— 𝓣ony 𝓢tark :: tony likes to think he isn’t jealous person. he’s a billionaire, playboy, philanthropist— why would he possibly have anything to be jealous about? but my god, he’s one of the most jealous men you know. the second he sees someone flirting with you, he’ll immediately insert himself into the conversation, sliding an arm around your waist and making sarcastic little jokes and backhanded compliments to the poor person. he’ll insist he’s not jealous, but somehow his arm gets tighter around you every time they make you laugh.
— 𝓢teve 𝓡ogers :: steve will do everything in his power to be mature about someone flirting with you. he trusts you completely, so he’ll try to ignore the little pang of jealousy, but he can’t help himself from hovering nearby. he’ll go quiet, watching from across the room before eventually wandering over and casually asking if everything’s okay. he’ll insist he wasn’t checking up on you, but somehow he’ll stay right by your side for the rest of the conversation.
— 𝓝atasha 𝓡omanoff :: natasha would never admit she’s jealous. she’s far too controlled for that. instead, she’ll quietly watch from across the room, studying the person flirting with you with an unreadable expression. eventually, she’ll walk over, slip an arm around your waist and offer them a polite smile that somehow feels like a warning. she won’t say anything outright, but the message is crystal clear: you’re wasting your time.
— 𝓛oki 𝓛aufeyson :: loki is jealous in the most insufferably offended way possible. he’s genuinely disgusted by the fact you could find any man attractive who isn’t him. he’ll saunter over when someone’s flirting with you, rest his hand against your lower back and make increasingly sarcastic remarks until they finally leave. he’ll watch them go with a look of pure disdain before turning to you, completely baffled. “What horrid taste you have,” he’ll mutter, as though the real problem is your questionable judgement rather than his jealousy.
— 𝓑ucky 𝓑arnes :: bucky goes completely silent when he’s jealous. he doesn’t interrupt or make a scene, but he’ll watch from across the room, jaw tightening slightly whenever the person makes you laugh. eventually he’ll wonder over and stand beside you, his hand settling against your waist as he gives the person a dirty look. he won’t say much, but once they leave, he’ll mutter something about how he “didn’t like the guy” as if that explains everything.
— 𝓦anda 𝓜aximoff :: wanda initially tries ignore the jealousy, giving a poor attempt at pretending she’s interested in whatever conversation she’s having whilst stealing subtle glances at the person flirting with you. eventually, curiosity gets the better of her and she’ll quietly read their mind, just to make sure she actually has a reason to be jealous. once she confirms they’re interested in you, she’ll wander over and casually join the conversation, standing a little closer to you than necessary and making it very clear who you’re with.
— 𝓑ruce 𝓑anner :: bruce tries to convince himself he’s imagining things. he’ll notice somebody flirting with you and immediately tell himself they’re probably just being friendly, getting awkwardly quiet as he watches from nearby. he’ll try to focus on whatever he’s doing, but will accidentally reveal just how bothered he is by making some nervous little comment about how the guy seems “very interested” in you. the second the words leave his mouth, he’ll realise he’s given himself away and awkwardly try to backtrack.
— 𝓢cott 𝓛ang :: scott doesn’t actually realise he’s jealous until someone else points it out, to which he’ll immediately scoff and insist he isn’t. he’ll wonder over anyway, casually inserting himself into the conversation with some painfully unfunny joke aimed at you and the person flirting. when they leave, he will watch them for a moment before turning back to you, completely oblivious to the fact that jealousy was written all over his face.
— 𝓟eter 𝓟arker :: peter would try so hard to act like he isn’t jealous, but he’s terrible at hiding it. he’ll awkwardly hover nearby, pretending to be interested in whatever’s happening around him whilst repeatedly glancing over at you. eventually, he’ll wander over and start rambling about something completely random, clearly trying to interrupt the conversation without actually admitting why.
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.
warnings: innocent!reader x various, stepbro!steve rogers, frat!bucky barnes, ari levinson, marc spector, ransom drysdale, curtis everett, lloyd hansen, andy barber, thor odinson, scott lang, miguel o'hara, frank castle, billy russo, professor!reed richards, professor!logan howlett, professor!peter parker, dark content (dubcon/noncon and other dark elements), essentially everyone is soft!dark, college au, polyamory, idk what to tell you this is just really nasty porn
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FICS:
the many firsts
something in return
locked out
i dare you
what i say goes
too big
the basement
a long-awaited lesson
you’ll like it eventually
toying with her
the last one to know
the hotel room
training
mister president
happy halloween, stepsis
REQUESTS:
gaming + intox kink (headcanons)
billy & frank catch you discovering billy’s toy collection (headcanons)
desperate to help (headcanons)
curtis helps you fall asleep (headcanons)
just the tip with professor reed richards, alternative ending to "a long-awaited lesson" (headcanons)
a gift for professor richards (headcanons)
somno with all of the boys (headcanons)
catching y/n watching porn (headcanons)
you better answer it (blurb)
johnny walking in on you cockwarming reed (headcanons)
cockwarming bucky while he gets a new tattoo (blurb)
everyone's favourite kinks + position + location + way to make y/n orgasm + roleplay scenario + nicknames for y/n + place to cum + punishments + partner for a threesome + aftercare + nicknames for the guys + dacryphilia + ass or tits + random audience + turn ons + porn + toy in the basement (headcanons)
~ 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!"
Summary: During the fight between team Iron Man and team Captain America, you get injured in a cross fire, but Peter is quick to help you even if you are on "opposite" teams.
Warnings: Possible swearing, fighting, blood, injuries, crying.
Reader's age: 16
The wind whipped my hair as I landed, the metallic tang of jet fuel sharp in the air. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the roar of engines and the sickeningly familiar thud of super-powered impacts. I was sixteen, barely out of high school, and here I was, standing on an airport tarmac, about to enter a fight between heroes. My heroes.
The air crackled with energy, a symphony of escalating destruction. War Machine’s repulsor blasts streaked through the sky, met by Hawkeye’s unerring arrows. Cap shouted orders, his voice carrying surprising clarity above the din. My allegiance was with him – with individual choice, with the notion that power shouldn't be entirely dictated by a government body. The Accords felt… wrong. An iron fist cloaked in bureaucracy.
