstairs.

Gwen gave herself a final once-over, then grabbed her clutch and headed down, trying not to seem too excited — and failing, clearly, because her mom grinned at her like she knew something.

Peter stood at the front door, suit slightly rumpled like he’d adjusted it too many times. But his tie was neatly done, and when his eyes met hers, he smiled — wide, warm, and so boyish it made her stomach flutter.

“You look…” he started, then cleared his throat. “Really nice.”

“So do you,” Gwen said, trying to keep her voice light. “You clean up well.”

“Thanks. Aunt May made me promise not to wear Converse with the suit.”

Gwen’s mom came forward, pulling Peter into a hug with a soft laugh. “We’re glad you’re coming, Peter. Gwen’s been talking all about the gala — and now we know you have an internship at Stark Industries?”

Gwen’s dad, standing behind her mom, crossed his arms. But his voice was more impressed than stern when he said, “Didn’t realize you were involved with Tony Stark. You kids kept that quiet.”

Peter scratched the back of his neck. “It’s kind of new. Still getting used to it.”

“Well,” Captain Stacy nodded. “Glad Gwen has a friend like you. And good to know you’re all friends with the Stark girl too — can’t hurt to have a familiar face or two tonight.”

Peter blinked. “Oh. Yeah, I think… she’ll be happy to see us.”

He said it with a small, lopsided smile — the kind that looked like he was a little nervous about something.

Gwen’s mom handed her her coat as she closed the door behind them all. “Okay��� let’s all have fun. And behave.”

Gwen rolled her eyes, laughing as she walked down the steps with Peter. The air outside was crisp, and they walked toward the car together in comfortable silence.

“I’m glad you said yes,” she said softly.

“Me too,” Peter replied. But his eyes were already wandering to the glittering skyline ahead — toward the Oscorp building, where he knew Y/N Stark would be waiting.

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Camera flashes burst like mini explosions outside the Oscorp Tower’s grand entrance, illuminating the sleek black car as it glided to a halt at the curb.

The crowd outside leaned forward in anticipation — phones raised, press badges swinging, security murmuring into comms.

Then the door opened.

First came Pepper Potts, radiant in a cream satin gown that shimmered under the lights, the image of executive grace. She offered a quick, practiced smile to the photographers, guiding the way.

Then Tony Stark stepped out, tailored tux crisp as ever, smirking like he knew the press had been waiting for him to arrive. And they had. The Stark family is always the most anticipated.

And then—

Y/N.

The murmurs surged.

She stepped out in a midnight-blue gown that looked like it had been poured from the night sky itself — fitted through the waist and flowing like liquid around her ankles, with threads of silver stitched into the fabric like flashes of lightning. Her dark hair fell in loose waves down her back, glinting under the spotlights.

She didn’t pose. Didn’t preen. Just took her place between her parents like she belonged there.

Because she did.

Inside the lobby, security guided them past the check-in desk and toward the gilded elevator. The ride to the ballroom was smooth and quiet, but Y/N’s nerves buzzed beneath her calm expression. She’d been to dozens of events like this — but for some reason, tonight felt… different.

Maybe it was the dress. Maybe it was the fact that she’d been trying not to think about Peter all week.

As the elevator dinged open, Norman Osborn was already waiting at the ballroom entrance with a glass of champagne and a politician’s smile.

“Tony,” he said smoothly, reaching out to shake his hand. “Always a pleasure.”

“Norman,” Tony returned. “Thanks for the invite. Always happy to watch the one percent try to out-dress each other.”

Norman laughed politely, then turned his attention to Y/N.

“The famous Y/N Stark. Last time I saw you, you were — what — thirteen? Now look at you. Stunning.”

Y/N smiled tightly. “Thank you, Mr. Osborn.”

“You’ll have to say hi to Harry. He just got back from his summer abroad,” Norman added. “I’m sure he’d be happy to see a familiar face.”

Y/N blinked. Right. Harry Osborn. She hadn't seen him in years. Last time, he had braces and an ego. She also punched him at a tech summit after he made a condescending remark about her project. 

“Oh, I’ll be sure to do that,” she said breezily.

They stepped into the ballroom — chandeliers dripping crystal, soft jazz floating through the air, and guests already mingling in designer gowns and tuxedos. Waiters in black ties carried trays of champagne and fancy bites.

Y/N scanned the room — and froze.

Gwen.

In blush pink, ethereal and glowing, standing near the grand staircase. Laughing at something. And next to her, in a sharp black suit, eyes already scanning the room — Peter.

Her chest tightened.

He wasn’t supposed to be here.

He was supposed to be home with May.

He was smiling, relaxed — until his gaze met hers across the ballroom.

Y/N quickly looked away. Pepper was already speaking to one of the event organizers. Tony was talking to the Mayor. Everything kept moving.

But Y/N couldn’t.

Because Peter was here. With Gwen. And suddenly, her lightning didn’t feel so beautifully contained anymore.

“Y/N Stark,” a voice drawled behind her. “Should’ve known you’d make an entrance.”

She turned.

Harry Osborn stood a few feet away, dressed in a perfectly tailored deep blue suit, open collar, no tie — effortlessly cool in that annoyingly Upper East Side kind of way. His hair was messier than it used to be, a little longer, like he’d forgotten about it while summering in Italy. There was a drink in his hand, half full, and a cocky half-smile on his face.

For a moment, Y/N just stared. Was that Harry?

“Wow,” she said finally. “You got taller. And less…punchable.”

Harry smirked. “Time abroad’ll do that to you. No one tries to punch you in Florence.”

“Try me.”

He laughed — warm, surprised. “God, I forgot how fun you were.”

She arched a brow. “And I forgot how exhausting you were.”

Harry stepped closer, eyes scanning her dress. “You look—”

“Don’t say ‘different.’ I swear—”

“I was gonna say electric.”

Y/N blinked.

“Fitting, right?” he added, voice softer now. Less flirty. More… curious. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

“Kinda had to be here,” she deadpanned. “Stark, remember?”

“And yet,” he said, taking a sip of his drink, “you’re the most interesting person in a room full of CEOs and egos. That’s saying something.”

She almost rolled her eyes, almost laughed — but something about the way he said it made her pause. He was still a menace, sure. But maybe less of one now.

Before she could figure out if he was flirting or just being Harry, two more figures stepped into the circle: Peter and Gwen.

“Hey, Y/N,” Peter said, offering a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Didn’t expect to see you here so early.”

She shrugged. “Didn’t expect to see you here at all, but hey—life’s full of surprises.”

Harry turned toward them with the same casual poise. “You must be Gwen,” he said, offering his hand. “I know your dad. Big fan of the NYPD’s new golden boy.”

Gwen smiled, caught slightly off-guard. “Oh—uh, yeah. That’s me.”

“And you are…?” Harry asked, turning to Peter now.

Peter blinked. “Peter Parker.”

Y/N jumped in. “Peter, this is Harry Osborn. Harry, Peter Parker.”

Harry extended a hand. “Nice to meet you. Stark intern, right? I’ve heard your name. A lot of buzz.”

Peter shook his hand, feeling immediately underdressed and overanalyzed. “Yeah. That’s me.”

“Didn’t expect to find an intern here,” Harry added with a lazy smile, “but hey— the more the merrier.” 

Peter’s jaw ticked slightly. “Right.”

There was a beat. Charged. Slightly off.

“Well,” Harry said, taking a sip of his drink, “if you’ll excuse me, I should probably go charm someone’s board of directors. Stark, I'll see you soon.”

And with that, he slipped back into the crowd—effortless as always.

Peter stood still, eyes lingering in the direction Harry had disappeared. His brows were pulled together, subtle but sharp, his jaw clenched just enough for Y/N to notice.

“You good?” she asked, trying to sound casual as she sipped her drink.

“Did he say… ‘electric’?” Peter asked quietly.

Y/N blinked. “Huh?”

Peter turned toward her, voice lower now. “When he was talking to you. I heard him say you looked electric. Did he mean it like—like your powers?”

She rolled her eyes. “He was being flirty, don't freak out. Relax.”

Peter didn’t relax.

“You don’t think that’s a little… weird?” he pressed, leaning in slightly. “Like, people don’t know about that side of you. Not really. You’ve never gone public with it, and you haven’t exactly been out in the field, not since Berlin.”

“He probably didn’t mean anything by it,” she said, waving a hand dismissively. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m not being weird,” Peter said, straightening. “I just… I thought you were being careful.”

Y/N’s expression tightened just a little. “I am being careful. But he doesn’t know. No one knows. He just said a word. It’s not that deep.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, Peter,” she snapped, more defensively than she meant to. “God, he was just being charming. Thanks for telling me you’d be here by the way.”

Peter opened his mouth, then closed it again. Lost in his own train of thought, barely internalizing what Y/N just said. Because the truth was—he didn’t know Harry saw. And he didn’t like how it made him feel.

Y/N, meanwhile, felt her chest tighten. More so panicked over Harry’s comment now that Peter freaked her out than upset over the fact that Peter is here without telling her. Because how would Harry Osborn know anything about lightning? 

And yet… he said it so casually. So confidently. Like he knew. Like he saw her.

Which was impossible.

Right?

Y/N let out a soft breath and turned away, muttering mostly to herself.

“You two will be the death of me.”

Peter blinked. “What?”

“Nothing.” She straightened, pasting on a smile. “You look good, Pete.”

Peter nodded, but not before sneaking one last glance over his shoulder.

Because whatever game Harry Osborn was playing…

Peter didn’t like the rules.

Y/N walked away without another word.

Her heels clicked softly against the marble as she disappeared into the crowd — back straight, chin up, like nothing about that entire interaction had rattled her. But Peter knew better. He saw the flicker in her eyes. The way her jaw tensed. The way she didn’t look back once.

He stood there like a complete idiot, hands still jammed in his pockets, the sound of the gala swirling around him: champagne flutes clinking, soft jazz drifting through the room, murmured laughter echoing off the chandeliers.

What the hell was that?

Why did Harry Osborn being anywhere near Y/N make his skin crawl? Why did her laughing with him make his chest tighten like he’d been webbed to the inside of a trash compactor?

And why — why, why, why — was he here with Gwen when all he could think about was how much fun he could and would be having if he were here with Y/N instead? Maybe Harry Osborn would’ve stayed away…

He exhaled shakily, then turned around, searching for Gwen through the glittering crowd. He never even noticed she left his side.

She was standing off to the side of the ballroom with Pepper Potts.

They were deep in conversation, glasses of sparkling cider in hand, both of them laughing softly like they’d known each other longer than five minutes. Gwen’s cheeks were pink — from the warmth, maybe, or from the conversation — and she looked genuinely at ease.

