Hi! Heres some basic information about me + my blog that you should know! <3
You may call me Ace or Shifter <3
I use any pronouns!
I am 21 and was born July 26th!
I am bisexual ❤️💜💙
I am agender 🖤🩶🤍💚🤍🩶🖤
Im from the good ol south of the USA
I own 3 cats <3
Transformers
KPOP Demon Hunters
Marvel
DC
Aliens vs Predator
Avatar (James Cameron)
Dungeons & Dragons
BG3
This will contain links to all my writing posts + series masterlist links!
DC
• Into the Batverse Masterlist [STATUS: ONGOING]
Yaujta/Predator
• Gladiator Reader Masterlist [STATUS: Hiatus]
KPOP Demon Hunters
• Siren! Reader Idea
Avatar
• Home is Where The Heart Lies (Tsu'tey x Twin Sister Sully! Reader)
• A Mother's Love (Quaritch x Omaticaya! Reader) Masterlist [STATUS: ONGOING]
• The People's Song (So'lek x Sarentu! Reader Masterlist [STATUS: ONGOING]
Transformers
• DreamCatcher/Fetch Blurb - 02•07•2026
Dreamcatcher/Fetch Valentines Day Special - 02•15•2026
Racism will not be tolerated
Homophobia will not be tolerated
Transphobia will not be tolerated
Do not vent in my ask box
Please be at least 18+ when following/interacting with me and my blog
Criticism is fine but hate will be ignored + you will be blocked
If you support Trump, ICE, Charlie Kirk, or MAGA in any shape or form please do not interact with me cause you are awful <3
I won't write for every kink but that does not mean you are allowed to kink shame!
Main kinks i WONT write for: Scat | Piss | Hard degradation | Rape | SA | Incest | Heavy Impact play (stuff like slapping in the face hard) | Child play | Age regression | Beastiality | More to be added
People who have detransitioned (wether out of necessity or those who don't see being trans as "a trend") are NOT your enemy
And if you think that a specific group of trans people or gnc people or any"the enemy", you're just wrong. No group of trans people is the reason for the hate cast towards us, and saying so is transphobic.
if u call urself a misandrist I'm going to assume ur homophobic. I'm gonna assume that ur at the very least weird about trans women like me, that you're going to judge them based on how they pass, on how out they are, on what level of transition they are at. I'm gonna assume ur racist too. like. idk "misandry" very feels like the sorta "feminism" someone is really into when they're in high school and carefully making sure to never think about anything.
and do you believe yourself to be an unfailing arbiter of who that is? and is it truly all cishet men? do you hate men of color, if they are cishet? what about intersex men? why not just hate bigoted people? why find groups of people, groups big enough to undoubtedly contain marginalized people?
sorry but once you notice how often ppl use a southern accent as shorthand for being unintelligent you can never unsee it. classism is baked so deeply and why are you acting like anyone who talks the way my grandfather talks is stupid.
ꜰᴀᴛᴜɪ ʜᴀʀʙɪɴɢᴇʀꜱ & when they realize they fell in love with you
Pulcinella is not included! All x Fem Reader.
Some very ooc- First time doing something like this so be nice :D
Accepting requests in the comments!
THANK YOU FOR THIS REQUEST @koshiroyuzu
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
⋆˙⟡ ℭ𝔬𝔩𝔲𝔪𝔟𝔦𝔫𝔞⋆˙⟡
Columbina didn’t realize it all at once.
There was no dramatic moment where everything suddenly clicked into place. Love, for her, came quietly. Softly. Like something that had always existed and simply waited for her to notice it.
At first, she just liked being near you.
She would drift into rooms you were in without thinking about it. Sit beside you in comfortable silence. Listen to you speak with that distant little smile on her face, humming softly whenever you laughed.
And one day, you reached over absentmindedly and fixed one of the feathers near her shoulder.
Such a small thing.
Barely anything.
Yet Columbina went strangely still.
“You looked crooked,” you murmured casually.
She stared at you for a long moment after that. Not unsettling. Just… thoughtful.
Because nobody had ever touched her so gently without fear before.
Later that night, she found herself replaying the moment over and over again in her head. The warmth of your fingers. The easy affection in your voice. The way you didn’t hesitate to touch her at all.
That was the first crack.
The realization came later.
You had fallen asleep beside her, curled comfortably against her shoulder while rambling halfway through some story. Your words had slowly faded into quiet breathing, and Columbina simply sat there listening to it.
Listening.
Watching.
Feeling something ache softly in her chest.
Not unpleasant.
Just… deep.
She looked down at you resting against her and whispered quietly, almost surprised by the truth of it.
“Oh.”
That was all.
No panic. No denial.
Just understanding.
Then her fingers carefully brushed through your hair as she smiled faintly to herself.
“So this is what it is.”
And from that point on, her devotion became absolute.
⋆.˚𝒜𝔯𝔩𝔢𝔠𝔠𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔬⋆.˚
Arlecchino noticed it long before she admitted it.
That was the problem.
She started making exceptions for you first.
Small ones.
Insignificant ones.
Allowing you to interrupt her work. Letting conversations go on longer than necessary. Memorizing details about your habits without meaning to.
At first, she told herself it was practicality.
You were useful to keep close. Pleasant to tolerate. Nothing more.
Then one evening, you arrived injured.
Not severely. Just enough to matter.
And Arlecchino reacted before thinking.
The moment she saw the blood on your sleeve, her expression sharpened instantly.
“Who did this?”
The question came out cold enough to freeze the room.
You tried to wave it off with a laugh. “It’s not that seriou—”
“It is to me.”
That silence afterward was what finally unsettled her.
Because she meant it.
Entirely.
She patched you up herself despite insisting someone else could have done it. Her hands were precise as always, but noticeably tighter than usual whenever you winced.
“You’re glaring at the bandages like they insulted you personally,” you teased softly.
“I dislike carelessness.”
“That wasn’t my fault.”
“I am aware.”
Yet she still looked irritated.
Not at you.
At the fact that you had gotten hurt at all.
And when you smiled at her afterward—warm, trusting, completely unaware of what you were doing to her—something in her chest pulled painfully tight.
That was the moment she understood.
Not attraction. Not attachment.
Love.
Deep enough to make her afraid for you.
Deep enough to make her dangerous about you.
Arlecchino went very still after that realization.
Then she sighed quietly and pressed a final bandage into place.
“…You are becoming a problem.”
You blinked at her. “Excuse me?”
Her gaze lingered on your face for one long second too many.
“…Nothing,” she answered flatly.
But her hand stayed on yours a moment longer than necessary before she finally let go.
✧.*𝔓𝔦𝔢𝔯𝔯𝔬 ✧.*
Pierro realized it in the worst possible way:
Through fear.
Not fear for himself.
For you.
He had spent centuries mastering restraint, distancing himself from attachment, burying softer emotions beneath duty and ambition. He considered it necessary. Efficient.
Then you walked into his life and quietly dismantled all of it without even trying.
At first, he appreciated your presence because it was calming. You spoke to him normally. Not with fear. Not with worship. Just honesty.
It became… addictive.
He began seeking you out without consciously meaning to. Asking for your opinion. Allowing you to remain beside him during long stretches of work neither of you needed to discuss.
And one night, you didn’t show up.
Simple as that.
You were late.
Objectively, it meant nothing.
Yet Pierro found himself unable to focus.
Every passing minute irritated him further. He reread the same document three times without absorbing a single word. His thoughts kept circling back to one thing:
Where are you?
Then the door finally opened.
“There you are,” you sighed, stepping inside. “Sorry, I got held up—”
Pierro stood so abruptly the chair scraped harshly against the floor.
You froze.
“…Pierro?”
The relief that hit him was immediate. Violent.
And horrifying.
Because in that moment, he understood exactly how deeply you had rooted yourself inside him.
