Just a funny sex thought with whoever your fave may be:
You had to sneeze.
You REALLY had to sneeze.
His hips pistoned in and out of you, head buried in the crook of your neck. Slightly higher pitches moans came out of his mouth as his hands tighten on your hips.
You put a hand on his shoulder, pushing him up to meet your eyes and you voice your concern. He props himself on his forearms and stills his hips flush against yours.
But he was close to cumming, reeeeeeally close.
If he had some extensive knowledge of human anatomy, he would have known that your muscles SQUEEZE when you sneeze, including the muscles that was currently stretch around his cock. His mind was clouded with arousal, any other thought other than YOU out of the question.
You turn your head to the side and let loose, 3 sneezes in a row coming out. When you do so, your hole tightens VERY SNUG around him, tight enough to push him out if his wide, strong hips weren't hard against yours.
He collapses on top of you, moaning loudly as the 3 consecutive dick-choking sneezes push him over the edge. His hips move without thought, pushing his cum deep inside you before stilling again.
The room is silent for a few moment aside from his heavy breathing when you ask, "Did you really just cum?"
He props himself up again, eyes wide with a shocked look on his face. You can't help but giggle loudly, a wide smile on your face as you both come to the realization. You hear a few deep chuckles before he groans and pulls out, quick to fill you with his fingers ready to return the favor.
I adore the krakoa headcanons you have for the x-men, how willing would you be to do something similar for mcu characters?? Idk if there’s an equivalent though, if not it’s no problem ❤️
MCU CHARACTERS X FEM!READER
A year after your death, you are resurrected and reunited with your lover
Characters: Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Bruce Banner, Clint Barton, Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson, Peter Parker (Tom H.), Stephen Strange, Thor Odinson, Loki Laufeyson, T'Challa, Marc Spector, Steven Grant, Jake Lockley, Scott Lang, Wade Wilson, Logan Howlett, Matt Murdock, Frank Castle, Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff & Erik Lehnsherr
Requests are reopened since I'm going to have surgery for my scoliosis...yes, it's bad news, it's a major operation, so I need your requests to feel better. PLEASE SEND ME REQUEST. I don't have surgery for another four months so I have plenty of time since I'm at home! I can't wait to see all your ideas, I LOVE YOU <3
Tony Stark
- Tony Stark, the man who could build a new world with his hands but could not stop them from shaking when they lost you. He spent a year in ruins, laughing too loudly at parties that could not fill the silence you left behind, drowning in half-finished projects where your ghost lingered in the curve of every wire. He never stopped talking about you—not to his friends, not to himself, not to the night. You were the equation he could not solve, the loss he could not engineer his way out of.
- When he sees you again, standing in the flickering light of his workshop, the wrench in his hand slips, clattering to the floor. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. His mind, sharp as ever, gives him ten different explanations, each more impossible than the last, but his heart—his battered, grieving heart—gives him only one. “Tell me I’m dreaming,” he says, voice hoarse, because the alternative is something he cannot afford to believe.
- And then you speak, and the walls he built to keep himself from shattering crumble in an instant. He is across the room before he knows it, hands gripping your arms, your face, tracing the proof of you. The ache in his chest is unbearable, but not from pain—it is the sheer weight of having you again. “They told me I was crazy,” he murmurs against your lips, against your skin. “Guess they were right.”
- You are back, but time has moved without you, carving deeper lines into Tony’s face, dulling the arrogance that once carried him like armor. He watches you like you might disappear again, fingers always brushing your wrist, your hip, the pulse at your throat. He doesn’t sleep much—he never did—but now, when you wake in the night, he is already awake, watching the rise and fall of your breath as if it is the only thing tethering him to reality.
- He brings you everywhere, makes no excuses for it. “My ghost, my rules,” he says when someone questions it. He builds new suits and doesn’t let you out of his sight, not when danger is near, not when a single misstep could take you away again. He has never been a man who believed in second chances, but for you, he will believe in anything.
- The world thinks he is Iron Man, but you know the truth: Tony Stark is just a man who loved and lost and refused to let death win. He holds you like a miracle, like proof that he was right to fight for the impossible. And for the first time in a long time, he is not afraid.
Steve Rogers
- Steve Rogers has always known loss—has carried it like a second skin, worn it like a name he could never leave behind. But losing you was different. It was not the cold silence of the ice, nor the distant ache of time slipping through his fingers. It was immediate, brutal. It was your blood on his hands, your last breath against his cheek. A year passed, and he carried on because that was what he did, because that was what you would have wanted. But he stopped looking at sunsets. Stopped drinking coffee the way you used to make it. Stopped believing that the world could ever feel warm again.
- When he sees you again, standing in the doorway of the safe house, the shield strapped to his back feels heavier than ever. His breath catches, his heart stumbles, and for a moment, he wonders if this is some cruel trick played by an enemy who knows exactly where to cut him open. But then your lips part, and you say his name, and the sound of it is like the first breath after drowning.
- He moves toward you slowly, hesitantly, as if one wrong step will shatter the illusion. His hands hover over your face, your shoulders, trembling with the unbearable need to touch, to feel, to know. And when you don’t disappear, when you are warm and real beneath his fingers, something inside him breaks. His arms crush you to him, his breath shaking as he buries his face in your hair. He is crying, but he doesn’t care. “I held you,” he whispers. “I held you.”
- After that, he does not let you go. The world calls him Captain America, but to you, he is just Steve—the man who wakes up in the middle of the night just to press his forehead against yours, the man whose grip tightens every time you reach for his hand, as if to reassure himself that you are not a dream. He does not know how to make peace with this miracle, so he does not try. He simply loves you harder, holds you closer, refuses to waste a second of the time he was so cruelly robbed of.
- He is more protective now, but it is not the suffocating kind. It is the quiet, steadfast kind, the way he always positions himself between you and an open door, the way he memorizes the sound of your breathing while you sleep. He does not speak of the past year unless you ask, but when you do, the grief in his eyes is something ancient, something that will never fully fade.
- Steve Rogers has always carried the weight of the world, but with you beside him, it is lighter. You are proof that even after all the battles, all the sacrifices, the universe still has kindness left to give. And he will spend the rest of his life earning it.
Natasha Romanoff
- Natasha Romanoff has survived on borrowed time for as long as she can remember. She has lost, she has bled, she has walked away from battlefields without looking back. But losing you was different. It was the one wound that did not heal, the one loss she could not turn into fuel. She did not cry. Did not speak of you. She simply moved forward, faster, harder, with reckless abandon—because if she slowed down, even for a second, she would have to feel the hollow space you left behind.
- When she sees you again, standing in the shadows of a dimly lit alley, her knife is in her hand before she even registers what she is seeing. Her body reacts the way it was trained to, but her heart—her traitorous, fragile heart—stutters in her chest. “No,” she breathes, shaking her head as if denying it will make it any less real. “No, I buried you.”
- And then you step closer, into the light, and she sees the familiar curve of your smile, the warmth in your eyes. She drops the knife. It clatters against the pavement, forgotten, as she crosses the space between you in two strides, her hands fisting in the fabric of your jacket. Her lips crash against yours, desperate, searching, as if she can taste the truth in the way you breathe against her mouth.
- After that, she is different. Softer, in ways only you will ever see. She touches you constantly—not in fear, but in reverence. A hand at the small of your back, fingers trailing over your wrist, knuckles brushing against yours as if reminding herself that you are here. The world may question, but Natasha has never cared for the world's judgment. You are hers, and she is yours, and that is all that matters.
- She does not let you fight alone anymore. Not because she doubts your strength, but because she refuses to feel that kind of loss again. She watches you when you sleep, when you move through a room, when you laugh. She memorizes the details she once took for granted—the exact color of your eyes in the morning light, the rhythm of your voice when you call her name.
- Natasha Romanoff has spent a lifetime making peace with ghosts, but you are not one. You are flesh and blood, a heartbeat beneath her palm, a warmth she never thought she would feel again. And this time, she will not let you go.
Bruce Banner
- Grief is not an emotion Bruce Banner can afford. He has spent a lifetime suppressing, locking away the parts of himself that feel too deeply, because feeling too much is dangerous, and losing you nearly ended the world. The Hulk roared in agony that day, the earth itself trembling beneath his wrath, but even in his most furious state, even as he destroyed everything in his path, you were gone. And no amount of strength, no amount of science, could bring you back.
- He stopped fighting after that. Retreated. Isolated himself in a place where no one could see the way his hands trembled when they weren’t balled into fists, where no one could hear him whisper your name like a prayer, a question, a plea. He stopped shifting into the Hulk—not because he was afraid, but because the monster within him had nothing left to fight for. There was only silence, only the ghost of your touch, only the unbearable weight of having lived when you did not.
- So when you return, standing before him in the quiet of his lab, he does not react at first. His mind, trained to doubt, to question, to disassemble and understand, tells him it cannot be real. That the chemicals in his brain are firing incorrectly, that his grief has finally shattered him in a way no transformation ever could. But then you say his name, and it is not just sound—it is gravity, it is a force pulling him from the abyss.
- He crosses the room in a single breath, hands hovering over your face, your shoulders, your waist, unable to trust his own touch. He is afraid to break you, afraid to break himself. And then your fingers slip into his, grounding him, reminding him that this is not a hallucination, not a cruel trick of his subconscious. You are warm, real, here. And just like that, the weight he has carried for a year crumbles to dust.
- After that, he does not leave your side. He watches you sleep, not because he doubts, but because he cannot waste another second of the time he was so certain he had lost. He builds new defenses, new protections, because if death could not keep you, then neither will any enemy foolish enough to try. He teaches himself to trust happiness again, to allow himself to feel, because with you beside him, it is no longer a danger—it is a gift.
- Bruce Banner has always been afraid of his own power, but with you, he is not afraid. He is a man, not just a monster, and for the first time in a long time, he believes in the possibility of a future. A future where he is not alone. A future where he is not running. A future where you, against all odds, are still his.