My own power, the ability to manipulate kinetic energy, felt both exhilarating and terrifying in this environment. I could absorb impacts, redirect force, even generate small concussive bursts. It was a reflex now, a part of me, but this wasn't a sparring match. This was war.
"Y/n! Keep behind us!" Falcon's warning echoed as he zipped past, drawing fire from Vision. I ducked, feeling the heat wash over me as a vibrant green beam of energy seared the ground where I'd stood moments before. My instincts screamed at me to run, but my resolve solidified. I had to help.
I focused, absorbing the raw force of a falling crate that had been tossed aside like a toy by Giant-Man, then channelling it, pushing it away, sending it skidding harmlessly across the tarmac. This was different to anything I'd done before. The sheer scale, the uncontrolled power, it was intoxicating and terrifying all at once.
I saw him then – Spider-Man, a blur of red and blue, zipping around, talking a mile a minute. He was on Tony Stark's side, a kid like me, but already so far out of his depth. I briefly wondered if he was as scared as I was. Then, a blast from War Machine sent me stumbling, and I had to put my full concentration into maintaining a low-level kinetic shield around myself, deflecting the minor debris that rained down around me.
The fight churned into a dizzying kaleidoscope of motion. Giant-Man was roaring, taking on Iron Man and War Machine, while Spiderman zipped between their legs. Hawkeye was launching a barrage of trick arrows, one exploding near Black Panther, who seemed to be everywhere at once. I tried to create a diversion, sending a focused burst of kinetic energy towards a stack of abandoned luggage carts, hoping the distraction would draw attention away from Bucky and Cap, who were grappling with Black Panther.
It worked, for a split second. Then, something went wrong. A stray repulsor blast, meant for someone else, grazed a nearby fuel tank. The resulting explosion wasn't massive, but it was enough. The concussion wave hit me like a physical punch, forcing a gasp from my lungs. I felt my kinetic shield shatter, the protective energy dissipating into nothingness.
Before I could react, something hard and jagged – a piece of metal from the exploded tank, or perhaps a broken piece of tarmac – slammed into my left leg, just above the knee.
A white-hot agony flared through me, so intense it stole my breath. I stumbled, my leg giving out from under me as if it were made of jelly. The world tilted violently. I hit the ground hard, a choked noise escaping my lips. My vision swam, the cacophony of battle fading into a muffled roar, replaced by the ringing in my ears. Blood bloomed rapidly on my jeans, a dark stain against the dusty asphalt. I tried to push myself up, tried to re-engage my powers, but the pain was blinding, debilitating. I was useless. A sitting duck.
"Whoa! Are you okay?!" A voice, high-pitched and laced with concern, cut through my daze. A red and blue blur landed beside me. Spider-Man.
He knelt, his masked face turning to my leg. "Oh, man, that looks bad. Really bad. Like, 'call an ambulance and maybe a really good tailor' bad." Despite the gravity, his voice still held that nervous energy.
"I… I can't," I gasped, pain making my voice raw. "My leg…"
He didn't hesitate. "Alright, alright, deep breaths. This isn't good. You're out in the open. Tony's gonna kill me if I let you get squished. Or Cap. I don't know who's in charge of squishing." He rambled, but his hands were surprisingly gentle as he checked the wound. His gloved fingers were careful, not pressing too hard against the swelling.
"We gotta get you out of here," he decided, looking quickly around. "Hold on tight. This might be a little bumpy."
Before I could protest, he scooped me up, surprisingly strong for his slender frame. He held me carefully, almost tenderly, even as the battle raged around us; a torrent of power and light that flickered across his suit. My head lolled against his shoulder, the world spinning in nauseating circles.
He moved with incredible speed, not a web-slinging dash, not yet, but a frantic, bounding sprint, weaving expertly between stray blasts and giant fists. He muttered to himself, "Okay, okay, just past that crate. No, wait, Vision just blasted that crate. Uh oh. New plan. Big plane! Yes! Safety!"
He deposited me behind the landing gear of a colossal cargo plane, its cold metal surprisingly comforting against my back. "Stay here," he instructed, his voice serious now, all the earlier jitters gone. "Try not to move it. I'm gonna... I'm gonna see if I can find someone. Or, you know, just get this over with." He pulled off one of his web shooters, attaching it to the plane's strut near my head. "If anyone comes near you, just, uh, press this. It’ll make a really loud noise. Or shoot a web. I haven't quite figured that out yet."
He was on the opposite team. He was supposed to be my ‘enemy’ in this absurd, tragic conflict. But he hadn't hesitated. He hadn't asked questions. He had just seen someone in pain, someone in danger, and acted.
"Wait," I managed, gripping his costume, "Why did you…?"
He looked back at me, removing his mask, letting me see his face, "Because it's the right thing to do," he said, simply. "Doesn't matter what team you're on when someone's hurt."
He then went to leave, but stopped, "No matter how this fight turns out, remember one thing." He said.
"What's that?" I asked.
"I've got your back." He answered.
And then he was gone, a red and blue streak disappearing back into the chaos, leaving me alone with the throbbing pain in my leg and the unexpected warmth spreading through my chest.
