#taskmaster x reader

[cocastyle]

I See You

Pairing — Bob Reynolds x reader

Word Count — 4k

Warning — SPOILER WARNING FOR THE THUNDERBOLTS* MOVIE I REPEAT SPOILER WARNING FOR THE THUNDERBOLTS* MOVIE!!

A/N — breaking my two years of not posting in honor of this amazing movie and character. the Thunderbolts* has reawakened my fire to write and I couldn’t ignore it. so here you go! this will be a bit of a short series. i kind of envision around three parts or so? anyways, i really hope you enjoy this and know this is your last warning before you continue on!! so if you haven’t seen the Thunderbolts* please save this for later <3

also, did you all notice the easter eggs i included ?? 👀

Part One Part Two

SPOILER WARNING FOR THE THUNDERBOLTS* MOVIE! READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!

Bob Reynolds wasn't quite sure how any of this had happened. One minute he was pretty sure he had been dying and the next he was trapped in a series of never ending nightmares. Except it wasn't just his nightmares, there were other people's too.

He knew he had been having these moments where he didn't remember things, knew that there was something going on at a deeper level than he wanted to admit. He thought with Valentina explaining this power he had been given that it would explain everything he had been feeling, that the darkness wasn't truly his but something brought on by this experiment.

But he knew the truth and walking through these endless nightmares only proved that. The darkness was his. It was a culmination of everything he was feeling, everything that had been consuming him, and it had only taken more of a physical form thanks to the Sentry project.

Bob had no way of fighting this thing, no way of taking back control of his body. And at this point he wasn't even sure if he wanted control. After all, he was just Bob. He was useless. He was nothing. Everyone would be better off without him.

So now he was trapped with no where else to go but to walk through the thousands of rooms of everyone's deepest regrets and shames.

It had been an accident at first, but sometime after his own meth chicken nightmare was when he first started stumbling into the other rooms. He saw so many things, felt the guilt and weight that everyone else felt. One in particular had stuck with him when he had ended up watching the loop of a blind lawyer watching his friend die over and over. Bob couldn't watch that for very long before he was hurriedly trying to get to any other room but that one, the blind man's cries still rattling his bones.

Bob didn't know how long he walked for or how many rooms he went through until he got to one that made him pause as he came face to face with Tony Stark. It had been a while since the hero's death, but still seeing the face of the man that had helped bring everyone back from the Blip made Bob falter slightly.

Someone's biggest trauma was Tony Stark?

Bob took a couple steps back, his eyes scanning over the room as he tried to ground himself in what was going on. He seemed to be in someone's apartment. The place would've been nice if it weren't for the fact that whoever was living here clearly hadn't been picking up after themselves in quite some time. And by the look Tony Stark was making as he glanced at the dirty dishes in the sink, it seemed he was thinking the same.

Bob knew the signs before he even saw her. It wasn't just the state of the apartment, but it was the feeling in the air. That feeling of despair, sadness, and nothingness. That feeling of knowing you were alone and there was nothing you could do about it. It clung to everything in the apartment and Bob's heart ached slightly at the sight. After all, he knew what this was like. He knew it too well.

"I can feel you judging me," a voice said, instantly pulling Bob's attention to the couch where a girl was sitting with a blanket wrapped around her and a bottle of vodka in hand. She wouldn't meet Tony Stark's eyes as she stared at the bottle, her fingers numbly fiddling with the label. "I didn't ask for you to come over and judge how I'm living. Hell, I didn't even ask you to come over, so you might as well go."

Tony let out a soft sigh, "Kid, you were ignoring my calls. Of course I was going to come check on you."

"Ever think I ignored them for a reason?"

Tony huffed and grabbed a chair from the kitchen table before dragging it over in front of the couch. He sat down in front of the girl, tilting his head slightly as he watched her before saying, "You can't keep living like this."

"You think I don't know that?" she asked, her voice bitter. “Why are you here, Tony?”

Tony just watched her in silence before saying, "Listen, Steve and Natasha came to see me yesterday and—"

The girl slammed the bottle down on the table so hard Bob thought it would break. Her eyes were red rimmed as she glared at the man and muttered, "No. We're not doing this. You're not going to sit there and try to rope me into some crazy plot to try and bring everyone back. It's been five years and I'm done, okay? I have nothing left in me anymore and I don't give a shit, so just leave."

"Kid—"

"I said leave!" she exclaimed, her eyes beginning to glow white with a power that Bob could almost feel beneath his own skin. "I'm not some sob story for you to try to fix, okay? I messed up and didn't kill Thanos in time and half of the universe had to pay for it. I'm done trying to help. All I ever do is hurt people."

She looked away, her voice rough when she whispered, "You're all better off without me anyways."

Bob sucked in a breath at that, understanding washing over him as he watched the broken girl do everything she could not to cry.

"Y/N," Tony began but the girl simply shook her head.

"No, Tony. I'm done. Just leave and go ahead and do yourself a favor and never come back. It's not worth your time or energy and I sure as hell don't want you here," she said, her head still turned.

Tony stilled slightly at her words. "You don't mean that," he told her, but before he could even blink, Y/N had used her telekinesis to pick up the bottle of vodka and send it hurtling in his direction. The man barely had time to duck out of the way before it flew right past where his head had been and shattered against the wall. Tony turned to her in surprise but the girl was already getting up and walking to the door of what had to be her bedroom.

"I miss him too you know," Tony called after her causing the girl to still.

"Stop," Y/N warned him, but Tony ignored her and instead stood up, his eyes not leaving her as he clearly made no move to leave.

"Y/N, he wouldn't want this for you. That kid loved you so much. He would be devastated by—"

"I said stop!" Y/N yelled and before anyone knew what was happening, a force was suddenly throwing Tony across the room. The man thought fast and his nano suit had wrapped around him before he could even hit the wall and Bob watched as the color drained from Y/N's face at what she had done.

She was shaking as she stared at Tony, but by the time he was looking back up at her, the Iron Man mask sliding away from his face, she was cold once again. "Get the hell out of my apartment," was all she said before turning and walking into her room, slamming the door behind her. Bob watched her go, frowning slightly as the scene began to play again.

"That was before they won against Thanos," a voice said causing Bob to flinch in surprise. He quickly turned around to find Y/N a little ways behind him, sitting down at a chair in the corner of the room. Her eyes continued to watch the scene playing out in front of her and Bob was almost beginning to question if she had spoke in the first place when she muttered, "That was the last time I saw him before he died."

Her eyes met his then and Bob stilled under her gaze. She was a couple of years older than the version of her from the memory, a little more put together but in the kind of way that screamed help more than her younger self's look had. She had learned to mask it more, that much was clear. Or maybe it was just that Bob knew where to look, that he saw himself when he looked at her and knew in more ways than one just how tired she was.

"Who was he talking about?" Bob asked, silently cursing himself for that being the first thing he said but knowing he now had to just go with it. "The guy?"

Y/N hesitated, her eyes glazing over as she got lost in thought. There was a tiny moment of utter sadness that flashed across her face but it was gone so quickly as she muttered, "I don't know." She let out a sad laugh. "Isn't that sad? It's like there's blanks in my memory. All I know is that there is this immense feeling of loss not just once, but twice. Every time I try to think of him it's like the image of him only gets fuzzier."

Bob was silent for a moment. "I have trouble remembering things too," he admitted. "There are these moments where it's like I'll wake up from a dream I don't remember having and that time is just gone."

Y/N's eyes flickered his way, her gaze shifting over him in a way that made him stand up a little straighter. "I walked through a lot of rooms before ending up here," she told him, her eyes still studying him as though she were trying to piece him together. "This was the only one I couldn't leave."

"Why?" Bob questioned.

"Why did you stop in this one?" she retorted and Bob blinked in surprise. Her head tilted slightly as she stared blankly at the boy. It was a moment before she looked away and back at Tony who was watching her past self slam the door shut behind her as the memory started back up again. "I just wanted to see him again, I guess," she whispered. "I always hated this moment, hated that I pushed him away like that and left him to fight Thanos without me. Sometimes I wonder..."

She trailed off before shrugging slightly and looking back at Bob. "Guess I was as shocked by seeing Tony's face as you were when you walked in," Y/N said. Bob barely even thought his question before she placed a finger against her temple and let out a small sigh of exhaustion. "Telekinesis," she stated. "Just a fraction of the power I was born with, but it comes in handy from time to time. I knew who you were the second you walked into this memory. Your mind is very loud, but not in the way you'd expect it to be."

Bob wanted to ask her more, but it was clear she didn't want to expand on that comment. Instead she merely tapped her fingers against the arm of the chair she sat in and said, "So you're the one doing this."

It wasn't a question. She said it as though it were fact. Not that she was wrong, but something about the way she said it still made Bob's throat constrict.

"It's not. . .it's not me. It's—" Bob broke off and he could see the way she stared at him, knew that she was reading his mind. She blinked and quickly looked away. "Sorry," she whispered. "I can't help it sometimes. You lock yourself away long enough and you'll find it harder to control what once was so easy. But I get a sense that you know that."

Bob let out a small sigh, his eyes flickering over the past Y/N who sat on the couch with a haunted look in her eyes and a tight grip on the bottle in her hand.

"We've all done some bad things," Y/N told him, answering the questions flying through his mind. "I had the unfortunate experience of being the reason half the universe died. I was there that day that Thanos went to Wakanda to take the Mind Stone from Vision. I was the last one there before he snapped. I could've stopped it, but I let his words get to me and . . . well, you know the rest."

“The Blip,” Bob muttered and Y/N nodded solemnly. He could see her trying to keep it all together, but the tension was practically radiating off of her as she avoided his gaze.

“Go ahead and say it,” Y/N told him, her gaze locked on her past self who was busy hurling the bottle at Tony’s head. “You probably lost someone in the Blip, right? Had to suffer five years without them? Who was it? Family? Friends?”

Y/N didn’t even give him time to respond as she let out a sigh as if everything were pointless, “It doesn’t matter. Everyone still thinks the same thing, but I don’t blame them.”

“It’s my fault,” she admitted. “I caused everyone so much pain and suffering and then, when I had the chance to make things right, I pushed everyone away and locked myself in my room. Then Natasha died. Then Tony. And eventually Steve followed. And where was I? Drowning my sorrows in a bottle like the asshole that I am.” Y/N scoffed slightly at herself, the fury in her eyes something most people would probably flinch at but all Bob could do was soften at the sight. “So go ahead and say what you want. Call me names. Shout at me. Tell me how much of a monster I am. I deserve it. I’ll always deserve it.”

Bob didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what he could say. Not because it was all too much to process, but because he understood it. He understood what she was feeling. The pain and the anger. The guilt and regret. The shame. He understood it in ways he couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

But the silence was loud and Y/N wouldn’t meet his eyes. She just stared at the scene in front of her as her past self’s voice filled the silence between them, her voice rough as she whispered, "You're all better off without me anyways."

Y/N flinched at those words, her face crumbling slightly as she leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Bob felt his heart ache at the sight and for a moment, he saw himself sitting there in that chair. But more importantly, he saw her. He saw Y/N for who she truly was. He didn’t know what to say to her to make her better, so instead he just thought it.

I see you.

Y/N's eyes snapped up to him and Bob knew he hadn't had to say that out loud. She had heard him loud and clear.

She stood without another word, her eyes never leaving his as she walked towards him. She was quiet as she stopped in front of him, her gaze turning questioning as she studied him.

You do see me, don't you?

Bob let out a small gasp as her voice echoed in his head. He stared at her with wide eyes, but didn't flinch away not even when she took a step closer so that they were only a breath apart.

I can feel it, you know? That darkness. It calls to me.

"You know where he is?" Bob asked and Y/N quickly shook her head.

"I'm not talking about the Void," she whispered. She gently lifted her hand and placed it on his chest, right above his heart. "Here."

Bob's breath stuttered and he tried to keep his heart from racing as he whispered, "W-what does it say?"

"That it understands," Y/N replied. "That it sees what’s inside my own heart.” She hesitated before giving him a sad smile. “Like calls to like after all."

Bob stared at her, his eyes flickering over her face. He had thought she was pretty before, but up close she was even more beautiful than he could’ve imagined. Her eyebrow quirked slightly as if she had heard that thought and maybe she had, but Y/N was already moving on which he was silently thankful about.

“You feel it too,” she said and Bob didn’t need to say it out loud to confirm her thoughts. After all, he knew what she was talking about and she was right. Ever since he had emerged into this room, he had felt a sort of tug. It was the reason he had stayed. He thought it was because of seeing Tony Stark, but it was because he had felt her from the moment he had stepped foot into that room.

It was because he had seen her before ever laying eyes on her and it seemed she had done the same.

“I don’t know what to do,” Bob admitted, his words strained. “Every time I think I’m getting better, that I’ve finally pulled myself out of that darkness, I just. . .”

“Get pulled back under again?”

Bob was quiet for a moment, his gaze dropping to the floor as that same feeling of shame that always crept up when he thought about his problems beginning to rise in the form of a blush on his neck, “Yeah.”

There was a gentle touch against his chin before Y/N lifted his head so that his gaze met hers once more. Her touched lingered for just a moment, but then her hand was dropping back down to her side. Not once did she move the one that was still resting on his chest and above his heart, the only source of comfort either of them seemed to need.

She gave him a sad smile, her eyes getting a sort of far off look as she whispered, “Sometimes the hardest battle you’ll ever face is with yourself.”

Bob felt tears prick his eyes at those words and for a moment, he even felt a sense of comfort. Someone knew what he was going through. Someone understood.

He had never had that before.

“How do we beat it?” Bob’s voice was barely above a whisper.

Y/N seemed to come back to herself at those words, her eyes locking with his once more and her hand tightened on his shirt. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I’d like to figure that out. Together.”

Bob swore he stopped breathing at those words.

“Together,” he repeated, tears filling his eyes slightly out of disbelief.

Y/N merely nodded and she gently reached up, her thumb quickly swiping under his eye to brush away a stray tear that had fallen. Her own eyes were lined with tears as she whispered through a soft laugh, “Yeah, together. As long as you’re okay with being friends with the girl who does nothing but screw everything up.”

Bob couldn’t stop the small grin that began to peak out, the corners of his lips twitching up slightly as he opened his mouth to respond.

It was then that the doors to the room flew open, darkness flooding in and covering the walls and floors with black tendrils as it raced towards the two. The two stumbled back and away from each other as they tried to avoid the darkness creeping in and Y/N let out a small shout when her past self and Tony dissolved into nothing but shadows.

“Bob,” Y/N called out, but the boy was already reaching for her. He had ahold of her arm within a second and he pulled her to the one corner of the room not covered in darkness just yet.

His eyes were wide as he scanned what was left of the room, his grip tightening on Y/N’s arm in slight panic and confusion as he tried to process what was happening.

The darkness had never come after Bob before.

Not like this.

Something had signaled the Void. Something had scared him.

Bob’s eyes flickered to Y/N who was leaning into his touch, the tips of her fingers already beginning to glow white as she clearly analyzed the situation. His fingers felt warm against her forearm and for a moment he let himself remember the feel of her hand on his chest, the way her breath had fanned his face, and the way her words had wrapped around his heart like a hug he hadn't know he had needed.

And he knew.

The Void fed off of his sadness and loneliness and whatever Y/N had been making him feel was the opposite. The Void would do whatever he needed to crush this feeling, to stay in control. Even if it meant there were casualties along the way.

Bob’s heart ached at that thought and he quickly turned to Y/N who was backing closer to him as they were pushed further into the corner of the room and her memory. She moved her arm out of his grasp in order to hold her hands up, a white light emitting out against the darkness as she tried to hold it at bay.

"Bob, what's going on?" she asked. "What do we do?"

"I—" Bob was panicking now, the thought of Y/N getting hurt making him feel so many emotions that he hadn't felt in a long time. It scared him how much he felt towards the girl within just one conversation. He already knew he would do whatever needed to be done to save her and that thought alone scared him in more ways than one. Even more than the plan that was beginning to develop in his head, the plan that would save Y/N but would mean leaving her at the same time.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Y/N's head whipped in his direction. "Bob, no. You can't run. You have to fight this thing. If you don't, the darkness will only continue to consume you," she said.

"Cause you know what that's like?" Bob retorted, his panic and fear making him sound bitter. "We just watched the same memory over and over of you letting the darkness take over. If you can't fight it, what makes you think I can?"

Y/N's eyes softened slightly. "Bob," she started, but the darkness pushed closer towards them and she let out a strangled sound as she strained to keep her powers in check.

Bob watched her for a second, his eyes flickering over her one last time before he leaned forward. His lips brushed gently against her ear and he felt her shiver slightly under his touch. His breath came out shaky as he whispered, "I would've liked to be your friend."

Then, before she could do or say anything else, Bob had pulled back and thrown himself against the wall of the memory. His body broke through the barrier and into the next room, the darkness leaving Y/N behind in favor of chasing the boy.

"Bob!" Y/N cried out as she attempted to lunge after him, but the darkness threw her back and by the time she was up on her feet again, the memory had sealed itself around her, forcing her to relive the same moment with Tony while Bob got away.

- - -

Bob didn’t know how long he ran for. All he knew was that it took forever for him to get back to his own rooms. He almost cried when the meth chicken scene appeared before him, but he didn’t stop there. He continued his trek even after the darkness eventually faded away, now satisfied that Bob was back where he belonged.

Everything was just too loud, the memories too much for Bob to withstand while that feeling of utter loneliness crept up on him once more. It was foolish of him to think he could ever have someone understand him, that he could ever have someone in his life without hurting them in the end. He had done this to himself.

He deserved to be alone.

At some point Bob eventually managed to find the attic of one of his memories, the only quiet place in this miserable void, and he was quick to tuck himself away in there, away from all the noise and the darkness that he could feel feeding off of everyone's chaos.

It was only then that he sat down and curled in on himself, his breathing shaky as he tried to push every last thought of Y/N out of his head.

"She's better off without me," Bob whispered to himself like a mantra, his head tucked close to his knees as he let the stillness envelope him in a hug much different than the one Y/N’s words had given him. “She’s better off without me.”

“Everyone is.”

[urdreamydoodles]

MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

Your first kiss

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

PETER PARKER (SPIDER-MAN)

- The city is quiet tonight, or as quiet as New York ever gets. You sit beside Peter on the rooftop of his apartment, your legs dangling over the edge, the skyline stretching endlessly before you. The neon lights paint his face in streaks of color, flickering like the embers of something unspoken between you. He’s rambling—about school, about the Bugle, about the latest science joke that made him laugh—until he stops mid-sentence, swallowing whatever he was about to say. His fingers tap anxiously against his thigh, a restless rhythm betraying his thoughts.

- It happens when he turns to look at you, his brown eyes soft and unbearably earnest. There’s something about the way the wind plays with your hair, the way the city hums beneath you, the way the space between you feels like a held breath. His hand, calloused from web-swinging, brushes against yours, tentative but lingering. "I—uh," he starts, then stops, then exhales a nervous laugh. "I think I've been waiting for the right moment, but—maybe this is it?" He’s always second-guessing, always overthinking, but this time, you see the decision settle in his gaze before he moves.

- The kiss is hesitant at first—Peter Parker, for all his brilliance, is still a boy who fumbles when he cares too much. His lips are warm, the taste of laughter and something achingly familiar laced between them. And when you don’t pull away, when your fingers find their place in his hair, he exhales against your mouth like relief, like gratitude. His arms circle around you, pulling you closer, the city forgotten, the night reduced to the way you fit against him.

- When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his breath unsteady. "Okay," he murmurs, voice edged with wonder, "so, that was—wow." And then he grins, that boyish, lopsided thing that makes your heart stutter. "I think I need to run some tests. Y'know, for science. Just to make sure it wasn’t a fluke." He’s already leaning in again, and this time, neither of you hesitate.

TONY STARK (IRON MAN)

- The night is heavy with champagne and the soft murmur of jazz drifting through the penthouse. Tony, ever the spectacle, had spent the evening dazzling the crowd with sharp wit and sharper smiles, but now it’s just the two of you, the after-hours of the party settling into something quieter, something real. He’s undone the top buttons of his shirt, sleeves rolled up, exposing the scars that speak of past battles and victories that cost too much. His fingers trail along the rim of his glass, but his eyes are on you, dark and contemplative.

