#scott/sam

[hangon-silvergirl]

game changer (dropout.tv) + the onion; i've been here the WHOLE time

[audible301]

I keep seeing “8 hot women!” And “all the girlies” posts about this weeks Game Changer so here is your reminder that not everyone in that group is a woman.

In fact 25% of that group is not women.

Yes they’re all hot but lets not use that to invalidate Jiavani and Erika’s identities.

[koschei-the-ginger]

I think watching some random actor's entire filmography just because you fancy them is actually so important. It teaches you that even the most successful artists start somewhere. That they experience ups and downs and career ruts and often have to do very weird projects at some point just because their rent is due. And maybe you discover that you don't even like that guy all that much lol

[melorasmushrooms]

Angela Giarratana being a gremlin on Game Changer

[starrdream]

Anakin Skywalker x Padme's sister!reader summary: Anakin can't seem to control himself around Padme's younger sister includes: SMUT, praise, small age gap

Despite being Padme's bodyguard for years, Anakin couldn't bring himself to take his eyes away from you.

As if the Jedi code forbidding him from acting on his feelings towards you wasn't enough, the fact that you were Padme's sister and 4 years younger than him was the dealbreaker.

He was already 22 and you were barely 18. It made him feel guilty for thinking about you like that, especially when he was basically following your sister around half the time.

Padme was also very protective over you-always making sure you were okay, never letting you get in trouble, no leaving the house without bodyguards. She really wasn't taking any chances with you, even though she was usually in far more danger than you..

He'd never admit it but it made him so jealous.

He wanted to be the one to care about you like that. He wanted to be the one you'd kiss and hug every time you came to visit, not the one you'd acknowledge once in a blue moon.

It's not like the two of you never talked, you did..occasionally. Quick glances, shared laughter while you were with your sister and a rare smile when passing by.

But it wasn't enough for him. He wanted you and your attention completely and utterly to himself. The mere sight of you made his resolve weak.

He didn't know what he liked about you more. Your eyes? Your laugh, smile? The way you carried yourself? How smart you were? Was it the more reckless part of you?

Once, Padme insisted on sending Anakin to ensure your safety while you were out in the city. You claimed you'd 'hanging out with friends'..Poor Anakin had to watch and listen to you flirt with a boy for 2 whole hours.

It was the fact that he was nothing like the young boy that bothered Anakin. He was blonde with shorter hair and looked like he was about your age. Seemed like he wasn't a part of the Jedi order, considering the fact that he was publicly flirting with you..or the fact that he had any time to spare at all. Overall, Anakin and him were polar opposites.

He still wasn't over that even though 3 years passed since that day.

Though, he'd much rather watch you pining over a guy than not see you at all. The truth was, you hadn't come to Coruscant for a while. At least, not when he was there.

Because the war was slowly subsiding, Anakin's missions became longer-helping the galaxy recover from the damage it's people brought upon it.

Lucky for Anakin, Padme insisted you move to Curoscant to live with her. He, of course, had no knowledge of this-he was on a mission when Padme discussed this with you.

So now, not even 3 days after he returned from a mission-he was staring right at you as Padme cooed over you. He froze mid step, breath hitching and heart racing.

Anakin hadn't seen you in, what? 6-7 months, yet you looked so different. More mature, responsible..He wasn't sure if it was his mind playing tricks on him but to him, you looked like an actual angel.

You were so much beautiful than he remembered. Or maybe it was because he was starting to forget you which he silently cursed himself for as he walked over.

Anakin’s boots echoed in the hallway as he made his way closer, his mind a whirlwind of emotions he didn’t want to face. The light around you seemed to shimmer differently now. There you were, sitting next to Padmé, laughing softly as her sister lovingly fussed over you, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

But it was the way you held yourself—like you didn’t need anyone—that got to him the most.

The pull toward you was undeniable, raw. He’d tried to ignore it before. He’d convinced himself that it was just the stress of the war. That it was just the loneliness. But now? Standing here, seeing you like this, he couldn’t deny it anymore

"Anakin." You greeted, your voice warm but with an edge of something more. It made him pause.

"Hello m'lady." He said, his voice sounding a little too hoarse, a little too soft. He tried to force a smile, but it felt like it cracked before it fully formed. "I just got back."

Padmé looked up from you, a smile forming on her lips. "Anakin, it’s good to see you. I wasn’t expecting you up so soon."

"I uh...wasn't really tired last night" He shakes his head, standing behind Padme with his arms crossed.

"Well, let me go find something for us to eat and drink, yeah?" Padme smiled at you expectantly.

"Sure." You chuckle out a sigh.

As soon as she's out the door, you can't help it.

"Ani? My goodness you've grown" You chuckle, leaning your face on the palm of your hand.

"So have you... grown more beautiful, I mean...for a Senator, I mean."

Anakin tries to keep his cool by throwing you a sheepish smile, but in reality-he's mentally facepalming for his nervousness and stupid choice of words.

You chuckle, shaking your head as Padme comes back. She's holding a tray with 3 cups, a teapot and some cookies.

Adapting to seeing you around all the time was agonizing for Anakin. Not a second passes by without Anakin thinking about you. It seems like you are embedded in his soul.

He'll never get used to you smiling and greeting him every time you walked by. Nor eating meals together. Nor catching you staring at him, seemingly zoned out.

It was late, maybe 2 AM. The whole apartment was quiet, the only sound the hum of appliances and the occasional ship passing by.

He had spent too many nights like this-sitting on the couch, staring at the view before him, unable to turn off his thoughts. It was getting ridiculous, really. He was a Jedi. He was trained to control his emotions, to let go of attachments.

"What the-" His head snapped towards the source of the sound. It seemed to be coming from your room.

An intruder? No—he would’ve felt a disturbance in the Force.

Anakin was on his feet before he could think, instincts kicking in as he rushed toward your door. His heart pounded in his chest as he reached for the handle, only hesitating for a fraction of a second before pushing it open.

"M'lady?!" He called out as soon as the door opened. Anakin stepped into the room just in time to see a shadow slipping toward the window. His jaw clenched.

"Where do you think you’re going?"

You froze.

Slowly, very slowly, you turned around, caught like a thief in the night. Your eyes were wide, lips slightly parted, as if you were scrambling for an excuse.

Anakin crossed his arms, leaning against the wall with an unimpressed look. "Well?"

You exhaled through your nose, muttering something under your breath before forcing a smile. "Anakin! What a surprise. I was just-uh. getting some fresh air."

"At two in the morning?”" He arched his scarred eyebrow.

You cleared your throat, straightening up and taking a few steps away from the window. "Best time for it."

He huffed out a dry laugh, stepping closer. "Try again."

You shifted on your feet, eyes darting toward the door, then back to him. "It’s not a big deal."

"If it wasn’t a big deal, you wouldn’t be sneaking."

That shut you up.

"I wasn’t going far," you argued. "Just—meeting my friends."

Anakin sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You do realize that Coruscant isn’t exactly safe at this hour, right?"

"Oh, please," you scoffed. "It’s not like I’m wandering into the lower levels. We’re just going Nothing’s going to happen."

"That’s not the point." His jaw clenched. "You shouldn’t be sneaking around in the first place."

You rolled your eyes. "I’m not a child, Anakin. I don’t need a lecture."

"No," he agreed, stepping even closer. "But you do need to stop making my life harder."

"What?" You scoffed, arms crossing over your chest.

He sighed, dragging a hand down his face before looking at you again, frustration laced with something deeper. "Do you have any idea what it’s like to worry about you all the time?"

You stared at him, caught off guard. "Anakin, I'm not 12, I'll be fine."

Anakin exhaled sharply, his patience hanging by a thread. "Either you stay, or I’m coming with you."

"You don’t get to make that decision for me, Anakin."

"Someone has to," he shot back, voice rough with frustration. "Because clearly, you don’t care how reckless you’re being."

You scoffed. "I’m not reckless. You're just like Padme. I don’t need you hovering over me like some overprotective-"

"Maker, do you even hear yourself?" He took a step closer, whisper-shouting now in order to not wake up your sister. The intensity in his eyes making your breath hitch. "I can’t just let you walk out of here because it would kill me if something happened to you."

The words hung in the air, heavy and unshakable.

"Anakin-"

"No." He shook his head, stepping even closer, until he was barely a breath away. "I can’t do this anymore. I can’t act like it doesn’t tear me apart every time you walk away. And I sure as hell can’t sit here and let you slip through my fingers again."

The air between you was electric, charged with something you’d both been avoiding for far too long.

You swallowed hard, your voice barely a whisper. "Then don’t."

Anakin froze. His breathing was uneven, his hands trembling at his sides.

And then-his lips were on yours.

It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t hesitant. It was desperate, messy, like he had been holding himself back for far too long and had finally snapped.

You gasped against him, but any protest died the second his hands cupped your face, pulling you deeper into him. His lips moved against yours like he was afraid you’d disappear, like he needed to memorize the way you felt.

Stars, you were drowning in him. In the way he kissed you, in the way his breath hitched when your fingers curled into his tunic.

He kissed just like he fought-passionate, relentless, as if the very idea of stopping was unbearable. His fingers curled into your hair, deepening the kiss, stealing every breath from your lungs.

A low groan rumbled in his chest when you let out a soft whimper, and suddenly, you found yourself backed against the wall, his body caging you in.

His thumb brushed over your jaw as he pulled away, gaze flickering between your eyes and your mouth. "Tell me to stop," he rasped. "Tell me, and I will." He mumbled, face barely an inch from yours.

You didn’t even think twice before your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer. Every part of you felt alive, a rush of heat and electricity coursing through your veins.

His lips left yours briefly, both of you gasping for air, but he didn’t give you a chance to fully process what was happening. His mouth was on your neck now, pressing soft, heated kisses against your skin, sending shivers down your spine.

"Anakin..." Your breathless voice cracked as your fingers dug into his shoulders, pulling him even closer.

He groaned your name, his lips trailing upward to your ear. "I’ve wanted this for so long," he muttered between kisses, his voice raw. "I can’t stop thinking about you. It’s... it’s all I ever do."

You closed your eyes, overwhelmed by the sensation of his words and his touch. Everything in you wanted this-wanted him. It was all too much, and yet, you couldn’t pull away.

You felt his breath hot against your skin as he pulled back, his chest heaving. "Tell me you want this too," he said, voice thick with desire. "Please, just say it. I need to know you want this."

You looked up at him, eyes clouded with the same urgency, the same need. "I want this," you breathed out, unable to hide the truth any longer. "I want you."

"Please…" He whispered your name like a prayer, his hands moving to the small of your back, urging you closer. He pushed you back on the bed, crawling over you.

You welcome him with open arms, wrapping one around his neck while the other one runs over his back and arm. His arm is steadily holding you up by the waist, caressing and squeezing your skin while the mechanic one is holding his weight up.

"Ani" You whimper as his hips involuntarily grind against you, rubbing his thick length against your thigh.

"I'm sorry m'lady" He teases, lips latching onto your jaw and neck. "You ever done this before?" He mutters against your skin as he trails kisses down your neck.

"Yeah.." You mumble sheepishly, although you do your best to hide it. For some reason, that felt worse than saying you weren't. You couldn't tell why.

He hums, nipping at a sensitive spot on your neck before he pulls back slightly, slipping his Jedi robe off and letting it fall to the ground.

"I couldn't wait to get my hands on you.." Anakin brushes his nose against your neck as his hands trail from your thighs up to your waist, slipping under your shirt and taking it off.

You waste no time in tugging on the remaining clothes he has, which he complies with immediately-pushing his pants down as you fumble with the buttons of his shirt.

Withing seconds, both of you are naked and his tip is teasing your entrance as he adjusts himself. "Tell me to stop if it gets too much, okay?" He whispers.

"As if.." You chuckle, swallowing thickly as he parts your legs with his knee, accidentally brushing against your wetness.

He shakes his head in amusement before bottoming out, drawing a loud gasp from you.

"Shh...can't have none of that when your sister's sleeping in the next room.." He warns you

"R-right.." Your voice weavers.

