ty/rian

where i unashamedly thirst and yearn for fictional characters | they/them | im like 22 i promise

[starfishstark]

holy shit, you've opened my eyes to the tony stark eater agenda 🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️ 'cause now that i think abt it, that guy is a total MUNCH—imagine coating his beard w juices OUUUUU

bro YES. he loves it. he LIVES for it.

he’ll set you down on bed and kneel in between your legs. he likes pretense, sure, but not as much as getting you to squirm from him hurriedly kissing up your legs and ripping the panties straight off your hips. you complain, like always, but he whispers half-assed apologies and continues, like always.

even when he’s not yandere, tony stark likes to get down and get messy with it. it makes him feel so sensual and all, putting his mouth there, making you start losing it without him even saying a word. yeah, it’s like getting drunk to him, but better because you get more and more blank-minded while he gets to watch you spiral away in the pleasure.

when he’s a yandere??? CMON. this man is literally made to make you feel safe, happy, and pleasured.

the thing with tony is, he doesn’t even view eating you out as like real sex (woah there), and to him, he can’t possibly see why you get so exhausted from it. he’s putting you through 3 or 5 orgasms before hes finally hm maybe this is exhausting for you.

i think there’s a certain part of like feeding you. and then eating you out in return that gets him off. He likes to hand feed you little pastries, fruit, or anything else bit sized, piece by piece. and then once you’re done, he wants to lift you onto the table and eat you out in return.

something about watching you eat from his hand, your lips closing around each new bite, makes him so fucking horny he can’t think straight. it’s him, feeding you. providing for you. it’s him making sure you’re well fed, you’re taken care of, and you being docile about it because you’re his.

he takes care of you. him.

it’s only fair that he gets a piece of desert after feeding you, right? you’re settled onto the table, full after he gets you to clear the plate. he distracts you by leaning up to kiss your lips before he tugs down your panties in one go, and lowers himself back down like a straight right across your thigh. you know what it means. you know what you’re in for now.

he likes kissing up and down your thighs and torso. gets innnnnn it. nose all up in your business like that, clit overstimulated, walls quaking. you stand no chance.

a certain part of me entertains a super sexual tony, eating you out during breakfast and dinner most days (you get a break for lunch), and during movies, during any time he’s free, in the lab, the bathroom, the bedroom, kitchen island, dinner table, spread out and quivering about it.

he also likes how vulnerable it leaves you. he can keep on every piece of clothing and just use his mouth while you’re forced to strip off your pants of any kind, take off your panties (except when he’s feeling especially nasty and wants you to keep them on while he pulls them to the side), you’re bare in front of him, and that’s the whole point. he can reduce you to a pile of nothing, and you can’t stop him.

(believe him, you’ve tried. the first time he tries to eat you off, you’re crying, kicking and screaming until he has you pinned with your back against the bedframe, nanotech holding your wrists behind your back and his shoulders forcing your legs wide open despite your protests. Sometimes, he lets your hands go free so he can full your soft fingertips tugging on his hair in panic and overstimulation. he wants to hear the way you break into tears during your orgasm because you can’t fucking believe that it ended up feeling so good you nearly blacked out for a moment.)

sometimes you indulge him. let him do it, and usually, that makes him stop once you start whining about it. but it’s not a guarantee. he is a rich man after all— you give them an inch, and they’ll take a mile.

that’s tony. you give him an inch, and he’ll take a mile.

[nathangardnerisdaddy]

You shared this and it got me thinking… Tony (or Peter or Hank, they're all incredibly hot) wants to be a father, so he proposes to Reader (his best friend) that they have a child and remain friends, raising the child together as friends. They'll start practicing a lot to make the baby 🤭 and will definitely fall in love in the process. When she gets pregnant, they'll fall even more in love, and he'll be so affectionate with her, taking care of her and being all cute. Then, when their child is born, (or Peter or Hank) will declare his love and propose, especially since they'll spend her entire pregnancy already acting like a couple

The Best-Laid Plans

Pairing: Tony Stark x F!Reader

Warning/Rating: 18+; explicit, graphic sexual content (manual stimulation, oral sex, penetration described in vivid detail), unprotected sex, language, pregnancy, references to childbirth

Word Count: 7.2 K

The thing about Tony Stark was that he always had a plan. Usually several color-coded, cross-references, and backed up on at least three servers across two continents. 

So when he called you to his penthouse on a random Thursday evening with that particular tone in his voice - the one that meant he was about to propose something either brilliant or catastrophically stupid - you knew to brace yourself. 

“Okay, here me out,” he said, pacing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan. The city glittered behind him like a circuit board, all light and possibility. 

You settled into the leather couch, wine glass in hand. “That’s never a good opening.”

“It’s a great opening. It’s an iconic opening. It’s the opening to at least forty percent of my best ideas.”

“And sixty percent of your worst ones.”

He pointed at you. “See, this is why you’re perfect for this.”

“For what, exactly?”

Tony stopped pacing. For just a moment, his carefully constructed confidence flickered, and you saw something raw underneath. Vulnerable. It made your chest tighten in a way you’d spent three years of friendship studiously ignoring. 

“I want to have a kid,” he said. 

You blinked. “Okay. That's… actually pretty normal? Surprisingly well-adjusted for you, even.”

“With you.”

The wine glass paused halfway to your lips. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Not - okay, let me back up.” He ran a hand through his hair, and you realized with a start that Tony Stark was nervous. Actually, genuinely nervous. “I’ve been thinking about this for months. I want to be a father. I’m not getting any younger, despite what my dermatologist claims, and I’ve finally reached a point where I think I could actually be good at it. Or at least not catastrophically bad at it.”

“Tony…”

“But here’s the thing.” He sat down across from you, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “I don’t want to do the whole… thing. The relationship, the expectations, the inevitable implosion when she realizes I’m married to my work and my neuroses. I don’t want to bring a kind into that mess.”

Your heart was doing something complicated in your chest. “So what are you proposing?”

“You’re my best friend. You’re brilliant, you call me on my bullshit, you’d be an incredible mother. We already know we work well together. We like each other. We trust each other.” His eyes met yours, and there was something in them that made your breath catch. “What if we just… did this together? As friends. Co-parents. We’d raise the kid together, share everything, but without all the romantic complications that screw everything up.”

You stared at him. “You want us to have a baby together. Platonically.”

“I know it sounds insane -”

“It sounds extremely insane.”

“But is it wrong?” He leaned back, and there was that trademark Stark intensity focused entirely on you. “Think about it. We’re already in each other’s lives constantly. You’re the person I call when something good happens. You’re the person I want to tell my stupid jokes to. You’re the one who makes sure I eat and sleep like a human being. We’re already doing this, just without the kid.”

“Tony, making a baby requires certain… non-platonic activities.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Heat, maybe. Or challenge. “I’m aware of the mechanics, yes. I have several advanced degrees.”

“So you’re proposing we have sex.”

“I’m proposing we make a baby.” He said it softly, and the distinction felt important somehow. “However many times it takes. And then we raise that baby together, as partners. As friends. As the family we already kind of are.”

You should say no. This was insane. This was Tony Stark at his most chaotically brilliant and potentially self-destructive. This was a plan that could ruin everything.

But you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about it. About him. About the way he looked at you sometimes when he thought you weren’t paying attention. About the careful distance you both maintained, the line you never crcossed, the feelings you never quite named.

“Let me get this straight,” you said slowly. “You want me to agree to have unprotected sex with you, potentially multiple times, with the express purpose of getting pregnant, and then raise a child together while maintaining a purely platonic friendship.”

“When you say it like that, it sounds much more complicated than it needs to be.”

“It sounds like the setup to a romantic comedy.”

“It sounds like a practical solution between two intelligent adults who care about each other and want the same things.” He leaned forward again. “Come on. Tell me you haven’t thought about it. Kids. Family. A little genius running around causing adorable chaos.”

You had. God, you had. 

“What if it doesn’t work?” you asked quietly. “What if we try and I don’t get pregnant?”

“Then we’ll have had some pretty excellent sex and we’ll explore other options. IVF, adoption, whatever you want.” His voice softened. “But I have a feeling it’ll work. We’re pretty good at everything else we do together.”

“What if it ruins our friendship?”

“What if it doesn’t?” He reached across the space between you, taking your hand. His thumb brushed across your knuckles, and you felt that touch everywhere. “What if it’s exactly what we’re both too scared to admit we want?”

You looked at him - really looked at him. At the hope in his eyes, the vulnerability he was trying so hard to hide behind confidence and charm. At your best friend, who you maybe loved a little more than friends should. 

“Okay,” you whispered. 

His eyes widened. “Okay?”

“Okay. Let's make a baby, Stark.”

The smile that broke across his face was like sunrise. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. But we’re doing this right. Ground rules, expectations, all of it.”

“I’ll draw up a contract.”

“Of course you will.”

“Color-coded.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

He was still holding your hand. Neither of you moved to let go.

“So,” he said, and his voice had dropped into a register that did absolutely unfair things to your nervous system. “When do you want to start… practicing?”

Heat flooded through you. “Practicing?”

“Well, we should probably make sure we’re compatible in that area. For scientific purposes. Optimize our approach. I’m very thorough in my research.”

“Tony.”

“Yes, sweetheart?” The endearment rolled off his tongue like honey, and you realized that this was going to change everything, contract or no contract. 

“Stop talking and kiss me.”

For once in his life, Tony Stark did exactly as he was told. 

He kissed like he did everything else - with complete focus and devastating competence. His hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone as his lips moved against yours with a confidence that made your knees weak. Good thing you were already sitting down. 

You'd wondered, sometimes, in the dark privacy of your own thoughts, what kissing Tony would be like. The reality was so much better than the fantasy. He tasted like the whiskey he'd been drinking earlier, warm and rich, and when his tongue traced the seam of your lips, you opened for him with a sound that was almost embarrassing.

"Okay," he breathed against your mouth. "Okay, that's... we're good at that."

"Shut up," you managed, and pulled him back in.

The kiss deepened, turned hungry. His hands slid into your hair, angling your head to take more, and you gripped his shirt, pulling him closer. The physics of the situation - you on the couch, him leaning over from the chair - became untenable quickly.

Tony pulled back, breathing hard, his eyes dark and pupils blown. "Bedroom?"

Your heart hammered against your ribs. "This is really happening."

"Only if you want it to. We can stop. We can wait. We can…"

You stood up, cutting off his nervous rambling with another kiss. "Bedroom, Tony. Now."

"Yes ma'am." He grinned against your mouth, then took your hand and led you through the penthouse.

You'd been in Tony's bedroom before, of course. Movie nights that ran late, nights when you'd crashed after too much wine and conversation. But walking into it now, with intent, with purpose, felt entirely different. The massive bed suddenly seemed to dominate the space, and the city lights streaming through the windows felt like an audience.

Tony must have sensed your nervousness because he squeezed your hand. "We don't have to -"

"Stop giving me outs," you said, turning to face him. "I want this. I'm just... it's you. It's us. It's weird."

"Weird bad or weird good?"

"I don't know yet."

He laughed, and some of the tension broke. "Okay. Honest. I can work with honest." He stepped closer, his hands settling on your waist. "For what it's worth, I'm terrified."

"You? Terrified? Tony Stark, who flew a nuclear missile into space?"

"That was easy. That was physics and acceptable losses and a potentially dramatic sacrifice." His forehead touched yours. "This is you. This matters."

Oh. Oh no. Your heart was doing that thing again, that dangerous, foolish thing.

"Kiss me again," you whispered. "And this time, don't stop."

The second kiss was different from the first. Slower, deeper, weighted with intention. His hands slid under your shirt, palms warm against your skin, and you gasped into his mouth. He smiled against your lips and then he was walking you backward toward the bed.

"I should warn you," he murmured, lips trailing down your neck, "I'm very good at this."

"Cocky much?"

"Confident. There's a difference." He nipped at your pulse point, and your knees actually buckled. "But I'm open to feedback. I'm very trainable. Eager to please. Some might say obsessive about perfecting my technique."

"Oh my god, stop talking."

"Make me."

So you did, pulling him down onto the bed with you, and suddenly it was a tangle of limbs and breathless laughter and fumbling with buttons. Tony's shirt came off first - you'd seen him shirtless before, but touching was different. You spread your palms across his chest, feeling the arc reactor's subtle warmth, the definition of muscle, the way his breath hitched when your fingers traced lower.

"Your turn," he said, voice rough, and helped you out of your shirt with surprising gentleness. His eyes went dark as he took you in. "Christ. You're so beautiful."

"Tony…"

"No, I mean it. Do you have any idea how many times I've thought about this? About you?" His hands skimmed up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through your bra, and you arched into the touch. "I've been a gentleman for three years. A goddamn saint. Do you know how hard that's been?"

You laughed breathlessly. "Poor baby."

"I know, right? The suffering. The restraint." He was kissing down your sternum now, hands working the clasp of your bra with ease. "I deserve a medal. Or at least a really excellent orgasm."

"You're ridiculous."

"You like it." The bra came off, and his mouth was on your breast, tongue circling your nipple, and coherent thought became difficult. "You like me."

You did. God help you, you really did.

The rest of your clothes disappeared in a blur of heat and need and Tony's running commentary that should have been annoying but was somehow endearing instead. He made you laugh even as he made you gasp, kept things light even as the tension coiled tighter and tighter between you.

"Protection," you managed when his hand slid between your thighs. "We need - oh god - we need to -"

"Kind of the opposite of the point, sweetheart." His fingers circled, teased, and you couldn't remember what you were saying. "The whole goal here is no protection. Maximum biological efficiency. Though I'm clean, full panel, tested last month, because I'm a responsible adult sometimes."

"Me too," you gasped. "Clean. Responsible. Tony, please -"

"Please what?" He was kissing down your stomach now, and you knew where he was heading, and your brain short-circuited. "Use your words."

"You're the worst."

"I'm the best. You're about to find out how much." And then his mouth was on you, and words became impossible.

Tony Stark ate pussy like he built Iron Man suits - with intense focus, innovative technique, and an obsessive attention to detail. His tongue worked you with devastating precision, finding every sensitive spot, learning what made you gasp and what made you moan. When he slid two fingers inside you, curling them just right, you came apart with a cry that probably scandalized his AI.

"That's it," he murmured against your thigh, working you through it. "God, you're gorgeous like this. I want to see it again. Can I make you come again?"

"Tony, I need… I want -"

"What do you want, sweetheart? Tell me."

"You. Inside me. Now."

He groaned like you'd hurt him. "Best words I've ever heard." He kissed his way back up your body, settling between your thighs, and you could feel him, hard and ready. "You sure about this?"

You pulled him down into a kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue. "Make me pregnant, Stark."

"Fuck," he breathed, and pushed inside you in one slow, perfect thrust.

You both froze. The sensation of him filling you, stretching you, skin to skin with nothing between you, was overwhelming. Intimate in a way that went beyond physical. His forehead dropped to yours, breath coming in short pants.

"Okay," he managed. "Okay, this is... you feel incredible."

"Move," you whispered. "Please move."

He did, pulling out slowly and sliding back in, setting a rhythm that was gentle at first, almost careful. But as you wrapped your legs around his waist, urging him deeper, the careful control started to fray. His thrusts came harder, faster, and you met him stroke for stroke, nails digging into his shoulders.

"That's it," he groaned. "God, you're taking me so well. So perfect. Like you were made for this. Made for me."

The words should have been just dirty talk, just heat-of-the-moment nonsense. But they felt true. This felt true. The way your bodies fit together, the way he seemed to know exactly what you needed, the way your name sounded on his lips like a prayer.

"Tony," you gasped. "I'm close, I'm -"

"Come for me." His hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your clit. "Want to feel you come on my cock. Come on, sweetheart. Let go."

You shattered, clenching around him, and he followed you over with a groan that sounded like your name. You felt him pulse inside you, filling you, and the intimacy of it - the purpose of it - made your chest tight with something that felt dangerously like love.

He collapsed beside you, pulling you against his chest, both of you breathing hard. His hand traced lazy patterns on your shoulder, and you could feel his heart hammering against your cheek.

"So," he said eventually. "That was..."

"Yeah."

"We're definitely doing that again."

"That's kind of the plan."

"I mean like, immediately. Give me twenty minutes and some water."

You laughed, tilting your head to look at him. His hair was a mess, his lips were swollen, and he was looking at you with something soft and warm and terrifying.

"This doesn't change anything," you said quietly. "We're still friends."

"Right. Friends. Best friends who just had incredible sex for procreative purposes."

"Exactly."

"Totally normal."

"Completely."

He kissed your forehead, and it felt more intimate than anything that had come before. "Get some rest. We've got a lot of practicing to do."

You fell asleep in Tony's arms, and if it felt like coming home, well. That was something you'd worry about tomorrow.

________________________________________________________________

The practicing became a regular thing. Frequent thing. Enthusiastic thing.

"You know," you said three days later, sprawled across Tony's kitchen counter while he made you scrambled eggs at two in the morning, "I'm pretty sure we don't need to do this quite this often for it to work."

"Are you complaining about the frequency of our sexual encounters?" He gestured with the spatula, wearing nothing but pajama pants and looking unfairly good. "Because I can cut back if you need recovery time. I'm a giver. I'm sensitive to your needs."

"I'm not complaining. I'm just saying, biologically speaking, there's a window."

"Are you trying to bring science into this?" He slid the eggs onto a plate and set it in front of you. "Because I will pull up charts. I will show you data. I will prove, conclusively, that more practice equals better results."

"That's not how conception works."

"It's how everything works. Practice makes perfect. Malcolm Gladwell. Ten thousand hours." He leaned across the counter, stealing a kiss that tasted like the coffee he'd been drinking. "Besides, are you really going to tell me you want to stop?"

You couldn't. Because the truth was, you were addicted. To the sex, yes - god, the sex was incredible - but also to the intimacy. The way he held you after. The way he learned your body like he was studying for the most important test of his life. The way he made you laugh even in the middle of it, kept things light and fun and easy even as they felt increasingly profound.

"That's what I thought," he said smugly, reading your silence correctly. "Eat your eggs. You need your strength."

"For what?"

"Round four. Obviously."

It was round five, actually, and it happened in the shower, with you pressed against the glass and Tony on his knees, proving once again that he was very, very good with his tongue.

Two weeks in, you woke up in his bed - your bed now, really, since you'd been spending every night there - to find him watching you.

"Creepy," you mumbled, still half-asleep.

"Observant," he corrected. "There's a difference. I'm studying the way your nose scrunches when you're dreaming. It's adorable. I'm cataloging it for future reference."

"What future reference?"

"When I need to remember why I'm doing this." His fingers traced your cheekbone, gentle and reverent. "Why I asked you. Why it had to be you."

Your heart stuttered. "Tony..."

"Go back to sleep," he said softly. "I'm going to make you breakfast. The real kind, not the two-AM post-coital kind. Pancakes. I'll even cut up fruit like a responsible adult."

"You don't have to…"

"I want to." He kissed your forehead. "Let me take care of you."

He was doing that more and more. Taking care of you. Bringing you coffee in the morning. Making sure you ate. Rubbing your shoulders when you were stressed. Small gestures that felt enormous, that felt like more than friendship, more than a arrangement.

You were falling for him. Had probably been falling for him since long before this started. And that was definitely not part of the plan.

Three weeks in, you were in his workshop - a place that felt as intimate as his bedroom, maybe more so - sitting on his workbench while he stood between your legs, kissing you like he was trying to memorize the taste of your mouth.

"We should go upstairs," you murmured against his lips. "The bed is more comfortable."

"Too far." His hands slid under your shirt. "Need you now."

"Tony, we're in your workshop. What if someone -"

"JARVIS, lock it down. No one gets in. No calls, no interruptions, no world-ending emergencies for the next hour."

"Of course, sir," the AI replied, sounding almost amused. "Shall I play music?"

"JARVIS, I love you. Something good. Something sexy."

Marvin Gaye started playing through the speakers, and you laughed against Tony's mouth. "You're ridiculous."

"You're beautiful." He was working your jeans open now, sliding them down your legs. "And I'm going to make you come on my workbench. Add it to the list of places we've christened."

The list was getting long. Bedroom, shower, kitchen, living room, the guest room, his office, the gym. You were running out of locations in the penthouse.

"We could try the roof," you suggested breathlessly as his fingers found you, already wet and ready.

"I like the way you think." He pushed two fingers inside you, thumb circling your clit, and you gasped. "But right now, I'm thinking about how pretty you look when you come. How you say my name. How you clench around me."

"Then stop talking and make me come."

He did, with his fingers and his mouth and his filthy words whispered against your ear. And then he was inside you, fucking you against the workbench with a desperation that felt new, urgent, like he couldn't get close enough.

"Mine," he groaned, and you should have corrected him, should have reminded him of the boundaries, the rules. But instead you pulled him closer and whispered, "Yours."

Later, much later, when you were cleaned up and dressed and curled against his side on the workshop couch, he said quietly, "What if it's already happened?"

"What?"

"What if you're already pregnant? What if it worked?"

Your hand went to your stomach instinctively. "It's only been three weeks. It's too early to know."

"But what if?" He covered your hand with his. "Would you be happy?"

"Yes," you said honestly. "Terrified, but happy. You?"

"Same." He was quiet for a moment. "And also maybe a little disappointed."

"Disappointed?"

"That we'd have to stop practicing." He grinned at you, but there was something vulnerable in his eyes. "I've gotten kind of attached to the practicing."

"Tony, we can still have sex after I'm pregnant. That's allowed."

"Really? That's a thing?"

"Yes, you idiot. Pregnant women can have sex. It's safe, it's normal, it's - why are you looking at me like that?"

"Just updating my mental database. Adding new categories. Pregnant sex. Sex while you're carrying my baby. That's... that's really hot, actually."

"You're impossible."

"You like it." He pulled you closer. "You like me."

You did. You really, really did.

And that was becoming a problem.

Four weeks in, you took the test.

Your period was late - only by a few days, but you were regular as clockwork normally. You'd bought the pregnancy test on the way to Tony's, hands shaking as you paid, and now you were locked in his bathroom, staring at the little stick like it held the secrets of the universe.

Three minutes. The box said three minutes.

They were the longest three minutes of your life.

When you looked down, there were two pink lines. Clear as day. Unmistakable.

Pregnant.

You were pregnant with Tony’s baby.

"Oh my god," you whispered to your reflection. "Oh my god."