You looked confused by his expression.
“You thought something happened to me?”
He said nothing.
Which was answer enough.
You softened instantly. “Hey… I’m alright.”
You stepped closer carefully, placing a hand against his arm.
And Pierro—normally so composed, so untouchable—closed his eyes briefly at the contact like it physically grounded him.
That was when he knew.
Not because you were there.
Because the thought of losing you had genuinely frightened him.
He opened his eyes again slowly before murmuring in a low voice:
“…Do not do that again.”
You smiled a little. “Be late?”
“Disappear.”
The word came out quieter than expected.
More honest, too.
And from then on, Pierro carried the unbearable truth with him constantly:
His heart no longer belonged entirely to himself.
꩜ S𝔠𝔞𝔯𝔞𝔪𝔬𝔲𝔠𝔥𝔢 ꩜
Scaramouche realized it slowly.
Then all at once.
And he hated every second of it.
At first, he only noticed the irritation.
You occupied too much of his attention. Your voice lingered in his head after conversations ended. He kept finding himself looking for you in crowded rooms without meaning to.
Annoying.
Pathetic.
Weak.
He told himself that repeatedly.
Yet somehow, it only got worse.
He became territorial without understanding why. Short-tempered whenever someone got too close to you. Irritated when you smiled at other people for too long.
“You’re glaring again,” you pointed out one evening.
“I always glare.”
“…Not usually at innocent civilians.”
“They looked at you wrong.”
You blinked.
“They asked me what time it was.”
“Exactly.”
He turned away immediately after saying it, clearly irritated with himself for even speaking.
Because deep down, he already knew.
He just refused to call it what it was.
Love felt dangerous to him. Stupid. Reckless. The kind of thing people used against you.
And Scaramouche had spent far too long surviving to willingly hand someone that kind of power.
Then one night, you laughed.
That was it.
Not at him. Not because of anything important. You were sitting beside him rambling about something completely ridiculous, and suddenly you laughed so hard you leaned against his shoulder without thinking.
And Scaramouche froze.
Completely.
Because his first thought wasn’t to shove you away.
It was:
Stay.
The realization hit him so hard it made him feel physically ill.
His chest tightened painfully. His stomach twisted. He looked at you like you had personally betrayed him by making him feel something this raw.
“…You’re insufferable,” he muttered bitterly.
You snorted. “You say that every day.”
“I mean it every day.”
Yet he didn’t move away from you.
Didn’t stop you from leaning against him.
Didn’t stop staring at your smile when you weren’t looking.
And eventually—after days of anger, denial, pacing, and internal screaming—Scaramouche came to one miserable conclusion:
He would rather have this painful, terrifying thing than lose you.
That was the part that finally broke him.
Because once he accepted that?
There was no going back.
One night, completely unprompted, he suddenly muttered:
“…I hate what you’ve done to me.”
You blinked at him. “What did I do?”
He stared at you for a long moment before looking away sharply.
“…Made me care.”
And despite how angry he sounded—
His hand still reached for yours beneath the table.
𖤓 𝒯𝒶𝓇𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓁𝒾𝒶 𖤓
Tartaglia fell in love with you like getting hit in the face with a brick.
Fast. Hard. Immediate.
There was no denial stage.
No fear.
Only overwhelming certainty.
One day he was teasing you over dinner, grinning like usual while you rolled your eyes at him—
And the next, he was staring at you halfway through your sentence thinking:
I want to marry her.
The realization was so abrupt he almost laughed out loud.
Because of course this would happen to him.
You looked at him suspiciously. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
“You’re pretty,” he answered immediately.
“That’s not new.”
“No, but right now it feels like a personal attack.”
You burst out laughing.
And that was it for him.
Done.
Finished.
Gone.
Tartaglia loves loudly by nature, and once he realized what he felt for you, it infected everything about him. He wanted you involved in every part of his life immediately.
He talked about the future without even thinking about it.
“You’d love my siblings,” he says casually one afternoon.
You blink. “Your siblings?”
“Mhm.” He smiles lazily. “You’d fit right in.”
Then, after a pause:
“You’d look good with my last name too.”
You nearly choke.
Meanwhile, he’s completely serious.
That’s the terrifying part.
Tartaglia becomes almost love-drunk once he falls. Softer around you. Happier. More reckless with affection.
He drapes himself over you constantly. Grins whenever you walk into a room. Brags about you to other people like it’s his favorite hobby.
And when he realizes you’re looking at him with the same warmth he feels for you?
God.
He practically glows.
One evening, while you’re half asleep against his chest, he suddenly blurts out:
“I think I want everything with you.”
You mumble sleepily, “Everything?”
“House. Family. Matching old people chairs.” He presses a quick kiss against your forehead. “All of it.”
You laugh softly.
Tartaglia just smiles into your hair with the most devastatingly sincere expression imaginable.
Because he means every word.
₊⊹ ℑ𝔩 𝔇𝔬𝔱𝔱𝔬𝔯𝔢 ₊⊹
Dottore knew almost immediately.
The difference between him and everyone else is that he didn’t panic about it.
He identified the feeling, analyzed it, accepted it, and moved on with surprising ease.
Interesting.
That was his first thought.
Not because he considered love trivial—but because he considered his own reaction to you fascinating.
He liked you too much.
Thought about you too often.
Found himself distracted by the sound of your voice.
Objectively speaking, those were symptoms.
And Dottore was very good at recognizing patterns.
One day he simply looked up from his work and said calmly:
“I appear to be in love with you.”
You stared at him.
“…That’s how you confess to people?”
“I was not aware there was a required format.”
The worst part?
He was completely genuine.
After realizing his feelings, Dottore became painfully obvious about them. Not romantically obvious in a normal way, of course. He’s still Dottore.
But suddenly gifts start appearing.
Rare books. Jewelry. Strange little inventions he claims “made him think of you.”
“This reminded you of me?” you ask, holding up something incredibly expensive and vaguely dangerous.
“Yes.”
“…Why?”
“You seemed like you would enjoy it.”
And he says it with such genuine hope that it completely disarms you.
That’s the thing nobody expects from Dottore once he falls in love:
He gets excited.
Not childish exactly, but close enough sometimes that it catches you off guard.
He genuinely likes making you happy.
If you smile at something he gives you, his entire mood noticeably improves for the rest of the day.
“You like it,” he observes one evening after handing you another gift.
“…I do.”
His mouth curves slightly.
“Excellent.”
The satisfaction in his voice is almost unfairly soft.
And when you thank him affectionately—touching his arm, smiling warmly at him, praising something he made—Dottore looks genuinely delighted beneath all that composure.
Like a man who discovered something wonderful and has no intention of ever letting it go.
One night, while watching you ramble excitedly about something completely unrelated, he suddenly says:
“You are disastrously easy to adore.”
You stop mid-sentence.
“…What?”
Dottore just smiles faintly behind his hand.
“I said what I meant.”
Capitano
Capitano realized it quietly.
There was no panic. No dramatic revelation.
Just certainty.
He noticed it through instinct first. The way his attention followed you automatically in crowded spaces. The way he relaxed slightly whenever you entered a room. The way he always positioned himself between you and danger without thinking.
At first, he believed it was habit.
Then one evening, you fell asleep against him during a long journey.
Your head rested on his shoulder, breathing soft and even, completely trusting him to stay there.
Capitano looked down at you for a long moment beneath his helmet.
Then very carefully adjusted his cloak around you so you would not get cold.
That was when he understood.
Not because of the affection.
Because protecting you suddenly felt more important than anything else.
You stirred slightly against him. “Mm… sorry…”
“There is nothing to apologize for,” he said quietly.
His hand rested against your back afterward, steady and warm.
And from that moment on, everyone around him noticed one undeniable truth:
Capitano’s patience for the world became significantly thinner whenever you were involved.