Peter blinked.

Pepper liked Gwen?

“You’re doing amazing, by the way,” Pepper said, smiling. “These events can be… overwhelming. And you’re handling yourself like a pro.”

Gwen laughed softly. “That’s a huge compliment coming from you.”

“I mean it. Honestly, I’ve seen grown CEOs sweat through their tuxedos at these things.”

“I kinda feel like I’m in a movie,” Gwen said, glancing around. “It’s all so… surreal. My dad still can’t believe he got an invite.”

Pepper smiled fondly. “Your dad’s made quite the impression on the NYPD. Tony respects people who do the right thing even when it’s not easy.”

Gwen smiled, clearly flattered. “He’s always been that way. It's kind of his thing.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re here,” Pepper said, pausing. “Peter’s lucky to have such a thoughtful partner on his project.”

“Oh—” Gwen looked down, a little bashful. “Thanks. He’s been really great. Like… kind and funny and helpful. Honestly, I probably would’ve transferred schools already if it weren’t for him.”

Pepper nodded, knowingly. “He has that effect on people.”

There was a soft, maternal fondness in her tone — one Gwen didn’t miss.

“So,” Pepper added, leaning in slightly. “Are you two just friends?”

Gwen nearly choked on her drink. “Oh! I—uh. Yeah. Yes. We’re just friends.”

“For now,” Pepper teased lightly.

Gwen laughed, pressing her hand to her chest. “Oh my god. You’re just like my mom.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Pepper smiled.

Peter watched them from across the room, jaw tightening slightly. Gwen looked really comfortable. His Aunt May and Pepper always got along, but something about this was different. Gwen looked like she belonged here — like she could slot perfectly into his life.

So why did he still feel like something was off?

Why was he still thinking about Y/N?

Peter was still hovering on the edge of the ballroom — half-listening to Gwen and Pepper’s conversation, half-scanning the room for any sign of Y/N again — when a familiar voice broke through the noise.

“Well, well, well… if it isn’t Midtown’s Most Indecisive.”

Peter startled slightly and turned to find Tony Stark approaching with a glass of something that was definitely not apple juice in hand. His tuxedo was perfectly tailored but he moved with the same casual charisma Peter had always admired (and occasionally feared).

“Mr. Stark—hey!” Peter tried to smile. “You look… very shiny tonight.”

Tony smirked. “I know, kid. So do you.  But don’t think flattery’s gonna save you.”

Peter blinked. “Save me from… what?”

Tony gestured to him lazily. “From me giving you crap. Shouldn’t you be off making pho with your aunt right about now?”

Peter flushed, scratching the back of his neck. “She, uh—cancelled. Said she had a date.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “Well, good for May. Been rooting for her since that hot Italian neighbor moved in.”

Peter blinked. “What?”

“Nothing,” Tony said quickly. “Focus. I’m talking about you, junior.”

Peter braced himself. “Okay.”

Tony gave him a once-over. “So. You came with the Stacy girl. Cute. Smart. Polite. The type your aunt May would actually let into your house.”

Peter laughed nervously. “She is all those things.”

“And yet,” Tony added, swirling the ice in his glass, “you’ve been glancing around like someone just stole your puppy.”

Peter’s smile wavered. “No I haven’t.”

“You totally have,” Tony said, amused. “And I have cameras all over this place, so don’t test me.”

Peter groaned. “How would you– Whatever! It’s not like that. I just… I didn’t know Y/N was friendly with that Harry weirdo guy. I thought she said she’d be bored.”

Tony hummed. “Well, maybe a certain someone bailed on her at the last minute for a noodle night with his aunt.”

“That’s not fair—”

“I didn’t say it was, Parker. I’m just stating the facts.”

Peter exhaled slowly, shifting his weight. “It’s complicated.”

Tony looked at him sideways. “It’s only complicated because you’ve got one foot in two different places, kid. You’re not just trying to figure out what you want. You’re trying to make sure no one gets hurt in the process.”

Peter stayed quiet.

Tony sighed, finally softening a little. “Look, I know feelings are messy. Believe me. I once dated a S.H.I.E.L.D. spy and an Eastern European princess in the same fiscal quarter.”

Peter blinked. “That… sounds fake.”

“Honestly, it might’ve been. Those years were a blur.”

Peter cracked a reluctant smile.

Tony smiled too, then clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Just—don’t wait too long to figure it out, okay? Girls like Y/N? They don’t wait around forever. And neither do girls like Gwen.”

Peter looked up, caught off guard by the sincerity in Tony’s tone.

“Besides,” Tony added, eyes twinkling, “I’m not blind. I’ve seen the way you look at Y/N. You think I let you into my home– into the team, just because you’re a superhuman brainiac? Nah. You’re a good kid. But more importantly, you make her laugh. And that’s rare these days.”

Peter swallowed hard. “Thanks, Mr. Stark.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Tony said, backing away. “I expect drama before the night's over. This is a gala, not a mathlete meeting. Go stir the pot.”

Peter stood there stunned for a moment as Tony disappeared back into the crowd — no doubt off to charm diplomats or cause minor chaos.

And suddenly, Peter wasn’t sure what felt heavier: the suit, or the weight in his chest.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The live band in the corner had just transitioned into something elegant and moody when Y/N felt someone slip into the space beside her.

“Still holding that punch over my head?” Harry said smoothly, nursing a half-empty glass of sparkling cider and giving her a sidelong glance.

She didn’t turn right away. Just exhaled a soft laugh. “If I recall, you told me I had ‘poor impulse control.’”

“And I stand by it,” he said. “You broke the tech demo display and almost my nose.”

“You were being a pretentious little prick,” she shot back, but there was no venom in it. Just amusement.

He smiled at that. “Fair. I was… testing boundaries.”

Y/N gave him a look.

“What?” he asked innocently. “I meant emotionally.”

“Uh-huh.”

He tilted his head, studying her a little too closely. “Y’know… no one had ever stood up to me like that before. It was impressive.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s a low bar.”

“And yet, I remember it almost four years later. So, either I’m dramatic — likely — or you made an impression.”

They stood in silence for a moment, surrounded by the glittering hum of the gala. People were whispering, glancing their way. It didn’t take a genius to figure out why — Harry Osborn was the name on everyone's lips.

And he was talking to her.

“I know you don’t want to hear it but you do look different,” Harry said, not quite a compliment, not quite an insult. “Older. Meaner.”

“Meaner?” she echoed.

“In a good way,” he said, grinning. “Like… ‘don’t mess with me, I’ll slash your tires’ kind of mean.”

She raised a brow. “That’s so specific.”

“I have an active imagination.”

“Well, maybe imagine talking to someone else.”

“Now why would I do that?” Harry said, inching just a little closer. “Everyone in this room’s been trying to pull me into a conversation all night, and the only person I wanted to find was you.”

Her heart stuttered. She hated that it stuttered.

Y/N looked away, pretending to sip her drink. She hated that her cheeks were warm. Harry Osborn should not be allowed to be charming.

Her eyes drifted across the ballroom.

Peter was dancing with Gwen.

They were… smiling. Laughing. He spun her gently, his hand resting just above her waist like it belonged there. Gwen’s dress shimmered in the low light, a soft rose glow, delicate and beautiful and effortlessly graceful.

Y/N swallowed. Something sharp lodged in her throat.

Harry followed her gaze.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just sipped his drink and leaned a bit closer.

“She’s got great posture,” he said, casually. “Kind of princess coded.”

Y/N blinked. “What?”

“Gwen,” he said, eyes still on the couple across the room. “Very debutante-like. Your friend group’s aesthetic diversity is truly unmatched.”

She scoffed. “You’re annoying.”

“I’m observant,” he corrected. “Also — trying to keep you from spiraling, so maybe give me a little credit.”

Her gaze snapped to him. “I’m not spiraling.”

Harry raised both hands in surrender. “Didn’t say you were.”

There was a beat of silence. Comfortable, almost. He didn’t push further. Just stood beside her, letting her breathe.

Then a sharp, polite voice interrupted them.

“Miss Stark? Mr. Osborn?”

Y/N turned to find one of the gala photographers smiling expectantly, camera in hand. “We’re doing a press set with the next generation of Oscorp and Stark Industries. Would you mind stepping over for a quick photo?”

Y/N blinked. “Uh—”

“She’d love to,” Harry said easily, already offering her his arm.

“I didn’t say—”

“You punched me once. Let me at least get a cool picture to make up for it.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but slipped her hand through the crook of his arm anyway. The room parted slightly as they moved toward the backdrop near the stairwell, bright lights already warming to life.

“Ready, Miss Stark?” the photographer asked.

She glanced at Harry.

He winked.

She smirked, lifted her chin — and the camera flashed.

​​The flashbulbs finally dimmed, the camera crew satisfied with their golden shots of Stark and Osborn — heirs apparent to the legacy empires that practically built the NYC skyline.

Y/N gently tugged her arm from Harry’s just as another person approached him, congratulating him on some internship or another. She turned to leave, but before she could fully slip away, Harry leaned down, voice smooth near her ear.

“If you ever get tired of that Peter kid,” he said, tone playful but laced with something a bit more pointed, “or just want a distraction… I’ll be around. Staying in the city for the year.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Bold assumption that I get bored easily.”

“Well then,” he offered, stepping back. “Call me if you need me. I’ll be waiting.”

And with that — a wink and a two-fingered salute — he was gone, swallowed by the sea of suits and socialites.

Y/N stood there for a beat, letting out a slow exhale. She wasn’t flustered — not exactly — but Harry had a way of pushing into her space and then disappearing like smoke. It was annoying. And maybe a little bit impressive.

Before she could fully process it, a voice cut in — bright, sweet, familiar.

“There you are!”

Y/N turned and spotted Gwen weaving through the crowd in her blush-pink gown, a flute of sparkling cider in hand. “I’ve been looking for you!”

Y/N’s posture softened. “You look so pretty, Gwen.”

Gwen grinned and held out the extra flute she was holding. “You look like a goddess. That dress? Literally shut the whole place down.”

Y/N took the drink and clinked her glass against Gwen’s with a smile. “You’re being dramatic.”

“It’s the truth,” Gwen said, then leaned in like she was telling a secret. “Seriously, when you walked into the ballroom, I think half the photographers stopped breathing.”

Y/N laughed, shaking her head. “You’re such a liar.”

“I’m not! I’m so glad I saw it at the boutique. And I’m glad MJ forced you to try it on.”

“She’s terrifying when she wants something,” Y/N joked. “But yeah. It felt right.”

They sipped their drinks, standing side by side as the crowd swirled around them. Somewhere across the room, Tony was motioning Peter toward Norman Osborn — some big career making handshake probably about to go down.