A knock on the door. "Hey, you okay in there? You've been in there for like twenty minutes. If you're pooping, it's fine, I don't judge. Well, I judge a little, but affectionately."

You opened the door, test in hand, unable to speak.

Tony's eyes went to the test, then to your face, then back to the test. "Is that... are those two lines? Does two lines mean -"

"I'm pregnant."

For a moment, he just stared. Then a smile broke across his face like dawn, bright and beautiful and full of joy. "You're pregnant. We're pregnant. Holy shit, we did it!"

He picked you up, spinning you around, and you laughed despite the tears suddenly streaming down your face. "Tony, put me down, I'm going to throw up on you."

"Morning sickness already? That's my overachiever." He set you down gently, hands cupping your face. "Are you okay? Are you happy? Tell me what you're feeling."

"I'm terrified," you admitted. "And excited. And overwhelmed. And really, really happy."

"Yeah?" His thumbs brushed away your tears. "Me too. All of those things. Especially the happy part." He kissed you, soft and sweet. "We're having a baby."

"We're having a baby," you repeated, and it felt real for the first time.

Tony dropped to his knees, and for a second you thought he was proposing, and your heart stopped. But instead, he lifted your shirt and pressed a kiss to your still-flat stomach.

"Hey in there," he said softly. "I'm your dad. I'm going to be your dad. And I'm going to be so good at it. I'm going to give you everything. I'm going to love you so much. You and your mom both."

Your heart cracked open. "Tony..."

He looked up at you, and there were tears in his eyes too. "Thank you. For this. For trusting me. For being the most incredible person I've ever known."

"We're supposed to be friends," you whispered. "This is supposed to be simple."

"I know." He stood, pulling you into his arms. "We're still friends. Best friends. Who are having a baby together. Totally normal. Completely uncomplicated."

You both knew it was a lie. But neither of you was ready to face the truth yet.

________________________________________________________________

The first trimester was rough. Morning sickness hit you hard, and Tony was there for all of it, holding your hair back, bringing you crackers and ginger ale, researching every possible remedy with the same intensity he brought to building Iron Man suits.

"Okay, so according to this study, vitamin B6 can help. And small, frequent meals. And avoiding triggers. What are your triggers? I'll make a list. I'll eliminate them from the penthouse. I'll eliminate them from the entire building if necessary."

"Tony, you can't ban coffee from Stark Tower."

"Watch me. Your comfort is more important than the caffeine addiction of my employees."

He was attentive to the point of obsession. He came to every doctor's appointment, asked a million questions, took notes. He baby-proofed the penthouse even though you were only eight weeks along. He started designing a crib that was probably smarter than most adults.

And he touched you constantly. A hand on your back. Fingers laced through yours. His palm on your stomach, even though there was nothing to feel yet. Like he couldn't quite believe you were real, that this was happening.

"You don't have to do all this," you said one night, curled up on the couch while he massaged your feet. "I'm pregnant, not dying."

"I want to." His thumbs worked into your arch, and you groaned. "Let me take care of you. Both of you."

"We're supposed to be co-parents. Equal partners."

"We are. But right now, you're doing all the hard work. Growing a human. The least I can do is make sure you're comfortable." He looked up at you, and there was something fierce in his eyes. "You're carrying my baby. You're the most important person in the world to me. Let me show you that."

The most important person in the world. Not the baby. You.

"Okay," you whispered.

He smiled and went back to rubbing your feet, and you fell a little more in love with him.

At twelve weeks, you heard the heartbeat for the first time.

The doctor moved the doppler over your stomach, and suddenly the room filled with the rapid whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of your baby's heart. Tony's hand tightened around yours, and when you looked at him, there were tears streaming down his face.

"That's our baby," he said, voice cracking. "That's our kid."

"That's our kid," you agreed, crying too.

The doctor smiled. "Strong heartbeat. Everything looks perfect. Your baby is developing beautifully."

You felt tears spill down your cheeks as the reality of it washed over you. This was real. This was happening.

Tony brought your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles gently. "Our baby," he whispered, and there was such wonder in his voice that it made your heart ache.

After the appointment, he took you to lunch at your favorite restaurant, then shopping for maternity clothes even though you didn't need them yet, then to the park where you walked hand-in-hand like a real couple.

"We should talk about logistics," you said, watching the sun set over the city. "Where I'm going to live. How we're going to handle custody. All the practical stuff."

"You're already living with me."

"I'm staying with you temporarily. Until we figure things out."

"So stay permanently. Move in. Officially. There's plenty of room. I'll give you your own space if you want it, but..." He turned to face you. "I like having you here. I like waking up with you. I like coming home to you. Stay."

"Tony, that's not what we agreed…"

"Fuck what we agreed." His hands cupped your face. "Our baby should have both parents under one roof. That's what's best for them. That's what I want. Don't you?"

You did. God, you did.

"Okay," you said. "I'll stay."

His smile was brilliant. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. But I'm keeping my apartment. Just in case."

"Just in case of what?"

Just in case this falls apart. Just in case you break my heart. Just in case this stops being enough for you.

"Just in case," you repeated.

He kissed you, there in the park with the sunset painting the sky gold, and it felt like a promise. Like a beginning.

Like something that was supposed to be temporary becoming permanent.

________________________________________________________________

The second trimester was better. The morning sickness faded, your energy returned, and your body started to change in ways that were both fascinating and terrifying.

Tony was obsessed with your growing bump. He talked to it constantly, told it stories about his day, played it music. He built a playlist of songs for the baby - everything from AC/DC to Mozart to embarrassing pop songs he claimed were "culturally significant."

"You're going to have excellent taste," he told your stomach. "And if you don't, I'll disown you. Kidding. Mostly."

"You're ridiculous."

"You're beautiful." His hands spanned your waist, thumbs brushing the curve of your belly. "Seriously. You're glowing. Is that a real thing or just something people say?"

"It's probably just hormones and increased blood flow."

"Sexy. Tell me more about your increased blood flow."

You laughed, swatting at him. "Don't make it weird."

"Too late. Everything about this is weird. Weird and perfect and terrifying." He pulled you closer, and you could feel him against your hip, already hard. "Can I show you how beautiful I think you are?"

"Tony, I'm getting fat."

"You're growing our baby. That's the hottest thing I've ever seen." His lips found your neck. "Please. Let me worship you properly."

He did, taking his time, mapping every change in your body with his hands and mouth. He was gentle, reverent, like you were something precious. And when he finally pushed inside you, it was slow and deep and perfect.

"God, you feel different," he groaned. "Tighter. Wetter. Is that normal?"

"Increased blood flow," you gasped. "More sensitive."

"I love science. I love your body. I love -" He cut himself off, but you heard what he didn't say.

I love you.

You heard it in every touch, every kiss, every whispered word of praise. He loved you. And you loved him. And neither of you was brave enough to say it.

At twenty weeks, you found out you were having a girl.

Tony cried. Actually sobbed. "A daughter. We're having a daughter. I'm going to have a little girl."

"Are you okay?" you asked, laughing through your own tears.

"No. Yes. I don't know. A girl. I'm going to be a girl dad. I'm going to have to beat off boys with a stick. Or girls. Or whoever she likes. I'm going to need bigger sticks."

"She's not even born yet."

"I'm planning ahead. I'm strategic." He pulled you into his arms. "A daughter. Our daughter. She's going to be so loved. So protected. So spoiled."

"Tony -"

"I'm building her a princess castle. With actual turrets. And a moat. And probably some repulsor technology for home defense."

"You're not building our daughter a weaponized castle."

"Our daughter. Say that again."

"Our daughter," you repeated, and his smile was blinding.

He kissed you, deep and thorough, and then dropped to his knees to kiss your bump. "Hey, princess. Your mom says I can't build you a weaponized castle. We'll discuss this later. When you're on my side."

You ran your fingers through his hair, overwhelmed with love for this ridiculous, brilliant, wonderful man. "I love you," you whispered.

He froze. Looked up at you. "What?"

Oh god. You'd said it out loud. "I… I mean -"

"Say it again." He stood, hands framing your face. "Please. Say it again."

"I love you," you said, louder this time. "I'm in love with you. I have been for a while. Maybe always. And I know that's not the deal, I know we're supposed to be friends, but I can't - I can't keep pretending…"

He kissed you, cutting off your rambling. "I love you too. So much. Since before this started. Since before I asked you. You're it for me. You and our daughter. You're everything."

"Really?"

"Really. I'm an idiot for thinking we could do this and not fall in love. We were already halfway there." He pressed his forehead to yours. "I love you. I'm in love with you. And I want this to be real. Not an arrangement. Not a friendship. Real."

"Okay," you breathed. "Yes. Real."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He kissed you again, and it felt like falling and flying at the same time. Like coming home.

"Move in with me," he said. "For real this time. Not as a co-parent. As my partner. My girlfriend. The love of my life."

"I already live here."

"Then stay forever. Marry me. Eventually. When you're ready. No pressure. But also, marry me."

You laughed, crying, overwhelmed. "Are you proposing?"

"Not yet. Not properly. But I'm putting it out there. I'm stating my intentions. I want forever with you."

"Okay," you said. "Forever sounds good."

________________________________________________________________

The third trimester was hard. You were huge, uncomfortable, and emotional. Everything made you cry: commercials, songs on the radio, the way Tony looked at you when he thought you weren't paying attention.

But he was there for all of it. Rubbing your back when it ached. Massaging your swollen feet. Helping you out of bed when you couldn't manage it yourself. He assembled the crib, painted the nursery a soft lavender, hung pictures and shelves and a mobile that played lullabies.

"It's perfect," you said, standing in the doorway at eight months pregnant, one hand on your aching back.

"She's going to love it." He came up behind you, arms wrapping around you, hands settling on your bump. "Just like she's going to love you."

"What if I'm bad at this?" you whispered. "What if I don't know what I'm doing?"

"Then we'll figure it out together. That's what we do. We're a team." He kissed your temple. "You're going to be an amazing mom. I know it."

"You're going to be an amazing dad."

"Damn right I am. I've been practicing my dad jokes. Want to hear one?"

"Not really."

"What do you call a fake noodle? An impasta." He paused. "Get it? Impasta? I'm pasta?"

You groaned. "Our daughter is going to be so embarrassed by you."

"That's the plan. Embarrassing your kids is like, seventy percent of parenting."

You turned in his arms, or tried to - the bump made it difficult. He helped, always so careful with you, and then you were face to face.

"I love you," you said.

"I love you too." His hand cupped your cheek. "Both of you. My girls."

He kissed you, soft and sweet, and you felt the baby kick between you. Tony laughed against your mouth, hand moving to your stomach.

"She's saying hi."

"She's saying she wants you to stop kissing me and get her some ice cream."

"Your wish is my command, princess. Both of you." He kissed you once more, then headed for the kitchen. "Rocky road or mint chip?"

"Both."

"That's my girl."

At thirty-nine weeks, your water broke.

You were standing in the kitchen, arguing with Tony about whether the hospital bag was adequately packed (it was - he'd checked seventeen times), when you felt the gush of fluid and looked down in shock.

"Tony."

"I'm telling you, we need more -" He looked at you, saw your face, saw the puddle on the floor. "Oh. Oh shit. Is that… are you -"

"My water just broke."

For a second, he just stared. Then he snapped into action, grabbing the hospital bag, his phone, your phone, the folder of important documents he'd prepared.

"Okay. Okay, we're doing this. We're having a baby. Right now. Today. Oh god."

"Tony, breathe."

"You breathe. I'm fine. I'm totally fine. JARVIS, call the doctor. And Happy. We need the car. Now. Emergency. Code baby."

"Sir, perhaps you should -"

"JARVIS, I swear to god."

You grabbed his hand. "Tony. Look at me."

He did, and you saw the panic in his eyes. The fear. The overwhelming love.

"We've got this," you said. "Together."

He took a breath. Nodded. "Together. Right. We're a team."

"We're a team."

He kissed you, quick and hard. "Let's go have a baby."

Labor was long. Painful. Exhausting. Tony stayed by your side through all of it, holding your hand, whispering encouragement, letting you squeeze his fingers until they went numb.

"You're doing so good," he said during a particularly bad contraction. "So strong. So amazing. I'm in awe of you."

"I hate you," you gasped. "This is your fault."

"I know. I'm sorry. I'm the worst. You're never letting me touch you again."

"Damn right."

"Totally fair. Completely reasonable. I'll just admire you from afar. Pine tragically. Write poetry about your beauty."

Despite the pain, you laughed. "Shut up."

"Make me."

The doctor checked you again. "Okay, we're at ten centimeters. It's time to push."

Terror flooded through you. "I can't. I can't do this."

"Yes, you can." Tony's hand cupped your face, making you look at him. "You're the strongest person I know. You can do anything. And I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

"Promise?"

"Promise. I love you. Now let's meet our daughter."

You pushed. And pushed. And pushed. Tony counted with you, breathed with you, was your anchor in the storm. And then, after what felt like forever, you heard it.

A cry. High and indignant and perfect.

"She's here," the doctor said. "You did it. She's here."

They placed her on your chest, this tiny, perfect, screaming bundle, and the world stopped. She was real. She was here. She was yours.

"Oh my god," you breathed. "Oh my god, Tony, look at her."

"I see her." His voice was thick with tears. "She's perfect. You're perfect. You're both so perfect."

He cut the cord with shaking hands, and then he was leaning over both of you, one hand on the baby, one hand on your face, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"Hi, princess," he whispered. "I'm your dad. I've been waiting so long to meet you."

The baby's cries quieted, like she recognized his voice. Her tiny hand wrapped around his finger, and Tony made a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob.

"She knows me."

"Of course she knows you. You've been talking to her for months."

"I love her so much already. Is that normal? To love someone this much when you just met them?"

"I think so." You looked down at your daughter, at her tiny features, her dark hair, her perfect little fingers. "I think that's exactly how it's supposed to feel."

They took her to clean her up, weigh her, do all the necessary checks. Tony went with her, refusing to let her out of his sight, and you watched him through exhausted, happy tears. He was already the best dad. You'd known he would be.

When they brought her back, cleaned and swaddled, Tony settled into the chair beside your bed, cradling her like she was made of glass.

"Seven pounds, four ounces," he said. "Twenty inches long. Perfect Apgar scores. She's a genius already, obviously."

"Obviously."

"We need to name her."

You'd discussed names, made lists, but nothing had felt quite right. Now, looking at her, you knew.

"Stella," you said. "Her name is Stella."

Tony looked up at you, eyes shining. "Stella Stark. I love it. It's perfect." He looked back down at the baby. "Hi, Stella. I'm your dad. And I'm going to love you forever. I'm going to give you everything. I'm going to be the best dad I can be. And your mom -" His voice cracked. "Your mom is the most incredible person in the world. You're so lucky. We both are."

He stood, carefully, and brought Stella over to you. You took her, settling her against your chest, and Tony sat on the edge of the bed, his arm around you, the three of you together.

"We made her," you said softly. "We made a whole person."

"Best thing I've ever built." He kissed your temple. "Thank you. For her. For this. For everything."

"Thank you for asking me. For trusting me. For loving me."

"Always." He was quiet for a moment, just watching Stella sleep. Then he said, "Marry me."

You looked at him. "What?"

"Marry me. For real this time. Not someday. Not eventually. Now. Soon. As soon as possible." He shifted, pulling something from his pocket - a ring box. "I've been carrying this around for months, waiting for the right moment. And I realized, this is it. This is the moment. Our daughter is here. Our family is complete. Marry me. Please."

He opened the box, and inside was the most beautiful ring you'd ever seen. Simple, elegant, perfect.

"Tony..."

"I love you. I'm in love with you. I want to be your husband. I want Stella to have parents who are married, who are committed, who are a team. I want forever with you. Both of you." He took your hand, careful not to jostle the baby. "So what do you say? Will you marry me?"

You looked at him - this brilliant, ridiculous, wonderful man who had given you everything. Who had asked you to have a baby and ended up giving you a family. Who loved you and your daughter with his whole heart.

"Yes," you said. "Yes, I'll marry you."

His smile was brighter than the arc reactor. He slipped the ring onto your finger, then kissed you, soft and sweet and full of promise.

"I love you," he whispered against your lips.

"I love you too."

Stella made a small sound, and you both looked down at her, this perfect little person you'd made together.

"Welcome to the family, princess," Tony said softly. "We're going to be so happy. The three of us. I promise."

And looking at him, at your daughter, at the life you'd built together, you believed him.

This was never the plan. But it was so much better than anything you could have planned.

This was everything.

________________________________________________________________

Epilogue

Six months later, you married Tony in a small ceremony in the penthouse, with Stella as the youngest attendee and the most important guest. She slept through the vows, woke up for the kiss, and spit up on Tony's tux during the reception.

"She's got timing," he said, laughing as he cleaned himself up. "Just like her mom."

"Are you saying I have bad timing?"

"I'm saying you're both perfect." He pulled you close, careful of the baby between you. "My girls. My family. My everything."

"Sap."

"You love it."

You did. You loved all of it. The chaos, the mess, the sleepless nights and endless diapers and the way Tony sang off-key lullabies at three AM. You loved the life you'd built, the family you'd made, the love that had grown from friendship into something infinite.

"I love you," you said.

"I love you too." He kissed you, then kissed Stella's head. "Both of you. Forever."

Forever sounded perfect.

[notgaybuckybarnes]

AVENGERS: DOOMSDAY (2026)

[nav1ena]

'An Hour'

previous part.

part 2. Words: 3.3k

tony stark x fem!reader

warnings: nothing single mom.

Finding an evening that worked turned out to be significantly harder than either of you had expected.

Friday became impossible after Lily came home from daycare with a fever.

Saturday disappeared beneath grocery shopping, laundry, and a mountain of folded clothes that somehow never stayed folded.

Monday ended with Tony trapped in meetings Pepper refused to let him escape.

Tuesday, a prototype exploded.

Wednesday, you worked late.

By Thursday, the conversation had become almost comical.

"Tomorrow?"

"Can't."

"Saturday?"

"She's got a birthday party."

"Sunday?"

"Meal prep."

"Next week?"

"Maybe."

"That's not encouraging."

"It's realistic."

After that...

Neither of you brought it up again.

Not because either of you had forgotten.

There just never seemed to be enough hours in the day.

—

The knock at your apartment door came just after seven in the evening.

Three short knocks.

You frowned.

Mrs. Donnelly usually let herself in.

Balancing a wooden spoon in one hand, you crossed the apartment while the smell of simmering tomato sauce filled the tiny kitchen.

Lily sat cross-legged on the living room floor, entirely absorbed in coloring what appeared to be a purple dinosaur wearing rain boots.

"Can I answer it?" she called.

"No."

"But—"

"No."

She huffed dramatically.

"You never let me answer the door."

"Because you're five."

You glanced through the peephole.

Then blinked.

"...You've got to be kidding me."

You unlocked the door.

Tony Stark stood in the hallway.

No suit.

Dark jeans.

Black Henley.

A paper bag in one hand.

A pizza box balanced against his hip.

He smiled the second the door opened.

"Good."

"You are home."

You stared at him.

"...How did you find my address?"

He looked genuinely confused.

"You work for me."

"...Right."

"I have your emergency contact information."

"...Still creepy."

"I asked JARVIS if this was a bad idea."

"And?"

"He said—and I quote—'Statistically, yes.'"

You pinched the bridge of your nose.

"So naturally..."

"I ignored him."

"Of course you did."

Tony lifted the pizza box slightly.

"I got tired of trying to schedule dinner."

You looked from the box...

...to him.

"...Tony."

"I figured one of two things would happen."

He held up one finger.

"You'd slam the door in my face."

A second finger.

"Or..."

He smiled.

"We'd eat pizza."

Before you could answer, a small voice floated in from the living room.

"Mama?"

Tiny footsteps padded across the hardwood floor.

Lily appeared around your legs, curiosity written all over her face.

She looked up at the stranger.

Then down at the pizza box.

Then back up again.

"...Did you bring food?"

Tony looked at her with complete seriousness.

"I have been told arriving empty-handed is rude."

Lily nodded once, accepting this logic immediately.

"I like him."

You sighed.

"You've known him for three seconds."

"He brought pizza."

Tony glanced at you with the most smug expression you'd ever seen.

"I believe that's what scientists call a strong first impression."

You folded your arms.

"You are unbelievable."

"I've heard that."

"So..."

He gestured toward the pizza and the hallway.

"...Am I about to eat dinner in a hallway?"

You tried—really tried—not to smile.

It didn't work.

You stepped aside with an exaggerated sigh.

"...Come in before my neighbors decide I'm entertaining billionaires on a Thursday."

Tony flashed you a grin as he crossed the threshold.

"So they haven't figured it out yet?"

"They're observant."

He looked around as he shrugged off his jacket.

Your apartment wasn't glamorous.

It wasn't supposed to be.

It was lived in.

A pair of tiny sneakers sat by the front door beside your flats. A pink raincoat hung from a hook far too low to belong to an adult. Crayon drawings covered one side of the refrigerator, held up by mismatched magnets, while a basket overflowing with stuffed animals occupied one corner of the living room.

There was a blanket draped over the couch, an open picture book on the coffee table, and the unmistakable smell of garlic, tomatoes, and fresh basil drifting from the kitchen.

It felt... warm.

Tony had owned penthouses in New York, Malibu, Monaco.

None of them had ever felt like this.

Lily, meanwhile, had wandered directly in front of him, hands clasped behind her back as she inspected him from head to toe.

"So..."

Tony mirrored her stance.

"So."

"My mommy says staring is rude."

"She's absolutely right."

"...But you're staring."

He smiled.

"I was admiring your dinosaur."

She looked down at the drawing she'd been carrying.

"Her name is Pickles."

"That's an excellent dinosaur name."

"I know."

She said it with such confidence that Tony bit back a laugh.

"You hungry, Pickles' mom?"

Lily nodded enthusiastically.

"Very."

"I wasn't talking to—"

"She's always hungry," you interrupted, disappearing back into the kitchen to turn the stove off.

"I heard that!" Lily shouted.

"I wanted you to."

Tony set the pizza boxes on the kitchen counter before glancing toward the pot simmering on the stove.

"...Uh..."

You followed his gaze.

"Oh."

The sauce.

You'd completely forgotten about dinner.

"I was making spaghetti."

Tony rubbed the back of his neck.

"...Did I accidentally replace homemade pasta with pizza?"

You looked at the pot, then at the stack of boxes he'd brought.