"Good, good.." He nods tauntingly before starting to move again. His hips snap against yours in a firm pace, filling the sound with various but muffled noises.

Your hands run up and down his back and arms, grounding yourself against the almost punishing sensations. To refrain from making noise, you bit down on your lip. Hard. To the point where you could swear it was bleeding.

Still, soft and desperate noises managed to make their way to Anakin's ears and gosh, he was enjoying them, but no way is he gonna let himself be caught before he destroys your pussy thoroughly at least once.

"I told you to shut up." He mutters breathlessly, hand coming up to cover your mouth.

That, mixed with his precise thrusts makes you moan into his hand, and arch up, taking him deeper. His tip had no problem in kissing your cervix repeatedly..

"Damnit.." He huffs "No wonder half the Senators trip over themselves for you."

Your eyes roll back, fingers digging into his skin desperately as your body recoils against the bed with the force of his thrusts. Anakin's eyes keep wandering over your half covered face and body-taking in the way your tits bounce.

"Anakin-oh, Maker" You breathe out, tightening around him as if to pull him deeper and further into you.

"Too loud.." He shakes his head, smashing his lips against yours in a sloppy kiss. It's messy and desperate, as if he never kissed anyone in his life. His tongue delves in your mouth, lapping over yours hungrily.

"Mhm, that's right." He encourages "I've got you."

His voice alone sent shivers down your spine. Heat started pooling in your lower belly, the familiar sensation making you more aroused and excited.

Your hand grips the sheets, back arching further into him as you cum. Your walls are basically suffocating his length and boy, does it feel good.

Your breathing is labored and you're babbling nonsense quietly as Anakin ruts his hips into yours repeatedly, groaning above you. His breath fans your neck and jaw, making you feel even hotter and vulnerable.

"Fuu-where do you want me?" He prompts, voice strained. "Hm, pretty girl?"

"Mmmh.." You whine "Anywhere you want..I don't care I just need you."

"Correct." He teases, giving a few rough thrusts before spilling inside of you with a soft whimper of pleasure, painting your insides white.

[poisonheartfrog]

Happy Pride

[quicksilverlightning]

They forgot the only consistent rule of Game Changer - Sam is always the enemy.

[urdreamydoodles]

Hi hi!! Hope your day’s going well!!

I adore the krakoa headcanons you have for the x-men, how willing would you be to do something similar for mcu characters?? Idk if there’s an equivalent though, if not it’s no problem ❤️

MCU CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

A year after your death, you are resurrected and reunited with your lover

Characters: Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Bruce Banner, Clint Barton, Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson, Peter Parker (Tom H.), Stephen Strange, Thor Odinson, Loki Laufeyson, T'Challa, Marc Spector, Steven Grant, Jake Lockley, Scott Lang, Wade Wilson, Logan Howlett, Matt Murdock, Frank Castle, Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff & Erik Lehnsherr

Requests are reopened since I'm going to have surgery for my scoliosis...yes, it's bad news, it's a major operation, so I need your requests to feel better. PLEASE SEND ME REQUEST. I don't have surgery for another four months so I have plenty of time since I'm at home! I can't wait to see all your ideas, I LOVE YOU <3

Tony Stark

- Tony Stark, the man who could build a new world with his hands but could not stop them from shaking when they lost you. He spent a year in ruins, laughing too loudly at parties that could not fill the silence you left behind, drowning in half-finished projects where your ghost lingered in the curve of every wire. He never stopped talking about you—not to his friends, not to himself, not to the night. You were the equation he could not solve, the loss he could not engineer his way out of.

- When he sees you again, standing in the flickering light of his workshop, the wrench in his hand slips, clattering to the floor. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. His mind, sharp as ever, gives him ten different explanations, each more impossible than the last, but his heart—his battered, grieving heart—gives him only one. “Tell me I’m dreaming,” he says, voice hoarse, because the alternative is something he cannot afford to believe.

- And then you speak, and the walls he built to keep himself from shattering crumble in an instant. He is across the room before he knows it, hands gripping your arms, your face, tracing the proof of you. The ache in his chest is unbearable, but not from pain—it is the sheer weight of having you again. “They told me I was crazy,” he murmurs against your lips, against your skin. “Guess they were right.”

- You are back, but time has moved without you, carving deeper lines into Tony’s face, dulling the arrogance that once carried him like armor. He watches you like you might disappear again, fingers always brushing your wrist, your hip, the pulse at your throat. He doesn’t sleep much—he never did—but now, when you wake in the night, he is already awake, watching the rise and fall of your breath as if it is the only thing tethering him to reality.

- He brings you everywhere, makes no excuses for it. “My ghost, my rules,” he says when someone questions it. He builds new suits and doesn’t let you out of his sight, not when danger is near, not when a single misstep could take you away again. He has never been a man who believed in second chances, but for you, he will believe in anything.

- The world thinks he is Iron Man, but you know the truth: Tony Stark is just a man who loved and lost and refused to let death win. He holds you like a miracle, like proof that he was right to fight for the impossible. And for the first time in a long time, he is not afraid.

Steve Rogers

- Steve Rogers has always known loss—has carried it like a second skin, worn it like a name he could never leave behind. But losing you was different. It was not the cold silence of the ice, nor the distant ache of time slipping through his fingers. It was immediate, brutal. It was your blood on his hands, your last breath against his cheek. A year passed, and he carried on because that was what he did, because that was what you would have wanted. But he stopped looking at sunsets. Stopped drinking coffee the way you used to make it. Stopped believing that the world could ever feel warm again.

- When he sees you again, standing in the doorway of the safe house, the shield strapped to his back feels heavier than ever. His breath catches, his heart stumbles, and for a moment, he wonders if this is some cruel trick played by an enemy who knows exactly where to cut him open. But then your lips part, and you say his name, and the sound of it is like the first breath after drowning.

- He moves toward you slowly, hesitantly, as if one wrong step will shatter the illusion. His hands hover over your face, your shoulders, trembling with the unbearable need to touch, to feel, to know. And when you don’t disappear, when you are warm and real beneath his fingers, something inside him breaks. His arms crush you to him, his breath shaking as he buries his face in your hair. He is crying, but he doesn’t care. “I held you,” he whispers. “I held you.”

- After that, he does not let you go. The world calls him Captain America, but to you, he is just Steve—the man who wakes up in the middle of the night just to press his forehead against yours, the man whose grip tightens every time you reach for his hand, as if to reassure himself that you are not a dream. He does not know how to make peace with this miracle, so he does not try. He simply loves you harder, holds you closer, refuses to waste a second of the time he was so cruelly robbed of.

- He is more protective now, but it is not the suffocating kind. It is the quiet, steadfast kind, the way he always positions himself between you and an open door, the way he memorizes the sound of your breathing while you sleep. He does not speak of the past year unless you ask, but when you do, the grief in his eyes is something ancient, something that will never fully fade.

- Steve Rogers has always carried the weight of the world, but with you beside him, it is lighter. You are proof that even after all the battles, all the sacrifices, the universe still has kindness left to give. And he will spend the rest of his life earning it.

Natasha Romanoff

- Natasha Romanoff has survived on borrowed time for as long as she can remember. She has lost, she has bled, she has walked away from battlefields without looking back. But losing you was different. It was the one wound that did not heal, the one loss she could not turn into fuel. She did not cry. Did not speak of you. She simply moved forward, faster, harder, with reckless abandon—because if she slowed down, even for a second, she would have to feel the hollow space you left behind.

- When she sees you again, standing in the shadows of a dimly lit alley, her knife is in her hand before she even registers what she is seeing. Her body reacts the way it was trained to, but her heart—her traitorous, fragile heart—stutters in her chest. “No,” she breathes, shaking her head as if denying it will make it any less real. “No, I buried you.”

- And then you step closer, into the light, and she sees the familiar curve of your smile, the warmth in your eyes. She drops the knife. It clatters against the pavement, forgotten, as she crosses the space between you in two strides, her hands fisting in the fabric of your jacket. Her lips crash against yours, desperate, searching, as if she can taste the truth in the way you breathe against her mouth.

- After that, she is different. Softer, in ways only you will ever see. She touches you constantly—not in fear, but in reverence. A hand at the small of your back, fingers trailing over your wrist, knuckles brushing against yours as if reminding herself that you are here. The world may question, but Natasha has never cared for the world's judgment. You are hers, and she is yours, and that is all that matters.

- She does not let you fight alone anymore. Not because she doubts your strength, but because she refuses to feel that kind of loss again. She watches you when you sleep, when you move through a room, when you laugh. She memorizes the details she once took for granted—the exact color of your eyes in the morning light, the rhythm of your voice when you call her name.

- Natasha Romanoff has spent a lifetime making peace with ghosts, but you are not one. You are flesh and blood, a heartbeat beneath her palm, a warmth she never thought she would feel again. And this time, she will not let you go.

Bruce Banner

- Grief is not an emotion Bruce Banner can afford. He has spent a lifetime suppressing, locking away the parts of himself that feel too deeply, because feeling too much is dangerous, and losing you nearly ended the world. The Hulk roared in agony that day, the earth itself trembling beneath his wrath, but even in his most furious state, even as he destroyed everything in his path, you were gone. And no amount of strength, no amount of science, could bring you back.

- He stopped fighting after that. Retreated. Isolated himself in a place where no one could see the way his hands trembled when they weren’t balled into fists, where no one could hear him whisper your name like a prayer, a question, a plea. He stopped shifting into the Hulk—not because he was afraid, but because the monster within him had nothing left to fight for. There was only silence, only the ghost of your touch, only the unbearable weight of having lived when you did not.

- So when you return, standing before him in the quiet of his lab, he does not react at first. His mind, trained to doubt, to question, to disassemble and understand, tells him it cannot be real. That the chemicals in his brain are firing incorrectly, that his grief has finally shattered him in a way no transformation ever could. But then you say his name, and it is not just sound—it is gravity, it is a force pulling him from the abyss.

- He crosses the room in a single breath, hands hovering over your face, your shoulders, your waist, unable to trust his own touch. He is afraid to break you, afraid to break himself. And then your fingers slip into his, grounding him, reminding him that this is not a hallucination, not a cruel trick of his subconscious. You are warm, real, here. And just like that, the weight he has carried for a year crumbles to dust.

- After that, he does not leave your side. He watches you sleep, not because he doubts, but because he cannot waste another second of the time he was so certain he had lost. He builds new defenses, new protections, because if death could not keep you, then neither will any enemy foolish enough to try. He teaches himself to trust happiness again, to allow himself to feel, because with you beside him, it is no longer a danger—it is a gift.

- Bruce Banner has always been afraid of his own power, but with you, he is not afraid. He is a man, not just a monster, and for the first time in a long time, he believes in the possibility of a future. A future where he is not alone. A future where he is not running. A future where you, against all odds, are still his.

Clint Barton

- Clint Barton has never been one to dwell. The life he leads does not allow for it—grief is a luxury, mourning a weakness, and the only way to survive is to keep moving. But when he held you in his arms, felt the last shudder of breath against his skin, something inside him shattered. And he did not put the pieces back together. He let them fall, let them burn, let the silence swallow him whole.

- The others saw him continue—heard his sharp wit, watched him loose arrows with deadly precision, saw the same easy smirk that had always been there. But they did not see the empty spaces where you used to be. Did not see the way he avoided the places you had loved, the way he drank in solitude, the way his hands curled into fists whenever someone mentioned your name.

- So when you return—when you step into the dim light of his hideout, when your voice cuts through the silence he has lived in for a year—he does not believe it. He grips the bow at his side, tension in every muscle, because this is a trick, a trap, an illusion designed to destroy him completely. But then you move closer, and the way you look at him—the way only you ever have—makes the doubt in his mind fracture.

- And then he is there, hands gripping your waist, your arms, his forehead pressed to yours as he exhales a breath he did not know he had been holding. He does not ask how, does not ask why. He only pulls you closer, lets himself collapse into the only thing that has ever truly felt like home. His fingers are tight against your skin, unwilling to let go, unwilling to lose you a second time.