꯱ׁׅ֒ɑׁׅ֮ꪀׁׅժׁׅ݊ꭈׁׅᨵׁׅꪀׁׅꫀׁׅܻ
Sandrone realized it through jealousy.
Which irritated her beyond belief.
At first, she thought you were simply tolerable. Easier to be around than most people. Less annoying. Less incompetent.
Then she started wanting your attention.
And that was the problem.
One afternoon, you spent nearly an hour talking to one of her assistants while she worked nearby.
By the end of it, Sandrone was in a horrible mood.
Tools slammed onto tables harder than necessary. Her responses became clipped and sharp. One poor assistant nearly fled the room in tears.
You finally looked over. “Are you okay?”
“I am perfectly fine.”
“You look mad.”
“I am not.”
A pause.
“…Why are you glaring at him?”
“I dislike his face.”
Which made absolutely no sense because she had employed him herself.
That night, Sandrone sat alone trying to figure out why seeing you smile at someone else had made her chest feel tight with annoyance.
Then it hit her.
And she immediately hated it.
“No,” she muttered aloud.
Unfortunately for her, denial did not fix anything.
If anything, she became worse afterward.
More possessive. More attentive. More obvious.
She’d pretend not to care while quietly building things for you in her workshop for hours.
When you thanked her warmly for one of them, she looked away immediately.
“It’s not a big deal.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“…Well. Obviously.”
But her ears turned pink anyway.
𝕻𝖆𝖓𝖙𝖆𝖑𝖔𝖓𝖊
Pantalone realized it embarrassingly fast.
The moment you smiled at him sincerely for the first time, he was practically doomed.
At first, he found you charming.
Then fascinating.
Then suddenly he was rearranging entire schedules just to spend more time with you and buying you gifts because he liked the look on your face when you received them.
One day, someone jokingly asked him why he was so generous toward you.
And before he could stop himself, he answered:
“Because she deserves everything.”
The room went quiet.
Pantalone blinked once.
Then sighed dramatically into his wine glass.
“…Ah,” he murmured. “That explains quite a lot.”
Unlike some of the others, he was not ashamed of being in love. If anything, he leaned into it immediately.
He adored loving you.
Adored spoiling you. Adored hearing your laugh. Adored the feeling of your hand on his arm during conversations.
He became almost insufferably affectionate afterward.
“You’re staring again,” you teased one evening.
“Can you blame me?”
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet you continue to indulge me.”
He smiled lazily, reaching over to take your hand and press a kiss against your knuckles like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“You should understand,” he said smoothly, eyes half-lidded with amusement, “that once I decide something has value, I invest heavily.”
You laughed.
Pantalone smiled right along with you—but softer.
Because unlike money, power, or influence…
You were the first thing he had ever wanted simply because you made him happy.
----------------
Ugh, I love them all. ACCEPTING SUGGESTIONS FOR SCENARIOS!! No NSFW rn, just fluff and angst :D
the brothers wear sweaters/shirts that are too big for them and MC just sorta like slides under bc warmth or chaos gremlin activities idk and the bros are like "wtf is wrong w you"/aff
I just picture it being fluffy and silly anyways ty for your time I hope you are having a good day :3:3
Sheep Borrow and Burrow!
TW: Suggestive for Mammon and Beel’s parts
Lucifer
As the Avatar of Pride, Lucifer would much rather have his ribs pulled open and apart than be caught in a moment of weakness. This was why he had his Walk of Shame late in the night, in the unholy wee hours when he was certain everyone in the HoL was asleep.
The old man got drunk and spilled liquor on himself, and during a regular rendezvous with Diavolo and Barbatos to boot. If that wasn’t mortifying enough, the two royals took pity and sent him home in one of the unused, tropical vacation t-shirts Diavolo bought during their few visits to the Human World.
What Lucifer forgot to account for was his little human who had the senses of a hawk for when he wasn’t in bed during sleeping hours.
Lucifer, barely sober let alone conscious, flopped back on his bed without even a smudge of strength to change into more.. respectable sleepwear. Then he felt something scuffling about under his oversized shirt. He almost popped his wings open and strapped himself with his magic, when he saw a familiar head of hair through his stretched shirthole— yours, to be exact!
His sigh was 3-in-1 coffee, steeped in exhaustion, relief and fond exasperation, while his body relaxed. “What the hell, Lamb,” he murmured, “I had half the mind to think Lord Diavolo cursed this shirt or some sort, not like he’d do something like that.” He said.
You were nuzzling into his skin, savoring the tremors of his heaving chest when you paused; a blink. “… The shirt is Diavolo’s?” You repeated, and Lucifer frowned the moment he saw your eyes widen to your growing eureka moment.
So he bonked you with his knuckles. “Not because of that, mind you. I’m a committed man.” He huffed. To think even his own partner would consider any possibility of him and Lord Diavolo..
You just laughed, the only sound Lucifer could comprehend and allow to lift some of the hazy exhaustion off of him. You were his favorite annoyance after all… And then he jolted.
You bit his stomach.
Another bonk for you.
Mammon
“That doesn’t even fit you, Mammon.”
“I don’t care! Ya wanna take a man’s mango float, fine by me but I’m takin’ something of yours! That’s called tradin’, Beel!”
The gluttonous twin just watched his older brother trudge to his room with his sweatshirt in hand, a trophy won in a hard-fought battle that surely didn’t just involve a 5-minute bickering. Honestly the thing was threatening to sag off his shoulders entirely but he wouldn’t ever acknowledge it. Mammon couldn’t help but wonder when his little brother stopped being so little.
So it was better to just flop down on his bed than deal with the hassle; he’d strip by the time it was bedtime anyway. Mammon was browsing through his phone when his pointed ear perked up, wiggling to the rhythm of quickened pitty-patters on the floorboards.
There you were, standing ominously in his doorway.
Mammon stared. “Whatsa matter with you?” He asked, eyes trailing after your figure approaching, wordless in a manner both curious and a pinch creepy. He continued to watch even as you lifted his sheets up, then the hem of his shirt, and just.. dove in.
The top of your head collided with his ribs and the greed demon yelped. “FUCK! Don’t headbutt me, are ya some sort of goat?!” He bellowed, bringing his palm down on your ass in protest.
It made you squeak and jump, which.. he personally thought was cute, it reminded him of a startled piglet. It didn’t help his case when he peered down and found you staring up— both pleading and defiant at the same time.
Those big ol’ eyes were a form of Pavlov in their own right, because Mammon’s cheeks flushed red right on cue. “F-Fine,” he grumbled, “I mean, the Great Mammon can’t let his human freeze to death or whatever.”
You grinned and pressed your cheek on his sternum. “Thanks, Mamms.”
“Sure, whatever— GAH!” Mammon yelped, his torso launching forward. “If yer gonna lick me at least go somewhere that’s fu— fun… Fun.. Oh.”
Leviathan
Levi already wore larger shirts on the regular; as a reptilian demon, coziness was absolutely necessary for him especially with his relentless amount of hours put into gaming or watching anime. He had a whole array of hoodies, sweatshirts, coats, the whole shebang, but it was also for this reason that he would heavily misjudge the aiconditioning temperature in the room.
It’s what led to this moment, you missing a chunk of Levi’s usual ramblings because your attention was towards how your legs were shaking. You were certain icy fractals were going to create a layer over your skin at any moment now.
As cute as Levi was, he really had no damn right to sit there, looking warm and cute and cozy and bundled up and—
“And so the exorcists did get together but their troubles didn’t end there because then they have a child who literally becomes the antichrist— Ah!” Levi squeaked when you pushed him down. His back collided on the floor with a thud, and any mild pain didn’t even register when he was mentally blue-screening. Did you want to do it? So suddenly?!