"...Kind of."

For a split second, genuine panic crossed his face.

"I can leave."

That made you blink.

"You don't have to—"

"I didn't mean to interrupt your evening."

The words came so quickly they almost tripped over each other.

"I just..."

He sighed.

"I thought this would be easier than trying to coordinate six calendars."

"You've only got one calendar."

"I have emotional calendars."

"...Those don't count."

"They absolutely count."

You couldn't help smiling.

Looking between the simmering sauce and the pizza, you grabbed a wooden spoon and gave the pot one final stir.

"Lily?"

"Yeah?"

"What do you want?"

She gasped as though the answer was obvious.

"Pizza."

You raised an eyebrow.

"And the spaghetti?"

"...Tomorrow?"

Tony raised a hand immediately.

"I support this decision."

"I'm shocked."

"I know good negotiations when I see them."

Lily climbed onto one of the kitchen stools, kicking her feet against the cabinet.

"So..."

She looked directly at Tony.

"Are you famous?"

The question caught him so off guard that he laughed.

"...Sometimes."

"My teacher says famous people are on TV."

"I've been on TV."

"My mommy turns it off."

Tony slowly turned to look at you.

You busied yourself pulling plates from the cupboard.

"What?"

"You turn me off?"

"I turn the news off."

"Convenient wording."

"I'd rather not have my five-year-old asking why Iron Man blew up another building."

"I rarely blow up buildings."

"Tony."

"...Intentionally."

Lily giggled so hard she nearly slid off the stool.

You caught yourself watching them.

Watching how easily he'd slipped into the rhythm of your home.

No awkwardness.

No discomfort over the toys or the cartoons playing quietly in the background.

He wasn't acting like a billionaire visiting a tiny apartment.

He was acting like a guest.

And somehow...

That surprised you more than anything.

An hour later...

The apartment had settled into the kind of comfortable quiet that only came after a good meal.

Empty pizza boxes were stacked neatly beside the trash, the spaghetti sauce had been transferred into a container for tomorrow's dinner, and Lily had somehow convinced Tony that the only acceptable way to end the evening was with a tea party.

"You know those cups are empty, right?" you asked, leaning against the kitchen doorway with your arms folded.

Tony accepted another invisible cup from Lily with complete sincerity.

"I beg your pardon."

He took an exaggerated sip.

"This is an excellent Earl Grey."

Lily beamed.

"It's strawberry."

"My mistake."

She giggled.

"I made it."

"I can tell."

"...Is it good?"

Tony nodded gravely.

"I've had tea with ambassadors."

Lily's eyes widened.

"And this is better."

"Really?"

"No."

He leaned in conspiratorially.

"It's much better."

Another fit of laughter erupted from her, loud enough to fill the apartment.

You shook your head.

"I should've known."

"What?"

"You encourage her."

"I reward creativity."

"You reward chaos."

"I innovate."

"That's your excuse for everything."

"It works surprisingly often."

Before you could answer, a low rumble echoed outside.

You frowned.

A second later, rain slammed against the living room windows.

Not ordinary rain.

The kind that turned New York streets silver in seconds.

The lights flickered once.

Twice.

Tony instinctively looked toward the window.

"...That escalated."

Almost on cue, thunder cracked somewhere overhead.

Lily looked toward the balcony doors, then back at you.

"Mama..."

"It's okay."

Another flash of lightning lit the apartment.

The lights blinked again before settling.

Tony glanced toward the television, where the local weather alert interrupted whatever cartoon had been playing.

SEVERE THUNDERSTORM WARNING. FLASH FLOOD ADVISORY IN EFFECT. RESIDENTS ARE ADVISED TO AVOID NONESSENTIAL TRAVEL.

He reached for his phone.

No signal.

"...Huh."

"What?"

"Network's overloaded."

As if summoned by his observation, JARVIS's voice came faintly through the speaker of Tony's phone.

"Sir."

"There you are."

"Several roads surrounding your current location are temporarily impassable due to flooding. Stark Tower has also experienced a precautionary power transfer. I would advise delaying your return."

Tony looked up at you.

"...Well."

You looked toward the window.

Sheets of rain blurred the city beyond recognition.

"I wasn't exactly going to throw you out."

"I appreciate that."

Another crash of thunder.

This one closer.

Lily abandoned her tiny tea set and climbed off the rug, padding over until she wrapped both arms around your waist.

You rested a hand on her hair.

"You okay?"

She nodded...

Then another crack split the sky.

She buried her face in your side.

Tony's expression softened.

"She doesn't like storms?"

"Not really."

"They're loud."

"They are."

For a moment, nobody spoke.

Then Tony cleared his throat.

"I..."

He gestured vaguely toward the window.

"I should probably call Happy."

"You think he'll make it through that?"

Tony looked outside again.

"...No."

His shoulders lifted in a small shrug.

"Guess I'm stranded."

You smiled.

"There are worse places to be stranded."

"I was thinking the same thing."

The apartment lights flickered once more.

Then...

Darkness.

Lily squeaked.

Instinctively, Tony lifted a hand toward his chest.

The arc reactor glowed softly beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, casting a pale blue circle through the room.

For a second, it was the brightest thing in the apartment.

Lily slowly peeked around your side.

"...You're glowing."

Tony looked down.

"...Occupational hazard."

She stared at the light with open fascination.

"You're like a night-light."

He chuckled.

"I've never been called that before."

You laughed quietly despite the blackout.

"I have candles."

"I have..." Tony gestured toward his chest.

"...This."

"It doesn't exactly illuminate the whole apartment."

"No."

He looked around the now-dark room.

"But I suppose it's a start."

You disappeared into the kitchen, returning a minute later with a flashlight and two candles.

The warm glow transformed the apartment.

The rain continued to hammer against the windows.

Thunder rolled overhead.

Outside, the city seemed to have disappeared behind a curtain of water.

Inside...

It felt oddly peaceful.

Tony looked between you, Lily, and the tiny living room bathed in candlelight.

"Well," he said, settling back onto the carpet beside the abandoned tea set, "looks like I'm staying awhile."

Lily's face lit up.

"You can have another tea party!"

Tony sighed with exaggerated resignation.

"I suppose sacrifices must be made."

You caught his eye across the room.

Neither of you had planned for any of this.

Not the pizza.

Not the storm.

Certainly not Tony Stark ending up stranded in your apartment.

Yet as another roll of thunder echoed outside and Lily happily began pouring another round of imaginary strawberry tea...

Neither of you seemed to mind all that much.

The apartment had gone quiet.

Not silent.

Apartments in New York were never truly silent.

Somewhere upstairs, someone dragged a chair across the floor.

A siren wailed several blocks away before fading into the rain.

Pipes groaned softly behind the walls.

And outside, the storm still poured relentlessly against the windows.

Lily had fallen asleep twenty minutes ago.

It had taken one bedtime story, two glasses of water, reassurance that Captain Sprinkles the stuffed bear was fully capable of protecting her from thunderstorms, and one solemn promise from Tony that Iron Man would "have a word" with the clouds.

Surprisingly...

That had been the promise she'd believed.

You eased her bedroom door shut until it clicked.

When you turned around, Tony was standing in the tiny hallway, hands tucked into his pockets.

"She's out?"

You nodded.

"For now."

"'For now' sounds ominous."

"It means she'll probably wake up around three because she forgot to tell me something incredibly important."

"Like?"

"Last week it was that giraffes can't wear hats."

Tony considered that.

"...Can they?"

You gave him a look.

"I'm still waiting for the scientific community to weigh in."

A grin spread across his face.

"I like her."

"I noticed."

You walked past him into the living room and crouched beside an old wooden chest that doubled as your coffee table.

Inside were neatly folded blankets.

Not many.

Just enough.

Tony watched quietly as you pulled one out, followed by a slightly flattened pillow.

"You don't have to do that," he said.

You glanced over your shoulder.

"I'm not making you sleep sitting up."

He looked toward the couch.

Calling it a couch was generous.

It was really more of a loveseat—comfortable enough for movie nights, completely impractical for anyone over six feet tall.

"...You know," he began carefully, "I think my legs are going to end up in different zip codes."

"They'll survive."

"I appreciate your confidence."

"I don't."

You spread the blanket over the cushions anyway, smoothing it down with practiced hands.

Tony noticed how instinctive the movements were.

Not because you often had guests.

Because everything in your apartment had to serve more than one purpose.

The coffee table held blankets.

The dining table had coloring books stacked beneath it.

One corner of the living room housed a small basket of toys that could be shoved out of the way whenever company came over.

Space wasn't a luxury.

It was something you negotiated with every single day.

"I'm sorry," you said quietly.

Tony looked up.

"For what?"

"The couch."

"It's fine."

"It isn't."

You adjusted the pillow.

"It's... all I've got."

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

You hated how apologetic they sounded.

As if you had to excuse your life.

Tony looked around the apartment again.

Really looked.

The furniture wasn't expensive.

Nothing matched perfectly.

The walls held a few scuff marks where toys had undoubtedly collided with them.

A tiny pair of rain boots sat beside the front door.

Children's drawings were taped carefully to the refrigerator instead of framed because frames cost money.

Everything was clean.

Everything was cared for.

Everything had been chosen because it had to last.

"You know what I see?" he asked.

You folded another blanket.

"A couch that's too small?"

"I see a home."

You paused.

He nodded toward the hallway leading to Lily's room.

"I see someone who's figured out how to make every square foot count."

His eyes met yours.

"I've lived in houses bigger than some hotels."

A small shrug.

"They never felt like this."

You looked away, suddenly finding the blanket very interesting.

"...It's not much."

"It is to her."

Your hands stilled.

Tony's voice remained gentle.

"That's obvious."

Silence settled between you.

Not awkward.

Just... quiet.

"You always apologize for things like this?" he asked after a moment.

You let out a soft breath.

"Sometimes."

"You shouldn't."

You looked at him.

"I mean it."

He gestured around the apartment.

"You're raising a little girl by yourself in Manhattan."

Another shrug.

"From where I'm standing..."

He smiled faintly.

"...I'd say you're doing one hell of a job."

For the first time that evening...

You didn't know what to say.

Compliments about your work were easy.

Pepper praised your organization.

The board praised your efficiency.

Tony praised your ability to survive him.

But nobody...

Nobody had ever looked at your tiny apartment, your secondhand furniture, your too-small couch...

...and made you feel like it was enough. The compliment lingered between you longer than either of you expected.

You busied yourself folding the edge of the blanket again, even though it didn't need folding.

It gave your hands something to do.

Tony watched you for a moment before speaking again.

"You know..."

His voice was quieter than it had been all evening.

"I keep thinking about something."

You glanced up.

"Should I be worried?"

"Usually."

A small smile tugged at your lips.

"But not this time."

He leaned one shoulder against the wall, arms folded loosely.

"I pay people to solve problems."

"You certainly try."

"It's kind of my thing."

"You also create most of them."

"...Details."

Another comfortable silence settled over the room.

Then he cleared his throat.

"I could make things easier."

You frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean..." He gestured vaguely around the apartment. "A bigger place."

Your expression changed immediately.

"Tony."

"Hear me out."

"I don't think I want to."

"I know what rent in Manhattan costs."

"I manage."

"I know you do."

He wasn't arguing.

If anything, he sounded frustrated on your behalf.

"Daycare isn't cheap."

You didn't answer.

"Neither are groceries."

Still nothing.

"And kids..." He let out a quiet laugh. "From what I observed tonight, they seem to outgrow everything every five minutes."

"They do."

"So..."

He rubbed the back of his neck.

"I could help."

You stared at him.

"Financially."

The words landed exactly the way he hadn't intended.

Your shoulders stiffened.

"...Tony."

"No, not like—"

"I'm not taking your money."

"I wasn't offering charity."

"It sounds an awful lot like charity."

"It isn't."

You folded your arms.

"So what is it?"

He opened his mouth.

Closed it again.

"...This is going badly."

"A little."

"I know."

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Forget how I started."

"I'd love to."

"I mean..." He searched for better words. "If we're... seeing where this goes..."

He looked back at you.

"...I don't want you carrying everything by yourself."

Your expression softened, if only a little.

"I've been carrying it by myself for a long time."

"I know."

"And I'm proud that I can."

"I know that too."

Another pause.

Then, because he was still Tony Stark—

"So maybe..." he said carefully, "I become your incredibly handsome billionaire sugar da—"

"Anthony."

"I didn't even finish."

"I know exactly where that sentence was going."

He winced dramatically.

"Fair."

"You are absolutely not becoming my sugar daddy."

"I was trying to lighten the mood."

"You failed."

"I usually succeed."

"You spectacularly failed."

He laughed, holding his hands up in surrender.

"Message received."

The smile faded from his face, replaced by something more sincere.

"What I was trying to say..."

He met your eyes.

"...is that if you're ever in a position where you need help, I hope you know you don't have to face it alone."

There wasn't a joke hiding behind the words this time.

No wink.

No clever escape route.

Just quiet honesty.

You looked at him for a long moment.

"...That's a dangerous thing to say to someone."

"Why?"

"Because it makes them think they can rely on you."

"I was hoping you would."

The answer came so naturally that neither of you seemed prepared for it.

You looked away first.

"...I'm not very good at accepting help."

"I noticed."

"I've had to be."

"I know."

Another beat passed before you looked back at him.

"...Thank you."

Not for the money.

Not for the apartment.

Just...

For meaning it.

Tony smiled—a small, genuine smile that reached his eyes.

"You're welcome."

Then, after a moment, he glanced at the tiny loveseat that was apparently his bed for the night.

"...Now."

He pointed accusingly at it.

"I'd like to file a formal complaint with whoever designed furniture for New York apartments."

That earned him the laugh he'd been hoping for.

"There she is," he murmured with a grin. "I was wondering where that laugh went."

taglist:

@tarzanfollowsyou

[nav1ena]

'An Hour'

part 2.>

part 1. words: 1.6k

tony stark x fem!reader

warnings: nothing. single mom.

Your boss. Your biggest paycheck. And, without question, the leading cause of your daily stress.

Being Tony Stark's personal assistant meant living in a constant state of controlled panic. If he wasn't blowing up another prototype, disappearing for twelve hours without warning, or deciding at three in the morning that he absolutely needed to test something potentially catastrophic, then he was charming reporters, annoying the board, or making your carefully organized schedule completely useless.

You had long since accepted that a normal workday simply didn't exist.

Still, lately... he'd been different.

A few weeks ago, Tony had learned the truth about the arc reactor embedded in his chest. The very thing keeping him alive was also slowly poisoning him. For a while, the change in him had been impossible to ignore. He'd wandered around the Tower asking bizarrely specific questions—what people would eat if it were their last meal, where they'd go if they had one day left, what they'd do on their final birthday.

It had been unsettling.

Then, almost overnight, the melancholy disappeared.

He was throwing parties again, buying absurdly expensive cars, flirting with anything that smiled at him, and pretending nothing had happened.

Classic Tony Stark.

Which somehow worried you even more.

Balancing your work bag on one shoulder and today's painfully overbooked schedule in your hands, you stepped into the lab after dropping your daughter off at daycare. The familiar scent of metal, solder, and burnt circuitry greeted you instantly.

You'd barely taken two steps before a mop of dark hair appeared from beneath one of the workbenches.

Tony slid himself out from under the desk, safety glasses pushed onto his forehead, grease streaked across his cheek, and the unmistakable look of someone who hadn't slept nearly enough. Over the past few days he'd been obsessed with redesigning the housing for the new element he'd synthesized to replace the one poisoning him. The lab floor had practically become his second home.

The second he spotted you, a crooked grin spread across his face.

"There you are."

He leaned back against the desk, completely ignoring the tools scattered around him.

"I was starting to think you couldn't last a whole day without seeing me."

The words were accompanied by that infuriatingly confident smirk that somehow made you want to roll your eyes and laugh at the same time.

You didn't even look up from the tablet in your hands as you flipped to the first page of his schedule.

"Bills don't pay themselves, you know."

A beat of silence.

Then Tony placed a hand dramatically over the arc reactor in his chest.

"...Wow."

"I pour my heart into this relationship, and that's the best you can do?"

You finally glanced up, one eyebrow raised.

"You pay me."

"I pay everybody."

"Well, you don't pay enough."

Tony blinked.

"...Okay, that one hurt."

"It was supposed to."

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth despite himself.

"See? This is why I keep you around."

"You keep me around because I'm the only person who can decipher your schedule."

"No." He pointed at you with a screwdriver. "I keep you around because everyone else quits."

"...Fair."

"And because," he added with that trademark Stark smirk, "you secretly enjoy my company."

You gave him a perfectly flat look.

"I enjoy health insurance."

Tony barked out a laugh loud enough for it to echo through the lab.

The laugh lingered between them for a moment before fading into the familiar hum of machinery.

Tony spun the screwdriver between his fingers, watching you scroll through his schedule with an expression that suggested you were already mentally rearranging half of it.

"...Speaking of health insurance."

You looked up.

"Hm?"

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

It was ridiculous.

Tony Stark had negotiated billion-dollar deals, talked terrorists into lowering their guns long enough for him to escape, and somehow managed to flirt with reporters while bleeding through a tuxedo.

Yet asking one woman to dinner suddenly felt... complicated.

He cleared his throat.

"So..."

You waited.

"I was thinking."

"Dangerous."

"I know. Happens twice a year."

You hummed absentmindedly, still reading his itinerary.

He shifted his weight.

"What are you doing Friday?"

"Working."

"No, after working."

"Picking up my daughter."

"Right."

His confidence dipped for exactly half a second before bouncing back.

"After that?"

You finally looked at him properly.

"...Why?"

Tony shrugged with practiced nonchalance, like the question had only just occurred to him.

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"Maybe... dinner."

"Dinner?"

"Food. Sitting. Chewing. Very cutting-edge concept."

A smile threatened the corners of your mouth.

"Mr. Stark..."

"It's Tony."

"Tony."

He tried very hard not to look encouraged by the correction.

"You are asking your employee on a date."

"I'm asking a woman."

"Who happens to be your employee."

"A temporary occupational overlap."

You folded your arms.

"So this is a date?"

Tony pointed at you as though you'd caught him in a technicality.

"I didn't say that."

"You implied it."

"I heavily suggested it."

"With plausible deniability."

"There it is." He snapped his fingers. "That's why I like talking to you."

His usual grin softened almost imperceptibly.

"It doesn't have to be anything."

That, more than anything, caught your attention.

No punchline.

No ego.

Just a man trying—awkwardly, by Tony Stark standards—to ask someone to spend time with him.

"If you're busy..." he added with a casual shrug that fooled absolutely no one, "...you're busy."

For the first time since you'd walked into the lab, he looked almost uncertain.

It was such an unfamiliar expression on Tony Stark that you weren't entirely sure what to do with it.

You held his gaze for a long second, trying to figure out where the punchline was.

"...Don't mess with me, Stark."

The words came out quieter than you intended.

Tony's smirk lingered, but it wasn't nearly as cocky as it usually was.

"I don't make a habit of messing with people I actually like."

"You make a habit of messing with everyone."

"That's different."

"How?"

"I enjoy that."

You let out a dry laugh and shook your head.

"You flirt with waitresses."

"I do."

"You flirt with reporters."

"Guilty."

"You flirt with flight attendants."

"They started it."

"You flirt with women whose names you don't even know."

"...Sometimes they don't know mine either."

"You're Tony Stark."

"I said sometimes."

You stared at him.

"So forgive me if I'm having trouble believing this isn't just another one of your... hobbies."

For once, he didn't have a witty comeback ready.

Instead, he rubbed the back of his neck, eyes drifting to the floor before finding yours again.

"You know what's annoying?"

"What?"

"I've asked actresses out."

Silence.

"Models."

Another beat.

"Princesses."

You raised an eyebrow.

"Long story."

"But asking my assistant to dinner?" He exhaled a quiet laugh through his nose. "Apparently that's where I forget how words work."

Your expression softened despite yourself.

"You've never been nervous a day in your life."

"Oh, I fake confidence professionally."

"You do it well."

"I know."

The grin returned, smaller this time.

"But this one's real."

He shoved his hands into his pockets, rocking back on his heels.

"So..."

Another pause.

"Dinner."

"No press."

"No cameras."

"No charity gala."

"No flying."

"No Iron Man."

"Just me."

His eyes searched yours.

"And if the answer's no..." He shrugged lightly. "You come in tomorrow, yell at me for missing meetings, and we pretend I never embarrassed myself."

A corner of your mouth twitched upward.

"You really thought this through."

"I've had... several minutes."

"That's a record for you."

"I know."

"And you're serious?"

For the first time since the conversation began, there wasn't a trace of sarcasm in his voice.

"Yeah."

A simple answer.

No jokes.

No performance.

Just Tony.

You looked at him for another long second.

"...Alright."

Tony's expression didn't change.

As if he wasn't convinced he'd heard you correctly.

"...Fine."

"...Fine?"

"You said yes."

"I know what I said."

"You actually said yes."

You sighed.

"Don't make me regret it."

A grin spread slowly across his face.

"Oh, that's happening."

You pointed a warning finger at him.

"Anthony."

"I'm done."

"You are absolutely not done."

"...I'm mostly done."

Rolling your eyes, you looked back down at the tablet in your hands.

"So."

"So."

"When?"

The single word knocked some of the excitement right out of him.

"...Friday?"

"I can't."

"Saturday?"

"My daughter's with me."

"Sunday?"

"That's laundry, groceries, meal prep... and my daughter's still with me."

He frowned.

"Monday?"

"I leave work, pick her up before daycare closes, make dinner, get her ready for bed..."

"Tuesday?"

"The same."

"Wednesday?"

"The exact same."

"...Thursday?"

You gave him a look.

"Tony."

"...Right."

The lab fell quiet.

He hadn't actually thought about it before.

He knew you had a daughter.

He knew you left work exactly on time every day.

But hearing your week laid out like that...

There wasn't much room left for you.

"You don't get a lot of free time, do you?"

A small smile tugged at your lips.

"Not really."

He scratched the back of his neck.

"What about getting a babysitter?"

"I don't like asking people unless I absolutely have to."

"You don't have family nearby?"

You shook your head.

"No."

Another silence settled between you.

Tony looked genuinely thoughtful for once.

Then his eyes lit up.

"...Bring her."

You blinked.

"What?"

"Bring your daughter."

He shrugged like it was the most obvious solution in the world.

