#xftmreader

[applepiiex]

TASTE LIKE HOME ! ! ! 𝒙𝒐𝒙𝒐.ᐟ

Nanami Kento x FTM! Reader— NSFW

There are just some days when your body upsets you. You don’t feel right, the skin is too tight, the shirt is too tight, the world is too tight. Those days are hard, and Nanami sees its toll on you. Good thing he makes it his mission to always remind you that he loves every. single. part of you. A/N: oral!reader receiving, terms of pussy and clit, unprotected PIV.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧ ୨୧⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔

You toe off your shoes by the door, shoulders heavy with the kind of exhaustion that isn’t just physical. It’s bone-deep. A tiredness that follows you into the house, into your skin.

Nanami’s already in the kitchen. You hear the low simmer of something on the stove and the soft hum of his voice not singing, just… existing out loud, the way he does when he thinks no one’s home yet.

He turns at the sound of the door.

“Welcome back.”Warm, even, calm. His voice is the first thing today that hasn’t felt like pressure.

You try to smile, but it’s half-hearted.

“Sorry I’m late.”

“You’re not late,” he says, as if the concept itself is ridiculous. “You’re home.”

That makes your throat catch, just a little. You drop your coat onto the back of a chair and step into the kitchen. Nanami’s already moving, ladling soup into bowls, slicing the last bit of green onion to garnish. The sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled up to the elbows, and his tie is loosened just enough to remind you he’s been off the clock a while.

“Rough day?” he asks, still not pressing.

You nod. You don’t want to get into it.

You sit in silence at the table while he sets everything down. He doesn’t force you to talk, he just eats beside you, calm and steady. When your hand shakes a little lifting the spoon, he pretends not to see. You know he does. That’s the thing about Nanami. He sees everything and chooses grace, every time.

Halfway through dinner, your voice slips out quieter than you mean. “I just didn’t feel good in my skin today.”

You don’t look up when you say it. You can’t. It feels silly, even though you know he’ll never treat it that way.

Nanami doesn’t respond right away. You hear the soft clink of his spoon against the bowl as he sets it down. Then the chair beside you slides back, and you feel the warmth of his hand on your thigh under the table.

“Thank you for telling me.”

That alone undoes you a little more than you expect. You blink fast. “You don’t have to say anything—”

“I know.” He squeezes your leg gently. “But I want you to hear me.”

You finally look up. His face is calm, but his eyes … god, his eyes. That soft, focused intensity you’ve only ever seen aimed at you. Like nothing else in the room matters.

“You’re mine,” he says, low and steady. “And I don’t love you despite anything. I love you entirely.”He waits. Watches you breathe through it. Then adds, softer, “Let me help.”

You don’t ask what he means. You don’t need to.

The rest of dinner is forgotten. The lights stay dim. His hand finds yours as you lead him to the bedroom, slowly, quietly, like neither of you want to startle the fragile comfort you’ve built in these last few minutes.

You sit on the bed. He kneels in front of you, his fingers gentle as they undo the buttons of your shirt, not rushing, just letting you breathe into it. Letting you decide how far you want to go, how close you’ll let him.

You meet his eyes again. “I want you to touch me like I’m yours.”

His breath catches. His gaze darkens, not with lust, but with reverence.

“You are.”

His hands slide beneath your shirt, slow, practiced, asking without words. You nod, and he helps ease the fabric up and over your head, careful not to let it snag. You shiver at the shift in temperature, not from cold but from being seen.

Nanami doesn’t stare. He studies. His hands rest lightly on your sides, and then he leans in, pressing a warm, grounding kiss to your sternum.

And then lower to the edge of one scar.

You flinch. Not because it hurts. Just… it’s overwhelming. You feel everything. His lips pause, just barely brushing the tissue. He lifts his eyes to meet yours. “Still okay?”

You nod, breath caught in your throat. “Y-Yeah. Just… sensitive.”

His smile is small but sincere. “That’s okay.”

He kisses one scar again, softer. Reverent. Not skipping past it, not avoiding it. He lingers there like it’s holy. Then the other. Then just above, right beneath your collarbone, where his hands settle like he’s anchoring you to yourself.

And just like that, the dysphoria quiets. Not gone. But dulled by the weight of his love.

When he pulls back, your eyes are glassy, but your voice is steady. “Kento…”

He presses his forehead to yours. “Let me love you. Just like this.”

And you let him.

His mouth meets yours, gentle as a familiar rhythm is settle between your lips. Then, his mouth pulls back and kisses your cheeks, your jaw, your neck. Down to the jugular nutch, your collarbones, and so on.

A soft whimper escapes your throat as Nanami kisses your scars again, then moves down your stomach. His fingers gently pulls your sweatpants down, leaving you in your boxers at his disposal.

“You okay?” He asks as you nods, running your hands through his blonde locks softly.

His mouth moves further down, kissing your thighs as one hand sneaks up to open your legs. You aid, spreading them as Nanami massages your thighs.

Kissing the inner thigh, Nanami begins to move closer and closer to your heat. Trembling, he meets yours eyes as you give a subtle nod, which he takes eagerly and begins kissing above your clothed groin.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, the movement making you shiver a little. Your boxers damping, you push Nanami off so you can shuck the uncomfortably wet fabric off.

“So beautiful,” he repeats, using his fingers to spread your lips slowly, running them up and down your wetting lips.

Christ, no matter how many times he’s done this, you never get tired of his fingers.

“Can you look at me?” You whisper, the sounds of your breathing and the wetness gathering on Nanami’s fingers being the only sound in the bedroom.

Nanami doesn’t speak, just looks up to meet your eyes as his mouth locks onto your crotch.

You inhale, meeting his eyes as Nanami looks at you so lovingly as his mouth begins to kiss and lick you. Fingers now massaging your thighs once more, you whimper at the sensation.

Getting eaten out used to make you so nervous, so dysphoric. But with Nanami? It feels heavenly.

Another gasp is pulled out of you as a finger slips inside you. Long, it reaches that little spot inside you that Nanami knows all too well.

Gripping the sheets at your side, you choke out another moan as Nanami’s mouth moves up to lick your clit.

“Kento…” is murmured through your lips, looking back down at Nanami between your legs.

His finger is pumping inside you, hitting that spot right on as his eyes are closed, like your pussy is the only thing in the world. Like he’s drowning with it.

His tongue is flicking against your clit at an unpredictable rhythm that keeps you on your toes. The combination of the two, and the groan Nanami lets out, makes your thighs begin to tremble.

“Gosh…” you finally begin to find your breath as his pace picks up, eyes opening to meet yours. Hungry, he looks.

One hand lets go of your thighs, sneaking up your chest to push your back against the bed. Legs being hiked over his shoulders, he begins to move with a new found purpose.

“Ah! God— Kento!” You shout, taken aback by the sudden change in atmosphere.

He’s a man on a mission now, tasked with making your abdomen clench and back arch as you find your hands in his hair. Both trying to bring his face closer and push him away as you get overwhelmed, he grabs your hands and pins them above your head.

“Kento— I’m close—“ the words are torn from your throat as you feel his tongue move off your sensitive bud to slip inside you. One hand releasing your wrists as his thumb rubs your clit. Vigorously.

“Kento— Wait—“ you can help the moan that breaks your sentences. Coherent thoughts long gone as you feel your orgasm approaching rapidly.

“Come on baby, you’re right there,” Kento murmurs into your pussy, the vibrations finally sending you over edge as you cum hard with a shout of his name. Hands moving to hold Nanami’s hair tightly, your body convulses as he licks you through your orgasm.

“Such a beautiful boy,” he says. Chin drenched as he licks his lips, he unzips his pants and pulls himself out.

Stroking himself for a few seconds, you try to catch your breath as you look up at him. His eyes are hooded with a desire that makes you shiver. Resting on your back, you close your eyes as you feel him slide up and down your slit, soaking his cock in your juices.

Some rummaging can be heard, so you sit up and tap at Nanami. Shaking your head, “I just want to feel you.”

The search of the condom is abandoned as Nanami kissing your forehead as he slips the head in.

“Christ…” he mumbles as he begins to push in, painfully slow to drag out the stretch. Hands going to your side as he uses the bed for leverage.

“You’re still so tight…” he says quietly into your ear. Finally bottoming out, your arms move to hold his shoulders as you bury your face into the crook of his neck. But that doesn’t fly. Nanami moves to push you back down on the bed, seeing you laying down and spread out for him.

“You’re stunning,” he says as he begins pulling in and out, angling his hips just so he can continue reaching that collection of nerves inside you.

“Mmm, so warm. So wet. So tight. Such a handsome man,” he purrs as he brings one of your arms up and begins kissing your palm, wrists, and fingers. He begins to worship your body, like it’s the most priceless piece of art in the world. Rocking his hips into a rhythm you know all too well, he draws out more whimpers from your lips.

“Kento—“ he cuts you off by dropping your hand and moving his thumb to trace slow painful circles are your clit.

As if you’re still not sensitive from your first orgasm just mere minutes ago.

“Wait— Kento baby— I’m still—“ you try to protest, but get cut off by another moan as he pushes the little bundle down.

“I know baby. But see how much I love your body? So perfect for me,” Kento rasped, before bringing your legs up to fold you into a mating press.

Now, his pubes are the ones brushing up your clit, the new feeling adding another layer of pleasure as the angle allows him to push further into you.

His balls slap against your ass, the sound of the flesh so vulgar, mixing in with the sweat and the gasps you let out.

“Ah— Ah— Ah—“ is the only sound you can make out. Nanami moves his hands right by your head, your own arms moving to hold onto his back. Nails dig into his skin, scratching down as you desperately try cling on to him.

He’s always been so good at this, it’s downright criminal.

“Feel good, baby?” He asks, voice rough as he picks up the pace, fucking into you like it’s his last mission.

You nod, whimpering as you cling on to him quicker. “Yes— God!— Yes, Kento. So good…”

He moves harder. Faster. His horribly skilled hand coming back between the two of you to rub that little bud again.

Your stomach begins to cramp, your eyes squeeze shut, your hands digger deeper into his back.

“Kento, I’m close—“ You can’t finish as he begins to kiss your forehead, your temple, your cheek. Coming up to mouth, he whispers right into your lips, “Come for me.” And by mighty you do.

Shaking as your jaw goes slack, his hand quickening against your clit, he feels you clench and tighten up as you orgasm violently.

“Kento!”

“Fuck—“ he moans right back, his orgasm rapidly approaching. Fucking you through your own finish as he approaches his, his hands come off your puffy pussy as he begins pounding you like it’s life or death. Snapping his hips violently, you’re a whimpering mess as he grunts above you.

“Inside, please,” is all you need to say as the groan is violently ripped from his throat as he freezes. You feel the warmth flood you, and Nanami’s hands give out as he lowers your legs.

You finally seem to catch enough air. Legs cramping up a little, but able to relax now that Nanami moved off to your side to hold you.

And he does. For a while.

You should get cleaned up, but right now, Nanami holds you like you’re the most precious thing on the planet.

[reveryfics]

hiya:) here's the request I sent to @loversrocktvgirl2 <3

"If you do John Walker, I was wondering if you could write pole dancer reader? Absolutely NOT an nsfw request, pole dancing is genuinely such a gorgeous form of dance and the level of strength you need for it is insaanee.