- "You know," he muses, voice rich with amusement, "I’ve kissed a lot of people in my time. Scandalous, I know." A smirk, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "But this one—this one might actually matter." The admission is half a jest, half a confession, and wholly Tony Stark—deflecting with humor, with bravado, but never insincere. He leans forward, the world outside reduced to the warmth of his gaze, the space between you shrinking with every breath.

- The kiss is molten, slow but deliberate, the kind of thing that leaves its mark. Tony Stark is a man who takes what he wants, but this—this is different. He kisses you like a man savoring a stolen moment, like he’s memorizing the taste of you, the feel of you, like he’s afraid that if he moves too fast, you might disappear. His hands cradle your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones with something almost reverent.

- When he pulls away, his breath is unsteady, his eyes darker than before. "Well," he murmurs, his voice rough at the edges, "that was definitely a top contender for best kiss ever. Might have to do some retesting, though. Y'know, for science." The grin that follows is lazy, pleased, but there’s something softer beneath it—something that lingers as he pulls you in for another.

STEVE ROGERS (CAPTAIN AMERICA)

- The battlefield is silent now, the fight won, but the scent of smoke and steel still clings to the air. You stand beside Steve, both of you breathing hard, adrenaline still crackling in your veins. His shield is strapped to his back, his uniform scuffed and torn in places, but he’s whole. Alive. And for a moment, that’s all that matters. The world around you is chaos, but in this sliver of time, there is only him. The golden light of the setting sun catches in his hair, highlights the worry still etched in the furrow of his brow as he turns to you.

- "You scared me today," he says, voice quiet but steady. Not an accusation, just the truth. Steve Rogers doesn’t scare easily—not when facing enemies, not when staring down impossible odds—but you, you are something else entirely. His gloved hand reaches for yours, fingers tracing the bruises blooming along your wrist, a silent apology for the pain neither of you could avoid. His jaw tenses, and then, softer, "I don’t want to lose you."

- The kiss is inevitable, a culmination of unsaid words and lingering glances stretched over countless battles. Steve moves like a man who believes in purpose, in certainty, and right now, you are his. His lips meet yours with quiet desperation, firm yet impossibly gentle, as if he’s afraid you might break beneath his touch. But there is strength in the way you answer, in the way you hold him closer, fingers curling into the fabric of his suit. The war fades into the background, the ache in your bones forgotten beneath the weight of him.

- When he pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, breath mingling with your own. "I mean it," he murmurs, a promise laced between the syllables. His hand tightens around yours, unwavering. "I’m not letting go." And somehow, you know he never will.

THOR

- The storm rolls in like a heartbeat, distant thunder thrumming beneath your feet as the wind tangles in your hair. You stand beside Thor on the edge of a cliff, overlooking the vastness of Asgard’s golden horizon. The feast is still raging behind you, laughter and music spilling from the halls, but here, in the open air, it is just the two of you. His gaze is on you, blue and endless, filled with something deep and unshaken.

- "You are different from the others," he muses, tilting his head as if pondering a great mystery. "Stronger, in a way that has nothing to do with battle. I have seen warriors crumble beneath lesser burdens, and yet—you endure." There is admiration in his tone, reverence even, as if you are something worthy of legends. His fingers brush against yours, tentative for a god who has known conquest and war. "It is… humbling."

- The kiss is as sudden as the storm breaking overhead—lightning splitting the sky as Thor moves. There is no hesitation, no second-guessing, only the raw certainty of a god who knows his own heart. His lips are fire and fury, the taste of rain clinging to the space between you. He holds you as if he could keep you here, bound to him by the force of his embrace, by the quiet, unshakable devotion that lingers in every touch.

- When he pulls away, the storm settles, the world exhaling as if in reverence. He watches you, eyes dark with something ancient, something unbreakable. "I have lived lifetimes," he murmurs, his voice a promise carved into the bones of the universe itself. "But this—I would live them all again, if only to find you once more.”

LOKI

- The air crackles between you, heavy with something unspoken, something that has been threading through your conversations like a whispered promise for longer than either of you will admit. Loki lounges before you, the very image of ease, but his fingers tap restlessly against the arm of his chair, betraying the storm beneath his skin. His sharp green eyes trace your form, lingering, considering, as if trying to decipher a puzzle he has yet to solve. “Do you know what it means,” he muses, voice a blade honed to silk, “for a creature like me to crave something?”

- The question lingers, woven with challenge and invitation, but you do not flinch. You have never been one to cower beneath his words, and that—more than anything—has always drawn him to you like a moth to an unforgiving flame. He stands in a slow, fluid motion, closing the space between you with deliberate steps, the ghost of a smirk curving his lips. "I have held kingdoms in my hands, stolen secrets from the lips of gods—" his fingers lift, barely grazing your chin, "—and yet, I find myself most drawn to the one thing that refuses to be claimed."

- And then he kisses you. No warning, no hesitation, just the full force of Loki's unyielding will pouring into you like a flood breaking through a dam. It is a kiss spun from defiance and devotion, from a god who has never known worship in the way he craves it from you. His hands—so often wielding knives and illusions—now cradle you as though you are the only thing in this world worth holding onto. There is something desperate in the way he moves, as if he fears this moment will be stolen, as if even now, he expects the universe to take you from him.

- When he pulls away, his breath is unsteady, his usual mask nowhere to be seen. He searches your face, as if expecting you to vanish like another trick of the light. “Do you see now?” he murmurs, his voice quieter than before. “This is not a game for me.” There is something almost fragile in the confession, something that would be a secret to anyone but you. You smile—soft, knowing—and pull him back to you, sealing your answer between his lips.

CLINT BARTON (HAWKEYE)

- The first time Clint kisses you, it’s after a mission gone sideways, when the dust has barely settled and the adrenaline still thrums in your veins like a second heartbeat. The two of you sit on the rooftop of some rundown motel, passing a cheap bottle of whiskey between you while the neon lights of the city flicker in the distance. There’s a gash on his cheek, dried blood beneath his nails, but his grin is easy, effortless, as if you both didn’t almost die hours ago. “Hell of a night,” he says, taking a slow sip before handing the bottle to you.

- He watches you as you drink, something unreadable flickering in his sharp blue eyes. Clint has always been good at watching, at noticing the things no one else does—the way your fingers tremble just slightly when you exhale, the way your shoulders carry the weight of too many ghosts. “You okay?” His voice is quieter now, serious in a way he doesn’t let himself be often. And maybe it’s the exhaustion, or the whiskey burning in your throat, or maybe it’s just the way he looks at you—like he’s already made up his mind about something—but you don’t lie. “Not really.”

- And then his lips are on yours. No preamble, no hesitation—just Clint, raw and unguarded, kissing you like he’s afraid this moment will slip through his fingers like everything else in his life. He tastes like whiskey and recklessness, like battle scars and late-night confessions. His hands find your face, rough and calloused, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones as if memorizing every inch of you. He pulls you closer, like he’s trying to drown himself in you, like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

- When he finally pulls away, he exhales a quiet laugh, forehead resting against yours. “Guess I really suck at timing, huh?” There’s something vulnerable in the way he says it, like he’s bracing for you to tell him this was a mistake. But you just shake your head, smiling as you steal the whiskey bottle from his hands. “Nah,” you murmur, taking a slow sip, “you’re just an idiot.” He grins, and just like that, the weight on your shoulders feels a little lighter.

NATASHA ROMANOFF (BLACK WIDOW)

- The rain falls in soft sheets around you, the dim glow of the streetlights casting shadows along the slick pavement. Natasha stands beside you, her red hair damp, strands clinging to her cheekbones. The mission is over, the enemy neutralized, but neither of you have moved from this quiet corner of the city. She has barely spoken since you both walked away from the wreckage, but you know her well enough to recognize the weight in her silence. “You don’t have to be okay,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “Not with me.”

- She looks at you then, something shifting behind her guarded green eyes. Natasha is a woman who has built walls so high that even she forgets what lies beyond them. But here, in the quiet of the rain, she lets something slip—just for a moment. "I don't know how to do this," she admits, the words foreign on her tongue, heavy with a truth she rarely allows herself to speak. She takes a step closer, close enough that you can feel the warmth of her despite the cold. “But I want to try.”

- And then she kisses you. Slow, deliberate, like a secret unfolding between you. Natasha Romanoff has always been calculated, controlled—but here, with you, she allows herself to be something else. Her lips move against yours with a quiet intensity, as if she’s searching for something she has spent her whole life denying herself. Her hands rest lightly against your jaw, fingers trembling just slightly before she grips you tighter, pulling you in like she’s afraid to let go.

- When she finally pulls back, she stays close, her breath warm against your lips. “Tell me this isn’t a mistake,” she murmurs, and there is something fragile in the way she says it, something raw. You brush a damp strand of hair from her face, meeting her gaze with quiet certainty. “It’s not,” you promise. And this time, when she kisses you again, she does not hesitate.

BUCKY BARNES (WINTER SOLDIER)

- The cabin is silent except for the sound of the fire crackling in the hearth. Bucky sits across from you, his metal fingers curled loosely around a mug of coffee, steam curling in the dim light. Outside, the snow falls thick and heavy, turning the world into something quiet, something untouched. He has been different since coming here—softer, but still carrying the weight of ghosts in his eyes. “Feels like another life,” he murmurs, staring into the fire. “Like I don’t belong in it.”

- You set your mug down, moving to sit beside him on the worn-out couch. “You do,” you say simply, because it is the truth. He turns to you then, something unreadable in the depths of his blue eyes. Bucky Barnes is a man who has spent a lifetime fighting his own reflection, drowning in the echoes of a past he cannot escape. But here, now, you see something else—something softer, something searching. “You make it feel real,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper.

- And then, with a quiet resolve, he leans in. The kiss is hesitant at first, like he’s waiting for the world to pull him away from you. But when you don’t flinch, when you don’t disappear, something in him unravels. His lips move against yours with aching slowness, like he is memorizing every second, like this is something fragile he is terrified of breaking. His hands shake slightly when they settle on your waist, fingers curling into the fabric of your sweater, grounding himself in the reality of you.

- When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his breath uneven. “Tell me I’m not dreaming,” he murmurs. You smile, pressing another kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You’re not.” And for the first time in a long time, Bucky Barnes believes you.

MATTHEW MURDOCK (DAREDEVIL)

- It happens in the quiet hours of the night, when Hell’s Kitchen is caught between the restless hum of the city and the stillness of something deeper, something almost sacred. You sit beside him on the rooftop, the neon glow of a flickering sign painting his face in sharp red shadows. His hands are bruised, his knuckles split open like old confessions, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, his fingers twitch against his thigh, as if fighting the urge to reach for you. “You’re too good for this city,” he murmurs, his voice rough, edged with something that sounds dangerously close to longing.

- You shake your head, smiling softly. “And you’re not?” The question lingers between you, heavy with meaning, with the weight of all the nights spent tending to his wounds, of all the times you’ve felt his presence before he even spoke your name. He turns his face toward you then, unseeing eyes searching, and you wonder if he can hear the way your heartbeat stutters beneath your ribs. “I know what good feels like,” he says finally, his voice quieter now, like a confession. “And it’s you.”

- Then, before you can speak, his lips are on yours. There is no hesitation, no faltering—just Matt, breaking the tension like a dam finally giving way. His hands find your face, fingers tracing the shape of your jaw with a reverence that makes your breath catch. He kisses you like he’s memorizing you, like he’s mapping out something he’s known for years but never dared to touch. He tastes like rain and something bittersweet, something that feels like the beginning of an ache he’ll never quite shake.

- When he finally pulls away, his breath is unsteady, his hands still cradling your face like he’s afraid to let go. He presses his forehead against yours, his voice barely above a whisper. “Tell me I didn’t just make a mistake.” There is something fragile in the way he says it, something vulnerable beneath all the armor. You smile, brushing your thumb over the fresh bruise on his cheek. “You didn’t,” you promise, and he exhales, like he’s been holding his breath for longer than he’ll ever admit.

FRANK CASTLE (PUNISHER)

- The world around you is painted in blood and smoke, the aftermath of a night that should have ended differently. The warehouse still burns in the distance, the scent of gasoline thick in the air, but neither of you move. You’re standing too close to him, the heat of his body bleeding into yours, the adrenaline still thrumming between you like a second heartbeat. He’s got a cut on his forehead, dried blood tracing the line of his jaw, but his eyes—sharp, dark, unforgiving—are focused only on you. “You shouldn’t be here,” he says, though there’s no real warning in his tone.

- “And you should?” you challenge, your voice steady despite the weight of everything that’s just happened. Frank exhales through his nose, a sound that could almost be a laugh if it wasn’t so hollow. He’s looking at you like you’re something he doesn’t quite know what to do with, like you’re a puzzle with missing pieces. “You don’t get it,” he mutters, his jaw tight. “Everything I touch, it ends up—” He stops himself, shaking his head. But you don’t let him finish. “I’m still here,” you say softly, and those three words cut through him sharper than any bullet ever could.

- And then, without warning, he grabs you. His hands—rough, calloused, steady despite the storm inside him—frame your face, and then his lips crash against yours with a force that steals the breath from your lungs. Frank Castle doesn’t do anything gently, and this kiss is no exception. It’s raw, desperate, full of all the things he can’t say, all the things he’s spent too many years trying to bury. He tastes like gunpowder and whiskey, like violence and something achingly human.

- When he finally pulls back, he keeps his hands on you, his forehead pressing against yours. His breath is ragged, his grip just shy of bruising. “You’re too good for this,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. But you don’t move, don’t pull away, don’t give him the out he’s expecting. Instead, you just tighten your hold on him, anchoring him to something solid. “I don’t care,” you whisper back, and for the first time in a long time, Frank lets himself believe you.

BULLSEYE (LESTER)

- The motel room is dimly lit, the neon sign outside casting an eerie blue glow against the cracked wallpaper. You shouldn’t be here. Not with him. Not like this. But you are. Bullseye leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, head tilted as he watches you with that sharp, calculating gaze of his. “You got a death wish, sweetheart?” he asks, but there’s something almost amused in the way he says it, like he already knows the answer. Like he already knows that you aren’t leaving.

- “If I did, I’d be dead already,” you answer, and that makes him grin, all teeth and danger. He takes a slow step toward you, his boots barely making a sound against the floor. “Yeah,” he murmurs, tilting his head. “Guess you’re tougher than you look.” His fingers brush against yours, a ghost of a touch, but even that is enough to send something electric skittering down your spine. He’s testing you, waiting for you to flinch, to pull away. You don’t.

- And that’s all the permission he needs. His lips crash against yours, all heat and hunger and something far more dangerous. Bullseye doesn’t kiss like a man who loves—he kisses like a man who consumes. His teeth scrape against your lower lip, his hands gripping your waist like he’s daring you to run, like he wants to see just how far you’ll let him go. He tastes like sin, like something forbidden, like trouble wrapped in leather and bad intentions.

- When he finally pulls away, his breath is uneven, his pupils blown wide. He runs his thumb over your swollen lip, his smirk laced with something almost possessive. “You’re playin’ a dangerous game, sweetheart,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t let you go. He doesn’t want you to. You tilt your head, smirking back at him. “So are you.” And just like that, he’s kissing you again, laughing against your lips like he’s just won something.

MARC SPECTOR (MOON KNIGHT)

- The desert air is cool against your skin, the stars stretching endlessly above you in a sky so dark it feels like you could fall into it. Marc stands beside you, his posture tense, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. He hasn’t spoken in minutes, but you can feel the war raging inside him, the weight of something he can’t seem to shake. “You don’t have to do this alone,” you say finally, your voice quiet but steady. He exhales a sharp breath, running a hand through his hair. “That’s the thing,” he mutters. “I do.”

- You step closer, closing the distance between you. “No, you don’t,” you insist, and something in his expression cracks. Marc has spent years running, years convincing himself that he is nothing more than the sum of his mistakes. But here, now, with you, he feels something he doesn’t quite know how to name. Something terrifying. Something real. He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,” he warns.

- And then he kisses you. It’s sudden, desperate, like he’s trying to brand the moment into his memory before it disappears. His hands are firm, holding you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded. He kisses like a man who’s afraid this is the last time he’ll ever be allowed to. He tastes like dust and exhaustion, like prayers whispered into the void.

- When he pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, his breath uneven. “I don’t deserve this,” he murmurs. But you just cup his face, forcing him to meet your gaze. “That’s not your call to make.” And when he kisses you again, it’s softer—less like a battlefield, more like a promise.

TASKMASTER (TONY MASTERS)

- The night is heavy with the scent of rain, the pavement slick beneath your boots as you follow Taskmaster through the abandoned lot. His mask hides his expression, but you’ve known him long enough to read the tension in his movements—the tight set of his shoulders, the way his fingers flex at his sides like he’s bracing for something. “You got a habit of walking into trouble,” he mutters, voice edged with something sharp, something protective. “Yeah?” you counter, stepping closer, tilting your head. “Then I guess it’s a good thing you never let me walk alone.”

- He exhales sharply, tilting his head toward you. His mask catches the neon light in slashes of blue and red, making him look almost inhuman. But you know better. You know the man behind the skull, the one who memorizes the way you move, the one who catalogues your tells, your habits, the way your breath hitches when he stands too close. “You keep getting in my head,” he mutters, and there’s something dangerous in the way he says it, something that sounds almost like surrender.

- And then, without warning, he lifts his mask just enough to press his lips against yours. The kiss is firm, deliberate—like a decision made in the space between one heartbeat and the next. His hands find your waist, pulling you closer, his body a wall of heat and tension and unspoken words. He tastes like adrenaline, like a man who’s spent too long in the dark and doesn’t know how to step into the light. You grip the fabric of his jacket, anchoring yourself to him, and he lets out a quiet, almost frustrated groan, like he hadn’t meant to let himself do this.

- When he finally pulls back, his breath is uneven, his mask still lifted just enough to show his mouth, his jaw. He stares at you for a long moment, his fingers still curled against your hip. “This is a bad idea,” he says, but he doesn’t let go. You smile, brushing your thumb over the fabric of his glove. “Then why does it feel like the best one you’ve had in a long time?” He huffs out something that’s almost a laugh before tugging his mask back down. “Damn you,” he mutters, but when he walks away, he reaches back, just once, and takes your hand in his.

JOHNNY STORM (HUMAN TORCH)

- The rooftop party is in full swing, music pulsing through the warm summer air, laughter spilling over the edge of the building like champagne bubbles. Johnny stands beside you, drink in hand, his usual smirk in place—but there’s something different about the way he looks at you tonight. Less cocky, more searching. He’s used to attention, to adoration, to people flocking to him like moths to an open flame. But you—you don’t just admire him. You see him. And that scares him more than he’ll ever admit.

- “You’re quiet tonight,” he muses, nudging your arm with his elbow. “That’s a first.” You roll your eyes, but there’s warmth in your smile. “Just taking it all in,” you reply, letting the city lights reflect in your eyes. He watches you like you’re something he’s trying to memorize, something fleeting that he’s afraid will slip through his fingers if he looks away. “You ever think about just… leaving it all behind?” he asks suddenly, his voice softer than usual. “The fame, the cameras, the expectations.”

- And then, before you can answer, he kisses you. It’s sudden, impulsive—because Johnny Storm has never been one for patience, never been one to hesitate when he wants something. His lips are warm, impossibly so, like he’s carrying embers beneath his skin. One of his hands cups the side of your face, fingers threading into your hair, while the other settles against the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. He kisses you like he’s afraid this moment might burn away before he gets to hold onto it.

- When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the warm summer air. He chuckles, a little breathless, a little dazed. “That was—” he starts, but then he stops himself, grinning. “—about damn time.” You laugh, shaking your head, and he grins even wider before pulling you in for another kiss, because Johnny Storm has never been one for half-measures.

REED RICHARDS (MISTER FANTASTIC)

- The lab is quiet, save for the soft hum of machines and the occasional scratch of pen against paper. You sit across from Reed, watching as he scribbles furiously in his notebook, his mind a million miles away. He gets like this sometimes—lost in thought, in theories, in equations only he can fully understand. But tonight, there’s something different. His brow is furrowed, his fingers tapping against the desk in a distracted rhythm. “You’re staring,” he remarks, not looking up.