Clint Barton
- Clint Barton has never been one to dwell. The life he leads does not allow for it—grief is a luxury, mourning a weakness, and the only way to survive is to keep moving. But when he held you in his arms, felt the last shudder of breath against his skin, something inside him shattered. And he did not put the pieces back together. He let them fall, let them burn, let the silence swallow him whole.
- The others saw him continue—heard his sharp wit, watched him loose arrows with deadly precision, saw the same easy smirk that had always been there. But they did not see the empty spaces where you used to be. Did not see the way he avoided the places you had loved, the way he drank in solitude, the way his hands curled into fists whenever someone mentioned your name.
- So when you return—when you step into the dim light of his hideout, when your voice cuts through the silence he has lived in for a year—he does not believe it. He grips the bow at his side, tension in every muscle, because this is a trick, a trap, an illusion designed to destroy him completely. But then you move closer, and the way you look at him—the way only you ever have—makes the doubt in his mind fracture.
- And then he is there, hands gripping your waist, your arms, his forehead pressed to yours as he exhales a breath he did not know he had been holding. He does not ask how, does not ask why. He only pulls you closer, lets himself collapse into the only thing that has ever truly felt like home. His fingers are tight against your skin, unwilling to let go, unwilling to lose you a second time.
- After that, he is different. Lighter, in ways only you will notice. He is still Clint—still sharp, still reckless, still throwing himself into danger without hesitation—but there is a warmth now, a flicker of something that had long been extinguished. He touches you constantly—not in fear, but in reassurance. His hand on the small of your back, his fingers brushing against yours, a quiet, wordless promise that he will not take a second of this for granted.
- Clint Barton has always been a survivor, but he did not truly live until you returned. And now, with you beside him, he has no intention of losing that again. He is yours, wholly and completely, and this time, no force in the universe will take you from him.
Bucky Barnes
- Bucky Barnes knows the taste of loss better than most. He has drowned in it, clawed his way through decades of it, watched everyone he has ever loved slip through his fingers like sand. But losing you was different. Losing you was not the slow, creeping erosion of time. It was a blade to the gut, a wound that never closed, an ache that settled deep in his bones and refused to let go.
- He did not grieve the way others did. He did not cry, did not rage, did not seek solace in memories. He simply stopped. Stopped talking, stopped trying, stopped allowing himself to feel anything at all. Because feeling meant acknowledging the gaping wound your absence had left behind, and that was not something he could survive.
- So when he sees you again, standing in the doorway of his apartment, he does not move. Does not breathe. His mind—trained to expect deception, to anticipate betrayal—tells him this is a trick. But then you step forward, and the way your eyes soften when they meet his, the way your lips part in a quiet whisper of his name, makes the world tilt beneath his feet.
- And then he is there, crossing the space between you with the kind of desperation that only comes from losing something you thought was gone forever. His hands tremble as they frame your face, his breath shuddering as he drinks in the impossible reality of you. He does not trust words, does not trust his voice to hold steady, so he simply presses his forehead to yours, breathing you in, grounding himself in the proof of your existence.
- After that, he does not let you go. He does not speak of the past year, does not tell you how empty it was, how he spent every night staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep that never came. He only shows you in the way he touches you, in the way he holds you closer at night, in the way his fingers linger on yours as if afraid you might vanish again.
- Bucky Barnes has spent a lifetime being taken, being controlled, being used. But you are the one thing that was his, the one thing that was real, and now that you are here, he will fight for you with everything he has. You are his salvation, his anchor, his second chance at something he never thought he deserved. And this time, he is never letting go.
Sam Wilson
- Grief is a weight Sam Wilson carries well, but carrying it does not mean it is light. It sits in his chest, heavy and unmoving, an ache that never quite fades. Losing you was not a clean wound—it was jagged, raw, a battlefield farewell written in blood and breathless whispers. He held you, watched the life slip from your eyes, and still, somehow, he had to stand up. He had to keep fighting. Because that’s what you would have done. That’s what you would want.
- But wanting and doing are not the same thing. He laughed in public, told stories that made others grin, carried himself with the same easy confidence. But alone? Alone, it was different. He spoke to you sometimes when the night was too quiet, when the wind sounded too much like your voice. He ran until his lungs burned, trying to chase the memory of you, knowing he never really could.
- So when you stand before him, alive, breathing, real, the world does not feel like the one he left behind. His first instinct is denial—a trick, an illusion, a cruel joke played by something with too much power and not enough mercy. But you look at him, and there’s something there, something he recognizes too well. Love. History. You. And suddenly, the weight in his chest is gone.
- He moves before he can think. One step, then two, then his arms are around you, his head buried in your shoulder, a shuddering breath breaking from his lips. His grip is tight—too tight, maybe—but he doesn’t care. He needs to feel you, needs to know this isn’t a dream he’ll wake from. He says your name like it’s the only word he remembers, his voice thick with everything he couldn’t say when you were gone.
- After that, Sam is different. Lighter, freer. He still fights, still leads, still carries the burdens of the world on his back—but he does it with you at his side, and that changes everything. He touches you constantly, a hand on your back, fingers brushing against yours, small, quiet reassurances that you are here, that he did not imagine this.
- Sam Wilson has lost many things. He has seen friends fall, watched the world tear itself apart. But this? This is something he never thought he’d get back. And now that he has you, he swears to himself—he’s not losing you again. Not now. Not ever.
Peter Parker (Tom Holland)
- Peter Parker does not know how to exist in a world where you do not. The pain is not sharp, not a clean wound he can stitch together with time. It is suffocating. Slow. A weight pressing down on him, stealing the air from his lungs, making every step feel heavier than the last. He was holding you, talking to you, and then you were just… gone. And nothing he did, no amount of strength, no web-slinging through the city, no late-night patrols could change that.
- He keeps going. He has to. That’s what Spider-Man does. That’s what you would have wanted. But some nights, when he is alone, when the mask is off and the world is quiet, he feels like a boy again—small, lost, powerless. He whispers apologies into the dark, tracing the memory of your touch, trying to pretend he still remembers exactly what your voice sounded like. Because he’s terrified he’s forgetting.
- And then, one day, you are there. Standing in the shadow of a flickering streetlamp, watching him with the same eyes he never thought he’d see again. At first, he doesn’t move. He can’t. His brain refuses to process it, refuses to accept this impossible, beautiful reality. And then you smile—small, hesitant, you—and he breaks.
- He crashes into you, arms wrapping around you so tightly it almost hurts. His breath stutters, hands shaking as they press against your skin, your hair, anything that proves you are real. “You—” His voice cracks. “You died.” And it’s not an accusation. It’s a question, a plea, a broken whisper of disbelief. But you are warm, solid, here, and he holds onto that with everything he has.
- After that, Peter is clingy. He doesn’t mean to be, but he is. His fingers find yours without thinking, his arm curls around your waist at every opportunity, his webbing pulls you to him when you step too far away. He is afraid—afraid this is temporary, afraid that one day he’ll wake up and you’ll be gone again. But he also smiles more, laughs louder, lives in a way he hasn’t since he lost you.
- Peter Parker has lost so much. But this? This is a miracle. And Peter—Peter is going to make sure he cherishes every single second of it. Because this time, he has you. And that? That is everything.
Stephen Strange
- Stephen Strange is no stranger to loss. He has lived through pain, through heartbreak, through the destruction of things he once believed unshakable. But losing you—that was something else entirely. That was not just loss. That was devastation. It was the kind of pain that settled into his bones, that made the world feel quieter, colder, less.
- He did not weep. Did not rage. Did not crumble beneath the weight of it. Instead, he buried himself in his work, in his magic, in the relentless pursuit of something—anything—that could fill the void you left behind. He scoured the multiverse, searching for answers, but found only silence. Death, it seemed, was absolute. Even for you.
- So when you stand before him, alive, whole, untouched by the grave, he does not react at first. His hands twitch at his sides, eyes sharp, mind racing through a thousand possibilities, a thousand explanations. This must be a trick, a deception, some cruel game played by forces beyond his understanding. But then you speak his name, and the way you say it—the way only you say it—breaks him.
- He crosses the room in three steps, hands cupping your face, searching for any sign of illusion. But there is none. There is only warmth, only life, only you. His breath stutters, his fingers tighten, and for the first time in a long, long time, Stephen Strange allows himself to feel. His lips crash against yours, desperate, searching, as if trying to convince himself that this moment is not slipping through his fingers.
- After that, he is possessive. Not in a way that is suffocating, but in a way that is unmistakable. His cloak wraps around you when you are cold, his hands find yours beneath temple robes, his magic lingers in the air around you like a silent guardian. He does not say it—not outright, not often—but you know. You have always known. He cannot lose you again. He will not.
- Stephen Strange has faced the impossible, has bent time and reality to his will. But this? This is the greatest miracle of all. And he, a man who once scoffed at faith, finds himself believing in something again. Because if the universe had any mercy, any kindness at all, it would let him keep you. And this time, he will fight for that with everything he has.
Thor Odinson
- Grief and gods have never mixed well. Mortals mourn with time, with rituals, with whispered prayers to the sky. But Thor? Thor does not know how to grieve in a way that does not tear the world apart. He held you as you died, cradled you against his chest, his hands helpless against the tide of fate. The sky wept with him that day—thunder cracking, the heavens splitting open in rage, the storm inside him unfurling with no battle left to fight.
- He left Earth after that. It was too loud, too full of life, too painfully real in your absence. He searched for answers in the stars, in old myths and forgotten magic, in the whispered promises of gods who had lost more than he had. But the truth was simple: not even the might of Thor, not even the power of Asgard, could bring back the one thing he truly wanted. So he drank, and he fought, and he laughed too loudly to hide the fact that he was breaking.
- And then, one day, he turns, and you are there. Standing in the golden light of the Bifrost, impossibly, beautifully alive. His breath catches in his throat, Mjolnir slipping from his fingers, his entire body frozen between disbelief and desperate hope. “This is a trick,” he says, but his voice is hoarse, unsteady, as if saying the words out loud might make them false. But then you smile, and he is undone.