Gwen nudged her lightly. “So... Harry Osborn, huh?”

Y/N groaned. “Oh god– Please don’t start.”

“I’m just saying — he looked very into that photo op. And you did not look like you hated it.”

“He’s… he’s just being annoying.”

“Annoying is kind of his brand, isn’t it?” Gwen said with a smirk. “Still. You looked good. Like one of those rich girls in a teen drama who knows exactly what she’s doing. It was hot.”

Y/N barked out a laugh. “Thanks, I think?”

They both laughed, a genuine, shared moment. For a second, everything felt simple again. Just two girls, in ridiculous gowns, standing in ridiculous heels, making each other feel like maybe none of it mattered too much.

“I’m glad we’re friends,” Y/N said softly.

Gwen looked at her, smile soft. “Me too.”

And then the camera lights flared again across the room — this time, focused on Peter Parker shaking Norman Osborn’s hand.

But Y/N didn’t look. Not yet.

Because right now? She wasn’t thinking about Peter. She was thinking about Gwen’s soft smile, the gentle hum of their laughter, and the fact that — for a moment — the world felt full of possibility.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The gala was winding down — speeches had been given, hands shaken, deals sealed with champagne. The press had packed up, leaving only a low hum of music and the soft shuffle of expensive shoes on marble.

Y/N stood near the refreshment table with Gwen, both of them barefoot now, heels discarded under their table after too many hours of pretending stilettos were comfortable. Gwen was animatedly retelling something her younger brother had said the night before, using her hands for emphasis and almost knocking over a flute of untouched champagne.

“You’re so dramatic,” Y/N giggled, holding her stomach. “Wait, wait, say it again like he did.”

Gwen pulled a face, voice pitching higher as she mimicked her brother. “But Gwen, what if Peter adopted me?! We’d build legos all day!!”

Y/N snorted. “Stop! My ribs hurt.”

“Ladies,” Peter appeared beside them like he’d been summoned by name. “Am I interrupting something important?”

“Just Y/N dying of laughter at my expense,” Gwen said sweetly.

“She’s being over-dramatic,” Y/N added, already reaching for her drink. “As usual.”

Peter held out both hands. “Wanna dance?”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “You dance?”

Peter grinned. “Poorly. But enthusiastically.”

Gwen took his left hand. Y/N took the right.

The three of them joined a small crowd on the dance floor, some pop remix playing over the speakers. Music switching over to something more lively as the older crowd started leaving. It wasn’t the kind of music meant for waltzing — it was fast, fun, ridiculous — and somehow perfect.

Peter spun Gwen first, then Y/N, then back again. The girls were laughing, skirts twirling, hair undone and glowing under the crystal lights.

For a moment — one brief, bright moment — everything felt light. Normal. Like they were just kids at a party. Not heroes. Not heirs. Just friends.

Just friends.

Y/N caught herself staring as Peter danced, loose-limbed and messy and smiling so wide it crinkled the corners of his eyes. Gwen nudged him, teasing him about his footwork. He laughed. She laughed.

Y/N laughed too.

See? she told herself. This is fine. I’m fine. I love them both. Gwen’s amazing. Peter’s my best friend. I do not have a crush on this man. That would be stupid. Ridiculous. Delusional. I’m so normal about this. Everything’s great.

She forced the smile to stay on her face and spun again, hair catching in the air like lightning.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The morning sun leaked through the penthouse windows, golden and too bright for someone who’d danced until nearly 1 a.m.

Y/N squinted at her phone as it buzzed on her nightstand again — the eighth time in five minutes. She groaned, rolled over, and buried her face into her pillow.

“Y/N,” came Pepper’s voice through the slightly cracked door. “Breakfast is ready.”

“Mmmf,” Y/N replied.

Another ping.

Heart emoji

This time, she grabbed her phone with a frown. Her lock screen was flooded with messages.

MJ🐛 : BRO WAKE UP RIGHT NOW MJ​​🐛: YOU’RE LITERALLY TRENDING MJ🐛: HARRY?? Ned🤠: omg are you and harry freaking osborn a THING?? Gwen 🤍😻: wait wait are you seriously dating Harry Osborn 😭i knew i wasn’t crazy!! The way he was looking at youuu

“...What,” Y/N mumbled, unlocking her screen and immediately being hit with a wave of notifications. Her feed was full of headlines:

‘Next Gen Power Couple?’ Y/N Stark & Harry Osborn Spark Dating Rumors After Glitzy Gala Appearance

‘The New Iron Romance: Stark Heiress and Oscorp Heir Set NYC Abuzz’

‘Electric Chemistry — Literally: Sparks Fly Between Y/N Stark and Harry Osborn’

There were photos too. Her and Harry talking — her laughing. His hand on her back. And the worst of them all: the moment he whispered something to her right before the photo op, her eyes flicking toward the camera, smiling. It looked… intimate. Intentional.

“OH my god,” she muttered, dragging a hand down her face.

Another text came in. From Peter.

Spideyboy!: So… you and Harry?

“NOO!,” she said to no one, throwing her phone onto the bed like it had personally betrayed her.

A minute later, she padded into the kitchen in pajama shorts and one of Tony’s MIT hoodies she’d stolen years ago. Pepper was already at the counter with a cappuccino and a blueberry muffin.

“Morning,” she said brightly. “Sleep okay?”

“No,” Y/N muttered, pouring herself coffee. “I’m being publicly shipped with a boy I punched in the face three and a half years ago.”

Pepper arched a brow, phone in hand. “Ah. I saw that. ‘City’s New It Couple?’”

Y/N groaned.

“He’s not even my type,” she grumbled. “I don’t even have a type! Unless… annoying chaos goblin counts.”

“So Peter,” Pepper said calmly, sipping her drink.

Y/N paused mid-sip. “…That’s slander.”

Pepper just smiled into her mug. “You didn’t deny it.”

Another buzz.

MJ🐛: WAIT LOOK AT THIS INTERVIEW CLIP MJ🐛: Harry JUST SAID “I’ve always liked girls with lightning in their eyes.” MJ🐛: THAT’S YOU BABE

Her heart stopped.

“What.”

She tapped the link with trembling fingers. The screen filled with a short red carpet clip — grainy, recorded from someone’s TV.

A reporter offscreen: “So, Harry, any thoughts on your gala date tonight? You and Miss Stark certainly caused a stir.” Harry smiled that slow, easy smile. “I’ve always liked girls with lightning in their eyes.” Camera flash. End clip.

The world spun for a second.

Pepper glanced up from her espresso. “Something wrong?”

Y/N didn’t respond. She was still staring at the screen, her thoughts racing.

Lightning.

That wasn’t just some metaphor. He wasn’t being poetic or flirtatious — or at least, not just that. He was being specific. Deliberate.

No one was supposed to know. Her training sessions were private. Her powers hadn’t been made public yet — hell, Peter barely understood the extent of them. Tony had gone to great lengths to keep her low-profile until she was ready. Only time she ever did anything with them was in Berlin but there was no record of that. Tony made sure of it.

So how the hell did Harry know?

Her fingers curled around the phone, heart thumping.

“Y/N?” Pepper said again, concerned now.

Y/N looked up, eyes wide. “He knows.”

“Knows what?”

“About me. About my powers.”

Pepper’s eyes narrowed slightly. “That shouldn’t be possible. Has he seen you use them?”

“No! He hasn’t even seen me. Not since… not since that tech summit years ago, and even then I didn’t—” She broke off, shaking her head. “I didn’t do anything. I just punched him in the face.”

Pepper looked both alarmed and faintly impressed. “Well. That would leave an impression.”

Y/N didn’t laugh. “Pepper, this is bad. How does he know?”

“I’ll look into it,” Pepper said calmly, already picking up her tablet. “In the meantime, don’t panic.”

“I’m not panicking,” Y/N said, her voice two octaves too high.

Pepper gave her a look.

Y/N slumped against the counter and covered her face with both hands. “…Okay. I’m panicking.”

Pepper took a measured sip of coffee. “Understandable. But still, breathe.”

“Breathe,” Y/N muttered. “Right. Cool. I’m being stalked by a possibly psychic billionaire heir, but sure. Let’s inhale and exhale.”

Another buzz.

MJ🐛: I swear if this turns into a Wattpad enemies-to-lovers arc I’m gonna SCREAM

“Pepper.”

“Yes?”

“I think I might die.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆

taglist: @f2lix , @the-faceless-bride @lovely-foxes-exe @uhmellamoanna @gyus-lvr

author's note: longest chapter yet! so fun! what do we think about this yall? y/n and harry woahhh! i'm warning you rn, we're gonna get real angsty. this is for the slowburn lovers. we're gonna get some real yearning. we're all gonna suffer a little bit but it's okay, it's for the plot LMAO

also, how are yall picturing harry? cause to me he's just some faceless guy but gwen is like a mix of sabrina carpenter and quinn in season 2 of glee

[spidey-webz]

you can feel bob in your tummy | 18+

inspired by this (p link)

Bob is big. Whenever he’s inside you, your walls are stretched more than you’ve ever experienced before. He fills you out so nicely, every ridge and vein of his cock gliding along your walls. There’s a slight sting to it at first, but it vanishes with every new thrust.

His hands are holding onto your thighs, keeping them upright as he angles your hips up a little. He reaches deeper that way and you can almost feel him right against your cervix.

Bob’s hold on your thighs is strong. He feels every tremble running through you, eyes glued to where you’re both connected. Where his cock is covered in your arousal. Your moans are like music to his ears and he can’t hold back a groan that slips past his lips.

His thrusts are deep and calculated, watching your face contort with pleasure every time he buries himself to the hilt in you. Bob moves his hands to your ass, angling your hips a little higher as he brings your legs to rest on his shoulders.

That’s when he sees it. And you can feel it.

You can feel him so deeply inside you. It sends your eyes rolling back for a moment, a gasp slipping from your lips.

“Fuck,” Bob mumbles at the sight in front of him. There’s a bulge in your tummy and he can faintly see the outline of his cock. “Look at that,” he groans, thrusting into you again and he can’t take his eyes off the sight.

Your legs are trembling on his shoulders while he’s still holding them. Bob’s filling you out so nicely and the lewd sight in front of you, the bulge moving back and forth with every new thrust…

It pushes you closer to the edge, this new angle, the intensity of it all. When Bob speeds up his thrusts, it makes your walls clench around him.

His right hand leaves your thigh to ghost over the skin of your abdomen and you gasp when he presses down where he can see himself through your skin. A curse falls off your lips but it’s just another push to your climax. It’s approaching fast, your focus wandering as the pressure in your tummy builds and builds and it’s almost ready to snap.