- “You’re brooding,” you counter, tilting your head. That finally earns you a glance, his sharp eyes meeting yours over the rim of his glasses. “I don’t brood,” he mutters, and you can’t help but smile. He sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “It’s just… I’ve been considering something.” You raise a brow, waiting. He hesitates, then stands, moving to stand beside you. “An experiment,” he murmurs, voice quieter now. “A hypothesis I need to test.”

- And then, before you can fully process his words, he leans down and kisses you. It’s careful at first—measured, precise, like he’s cataloging every detail, like he’s analyzing the way your lips fit against his, the way your breath hitches, the way your fingers instinctively grip his sleeve. But then something shifts, and the scientist gives way to the man beneath. His arms tighten around you, his hands splaying against your back as he deepens the kiss, no longer thinking—just feeling.

- When he finally pulls away, his gaze is sharp, searching. “Fascinating,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. You blink, still catching your breath, and then you laugh. “Did you just kiss me for science?” He smirks, adjusting his glasses. “No,” he says simply, and then he kisses you again, because some things don’t need an explanation.

BEN GRIMM (THE THING)

- The night is quiet, the world softened by the glow of streetlamps and the distant murmur of the city. You sit beside Ben on the park bench, your fingers just barely brushing against his. He’s always careful with you, always so aware of the strength in his hands, the weight of his presence. But tonight, there’s something heavier in the air, something unspoken. “Y’know,” he mutters, staring straight ahead. “I ain’t exactly what most people would call… kissable.”

- You frown, turning to face him fully. “That’s not true,” you say, your voice firm. He lets out a rough chuckle, shaking his head. “C’mon, sweetheart. I ain’t exactly soft.” His voice is gruff, but there’s something vulnerable beneath it, something that makes your chest tighten. “Ben,” you say gently, reaching for his hand. He flinches, just slightly, but doesn’t pull away. “You don’t get to decide how I see you.”

- And then, before he can protest, you kiss him. You feel the moment he freezes, the way his breath catches in his throat. He doesn’t know what to do with this—with you, with the way you touch him like he isn’t something to be wary of. But then, slowly, carefully, he responds. His lips are warm, hesitant, like he’s afraid of breaking you, of breaking himself. His hands tremble slightly as they settle against your waist, his fingers barely curling around you, like he can’t quite believe this is real.

- When you finally pull back, he stares at you, wide-eyed, like he’s waiting for you to take it back. “You… you really mean that, don’t ya?” he murmurs, voice rough. You smile, pressing your forehead against his. “Yeah, Ben. I really do.” And for the first time in a long time, he lets himself believe it.

SUSAN STORM (INVISIBLE WOMAN)

- The evening is quiet, the world outside the Baxter Building hushed under the glow of the city. You sit beside Susan, watching the skyline through the vast glass windows, the lights flickering like stars fallen to earth. She is always composed, always poised, but tonight there’s a restlessness to her—a quiet tension in the way her fingers trace the rim of her glass, the way she exhales just a little too sharply. “I never let myself have this,” she murmurs, and when you turn to her, she’s already looking at you, her blue eyes full of something unreadable.

- You know what she means. Susan Storm carries the weight of leadership, of family, of responsibility. She is the glue that holds everything together, the lighthouse in the storm. But for all her strength, for all her brilliance, there are moments—fleeting, rare—where she lets herself be something else. Something softer. Something just for herself. And tonight, you realize, you are one of those moments.

- She reaches for you, hesitant at first, like she’s testing the shape of the decision she’s about to make. And then, suddenly, she moves—decisive, certain, as if she’s crossed some invisible threshold. Her lips meet yours, warm and insistent, the weight of unspoken things pouring into the space between you. There is something fierce in the way she kisses—something that speaks of restraint finally abandoned, of walls finally lowered. One hand tangles in your hair, the other resting lightly against your cheek, like she’s memorizing the feel of you.

- When she pulls back, her breath is uneven, her eyes searching yours for something—reassurance, maybe, or permission to fall just a little deeper. “I don’t want to lose myself in this,” she whispers, but you shake your head, touching her face, gentle and steady. “You won’t,” you promise, and something in her melts at the certainty in your voice. She leans in again, this time slower, softer, the weight of the world momentarily forgotten in the warmth of your touch.

FELICIA HARDY (BLACK CAT)

- The city belongs to you both tonight, the rooftops your playground, the neon glow painting Felicia in slashes of silver and blue. She moves like moonlight—fluid, untouchable, slipping between the cracks of the world with a smile that’s equal parts mischief and danger. “You’re keeping up,” she teases, glancing back at you over her shoulder. “I’m impressed.” You roll your eyes, but you know she can see the amusement flickering at the corner of your lips. “Maybe I just don’t want to give you the satisfaction of losing.”

- She grins, sharp and knowing, because that’s always been your game—this endless push and pull, this dance on the edge of something electric. You don’t chase Felicia Hardy. You don’t catch her. You match her. And that, more than anything, is what keeps her coming back. She leans in slightly, her voice dropping into something lower, silkier. “You know what I love about you?” she muses, tilting her head. “You make me want to break my own rules.”

- And then she kisses you, swift and decisive, like a thief taking exactly what she wants. There’s no hesitation, no uncertainty—only the heat of her mouth against yours, the way her hands find your collar, tugging you closer as if she’s daring you to keep up. She tastes like adrenaline, like the promise of trouble, like midnight secrets whispered against bare skin. The kiss deepens, slow and teasing, a game in itself—because Felicia Hardy never gives anything away for free.

- When she finally pulls back, her lips are curled into that signature smirk, her fingers still hooked in the fabric of your jacket. “Careful, darling,” she purrs, her voice thick with amusement. “I might just steal you next.” But you only smile, catching her wrist before she can slip away. “Maybe I’ll let you,” you murmur, and for the first time in a long time, Felicia Hardy wonders what it would feel like to be the one caught.

STEPHEN STRANGE (DOCTOR STRANGE)

- The Sanctum is still, the air heavy with the scent of ancient books and forgotten incantations. Stephen stands at his desk, eyes scanning the open pages of a tome older than memory itself, but his mind is elsewhere. You can tell by the way his fingers twitch against the parchment, the way his jaw tightens as if battling thoughts he refuses to voice. “Something’s on your mind,” you say, stepping closer. His gaze lifts to meet yours, sharp and contemplative. “You,” he admits, and the honesty of it knocks the breath from your lungs.

- Stephen Strange is not a man who loves easily. He is a fortress of intellect and discipline, a scholar of the arcane who has spent lifetimes mastering the impossible. And yet, here he stands, unraveling just slightly in your presence. He lifts a hand, fingers brushing against your cheek in an almost hesitant gesture—like he is tracing the edges of a spell too powerful to fully comprehend. “I was never meant for this,” he murmurs. “For softness. For wanting.”

- And then, like surrendering to something he cannot fight, he leans in. The kiss is slow, deliberate—a study in patience, in precision. His lips press against yours with a quiet intensity, as if memorizing the very essence of you. One hand rests at the nape of your neck, steady and grounding, while the other lingers at your waist, his touch both careful and commanding. He kisses you like he is trying to rewrite fate itself, like he is making a choice that defies every law he has ever known.

- When he finally pulls away, his breath is uneven, his usually composed expression softened in a way few have ever seen. “I should warn you,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing absent circles against your skin. “Nothing in my world is simple.” You smile, reaching up to touch his face, grounding him in something real. “Then it’s a good thing I’ve never been afraid of the impossible.” His lips quirk into something small, something almost reverent, before he kisses you again, sealing the spell between you.

NAMOR (THE SUB-MARINER)

- The ocean sings in the distance, waves lapping against the shore like the heartbeat of the earth itself. Namor stands beside you, the moonlight casting silver across his sharp features, his dark eyes reflecting the vastness of the sea. “This world is fragile,” he says, voice laced with something ancient, something heavy. “It does not deserve you.” You glance at him, at the way he watches you—not with admiration, not with softness, but with something deeper, something possessive. “And yet,” you murmur, stepping closer, “I am here.”

- Namor has never been a man to beg. He does not kneel. He does not ask. He takes what he wants, claims what he deems worthy. But with you, there is hesitation, a silent battle waging beneath the surface of his control. His fingers brush against yours, the slightest touch, but it is enough to set the air between you alight. “You tempt me,” he admits, voice low, almost reverent. “And I have never been a man with much patience.”

- And then he kisses you, fierce and unyielding, like the tide crashing against the shore. His hands settle on your hips, drawing you against him as if daring the world to try and pull you apart. There is no hesitation, no second-guessing—only the heat of his mouth, the sharp inhale of breath as he claims you the way he has always wanted to. He tastes like salt and storm, like the very essence of the ocean, like something wild that refuses to be tamed.

- When he finally pulls back, his grip remains firm, his forehead resting against yours as he exhales slowly. “You are mine,” he murmurs, not a question, not a plea—an undeniable truth. And for the first time, you realize you do not mind being claimed, not when it is by him.

JOHNNY BLAZE (GHOST RIDER)

- The desert wind howls through the canyon, a restless spirit caught between sand and sky. The motorcycle beneath Johnny hums like a living thing, its metal frame still warm from the hellfire that lingers in his veins. You sit beside him on the hood of an abandoned car, the silence stretching between you, thick with something unspoken. He isn’t a man of easy words, and neither are you, but there are moments like this—where the quiet speaks louder than any confession ever could.

- He glances at you, the flickering embers of his curse hidden beneath the deep blue of his eyes, and you feel the weight of his stare like a brand. “I don’t get good things,” he mutters, voice rough, shaped by years of regret and roads paved in fire. “Not for long.” You know he means you, means this, the fragile thing growing between you both. And maybe he’s right—maybe fate has already written tragedy into your story—but right now, with the stars burning above and his hand ghosting over yours, you want to defy it.

- He moves before you can answer, his lips crashing into yours with a hunger that speaks of desperation, of stolen chances and borrowed time. His hands are warm—almost too warm, like he’s barely holding back the fire inside him—but he doesn’t pull away. Not this time. The kiss is rough, raw, a clash of teeth and longing, and for a moment, you taste the hellfire that runs through his soul. He kisses you like a man who’s already lost everything once and refuses to lose again.

- When he finally breaks away, his breathing is uneven, his forehead pressed against yours as if grounding himself in the reality of you. “I don’t deserve this,” he whispers, but there’s no regret in his voice—only the trembling remnants of a man still learning how to hold onto something good. You grip the front of his jacket, pulling him closer, and when you speak, your voice is steady, unwavering. “Then we’ll steal it.” A slow smile tugs at his lips, something wild and reckless, and when he kisses you again, it feels like a promise to fight whatever hell comes next.

EDDIE BROCK / VENOM

- The city is a restless thing at night—buzzing, pulsing, alive. You stand on the rooftop beside Eddie, the neon lights casting shadows across his face, the distant hum of traffic filling the space between you. There’s tension in his shoulders, the kind that never quite leaves, the weight of a body that’s never entirely his own. “He likes you,” Eddie mutters, gesturing vaguely to the symbiote that lingers just beneath his skin. “Says I should stop being a coward and kiss you already.”

- A low, amused growl echoes in the back of Eddie’s throat—not entirely his own. “Yes,” Venom rumbles, voice curling through the night air like something alive. “She is ours.” Eddie groans, rubbing a hand over his face, but there’s no real annoyance in it. If anything, there’s something close to agreement buried beneath the exasperation. He turns to you, gaze flickering between hesitation and something darker, something unspoken. “You want this?” he asks, voice rough, uncertain. “Me? Us?”

- You don’t get the chance to answer. One moment, you’re staring at him, the city sprawled beneath your feet. The next, Eddie has you pressed against the rooftop ledge, his mouth on yours, his hands tangled in your hair. The kiss is desperate, consuming, an unspoken plea wrapped in heat and longing. And when the symbiote joins, its inky tendrils curling around your skin, it isn’t unwelcome—it’s protective, claiming, a silent promise that you are theirs, that they will never let you go.

- When he finally pulls back, his breath is ragged, his pupils blown wide. “Too much?” he asks, but you shake your head, fingers still fisted in his jacket. “Not enough,” you murmur, and a slow, wicked grin spreads across his lips. Venom purrs in agreement, and as Eddie leans in again, you realize that whatever this is—whatever you’ve become to them—it’s already too late to turn back.

T’CHALLA (BLACK PANTHER)

- The air is thick with the scent of blooming jasmine, the Wakandan night stretching vast and endless above you. T’Challa stands beside you on the palace balcony, his gaze sharp and contemplative as he watches the city below. He has always been like this—thoughtful, deliberate, a man who carries the weight of a nation with grace that borders on impossible. But tonight, he is not just a king. Tonight, he is simply a man, standing beside the one person who makes him forget the weight of his crown.

- “There is a saying in Wakanda,” he murmurs, voice low, reverent. “That love is not something taken, but something earned.” He turns to you then, his eyes dark with meaning, with unspoken truths. “I do not take this lightly. I do not take you lightly.” There is something beautiful in the way he says it, in the way he allows himself to be vulnerable with you, to let his guard drop even for a moment. You lift a hand, brushing your fingers along his jaw, and he exhales, his composure faltering just slightly.

- And then, like a tide giving way to the shore, he closes the distance between you. The kiss is slow, deliberate, like the turning of a page in an ancient story. His hands settle at your waist, steady, grounding, as if anchoring himself to the moment. There is no rush, no urgency—only quiet devotion, the kind that lingers, that settles deep in the bones. He kisses you with the weight of a man who has spent his life making careful decisions, and this—this is the one he chooses without hesitation.

- When he pulls back, his fingers trace a slow path along your cheek, his gaze still heavy with something unreadable. “You are my greatest risk,” he murmurs, and you know he means it. Because love, for a king, is always dangerous. But when you smile, pressing your forehead against his, he only exhales softly, as if surrendering to something inevitable. And when he kisses you again, it is no longer with hesitation, but with certainty.

ELEKTRA NATCHIOS

- The rain falls in thin silver threads, washing the city clean in its quiet embrace. You stand beside Elektra on the rooftop, the neon lights below flickering against the wet pavement. She is always beautiful like this—sharp, lethal, untouchable. But tonight, there is something different in the way she watches you, something softer, something almost fragile. “This is a mistake,” she whispers, but she doesn’t move away.

- You know what she means. Elektra is not made for gentle things. She is blood and steel, shadow and fury. She has killed men for less than what you make her feel. But even knowing this, even with the sharp edges of her past pressing against the space between you, you do not flinch. Instead, you step closer, watching as something in her gaze flickers—fear, maybe, or something far more dangerous.

- And then she moves, closing the distance between you with a swift, decisive grace. The kiss is not soft. It is not hesitant. It is fire and hunger, teeth and desperation. Her fingers curl into your hair, pulling you against her like she is trying to burn the shape of you into her memory. She tastes like danger, like a storm breaking over the city, like something you should run from but never will.

- When she finally pulls back, her breathing is uneven, her lips slightly parted as if she is about to speak. But she doesn’t. Instead, she presses her forehead to yours, the tension in her body slowly unraveling. “You should walk away,” she murmurs, but when you don’t move, when your hand finds hers in the dark, she exhales, defeated. And when she kisses you again, it is not a warning—it is surrender.

MUSE

- The world around you is a canvas, but Muse does not paint in colors meant for beauty. He sculpts in blood, in the echoes of silent screams, in the jagged edges of chaos where meaning is stripped bare. You should not be here—you, with your warmth, your softness, your ability to turn even the void into something full of light. And yet, he lets you stand beside him in the dim glow of a flickering streetlamp, his hands twitching at his sides as if unsure whether to destroy or to hold.

- "I see you," he murmurs, voice rasping like something broken. His eyes—dark, unreadable, filled with a hunger that has nothing to do with flesh—trace the lines of your face like you are something he will never be able to capture. "I see you in a way I don't see anything else." His art is made of madness, but you, you are the only thing that remains clear in the haze of his unraveling mind. And it terrifies him. It excites him. It pulls him closer, the weight of obsession curling around his ribs like wire.

- His hands move before his mind catches up, fingers ghosting over your jaw as if memorizing the texture of your skin. And then—without prelude, without hesitation—his mouth crashes against yours. It is not gentle. It is not kind. It is a claim, a signature scrawled in fevered ink, a vow written in the space where language fails. He tastes of copper, of sleepless nights and the sharp tang of something unhinged, but he does not pull away. He drinks you in like a man starved, like an artist who has found his only masterpiece.

- When he finally parts from you, his breath is ragged, uneven, his forehead pressed against yours as if trying to anchor himself. "I will ruin you," he whispers, a warning and a promise both. But your hands do not tremble when they pull him back in, when you whisper against his lips, "Then make it beautiful." And for the first time, in a life stitched together by violence, Muse finds himself desperate to create something that will not break.

VICTOR VON DOOM (DR. DOOM)

- The air is thick with the scent of burning embers, the remnants of his latest experiment still crackling in the distance. You stand within the towering walls of Doom’s kingdom, a place where gods are made and broken, where the laws of nature are rewritten by the will of a single man. He watches you with an intensity that borders on divine, his green cloak casting shadows against the molten glow of machinery and magic entwined. Doom does not love like mortals do. Doom does not kneel before lesser emotions. But Doom has chosen you.

- "You are a fool to stand beside me," he muses, voice rich with arrogance, with certainty. "There is no safety in my presence. No mercy. No retreat." He speaks as if this is a warning, as if you have not already chosen to stand in the eye of the storm. You meet his gaze, unflinching, and something in the iron walls of his soul fractures. He does not understand it, this defiance wrapped in something so soft, so steady. He does not understand you. And Doom despises what he does not understand.

- The kiss is not an accident, nor is it impulsive. Doom does nothing without calculation. It is a conquest, a declaration, a moment where even the weight of the world bends to his will. His gauntleted hand cups your cheek, the cool bite of metal a stark contrast to the heat of his mouth against yours. He does not kiss like a man—he kisses like a ruler branding his empire, like a god bestowing a gift upon the only mortal he has deemed worthy. It is overwhelming, intoxicating, and it is absolute.

- When he pulls away, his gaze is unreadable, something ancient and unfathomable lingering in its depths. "You belong to Doom," he states, as if it is law, as if the universe itself would sooner collapse than deny him this truth. And perhaps he is right. For when he kisses you again, you realize that the world has already reshaped itself around his words.

PETER QUILL (STAR-LORD)

- The stars stretch endless above you, the vast expanse of space humming with the quiet melody of a universe still singing itself into existence. Peter leans against the railing of the Milano, his usual bravado dimmed into something softer, something more honest in the quiet glow of starlight. “You know,” he starts, voice lazy, teasing, but edged with something deeper, “if you keep looking at me like that, I’m gonna think you actually like me.”

- You roll your eyes, but the truth lingers between you, unspoken but undeniable. Peter has always hidden behind humor, behind cocky grins and deflective quips, but you have learned to read between the lines, to hear the way his voice wavers when he talks about the things that matter. And you—you are one of those things. He won’t say it outright, not yet, but it’s there in the way his fingers drum against his thigh, in the way he leans closer without meaning to.

- "You ever think about how weird this is?" he asks suddenly, gesturing between the two of you. "Like, of all the people in all the galaxies, somehow, it’s us?” There’s something vulnerable in his voice, something almost hesitant. You don’t give him time to second-guess it. Instead, you grab the front of his jacket and pull him in, and for once, Peter Quill is speechless. The kiss is electric, dizzying, like the first rush of a jump through hyperspace. His hands find your waist, pulling you closer as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear into the stars.

- When you finally part, he’s breathless, grinning like a man who just won the greatest jackpot in the galaxy. “Okay,” he says, voice slightly dazed. “Yeah. That was definitely my favorite thing that’s ever happened.” You laugh, shaking your head, and he presses another quick kiss to your lips, just because he can. “You’re in trouble now, sweetheart. ‘Cause I’m never letting you go.” And when he pulls you into another kiss, you believe him.

RICHARD RIDER (NOVA)

- The weight of the Nova Force thrums beneath his skin, a power that has shaped and shattered him in equal measure. Richard is used to battles, to the endless war against forces greater than himself. But this? This is different. This is not something he can fight, not something he can outrun. You stand beside him on the edge of a dying world, the stars reflecting in your eyes, and for the first time in a long time, he feels like maybe—just maybe—he’s not fighting alone.