- After that, he is different. Lighter, in ways only you will notice. He is still Clint—still sharp, still reckless, still throwing himself into danger without hesitation—but there is a warmth now, a flicker of something that had long been extinguished. He touches you constantly—not in fear, but in reassurance. His hand on the small of your back, his fingers brushing against yours, a quiet, wordless promise that he will not take a second of this for granted.

- Clint Barton has always been a survivor, but he did not truly live until you returned. And now, with you beside him, he has no intention of losing that again. He is yours, wholly and completely, and this time, no force in the universe will take you from him.

Bucky Barnes

- Bucky Barnes knows the taste of loss better than most. He has drowned in it, clawed his way through decades of it, watched everyone he has ever loved slip through his fingers like sand. But losing you was different. Losing you was not the slow, creeping erosion of time. It was a blade to the gut, a wound that never closed, an ache that settled deep in his bones and refused to let go.

- He did not grieve the way others did. He did not cry, did not rage, did not seek solace in memories. He simply stopped. Stopped talking, stopped trying, stopped allowing himself to feel anything at all. Because feeling meant acknowledging the gaping wound your absence had left behind, and that was not something he could survive.

- So when he sees you again, standing in the doorway of his apartment, he does not move. Does not breathe. His mind—trained to expect deception, to anticipate betrayal—tells him this is a trick. But then you step forward, and the way your eyes soften when they meet his, the way your lips part in a quiet whisper of his name, makes the world tilt beneath his feet.

- And then he is there, crossing the space between you with the kind of desperation that only comes from losing something you thought was gone forever. His hands tremble as they frame your face, his breath shuddering as he drinks in the impossible reality of you. He does not trust words, does not trust his voice to hold steady, so he simply presses his forehead to yours, breathing you in, grounding himself in the proof of your existence.

- After that, he does not let you go. He does not speak of the past year, does not tell you how empty it was, how he spent every night staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep that never came. He only shows you in the way he touches you, in the way he holds you closer at night, in the way his fingers linger on yours as if afraid you might vanish again.

- Bucky Barnes has spent a lifetime being taken, being controlled, being used. But you are the one thing that was his, the one thing that was real, and now that you are here, he will fight for you with everything he has. You are his salvation, his anchor, his second chance at something he never thought he deserved. And this time, he is never letting go.

Sam Wilson

- Grief is a weight Sam Wilson carries well, but carrying it does not mean it is light. It sits in his chest, heavy and unmoving, an ache that never quite fades. Losing you was not a clean wound—it was jagged, raw, a battlefield farewell written in blood and breathless whispers. He held you, watched the life slip from your eyes, and still, somehow, he had to stand up. He had to keep fighting. Because that’s what you would have done. That’s what you would want.

- But wanting and doing are not the same thing. He laughed in public, told stories that made others grin, carried himself with the same easy confidence. But alone? Alone, it was different. He spoke to you sometimes when the night was too quiet, when the wind sounded too much like your voice. He ran until his lungs burned, trying to chase the memory of you, knowing he never really could.

- So when you stand before him, alive, breathing, real, the world does not feel like the one he left behind. His first instinct is denial—a trick, an illusion, a cruel joke played by something with too much power and not enough mercy. But you look at him, and there’s something there, something he recognizes too well. Love. History. You. And suddenly, the weight in his chest is gone.

- He moves before he can think. One step, then two, then his arms are around you, his head buried in your shoulder, a shuddering breath breaking from his lips. His grip is tight—too tight, maybe—but he doesn’t care. He needs to feel you, needs to know this isn’t a dream he’ll wake from. He says your name like it’s the only word he remembers, his voice thick with everything he couldn’t say when you were gone.

- After that, Sam is different. Lighter, freer. He still fights, still leads, still carries the burdens of the world on his back—but he does it with you at his side, and that changes everything. He touches you constantly, a hand on your back, fingers brushing against yours, small, quiet reassurances that you are here, that he did not imagine this.

- Sam Wilson has lost many things. He has seen friends fall, watched the world tear itself apart. But this? This is something he never thought he’d get back. And now that he has you, he swears to himself—he’s not losing you again. Not now. Not ever.

Peter Parker (Tom Holland)

- Peter Parker does not know how to exist in a world where you do not. The pain is not sharp, not a clean wound he can stitch together with time. It is suffocating. Slow. A weight pressing down on him, stealing the air from his lungs, making every step feel heavier than the last. He was holding you, talking to you, and then you were just… gone. And nothing he did, no amount of strength, no web-slinging through the city, no late-night patrols could change that.

- He keeps going. He has to. That’s what Spider-Man does. That’s what you would have wanted. But some nights, when he is alone, when the mask is off and the world is quiet, he feels like a boy again—small, lost, powerless. He whispers apologies into the dark, tracing the memory of your touch, trying to pretend he still remembers exactly what your voice sounded like. Because he’s terrified he’s forgetting.

- And then, one day, you are there. Standing in the shadow of a flickering streetlamp, watching him with the same eyes he never thought he’d see again. At first, he doesn’t move. He can’t. His brain refuses to process it, refuses to accept this impossible, beautiful reality. And then you smile—small, hesitant, you—and he breaks.

- He crashes into you, arms wrapping around you so tightly it almost hurts. His breath stutters, hands shaking as they press against your skin, your hair, anything that proves you are real. “You—” His voice cracks. “You died.” And it’s not an accusation. It’s a question, a plea, a broken whisper of disbelief. But you are warm, solid, here, and he holds onto that with everything he has.

- After that, Peter is clingy. He doesn’t mean to be, but he is. His fingers find yours without thinking, his arm curls around your waist at every opportunity, his webbing pulls you to him when you step too far away. He is afraid—afraid this is temporary, afraid that one day he’ll wake up and you’ll be gone again. But he also smiles more, laughs louder, lives in a way he hasn’t since he lost you.

- Peter Parker has lost so much. But this? This is a miracle. And Peter—Peter is going to make sure he cherishes every single second of it. Because this time, he has you. And that? That is everything.

Stephen Strange

- Stephen Strange is no stranger to loss. He has lived through pain, through heartbreak, through the destruction of things he once believed unshakable. But losing you—that was something else entirely. That was not just loss. That was devastation. It was the kind of pain that settled into his bones, that made the world feel quieter, colder, less.

- He did not weep. Did not rage. Did not crumble beneath the weight of it. Instead, he buried himself in his work, in his magic, in the relentless pursuit of something—anything—that could fill the void you left behind. He scoured the multiverse, searching for answers, but found only silence. Death, it seemed, was absolute. Even for you.

- So when you stand before him, alive, whole, untouched by the grave, he does not react at first. His hands twitch at his sides, eyes sharp, mind racing through a thousand possibilities, a thousand explanations. This must be a trick, a deception, some cruel game played by forces beyond his understanding. But then you speak his name, and the way you say it—the way only you say it—breaks him.

- He crosses the room in three steps, hands cupping your face, searching for any sign of illusion. But there is none. There is only warmth, only life, only you. His breath stutters, his fingers tighten, and for the first time in a long, long time, Stephen Strange allows himself to feel. His lips crash against yours, desperate, searching, as if trying to convince himself that this moment is not slipping through his fingers.

- After that, he is possessive. Not in a way that is suffocating, but in a way that is unmistakable. His cloak wraps around you when you are cold, his hands find yours beneath temple robes, his magic lingers in the air around you like a silent guardian. He does not say it—not outright, not often—but you know. You have always known. He cannot lose you again. He will not.

- Stephen Strange has faced the impossible, has bent time and reality to his will. But this? This is the greatest miracle of all. And he, a man who once scoffed at faith, finds himself believing in something again. Because if the universe had any mercy, any kindness at all, it would let him keep you. And this time, he will fight for that with everything he has.

Thor Odinson

- Grief and gods have never mixed well. Mortals mourn with time, with rituals, with whispered prayers to the sky. But Thor? Thor does not know how to grieve in a way that does not tear the world apart. He held you as you died, cradled you against his chest, his hands helpless against the tide of fate. The sky wept with him that day—thunder cracking, the heavens splitting open in rage, the storm inside him unfurling with no battle left to fight.

- He left Earth after that. It was too loud, too full of life, too painfully real in your absence. He searched for answers in the stars, in old myths and forgotten magic, in the whispered promises of gods who had lost more than he had. But the truth was simple: not even the might of Thor, not even the power of Asgard, could bring back the one thing he truly wanted. So he drank, and he fought, and he laughed too loudly to hide the fact that he was breaking.

- And then, one day, he turns, and you are there. Standing in the golden light of the Bifrost, impossibly, beautifully alive. His breath catches in his throat, Mjolnir slipping from his fingers, his entire body frozen between disbelief and desperate hope. “This is a trick,” he says, but his voice is hoarse, unsteady, as if saying the words out loud might make them false. But then you smile, and he is undone.

- He crosses the space between you in an instant, crushing you against him with a force that nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. His hands tangle in your hair, his forehead pressing against yours, and his chest heaves with something between laughter and a sob. “You have returned to me,” he whispers, reverence in every syllable. And then he is kissing you, fierce and unrelenting, as if proving to himself that this is not some cruel jest of fate.

- After that, Thor does not let you go. Not truly. His arm is always around your waist, his hand always at the small of your back, his eyes watching you as if you might disappear the moment he looks away. He tells you, constantly, in grand declarations and quiet murmurs, how much he loves you, how he will never lose you again. You are his greatest treasure, more precious than any throne, any kingdom, any power the cosmos could offer.

- The God of Thunder has lost much—his home, his family, pieces of himself that may never fully return. But you—you are here, in his arms, alive once more. And Thor, a warrior who has fought countless battles, swears that he will fight against gods and monsters alike to keep you at his side.

Loki Laufeyson

- Loki knows loss better than he knows himself. He has lost love, trust, family. But losing you—that was different. That was a wound he could not charm away with silver-tongued words, a pain he could not outwit or outmaneuver. You died in his arms, your fingers curling weakly around his wrist as the light in your eyes faded. And for the first time in his life, Loki Laufeyson was powerless.

- He did not rage. He did not scream. Instead, he withdrew, wrapping himself in silence and solitude, retreating into the shadows where grief could not be seen. The world continued without you, and he played his part well—smirking, deceiving, spinning tales as if he were not hollow inside. But in the quiet moments, when no one was looking, he traced the ghost of your touch on his skin and whispered your name like a prayer.

- So when he sees you again, standing before him in the flickering candlelight of some forgotten sanctuary, he does not react—not at first. His body stills, his breath catches, and his mind races through every possibility, every cruel illusion that could explain this. But then you speak his name, soft and familiar, and something in him shatters.

- He reaches for you hesitantly, his fingers brushing over your cheek as if expecting you to dissolve beneath his touch. And when you do not—when you are warm, and real, and here—a sharp breath leaves his lips, and he pulls you against him with all the desperation of a man drowning. His grip is tight, unyielding, as if trying to convince himself that you will not be stolen from him again.

- After that, Loki is different. Not softer, not weaker—if anything, he is more dangerous, more cunning, more willing to do anything to ensure you remain by his side. He keeps you close, always within reach, his sharp wit reserved for those who dare to threaten what is his. There is no force in the universe he fears, no power he will not challenge, if it means keeping you safe.

- Loki Laufeyson has never believed in fate, in mercy, in second chances. But you? You are proof that even the most broken of men can find something worth living for. And this time, he will not lose you. Not to death. Not to gods. Not to anything.

T’Challa

- T’Challa was a king before he was a man, a warrior before he was a lover. But you—you—were the one thing that belonged solely to him. With you, he was not a ruler, not the Black Panther, not the protector of a nation. He was simply a man in love. And then, in a single moment, in the chaos of war, you were gone. And he—T’Challa, the unshakable, the wise, the just—fell to his knees, holding you as the life slipped from your body.

- He did not mourn in ways the world could see. There were no public displays of grief, no speeches of loss. He carried the weight of your death in silence, bearing it with the same quiet dignity that he bore every burden. But in the stillness of his chambers, when no one was watching, he let the sorrow take him. He traced the last place he had held you, whispered your name to the night, and wondered if he would ever learn to breathe without you.