Like maye I was thinking John always bickers with reader n stuff, and they're just super all over the place with "do I like him or do I rip his guts out for fucking up that whole mission?" And one day he just walks into the gym and catches reader pole dancing and admittedly stares. :3 idk I've been thinkingbof this for a while I just can't write it myself hevhrbrhwbrbcl"

Thank you sm for considering this/wanting to hear abt it, absolutely no pressure if you do or don't write, take your time and take care of yourself above all. 🫶🫶 I'd just like to add on if the reader could be a transman (like myself) if you need more details or anything you can just dm me :)

Love Hate Affair

John Walker x FtM Reader

Summary: John Walker had a knack for pushing your buttons. One moment, you wanted to kiss him; the next, you wanted to kill him. And he felt the same way about you, right up until he found you "cooling off" after a mission went sideways.

A/N: Can't express how absolutely excited I was to see @loversrocktvgirl2 recommend me for this request. I'm so excited to see what I can do for this, the idea is great and I hope I can do it justice, especially since this is the first request I've gotten for John since I started writing for him. I'd like to mention John isn't being transphobic, he just can't cope with that fact he wants you so badly.

TW: Brief argument - Flirting

Your relationship with John Walker was a precarious dance on a razor's edge. It seemed you were perpetually teetering between explosive arguments and a strange, undeniable magnetism. When you weren't locked in a heated debate over some triviality, John was busy lobbing passive-aggressive grenades your way, each comment a subtle dig at your actions or, more pointedly, a snide jab at your masculinity. It was a consistent, insidious tactic, designed to bolster his own shaky confidence by tearing you down. There were moments, fleeting but intense, when you truly couldn't discern if you were utterly, inexplicably head over heels for the arrogant jerk, or if the urge to "accidentally" eliminate him on a mission was a more dominant desire.

The feeling, you suspected, was entirely mutual for John. He grappled with his own internal conflict, unsure if he was genuinely falling in love with a transgender man – a startling revelation for someone who had exclusively been attracted to women – or if he fantasized about repeatedly bouncing your head off his vibranium shield. This volatile dynamic, a constant push and pull, was the bedrock of your interactions.

Today was a prime example of this strained equilibrium. Another mission, another argument, all because John's colossal ego prevented him from stepping back and allowing you to execute the plan. Predictably, the mission went south, and just as predictably, John wasted no time in pinning the blame squarely on you.

The air in the elevator was thick with unspoken recrimination as the doors hissed open, revealing the bustling main room. John's voice, laced with bitter accusation, cut through the ambient noise. "If you'd just listen and acted like a real man for once!" he snapped, his finger jabbing accusingly at your chest, a familiar provocation.

Your own temper, already simmering, flared. "Oh cut the shit, junior varsity wannabe!" you retorted, not bothering to wait for the elevator doors to fully retract before striding out. "This isn't about manning up! It's about your fuck-ass ego!"

Before you could take another step, John was suddenly in front of you, his hands roughly curling into the collar of your suit. His face was mere inches from yours, eyes blazing with a mixture of rage and something else you couldn't quite decipher. It was in these intensely charged moments that the line between love and hate blurred entirely. Neither of you could tell if the next second would see your lips crashing together in a desperate kiss, or if an all-out brawl was about to erupt for everyone to witness.

The suffocating tension was finally broken by a familiar, weary voice. "Knock it off!" Bucky Barnes, whose interventions had become an alarmingly frequent necessity, cut through the charged atmosphere.

John, with a visible effort, released his grip, shoving you back as if your very presence was repugnant. You didn't utter another word, simply turning on your heels and mumbling under your breath about needing to cool off, the unresolved conflict hanging heavy in the air.

Later that night, the lingering tension from the earlier confrontation with John still hummed beneath your skin. After a long, scalding shower that did little to wash away the day's frustrations, you sought refuge in the Tower's gym. The quiet hum of the ventilation system and the distant city lights filtering through the panoramic windows offered a sense of solitude you desperately craved.

You moved with a quiet purpose, your bare feet padding softly against the cold, polished floor as you made your way to your usual spot. Dressed only in a short pair of gym shorts, the cool air was a welcome contrast to the internal heat of your lingering anger. You placed your towel and water bottle on a bench near the back wall, your gaze already fixed on the gleaming vertical pole that rose from floor to ceiling.

It was your sanctuary, a private space where you could shed the weight of expectations and the relentless scrutiny that came with your life. Others might associate the pole with overt sensuality, but for you, it was a rigorous discipline. The sheer, intricate body control it demanded, the strength, precision, and grace required to defy gravity and execute each fluid movement, was a meditation. It was a way to channel your physical energy and mental frustrations into something beautiful and demanding, a silent language where your body could express what your words often couldn't. Tonight, more than ever, you needed to lose yourself in that silent, demanding dance.

You reached for the pole, the cool metal a familiar comfort against your palms. A deep breath filled your lungs, expelling the last vestiges of the day's animosity. With a practiced grip, you began.

Your initial movements were slow, a controlled warm-up. You started with simple spins, letting momentum build as your body found its rhythm. The world outside the gym, the petty squabbles, the weight of your complicated relationship with John – it all began to recede. Here, on the pole, there was only your body, your breath, and the music that had started to play softly from hidden speakers – a slow, building track with a powerful, driving beat.

As the music intensified, so did your routine. You transitioned from basic spins to more challenging holds, your muscles coiling and extending with astonishing grace. You inverted, hanging upside down with effortless strength, your core screaming in silent protest but holding firm. The lines of your body were sharp, defined by the interplay of muscle and shadow, a testament to the countless hours you'd poured into this private art form.

You moved from a figurehead into a pencil spin, your legs extended, a perfect straight line as you rotated. Then, with a controlled release, you dropped into a gemini, one knee hooked, your body a living sculpture suspended in the air. Sweat slicked your skin, glistening under the gym lights, but you barely noticed. Each movement was a calculated release, a silent scream of frustration and a defiant assertion of self. It was a space where you didn't have to be anything for anyone else; you were simply you, strong, fluid, and utterly in control.

John had been restlessly roaming the Tower's seemingly endless hallways, the weight of his own conflicting emotions a heavy burden. The faint, rhythmic pulse of music drew him toward the gym, a siren's call in the otherwise quiet expanse. He found himself leaning against the doorway, unnoticed, his gaze utterly transfixed by the sight of you.

The gym lights seemed to have conspired to highlight every curve and contour of your body. He watched, mesmerized, as sweat beaded on your skin, catching the light like scattered diamonds. His eyes traced the delicate line of your happy trail, the faint shadow leading up your abdomen and to your chest, where the pale, thin lines of your top surgery scars lay just beneath your pectoral muscles. He couldn't tear his gaze away, his mind cataloging every detail, every subtle shift of muscle and sinew. It was a raw, visceral display of strength and grace, a performance that transcended mere athleticism.

He found himself utterly captivated, memorizing the way your body moved with such fluid, almost supernatural motions, like that of a god descending from Olympus. A strange mix of awe and possessiveness stirred within him, a feeling he couldn't quite name, but one that resonated deep within his core.

You executed a final, challenging move, your body arching gracefully off the cool metal of the pole, legs wrapped securely around it in a striking pose. It was in that moment, suspended in the air, that your gaze snagged on John's. He was leaning against the doorway, a silent, almost predatory intensity in his eyes.

The look on his face was familiar, the same unreadable expression he wore when you were unsure if he wanted to throttle you or pull you into a kiss. But this time, a powerful, almost electric certainty washed over you. It wasn't the fury of a man about to snap; it was the raw, unadulterated yearning of a man who wished his lips were on yours, his hands tangled in your hair, your name a soft whisper on his tongue. And you knew, with an undeniable clarity that stole your breath, that he was finally, finally aware you felt the same.

You held his gaze, a silent acknowledgment passing between you. Then, slowly, cautiously, he pushed off the doorframe. He moved across the vast expanse of the gym, not with his usual bluster, but with a quiet, almost reverent tread. He settled onto the bench near your discarded towel and water bottle, his body surprisingly relaxed as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his eyes never leaving you.

"Keep going," John's voice was a low, husky whisper, barely audible in the vast space. "I'm enjoying the view."

His words, soft as they were, resonated through the quiet gym, a direct hit to the complicated knot of emotions that had always bound you and John. The air crackled with a newfound tension, but this time, it was a charged, alluring current, not the usual explosive kind. A faint flush crept up your neck, but you didn't look away from his intense gaze.

You could have stopped. You could have walked over to him, the unspoken questions hanging heavy between you finally addressed. But something, a mix of defiance and a desire to truly show him, to lay bare this raw, powerful part of yourself, made you hold your ground.

Instead, a subtle shift in your posture, a deepening of your breath, was your only answer. You pushed off the pole, not to step away, but to begin a new sequence, one even more demanding, more expressive than before. Your movements became less about burning off frustration and more about performance, about drawing his eyes, about speaking a language only your body knew.

You inverted again, but this time, you held a 'Superman', your body extended horizontally, one hand gripping the pole, the other reaching out, almost daring him to touch. The sweat that slicked your skin now felt like a liquid embrace. You moved into an 'Allegra', your back arched, one leg bent and the other extended high, the lines of your form impossibly long and graceful. Each muscle strained, defined, catching the light as you spun slowly, deliberately.

John didn't move from the bench. His eyes remained locked on you, a silent intensity that mirrored your own. You could feel his gaze, a tangible weight on your skin, tracing every curve, every flex. The faint smile that had touched his lips when he first spoke had deepened, a lazy, almost possessive curve. He was utterly absorbed, witnessing this private, vulnerable strength that you rarely, if ever, allowed anyone to see.

The music swelled, and you met his eyes again as you transitioned into a 'Phoenix', your body twisting, seemingly defying gravity, before you slid down the pole, landing softly on your feet, chest heaving slightly, but your gaze unwavering from his. The air was thick with unspoken words, with the weight of years of unresolved tension and newly acknowledged desire.

You stood there, breathing heavily, the silence in the gym now deafening after the music faded. The only sound was the soft thud of your own heart against your ribs. John remained on the bench, his posture still relaxed, but his gaze was anything but. It was a searing, consuming stare that stripped away all the layers of pretense and animosity you'd built between you.

He pushed himself up from the bench, slowly, deliberately. Each step he took across the polished floor seemed to amplify the tension, making your skin prickle with anticipation. You watched him, unable to move, rooted to the spot by the pole. The air thrummed with unspoken words, with the raw, undeniable attraction that had been simmering just beneath the surface of your contentious relationship for so long.

He stopped just a foot or two in front of you, close enough for you to feel the warmth radiating off him, close enough to see the slight tremor in his jaw. His eyes dropped to your chest, lingering on the subtle rise and fall of your breath, then flickered up to meet your gaze.

"That was..." he started, his voice a low rumble, rougher than before. He swallowed, visibly searching for the right words. "...incredible."

His hand, calloused and strong, slowly lifted. You watched, mesmerized, as his fingertips traced the faint line of your happy trail, a feather-light touch that sent shivers down your spine. Then his hand moved higher, his thumb brushing lightly, almost reverently, over the top surgery scars on your chest. It wasn't a tentative touch, but a confident, accepting one, a silent acknowledgment that spoke volumes.

"I..." he began again, his voice barely a whisper, his gaze locked with yours. "I don't know what I want to do more right now."

"Kiss me," you blurted out, the words a challenge wrapped in desire. You couldn't resist. "Unless Mr. Junior Varsity is too much of a baby." A smirk played on your lips, a defiant curve designed to poke and prod, to break through his careful composure.