- "You make me want to stay," he admits, voice rough with exhaustion, with the kind of honesty that takes more strength than any battle he’s ever fought. He turns to you, something raw and unguarded in his gaze. "That’s dangerous." He has spent too long losing people, too long watching the universe take and take until there is nothing left. But you—you are something the universe has given, and it terrifies him.

- The kiss is sudden, but not thoughtless. It is the culmination of something inevitable, something that has been building since the moment he let himself care. His hands cup your face, firm but reverent, as if afraid you’ll disappear the moment he lets go. He kisses you like a man clinging to the last piece of something real, like a soldier who has finally found a reason to return home. And in that moment, for the first time in a long time, he feels weightless.

- When he pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, his breath steadying. “If I could choose anywhere in the universe to be,” he murmurs, “it’d be right here.” His fingers tighten around yours, and as the stars continue their endless dance above, he wonders if, for once, the universe will allow him to keep something good.

[countlessimagines]

Here Now [ Sentry X Reader ]

Summary: The past seems to always haunt you.

A/N: I love sentry !!!

Warnings: Mention of addiction, mental health issues

SPOILERS FOR THUNDERBOLTS

-

It was hard to adapt to normalcy after Robert had suddenly disappeared. You were left alone in your too small apartment that felt huge and empty without him by your side.

Robert never had an easy life, even if he had you by his side, following him wherever he went. Even if his depression and addiction were sometimes too much to handle. He was forever grateful but extremely guilty that he dragged you into his mess of a life. You saw him for the person he was, not the trauma that molded his moods.

Even when he was not honest, it was hard to stay away from him. You loved him with everything you had, even if it was not much.

He loved you with a fierceness that was almost obsessive. There was a side of him that he seemed to hide from you, something darker within him that lingered. You could see it in his eyes whenever someone suggested you to leave him, another man flirting, or whenever you two go into arguments.

It was scary to see, but then it would melt away and he would be back to normal.

When he saw that there was a new research study that can make you a better man, he did not hesitate to sign up. He feared you would not approve of being a test subject, but knew he had to do something to change. He knew loving you while a mess was never fair to you and wanted to return home to you clean and cured.

A few years passed and it didn’t make any sense for you to stay in the apartment you two shared together anymore. The constant reminder of him was too painful and the fear that he had overdosed or ended up in a ditch someone made you nauseous at the thought.

You had situated yourself in a New York apartment in some crumbling building, but it was all you could afford. You held onto a few photos of you and Robert, wanting to cherish his memory even if it was too painful to bear at times.

After a rough late night shift where you were barely getting home in the middle of the day, you wanted nothing more than to sink into your bed and forget about the world for awhile.

As you were situating yourself in your room, you could hear multiple screams outside your apartment. With a world full of heroes and villains, you were accustomed to panic attacks whenever you could hear trouble. You didn’t know if it meant that there was another alien invasion or a masked murderer on the loose.

You hurriedly ran to your window, only to see a dark shadow creeping onto every surface and clinging to it. In the streets, citizens were reduced to shadows.

The air suddenly left your chest as you could see it scaling the walls right outside your window. Your feet began to walk backwards and you managed to turn and flee to the kitchen.

Without a second thought, you grabbed one photo from your fridge of you and Bob, smiling together while cooking dinner. You held it to your chest and tried to run out the front door, but it was too late.

The shadow’s grip took hold and the next thing you knew you were in a pitch black room.

You knew you were screaming because your lungs felt like they were burning. No sound came from your mouth, though.

It was all so sudden.

You were laying on the ground of your old apartment with your head ringing.

You began to cry, seeing that you were in the one place that broke you into a million little pieces.

“What are you doing here?” A familiar voice cut through the air. “I told you to leave!”

You shakily raised your head up, seeing Robert leaning over you.

His eyes were manic, hair greasy and disheveled, clothes so dirty you thought he might have slept in dirt.

“Baby?” You said in a hushed voice.

“I don’t want you here anymore.”

Your slowly rose to your knees, grabbing for him. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry I left you. Where were you?”

“You left me there on the street.”

It was clicking in your head once more, it was a memory you didn’t want to relive.

“I had to, you… you were so high out of your mind you didn’t make sense.”

He scoffed pushing your needy hands away from him.

“You abandoned me when I needed you.”

He didn’t look like himself. He felt more colder than usual.

You finally stood to your feet even if you were shaking. “I’m here now. Please don’t leave me again. I thought you died.”

“You probably would’ve wanted that.”

“Never.” Tears were streaming down your cheeks as you reached for him again.

“Leave her alone!”

Suddenly there was a hoard of people who flung into the room.

You didn’t recognize any of them and moved backwards out of fear. “Who are you guys?”

They appeared to be heroes of some sort, and one of them with a shield barreled into Robert and slammed him into a wall.

“Wait! Don’t hurt him!” You screamed, running forward.

Before you could reach him, a pair of arms wrapped around you and held you back.

“Let me go! He needs me!” You shouted and struggled to get out of the grip of whoever was holding you tight.

You helplessly watched as Robert slid down the wall, but your shouts went silent as he faded into a black mist.

“I’m here now. I’m never leaving you again.”

You spun around and realized that you were being held by Robert. But he appeared healthier and not so rugged like the one who disappeared.

“Baby?” You whispered, reaching up to cup his face.

“It’s me.” He smiled, his hair framing his face in a way that made you think of fonder times. “I’m sorry for all that I did.”

You let out a shaky breath, just happy to see him again, safe and healthy in your arms. “It’s okay, baby. I know. All that matters is you’re here now. We can start over.”

You embraced him and held him close, wanting to never let go of him.

There was a sudden coldness and bright light enveloped you both. You opened your eyes to see you were on a city street.

Robert pulled away and looked towards the group of heroes who all were breathing out a breath of relief.

“They helped me.” He said in a grateful voice before turning to you. “I’m going to be better for you, now.”

You ran your finger over his lips like you always used to do before planting a sweet kiss on his lips. “I will be there every step of the way.”

[homiesexuallaj]

a funny thing i’ve been thinking about but, drunk! reader saying goodnight to the Thunderbolts*,

Yelena: Okay, y/n, let’s say night night to everybody, да?

Reader: Okay! Goodnight Ava!

Ghost/Ava Starr: Goodnight

Reader: Goodnight Antonia!

Taskmaster/Antonia Dreykov: Night

Reader: Goodnight Alexi!

Alexi Shostakov/Red Guardian: Goodnight! Sleep tight!!

Reader: Goodnight Bucky!

Bucky Barnes: Goodnight.

Reader: Fuck you *flips off Walker*

John Walker: Wha-? *offended*

Reader: Goodnight Bucky!

Bucky Barnes: ..goodnight.

Yelena, leading Reader away: You already said goodnight to Bucky

Reader: I know. I like Bucky.. :]

[doudouneverte]

Picture perfect

a/n: I try something, i don't know why

*not my GIF*

Pairing: Antonia Dreykov x Female!Reader

Summary: after a series of recurent dreams where she live a perfect life, Antonia started to feel insecure and you have to help her

Type: i tried to write Hurt/Confort

Warning: mention of Red Room and everything related to

word count: 3123

-------

The sun was beaming, and Antonia was there, lying on a long chair near the pool. She put her book away and walked to the pool. She tested the water with her right hand before entering it.

Once her body was fully wet, she started to relax. It was her first holiday since Christmas, and she decided to use this time to visit the world. And here she was in Cuba, in a beach house, far away from her stressful job and her problems.

Antonia started to swim when the bay window opened. Then a man came out of the house with a plate full of snacks and drinks. "Oh, I see that you finally decided to have fun." The man said.

"Well, I was just finishing reading my book, but the plot kind of disappointed me, so I decided to take a break." She replied.

"I'm glad to hear that because it would be a shame if I had to drag you into the water. But now let me get rid of this before I join you." He placed the plate near the edge of the pool before joining his wife. "You know what? I'm really happy right now."

"Oh, yeah, and can I know why?" Antonia asked before wrapping her arms around her husband's neck.

"I'm here, in a beautiful place, with beautiful weather, a loving dog, and more importantly, the most beautiful, smart, and hot woman in the world." He smirked when he noticed that the Russian woman was blushing. "I love you, Antonia."

"I love you too--"

She couldn't finish her sentence before being awakened by the alarm. The brunette looked around before spotting your phone and turning off the source of her disturbance. She groaned when she checked the time and saw 9 a.m. She hesitated for a long time before deciding to leave the bed.

Chills ran through her back when her feet made contact with the cold ground. She yawned and made her way to the bathroom. A few minutes later, she was in front of the sink, facing her own reflection in the mirror. She didn't like it. She didn't like the way the woman in front of her looked like. Even after all this time, it was hard for her to face herself. It reminded her of everything.

The bad things she did, the lives she took, and the treatment she received. But the worst thing was that it plagued her face. The burn marks were there to remind her of that day. Even if after all these years and Red Room's technology they didn't physically hurt her anymore, the inner damages were here, and they returned almost every time she looked at them.

Lost in her thoughts, she didn't notice you coming. You were looking for something when you spotted her looking at her own reflection with this look. You sighed and walked carefully before wrapping your arms around her torso. "Hello, sleepy head, did you sleep well?" You asked and maintained eye contact with her through your reflection.

When she nodded, you smiled and pressed a light kiss on her neck. "When did you have to leave today?" Your girlfriend asked.

"Don't ruin the mood, please." You said with your head hid in the crook of her neck. She chuckled a little but didn't push you. You stayed with her while she was brushing her teeth, and you were brushing her hair while you were informing her about what had been planned for your day.

"I think you should go now or you'll be late." The Russian said.

"I'm the boss; I can do whatever I want, babe."

"I know, but I need to remind you that you have your new intern today; you can't be late." She headed to the kitchen, and you followed her like a lost puppy.

"Can I at least have a kiss before going?" You asked even if you knew the answer. After a heated kiss, you left the house with a proud grin while your girlfriend plastered a fake smile in the hope that you didn't see through it.

A few hours later, Antonia was watching TV. She didn't even know what she was watching, and it didn't last long until she fell asleep.

This time it was different; she was in a park, sat on a bench, and took a look around. There were some parents talking together, some kids playing and screaming, and even some dogs running after each other.

The weather was perfect; the sun was shining, but her straw hat protected her just enough. She didn't have to wait long before a familiar voice called her name.

"Antonia, malyshka, I missed you." Here was her dad. He was smiling more than she remembered (when was the last time she saw him really smile?). "I just came back today. I wanted to visit you at home, but Thomas told me that you were there." He sat beside her and wrapped an arm around her shoulder.

"I wanted to call you, but I got so lost in the book. I really love that one." She said.

"I'm glad that you love this one; honestly, I was very worried about the story when I was writing it. I felt like including a new character like that would lose the readers."

"What, are you joking? The character of Yelena is very cool, and I really like her. And when we learned that she's Natalia's sister, my mind blew. I'm really excited to read more." She explained with a smile.

"I'm happy that you love that. I didn't know that you would be so eager about spies."

"Me neither, but you write them so right; it feels like we're living with Nat and we follow her in her adventures."

"Okay, I'm really happy that you love that, but I think that now we need to head back home. I think that Thomas is waiting for us, and I'm sure that Alexei is ready to go back home right now."

The two of them stood up and started leaving, just after being joined by a golden retriever.

At home, Antonia was greeted by her husband, who was setting up the table for them. When he noticed them, he came to greet his wife with a passionate kiss before hugging his father-in-law. The dinner was animated with playful chat and jokes between the three of them. Everything was perfect; it felt like a life that she always dreamed about--wait dream about?

Antonia slowly woke up. She looked around and noticed that she was back in your shared house. She was about to stand up when she noticed that her head was resting on something.

"Good evening, sleepyhead." You greeted her with a smile. "When I came back, I saw you lying on the couch, and the pillows were scattered on the ground." You explained while she noticed that she was resting on your laps. "I don't know what you were dreaming about, but it should be very good, judging by your smile. I hope you dreamt about me." You said with a grin.

Your girlfriend smiled at you, and even if you could see the pain through it, you decided not to question it. At least not now.

"I had a very awful day at work, and I don't really want to cook now. Are you okay if we order something?" You asked, and she just nodded.

While you were ordering food, the Russian left the living room and locked herself in the bathroom. Today was a hot day, and after her nap, she was now a little sweaty, so she decided to take a shower.

She slowly peeled her clothes off her body. Once naked, she looked at her reflection for a few moments. Her eyes were tracing every scar and burn mark. You always praised her body, it was something she loved about you. Always whorshiping her body, despite her little special aspect, as you like to call her defaults (at least they were for her).

When she stepped into the bathtub, she wanted to stay there forever. Far away from anyone. From the indiscrete glare that everybody gave her every time you would go on a date. But she also wanted to stay away from you. In this moment, her insecurities took the lead, and she was scared that one day you would change your mind and decide to find someone prettier than her.

It's been one year since you two were together, but she still didn't know what made you want to shoot your shot with someone like her. Since she got freed from the Red Room and her father, she started to hate her past actions and herself when she noticed how people outside the Red Room looked at her when she didn't wear her helmet.

Trying to run away from everything, she found her way into this house. She thought that it was just an abandoned house near the sea, and she was glad about that, until one day you opened the front door to see a sleepy Russian on your couch. When she woke up, she was shocked to see someone cooking for her. And the most shocking part was how you looked at her for the first time. After this 'incident' you explained that it was your second home, a house that you bought to hide in every time things became too much. She proposed to leave, but you quickly changed her mind and proposed to let her stay here with you because this house was too big for one person.

This was two years ago. Now you have officially moved in with her. Of course, it's not always easy, and at first she was avoiding you because she didn't trust herself and thought that she could lose control anytime and hurt you. But you never back down. You tried every day to pull down her walls, and it finally paid off one day. It surprised her first, but then she learned how to trust you, and you taught her how to love herself again.

Coming back from the bathroom, she saw you in the cooch with your camera in your hand.

Your camera was also something that helped her reveal more about herself. She didn't like when people took pictures of her, but that didn't mean she didn't like to see you take pictures of everything. You were a photographer; you had your own studio and a room dedicated to it in the house.

Seeing your girlfriend walking to you, you aimed your camera at her with a big smile. "No, please, not now." She tried to hide her face with her hand, but she knew it was futile.

It was something she noticed lately; you loved to take pictures of her, and even if she didn't like the idea, she was too enamoured by you to stop those habits.

"Don't worry, love; nobody will see it." It was the promise you made so she would let you use her as your model sometime. You had a lot of models during your career. Some were more stunning than others, but no one would compare with her.

Maybe it was because she didn't have to pretend every time you captured any of her expressions. During dates, movie nights, or even when you captured her body after sex. She was just too perfect.

"I didn't know what you wanted, so I ordered pizza." You said before pushing a piece of it between her lips.

"Stop feeding me like that, please."

"I'm sorry." You were smiling, and she knew that you were not, but she didn't say anything.

After dinner, you finished your movie and headed to bed. Antonia was wondering, what will she be dreaming of tonight? She secretly hoped to have the same type of dream that she had recently. Focus on that. She was surprised when she felt your hand move from her back to caress her abdomen.

She knew exactly what you wanted, but not today. She stopped your hand and pushed the sheet to cover her body. "Not tonight, Y/n." She said, but her voice sounded more harsh than she intended.

Sensing that something was bothering her, you just nodded and said "Okay, good night, love," before spinning your body in the opposite direction to prevent you from trying to be physical during the night. Antonia sounded usually dried like that when she was letting her insecurities take the lead, and you know better than anyone to push her in this state (she is still the Taskmaster after all).

Antonia cursed herself when she heard how her voice sounded, but she really wasn't ready to let you see her today. Maybe her recent dreams started to bring some bad feelings back. Living briefly in a world where none of her insecurities were an issue, where her father seemed like a good man, a world where she seemed to be happy with her own body. Maybe everything started to make her jealous because she lowkey knew that there were things she could never have, not after everything happened to her.

The next morning, she woke up alone. She tried to reach for you but was met with nothing but a cold sheet. She took a deep breath before leaving the bed. The recurrent dreams didn't show up last night, and it let her be a little confused, but in the end, they were still dreams.

In front of the mirror, while she was brushing her teeth, she was thinking about last night and the past few days. She knew that she had become involuntary and a little more distant because of all the things that kept popping into her mind.

A few minutes later, she joined you in the living room. You were looking at some photos you took yesterday when you noticed your girlfriend. "Y/n I need to tell you something." You heard what she said and left everything to focus on her.

Her body language told you that whatever she wanted to talk about was serious and also made her a little stressed.

"Mm, okay, right. Come on." You said and opened your arms. The Russian didn't think twice before accepting your invitation. She sat on your lap, facing you. You wrapped your arms around her torso and rested your head on her chest, and she rested hers on yours.

It was easier for her to have a heart-opening conversation with you like that. Even if you didn't know why, you started to get used to that.

"So, what's the problem, love?" You asked quietly, not trying to rush the things.

"First of all, I want to apologize for last night, I was--"

"Hey, it's okay; you don't have to apologize for that. You didn't want to have sex, and I completely understand that. Honestly, I think I should be the one apologizing for that; I should have asked you first. I'm sorry." You pulled away to look at her while you said that and watched her expression soften; she didn't seem angry or anything.

"Don't worry; like I said, it's not your fault." She said before giving you a brief kiss before you placed your head against her again. "And more importantly, I need to talk to you about something…" She started to tell you everything about the last things that happened to her. The dreams that felt way too realistic and how they impacted her a little to see a life where everything seemed perfect. And more importantly, the new rise of her insecurities.

It was something you were used to for the first year of living together, but they slowly left. At least that's what you thought.

"Hey, it's okay, babe. Look at me." You cleaned up the new tears rolling down her cheeks. "Remember, you're beautiful, the prettiest woman alive, and I know that I say that every day, but I mean it." You left some pecks everywhere on her face before something popped into your mind. "Let's go change; I have something to show you at the studio." You told her before leading her into the bedroom.

An hour later, you were in your studio, leading her into the room where you took almost all your photos. "Please, detka, I don't want to take some pictures right now." Your girlfriend was a little curious about what she was doing here.

"Don't worry, you don't have to. Just look." You grabbed the black curtain that you use for a plain background and tossed it on the floor. Then she saw it. The whole wall behind it was totally covered in pictures. Pictures of her that you have taken for a while now. Everyone had a date for when they were taken.

"What the…" she inspincted every photo on the wall.

"It's my personal collection. I promised you that no one would see them, and it's true; nobody knows about it. It's something I do to keep me motivated to work when I miss you." You explained.

Your girlfriend was totally shocked. All those pictures that you took of her. They looked beautiful. It was like they were illuminating the room more than the lightbulbs.

"Did you edit them?" She asked.

"Only a few of them, because the light was awful, but for most of them, I just let them be like this. I never touch anything with you on them. Well, it's not like you needed it in the first place."

While you were talking, she finally noticed it. The common thing about all of the pictures. She was always smiling at all of them. From the ones you took during your dates. To the ones you took while she wasn't aware of them. And even during more intimate moments. There was always this smile.

"I called this collection Portrait of a Healing Smile. But I'm not fully sure about it." You explained. "So what do you think about it?"

"Is it really how you see me?" She asked back with a trembling voice, and when you looked at her, she was crying again.

"I already told you. I usually have a different version of the world when I'm looking through my camera, but it seems that even in this version of the world, you're still so perfect. I know that sometimes you ask yourself how I can still love you every day, but reassure you, your smile is totally worth it." You grabbed her hands, and she looked at you. "You're my favorite smile in the entire world, and nothing can change that." You pressed your lips tenderly against hers.

"I love you so much, Y/n."

"And I love you as much."

[the-evil-lovable-simp]

Give me ideas of what type of Greg Davies x reader one-shots I should make

(don't tell me entirely just x _________ reader or something)

I have a few ideas but eh…

[lyrawhite]

I cannot believe marvel understood the assignment this time. They hired an amazing crew and for once, let them cook. This pays off, suits.

# LET ARTISTS COOK

[starktonyx]

Incorrect thunderbolts* quote

Val: So, if your friend jumped off a bridge, would you jump too?

Yelena: yep

Bob: I’m the friend :)

Ava: yeah

Alexei: HELL YES!

Bucky: *sighs*..yes.

Y/N: for sure

John: No.