- So when he sees you again, standing beneath the glow of Wakanda’s golden lights, his heart stops. His breath catches. And for a moment, he is afraid to move—to hope. But you step forward, your eyes locking onto his, and everything else ceases to matter. The world falls away, and there is only you.

- He crosses the distance between you in a single step, his hands cupping your face with reverence, with disbelief, with a depth of emotion he has never let himself show before. He does not ask how or why. He only whispers, “My love,” as if speaking the words aloud will make them real. And then he kisses you—slow, deep, a promise, a prayer, a thousand unspoken words pressed into your skin.

- After that, T’Challa is your shadow, your shield, your unwavering protector. He does not smother you—he respects you too much for that—but he watches, always. His fingers linger against yours in quiet moments, his gaze softens whenever you speak, and when he holds you at night, it is with the quiet, unyielding certainty that he will never let go again.

- T’Challa has lost many things—his father, his home, pieces of himself in battles fought for the greater good. But this? This is something sacred. And a king who has been given back his heart will protect it with everything he has.

Marc Spector

- Marc Spector has never been good at losing people. He has lost too much, buried too many, carried ghosts in the hollows of his ribs and the shadows of his mind. But losing you—watching you die in his arms, feeling your body grow cold as his own blood soaked into the ground—was something else entirely. It didn’t break him. It obliterated him.

- He stopped pretending after that. Stopped holding himself together, stopped fighting for anything beyond survival. He threw himself into missions with reckless abandon, took every fight as if he was begging for someone to land a fatal hit. He couldn’t sleep in your bed, couldn’t bear to hear your name spoken aloud. He tried—Khonshu knows, he tried—to find a way to bring you back. Bargained with gods, hunted down forbidden magic, but nothing, nothing, worked. So he gave up. He accepted that this was his punishment, his curse, to keep losing the things he loved until there was nothing left of him.

- And then—then—you were there. Standing in the doorway, alive, whole, looking at him like you weren’t a phantom haunting his grief. He didn’t move at first, didn’t breathe, convinced you were another trick of his fractured mind. But then you spoke—soft, hesitant, like you weren’t sure if he would even want you back. And the moment your voice reached him, Marc snapped.

- He was on you in an instant, his hands on your face, your shoulders, your arms—anywhere he could touch, anywhere he could convince himself you were real. “Tell me I’m not dreaming,” he whispered, voice shaking, breath unsteady. And when you smiled, when you nodded, he kissed you—desperate, bruising, like a man drowning who had finally found air.

- After that, Marc is different. Not softer, not gentler—he has never been those things—but determined. He refuses to let you out of his sight for too long, refuses to take a single moment for granted. The nightmares don’t go away—sometimes he wakes up reaching for you, convinced he’s lost you all over again—but you are always there, grounding him, reminding him that miracles exist.

- He still fights, still follows the path Khonshu carved for him, but now, there’s something else driving him. Not vengeance. Not guilt. You. You, alive and breathing, laughing in the golden light of morning, rolling your eyes when he gets in one of his moods. And if he has to fight every god, every monster, every force in the universe to keep you by his side? So be it.

Steven Grant

- Grief is a lonely thing. And for Steven, it was lonelier than most. He didn’t have Marc’s rage or Jake’s cold detachment—he just had absence, an empty space beside him where you used to be. You had been his bright thing, his sunbeam, the warmth in his life he never thought he deserved. And then, in a moment of violence and blood, you were gone.

- The flat was too quiet after that. He still made tea for two, still caught himself turning to tell you something, still found little reminders of you everywhere. Your books on the shelf. Your perfume lingering in the air. A sweater you’d stolen from him, draped over the back of a chair. He couldn’t let go, couldn’t move—just existed, stumbling through the days with a polite smile and eyes that held too much grief.

- And then, one evening, as he shuffled into the flat with the exhaustion of another day spent pretending he was okay, he saw you. Standing there, real as anything, watching him with that soft, hesitant look you always had when you weren’t sure how he’d react. He didn’t even think. Didn’t question. Just dropped whatever was in his hands and ran to you.

- “Oh, love,” he breathed, his voice cracking as he cupped your face, pressing his forehead to yours. He was crying—of course he was crying—but he didn’t care, didn’t even try to stop. “I—I thought—oh God, I thought I lost you.” His hands trembled as he touched you, as if afraid you might disappear if he wasn’t careful. But you didn’t disappear. You were here. And when you kissed him—gentle, reassuring—he let out a broken, disbelieving laugh.

- After that, Steven becomes more himself again. The light comes back into his eyes, the warmth into his voice. He tells you every day how much he loves you, how grateful he is that you came back. He holds you for hours sometimes, murmuring little things against your skin, afraid that if he lets go, the universe will take you away again.

- You are his miracle, his impossible, wonderful second chance. And Steven, the man who never thought he was enough, now knows one thing with absolute certainty—he will never take you for granted again.

Jake Lockley

- Jake doesn’t grieve the way others do. He doesn’t sit in sorrow, doesn’t cry himself to sleep. He compartmentalizes, shoves it all into a locked box in the back of his mind and throws away the key. When you died, he didn’t break down. He didn’t scream. He just acted. Found the ones responsible. Made them pay. Made everyone pay.

- He convinced himself that was enough. That revenge was all he had left to give you. But when the dust settled, when the blood was washed from his hands, there was nothing. Just an emptiness so vast it threatened to swallow him whole. He became a ghost, slipping through the world unnoticed, unseen. He only spoke when necessary, only acted when called upon. If Marc and Steven noticed how much darker he’d become, they didn’t say anything.

- And then—then—you were there. Sitting in the backseat of his car like you belonged there, like you hadn’t died in his arms a year ago. He slammed on the brakes so hard the tires screeched, his pulse roaring in his ears. He didn’t turn around at first. Couldn’t. His hands gripped the steering wheel like a vice, his knuckles white with tension. “Not funny,” he rasped, his voice low, dangerous. “Not a game I wanna play.”

- ��It’s not a trick, Jake,” you whispered. And that was all it took. He turned, his breath catching as he finally let himself look. Let himself believe. And the moment he did, something inside him snapped. He surged toward you, pulling you into his arms with a desperation he rarely let himself show. His face buried in your neck, his breath shaky and uneven, his body trembling as if the entire world had just shifted beneath his feet.

- After that, Jake is ruthless about keeping you safe. He doesn’t care how you came back—only that you did, and that nothing will take you from him again. He’s always watching, always waiting, always a step ahead of any potential threat. He doesn’t say it out loud, but it’s in the way he tucks you close against him in crowds, in the way his fingers ghost over your pulse like he’s memorizing it.

- Jake Lockley is not a good man. He never claimed to be. But you—you are the one thing that makes him want to be. And if death couldn’t keep you from him, nothing else will either.

Scott Lang

- Scott never truly believed in happy endings, but he believed in you. He believed in the way your laughter could turn an ordinary day into something extraordinary, the way your hand in his made him feel like maybe—just maybe—he was enough. Losing you shattered him in ways he didn’t even know were possible. You died in his arms, your blood on his hands, and in that moment, he stopped believing in miracles.

- He tried to hold it together for Cassie. He smiled, told jokes, did his best to pretend he was okay. But he wasn’t. His apartment felt too big without you, the bed too cold. He found himself talking to the empty air, half-expecting you to answer. The worst part was the moments right before he woke up, when his brain still tricked him into thinking you were next to him, breathing softly in sleep. And then he’d open his eyes and reality would sink in like a knife to the gut.

- When he sees you again, it’s like the universe plays a cruel trick on him. He blinks, rubs his eyes, thinks he’s hallucinating. But then you smile, that soft, knowing smile he dreamed about, and everything collapses. He doesn’t think—just moves, just grabs you, just feels. “Oh my God,” he breathes, his voice shaking, his arms wrapping around you so tightly he might never let go. “Tell me this is real. Please tell me this is real.” And when you nod, when you whisper his name, he lets out a half-laugh, half-sob against your shoulder.

- Scott becomes clingy after that—not in an overbearing way, but in a you-can’t-leave-me-again way. He constantly reaches for you, constantly checks if you’re still there. He makes up for lost time—cooking you breakfast (badly), taking you on spontaneous road trips, making you laugh until you can’t breathe. Every moment is precious now, every second a gift. He refuses to waste a single one.

- He tells you everything he couldn’t before. How much he missed you, how much it hurt, how many times he caught himself looking for you in a crowded room. He never wants to take you for granted again. Every night, he holds you like you might disappear in the morning, presses kisses to your skin as if he’s trying to memorize you all over again.

- Scott Lang doesn’t know why the universe gave you back to him, but he doesn’t care. All he knows is that this time, no force in the world—no villain, no bad luck, no cosmic cruelty—is going to take you away from him again.

Wade Wilson (Fox)

- Wade doesn’t mourn like other people. He doesn’t wear black, doesn’t cry softly in the night. No, Wade’s grief is ugly, loud, chaotic. After you died, he became worse��more violent, more reckless, more unhinged. He threw himself into fights he knew he couldn’t win, hoping—praying—someone would finally land the killing blow. But they never did. His healing factor cursed him to keep living, to keep hurting.

- He talked to you like you were still there. Made jokes to the empty side of the bed. Left your favorite snacks untouched in the cabinet. The others tried to check on him—Weasel, Domino—but he just shoved them away with a laugh, a joke, a bloody fight he walked away from without a scratch. “I’m fine,” he’d say, voice hollow behind the mask. “Totally normal levels of depression. Probably a seven out of ten. Maybe an eight. Who’s to say?”

- And then, one day, you walked through his door. Just like that. No fanfare, no dramatic music—just you, standing there, looking at him with that same familiar amusement in your eyes. He froze. Blinked. Looked down at the bottle of vodka in his hand. “Oh,” he muttered. “Guess I finally drank myself into hallucinations. Took long enough.” But then you said his name, your voice real, and everything inside him broke.

- He tackled you before you could even take a step closer. Knocked you onto the couch, onto the floor, onto him, his arms squeezing so tight it was a miracle you could still breathe. “If this is a dream, I swear to Ryan Reynolds’ beautiful abs, I will murder my subconscious,” he babbled, his voice cracking. He touched your face, your arms, every inch of you, just to be sure. And when you laughed—when you really laughed—he just lost it. Full-on ugly sobs, face buried in your neck, refusing to ever let go.

- After that, Wade is worse—but in a different way. He never shuts up about how lucky he is. Clings to you, wraps himself around you like a human (questionably clean) blanket, dramatically declares that if you ever die on him again, he’ll personally go to hell and drag you back himself. He texts you every five minutes when you’re not around. If you so much as sneeze, he’s already googling life-threatening illnesses.

- But beneath all the jokes, the over-the-top antics, there’s something soft there. Something raw. Wade Wilson doesn’t believe in happy endings. But he believes in you. And if the universe was kind enough to give you back to him, then maybe—just maybe—he’ll finally start believing in second chances too.

Logan Howlett (Fox)

- Logan is no stranger to grief. He has lost more people than he can count, buried more loved ones than he dares to remember. But losing you—you—was different. It wasn’t just another loss, another name on the long list of people the world had taken from him. It was the loss. The one that finally made him want to lay down and never get up again.

- He disappeared after that. Vanished into the wilderness, into the places where no one could find him. He drank himself into oblivion, picked fights with men twice his size just for the chance to feel something. The nightmares were worse—your face, your voice, the way you reached for him as you died in his arms. He could still feel your blood on his hands, still hear your last breath. There was no escaping it. No running fast enough.

- When he sees you again, it’s not dramatic. It’s not loud. It’s silent. He turns, expecting an enemy, a threat—only to see you. Standing there. Alive. His breath catches in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs like it’s trying to break free. For a long moment, he just stares, his jaw clenched so tight it aches. “No,” he finally rasps. “No, that ain’t possible.” But you just step closer, your hands trembling, your eyes pleading. “Logan,” you whisper. And something inside him snaps.

- He moves before he can think, his arms wrapping around you with the force of a man drowning who has finally found solid ground. He buries his face in your hair, breathes you in, his whole body shaking. “If this is some kinda sick joke,” he growls against your skin, “I swear to God—” But you just hold him tighter, and he finally—finally—lets himself believe it.