⏜︵ including 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 bruce banner ╱ bucky barnes ╱ clint barton ╱ dr. strange ╱ natasha romanoff ╱ peter parker ╱ pietro maximoff ╱ sam wilson ╱ scott lang ╱ steve rogers ╱ tony stark ╱ thor odinson ╱ vision ╱ wanda maximoff
⠀ ㅤ۫ㅤ ͜ 𓈒 ⠀ 𝓑RUCE 𝓑ANNER ⠀ ︵˖⠀ ᩙᩙ ⠀
notebooks filled with equations half-erased by frustration. a whiteboard filled with formulas no one else could decipher. glasses sliding down your nose while you’re scribbling furiously. glass beakers clinking when you set them down too hard. leftover takeout containers on the floor. staring out the window at clouds. whispering “not today” when you feel anger bubbling. fists clenched under the table while pretending nothing is wrong. a half-drained bottle of pills. throwing something across the room in frustration. wishing you could fix everything. flipping a switch on the lab lights. avoiding mirrors. leaving your laptop half open because you can’t focus anymore. scratched-up microscopes. stacks of journals. overturned chairs. empty cardboard boxes used for storage. broken pens with ink smears. scorched metal clamps from experiments gone wrong. a wire bent awkwardly from constant adjustments. broken glasses held together with tape. notebooks with pages stuck together from spilled liquids. not being able to control your anger. checking your phone repeatedly to avoid making eye contact. a half-empty box of gloves. rubbing the back of your neck after a lab mistake no one noticed. half-dried chemical splashes across the counter. a binder spine split from overstuffing. pencil shavings. wanting to help others instead of yourself. leaving a window cracked to let in fresh air. anger issues. avoiding crowded rooms. watching the clock tick too slowly. staring at the ceiling when overwhelmed. pacing while phone rings unanswered. pressing a hand to your chest to slow your heartbeat. getting overwhelmed. a lab stool left spinning after you get up too fast. broken mechanical pencils you pressed too hard on. lab coats thrown over chairs instead of hung up. cracked ceramic bowls from dropping them during a bad morning. an unplugged charger you never remember to actually use. graph paper. outdated ID badges dangling from doorknobs. torn-out notebook pages scrunched into balls. batteries scattered on a desk from things he disassembled. reading glasses sitting on top of unopened mail. a stack of mint wrappers. loose change you never spend. paper towels used as tissues. a half-finished crossword puzzle.
⠀ ㅤ۫ㅤ ͜ 𓈒 ⠀ 𝓑UCKY 𝓑ARNES ⠀ ︵˖⠀ ᩙᩙ ⠀
dog tags you keep in a drawer instead of wearing. a folded piece of paper with a phone number he hasn’t called. instant oatmeal packets. a single plant he tries not to kill. taking the stairs instead of elevators. keeping an old photo in your wallet. sunglasses worn indoors. a fridge with three items in it. checking the peephole before unlocking the door. nodding instead of speaking when you’re tired. a baseball cap pulled low enough to disappear under. leftover bullets tossed in a drawer. a spare key he never gives to anyone. lingering in the cereal aisle longer than necessary. standing with your back to a wall. a single plate washed and drying in the rack. keeping your phone on silent. a book left open at a page you stopped on suddenly. leaving gatherings early because the noise gets too loud. a half-zipped duffel bag always ready to go. water rings on the nightstand. a beat-up backpack that’s been everywhere but home. learning to cook something simple. staring at the ceiling at 3 a.m. a metro ticket from a city he doesn’t remember visiting. hair falling into his eyes while he ties it back. half-smiles that look like they hurt. waking up from nightmares and pretending you didn’t. a surprising laugh. the ghost of a brooklyn accent. two unread books on the nightstand. keeping the curtains closed all day. a burner phone with the battery removed. losing yourself. keeping the same playlist for years. washing dishes at midnight because you can’t sleep. breaking a pencil in half. staring at your reflection like you’re trying to recognize it. sitting with your arms crossed. a single chair pulled away from the table. a lighter you don’t smoke with. avoiding bright lights. sitting in the shower with the water running. wearing the same hoodie for three days. a dish towel draped over the oven handle the same way every time. standing on the balcony just to breathe. an empty space on the wall where a picture used to hang. rubbing the bridge of your nose when you’re overwhelmed. standing in the kitchen in the dark. a coaster you try to remember to use. watching dust float in a sunbeam. locking the door behind you. a shadow stapled to you no matter where you go. leaning over the sink to steady yourself. a jacket you shrug on even when you’re not cold.
⠀ ㅤ۫ㅤ ͜ 𓈒 ⠀ 𝓒LINT 𝓑ARTON ⠀ ︵˖⠀ ᩙᩙ ⠀
bruises you don’t remember getting. letting your dog hog the entire bed without complaint. a fridge magnet shaped like a pizza slice. pretending you didn’t hear someone because you didn’t want to answer. wiping your hands on your jeans instead of using a towel. eating cereal for dinner again. squinting at signs you should be able to read. falling asleep with your hand still on the TV remote. the relief of sitting down after a long day. grocery shopping with zero plan. your dog’s leash hanging on a wall hook because it’s the only thing you never lose. sitting outside on the steps just to breathe. standing in front of the fridge staring blankly inside. shoving everything into the closet when someone visits. letting your dog lick the plate clean. slippers you wear down the hall but never outside. mismatched mugs because half the set broke years ago. a broom leaning in the corner from when you meant to sweep. leaving a light on in the bathroom without realizing it. burning your tongue because you were too hungry to wait. your pets toys pushed under the couch where neither of you can reach. forgetting what you were doing halfway through doing it. muttering you’ve gotta be kidding me at every minor inconvenience. zoning out mid-conversation and snapping back with a blink. laying face-down on the bed without taking your shoes off yet. leaning out of the shower to grab a towel you forgot. sleeping in. forgetting where you parked. shirts with tiny holes you refuse to throw away. heating pads. opening mail and immediately regretting opening mail. falling asleep in your chair instead of your bed. a drawer full of takeout soy sauce packets you’ll never use. calling every dog you see buddy. stretching your back until it pops. muttering nope when you see people drama. putting something “somewhere safe” and instantly forgetting where. leaving a half-empty water bottle in your car. letting laundry stay in the dryer for days. tv dinners. misplacing your glasses and blaming everyone else. sighing before getting out of the car. letting your dog pull you in whatever direction they want.