Bob presses down on your tummy again, timing it with another deep thrust and that’s what sends you spiralling. Your legs shake around him as you moan his name, head falling back while your high washes over you.

Bob lets out a low moan too, but his thrusts don’t stop. He keeps looking at your face, then the bulge in your tummy and he knows he’s close. A few more thrusts, a few more curses of his lips and seeing you take him so deeply…

Your walls clench around him and that’s what sends him over the edge. He pushes his cock all the way in again, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs as hot ropes of cum spill into you. And all he can do is stare at where you’re taking him so well.

[spider-stark]

SAME SIN

pairing | frank castle x reader

summary | in your darkest hour, matt doesn't answer the phone. but frank does.

warnings | blood, death, violence, attempted robbery, religious trauma, possible infidelity, matt's lowkey kind of a bitch in this but that's ok, probably deviates from canon at times but fuck it we ball, MDNI 18+

word count | 3.5k

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

Blood wept from your fingertips, dripping onto the asphalt.

It had soaked through the man’s shirt. Oozed from the scattered holes in his chest, pooling around his torso. His lungs breathed no air. His eyes didn’t blink, gazing sightless up towards the Heavens. 

Sickness hit in a crushing wave. 

You doubled over, clutching your stomach as bile surged up your throat, burning over your tongue. The gagging continued long after there was nothing left, saliva dribbling from your bottom lip. 

Then there was stillness. 

Not the stillness of calm, or peace. But punishment. Sentencing. The solemn gaze of an all-forgiving Father as he stands before you, stone in-hand.

[To kill is a violation of Faith—] 

{—You or them?} 

The gun had still been smoking when it’d clattered at your feet. 

Regret felt like a wet blanket on your shoulders, suffocating in its weight. You couldn’t stand it.

Couldn’t stand.

Asphalt dug into your knees, crumpling at the man's side. Your hands had been shaking as you grabbed his wrist, searching for a pulse, praying for it in the way a sinner prays for absolution.

You found none. 

No pulse. No absolution. 

Still, you tried. Locked your fingers over his chest—pressing and pressing, trying and trying. Until thick ribs cracked and caved, until your palms were drenched in warmth and death and–

Rain. 

It was raining. 

Little drops, softly pattering all throughout the alleyway. You watched, dazed, as they slid down the lit-up screen in your hands. 

You didn’t remember pulling out your phone, but you remembered making the call. 

Calls. 

In the Bible, the number seven is considered sacred. Symbolic of divine oaths and promises, of perfection in the purest, most angelic sense. 

Seven times you called the Devil. 

Seven times he didn’t answer. 

You tilted your head back. The rain fell faster, cool drops steady rolling down your cheeks. The sky was a yawning, starless expanse. In the past, you’d always said that’s why you hated the city. The lack of stars—veiled by pollution and human selfishness, replaced by a twinkling skyline made of artificial hope. 

But tonight was different. Tonight, you were glad for their absence. 

At least the stars hadn’t seen what you’d done. 

Blood smeared across the phone screen as you dialed your eighth call. A different tone than before; a number not saved but remembered. 

A number you’d promised Matt you’d never call again. 

{In case you ever need it—} 

[—I don’t trust him.] 

What is trust? 

Once, it felt like the comfort of sunlight pouring through stained glass windows. Sitting amidst the oaken pews with a man at your side—a soft man dressed in a sharp suit, his glasses tinted red and his heart pure gold. 

Now, trust felt like the relief of a call that rang only once. Of cold fear melting into the gruff warmth of another’s voice, heavy with concern as they answered: “You alright?” 

You almost laughed. 

No. Of course not—because why would you call Frank Castle if you were anything other than desperate? 

“Are you busy?” you asked, awkward and hesitant. 

In hindsight, the question felt stupid. There was a body lying in front of you, and certainly no amount of busyness took precedence over that. But then, Matt must’ve been busy. Playing dutiful layer or God’s lone soldier. That’s why he hadn’t answered. 

Unless… 

[Elektra’s just a friend—] 

{—That what we are?} 

On the other end of the line, Frank urged, “C’mon now, doll, you gotta answer me, alright?” Had he asked something? You hadn’t noticed. “Where’re you at?” 

“An alley.” 

A rough, humorless chuckle. “Little more specific, sweetheart.” 

Five blocks from Matt’s apartment, you thought. 

“Off West 51st,” you said. 

“Don’t move.” There was the sound of a door slamming, of boots pounding down a flight of stairs. “I’m on my way.” 

Panic thrashed in your veins, anticipating the sharp click of a call gone dead. “Wait!” A cry, a plea—but for what? You had no clue what to say next. 

You hadn’t told him about the man, or the gun, or the sin. 

And Frank hadn’t asked. You knew this was because the Why? for your call hadn’t mattered to him. 

Only that you had. 

{You call, I come—} 

[—Frank Castle is a murderer.] 

Your eyes squeezed shut. You went to rub them, then remembered the blood dripping from your hands. 

So am I, you thought. So am I. 

Frank said your name. Once, twice. 

Quietly, you asked, “Will you stay on the phone?” 

The sound of another door pushing open, a great whoosh! of air as the city unfolded around him: sirens screaming, traffic blaring. With your eyes closed, you could almost see—shoving from his apartment building, marching down darkened sidewalks with a determined clench in his jaw. 

It wasn’t a man coming to save you, nor a vigilante. 

It was a soldier. 

After drawing in a breath, Frank uttered, “‘Course.” 

Time dragged. 

Hell’s Kitchen droned around you. Occasionally, Frank would ask: You good? to which you replied: How far are you? At some point, you drifted further from the man’s body. Ended up sitting on the ground, your back pressed to a brick wall. 

Your emotions were still fuzzy, as dull as the blunt edge of a knife. But your nerves… those were razor sharp. 

You watched both ends of the alleyway. Vigilant, afraid. Your muscles tensed whenever a car door shut too loud, whenever a stranger passed beneath the distant, buzzing streetlights. 

What if someone noticed? 

Gunshots weren’t such a strange thing in the Kitchen. The Devil couldn’t be everywhere at once, and the cops were either too busy or too lazy to investigate every bang! in the night. 

But if someone noticed you like this—curled on the ground, a dead man at your feet and violent red on your skin… 

He started it, you reminded yourself. Self-defense is absolvable. 

[To a judge? Or to God?—] 

God doesn’t matter. 

[—Why didn’t you call 9-1-1?] 

Why didn’t you answer? 

Your grip tightened around the phone. “How far now?” 

“Check your nine.” In the second it took for you to envision a clock, Frank had already amended, “Left, sweetheart.” There was the barest hint of a smile in his voice. “Look left.” 

You did. 

Frank was little more than a formless figure approaching. He was dressed in all black, his hood up against the rain. You couldn’t see his face, but you didn’t need to. His presence was enough to ease the frantic beat of your pulse. 

When he was close enough to hear, you hung up the phone. Wiped your nose on your sleeve and sniffed, “Took you long enough.” 

Cool and calculating—two descriptors that fit Frank best as he scanned the scene. He took note of the discarded gun, the puddle of watered down blood, the man with three bullets in his chest. 

You were the last thing he noted, and the only one to put a crack in his stern exterior. 

“Smart enough to practice law,” Frank lightly joked, “but not to read a goddamn clock, huh?” 

A laugh sputtered past your lips, melding into a broken sob. 

“Paralegals don’t practice,” you argued, ignoring the tears wetting your cheeks. “And I can read a clock just fine, asshole.” 

There was a softness to his face, one brow raising. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” So long as it’s in front of you, and you’re telling time and not direction. 

Frank hummed, his knees popping as he crouched down beside you. “Well I ain’t got a watch,” he said, “so I guess I’ll have to take your word for it.” 

Another weak laugh faded into quiet. 

Then, more hesitant than you’d ever heard him before, Frank asked, “You wanna tell me what happened?” 

Something about the way he said it struck you as odd. Like it was a choice—that you didn’t have to explain. If you wanted, the secrets of tonight could remain just that: Secrets, known only by you and a man who had no voice to share them. 

[Do you remember Psalm 80:9?—] 

Even secret sins are exposed in His light. 

{—How do you deal with it? All Red’s Catholic bullshit?} 

By believing in it. 

Frank took your silence for an answer. Shifted as if he might reach out, offer comfort. Instead, his fingers curled into loose fists. 

“How ‘bout you go wait around the corner,” he offered, “and let me take care of all this?” 

You weren’t sure what Frank’s version of ‘taking care of this’ entailed, but you knew you were comfortable with never finding out. 

Frank followed suit as you pushed off the ground. His movements were precise and easy, while yours were graceless and weighted. Standing, the world seemed to shift beneath your feet. Your mind was still hazy, your bones tired. 

Existence had become an arduous task. 

“When you’re… done,” you managed, your arms curled tight around your waist, “what then?” 

You didn’t want to go home—or to Matt’s. 

You didn’t want to feel alone. 

As if he understood this, Frank simply answered, “I’ll take you back to my place. Get you cleaned up, let you rest awhile.” His head tilted slightly. “You like pizza?” 

The world was ending. 

And yet here stood Frank—no Bible quotes or Hail Mary’s, no judgement for the sin you’d committed or the mess he had to clean. He offered only calm, only patience—and pizza of all things. 

[What do you see in him?—] 

{—Let me take care of all this.} 

You nodded. 

Frank’s apartment was bleak. 

One room total—unless you counted the cramped shoebox of a bathroom, which you did not. The front door opened into a shoddy kitchenette, connected to a living room that clearly doubled as his bedroom. 

He owned minimal furnishings. There was a lumpy couch, a small table with one chair, an old doormat that read Stay Awhile! except the Awhile had been all but completely rubbed off. You assumed that’s why it was inside instead of out—because even indirectly, Frank Castle wasn’t the type to ask anyone to Stay. 

Behind you, Frank grunted as he kicked his boots off onto the mat. You wondered if you should do the same, but didn’t. 

It felt strange to be in Frank’s apartment. Not because it made you uncomfortable, but because it didn’t. You felt fine. Still shaken, still a little sick—but safe. 

Would Matt be able to tell? Would he smell the gunpowder and Old Spice clinging to your skin and know that you’d been with Frank? 

That’s how you knew when he’d been with Elektra. You didn’t need super senses to smell her perfume—a heady mix of cloves and something citrus, lingering on his shirts as plain as if it were lipstick on the collar. 

Unthinking, you said, “You should get a bird.” 

Frank chuckled. “Yeah? And why’s that?” 

You weren’t sure. It was just the first thing that had come to mind, a means of evicting Elektra from your thoughts. 

“It could liven the place up,” you suggested. Though, after taking another glance around, you realized that might be asking too much of one little bird. 

He’d need a flock. 