Indigo slits widened as it trailed after your hand, so much so it could overtake the sunset expanse it laid on. Your hand disappeared into his shirt, and you lifted it up.. Only to disappear into it.
“Uwah!” This was just like that time in one of his anime shows, I’m Not Really a Snake but I Have to Pretend to be One so I Don’t Die in Winter! His body shook under you, revving like an engine so heat could flood into the pale expanse of his torso. They just wanted a cuddle, Levi, you can handle that! You two even cuddled naked before!
Carefully he craned his neck downward, his gaze meeting with the sight of you pressing your cheek on his rapidly beating heart, content and comfortable. Ah, there was no way he could hide his excitement now..
A tremor ran across Levi’s hand as he barely managed to bring it down to pat your head through the fabric. He recognized your behavior as simply wanting some warmth, is all (snakes do that too), and a dutiful boyfriend would always offer himself..!
Levi reached out for the blanket. With a quick flourish, he brought the fabric down to the exposed part of your body before pulling you close.
He couldn’t really risk turning you into a popsicle just for moments like this.. But he could give you one of his jackets! Ahh, it’s such a normie thing to do but..! But he doesn’t mind, if it’s for you.
Satan
This man had a problem, in which he never ever gave up his shirts or sweaters until they were practically unwearable. The family, despite all their bills from Mammon’s gambling and Beel’s appetite, never really ran out of money, so budget clearly wasn’t an issue if Satan needed new clothes. No, he merely associated comfort to these garments for so long that Lucifer would have to pry it out of his hands.
Satan swatted his hand away when he tried today. “I’ll hand this sweatshirt over when I think I’m done with it,” he hissed.
“Your shirt‘s been stretched out that even Beel doesn’t fit in it.” Lucifer deadpanned. “It’s no longer of any use to you and you know it. You can join Asmo tomorrow in shopping for a new one—”
Both men paused in their tracks when you somehow managed to waddle into the living room undetected. As if it were clockwork, you lifted the light green fabric and wiggled in, sighing comfortably while it fell and settled atop your body. Satan, on cue, hugged you with a chuckle before looking back up to Lucifer smugly. Perhaps he could say no to Satan, but you were another story.
The noirette pinched his nose, resigned and frankly holding zero space for this nonsense. “A blanket is more practical, but you do you.” He said. “Honestly, (Y/N), you enable each other too much.”
As he left the room, Satan stuck his tongue out and turned back to you. His grip tightened as his smile widened. “Thanks, angel.” He crooned; for your assistance he bestowed a kiss on your hairline. The tips of his lime-painted nails danced across your scalp, wisping through the strands of your hair. His ministrations weren’t unlike the ones he gave to the strays he knew, but he sure was doing a good job if your lidding eyes were anything to go by.
“Lucifer’s right though, this thing is kind of worn down..” You murmured. Any moment now and sleep would press your eyes close.
Satan frowned, but his ministrations didn’t cease. “I always make the most of my sweaters,” he replied, “Besides, you know how attached I get to things with textures I like.”
“Maybe you can repurpose your old sweaters,” You suggested. Sensing the shift in your position, Satan followed to accommodate you, though he was no less intrigued in your idea. “You could make sweaters for the strays.. Then they’ll look like you.”
It was brilliant, perhaps the most life changing thing he’d ever known above the pages upon pages written by history’s greatest geniuses. Satan gaped at your half-sleeping figure and merely hoisted you up so he could hold you better.
“You are,” he started, voice knitted with pure awe, “By far the most brilliant human I’ve come to know.” You merely smiled, sleepy but no less unaware of your own awesomeness.
Besides, having tiny Satan cats were the closest you were getting to having kids.
Asmodeus
Asmo knew how to make most outfits work, and he’d ascend back to the Celestial Realm if he didn’t know how to make baggy clothing work. With that being the current fashion trend, Asmo’s sponsors shipped him various apparel to don and flaunt to his massive following. Every time his camera was on and the screen reflected him, with the addition of his chatroom, he’d have a new one on. As nice as it was to see Asmo’s cheery dedication to his job, it took him away from you for most of the day.
One day, he pulled out a purple shirt from its packaging; it had no logo that he was familiar with, and could only find a crude drawing of a sheep on paper. “This shirt comes with an accessory?” He read aloud. Asmo turned the shirt in and out, over and under, to no avail; there wasn’t anything of the sort.
“Huh,” he murmured to himself, he still donned the shirt anyway, and it hung off of his lithe figure that it covered his calves. “Did they forget to send it with the package— KYAAAA!”
Was it a bug? No, it was much larger and it was under his shirt and Asmo was still screaming and— “(Y/N)?!” He shrieked. You could barely hide your grin, let alone your laughter when it was puffing against his bare chest.
“Hey beautiful,” You crooned with a playful wiggle of your eyebrows. “I’m your sponsor for today, so you gotta keep this on and me with it, mkay?” You watched the panic unweave from his face while realization sowed itself in, and his eureka moment was signified with his signature sweet little gasp.
“You planned all this?” Asmo asked. You nodded. “But why?”
“I missed you,” You answered in earnest. The Avatar of Lust was utterly gobsmacked. He was used to being the one to clamor after attention, yours specifically (his fans were starved on the regular). Was this prank silly? Yes. Stupid? A little bit. Was it absolutely adorable? ABSOLUTELY!
You watched in real time how his irises defied biology for the nth time, lifting like golden bubbles in a lava lamp to form a heart in each eye. “Oh honey, I’m so sorry, how could I neglect my little lamb?” Asmo crooned, and that was all you heard before he lifted his shirt off of you, scooped your cheeks into his palms and delivered a flurry of kisses all over your face.
“And you went through all the effort too~..” Asmo hummed, his nose gently nuzzling into the plush of your cheek. He pressed a kiss to the bridge of your nose, and smiled. “I love you so much.. And I love being loved by you!”
Beelzebub
One of the best parts of your relationship with Beel was the mutual understanding; no words were often needed, and you two often went along with what the other was getting up to. You didn’t question whenever he lifted you up and used you as a weight for exercise, and he didn’t question when you’d have him lift heavy things for you, like the cabinet, because you lost something under it. This lovers’ telepathy was something only you two could understand, and even Belphie was unable to discern anything; it was more fun for him to watch you two anyway.
The brothers were sponsored by a merchandise company which was how Beel ended up with a shirt that was magically bigger than he already was. His brothers were content to style themselves with their own shirts, but he kept it simple.
After the photoshoot, the first thing he saw coming home was your gaze trailing over his shirt. It hung off his figure so loosely that one wouldn’t be inclined to think he was absolutely ripped underneath. You made your way towards him, Beel waiting patiently while his brothers all filed into the house. Their movements only slowed when they saw you lift Beel’s shirt and climb him like a sloth, and Beel’s hands immediately hooked under your thighs to support you.
The rest of the family weren’t sure if you two ever broke apart the whole afternoon. Belphie walked into their shared bedroom to find Beel carrying you with one hand while he measured his footsteps on his workout app with the other. Levi went outside of his room to refill his mini-fridge, only to run into Beel ambling down the stairs with you in tow. Asmo found Beel pressing you against the wall and screamed bloody murder, thinking you two were doing things when really he was just reaching for his earbud case on the cabinet shelf.
Lucifer finally decided to put his foot down when Beel carried you to dinner. “Beelzebub,” he piped up. In the background, Mammon told Levi “Oof, he got government-named.”
The eldest continued. “You are to put (Y/N) on their respective seat.” He ordered, unable to hide his grimace.
Beel frowned softly. “Aww.” But he listened to his older brother anyway, and to the relief of everyone, no nonsense of that sort ever made it to dinner and they could all eat in peace.
Your gentle giant carried you back to your room, and the carrying finally came to an end… when he set you down on your bed. Now it was your turn to keep him above you.