- He crosses the space between you in an instant, crushing you against him with a force that nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. His hands tangle in your hair, his forehead pressing against yours, and his chest heaves with something between laughter and a sob. “You have returned to me,” he whispers, reverence in every syllable. And then he is kissing you, fierce and unrelenting, as if proving to himself that this is not some cruel jest of fate.
- After that, Thor does not let you go. Not truly. His arm is always around your waist, his hand always at the small of your back, his eyes watching you as if you might disappear the moment he looks away. He tells you, constantly, in grand declarations and quiet murmurs, how much he loves you, how he will never lose you again. You are his greatest treasure, more precious than any throne, any kingdom, any power the cosmos could offer.
- The God of Thunder has lost much—his home, his family, pieces of himself that may never fully return. But you—you are here, in his arms, alive once more. And Thor, a warrior who has fought countless battles, swears that he will fight against gods and monsters alike to keep you at his side.
Loki Laufeyson
- Loki knows loss better than he knows himself. He has lost love, trust, family. But losing you—that was different. That was a wound he could not charm away with silver-tongued words, a pain he could not outwit or outmaneuver. You died in his arms, your fingers curling weakly around his wrist as the light in your eyes faded. And for the first time in his life, Loki Laufeyson was powerless.
- He did not rage. He did not scream. Instead, he withdrew, wrapping himself in silence and solitude, retreating into the shadows where grief could not be seen. The world continued without you, and he played his part well—smirking, deceiving, spinning tales as if he were not hollow inside. But in the quiet moments, when no one was looking, he traced the ghost of your touch on his skin and whispered your name like a prayer.
- So when he sees you again, standing before him in the flickering candlelight of some forgotten sanctuary, he does not react—not at first. His body stills, his breath catches, and his mind races through every possibility, every cruel illusion that could explain this. But then you speak his name, soft and familiar, and something in him shatters.
- He reaches for you hesitantly, his fingers brushing over your cheek as if expecting you to dissolve beneath his touch. And when you do not—when you are warm, and real, and here—a sharp breath leaves his lips, and he pulls you against him with all the desperation of a man drowning. His grip is tight, unyielding, as if trying to convince himself that you will not be stolen from him again.
- After that, Loki is different. Not softer, not weaker—if anything, he is more dangerous, more cunning, more willing to do anything to ensure you remain by his side. He keeps you close, always within reach, his sharp wit reserved for those who dare to threaten what is his. There is no force in the universe he fears, no power he will not challenge, if it means keeping you safe.
- Loki Laufeyson has never believed in fate, in mercy, in second chances. But you? You are proof that even the most broken of men can find something worth living for. And this time, he will not lose you. Not to death. Not to gods. Not to anything.
T’Challa
- T’Challa was a king before he was a man, a warrior before he was a lover. But you—you—were the one thing that belonged solely to him. With you, he was not a ruler, not the Black Panther, not the protector of a nation. He was simply a man in love. And then, in a single moment, in the chaos of war, you were gone. And he—T’Challa, the unshakable, the wise, the just—fell to his knees, holding you as the life slipped from your body.
- He did not mourn in ways the world could see. There were no public displays of grief, no speeches of loss. He carried the weight of your death in silence, bearing it with the same quiet dignity that he bore every burden. But in the stillness of his chambers, when no one was watching, he let the sorrow take him. He traced the last place he had held you, whispered your name to the night, and wondered if he would ever learn to breathe without you.
- So when he sees you again, standing beneath the glow of Wakanda’s golden lights, his heart stops. His breath catches. And for a moment, he is afraid to move—to hope. But you step forward, your eyes locking onto his, and everything else ceases to matter. The world falls away, and there is only you.
- He crosses the distance between you in a single step, his hands cupping your face with reverence, with disbelief, with a depth of emotion he has never let himself show before. He does not ask how or why. He only whispers, “My love,” as if speaking the words aloud will make them real. And then he kisses you—slow, deep, a promise, a prayer, a thousand unspoken words pressed into your skin.
- After that, T’Challa is your shadow, your shield, your unwavering protector. He does not smother you—he respects you too much for that—but he watches, always. His fingers linger against yours in quiet moments, his gaze softens whenever you speak, and when he holds you at night, it is with the quiet, unyielding certainty that he will never let go again.
- T’Challa has lost many things—his father, his home, pieces of himself in battles fought for the greater good. But this? This is something sacred. And a king who has been given back his heart will protect it with everything he has.
Marc Spector
- Marc Spector has never been good at losing people. He has lost too much, buried too many, carried ghosts in the hollows of his ribs and the shadows of his mind. But losing you—watching you die in his arms, feeling your body grow cold as his own blood soaked into the ground—was something else entirely. It didn’t break him. It obliterated him.
- He stopped pretending after that. Stopped holding himself together, stopped fighting for anything beyond survival. He threw himself into missions with reckless abandon, took every fight as if he was begging for someone to land a fatal hit. He couldn’t sleep in your bed, couldn’t bear to hear your name spoken aloud. He tried—Khonshu knows, he tried—to find a way to bring you back. Bargained with gods, hunted down forbidden magic, but nothing, nothing, worked. So he gave up. He accepted that this was his punishment, his curse, to keep losing the things he loved until there was nothing left of him.
- And then—then—you were there. Standing in the doorway, alive, whole, looking at him like you weren’t a phantom haunting his grief. He didn’t move at first, didn’t breathe, convinced you were another trick of his fractured mind. But then you spoke—soft, hesitant, like you weren’t sure if he would even want you back. And the moment your voice reached him, Marc snapped.
- He was on you in an instant, his hands on your face, your shoulders, your arms—anywhere he could touch, anywhere he could convince himself you were real. “Tell me I’m not dreaming,” he whispered, voice shaking, breath unsteady. And when you smiled, when you nodded, he kissed you—desperate, bruising, like a man drowning who had finally found air.
- After that, Marc is different. Not softer, not gentler—he has never been those things—but determined. He refuses to let you out of his sight for too long, refuses to take a single moment for granted. The nightmares don’t go away—sometimes he wakes up reaching for you, convinced he’s lost you all over again—but you are always there, grounding him, reminding him that miracles exist.
- He still fights, still follows the path Khonshu carved for him, but now, there’s something else driving him. Not vengeance. Not guilt. You. You, alive and breathing, laughing in the golden light of morning, rolling your eyes when he gets in one of his moods. And if he has to fight every god, every monster, every force in the universe to keep you by his side? So be it.
Steven Grant
- Grief is a lonely thing. And for Steven, it was lonelier than most. He didn’t have Marc’s rage or Jake’s cold detachment—he just had absence, an empty space beside him where you used to be. You had been his bright thing, his sunbeam, the warmth in his life he never thought he deserved. And then, in a moment of violence and blood, you were gone.
- The flat was too quiet after that. He still made tea for two, still caught himself turning to tell you something, still found little reminders of you everywhere. Your books on the shelf. Your perfume lingering in the air. A sweater you’d stolen from him, draped over the back of a chair. He couldn’t let go, couldn’t move—just existed, stumbling through the days with a polite smile and eyes that held too much grief.
- And then, one evening, as he shuffled into the flat with the exhaustion of another day spent pretending he was okay, he saw you. Standing there, real as anything, watching him with that soft, hesitant look you always had when you weren’t sure how he’d react. He didn’t even think. Didn’t question. Just dropped whatever was in his hands and ran to you.
- “Oh, love,” he breathed, his voice cracking as he cupped your face, pressing his forehead to yours. He was crying—of course he was crying—but he didn’t care, didn’t even try to stop. “I—I thought—oh God, I thought I lost you.” His hands trembled as he touched you, as if afraid you might disappear if he wasn’t careful. But you didn’t disappear. You were here. And when you kissed him—gentle, reassuring—he let out a broken, disbelieving laugh.
- After that, Steven becomes more himself again. The light comes back into his eyes, the warmth into his voice. He tells you every day how much he loves you, how grateful he is that you came back. He holds you for hours sometimes, murmuring little things against your skin, afraid that if he lets go, the universe will take you away again.
- You are his miracle, his impossible, wonderful second chance. And Steven, the man who never thought he was enough, now knows one thing with absolute certainty—he will never take you for granted again.
Jake Lockley
- Jake doesn’t grieve the way others do. He doesn’t sit in sorrow, doesn’t cry himself to sleep. He compartmentalizes, shoves it all into a locked box in the back of his mind and throws away the key. When you died, he didn’t break down. He didn’t scream. He just acted. Found the ones responsible. Made them pay. Made everyone pay.
- He convinced himself that was enough. That revenge was all he had left to give you. But when the dust settled, when the blood was washed from his hands, there was nothing. Just an emptiness so vast it threatened to swallow him whole. He became a ghost, slipping through the world unnoticed, unseen. He only spoke when necessary, only acted when called upon. If Marc and Steven noticed how much darker he’d become, they didn’t say anything.
- And then—then—you were there. Sitting in the backseat of his car like you belonged there, like you hadn’t died in his arms a year ago. He slammed on the brakes so hard the tires screeched, his pulse roaring in his ears. He didn’t turn around at first. Couldn’t. His hands gripped the steering wheel like a vice, his knuckles white with tension. “Not funny,” he rasped, his voice low, dangerous. “Not a game I wanna play.”
- “It’s not a trick, Jake,” you whispered. And that was all it took. He turned, his breath catching as he finally let himself look. Let himself believe. And the moment he did, something inside him snapped. He surged toward you, pulling you into his arms with a desperation he rarely let himself show. His face buried in your neck, his breath shaky and uneven, his body trembling as if the entire world had just shifted beneath his feet.
- After that, Jake is ruthless about keeping you safe. He doesn’t care how you came back—only that you did, and that nothing will take you from him again. He’s always watching, always waiting, always a step ahead of any potential threat. He doesn’t say it out loud, but it’s in the way he tucks you close against him in crowds, in the way his fingers ghost over your pulse like he’s memorizing it.