- After that, Logan is fiercely protective. More than before. You are his second chance, his proof that maybe—just maybe—the world hasn’t taken everything from him. He keeps you close, always within reach. He doesn’t talk about the time you were gone, doesn’t say how lost he was without you—but you see it in the way he touches you, like he’s making sure you’re still real.

- Logan has lived a long life, filled with too much pain, too much loss. But now, with you back in his arms, he thinks—just for a moment—that maybe, maybe, he finally has something worth fighting for again.

Matt Murdock

- Grief became a quiet shadow in Matt’s life, a presence that never left. He carried it with him in the way he adjusted his tie, in the way he spoke to Foggy and Karen like he was fine when he wasn’t. He still went out at night, still fought in the streets, but the fire inside him had dimmed. He no longer fought to save the city—he fought because it was the only thing that numbed the ache of losing you.

- He whispered your name in his prayers, his voice breaking over the syllables. In his apartment, your absence was louder than anything else. He reached for you in his sleep, his hands closing around nothing, waking up with an emptiness so heavy it stole his breath. He let the guilt drown him—because you died in his arms, and no matter how many bones he broke or how much blood he spilled, he couldn’t change that.

- When you return, he knows it’s you before you even speak. The world is full of sound, full of heartbeats, full of voices—but yours? Yours has always been different. His entire body stills, his breath hitching in his throat. He listens, waiting for the trick, the deception, because he knows what death feels like. But then you say his name, and the world tilts sideways.

- He moves without thinking, reaching for you, his hands trembling as they trace over your face, your hair, your lips. “You’re real,” he breathes, almost afraid to say it. “You’re real.” And when he finally lets himself believe it, when he pulls you into his arms and holds you so tightly it aches, he lets out a broken sound—somewhere between a sob and a prayer.

- After that, Matt is different. He refuses to let you go alone anywhere, his protectiveness manifesting in quiet touches, in the way his fingers always seek yours. He’s softer now, more open with his emotions, because he’s lost you once and he won’t make the mistake of taking any second for granted.

- At night, when the city is quiet and his scars ache, he traces over your skin as if memorizing every inch of you all over again. “I don’t know how I deserve this,” he whispers against your hair, his voice raw with devotion. “But I’m never letting you go again.”

Frank Castle

- Frank has always been good at loss. Not because he accepts it, but because he survives it. Losing you, though? It was a different kind of wound, one that never stopped bleeding. He didn’t cry. He didn’t scream. He just became colder. The world lost all color, all meaning. He didn’t live after you were gone—he just existed, a weapon with no purpose but destruction.

- He stopped talking. Stopped caring. The men he hunted became nothing more than names on a list, their deaths nothing more than numbers. He never said your name, never spoke of you, because acknowledging you were gone would break something inside him that even he couldn’t put back together.

- And then, one night, you stand in front of him, breathing, alive, looking at him like he’s still the man you loved. He doesn’t believe it at first. His grip tightens around his gun, his entire body coiled and ready for a fight because this? This is cruel. And yet—your eyes. Your heartbeat. The way you whisper, “Frank?” like it’s his name that brings you back to life.

- His hands shake as he reaches for you. He touches your face like it’s something fragile, something that might disappear if he presses too hard. And when you don’t, when you lean into his touch with a softness he thought he’d never feel again, something inside him shatters. He pulls you against him, his grip almost desperate, his breath ragged. “I lost you,” he rasps against your hair. “I lost you, and I didn’t—I didn’t know how to keep going.”

- Frank becomes your shadow after that. He’s gentler with you than he’s ever been with anyone, but that protectiveness? That fire? It’s stronger than ever. If anyone so much as looks at you wrong, they won’t live to make the mistake twice. But with you? With you, he is something softer, something almost human again.

- He doesn’t pray, doesn’t believe in fate. But at night, when you sleep beside him, warm and real, he presses a silent kiss to your forehead and whispers, Thank you. He doesn’t know who he’s thanking. Maybe the universe. Maybe you. All he knows is that this time, he won’t waste a single second.

Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter

- Losing you broke Dex. And when Dex breaks, he destroys. He tried to keep it together—tried to pretend he could move on, that he could keep living without you—but the anger, the madness, the unbearable emptiness inside him only grew. The world felt wrong without you. He felt wrong. He stopped sleeping, stopped feeling anything but the burning need to punish whatever took you away from him.

- He lost control after that. Killed without hesitation, without remorse. Let his mind spiral, let his demons win, because what was the point of fighting them without you? You were his anchor, the one person who made him believe he could be more than the monster inside him. Without you, he had no reason to pretend anymore.

- When he sees you again, he doesn’t react the way most people would. No tears, no disbelief. He stalks toward you, his entire body trembling, his breath uneven. His fingers twitch like they’re reaching for a weapon—like he can’t decide if you’re a dream, a trick, or something worse. “You’re dead,” he says, voice flat, empty. “I held you while you died.” And then, quieter, almost desperate—“Tell me this is real.”

- The second you touch him, the second your fingers brush over his, he breaks. He surges forward, his arms crushing around you, his breathing ragged against your skin. “Don’t leave me again,” he whispers, his voice shaking. “Please. I can’t—I can’t do this without you.” And for the first time in a year, his mind is quiet. The rage, the spiraling thoughts, the unbearable emptiness—it all stops the moment you’re back in his arms.

- After that, Dex is obsessive. He always had that trait in him, but now? Now it’s even worse. You are his, and he refuses to let anything take you away from him again. He follows you like a shadow, sleeps with his arms locked around you, memorizes every detail of your body just in case the universe dares to rip you away from him again.

- There’s a darkness inside him, one that never truly fades. But with you alive, with you real, that darkness is tempered by something softer. Something dangerous. He’s not just a killer anymore. He’s yours. And if anyone tries to take you from him again? He’ll burn the whole world to the ground.

Wanda Maximoff

- Grief clung to Wanda like an old, tattered shawl, woven with the ghosts of everyone she had ever lost. She had thought she had reached her limit—that the universe could take no more from her than it already had. But then it took you. And that, she realized, was the cruelest cut of all. She had survived wars, watched cities crumble, lost her family, her brother, her home. But losing you? That was the first time she felt herself break.

- She became something else after you died. A ghost walking through her own life, untethered from the world. The wind carried whispers of you—the echo of your laughter in a marketplace, the ghost of your breath against her skin in the moments before she woke up alone. And the anger—God, the anger. She lashed out when she fought, red energy sparking at her fingertips with a ferocity she couldn’t contain. She wanted to hurt the universe the way it had hurt her.

- And then, like an answer to a prayer she had never dared to whisper, you stood before her again. At first, she thought it was another cruel trick, another illusion meant to unravel what little remained of her sanity. But then—then she felt you. Your heartbeat, your warmth, the undeniable reality of you. And the moment that truth settled into her bones, she collapsed into you, shaking, weeping, hands clutching desperately at your arms, your shoulders, your face.

- “You were gone,” she sobbed, burying herself in you like she could merge her soul with yours. “I—I felt you leave me.” And for the first time in a year, her magic did not rage. It did not spark and burn with untamed grief. It simply was. It curled around the two of you like a shield, like a silent promise that she would never let you be taken from her again.

- After that, Wanda became something softer, but not weaker. She still held the storm inside her, but now, it had purpose. Now, it had you. She held you like she was afraid the wind might steal you away again, always touching—fingers brushing over yours, arms wrapping around you in sleep, a protective hand against the small of your back in public. She had lost everything before. She would not lose you again.

- At night, when the world was still and your breath rose and fell against her chest, she whispered things she could never say in the daylight. Apologies, promises, prayers in a language she had almost forgotten. And when you stirred, murmuring her name, she simply kissed you—deep and slow, like she could pour her very soul into you, like she could make you stay this time.

Pietro Maximoff

- The world never felt fast enough after you were gone. Time slowed into something unbearable, something suffocating. Pietro had always outrun grief before, always left it in the dust, but your death? That was a weight even he couldn’t shake. He stopped joking. Stopped running for fun. The world lost its color, its spark, its meaning. What was the point of moving quickly when you weren’t at the finish line anymore?

- He tried—he really tried—to pretend. To act like he was okay, to throw on that smirk and tell people, “Eh, I’m fine.” But Wanda knew. She saw it in the way he sat still for too long, the way his hands trembled when he thought no one was looking, the way he lingered in places that reminded him of you. His speed was once his escape, his freedom. Now, every step forward only took him further away from the last time he held you.

- And then—then he sees you. And for the first time in his life, he can’t move. He just stares, his heart a violent drumbeat against his ribs, his breath caught somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “No,” he whispers, blinking rapidly, because this has to be some sick joke. “This isn’t real.” But you are. And the moment you take a step toward him, he snaps.

- He moves too fast, too desperate, grabbing you like you might vanish if he lets go. His hands cup your face, his lips press against every part of you he can reach—forehead, cheeks, hands, lips. “You’re real,” he gasps between kisses, between shaky laughter and choked sobs. “You’re—you’re real.” And suddenly, the world isn’t slow anymore. You are his new gravity, the only thing keeping him from spinning out of control.

- After that, Pietro is obsessed with feeling you close. He picks you up just to hear you laugh, carries you even when you insist you can walk. He talks more, filling every silence with his voice because silence is what haunted him for a year. And he touches—not just because he wants to, but because he needs to. Holding your hand, leaning against you, brushing his fingers over your cheek just to remind himself you’re here.

- And at night, when he curls around you in bed, his heartbeat thrumming like a song against your skin, he whispers things he’s never said before. “I thought I lost you forever.” “I never stopped looking for you.” “If you ever leave me again, I swear I’ll outrun death itself to bring you back.” And when you tell him you’re here, that you’re not going anywhere, he presses a lingering kiss to your shoulder and finally—finally—lets himself breathe again.

Erik Lehnsherr (Fox)

- Erik was already a man carved from loss, molded by grief, his soul tempered in the fires of tragedy. Losing you was not just another wound—it was the moment he snapped completely. He did not rage. He did not weep. He simply became something else. Harder. Colder. More dangerous. Without you, there was no reason to hold back. No reason to believe in anything but vengeance.

- The world paid for your absence. He became relentless, his war against those he deemed responsible for suffering escalating beyond reason. He did not believe in mercy anymore—because if the world had shown you none, why should he? But in the rare, silent moments when he was alone, when his hands were still for once, he would stare at the space beside him and feel something that terrified him. Emptiness.

- When you return, he does not react as a man should when seeing his lost love brought back to life. He does not run to you. He does not whisper your name like a prayer. He simply stares, cold and unreadable, his mind calculating every possibility—illusion, manipulation, deception. And then—then you reach for him, and the moment your hand touches his, his composure shatters.

- His hands shake as they frame your face. His breathing is shallow, his eyes burning with something unreadable. When he speaks, his voice is low, trembling with something dangerous. “Who did this?” he demands. Because someone had to bring you back. And Erik Lehnsherr does not believe in miracles. But when you smile—when you whisper, “I’m here, Erik”—his fury dissolves into something broken, something human. He kisses you like a dying man gasping for air, his hands gripping you as if afraid the wind might steal you away.

- After that, Erik is ruthless in his protectiveness. He keeps you close, watches you with the sharp gaze of a predator waiting for the world to try and take you again. But in private, in the spaces where no one else can see, he is something else. His hands are reverent as they hold you, his voice is soft when he speaks to you, and his nightmares—the ones filled with loss—fade when you press a kiss to his temple.

- He does not believe in peace. He does not believe in forgiveness. But he believes in you. And that? That is the only thing in this world he will not let go of again.

[projectorthus]

Procrastinating writing my comic don’t mind me

[rosalietodd013]

So this is something that’s bothered me for years but I never said anything. I can’t stand people who write fanfiction with an original character as the main character but tag as x reader. Like giving your character a name AND physical description is not a reader insert story. I understand the gender specific/neutral tags or intending your character to be a specific race or size but there does come a point where isn’t no longer a reader insert and it’s just a regular OC.

I wanna believe that a lot of people don’t understand the tag but as fanfiction writers I know that’s not the case. A lot of people do it to get more views for their story which is so dumb to me. Either write an actual reader insert or add the proper tags. It’s not that fucking hard.