Belphegor
Dating Belphegor meant knowing approximately what day and time he’d wake up, especially when he would sleep for long periods of time. It wasn’t as if he chose sleep over you, simply that his cardinal sin often beckoned him to lord over his realm, which was the Dreamscape, though he would force himself to stay awake for you as often as he could.
Still, Belphie couldn’t deny that seeing you first thing after wandering dreams grew to be one of his favorite things— you, with your very real eyes, housing a softness for him that no dream could compare to.
The next time he awoke, the first thing that registered into his mind was the weight that settled rather comfortable on top of his torso. For a moment he was confused to see his shirt bulging to a concerning size, only to realize that the lump was simply his partner.
“What’re you doing there, starshine?” He drawled. He didn’t even finish his sentence without a yawn interrupting him.
“Was waiting for you,” You replied casually, like it was completely normal for you to turn his sweatshirt into your own little cave. Thirteen was clearly an influence on you.
“In my shirt?”
“Yeah.”
Belphie softly grunted, though this held no real annoyance when he continued to pet you through the fabric. “Are you going to wait there all day? Kind of sucks when you could kiss me right now.” He felt you shift and waited to see your visage in full while his body gradually stirred from the clutches of sleep.
A beat passed, and then another, and all he could hear was your soft grunts. Belphie’s eyebrows furrowed. “(Y/N)..?”
“I’m stuck.” You whispered.
Now Belphie was fully awake. “You’re what?”
“I’m stuck, Belphie.” You tried to move but your torso wouldn’t budge, the fabric was clinging to you like a vice. Your panicked eyes flitted up your boyfriend for help, but in the gaze of the Avatar of Sloth, you would find no help.
Just him cackling with laughter, and his body was heaving to his chuckles so his chest was actively hitting your nose. “Belphie!” You whined.
His laughter only simmered when he felt you thrash against your cozy restraints; sure he loves messing with you as much as he loves you, but he still wasn’t going to let you do anything that could hurt yourself. “Alright, alright. Stop moving.”
Belphie managed to peel his shirt off of you, leaving him half-bare on his bed and pressing his thumb on your slightly sore cheeks. Pouting sounded really good right about now, you thought, though you were doing it already; the whole thing was embarrassing by itself.
“Next time, just cuddle with me like a normal person,” he teased, before kissing you sweetly.
THE FIRST THING I LOOK AT IN A MAN IS HIS HEART. THE FACT HIS TITS ARE ON THE WAY IS NOT MY FAULT.
🍽 ( girls ver. stba )
📎 men featured : logan howlett, worst wolverine, wade wilson, origins! wade wilson, remy lebeau, kurt wagner, eddie brock (& venom!!), steve rogers, tony stark, peter parker, thor odinson, peter quill.
LOGAN HOWLETT !!
The air in the mansion’s kitchen has the distinctive tang of cigar smoke and old leather. You’re at the counter, phone wedged between your ear and shoulder, pouring yourself a cup of coffee that’s gone cold three times over. Your friend’s voice crackles through the speaker, asking the age-old question about your type.
“Oh, a man’s heart,” you say, stirring the cold coffee with a dramatic flourish. “That’s the first thing I look at. The fact that his tits are in front of his heart is not my fault.”
The sound of adamantium claws snikting out is so sudden and violent you nearly launch your mug across the room. You whip around. Logan is standing in the doorway, arms crossed, one set of claws already gleaming in the afternoon light. His face is a granite carving of utter, smug vindication.
He doesn’t say anything for a long, terrifying moment. He just stares, the corner of his mouth twitching. Then, he slowly, deliberately, looks down at his own broad chest, encased in a tight white undershirt. He looks back up at you. He retracts the claws with a metallic shink.
“You coulda just said so,” he rumbles, his voice a low gravel pit of satisfaction. He walks past you, deliberately brushing a shoulder against yours, and grabs a beer from the fridge. He pops the cap off with his thumb, takes a long swig, and leans against the counter opposite you, letting his eyes drag over your face with a heat that could melt adamantium. “I’ve been workin’ with a tactical advantage this whole time and didn’t even know it.”
He’s not letting this go. For the next week, every time you see him, he’ll be doing something absurd. You’ll find him doing push-ups in the hallway. He’ll “casually” stretch his arms above his head, making his shirt ride up, in the middle of a briefing. He’ll catch your eye from across the danger room, point two fingers at his own pecs, then point them at you, like a cowboy from an old western. The man who has lived for centuries, who has forgotten more pain than most people will ever know, has been reduced to a one-man peacock display, and he’s never been happier.
WORST WOLVERINE !!
The apartment is a disaster zone of mismatched furniture, empty takeout containers, and the lingering smell of cheap whiskey and desperation. It’s been three weeks since the Void. Three weeks since Cassandra. Three weeks since Logan found himself, against all odds, sharing a cramped two-bedroom with a man who hasn't worn a shirt indoors since 2004. He tells himself it's temporary. He tells himself a lot of things.
You're perched on the arm of the couch while Wade is sprawled across the cushions, aggressively filing his nails.
"No, I'm serious," you tell him. "The first thing I look at in a man is his heart. That's the most important thing. The fact that his tits are in front of his heart is NOT my fault."
The sound of a refrigerator door slamming shut echoes through the apartment like a gunshot.
You whip your head toward the kitchen. Logan is standing in the doorway, a beer in one hand, the other braced against the doorframe. He's wearing a stained white tank top and jeans that have seen better decades. His hair is still damp from a shower he clearly didn't finish, judging by the water dripping down his neck. His eyes, bloodshot and sharp, are fixed on you with the intensity of a man who has just been handed a winning lottery ticket and a knife at the same time.
Wade stops filing his nails. The silence stretches. Then, Wade slowly, deliberately, puts his nail file down and pulls out his phone, angling it toward the scene unfolding before him. "Oh, this is going in the highlight reel," he whispers.
Logan takes a long, slow pull from his beer. He doesn't break eye contact. He finishes half the bottle in one go, lowers it, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Say that again," he says. His voice is that particular gravel he uses when he's about to do something stupid and violent. It's also, you've learned, the voice he uses when he's about to do something stupid and flirtatious, which is somehow more dangerous.
"I was talking about-" you start.
"Your heart!" Wade stage-whispers from the couch, cupping his hands around his mouth. "She was talking about your heart, Roomie! The big, mushy, adamantium-laced one you pretend you don't have! Keep up!"
Logan ignores him completely, which is a feat of willpower that would impress Odin himself. He pushes off the doorframe and walks toward you, each step deliberate, unhurried. He sets his beer down on the coffee table with a soft thunk, right next to Wade's foot. Wade very slowly retracts his foot.
Logan stops directly in front of you, close enough that you can smell the cheap soap and the whiskey and something underneath that's just him. He crosses his arms over his chest, which does nothing to diminish the sheer presence of said chest, and instead only serves to highlight it further. His biceps strain against the thin fabric of his tank top.
"My heart," he says, the word rolling off his tongue like it tastes unfamiliar. He looks down at his own torso, then back up at you. "That's what you're lookin' at."
"It's-" you swallow. "It's the principle of the thing."
"The principle," he repeats, deadpan.
"Yeah! I'm a principled person. I value substance over- over-"
"Over the twin peaks of Mount Logan?" Wade offers helpfully from the couch. "The Canadian Rockies? The adamantium-clad hills that are alive with the sound of-"
"I will gut you," Logan says, without looking at Wade. His voice is calm. Wade makes a zipping motion across his lips, but his eyes are sparkling with unholy glee.
Logan turns his full attention back to you. He uncrosses his arms, which is somehow worse, because now he's just standing there, all that broad, scarred, impossible solidity on display. He reaches up and scratches the back of his neck, a surprisingly human gesture that you've come to recognize as him working up to something he doesn't have the words for.