- Jake Lockley is not a good man. He never claimed to be. But you—you are the one thing that makes him want to be. And if death couldn’t keep you from him, nothing else will either.
Scott Lang
- Scott never truly believed in happy endings, but he believed in you. He believed in the way your laughter could turn an ordinary day into something extraordinary, the way your hand in his made him feel like maybe—just maybe—he was enough. Losing you shattered him in ways he didn’t even know were possible. You died in his arms, your blood on his hands, and in that moment, he stopped believing in miracles.
- He tried to hold it together for Cassie. He smiled, told jokes, did his best to pretend he was okay. But he wasn’t. His apartment felt too big without you, the bed too cold. He found himself talking to the empty air, half-expecting you to answer. The worst part was the moments right before he woke up, when his brain still tricked him into thinking you were next to him, breathing softly in sleep. And then he’d open his eyes and reality would sink in like a knife to the gut.
- When he sees you again, it’s like the universe plays a cruel trick on him. He blinks, rubs his eyes, thinks he’s hallucinating. But then you smile, that soft, knowing smile he dreamed about, and everything collapses. He doesn’t think—just moves, just grabs you, just feels. “Oh my God,” he breathes, his voice shaking, his arms wrapping around you so tightly he might never let go. “Tell me this is real. Please tell me this is real.” And when you nod, when you whisper his name, he lets out a half-laugh, half-sob against your shoulder.
- Scott becomes clingy after that—not in an overbearing way, but in a you-can’t-leave-me-again way. He constantly reaches for you, constantly checks if you’re still there. He makes up for lost time—cooking you breakfast (badly), taking you on spontaneous road trips, making you laugh until you can’t breathe. Every moment is precious now, every second a gift. He refuses to waste a single one.
- He tells you everything he couldn’t before. How much he missed you, how much it hurt, how many times he caught himself looking for you in a crowded room. He never wants to take you for granted again. Every night, he holds you like you might disappear in the morning, presses kisses to your skin as if he’s trying to memorize you all over again.
- Scott Lang doesn’t know why the universe gave you back to him, but he doesn’t care. All he knows is that this time, no force in the world—no villain, no bad luck, no cosmic cruelty—is going to take you away from him again.
Wade Wilson (Fox)
- Wade doesn’t mourn like other people. He doesn’t wear black, doesn’t cry softly in the night. No, Wade’s grief is ugly, loud, chaotic. After you died, he became worse—more violent, more reckless, more unhinged. He threw himself into fights he knew he couldn’t win, hoping—praying—someone would finally land the killing blow. But they never did. His healing factor cursed him to keep living, to keep hurting.
- He talked to you like you were still there. Made jokes to the empty side of the bed. Left your favorite snacks untouched in the cabinet. The others tried to check on him—Weasel, Domino—but he just shoved them away with a laugh, a joke, a bloody fight he walked away from without a scratch. “I’m fine,” he’d say, voice hollow behind the mask. “Totally normal levels of depression. Probably a seven out of ten. Maybe an eight. Who’s to say?”
- And then, one day, you walked through his door. Just like that. No fanfare, no dramatic music—just you, standing there, looking at him with that same familiar amusement in your eyes. He froze. Blinked. Looked down at the bottle of vodka in his hand. “Oh,” he muttered. “Guess I finally drank myself into hallucinations. Took long enough.” But then you said his name, your voice real, and everything inside him broke.
- He tackled you before you could even take a step closer. Knocked you onto the couch, onto the floor, onto him, his arms squeezing so tight it was a miracle you could still breathe. “If this is a dream, I swear to Ryan Reynolds’ beautiful abs, I will murder my subconscious,” he babbled, his voice cracking. He touched your face, your arms, every inch of you, just to be sure. And when you laughed—when you really laughed—he just lost it. Full-on ugly sobs, face buried in your neck, refusing to ever let go.
- After that, Wade is worse—but in a different way. He never shuts up about how lucky he is. Clings to you, wraps himself around you like a human (questionably clean) blanket, dramatically declares that if you ever die on him again, he’ll personally go to hell and drag you back himself. He texts you every five minutes when you’re not around. If you so much as sneeze, he’s already googling life-threatening illnesses.
- But beneath all the jokes, the over-the-top antics, there’s something soft there. Something raw. Wade Wilson doesn’t believe in happy endings. But he believes in you. And if the universe was kind enough to give you back to him, then maybe—just maybe—he’ll finally start believing in second chances too.
Logan Howlett (Fox)
- Logan is no stranger to grief. He has lost more people than he can count, buried more loved ones than he dares to remember. But losing you—you—was different. It wasn’t just another loss, another name on the long list of people the world had taken from him. It was the loss. The one that finally made him want to lay down and never get up again.
- He disappeared after that. Vanished into the wilderness, into the places where no one could find him. He drank himself into oblivion, picked fights with men twice his size just for the chance to feel something. The nightmares were worse—your face, your voice, the way you reached for him as you died in his arms. He could still feel your blood on his hands, still hear your last breath. There was no escaping it. No running fast enough.
- When he sees you again, it’s not dramatic. It’s not loud. It’s silent. He turns, expecting an enemy, a threat—only to see you. Standing there. Alive. His breath catches in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs like it’s trying to break free. For a long moment, he just stares, his jaw clenched so tight it aches. “No,” he finally rasps. “No, that ain’t possible.” But you just step closer, your hands trembling, your eyes pleading. “Logan,” you whisper. And something inside him snaps.
- He moves before he can think, his arms wrapping around you with the force of a man drowning who has finally found solid ground. He buries his face in your hair, breathes you in, his whole body shaking. “If this is some kinda sick joke,” he growls against your skin, “I swear to God—” But you just hold him tighter, and he finally—finally—lets himself believe it.
- After that, Logan is fiercely protective. More than before. You are his second chance, his proof that maybe—just maybe—the world hasn’t taken everything from him. He keeps you close, always within reach. He doesn’t talk about the time you were gone, doesn’t say how lost he was without you—but you see it in the way he touches you, like he’s making sure you’re still real.
- Logan has lived a long life, filled with too much pain, too much loss. But now, with you back in his arms, he thinks—just for a moment—that maybe, maybe, he finally has something worth fighting for again.
Matt Murdock
- Grief became a quiet shadow in Matt’s life, a presence that never left. He carried it with him in the way he adjusted his tie, in the way he spoke to Foggy and Karen like he was fine when he wasn’t. He still went out at night, still fought in the streets, but the fire inside him had dimmed. He no longer fought to save the city—he fought because it was the only thing that numbed the ache of losing you.
- He whispered your name in his prayers, his voice breaking over the syllables. In his apartment, your absence was louder than anything else. He reached for you in his sleep, his hands closing around nothing, waking up with an emptiness so heavy it stole his breath. He let the guilt drown him—because you died in his arms, and no matter how many bones he broke or how much blood he spilled, he couldn’t change that.
- When you return, he knows it’s you before you even speak. The world is full of sound, full of heartbeats, full of voices—but yours? Yours has always been different. His entire body stills, his breath hitching in his throat. He listens, waiting for the trick, the deception, because he knows what death feels like. But then you say his name, and the world tilts sideways.
- He moves without thinking, reaching for you, his hands trembling as they trace over your face, your hair, your lips. “You’re real,” he breathes, almost afraid to say it. “You’re real.” And when he finally lets himself believe it, when he pulls you into his arms and holds you so tightly it aches, he lets out a broken sound—somewhere between a sob and a prayer.
- After that, Matt is different. He refuses to let you go alone anywhere, his protectiveness manifesting in quiet touches, in the way his fingers always seek yours. He’s softer now, more open with his emotions, because he’s lost you once and he won’t make the mistake of taking any second for granted.
- At night, when the city is quiet and his scars ache, he traces over your skin as if memorizing every inch of you all over again. “I don’t know how I deserve this,” he whispers against your hair, his voice raw with devotion. “But I’m never letting you go again.”
Frank Castle
- Frank has always been good at loss. Not because he accepts it, but because he survives it. Losing you, though? It was a different kind of wound, one that never stopped bleeding. He didn’t cry. He didn’t scream. He just became colder. The world lost all color, all meaning. He didn’t live after you were gone—he just existed, a weapon with no purpose but destruction.
- He stopped talking. Stopped caring. The men he hunted became nothing more than names on a list, their deaths nothing more than numbers. He never said your name, never spoke of you, because acknowledging you were gone would break something inside him that even he couldn’t put back together.
- And then, one night, you stand in front of him, breathing, alive, looking at him like he’s still the man you loved. He doesn’t believe it at first. His grip tightens around his gun, his entire body coiled and ready for a fight because this? This is cruel. And yet—your eyes. Your heartbeat. The way you whisper, “Frank?” like it’s his name that brings you back to life.
- His hands shake as he reaches for you. He touches your face like it’s something fragile, something that might disappear if he presses too hard. And when you don’t, when you lean into his touch with a softness he thought he’d never feel again, something inside him shatters. He pulls you against him, his grip almost desperate, his breath ragged. “I lost you,” he rasps against your hair. “I lost you, and I didn’t—I didn’t know how to keep going.”
- Frank becomes your shadow after that. He’s gentler with you than he’s ever been with anyone, but that protectiveness? That fire? It’s stronger than ever. If anyone so much as looks at you wrong, they won’t live to make the mistake twice. But with you? With you, he is something softer, something almost human again.
- He doesn’t pray, doesn’t believe in fate. But at night, when you sleep beside him, warm and real, he presses a silent kiss to your forehead and whispers, Thank you. He doesn’t know who he’s thanking. Maybe the universe. Maybe you. All he knows is that this time, he won’t waste a single second.
Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter
- Losing you broke Dex. And when Dex breaks, he destroys. He tried to keep it together—tried to pretend he could move on, that he could keep living without you—but the anger, the madness, the unbearable emptiness inside him only grew. The world felt wrong without you. He felt wrong. He stopped sleeping, stopped feeling anything but the burning need to punish whatever took you away from him.