John's eyes widened fractionally, and he actually stuttered, a guttural, choked sound like he hadn't just been tracing the lines of your body moments before. The sudden shift in his demeanor, from intense admirer to flustered soldier, was almost comical. You knew the chaos you stirred within him, the myriad of feelings he couldn't admit to himself, let alone to you. He was caught between his rigid self-image and the undeniable pull you exerted.

You took a step closer, your bare foot sliding silently on the cool floor. His gaze darted from your eyes to your lips, a silent battle waging behind his irises. "What—what are you—" he managed, his voice still rough.

You didn't let him finish. Your smirk deepened, a mischievous glint in your eyes. "What, the great John Walker can't handle a little directness?" Your voice was a low purr, laced with playful taunt. You reached up, your fingers tracing the strong line of his jaw, then trailing down his neck, deliberately lingering near the pulse point at his throat. You could feel the slight jump there, a testament to the effect you had on him.

"You like the view, huh?" you murmured, your gaze dropping to his lips, then back up to meet his eyes, challenging him. "Want a closer one?"

Before he could formulate another stammering response, before his internal monologue could catch up, you acted. With a swift, decisive motion, your hand shot out, curling around the collar of his shirt. With a forceful tug, you pulled him down, closing the remaining distance between you. His lips, still slightly parted in surprise, met yours in a fierce, urgent clash. The kiss was immediate, messy, and charged with every unresolved feeling that had festered between you for so long. It was the taste of grudges and longing, of unspoken desire and undeniable attraction, finally unleashed.

The kiss was a maelstrom of pent-up aggression and searing desire, a desperate release of everything you'd held back. John's initial surprise quickly melted into an equally fervent response. His hands, which had been hovering uncertainly, finally found their purchase, one gripping your hip, pulling you flush against him, while the other tangled in your hair, tilting your head to deepen the angle.

Your fingers, still fisted in his shirt collar, tightened, pulling him closer still, as if you could fuse yourselves together. There was nothing gentle about it – it was raw, hungry, tasting of the lingering bitterness from the mission, the sharp edge of his earlier comments, and the overwhelming sweetness of finally, finally crossing a line that had stretched taut between you for so long. His lips were firm, demanding, and you met their intensity with equal force, a guttural hum escaping your throat as his tongue swept into your mouth, claiming it.

The pole, your silent audience, stood witness to the collapse of all your careful defenses. The earlier tension in your muscles, born of anger and performance, now shifted into a trembling anticipation, a yearning for more. You could feel the hard planes of his chest against yours, the rapid beat of his heart mirroring your own. It was a dizzying, all-consuming moment, where the world outside the gym, the team, even your conflicting roles, ceased to exist. There was only John, and you, and the explosive, long-overdue collision of your worlds.

You were the one to pull away, though it felt like tearing yourself from a current. Your lips lingered near his for a charged moment, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath, to taste the lingering sweetness of the kiss. His eyes, still half-closed in surprise and a dawning realization, were heavy-lidded and dark.

A playful, almost triumphant smirk tugged at your lips. "Next time," you murmured, your voice a husky whisper that barely reached his ears, "if you want to kiss me, you're gonna have to man up and ask."

Before he could even process the words, before the surprise in his eyes could fully shift into a reaction, you delivered a light, almost dismissive pat to his cheek. It was a calculated move, a final jab designed to disrupt the intense intimacy you'd just shared. Then, with a firm push against his chest, you broke the last physical connection.

John stumbled back a step, thrown off balance by your abruptness. His mouth opened, as if to speak, but no words came out. You didn't wait. Spinning on your bare heels, you swiftly grabbed your towel and water bottle from the bench. Without a backward glance, your bare feet padding silently on the cool floor, you walked out of the gym doors, leaving John standing alone in the quiet, brightly lit space, the ghost of your kiss still lingering on his lips and the echo of your words hanging in the air.

[reveryfics]

I'm creeping in to get that extra plate, teehee. I was rewatching TFAWS, and Thunderbolts, and just. Awkward John. From the scene where he's getting ready to go on and present himself as Captain America, to attempting to nerd out about guns to Yelena and Ava, and then the "the- the hat? You like it?" 😭😭 MY SHAYLA.

Like obviously this is not a common side of him, but I was thinking of some sort of domestic scene with John and Reader (transman or male reader, whatever you're more preferable with don't wanna bombard you with trans reader x john) and he just let's that awkward little side slip for a moment and reader just absolutely swoons. Like "Oh my god I got the dumbest cockiest dude in the world I love him. If he was a chicken he'd have the biggest puffed out chest and attack everyone and then mistake little grains of gravel for seed I need to kiss him"

(Like OF COURSE John is very smart and observant, and that sentence was not at all meane to undermine or infantilise him in anyway at all. 💔)

Maybe reader is making coffee, or they're in the kitchen for some other reason, and then John gets Awkward John ™️ and it's a long silence of John just possibly beating himself up followed by reader staring at him as if the words "I need to kiss you" are painted all over their face in the same desperate tone of that one audio that goes "wait! I need to draw you. You're why cavemen painted on walls."

Idk I just thought this idea was way too cute to NOT run by you for second thoughts (but ofc if you dont wanna write the same character twice I totally get that don't feel pressured to do this at all :3 make sure you've eaten today and don't force yourself to do what you don't wanna.)

Me shyly sliding back into your requests for the second time in a 4 day timespan

Awkward

John Walker x Male Reader

Summary: Around you, John's usual tough exterior has begun to soften, now he can't stop himself from rambling, and honestly, you just want to kiss him every time he does.

A/N: I was patiently waiting for you to return like a desperate ex waiting for a phone call. Your single handedly helping with writers block, and this idea is absolutely adorable. It can also be read as both FtM and Male reader since it's not exactly specified. I really tried to stay on request with this, but my brain wasn't working at the speed it needed to.

TW: Fluff - Domestic fluff

You'd be the first to admit it: your initial relationship with John was anything but amicable. It certainly wasn't built on the foundations of trust, respect, or mutual feelings. In fact, it was a volatile storm of constant conflict. Every second you were together, you were at each other's throats, a simmering rage perpetually bubbling beneath the surface. Accusations flew freely, each of you quick to assign blame when even the slightest thing went awry, steadfastly refusing to acknowledge that you had both been victims of cruel manipulation. The sheer audacity of his existence was enough to fuel your animosity, and the feeling, you knew, was entirely mutual. You hated him with every fiber of your being, and he returned that sentiment with equal fervor.

Then, a shift, subtle at first, began to occur. Circumstance, rather than desire, forced you into a working partnership. You had to collaborate, not because you wanted to, but because the alternative was simply unthinkable. Yet, in the crucible of necessity, something unexpected began to forge. John, despite his outward disdain, started to rely on you. And, as much as you loathed the admission, you found yourself relying on him too. It was a grudging dependency, born of shared peril and common goals, but it was a reliance nonetheless. From that fragile, unspoken understanding, your relationship began to evolve. It wasn't a sudden blossoming, but a slow, arduous climb towards something that, for all its worth, was built on trust, respect, and mutual feelings.

The support you offered each other began with the seemingly insignificant. It was in the small, almost imperceptible ways that you started to show up for John, and he for you. Initially, this manifested in the professional sphere: seamless assistance on missions, a quiet understanding of each other's capabilities and weaknesses. Then, it seeped into your personal lives, subtle gestures that spoke volumes without a single word being uttered. Staying up late together, even if the silence hung heavy between you, became a strange comfort. There were the knowing glances, moments of shared understanding when one of you was clearly struggling but too proud to ask for help. These small acts of unspoken care began to escalate.

Soon, it wasn't even a question when John would find you asleep on his couch, having crashed there after a particularly grueling day or late-night debrief. He wouldn't even bat an eye, simply letting you be. And you, in turn, didn't hesitate when he’d awkwardly extend an invitation for dinner, a crack in his hardened exterior slowly revealing itself around you. You saw how he'd fumble for words, seeking your opinion on something trivial with the earnestness of a nervous child, and it endeared him to you in ways you never thought possible. The true turning point, however, arrived when he began to trust you around his son. It was an unspoken seal of approval, a profound gesture that solidified your place in his life. The spare key he later gave you wasn’t just a key; it was an acknowledgment of your integral role, a silent invitation into the sanctity of his private world.

It hadn't even crossed your mind how many walls had been brought down between the two of you. The sheer magnitude of the transformation was staggering. You began to actively anticipate those rare, precious breaks in his gruff demeanor—the moments when he’d let his guard down and talk about something he was genuinely proud of or deeply fond of.

In those instances, John would speak with a genuine smile gracing his lips, his eyes alight, as if only you were privy to this softer, more vulnerable side of him. Then, as the realization of his transparency would sink in, he'd completely go slack-jawed and awkward, clearly embarrassed that he’d let so much of himself slip. And in those very moments, all you could think about, with a fierce ache in your chest, was how desperately you wanted to kiss him like your life depended on it. And gods, sometimes you did. In the quiet solitude of his living room, enveloped by the darkness, after he'd done exactly that—spoken from the heart, then visibly recoiled in embarrassment. There had never been a label for what you and John were; it was an unspoken understanding, a connection that defied definition. But in those clandestine kisses, you didn't care about labels. All you saw was the dumbest, cockiest man you knew, standing vulnerable before you, and all you wanted was your lips on his.

This early morning was no different from the countless others that had become your new normal. You had crashed at his place the night before, narrowly missing his ex-wife as she came to pick up their son. John, it seemed, had grown accustomed to your presence in his home, even in its most unconventional forms. He didn't even question why you were half-naked on his couch, passed out while some children's show still played softly on the TV when he woke up in the middle of the night to grab something from the kitchen. Hell, he didn't even question why he had practically dragged you into bed with him in his sleepy haze, and neither did you. It was simply… what happened. It was your shared, unspoken life, built on the foundations of a tumultuous past, now undeniably intertwined.

You blinked, the soft morning light filtering through John's blinds a gentle assault on your senses. For a moment, you simply lay there, luxuriating in the unfamiliar comfort of his bed, the lingering warmth of his body a comforting weight beside you. A subtle shift, and you realized you were still partially tangled in his embrace. Carefully, you began to disentangle yourself, a slow, deliberate process as you slipped from his grasp, trying not to disturb his peaceful sleep.

With a soft sigh, you swung your legs over the side of the bed, the cool air raising goosebumps on your skin. You sat for a minute, staring down at your bare feet planted firmly on the plush carpet. Your gaze drifted across the room, taking in the familiar landscape of John’s bedroom. Clothes were strewn haphazardly across the floor – a discarded pair of jeans here, a half-peeled-off t-shirt there – a chaotic testament to his usual rushed mornings. It was a familiar scene, one that had become surprisingly comforting in its consistency.

Pushing yourself up, you padded silently across the room. Your eyes landed on a chair, draped with one of John’s plain t-shirts. Without a second thought, you reached for it, pulling the soft cotton over your bare chest. It was a simple, dark grey, yet it swallowed you whole, the fabric falling well past your hips. It was just a shirt, but it felt like a hug, imbued with the faint scent of him. You smirked to yourself; it was probably because he was a super soldier, a fact he’d reenerated to you late one night, eyes wide and earnest, before the self-consciousness kicked in and he’d awkwardly shut down, his usual walls snapping back into place. You shook your head, a fond smile playing on your lips. Even after all this time, the man was still an enigma, a puzzle you were slowly, piece by piece, beginning to solve.

Wrapped in the soft, oversized comfort of John's shirt, you ambled into the kitchen, the remnants of sleep still clinging to you. The familiar clatter of mugs and the gentle gurgle of the coffee maker were a comforting soundtrack to the early morning. You moved on autopilot, half-asleep, scooping coffee grounds and pouring water, the rich aroma slowly beginning to fill the air.