"We'll grab dinner. Three people."

You stared at him.

"Tony."

"What?"

"I thought this was supposed to be a date."

"It is."

"With my five-year-old?"

"I like a challenge."

A laugh escaped you.

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

He folded his arms.

"I'm asking out a single mom."

Another shrug.

"Your kid comes with the package."

You looked at him, searching for even the smallest hint that he was joking.

There wasn't one.

"If you're not comfortable leaving her with someone..." he continued, his voice surprisingly gentle, "...then don't."

"It's one dinner."

"We'll find somewhere kid-friendly."

"You?"

"I contain multitudes."

"You hate sticky tables."

"I do."

"You hate loud restaurants."

"I really do."

"You've never willingly gone anywhere with a children's menu."

Tony grimaced.

"...That part's going to require personal growth."

You laughed again, louder this time.

He smiled immediately.

"There it is."

"What?"

"The laugh."

"You keep saying that."

"Because I keep earning it."

You shook your head, still smiling.

"You'd really be okay with her tagging along?"

Tony didn't answer immediately.

Instead, his expression softened.

"I'm not asking you to pretend you're not a mom."

His eyes met yours.

"I'm asking you to dinner."

A beat passed.

"Your daughter isn't an obstacle."

Another beat.

"She's part of your life."

He smiled, smaller this time.

"So if she's coming..."

He shrugged.

"...Then I guess I have two people to impress."

[nathangardnerisdaddy]

Hear me out Captain! Tony Stark and mermaid reader where she’s been sailing with him and his crew for a while they both like each other but one day reader gets captured by pirates and gets seriously hurt and Tony goes ape shit then it’s all fluffy and smut pff

Tides of Iron and Starlight

Pairing: Pirate Captain Tony Stark x Mermaid F!Reader

Warning/Rating: 18+; explicit, graphic sexual content (oral sex, penetration described in vivid detail, multiple positions, unprotected sex), intense violence (torture, pirate raid, battle), kidnapping and captivity, blood and injury, language, possessive behavior

Author's Note: I just picture him with Sherlock Holmes styled hair!

Word Count: 9.2 K

The night is impossibly clear, stars scattered across the sky like diamonds on black velvet. You're perched on the railing of the Starlight, tail draped over the side, scales catching the moonlight in shades of silver and blue. The ocean below is calm, gentle waves lapping against the hull, and the ship rocks with a rhythm that's become as familiar as your own heartbeat.

You've been sailing with Captain Anthony Stark and his crew for eight months now. Eight months of adventure and danger and laughter. Eight months of falling hopelessly, desperately in love with a man who probably sees you as nothing more than an interesting oddity - a mermaid who chose to join a pirate crew instead of staying safely in the depths.

"Couldn't sleep?"

His voice makes you jump, and you turn to find Tony leaning against the mast, arms crossed over his chest. He's dressed in his usual attire - dark pants tucked into worn boots, a white shirt open at the collar, a long coat that somehow makes him look both dangerous and devastatingly handsome. His hair is styled in that slightly messy quiff you've come to adore, the sides shorter, just brushing over his ears. In the moonlight, he looks like something out of a dream.

"Could say the same about you, Captain," you reply, trying to keep your voice steady. Your heart is racing just from looking at him, which is ridiculous. You're a creature of the sea, powerful and ancient, and yet this human man reduces you to a nervous mess with just his presence.

"Tony," he corrects, pushing off the mast and walking toward you. "How many times do I have to tell you? It's just Tony when it's us."

Us. The word makes something flutter in your chest.

He stops beside you, close enough that you can smell him - salt and leather and something uniquely him that makes your head spin. He's not touching you, but you're hyperaware of every inch of space between your bodies.

"Beautiful night," he says, looking up at the stars.

"It is," you agree, though you're not looking at the sky. You're looking at him. The strong line of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the way the moonlight catches in his dark eyes.

"You know," Tony says, his voice lower now, "I've been thinking."

"Dangerous pastime," you tease, but your pulse is quickening.

He laughs, the sound warm and rich. "Yeah, well, I've never been one to play it safe." He turns to face you fully, and the intensity in his gaze steals your breath. "These past eight months... having you here... it's been..."

He reaches out, his hand hovering near your face like he wants to touch you but isn't sure if he should. "It's been the best eight months of my life," he finally says. "And I know that sounds like a line, like something I'd say to charm my way into someone's bed, but I mean it. You're... fuck, you're incredible. You're smart and brave and funny, and you're so goddamn beautiful it actually hurts to look at you sometimes."

Your breath catches. Is this really happening? Is Tony Stark actually saying these things to you?

"Tony," you whisper, and you're leaning toward him, drawn like the tide to the moon.

His hand finally makes contact, fingers brushing your cheek, and the touch sends electricity through your entire body. "I need to tell you something," he says, his voice rough. "I've been trying to find the right words for weeks now, but there's no right way to say this, so I'm just going to."

A wave of heat washes over you suddenly, intense and overwhelming. Your scales are tingling, your tail twitching, and you realize with a start that you've been out of the water too long. You need to dive, need to cool off, need to -

"I'm sorry," you blurt out, pulling away from his touch even though it's the last thing you want to do. "I need to - I have to -"

"Wait," Tony says, reaching for you, but you're already moving.

You flash him an apologetic smile, trying to ignore the confusion and hurt in his eyes. "Rain check on that confession, Captain?"

And then you're diving, the cool water enveloping you like a lover's embrace. You swim deep, your powerful tail propelling you through the darkness, and you can feel Tony's eyes on the water above you.

Idiot, you curse yourself. He was about to tell you something important, maybe even that he feels the same way, and you ran away like a coward.

But the heat had been too much, the intensity of the moment combined with the physical need to submerge. You'd had no choice.

You surface a good distance from the ship, treading water, and you can see Tony's silhouette still at the railing. Even from here, you can sense his frustration, the tension in his shoulders.

"Tomorrow," you call out, your voice carrying across the water. "Tomorrow, I promise. Tell me tomorrow."

You can't hear his response, but you see him nod. And then he turns and walks away, disappearing below deck, and you're left alone with the stars and the waves and the aching certainty that you've just made a terrible mistake.

You should go back. You should climb back onto that ship and make him finish what he was saying. But something holds you back - fear, maybe, or the lingering heat in your scales that tells you that you need to stay in the water a while longer.

Tomorrow, you tell yourself. Tomorrow, everything will be different. Tomorrow, you'll tell him how you feel, and maybe, just maybe, he'll say he feels the same way.

You dive again, swimming in lazy circles around the ship, and you don't notice the other vessel in the distance, its lights extinguished, moving silently through the night.

______________________________________________________________

Dawn breaks slowly, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. You've been swimming for hours, exploring the deeper waters, gathering the rare shells and pearls that Tony's crew can trade at the next port. It's become your routine - dive deep while the crew sleeps, bring back treasures, earn your keep.

But more than that, it's your way of contributing, of proving that you're not just some exotic pet but a valuable member of the crew.

You're about a quarter mile from the Starlight when you sense it - a disturbance in the water, movement that's too deliberate to be natural. You surface quickly, scanning the horizon, and your blood runs cold.

A ship. Not the Starlight. This one is larger, darker, with black sails that seem to swallow the morning light. And it's moving fast, cutting through the water with predatory intent.

You dive immediately, your instincts screaming danger. You need to get back to the Starlight, need to warn Tony and the crew. You swim as fast as you can, your powerful tail propelling you through the water, but you're not fast enough.

The net comes out of nowhere, heavy and weighted, tangling around your tail and arms. You thrash, trying to break free, but the more you struggle, the tighter it becomes. Panic claws at your throat as you're dragged upward, breaking the surface with a gasp.

"Well, well, well," a voice drawls, and you look up to see a man leaning over the railing of the black-sailed ship. He's tall and lean, with a cruel smile and cold eyes. "What do we have here? A mermaid. And not just any mermaid, if the rumors are true. You're Stark's pet, aren't you?"

"I'm no one's pet," you snarl, still struggling against the net.

The man laughs. "Feisty. I like that. Haul her up, boys."

You're lifted out of the water, the net cutting into your scales, and dumped unceremoniously onto the deck. The impact knocks the breath from your lungs, and before you can recover, rough hands are grabbing you, dragging you across the wooden planks.

"Let me go!" you shout, thrashing, but there are too many of them. They're prepared for your strength, for your tail's powerful strikes. They have chains and they're wrapping them around your wrists, your tail, securing you so tightly you can barely move.

"Take her below," the cruel-eyed captain orders. "And someone get me a bucket of seawater. We want to keep our prize alive and healthy. For now."

You're dragged down into the hold, the darkness swallowing you. The air is stale and hot, so different from the cool ocean you're used to. They chain you to the wall, the iron biting into your wrists, and then they're gone, leaving you alone in the dark.

Your heart is racing, fear and anger warring inside you. You test the chains, pulling with all your strength, but they hold firm. The iron is burning your skin, leaving angry red marks, and you can feel your scales starting to dry out in the oppressive heat.

Tony, you think desperately. Tony, please. Please notice I'm gone. Please come find me.

But the Starlight is far away now, and you're alone.

Footsteps on the stairs make you tense. The cruel-eyed captain descends, carrying a bucket of water. He dumps it over you without ceremony, and you gasp at the relief of it, even as you glare at him with all the hatred you can muster.

"There now," he says, crouching in front of you. "Can't have you dying on us. Not yet. You're going to be very useful, little mermaid. You're going to tell me everything about Tony Stark's ship. His routes, his treasures, his weaknesses. And if you're very cooperative, I might even let you live."

"Go to hell," you spit.

He smiles, and it's the most terrifying thing you've ever seen. "Oh, we're going to have so much fun together."

He stands and walks away, and you're left alone again in the darkness again, the chains burning your skin, your scales drying despite the water he threw on you.

And all you can think is: Tony. Please. Please find me.

______________________________________________________________

Time loses meaning in the darkness of the hold. You don't know if it's been hours or days. They bring you water periodically - just enough to keep you alive but not enough to ease the constant ache of drying scales. The iron chains have rubbed your wrists raw, and every movement sends fresh pain shooting through your arms.

The cruel-eyed captain - you've learned his name is Rourke - visits regularly. Each time, he asks the same questions: Where does Stark keep his treasure? What are his trade routes? How many men does he have? What are his weaknesses?

And each time, you refuse to answer.

The first time you refused, he simply smiled and left. The second time, he had one of his men pour salt water over your drying scales - a relief at first, until you realized the water was mixed with something that burned, leaving your scales inflamed and painful.

The third time, he got creative.

"You know," Rourke says, circling you like a shark, "I've always been curious about mermaids. About how much pain you can endure. Your kind are supposed to be tough, aren't they? Resilient."

You don't answer, just glare at him with all the defiance you can muster.

He nods to one of his men, and suddenly there's a knife in his hand. Not a large one - just a small, sharp blade that glints in the dim light filtering through the cracks in the deck above.

"Let's test that resilience, shall we?"

The first cut is shallow, just above your tail, and you bite back a scream. You won't give him the satisfaction. The second cut is deeper, and this time you can't hold back the gasp of pain.

"Where does Stark keep his treasure?" Rourke asks calmly, as if he's inquiring about the weather.

"Fuck. You," you grit out through clenched teeth.

He sighs, almost disappointed. "I was hoping you'd be smarter than this."

The cuts continue, each one precise and calculated to cause maximum pain without killing you. Your scales, usually so tough, are vulnerable in their dried state. Blood - your blood, which shimmers with an iridescent quality even in the dim light - drips onto the wooden floor.

"His trade routes," Rourke says. "Surely that's not too much to ask. Just tell me where he's planning to sail next."

You think of Tony - his smile, his laugh, the way he looked at you last night under the stars. You think of his crew, good men who've become like family. You think of the Starlight, the ship that's become your home.

"No," you whisper.

Rourke's expression hardens. "You're protecting a man who probably doesn't even care about you. You're just a curiosity to him, a pretty thing to show off. Do you really think Tony Stark, the great pirate captain, gives a damn about one mermaid?"

The words hurt more than the cuts, because part of you wonders if he's right. Maybe you've been fooling yourself. Maybe Tony's almost-confession last night was just the result of too much rum and a beautiful night. Maybe you're nothing to him but an interesting addition to his crew.

But then you remember the way he looked at you. The way he said your name. The way his hand trembled when he reached for your face.

"You don't know him," you say, your voice stronger now despite the pain. "You don't know anything about him."

"I know he's a pirate," Rourke says. "I know he's a thief and a liar and a man who takes what he wants without regard for anyone else. I know he's probably already forgotten about you and moved on to the next port, the next woman, the next adventure."

"You're wrong," you say, and you believe it with every fiber of your being. "He'll come for me. And when he does, you're going to regret ever laying a hand on me."

Rourke laughs, but there's something uncertain in his eyes now. "We'll see about that."

He leaves, taking his knife and his men with him, and you're alone again. The cuts burn, your scales ache, and you're so thirsty you can barely think straight. But you didn't break. You didn't tell him anything.

You slump against the wall, the chains holding you upright, and you let yourself cry. Not from the pain but from the fear and the loneliness and the desperate hope that Tony will somehow find you.

Please, you think, sending the thought out into the universe like a prayer. Please, Tony. I need you. Please find me.

______________________________________________________________

Tony wakes with the sun, which is unusual for him. He's typically a late riser, preferring to let his crew handle the morning routines while he catches a few extra hours of sleep. But today, he's restless, his mind replaying last night's almost-confession over and over.

He'd been so close. So close to finally telling you how he feels, to laying his cards on the table and risking everything. And then you'd dove overboard, leaving him standing there like an idiot with his heart in his throat.

He knows you needed to get in the water - he's learned enough about your physiology over the past eight months to understand that. But the timing had been spectacularly bad, and now he's left wondering if you were running from him or from the conversation.

He dresses quickly and heads up to the deck, expecting to find you there. You usually return from your morning swim around this time, hauling yourself up the rope ladder with a bag full of treasures and that smile that makes his chest tight.

But the deck is empty except for his crew going about their morning duties.

"Morning, Cap'n," James Rhodes - his first mate and best friend - calls out. "Sleep well?"

"Where is she?" Tony asks, scanning the water.

Rhodey raises an eyebrow. "Who?"

"Who do you think?" Tony snaps, then immediately regrets his tone. "Sorry. I mean... have you seen her this morning?"

"The mermaid?" Rhodey shakes his head. "Haven't seen her since last night. Figured she was still swimming."

Tony's stomach clenches with unease. "She's always back by now."

"Maybe she's running late," Rhodey suggests, but there's concern in his voice now too.

Tony walks to the railing, his eyes scanning the horizon. The ocean is calm, the morning sun glinting off the gentle waves. There's no sign of you - no flash of silver scales, no dark head breaking the surface.

"Get the spyglass," Tony orders, and Rhodey hurries to comply.

Tony takes the glass and scans the water methodically, searching for any sign of you. Nothing. Just endless blue ocean and -

Wait.

There. In the distance. A ship with black sails, moving away from them at speed.

Tony's blood runs cold. He knows that ship. Everyone in these waters knows that ship. It belongs to Marcus Rourke, a pirate captain known for his cruelty and his particular hatred of Tony.

"Rhodey," Tony says, his voice deadly calm. "Tell me that's not Rourke's ship."

Rhodey takes the spyglass, looks, and curses. "That's Rourke's ship."

"And tell me," Tony continues, that dangerous calm still in his voice, "that our mermaid just happened to go for an extra-long swim this morning, and that Rourke's ship just happened to be in these waters, and that these two things are completely unrelated."

Rhodey is silent, and that silence is answer enough.

Something inside Tony breaks.

The calm shatters, replaced by a rage so intense it's almost blinding. His hands grip the railing so hard the wood creaks, and when he speaks, his voice is barely recognizable - low and rough and filled with violence.

"He took her."

"We don't know that for sure." Rhodey starts, but Tony whirls on him.

"He. Took. Her." Each word is punctuated with barely controlled fury. "That bastard took her, and I'm going to kill him. I'm going to burn his ship to the waterline and feed him to the sharks piece by fucking piece."

The crew has gathered now, drawn by Tony's tone. They've never seen their captain like this - Tony Stark, who faces danger with a quip and a smile, who treats piracy like a game, who never lets anything get under his skin. This Tony is different. This Tony is terrifying.

"Cap'n," one of the younger crew members says hesitantly, "what do you want us to do?"

Tony takes a breath, forcing himself to think past the rage. You need him to be smart right now, not just angry. You need him to be the brilliant strategist he is, not just a man bent on revenge.

"Get me charts," he orders, his voice steadier now but no less intense. "I want to know every place Rourke might take her. Every island, every cove, every goddamn rock in these waters. I want to know his patterns, his habits, his favorite fucking breakfast. And I want it now."

The crew scatters, moving with purpose. They've all grown fond of you over the past eight months - your humor, your strength, your kindness. And they're loyal to Tony, would follow him into hell if he asked. They're going to get you back.

Rhodey stays beside Tony, his expression grim. "We'll find her."

"We better," Tony says, and there's something raw in his voice now, the rage giving way to fear. "Because if anything happens to her, if he hurts her..." He can't finish the sentence, can't even let himself think about it.

"He won't," Rhodey says firmly. "Rourke's a bastard, but he's not stupid. He knows she's valuable. He'll keep her alive."

"Alive isn't the same as unharmed," Tony says, and his hands are shaking now. He thinks about your smile, your laugh, the way you looked at him last night under the stars. He thinks about all the things he didn't say, all the time he wasted being afraid of his own feelings.

"I should have told her," he says quietly. "Last night, I should have just said it. Should have told her that I'm in love with her, that I have been for months, that she's the best thing that's ever happened to me. And now she's out there, probably scared and hurt, and she doesn't know. She doesn't know how I feel."

"Then we'll get her back," Rhodey says, gripping Tony's shoulder, "and you'll tell her. You'll tell her everything."

Tony nods, and the fear crystallizes into determination. He's going to find you. He's going to save you. And then he's going to tell you exactly how he feels, consequences be damned.

And God help anyone who stands in his way.

______________________________________________________________

The captain's cabin has been transformed into a war room. Charts cover every surface, marked with notes and calculations. Tony stands at the center of it all, his mind working at a speed that would intimidate anyone who doesn't know him well.

"Rourke's ship was heading southeast," he says, pointing at the map. "Given the wind patterns and his typical routes, he's probably heading for the Serpent's Teeth - that cluster of islands about two days' sail from here. It's remote, defensible, and he's used it as a base before."

"That's a long shot, Cap'n," one of the crew members says. "What if he's not going there?"

"Then we'll search every goddamn island in these waters until we find him," Tony snaps. "But my gut says the Serpent's Teeth. It's where I'd go if I wanted to interrogate a prisoner without interruption."

The word 'interrogate' makes his stomach turn. He forces himself not to think about what that might mean, what Rourke might be doing to you right now.

"We need to be smart about this," Rhodey says. "Rourke's ship is bigger than ours, and he's got more men. We can't just sail up and demand her back."

"I know," Tony says, though every instinct is screaming at him to do exactly that. "We need a plan. We need to be strategic."

He studies the map, his mind racing through possibilities. "The Serpent's Teeth are treacherous waters. Lots of rocks and reefs. Rourke will have to anchor in one of the deeper coves, which limits his options. If we approach from the north, using the smaller channels, we can get close without being seen."

"And then what?" another crew member asks.

"And then we board his ship and take her back," Tony says simply. "We go in fast and hard, before they know what's happening. We get her out, and we burn that ship to the waterline."

"That's risky," Rhodey points out. "If something goes wrong.”

"Nothing's going to go wrong," Tony interrupts, his voice hard. "Because failure isn't an option. We're getting her back, Rhodey. Whatever it takes."

They spend the next two hours planning every detail. Tony divides the crew into teams - one to handle the ship, one to board Rourke's vessel, one to secure your escape route. He goes over the plan again and again, looking for weaknesses, for anything that could go wrong.

"We'll need weapons," he says. "Swords, pistols, anything we've got. And we'll need to move fast. The longer we're on that ship, the more chance something goes wrong."

"What about the mermaid?" someone asks. "She'll be weak, probably chained. How do we get her off the ship quickly?"

Tony's jaw clenches. The thought of you chained, weak, hurt - it makes him want to put his fist through something. "I'll carry her," he says. "Just get me to her, and I'll handle the rest."

The crew nods, and Tony can see the determination in their faces. They're with him. They're ready to risk everything to get you back.

"We sail within the hour," Tony announces. "Get the ship ready. Check the weapons. And someone find me a bottle of rum - I need to think."

The crew disperses, leaving Tony alone with Rhodey.

"You okay?" Rhodey asks quietly.

"No," Tony admits. "I'm not okay. I won't be okay until she's back on this ship, safe and sound."

"We'll get her back," Rhodey says.

"We have to," Tony replies, and there's desperation in his voice now. "Because I can't... I can't lose her, Rhodey. I can't."

Rhodey grips his shoulder. "You won't. We're going to get her back, and you're going to tell her how you feel, and everything's going to be fine."

Tony wants to believe that. He needs to believe that. But the fear is a living thing inside him, clawing at his chest, making it hard to breathe.

Hold on, he thinks, sending the thought out across the water like a prayer. Just hold on a little longer. I'm coming for you. I promise, I'm coming.

______________________________________________________________

Two days of sailing at maximum speed, pushing the Starlight harder than Tony's ever pushed her before. Two days of barely sleeping, barely eating, his mind consumed with thoughts of you. Two days of imagining every terrible thing Rourke might be doing to you, and forcing himself to stay focused, to stick to the plan.

And now, finally, they're here.

The Serpent's Teeth rise from the ocean like jagged fangs, dark rocks that have claimed countless ships over the years. And there, anchored in a deep cove just as Tony predicted, is Rourke's ship.

"We were right," Rhodey breathes, relief evident in his voice.

"Of course we were right," Tony says, but there's no smugness in his tone. Just cold, focused determination. "Get the crew ready. We go in thirty minutes, as soon as the sun sets."

The next thirty minutes are the longest of Tony's life. He checks his weapons - two pistols, a sword, several knives. He goes over the plan one more time with the crew. And he tries not to think about what condition you'll be in when he finds you.

Alive, he tells himself. She's alive. She has to be alive.

As the sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of blood red, Tony gives the signal. The Starlight moves silently through the water, using the smaller channels just as planned. They're close now, close enough to see figures moving on Rourke's deck.