⠀ ㅤ۫ㅤ. ͜ 𓈒 ⠀ 𝓓R. 𝓢TRANGE ⠀ ︵˖⠀ ᩙᩙ ⠀
sitting on the floor with books spread around you. circles under your eyes that no amount of sleep fixes. rubbing your temple when people ask obvious questions. a sudden intense craving for solitude. looking done with everything before the day even starts. biting back a sharp comment and failing. pretending you’re fine because you have things to do. ancient symbols scribbled on scrap paper. judging someone silently for asking a stupid question. refusing to cry even when you need to. flipping to the exact page you need without even looking. ignoring someone mid-sentence because a thought suddenly clicked. refusing help even when you obviously need it. keeping people at arm’s length. judging people from behind your teacup. feeling more understood by texts written a thousand years ago than by people today. rolling your eyes. refusing to ask for clarification because you already know you won’t like the answer. letting someone finish their flawed reasoning before dismantling it. raising one eyebrow as your default response to nonsense. knowing you sound arrogant and deciding not to care. getting a headache from people. feeling out of sync with the world. sitting in the same spot for hours without realizing it. talking to yourself because everyone else is too frustrating. losing track of what day it is. jars filled with ingredients no one else could identify. pinching the bridge of your nose after hearing someone’s bad plan. staring at a candle flame. feeling older than you actually are. avoiding conversation because you have no energy to fake polite. waking up tired, going to bed tired. pointing out flaws in someone’s logic without looking up. correcting someone’s pronunciation mid-sentence. letting silence answer for you. only giving instructions once. closing a book with a sigh that sounds centuries old. reading while walking and never bumping into anything. forcing your expression into neutrality. choosing the most complicated explanation just to shut someone up. muttering unbelievable under your breath. walking away mid-conversation. giving someone a look that says please don’t. the soft glow of a relic lighting your face in the dark. old parchment paper. sigils drawn so many times you can do them in your sleep. closing yourself off mid-conversation without meaning to. drifting off into memories you don’t want to revisit. using precise, unnecessarily complex vocabulary to insult someone.
⠀ ㅤ۫ㅤ ͜ 𓈒 ⠀ 𝓝ATASHA 𝓡OMANOFF ⠀ ︵˖⠀ ᩙᩙ ⠀
checking your reflection in a mirror to watch someone behind you. fixing your lipgloss during a fight. a perfect poker face. not flinching when a door slams. lying convincingly. sitting cross-legged on the kitchen counter. instantly distrusting kindness. a copy of the great gatsby dog-eared in a corner. avoiding answering personal questions. keeping your true thoughts to yourself. a hidden knife tucked in a boot. letting someone else talk while you study their hands. waking up instantly alert. never forgetting a face. a passport with multiple identities hidden beneath the photo page. turning heads without trying. only letting someone see what you want them to. never showing your full hand. refusing to talk about your childhood. knowing exactly what you’re doing. a dress you could commit crimes in. feigning ignorance to gather information. not letting people know when something hurts. freezing people out when you’re angry. keeping conversations deliberately shallow. dark sunglasses resting on your head while listening. showing interest in someone just to manipulate outcomes. a hotel phone you’ve disconnected to avoid tracking. forgiving but not forgetting. letting someone think they’ve gotten to you when they haven’t. keeping a ledger of grudges mentally. a refusal to be controlled. expecting betrayal before trust. black heels dangling from your fingers. turning your back because you know they’ll follow. a hand on someone’s knee to get information. standing too close on purpose. letting someone think they’ve won your trust. keeping secrets you’ve long stopped caring about. catching someone’s lie mid-sentence. red heels left on the floor beside the bed. a smile that could either be cruel or flirtatious. hiding your phone screen from prying eyes even when it’s just a text. flicking hair back while maintaining eye contact. receipts from purchases meant to cover tracks. lipstick stains on a martini glass. an old journal with names crossed out violently. slipping small lies into the truth. letting someone win an argument so they underestimate you. saying less than you mean. hiding true intentions behind politeness.
⠀ ㅤ۫ㅤ ͜ 𓈒 ⠀ 𝓟ETER 𝓟ARKER ⠀ ︵˖⠀ ᩙᩙ ⠀
notebooks with drawings of webs in the margins. apologizing to strangers you bump into. a camera strap left tangled on the floor. missing homework because you were busy helping someone. leftover deli sandwich in a bag on your desk. sweaty palms hiding under the table during presentations. forgetting your bag on the bus but pretending it’s fine. a notebook of “what-if” science experiments. looking both ways thrice before crossing the street. fumbling with keys while anxious. staying up late editing photos of cityscapes. holding doors open for strangers. a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of your shoe. buying extra slices of pizza to give to a friend who forgot lunch. a stack of VHS tapes or DVDs that you refuse to replace with remakes. backpack jostled and overstuffed. calculator battery dying at the worst possible time. replaying a social interaction in your head a hundred times. scribbled reminders about deadlines you’ll miss anyway. getting nervous asking someone to sit with you at lunch. messy hair from rushing out of the subway. glancing at the clock constantly when you’re anticipating something. web-shooters hidden under jacket sleeves. doodles of spiders next to physics equations. stammering when introducing yourself to someone new. empty soda cans by your bed. apologizing when you bump into a pole. re-reading old science notes for fun. holding your breath when walking past someone intimidating. making comic book scenes that never make it past your notebook. checking on construction workers crossing the street while swinging by. quoting star wars. offering to help a stranger carry groceries. feeding stray cats. humming nerdy movie themes while doing homework. apologizing for things you didn’t do. picking up stray litter. noticing every act of small kindness. saying what you think people want to hear. a half-built lego set on your desk abandoned for homework. action figures lined up perfectly on a shelf. a half-written fan theory on a scrap of paper. marking your favorite scenes in a film script. a piggy bank for emergencies. giving your last five dollars to a homeless person. obsessively rereading a message to make sure you didn’t sound rude. defending someone getting bullied even if it means trouble for you. staying up late to finish a project so your team doesn’t get points taken off. staring out a window imagining swinging across the city. movie quotes in response to real-life drama. feeling guilty when you prioritize one thing over helping someone. respecting your elders. having a crush on someone you can barely even say hi to. sneaking back into your room after you’ve been out all night. losing track of time whenever you daydream. sticky notes reminding you to call someone. dirty sneakers from running through puddles. standing a little taller when someone you admire walks by. seeking approval from people you like.