You were just reaching for the sugar when you felt it—a warm presence behind you. Then, a pair of hands, heavy with sleep, lazily settled on your hips, pulling you gently back against a solid chest. A low, gravelly mumble vibrated through you. "Is that my shirt you're wearing?" John's voice, thick with slumber, was barely above a whisper.

You turned your head to look at him, a soft smile tugging at your lips. He was a glorious mess, his dark hair a tangled explosion, eyes barely slits against the kitchen light. His shirt was riding up, revealing a toned abdomen, and his pajama pants hung low on his hips, threatening to slip even further. Gods, you thought, a delicious warmth spreading through you, you could definitely get used to this. You simply nodded, a silent affirmation, and turned back to the two mugs you'd set out, the promise of coffee hanging sweet in the air.

You eventually handed John his coffee, the two of you settling into the chairs at his dining room table. The quiet hum of the refrigerator filled the space as you both became absorbed in the digital worlds on your phones – news feeds, emails, the mundane beginnings of another day. The early morning light softened the edges of the room, painting it in gentle hues.

It wasn't until you felt it, a subtle shift in the air, that you looked up from your screen. John’s face, which had been slack with sleep just moments before, now held that familiar, tell-tale expression. The sleepiness had vanished, replaced by a genuine smile that curved his lips, and a certain light in his eyes—the same look he got just before he was about to say something that would crack through his carefully constructed, gruff exterior. You met his gaze, a small, knowing smile already playing on your own lips, even before he began to speak.

You'd be lying if you said you were truly listening to a single word he said. You weren't, not really. Bits and pieces of his monologue drifted into your consciousness, but your mind was consumed by a singular thought: you wanted to kiss him, just like all those other times. And then, inevitably, it happened. The long, awkward silence descended as John suddenly realized what he was doing, what he was revealing, and that you were staring at him with that particular look of utter fascination. He looked down, clearing his throat, and took a deep, fortifying sip of his coffee.

All you could see in that moment was the absolute dork of a man sitting across from you. This was the John you'd grown to know, even if these unguarded moments weren't his typical mode of operation. He was like some overly confident rooster, crowing about the amazing bugs he’d uncovered for his hens, only for them to turn out to be nothing more than a few shiny pebbles. And gods, did you love it. You wanted to kiss him, wanted to feel his lips on yours, just like those other times, in the quiet darkness of his living room.

You set your coffee cup down next to your phone, the clink echoing in the quiet kitchen. Without a word, you walked the few feet from your chair to his and leaned down. "I didn't understand a word you just said," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "But there's nothing I enjoy more than when you get this way." You didn't give him time to answer, didn't give him a chance to retreat. Before he could even process your words, your lips were on his in a kiss.

His initial surprise, a brief stiffening of his body, melted almost instantly. John's lips, still soft from sleep, responded to yours with a familiar eagerness, a deep hum rumbling in his chest. His hands, which had been resting on his coffee cup, now found purchase on your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your bodies. The kiss deepened, a slow, tender exploration that tasted of morning coffee and unspoken desires. It wasn't rushed or frantic, but a quiet reaffirmation of the connection that had bloomed between you.

You felt the lingering sleepiness drain from your limbs, replaced by a warmth that spread through your entire being. Your fingers threaded into the soft disarray of his hair, deepening the kiss, allowing yourself to get lost in the moment. In this intimate space, surrounded by the quiet hum of his home, the gruff exterior that John so often presented to the world crumbled away, leaving only the man you had come to know, the one who awkwardly revealed his passions and then blushed at his own transparency.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless, a silent understanding passing between your softened gazes. John's eyes, no longer half-closed with sleep, were wide and surprisingly vulnerable, a flush creeping up his neck. He still looked like the dork you’d affectionately dubbed him, but in this moment, he was undeniably yours.

He cleared his throat again, a nervous habit, but a small smile, less self-conscious this time, played on his lips. He didn't need to say anything, and neither did you. The lingering taste of his lips, the gentle pressure of his hands still on your waist, and the quiet comfort of his presence in the early morning light spoke volumes.

You leaned your head against his, a contented sigh escaping your lips. The world outside the kitchen, with its missions and manipulations, felt distant and unimportant. For now, there was only the quiet intimacy of this shared morning, a routine that had slowly, unexpectedly, become the bedrock of your lives.

"More coffee?" you murmured, your voice a little husky.

John chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated against you. "Please." He tightened his grip on your waist, a silent invitation to stay right where you were. And you did, basking in the quiet promise of a day that had started in the most perfectly imperfect way.

[reveryfics]

I Was Made For Lovin' You

Peter Quill x FtM Reader

Summary: Peter was hopelessly in love with you since you joined the Guardians. Despite your attempts to ignore him, he finally convinces you to dance.

A/N: I never see any Peter Quill with any type of masculine reader, so I offer this. Highly recommend listening to the cover of "I was made for lovin' you" by YungBlud while reading this.

The moment you officially became a Guardian of the Galaxy, two cosmic truths aligned like celestial bodies. First, you’d found a family, a ragtag bunch of misfits who embraced you, quirks and all, in a way your own blood relatives never had. And second, well, the second truth shimmered with the intensity of a supernova: Peter Quill, the self-proclaimed Star-Lord, was head-over-heels, irrevocably smitten with you from the very millisecond his eyes locked onto yours. It was a love story written in the stars, even if he was too stubborn, too adorably dense, to admit it.

He’d sputter denials, of course, a blush creeping up his neck as he vehemently refuted Rocket’s teasing jabs whenever he was caught gazing at you, lost in the constellation of freckles scattered across your nose as you expertly tinkered with the Milano’s engine. He might have tried to play it cool, to maintain that roguish, devil-may-care façade, but it was as transparent as a Kree force field. Everyone saw it: the way his eyes lingered a little too long, the soft smile that played on his lips when you laughed, the way he always seemed to gravitate towards you, like a moth to a particularly dazzling, grease-covered flame. And, of course, there was that one fateful, tequila-fueled night under a canopy of a million shimmering stars, when secrets whispered between you like cosmic winds, and Peter learned everything.

He learned about your journey, your struggles, the ache of feeling like you were always on the outside looking in. He learned about the quiet battles you fought within yourself, the lingering insecurities that clung to you like space dust. He learned about the pain of a family that couldn’t, or wouldn’t, understand. And then, he did something extraordinary. He saw you. Truly saw you, the man you were, the man you were always meant to be. He accepted you, celebrated you, with an open-heartedness that made your soul soar. Perhaps it was his own experience of being an outsider, a human raised among the stars, that gave him such profound empathy. Whatever the reason, his acceptance was a balm to your heart, a validation you had craved for so long.

He knew all your vulnerabilities, the way you sometimes still felt like you were being judged, scrutinized, found wanting. He knew the lingering fear that people didn’t truly see you as a man. But Peter, with his goofy charm and surprisingly insightful heart, always had a way of chasing away the shadows. He’d make a silly joke, or tell a ridiculous story about his own insecurities, and suddenly, the weight on your chest would lighten, the darkness would recede. He had a knack for making you feel seen, truly seen, and loved, just the way you were.

With a sigh, you wiped a smudge of engine grease from your cheek, leaving a dark streak across your skin. Rocket had conscripted you into helping him finish some repairs, and since you had nothing better to do than contemplate the vast emptiness of space and your own complicated feelings, you’d agreed. The ship’s radio hummed with the familiar strains of 70s rock, a comforting blanket of sound that drowned out the rest of the world, including, you thought, Peter, who had wandered into the engine room, ostensibly to check on your progress, but, as always, had remained to simply watch you work.

He leaned against a bulkhead, a soft smile playing on his lips as he took in the sight of you. One of his old t-shirts, ridiculously oversized, hung loosely on your frame, your hair a tousled mess, your hands and face smudged with grime. You were a vision, a beautiful, grease-covered, utterly captivating vision. If hopeless romantic was a person, it would be Peter Quill, standing there, bathed in the dim light of the engine room, his heart overflowing with a love he couldn’t quite articulate.

“Going to stand there and make heart eyes all night?” you chuckled, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. You plucked a greasy rag from a nearby pile and tossed it playfully at his face.

Peter blinked, startled from his reverie. He cleared his throat, a faint blush dusting his cheeks. “I wasn’t…I wasn’t staring,” he stammered, the lie so transparent it was almost endearing.

“Oh, really? Because your face says otherwise,” you countered, raising an eyebrow. “It’s saying, ‘Wow, look at him, so strong, so capable, covered in grime… I’m in love!’” You exaggerated the last part, batting your eyelashes dramatically.

Peter spluttered, his blush deepening. “That’s… that’s not what my face is saying at all,” he insisted, but his voice lacked conviction. He fidgeted, running a hand through his hair, dislodging a stray piece of space dust. “My face is saying… ‘Is that a new kind of… uh… wrench?’” He gestured vaguely at a nearby toolbox, clearly grasping at straws.

You snorted. “A wrench? Seriously, Quill? That’s the best you’ve got?” You leaned closer, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You know, everyone sees it, right? Rocket, Groot, even Drax, who barely understands metaphors, has commented on your ‘intense admiration’ for me.”

Peter groaned, covering his face with his hands. “Okay, okay, you got me,” he mumbled from behind his palms. “I think you’re… pretty cool. And… good at fixing things. And… not repulsive when covered in grease.”

“Wow, high praise indeed,” you deadpanned. Just then, as if the universe itself was conspiring to embarrass Peter further, “I Was Made For Lovin’ You” crackled to life on the ship radio. Peter’s head snapped up as if he’d been electrocuted.

“Oh! This is your favorite song, right?” he exclaimed, his embarrassment momentarily forgotten in his eagerness to change the subject. He pointed at the radio, a little too enthusiastically. “You love this song! Always singing it… terribly, I might add.” He grinned, nudging you playfully.

Before you could retort, Peter grabbed your hand and began to sway, attempting a clumsy dance move. “Come on, let’s dance!” he declared, pulling you towards him.

“Absolutely not,” you said, laughing, but the smile on your face betrayed your true feelings. You knew you couldn’t resist his goofy charm for long. He started chasing you around the cramped engine room, his movements surprisingly agile despite the confined space. You squealed with laughter as he finally cornered you, grabbing your hands and pulling you into a clumsy two-step.

You danced like no one was watching, lost in the music and the moment. Peter’s earlier embarrassment had melted away, replaced by pure joy. As the song reached its crescendo, you leaned in and kissed him.

His eyes widened in surprise for a split second, but then he kissed you back, his hand tightening around yours. When you finally broke apart, breathless and grinning, he leaned his forehead against yours.

“I was made for lovin’ you,” he sang, his voice a little shaky, a little off-key, but full of genuine emotion.

You laughed, echoing the lyrics, equally terrible but equally sincere.

“So,” Peter said, after a beat of comfortable silence, “does this mean we’re… you know… boyfriend and boyfriend now?”

You grinned, leaning in for another kiss. “Yeah, Quill,” you whispered against his lips. “Yeah, it does.”

[reveryfics]

Doing this Anon but you know who it is hehehe

Bucky with a ftm reader with some fluff before some sick nasty smut? Thinking some hurt/comfort where Bucky talks about how he doesn’t know exactly how it feels but knows what it’s like to not feel like your body is your own. Then he comforts you by showing you he doesn’t see you as anything less then HIS man

Granite

Bucky Barnes x FtM Reader

Summary: Bucky recognizes the way you're looking at yourself – it's a look he's intimately familiar with. Bucky's instinct is to draw you in, offering a intimate sense of security and support to help you navigate through it.