"So," he says slowly. "Let me get this straight. You're with me. In this shithole. With the guy who talks more than a jukebox full of chipmunks." He jerks his thumb toward Wade, who preens. "Because of my heart."
"Among other things," you manage.
"The other things bein'…" He gestures vaguely to his entire body.
"That's- that's not- I said it wasn't my fault!"
WADE WILSON !!
The situation is doomed from the start. You’re in your shared apartment, thinking he’s out on a job. Your friend is on speakerphone. You’re in the middle of your declaration.
“…the first thing I look at in a man is his heart. The fact that his tits are in front of his heart is NOT my fault.”
There’s a pause. Then, from the air vent above the couch, a muffled voice echoes.
“Pssst. Hey. Hey, buddy. You readin’ this? Yeah, the one on the other side of the screen. She’s talkin’ about my heart. And my chest pillows. Tell me she’s not talkin’ about my premium-grade, Canadian-grown, conflict-free chest pillows.”
You scream and fall off the couch.
Wade drops out of the vent, landing in a heap. He’s already in his full Deadpool regalia, minus one boot, which is still stuck in the vent. He scrambles to his knees, clutching his chest.
“Honey-buns. Sugar-plum. Objectifier of my superior thoracic architecture. I need you to know, right now, that my heart isn’t just behind these babies. It powers them. They’re heart-adjacent. Heart-supportive. They’re the VIP section of my cardiovascular system. I’m not mad, I’m proud. Finally, someone sees the strategic genius of my physique. It’s not a flaw in the design, it’s a feature! It’s like putting the engine in the front of a car. You look at the grill first! Like, awww, babe! A sexy, muscle car with a V8 heart and twin airbags!”
He pulls off his mask, revealing his scarred face, which is split into a manic grin. “From now on, I’m only wearing mesh shirts. I want to make sure there are no barriers between you and your… study material.” He then pulls out his phone and starts dictating a note. “Note to self: Buy stock in companies that manufacture nipple tape. It’s about to be a bull market.”
For the next month, he has shirts custom-made with arrows pointing to his pecs that read, “The Heart is In Here, I Swear.” He introduces you to people as “my girlfriend, the brilliant ophthalmologist who sees past the flesh to the vital organs within.”
ORIGINS! WADE WILSON !!
The bar is a dive in the ass-end of nowhere, the kind of place where the drinks are cheap and the questions are cheaper. Team X has been laying low for three days, waiting for a extraction that keeps getting pushed back, and the boredom has driven everyone to the edges of their sanity. You're at a corner table, phone pressed to your ear, watching your boyfriend across the room where he's engaged in what looks like a friendly game of darts with a man who has no idea who he's playing against.
Wade Wilson, at thirty-two, is something to behold. No scars, no cancer, no centuries of madness dragging at his eyes. He's all sharp grins and sharper reflexes, a handsome face that gets him into trouble and the skills to get him back out again. Tonight he's in jeans and a henley, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and every woman in the bar is watching him throw darts with the kind of casual precision that should be illegal.
Your friend's voice crackles through the phone, loud enough that you have to hold it away from your ear. She's been asking about Wade for twenty minutes, about the job, about the secrecy, about why you're dating a man whose resume reads like a black site's fever dream.
"I'm telling you," you say, keeping your voice low. "The first thing I look at in a man is his heart. That's what matters. That's what made me fall for him. The fact that his tits are in front of his heart is NOT my fault."
There's a beat of silence. Then, from across the room, the sound of a dart embedding itself in the wall three inches from where it was supposed to go.
You look up.
Wade is staring at you. The man he was playing darts with is staring at the wall. The rest of the bar is pretending very hard not to notice anything.
Wade's face splits into a grin. It's the grin of a man who has just been handed a winning lottery ticket and the gun that won it. He says something to his opponent, claps him on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble, and saunters across the bar with the kind of confidence that should be illegal in at least forty-seven states.
He pulls out the chair across from you, sits down backwards, and folds his arms across the back of it. The position does nothing to diminish the view of his chest, which you suspect is entirely the point.
"I'm sorry," he says, and his voice is that particular brand of smooth that he uses when he's about to be absolutely insufferable. "I think I misheard. Did my beautiful, brilliant girlfriend just say something about my heart and my... what was the phrase?"
"You heard what I said."
"I heard something about tits." He leans forward, elbows on the table, chin in his hands. "My tits. In front of my heart. Which, I want to clarify, is anatomically accurate. The pectoral muscles do, in fact, sit anterior to the cardiac cavity. That's just science."
"I know it's science."
"But you felt the need to mention it. To your friend. On the phone. In a bar. Where I could hear you." He's grinning now, that wide, impossible grin that makes you want to kiss him and kill him in equal measure. "Which means you've been thinking about it. My tits. You've been thinking about my tits and my heart and the spatial relationship between them."
"I think about your heart all the time."
"My heart," he repeats. "The thing you fell for. The thing that makes me, in your words, 'a good man pretending to be a bad one.'"
"That's what I said."
"And my chest." He sits back, spreading his hands. "The thing that is, according to you, an unavoidable obstacle in your quest to appreciate said heart."
"It's not an obstacle, it's just— it's positioned—"
"Optimally," he supplies. "Strategically. In a manner that you find personally challenging."
"I didn't say challenging."
"You didn't have to." He reaches across the table and takes your hand, and despite the teasing, his grip is warm, steady, real. "See, here's the thing, sweetheart. I've been shot, stabbed, blown up, and thrown out of helicopters. I've done things that would make most people throw up just hearing about them. And through all of it, the one thing I've never been accused of is having tits."
"Wade—"
"I have pecs." He squeezes your hand. "Magnificent pecs. Pecs that have saved lives. Pecs that have distracted enemy combatants. Pecs that have, if I'm being honest, gotten me out of more trouble than my actual skills, and my skills are considerable."
"You're ridiculous."
"I'm focused." He pulls your hand across the table and presses it flat against his chest, right over his heart. His henley is thin, and beneath it you can feel the heat of his skin, the steady thump of his heartbeat. "There. Now you can appreciate both at once. Heart and infrastructure. A two-for-one special. You're welcome."
REMY LEBEAU !!
"Oh, come on!" you say, laughing into the phone. "The first thing I look at in a man is his heart, the fact that his tits are in front of it is, very clearly, not my fault."
The shuffling of cards that had been background noise up until now suddenly stops.
You turn. Remy LeBeau is leaning against the doorway that leads to the bedroom, arms crossed, one shoulder propped against the frame like he's been there for a while. He's wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung black pants, his bare chest still slightly damp from the shower he definitely finished ten minutes ago. His hair is loose, curling at the ends, and his eyes—those impossible red-on-black eyes—are fixed on you with the lazy, predatory focus of a cat who just heard the can opener.
"Chère," he says, and the single word drips with molasses and mischief. "Did I just hear you objectifyin' dis man's chest, or were you waxin' poetic about de depths of his soul?"
You hang up the phone. Slowly. Your friend is going to kill you. You'll deal with that later.
"I was talking about your heart," you say, attempting dignity.
"Oui. My heart." He pushes off the doorframe and begins to drift toward you, unhurried, bare feet silent on the hardwood. His kinetic energy crackles faintly in the air around him, making the hair on your arms stand up. "My heart, which you value so highly. De organ itself. De seat of my considerable charm and loyalty."
"That's right."
He stops in front of your chair, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to see his face. He reaches down and picks up the deck of cards from the side table, shuffling them one-handed with a fluid motion that shouldn't be as attractive as it is.
"And de fact dat my chest," he continues, looking down at himself with theatrical contemplation, "is currently on display in front of said heart? Dat is, what you said, not your fault."
"It's a matter of anatomical priority."