Frank slipped past you, warmth crawling up your spine at the slight brush of his hand against your back. You told yourself it was unintentional—no more intimate than someone scooting past you in a crowded bar or a grocery store aisle. 

Still, the warmth lingered. 

“Don’t think I’m much of a bird guy,” Frank admitted from the kitchenette. Then, nodding towards the couch, he added, “Sit.” 

You drifted that way and sank into the cushions. The springs were practically nonexistent, and the brown leather peeled like a bad sunburn—impossible not to pick at. 

“What kind of guy are you, then?” you asked, more interested in a distraction than his answer. 

Frank dug around in the cabinets, grabbed a plastic mixing bowl, and went to the sink. “I like dogs,” he told you, loud enough to be heard over the running water filling the bowl. 

You pretended not to hear him anyway. 

After starting at Nelson & Murdock, you’d planned to get a dog. It seemed like the right time. You had your own place, your own income—and you knew Foggy would love having something cute and furry around the office. But then you got closer to Matt, and the dream died before it ever began. 

Dogs were too much for Matt. Too many smells, too many sounds, too many textures. Back then, you’d thought it was a reasonable sacrifice. No dog in exchange for an incredible boyfriend. 

You knew better now. 

You should’ve picked the dog. 

Dragging the lone chair from the table, Frank settled in front of you with the bowl of steaming water and a thin cloth. His eyes went straight to your hand. You assumed it was because of the dried blood until he said, “You’re fucking up my couch.” 

You stopped picking, dusting the flakes of leather onto the floor. “It was already fucked,” you defended. 

“So you gotta make it worse?” 

You fixed him with a blank stare. “Nothing could make this couch worse.” Short of setting it on fire, that is. 

“That how we’re gonna play this?” Frank looked like he was holding in a laugh. “I let you in, offer you food—and you pay me back by talkin’ shit about my couch?” 

“It’s not just the couch,” you stated plainly. “It’s the whole apartment.” 

It reminded you of prison—a place that you, Foggy, and Matt had worked hard to keep Frank out of. Even if the trial hadn’t gone as expected, you hated the idea that all that fight had been for this: A peeling couch, a faded doormat, a lonely little chair. 

Frank deserved better than that. 

[Have you forgotten?—] 

[Castle was charged with 37 counts of murder] 

[—Why are you so attached to this case?] 

With the bowl balanced on top of his legs, Frank dipped the cloth in and wrung it out as he joked, “Guess I need that bird.” 

Your lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. 

“Guess so.” 

Frank held out an open palm. Without thinking, you laid your hand against his. 

The water was too hot. Not quite burning, but still uncomfortable as he pressed the cloth to your wrist. But you didn’t flinch, utterly motionless as he wiped in slow, circular motions. 

His touch was far lighter than you’d imagined. 

Not that you ever had imagined it. 

As the cloth moved down to your fingers, Frank’s focus grew more intent. He was meticulous in cleaning every line of your knuckles, the dried blood caked under your nails. 

Only when the water in the bowl had turned the color of rust, the cloth stained and your skin spotless, did Frank trade one of your hands for the other. 

Only then did you confess. 

“He had a knife.” 

Half a second—that’s how long Frank’s movements faltered before he kept on cleaning. You were thankful he didn’t try to look you in the eye. That he didn’t have to for you to know he was listening. 

“Foggy has a deposition in the morning,” you continued shakily. “He always forgets to print his motion, so I stopped by the office to do it for him and… I don’t know. On the way back home, I could just feel it, you know? That someone was there. That they were following me.” 

An understanding nod as Frank moved the cloth to your index finger. 

“I know it’s stupid,” you told him. “But I thought if I cut through the alley, got closer to Matt’s, then–” 

He’d hear it, if the worst happened. The Devil would come. Your boyfriend—if you could even still call him that—would save you. 

But that had been a stupid, childish thought. 

“I figured I could lose him,” you said instead. “That I could turn the corner and just run in circles until he gave up. But he was fast. I wasn’t even halfway down the alley when he ran up behind me, when grabbed my shoulder and–” 

Your breath caught. Frank’s touch moved slower, gentler—a feat you wouldn’t have thought possible. His eyes caught yours in a concerned glance. Only then did you remember how to breathe. 

“It was just a knife, Frank. A knife—and I pulled out a gun!” A short, hollow laugh. “I should have let him rob me,” you rationalized. “At least a wallet can be replaced. But him, his life–” 

Frank cut you off. “How do you know?” 

Your brows furrowed in answer. 

His hand went still against yours, holding the cloth wrapped around your ring finger. “That that’s all he wanted,” Frank gruffly clarified. “To rob you.” 

“I don’t, but–” 

“You remember what I told you? When I taught you how to shoot?” 

{You or them?—}

Frustrated, you insisted, “It’s not that easy, Frank. It’s not my choice!” 

[—It’s up to God, who lives and who dies.] 

Frank shook his head. “That’s the Catholic in you,” he argued. 

“I’m not Catholic,” you snapped, low but harsh. Frank looked confused, and you fought to keep the shame from your voice as you muttered, “Not anymore.” 

Religion, you’ve learned, is a funny sort of thing. Even when you stop believing, it never truly goes away. God becomes a ghost under your skin, a divine haunting that borders on insanity. You will always think in terms of Sinners and Saints. You will always know that no amount of repentance will ever mold your soul into something more like the latter. 

Frank wasn’t the type to pry any further. 

Instead, he adjusted your hand. Carefully dragged the cloth along the curve of your fingernail. The water had cooled, now too cold where it was once too hot. 

“It doesn’t matter what he was going to do,” you decided. “It only matters that I killed him.” 

This time, it was Frank’s breath that hitched. 

“No you didn’t,” he said, and you had never heard someone tell a lie so matter-of-fact. 

“I did–” 

He looked up. A muscle feathered in his jaw, and when he spoke, it was with the steely resolve of a Marine.  

“No. I did.” 

You blinked at him. 

“I gave you that gun,” he continued. “Gave you that goddamn advice, too. That no matter what, you always gotta pick you. And see, I don’t regret that shit either because all that? It kept you alive. Kept you breathing. And if some no-good prick’s gotta so you get to live? Fine. Good.” 

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t do anything but stare at him. 

“But if someone’s gotta bear the weight of that guy’s miserable life,” Frank told you, “then let it be me, alright?” His gaze fell, lingering on your lips a moment too long before he uttered, “‘Cause I ain’t gonna let it be you.” 

[You care about him—]

[—Don’t you?] 

Do you care about her? 

[Elektra’s just a friend—] 

… 

[—Can you say the same about Frank?] 

You studied the man before you. 

Frank Castle. The Punisher. 

The one you shouldn’t call, shouldn’t trust. A murderer and a felon, a crack in your already crumbling relationship. Someone you tried to stay away from, tried to forget. 

A number not saved, but remembered. 

No, you thought, and wondered if Matt already knew. I can’t. 

Swallowing, you looked down at your joined hands. The blood was almost all gone now, washed away by someone far more damned than you. 

“Okay,” you said. There was no need to say anything else, no need to keep bearing the crushing weight of your newly acquired sin—not when God was a ghost and the Devil had abandoned you, not when a Soldier was so willing to bear it for you. 

“You know,” you said, deftly changing the subject, “my brain’s a little hazy, but I’m pretty sure you promised me pizza.” 

Frank fought the subtle curve of his lips. “Did I?” 

You nodded, and he chuckled. 

“Fine–” he refocused, back to cleaning off the last of the blood–“but you’re placin’ the order.” 

You mocked him, Fine!, while sliding your phone from your pocket. The screen lit up with two missed calls and one text. 

Matthew: Sorry, got caught up with something. Everything OK? 

Your thumb hovered over the message. 

In the Bible, the number eight is symbolic of many things. Resurrection is one of them; something dead brought back into eternal life. Once, you would’ve seen Matt’s text—a string of eight words—and wondered if that meant something. If maybe there was something left of your love to be resurrected. 

Now, you stole a glance at Frank—your eighth call—and thought of new beginnings. Of choosing your own path. 

You cleared Matt’s message. 

Tapped on the Safari icon and asked, “Do you want somewhere specific?” 

“Ever been to Lombardi’s?” suggested Frank. 

You shook your head. “Is it good?” 

Frank cut you a look. “‘Course it’s good. But knowin’ you, you’ll probably shit talk it the same way you did my couch.” 

A smile tugged at your lips. “Keep it up,” you teased, already typing the restaurant into the search, “and your only company’s gonna be the couch and the bird.” 

He chuckled. “I ain’t gettin’ a bird.” 

You'd just pressed the phone to your ear, already listening to it ring when you built up the nerve to ask, "What about a dog?"

Frank set the cloth in the bowl. Gave your hand a gentle squeeze. 

“Maybe a dog.”

a/n - this has been sitting in my drafts literally since january. i can't decide if i like it or hate it, but i've gotten into too much of a habit of writing, overthinking, and then never posting---so, here it is! thank you to anyone who takes the time to read it <3

[helaintoloki]

Back to You

pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

warnings: mild language, pining, fluff

notes: my bucky and yelena brain rot is off the charts which is how this came about

summary: Yelena’s interest in y/n forces Bucky to confront his feelings for her as the Thunderbolts take refuge in her home

“I can’t thank you enough for this.”

“Well, this is definitely more interesting than whatever I had planned today,” you respond jokingly as you finish stitching closed the gash on Bucky’s pectoral. “I will say, if I knew I’d be having company I probably would have tidied up a bit around here.”

Both yours and Bucky’s gazes turn to the group of beaten down misfits that occupy your living room at the mention of company. The amount of people taking refuge in your home made it appear almost comically small, but you weren’t exactly new to having to take care of super heroes- or in this case antiheroes- on a whim like this.

Before Thanos and the Blip, you had been a good friend of Steve’s. As his neighbor across the hall who also happened to be a nurse, he tended to treat your apartment like his own personal health clinic after a particularly grueling day of protecting the city. You welcomed him in without question of course, and after some time he had begun bringing friends in need of patch jobs with him. This was how you met Sam and Natasha, and eventually Bucky. You were enthralled by the turmoil swimming in his eyes and his reserved nature, and your gentleness and willingness to help a total stranger like him with no reservation had stuck with Bucky forever.

You lost touch with them all after the Sokovia Accords debacle and being turned into dust for five years, but once the work of the infinity stones had been reversed and you were able to attempt a life at normalcy, Bucky and Sam had returned right back to your doorstep.

In the years that passed, you and Bucky had been able to form a close friendship. It didn’t happen without growing pains throughout the process of course, and it took time for the super soldier to open himself up to you so intimately, but you’d been able to reach a point where Bucky could come to you for anything and vice versa. So when he’d called five minutes before his arrival asking to seek shelter in your modest home, you immediately agreed without question.