A/N: You nasty dog, I'm so excited for this. You know why it's titled this.

TW: Slight angst - Hurt/Comfort - Dysphoria - Smut - Bottom reader - Pre-op reader - Females DNI - Minors DNI

The rain outside the towering glass of Avengers Tower was a hushed symphony, each drop a tiny drumbeat against the immense windows. Heavy, swollen clouds wept a torrent upon the world, shrouding the city in a melancholic gray. Inside, the vast room held its breath, the silence broken only by the insistent rhythm of the downpour. A single table lamp cast a small, intimate circle of light, a fragile beacon in the deepening gloom. Within its glow stood a tall mirror, its reflective surface a silent judge. Scattered on the floor around it, a chaotic landscape of discarded clothing lay like fallen flags.

But the light did more than just reveal the disarray; it relentlessly showcased the reflection staring back – a stark embodiment of everything you fought to ignore. The gentle curve of your stomach, a constant source of unease, was highlighted with cruel clarity. The soft line of your jaw, a feature that felt alien, seemed amplified in the dimness. And beneath it all, the lamp seemed to pierce through to the hollow ache that resided deep within, a persistent emptiness that no amount of striving could ever truly fill.

Your own skin felt like a hostile landscape, each inch a painful reminder of what you wished to shed. Your body screamed its unwanted truths, every contour and shadow a taunt. Even the tight, constricting fabric of the binder couldn't fully conceal the prominence of your chest, each breath sending a dull, persistent throb through your ribs, a physical manifestation of the profound discomfort that settled in your soul. The mirror held you captive, a silent witness to the war waged within, the battle between the self you were and the self you yearned to be.

Bucky stood framed in the doorway, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the muted light of the hallway. His arms were crossed over his chest, the metallic sheen of his prosthetic catching the faint light as his gaze met yours in the mirror's reflection. He knew that look in your eyes, the raw, undisguised hatred for the image staring back, the visceral disgust for a version of yourself that felt fundamentally wrong, a mocking imposter trapped within your own skin.

He pushed off the doorframe, the soft click of the closing door behind him a definitive punctuation to the silence. He moved with a quiet grace until he stood directly behind you, his presence a solid, comforting weight. His hands found purchase on your hips, the cool metal of his fingertips a startling yet welcome contrast to the feverish heat of your skin.

Bucky leaned down, the rough scruff of his beard a gentle abrasion against the sensitive skin of your neck. His warm breath ghosted over your skin as his lips brushed against the delicate curve, a silent offering of solace. His gaze met yours once more in the mirror, his blue eyes filled with a profound empathy. He felt as though he could see a reflection of his own past struggles in your tormented gaze, the ghost of the Winter Soldier staring back, a version of himself he had fought so hard to overcome. He let out a slow, deliberate breath, the sound a soft sigh in the quiet room. "I'll never understand exactly what you go through," he hummed, his voice a low rumble against your ear as his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you back against his solid frame. "But I understand what it's like to feel as though your body isn't your own." Bucky murmured, his lips leaving a trail of soft kisses across your shoulder blade. You gulped, your body twitching almost imperceptibly under his tender touch as you leaned back into his comforting warmth. "Does it get easier?" You whispered, your voice cracking with the weight of unspoken emotions. Bucky stilled, his hand coming up to gently cup your chin, turning your head ever so slightly towards him. "When we allow it to," was his simple, yet profound response, his lips hovering just above yours, a silent promise.

Bucky pulled away slightly, his calloused hand finding yours at your side, his grip firm and reassuring as he gently turned you away from the accusatory gaze of the mirror. He smiled at you, a warm, comforting smile that held a depth of affection reserved for you and you alone. He moved to sit on the edge of the nearby bed, his gaze never leaving yours, and then gently pulled you into his lap as if you belonged there, as if that space had been specifically created for you and no one else. Your arms instinctively wrapped around his neck, your eyes locked onto his as his hands once more found their familiar perch on your hips, his thumbs gently stroking the curve of your waist. The way he looked at you sent a shiver down your spine, a feeling that transcended mere attraction. It was as if you alone had painted the stars in the vast expanse of the night sky, as if you were his entire universe contained within a single room, the only point of focus in a crowded world.

His lips found yours then, a kiss shrouded in pure adoration and a love that felt ancient and profound, rivaling any epic romance ever told. His fingers pressed into the softness of your skin, committing every inch of you to a memory that felt as though it would last him long after the inevitable touch of death. The taste of you was intoxicating, a complex blend of sweetness and the subtle saltiness of tears that had long since dried on your lips. Bucky stood without breaking the kiss, his strong arms wrapped tightly around you as if afraid you might disappear, and with a soft thud, he kicked off his worn leather boots. He laid you back gently against the soft mattress, his gaze never leaving yours as he crawled on top of you, his weight a comforting presence. "I'll worship you," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion as he dipped down to press a tender kiss to the expanse of your abdomen. "Every bit of you that you don't like," he growled possessively, his lips moving against your skin, "I'll cherish."

You let out a shaky breath, your body instinctively arching into his touch, a silent plea for more. Bucky's strong fingers slipped under the hem of your constricting binder, slowly pulling it up and over your head, tossing it carelessly to the side. His hands, both metal and flesh, ran over your chest with a reverent touch, his lips following the path his fingers had traced, kissing the delicate curve of your breasts, brushing against your sensitive nipples, sending shivers of longing through you. You tugged at the long strands of his dark hair, a low, broken whine escaping your lips, a sound that spoke volumes of your vulnerability and desire. He kissed his way up your chest, lingering on the sensitive curve of your neck, his breath hot against your skin before capturing your lips once more in a desperate, hungry kiss. You kissed him back with equal fervor, one hand slipping from his hair to press against his broad chest, feeling the frantic hammering of his heart against his ribs.

Bucky pulled away from the kiss, his breath warm against your lips as he trailed a series of open-mouthed kisses down your neck, across your collarbone, and down your chest, finally stopping just above the waistband of your shorts. His fingers dug gently into the soft skin of your thighs, slowly creeping up the denim, a silent exploration that sent a thrill of anticipation through you, and then slipped just beneath the elastic of your boxers. You moved your hands from his chest, gripping the soft cotton sheets beneath you, your knuckles white as Bucky looked up through strands of his messy hair, his blue eyes clouded with a raw, undisguised want. You didn't need to say anything; a simple, almost imperceptible nod of your head was all the permission he needed. With a slow, deliberate movement, your shorts and boxers were being tugged past your thighs and discarded on the floor, joining the chaotic pile of discarded garments. Bucky took a deep, shuddering breath, his eyes roaming your now nude body below him, his gaze filled with a mixture of awe and tenderness. He looked at you as if you were a precious work of art, his hands caressing every inch of skin he knew you struggled with, his lips following, kissing your body with a devotion that felt sacred, as if you were his God and he was a devout worshipper, eager to show you the depth of his adoration.

Bucky leaned down further, his lips pressing a soft kiss to your hipbone before trailing lower, his hot breath fanning against the aching sensitivity of your inner thighs, drawing closer to the core of your being. You arched off the bed, a strangled whimper escaping your lips as his breath grew warmer against your clit, the anticipation building to a fever pitch. He looked up at you through the dark strands of his hair, his tongue peeking out from between his lips, a silent promise of pleasure. He began to swirl his tongue around your swollen flesh, his intense gaze never leaving your face even as he began to gently suck the sensitive skin. Your legs instinctively clasped around his head, strings of incoherent moans tumbling past your lips as the sensations intensified. His calloused finger slipped between your slick lips, slowly pushing in and out with a rhythmic pressure as his tongue continued its methodical dance. He could feel the tremor in your thighs, the way you clenched around his finger, the increasing urgency of your movements as he slowly pumped in and out at a steady, tantalizing rhythm. You tangled a hand in his hair, instinctively pushing him closer, a low growl rumbling in his chest, sending a shiver of pure sensation down your spine.

Bucky slowly pulled back, the wetness glistening on his lips, his eyes dark with desire. He leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to your lips, the taste of you lingering on his tongue. With a swift, practiced movement, he worked off his belt and the button of his jeans, the denim rustling as it slid down his legs. "I love you, baby," Bucky hummed against your lips, a soft gasp escaping him when you gently bit his bottom lip. "I love you too, James," you whispered against his mouth, your hands coming up to rest on the solid muscles of his biceps.

Bucky hovered above you, his weight supported on one forearm, his gaze locked with yours as his other hand gently guided the hard length of his cock to your entrance. He pushed in slowly, deliberately, his lips trailing soft, comforting kisses along the curve of your breasts. He let out a shaky breath, his hips stuttering almost imperceptibly when you clenched around him, your back arching further off the bed in response. Your nails dug lightly into his shoulder and back, leaving faint red marks in their wake, a testament to the intensity of the moment. He began to thrust slowly, deeply, his lips capturing yours in a breathless kiss, a silent language of love and desire. He whispered praises against your lips, his pace quickening with each deliberate movement, each deeper connection.

You let out a choked moan, a low, guttural sound ripped from your throat as Bucky's thrusts found that one exquisitely sensitive spot, his hips stuttering to maintain the precise rhythm that sent waves of pure sensation washing over you.

A strangled cry escaped your throat, the sound swallowed by the rhythmic pounding of Bucky's hips against yours. Each thrust sent a jolt of pure sensation through you, a searing heat that bloomed in your core and radiated outward. Your back arched further off the damp sheets, every muscle in your body clenched tight. You tangled your fingers in the sweat-slicked strands of his hair, your grip almost painful as you fought against the overwhelming pleasure threatening to consume you.

Bucky groaned, his breath hot against your ear as he leaned down, his teeth gently grazing the sensitive skin of your neck. The scent of rain and his own musky heat filled your senses, intoxicating and grounding all at once. His movements became more frantic, deeper, each collision sending shockwaves through your trembling form. You could feel the slickness between your thighs, the friction building with every desperate stroke.

Your vision tunneled, the edges blurring as the world narrowed down to the feel of Bucky inside you, the frantic rhythm of his heart against yours, the ragged gasps escaping his lips. A low, guttural sound rumbled in his chest as he pressed deeper, hitting that one spot again and again, sending tremors of pure ecstasy through your body.

"Buck..." you gasped, your voice barely a whisper, your body convulsing around him. The pressure built and built, coiling tighter and tighter until it shattered, sending a wave of intense pleasure crashing over you. You cried out, your nails digging into his back as you finally crested, your body shuddering uncontrollably.

Bucky held you tight, his own release coming in short, powerful bursts. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he rode out the final waves of pleasure. The world spun around you, a kaleidoscope of sensation and raw emotion.

Slowly, the intensity began to subside, leaving behind a blissful languor. Bucky collapsed against you, his weight a comforting pressure. You held him close, your bodies still slick with sweat, your hearts beating in unison. The rain outside had softened to a gentle drizzle, a soothing melody against the silence of the room. In the aftermath, there was only the quiet intimacy of two souls intertwined, a fragile peace settling over the battlefield within.

The frantic rhythm of your breathing gradually softened, replaced by the gentle rise and fall of your chest against Bucky's. His weight pressed you into the mattress, a comforting anchor in the storm of sensation that had just passed. The lingering scent of rain mingled with the musky aroma of arousal, creating an intimate atmosphere that cocooned you both.