Val: …

Everyone: …

Y/N: He’s the reason we jumped.

*everyone agrees*

*even John*

[twentyonetornmyheart]

Literally just got done watching Thubderbolts*…yall. Please please PLEEEEAAAAASE go see it. Like, it’s a movie for everyone and everyone I think at some point in their lives could relate to it! Yelena Belova, she is and forever will be my baby and we must protect her at all costs. I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again..she deserves all the happiness, peace, and fulfillment this world has to offer!

[supercap2319]

My Boss, the Bitch.

They walked into the former Avengers Tower as Valentina Allegra de Fontaine was busying pouring herself a drink. She brought Bob into the world, and now she was gonna pay for it. Bucky led the charge with John, Alexei, Yelena, Ava, and Y/N in tow. There were many mixed feelings up in the air about Valentina, but one thing's for sure: She was a bitch. She gathered them all together in hopes that they would kill each other, but she didn't count on them coming together like a discount version of the Suicide Squad.

Bucky's voice cut through the silence of the hollow space, cold and with calculated precision. “This ends today.”

Valentina smiled. “Congressman Barnes, wow. You know, I never really thought you'd have a promising political career, but less than half a term?” She made a shocked face. “Yikes! I'd be embarrassed to show myself for a little bit after a stunt like that.”

The former Winter Soldier nods his head with an impressive smile at Valentina's jab. He brushed off to the side as John Walker spoke next. “We're taking you in, Val.” He told her, causing her to turn her head toward Walker, and scoff. Almost as if his threat amused her, and it did. “I don't think so, junior varsity Captain America.”

John rolled his eyes at that, about to free the on the side of his holster by his right leg, but Bucky stopped him with a, “Walker” and John put it back in its place. Valentina ignored John's death glare and turned her head towards Ghost. “Oh, nice to see you, Ava.” She greeted before focusing on Yelena. She eyed the former Black Widow up and down,wrinkling her nose in disgust. “Yelena, you look awful.”

Yelena gave her a fake smirk. “Mhm.”

“You sure you're really ready for that public-face role you asked me about?”

“Eat shit, Valentina. Where's Bob?”

Instead of answering her question, Valentina turns to Y/N. "Y/N Maximoff? A dead speedster brother and a dead reality-warping sister, and you still managed to be the least impressive thing about your family. That takes a special kind of failure—almost admirable, really."

“I'm sorry, Valentina, I just can't hear you over the loud color of your cheap pantsuit.” Y/N told her, flipping her off.

Valentina chuckles humorously. “You are all so adorable. Just think, I sent you down there to kill each other, and instead you make nice and you formed a team.” She looks at all of them before stopping at Alexei. “Who is this old Santa?”

“I am Alexei Shostakov. The Red Guardian.”

Valentina blinked. “What?”

[cocastyle]

I See You Pt. 2

Pairing — Bob Reynolds x reader

Word Count — 4.1k

Warning — SPOILER WARNING FOR THE THUNDERBOLTS* MOVIE I REPEAT SPOILER WARNING FOR THE THUNDERBOLTS* MOVIE!!

A/N — and here is part two for you all <3 I’m so overwhelmed and astounded by the love i received on the first part that i had to write this ASAP. i forgot how much i enjoyed writing these silly little fics and how much they help when life just feels so crazy.

some special news is that i officially have decided to make this a four part series!! so be on the lookout for the final two parts and let me know what other characters you would like to see me write for as i get back into the swing of things :)

Part One Part Two

SPOILER WARNING FOR THE THUNDERBOLTS* MOVIE! READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!

Y/N L/N was used to being alone.

After the Blip, that was all she had ever known, all she had ever allowed herself to know, because that was what she deserved.

After all, she had single handedly ruined everything in her life and everyone else's all because of a moment of hesitation. It was her fault that half of the universe had disappeared and that she had lost control of her powers and killed so many people the year following. It was her fault that her friends and family had died and that she hadn't been there to bring everyone back or to prevent Tony from sacrificing himself for something she had done.

She deserved to be alone. All she ever did was screw up everything she touched and get the people she cared about killed.

Tony. Natasha. Steve. May.

Anyone who had ever cared about her was gone. May had been the last one to care about her, having helped raised the girl from the moment she moved in across the hall after her parents divorced. She had been there for both of her parents' deaths, always keeping her from succumbing too hard into the darkness even when she wanted to do nothing other than give up.

It was May's death that had been the final nail to the coffin, sending the girl spiraling further into herself than she had ever gone before. She hadn't known how to stop it and, if she were honest with herself, a part of hadn't wanted to anyways. She just continued to let the darkness consume her, the last of her light dimming to nothing but the dull flicker of a candle as it reached the end of its life.

When she had first entered the void, she thought that was it. That reliving all of her regrets and worst memories would be the reason her light finally snuffed out. A part of her welcomed it, was ready for it all to end.

But then there he was.

Bob.

And for the first time in such a very long time, her light had shone just a little bit brighter.

There was finally someone else just like her, someone who understood her in a way that she barely understood herself. Someone who saw her.

In that single conversation she had allowed herself to see a future, one that wasn't filled with loneliness, but with understanding. A future where she had someone else's back and they had hers. A future where she didn't have to go through it alone because she wouldn't be alone. She would have Bob.

But now even he was leaving her. Running further into his own nightmare just to keep the darkness away and save her from himself.

"Bob!" Y/N cried out, the panic raking through her body so quickly that the only thing she could think to do was to lunge for the boy as he broke through the wall of her nightmare and into the next room.

The darkness let out a roar of anger at both of their actions and a force hit her so hard that it sent her slamming into the wall on the opposite side of the room.

Y/N let out a groan of pain as she struggled to push herself onto her feet, but by the time she was up again, the wall had sealed itself up and she was left trapped in the same memory as before, forced to watch as she attacked Tony over and over again.

"No," she muttered, scrambling helplessly over to the part of the wall that Bob had just gone through. "No, no, no, no. Bob!" Her fingernails were against at the wall, her hands turning a blinding white as her powers tried to grab any sort of footing that it could.

If she could just get through, she could save him. She could protect him from this all consuming darkness that she had been trapped within for so long.

She had barely made a dent before her hands suddenly fell through the wall as though it weren't even there to begin with, then hardening just as quickly so it could latch onto her. Her breathing grew ragged as she tried to pull her hands out, her eyes glowing white as she attempted to break free.

But she knew that she couldn't escape. This wasn't an accident after all. This was a retaliation for what she had done.

Y/N continued to try and pull her hands out, but the room merely spun around until she was dangling mid air. It was then that the wall began to pull back from her hands in a tauntingly slow sort of way while the floor disappeared from below her and turned into a swirl of shadows. The girl's eyes widened slightly and she desperately tried to keep a grip onto anything that she could, but her hands slipped out from the wall before she could even blink and she found herself in a free fall.

"No!" she cried out, but it was too late. The room seemed to melt away as she fell, darkness surrounding her until there was nothing but the endless void.

Y/N screamed out in anger, but was silenced when her body slammed against the ground that she hadn't even realized was there.

Her whole body was reeling from the pain, a loud ringing in her ears as she laid there and tried to catch the breath that had been knocked from her lungs. It took a minute but she finally attempted to sit up, her eyes still unable to focus on anything due to the darkness that surrounded her.

It seemed she had been right about the retaliation and if the feeling that someone or something was watching her was not enough to convince her then she wasn't sure what else would.

Bob may have saved her from being killed in that moment, but he hadn't kept the darkness away, hadn't kept Void away.

She could feel him watching her, could hear the soft whisper of thoughts that echoed around in his head. She couldn't hear what the whispers were saying. Every time she reached out to listen, it was like Void was pulling back. But she could feel what he was thinking, knew that he was curious more than anything.

Y/N ignored him, instead letting her eyes flicker around the room and hesitating on a small light coming from a little ways away. She pulled herself up onto her feet and slowly walked forward, squinting against the brightness as she grew closer.

It was only when she was right in front of the light that she realized what it truly was. Her memory.

It was different than the others. Instead of standing in the middle of the scene, it was like she was watching it from the screen of her phone and every time she tried to get closer to see it better, the memory moved further away. Y/N finally stopped trying to get closer in favor of looking to see what the memory was.

Her past self was standing by the Statue of Liberty, covered in grime and sweat with a cut on her face so deep that it made her subconsciously reach up to her own face and touch the scar that was in the same place on her temple.

A boy stood before her or at least she was pretty sure he was a boy. He was so blurry that it was hard to make out anything but his figure and the brown hair on top of his head. The type of blurry that made her rub at her eyes to try and make the scene clearer, but all it did was make him even blurrier.

Who was that?

Her eyes flickered over the scene and she frowned slightly, not even remembering what this memory was.

No sound came from the memory, but Y/N could see her mouth moving, could see the tears that were rolling down her face as she shook her head at the boy and seemed to be begging him to stay. The boy's body moved as though he were saying something back, his body language one of pain and sorrow as he attempted to console her. He pressed his forehead to hers and Y/N felt the faint ghost of a touch against her skin.

She didn't even realize she was crying until the tears were rolling down her face. She gently touched her face in surprise, suddenly overwhelmed by a sadness that she felt deep within her bones.

The boy pulled away and Y/N watched as her past self crumbled to the ground in despair. Y/N's heart ached at the sight. It felt as though someone was pressing down on her lungs and the room suddenly felt way smaller than it had been before.

The grief that washed over her told her enough to know that no matter who this boy was, he had meant a lot to her and she had lost him. Just like everyone else.

Why didn't she remember this?

"Interesting what the mind forgets, but the body remembers," a voice said from behind her. Y/N tensed slightly, her eyes not leaving the scene as she watched the boy walk away from her before the memory started all over again.

That feeling of loss was indescribable and for a moment, Y/N wondered if this was the He that Tony had been talking about, but she didn't let herself dwell on the thought long. Whatever this memory was, it was nothing but that — a memory.

Bob was what was happening right now and he needed her.

Y/N steadied her breath and turned around. She let out a soft gasp of surprise as she came face to face with Void, not expecting him to have gotten so close without making the hint of a sound.

He was nothing but the shadow of a man, darkness incarnate with two glowing white pupils that stared intensely at her.

"What is this?" she muttered.

"It's your memory," Void stated.

"I don't understand," she replied, shaking her head slightly.

Void tsked and let out a sigh of disappointment before as he leaned closer, what should've been his nose only inches away from her own.

"I don't get it," he admitted after a moment of ignoring what the girl had said.

"Don't get what?"

"What it is that's so special about you," he answered. "This is the first time someone has ever been able to make him feel something and. . .it's just you? Y/N L/N? The one who got half the universe killed and then tried to find herself at the bottom of a bottle? You're. . .nothing."

Y/N's eyes narrowed slightly, but she held herself together as she asked through gritted teeth, "Where is he? Where is Bob?"

Void chuckled darkly at that, finally pulling away from the girl as he took a step back as if to get a good look at her. "I guess you are pretty in a way. I'll give Bob that much," he muttered. "And there is that same darkness within you. Don't act so surprised. Of course I know it's there. What did you say before? Like calls to like?"

Y/N tensed slightly, her face paling as she realized that it Void had been with them the whole time. That he was always with them. She stilled at that thought, but didn't let it cross her mind again in case he managed to see inside her head.

Instead she tried to clear her mind of his taunting words and let her powers slowly reach out in attempt to worm their way into his mind. She was met with nothing but a dark force that quickly cut her off.

Void chuckled darkly, "It's cute that you think that was going to work."

"Was worth a shot," Y/N muttered and attempted a half hearted shrug, doing everything within her power to appear as uninterested as she could despite the ice crawling up her veins under his gaze and the feel of his powers gently caressing her own.

"Hoping to find where Bob is?" Void asked, his voice a bit mocking. "He left you, remember? He left you just like everyone else. Why would you want to find him? He's probably forgotten about you by now anyways. He told you about that, didn't he? The blanks in his memory? That's all you'll ever be to him."

Y/N didn't grant him the dignity of a response to that, instead turning her gaze back towards the memory. She felt his annoyance almost instantly, but with it came the slight flicker of the shields around his mind. It was so brief that she almost hadn't sensed it.

Almost.

Y/N glanced back towards Void, titling her head slightly as she said, "I might've been trying with the intention of finding Bob, but I got to say I'm way more curious to know why you're really here." Void was quiet and she took that as her sign to continue. "I guess I was hoping I would be able to see what made you so curious. I wanted to—"

"What? Read my thoughts?" he interrupted.

"Yes," she admitted. "But, now that I think about it, I don't need to read your thoughts to know what you're thinking. You're already telling me plenty just by being here to check on me."

"And what would that be?" Void asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"That you're scared."

Void was on her in a second, his hand grabbing hold of her face painfully as he lifted her in the air. She struggled in his grasp and the white of his eyes grew brighter as he stared at her, all the amusement gone and having been replaced by the anger flooding his senses. It was only then that he faltered, that he slipped up and let his emotions get the best of him. The defenses around his mind flickered and Y/N took advantage.

She was in his head before Void knew what was happening and the moment he felt her powers wrap around him, he was instantly back in control and shut her out.

But it was only that mere second that Y/N had needed, a second to be able to glimpse just where Bob was hiding and to lock onto his presence within this maze they were in.

"Got him," she smirked and Void's grip on her face tightened before he threw her to the ground.

"It doesn't matter," he said, his voice nonchalant despite the rage radiating off of him. Y/N pulled herself back up into a sitting position. She would not show him weakness. "There's no way you'll get out of here. No one has ever—"

Void stopped sharply, the two pricks of white that were his eyes disappearing for a small second as he blinked, surprise replacing his fury.

"No one has ever what?" Y/N asked, but she already had a sneaking suspicion of what had caught his attention. Someone had broken through these nightmares and they were coming for him.

Void titled his head slightly as he gazed off in the distance before he quickly snapped his eyes back towards Y/N. "Doesn't matter," he finally said. "Enjoy this new room of yours. Took me a while to work my way into your brain the way you've been trying to do my own. This particular memory is one I especially enjoy. So much pain and regret. Funny that you don't remember it." He shrugged slightly as though the thought already bored him. "Oh, well. Your mind might not remember, but I know your heart does." Void lazily waved his hand in the air. "The body remembers what the mind forgets and what not."

And with that, he was gone, having disappeared within the shadows between one second and the next.

But Y/N had all she needed now. She stood up and closed her eyes, allowing her powers to focus on nothing but Bob and that flash of light within him that glowed just like her own which had only grown brighter since the moment she met him.

She smiled softly at the sight of it and her body began to glow as her powers lashed out against the darkness of the room, the nightmare dissolving as it were nothing.

I see you, Bob. I'm coming.

- - -

Something was wrong.

Bob had thought he was finally taking control the moment he had started attacking Void, but this feeling creeping up on him as he threw punch after punch? It wasn't right. Something was wrong and it wasn't just the situation he was talking about.

Something was wrong with him.

But he couldn’t stop, not even when the rest of the Thunderbolts yelled after him as the room pulled them further and further away. Not even when he felt that familiar tug growing closer and closer.

Even when he felt her enter the room, he still couldn’t stop. It was like the darkness had sunk its claws into him and wouldn’t let go. All he could do was punch and punch and punch and nothing could stop it.

She was behind him now, her powers having tossed aside every single thing thrown in her direction like it was nothing but an annoyance. The team was yelling out something, shock in some of their voices probably due to the sight of the girl, but Bob couldn’t process any of it.

Y/N knelt down beside him, her powers reaching out and gently brushing against the edges of his mind. He knew she saw it, all that pain and loneliness that swirled within him. He felt her own call out to him, that same tug from earlier pulling hard against his heart.

Bob wanted to look at her, to end all of this and just hold her and apologize for leaving her like he had. He thought he had been doing the right thing, but none of this was right. The only time he felt okay had been when he was with her, but now he was afraid he was too far gone.

He wanted to scream for her to help, but even his mind was a storm of a million thoughts that he wasn’t even sure she would’ve heard him if he had tried. A single tear rolled down his cheek as he punched Void and he felt the kiss of a touch brush it away before her arms were wrapping around him, her body a steady weight against his own.

Bob threw another punch, but it was slower this time, Y/N’s embrace grounding him enough to start to realize where he was once again. He threw a few more punches as she whispered, “I’m here. I’m here.”

Her voice was shaky and he felt her own tears against his face as she held him and it was enough to have his fist pause in the air. Void titled his head as he looked at the boy, but Bob had turned his attention to Y/N, to her warmth, to the feel of her breath against his neck and the distant smell of lavender in her hair.

“I’m here,” she whispered again and Bob swallowed thickly. She gently brushed the back of his neck with her thumb and he softened against her, tears filling his eyes.

Words failed him so he sent the thought out to her instead, a question in his tone as he said, You found me.

I’ll always find you, she answered.

Bob’s hands dropped to his side at that, still clenched into fists but no longer punching Void. Y/N shifted so she put herself between the two and Bob leaned into her touch, shaking slightly as the darkness stopped at his shoulders.

“If you can't fight it, what makes you think he can?” the void taunted her, but Y/N ignored him as she dug her face into the crook of Bob’s neck.

“I’m here,” she assured him. “I’m here.”

"No!" the void cried out. "She doesn't understand. She doesn't get it. No one ever will. You're nothing."

Y/N held onto Bob tighter in that moment and Bob knew she was thinking of all the times she had probably said those words to herself. She moved her head so that their foreheads were pressed against one another and she shook her head slightly as she said, “Don’t listen to him. You’re not nothing, Bob. You’re. . .you’re everything.”

Bob cried at those words and he felt Y/N lift a hand up and heard the screeching of metal before he found himself being tackled by the Thunderbolts who all were quick to pull him into their embrace. He felt Yelena hug him from behind, her head resting against the side of his own. He felt John hold his clenched fist against his chest, his grip strong as he held the boy. He felt Ava, Alexei, and Bucky and the fierceness of their hold on him. The tears wouldn’t stop falling and a soft cry left his lips as they all held him as if they loved him, as if he mattered.

Void narrowed his eyes at Bob, his voice coming out rough as he said, “There will always be just us.”

“We’re here. You’re not alone,” Yelena whispered and Bob let out a sob as he let himself feel the embrace that was wrapped around him from all of his friends.

His friends.

Those two words felt so foreign to him, but it was enough to have him stop fighting against them.

You’re not alone, Y/N’s voice repeated into his head, the boy squeezing his eyes shut as his hand shakily reached up to rest against her neck and pressing her closer to him. I see you, Bob. I see you.

“He’s nothing. He’s always going to be nothing,” Void hissed and Bob winced at his words. Y/N shifted slightly, her lips pressing a soft kiss against his forehead before she pulled away.

Bob opened his eyes, hesitating slightly as he saw her turn to Void and stare down at him with sadness in her eyes. To his surprise, she reached out and gently touched the side of Void’s face, the darkness coming to an abrupt halt. The way he didn’t lash out at her told Bob that he was just as surprised as he was.

Void recoiled slightly as if her touch burned, but Y/N moved with him, her hand a steady presence against his cheek as she said, “I see you.” Both Bob and Void stilled at those words and the weight of what she was truly saying.

“I see all of you,” she whispered, her eyes flickering back to Bob who could only stare at the girl wide eyed. Tears were streaming down his face as the others held onto him and it was in that moment that he felt something break within him.

He couldn’t stop the sobs that were racking his body as he felt the darkness slowly release its hold on him enough that he knew they had won even if just for now.

He wasn’t alone.

The room began to melt away, the darkness receding as they all began to fall back.

Bob looked to the girl in a slight panic, knowing that they were about to escape and that he had no clue when he would see her again. He had so much he wanted to say to her. What if he forgot? What if this became another blank in his memory and he never saw her again?

He opened his mouth to call for her, but she already knew what he was thinking.

Don’t worry, Bob. We will see each other again, her voice whispered in his head with the gentleness of an ocean breeze in the early morning. Her eyes never left his own even as he felt his friends pulling him back.

She leaned forward, her fingers gently brushing the hair from his face before lingering against his cheek.

Bob softened slightly under her touch and neither of them broke eye contact as the Thunderbolts pulled him back and they broke free of the hold Void had placed on them all, their bodies falling back onto the streets of Manhattan while Y/N’s voice whispered a promise into his mind and straight to his heart.

I’ll find you.