Also I purposefully tagged reader insert tags I’m into to see if others have this same issue and what they think. I can’t be the only one annoyed but I’m cool either way.

[ickypixies]

watching the drinking game bts is so funny. very few men wanted to be involved in drinking episodes, and basically every woman asked if she could drink instead of being the secret sober

sam reich essentially just chaperoned a date between 8 women, many of whom are married with children, where they wanted to get drunk and kiss the homies. and then they split $15,000.

[rafesslxt]

𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒 🎃🍂✨

my first kinktober ever! yay! here‘s my list of the story‘s I‘ll post. Come check the list every day for a new story 🎞️

will include: oneshots, drabbles, thoughts, headcanons and moodboards

characters: slytherin boys, anakin skywalker, sam monroe, scott barringer, Stephen Glass, rafe cameron

nsfw | multiple fandoms | masterlist

───⋆⋅🦇⋅⋆───

⊹₊ ⋆ october 1st ꜜ

sexting / phone sex - Slytherin Boys Headcanon

⊹₊ ⋆ october 2nd ꜜ

lingerie / leather & latex - Sam Monroe

⊹₊ ⋆ october 3d ꜜ

nipple play

⊹₊ ⋆ october 4th ꜜ

threesome / group sex - Slytherin Boys

⊹₊ ⋆ october 5th ꜜ

sex pollen - Anakin Skywalker

⊹₊ ⋆ october 6nd ꜜ

face sitting & fucking / 69 - Mattheo Riddle

⊹₊ ⋆ october 7th ꜜ

praise kink - Sam Monroe

⊹₊ ⋆ october 8th ꜜ

cockwarming - Lorenzo Berkshire

⊹₊ ⋆ october 9th ꜜ

breeding / spanking -

⊹₊ ⋆ october 10th ꜜ

handcuffs / tied up -

⊹₊ ⋆ october 11th ꜜ

begging / voice kink

⊹₊ ⋆ october 12h ꜜ

car sex / public sex - Rafe Cameron

⊹₊ ⋆ october 13th ꜜ

dry humping - Anakin Skywalker

⊹₊ ⋆ october 14th ꜜ

erotic photos / sextape - Mattheo Riddle

⊹₊ ⋆ october 15th ꜜ

daddy kink -

⊹₊ ⋆ october 16th ꜜ

outdoor sex / getting caught - Scott Barringer

⊹₊ ⋆ october 17th ꜜ

masturbation / sex toys - Mattheo Riddle

⊹₊ ⋆ october 18th ꜜ

drunk sex / mirror sex - Rafe Cameron

⊹₊ ⋆ october 19th ꜜ

overstimulation / orgasm denial - Sam Monroe

⊹₊ ⋆ october 20th ꜜ

morning sex - Theodore Nott

⊹₊ ⋆ october 21th ꜜ

table sex / teacher - Mattheo Riddle

⊹₊ ⋆ october 22th ꜜ

Love bites/marks - Theodore Nott

⊹₊ ⋆ october 23th ꜜ

Food play -

⊹₊ ⋆ october 24th ꜜ

sub and dom switching - Mattheo Riddle

⊹₊ ⋆ october 25th ꜜ

cheating / affair - Rafe Cameron

⊹₊ ⋆ october 26th ꜜ

best friends with benefits - Lorenzo Berkshire

⊹₊ ⋆ october 27th ꜜ

belly bulge

⊹₊ ⋆ october 28th ꜜ

blindfolded -

⊹₊ ⋆ october 29th ꜜ

29. workplace sex - Stephen Glass

⊹₊ ⋆ october 30th ꜜ

30. hair pulling -

⊹₊ ⋆ october 31th ꜜ

31. mask kink / ghostface / costumes

───⋆⋅🦇⋅⋆───

i‘ll tag every post on here so take a look each day ;) i also haven‘t decided on which character i‘ll write about for what kink, will decide spontaneous if theres no name behind it already.

───⋆⋅🦇⋅⋆───

like mentioned at the beginning, this won‘t just be storys but also drabbles and stuff like that bc i won‘t be able to write that much for every day to post a story per day <3 this will be my little come back i guess hehe

xoxo sarah <3

[skywalkoverme]

𝐁𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐒𝐞𝐱

a/n: Request made by @skywalkershootme Enjoy!

𐙚 Anakin Skywalker x Fem! Reader 𐙚 18+ MDNI

Summary: You try breaking up with your DILF boyfriend.

Warnings/contains: dom! male, sub! fem, raw sex, multiple orgasms, creampie, overstimulation, rough sex, oral sex (f reciv), choking, lots of dirty talk, hair pulling, teasing, reader is in her early 20s, Anakin is in his mid 40s, proof read-- english is not my first language!

Word Count: 2k // More soon on my Master list! + follow & reblog pls

You swung the front door open, a hand on your hip as you looked the man up and down. From behind his back, Anakin revealed a large bouquet of colorful peonies, lilies and tulips. “Happy birthday, baby.”

“Yeah, you’re late.” You folded your arms and blocked the doorway.

“I’m sorry! Leia had softball practice, and she left her stuff with her mother. And—“

“It’s fine.” He could feel that it wasn’t. You let him inside and sat on the couch. Decorations from the surprise party your friends threw scattered around with the essence of a good time.

It was late. Very late. One in the morning. “Penny is asleep in the studio. Don’t wake her.” You muttered and turned back to the television.

Anakin placed the flowers on the dining room table along with the other bouquets and presents you received. “Baby, baby. I’m sorry.” He sat beside you, elbows on his knees as he leaned in.

“You didn’t even call.”

“I lost my phone.” You rolled your eyes; he did this often seeing as how his memory wasn’t the best. But you didn’t want to hear that! “Baby?”

Frustration fumed within you. “You embarrassed me in front of my girls! This is the last time.”

He took your hands into his. “You know I love you.” He said calmly, “look at me.” Your eyes flickered to his, but your head was still turned away. “You’re the best thing to happen to me, ok? You’re the center of my universe.”

“It’s one in the morning.”

“I apologize. If you had let me finish, after I dropped off Leia’s belongings, I was headed to you, but Luke broke his nose in his rocketry class. He stayed late and was tinkering with the upper-class men’s work.”

“Is he ok?”

“He’s fine but I was at the ER until about…” He turned his left wrist over and read the watch, “twenty minutes ago.” Your head lowered, “You have every right to be angry with me. I understand that communication isn’t my strong suit but, Doll, you can’t leave me.”

He was right, like always, you can’t. Never had you met a guy so perfect for you. Your fingers brushed the grey hairs in his stubble; red-ish dark hair filled your hand as he leaned into you, his arms crossed behind your back, and he pulled you closer. His voice was gruff but as gentle as it could be, “I love you, sweetheart.”

You found it hard to pull your gaze from his eyes, “I love you too.” You said softly so only his ears could hear.

“Happy birthday.” He said as of reminding you and placed a kiss between your eyebrows.

“Thank you.”

“I have a few gifts for you, Can I show them to you?” You nodded and kept your arms around his neck, your ass on his lap. He opened a small bag by his feet and retrieved a maroon, velvet box. He turned it to you and showed the gold necklace with a butterfly pendant. You lifted a bundle of your hair away from your neck and he leaned into you; clipped the ends of the necklace and let it rest above your breasts. “And…I know you like to take mine, so.” From the bag, he gathered another velvet box and revealed a watch to match his. “This one actually fits you.”

“Thank you.” You said softly as the quartz face of the watch gleamed in the light of the television. “I apologize for being rude earlier.”

“You know I’m used to your attitude.” His hands cuffed your cheeks, thumbs ran over the corners of your mouth. “You still seem tense.” The man noted as you sat comfortably on his jeans. “Let me help you.” A callused hand ran down the sides of your birthday dress and rest on your hip, the other on the back of your neck.

The tension was palpable as you avoided his gaze, “I feel bad asking for sex after…treating you that way.” You could feel his exhales on your face, a firm look was steady on your face.

“This is a first.” He chuckled deeply and took a breath of your sweet perfume. His hands roamed over the curves of your breasts and back down to the perfect curves of your hips. “Lay on me.” You rest your lips on his; his grip hardened on your body. Your delicate skin against him as he deepened the kiss with a groan. His lips moved against the sweet seam of your mouth, enticing it open for his tongue.

“Penny is in the other room.” You said through breaths.

“Then you must be quiet.” The hand on the back of your neck brought you back against him. Your body flush against him, he could feel your soft breasts and hard nipples. Without a doubt, you’d be sore from his grip alone in the morning. His hand moved from your hip to your ass, gently tugging your pink thong to the side. “Fuck.” His fingers slipped around your wet heat, “Did I do this?” He asked as you raised your dress higher.

“Yes, Daddy.”

He slapped your ass; he took your bottom lip between his teeth. “It’s that sorta’ night?” You blushed as his firm cock pressed on your pussy through his jeans. With a sway of your hips, you rubbed your clit on the bulge, back and forth, “You have no idea what I’m thinkin’, Sweetheart.” He said through rough kisses. Your chest rose and fell against his body, his hot breath fanned over your ear as he whispered. “I’m going to fuck you over this couch. Try your best not to wake your friend, alright?” You nodded quickly as he pulled the clothes off your body. His cock throbbed under you as his mind raced. It’s been days since he’s spread you out and fucked you right.

You managed to pull his cock from his jeans; memories flooded your head at the sight of it. He applied pressure on his kisses, a hand on the front of your throat. The man guided your body, your pussy rubbed against the length of his cock. Your thumb brushed the precum and swiftly, you sucked it off your thumb. “Quit teasing me.” You sighed.

He squeezed your throat until you stopped whining. He rubbed his thick cockhead against the slick folds of your pussy. Anakin groaned from the overwhelming warmth, his need for you clouded his thoughts. Your eyes fluttered shut as he thrusts his hips upward into you. You bit his finger that pressed over your lips. He buried himself to the hilt in your heated walls.

Anakin paused for a moment and let your body adjust to his size. You squirmed in his grip as he chuckled, “You feel heavenly, sweetheart.” His voice deep as he felt your deep bite on his finger. “…so fucking tight and hot around my cock.” You nodded as he slowly stroked inside of you. “Don’t I fit so nicely in this pussy?” You gave him a drunken nod; his hips rolled in a deep grind against yours. Each thrust reached a new nerve, shockwaves of pleasure sent through your beautiful body as you wadded over him.

He pulled his finger from your mouth, “Shhhh.” He reminded, his tongue found your mouth again started stroking, twined with your own. He swallowed your sweet moans and whimpers down his throat. “That’s it, baby. You’re taking every inch.” Before you could reply, his tongue swirled inside of your mouth, panting kisses shared between you two. “You’re so precious.”

He hooked your legs over his elbows and turned you on your back. You pressed onto the soft couch cushions as he loomed over you. Soon, his hand found your neck again and his cock drove deeper into your pussy. A helpless squeal left your lips as his heavy cock fucked you harder. With each deep stroke, his cockhead kissed your cervix. Your eyes fell back into your head, twitching fingers reached for him desperately. He could feel it when you came on his cock, your sweet pussy clutched him tightly, and your cum dressed his cock in sweet cream.

Anakin leaned closer to you until your soft fingers met his cheeks. “I’m here, baby. I’m here. Baby girl.” His rough and lustful voice made you cling tighter to him, “I’m gonna fill you to the brim, sweetheart.” He panted, his hot breath mixing with yours between the small space. It was a miracle you weren’t tearing holes into the couch cushions from the stretching pleasure.

Anakin snarled as you gripped around him tighter. The feeling of your soft cervix kissing his cock with each thrust, your body submitting beneath his relentless strokes, was enough to drive him inside. “Fuck yes,” Every time he pulled from you, your pussy pulled him right back. His heavy balls slapped against your ass, “Fuck, take my cum.” He could feel his release close to the edge of his cock.