- He lost control after that. Killed without hesitation, without remorse. Let his mind spiral, let his demons win, because what was the point of fighting them without you? You were his anchor, the one person who made him believe he could be more than the monster inside him. Without you, he had no reason to pretend anymore.
- When he sees you again, he doesn’t react the way most people would. No tears, no disbelief. He stalks toward you, his entire body trembling, his breath uneven. His fingers twitch like they’re reaching for a weapon—like he can’t decide if you’re a dream, a trick, or something worse. “You’re dead,” he says, voice flat, empty. “I held you while you died.” And then, quieter, almost desperate—“Tell me this is real.”
- The second you touch him, the second your fingers brush over his, he breaks. He surges forward, his arms crushing around you, his breathing ragged against your skin. “Don’t leave me again,” he whispers, his voice shaking. “Please. I can’t—I can’t do this without you.” And for the first time in a year, his mind is quiet. The rage, the spiraling thoughts, the unbearable emptiness—it all stops the moment you’re back in his arms.
- After that, Dex is obsessive. He always had that trait in him, but now? Now it’s even worse. You are his, and he refuses to let anything take you away from him again. He follows you like a shadow, sleeps with his arms locked around you, memorizes every detail of your body just in case the universe dares to rip you away from him again.
- There’s a darkness inside him, one that never truly fades. But with you alive, with you real, that darkness is tempered by something softer. Something dangerous. He’s not just a killer anymore. He’s yours. And if anyone tries to take you from him again? He’ll burn the whole world to the ground.
Wanda Maximoff
- Grief clung to Wanda like an old, tattered shawl, woven with the ghosts of everyone she had ever lost. She had thought she had reached her limit—that the universe could take no more from her than it already had. But then it took you. And that, she realized, was the cruelest cut of all. She had survived wars, watched cities crumble, lost her family, her brother, her home. But losing you? That was the first time she felt herself break.
- She became something else after you died. A ghost walking through her own life, untethered from the world. The wind carried whispers of you—the echo of your laughter in a marketplace, the ghost of your breath against her skin in the moments before she woke up alone. And the anger—God, the anger. She lashed out when she fought, red energy sparking at her fingertips with a ferocity she couldn’t contain. She wanted to hurt the universe the way it had hurt her.
- And then, like an answer to a prayer she had never dared to whisper, you stood before her again. At first, she thought it was another cruel trick, another illusion meant to unravel what little remained of her sanity. But then—then she felt you. Your heartbeat, your warmth, the undeniable reality of you. And the moment that truth settled into her bones, she collapsed into you, shaking, weeping, hands clutching desperately at your arms, your shoulders, your face.
- “You were gone,” she sobbed, burying herself in you like she could merge her soul with yours. “I—I felt you leave me.” And for the first time in a year, her magic did not rage. It did not spark and burn with untamed grief. It simply was. It curled around the two of you like a shield, like a silent promise that she would never let you be taken from her again.
- After that, Wanda became something softer, but not weaker. She still held the storm inside her, but now, it had purpose. Now, it had you. She held you like she was afraid the wind might steal you away again, always touching—fingers brushing over yours, arms wrapping around you in sleep, a protective hand against the small of your back in public. She had lost everything before. She would not lose you again.
- At night, when the world was still and your breath rose and fell against her chest, she whispered things she could never say in the daylight. Apologies, promises, prayers in a language she had almost forgotten. And when you stirred, murmuring her name, she simply kissed you—deep and slow, like she could pour her very soul into you, like she could make you stay this time.
Pietro Maximoff
- The world never felt fast enough after you were gone. Time slowed into something unbearable, something suffocating. Pietro had always outrun grief before, always left it in the dust, but your death? That was a weight even he couldn’t shake. He stopped joking. Stopped running for fun. The world lost its color, its spark, its meaning. What was the point of moving quickly when you weren’t at the finish line anymore?
- He tried—he really tried—to pretend. To act like he was okay, to throw on that smirk and tell people, “Eh, I’m fine.” But Wanda knew. She saw it in the way he sat still for too long, the way his hands trembled when he thought no one was looking, the way he lingered in places that reminded him of you. His speed was once his escape, his freedom. Now, every step forward only took him further away from the last time he held you.
- And then—then he sees you. And for the first time in his life, he can’t move. He just stares, his heart a violent drumbeat against his ribs, his breath caught somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “No,” he whispers, blinking rapidly, because this has to be some sick joke. “This isn’t real.” But you are. And the moment you take a step toward him, he snaps.
- He moves too fast, too desperate, grabbing you like you might vanish if he lets go. His hands cup your face, his lips press against every part of you he can reach—forehead, cheeks, hands, lips. “You’re real,” he gasps between kisses, between shaky laughter and choked sobs. “You’re—you’re real.” And suddenly, the world isn’t slow anymore. You are his new gravity, the only thing keeping him from spinning out of control.
- After that, Pietro is obsessed with feeling you close. He picks you up just to hear you laugh, carries you even when you insist you can walk. He talks more, filling every silence with his voice because silence is what haunted him for a year. And he touches—not just because he wants to, but because he needs to. Holding your hand, leaning against you, brushing his fingers over your cheek just to remind himself you’re here.
- And at night, when he curls around you in bed, his heartbeat thrumming like a song against your skin, he whispers things he’s never said before. “I thought I lost you forever.” “I never stopped looking for you.” “If you ever leave me again, I swear I’ll outrun death itself to bring you back.” And when you tell him you’re here, that you’re not going anywhere, he presses a lingering kiss to your shoulder and finally—finally—lets himself breathe again.
Erik Lehnsherr (Fox)
- Erik was already a man carved from loss, molded by grief, his soul tempered in the fires of tragedy. Losing you was not just another wound—it was the moment he snapped completely. He did not rage. He did not weep. He simply became something else. Harder. Colder. More dangerous. Without you, there was no reason to hold back. No reason to believe in anything but vengeance.
- The world paid for your absence. He became relentless, his war against those he deemed responsible for suffering escalating beyond reason. He did not believe in mercy anymore—because if the world had shown you none, why should he? But in the rare, silent moments when he was alone, when his hands were still for once, he would stare at the space beside him and feel something that terrified him. Emptiness.
- When you return, he does not react as a man should when seeing his lost love brought back to life. He does not run to you. He does not whisper your name like a prayer. He simply stares, cold and unreadable, his mind calculating every possibility—illusion, manipulation, deception. And then—then you reach for him, and the moment your hand touches his, his composure shatters.
- His hands shake as they frame your face. His breathing is shallow, his eyes burning with something unreadable. When he speaks, his voice is low, trembling with something dangerous. “Who did this?” he demands. Because someone had to bring you back. And Erik Lehnsherr does not believe in miracles. But when you smile—when you whisper, “I’m here, Erik”—his fury dissolves into something broken, something human. He kisses you like a dying man gasping for air, his hands gripping you as if afraid the wind might steal you away.
- After that, Erik is ruthless in his protectiveness. He keeps you close, watches you with the sharp gaze of a predator waiting for the world to try and take you again. But in private, in the spaces where no one else can see, he is something else. His hands are reverent as they hold you, his voice is soft when he speaks to you, and his nightmares—the ones filled with loss—fade when you press a kiss to his temple.
- He does not believe in peace. He does not believe in forgiveness. But he believes in you. And that? That is the only thing in this world he will not let go of again.
BATFAMILY X NEGLECTED!MOON KNIGHT'S SIDEKICK! READER
Prologue
Summary: After a group of students kill you due to hate, you get resurrected by a godly and somewhat childish entity that wishes to use you as a host due to your impressive abilities. Moon Knight, following the orders of Khonshu decides to train you but develops an attachment towards you. Unbeknownst to your family -- who you begin to slowly ignore due to their neglect and your nighttime activities.
Warnings: Major character death, Major harm, Neglect, bullying, hateful themes, reader tries trust me reader tries.
Word count: 1.9k
Author's note: No taglists at the moment. NEW STORYY AYEE. You know the drill. Send comments, send asks, send criticisms, send feedback, send headcannons, send theories, share thoughts. If this chapter does well, I'll make a new one today or tomorrow so send your thoughts. Divider from @bbyg4rlhelps and header from @aracnista
You were in pain. Your body was littered with slashes and bruises and it reeked of death, pain and that acidic scent rubbish seems to have.
Let's rewind this, shall we?
--
The day started normally. Well as normal as it gets for you.
With you trying to bond with your family in the morning.
"Hey Damian and Tim, I was wondering if you guys were gonna come to my MMA match!"
"No, I'm busy Y/N. Can you stop asking me?" Tim responded while walking out the door.
You looked at Damian with a hopeful look and a smile.
"You already know my answer. Never ask me again" He responded coldly.
And that was it. Nobody would go. You could ask Alfred but wouldn't be able to go either. You asked Bruce, and he shut that down. You asked, Dick and he said he would but probably wouldn't. You didn't really bother to ask, Jason. Cass said no outright. Steph said no.
Your family isn't really all too involved in things concerning you. Its pretty sad but they can't help it! They're literal superheroes for gods sake! They don't have time to see your matches or go to your events or celebrate you..
Even though you have asked to be a Robin or Batgirl before and got brutally rejected by Bruce and banned from the cave. You still love them. Really you do. You're gonna try anyway.
You decided to take an apple for the road and made your way to the car.
Damian and Tim were already seated, you sat beside Damian. He let out an audible sigh at that.
"Not a fan of me, bub?" You jokingly asked. He ignored you. It stung, you were slowly losing hope that this family would ever accept you. You always loved the idea of having a big family and the fact that you were the black sheep honestly hurt. When Damian came along you had hope but if anything it seemed like he hated you the most, which was devastating because you've always wanted a little brother and now you had one and..he hated you? For no good reason?
You buckled your seat belt and took a bite of your apple. It tasted great but you weren't in the mood to finish it anymore.