[urdreamydoodles]

MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

You kiss them when they least expect it

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

Reply to anon: As promised...your little Catholic boy. I spend my days writing to keep my mind off my surgery. I'm a really anxious person, so I have to fill my head with my pleasures (my fandoms). So the requests will come out quickly, I'm happy and you're happy... win win. Thank you for all your requests and support. LOVE YOU GUYS SO MUCH ♡

Peter Parker

- Peter Parker has been kissed before. He has known the warmth of affection, the giddy rush of young love, the slow ache of something deeper. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for the moment your lips press against his, sudden and unannounced, shattering the rhythm of his thoughts like a lightning strike in the middle of a quiet night. His brain short-circuits instantly.

- His body reacts before his mind does, his breath catching, fingers twitching as if unsure whether to hold you or simply let himself drown in the moment. There is a fleeting second of hesitation, a half-formed thought that this must be some kind of dream, some cruel trick played by the universe. But your warmth is real, your presence undeniable. The city fades around him, the constant hum of responsibility momentarily silenced beneath the press of your lips.

- When you finally pull away, Peter blinks—once, twice—like he’s trying to process what just happened. Then, without warning, his face erupts into a deep crimson flush, spreading down to his neck like wildfire. “Oh,” he breathes out, voice slightly strangled. “Okay. Cool. That was… um. Wow.” He rubs the back of his neck, a nervous chuckle escaping him. “Was that, like, a scientific experiment? Because if so, I volunteer for more data collection.”

- Despite the awkward attempt at humor, his hands are still trembling, his pupils blown wide with something raw and unspoken. And then, after a moment of hesitation, his fingers curl around yours, his grip steady despite the lingering nerves. “But, uh… just so we’re clear,” he murmurs, voice softer now, more certain, “if you ever wanna do that again, you won’t have to catch me off guard next time.”

Tony Stark

- Tony Stark has spent a lifetime mastering control. He anticipates every possible scenario, every variable, every consequence. His mind is a constant whirlwind of calculations, solutions, contingencies. But when you kiss him—when you seize the moment and steal his breath away with no warning, no preamble—his mind goes completely, utterly blank. For the first time in years, there is no plan. No exit strategy. Just you.

- His body reacts on instinct, hands coming up to grasp your waist, a sharp inhale against your lips. But it’s not just the physical contact that undoes him—it’s the fact that you did it at all. That you, beautiful and untouchable in a way he never dared to hope for, have chosen him in this moment, with no ulterior motive, no expectation. It is not a conquest. It is not a game. It is real. And Tony Stark has never known how to handle real.

- When you finally break away, his lips are still parted, his usually sharp tongue momentarily silenced. Then, ever so slowly, a grin tugs at the corners of his mouth, something dangerous and delighted and entirely Tony. “Well, well,” he muses, his voice a low hum. “That was unexpected. Not that I’m complaining, of course.” He tilts his head, eyes gleaming with mischief. “But, uh, you might wanna be careful, sweetheart. You kiss me like that, and I might just start thinking you like me.”

- And yet, beneath the bravado, there is something softer, something unspoken in the way his fingers linger against your skin, in the way his expression shifts—just for a fraction of a second—into something almost reverent. Because the truth is, he is already lost. And if you kissed him again, he wouldn’t just let you—he’d make damn sure you never stopped.

Steve Rogers

- Steve Rogers is used to the world moving too fast around him. Time slips through his fingers like sand, people come and go like ghosts, and every moment is a reminder of just how much he has lost. But when you kiss him—when you break through the steady, predictable rhythm of his days with something as sudden and undeniable as your lips against his—it is the first time in a long, long while that he feels truly, absolutely present.

- He freezes at first, caught between instinct and shock, but it lasts only a second. Then, without thinking, his hands find your waist, steadying you both as though the moment itself is something fragile, something sacred. His heart is hammering against his ribs, a deep, resounding drumbeat that he swears you must be able to hear. And when he finally exhales, it is not out of hesitation—but out of something else. Something like surrender.

- When you pull back, his blue eyes are searching, tracing your face with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. He doesn’t speak at first, doesn’t joke or tease or stumble over his words. Instead, he simply watches you, memorizing every detail of the moment, committing it to memory as if he is afraid it will slip away. And then, at last, he lets out a quiet, almost incredulous chuckle. “You really do like keeping me on my toes, don’t you?”

- But there is warmth in his voice, something gentle and unshaken. And then, after a moment, he does something you don’t expect—he leans in again, slower this time, deliberate. His lips brush against yours, and this time, he is the one who takes control. And when he pulls away, his hand lingers at the back of your neck, his thumb tracing slow, absentminded patterns against your skin. “Just so you know,” he murmurs, a small smile playing at his lips, “next time, I won’t let you take me by surprise.”

Thor

- Thor Odinson has been kissed before. He has known the passion of warriors, the devotion of gods, the fleeting tenderness of mortals who looked upon him with awe. And yet, when you kiss him—when you press your lips against his without hesitation, without prelude—it is not reverence that he feels, nor expectation. It is something deeper, something that sinks into his very bones. It is you.

- There is a moment of stillness, as if the entire world holds its breath. Then, with a deep, rumbling exhale, he reacts—not with hesitation, not with shock, but with the full force of a man who has never done anything by halves. His arms wrap around you, pulling you flush against him, his grip firm yet careful, as if you are something both fierce and fragile, something he is terrified of losing.

- When you pull back, he does not release you immediately. His forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your skin, and for a moment, he simply exists in the aftermath of what you have done. Then, with a slow, wolfish grin, he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes bright with something unmistakably pleased. “Ah,” he rumbles, his voice thick with amusement, “so the battle has begun, then?”

- And before you can question him, before you can even think, he leans in once more—this time with purpose, with certainty. His lips claim yours in a way that is both a challenge and an offering, a promise and a declaration. And when he finally pulls away, his fingers trail down your spine, his grip unwavering. “A warning, my beloved,” he murmurs, eyes gleaming. “You have started something you may not wish to finish.” But the way he holds you—the way his touch lingers, possessive and warm—tells you that, in truth, he is hoping you never do.

Loki

- Loki is a creature of calculation, of control wrapped in silver-tongued deception. He reads people like poetry, anticipates betrayals before they are spoken, dissects affections before they can wound him. But when your lips find his—without warning, without preamble—it is the first time in centuries that someone has truly caught him off guard. His breath halts, body rigid, as if the universe itself has shifted beneath him.

- He does not pull away. He does not return it immediately, either. Instead, he remains perfectly still, sharp eyes searching yours with an intensity that borders on dangerous. You can almost hear the gears turning in his mind, the war between disbelief and hunger, between skepticism and the undeniable thrill of being wanted without agenda. And then, ever so slowly, the corner of his mouth curls, something dark and pleased blooming in his expression. “Interesting,” he muses, voice velvet-smooth, though there is an unmistakable edge of breathlessness beneath it.

- When you move to step back, he does not allow it. A hand—cool, firm, deceptively gentle—curls around your wrist, anchoring you in place. “You think you can best me in my own game, little one?” he murmurs, amusement dripping from every syllable. “That you can steal a kiss and escape unscathed?” His voice is teasing, but there is something else beneath it—something raw, something aching, something that trembles on the edge of longing.

- And then, with a slow, deliberate certainty, he leans in once more. This time, there is no hesitation, no caution. His lips claim yours in a way that is both challenge and surrender, fire and ice melting together in something neither of you can quite name. And when he finally pulls away, his thumb traces the edge of your jaw, his smirk lazy yet predatory. “You are playing a dangerous game, darling,” he whispers. “And I do hope you intend to see it through.”

Clint Barton

- Clint Barton has been trained to anticipate the unexpected. He is a man who survives on instinct, who sees what others miss, who never lets his guard down—not truly. But when you kiss him, when you press your lips against his without warning, without prelude, it is the first time in years that someone has managed to slip past his defenses. And it floors him.

- His breath stutters, muscles tensing as if expecting some kind of punchline, some cruel joke at his expense. But then—then—your hands brush against his jaw, gentle, grounding, real. And suddenly, the world feels quieter. The weight of it all—the missions, the past, the scars that never quite fade—momentarily lifts, leaving nothing but the steady, warm press of your mouth against his. And for once, he lets himself sink into it.

- When you finally pull away, he blinks as if shaking off a haze, lips parted in something like disbelief. And then, ever so slowly, a grin spreads across his face—lazy, crooked, entirely Clint. “Well, damn,” he breathes out, a chuckle escaping him. “Gonna be honest, didn’t see that one coming.” He tilts his head, eyes alight with mischief. “You always go around ambushing guys like this, or am I just special?”

- But there is something softer beneath the teasing, something unspoken in the way his fingers linger near yours, as if debating whether to pull you back in. And then, with a quiet exhale, he murmurs, “Not that I’m complaining, but—maybe next time, give a guy some warning?” He smirks. “Or don’t. I kinda like the element of surprise.”

Natasha Romanoff

- Natasha Romanoff is not a woman who is easily caught off guard. She is control, precision, danger wrapped in elegance. She anticipates every move before it happens, never allows herself to be vulnerable, never lets anyone too close. But when you kiss her—without warning, without calculation—it is the one scenario she never saw coming.

- Her body tenses immediately, years of instinct screaming at her to assess the threat, to react. But then—then—your lips linger, warm and unhurried, and something in her falters. There is no ulterior motive, no expectation, no game being played. Just you. And that, more than anything, leaves her shaken. She does not kiss you back, not at first. She is too busy deciphering why—why you would do this, why she doesn’t hate it, why the world suddenly feels too small with you this close.

- When you pull away, she does not speak. Instead, she tilts her head, studying you with an unreadable expression, emerald eyes scanning your face as if searching for an answer you have not yet spoken. And then, at last, a small smirk tugs at the corner of her lips. “Brave,” she murmurs, voice smooth, almost amused. “Reckless, but brave.” But there is something else in her gaze—something uncertain, something hesitant. As if she is not quite sure what to do with the warmth still lingering on her lips.

- Then, before you can respond, she steps closer, closing the space between you. There is no hesitation this time, no calculation—just the slow, deliberate press of her mouth against yours. And when she finally pulls away, her voice is softer, quieter. “Don’t do that unless you mean it,” she warns. But the way her fingers trail against your wrist, the way her breath lingers against your skin, tells you that she is hoping—just this once—that you do.

Bucky Barnes

- Bucky Barnes is a man who flinches at softness. He does not know how to accept kindness without suspicion, does not know how to be wanted without expectation. He has spent years being used, being controlled, being nothing more than a weapon to be wielded. But when you kiss him—when you press your lips against his without warning—it is the first time in a long, long while that he is simply Bucky.

- His entire body stiffens at first, muscles coiled as if expecting an attack, a trap, a trick. But then your hands brush against him—gentle, grounding, real—and something in him cracks. His breath shudders against your lips, something raw and unspoken trembling just beneath the surface. And for the first time in years, he allows himself to be held instead of holding himself together.

- When you pull away, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. His expression is unreadable, blue eyes stormy with something you can’t quite decipher. And then, ever so slowly, he exhales. “Why?” The word is quiet, hesitant, as if he doesn’t believe he deserves the answer. As if he is bracing himself for you to tell him it was a mistake. But you don’t. You just look at him, and that alone is enough to undo him.

- And then, after a long moment, his fingers brush against yours, tentative, uncertain. “Do it again,” he murmurs, the words barely audible. But when you do—when you kiss him once more, slow and patient and real—his hands finally come up to hold you, steady and warm and home. And this time, he doesn’t let you pull away.

Matthew Murdock

- Matthew Murdock is a man who lives in anticipation. Every breath, every footstep, every heartbeat in his vicinity is accounted for, cataloged, expected. He senses things before they happen, navigates the unseen with the certainty of someone who has never truly been blind. But he does not sense this. The moment your lips press against his, his world—usually so finely attuned—stutters. For the first time in a long time, Matt is truly caught off guard.

- His breath hitches, his fingers twitch at his sides, and for a brief moment, he is frozen in place. The taste of you lingers—warmth and surprise and something maddeningly sweet. His senses flood with you, and it is overwhelming in the best and worst way. His pulse is erratic, his mind a mess of tangled thoughts. He has fought the devil inside himself for so long, denied himself softness, pushed away love because it only ever ends in ruin. And yet, here you are. Kissing him.

- When you pull back, he exhales shakily, his lips parting as if to speak, but no words come. Instead, his hand finds you—fingertips ghosting over your cheek, as if to make certain you are real. His voice, when he finally manages to use it, is quiet, reverent. “You shouldn’t do things like that,” he murmurs, but there is no conviction in his words, no true protest. Only the lingering tremor of someone who wants—desperately, deeply—but does not know if he is allowed to have.

- And then, as if unable to resist the temptation you have placed before him, he leans in. His kiss is not hasty, not fevered, but something far more dangerous—slow, deliberate, inevitable. It is an unspoken confession, a quiet surrender, a promise that he may not be ready to put into words. But his hands find your waist, his lips press deeper into yours, and the way he sighs against your mouth tells you all you need to know.

Frank Castle

- Frank Castle has lost too much to believe in second chances. Love is a thing he buried alongside his family, a thing he does not touch, does not deserve. He is a man made of violence, of war and grief and cold, unrelenting vengeance. He does not get soft things. So when you kiss him—when you, in all your warmth, in all your reckless beauty, dare to press your lips to his—he does not know what to do with it.

- His entire body goes still, as if the world has caught fire and he is standing in the center of the blaze, unscathed but bewildered. He does not pull away. He does not push you back. He simply exists in the moment, feeling something that is not rage, not pain, not the gnawing emptiness that has been his only companion for years. The taste of you lingers—something achingly sweet against the bitterness of his own existence.

- When you finally step back, he exhales sharply, his breath uneven, his jaw clenched. His eyes—dark, stormy, battle-hardened—lock onto yours, searching, questioning. He wants to tell you this is a mistake. That people who get close to him only end up hurt, that his hands are meant for killing, not holding. But he doesn’t say it. Because for the first time in a long, long time, he does not want to push something away.

- Instead, his fingers curl at his sides, his voice low, rough. “You sure you wanna be doin’ that?” It’s not a warning—it’s an invitation. A chance to walk away before he inevitably ruins you the way he ruins everything else. But when you don’t—when you meet his gaze and kiss him again, slower this time, softer—his resolve cracks, and he kisses you back with something that is almost desperate, almost alive.

Bullseye (Lester)

- Bullseye is used to taking. He takes lives, takes power, takes anything he wants because no one can stop him. He is a monster, and he knows it—embraces it. There is nothing good in him. Nothing worth saving. And yet, you—beautiful, foolish, unafraid—have the audacity to kiss him as if he is anything but ruin incarnate.

- The moment your lips meet his, something snaps in him. His instincts scream at him to turn this into a game, to take control, to make you regret ever thinking you could surprise him. But for once, he does not move. He lets himself feel it. The warmth of you, the softness, the maddening contrast of something so pure against the corruption that coats his soul like tar. It is unexpected, undeserved, and utterly intoxicating.

- When you pull away, his smirk is slow, sharp-edged, dangerous. His eyes—dark and gleaming with something predatory—drag over your face like he’s memorizing every detail, committing your recklessness to memory. “Well, damn,” he drawls, voice slick with amusement. “Didn’t know you had it in you, sweetheart.” His fingers ghost over his lips as if testing whether the sensation was real or just some twisted hallucination.

- And then, with a sudden, startling speed, he moves. One hand grips the back of your neck, the other pressing against your waist, and before you can react, he’s kissing you back. But this—this is something else entirely. It is wild, chaotic, consuming. A warning, a promise, a claim. And when he finally pulls away, grinning like the devil himself, he murmurs, “Hope you know what you just started.”

Marc Spector

- Marc Spector is used to ghosts. His past, his mistakes, his fractured mind—he carries them all like shadows that never fade. He does not trust happiness, does not trust peace, because both have been ripped from him too many times to count. And love? Love is not something that belongs to men like him. But then there is you. And then there is this. Your lips against his, unannounced, unexpected, real.

- The first sensation is shock. Not fear, not rejection—just shock. His mind, always a battlefield of shifting identities and whispered voices, goes silent for one aching, beautiful moment. The warmth of your mouth, the way you lean into him with no hesitation, no fear—it is something foreign, something he does not know how to hold. And yet, he wants to. God help him, he wants to.

- When you pull back, his breath is unsteady, his hands curled into fists at his sides as if fighting the urge to pull you back in. His eyes—haunted, desperate, yearning—flicker between you and the ground, as if struggling to find something solid to anchor himself. “You shouldn’t…” His voice is raw, broken. “You shouldn’t do that.” But there is no weight behind the words, no real protest. Just the quiet, trembling confession of a man who does not believe he deserves to be touched with kindness.

- And then, with a slow exhale, he makes a choice. His hand—scarred, trembling—reaches for yours, fingers brushing tentatively before curling around them. He does not pull you close, does not claim you the way others might. Instead, he simply holds on. A silent plea, a fragile hope. And when he finally kisses you back, it is not with hunger, not with dominance—but with something far more dangerous. Need.

Taskmaster (Tony Masters)

- Taskmaster survives by reading people before they can act. He sees a shift in weight, a flicker of intent, the smallest twitch of a muscle, and he knows what comes next. It’s how he wins fights, how he predicts every move before it happens. But not this. Not you. He doesn’t see it coming when your lips press against his, a ghost of warmth against the cold edge of a man who has spent his life being untouchable.

- His entire body stiffens, instincts roaring at him to react, to counter, to do something—but he doesn’t. His mind, trained to memorize, analyze, replicate, suddenly falters. He can mimic a thousand fighting styles, anticipate attacks from the best in the world, but he has no defense for the softness of your mouth, the way you kiss him like he is something more than a weapon. And it unsettles him.

- When you pull back, his hands twitch at his sides, fingers flexing as if searching for the right response. His mask hides his face, but you can feel the way he’s staring at you, the sharp intensity of a man trying to process something he can’t categorize. “The hell was that for?” he finally mutters, his voice low, rough—gravel scraped over steel. But there is no anger, no mockery. Just a quiet, dangerous curiosity.

- And then, something shifts. A decision made. He moves faster than thought, a gloved hand catching your wrist, pulling you in before you can slip away. And when he kisses you back, it is not soft, not hesitant. It is sharp-edged and confident, like a man reclaiming control over the one thing that has ever caught him off guard. You wanted to surprise him? Fine. But now, he’s the one in charge.

Johnny Storm

- Johnny Storm burns hot—always has, always will. A fire that never quite settles, never dims. He is loud and reckless and bright, and he wears his confidence like a second skin. But beneath it all, there is something deeper, something hidden behind smirks and easy laughter. And it is that something that flickers the moment you kiss him.

- At first, he doesn’t process it. One second he’s talking, maybe making some cocky remark, and the next—your lips are on his. His brain short-circuits. Johnny Storm, king of comebacks, has absolutely nothing to say. There’s just heat, not from his flames but from the rush of you, the sudden realization that this thing he’s been pretending not to feel is very, very real.

- When you pull back, he blinks—once, twice—before a slow, almost disbelieving grin spreads across his face. “Damn,” he exhales, voice a little breathless, a little stunned. And then, because he is who he is, he recovers. “If you wanted a piece of me, sweetheart, all you had to do was ask.” But his voice wavers slightly at the end, betraying the fact that he is not nearly as unaffected as he wants to seem.

- And then, before you can say anything, he moves. A hand curling around your waist, pulling you flush against him as he crashes his lips back to yours, kissing you with the full force of his fire—burning, consuming, alive. Because Johnny Storm never does anything halfway, and now that he knows what you taste like, he is never going to pretend he doesn’t want more.

Reed Richards

- Reed Richards lives in a world of equations. He understands the mechanics of the universe, the fabric of reality, the infinite complexities of time and space. But there are some things even he cannot predict. Some things he cannot quantify. You are one of those things. And when you kiss him, it is a complete and utter anomaly.

- His breath stills, his mind goes blank—something that has not happened in years. He can usually calculate the likelihood of an event before it occurs, but this? This wasn’t factored into his reality. His hands hover in the air, as if unsure of the proper response, as if the laws of physics themselves have momentarily escaped him.

