~ Marvel characters react to you stealing their clothes
Characters Included: Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Helmut Zemo, Bob Reynolds, John Walker, Scott Lang, Wanda Maximoff, Clint Barton, Nebula, Peter Quill
Rating: M
Word Count: 2264
Content Tags: cis female reader, reader described as smaller than partner, suggestive flirting, fem undergarments referenced, established relationship, suggestive
Steve Rogers
An undershirt on Steve becomes a dress on you, the white fabric pulled tight along your curves. The white tank top ends up curling near your mid-thigh like some kind of semi-sheer midi dress that will no doubt give your old-fashioned boyfriend something to fumble over. You take a personal interest in finding ways for him to suddenly become tongue-tied.
It's certainly not public-friendly, but you don't have any plans on going out. No, you're happy curled up in bed, phone in hand, counting the seconds before your shared apartment livens up when Steve steps through the door.
This place always feels more like home when he's home with you. He's already called you, rarely texts, to tell you he's on his way home. So you lie there, counting the seconds until you hear the telltale shuffle by the door, boots being placed in their spot, and shield deposited on its hooks along the wall.
You bite your lip, toes curling in excitement as his footsteps sound on the old hardwoods. When he rounds the corner to your bedroom, blue eyes seeking you out, he pauses. You watch in real time as his brain short-circuits over the form-fitting fabric; along the way it hugs your chest, dark circles visible through the sheer white.
He swallows, "That my shirt?"
You're unable to stop your grin, so you hide it away in the pillow as he walks over, fingertips starting at your ankle and working their way up along your thigh, higher still past your ribs, curling over the slope of your breast before he cups your jaw. "That's the face of trouble, I think." He teases, sinking to sit on the edge of the bed.
Trying to avoid his amused, if heated, gaze, you hide your face further into the pillow before his grip on your jaw eases you gentle as a lamb to look at him. "Hope you know, sweetheart, that I'm never going to look at those shirts the same way again."
Bucky Barnes
You're forced to fold up the sleeves several times over to get the red Henley to stop falling past your fingertips. That does nothing to help with the sheer size of it, the way his bulky shoulders and arms have stretched out the sleeves at the top and around the collar. In truth, you're a bit swamped in it, but you like the way that feels.
He wore it yesterday, and it still smells like him, that low earthy scent and mechanical oil. It falls just below your ass, loose and billowing around you as you pad into the kitchen, knowing you'll find him there, coffee mug in hand, just like every morning. A creature of habit, your Bucky.
This isn't the first time you've stolen something from the dirty hamper, though his version of dirty is far different than yours. Bucky has a way of needing things to be clean, you know that, but for you this is comforting, not dirty.
You pad into the kitchen, and just like you expect, he's there, coffee mug halfway to his lips, eyes caught on you as you round the corner, walking up to him. He's so distracted at the sight of your bare legs that you steal the mug entirely from him, taking a sip. The bitterness of the black coffee screws up your nose and pulls a lazy laugh from him.
"S'little big, don't you think, honey?" He teases, glancing down at you, taking the mug back to set on the counter. You feel the cool metal of his hand slip beneath the oversized sweater to press against your hip.
"Now, Barnes," You trap your tongue between your teeth as you look up at him through your lashes, "What girl ever said that?"
Helmut Zemo
As in all things, your man has sublime taste in clothing; everything he wears is well crafted and personally tailored and always leaves you tracking his every move. You think half the reason he always looks five minutes from a red carpet event is because of the way you drool when he walks into the room.
He is an arrogant man certainly, but more importantly he is a man who appreciates an audience, even if that is an audience of one. You love this coat, smooth lambskin leather, bluish purple, with white fur along the collar, but your favorite part is the silk interior. Which is why you're walking around in it, accompanied only by a black lace bra and thong.
It's heavy and warm along your skin as you spin in the living room, crystal champagne glass in hand. Helmut reclines on the chaise watching you; this time it's him that tracks every movement as you sway to the music sliding free of the record player in the corner of the room. The coat hangs lower on you than it does on him, almost touching the ground as you do another dramatic spin.