"Anatomical priority." He repeats the phrase like it's the finest wine he's ever tasted. He pulls a card from the deck, the Queen of Hearts, because of course it is, and tucks it behind your ear without breaking stride. His fingers brush your temple, lingering. "So what you're tellin' me, ma petite, is dat you are de innocent victim here. A hostage, if you will, to my... what was de word?"
"I didn't use a word."
"You said tits." He grins, and it's the grin of a man who has talked his way out of every situation imaginable and plans to do so again. "You said tits, chère. My tits. Like I'm some common..." He gestures vaguely, searching for the word. "What is de word for a man who sells his physical form for coin?"
"A gigolo?"
"Non. More... artistic."
"A male model?"
His face lights up. "Dere we go. Like I am some male model from de magazine, and not a man who has, on multiple occasions, saved de world with nothin' but dees hands and a pack of cards." He holds up the deck, then tucks it into the waistband of his pants, which does nothing to help your current predicament.
He places his hands on the arms of the chair, one on each side, and leans down until his face is level with yours. His chest is right there. It's impossible to ignore. He knows this.
"So let me understand dis," he murmurs, his accent thickening the way it does when he's genuinely amused or genuinely dangerous (you've learned to tell the difference, and this is definitely amused). "You are wit' Remy LeBeau, de master thief, de X-Man, de man whose heart you claim to value above all else, because he is so very good and so very noble, and de only reason you are constantly lookin' at his chest is because it is simply... in de way."
"That's exactly what I said."
"Chere." He laughs, a low, warm sound that vibrates through the chair. "Dat is de biggest pile of Cajun horseshit I have ever heard, and I have talked my way past de King of Thieves himself."
He pushes back from the chair, but only far enough to pull the Queen of Hearts from behind your ear. He flicks it, and it disappears in a flash of pink kinetic energy. He reaches out and takes your hand, pulling you to your feet. You're now standing chest-to-chest, which is to say, your face is approximately level with his collarbones.
He tilts your chin up with one finger.
"I am not complainin'," he says, and his voice has gone soft, the teasing edge giving way to something warmer. "You want to look at my heart? Look all you want, chère. It is yours. Has been since de day you looked at me like I was more dan just a thief in a fancy coat."
KURT WAGNER !!
The Xavier mansion library is quiet this time of night, the kind of quiet that settles into old wood and older books. You're curled up in one of the window seats, a throw blanket over your legs, your phone pressed to your ear. Outside, the moon hangs low over the grounds, casting everything in shades of silver and shadow.
Your friend is on the other end of the line, a fellow mutant who knows exactly who you're dating and has Opinions about it. Loud opinions.
"I'm just saying," you say, keeping your voice low out of habit, even though the library is empty. "The first thing I look at in a man is his heart. That's what matters. That's what made me fall for him. The fact that his tits are in front of his heart is NOT my fault."
A soft sound behind you. The whisper of displaced air, the faint scent of brimstone and incense.
You turn.
Kurt Wagner is standing in the doorway of the library, still dressed in his black and red uniform, having apparently just returned from a mission. His fur is dark in the low light, his tail curling behind him, and his golden eyes—those impossible, luminous eyes—are fixed on you with an expression that can only be described as delighted confusion.
"Mein Schatz," he says, and his voice is warm, accented, carrying that particular note of bemusement he gets whenever you say something that reminds him that humans (and mutants) are, in his words, delightfully strange. "Did I just hear you correctly, or did I take a sword to the head on the way home?"
You drop your phone onto the window seat. It bounces once and your friend's voice squawks indignantly before you manage to hit mute.
"Kurt! You're back early!"
"I am." He steps into the library, and the moonlight catches him fully now, illuminating the deep blue of his fur, the three-fingered hands, the way his tail curls and uncurls with his mood. He's smiling, that warm, easy smile that somehow manages to be both mischievous and entirely genuine. "And I am very glad I am, because it seems I have returned just in time to hear my beloved girlfriend discussing my... how did you put it?"
"I didn't put it any way."
"Tits." He says the word like he's tasting it, turning it over in his mouth, his accent making it sound almost elegant. "You were discussing my tits, liebling. A topic I was not aware was up for discussion."
"I was discussing your heart!"
"Ah, yes." He moves further into the room, and you notice now that he's favoring his left side slightly, a bruise darkening his jaw, the telltale signs of a mission that went sideways. He doesn't seem to care. His attention is entirely on you. "My heart. The thing you value above all else. The thing that makes me, as you so generously put it last week, 'the best man I have ever known.'"
"That's true."
"And yet." He stops in front of the window seat, close enough that you can see the individual threads of his uniform, the way his fur is ruffled around his collar. He places one three-fingered hand over his chest, right where his heart would be. "You feel the need to mention that my... chest... is in the way."
"It's not in the way! It's just- it's positioned-" You're floundering and you know it. "It's not my fault, Kurt. That's all I'm saying."
He laughs. It's a wonderful sound, bright and full, the kind of laugh that makes everyone in earshot smile. He reaches out and takes your hand, his fingers warm and calloused, and pulls you gently to your feet.
"You are aware," he says, drawing you closer, "that I have three fingers. And blue fur. And a tail." His tail curls around your wrist, the tip brushing your palm. "And you are concerned about my chest?"
"Your chest is very nice," you say, and then immediately want to sink through the floor.
He grins, sharp and pleased. "So you have noticed."
"Everyone's noticed! You have the best chest in the mansion!"
His eyebrows rise. "This is a competition now? Am I winning a competition I did not know I was entered in?"
"You're being deliberately difficult."
"I am being deliberately amused," he corrects, and now his hands are on your waist, his tail still wrapped around your wrist, his face inches from yours. "My beautiful, brilliant girlfriend has just informed the world that she values my heart above all else, but she cannot be held responsible for the fact that she is constantly confronted with my... pectorals... in her pursuit of said heart."
"It's not my fault!"
"You have said that. Several times." He tilts his head, and in the moonlight, with his golden eyes and his gentle smile, he looks like something out of a fairy tale. The good kind. The kind where the monster turns out to be the prince. "So let me make sure I understand. You love me for my heart."
"Yes."
"You are forced to look at my chest because it is in front of my heart."
"Anatomically speaking, yes."
"And this is not your fault."
"It is objectively not my fault, Kurt."
He considers this for a moment, his tail tightening fractionally around your wrist. Then he does something unexpected. He takes a step back, reaches for the zipper of his uniform, and pulls it down to his waist.
The top half of his uniform pools around his hips, and you are left standing in the moonlit library with Kurt Wagner, the blue-furred, golden-eyed, three-fingered mutant known as Nightcrawler, standing in front of you in nothing but his pants and a truly impressive display of chest.
"There," he says, spreading his arms wide. "Now there is no obstruction. You may look at my heart directly."
"I can't see your heart, Kurt, it's inside your body."
"Then you must get closer."
He pulls you against him before you can protest, and you find yourself pressed flush against his chest, your cheek against his fur, your arms trapped between your bodies. His arms come around you, holding you there, and beneath your ear, you can hear his heartbeat. Steady. Strong. A little fast.
"You see?" he murmurs, his voice vibrating through his chest and into yours. "Here it is. The heart you value so much. No chest in the way now."
"This is cheating," you mumble against his skin.
"This is logic," he counters. "You said the chest was an obstacle. I removed the obstacle. Now you may appreciate my heart to your heart's content."
His arms tighten around you, and you feel his lips press against the top of your head, soft and warm.
"For the record," he says quietly, "I fell in love with your heart too. The first time I saw you, the first time you looked at me without fear, without pity, just... kindness. That is what I saw. That is what I fell for." His tail curls around your back, pulling you closer. "The fact that the rest of you is also beautiful? That is not my fault either."
You laugh against his chest, and you feel him smile.