"Alfred, I'm staying in school a bit longer today." You looked at the partition as you spoke. You got a note asking you to stay for some science club thing. No problem, it's not uncommon for stuff like that to happen. The writing looked like your bio teacher's so she probably got someone to slip it in your locker.
--
Classes were the same as usual. You know, Tim avoiding you like the plague, you not really interacting with a lot of people. You mainly keep to yourself at school, not a lot of people even like talking to you.
There's a group of kids at school who have taken notice of the way your family distances themselves from you. Their conclusion? You're a mutant. It didn't help that you were a bit of an X-Men fan, specifically Cyclops. You had mini posters of him on your locker door and mini figure of him attached to your backpack. Apparently being a fan of the X-Men means you're a mutant.
Not like you wouldn't mind being mutant, I mean who would have an issue being born with a gene that literally grants them superpowers? These guys don't think the same.
They think the human race is being replaced. It's scary how extremist they are. They haven't given you too much trouble beyond the push and harsh words but they do spread rumours.
And rumours tend to cause people to avoid you. What a sad life you lead.
You sighed as the last bell rung, signalling that the day was over.
You stood up and packed your things. Your eyes were killing you.
You paused as you remembered the note. Oh yeah! Where did your bio teacher want you to meet?
You fished the note out of your backpack and reread it.
"Hello Y/N. Can you meet me and the others in the library after school to talk about the competitions we're thinking of joining."
It didn't scream abnormal to you at the time --- it should've.
You briskly walked out of the classroom and to the library.
The door was locked. That's weird, she usually keeps it open.
You waited a couple more minutes before growing impatient and leaving the school. You could always tell her that you had a match and you couldn’t be late.
As you made it out of the school there was a shout.
"Hey Mutie!" You snapped your head at the source.
There they were. The weirdo extremists. You tried to walk away but you were blocked by a tall frame.
Where did he come from?
You were quickly getting surrounded. You started thinking of escape options.
That was until you saw a fist flying your way. You gasped and caught the perp's wrist. You held it for a while before pulling him forward and pushing his chin back and punching his gut.
He hissed out a curse as he fell and clutched his abdomen in pain.
You weren't done, you groaned as you were kicked from behind and and fell down on your knees.
Throughout all this your MMA instructor's voice rang in your head.
"RUN DAMMIT! FUCKING RUN!"
You got up as quickly as you were brought down and instantly started sprinting.
They chased after you.
"Aww come on, mutie! We just want to play!" You were getting scared and your eyes were beginning to tear up.
Something struck your back and you found yourself falling again. You winced as you tried to get up only to get a foot holding you down.
You gathered strength to twist your body and propel your lower body up to kick the girl in the abdomen. She screamed and soon the other two pinned both your arms down.
You were now getting petrified.
"Wait no! Please! Stop! I haven't done anything wrong!" You pleaded with tears rolling down your cheeks.
The girl held her abdomen and smiled at you.
"Oh but you did you see. You're a dirty no good mutant. Who thinks she’s better than us."
"I'm not a mutant! Please just let me go." You struggled against them but they were holding you down tight, and you couldn't focus.
The girl grinned at your helpless form.
"We've spent months planning this, why would I stop now." Just as she said that she reached for her pocket and pulled out a blade.
Your eyes widened and your struggles intensified.
"What are you doing?!" You yelled fearfully.
"Something that needs to be done." She responded with clarity.
You closed your eyes and screamed as you felt the blade pierce your skin. She was slashing your back, abdomen and arms while you were still pinned down.
She was carving something on you!
You could only scream and plead for an end.
When she was pleased with her work. She signalled for the people holding you down to drag you somewhere. You were still crying and fading in and out of consciousness.
They brought you somewhere near a dumpster, got a couple more hits on you and left you to die.
Which leads you to your current situation.
Bleeding out near a dumpster, and pleading with whatever greater force out there that you'd be found by your family or something.
You mustered the strength to army crawl but that hurt you more. You finally just laid there and let out a whimper.
Why? Just why? Why you?
As the world around you became more hazy and dark, you felt the pain drift away.
--
Is this what death was? You wondered as you stared out the window of what you suspected was a lighthouse.
Out there in the cold raging seas shined a star. One so bright, you wondered how it didn't blind you.
You looked around you, and caught a glimpse of stairs. The sight was daunting, it was as if they had no end.
You made your way towards the staircase anyways and descended them. You were in no rush, you had no idea where you were.
Would you meet the Grim Reaper down there?
You made it to the end and out the door you walked.
To the sea.
It was cold, you know it was cold. The cold night air should've been biting your skin, making your fingers numb to the nerve and yet..you were warm.
Tremendously warm, almost as if you were in constant embrace.
You looked at the long gray lawn of sea stretching wide before you. The star seemed closer this time almost as if it were slowly moving to you.
The lighthouse foghorn sounded and you looked up at the sky. The endless sky, it was dark but it felt like it stared back at you. Like it was waiting for you.
There was a bubble in the water, and then a ripple, and then the unmistakable grotesque scaly head of a monster rising out of the sea.
You couldn't take your eyes off of it. The sheer size alone was enough to dwarf a mini island. As it rose to its full height, it locked eyes with you and its fury was visible. You saw its luminous wings and took a step back.
It's eyes opened wide and the scaled beast scanned you with its judgmental otherworldly eyes. Those eyes were so dark, you could say they were a portal to pure darkness. Suddenly you were levitating. You met eyes with the dragon-like entity.
There was a beat of silence.
Then a squint, and the dragon roared and before you knew it you were plunged into the water.
Your scream was cut off. The water was so frosty it felt as if lava had been lathered on your skin.
The dragon dived in after you and with its head pushed you further down the waters.
You couldn't breathe.
You couldn't think.
Your hands held on to both sides of its head and you suddenly felt a jolt of electricity through your veins. The dragon glowed a white and raised its head to stare at you with widened eyes.
And as if it made a mistake, it rose back up with you still attached and you found yourself flung on to the sand, soaked.
You heaved and coughed before taking deep breaths. You felt weird.
The dragon stared at you expectantly, while you caught your breath. You paused as you noticed something. Why was there a light shining on the sand? Where is that coming from? It was coming from your direction. You covered one eye and one of the lights disappeared.
Could it be?
Your eyes they were, they were glowing.
Are you in heaven?
Is this hell?
Is this purgatory?
You stared at the dragon who's eyes were glowing too.
The star was nowhere to be seen.
The dragon suddenly raised its wings and let out an eardrum-piercing shriek before flying towards you. You raised your hand. Tch, like that was going to do something but you were pleasantly surprised at the barrier you were able to create. Oh wow is that normal?
The dragon flew into it and while it did that you let out a scream, it felt like you were being stabbed, like a sword was going through your chest.
You fell back and closed your eyes.
By the time your eyes opened again you were in a bed you didn't recognise and Alfred was hovering over you with worried eyes.
"Master Y/N, who did this to you?" He choked out with tears in his eyes.
---
Khonshu sensed something. Something rather disturbing.
"My son, you need to do something." He said with a tinge of concern in his voice.
who ever you choose of marvel and DC with a gf or gn partner who is like not clingy at all and is super cuddly all the sudden and in their lap and stuff? hope your doing ok
Cuddle-bug
ft.Marvel
-> Included (Marvel): Wolverine, Nightcrawler, Gambit, The Human Torch, Moon Knight(2022 D+ Show), Blade, Cloak & Dagger, The Invisible Woman, Kitty Pryde, Magik,
UP NEXT (DC): Kyle Rayner, Guy Gardner, Hal Jordan, John Stewart & Shayera Hol, The Flash, Kid Flash, Wonder Woman, Zatanna, Constantine, Booster Gold & Blue Beetle, Arsenal
Content Warnings: Fem!Reader, established relationship, reader's weight/body type is unspecified but the characters involved can comfortably hold them on their lap/chest
Moon Knight here is from the series not the comics
A/N: Biting my lip WHOEVER I CHOOSE?? Also I stole the new way i'm formatting names from @/jamesdeanbby (all caps, bolded, and subscripted) ヾ(_ _。）
⚝ LOGAN HOWLETT
Logan had noticed your strange behavior before you had even touched him. You had circled him throughout the day, following along with whatever he was doing (not that he was all that busy).
Every time he had stopped, there you were: in the kitchen, the garage, the porch—and eventually the prickly, itching feeling along his neck and shoulders was too much to ignore as he turned around again. And, as you had been, you were there.
Logan was no psychic. He didn't know what you wanted, but there had to be some point to your clinginess today, and not knowing was creeping him out.
“You need somethin’?” His sideways glance betrayed the gruff and indifferent tone of his voice, hazel eyes darting across your figure.
“Nope,” and at his skeptical look, you just shrugged.
“Right…” and he went back to sharpening one of his knives. You never did really get why he needed them, considering he's basically made of knives, but his precious few hobbies meant as much to you as they did to him.
A minute later, he felt the couch dip, causing Logan to draw his knife closer to his body. Another minute, and you were pressed against his side.
Logan's hand froze.
“You sick?” and you don't even get a chance to shake your head before he continues, “Someone die?”
You sit back slightly and look at him, offended.
“Can I not sit down with my boyfriend?”
He eyed you for another long second before grunting.
"...Usually you don't."
Then, without warning, you swung one leg over his lap and tucked yourself against his shoulder as Logan stared.
"Fucking hell."
“Ok fine then, no being sweet”, and at your first movement away from him, he let out a long sigh through his nose.
"...Don't be a brat."
His knife was tossed onto the coffee table as his broad arm wrapped around your waist almost absentmindedly, holding you in place while he went back to watching television.
The peace didn't last even five minutes before Logan broke the silence again.
"...Seriously though."
"Hm?"
"You got a concussion?"