“Alright, you’re good to go,” you inform him after smoothing out the bandage on his chest. Looking out to the rest of the group, you hold up your first aid kit and ask, “Anyone else need some TLC?”

You’re met with silence to which Bucky offers you a comforting pat on the shoulder before hopping off of your counter. The group looks more exhausted and defeated than anything, and he convinces you they’ll probably be fine.

“Well, in the meantime, would anyone like breakfast? I think I have some pancake mix around here somewhere,” you murmur absently, and this gets some heads to finally turn.

“Pancakes… would be nice,” Yelena offers with pursed lips and a shrug, trying to be inconspicuous as she obviously snoops through your things.

“Do you have eggs?” John voices tiredly. “I could really go for some scrambled eggs.”

“Eggs and pancakes… anything else?”

“I cannot have eggs without bacon,” Alexei notes thoughtfully only for Bucky to roll his eyes.

“You don’t have to cook all of that,” he tries to assure you only for you to shake your head in response.

“It’s really no problem, I’m just glad I went grocery shopping yesterday.”

You give Bucky a reassuring smile before disappearing into the kitchen, allowing him the chance to finally walk over and snatch the frame Yelena had been scrutinizing behind your back from her grasp.

“What are you doing?” He retorts in annoyance before setting it back down on the shelf. “We’re guests here, you can’t just touch all of her stuff.”

“She has a photo of my sister,” the blonde rebuffs defensively, “I have a right to touch it. Why does she have it?”

“Before she was my friend, she was Steve’s friend. He introduced her to Natasha, and they became friends too. Good friends.”

“Hmm,” she replies thoughtfully, finally easing up a bit as she takes in the information. “If Natasha considered her a friend, then I will too.”

“Yeah, I think she’s good on friends right now,” Bucky scoffs. Yelena raises a brow at his annoyance before a coy smile begins to form on her lips.

“Are you threatened by me, Barnes?” She prompts with a laugh, only doubling down when she notices the aggravated tick of his jaw. “Because it’s okay if you are, I understand. I mean, she is a beautiful woman, and I can see how much you love her-“

“Hold on a minute, what are you talking about?”

“Surely you cannot be this stupid,” Yelena affirms with a teasing smile that soon falls at Bucky’s flustered demeanor. “Or maybe you are.”

“I don’t love y/n,” Bucky says defensively, voice hushed to avoid any prying ears from listening to their conversation. “She’s just a good friend.”

“Well, if she’s just a good friend then you won’t mind if I go talk to her and tell her how much I love what she’s done with this place,” Yelena states plainly with a mischievous smile as she makes her way towards the kitchen only to be stopped by Bucky grabbing onto her arm.

“Don’t,” he warns with a scowl. From his spot on the couch, Alexei laughs.

“You are smart to stop her, Barnes,” he notes proudly, “my Yelena is quite the lady killer.”

“What’s the harm, Barnes? You obviously do not want to date this beautiful woman who has opened her home to us, so why can’t I?”

“If I admit I love her will you stop?” Bucky begs despite the clear aggravation in his tone. With her hands raised in surrender and lips pulled into a small frown, Yelena suspends her march towards the kitchen once Bucky finally relinquishes his hold on her arm. “Thank you.”

“Life is short, James. Do not let her sit and wait for you forever.”

Bucky lets out a long exhale through his nose at her words, and despite how much she annoys him, he knows she’s right. Bucky loves you and has always held a deep sense of admiration for the selfless woman who had taken him and Steve in without question despite the fact that it would get her into trouble with the government. You were one of the first to show him genuine kindness after spending years under Hydra’s thumb, and he’d never be able to forget that. You are his light in darkness, his saving grace, his confidant, and that’s why he’s so hesitant to fully bring you into his world by asking you to be his partner. Being friends keeps you at an arm’s length from the dangers of his life, but being the one he comes home to after a high stakes mission puts you in a whole new light to his enemies, and he’s not sure if he’s ready to put you through that just yet.

“Breakfast is on the table!” You call out from the kitchen, and Bucky watches with a wry grin as every person in the living room moves their aching bodies hastily into the dining room to get a chance at scoring some of your pancakes. You meet him shortly after and present him his own plate of pancakes, eggs and bacon to enjoy in peace away from the rest.

“You look like you have a lot on your mind so I figured you’d want to eat out here,” you explain with a careful smile before joining him on the couch. “You gonna be okay?”

“I don’t know if these guys are up for this,” he admits almost dejectedly, casting a glance towards the dining room where the Thunderbolts sit loudly bickering over the syrup bottle.

“Hey, as long as they have you there with them, I think they’ll be okay,” you comfort reassuringly, reaching forward to give his arm a tender squeeze.

“I really doubt that, but thanks,” Bucky responds with a weak chuckle, “you keep me sane.”

“It’s my speciality.”

A comfortable silence washes over you then as you meet each other’s tender gazes and enjoy the rare moment of peace shared between you both. Bucky longs to just pull you into his arms and hold you, but he resists and instead returns to enjoying his breakfast.

“We’ll be out of your hair as soon as they’re done eating,” Bucky reassures you only for you to give him an indifferent shrug.

“That’s fine, but can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Are you ever going to kiss me?” You prompt with an innocent smile, catching poor Bucky off guard as he momentarily chokes on his pancakes.

“What?” He splutters, fist thumping on his chest to help the food go down.

“I mean, maybe I’m reading it all wrong, but I feel like sometimes you look at me like you want to kiss me,” you explain simply, “and I wouldn’t mind if you did.”

“That obvious, huh?” He sighs with a bashful smile before setting his plate down on the coffee table.

“Yeah, well, that and also Yelena might have told me something on her way to the dining room,” you offer with an apologetic laugh.

“Oh, god, what did she say?”

“Something along the lines of if you never man up and decide to tell me how you feel that I should give her a call.”

“She’s a pain in my ass,” he grumbles irately, but his tone softens as he looks to you in remorse and continues, “but she’s right. You deserve to know how I feel about you.”

Smiling, you move closer to the super soldier so that you can curl into his side and rest your head upon his chest. His arms immediately come to wrap around your figure as he kisses the crown of your head, prompting you to let out a content sigh.

“We can figure out all the details when you get back from saving the world,” you assure him, “but just know that I love you, and I’ll be here waiting for you to come home.”

“Home,” Bucky sighs wistfully, already mourning your time together as he thinks about having to leave you behind. “I can promise you this- nothing is going to stop me from coming back to you.”

You look up to meet his tender gaze and are pleasantly surprised when he leans down to press a careful kiss to your lips. Your heart beats rapidly in your chest as you savor the moment you’ve been longing for ever since you met Bucky, and by the way he kisses you as if you are the air he needs to breathe, you think it’s safe to assume he feels the same.

His heart is yours, and as you tenderly embrace from the comfort of your couch, you can rest assured that to Bucky, home is where you are.

[you-have-a-metal-arm]

JAMES?

pairing : Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count : 1.2k

Warnings : Just general fluff

Summary : When you call Bucky “James”—a name no one else dares to use—he reveals to a stunned Steve and Sam.

Authors Note : Hey y’all i’m back!!! Enjoy this fic 🙈

You stood quietly in the doorway, arms crossed as you watched him. His hair was damp with sweat, clinging to his temples, and his jaw was set in that stubborn way it always was when he refused to admit he was hurting. You let out a soft sigh. You hated seeing him like this—so hard on himself, so weighed down by things he didn’t deserve to carry.

He didn’t notice you at first, too lost in his own storm. But you stepped forward, not hesitating for a second.

“James.”

Your voice cut through the room like a blade, soft yet sharp enough to reach him. The sound made him freeze mid-punch, his metal fist stopping inches from the bag. His head turned slowly, his stormy blue eyes locking onto yours. And in an instant, the tension in his shoulders melted. His gaze softened in a way that made your heart ache, because you knew—you knew—no one else ever got to see him like this.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice rough from exertion but laced with something warmer. Something vulnerable.

Steve, halfway through a set of sit-ups in the corner, dropped to the floor in disbelief. “Wait—what?”

Sam, leaning lazily against the wall with a water bottle in hand, nearly spit out his drink. “Hold the hell up,” he said, straightening. “Did she just call you James?”

Steve sat up fully now, wiping his forehead with his shirt and glaring at Bucky like he’d just witnessed a miracle. “She did. And—” his voice faltered as he pointed a finger at Bucky, “—you’re okay with it?”

Bucky glanced at Steve, then at Sam, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. But when he looked back at you, something in his expression shifted. He shrugged, completely unbothered. “Yeah. So?”

Sam’s jaw practically hit the floor. “So? You nearly ripped my arm off when I tried calling you that one time!”

Steve nodded furiously. “He’s not exaggerating. You said, and I quote, ‘Don’t ever call me that again unless you want to find out how fast I can break your jaw.’”

“Exactly!” Sam threw his hands up. “And now she just waltzes in here, says James like it’s nothing, and you’re—what? Cool with it?”

Bucky’s gaze hardened, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. “She’s not you.”

“Oh, no, we get that,” Sam said sarcastically. “But why the hell is she the exception?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. His hand flexed at his side—flesh and metal both—but his focus stayed on you, his eyes tracing the curve of your face as if grounding himself. Finally, he said, quietly but with conviction, “Because she’s mine.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Steve and Sam exchanged a look—a mixture of shock, disbelief, and maybe even a little amusement—but neither of them dared to speak.

You, however, raised an eyebrow, lips twitching as you fought back a smile. “Yours, huh?”

Bucky’s ears turned a faint shade of pink, but he didn’t back down. His gaze was steady, unwavering. “Yeah. Mine.”

“God,” Sam muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “This is so disgustingly soft, I think I’m gonna puke.”

“Agreed,” Steve said, though there was a small, knowing smile on his face as he stood up. “You two can have your… moment. We’ll leave.”

As the door closed behind them, you turned back to Bucky, who was already watching you like you were the only thing that mattered. His expression had softened completely now, the rough edges smoothed out into something raw, something real.

“James,” you said again, stepping closer, and you saw the way his shoulders relaxed, the way his lips parted slightly like he needed to hear it just one more time.

“Yeah?” he murmured, his voice quieter now.

“You’ve been at this for hours,” you said softly, reaching up to brush a strand of damp hair away from his face. “Come take a break.”

He hesitated, his eyes scanning your face like he was searching for something. “I just… I didn’t want to bother you. I needed to work it out.”

“James,” you said, firmer this time, and his breath hitched like the sound of his name from your lips alone was enough to shake him. “You don’t have to do this alone. Not anymore.”