Bucky shifted slightly, lifting his head to look down at you. His blue eyes, usually so sharp and guarded, were now softened with a tender affection. A stray lock of dark hair fell across his forehead, and you instinctively reached up to brush it away, your fingers tracing the familiar curve of his jaw.

"Hey," he murmured, his voice still thick with the aftermath of passion. He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, the gesture simple yet profoundly intimate.

A small, contented sigh escaped your lips. The tension that had been coiled so tightly within you for so long had finally eased, replaced by a fragile sense of peace. The image in the mirror, though still a stark memory, no longer held the same power. In Bucky's arms, under his loving gaze, you felt seen, truly seen, beyond the surface, beyond the reflection.

"Hey," you whispered back, your voice still a little shaky. You tightened your grip on his hair, pulling him down for another soft kiss, a silent expression of gratitude and affection.

He nuzzled against your neck, his breath warm against your skin. "You okay?" he asked, his voice laced with concern.

You nodded, a small, almost imperceptible movement against his cheek. "Yeah," you murmured. "Yeah, I think I am." The words felt true, a quiet affirmation of the connection you shared, a connection that transcended the battles fought within and the reflections that haunted. In that moment, held close in Bucky's arms, you felt whole, loved, and finally, at peace. The rain outside continued its gentle descent, a soothing lullaby to the quiet intimacy you had found.

[reveryfics]

hello could you write 1940s bucky x male reader or trans male reader please? :) maybe before the war or during it? up to you.

i really love your fics btw! they’re very fun to read.

Every Part

Bucky Barnes x FtM Reader

Summary: Bucky had always suspected something was different about you, from the way you'd shy away from certain types of affection to the secrets you kept.

A/N: Pre-established relationship with Bucky, more of a coming out before you both leave for war type fic. I started crying while writing this.

TW: Implied transphobia - Slight Angst - Fluff

Bucky had carried a persistent unease about you, a subtle tremor in his gut that had taken root the night Steve, ever the connector, introduced you at O'Malley's. It was a late Tuesday, the air thick with the scent of stale beer and anticipation for the looming war. Even as stolen kisses in the dim privacy of your cramped apartment became a regular occurrence, a nagging feeling lingered. He learned to navigate the boundaries you set, accepting the limited intimacy, but the unspoken difference between you gnawed at him.

Bootcamp only amplified his suspicions. Miss Peggy Carter, sharp and observant, treated you with a particular kind of knowing respect, a subtle deference that hinted at a shared secret. Steve, too, seemed to possess this understanding. When Bucky had tentatively broached the subject with his best friend, Steve had simply offered a reassuring smile and a cryptic, "He's been through a lot, Buck. Give it time."

With a weary sigh, Bucky toed off his worn boots, the thud echoing in the silence of your small, slightly rundown apartment. Your deployment was scheduled for the following morning, a stark reality that hung heavy in the air. You'd insisted on staying in bed, claiming a headache, while he sought a fleeting distraction at the bar.

The familiar sound of the shower running, punctuated by the crackle of the ancient radio tuned to your favorite station, filled the apartment. Lost in the thought of a quiet evening with you, a precious moment before the chaos of war, Bucky hadn't registered that you always preferred showering alone. It was a small detail, one of the many he'd filed away without fully understanding its significance.

He shrugged off his uniform jacket, letting it pool on the floor, followed by his shirt and pants. The cracked bathroom door stood slightly ajar, a sliver of steamy light escaping. He slipped through the opening, the humid air instantly clinging to his skin. Fog swirled around the small space, obscuring the details, but he could make out your silhouette moving behind the floral shower curtain.

Without thinking, driven by a simple desire to be close to you, Bucky stepped into the shower. He reached around you, his arms encircling your waist, his breath ghosting against the sensitive skin of your ear.

You froze, your body instantly rigid against his. "Bucky," you whispered, your voice tight. "I... I didn't realize you were home." The tremor in your voice was palpable, a stark contrast to your usual calm demeanor. You hated how close he was, how the innocent placement of his hands could unravel the carefully constructed walls around your secret.

Bucky didn't respond, his strong hands tightening on your waist as he gently turned you to face him. The swirling fog parted for a fleeting moment, revealing the truth that had been hidden beneath layers of clothing and unspoken anxieties.

His eyes widened, his mouth falling open in a silent gasp. The pieces clicked into place, a sudden, stark clarity washing over him. The reasons for your reluctance towards intimacy, the solitary showers, the subtle knowing glances from Peggy and Steve – it all coalesced into a truth he hadn't fully allowed himself to consider.

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the sudden silence. In a desperate, instinctive motion, you stumbled back, pulling the shower curtain aside and grabbing a towel from the rack. You wrapped it tightly around yourself, the terry cloth a flimsy shield against the weight of his gaze.

Without a word, Bucky reached out, his hand closing gently but firmly around your wrist. He stepped out of the shower, the water dripping from his skin onto the linoleum floor, and guided you back against the cool porcelain of the sink counter. "Why didn't you tell me?" His voice was low, devoid of anger, but filled with a raw intensity that made your breath catch in your throat.

You couldn't decipher the emotions swirling behind his wide, unblinking eyes. His grip on your wrist was firm, but not harsh. "I'm sorry," you choked out, the words barely a whisper.

You braced yourself for the inevitable. You expected him to recoil, to pull away with disgust, to hurl the same cruel slurs that had been thrown at you by your own family, by strangers on the street. Only Steve and Peggy knew, their acceptance a fragile lifeline in a world that often felt hostile. But even their understanding seemed insignificant now, under the weight of Bucky's stunned gaze, the man you loved looking at you as if you were a stranger, a betrayal.

Bucky sighed, a long, drawn-out exhale that seemed to release some of the tension in the room. Then, his hands came up, cupping your face gently, his thumbs tracing the curve of your cheekbones.

"Hey," he said softly, his voice a low rumble. "Look at me." His gaze was intense, searching, but there was no anger, no disgust, only a deep, almost painful sincerity. "Why didn't you trust me enough to tell me?"

Tears welled in your eyes, blurring his features. The dam you had so carefully constructed finally broke, and sobs wracked your body. "I... I was scared," you stammered, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I didn't want to lose you. Everyone else... everyone else left."

You threw your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder, the dampness of his skin seeping into the towel. "Please don't leave me, Bucky. Please."

Bucky held you tightly, his arms a comforting anchor. He stroked your hair, his chin resting on the top of your head. "You're not going to lose me," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "Never. I love you. Nothing changes that."

He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching yours. "I don't care," he said, his voice firm and unwavering. "None of that matters to me. All I care about is you. I just... I wish you had told me sooner. I could have been there for you. Whatever you were going through, you didn't have to go through it alone."

You clung to him, the fear slowly receding, replaced by a wave of relief so intense it left you weak. You reached up, your hands framing his face, and pulled him into a passionate kiss, pouring all your fear, relief, and love into the gesture.

Bucky responded with equal fervor, his lips meeting yours with a tenderness that brought fresh tears to your eyes. When you finally broke apart, breathless, you whispered, your voice thick with emotion, "I love you, Bucky."

He smiled, a genuine, heart-melting smile that chased away the last vestiges of fear. "I love you more," he whispered back, his thumb gently wiping away a tear that had escaped your eye. "And you're never going to lose me."

With a gentle hand, Bucky slipped the towel from around your shoulders, letting it fall to the damp floor. He guided you back into the warm spray of the shower, his hands tracing the lines of your body, lingering on the scars on your chest, the marks of your journey. He pressed soft kisses to each one, his lips lingering on the raised skin.

"You're beautiful," he murmured, his voice husky with emotion. "Every part of you." He peppered your skin with kisses – your shoulders, your neck, the curve of your hip. Your breath hitched, a shiver running down your spine as his lips trailed lower. Your hands tangled in his wet hair, pulling him closer, lost in the intensity of the moment.

The water cascaded over your intertwined bodies, washing away the fear and uncertainty, leaving only the raw, undeniable connection between you. Bucky held you close, his arms wrapped tightly around you, whispering words of love and reassurance against your skin. The steam filled the small bathroom once more, enveloping you in a warm, private world where only your love mattered.

[reveryfics]

Hi! Could you possibly do a Bucky x FTM reader where the reader is feeling insecure/dysphoric about their body? Bucky would notice and ask the reader what’s up and when he tells him Bucky would ask if it’s okay if he could undress the reader and it turns into Bucky kissing him all over and worshipping his body kinda thing? Maybe eventually smut/slow sex depending on how you write it, up to you though!

No pressure! Thanks!

Dysphoric

Bucky Barnes x FtM Reader

Summary: Lately dysphoria has been weighing you down, but Bucky is there for you.

A/n: I did one like this with Loki awhile ago, so this one won't have any smut/sex. Just something nice and sweet.

The weight of the world seems to press down on you, a constant, unwelcome pressure that settles deep in your bones. Lately, dysphoria has been your unwelcome companion, a shadow that clings to you, whispering doubts and insecurities in your ear. Your reflection in the mirror has become a stranger, a distorted image that doesn't align with the person you know yourself to be. You find yourself gravitating towards baggy clothes, anything that can obscure the shape of your body, anything that can create a buffer between you and the judging gaze of the world, and even your own judging gaze. Your haven, your sanctuary, has become Bucky’s room. It’s a small space, cluttered with his things – half-finished projects, well-worn books, and the comforting scent of his sandalwood cologne. It's here, tucked away amongst his belongings, that you feel a sliver of peace, a temporary reprieve from the relentless tide of dysphoria.

Bucky, with his keen eyes and gentle heart, has noticed the shift in your demeanor. He’s seen the way you’ve shied away from physical touch, the way your smiles haven’t quite reached your eyes, the way you’ve retreated into yourself. He recognizes the signs, the subtle cues that betray the turmoil within you. He knows your dysphoria like he knows the back of his own hand, a familiar foe you both have battled together. He understands the way it twists your perception, how it makes you feel like you’re living in a body that isn't truly yours. He knows the pain it inflicts, the constant struggle to reconcile your inner self with your outward appearance.

One afternoon, you find yourself perched on the edge of your shared bed, your gaze fixed on some invisible point on the floor. The silence in the room is thick with unspoken words, with the weight of your unspoken feelings. Suddenly, Bucky is there, his presence warm and reassuring. He gently pulls you onto his lap, his strong arms enveloping you in a comforting embrace. You lean into him, seeking the solace of his touch, the familiar rhythm of his heartbeat. He begins to whisper sweet nothings in your ear, words of affirmation and love that are like balm to your wounded spirit. He tells you how handsome you are, his voice thick with sincerity. He tells you how much he loves you, his boyfriend, his partner, his everything. His words are a lifeline, a reminder of your worth, a testament to the love that binds you together.

He gently lays you down on the bed, his eyes never leaving yours. With infinite tenderness, he moves your shirt up just under your chest, exposing a small patch of skin. He leans down and kisses the exposed skin, his lips soft and warm against your sensitive flesh. As he kisses you, he whispers all the things he loves about you, each word a precious gem, a testament to your unique and beautiful soul. He speaks of your kindness, your intelligence, your infectious laughter, your unwavering loyalty. He speaks of the way your eyes light up when you talk about something you're passionate about, the way you always know how to make him smile, the way you make him feel like the luckiest man in the world.