⠀ ㅤ۫ㅤ ͜ 𓈒 ⠀ 𝓟IETRO 𝓜AXIMOFF ⠀ ︵˖⠀ ᩙᩙ ⠀
a racing heartbeat after jumping into something without thinking. speeding up during yellow lights instead of slowing down. standing in front of someone to block their view on purpose. getting along with kids easier than adults. grabbing a gadget and pressing buttons immediately. racing someone for no reason. tapping your fingers impatiently. leaving doors unlocked because “I’ll be back soon.” a grin when someone challenges you. leaning forward in a chair ready to spring. tapping your foot. ignoring safety instructions. tossing and catching items in the air while waiting impatiently. jumping into a fight before you know the plan. taking shortcuts that clearly look unsafe. teasing a sibling while secretly covering for them. cutting in line because it’s faster. pushing buttons you shouldn’t just to see what happens. grabbing the last slice of pizza before anyone else. moving faster than the group can keep up with. running into an abandoned building on a dare. making a sarcastic comment mid-crisis. jumping into water without checking depth. whispering jokes to someone when others are serious. pushing a lever without reading instructions. drumming fingers against your leg. grabbing the spotlight in a tense moment. ignoring rules. leaning out a window to see better than everyone else. shouting watch this before doing something reckless. bouncing knees under the table constantly. bouncing a ball against a wall. grabbing someone’s backpack to pull them along. shifting weight from foot to foot endlessly. rolling shoulders and cracking necks absentmindedly. spinning in a chair. fidgeting to concentrate. repeatedly checking the time even without urgency. skipping steps when walking to feel faster. hovering nearby to make sure someone’s safe. making a joke to lighten tension when someone’s scared. checking on a worried family member. the wind hitting your face when you run. silently watching someone to ensure they’re okay. never letting others see your vulnerability. holding a door for someone carrying too much. flicking someone to get a reaction. cracking a joke at the worst possible time. giving nicknames that only make sense to you. mimicking someone. teasing friends until they chase you. pretending to fall asleep mid-conversation. joking about things that make others nervous. making faces behind someone’s back. sneakers worn on the soles. pushing a grocery cart and jumping on it. letting a little sister take the last cookie, but only because you like seeing her happy. teasing someone for overthinking while secretly doing the same. grinning when you win an argument. flopping dramatically on a couch.
⠀ ㅤ۫ㅤ ͜ 𓈒 ⠀ 𝓢AM 𝓦ILSON ⠀ ︵˖⠀ ᩙᩙ ⠀
worn aviator sunglasses left on the dashboard. offering to carry something heavy without thinking. sneakers scuffed from too many runs. pausing to make sure no one got left behind. a backpack with a zippered compartment for everything. checking gear before a mission. pacing when waiting for news you can’t control. uneven laces because he’s in a rush. earbuds dangling around his neck mid-conversation. shaking your head at a plan that’s obviously going to fail. a worn baseball cap shoved into a backpack. utility knife clipped to a backpack strap. offering your jacket when someone else looks cold. wishing people would anticipate what you need. tapping your fingers impatiently when someone’s slow. leaning on a counter with a look that screams I can’t deal with this. judging questionable life choices. frowning when someone hesitates on something you know they can do. smiling tightly to hide annoyance. trying to fix things before anyone else notices they’re broken. tapping the steering wheel impatiently at a red light. feeling frustrated when others don’t care as much as you do. walking a friend home because its safer. running errands. reminding yourself to be patient with others. giving a nod of encouragement instead of words. clenching your jaw when someone refuses to listen. crossing your arms and sighing when plans are delayed. worrying you’re not doing enough for the people you care about. clapping slowly when someone is obviously behind. wishing someone would just hurry up already. stepping in before a situation escalates. a half-empty thermos left on the kitchen counter. sometimes giving the benefit of the doubt even when you don’t want to. protecting your space, your time, and your energy. feeling frustrated when people don’t respect your expertise. keeping your distance emotionally until trust is earned. “really?” under your breath at avoidable mistakes. secretly holding grudges for a long time before letting go. giving orders once and expecting them followed. narrowing eyes at obvious lies. chuckling when someone accidentally proves your point. giving one-word answers because you’ve had enough talking. a first-aid kit stashed in a bag. wearing a pair of binoculars around your neck.
⠀ ㅤ۫ㅤ ͜ 𓈒 ⠀ 𝓢COTT 𝓛ANG ⠀ ︵˖⠀ ᩙᩙ ⠀
waving at someone and realizing they weren’t waving at you. a neon-colored sticky note stuck to your fridge reminding you to “call mom.” tripping over your own feet in front of a crowd. pretending you understood instructions you didn’t. old magazines collecting dust. a small stuffed animal forgotten in the closet. trying to impress someone with a skill you barely remember. forgetting which door you came in from. giving a pep talk to yourself before doing something. t-shirts from old gigs or jobs. wanting to impress people you admire. popcorn kernels stuck in the couch cushions. trying to remember everyone’s names at a big gathering. rambling about your favorite sci-fi movie. cheering for yourself when no one is watching. a bag of trail mix left open for days. explaining a joke too much because someone didn’t get it. attempting to stealthily sneak past someone and failing. trying to mediate an argument even if you’re confused. a hammer you never actually use. talking to animals like they understand. joking to hide insecurity. a half-eaten bag of chips on the couch. superhero trading cards. trying to make everything a team effort. a tiny broken toy you’re secretly attached to. panicking when everyone else seems to have it together. doing favors you don’t want to just to be liked. thinking everyone else is better at adulting than you. making impulsive decisions to prove yourself. worrying if someone’s mad at you even if it’s unrelated. daydreaming mid-conversation. wanting to help everyone but knowing you can’t. laughing at a joke you don’t really get just to fit in. feeling nervous when meeting someone important. wishing people would notice your effort. pretending to be okay with criticism . wanting everyone to like you. eating ice cream to cope with being sad. forgetting the password to your netflix account. nodding seriously during a conversation he completely lost track of five minutes ago. doing finger guns and immediately regretting the finger guns. saying not to brag before telling the least brag-worthy story imaginable. forgetting where you put something while holding it in your hand. getting peer pressured because you want to fit in. trying to relate to teens and accidentally sounding like a dad who just discovered slang.