"Drop anchor here," Tony orders quietly. "We go the rest of the way in the boats."

They lower two small boats into the water, and Tony's team - ten of his best fighters - climbs in. The boats move silently across the dark water, oars dipping without a splash. Tony's heart is pounding, adrenaline singing through his veins, but his hands are steady.

They reach Rourke's ship, and Tony is the first up the rope, climbing with practiced ease. He pulls himself over the railing and immediately his sword is in his hand, cutting down the first guard before the man can even shout a warning.

The rest of his crew follows, and then it's chaos.

Steel clashes against steel. Men shout and curse. Tony moves through the fight like a force of nature, his sword a blur, his movements precise and deadly. He's fought in dozens of battles, but he's never fought like this - with this kind of focused rage, this desperate need to get to you.

"Where is she?" he snarls at one of Rourke's men, his sword at the man's throat.

"Below!" the man gasps. "In the hold!"

Tony knocks him unconscious and moves toward the stairs. Rhodey is at his back, covering him, and together they fight their way below deck.

The hold is dark and stinking, and Tony's eyes need a moment to adjust. And then he sees you.

You're chained to the wall, your scales dull and dry, your skin marked with cuts and bruises. Your head is hanging forward, and for one terrible moment, Tony thinks he's too late.

Then you lift your head, and your eyes meet his.

"Tony," you whisper, and the relief in your voice breaks something inside him.

"I've got you," he says, rushing forward. His hands are shaking as he examines the chains, looking for a way to break them. "I've got you, sweetheart. You're safe now."

"The key," you rasp. "Rourke has the key."

Tony's jaw clenches. "Fuck the key." He wraps his hands around the chain and pulls with all his strength. The iron groans but holds. He tries again, and this time something gives - not the chain, but the bolt securing it to the wall.

"Hold on," he says, and he pulls again. The bolt comes free with a screech of metal, and suddenly you're falling forward. Tony catches you, his arms wrapping around you, and the feel of you makes his chest tight.

"I’ve got you." he says.

You shake your head. "My tail... it's too dry. I can't..."

"I'll carry you," Tony says simply. He scoops you up, cradling you against his chest, and you're so light it terrifies him. How much weight have you lost in two days?

"Tony," you say, your hand coming up to touch his face. "You came for me."

"Of course I came for you," he says fiercely. "Did you really think I wouldn't?"

Before you can answer, there's a shout from above. Rourke has realized what's happening.

"We need to move," Rhodey says urgently. "Now."

Tony carries you up the stairs, and the battle on deck has intensified. Rourke is there, his cruel eyes widening when he sees Tony with you in his arms.

"Stark," he snarls. "You're making a mistake."

"The only mistake," Tony says, his voice deadly calm, "was you thinking you could take what's mine and live."

He nods to Rhodey, who tosses him a pistol. Tony catches it one-handed, never loosening his grip on you, and fires. The shot takes Rourke in the shoulder, spinning him around.

"That's for touching her," Tony says. He fires again, and this shot takes Rourke in the leg. "That's for hurting her." He aims for the third shot, but Rhodey stops him.

"We need to go, Tony. Now."

Tony wants to empty the pistol into Rourke, wants to make him suffer the way you suffered. But Rhodey's right - getting you to safety is more important than revenge.

"Burn it," Tony orders his crew. "Burn this ship to the waterline."

His men move quickly, setting fires throughout the vessel. Tony carries you to the railing, and Rhodey helps lower you into the boat. Tony follows, never taking his eyes off you.

As they row back to the Starlight, Tony watches Rourke's ship burn. The flames climb the masts, consuming the black sails, and he feels a savage satisfaction. But it's not enough. It will never be enough for what Rourke did to you.

"Tony," you whisper, and he looks down at you. Your eyes are heavy, exhaustion and pain written in every line of your face.

"I'm here," he says, brushing your hair back from your face. "I'm right here. You're safe now."

"I didn't tell him anything," you say, and there's pride in your voice despite the weakness. "He asked about you, about the ship, and I didn't tell him anything."

Tony's throat tightens. "I know you didn't. You're so brave, sweetheart. So strong."

"I knew you'd come," you say, your eyes starting to close. "I knew you'd find me."

"Always," Tony promises. "I'll always find you."

You slip into unconsciousness, and Tony holds you tighter, his heart breaking at the sight of your injuries. But you're alive. You're safe. And he's never letting you out of his sight again.

______________________________________________________________

Tony carries you to his cabin, the finest room on the Starlight, and lays you gently on his bed. Your scales are dull and cracked, your skin marked with cuts and bruises, and the iron burns on your wrists are angry and red.

"Get me water," he orders the crew member who followed him in. "Fresh water, and lots of it. And bandages, and whatever medical supplies we have."

The crew member hurries off, and Tony sits beside you, his hands hovering over your body, not sure where to touch without causing pain.

"Tony," you murmur, your eyes fluttering open.

"I'm here," he says immediately. "What do you need? What can I do?"

"Water," you whisper. "I need... I need to be in the water."

"We'll get you water," Tony promises. "We'll fill the tub, or we can -"

"No," you interrupt, your hand gripping his with surprising strength. "Not a tub. I need... I need the ocean. I need to heal."

Tony's brow furrows. "You want me to put you back in the ocean? But you're hurt, you're weak."

"There's a beach," you say, your voice gaining strength. "I saw it when we sailed in. A small cove, private. Take me there. Please."

Tony wants to argue, wants to keep you here where he can watch over you, but the desperation in your eyes stops him. "Okay," he says. "Okay, we'll go to the beach."

He carries you up to the deck, ignoring the concerned looks from his crew. "I'm taking her to the beach," he announces. "Rhodey, you're in charge. No one follows us. Understood?"

Rhodey nods, and Tony climbs down into one of the small boats. He rows to the beach you indicated, his arms burning with the effort, but he doesn't care. All that matters is getting you what you need.

The beach is small and secluded, surrounded by rocks that provide privacy. The moon is rising, casting silver light across the sand and water. Tony carries you to the water's edge, where the waves lap gently at the shore.

"Here?" he asks.

You nod, and he lowers you carefully into the shallow water. The moment the ocean touches your scales, you gasp, and Tony watches in amazement as color starts to return to them, the dull gray brightening to silver and blue.

"Better?" he asks.

"Better," you confirm, and you're already looking stronger. "But Tony... I need to tell you something."

"You can tell me anything," he says, kneeling beside you in the water, not caring that his clothes are getting soaked.

You take a breath, and he can see you gathering courage. "The healing... it works better on land. In my other form."

Tony's mind races, trying to understand. "Your other form?"

"My human form," you say quietly. "Mermaids... we can transform. We can have legs instead of a tail. But it's painful, and it takes energy, and I've never... I've never done it in front of anyone before."

Tony's heart is pounding. "You can have legs?"

"Yes," you say. "And I need to. The injuries... they'll heal faster if I transform. But Tony, I need you to understand this is vulnerable for me. This is... this is me trusting you completely."

"I'm honored," Tony says, and he means it. "I'm honored that you trust me. And I promise, I'll take care of you. Whatever you need."

You nod, and then you close your eyes. Tony watches, transfixed, as your body begins to glow with a soft, ethereal light. Your scales shimmer and shift, and then -

It's the most beautiful and terrible thing he's ever seen. Your tail splits, the scales receding, and where there was one powerful tail, there are now two legs. You cry out in pain, and Tony's hands are on you immediately, supporting you, holding you.

"I've got you," he says. "I've got you, sweetheart."

The transformation completes, and you're lying in the shallow water, completely human. And completely naked.

Tony immediately averts his eyes, his face flushing. "I, uh... I should... do you need clothes? I can get you -"

"Tony," you say, and there's amusement in your voice despite the pain. "It's okay. You can look."

He looks, and his breath catches. You're beautiful… you've always been beautiful, but like this, human and vulnerable and trusting him completely, you're breathtaking.

"The cuts," he says, noticing that the injuries on your tail have transferred to your legs. "They're still there."

"They'll heal," you assure him. "Faster now. But Tony... there's something I need to tell you. Something I should have said before."

"Before I say anything," Tony interrupts, "I need to say something first. Something I should have said two nights ago, before you dove off the ship."

He takes your hands, careful of the iron burns on your wrists. "I'm in love with you," he says, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I have been for months. Maybe since the first day you climbed onto my ship and told me you wanted to join my crew. You're brilliant and brave and funny, and you're the best thing that's ever happened to me. And when I thought I'd lost you, when I thought Rourke might have..." His voice breaks. "I can't lose you. I won't survive it."

You're staring at him, tears streaming down your face. "Tony -"

"I know I'm not easy to love," he continues. "I know I'm arrogant and reckless and I make terrible jokes at inappropriate times. But I love you. I love you so much it terrifies me. And I need you to know that, need you to understand that you're not just some curiosity to me, not just a member of my crew. You're everything."

"Tony," you say again, and this time he lets you speak. "I love you too. I've loved you for so long, and I was so scared you didn't feel the same way. When Rourke was hurting me, when he was trying to get me to betray you, all I could think about was seeing you again. About telling you how I feel."

Tony's hands are shaking as he cups your face. "Can I kiss you?" he asks. "Please, can I?"

You answer by pulling him down to you, your lips meeting his in a kiss that's desperate and tender and full of months of longing. Tony kisses you like you're air and he's drowning, like you're the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

When you finally break apart, you're both breathing hard.

"I need you," you whisper against his lips. "Tony, I need you. Please."

"You're hurt," he protests, even as his body responds to your words. "You need to rest, to heal."

"I need you," you repeat, your hands sliding under his wet shirt, feeling the muscles of his chest. "I need to feel alive. I need to feel you. Please, Tony."

He groans, his forehead resting against yours. "Are you sure? Because once I start, I don't know if I'll be able to stop."

"Then don't stop," you say. "Don't ever stop."

______________________________________________________________

Tony kisses you again, deeper this time, his tongue sliding against yours. His hands are everywhere touching you like he's trying to memorize every inch of you.

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs against your lips. "So fucking beautiful. I've dreamed about this, about touching you, tasting you."

"Then touch me," you breathe. "Taste me. I'm yours, Tony. I've always been yours."

His hands slide down your body, careful of your injuries, and when his fingers brush against your breast, you both gasp. Your nipple hardens under his touch, and Tony's eyes darken with desire.

"Can I?" he asks, his hand hovering.

"Yes," you say. "God, yes."

He cups your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple, and the sensation makes you arch into his touch. "So responsive," he murmurs. "So perfect."

He lowers his head, his mouth replacing his hand, and when his tongue flicks over your nipple, you cry out. The sensation is overwhelming - pleasure mixed with the lingering pain from your injuries, creating something intense and almost unbearable.

"Too much?" Tony asks immediately, pulling back.

"No," you gasp. "Not enough. More, Tony. Please, more."

He lavishes attention on your breasts, his mouth and hands working in tandem, and you're writhing beneath him, your hands fisting in his wet shirt.

"Off," you demand. "I want to see you. Want to touch you."

Tony sits back and pulls his shirt over his head, and the sight of him makes your mouth water. He's all lean muscle and golden skin, with a dusting of dark hair across his chest that trails down his abs and disappears beneath his waistband.

"Your turn to stare," he says with a cocky grin, but there's vulnerability in his eyes.

"You're gorgeous," you say, reaching up to trace the lines of his abs. "I've wanted to touch you like this for so long."

"Then touch me," he says, echoing your earlier words. "I'm yours."

Your hands explore his chest, his shoulders, his arms. He's strong - you've always known that - but feeling the muscles beneath your palms, feeling the way they flex and shift with his movements, is intoxicating.

"I want to see all of you," you say, your hands moving to his waistband.

Tony's breath hitches. "Are you sure? Because sweetheart, I'm barely holding on here. If you take my pants off, I'm not going to be able to be a gentleman about this."

"I don't want a gentleman," you say, working the buttons of his pants. "I want you. All of you."

He helps you push his pants down, and then he's naked before you, and oh God, he's perfect. His cock is hard and thick, and the sight of it makes you clench with need.

"Like what you see?" Tony asks, and there's that cocky grin again, but his voice is strained.

"Very much," you say, reaching out to wrap your hand around him. He's hot and hard in your palm, and when you stroke him, he groans.

"Fuck, baby," he breathes. "That feels so good."

You stroke him again, learning what he likes, and his hips thrust into your hand. But after a moment, he stops you, his hand covering yours.

"If you keep doing that, this is going to be over embarrassingly fast," he says. "And I want to make this good for you. Want to make you feel so good."

He kisses you again, his body covering yours, and you can feel his cock pressing against your thigh. The weight of him, the heat of him, is overwhelming in the best way.

"I need to touch you," Tony says, his hand sliding down your body. "Need to make sure you're ready for me. Can I?"

"Please," you whimper.

His fingers slide between your legs, and when he finds you wet and ready, he groans. "Fuck, you're soaked. Is this all for me?"

"All for you," you confirm. "Only you."

He slides one finger inside you, and the sensation makes you gasp. You're tight - you've never done this before, never been with anyone - and Tony seems to sense it.

"Have you..." he starts, his eyes searching yours.

"No," you admit. "Never. I've never... I've been waiting for you."

Tony's expression softens, and he kisses you tenderly. "I'll be gentle," he promises. "I'll take care of you."

He works you with his fingers, adding a second, stretching you carefully. His thumb finds your clit, and the combination of sensations makes you moan.

"That's it," he encourages. "Let me hear you. Want to know I'm making you feel good."

"So good," you gasp. "Tony, it's so good."

He works you higher and higher, his fingers curling inside you, hitting a spot that makes you see stars. You're close, so close, and when his thumb presses harder against your clit, you shatter.

Your orgasm crashes over you like a wave, and you cry out Tony's name, your body clenching around his fingers. He works you through it, his movements gentling as you come down.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, kissing you softly. "You're so beautiful when you come."

"I want you inside me," you say when you can speak again. "Please, Tony. I need you."

"Are you sure?" he asks. "We can wait, we can -"

"I'm sure," you interrupt. "I've never been more sure of anything."

Tony positions himself between your legs, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. "Tell me if it's too much," he says. "Tell me if I need to stop."

"Don't stop," you say. "Please don't stop."

He pushes inside slowly, and the stretch is intense. You gasp, your hands gripping his shoulders, and Tony freezes.

"Okay?" he asks, his voice strained.

"Okay," you confirm. "Keep going."

He pushes deeper, inch by inch, and you can feel every ridge and vein of him. It burns, but it's a good burn, a fullness that makes you feel complete.

"Fuck, you're tight," Tony groans. "So tight and perfect. You feel so good, baby."

Finally, he's fully seated inside you, and you both pause, adjusting to the sensation. Tony's forehead is pressed against yours, his breathing ragged.

"You okay?" he asks.

"More than okay," you say. "You feel amazing. So big and perfect inside me."

"Can I move?" he asks.

"Please," you say. "Please move."

He pulls out slowly and pushes back in, and the sensation makes you both moan. He sets a gentle rhythm, careful of your injuries, and it's perfect - the slide of his cock inside you, the weight of his body on yours, the way he's looking at you like you're the most precious thing in the world.

"Faster," you urge after a few minutes. "Harder. I can take it."

"You sure?" Tony asks, but his hips are already moving faster.

"I'm sure," you say. "I want to feel you. Want to feel all of you."

Tony's control breaks, and he starts fucking you in earnest. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the air, mixed with your moans and his groans. The water laps at your bodies, the moon shines overhead, and it's perfect - raw and primal and absolutely perfect.

"Touch yourself," Tony orders, his voice rough. "Want to feel you come on my cock."

You slide your hand between your bodies, your fingers finding your clit, and the added stimulation makes you cry out. You're close again, the pleasure building with each thrust.

"That's it," Tony encourages. "Come for me, baby. Let me feel you."

Your second orgasm hits you even harder than the first, and you scream Tony's name as your body clenches around him. The sensation triggers his own release, and he groans deeply as he comes, his cock pulsing inside you, filling you with heat.

He collapses beside you, both of you breathing hard, and pulls you against his chest. You can feel his heart racing beneath your cheek, matching the rhythm of your own.

"That was..." you start, but you can't find the words.

"Yeah," Tony agrees. "That was."

You lie there in the shallow water, wrapped in each other's arms, and you've never felt more complete. The pain from your injuries is still there, but it's distant now, overshadowed by the pleasure and the love and the absolute rightness of being with Tony.

"I love you," you say, pressing a kiss to his chest.

"I love you too," Tony replies, his arms tightening around you. "So fucking much."

______________________________________________________________

After a while, Tony insists on getting you back to the ship. "You need proper rest," he says, "and food, and to let those injuries heal."

He carries you back to the boat - you're still too weak to walk on your new legs - and rows back to the Starlight. The crew is discreet, turning away as Tony carries you across the deck and down to his cabin.

He lays you on his bed and wraps you in soft blankets. "I'll get you some food," he says, but you catch his hand.

"Stay," you say. "Please. I don't want to be alone."

"I'm not going anywhere," Tony promises, climbing into bed beside you. "I'm right here."

You curl into his side, your head on his chest, and for a while you just lie there, listening to his heartbeat. But gradually, you become aware of other things - the heat of his body, the way his hand is stroking your back, the press of his thigh against yours.

"Tony," you murmur, your hand sliding down his chest.

"Hmm?" he responds, but his voice has gone lower, rougher.

"I want you again," you say, your hand moving lower, finding him already half-hard.

"Baby, you need to rest," he protests, but his cock is hardening under your touch.

"I've rested," you say, stroking him. "And now I want you. Unless you don't want me?"

"Don't want you?" Tony laughs, the sound strained. "Sweetheart, I always want you. I'm going to want you every minute of every day for the rest of my life."

"Then have me," you say, pushing the blankets aside. "Take me."

Tony groans, and then his mouth is on yours, kissing you deeply. This kiss is different from the ones on the beach - less desperate, more exploratory. You have time now, privacy, and you intend to use both.

"I want to taste you," Tony says against your lips. "Want to put my mouth on you and make you come on my tongue."

The words send heat straight to your core. "Yes," you breathe. "Please."

Tony kisses his way down your body, paying attention to every inch of skin. He's careful around your injuries, his touch gentle, but there's hunger in his eyes that makes you shiver with anticipation.

When he reaches the apex of your thighs, he looks up at you. "You're so beautiful here," he says. "So pink and perfect. I'm going to make you feel so good."

And then his mouth is on you, and oh God, it's even better than his fingers. His tongue is wicked, licking and sucking, and when he slides two fingers inside you while his mouth works your clit, you're already close.

"Tony," you gasp, your hands fisting in his hair. "Oh God, Tony, I'm going to -"

"Come for me," he says against your flesh. "Want to taste you."

You shatter, your orgasm rolling through you in waves, and Tony laps up every drop, groaning like you're the most delicious thing he's ever tasted.

"My turn," you say when you can speak again, pushing him onto his back.

"You don't have to -" Tony starts, but you're already moving down his body.

"I want to," you say, wrapping your hand around his cock. "I want to taste you too."

You lick a stripe up his length, and Tony's hips jerk. "Fuck," he groans. "Your mouth."

You take him deeper, as much as you can, and work him with your hand and tongue. Tony's hands are in your hair, not pushing, just holding on, and the sounds he's making are absolutely obscene.

"Baby, you need to stop," he says after a few minutes, his voice strained. "I'm going to come if you keep doing that."

"So come," you say, looking up at him through your lashes. "I want to taste you."

"Fuck," Tony groans, and then he's coming, his cock pulsing in your mouth. You swallow everything he gives you, and the taste of him is intoxicating.

"You're going to kill me," Tony says, pulling you up to kiss you deeply. "You're so perfect, you're going to actually kill me."

"What a way to go," you tease, and he laughs.

But he's already hardening again, and when you straddle him, sinking down onto his cock, you both groan at the sensation.

"Ride me," Tony says, his hands gripping your hips. "Want to watch you take your pleasure."

You start to move, rolling your hips, and the angle is perfect. He's hitting that spot inside you that makes you see stars, and you're already close again.

"That's it," Tony encourages, his hands sliding up to cup your breasts. "You look so good like this, taking my cock so well. You were made for this, baby. Made for me."

"Only you," you gasp, your movements becoming more frantic. "Only ever you."

"Touch yourself," Tony orders. "Want to feel you come on my cock again."

You slide your hand between your bodies, your fingers finding your clit, and the added stimulation sends you over the edge. You come with a cry, your body clenching around Tony's cock, and he follows immediately, groaning your name as he fills you.

You collapse onto his chest, both of you breathing hard, and Tony's arms come around you, holding you close.

"I love you," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

"I love you too," you reply, and you've never meant anything more.

You make love twice more that night - once with Tony taking you from behind, his hands gripping your hips as he fucks you hard and deep, and once in the early morning hours, slow and tender, face to face, your eyes locked as you move together.

By the time the sun rises, you're both exhausted and satisfied, wrapped in each other's arms, and you've never been happier.

______________________________________________________________

You wake to sunlight streaming through the cabin windows and Tony's arms around you. He's still asleep, his face relaxed, and you take a moment to just look at him. He's beautiful but like this, unguarded and peaceful, he's breathtaking.

As if sensing your gaze, his eyes flutter open. When he sees you, his face breaks into a smile that makes your heart skip.

"Morning," he says, his voice rough with sleep.

"Morning," you reply, pressing a kiss to his chest.

His arms tighten around you. "How are you feeling? How are your injuries?"

You take stock of your body. The cuts and bruises are still there, but they're healing rapidly now. The iron burns on your wrists are fading. "Better," you say. "Much better."

"Good," Tony says, and then he's kissing you, slow and deep. When he pulls back, his expression is serious. "I need you to understand something."

"What?" you ask, your heart suddenly racing.

"You're mine now," he says, his hand cupping your face. "Mermaid, human, whatever form you take - you're mine, and I'm yours. No take-backs. No running away. You're stuck with me."

You smile, your heart so full it might burst. "I can live with that."

"Good," Tony says, kissing you again. "Because I'm not letting you go. Ever."

"Possessive much?" you tease.

"When it comes to you? Absolutely," Tony replies without shame. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, and I'm not taking any chances."

You laugh, and the sound is pure joy. "I love you, Tony Stark."

"I love you too," he says. "Now, how about we get some breakfast? I'm starving, and you need to eat to keep your strength up."

"For what?" you ask innocently.

Tony's grin is wicked. "For round five. Or is it six? I've lost count."