He smiles, tumbler in hand, and tips his glass at you before he drinks. You approach, draping yourself dramatically over his lap as his small smile breaks into a full grin. He reaches out to twirl a strand of your hair between his fingers. "What a beauty you are." He murmurs, almost reverent.
You roll your eyes, "It's your coat."
"Ah," He taps your cheek, "You should know a good outfit is nothing without the right person in it."
"I thought the clothing made the man." You joke.
"Weak men certainly." He huffs, "But you, beloved, you could look perfect in anything."
Bob Reynolds
The fabric is soft beneath your fingers; Bob's robe hangs where it usually hangs when he's focused enough to hang it. You don't realize you're easing it from its spot until it's around your shoulders, long sleeves falling past your fingertips. It's immediately warm, and you can't help but tie it closed, to wrap yourself in a piece of him.
To be wearing nothing but something he is so often found in. You walk from the bathroom, hair still dripping, nothing but the robe you've bundled yourself in, to find him in bed, legs pulled up close, TV playing on the wall some movie the two of you have seen a dozen times before.
When he looks at you, he lets out a low breath, teeth coming to chew on his bottom lip. You worry for a moment that you've crossed a line; Bob can get defensive about his things. But then he settles, watching you come to sit on the edge of the bed; before you flop onto your back, the way the robe falls reveals how little, or nonexistent more like, the clothing you have on under it is.
He makes this little sound that might be an oh before he's leaning above you, dark curls haloing his face, "You, uh, you comfortable?"
You look up at him, at the depth of his dark grey-blue eyes. "Yeah. You don't mind?"
He shakes his head, "No, no, I think ... it's you, so it's okay. It looks," He's getting redder with each word, "Good."
John Walker
Summer is shaping up to be a hot one, with windows thrown open in your apartment to get a breeze and fans going throughout your unit. It's too damn hot for clothing, so you've taken to wearing a sports bra and have commandeered a pair of John's boxers in lieu of shorts. They're comfortable, made of light fabric, and good for counteracting the heat.
At least that was your initial thought; now that you can see the way John is looking at you, all curled muscle and dark eyes, you think perhaps you might not be beating the heat but adding to it. He swallows, Adam's apple bobbing, but doesn't say a word, only hits you with that long stare that makes electricity spark down your spine.
"It's hot." You defend with a lazy shrug, lifting your arms over your head in a long cat-like stretch. The stretch is unnecessary, and you are absolutely milking the attention, but you can't help yourself.
John grunts, "Right." He draws the word out beneath his teeth, tasting it on his tongue as he steps forward. His fingers find the loose waistband, still a little baggy on you, thumbs dipping beneath the waistband to find out if there's anything underneath.
There isn't. You smile up at him, looking through your eyelashes. He returns your stare with his own, and the fire that is lit inside you has absolutely nothing to do with the heat.
Scott Lang
Scott has a habit of leaving various clothing around your apartment; it's not that he's dirty so much as he's forgetful. There's always ten thousand things going on in his head at any given time, and so you forgive him his confetti of clustered clothing around the place. Actually, maybe you benefit from it a little as you pluck up an oversized hoodie, slipping it over your head.
You roll up the sleeves, humming to yourself as you go about setting up an evening of watching a movie while he's off being a tiny or very large Avenger. The hoodie helps with the missing, hood up, burrowed deep in it, TV playing something you've seen a dozen times before.
When the front door opens, you're half asleep, lost between a mix of listening to your movie and letting your eyes drift closed on the scenes you don't care that much for. By the time you manage to crack your eyes open to see what's going on, Scott is already on the couch beside you, legs kicked up on the coffee table, his arm wrapping around your shoulders to pull you in.
You nuzzle closer without needing to be asked. He kisses your head, nose in your hair. You can hear the smile in his voice: "I thought I was the thief."
"Nah, I'm a mastermind." You mumble sleepily.
"You did steal my heart." He replies easily, huffing out a chuckle into your hair.
"That's so cheesy!" You laugh, smiling into his shirt.
Wanda Maximoff
You'll be the first one to admit that Wanda looks good in just about anything; she could make a paper bag look purposeful. So you'll also be the first to admit that her wardrobe is worth 'borrowing' from. The two of you are going out tonight, and you can't help flipping through her clothing, settling on a sexy red number you've seen her wear a few times before.