His chest rose and fell with a deep breath, and his hand—metal and warm and steady—reached up to wrap around yours. He held it there, against his cheek, like he was afraid you might pull away. “It’s not just the name,” he said quietly, his voice barely audible. “When you say it… it’s different. It feels… good.”

Your heart swelled, and you gave him a small, reassuring smile. “That’s because I love you, James. All of you. Even the parts you don’t think are worth loving.”

His eyes closed briefly, and when he opened them again, they were glassy, like he was fighting to keep the emotions at bay. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Stop it,” you said gently, stepping closer until your foreheads touched. “You deserve everything. And I’m not going anywhere.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. He just held you there, close, his arms wrapping around your waist like you were the only thing anchoring him to the world. And maybe, in some ways, you were.

“Say it again,” he whispered, his voice cracking slightly.

“James,” you murmured, brushing your nose against his. “You’re safe with me. Always.”

A soft, broken laugh escaped him, and he pulled you closer, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “You’re all I’ve got,” he whispered, his voice muffled but full of emotion. “And you’re all I need.”

You held him there, running your fingers through his hair, and for the first time in a long time, he let himself just be. Vulnerable. Loved. Yours.

Thanks for reading 😁

[cowboybeepboop]

Rescue

"Please, p-please, I want you to make me feel good."

Pairing: Robert “Bob” Reynolds x f! Reader 

Genre: Smut

Word count: 3.8k

Warnings: Needy and whiny Bob, kind of a dom fem reader, oral m! recieving 

a/n: Sorry chat.. This is such a ramble, but I  LOVE BOB omg Lewis Pullman is on top!!! As always, send any requests you have my way! I will write for any fandom or character, but I would especially love some Lewis Pullman character requests 😛

Bob stood in the dimly lit room, a flickering fluorescent light casting eerie shadows across the sterile walls. His arms were shackled behind his back, held tightly in place by Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, a woman who radiated calculation and control.

He felt utterly isolated. No one was treating him with any kindness; he was merely an object to them, a tool to be used and discarded at their convenience. After his shift into Sentry and then the Void, she’s kept him locked up in this damn room. 

The room he was kept in was small and confined, barely large enough for him to move a few paces in any direction. The air was thick and stale, almost stifling. There was no comfort here, no human kindness. It was as if they wanted him to feel isolated and forgotten.

Bob looked around the room, his eyes darting from corner to corner. The only sound was the steady hum of the fluorescent light and the occasional clink of his shackles as he shifted his weight. He tried to take deep breaths, to keep his fear and anxiety at bay, but it was getting increasingly difficult.

While he could use his powers, he’s simply just too scared to bring out the void again. So instead, he spends his time pacing his tiny concrete room. The fluorescent light overhead flickered intermittently, casting strange shadows on the sterile walls. 

Every now and then, he would glance up to see if the light was about to go out completely. 

He was exhausted. 

Not just physically, but mentally as well. The constant fear and anxiety of being in this small space with no human contact was taking its toll on him. He could hear footsteps in the hallway outside, but no one came to visit him. 

They weren't even giving him any food.

After Valentina realized she couldn’t *use* him for what she wanted, she decided not to deal with him at all, assuming he would be too fearful to try and escape. Plus, if he did use his powers against her once again, she would just hit her kill switch. 

You'd been working with Bucky and the "Thunderbolts" to rescue Bob from Valentina's capture. This plan only works if everyone works together, which, for the most part, they've been doing pretty well, at least until you became involved. 

Creaking open the door, you hold your breath as you step into the small and dimly lit room, the sound of your footsteps on the cold concrete floor making the space feel even more claustrophobic. The room is barely illuminated by a single flickering fluorescent light above.

As you enter, you notice Bob pacing the length of the room, his arms shackled behind his back, looking exhausted and tense. He glances over at you, his eyes widening slightly as he realises that someone has entered.

"You're Bob?" Your voice is gentle while you creep over to him, eyes roaming over him, taking in his timid stance. 

Bob pauses in his pacing as you approach, his body tense and wary, but he nods slowly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Y-yes, I’m Bob,” he says softly. He studies you warily, his eyes darting to the knife between your teeth before returning to your face.

"I'm Y/N, I'm gonna get you out of here, alright?" You slip the knife into your pocket, skillfully you begin to pick the locks on his shackles, which are surprisingly weak for being meant to hold someone with his powers. 

Bob looks at you with a mix of surprise and relief, his eyes widening slightly as you begin to pick the locks on his shackles. "You're...you're here to help me?" he whispers, his voice cracking slightly.

He watches you with a sense of awe as you work on the locks, clearly impressed by your skill. The locks seem to come undone surprisingly easily, given the fact that they're meant to hold someone as powerful as him.

"Of course, I'm here to help you." You smile sweetly at him, brushing your fingers against his shoulder, offering some comfort, waiting for Bucky's all clear signal. 

Your touch seems to momentarily surprise him, and he flinches away from it, before realising that you’re trying to help him. He gives you a small, hesitant smile back, clearly not used to any kind of human contact in this place.

As you wait for Bucky's signal, the tension in the room continues to build. Bob glances around the room, his eyes darting to the door, clearly anxious to get out of here as soon as possible.

Bucky lets you know that it's time to move, you carefully pull out your knife again, preparing for any necessary defense. "Come with me, Bob, stay close and hold onto this just in case." You hand him the blade, pulling out a small gun as both of you move toward the exit. 

Bob takes the blade from you, holding it tightly in his hand. He follows you closely as you move towards the exit, his footsteps quiet behind you. He’s clearly on edge, glancing around the room as if waiting for someone to come bursting through the door.

The gun in your hand is a reassuring presence for him, and he sticks close to your side, keeping his eyes peeled for any sign of danger. As you reach the door, Bob places a hand on your shoulder, his touch surprisingly gentle. "You'll p-protect me, right?" he whispers.

"I'll keep you safe," you respond gently, using your free hand to pat his hand that's resting on your shoulder before moving forward. Putting your focus back on getting him out. 

Bob nods at your reassurance, his hand remaining on your shoulder for just a moment longer before pulling away. He takes a deep, shaky breath, trying to steel his nerves as you move forward, your focus now fixed on getting him out of this place.

Together, you move through the building, keeping an eye out for any guards or obstacles in your path. Bob keeps close by your side, gripping the knife tightly as he follows you, his eyes darting around nervously.

With Bob safely in the back of the vehicle, you let out a ragged sigh of relief. The adrenaline that had been rushing through your veins starts to wear off, and you suddenly feel the overwhelming tiredness of the rescue mission catch up to you.

As soon as the vehicle starts moving, you look over at Bob, who is now sitting next to you, still clutching the knife in his hand. He seems just as exhausted as you are, if not more, his eyes tired and weary.

Brushing your fingers over his hand, you gently pull the knife away from his grasp. "You're safe now, Bob, I promise." The team knew that Val wouldn’t come after them, not with their hold over her, so it would be an easy trip back. 

Bob doesn't resist as you take the knife from him, his grip loosening as soon as your touch. He looks up at you, his eyes weary and tired, but there's a glimmer of trust there now, a hint of vulnerability that he couldn't have shown before.

"Thank you," he whispers softly, his voice hoarse. "Thank you for getting me out of there."

"Of course," you grin at him, scooting closer to his side so he can rest against your shoulder. "You should rest, close your eyes."

Bob looks at you with a tired expression, seeming hesitant for a moment. But then, as if too tired to resist, he starts to lean into your shoulder, his head heavy against your body.

He lets out a weary sigh, his eyes fluttering shut as he begins to relax, finally feeling safe in your presence. "I...I haven't slept in days," he admits quietly, his words slurring slightly with exhaustion.

"You deserve some good rest, Bob." You run your fingers down his arm, attempting to lure him to sleep.

Bob's eyelids seem to grow heavier with every passing moment, his body sagging against yours as fatigue washes over him. With your gentle touch, he seems to relax further, his breathing beginning to even out as he drifts closer and closer to sleep.

He mumbles something, a single word that escapes his lips in a tired slur. "Safe," he whispers, his voice barely audible.

A few weeks have passed since you all successfully rescued Bob, and thankfully, Valentina never tried to take him back. You sigh as your training with The Winter Soldier ends in another defeat, lying against the exercise mat, you take a few steadying breaths.

Bucky stands above you, a smirk on his face as he regards your defeated form. He offers a hand to help you up from the mat, his grip firm as he pulls you to your feet.

"Not bad," he says, eyeing you up and down. "You're getting better." Despite your defeat, there's a hint of pride in his voice, as if he's impressed by your improvement.

You catch a glimpse of Bob outside the room, letting go of Buckys hand and ignoring his compliment, you practically skip over to him. "How are you doing this morning, Bob?"  

Bob looks up as you approach, a small, shy smile forming on his lips as he sees you. "M-morning," he manages, his voice soft and tentative. "I'm, uh, I'm alright," he says, running a hand through his messy blond hair. He glances down at the floor, then back up at you, his eyes meeting yours for a brief moment before darting away.

"Wanna grab breakfast with me?" you grin sweetly, stretching and cracking your back. 

Bob nods shyly, a slight flush on his cheeks as he watches you stretch, his eyes darting away quickly when he realises that he was staring. He shoves his hands into his pockets, looking every bit the shy, awkward, but sweet man you're beginning to learn he is.

"Uh, yeah, that sounds nice," he replies, barely managing to meet your gaze. He's clearly trying to hide his nervousness, but failing miserably.

"Here, let's grab something from the kitchen, and then we can watch a movie in my room!" You're giddy at the thought of spending more time with him, you’ve been doing everything you can to get him more comfortable with you. 

Bob nods eagerly, his eyes lighting up at your suggestion. "Yeah, that sounds great," he says softly, a small smile on his lips. He follows you eagerly as you lead him toward the kitchen, his footsteps light behind you.

"Movie in your room?" he asks, a hint of surprise in his voice. "J-just the two of us?"

"Yeah, why not?" You grab some cereal for both of you, focused on the small task at hand. 

"Uh, no reason," he says sheepishly, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks again. "I just, uh, didn’t expect it to be just the two of us." He fidgets nervously as he follows you back to your room, his hand occasionally clenching and unclenching at his side.

You open the door for him, gesturing for him to walk in. "Well, we can keep things purely PG," you tease as you shut the door behind you, which is more a less a goal of yours than anything else. 

You find him simply irresistible; his kind, sheepish demeanor gets you weak in the knees. The two of you have never been alone in a private space very long before, so this opens up the opportunity for more than just friendly interactions.

Bob's cheeks visibly redden at your playful comment, and he lets out a small, nervous chuckle as he steps into your room. He looks around, taking in the space with a sense of curiosity and wonder. It's clear that he's a bit out of his comfort zone.