You swat his chest, laughing. "You're insatiable."

"Only for you," he says, and the sincerity in his voice makes your chest tight.

You get dressed - Tony finds you some of his clothes, which are comically large on you - and emerge from the cabin hand in hand. The crew is on deck, going about their morning duties, and when they see you, they break into cheers and applause.

"Welcome back!" Rhodey calls out, grinning. "We were starting to think the Cap'n had locked you in there permanently."

"Don't give him ideas," you say, and the crew laughs.

Tony pulls you against his side, his arm around your waist, and the possessive gesture makes you smile. "Alright, alright," he says to the crew. "Show's over. Get back to work."

But he's smiling, and so are you, and as the Starlight sets sail for new adventures, you know that you're exactly where you're meant to be.

With Tony. Always with Tony.

And you wouldn't have it any other way.

[unearthlydust]

CAPTAIN AMERICA: CIVIL WAR (2016)

[sheriff-bodecker]

to be loved is to be changed

pairing: bucky barnes x reader summary: after his daughter, winnie, ripped the arm off her beloved stuffed doggy, bucky takes the day off to take care him, subsequently figuring some things out while doing so - or, bucky sews up a new arm for his daughters favourite teddy . . . warnings: fluff, dad!bucky, mom!reader, domestic fluff, some angst, written with congressman!bucky in mind, bucky wears glasses while working, bucky's daughter is called Winnie (win, pea, sweetheart, baby, babygirl...), Nat, Tony, Sam and Steve mentioned, aunt!nat and uncle!sam lol . . . word count: 4k a/n: wow a fluff thats crazy. im aware im not the best at these but i got this idea a week or so ago while going to work and it hasn't let me alone since so, i tried !

bucky m.list || masterlist || navigation

The plastic laundry basket rattles and creaks against your hip. Tapping your finger on the handle without a real rhythm, humming inquisitively and melodically, floorboards groaning under your feet as you pass down the hallway, and into the sun-warmed bedroom where stickers plastered yay high on the door, just below the painted calligraphy of dusty green you had tasked yourself on, even though you'd started waddling and huffing at every sprig of movement at the time. Winnie.

It's oddly quiet, not too unusual for a school day, but even so the padding of socked feet thumping around, excited squeals and giggles and tight little arms latched around your calf fill your days up so full and bright, the few hours of emptiness never fail to have you staring at the unmade bed and sigh with a smile.

Placing the basket down to your feet, you lean down to straighten the linens. Uncurling the stripes of red, tucking them in at the corners, folding at the pillows before starting on those next. Fluffing and placing them carefully to the wall, gathering her favourite blanket she'd pulled to the centre of the room for a late night reading session by the bonfire (her bedside lamp she had also moved) to drape across the foot of the bed.

Once done, straightening up only to stretch out the achy kinks in your muscles, you turn for the finishing touch. Dusty, Winnie's companion. The kind of teddy you must pry out of a child's hand — or at least try and swap it out with a similar weight like a Mission Impossible movie — but your little Win had a sixth sense for her darling dog. Matted fur from bone crushing (or pellet crushing, in Dusty's case) hugs, colour dulled from the years, and eyes wobbled from the thread. He may have been living up to his name, but he carries her love like no other.

But in recent days, you've noticed a difference in Dusty's appearance. His front left leg was simply… missing.

It wasn't hard to put two and two together. Your husband, brooding eyes and tired sighs, Bucky Barnes, had spent the good part of Winnie's first years acclimatising both Win, and himself, to his arm.

Holding her comfortably against his chest, in the crook of his right arm, as so his left — all shiny vibranium and gold veins — could pat and caress. Holding it up, wiggling his fingers while cooing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star just to see her chubby cheeks round out and gargle a laugh through a gummy smile. Bucky had even found himself soothing her by gently wiping the bridge of her nose with the smooth tip of his index finger, shushing down her cries, murmuring praises into the air, smiling softly as her eyes droop shut and soft croons from the back of her throat quieted into yawns, dribble on ironed work shirts and sweet, even breaths.

But Dusty and his three limbs were nowhere to be seen.

Not on the bedside table, or made as a suspicious lump underneath your neat origami of bed sheets. Not using the bunting hung from the corners as a makeshift swing set, or gathered around the lamp-made bonfire.

The laundry sat forgotten as your feet darted down the hall and down the flight of stairs, all to have been halted once you found yourself in the dining room. Your hair flew back as you caught yourself, hand holding the doorway.

Bucky sat at the table, button up shirt open at the collar, sleeves shoved to his elbow, hair the same colour as his daughters mussed back from fingers, and glasses slipping to the tip of his nose. Before you could fully appreciate the sight before you, you realised the scene. A sewing needle poked out the corner of his lip, held in place by his teeth, a large enough sheet of fabric, black with soft gold accents, laid out on the surface next to the project, cut in meticulous patterns, chalk lines fading off. And the main event was Dusty himself, and the appendage of dark cloth, sewn haphazardly with the kind of skill a boy on a mission would have, into a similar shape to the dog's right leg.

"Jesus," you exhale, holding your chest. "I thought you had work today?"

"I—Uh," He glances up at you over the top of his glasses where they perch low on the tip of his nose. Muffled by the needle in his mouth, he takes it out, leaning both elbows to the table, inhaling as if finding the correct answer. "I did. Have work."

You lean against the frame now. Arms crossed over your chest, smiling in amusement.

"But?"

"But," he imitates, looking back down at the work he's doing, holding the needle between two fingers and waving it slightly. "I have more pressing matters to attend to."

"Oh yeah?" You push off and walk your way over, sliding into the chair adjacent to his, leaning your chin on the palm of your hand. "More pressing than paperwork and board meetings? Pressing matters meaning Dusty?"

He laughs once, an exhales huff paired with an easy smile, but he keeps working. His phone was still open, propped up on a vase of cosmos and baby's breath, a paused video tutorial on sewing. You pretend not to have noticed, pretend like your heart didn't swell ten times the size in that one millisecond your eyes flittered.

"I—ah… I may have hold Win, while tucking her in last night, that I'd take Dusty to the 'hospital' today while she was at school," he shrugged, momentarily pausing to run a hand through his hair to keep it back, only for the strands to fall back over his face. "Was tired of finding stuffing on the floor."

"Tired of stuffing on the floor?"

"Mhm," he drags out, tight lipped, looping the needle through the two meeting points of the inside out fabric, pulling until slight resistance, before going again. "I also wanted to surprise her. Got up early to go out lookin' for some stuff, just to close up the hole, but I… saw the fabric, and… I mean, I understand why she—she'd take the arm off," he sighed again, looking back up at you over his glasses. When he sees you already smiling, he loosens up, smiling too, cheeks pinkening under the dusting from his beard.

"I think she'd like it."

"She'll love it, Buck," you reassure, reaching out to draw a knuckle over the back of his hand. "Didn't know you could sew, though."

The chair groans under his weight, stretching out, leaning back. "It's been a long, long time, sweetheart. Used to watch my momma when I had nothing better to do, sometimes she'd make me help her out until my fingers were all sore and poked raw, and, uh, you pick up some shit out in the field. Clothes get ripped, you know the gist," you do. He waves a dismissive hand. "Did have to remind myself though, but don't tell Winnie, I wanna look smart."

You giggle, easing up from the seat to make your way over. "You are smart, and Win already thinks the world of you,"

Leaning over, you drape your arms over his shoulders and rest your chin to his head, pausing the dismissive shake to your statement.

"It looks good. You're really good at this." You murmur into his hair with a kiss.

Bucky hums, pushing his glasses back up with a knuckle. "M'not."

"Hm, you are. And Winnie loves you, and I love you, and she's gonna love you more after this," you peck his head again.

"You know, everyday I think that theres no way I could love you more? You do all of these amazing things, you've done amazing things — things I can't even fathom — and yet you keep going above and beyond," before you could finish your words, Bucky tucks a piece of hair behind his ear, and you move. Legs walking, mind filing through memories, to the comfortable, organised mess of the living room.

When you come back, standing behind your husband, you clip the strands of hair that have been bothering him back with two tiny butterfly clips, one pink, the other green. He makes no protest, only smiling down at his work, already understanding and thankful when he heard the little snap.

You kiss his head again, in the space between the clips and stay there a little longer. Arms wrapping around his shoulders, massaging your thumbs into the muscle and to the base of his neck.

"You're amazing. I dunno how I could keep up."

He makes a noise, humorous, slightly dismissive. "You don't need to keep up. Don't need to do anything," leaning his head back to your chest, he sighs again. "I fell for you the way you are. Beautiful, talented, funny, witty in a way I have always been kinda jealous of, and so terrifying sometimes, even I get nervous at parent teacher conferences."

You scoff, running your hands down to drape across his chest.

"I'm not that scary—"

"Oh, you are," he leans to the side and kisses your forearm, lingering his lips for a few seconds, rubbing the soft skin and the coarse hairs of his beard across the inside of your arm, before pressing another kiss and mumbling into you. "I remember years ago when you ripped Tony a new one. Dunno what, somethin' about a mission being sent out too early bein' dangerous. God, I remember walkin' in and I don't think I blinked,"

A laugh rumbled through your chest, pushing at the back of Bucky's head. He pauses for a moment, holding up the black and gold cushioned paw in his left hand. The plates whir as if smiling at his work.

"That was when I knew I wanted to marry you."

"Sap," You press another kiss to his scalp, and another, then another. "If I'm remembering correctly, cause Tony just loves to piss me off, we weren't even together at that time."

Shaking his head, you can feel the apples of his cheeks fill with a smile. "Nope. Had it all planned out from there on out. Even Steve could tell I was whipped after we left the room."

You tut, straightening up. "And it took you like, what, three years to actually ask me out?"

Before he could retort, already stuttering on an answer, pushing his glasses atop his head, hands curled on the edge of the table. You walk with a bounce in your step back towards the doorway.

"Okay, you've got about an hour or so til pick up so, it might be best to get that leg on. Meanwhile, I've got laundry to do and dinner to start."

As your footsteps thump up the stairs, Bucky calls up to you.

"It was a year!"

"If you say so!" You shout back, already passing back into the colourful, warm mess of your daughter's bedroom to stifle through the little clothes on the floor.

After tossing a pink pyjama set, two pairs of dirt stained socks and a pair of cherry red jeans stained green at the knees, his voice calls out again.

"I love you!"

You giggle. Big and bright, staring down at the messy clothes of your child's, stained with inquisitive wonder and whimsy. Pens thrown on the ground next to an opened colouring book, handmade crochet blankets in a box by the bed, pre-loved books on the shelf, fairy lights and garlands draped across corners.

"I know!"

-

Amongst the crowd of parents waiting on their kids — hulking them up and on their hips, taking their little book bags out their tiny hands to help straighten their clothes — Bucky stayed leaning against the far wall.

The sun still dripped down through the clouds, leaving a cool enough breeze to ease off uncomfortable warmth. It nipped up his bare arms, still clad in his 'work' clothes, white shirt still slightly unbuttoned and sleeves still rolled up, and Dusty stayed tucked inside of the pocket in his pants, covered by his hands.

Kids laughed, squealed at times whenever their parent would pick them up or bounce them, maybe even swing them from between the two. He stayed indifferent, watching the double doors swing open to a new wave of tiny heads, watching the teachers he's come to trust (reluctantly) wave enthusiastically or high-five if the kid asked for such. He stifled a growing smile as one child missed twice.

It wasn't until the sound of quick footsteps pitter-pattered against the asphalt his attention turned and was completely swallowed by the small shooting star about to plummet straight into him.

Brown hair tied into two low braids waved behind her as her little body came running the wavering crowd. Adorned in patchwork dungarees, a stripy shirt and little red boots Nat had gotten her for her last birthday because 'kids can be badasses too'.

"Daddy!" She giggled as she ran, smile so wide it looked like it hurt.

Dropping down to one knee, he just about caught the little cannonball of energy as she leapt into his arms. Little hands around his neck, feet barely touching the ground. The force of her impact made Bucky topple back into the wall with a groan, laughing into her hair as they both squeezed.

"Hey, sweetheart," he greeted, muffled into the the crook of her shoulder, easing and patting the back of her head. "Geez, you've got a lot of energy, you had a good day?"

"Uh-huh! I found some caterpillars during recess, they were all fuzzy and climbing up a tree and I was their protector! Other kids kept tryin' to poke at them but me and some friends guarded them!"

"That's nice, Win." Bucky groaned as he pushed himself, and an energetic five year old, and her backpack up from the wall. Easing her to sit on his hip, she dangled her legs excitedly, grasping into the front of his shirt.

"And we got to play heads up seven up, but don't tell but I looked at their shoes whenever they got me so I won extra reading time, but i didn't do it all of the time! I only did it once in a while so I didn't look sus… suspi—shuss."

"It's 'suspicious', sweetpea, 'sus-pi-shush', and did Auntie Nat teach you that?"

Winnie shakes her head, still smiling, braids whipping to and fro. "Uncle Sam!"

His brows lower in defeat. "Of course he did."

Pebbles crunch beneath the soles of his dress shoes, bumping Winnie up higher on his side, she hums.

"Daddy?"

"Yeah, baby?"

"Is Dusty okay at the hospital?" She fiddles at the collar of his shirt, voice low as she asks.

"Oh, yeah. Hey, you just reminded me, I gotta… got a little surprise for you." he places her back to the ground, following her down to squat in front of her. Rummaging through his pocket, he kept one hand on her bicep to keep her close.

"A surprise?"

Once out, bucky holds out the old dog in his hands, elbows to his knees, cupping around his floppy torso carefully. At this angle, both Dusty and Bucky adorn the arms, and little Winnie watches bright-eyed as Bucky moved his fingers with a whir under Dusty's to greet with a little wave.

"You match!" She gasps before her dad could explain. "Daddy, you and Dusty match!"

He chuckles, "yeah, we do, don't we?" Holding the teddy up, he points out the new leg, nodding and playing along. "Took a little while, but he's good as new. Missed you terribly while you were out here — conning your way into more reading time," he murmurs under his breath as Winnie takes her companion from his hand to smother him in the tightest hug. "Wouldn't stop askin' for you after the procedure, he wanted to show you ASAP."

"He looks exactly just like you, daddy!"

He straightens up, taking her hand in his, making a slight face. "Well, I wouldn't say exactly just like me—"

"You both look so cool!" She exclaims, jumping in his hold excitedly, "Dusty has a cool arm like daddy now!"

His head knocks back in a soft flinch. Despite the slight tingle in his sinuses, the soft smile on his lips and the adoring look he glances down at his daughter, he doesn't cry — not yet, at least, he wont allow it. And while he wants to ask if she really means it, if his arm really is cool, if she did rip it off Dusty to be like him, if she really did love him, adore him, like you said she does; instead he keeps smiling and guiding her back to the car with his chest full of something akin to the cloudy, cotton feeling he got when he held her for the first time.

And he really did match Dusty.

"C'mon, Pea," he clears his throat, trying to hide the bundles of emotion, golden and honey thick in his chest. "Momma's probably wondering where we are."

With one last skip, she giggles, holding the dog up to her face. "Thank you for making him better, daddy."

Comically, his eyes twitch and his bottom lip just about juts out into a pout. Inhaling, exhaling, grounding himself — trying to, at least — he squeezes the little hand in his own once.

"Of course, baby."

And she squeezes back. Once around his hand, small yet mighty, and another around his heart.

-

"Momma!"

The door's barely open before the loud rapt of Winnie comes bounding over.

"In here!" You reply, voice echoing from the kitchen, stirring the pot one last time and easing the flame low on the stove.

"Ah-ah," Bucky tuts, clicking his fingers, whistling once, catching her just in the nick of time. "Shoes off and bag at the door, you know what momma's like."

With a dramatic groan — wonder where she gets that from — she copies Bucky. Toeing off her boots clumsily, before plopping her butt down on the floor to impatiently untangle the knots you had tied that morning, ultimately letting her dad pull them off her feet and place them neatly on the shoe rack.

As Bucky slipped off the last shoe, Winnie made a run for it.

"Momma!" She calls again. Bounding down the hallway, socked feet thumping off the floor. As he follows behind, Bucky wonders how such a small being can make so much noise.

"Hey, babygirl!" you beam, listening to the excited racket thud closer and closer, propping a lid on top of the pan.

A blow hits your legs, catching your breath as you laugh at her dramatics. Stroking the frizzy hairs down from her plaits.

"C'mere," you beckon, pulling her up for a hug, air constricting and tight as it might be, you reciprocate with wiggling from side to side and groaning with playful aggression. You believe you could photosynthesise on her giggles alone. "What did you get up to today, anything fun? Make friends? Change the world?"

"Look, look, look!"

Plastic beading rattles as she holds Dusty up in front of her for you to behold, pressing her little mouth to his head, copying the wave Dusty had greeted her with.

With a gasp, you wobble her happily. "Oh my goodness, Dusty's back!"

"His arm, momma, look at his arm!" She exclaims, kicking her legs happily.

"He had the best surgeon looking out for him, baby," glancing up at your husband's simper, you kiss her forehead. "Doesn't it look great?"

"It's amazing!"

Jumping her up a couple times on your hip, you hum. "Yeah? Did you thank daddy?"

Nodding her head with a beam, a smile bucky can only compare to yours with the way rooms seem to brighten when shown, she pulls her hands up for him to hold her next. "Thank you, daddy!"

"Yeah, yeah," he grunts, holding her without a complaint, "you said that fifteen times in the car already, Pea."

The room settles easily, with the quiet simmer of food bubbling and stove searing, birds whistling in the garden and traffic humming, it's familiar and easy, and it's home.

It isn't long until Winnie's restless little body squirms in Bucky's arms, and he sets her free with a quiet 'go on', sprinting back up to her room with a chorus of high pitched giggles.

Propping himself against the worksurface, arms crossed over his chest, head on the cabinets, Bucky sighs. It's a sigh of ease, contentment. The kind he would let out once the streets filled with the orange of lampposts, and he got home to find you, warm and sleepy, tucked in bed as he stripped himself of button ups and tailored suits, and swapped it out with a bare chest and sweatpants — the sigh would only come once his arms wrapped around you and his nose buried into your hair.

A smile creeps on your lips, moving to take a place next to him.

"You know, apparently she cheated at heads up seven up today. For extra reading time. But only did it enough times not to look 'suspicious'." He squints his eyes, following the word with quotation marks.

Sucking in a breath, you click your tongue against the backs of your teeth. "Ooh, don't tell me," you whisper, patting a finger on your chin in thought. "Nat?"

He shakes his head, tight lipped, "Sam."

"So we're crossing him off the babysitting list."

"Hm, I think he's doin' it on purpose," he hums, tipping his chin up, moving his hands down to find the small of your back. "Keep him on, he's doing the next gig."

Pulling you closer until you stand between his open legs. He holds your hips, rubbing small circles through your pants, holding eye contact.

"I meant what I said today." You murmur, keeping your eyes on his, holding authority. To which Bucky loses with great pleasure, sneaking glances to your lips.

"I know."

"You're amazing," you mumble again, basking in the tiny looks he holds to your mouth, how he licks his own lips and the soft, humming feeling of his thumbs making patterns, and his fingers changing position to subtly bring you closer.

"I mean it. Truly," You rest your hands on his shoulders, squeezing, careful around the soft tissue that bumps around his left. "I love you. We both do. So, so much."

Your eyes hold his, and this time he doesn't sneak away, and he doesn't try to hide with a bashful look or a glimpse at your lips, right there. Though his eyes redden at the edges, the whites of his eyes glisten off the stovetop light, and you can just about see your reflection pool inside of his pupils.

"I know." He replies, quieter than the last, and he finally leans the rest of the way and kisses you. Because it hits, not like a blow but a final blossom. He does know, and he thinks he has known this whole time. From the moment the nurse placed a whaling, sticky, tiny thing in his arms and his body tightened and loosened all at once, his lungs stuttering, and mouth instinctively formed the awkward whispers of 'you're alright, I got you, I know, it must be so cold'.

It's just only now, in the soft warmth of a kitchen, being used and not feeling like mere decoration with takeout in the fridge, the love of his life in front of him, pecking at his lips until laughter gets in the way and dinner sizzles from next to them. With a daughter, who loves to guard critters and create extravagant blanket forts, who reads to her bears and kisses them goodnight, one by one. Who ripped off her favourite teddy's left arm so he can be 'just exactly like daddy' — he's finally let himself realise just how adored he really is.

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© 2026 sheriff-bodecker

[filmgifs]

Captain America: The Winter Soldier (2014)

[unearthlydust]

SEBASTIAN STAN as BUCKY BARNES CAPTAIN AMERICA: CIVIL WAR THUNDERBOLTS*

[buckets-and-trees]

Re: this post, which of your CE!babes is the first to come to mind for mounting you? 😏

It's Bolotnik!Curtis, and I don't think you'll mind, but he is going to do so much more than merely mount you because it's been so long since we last encountered him...

Darkness Always Finds You Either Way Characters/Pairings: Bolotnik!Curtis x curvy!Reader Word Count: 4k Summary: You did not go with him when he wanted you to before, and so what will a third encounter mean for your future with this creature from the lake who has staked his claim on you?

Content/Warnings: explicit smut (breast play, nipple play, licking/biting, vaginal fingering, vaginal intercourse); breeding kink; Curtis's tail; teratophilia/monster fucking; size kink

Notes: Curtis was going to make you wait, but I didn't know we were going to wait THIS long until the muse finally decided to drag him up from the lake again...

First Encounter | Second Encounter

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

You hardly realized you were wandering to the lake until you were already halfway to the shore, cloak clutched around your body and the air tinged with the bite of approaching autumn. It had been increasingly difficult for you to sleep, and something inside you had instead dragged you down the empty streets of your sleeping village, past the silent church, through the dew-soggy grass to the edge of all things. The lake was a mirror, black and rippling, and you could see your own reflection: hair wild, eyes wide and red-rimmed.

You went barefoot, toes digging in the mud, and thought that the strange itch developing under your skin was maybe not so strange, not in the grand scheme of things.

Curtis said your body would change. Maybe you had outgrown your skin and your home, until the only thing left to do was to come here and wait to be collected. The urge was stronger than ever, and you could no longer resist, only yield.