Your breathy moans were soft, mindful of the woman that lay asleep in the bedroom down the hall. His hand tangled in your hair and brought your neck to him. He latched onto you as if trying to draw blood from your system. He sucked on the skin as he fucked you relentlessly. “I- I’m gonna cum, Baby!” His voice strained as he tried to hold back. “You want my seed?” You nodded, holding a hand over your mouth to keep your loud moans from escaping. Anakin pressed his hips against yours and emptied himself deep inside of you as you came with him. “M~ ngh~” Each stream of thick, hot cum flooded your womb.

His hands were gentle as he pets your cheeks, working you through your own trembling orgasm. He tilted your chin up with callused fingers and wiped away your tears. Anakin gazed down at you with sweet adoration; he could feel your swollen and tender flesh quivering around his thick cock, still aching from your first round. “How’d I do, baby?” He asked, softly stroking inside of your well-used pussy. Your eyes twitched closed as your fingers fell from the overstimulation. As he pulled his hips back and forth, your sorry clitoris taking all the pressure. “Should I stop?” You twitched and shook your head. He leaned down until his elbows rest of either side of your head, his biceps enclosed your head. “What a greedy cunt…you aren’t leaving me anytime soon.”

Each grind more delicious than the last as his cum spilled out of you and on the couch. Your tender folds and clit pulsed, “Doesn’t my cock feel nice?” He asked, his breath on your lips. “Say it.”

“Y- your…” He turned your head back to him, “Your cock feels so…n-nice.”

“Daddy fucked your greedy cunt so well, didn’t he?” Your forehead rests on his as you nod. “All red and sore, isn’t she?” He slid a hand down to your breast, kneading gently. He pinched your nipple and rolled it between his fingers. “Poor baby…” He whispered, thrusting harder as he fucked you into the couch.

“Daddy~” In an almost punishing pace, Anakin rocks himself into you. “A~ ah!”

“Shhh.” His lips pressed down onto yours, capturing the swell of moans in his throat. “Let me finish you off, baby girl.” He thrusts deep into you, punishing your clitoris endlessly, “What’s wrong?” He cooed and pushed tears away from your cheeks. “Is this too much?”

Anakin pulled out of your cunt; your hole stretched and oozing your shared orgasm. “You are so beautiful, baby. Such a pretty pussy…” He gazed at you between your quivering thighs, “You don’t believe me?” He asked before dragging his tongue over the seam of your cunt with a slow, deep lick. He could taste himself on your sensitive skin. Your legs spasmed from the pressure while he enjoyed the feel of your swollen clitoris.

Anakin focused on your throbbing heat and sucked on your tender nub. Your heart raced as he held your thighs open, circling and flicking your clit until tears ran down your soft cheeks once more. “A~ Ani~” You whimpered helplessly from the strums of pleasure. You were completely undone beneath him, conflicted and heated.

A hand rose to your face, gently caressing your cheek. You leaned onto his hand and let your eyes shut. “It’s ok, baby.” His tongue dove into your center, eating your soft pussy. There was a glow about you, an orgasm heat on your cheeks from the lovemaking. He couldn’t care less about your friend in the other room nor the sounds you both were making in the living room.

After all, it’s your big day. Well, it was yesterday. Now it’s 3:47AM and you lay in your shared mess with his kisses up and down your throat. He took your wrist into his clutch, careful of the gold watch, and kissed your fingers.

a/n: Happy (early/late) birthday to anyone reading this!

Interact with my Anakin master list to be tagged:

@littlestpadfoot @thescxrpio @fullclodponycop @kirbie44danielle @duck6789 @mcxdiaz @maneater97 @swiftiesimonriley @yeonjinnie @laddle @daughterofstairs @edenizzyx @eymie @xxhvzelxx @bored-as-fuck @viviennebloom @jujustarwars1 @kaaaatta-blog @javierpenaspentis @cherrylvrsworld @finnyboob @nouschkaa @blackkhir4 @ilovepurple31 @smiling-is-suffering @kellyburkesblog @decaffeinatedcrowntragedy @kaggelagge @naomiisme2 @heretonerdout @reaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa @xlovingyoux @hakanaijeon @skywalkershootme @vixenhatesyou @meowmeowjang @slingggshot @cdfvgbhnjm @peachpit31 @carterc15 @smithcaityy @sisterofreverance @hellomwah @blondiebatter @aqqjjk @radiantvader @anthrais @xhino3 @valyna27 @wuxianwrld @discobronzer @melaninswift @justthingzsblog @stanyuqisworld @ppoppy-seed @fawninthesnow @sunwxoxo @santinstar

[skywlkrhoney]

HAPPY STAR WARS DAY TO EVERYONE!!!!may the force be with you!🫶🏻💗💗

[yourauthorjen]

LOVE ME IN THE QUIET - joaquin torres

(requests open)

masterlist

| synopsis: | it was supposed to be forbidden, yet everytime you and joaquin passed each other in the avengers base and met eyes, it ended with the sweet taste of his lips on yours

| includes: | joaquin x reader, forbidden love, sneaking around, fluff, steamy, sam being a big old grump, angst, sexual tension + themes, 14+, use of y/n

| word count: | 2.9k

| a/n: | i truly love a good old steamy forbidden romance but this is probably gonna be the spicest thing i’ve written. i've been dying to write a domestic joaquin and i wanna know your thoughts on this.

KEEPING IT PROFESSIONAL was hard to do when doe eyed Joaquin Torres wandered into the kitchen, curls sticking up in different directions, sweatpants hanging off his hips, and a white t-shirt clinging onto his broad shoulders.

You almost choked on your Rainbow Pebbles, which had suddenly become very unappetizing compared to the mouthwatering sight of Joaquin’s biceps.

Your eyes lingered on his frame as he threw the refrigerator door open and pulled out a carton of milk, his arms flexing with each movement— which was highly unfair seeing that your hair was tossed into a messy braid and your oversized shirt swallowed half of your body.

However, Sam had made it crystal clear that your feelings towards Joaquin would be stomped on with a pile of dusty old folders sitting in his office cabinet waiting to be sorted. So, with no other choice you were left to slamming your feelings into a box, wrapping it in duct tape, and pretending that your heart didn’t skip several beats every time Joaquin so much as breathed in your direction.

You crunched on a mouthful of Rainbow Pebbles, trying to focus on literally anything else other than the hot oblivious heathen leaning against the counter nursing his cup of coffee.

Somehow, Joaquin still caught your eye mid-sip, his lips quirking into that devastatingly soft, boyish smile that had no business being aimed directly at you.

“Morning,” he said, voice low and raspy from sleep.

You blinked twice. Once to clear your head, and the other to find your voice. "Good morning."

He ruffled his messy curls with one hand, before setting his coffee cup down and lazily stretching his arms over his head, shirt riding up just enough to flash a sliver of golden skin. "You’re up early," he said, his lips twitching.

You averted your eyes, staring down at your colourful bowl of milk. "Couldn't sleep," you mumbled, absentmindedly stirring your spoon around.

"Oh."

You cleared your throat, swallowing the last dregs of cereal in your bowl before standing up and walking to the dishwasher and dumping your silverware into the sink. "I'll be in the training room," you drawled turning to face him, "And Sam shouldn't be awake until 11."

Joaquin straightened up and sauntered over to where you were standing, the air shifting with a desperate need for his lips to be against yours, and the scent of pine and spice radiating off his body.

You backed up slightly, bumping into the edge of the counter behind you, heart hammering against your ribs. He wasn’t even trying to be subtle—he never was—and that mischievous glint in his eye told you he knew exactly what he was doing.

He leaned in, one hand braced against the counter near your hip, sandwiching you in between his chest and the marble tile with that lazy, easy confidence that made your knees feel like jelly. Your chest pounded painfully as you fought the urge to reach out, to curl your fingers into the soft fabric of his t-shirt and just pull.

"Training room?" he asked his voice rough.

You nodded, lifting your chin defiantly. "Unless you want to join me?"

He trailed a hand down your arm before settling tightly on your waist, "Is that your way of asking for us to hang out?"

Your cheeks burned and you slipped away from his grasp. "Don’t flatter yourself, Torres. I'm gonna change, if you need me come to the training room to find me."

You spun on your heel and marched towards your room not daring to turn back around.

And like you had promised, you had changed into a two piece, now pacing anxiously trying to get your heart rate back to something remotely normal. You busied yourself with a punching bag, repeatedly hitting the battered bag over and over again until you gave up because a specific someone had infiltrated your concentration to the point you were punching air.

It was still early, meaning most of the team was still in bed trying to get as much rest as they could before Sam began handing out orders at the team briefing like party favours.

You were so caught up with the flood of thoughts rushing through your head you didn't even hear the door open until you saw Joaquin, hair mussed, still wearing the same loose sweatpants and tight fitting shirt in the reflection of the mirror.

You dropped your fists, chest rising and falling.

"I'm surprised you came."

Joaquin raised an eyebrow, stepping forward, meeting you halfway. "Why wouldn't I?"

You shrugged, tossing your training gloves to the ground. "One day you and I are gonna get caught and Sam's gonna send us both to the North Pole."

His lips fell into an amused smile as he snaked an arm around your waist, pulling your body flush against his.

“But it'll be worth it." he whispered, leaning in close enough that you could count the freckles on his face.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t careful or gentle like it usually was—it was messy and fast, all teeth and tongues and weeks of bottled-up tension spilling over. His hands tightened around your hips, and you gasped into his mouth, fingers threading into the soft curls at the nape of his neck.

You stumbled backward until your shoulders hit the padded wall, Joaquin chasing after you like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between you.

A whimper escaped your mouth as he nipped at your bottom lip, fingers digging into his hair as he pinned you against the wall, both of you kissing each other until you were gasping for breath. Giddy and dazed, he buried his nose into the crook of your neck where he trailed sloppy kisses across you collarbone, then across your jawline, to the point the stubborn ache in your stomach intensified ten fold.

You squeezed your eyes shut as your hands trailed to the hem of his shirt, and before you knew it his lips were on yours again, your own lips parting greedily against his. Any scattered thought that had been rushing through your head before bounced right out as you felt his muscles contract under your fingertips, and as you kissed him harder you lost sense of time, place and everything except for the sweet taste of his mouth.

Though the sound of lumbering footsteps snapped you out of your drunken haze as you pulled away from Joaquin, hearing a small grumble outside the door.

“—too damn early to be— what the heck?”

Your eyes widened as you pulled away from Joaquin, face burning when you realized how far up his shirt your hands had gotten, and the intentional way you’d twisted the fabric to the point you were seconds away from yanking it off his head.

Joaquin looks as alarmed as you were before you dragged him into the washroom tucked into the corner of the training room. The two of you ducked inside, shutting the door gently behind you just as the gym door creaked open.

“I swear to god,” a voice— Sam’s voice muttered, “If Clint doesn’t start picking his shit up I’m banning him from the training room forever.”

You pressed yourself tigher against the bathroom wall, Joaquin practically on top of you, both of you holding your breath as Sam’s voice floated through.

You felt Joaquin’s chest shaking lightly against yours—he was laughing silently, the absolute menace—and you had to bite your lip to keep from making any sound.

When Sam finally gave up and left, the door slamming shut behind him, you both sagged in relief.

“Well that was a close call,” he said grinning his face just a few feet away from yours, mischief burning in his eyes.

“Too close,” you hissed back, smacking his chest lightly.

He smirked as he caught your hand in his, lacing your fingers together. “So…”

You rolled your eyes but you stood on your tiptoes pressing your lips against his. He groaned as you wrapped your arms around his, pulling tighter.

"You're gonna kill me," he murmured into your mouth as you swallowed him with kisses.

"Well don't drop dead on me Sergeant, or how am I supposed to explain it to Sam?” you said hands finding the edge of his T-shirt again.

He just made a noise, and before you could process he picked you up in one swift motion putting you onto the counter of the sink. With no place for your legs to go you wrapped them around his waist, a small groan escaping his mouth when you wound your arms around his neck pulling him closer.

Twenty minutes later, the two of you stumbled out of the training room, lips swollen and eyes heavy. You didn’t need a mirror to know you looked like an absolute mess. Which was why a you immediately made a beeline for your room, hoping to change before anyone spotted you.