A giggle escapes your lips as his beard tickles your skin, the unexpected sensation breaking through the fog of dysphoria. The sound is light and airy, a breath of fresh air in the stifling atmosphere of your self-doubt. Bucky smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and you know that he’s deliberately trying to distract you, to bring you back to the present moment, to remind you of the joy that exists even amidst the struggle. He knows the power of touch, the way a simple caress can ground you, can bring you back to yourself. He knows how to make you feel safe, loved, and accepted, exactly as you are. He knows how to chase away the shadows, at least for a little while.

The world outside fades away as you cuddle close to Bucky’s chest, the steady rhythm of his heart a soothing lullaby. He runs his hand through your hair, his touch gentle and reassuring. The warmth of his body radiates through you, chasing away the lingering chill of dysphoria. In his arms, you feel safe, loved, and accepted. In his arms, you are home.

[reveryfics]

Hii, it's been a time since i send you a request. How are you doing ? Did you little break helped you ?

If you're feeling up to, could you write a Bucky x ftm!reader smut ? I crave for some but don't find any unfortually.

Thanks for reading me 🎀

Red Velvet

Bucky Barnes x FtM Reader

Summary: Bucky can't help the way he feels seeing you after your recent mission.

A/N: Ahh I'm excited to get a request from you again! Break helped a lot with writers block, thanks for asking. Sorry if this sucks, it's most definitely not my favorite.

TW: Smut - 18+ - Females DNI - Kinks?

The elevator doors slid open, revealing the hushed, dimly lit expanse of the upper floor, a stark contrast to the bustling tower below. You expelled a breath, a sigh that carried the weight of the day, and carelessly tossed aside a tangled wig and a pair of impossibly high heels. The crimson velvet dress, a silken whisper against your skin, was the last vestige of the persona you’d just shed, a fleeting echo of the femininity you’d once inhabited before your transition.

The soft pad of your bare feet against the cool floor echoed in the quiet, a sensual rhythm punctuated by a low, appreciative whistle that drifted from the kitchen. You turned, expecting the familiar presence of Tony or perhaps even the thunderous form of Thor, but instead, you found Bucky, his lips curved into a knowing smile.

He leaned against the granite countertop, his gaze a slow, deliberate caress that traced the curve of your throat, the delicate string of pearls nestled there, the way the dress clung to your form, emphasizing every line and contour. He saw the strength in your features, the undeniable handsomeness that radiated from you, and yet, there was a vulnerability, a raw sensuality that ignited a fire within him, a primal urge he couldn't quite name. Even if this was for a mission, there was something about you, in that dress, that drove him wild.

A soft smile played on your lips as you crossed the kitchen, the air thick with unspoken tension. You snatched the half-empty glass of amber liquid from his hand and drained it in a single, fiery gulp.

"Rough mission?" he murmured, his voice a low rumble as he refilled your glass.

You downed it again, your free hand tangling in the disheveled strands of your hair. "Spent my entire adolescence trying to become the man I am, and here I am, in a dress," you confessed, a wry amusement coloring your words.

"You look stunning," he whispered, his voice a husky caress against your ear. "I never knew a man could look so breathtaking, so utterly irresistible, in a dress."

A blush warmed your cheeks, a delicious heat that spread through your body. You couldn't discern if it was the alcohol, his words, or the potent cocktail of both, but your mind was a whirlwind of sensual possibilities. "Perhaps you'd like to help me take it off?" you breathed, your voice barely a whisper.

He pushed you back against the cool surface of the nearby bed, his body a warm, solid presence hovering over yours. His hands, strong and sure, gripped your hips, his lips tracing a fiery path along the exposed skin of your neck. He nipped and sucked, leaving a trail of dark, blossoming marks, your breathy moans and sharp intakes of air a symphony of shared desire.

You arched beneath him, your body instinctively seeking his touch, his hands roaming over your skin, igniting a wildfire of sensation. His lips, hot and insistent, sent shivers down your spine, a wave of pure, unadulterated ecstasy. The makeup you’d worn for the mission smudged across your face, a chaotic masterpiece that only fueled his desire.

You shifted, your body now straddling his, your hands reaching for the delicate fastenings of the crimson dress. You shed the silken fabric, letting it pool around your hips, a vibrant splash of color against the pale sheets. His fingers traced the delicate lines of your top surgery scars, a reverent touch that sent a wave of shivers through your body.

He pulled you down by the delicate strand of pearls, his kiss heated and demanding as he helped you shed the remaining fabric, tossing it aside like a discarded secret. You returned the favor, your fingers working at the buttons of his shirt, your lips and teeth leaving a trail of marks across his skin. Your nails raked down his back, leaving delicate, fleeting imprints of your passion.

He praised you, his voice a low, husky litany of adoration, calling you his "good boy," pulling you into heated kisses by the strand of pearls that adorned your neck. You placed your hands on his chest, your body rising and falling with each shared breath, as he guided himself within you.

You arched your back, a wave of pleasure washing over you as you slowly sank down onto him. The rhythm was intense, heated, his hands gripping your hips, yours clinging to his chest as you rode him, your bodies moving in perfect, sensual harmony.

You clenched around him, your body shuddering as you reached the peak of your pleasure, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you kissed him, your lips still slick with shared desire. He groaned, pulling back slightly before coming onto your stomach, a warm, pulsing release. You lay there, entwined, basking in the afterglow, the silence broken only by the sound of your shared breaths.

"I love you," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

"I love you too," you breathed, your voice a soft echo of his.

[reveryfics]

request for any mcu character,, (male x male reader)

platonic and fluff please!!!

puffer fish mutant / hybrid reader? chubby transmasc.

reader puffs up when upset. :3

🫶

Somethings Fishy

Bruce Banner x FtM Reader

Summary: Bruce walks in the lab to check on you just as you catch a break in your new mutant abilities.

A/N: I was conflicted on who this could be with, but with the way I wrote it I think Bruce fits well. I had fun writing this.

TW: Fluff

The fluorescent lights in the lab emitted a persistent, low hum, a monotonous soundtrack to the late hour. This mechanical drone mingled with the soft, almost inaudible murmurs that escaped your lips as you hunched over the cluttered desk, furiously scribbling notes. The lateness of the hour was undeniable, evidenced by the slivers of pale moonlight that managed to penetrate the gaps in the drawn blinds and the occasional, stark red flash of the digital alarm clock on the corner of your desk, each blink marking another precious minute ticking away.

With a weary sigh, you ran a hand through your already disheveled hair, the strands catching slightly on your fingertips. Leaning back in the worn office chair, your body finally yielded to the persistent ache in your shoulders and back, finding a fleeting moment of respite. Your recent acquisition of mutant powers was a constant source of both fascination and frustration. A side effect of a serum you had painstakingly concocted, its potential ramifications had been a complete unknown, even to you. In a bold, perhaps reckless, act of scientific curiosity, you had combined your own DNA with that of a pufferfish, a gamble that had irrevocably altered your biology, granting you their unique self-defense mechanisms and the ability to breathe underwater.

Since that pivotal moment, the lab had become your sanctuary and your battleground. You had embarked on a rigorous regimen of self-experimentation, meticulously tracking your physiological responses – heart rate, brainwave patterns – with the invaluable assistance of an old friend, Bruce Banner. Bruce. The name brought a small, fond smile to your lips. He had been a constant presence in your life for years, a colleague, a confidant, even a roommate during those chaotic early days of your career. He had stood by you through thick and thin, offering unwavering support when you came out as transgender and throughout the arduous journey of surgeries and transitions. And now, he was here again, a pillar of strength and understanding as you navigated the uncharted territory of your newfound mutant abilities.

But the relentless pressure of discovery was beginning to take its toll. The stress manifested physically, the needle of the heart monitor occasionally spiking erratically whenever a new idea sparked, only to plummet again as your focus fractured and the elusive breakthrough remained just out of reach. Frustration mounted, a knot tightening in your chest.

Abruptly, you pushed yourself away from the desk, the screech of the chair legs against the linoleum echoing in the otherwise silent room. With a frustrated sweep of your arm, you sent a cascade of textbooks and notebooks tumbling to the floor, the scattered papers like fallen leaves in the wake of a storm. A curse, muttered under your breath, escaped your lips as your gaze fell upon the large glass tank positioned near the far wall. Inside, a plump pufferfish, oblivious to the turmoil it had indirectly caused, stared back with wide, unblinking eyes.

"This is useless!" you exclaimed, the words laced with a raw desperation that surprised even yourself. Unbeknownst to you, the surge of emotion was already triggering a physical transformation. Tiny, sharp spikes began to erupt across your skin, prickling against the fabric of your clothes. Your cheeks puffed out slightly, and a strange pressure built in your throat as gills, delicate and translucent, began to unfurl along your neck. You didn't notice the subtle changes, too consumed by the feeling of hitting a wall.

Just then, the door to the lab creaked open, a familiar figure silhouetted against the hallway light. It was Bruce, his brow furrowed with a mixture of concern and habit. He often checked in on you during these late-night research sessions, a silent offering of support and camaraderie. "Hey, everything alright in here? I saw the light and thought I'd…" His voice trailed off, the words catching in his throat as his eyes registered the extraordinary sight before him.

Your usual, comfortably chunky figure was now an unsettling landscape of sharp spikes, each one glistening under the harsh fluorescent light. Your cheeks were ballooned out like overinflated balloons, and the delicate, feathery gills pulsing rhythmically on your neck were undeniably alien. Bruce stood frozen, disbelief etched on his face, as you, seemingly unfazed by your dramatic transformation, clambered into the large, custom-built, human-sized fish tank that occupied a corner of the lab – a precaution you had installed with a strange premonition of exactly this scenario.

You surfaced, your head and shoulders above the water, a wide, almost manic grin stretching across your spiked face. Your teeth, slightly bucked and now with noticeable gaps, were on full display. "Bruce!" you exclaimed, your voice slightly muffled by the water, but the pure, unadulterated excitement in your tone was unmistakable. "Bruce, you won't believe it! It worked! Despite all the frustration, I actually made a breakthrough!"

"Uh… yeah," Bruce stammered, his eyes still wide with astonishment. He slowly closed the door behind him, his mind struggling to process the visual information. "I… I can see that."

"Come, come!" you urged, splashing the water with an enthusiastic hand. "Pull up a chair! You have to see this, we need to document everything!" Your energy was infectious, the earlier frustration completely forgotten in the thrill of discovery.

Bruce, still somewhat dazed, found himself instinctively obeying. He pulled a rolling lab stool closer to the tank, his gaze fixed on your transformed state. He listened intently as you excitedly recounted the events leading up to your transformation, explaining your theories and observations with a rapid-fire enthusiasm. He interrupted you occasionally, not with skepticism, but with a request to hold still so he could take pictures with his phone, capturing the bizarre and fascinating details of your spiked form and the delicate gills fluttering on your neck. A small smile finally broke through his initial shock, a mixture of awe and pride in his friend's tenacity.

As you spoke, a subtle shift began to occur. The spikes slowly retracted, receding back into your skin. The puffiness in your cheeks began to deflate, the gills shrinking and disappearing as if they had never been there. It was a gradual process, almost like watching a time-lapse video in reverse, mirroring the way Bruce himself transformed back from the Hulk.

Once you were back to your usual appearance, albeit slightly damp, Bruce helped you out of the tank, his hands gentle. He draped an old, oversized lab coat around your shoulders, the worn fabric offering a small measure of warmth. "Come on," he said softly, guiding you towards the examination table in the center of the room. "Let's take a look at you."

He conducted a quick check-up, his experienced fingers probing gently, his eyes scanning for any lasting changes. "Anything feel different?" he asked, his voice calm and professional.