The waterline was lower than you remembered, the silt and reeds exposed in the flickering starlight. You waded in ankle-deep, sinking, sensing the soft sucking of the mud as it accepted your feet. The air was loud with crickets, the occasional splash of fish, the far-off call of some night bird. The moon was gone, but the stars provided enough light to see the expanse of the lake, sprawling out imposingly.

And yet the lapping of the water around your ankles soothed in a way you hadn’t felt in weeks. You’ve felt dry in your skin, and these last days even your veins feel like hollowed-out reeds beneath the surface.

It had been eighty-three days since Curtis climbed through your window, the second night he filled you with his seed. It had been one hundred and twenty-three days since the night he claimed your body and pumped you with pleasure and with his spend all night, marked you in ways no mother’s salve could erase, left you shivering on the shore, his seed rooted in your womb.

You kept going, wading past the reeds and the brambles, the hem of your nightdress dragging through the shallows, soaking up moonless water and pond scum.

Even now, you told yourself you’re out here only to see the stars, but you knew you were lying.

The changes in your body had become more pronounced and less deniable. Soon you would no longer be able to hide the swell of your belly, blossoming with the taut dome of new life. The skin had grown soft but oddly cold, even through the high summer.

Your eyes started to reflect light in a way that makes children in the street shy away from your gaze. Your sister, ever helpful, insisted you were simply tired, that the sleepless nights were just exhaustion from your job at the bakery, the endless cycles of flour and heat, the constant lifting and kneading. Your sister believed what she said, but you sensed her growing unease—the way she looked at your belly with furtive suspicion, the way she muttered prayers when she thought you could not hear.

Curtis has not returned. The absence of him was a wound that festered.

You thought, in the aftermath, that Curtis would return often, if not every night. You thought he would haunt your window, your dreams, your shadows. But he was true to his word: he gave you space. There were nights you sat up in the window seat, knuckles white on the wood, waiting to see the gleam of blue scales or the shimmer of his eyes, and nothing appeared but the unbroken dark. Sometimes you convinced yourself this was a mercy, a kindness, and that you hadn’t wanted any of it to begin with. Other nights, you pressed your face to the glass and called his name softly into the silence the night, and the longer he hasn’t come, the more your spirit has withered.

Surely he hadn’t abandoned you.

He had seemed so insistent.

And yet… he was not here, and you were, and inside you the child of him grew steadily, unerringly, as night follows the tides. The thought left you hollow, as if your body had already begun to be carved away by the thing inside it, making you less yourself with each passing week. You felt it now, even as you shivered in the shallows; a dull, aquatic ache that stretched through your hips and lower belly, encompassing all that you were meant to be, and all that you no longer were.

There was only the wind and the water, and you, marooned between them. No answers. Only a hunger, like a current, dragging you under.

You stood, shivering in your thin shift, despite the cloak around your shoulders, and waited.

Waited for—

You didn’t know.

But after some time, you trekked back to the shore. Your body seemed to know where it wanted you to go, and you are not surprised to find yourself back near the trees where it all began, where he both ravished and worshipped your body.

You crouched into the hollow of trees and planted yourself at the base of the trunk. It was humid and close under the branches, the sweet, sharp tang of decaying leaves pressed into the earth, and beneath that, the mineral wet of the lake. You pulled your knees to your chest and listened for footsteps, for anything, but in the night the whole world was quieted to only the whisper of leaves, your own uneven breathing, and the persistent lap of water against the shore.

Though you were well-hidden, there was a break in the trees that gave you a view of the lake. You watched as the surface quivered, reflecting back the warped face of the stars, and you wondered if you were supposed to do something more. If there was a ritual to summon him, or if all of this—the ache, the hunger, the uncertainty—was part of the summoning. You dropped your face into your knees and breathed deeply, searching for any scent of him, any hint that Curtis still lingered on the edges of this world. All you tasted was old wood and lake rot and something soft and almost metallic—a scent that felt like memory.

If you closed your eyes, you could remember the weight of his hands on your skin, the dark press of his body against yours, the way his voice was both threat and comfort. You wanted to hate him for what he did, for what he made of you, but you couldn’t. Not when your own body, traitorous and tender, mourned him even as it craved his presence.

The ache spiked, sharper this time, radiating from the place where your child grew. It was not pain, exactly. More an insistence, like a call you were unable to answer. You wrapped your arms tighter around yourself. But as the night wore on, your body loosened, drooped, gave into sleep—one of the things it had long been craving.

Something woke you in the deep hours, something more than cold or discomfort. You peeled yourself off the ground, stiff and numb, leaned against the tree trunk, and then instantly sensed the difference in the air. It was charged, vibrating with static, and the reeds at the water’s edge were shivering where no wind stirred them. Your heart stammered, your mouth tasted copper, and for a moment you were sure you were only dreaming.

Curtis was there, just outside the ring of trees that sheltered you. He stood perfectly motionless at the water’s edge, as if he’d been carved from the dark itself, a shadow with a suggestion of scales and the faintest luminescence tracing the lines of his body. His eyes shone out of his face, impossibly blue, fixed on you with a ferocity so wild and so focused it made you flinch. You had not heard him arrive. You wondered how long he’d been standing there, waiting for you to open your eyes.

You found that you are not afraid, not in the way you expected. It was something else, a tension like a drawn bow. His tail was flicking behind him, the tip slicing dangerous curves through the humid air.

He moved toward you in an unhurried, even elegant way, each step deliberate, his weight barely imprinting the mud despite his hulking form, so much larger than a human man’s. He didn’t speak; you realized suddenly that he never had to. He only needed to look at you, and your body would answer.

He took your face in his hands—not soft, not gentle, but not cruel either, and tilted your head so he could look into your eyes. You saw the hunger there, a desperation that matched your own, but also a grief, and something nearly like relief.

He didn’t ask permission. He didn’t even speak. His lips crashed into yours, sharp and cold and tasting of brine. It was nothing like human kisses, but you leaned in, lips parting, swallowing the taste of him, that deep, mineral tang, the way his teeth scraped across your lower lip. When he broke off, you gasped for air, surprised at how much of your hunger was for oxygen and how much for something else entirely. His tail snapped up behind you, coiling around your back and waist, pinning you to him so you could not slip away even if you wanted to.

You shivered, but it wasn’t from cold. A sound escaped you, a wet, hungry sob, and your arms went around his shoulders before you could think better of it. You expected roughness; you found yourself enveloped, cradled against a chest so wide and firm that you could hardly breathe for the way it trapped the air in your lungs. He held you like a cherished and broken thing, and you felt the hardness of his excitement against your hip, the way it pressed through both your clothes and his. The scent of him, seawater and something sweetly corrupt, filled your nose, and you worried, briefly, that you would drown on land.

His hands went to your shoulders, then your arms, then he pulled the damp cloak from your body and let it drop to the forest floor. He was more impatient with your shift, ripping the collar so the rest of the garment could fall away and pool at your feet. The shock of air on your bare skin made you gasp, but you didn’t try to cover yourself. Curtis bent down and sniffed you, pressing his face into the hollow where your neck and shoulder met.

He inhaled deeply, pulled a low, vibrating groan from somewhere in the cage of his chest, and just like that, you were entirely, murderously desperate for him, for the feeling of his mouth and the slick pressure of his tongue, for the pain of his teeth and the searing cold of his hands sliding up your thighs. His breath fogged against your skin, cool and alive, and just hearing the ragged need in it was enough to make your knees threaten mutiny.

“Curtis,” you managed, syllables fractured and spilling out before you could stop them.

He growled, the sound vibrating through your chest, resonant and urgent. His claws grazed your shoulders as he shrugged the cloak away from you, letting it slide to the ground where it slumped darkly into the leaf mold. His hands found your waist, spanning it with impossible ease, and then his palms moved, mapping the curvature of your ribs, your breasts, then down, down, his fingers raking over your belly. He lingered on your midsection, ran his knuckles with surprising care over the curve of it, fascination and triumph wrestling for dominance in his gaze.

His hands encircled your belly and held there, as though placing a spell, or as though he expected the child to respond to his pulse. Maybe it did. You thought you felt it, some answering quiver, and you tried not to flinch. You shouldn’t want this, shouldn’t want him, but when his mouth found your collarbone you choked on nothing, a breathless exhale that turned into a moan.

His mouth was cold against your skin but his tongue wet and shockingly warm, as if the heat of desire tunneled underneath his icy exterior, a core of molten need blazing inside him. Teeth pressed, not quite biting, then scraped a line along your clavicle, leaving a trail of sensation so bright it bordered on pain. Your hands went, almost stupidly, to his biceps: smooth, firm, scaled over in patches, reminding you he belonged to the lake.

Your stomach ached, low and deep, with a hunger you refused to call by name. You wanted this, you wanted him, you wanted him to take you apart, fill you until your bones dissolved, until the self you’d been before dissolved in the brine of his touch.

His lips found your throat and sucked until you thought you were being hollowed out, all feeling compressed to the bright ring where his mouth met your skin. His hands splayed at your ass, cupping and kneading, moving you against him until you both groaned in time, a shared, strangled note that seemed to ring out over the water.

He barely bothered to undress himself, simply tore away the layers of sodden cloth as if they were nothing, exposing his torso and hips until the heat of him seared into you. His cock, thick and strange and ridged with whorls of blue-black skin, already pulsed against your thigh. He backed you up against the trunk of the tree and pinned you there, one massive arm braced next to your head, and dipped his head to your chest.

His tongue rasped along the curve of your breast, a wet, hungry line, and when his teeth found your nipple, you cried out, the sound trapped between your tongue and his. He bit, just hard enough to mark, then soothed it with that impossible tongue, flicking and sucking until your head spun and a firecracking ache tethered itself from breast to cunt.

His hand was already between your legs before you could breathe out his name, and his fingers--long, ridged, preternaturally strong--slid through the wetness between your thighs. He pressed in, tasted how ready you were, and when he drew his hand away, he brought two glistening fingers to his mouth and licked them clean with a noise so greedy, so hungry, it made your core tighten almost painfully.

“The desperate smell of your want was intoxicating enough, little one,” he growled, “but your taste?”

His claws sank into the flesh of your hips and he yanked you off your feet, spinning you so fast your head swam. You landed, hands and knees in the leaf mulch, your bare ass exposed to the night and to him, your thighs smeared with your own want. His grip found your shoulder and pressed you down, arching your back, planting you so firmly into the earth you could feel the cool dampness rising through your palms and shins. You didn’t fight when he spread your legs wider. If anything, you shuddered in relief, because this, this was what you needed.

His breath was a frigid fog against your skin, and then the blunt, slick head of his cock was nudging at your entrance, so wide it seemed impossible to take him. You whimpered against the moss, torn between terror and a nearly painful anticipation. Though he had your entrance amply slick with your own arousal, the size of him was still enough to make you gasp when he breached you, slow and relentless. You felt yourself stretch, felt the ache of it, but he did not yield.

He slid in further, relentless, unyielding, and your entire body shuddered around the breach. You scrambled for purchase, fingers digging furrows in the loam, and then his hand was at the base of your spine, stroking small, slow circles in a semblance of comfort.

“Look at you,” he growled, voice low in your ear as he bottomed out with a shudder that rocked you forward. “You were made for me. You fit like a custom-forged scabbard, little one. I could breed you a thousand times and never get tired of the way you clench around me.”

His cock pulsed inside you, impossibly thick, and every subtle drag and shift of his hips sent a shiver through your entire body. He held you there, immovable, his weight pinning you to the mud and leaf litter, fucking into you with a slow, brutal rhythm that left you gasping every time he drove home. Each thrust felt like it would split you, stretch you beyond your limit, and each time you bent, pliant, desperate to be filled further, to be ruined in the same way again and again.

His tail wrapped around your left ankle, hoisting the leg upward and outward, so you were splayed wide, offered to him and the lake and the night. He leaned forward, his chest pressing between your shoulders, bent over you, mouth at your ear now, voice ragged and low. “Little one,” he growled, “I will never let you forget how you felt this night. No matter how many times I take you, I’ll always want to take you again.”

You didn’t bother to hide your noises now; any vestige of shame was gone, burned away by the friction and fullness and the way his hands gripped you with such claiming certainty. You felt yourself dripping down your thighs, making a mess of the ground beneath, and you thought it fitting, to mark the earth as you were marked, to leave nothing untouched by him.

“If the lake had not insisted on a bloodline to restore balance, I would have demanded it. You are the only thing I want in all this world, and every drop of you belongs to me.”

He fucked you harder, faster, driving you into the ground with abandon. Each thrust made you whine, made your elbows buckle and your head drop forward, hair stuck to your face with sweat and dew. He reached around and slid two fingers to your clit, rubbing in tight, ruthless circles that sent the world spinning white-hot.

You came so hard your vision narrowed to a single bright point. Your limbs splayed and trembled, nails sinking into the dirt and your ass bucking up to meet every brutal blow, savoring the way it forced you open, greedily cradling his cock to the hilt with every cycle. Curtis growled so low and animal it vibrated the whole length of you, and his hands tightened on your hips, guiding you, fucking you back onto him, making sure you took every last centimeter his body offered.

You wanted to scream with it. You wanted to howl his name so loud they’d hear it in every village around the lake. But you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but let him use you, let the rhythm of his rutting into you become the only pulse that mattered. All sense of the world dropped away, and there was only the slap of skin, the wet, hungry noises of your cunt taking his cock, the raw, animal sound of your own voice every time the head of him pressed so deep it made your belly ache.

Curtis—no longer the stranger, never just the creature—was everything: the air, the ache, the axis about which you spun. Every time he slurred your name into your ear, mangling the syllables with his animal tongue, a fresh ripple shuddered through you. He rutted you in the dirt, rutting away the remnants of your old life, seeding you so deeply you could feel it pooling hot inside where the child already grew.

He never relented. Even as your body tried to collapse, he pinned you, forced you to take more, forced you beyond your own edge, made it impossible to know where you ended and he began. He held you through it, every time you tried to shudder or twitch away, his hands locked your hips exactly where he needed them, pulling on the strings of want and need until you unspooled every last thread, the tip of his tail tormenting your throbbing clit.

If you had thought yourself hollowed by his absence, you were now made whole by his invasion, every place inside you mapped and remade by him, by this act of mating, of possession. He bit the back of your neck, just at the nape, so hard you cried out and the sound split the night open, echoing off the trees and out to the water, where every living thing had to know what he was doing to you. The air rang with your sounds, and the taste of copper and earth and salt was on your tongue, and you felt the sharp crackle of him biting through the flesh just enough to breach the skin, a mark so carnal it would never fade. You wanted to be marked. You wanted to be his—no, you were his, and always would be, because some part of you had never belonged to anything else, and he simply reminded your body whose it was.

And then he came. You felt it, the flood of cold and the clutching, almost electrical pulse. His cock throbbed inside you, filling you even as you clenched and spasmed around him, milked every last drop of his seed so there could be no doubt, none, what your purpose was. He stayed like that, locked to you, fused to your body as if he could keep you in place for the rest of eternity by the sheer force of want. All up your spine, his scales left the faintest scratch, the imprint of his cooler body temperature, a memory of friction that anointed you as singularly his. Curtis kept you there, cock still embedded in you, his weight almost comforting, the way he spread over you like a shield against the cold and the dark and anything else that could try to threaten you.

Eventually, he shifted, rolling you gently onto your back as though conscious of your fragility. His cock slid from your body with a raw, slippery sound, and you felt some of his spend leak from your fluttering cunt, soaking the ground beneath you.

He hovered over you, gaze unblinking, so close you could see the reflection of your own trembling, ruined face in his eyes. The hard line of his body pressed you flat to the earth, and you felt every inch of him, every scale and muscle, the brutal weight of his presence. He let his hands roam your stomach and your hips, drawing slow, reverent circles, memorizing the curves of your form that he already knew too intimately. For a moment, you thought he was going to say something soft, something almost human. Instead, his mouth settled by your ear and he said, voice stripped to its essential hunger, “You come with me now.”

His tail curled around your thigh, not as a threat but as a matter-of-fact assertion of what would happen next. You were dizzy from the way he’d taken you, your cunt still raw and throbbing.

He lifted you, all at once, as if you weighed nothing. You were limp in his arms, boneless from the waves of pleasure, trailing wetness and ruin as he carried you back to the water. It should have been cold, but when the lake closed around your body it was only a relief, a soft, enveloping embrace that soothed the raw places. He held you afloat, one powerful arm under your knees, the other bracing your back, until your eyes unblurred and you could see his face above you, illuminated by the briefest shimmer of phosphorescence off the water. His eyes were luminous, impossible in the dark.

He kissed you again, more gently this time, and you let your head fall against his chest. He began to swim, slow and tireless, propelling you through the black, star-pocked surface and into the heart of the lake.

Hope you enjoyed a bit of monster-fucking Monday.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

[buckets-and-trees]

A thot!

Curtis, with his face buried in the crook of your neck, his humid breath panting against your skin as he cums with a groan and frantically pumps you full of his cream.

Okay, bye! 👋🏻😘

I don't thin you intended to poke my muse specifically for our lake Creature Curtis, but I don't think you will complain about it either. 😏Just know that this has been growing in my head for a few weeks now...

Never Going Back Again Characters/Pairings: Bolotnik!Curtis x curvy!Reader Word Count: 3.7k Summary: One night near the lake has changed everything.

Content/Warnings: explicit smut - oral (female receiving), vaginal fingering, vaginal intercourse, breeding; breeding kink; Curtis's tail; teratophilia/monster fucking; size kink

Notes: This is a follow up piece to this ask about a lake monster CE character, but you could theoretically read this on its own. This is also another piece in my Countdown to Chris-mas collection.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

When you were small, you and your sister had sat up late so many nights curled up in the window seat of the small bedroom you shared, and looked out over the trees out to the shores of the seemingly infinite lake. Sometimes you could see pockets of water glowing out across the wide, blue darkness. Sometimes there were dancing lights along the shore. The lake was integral to your town’s way of life, providing fish, connecting you through trade to other towns and countries, and nourishing the plant life along its edges. 

As a child, those nights in the window had been frequent, both of you enchanted with the water and with the sky of stars and the moonlight. You had never given up the practice entirely, but as you’d both grown, sleeping hours had grown more appreciated. 

But now you sat up again far too late every night looking out over the water. 

Where he came from. 

There were old stories told about creatures in the mountains, in the forest, in the lake, under the bed, in the closet, living in the attic… too many cautionary tales told keep children in line and to grow up wisely. 

But now that you knew there was at least one man from the lake, you wondered how much of at least his folklore was true, and how much more you didn’t yet know. 

And, most importantly, how much would affect you.

Because you had been enormously affected by him already.

Foolishly lured away from the safety of others along the shoreline, snatched by a bolotnik, your virginity not only taken, but your body used, ruined, and exploited for pleasure all night. For by the end of it all, you could not deny you had succumbed to the pleasure he wrought from you, even though he was still terrifying.

And so you watched each night from your window, unsure what to do.

You couldn't shake the memory of his touch, the way he had made you feel things you'd never imagined. Each night as you gazed out at the dark waters, a part of you hoped to see those mesmerizing lights dancing on the surface again.

But weeks passed with no sign of him. You began to wonder if it had all been some fevered dream. Yet your body remembered - the soreness between your legs, the marks on your skin that had slowly faded. And there was something else, a change you couldn't quite place.

Your courses didn't come. Panic rose in your throat when you realized what that likely meant. But there was a chance his seed hadn’t taken. Your bleeding had come late or not come at all before. And it had taken your sister a fair amount of time until she had born her first child while diligently trying with her husband.

Still, you placed a hand on your belly, wondering if there was new life growing inside you. The child of a monster. Your child.

Though it was the water your eyes relentlessly looked to, a flash of movement in the trees drew your gaze. Heart pounding, you peered at the edge of the forest near your family’s home. For a long moment, nothing stirred. Then you saw it - movement among the underbrush.

A shadow detached itself from the trees, moving with an unnatural grace. Your breath caught in your throat as you recognized the hulking form of Curtis. He emerged into a patch of moonlight, his scales glinting, eyes fixed on your window.

Your heart raced. For a moment, you froze, unsure what to do. Part of you wanted to flee, to wake your family and raise the alarm. But another part, a part you were ashamed to acknowledge, felt a thrill of excitement at seeing him again.

Before you could decide, he was striding forward, pausing only for a moment at the edge of your family’s property, those eerie, impossibly bright, blue eyes fixed on your window. Then he continued forward. Even from a distance, you could see the way his muscles rippled as he moved. His tail swished behind him, hypnotic in its motion.

Your breath caught in your throat as the creature approached your home. Every instinct screamed at you to run, to hide, to call for help. But you remained frozen, transfixed by his otherworldly presence.

In mere moments, he had scaled the side of your house with inhuman agility. His clawed hands gripped the windowsill as he peered inside, those piercing blue eyes locking onto yours.

Without him prompting you, you pushed the window open.

A slow, predatory smile spread across his face.

"Did you miss me, little one?" he purred, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine.

You almost balked at the term because anyone is little compared to him, but you couldn't find your voice to respond even if you'd wanted in that instant. Your body trembled, caught between fear and a shameful excitement.

With fluid grace, he slipped through the window and past you into your room. He towered over you, his massive form larger than you remembered. The cool night air raised goosebumps on your skin, but it was the intensity of his gaze that made you shiver. You could smell the scent of lake water and earth on his skin.

He reached out, his clawed hand gently cupping your cheek. You flinched at first, but then found yourself leaning into his touch. His skin was cool and slightly damp, reminding you of the lake's waters.

"You've been watching for me," he said, his voice a low rumble. It wasn't a question. "I've seen you at your window night after night."

You nodded, unable to deny it. "I... I wasn't sure if you'd come back," you whispered.

His thumb traced your lower lip, sending a shiver through you. "I told you I would return for what's mine," he said.

His nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply, and a knowing smile curved his lips. His gaze dropped to your belly. "And it seems I've left more than just memories with you."

Your hand instinctively went to your stomach. "How can you know?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

His chuckle was low and dark. "I can smell the changes in you, little one. Your scent is sweeter now, ripe with new life."

Your breath caught in your throat. So it was true. The suspicion you'd been harboring was confirmed by this creature who could somehow sense what your own body had only begun to whisper.

His hand drifted down to rest on your belly, his touch surprisingly gentle, brushing over your hand.

“Do you have a name?” you asked tentatively.

He smiled, a mixture of amusement and appreciation in his eyes. "Curtis," he replied. "Though I'm surprised you care to know it."