- When you step back, he does not move immediately. He is frozen, recalibrating, processing. Then, slowly, his lips part, and a quiet, stunned “Oh” escapes him—soft, unguarded. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, as if needing a moment to refocus. “That was… unexpected.” His voice holds no rejection, only fascination, as if he has just witnessed a scientific miracle.

- And then, something shifts. His hand reaches for yours—not hasty, not desperate, but careful, deliberate. His eyes meet yours, and for the first time in a long while, Reed Richards abandons calculations in favor of instinct. When he kisses you again, it is slow, exploratory, like a man learning a new language and savoring every syllable.

Ben Grimm

- Ben Grimm does not get soft things. He does not get stolen kisses or tender touches or the kind of love that isn’t weighed down by pity. He is The Thing. A man made of stone, of battle and loss, of aching loneliness that he never speaks of. And yet, here you are. Kissing him. As if he is not a monster. As if he is just a man.

- He stiffens, his whole body locking up. His heart—too big, too hopeful despite everything—stumbles in his chest. He has dreamed of things like this before, but dreams are cruel, and reality is harsher. He expects you to pull away, to realize what you’ve done, to see him and regret it. But you don’t. You don’t. And that, more than the kiss itself, threatens to undo him.

- When you finally step back, his throat works around words he can’t quite form, holding the weight of years spent convincing himself he doesn’t get to have this. His massive hands twitch at his sides, as if afraid to reach for something too fragile, too precious. “You… you sure about that?” There is doubt in his tone, not because he doesn’t want you, but because he doesn’t know how to believe you’d want him.

- But when you step closer again, pressing your hands against the solid breadth of his chest, when you tilt your head up and kiss him again, slow and sure and certain, something in him cracks. A deep, shuddering breath escapes him, and his massive arms finally—finally—come around you, pulling you close. And when he kisses you back, it is hesitant at first, reverent. But then it deepens, something raw and aching in the way he holds you, like a man who has been starved of love for far too long.

Susan Storm

- Susan Storm is a woman of grace, of careful composure, of quiet strength that bends but never breaks. She is a leader, a protector, a force of nature wrapped in silk. And yet, for all her brilliance, for all her ability to phase in and out of sight, she does not see you coming. Not when you step close. Not when your fingers graze her cheek. Not when your lips press against hers in a kiss that is as sudden as it is soft.

- Her breath stills, caught between the moment and the impossible realization of what it means. Her mind races—was she blind to this? Had she misread the signs, the weight of your glances, the unspoken words hovering between you for so long? But all thoughts unravel when she feels the warmth of your lips, the unguarded tenderness of it. She has spent her life holding herself steady, but now—now she is the one being unraveled.

- When you finally pull back, she blinks, slow and breathless, a flush creeping up her neck. “Oh,” she murmurs, a small, almost disbelieving smile tugging at the corner of her lips. A rare moment where she is not Susan Storm, the poised and polished heroine, but simply a woman standing before someone who has just shaken her world.

- And then, that moment of surprise shifts into something else—something warmer, something braver. Her fingers find your wrist, curling around it in a silent request. She meets your gaze, eyes shining with something unreadable, something soft. And when she kisses you again, it is no longer hesitation, no longer surprise—it is intention, steady and sure, as if she has made up her mind that this—you—is something she does not want to let go.

Felicia Hardy

- Felicia Hardy is a woman who dances on the edge of danger, who thrives in stolen moments and the rush of risk. She is a thief, a phantom in the night, a creature made of silver laughter and sharp edges. She knows the art of seduction, the game of push and pull, and yet—when you kiss her, it is not part of the game. It is not calculated, not played for leverage. And that is what stops her dead in her tracks.

- Her lips part against yours, a stunned exhale slipping free. For the first time in a long, long time, Felicia Hardy is caught off guard. She is used to controlling the moment, to being the one who sets the pace, who dictates the terms. But this—this—feels like something stolen from her. And she doesn’t know if she wants to steal it back, or if she wants to let herself fall.

- When you pull away, her signature smirk wavers, something uncertain flickering behind those sharp, clever eyes. “Well, well,” she purrs, but there’s a breathlessness to it, a vulnerability beneath the velvet tone. “Didn’t know you had it in you.” A tease, a cover. But her fingers twitch at her sides, as if resisting the urge to reach for you, to pull you back in, to demand more.

- And then, as if making a silent decision, she moves. She closes the space between you with a sharp, deliberate kind of grace, tilting her head with the confidence of a woman who has decided to play a game she was not expecting—but one she suddenly wants to win. When she kisses you again, it is slow, languid, laced with amusement and hunger, as if savoring the way you are the one who caught her off guard for once.

Stephen Strange

- Stephen Strange is a man of logic, of precision, of control honed by years of discipline. He bends reality to his will, commands forces beyond human comprehension, and yet—he is utterly unprepared for the moment your lips press against his.

- His body locks up, his breath caught between disbelief and something deeper, something dangerously close to longing. He does not move at first, too caught in the sheer absurdity of it. He has faced cosmic horrors, rewritten fate itself, but he cannot seem to process the feeling of your touch, the warmth of your mouth against his own.

- When you step back, he blinks, slow and calculating, as if searching for some rational explanation. “That was… unexpected,” he says at last, his voice measured but carrying the faintest waver. He looks at you as though you are a paradox he cannot solve, an anomaly in his carefully structured existence.

- And then, after a long pause, his lips curl in something resembling amusement, a rare, genuine softness breaking through the rigid control. “I suppose,” he murmurs, stepping closer, voice dropping to something almost dangerous, almost reverent, “it would only be fair if I returned the favor.” And when he kisses you again, it is with the deliberation of a man who refuses to leave anything to chance.

Namor

- Namor is not a man accustomed to surprise. He is a king, a warrior, a god walking among mortals. He has stood against empires, defied the heavens, and shaped history with his own hands. But when you kiss him—you, with your infuriating defiance and your breathtaking boldness—he is, for the first time in centuries, at a complete and utter loss.

- His entire body tenses, as if bracing for an attack rather than an act of tenderness. And yet, despite his initial shock, despite the sheer audacity of you, he does not pull away. He does not stop you. Instead, his sharp, piercing eyes darken, a slow and simmering heat curling beneath his ribs—dangerous, unrelenting.

- When you finally part, he does not speak immediately. He simply looks at you, gaze heavy with something unreadable. And then, after a moment, his lips curl—not in anger, but in something far more unsettling. Amusement. Interest. Challenge. “You are either very brave,” he murmurs, voice rich and edged with something unmistakably possessive, “or very foolish.”

- And then, before you can respond, before you can think to retreat, he moves. His hands—strong, unyielding—catch your wrist, his body closing the space between you with the effortless command of a king reclaiming what is his. And when he kisses you again, it is not a question. It is a declaration, a silent vow that whatever game you have started, he will be the one to finish.

Johnny Blaze

- Fire and damnation have clung to Johnny Blaze for as long as he can remember. He is a man marked by hellfire, by a fate he never asked for, by the weight of every soul he has ever sent screaming into the dark. He does not expect kindness, not really, not from anyone. And yet, when you kiss him—suddenly, without warning, like a spark catching dry earth—he is stunned into absolute stillness.

- The scent of smoke and leather clings to him, the remnants of something infernal lurking beneath his skin, but you do not hesitate. Your lips are warm, soft, a stark contrast to the cold edges of his existence. He has faced demons, outrun the devil himself, but this? This simple, quiet moment? It terrifies him in a way nothing else ever has.

- He exhales sharply when you pull back, as if he’s just come up for air after drowning. His blue eyes burn like embers, searching your face as if trying to understand what the hell just happened. His throat works around words he doesn’t know how to say, his fingers twitching at his sides like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t trust himself to. “You don’t wanna do that,” he finally mutters, voice rough with something dangerously close to longing.

- But when you tilt your head, when you don’t flinch, don’t pull away, don’t fear him—something in him cracks. His jaw clenches, his hands curl into fists, and then, finally, finally, he lets himself move. He grabs the back of your neck with a touch that is both possessive and reverent, and when he kisses you again, it is with the desperation of a man who has spent too many years in the dark, suddenly blinded by the light.

Eddie Brock / Venom

- Eddie Brock is a man who has lost too much, fought too hard, and learned to trust too little. He is rough around the edges, worn down by anger and regret, always bracing for the moment when the world inevitably turns against him. He is not used to gentleness—not from others, and certainly not for himself. And so, when you kiss him, when you press your lips against his like it is the most natural thing in the world, his brain short-circuits entirely.

- His first instinct is to pull back, to question, to doubt. But Venom—Venom is faster. The symbiote rumbles in amusement, in approval, wrapping around Eddie’s ribs like a second heartbeat. "We like this one," the alien purrs inside his mind, and Eddie swears under his breath because of course Venom would be delighted by this.

- “You’re—” Eddie starts, but stops himself, dragging a hand down his face like he’s trying to physically shove down the confusion. He shakes his head, glancing at you with something that is half bewilderment, half hunger. He wants to say something cocky, something to brush it off, but all that comes out is a breathless, “What the hell was that for?”

- And then Venom moves, slick tendrils curling around his shoulders, shifting his posture. "Kiss her back, Eddie," the symbiote urges, a wicked, knowing grin in his voice. And—God help him—Eddie does. He surges forward, his grip strong, his kiss a mixture of frustration and want, like he’s fighting against how much he needs this, how much he needs you. And when he finally breaks away, his breath is ragged, his pupils blown wide. Shit.

T’Challa

- T’Challa is not a man who is easily surprised. He is a king, a warrior, a strategist who sees every angle before the game even begins. His mind is always ten steps ahead, his composure an unshakable force of nature. And yet—when you kiss him, when you step close without prelude or warning, tilting your chin up to press your lips to his—he is caught entirely off guard.

- His breath hitches, just slightly, so small a reaction that most would not catch it. But you are not most. You are you, and you notice the way his body stills, the way his fingers twitch at his sides as if warring with the impulse to pull you closer. His heartbeat is steady, measured, but beneath the surface—oh, beneath the surface, you have sent ripples through a man who does not bend easily.

- When you part from him, his dark eyes study your face with a sharpness that borders on unreadable. “You are bold,” he says, but there is no admonishment in his tone—only observation, only something deeply considering. His gaze is heavy, knowing, like he has already unraveled every reason why you did it. And yet, for all his brilliance, there is one question left unanswered.

- And so, after a pause, he tilts his head ever so slightly, a slow, deliberate movement. “Was that a challenge?” The words are a whisper, rich and silken, spoken against your lips as he closes the space between you once more. His kiss is not hurried, not desperate—it is a promise, a declaration, a reminder that T’Challa does nothing without intention. And you? You have just become something he intends to keep.

Elektra Natchios

- Elektra moves like a shadow, like a blade cutting through the dark, like something that cannot be held for long. She is sharp edges and silken danger, a whisper of death wrapped in a dancer’s grace. She does not trust easily. She does not love easily. And yet, when you kiss her—fast, sudden, without warning—she does not push you away. No. She freezes, her entire body tensed, not out of resistance, but because she did not see it coming.

- For a woman who has spent her life reading people like open books, you have just managed to turn a page she did not anticipate. Her lips part against yours, not in invitation but in sheer, startled stillness. The moment you step back, her gaze is already piercing into you, unreadable and electric, the air between you charged with something taut and dangerous.

- “That,” she breathes, eyes narrowing just slightly, “was foolish.” But the way she says it—it is not a warning, not truly. It is curiosity, the ghost of something far more wicked lurking beneath the surface. She watches you like a cat watching its prey, her fingers twitching at her sides, as if deciding whether to draw a weapon or pull you back in.

- And then, just as quickly, just as effortlessly, she moves. Her hand catches your wrist, yanking you forward with a force that is not violent but possessive. And when she kisses you this time, it is not hesitation—it is fire and fury, a battle won with the curl of her fingers at your nape, the press of her body against yours. If this is a game, you have just signed yourself into a war. And Elektra Natchios? She never loses.

Muse

- Muse does not feel things the way others do. Art consumes him, violence is his language, and the world is nothing but a blank canvas begging to be marred. He has wandered through blood-soaked streets and carved poetry into walls with trembling hands, but this—this sudden kiss, this moment where your lips press against his without prelude or warning—is something entirely new.

- He does not flinch. He does not gasp. He does not react in any way that might be considered human. Instead, he listens. To the way your breath hitches. To the way your heartbeat stumbles in your chest. To the way the world stills around him, just for a moment, like existence itself is waiting to see what he will do next. And oh, how he loves the weight of expectation.

- When you finally pull back, his blind eyes remain locked onto you, empty and unreadable, yet somehow knowing. His lips part—not in surprise, but in something closer to fascination. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, the word almost a sigh, almost a prayer. “Do it again.” It is not a request. It is not a plea. It is a command wrapped in velvet, spoken like a secret only you were meant to hear.

- And when you hesitate, when you wonder if it is wise, if it is safe, he simply tilts his head, his smile carving itself into his face like a brushstroke on an unfinished painting. His fingers ghost over your jaw, not quite touching, not yet. “I wonder,” he muses, voice lilting with something dangerous, something close to reverence, “how many shades of red I could pull from your lips alone.”

Victor von Doom

- Victor von Doom does not tolerate surprises. His mind is a kingdom unto itself, a fortress built upon knowledge and control. There is no action he takes that is not calculated, no movement that is not deliberate. And yet—when you kiss him, when you dare to step into his space and press your lips against his without permission, without warning—it is the one moment he does not anticipate.

- His body tenses, not in shock but in something colder, something unreadable. There is steel in his stance, in the way his fingers curl ever so slightly at his sides. For one impossibly long second, the world feels as if it has stopped, as if the very air around you is waiting for his verdict. And then, his hands rise—not to push you away, but to cup your face with the precision of a sculptor, as if he is considering whether to keep this moment or cast it aside.

- “Foolish,” he murmurs, though his grip does not loosen. His green eyes burn into yours, heavy with something unreadable, something vast. “You mistake me for a man who yields to impulse.” But you can feel it—the faint tremor beneath his touch, the war waging behind his gaze. You have shaken something in him. Something he does not have words for.

- And then, Doom decides. His grip tightens just slightly, his gaze darkens, and when he leans in, it is not hesitant. It is not uncertain. No, Victor von Doom does not do anything halfway. His lips capture yours with the finality of a ruler taking his throne, with the weight of a choice made, a fate sealed. And when he pulls away, he exhales sharply, as if he has allowed himself one moment of indulgence—and nothing more. “You are either very bold,” he muses, voice quiet, “or very foolish.” And then, after a pause, after a second’s hesitation— “Perhaps both.”

Peter Quill

- Peter Quill has been kissed before. By strangers in bars, by lovers who knew better, by the lingering ghosts of memories he refuses to let go of. But this—this kiss, your kiss—catches him completely off guard.

- He is mid-sentence, probably saying something ridiculous, something cocky, something meant to make you roll your eyes—and then, suddenly, your lips are on his, stealing the words right from his mouth. His brain short-circuits so violently that for a full second, he just stands there, hands hovering awkwardly like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

- And then, like a delayed reaction, like an aftershock, he grins. A slow, lazy, completely obnoxious grin that spreads across his face like wildfire. “Well, damn,” he breathes, blinking at you like he’s just been hit by a starship. “If I knew that’s how you felt, I would’ve shut up ages ago.”

- But then—just when you think he’ll ruin it with another joke—he tugs you forward, his fingers curling around your waist with an easy kind of confidence. And when he kisses you this time, it is deeper, slower, like he’s savoring it, like he means it. And maybe, just maybe, Peter Quill has finally found something—someone—worth holding onto.

Nova (Richard Rider)

- Richard Rider has been through hell. He has seen galaxies burn, has carried the weight of worlds on his shoulders, has fought and bled and lost more than he can put into words. He is tired. He is so tired. And yet—when you kiss him, when you pull him down from the weight of the cosmos and remind him of something as simple, as human as this—he forgets, just for a moment, how heavy the universe feels.

- His breath stutters. His entire body tenses, like he’s waiting for something to go wrong, like he’s bracing for an impact that never comes. He has been hurt before, has been broken in ways that no amount of power can fix, and yet—this is different. You are different.

- “I—” he starts, but the words get lost somewhere between his lips and yours. He laughs, but it’s not the cocky, confident sound most people expect from him. It’s breathless, unsure. He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “Didn’t see that coming.” But the way he looks at you—the way his blue eyes soften, the way his fingers twitch like he wants to reach for you and doesn’t know if he should—tells you that maybe, just maybe, he’s glad you caught him off guard.

- And then, slowly, hesitantly, he steps closer. He cups your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones with a gentleness that feels at odds with the battles he’s fought, with the wars he’s survived. And when he kisses you again, it is not hurried, not rushed. It is quiet. It is careful. It is real. Because for the first time in a long, long time—Richard Rider is not fighting. He is simply here. With you.

[roanofarcc]

seeing Thunderbolts* tomorrow!! send me requests for any of the characters bc I KNOW this film will consume my brain the second I enter that theater :)

[nandanandada]

THUNDERBOLTS* spoiler(?

Loving how they used the comic design for the new red star ⭐

[leviackermanstoes]

SEND THUNDERBOLTS REQUESTS

[multipotentialitepisces]

Can I Crash Here?

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63717988

Greg Davies x Ed Gamble’s Sister! Reader

When Greg turns up at one of Ed’s blowout parties, you never expected to form such a strange, comfortable closeness with the comic you’d just met. Lots of fluffy fluffy fluff! I love domestic Greg being quietly romantic EEEEKKKK

A/N: Here’s another Greg fic that’s been sat in my drafts for a while! i’ve really been enjoying writing lately, and have a Ted Lasso fic in the works ❤️‍🩹 hope you love!

Ed’s parties were your idea of hell, to put it lightly. He was making far more money than he ever needed to, and yet he hadn’t got a bigger house to accommodate the extortionate numbers of guests. The last time he’d had a big blowout like this, you’d ended up sharing a bed with at least three comics whose names you wished you could remember. The amount of alcohol provided by Ed and everyone that arrived coupled with his lack of guest bedrooms meant it was utter chaos, and a complete nightmare for you who was typically living at Ed’s house for up to a week afterward. Tonight was going to be no different, no doubt.

It was the height of summer, and you had been staying at Ed and Charlie’s for the past few weeks after months of promoting your new book, and were knee deep in house hunting. The London property ladder was no joke.

Your older brother absolutely adored having someone to host when he wasn’t on tour, and you and Charlie got on like a house on fire, so staying at theirs was never a chore, but his huge parties often made you regret ever deciding to stay at his. The singular guest bedroom basically belonged to you, decked out with a queen size bed, a small chair in the corner, and a huge bay window looking out into the garden. You’d filled every surface with books, and adored your slow mornings sat reading watching the sun come up, enjoying a sense of serene peace at their house unlike anything you’d felt anywhere else. That was a stark contrast to the way you knew your peace would be upturned tonight once the drinks started flowing.

At 7.30 guests would be arriving, so you went to go and buy your drinks and anything else Ed and Charlie asked you for after you’d gotten dressed. Walking down the street towards the nearby corner shop, you cracked yourself up at the sight you’d be right now: wearing sheer tights and a black, 70s style minidress paired with your slippers and a seemingly ancient hoodie from a long-ago ex-boyfriend, along with your makeup clad face and immaculately styled hair – it was an overall silly outfit, but perfect for the occasion. As you lugged your bags of wine, cocktail sausages and other various party foods back to Ed’s, you felt yourself feeling quite optimistic about tonight. It was the first house party you’d been to in a while where it hadn’t been abysmal weather or full of people you’d never met, so it seemed like all was looking good. You’d been keeping the company of the British comic circuit for the past couple of decades ever since Ed entered the fray, now being able to call some of them your very best friends, meaning this should hopefully be a good, friendly get-together, but something told you it might go awry.

As you stepped back into the house, you saw Charlie putting out food on the dining table and Ed stuffing as many crates of beer into the already packed fridge.

‘Christ, how many people are you expecting, or are the three of us just getting absolutely bladdered?’

Ed swung around, simultaneously laughing at your incredulous face and grabbing another crate of beer for the fridge. ‘Only about 100 people tonight,’ he said, immediately turning back to pack the fridge with cans.

He didn’t catch the fact you blanched at the statement, not expecting that many people, but Charlie came in from the next room and made you blush crimson almost immediately.