Joaquin however, didn’t seem to much in a rush, instead he blew you a kiss and squeezed your hand before he walked away with ease.

You rolled your eyes at his cockiness. He was for sure gonna get the two of you caught soon.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Cursing softly underneath your breath you dug through your closet trying to find a suitable hoodie that covered the faint pink marks blooming along your neck—souvenirs from Joaquin’s thoroughly distracting mouth.

Begrudgingly you tugged on a grey hoodie, double— then triple checking, to ensure that the fabric covered everything. And when you walked into the briefing room where Joaquin and Peter were already waiting, Joaquin smirking as he eyed you up and down.

You shot him a warning look taking a seat beside him— no games this time. You didn’t need Sam’s god forsaken rule to be brought up and taped to your forehead again. Still, it didn’t stop Joaquin from reaching out and brushing the tips of his fingers against your pinky under the table.

You stiffened, glaring at him, but he just smiled innocently, not even a little sorry.

When you turned slightly to nudge him with your elbow, Joaquin caught your hand properly, giving it a teasing squeeze. You had to bite back a giggle, yanking your hand away, but not before he traced a slow, featherlight line across your wrist with his thumb.

As the door creaked open and the other members of the team began slowly filing in, all cradling a cup of coffee in their hands, you and Joaquin both snapped into a somewhat professional manner— back straight and eyes away from each other.

When Sam passed by you couldn’t help but tense, as he paused beside the two of you eyes narrowing slightly. You forced your lips into a polite smile, trying not to fidget with your fingers as he opened his mouth.

But before he could say anything, Yelena stormed into the room, the blonde throwing the door open so hard it bounced against the wall.

“Phew,” she announced loudly, fanning herself dramatically. “Who leaked all the testosterone in here?”

You and Joaquin stiffened as every pair of eyes turned toward Yelena.

A warmth began to bloom up your neck as you tried not to look at Joaquin, panic building in your stomach as you chewed nervously on your lower lip.

Sam furrowed his brow. “What testosterone?”

Yelena looked between you and Joaquin—lingering a little too long on your flushed cheeks and Joaquin’s guilty smile—then shook her head.

“Never mind,” she said sweetly, sliding into a chair, “Sorry I’m late.”

Sam scowled before pointing to the screen behind him. “Okay then, I guess we’ll start. We’ve got a lot to cover.”

The briefing started, Sam talking through mission objectives, logistics, intel. You tried your hardest to focus, scribbling notes furiously, avoiding even looking at Joaquin.

Everything was going to be fine. You tried to assure yourself, but it wasn’t until Sam looked up from his tablet and began reading out partners for the next mission that things started to go bad.

“Alright. I’m assigning partners for the missions next week. Joaquin, you’re with Yelena. Y/N, you’re with Peter.”

Joaquin scowled, visibly dissapointed at the partnering.

“You’ve got a problem with that Torres?” Sam asked casually, though the suspicious look on his face said otherwise.

You elbowed Joaquin, as he opened his mouth. “No he doesn’t have a problem with that, right Joaquin,” you cut in loudly, sending him a dirty look.

He looked between you and then Sam and nodded meekly. “Nope, no problem with that, I can work with Yelena.”

Sam didn’t look convinced and slammed both his palms down onto the table as he looked between the two of you. “Does someone wanna tell me what the hell is going on between these two?”

You flinched slightly, the room going so silent you could hear Peter awkwardly fidgeting two seats down.

You opened your mouth to say something— anything— but the words caught in your throat. Your head went blank and the air in your lungs seemed to have rushed out of the room as you sunk into your seat.

Joaquin shifted nervously beside you, his knee bumping yours.

And that tiny movement— the little nervous tic was all it took.

From the other side of the room, Yelena huffed loudly and muttered under her breath,“Please, it’s obvious. They’re sleeping together.”

You choked on your own spit eyes wide as saucers, as Joaquin visibly flinched beside you.

You were gonna kill Yelena.

Sam on the other hand, his face went utterly, frighteningly blank.

“Excuse me?” Sam said slowly, voice low and dangerous, like a storm about to hit.

Yelena shrugged unapologetically. “What? I’m just saying what we’re all thinking. Please, look at them. He’s basically vibrating out of his seat.”

Scott coughed to hide a laugh. Peter turned bright red. Clint and Kate didn’t even bother hiding his huge, shit-eating grin.

Sam turned back to you and Joaquin, crossing his arms, tapping his foot.

“Well?” he demanded.

Joaquin swallowed hard, and before you could stop him, blurted, “We’re… together.”

You groaned, dropping your forehead onto the table with a loud thunk.

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose like he was physically in pain. “I knew it. I knew you two were sneaking around like a couple of damn teenagers! I just didn’t have enough fucking evidence AND I haven’t had maintenance fix the cameras yet.”

“We’re not teenagers,” you mumbled into the table, mortified beyond belief.

Sam slammed a hand down again. “OUT! Everybody OUT except Dumb and Dumber over here!”

They didn’t need telling twice, because as soon as the words left Sam’s mouth, chairs scraped back, papers flew everywhere, and the entire team bolted out the door.

Once it was just the three of you, Sam rounded on you and Joaquin, his face red and his veins bulging. “I specifically said none of this,” he thundered. “I made one rule and now what? You’re sneaking around making googly eyes and banging each other in the training room?”

You opened your mouth, but all that came out was a strangled sound.

Sam turned even redder as he reeled on you, “So you have been fucking in the training room! It was the two of you this morning!”

“It’s not— it’s not affecting the team,” you sputtered, “We’re being professional about it. It’s not my fault that I was a horny virgin locked in a H.Y.D.R.A base for half my life.”

“We’re being careful,” Joaquin said rubbing the back of his neck.

Sam threw his hands in the air. “Oh yeah? Real careful,” he snapped, gesturing wildly. “She’s sitting there wearing a freaking hoodie in July trying to hide a whole damn crime scene!”

You sank lower in your seat, mortified.

“It’s not a crime scene,” you muttered weakly.

Sam pointed at you pacing back and fourth. “You! Stop enabling him!” He then pointed at Joaquin. “You! Keep it in your pants!”

Just as you were about to protest the door to the briefing room crashed open, and the rest of the team spilled in. Yelena, Kate, Scott, Peter, and Clint, all piled on top of each other in a heap, having clearly been eavesdropping.

Peter groaned from the bottom of the pile. “Ow—Scott, your elbow—”

Clint shoved Kate off him. “I told you this was a bad idea!”

Scott grinned up at Sam sheepishly. “We were just… uh… making sure no one needed backup.”

Sam looked like he was about to have an aneurysm.

“You’re ALL on trash duty,” he barked, jabbing a finger toward the door. “I don’t care if you’re Avengers, I don’t care if you’ve saved the world—this is janitorial punishment now! You’re cleaning every quinjet, every training room, every bathroom, until further notice.”

The collective groan from the heap of eavesdroppers was almost enough to make you feel bad. Almost.

Sam spun back to you and Joaquin. “And if see you two as much as kissing, I will send each of you to a different continent. So keep it together.”

Sam let out the longest, most exhausted sigh of his life and stomped out of the room, muttering something about retirement and running a circus instead of a team of Avengers.

You groaned as the door swung shut and Clint and Kate both burst into loud cackles as Peter patted you on the shoulder.

You collapsed next to Joaquin burying your face into his chest as he let out a relieved sigh. “If I were you,” Scott said sympathetically, “I would’ve had Ant-Thony eat me.”

“Gee. thanks Scott,” you grumbled, “That really makes me feel a lot better.”

You then turned to look at Joaquin. “I told you we’d get caught and yet you’re still sitting here looking optimistic as fuck.”

Joaquin shrugged, giving you that same devastatingly crooked grin that got you into this mess in the first place. “Well maybe ‘cause it was always worth it.”

[starrdream]

A sam smut fic like he hears u talking to ur friends about how "sex is overrated" and he proves reader wrong

hope u like it xoxo

Sam Monroe x f!reader summary: Sam overhears the conversation you had with your friends.. includes: SMUT, rough sex, overstimulation, dirty talk, idk what else

This isn’t exactly a conversation you have at your lunch table at school.

"No, I’m telling you, it’s not that fun." You shrug, taking another bite of your sandwich. "People hype it up too much."

"Oh shut up, y/n." One of your girlfriends groaned, rolling her eyes. "You just hadn't had your guts rearranged yet and that's okay."

Nor in any public space to be honest.

"Jesus could you be any more graphic?" You snort. "Besides, I still think it's overrated."

"No but seriously, I don't think it's as bad as you take it to be." Another friend chimes in. "Maybe the guy was just bad."

"I don't think so." You shake your head.

"Yeah I don't know..you always get with fugly guys I wouldn't be surprised if that was the case.." The first friend chuckles.

"Yeah your taste in men is awful." The second friend agrees. "They probably don't even know what they're doing.."

"Aren't you a virgin?" You ask the second girl, tilting your head. That shut her up real quick.

Unbeknownst to you, Sam was sitting at the table behind you, soaking up every word from the conversation you just had with your friends.

A part of him was sure he could change your mind. What even were the odds that you actually didn't enjoy it as much as any other horny teenager?

Mustering all the courage he had, Sam decided to shoot his shot...

The room was thick with heat. Every thrust sent shockwaves through your body, the slick, wet sounds filling the space between breathless moans. Your fingers twisted into the sheets, knuckles turning white as you braced yourself against the force of his thrusts

"Fuck, fuck, fuck.." You yelped as Sam's thick length kept thrusting in and out of you at a steady pace.

"Yeah? What was that?" Sam teases you, leaning against your back to nip at your neck. His voice is a deep rasp against your ear

"Please Sam.." You moaned, voice shaky, pathetic-desperate.

"Please what? You want it harder? Is this not good enough?" He coos breathlessly.

"Ngh-Sam.." You gasp.

"Mid stuff right? Well I'm about to fuck the doubt right out of you." He groans, gripping your hips tighter as he pounds into your throbbing pussy.

Your moans and whimpers become muffled as you bury your face in a pillow, arching your back and pushing your hips back to meet his thrusts.

The pressure built inside you, twisting and coiling, ready to consume you whole.

"Yeah? I think you're really starting to enjoy it now." He chuckles, one hand caressing and softly squeezing your ass.

Spreading your knees further with his knee, he allows himself to take you deeper.

"Oh right there-" You whine, pushing your head further against the pillow.

"Ah-ah-ah, can't have any of that.." He scolds. Sam’s hand suddenly tangled in your hair, yanking your head up.

His pace stuttered for just a moment before he recovered, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "Let me hear you pretty girl." He teases softly.

Sam continues to pound into you from behind, strained grunts and soft whimpers escaping him every now and then. He's painfully hard inside you-the view of you arched and spread out before him only making it worse.

You convulse around him, gripping the sheets tighter as you babble nonsense. Seems like he did fuck your brains out because not a single coherent sentence left your mouth from that point on.

"You gonna cum f'me? Hm?" Sam asks, voice hoarse and rough.

"Fuck..mhh, gonna.." You mutter, words interrupted by pathetic whimpers and wails.

"I didn't quite catch that.." Sam repeats teasingly, but the way he was thrusting into you was anything but gentle.

"Nghh" You mewl in response, loosing your mind at the sensations.

"Mhm, that's what I thought." He tilts your hips up, changing the angle and rubbing against your spot repeatedly.

Sam.

The only word you could say out loud and the only thing on your mind as your eyes welled with tears. He kept rambling something but you were too lost in the pleasure to make out what he's saying.

Your walls flutter and clamp down on him, causing him to let out a soft moan. And that was enough. An orgasm crashed over you-hips bucking, thighs shaking and lip quivering.

Sam wasn't far behind you, unleashing his load into your pussy before pulling out and leaving you aching and sore.

"Fucked you stupid, didn't I?" He snorts as he turns you over, wiping some of your tears away.

"Don't cry. You did so good for me." He coos 'innocently' as his fingers trail down to your sensitive hole.

"Sam-" Your weak and meaningless protest is interrupted by Sam shoving two fingers inside of you, curling and pumping in and out steadily.

Was it too much? Yes. But gosh you never wanted him to stop.