“Logan if you keep ruining the moment i’ll give you a concussion”
⚝ KURT WAGNER
Kurt had been comfortably settled into one of the library armchairs, one leg tucked beneath himself while the other rested over the arm, an old novel balanced between three-fingered hands. The room was quiet save for the occasional turn of a page and the soft swish of his tail lazily flicking behind him.
He looked up the moment your footsteps entered the room.
"Ach, hallo, Liebling."
You smiled back at your fuzzy blue companion, matching the joyful gleam in his golden eyes, but didn't answer, instead wandering over until you stood beside his chair.
He marked his page with one careful finger.
"Is everything all right?"
You nodded "Mhm."
He waited.
You... continued standing there.
His tail slowed.
"...Did you need something?"
You shook your head again, almost having to stifle a laugh at his confusion, "No, nothing"
"...Oh."
Silence settled between you and Kurt smiled anyway, content enough just to have you nearby, before lowering his eyes back to his book. The smile lingered on his face as he resumed reading. Even while you weren't talking, your company had always been enough for him. There was something so pleasantly domestic about sharing a room without feeling obligated to fill it with conversation, the comfort of silence. His tail idly brushed once against the side of your shoe, the only sign he hadn't forgotten you were there.
Another minute passed before you said something
"Kurt."
"Hm?"
You tilted your head. "...Why aren't you touching me?"
Kurts book flipped several pages when he turned to look over his shoulder, mouth slightly agape in shock.
"...Was I supposed to be?"
Your brows knitted together. "I've been standing here forever."
"I did not wish to assume!" he defended, laughing as he hurried to set the book aside. "Normally, if I move toward you first, you look at me as though you are considering climbing out the nearest window."
"I do not."
His grin widened "Ach but leibling you absolutely do." And at his statement, Kurt opened his arms anyway.
"May I?"
Instead of answering, you stepped between his knees and folded yourself against his chest. His arms wrapped securely around your back, careful while his tail curled loosely around your calf of its own accord.
"You are very comfortable," he murmured into your hair.
“I think that's my line."
“I wanted to do this much earlier,” he laughed, the sound vibrating warmly beneath your cheek. "I was trying to be respectful."
"I appreciate that,” your hands tightened around the back of his shirt, “I don't know when I’ll be okay to do… this… again”
Kurt's expression softened so completely it made your chest ache. He understood what you meant without asking another question, the reason you two were so perfectly suited for eachother. Tomorrow, you might go right back to linking a finger and lingering beside him instead of leaning against him. You might tense up if he reached for your hand first. But the beauty of it all was this moment where your love was stronger than reservation, where Kurt in his drought had been given a reservoir of water.
"I believe," he said, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, "that is something I will always accommodate, süße." His tail gave another pleased flick.
⚝ REMY LEBEAU
Remy was almost offended. You hadn't done anything wrong, it was almost impossible for you to do anythin worth Remy’s scrutiny, but because you were acting far… far too normal.
No response when he'd greeted you. No quick-handed attempt to steal or destabilize the cards dancing effortlessly between his fingers. You hadn't even rolled your eyes when he'd called you cher. It was like your mind was somewhere up in the clouds.
You'd just... watched him, rather affectionately even, in Remy’s opinion, and he let it go for almost ten minutes before finally lowering the deck into one hand.
"C'mon now."
His green eyes found yours immediately.
"You been starin' holes clean through me. Remy knows you'd tell your ol' lover anythin', so what's got dat head so busy, cher?"
"I have not."
A grin spread across his face.
"Mm. Liar."
Your eyes flicked away at his accusation, that was when he knew something was off. You never lied to him, or if there was some sort of hidden truth you were quick to spill as soon as Remy even gave you a questioning look.
The deck disappeared into his pocket as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
"You wanna tell me what's got dat pretty head so busy?"
Instead of answering, you crossed the room. Remy had expected you to busy your hands with his cards, and use your position in his pockets to shrug his coat off his broad shoulders and onto yourself.
Instead...
You simply lowered yourself into his lap, curling up against him as naturally as anyone could, tucking your face against his neck and feeling the stubble beneath his chin.
Every line he'd ever practiced vanished.
"...Well."
His voice came out noticeably quieter.
One hand hovered awkwardly behind your back before settling there, broad palm rubbing once between your shoulder blades.
"Cher..." He smiled to himself. "You really surprised me, y'know dat?"
You looked up, your planned statement interrupted by a chaste kiss to your forehead.
“Are you uncomfortable?”
"You looked at me all afternoon like you were figurin' out how t' do dis. Non... if anythin', Ah'm wonderin' why you ain't done it sooner."
Heat climbed into your cheeks, and Remy could feel the burning against his own warm skin.
"Aww..." His forehead rested briefly against your hair. "Poor cher... you were nervous."
"You thought too hard 'bout dis, didn't you?"
You freeze,"...Maybe."
"Mm." A kiss to your temple. "Next time, don't ask your head. Listen t' your heart. Seems t' know what it's doin'."
"'M not usually like this."
"Cher, if anybody knows dat 'bout you, it's me." There wasn't disappointment in his voice, "...Makes it feel like Ah won somethin'."
⚝ JOHNNY STORM
Johnny almost missed it.
Not because he wasn't paying attention, you always had his attention, always, it’s his favorite thing to pay attention to; but because he'd spent the last ten minutes talking almost exclusively with his hands, halfway through an animated retelling of something Ben had said earlier that morning.
"...And then he has the nerve to tell me I'm the dramatic one—"
Your weight settled onto his lap, and Johnny kept talking, wrapping his forearms around your body and talking practically against your skin, breath fanning across your shoulder on each word before his sentence abruptly ended in the middle of a point.
Johnny blinked owlishly before looking down, back up, down again…
"...Hang on."
You'd tucked yourself comfortably against him, one arm lazily draped around his middle as if there were nothing unusual about the situation.
There was. Oh my god there absolutely was. His eyebrows climbed higher and higher as he kept opening his mouth, a wide smile breaking out on his face.
Johnny was obviously putting tremendous effort into not saying something to ruin the mood, but his excitement won out after… maybe ten seconds
"...What… no way,”, a reddish flush was blooming on his cheeks, as he rapidly licked his lips to stop them from drying out, courtesy of his still befuddled expression
"What?" you asked. You knew what, your touchy boyfriend was reeling from getting to cling to you without making some sort of bargain, but the cute expressions he was pulling was honestly enough to get you to consider doing this more often
"You." He (lightly) shook you with theatrical disbelief. "You're sitting on me!"
You laughed quietly.
"I can move."
"No!"
His answer came much too fast.
One hand immediately landed on your back, "You don't get to hook me on this and leave, nuh-uh."
"I'm not going anywhere, space boy”
Johnny searched your face for literally anything suggesting this was some elaborate setup. And after finding none his shoulders slowly relaxed.
"...This is awesome, amazing." He couldn't stop smiling. “Its… fire”
And at your loud groan he held you tighter, looking almost boyishly pleased about his terrible pun.
⚝ STEVEN GRANT
Steven had been completely absorbed in a museum catalogue, one knee tucked beneath himself on the couch, reading glasses slowly slipping down his nose.
He didn't even notice you'd come in until the pages stopped turning, your gentle hand pressed against the delicate paper.
"Oh!” He looked up, smiling immediately. "Hello, love."
You smiled back. "Hi Steven"
Neither of you said anything else, and at your silence you could see the corners of Steven's smile wobble, as he tilted his head.
"...Everything alright, darling?"
"Mhm, everything."
He nodded, sucking in a tentative breath "...Right."
He waited for the rest of your statement, eyes following yours as he saw them trace across his features. Did you come over here just to stare at him?
Instead, you carefully lifted the catalogue from his lap, set it on the coffee table, then climbed onto the couch beside him.
For a brief, and hopeful second, Steven assumed you simply wanted to sit together.
Then you kept going.
Your knees slid over either side of one of his legs before you folded your arms over him, resting your head on top of his curly hair with a quiet sigh that sounded almost involuntary. Steven froze, your heartbeat under his ear much calmer than the one he could feel in his own chest, thumping hard enough he figured it could probably walk away on its own if it so wished.
He was suddenly terrified of moving the wrong way.
"...May I..." His voice came out almost in a whisper, cracking halfway through as he cleared his throat "Can I… hold you?"
You answered by curling closer and pulling him down with you, your back hitting the soft cushioning of Steven’s reading couch as he was now laying on top of you.
His entire face softened, smile still ever present as he looked down at you
"Oh, I see."
One arm slipped around your waist while the other came up almost reverently to cup the side of your face, thumb brushing against the corner of your mouth.
"There you are."
You hummed sleepily as Steven smiled to himself.
"You know..."
"Hm?"
"I don't think I've ever been this happy."
You laughed quietly against his sweater.
"It's just a hug, Stevie"
"I know, I know…" His cheek rested lightly against the top of your head. "...That's exactly why, love"
⚝ ERIC BROOKS
Eric knew you were behind him, he heard your footsteps stall in the doorway several minutes ago. You weren't being particularly loud, but between his enhanced senses and the stillness of the night he was aware of everything happening within his apartment.
"You gonna stand there all day?" He hadn’t turned to you yet, but he had slowed the movement of his whetstone. Once he had finished, he glanced over his shoulder.
"...Somethin' wrong?"
You shake your head, looking over to him.
Blade hummed, and went back to wiping down one of his swords, occasionally flicking his eyes over to you. He could hear your steps shuffling closer to him,
"...Can I sit?"
He looked up again, balking at your timid demeanor. What the hell could be unsettling you enough for you to be practically shaking in your boots. (You were not in fact, trembling in fear, Eric is just unable to comprehend you being uncomfortable asking him to do anything)
"Since when do you need permission from me?"
At his shocked staring, you move forward and plant yourself practically on top of him- nudging the wrist gone still to keep his sword definitively pointed away from you and your… finagling. Eric had expected you to sit next to him, maybe your feet draped onto his lap as you leaned on the opposite end of the couch.
“Did someone bother you? Have you been having nightmares while I'm out? You don't have to worry, Vlad can’t mess with your mind. I struck a deal with the wizard.”