You couldn't contain your excitement, launching into a detailed explanation of your hypothesis. "It's the stress, Bruce! Just like a pufferfish inflates when it's threatened! My body is reacting to the emotional stress, triggering the transformation!" You looked back and forth, the lab coat slipping slightly off your shoulders.

Bruce listened patiently, nodding thoughtfully. "That's a strong possibility," he conceded, "but we shouldn't rule out other factors. It could be hormonal, neurological… there's still so much we don't know." A familiar spark of scientific curiosity lit in his eyes. "But we can figure it out. Just like we did back then." The unspoken reference to his own early days of grappling with the Hulk hung in the air, a shared understanding of the long and often unpredictable road of scientific discovery.

"Yes!" you exclaimed, too energized to sit still. You bounced on the balls of your feet, your mind already racing with new experiments and theories. Bruce chuckled, watching as you hopped off the examination table, the lab coat falling completely to the floor, leaving you standing stark naked amidst the scattered papers. Oblivious to your state of undress, you began darting around the lab, gathering your scattered notebooks and research materials, your earlier frustration replaced by an almost manic enthusiasm.

Bruce took off his glasses, rubbing his tired eyes. He leaned back on the chair, a wry smile playing on his lips. He knew this was just the beginning. It was going to be a long night, but for the first time in hours, the hum of the fluorescent lights didn't seem quite so monotonous. It was the sound of progress, the soundtrack to a new and extraordinary chapter.

[reveryfics]

Self-hatred

Wade "Deadpool" Wilson x FtM Reader

Summary: Wade would never admit the self-hatred that coursed through him, but to you as someone who'd been through it you saw all the signs.

A/N: Honestly didn't think I'd be doing any Deadpool fics, but here I am because I'm a strong believer that Wade is extremely uncomfortable with who he sees in the mirror.

TW: Self-hatred - Body dysmorphia - Dysphoria

The first time Wade met you was a chaotic tableau of dimly lit bar, clacking pool balls, and the intoxicating haze of cheap whiskey. You were bent over the worn green felt, three rounds deep into a high-stakes game, movements jerky and laughter a strained, almost manic echo. But even amidst the blur of his own intoxication, he couldn't tear his gaze away from you. It wasn't just the raw, unadulterated confidence you radiated, a defiant aura that glowed even as men twice your size accused you of cheating, their voices thick with belligerence. It was the sheer, visceral force of your reaction when they finally dragged you outside, your fist connecting with someone's nose with a sickening crunch. That primal, unapologetic strength, it ignited something in him, a flicker of something he thought long dead.

He followed you out, a silent, spectral figure in the shadows, watching as you leaned against the cold brick wall, pulling out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. The night air was thick with the scent of stale beer and exhaust fumes, and a chill wind whipped through the alley. He saw the way your shoulders slumped, a momentary glimpse of vulnerability before you straightened, your posture regaining its defiant edge. Then, you spotted him.

Your reaction was a stark contrast to the fear and revulsion he'd come to expect. No flinching, no recoiling, no whispered curses. Instead, a smile, a warm, genuine smile that reached your eyes. It was a smile that felt like a long-lost sunbeam, a stark contrast to the perpetual storm raging within him. It was the warmest smile he'd received since he'd become this… this thing, this grotesque caricature he couldn't bear to face in the mirror.

A wave of disbelief washed over him. He looked behind himself, a desperate, futile attempt to find the recipient of your kindness. "Me?" he mouthed, his voice a barely audible whisper.

You laughed, a sound that resonated deep within him, a melody of pure, unadulterated joy. It was a sound that had him irrevocably hooked, a stark reminder of the happiness he'd long since buried beneath layers of self-loathing. The laughter echoed in his ears, a cruel reminder of what he had lost.

Hesitation, a familiar, suffocating fear, held him rooted to the spot. The insidious voice of his self-doubt whispered that you couldn't possibly see him in the dim light, that your smile was a misdirected kindness, a cruel trick of the shadows. The thought gnawed at him, a constant, agonizing reminder of his perceived unworthiness.

You sighed, a soft sound that cut through the night, and pushed off the wall, walking towards him. The deliberate, measured steps sent a jolt of panic through him. You introduced yourself, your voice warm and inviting, mentioning that you'd seen him watching you in the bar. A simple acknowledgment, yet it felt like a lifeline thrown into the abyss of his despair.

From that moment on, Wade became a constant, almost spectral presence in your life, a shadow that clung to your heels. He was a thorn in your side, an ever-present reminder of the chaos and self-destruction that lurked beneath the surface. Yet, you didn't mind. You saw him, truly saw him, beyond the scarred flesh and the forced bravado. You accepted him, even the parts he desperately tried to hide, and treated you with a respect that felt foreign and precious.

As your friendship deepened, the cracks in his carefully constructed facade began to show. The forced smiles, the hollow reassurances that he was "fine," the way his eyes held a constant, simmering pain – they were all glaringly obvious. You knew the signs, the telltale markers of a soul in torment. You’d lived them yourself, the suffocating weight of self-hatred, the desperate attempts to mask the inner turmoil.

Every time you tried to broach the subject, to offer a hand, he retreated, erecting impenetrable walls of deflection and denial. He'd stop eating, his gaunt frame becoming even more skeletal. He'd neglect his hygiene, his clothes stained and rumpled. His regenerative abilities might have kept him alive, mending the physical wounds, but they couldn't touch the festering wounds of his soul. The self-hatred was a constant, gnawing presence, a relentless tormentor.

He never let you into his apartment, a stark symbol of the emotional barricades he'd erected. You accepted his reticence, respecting his need for privacy, but the knowledge of his isolation, his self-imposed exile, gnawed at you. You could see the damage, the slow, agonizing erosion of his spirit, and the fear that you were watching him slowly disappear into the abyss of his own despair. The weight of his unspoken pain was a heavy, suffocating presence, a silent scream that echoed in the quiet spaces between your conversations.

Two months. Two months of silence, a gaping void where Wade's chaotic energy usually resided. The unanswered calls, the ignored texts, the missed coffee dates, the eerie silence from the news regarding Deadpool's latest escapades – it all coalesced into a suffocating dread that settled deep in your bones. Something was terribly wrong.

You stood before his door, your knuckles white as you pounded on the worn wood. "Dammit, Wilson! Open the door!" Your voice was raw, laced with a desperate urgency. Fear had morphed into a burning anger, an anger born of worry and a deep-seated love for the man who refused to let anyone in.

In your agitation, you hadn't noticed the subtle give of the doorknob. The door swung inward, revealing a scene that stole the breath from your lungs. It wasn't just messy; it was a chaotic tableau of despair. Dishes piled high, crusted with remnants of forgotten meals. Clothes strewn across every surface, stained and crumpled. The unmistakable glint of empty shell casings littered the floor, alongside strange, unidentifiable objects that spoke of violent encounters. Wade's suit, usually a vibrant red, was a dark, matted mess, smeared with grime and blood.

You closed the door behind you, the click echoing in the oppressive silence. You shrugged off your coat, hanging it on a chair beside one of Wade's many jackets. The sound of running water drifted from the bathroom, but it was a thin veil over the raw, animalistic cries that emanated from within.

Your heart plummeted. It was a sound you knew too well, the sound of a soul breaking, a sound that mirrored the countless nights you'd spent curled up, consumed by your own despair. "Wade?" you whispered, your voice barely audible.

You pushed the bathroom door open, the hinges groaning in protest. The crying ceased abruptly, and Wade's face, pale and swollen, peeked out from behind the shower curtain. He knew there was no hiding, no pretending. Not after this.

You stepped into the shower, the cold water soaking your clothes, but you didn't care. You didn't even flinch when Wade tried to push you away, his hands trembling and desperate. Instead, you wrapped your arms around him, holding him close as he clung to you, his sobs wracking his body.

"I'm here," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "I'll always be here for you." Tears streamed down your face, mirroring the water cascading from the showerhead. You reached for the knob, turning off the icy stream.

You both collapsed onto the cold tile floor, Wade curled up in your lap, his body trembling. You rocked him gently, murmuring soothing words, trying to quell the storm raging within him. It was then that you noticed the shattered mirror, a towel draped over the jagged shards. You understood. You understood the revulsion, the inability to face the reflection of a self he despised.

"I'm a monster," Wade sobbed, his voice choked with despair. He repeated the words like a mantra, a self-inflicted wound. "It's like a burn victim had sex with a belt sander!"

You cupped his face, forcing him to look at you. "You're not a monster, Wade," you said, your voice firm but gentle. "We can look in the mirror and see a twisted image, a reflection of our deepest fears and insecurities. But that doesn't mean that's who we are. We can choose to drown in self-hatred, or we can choose to see the person others see. And there will always be someone who sees us for who we truly are."

Wade shook his head, his eyes filled with a pain that cut you to the core. He understood your words, having lived through the agonizing process of reconciling his body with his true self. But he saw you as something different, something pure and whole, a perfect image of what he could never be. And he saw himself as a grotesque parody, a broken, scarred creature unworthy of your presence.

"I don't deserve you," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "I don't deserve your kindness, your patience, your… everything."

"Wade," you said, your voice soft but firm, "I understand. I understand the feeling of being trapped in a body you don't recognize, the feeling of being utterly and completely unlovable. I spent years hating myself, trying to fit into a mold that was never meant for me. But I learned that no one could save me but myself. I had to choose to see myself differently, to accept myself for who I was, flaws and all."

You paused, your eyes searching his. "You have to choose that too, Wade. I can't do it for you. I can't erase the scars, or silence the voices in your head. But I can be here. I can be your friend, your confidant, your support. I can be here while you learn to love yourself."

You leaned in, your lips brushing against his. The kiss was soft, tender, a silent promise of unwavering support. "I'll always be here for you, Wade," you whispered against his lips. "No matter what."

Wade's response was a slow, hesitant lean, a tentative reaching out for something he desperately craved but feared to touch. The kiss deepened, a silent exchange of vulnerability and unwavering affection. He pressed his forehead against yours, the cool dampness of his skin a stark contrast to the warmth radiating from your touch. A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corners of his lips, a flicker of light pushing through the darkness that had consumed him. It was a fragile smile, a hesitant bloom of hope amidst the wreckage.

"You mean it?" he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, his eyes searching yours for any hint of deceit. The question hung in the air, a desperate plea for reassurance, a fragile hope that this moment, this connection, was real.

You nodded, your eyes locking with his, conveying a depth of sincerity that words alone couldn't capture. You pulled him closer, the damp fabric of your clothes clinging together, a physical manifestation of the bond that had formed between you. "Of course I do, Wade. Always."

The simple affirmation seemed to release a pent-up wave of emotion within him. He clung to you, his grip almost desperate, as if afraid you might vanish if he let go. The weight of his pain, the years of self-loathing, seemed to momentarily lift, replaced by a fragile sense of peace. The bathroom, once a scene of despair, transformed into a sanctuary, a space where he could finally let down his guard.

"Thank you," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "Thank you for… for everything."

He didn't elaborate, but you understood. You understood the unspoken gratitude, the unspoken acknowledgment of the unwavering support you offered. You understood the fear, the vulnerability, the desperate hope that this connection, this lifeline, wouldn't slip away.

A silence fell between you, a comfortable silence filled with unspoken understanding. The rhythmic drip of the shower, the soft sound of your breathing, became a soothing backdrop to the quiet intimacy of the moment. It was a moment of respite, a brief reprieve from the storm raging within him, a moment where he could simply exist, held and accepted, without judgment or expectation.