⠀ ㅤ۫ㅤ ͜ 𓈒 ⠀ 𝓢TEVE 𝓡OGERS ⠀ ︵˖⠀ ᩙᩙ ⠀
a wristwatch that’s older than most people in the room. missing people you’ll never see again. carrying other people’s guilt. addressing strangers as sir/ma’am even if they’re younger. defending someone who doesn’t deserve it. neatly stacked newspapers. holding doors open for long, uncomfortable lengths of time. refusing to sit while others are standing. envelopes sealed with wax instead of glue. saying it’s alright even when it’s not. a pocketknife he’s had since the 1940s. honest eyes that give away too much. being suspicious of smartphones listening to you. record players. smiling awkwardly when someone compliments you. a perfectly made bed. avoiding burdening anyone with your problems. taking screenshots accidentally. feeling guilty for saying no. black and white films. offering help even when you’re not asked. being too polite to correct someone. typing with one finger. stepping aside so others can go first. saying the google without irony. expecting too much from yourself. eating the burnt piece so no one else has to. a sketch he never finished. loving people you can never fully have. helping an elderly person cross the street. cleaning up after yourself in public places. not understanding why people record concerts instead of watching. a candle blown out before leaving the room. feeling out of place in your own life. choosing kindness even when the world has not been. a keychain from a place that doesn’t exist anymore. worrying more about others’ comfort than your own. being the first to apologize. saying back in my day unironically. getting intimidated by starbucks sizes. replaying decisions you cannot change. forgiving everyone but yourself. vintage postcards he never mailed. a bowl of apples always on the counter. neatly stacked firewood. being too hard on yourself even when you did your best. missing a version of yourself that never existed. stepping into responsibility automatically. staying calm so others don’t panic. avoiding conflict. feeling like you don’t fit the version of yourself others see. giving second chances too easily. hating when people worry about you. a photo booth strip of smiles that no longer exist. rolled sleeves revealing veins. expecting yourself to endure anything. bruised knuckles wrapped in clean white bandages. a bottle of aftershave that lasts him too long. attracting people who need saving. staying kind even when it’s not reciprocated. trying to be the person others think you are. shirts ironed with military precision. dropping everything for someone in need. charcoal sketches scattered across his desk. having a moral compass that hurts more than it helps. walking away instead of starting a fight you’d win. seeing the best in people who have none to offer. wanting peace but being built for war. loving people harder than they’ll ever love you back. accidentally intimidating people just by existing. being loyal long after someone stopped deserving it. never knowing where you truly belong. struggling to let go of the past.
⠀ ㅤ۫ㅤ ͜ 𓈒 ⠀ 𝓣ONY 𝓢TARK ⠀ ︵˖⠀ ᩙᩙ ⠀
refusing to apologize first. stark tower illuminated against the night skyline. custom-tailored suits hanging in a temperature-controlled closet. knowing people like you for exactly who you are or hate you for it. sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose. dismissing criticism rather than listening. a rooftop party. floors so polished you see your own reflection. standing in the spotlight. people knowing who you are everywhere you go. being completely unbothered when someone doesn’t like you. a velvet rope parting automatically as you walk toward the party entrance. spending days alone in your room. obsessing over legacy and how you’ll be remembered. thinking rules exist to be bent or broken. impulsively jumping into danger. resenting authority because of early betrayals. laughing at inappropriate moments. taking risks to feel alive. reminiscing about a father who was distant and critical. private jets landing outside. needing admiration. obsessively reworking ideas because you see flaws no one else does. sabotaging all your relationships. floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a city. refusing to conform to expectations. smart glasses that record everything. a car with doors that open like wings. ordering another drink. choosing ego over confession. pushing people away. a champagne bottle popping just as someone yells your name. photographers’ cameras clicking incessantly. a limousine door opening before you even reach it. knowing you’re the smartest person in the room. exclusive invites. glancing at a crowd and everyone is watching you. intentionally being obnoxious. never apologizing for your personality. refusing to depend on anyone for anything. pushing others buttons for fun. asking personal questions but never answering them. making sure your opinion is heard. loving the sound of your own voice. showing interest in people selectively. believing everyone struggles, so your pain isn’t special. people constantly misjudging you based on appearance. keeping your true feelings to yourself. pouring a drink to deal with your feelings. going for days without sleep. replaying arguments with parents that never had closure. feeling lonely in a crowded room. isolating yourself for months. leaving parties with someone’s number you’ll never call. wanting to be better than you are. one night stands. giving people the best night of their life then disappearing. dismissing someone’s pain because you survived worse. keeping relationships shallow on purpose.
⠀ ㅤ۫ㅤ ͜ 𓈒 ⠀ 𝓣HOR 𝓞DINSON ⠀ ︵˖⠀ ᩙᩙ ⠀
sparks dancing off a weapon being forged. being separated from friends in class for talking too much. not understanding sarcasm. a feast table littered with half-eaten fruit and overturned cups. making a kid cry in fortnite. laughter echoing in a grand hall. an inability to whisper no matter how hard he tries. wanting to be close to someone who keeps slipping away. storm clouds gathering behind a silhouette. needing a purpose constantly or feeling useless. staring with open admiration because subtlety isn’t his thing. showing off in fights. defending your sibling even when they’d happily blame you. being unreasonably optimistic until the very last second. trying to lead even when you should listen. mourning a bond that never fully existed. taking everything too literally. fear of rejection. treating friends like family. ducking to fit in doorframes. wind slamming a door shut even though the windows are closed. answering questions with confidence even when you’re guessing. wanting a simple bond but getting a complicated one. getting way too competitive over board games. defending your friends instantly without knowing the full story. telling exaggerated stories that keep getting bigger. confidently mispronouncing a word and refusing to admit it. getting offended when someone says you’re wrong. yearning for old memories that mattered to you more. wind catching your hair at the perfect moment. trusting too easily and entirely. promising you won’t brag and then bragging immediately. being the first to volunteer when a friend needs help. offering to fix something even when you have no idea how. a laugh that shakes the walls. wanting forgiveness faster than you deserve it. speaking from the heart even when you should think first. eating like you haven’t seen food in centuries. forgetting your own strength. trusting someone again right after they broke that trust. holding onto hope long after others have let go. correcting someone’s story because they didn’t make you sound impressive enough. needing everyone to know you contributed. getting defensive when someone points out your flaws. throwing yourself into danger because you don’t know who you are without it. mistaking your own self-destruction for bravery. fearing that the best version of you already died. being angry at the past and nostalgic for it at the same time. waiting outside someone’s door just to make sure they’re alright. smiling proudly when someone you care about wins. wanting to share good news with someone who no longer answers. trying to be what they needed but never knowing what that was. assuming every dog at the park wants to play with you. clapping someone on the back so hard they stumble. using way too many exclamation marks in texts.