"Purely PG," he repeats, his voice cracking slightly. He stands awkwardly in the middle of the room, waiting for you to lead the way.

"Come sit," you plop on the bed, patting the mattress beside you. "We can find something together," your heart races as you notice the flush of his cheeks. 

Bob hesitates for a moment before slowly walking over to the bed and sitting down next to you. He sits on the edge of the mattress, his body tense and stiff as if he's afraid to get too comfortable.

He glances at you, his cheeks flushed red, as he tries hard to avoid your gaze. "Uh, sure," he stutters, his eyes darting around the room. "What do you like to watch?" he fumbles with the sleeves of his shirt. 

"I like comedy, shit to take my mind off of... Well, all of this." You scoot closer to him, reaching over his lap for the remote on the other side of him. Your breasts slightly brushing over his thighs with your swift movements. 

Bob's eyes widen and his cheeks flush bright red at the unexpected contact, and he tries hard to keep his gaze averted.

He lets out a soft, strangled noise, something between a whimper and a gasp. There's a brief moment of tense silence as he tries to recover his composure, his body completely stiff under your touch.

"You can relax, y'know," you grin as you turn the TV on, enjoying his reaction to your subtle touches. "I don't bite, Bob."

Bob blushes even harder at your words, his body slowly starting to relax under your touch. He tries to laugh it off, though the sound comes out as more of a nervous cough. "I know, I know," he stutters, his eyes flickering over to you before darting away again.

You find a random movie, glancing over to him, you question, "Is this okay?" Bob nods, his body visibly relaxing a bit more as he hears your words. He risks a glance at you, a small, shy smile appearing on his lips.

"Yeah," he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "This is...yeah, this is fine." He shifts a little closer to you, his thigh now lightly brushing against yours, as he focuses on the movie playing on the screen.

Butterflies fill your stomach as you notice the small gesture he makes; it's nothing crazy, but it's the first time he's really initiated anything between you since the day you met.  

Bob seems to realise what he's done, and he quickly stiffens up again, his cheeks reddening once more. He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, his expression a mix of nervousness and shyness.

"Uh, sorry, I, uh...sorry," he mumbles, his gaze darting back to the screen. 

"Hey, it’s okay! Don't worry about it at all." You both begin eating your breakfast, your eyes wandering to him every once in a while to admire his adorable features. 

Bob seems to relax a bit more with your reassurance, his body slowly unclenching as he starts to eat his cereal. He notices you glancing at him, and every time you do, he can't help but feel his cheeks heat up again.

He steals glances at you as well, his gaze darting over to you every now and then, his eyes lingering on your face for just a moment before darting back to the screen. There's a growing sense of comfortable intimacy between you two.

With a sigh, you push the empty bowl to the side, content with the feeling of fullness, you lean back on your arms with a small yawn. Bob finished eating his cereal as well, placing his bowl beside yours. He glances at you as you lean back on your arms, a slight smile on his lips as he hears your yawn.

He looks more relaxed now than he did when you both first walked into the room, his body no longer as stiff as before. "You tired?" he asks softly, tilting his head slightly to the side as he looks at you.

"Yeah, Bucky kicked my ass in there," you groan, thinking back to the morning training. "He always does." 

Glancing over to him, your lips curve into a small smile as you move to rest your head in his lap. "Is this alright with you, Bob?" You’re making some sneaky moves, which you know you shouldn’t, but fuck, the way he looks at you has your body aching. 

Bob blushes furiously as you rest your head in his lap, his body stiffening for a moment before relaxing again. He tentatively places a hand on your shoulder, his touch light and gentle.

"Yeah," he mumbles, sounding a little breathless. "I… I don't mind." He seems surprised that you're being so close to him, but there's a hint of pleasure in his eyes as he looks down at you.

"You're so cute," you give him a slight teasing response, nuzzling into his warmth as you relax, eyes slowly fluttering shut.

Bob blushes even harder at your words, a soft, startled noise escaping his lips. He's not used to being called cute, and your teasing comment has thrown him off slightly.

He feels a pleasant shiver run through his body as you nuzzle into his warmth, and he unconsciously starts to stroke your shoulder gently with his hand. "Y-you're the one who's cute," he mumbles, his words coming out a little indistinct.

It was your turn to be flustered now, his response catching you off guard. "Yeah? You think so?" You bite down on your lip, fingers tracing small shapes into his thigh mindlessly. 

Bob seems to realise that he's made you flustered this time, and he can't help but feel a small sense of pride in it. He looks down at you, a small smile on his lips as he notices your fingers tracing shapes on his thigh. 

He subconsciously moves his hand from your shoulder to your hair, his touch light and tentative as he starts to run his fingers through it. "Yeah," he says softly, his eyes flickering away from yours briefly before returning. "I...I really do think so."

Bob's breath hitches slightly as he feels your hand moving further up his thigh, your nails grazing him, sending a wave of tingling through his body. He tries to keep his composure, his eyes darting away from you for a moment as he struggles to control his reaction.

"S-stop that," he mumbles, his voice shaky and uneven. "You're teasing me," he practically whines the last part.

"Teasing?" you question, knowing exactly what you're doing, fingers getting achingly close to his crotch. 

Bob lets out a soft whimper as your fingers get ever closer to his crotch, his eyes widening as he looks down at your hand. His cheeks are flushed red, and his words come out as strangled stutters, "You know you're teasing me."

His body is tense under your touch, every muscle coiled taut as he tries to control his reaction to your actions.

"Is it okay?" You shift slightly, lips pressing gentle kisses onto his clothed thighs. "Can I touch you, *tease* you like this?" your fingers continue their wandering, slowly inching closer and closer to his cock. 

Bob's breath hitches at the feel of your kisses on his thighs, his eyes fluttering shut as he tries to control the sensations coursing through him. His hands clench and unclench, and he can't help but whine softly under his breath.

He nods, his head tilting back just a bit, and his voice comes out as a strangled whisper, "Yes, yes, it's okay. You can, uh, you can touch me like that."

You fumble with the waistband of his sweat pants, slowly exposing his lower half, eager to taste him, to take care of him. "I wanna make you feel good, Bob..." Your lips continue their torment, but this time against bare skin. 

Bob's breathing becomes more ragged as you start to expose his lower half, his body quivering under your touch. He lets out a soft gasp, his eyes wide and fixed on you as you begin to lay kisses on his bare skin.

"Oh, God," he manages to groan out, his thighs trembling with anticipation. He wants you just as badly, his words coming out in a breathless, needy whisper, "Please, p-please, I want you to make me feel good."

You push Bob's boxers down, revealing his hardened cock. Your eyes rake over the length of him, admiring his size and girth before you lean in closer, letting your warm breath tickle his skin. 

Bob's entire body jolts at the sensation, his cock twitching in anticipation of what's to come.

You wrap your soft, warm lips around the tip of his erection, your tongue swirling around the head as you gently suck. Bob's hands instinctively grab onto the bed sheets, knuckles turning white with the effort it takes not to touch you. 

You can hear his muffled gasps of pleasure as you slowly take more of him into your mouth, your teeth lightly grazing the sensitive skin. Your hands come up to gently caress his thighs, the smoothness of your skin gliding against his. 

Increasing the pace, your tongue dances around his shaft as you take him deeper, your throat muscles tightening around him. You can feel him getting closer and closer to the edge with each stroke, his hips bucking slightly as he tries to keep still.

The wet sounds of your mouth working him fill the air, mingling with Bob's breathy moans. You're thorough in your ministrations, not wanting to leave any part of him untouched. 

Your hand wraps around the base of his cock, pumping in rhythm with your mouth, your other hand gently cupping and playing with his balls.

Bob's breathing becomes more erratic, his moans growing louder as you work him closer to climax. His thighs quiver under your touch, and you know he's close. You look up at him, eyes locked with his, the intimacy of the moment almost too much to handle.

With one final, deep suck, you feel his cock pulse in your mouth, and with a strangled cry, he releases, his warm seed filling your mouth. You swallow it all, not missing a drop, the taste of him lingering on your tongue as you pull away, giving his sensitive tip one last lick before sitting back with a satisfied smile. 

Bob's body goes lax, his eyes fluttering shut as he tries to catch his breath, a blissful expression etched onto his face.

The room is filled with the sound of his heavy breathing, and the sight of his spent cock against his stomach is incredibly satisfying. You lean up to kiss him, sharing the taste of him on your lips, and whisper, "I told you I'd take good care of you."

Bob's mind is completely overwhelmed by pleasure, his body trembling beneath your touch. He can barely form coherent thoughts, his whole world reduced to the sensations you're bringing him. Your name escapes his lips in a breathy moan, and he clings to the bed sheets tightly, trying to anchor himself to reality. 

When you finally pull away, he pants heavily, his body flushed and spent. He looks up at you, his expression one of pure bliss, and he can barely manage to speak, his voice rough and low as he whispers, "You're...you're incredible."

Here’s part 2 😛

[takenbypeter]

Baby’s First Steps

Bob Reynolds x reader

Words: 308

A/N: This could be a sequel to Hello Little One or it could be read on its own. But thank you for @horrormovielover2000 for the request!

“Bob! Bob!”

He heard your voice practically whisper-shout as he turned his attention towards you, an expression of concern etched on his face. 

“I was just resting my eyes for a second I swear,” is what he said, his eyes squeezing together, making sense of his surroundings before focusing on you. 

He noticed your eyeline and followed the gaze to where your daughter stood. 

One step. Then two. Then three. 

His eyes widened while the smile on your face did the same. 

“Is she…?” Bob asked, his question dying off as he stood beside you. 

“Yep.”

“Isn’t that…?”

“Yep.”

You two watched in amazement as your daughters little legs wobbled in carrying her body. 

You slapped Bob’s arm, “take a video.”

“What?” 

“Take a video,” you whispered, causing him to fumble for his phone. 

His eyes traveled from her to the phone as he suddenly forgot how to work the device. His hands fumbled instead, and he dropped it causing her to fall down. 

You two stared silently, “oops,” Bob said, his face wincing. You just glanced at the man with a small shake of your head while your lips were curved in the slightest, knowing she was bound to do it again. 

You picked up the phone quickly, handing it to the male, before you picked up your girl, holding her close. “Wow you did so good!” You cheered as she smiled at your words. 

“Sorry little girl,” Bob cooed at the babe in your arms. 

“It’s alright, she’ll do it again, but wasn’t that amazing?” You said turning to her again. 

“Amazing.”

You two babied the girl before you set her down again. 

And of course you were right, because just a few hours later she was up and on her feet again. 

This time both of you made sure to capture the utterly adorable moment.