Pulling it off the rack, you hold it out. "Hello, beautiful." You mutter to yourself before letting the towel slip to the floor. It takes some work to find the right things to go under, to fix up your hair, and to make yourself presentable. The red heels you go with make you smile because you know how much she loves this pair.
By the time you're all dolled up, you're excited for her to get home, to see your hard work, and when she slips into the bedroom with you sitting on the edge of the bed and an old episode of Are You Being Served being played in the background, she smiles. Not that little smile she keeps for things she's uncertain about, but something wider, something genuine.
"Well," She presses her hands to her hips, "Honey, I'm home."
You laugh, slipping off the bed to walk over to her, doing a spin on the way. She meets you with a kiss, soft and lingering. "You know, I have half a mind to let you keep that dress." She looks down, eyes catching on your heels before she gives a lazy Cheshire shrug. "Or take it off."
Clint Barton
It's freezing in here, and your tank top is not going to cut it. With a shiver you spot Clint's plaid button-up draped forgotten over his chair in the meeting room. It would be a shame to let it sit there and be wasted, especially when his girl may very well freeze to death at any moment. So you grab it, slipping the thick fabric over your shoulders, letting out a breath of relief when the cold finally becomes less abrasive.
It's too large to wear normally, so you leave several of the bottom buttons undone and tie it into a knot at the bottom around your hips. You like the way it feels, secure around you as you wander down the hall to find Clint on one of the upper landings looking down at the others.
You plop down next to him, letting your legs hang next to his and rest your shoulder against his. He, unlike you, seems unbothered by the cold, bare arms exposed to the freezing tower. He looks over at you, eyeing the shirt before he grins. "Careful, sunshine, people will talk."
"Oh yeah?" You roll your eyes. "What will they say?"
Clint leans in to whisper, though his whispers are never quite low enough to be considered whispers these days. "That I scored out of my league."
You whisper back conspiratorially, "Disability perk." And revel in the way he laughs.
Nebula
You can't find your vest; you've looked everywhere, not that the Milano is particularly known for being all that clean or organized, and people are constantly stealing things from each other, but that's beside the point. The point is you can't find it, and you need a vest, and so you risk life and limb or the time of your life borrowing one of Nebula's spares.
It fits well, actually a little tighter than it fits on her thin frame. Gamora takes one look at you, grunts out what sounds like it might be 'good luck,' and leaves you alone as Nebula rounds the corner. She freezes, like a hard stop, and you wonder if she's having some kind of problem with her circuits before she abruptly keeps going.
"You are wearing my vest." A fact, sharp to the point.
"I am." You confirm lifting an eyebrow as you wait for her to do whatever she's going to do.
Nebula walks right up to you, inches from your face, and you really don't know if she's going to kiss you or hit you, and really that's why you like her so much in the first place. "It's yours now."
You frown. "After last night I didn't think you were worried about my cooties."
"Cooties." She pauses, dissects the word before she remembers what it means, "No. I want you to wear it again." And then she walks off, leaving you reeling, before you're chasing after her once again.
Peter Quill
If there's anything you like about Peter, it's his extensively human wardrobe. You're not even sure where he finds some of this stuff, and you're almost positive he has his own Starlord merch made to wear. That's what you find yourself in now, a baggy Starlord t-shirt with some dude and a guitar on the front and his logo on the back.
It's soft on your skin as you lounge in bed on your stomach. You're flipping through one of his other collections—he has many. This one is earth magazines. You've watched him trade all sorts of stuff, particularly valuable stuff sometimes, for Earth relics.
The door to his room swishes open, and then, like clockwork, his rolling tone follows, "Hello~ gorgeous."
You look back at him. "Who, me?"
Peter, without missing a beat, pivots to look at himself in the mirror, running a hand through his hair, "No me, obviously."
You toss a pillow at him, which he catches with one hand, the other coming to his chest like you've mortally wounded him. He launches himself onto the bed, bouncing the mattress as he settles down next to you. "What are we reading?"
You cover his eyes with a hand. "Only ugly people get to read, sorry."
He immediately reaches out and snags the magazine and launches it behind him, "No reading for you then!"