‘Yeah, Greg’s coming tonight, you know.’ She offered you a side smirk, and Ed let out a less-than-attractive chortle from his post at the fridge door. It had been an ongoing joke in the house that you had an attraction to the Taskmaster. The three of you would watch the show together, and from the very beginning they had watched you turn pink at Greg’s very being there. Despite he and Ed’s close friendship, you’d never actually met the man. He was at Ed’s wedding, but your duties as maid of honour had meant you hadn’t had the time to converse with anyone new, and by the time you could, the exhaustion and emotion of the day meant you went to bed as soon as possible. Ed and Charlie only meant it as a joke, but you had somewhat fallen for him through friends’ anecdotes, and his stupid despotic persona on Taskmaster. The fact he was 6’8 also helped, considering you were the same height as your brother and finding a man taller and not emasculated by that was like finding a needle in a haystack.

Trying to act nonchalant was not one of your strong points, so you just looked at Charlie and laughed ‘We’ll see how that goes’ and then excused yourself to finish getting ready.

As you touched up your hair and makeup, and strapped on your heels, the nerves in your stomach got worse and worse as you could hear people arriving downstairs. You’d brought a bottle of wine that you’d bought upstairs to your room for some Dutch courage and had already drank half of it, but it wasn’t making you feel any less nervous, especially knowing that Greg would be descending soon.

Eventually you bucked up your courage, aided by the knowledge you’d be able to eat and make some cocktails, and you made your way downstairs. Immediately you were met by Charlie, entertaining a hoard of female comics in the living room, and a subsequent swathe of compliments on everything possible. It made your nerves dissipate slightly, until Ed came and nudged you in the side, winking about when Greg might possibly get here, earning you more questions from all of the ladies in front of you.

It was sweet relief when you saw Lou Sanders stroll through the door, immaculately dressed and clutching two bottles of ice-cold champagne. You scooped each other into a hug and immediately the news about Greg came spilling from your mouth. You were expecting a sorrowful and understanding reaction, but instead in classic Lou fashion, you were met with a scream of ‘Oh my God! You’re definitely getting laid tonight!’ and then the resounding ‘Pop!’ of a champagne being opened and thrust into your hand. Any anxiety you had was replaced with excitement. You were immensely glad for Lou’s presence, making you feel confident rather than terrified.

The kitchen was completely deserted as the party was in full swing, but as you rounded the corner, breathing deeply to get some time to yourself after having non-stop small talk with people you hadn’t seen in years and introductions to people you’d never met, you didn’t have time to prepare for the inevitable meeting with Greg as you heard his voice reverberate around the quiet room in comparison to the thump of bass throughout the rest of the house. ‘You alright there?’

You hoped he didn’t realise you jumped when he spoke, but his slight smile told you he definitely did. ‘Overwhelmed. Why are you hiding in here?’ It was such an odd experience feeling Greg’s presence in person. Despite the casual nature of the meeting, you couldn’t help yourself blushing, and you were very grateful for the dim lighting to hide the crimson creeping to your ears.

‘I’m only here for the food, might as well stay where it is.’ He said, taking a long drink from his beer, lounging in a dining chair in the link between the two rooms. You were struggling to keep your eyes off him, half in disbelief that he was actually in a room alone with you, and at how good he looked in person. Distracting yourself with making a drink, you were kicking yourself for not continuing the conversation, but you needn’t have worried for long as he made his way over to the kitchen counter where you were mashing mint leaves inside of a cocktail shaker. ‘What on earth are you making?’ He was stood basically completely behind you, his height shocking you. Of course you knew he was almost a foot taller than you, but wearing your heels and feeling him essentially breathing down your neck was a shocking realisation, finally acknowledging just how attracted you were to him despite this being your first meeting. You were inevitably nervous, but the closeness between the two of you seemed to come easy, and distracting yourself by doing something with your hands made it easier to converse with him.

‘A Hugo Spritz.’ You continued mashing the mint leaves in the bottom of the shaker, sneaking a look behind you to see the expression on his face. The one you were met with made you laugh, his eyebrows furrowed closely together beneath his glasses, but with a slight smirk on his face. ‘It’s elderflower, gin, prosecco, lime and mint. Want one? Its nicer than that shit beer Ed bought in bulk, I’ll tell you that for free.’ You added, looking slightly disgusted as you glanced at the half empty amber bottle on the counter.

‘Alright, go on then.’ You could hear the questionable smile in his voice as he moved to your left, leaning his back against the counter and facing you, watching you somewhat intensely as you manoeuvred around the kitchen in search of ice and other ingredients. Eventually you presented Greg and yourself with two wine glasses filled with ice and adorned with a lime wedge and sprig of mint. He looked, once again, questionably at the slightly effeminate drink in his hand, but clearly he was in the mood for being a good sport, and looked down at you with bright eyes as he took a sip. He seemed pleasantly surprised by the cocktail you’d offered, and continued drinking as you cleaned up your mess. The two of you slipped into a reverie, him stood with his back against the island, and you sat with your legs dangling next to him, sipping at your drinks and gazing out of the French doors into the almost dark sky outside.

That was swiftly broken as Ed essentially stumbled through the door from the hallway, flooding the quiet kitchen with loud music and chatter, and Ed’s own drunken laughter, ripping you and Greg out of your companionable silence. The two of you shared a quick glance as you turned to look at Ed, and Greg’s face cracked into a huge smile as he embraced Ed.

‘When did you get here?’ a clearly incredulous Ed asked the man he seemed to be clinging on for dear life to.

‘Almost an hour ago, slipped in through the back door.’ Greg released Ed, and only then did your brother realise who had been keeping him company and hiding him from other guests all this time.

‘I see you’ve met my little sister.’ Ed said, slipping a wink towards you and clapping Greg on the back.

‘Yeah, mate. She’s made me a drink and not told anyone I’m here, so she’s kept me happy.’

‘I bet.’ Ed’s cheeky comment may have slipped past an uninformed Greg, but certainly did not slip past you as you once again turned crimson for the umpteenth time that evening.

‘I’m off for a smoke, I’ll see you boys later.’ You slipped through the French doors, both of the men watching your retreating figure disappear into the cold evening. You sat yourself on one of the sofas, sitting lengthways to stretch out your aching legs and feet from being stood in stilettos all evening. As you closed your eyes and breathed in deeply, the warm smoke filling your throat immediately relaxed you. Ed hadn’t said anything too incriminating, but staying in that conversation would have made it harder for you to speak to Greg like a normal person, and you weren’t feeling much less overwhelmed than when you snuck into the kitchen in the first place. After a while, once the immediate effects of your cigarette had passed, you realised you’d forgotten your drink.

You looked back into the house to go and collect it, and possibly a jacket from your room, enjoying the serenity of the garden much more than the house itself, but as you turned your head you saw Greg making his way towards you with both of your cocktails in hand. He walked around to the front of the seat, handing you your drink, and tapped your toes to signal he wanted to sit on the end of the sofa. You scooched back a little to allow more room, and adopted somewhat of a fetal position in the seat. When he’d settled himself and looked back to you, the sight made him laugh at how clearly uncomfortable it must have been.

‘Oh come on, that can’t be nice.’

‘I’m fine. Thanks for bringing my drink, by the way.’

‘Either take your shoes off or just stretch back out again, I don’t mind being a foot rest for a pretty lady like yourself. Anyway, I didn’t think you young folk smoked anymore.’

You tried not to acknowledge how excited his ‘pretty lady’ comment made you, trying to calm yourself down with the fact it was an offhand joke and get back to the actual conversation happening. ‘I’m 35, I’m not exactly doing my GCSEs am I?’

‘I mean I knew you were Ed’s younger sister, but I didn’t think you were that close in age. I thought you must’ve been about a decade younger.’

‘Nope, just over three years between me and Eddy. Obviously I’m the favourite child.’

‘Well I’ve only met you tonight and youre definitely higher on my rankings than Ed is.’

Greg’s flattering words gave you the confidence to stretch your legs back out onto his lap. It was only fair considering how enormous the width of his manspread was. You slowly removed one foot and then another from being flat to the wicker surface of the chair, moving almost like a stork to place one ankle on top of his suit-clad thigh, and then another, crossing your legs at the ankle. The warmth from his leg was almost radioactive, especially in the chilly breeze. It made you shiver, but then Greg placed an even warmer palm on top of your ankle, making you inhale quickly with shock. Once again, the immediate closeness and comfort the two of you felt was like nothing you’d ever experienced. The two of you got talking, smoked a couple of cigarettes, and shared dirty secrets about the comedy circuit before moving onto the far too intimate topic of exes.

‘Weren’t you with Acaster a few years ago?’ Greg asked you, now unafraid to make extended eye contact with the easiness of the conversation.

The liqueur had loosened you up enough to be fully expressive, and at the embarrassing memory of the papers catching you and James out for dinner made you instinctively pull your knees back into your chest and hide your face with your hand, but Greg’s hand was on your ankle, stopping you from hiding yourself. He was laughing along with your embarrassment. He could feel that whatever he’d read in the news about Ed’s sister had been a misunderstanding, but being the typical men they were, neither Ed nor James wanted to talk about it, and Ed got suspicious when Greg started to pry, so he had to back off. He’d be lying if he hadn’t felt a pang of jealousy over his younger friend’s dating of Ed’s sister. He knew it was ridiculous, even back then, to have a slight crush on a woman he’d never met, but most of his friends only had good things to say about you, and the mystery around your clandestine dating history intrigued him more than he’d like to admit.

‘Alright then, what went on, ‘cause I’ve clearly got the wrong end of the stick?’

‘God I can’t believe you of all people have asked me about this!’ You were properly laughing now, and you could feel Greg’s body moving with his own laughter, relaxing you further into telling the story. He tried to push the question of what ‘you of all people’ could possibly mean, but he focused on the task at hand. ‘He’d just been cheated on, I’d just been cheated on. We went for dinner, we’ve been friends basically since Ed got to know him, and that is literally it! I don’t know why everyone and their mother asks me about it!’ You were getting exasperated all over again, the memory of the buzz of news irritating you. You had been in precisely one scandal, and it was that one, and your agent had kept you from seeing the worst of it.

‘Because the paparazzi thought there’d be a comic royal wedding, apparently. And some other truly crass things I’d not be able to look you in the eye after saying.’ Greg confessed. Even in the darkness, you could see he was a little uncomfortable just hedging around it, but you were in too deep and too drunk and too confused to not ask.

‘What? Like what?’ You sat up a bit straighter, with Greg’s hand on your leg tightening slightly. It was keeping the two of you present and aware of precisely what was going on, despite how overwhelmed you both were that this meeting had finally happened and was going better than you could ever have imagined.

‘Just some crude things, and that you were the other woman for James. It was a really strange time for all the Britcom lot because it was so obviously not something Acaster would do, and Ed went round defending both of your honours. Usually if theres an awful bit of gossip going around, we all take the piss a bit, regardless of how bad it is, but this time it kind of struck a chord because the two of you are so loved in all of our circles, and I’m just so relieved nothing like that has ever come out again.’ Greg seemed to visibly relax as he finished talking, and was absentmindedly stroking his hand up and down your stockinged shin.

‘I mean, that’s not as bad as I was expecting. I’m glad I wasn’t a punching bag for the comedy circuit because I’ve stayed out of public bother for a reason, and that’s one of them.’ At the clear relief the two of you felt, you downed your drink and shivered, which Greg noticed as goosebumps appeared beneath his palm.

‘Are you alright? Do you want to go back inside?’ Once again, Greg’s furrowed eyebrows returned, and he released your legs to allow you both to head inside. He grabbed two beers from the fridge and cracked them open, handing you one and cheersing your bottle with a ‘clink.’ The two of you headed into the packed living room. For the fact Ed and Charlie’s house only had two bedrooms, the downstairs was perfect for entertaining. With an adjoining kitchen and dining room and a huge living room, it could host more people than it could ever hope to house, and as you entered the huge living room, everyone within a metre radius turned and looked at who had just snuck in. Lots of excited faces were lit up at the sight of Greg, but Ed, James, and all of your nearest and dearest friends were laser focused on the sight of Greg’s hand ghosting your lower back. You were immediately regretting re-entering the party, but Greg’s hand lightly holding your lower back made you feel less alone and less terrified, but you didn’t have much time to process those feelings as you were swept into a hug by James.

‘Where have you been hiding all night with Greg, eh?’ His eyebrows shot up and down rapidly, suggestively implying you’d been doing something devious, when the reality was far more boring.

‘We had a smoke in the garden, James. Nothing exciting.’ You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile snaking its way across your face as you gazed up at him in his tight embrace. He pulled you in closer, pressing your face into the corduroy of his jacket, feeling the warmth of someone who’d not been sat outside for the past hour.

It was nice being with your friends, and you missed spending quality time with them, especially when Lou dragged you into the kitchen to explain every single detail of your interaction with Greg, as she failed at hiding her disappointment that he hadn’t ravished you in the downstairs loo. The two of you went back to your group of friends once again in the living room, having catchups with Nish, Aisling and Charlie as it had been so long since all of you had been together. A sort of silence descended on your friends, however, as you felt a familiar hand holding your lower back once again. Greg had squeezed himself in, standing beside you with his right hand cupping your waist. Nish’s face was a picture, the classic image of complete glee and disbelief that he sometimes liked to break out when he was processing something groundbreaking. He was beaming up at Greg, having a vague conversation about how their lives were going since the last time they’d spoken, but his light eyes kept darting back to you, making you lose focus as you tried to remain engaged in whatever Aisling was telling you about. Nish seemed to become a teenage boy whenever anyone had an inkling of romance, especially you with your abysmal dating history, so his incessant glances made you blush.

A few more hours later of socialising and drinking heavily, there were people sleeping on couches and the party was clearly winding down. You had decided to start clearing up the kitchen, filling the dishwasher and stacking plates in the sink, and throwing out any discarded food so the overall clear up would be easier for you all in the morning. Typically those who had crashed would help put the place back into an orderly fashion, but it gave you time to wind down and prepare yourself to go to bed. You were organising the dishwasher when someone leaned over to slide a plate in, and you recognised the large hand and black blazered wrist immediately. Greg was clearly drunk, and as you stood up to close the dishwasher, he wobbled slightly, relying on the steadiness of the kitchen counter next to him for balance.

‘Do you know of anywhere I can crash tonight? The couch isn’t even long enough for Ed, nevermind me.’ Greg laughed, sounding slightly slurred, but soft and tired by the alcohol and the winding down of the party.

You leaned your hip against the counter and pursed your lips, thinking of what would be acceptable for a man of his height. Ed and Charlie had already gone to sleep, so their bed wouldn’t be any use, and none of the couches were long enough. Your bed was huge and it would only be you in it, but you didn’t know if that would cross a line. You’d have been happy taking the armchair in your room, knowing you’d wake early anyway, so the uncomfortable position wouldn’t be too much of a pain. The alcohol had loosened your lips and made you more confident, and you supposed you had nothing to lose.

‘Well, I’ve got a queen bed if you want to sleep in my room. I’m happy to take the chair if you’re okay with sharing a room.’

‘I mean, that would be great, if you don’t mind.’

‘I’ll show you the way now and you can freshen up.’

As you and Greg made your way up the stairs and into your room in tandem, you felt the pain of your feet throbbing in your shoes, and sat down in the armchair in front of the window to remove them immediately. Greg sat on the side of the bed closest to you, removing his blazer and shoes. An image of the two of you like this in your own home every night after returning home popped into your head, but you swept it out quickly, not allowing yourself to gain any false hope. As you sat back in the chair, tucking your feet underneath yourself, you saw Greg focusing intensely on you.

You chuckled ‘what?’

‘Is that the chair you plan on sleeping on?’ Greg looked quizzically at you, that half-cracked smile making its way across his face, wrinkling all the way up into the corners of his eyes.

‘Yeah, I’ll wake up early anyway so it doesn’t really matter. Anyway, here’s the ensuite. I’m going to let you sort yourself out and then I’ll be back in a bit. Make yourself comfortable.’

‘Right, I’m not letting you sleep in that child sized chair, Jesus Christ. We’ll just share, it’ll be fine.’ He clearly found your insistence on sleeping in the chair to avoid making either of you uncomfortable both very endearing and very funny, but you were too exhausted to really notice.

‘Only if you’re sure. I’ll be back in a minute. Get yourself comfy and I’ll be back in a bit and then we can figure this out.’ As you left the room you heard a soft chuckle, and then the sound of the bathroom light being turned on.

You’d made yourself a cup of tea and a plate of leftover party food to snack on as you got ready for bed, and then headed back upstairs untethered by your painful shoes. As you made your way into your bedroom, Greg was lying on top of one side of your bed reading the book on your bedside table, making sure to keep your bookmark in the correct page. He looked incredibly comfortable, lounging as if he lived there and appeared half asleep, clearly content in the space you found most peaceful. He had unbuttoned the top of his crisp black dress shirt, and as he noticed you returning to the room, he looked up and pushed his glasses back up his nose.

‘I brought us some snacks.’ You placed the grazing platter on the middle of the duvet, between where the two of you were inevitably sleeping based on the position Greg had adopted. ‘Do you fancy a cuppa? I can make you one if you like.’

‘No, I’m okay, thank you. I can’t in good conscience let you sleep on that godawful chair, so it’s either we share, or I’ll put a sleeping bag on the dining table. The choice is yours, sweetheart.’ With that, he slammed your book shut and got up to fill a glass with water, walking past you to the bathroom allowing you to get a waft of his cologne and a scent that was unmistakably his own.

‘Fine. We’ll share. I’m an early riser anyway.’ You heard a chuckle from the bathroom, and saw his face cracked with laughter as he emerged. You turned to rifle through the ancient chest of drawers next to your bedside table, focusing your exhausted eyes on the pyjamas you wanted. The exhaustion and preoccupation combined with the strange yet comfortable intimacy you and Greg felt immediately when in each other’s presence made you completely oblivious to the way his eyes refused to leave your back until you retreated into the bathroom. He guessed what you were doing as different sounds reached his ears: brushing your teeth, washing your face, going to the loo and then getting changed. You emerged from the bathroom looking more beautiful than ever, with hair piled on top of your head, fresh faced and bundled up in pyjamas despite it being the heat of summer.

As you clambered into bed, tucking yourself beneath the covers, you text Ed, knowing he’d see it in the morning, congratulating him on another great party. Greg silently put your book back on his side of the bed, and watched as you fell asleep. He could tell you were exhausted, and as soon as you’d text Ed, you were almost immediately asleep. Greg got up from his side of the bed, very slowly as to not wake you, and placed your phone onto charge on the bedside table. He closed the curtains, and pulled the duvet up further onto your shoulders, ensuring you’d be warm and comfortable. He then turned all of the lights and lamps off and got into bed, taking one last look at you breathing softly next to him.

In the morning, Ed and Charlie were up unusually early for the night that they’d had before. Ed was used to waking up with a banging headache and feeling like he’d not drunk water in months, hearing the blaring speaker and clattering of dishes from you cleaning up in the kitchen. Typically he’d trudge down, squinting as the light got brighter in the kitchen, begging you to make less noise so his brain wouldn’t feel like it was two times too large to fit inside of his skull. This morning, however, was different. He made his way unsteadily down the stairs, and seeing the kitchen in the same state as last night, and the living room filled with his sleeping drunken friends, he checked the clock on the wall to make sure it wasn’t 4am and that he wasn’t dreaming. It was 9am, and you were nowhere to be found. Unheard of. Ed set off in search of you, heading back upstairs and knocking quietly on your bedroom door. Once he was a hundred percent certain there was no answer, he sheepishly opened the door and peered around it, almost jumping at the sight in front of him.

Through the cracks in the blinds and curtains where the early morning summer sun was pouring in, Ed saw you and Greg Davies sleeping soundly in each others arms. Greg was snoring softly, and had his arm around your back, breathing in the scent of your shampoo with every inhale, timed perfectly to your own. You had your head on his chest and an arm wrapped around his torso. The top of the duvet cover had moved down throughout the night, allowing Ed to see the configuration of the two of you. He thought some miracle must’ve happened, with his little sister sleeping past 7am, and sleeping in the arms of a man she’d fancied for years. Ed smirked, closed the door, ensuring not to make any sound, and went to spill the beans to his wife immediately, but not before snapping a photograph of the two of you entangled and soundly sleeping.