⠀ ㅤ۫ㅤ ͜ 𓈒 ⠀ 𝓥ISION ⠀ ︵˖⠀ ᩙᩙ ⠀
floating a few inches off the ground when you’re deep in thought. struggling to fit in with others. realizing you don’t know why your chest hurts, only that it does. mourning things you’ve never lived. accidentally hurting someone’s feelings. dressing like a math teacher. trying to use logic to solve a problem that is definitely emotional. sitting stiffly on a couch. being the quiet one in the friend group because you don’t want to interrupt. a mug held too delicately in careful hands. knowing how everyone else feels but not yourself. the click of a lamp turning on in a room. overanalyzing intentions. a single ray of sunlight warming one side of your face. finding a forgotten note in handwriting you recognize instantly. choosing to be gentle. finding symmetry in unrelated objects. knowing too much and not enough at the same time. practicing smiles in the mirror. wanting to hold someone’s hand but unsure if you should. understanding loneliness. finding comfort in routines. being too honest. not knowing how to comfort someone crying. lining up pencils so their points are perfectly parallel. hovering your hand over someone’s shoulder. overthinking a handshake. opening your mouth to speak and closing it when someone else does. smiling a second too late because you had to process the joke. waiting for permission to sit beside someone. stepping aside so someone else can walk through the doorway first. speaking formally without meaning to. pausing to hear birds chirping. noticing a chair slightly out of place and straightening it. pausing before speaking. asking may i before doing something. stopping to smell a flower. studying a pattern in wallpaper. lining objects by size. following traffic laws precisely. noticing someone’s posture change mid-conversation.
⠀ ㅤ۫ㅤ ͜ 𓈒 ⠀ 𝓦ANDA 𝓜AXIMOFF ⠀ ︵˖⠀ ᩙᩙ ⠀
staring into a puddle and seeing a distorted reflection. watching embers fade in a fireplace. feeling everything too intensely. flickering candlelight casting shadows across your room. leaning against brick walls. longing for simple joys. shuffling a deck of tarot cards. thinking about the what ifs constantly. wanting revenge. hoping to be recognized for your strength. pressing your palms to a cold wall and tracing its cracks. watching kids play across the street. loose sheets of music fluttering in the breeze. feeling conflicted between right and wrong. curling into a window seat with an old blanket. longing for family connection that’s gone or never existed. watching everyone back away from you. listening to rain hit tin roofs. a red ribbon tied to a branch. wondering if anyone would care if you disappeared. loving someone so fiercely it terrifies you. feeling envy for people who had a normal life. leaves crunching under boots in a quiet park. wishing you could undo the past every day. fear you pretend not to feel. drifting your hand over tall grass as you walk past. wanting to call someone you no longer can. a streetlamp about to burn out. touching a cracked mirror. staring at your hands and feeling afraid of them. an old television left on in the background. picking at chipped nail polish. pressing your forehead to a cold window. humming a lullaby from your childhood. picking up broken objects even when they cut your palms. reading old journals and not recognizing yourself. twisting your rings when you’re anxious. stepping into a warm room after being cold for too long. wandering markets and not buying anything. letting wind whip your hair around dramatically. sitting on a rooftop with your knees pulled to your chest. keeping old friendship bracelets. wrapping your arms around yourself when no one else will. smoothing wrinkles out of your clothes. stepping into shadowy alleys without fear. letting your fingers hover over something before touching it. realizing you’re not the same person anymore. missing your home. loving kids even though they cry when they see you. taking what you want without asking. smelling a jacket that belonged to your brother. crying yourself to sleep. dried rose petals in a shallow bowl. a necklace twisted around a finger for comfort.
How the different Avengers take care of a sick Omega Reader
The Alphas:
Bucky-
it depends on when you get sick.
If he’s still on the run then he rarely ever leaves the your side. The only time he does is to get food. He’d buy fruits, white bread, white rice, and other easy to digest foods. He’d probably skin and boiled some apples before mashing them up to make applesauce
He definitely doesn’t trust anyone to help his omega. Would definitely feed you by hand and be waiting on you constantly. Barely ever lets you leave your nest
If you’re feeling weak then he’ll help you get around and help you bathe. He’ll cuddle with you and make sure you’re drinking water. He’ll always have a large bowl or bucket nearby in case you puke
If it’s after he reunites with Steve and spends time in Wakanda
He’ll immediately alert whoever, either Friday or someone in Wakanda depending on where you guys are
He’ll allow Bruce or whoever to look you over and give you medicine but he will be hovering around watching
Treats whatever the doctors say as gospel and makes sure to follow it. If you want a food that the doctors didn’t specify say was okay then you’re not getting it
Might let Steve look after you if needed
Loki-
How he goes about caring for his omega depends on whether he’s on earth or Asgard
King. Of. Comfort. Is your nest too small? Don’t worry you can have the entire floor if necessary. Blankets not soft enough? He’s getting you the most luxurious and soft blankets ever. Lights too bright? He’s about to fight the fucking sun. There is nothing this man won’t do for his omega
Would personally oversee the chefs who make your meals by using a clone if you’re on Asgard. If you’re on earth then he’s constantly backseat driving while either Bruce, Wanda or Pepper cook for you. They’re the only people he trusts to not poison you accidentally
He would cook your food himself but he wants the best for you and his cooking isn’t. Also, he doesn’t want to leave your side while you’re not feeling well
If you have to take medicine that you don’t like then he’s going to find a way to get it in you. Doesn’t matter the method, if you need this medicine you’re getting this medicine even if he has to trick you or seduce you
If you’re sore or tired and need a bath then he’s more than happy to help. He’ll carefully wash your hair and skin, making sure not to get soap in your eyes. He’s careful not to jostle you too much in case you’re feeling queasy
If you’re having trouble keeping things down then he’ll hold your hair back and sit with you by the toilet. If you’re crying from the constant vomiting then he’ll rub your back and softly sing to you to comfort you
If your nest doesn’t feel right then he’ll gladly be your proxy and build your nest for you as you tell him where to put things. It doesn’t matter how many times he has to repeat the process, as long as you’re comfortable