You stilled while climbing into his lap, your fingers still entwined with his as you looked down,
“You… struck a deal. With a wizard”
“The Sorcerer Supreme, not a wizard. I lied.” His free hand came up almost cautiously, settling against the back of your head.
You felt your cheeks hurting from how wide your smile was, his thumb brushed once through your hair.
"...Missed me?"
You nodded. "...Yeah."
Another quiet moment passed.
"I missed you too. Always miss you” You can feel as his posture slumps slightly, as he tucks your body securely against him to lean down and put away his sword.
“Sweet talker” you murmur “makes me wonder what you’re aiming for”
“ ‘s you, only you”
You laughed under your breath, and Eric’s hand tightened once at the back of your head, not enough to stop you, just enough to keep you there and feel your breath against his neck.
“Good answer.” You tipped your head up to look at him.
He didn’t bother pretending not to notice. His eyes stayed on you for a long second before he finally looked back down at your mouth, then your face, then your mouth again like he was considering whether or not to say something else.
“I want you to stay.”
It came out rough, almost grudging, like he was annoyed at himself for saying it out loud. You only smiled wider.
“I was planning on it.”
⚝ TY JOHNSON/TANDY BOWEN
Ty noticed you before Tandy did, not because he was watching you, but because the living room dimmed almost imperceptibly as you wandered in, stepping in front of a small lamp in the corner. He looked up from where he'd been reading, watching you hesitate in the doorway for several seconds.
"Love, is everything okay?"
You nodded.
"Mhm."
That wasn't exactly reassuring.
Tandy, still stretched out across the opposite end of the couch with one leg hanging over the armrest, finally looked up from her phone.
"What?" she asked, glancing between the two of you. "Why're you both making faces?"
"I'm not making a face," you muttered.
Ty raised an eyebrow. "You've been standing there for almost a minute."
“Have not!”
Tandy snorted, "Sweetheart, you're gonna have to give us something."
You crossed the room, before your nerves could get the better of you at the last second. Instead of sitting beside him like you'd intended, you found yourself half climbing into his lap, your arms wrapping around his middle before your brain had a chance to object.
Tandy gasped almost instantly, which in turn led you to immediately start second-guessing yourself.
"I can move—"
"No!" she answered so quickly she startled herself, the little ring of light around her eye glowing brighter as Ty chuckled. His arm secured you across himself, a steady arm siding across your back, he left enough room open that you could slide out if you really wanted to, but the look in his eyes would hold you there for some time.
You looked over to see Tandy staring at you with her mouth hanging open.
"...You're cuddling us."
"I know."
"No, I don't think you do. Oh. My. God” She bit her lower lip and sat back, basking in the sight of her favorite people being adorable together. Ty was more physical than either you or Tandy, but because all shadows were an extension of himself he seemed more reclusive. Ty's quiet laugh rumbled beneath your cheek, his other hand settling carefully against your cheek as though he was afraid too much movement would scare you away.
"You've never done this before."
"I just..." You shrugged against him. "Missed you."
Tandy's expression softened so completely it almost hurt to look at.
"You missed us?”, she drew out every syllable, dragging her ponytail holder out of her hair before crawling across the cushions until she was pressed against your other side, her arms wrapping around both you and Ty in one movement.
"There," she sighed happily, rubbing her face across your chest.
"Now it's a cuddle pile."
You laughed despite yourself, "I was thinking of… a little less… touching."
"Too late.” and at Tandy's blunt comment Ty smiled.
"I don't think she would've accepted anything less."
"I absolutely wouldn't have,” she tucked herself closer, resting her chin on your shoulder. At her opening her mouth to say something else, Ty gently pushed her chin back up and shook his head.
The look in his eyes almost telepathically communicated his sentiment: not now, they can talk about this tender moment again and again in the late night. Let her ease into it.
⚝ SUE STORM
Sue had been halfway through a magazine when the couch dipped beside her, and she smiled without looking up.
"Hi, sweetheart."
No answer, instead, you quietly tugged the magazine from her hands, folded it shut, and set it on the coffee table before climbing beneath the blanket she'd draped over her legs.
Sue blinked. "...Oh."
You didn't say anything as you simply curled against her side, tucked your head beneath her chin, and wrapped an arm around her waist like you'd done it a thousand times before. Except… you hadn’t.
Normally, you loved her fiercely from a respectable distance, the love the two of you shared was enough that she never questioned your affection, and Sue was more than happy with that. She did occasionally wonder if the two of you would ever get to a point where, this, would happen, but having you close to her yet stiff from tension and discomfort wasn't the sort of future she wanted so she was willing to wait.
At the lengthy silence, she rested one hand lightly against your back.
"Can I hold you?"
You answered by scooting impossibly closer, nuzzling your face into her neck and smelling the perfumed shampoo she had recently washed her hair with.
Sue laughed under her breath.
"I'll take that as a yes."
One arm settled around your shoulders while the other smoothed slow circles between your shoulder blades, and she let several quiet minutes pass before she spoke again.
"...Long day?"
You hummed, "A little."
"I'm sorry, darling”
Your fingers lazily gathered a fold of her sweater, smoothing the fabric out and tracing your fingers across the soft woven material
"I just wanted my girlfriend."
Sue's heart nearly stopped, she closed her eyes for a second, smiling to herself before pressing a kiss into your hair.
"Well..." Another kiss. "She’s awfully glad you came to get her." Sue could feel you getting heavier against her as sleep threatened to win, her soothing voice continuing to lull you towards it. Eventually she whispered
"You know..."
"Hm?"
"You never have to earn this."
You looked up, confused. "Hm?"
"Me, the affection, anything… I’m always your girlfriend, not just on a bad day” Her thumb brushed across your shoulder as she pressed another gentle kiss against your forehead.
You stared at her for a long moment before burying your face right back into her neck.
"...I know."
Sue smiled into your hair. "Just making sure."
⚝ KITTY PRYDE
Kitty held her breath as you walked over with a blanket, stilling her movement on her phone, worried even the minor dragging of her finger against the screen would scare you off like some sort of wild animal—and it seemed that her paranoia paid off when you laid across her lap, pulling a pillow from the other end of the couch to act as your headrest as you draped your body horizontally over hers.
For a second, she forgot how to breathe.
You'd never been one to initiate this sort of thing. Sitting shoulder to shoulder? Sure. Holding hands? Of course. But climbing into her space so casually, settling in as though you'd decided her lap was the best place in the mansion to spend your evening?
Kitty wasn't about to question a miracle.
She barely even dared blink.
As soon as she was sure you were comfortable and set for a LONG time (there was really no option other than staying there, knowing she'd pull the saddest face as soon as you started to move away), Kitty slowly... so slowly... moved her arm up to capture a selfie of the moment, sending it to Kurt with fire and thumbs-up emojis.
Look. LOOK.
His typing bubble appeared almost immediately.
Don't scare them.
Kitty physically had to bite the inside of her cheek to stop herself from laughing.
I'm trying.
She stared down at you, her eyes following the planes of your face and the peaceful expression you wore as you attempted to sleep, even with your chest uncomfortably placed over her thighs.
Eventually, the giddy feeling in her chest grew too much, the little sharp pains of her biting her lip to keep quiet wasn't enough to distract from it- her shoulders shaking with silent laughter because she genuinely couldn't believe you were the one cuddling her, and she hastily tossed her phone across the couch to lean down and squeal as she wrapped her arms around your figure, nuzzling her face against any exposed skin she could reach.
“I've so won in life. I have a cute girlfriend who is cuddling up to me... Did I do something to make you so happy, goofball?” she was giggling through her entire sentence, feeling you squirm under her arms as she unexpectedly blanketed herself over your body.
“I just missed you, is all,” and as you pressed your cold nose to her skin, Kitty shrieked; mostly you think, out of joy that you were nuzzling into her
“I don't think I could take being away from you long enough to getcha to miss me,” she sighed. “But please do this more often. You're so welcome to miss me even when I'm right here.”
⚝ ILLYANA RASPUTINA
Illyana didn't say anything as your thighs bracketed her own, casting an owlish, wide-eyed stare at you while you shuffled around to place your head on her chest—thankfully not covered in her armor at the moment.
She lifted her arms and held tight to her book as you got comfortable, her body completely still and stiff until your final sigh of contentment, and then slowly lowered her arms down in a perfect arc. The mechanical maneuver reminded you of some sort of rusty robot, and you giggled as you thought of the creaking sound that would emanate.
“You should tell me your jokes instead of laughing alone.”
You looked up to see your girlfriend’s pouting face, her chin now disturbed from its resting place atop your head, her gray eyes flicking back and forth between your own and her spellbook.
“You’re moving like a robot, ’Ya,” and with a soft laugh, you went back to laying on her chest—or you tried to, as Illyana sat up at your comment, causing you to fall backward with a yelp, now laying back on her knees and shins, which were notably less soft than her boobs.
“I’m being very good about the touch! You’re trying to prank me for your TikToks, and I was being cute for the camera!” She had raised her voice, now obviously flustered from having to admit her take on the situation, and for a second you felt bad about not approaching her slower to start off with. The two of you worked so well together, especially given your largely touch-adverse nature.
You sighed as you sat up on your elbows, rocking her side to side with your knees pressed alongside her ribs.
“’Lya, I was just trying to show you I love you. It's not something I planned, I just thought it’d be sweet. I'm sorry I didn't say something about it first, but I didn't wanna talk myself out of the mood.”
She cast her eyes down to the side, a red flush climbing from her ears to her cheeks and down to her neck, fully closing her book and setting it down to play with the cuff of your socks, running her fingers on top of and then under the cotton material.
After a few moments of silence, Illyana shuffled back, pulling her legs from under you, only to then place her head on your chest.
“I like you always. I didn't expect you to do something different from usual. I like it for now.”
And as your laugh rang out above her, Illyana relaxed and melded against you. She likes this. Maybe not always, but on a rare occasion, it feels nice.