You swallowed hard, unsure how to respond. Part of you was still terrified, but another part was drawn to him, fascinated by this otherworldly creature who had claimed you so thoroughly.

"Curtis," you repeated softly, tasting the name on your tongue. It seemed too ordinary for such an extraordinary being.

His hand moved from your belly to your waist, pulling up from your seat and drawing you close. "And what shall I call you, my sweet human?"

You hesitated, then whispered your name.

"Beautiful," he murmured, leaning down to nuzzle your neck. His breath was cool against your skin, making you shiver. "It suits you."

You gasped as his lips brushed your throat, your body responding to his touch. Your breath hitched as Curtis's lips trailed along your neck, his sharp teeth grazing your sensitive skin. A whimper escaped you, torn between fear and desire.

"Shh," he soothed, his large hand cradling the back of your head. "We don't want to wake your family, do we?"

The reminder of where you were, of the danger, sent a jolt through you. You tried to pull away, but his grip was firm.

"Curtis," you whispered urgently, "we can't - not here."

He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Oh? And where would you suggest, little one? Back to the lakeshore?"

The memory of that night flooded your senses - the cool grass and earth beneath you, the scent of the water, the overwhelming pleasure. You shuddered, heat pooling low in your belly.

He nipped gently at your earlobe.

"I've thought of you every day since our night together," Curtis murmured, his voice low and husky. "The taste of your skin, the sound of your cries... and if I hadn’t found you with child, I was determined to attempt to breed you again, little one."

You trembled in his arms, torn between fear and a growing desire. His massive form dwarfed you, reminding you of his inhuman strength. Your resolve weakened as Curtis's hands roamed your body, igniting sparks of pleasure wherever he touched. You knew you should resist, should cry out for help, but the words died in your throat. Instead, a soft moan escaped your lips as his fingers traced the curve of your breast through your thin nightgown.

"That's it," he purred, encouraged by your response. "Let yourself feel, little one. Your body remembers the pleasure I gave you."

And it did. Your skin tingled with anticipation, your core aching with need. You pressed closer to him, inhaling his scent of lake water and earth. His tail wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

"Curtis," you breathed, your hands tentatively exploring the planes of his muscled chest. "We shouldn't…"

But even as you protested, your body betrayed you. Your nipples hardened as he insistently brushed his thumbs back and forth over each tender nub.

"Please," you whimpered, though you weren't sure if you were begging him to stop or continue.

Curtis lifted you effortlessly, carrying you to your bed. He laid you down, then stepped back to shuck off his meager clothing - only a white shirt and dark pants. In the dim moonlight filtering through the window, his scales glimmered, casting otherworldly patterns across your skin as he loomed over you.

He settled onto the bed, slowly crawling over you. "Hush now," he murmured, a clawed finger tracing your lips. "I'll make you feel good, just as I did before."

Your nightgown was pushed up, exposing your bare skin to the cool night air. Curtis's hands roamed your body, reacquainting himself with every curve and dip. You bit your lip to stifle a moan as his fingers found your most sensitive areas.

"So responsive," he purred, his tail caressing your inner thigh. "Your body remembers me well."

You arched into his touch, shame and desire warring within you. You trembled, both from fear and anticipation, as the cool night air kissed your exposed skin. Curtis's eyes, gleaming in the darkness, roved hungrily over your bumps and curves.

"Gorgeous," he breathed, leaning down to press his lips to your stomach. "My child grows here."

You gasped as his tongue, longer and more dexterous than any human's, swirled around your navel. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading them wider as he settled between them. You could feel the heat of his breath against sex.

"Curtis," you whispered, your voice trembling. "We can't... my family..."

He looked up at you, his blue eyes glowing in the darkness. "Then you'll have to be very quiet, won't you, little one?"

Before you could protest further, his mouth was on you. His tongue, impossibly long and nimble, delved into your folds. You bit down on your fist to stifle a cry of pleasure. Curtis growled approvingly, the vibrations sending shockwaves through your core.

Your free hand tangled in the sheets. His tail slithered over your wrist, then wrapped around your thigh, holding you open for his ministrations. You writhed beneath him, struggling to stay quiet.

Curtis's tongue worked magic between your thighs, lapping and probing in ways that made your toes curl. You pressed your fist harder against your mouth, desperately trying to muffle your cries of pleasure. His tail tightened around your thigh, keeping you open as you squirmed beneath him.

"That's it," he murmured against your sensitive flesh. "Let go for me, little one."

Your hips bucked involuntarily as he sucked on your most sensitive bud. The pressure built inside you, a tidal wave threatening to crash over you at any moment. Curtis's fingers joined his tongue, stretching and filling you. The dual sensation was overwhelming.

"Curtis," you gasped, your voice barely above a whisper. "I can't... I can’t..."

“But you are,” he growled, the vibrations sending you over the edge. Your back arched off the bed as

Your back arched off the bed as pleasure exploded through you. Curtis's mouth stayed locked on your center, drawing out your climax until you were trembling and gasping for air. Only then did he lift his head, a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

"Stunning," he murmured, crawling up your body. The scales along his torso rubbed against your sensitized skin, sending aftershocks through you. "But we're far from done, little one."

You felt the hard length of him pressing against your thigh, and a mix of fear and anticipation fluttered in your stomach, remembering how painful and then how pleasurable his thick member inside you had been. Curtis nuzzled your neck, inhaling deeply.

"Your scent is intoxicating," he growled. "Especially now, carrying my child."

His hand splayed possessively over your belly. You shivered, torn between the lingering pleasure and the reality of your situation. This creature - this man from the lake - had claimed you in ways you never imagined possible. And now he was here again, in your own bedroom, ready to take every piece of you once more.

Curtis's lips found yours in a searing kiss. His tongue invaded your mouth, tasting of you, of lake water, and something wild. You moaned softly against him, your body responding despite your lingering trepidation.

He pulled back, his blue eyes glowing in the darkness. "Turn over," he commanded softly.

Your heart raced as you obeyed, rolling onto your stomach. Curtis's hands gripped your hips, lifting them. You felt exposed, vulnerable in this position. His tail wrapped around your waist, steadying you.

"So beautiful," he murmured, his hands caressing your back, your sides, your bottom. You shivered at his touch, goosebumps rising on your skin.

You felt the blunt head of his member pressing against your entrance. Despite your earlier climax, you tensed, remembering the initial pain from your first encounter. Curtis sensed your apprehension and leaned over you, his chest pressed to your back.

"Relax, little one," he whispered in your ear. "Your body knows me now. It will welcome me."

Slowly, inexorably, he began to push inside. You bit down on your pillow to muffle your cries as he stretched you, filling you more completely than you thought possible. Your fingers clutched at the sheets, torn between the discomfort of the intrusion and the growing pleasure.

His hand slid between your legs, fingers circling your still-sensitive bud. You gasped, pushing back against him instinctively. Curtis took advantage of your movement, slowly pressing inside you.

The stretch was intense, but not painful as it had been before. Your body, as Curtis had promised, seemed to remember him, accommodating his impressive girth. You bit your lip to stifle a moan as he sank deeper.

"That's it," Curtis growled, his voice thick with pleasure.

Curtis's tail tightened around your waist as he seated himself fully within you. He stilled for a moment, allowing you to adjust to his size, filling you completely. His hands roamed your body, caressing and soothing.

"So tight," he murmured, his breath hot against your ear. "You feel exquisite, little one."

You whimpered softly, overwhelmed by the fullness, the stretch. Curtis began to move, slow, shallow thrusts that made you gasp. His hand slid from your hip to your belly, caressing the slight swell there.

"Mine," he growled possessively. "Both of you."

You whimpered softly as he continued to move in slow, deeper thrusts that sent waves of pleasure through your body. His tail unwound from your waist, the tip sliding between your legs to tease your sensitive bud.

"Curtis," you gasped, struggling to keep your voice down. "It's too much..."

But your body betrayed your words, pushing back to meet his thrusts. Curtis chuckled darkly, nipping at your shoulder.

"Your body knows what it wants, little one," he purred. "It craves me, just as I crave you."

His pace increased gradually, each thrust driving deeper. You buried your face in the pillow, muffling your cries of pleasure. The initial discomfort had faded, replaced by waves of sensation that threatened to overwhelm you.

Curtis's movements grew more insistent, his hips snapping against yours with increasing force. You clutched the sheets, struggling to stay quiet as waves of pleasure washed over you. His tail continued its teasing ministrations between your legs, the dual sensations driving you towards another peak.

"That's it," he growled, his voice rough with desire. "Let go for me again, little one. Show me how much you've missed this."

Your body obeyed, even as your mind reeled at the intensity of it all. The coil of tension in your core wound tighter and tighter until it finally snapped. You bit down hard on the pillow, muffling your cry of ecstasy as your second orgasm crashed over you.

Curtis groaned, his thrusts becoming erratic as your inner walls clenched around him. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and humid against your skin. His hips jerked erratically as he reached his peak. With a low, guttural groan that vibrated through your entire body, he climaxed. You felt his member pulsing inside you as he pumped you full of his seed.

Wave after wave crashed over him as he continued to thrust, each movement sending another surge of his essence deep within you. His tail coiled tightly around your thigh, holding you in place as he claimed you completely.

The warmth of his release spread through you, a stark contrast to his cool skin. You shuddered beneath him, overwhelmed by the intensity of the sensation and the knowledge of what was happening. The room filled with the scent of lake water, earth, and your combined arousal.

Curtis's teeth grazed your shoulder, not quite breaking the skin but leaving marks that would linger for days. His hands gripped your hips tightly as he rode out the last waves of his climax, determined to empty himself inside you. You trembled beneath him, your body still quivering with aftershocks.

Slowly, his grip loosened, and he eased himself out of you. You whimpered at the loss, feeling suddenly empty. Curtis gathered you in his arms, rolling onto his side and pulling you against his chest. His tail wrapped around your waist, holding you close.

"Beautiful," he murmured, nuzzling into your neck, the scratch of his beard making you shiver. "You were perfect, little one."

You lay there, catching your breath, your mind reeling from what had just transpired. You could feel the stickiness of some of your combined spend that had oozed out of your cunt hot between the top of your thighs. Curtis's hand splayed possessively over your belly, reminding you of the life growing within.

"What happens now?" you whispered, fear and uncertainty creeping back into your voice.

Curtis's arms tightened around you. "Now," he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear, "you come with me."

Your heart raced at his words. "What? I can't just leave, Curtis. My family, my life..."

He chuckled softly, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Your life is with me now, little one. You carry my child. You belong to the lake, to me."

You tried to pull away, but his grip was unyielding. "Please," you whispered, tears pricking at your eyes. "I'm not ready. I can't just disappear."

Curtis sighed, his breath cool against your neck. "I understand your hesitation," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "But you must understand, little one. Our child cannot be raised in the human world."

You trembled in his arms, torn between fear and a strange sense of longing. "I can't just leave. My family—"

"Will never understand," he finished for you. "They can't accept what you've become, what we've created together."

You closed your eyes, tears slipping down your cheeks. Part of you knew he was right - there was no way to explain your pregnancy, no way to raise a half-human, half-lake creature child in your village. But the thought of leaving everything you'd ever known was terrifying.

"Shh," he murmured. "I know it's frightening. But I will take care of you.”

“I’m not ready,” you cried softly. You weren’t ready to leave, you weren’t ready to carry his child, you weren’t ready for any of this.

Curtis's grip on you loosened slightly, though he didn't let go completely. His hand continued to caress your belly gently.

"I understand your fear," he murmured, his voice softer than you'd ever heard it. "This is all new to you. But you must understand, little one - our child cannot survive in your world. And you... you've been changed by our coupling. The lake calls to you now, doesn't it?"

You shivered, realizing the truth in his words. Ever since that first night, you'd felt drawn to the water in a way you never had before. The sight, the smell, the sound of it called to something deep within you.

"I... I need time," you whispered. "Please, Curtis. I can't just vanish without a trace. My family will worry."

He was quiet for a long moment, his tail tightening slightly around your waist before loosening as well.

“Curtis?” you prompted, worried as his silence drew on.

"Sleep now, little one," he finally murmured, his arms tightening around you once more. "Dawn will come soon enough."

But sleep didn't come easily. You lay there, hyper-aware of Curtis's presence behind you. His cool, slightly damp skin pressed against yours, his tail still wrapped loosely around your waist. The rise and fall of his chest against your back was steady, but you could tell from the tension in his body that he wasn't sleeping either.

The moonlight filtered through the window, casting eerie shadows across the room. Every creak of the house, every rustle of leaves outside, made you tense. You kept expecting someone to burst through the door, to discover you in the arms of this creature. But the night remained quiet, save for the gentle lapping of the lake's waves in the distance.

As the sky began to lighten, your eyelids grew heavy. Despite your racing thoughts, exhaustion finally overcame you.

When you awoke mere hours later, you were alone.

Well... a little surprise monster fucking for your Monday. HOPE THE HOES IN THIS HOUSE ENJOYED IT!

PART THREE/THE NEXT: Darkness Always Finds You Either Way

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

[heldbybarnes]

reader who is a huge cuddle bug but is constantly shy to ask bucky if he wants to cuddle with her. and bucky who, every single time, just melts when she stumbles through asking him for cuddles.

You’ve been thinking about it for the past ten minutes.

Well, thinking about it, circling it, building it up into something much bigger than it actually is. Because it’s just cuddling. Just asking your boyfriend if he wants to hold you for a little while. That’s normal. People do that all the time.

But your brain doesn’t really care about “normal.”

Your fingers twist in the hem of your sleeve as you sit on the couch, angled just slightly toward him. Bucky’s sprawled beside you, long legs stretched out, one arm hooked over the back of the couch like he owns the space without even trying. There’s a quiet movie playing on the TV, something neither of you are really paying attention to. His attention keeps drifting back to you anyway—little glances, soft and curious.

You notice every single one of them.

You always do.

Your knee bumps his accidentally and your heart jumps like you’ve done something wrong. He doesn’t pull away, though. If anything, his leg shifts just a little closer, pressing more firmly against yours.

God.

You swallow.

“Buck?” you try, and immediately want to hide.

His head turns toward you instantly. “Yeah, doll?” His voice is soft, warm in that way that always makes your chest feel too tight.

You open your mouth.

Nothing comes out.

Because suddenly the words feel embarrassing. Too needy. Too much. What if he doesn’t want to? What if he’s comfortable like this and you mess it up? What if—

You shake your head quickly. “Nothing. Sorry.”

You turn your attention back to the TV like you didn’t just implode right next to him.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, quieter, closer—“Hey.”

His hand finds your wrist. Not grabbing, not forcing. Just there. Thumb brushing gently over your pulse like he’s checking in.

“You sure?” he asks.

You nod too fast. “Mhm.”

Another pause.

His thumb keeps moving.

“Because,” he says slowly, like he’s choosing his words with care, “you’ve been fidgeting for the last ten minutes. And you keep lookin’ at me like you’ve got somethin’ to say.”

Your face burns.

“I—no, I haven’t.”

Bucky huffs out a quiet, amused breath; eyes twinkling in fondness.

“Doll.”

And that’s it. That one word, all warm and coaxing, and you crumble.

“I just—” you start, and your voice immediately gets smaller. “I was just wondering if, um—if you maybe wanted to—like, if you’re not busy or anything—”

His brows pull together, not in frustration, just confusion. “Not busy,” he repeats gently.

“Right, yeah, I know, I just mean—if you didn’t want to, that’s totally fine, I just—”

“Hey.” His hand slides up from your wrist to your arm, grounding. “Slow down. What’re you askin’ me, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart.

You might actually pass away.

You take a breath, staring determinedly at a spot on the couch instead of at him.

“Can we… cuddle?” you mumble, so quiet it barely counts as sound. “Just for a little bit. If that’s okay.”

Silence.

Oh God.

You knew it. You knew you shouldn’t have asked. You start to pull back, already preparing to laugh it off, to say you didn’t mean it, to pretend—

“Oh.”

It’s soft. Almost breathless.

You risk a glance up.

Bucky looks like you just handed him something precious.

His expression has completely melted. There’s no other word for it. The sharp lines of his face have gone soft, eyes wide and warm and a little bit awed, like he can’t believe you just asked him that.

“Yeah,” he says immediately. Then, a little stronger, like he needs to make sure you hear him properly, “Yeah, of course we can.”

Your shoulders loosen just a fraction. “Really?”

“Really?” he echoes, almost incredulous. “Doll, you never gotta ask like it’s a big favor.”

“I just didn’t wanna bother you,” you admit, voice small again.

That does something to him.

You see it, the way his jaw tightens just slightly.

“You could never bother me,” he says, quiet but firm.

Before you can overthink it again, he’s already moving.

His arm drops from the back of the couch, sliding around your shoulders, guiding you gently into him. Like he’s giving you every chance to change your mind, even though you never would.

You go easily, curling into his side.

And the second you settle against him, it’s like something in him gives.

He exhales, long and slow, like he’s been holding that breath all day. His arm tightens around you, pulling you closer until you’re practically draped over him. His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, pressing you into his chest.

“There we go,” he murmurs, more to himself than anything.

You can hear his heartbeat. Feel it under your cheek—steady, strong.

Safe.

Your hand curls against his shirt, bunching the fabric lightly as you relax into him. The earlier nerves start to fade, replaced by something warm and soft that spreads through your chest.

“You okay?” he asks after a moment, voice low.

“Mhm,” you hum. “Sorry I made it weird.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, the sound vibrating through you.

“You didn’t make it weird,” he says. “You made my day.”

You tilt your head just enough to look up at him. “I did?”

“Yeah.” His thumb starts tracing slow, absent circles against your arm. “You askin’ for this? Means you want me close.” A small pause. “I like that.”

Your face heats again, but it’s softer this time. Less panic, more… something shy and happy.

“I always want you close,” you admit.

That completely ruins him.

You feel it in the way his hold on you tightens, not enough to hurt, just enough to keep you there. Like he’s not letting go anytime soon.

“Then c’mere whenever you want,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. “Don’t make yourself nervous over it, alright?”

You nod against his chest.

“Okay.”

His fingers drift through your hair, slow and careful, and the movie continues playing in the background, forgotten.

You stay tucked against him, warm and quiet, listening to his heartbeat.

Next time you won’t wait ten minutes to ask.

[palladicannoneaccesa]

SEBASTIAN STAN in CAPTAIN AMERICA: CIVIL WAR. Dir. by Anthony and Joe Russo.

[wesleyagrace]

SEBASTIAN STAN as The Winter Soldier

[dine-bugs]

being in the x reader tabs of at least 9 different characters is probably the closest I'll ever be to being a slut

[biglychee]

okay so I NEED Bucky or Steve to ride me crazystyle. yknow? And he's overstimming himself.... plus dumbification? I will owe you my first born for this.

- @rosemint-tea, because I worry I might accidentally request this from my sfw acc 😭😭😭

Idk which reader pref so I wrote both afab (strap-on) + amab (dih) !!

$ log - cpt. rogers just wants to be good for you — even it meant pushing himself to the brink of his limits. $ warn --nsfw --afab!reader --amab!reader --dom!top!reader --sub!bot!steve --riding --overstimulation --dumbification --condescending-praise --power-dynamics --teasing --maam-sir --1940s --degrading $ cd masterlist / steve-rogers $ echo "okay, I'm back, my soul js got eviscerated over the weekend" > authors-note.txt

steve — fresh off the serum, nerves tinged — just wants to be so good for his general, you. he'd come to congratulate you on your latest mission strategies. though, he's not too sure how a sweet kiss landed him here.

but he is one seriously determined man: giddy for praise and eager in taking the entirety of you.

afab!reader

steve's supposed to be a hero, but he's just a fucking animal now, grinding down onto that strap with zero coordination. his head's thrown back, thick strings of moans trailing from his mouth. he's riding you in your own damn office — barely caring about keeping quiet.

he's supposed to be the star of the war effort, but he can't even remember his own rank right now. every you thrust up into him, lodge the silicon deeper, his hips jerk uncontrollably, his eyes rolling back.

"look at you," you sneer, grabbing his chin to force him to look at you. "the great captain rogers being a slut of his general."

"ma'am — please —" steve whimpers, his voice thick and stupid. he's completely gone thanks to the friction. he's just a heavy, sweating mess of muscle.

"i'm being, ah — good for you —" he chokes out, his hips slapping against yours with a wet, heavy sound. steve's so stimulated he can barely keep his balance — massive thighs trembling as he tries to take every inch.

you reach up, slapping his thigh enough to leave a reddening mark, making him jump and let out a pathetic whine, "so good, sugar. such a mindless pretty soldier. you can't even think about war when you're fucked full, can you?"

he couldn't even answer — he just nods frantically. his eyes were glazed, unfocused, staring at nothing but your piercing gaze.

amab!reader

steve's supposed to be a hero, but he's just a fucking animal now, grinding down onto your cock with zero coordination. his head's thrown back, thick strings of moans trailing from his mouth. he's riding you in your own damn office — barely caring about keeping quiet.

he's supposed to be the star of the war effort, but he can't even remember his own rank right now. every you thrust up into him, prodding your tip deeper, his hips jerk uncontrollably, his eyes rolling back.

"look at you," you sneer, grabbing his chin to force him to look at you. "the great captain rogers being a slut of his general."

"sir — please — " steve whimpers, his voice thick and stupid. he's completely gone thanks to the friction. he's just a heavy, sweating mess of muscle.

"i'm being, ah — good for you —" he chokes out, his hips slapping against yours with a wet, heavy sound. steve's so stimulated he can barely keep his balance — massive thighs trembling as he tries to take every inch.

you reach up, slapping his thigh enough to leave a reddening mark, making him jump and let out a pathetic whine, "so good, sport. such a mindless pretty soldier. you can't even think about war when you're fucked full, can you?"

he couldn't even answer — he just nods frantically. his eyes were glazed, unfocused, staring at nothing but your piercing gaze.

steve finally orgasms, his body convulsing as he cums all over your waist and uniform. you thumb his sensitive tip, making him cry out little whines that sound more like a poor puppy's than of a pained soldier's.

you tut, watching as he continues to spill another messy release on you, "again, steve?" you're desecrating my uniform. this one's coming out your pay, captain."

he's too fucking overwhelmed to even process the threat. he just moans loudly, watery eyes pleading down at you as he keeps rocking his hips in a desperate rhythm.

again, please.

$ @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @froggibus

$ cd masterlist / steve-rogers