If you’re just an overall emotional mess then he’ll be more than happy to comfort you in your time of need. If you’re just so sick of feeling sick he might put a sleep spell on you so you don’t have to suffer, he’ll watch over you and make sure you come out feeling better
Thor-
Giant. Puppy. Energy. He will cuddle with you, bring you food, watch tv with you. Whatever makes you feel better, he’s down for it
You want to snuggle and have skin to skin contact? Move over, he’s already lost his clothes and doesn’t mind snuggling. You’re self conscious because you’re sweaty, your hair is a mess, you look like shit? He only sees the most beautiful omega ever and he’s more than happy to prove it to you
Whatever food you need he’s gonna get. If he has to fly across the world just to get these one chips you like only to return and you throw up after eating them, he doesn’t care. As long as it’s to help you, he’ll do whatever he needs to
You want to steal his cape and use it in your nest? He already put it there. The world needs saving, eh, there’s always tomorrow, right now his omega needs him
If you’re fussy and a pain when your sick, he doesn’t mind, you don’t feel well so he’s happy to let you do whatever you need to make you feel better
He’ll tell you stories about his childhood and his adventures as you lay your head on his chest and try to rest
He’ll bring you the fluffiest blankets for your nest and help you build it too, all he wants is for his omega to get better
Steve Rodgers-
Having spent over a decade being sick in the past, he’s no stranger to being ill. He might not be an omega anymore but he knows and remembers what helped him
He’ll make old family recipes just for you, he’ll use everything he remembers from being sick. Cold damp towel on your forehead to help ease the fever, warm blankets and easy to digest meals
He’s more than happy to feed you if you need it. If you can’t keep things down then he’s already got the puke bucket ready for you by your side
If nothing works then he’s happy to do some research even if he struggles with it
Will gladly let Bruce look you over and give you a checkup. If you need medicine and you hate the way it tastes he’ll use every trick in the book to get you to take the medicine. Afterwards he’ll give you praise and lots of snuggles
He’ll help you bathe but he’ll definitely be shy about it. He has to clean your crotch and chest? His face is red as he looks away but he’s gentle and thorough making sure you get clean
If you have an accident like throwing up on yourself because you couldn’t reach the bucket or the toilet fast enough and your embarrassed, he’ll smile softly and reassure you that whatever you did, he’s probably done at least twice. He’ll even tell you embarrassing stories about himself and have Bucky join in if it makes you feel better
Bruce/Hulk-
There’s only one thing these two can agree on and it’s that they love/care about you
The moment Bruce realizes you’re sick, he goes full mother hen mode. Partially because he himself is an omega, but also because it’s the doctor in him. He brings you to his lab or he brings his equipment to you and does whatever tests he needs
Hulk will be yelling at him in his head the entire time to let him out so he can take care of you while Bruce does his check up on you
Bruce somehow manages to convince Hulk to let him run the tests so he can make sure your condition is nothing serious. Once they both know that it’s just the flu and you won’t die or need some exotic/fancy treatment then Bruce relents and allows Hulk to care for you
Hulk is definitely a cuddler, he climbs into your nest and lets you use him as a bed. He’s got his arms around you and holds you keeping you warm. C’mon, the guys practically a giant gamma powered heater
Hulk will wrap you up in a blanket burrito and purr to you, Hulk can be surprisingly soothing and he holds nothing back, he knows he can’t smash the germs making you sick, so he provides moral support while your body fights
Hulk listens to Bruce’s instructions on how to care for you and make you food. If his form is too inconvenient then he’ll let Bruce handle the intricate things like cooking or getting your medicine
Bruce has a Hulk sized tub so Hulk can bathe, Hulk helps you and is gentle with you as he washes your hair and body. Makes sure you’re nice and dry using his big towel
Hulk gently rubs your back as you puke and holds your hair back. He doesn’t like seeing you so miserable
If you want to watch movies then Hulk will cuddle with you even if you fall asleep and he hates the movie, anything for his omega
The Betas:
Scott Lang-
This sweet baby is immediately on his feet and worried for you
He might not be an alpha but that has nothing to do with how much he loves/cares for you
This lovable goofball is running around like a chicken with his head cut off at the first sign of the sniffles
Will definitely get the ants to help clean the house and make sure to sanitize everything so that the germs are gone
If you’re puking then he’ll braid your hair and put it in a bun so it’s out of the way, he has a daughter so his papa instincts are in full swing
He helps you get in and out of your nest, bringing you whatever you need and making sure you’re warm and cozy
If you’re feeling down or tired of being sick then he’s more than happy to cheer you up. Cue the magic tricks and playing rockband with the ants
He’s more than happy to cuddle with you if it makes you feel better, anything for you
He doesn’t mind if your nose is stuffed or runny, he’s got plenty of tissues and even makes a game of seeing how many he can throw in the trash from afar
Tony Stark-
Now he knows he’s not the best with caring for sick people but as the team’s omega, which he personally recruited, he takes his job seriously
He’ll have Bruce look you over and make sure it’s just the flu before making sure that you have everything you need
If you specifically want him to snuggle with you then move over, he’s snuggling but your watching a movie too
He’ll have either Jarvis or Friday monitor you so he can ensure that you’re eating and staying hydrated. If you’re puking they’ll alert him so he can make sure you get easy to digest meals
He’ll watch bad movies with you so the both of you can roast the movie. For example: an old sci/fi with terrible visual effects that he’ll keep commenting on. That or you’ll watch YouTube videos of people failing and doing stupid stuff
He’ll gladly order whatever you need no matter how ridiculous, if a dozen dancing cacti make you feel better, you’re going to get double
You’re not allowed to move from your nest unless it’s to use the bathroom. He’s very controlling but in a loving sense. You don’t move to get anything, that’s why he’s here, he’ll get what you need so don’t move
He almost becomes like a worried parent, constantly hovering over the line of ‘its just a bruise’ and ‘everyone panic! It’s the return of the plague’. He’s constantly a mix between relaxed and incredibly worried