"So we are agreed," he says. "We love each other's hearts. We also appreciate each other's... other attributes. And neither of us is at fault for the anatomical placement of said attributes."
"That sounds like a fair agreement."
"Good." He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his face is open, vulnerable, full of a joy that he never tries to hide. "Then perhaps we should take this discussion somewhere more private. The library is lovely, but I have been on a mission for three days, and I would very much like to continue this conversation in a place where I do not have to worry about Professor Xavier walking in and asking why I am shirtless."
"He wouldn't ask."
"He would not need to ask. He would simply know. And I would like to keep some mysteries in this relationship."
He scoops you up before you can respond, one arm under your knees, the other around your back, his tail wrapped around your waist for good measure. He smells like ozone and sandalwood and something underneath that is just him.
"You are not carrying me through the mansion," you say.
"I am absolutely carrying you through the mansion." He grins, that impish, impossible grin. "You wanted to appreciate my heart, liebling. How better to appreciate it than to feel it beating against yours as I carry you to bed?"
He teleports before you can argue, and the world dissolves into smoke and sulfur and the feeling of being held.
When you land in his room, he sets you down gently, and you can still hear his heart, still feel it, even though you're no longer pressed against his chest.
He looks at you, and his eyes are soft, and his smile is soft, and there is nothing in the world that could make you look anywhere else.
EDDIE BROCK ( & VENOM ) !!
The apartment is a disaster. It's always a disaster, but tonight it's a special kind of disaster: takeout containers stacked like the tower of Babel, dirty laundry draped over every available surface, and Eddie Brock himself sprawled on the pullout couch like a man who has given up on the concept of furniture. You're in the kitchenette, phone wedged between your ear and shoulder, trying to find a clean mug that doesn't have something growing in it.
Your friend's voice crackles through the speaker, loud and delighted. You've been telling her about Eddie, about the symbiote, about the chaos that has become your life since you started dating a man who shares his body with an alien from another planet.
"I'm telling you," you say, finally finding a mug that only has coffee residue in it. "The first thing I look at in a man is his heart, the metaphorical one and the literal one. The fact that his titties are in front of his heart is NOT my fault."
There is a pause. A long pause.
From the living room, you hear a sound that you have come to know very well. It is the sound of Eddie Brock inhaling something he was drinking directly into his lungs.
"Eddie," a voice says, and it is not Eddie's voice. It is deeper, darker, and somehow sounds like it's coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. "She is talking about your chest."
"I know what she's talking about-!" Eddie's voice, strangled, followed by a series of wet coughs.
You turn around, phone still in hand.
Eddie is sitting up on the couch, beer spilled down the front of his shirt, face the color of a tomato. But it's not Eddie you're looking at. It's the black tendrils that are already snaking up his neck, the way his eyes are flickering between human and something much, much older.
"We heard her," Venom says, and now Eddie's face is shifting, the symbiote rising to the surface, teeth elongating, tongue curling. "We heard her say the thing about the chest."
"It was a philosophical observation!" you say quickly.
"PHILOSOPHICAL," Venom booms, and now he's fully out, towering in the middle of your disaster apartment, Eddie's body completely subsumed. His head nearly brushes the ceiling. His massive, clawed hand gestures to his own chest. Eddie's chest, but bigger now, broader, covered in that living black that pulses with every heartbeat. "She says she values the heart. But the chest. The chest is what she sees first."
"Venom," you say, holding up your hands. "Buddy. Pal. I was talking about Eddie."
"WE ARE EDDIE."
"You know what I mean."
Venom tilts his head, that massive alien skull studying you with an intensity that would terrify you if you hadn't already seen him eat three people and then apologize to the waitress for the mess. His tongue lolls out, wet and impossibly long.
"The female speaks truth," he announces finally. "She does value the heart. But the chest is... aesthetically pleasing. She is not at fault for noticing."
"I didn't say aesthetically pleasing—"
"YOU DID NOT HAVE TO." Venom's face splits into that massive, toothy grin. "We are good at reading humans. Their heart rates. Their pupil dilation. The way their eyes track the pectoral region of our host when he removes his shirt."
"Okay, that's- that's not-"
"EDDIE," Venom bellows, and Eddie bleeds back to the surface, the symbiote retreating just enough that his face is visible again, still red, still mortified, but also... is he pleased? He looks pleased. "She wants the heart. But she also wants the chest. We have both. This is acceptable."
"Can we please stop saying chest?" Eddie manages, his voice cracking.
"WE WILL NOT STOP SAYING CHEST," Venom replies, and now the symbiote is pushing forward again, reshaping Eddie's torso until the shirt he was wearing splits down the middle and falls away. The black suit covers him, but it's different tonight: somehow tighter, somehow more defined, the musculature of Eddie's chest rendered in glossy, rippling obsidian. "There. Now there is no confusion. The heart is in here." He taps the center of his chest. "And the chest is..." He gestures broadly. "Also here. For looking. She may look as much as she wants."
"Venom," Eddie groans, but there's no heat in it. He's looking at you now, and despite the embarrassment, there's something vulnerable in his expression. Something hopeful.
You set your phone down on the counter. Your friend is still on the line—you can hear her screaming with laughter—but you'll call her back.
You walk over to the couch, to the massive, looming presence of Venom, to the man buried somewhere inside all that black. You reach out and press your palm flat against Venom's chest. The symbiote ripples under your touch, warm, alive, and somewhere beneath it, you can feel Eddie's heartbeat. Fast. Strong. Real.
"I meant what I said," you tell them both. "Your heart. Both of yours. That's what I fell in love with."
Venom is quiet for a long moment. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, the thunder reduced to a rumble.
"We know," he says. And then, almost shy: "We fell in love with your heart too. The fact that your chest is also... pleasing... is not our fault either."
"Venom!" Eddie yelps.
"WHAT? IT IS TRUE. HER PECTORAL REGION IS-"
"We're not doing this! We are not ranking her— whatever you're about to say!"
STEVE ROGERS !!
You’re in the shared kitchen of the Avengers compound, which is surprisingly empty. You’re on the phone with your friend, lamenting the fact that Steve had to leave for a mission at 4 AM.
“It’s just… he’s so good,” you whisper. “I know it sounds cheesy, but I look at his heart first. That’s the most important thing. The fact that his heart is protected by, like, the most incredible chest in the history of the world? That’s not my fault. I’m an innocent bystander.”
You hear a soft, cleared throat. You freeze, phone still pressed to your ear.
You turn around. Steve is standing in the doorway, still in his tactical gear from the mission, which he must have just returned from. He’s holding his cowl in his hands. His face is bright red, all the way to the tips of his ears. He looks like he’d rather be facing a Hydra battalion than standing here.
“I, uh,” he starts, his voice a little hoarse. He shifts his weight from foot to foot. “I came back early. Fury… rescheduled.” He won’t meet your eyes, staring intently at a spot on the floor.
You hang up the phone, your face now matching his.
A long, agonizing silence stretches between you. He fidgets with the cowl. You fidget with the edge of your sleeve.
Finally, he looks up, and the earnestness in his blue eyes is almost too much to bear. “I… I just want you to know,” he says, his voice low and serious, “that I… appreciate it. That you… look at my heart first. That’s… that’s the part that matters to me, too.”
He takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and puffs his chest out just slightly, as if he’s about to salute. “And for what it’s worth, I… I’m sorry. For the… the other part. Being in the way, I mean. I can’t really… control it. It’s just… the serum. It affected everything, and my… my pectoral muscles…” He trails off, looking like he wants the earth to swallow him whole.
He ends up writing you a very formal letter, left on your pillow, which reads:
My dear,
I have reflected on our conversation this morning. I want to assure you that I have no intention of allowing my physical attributes to impede your view of what truly matters. I will endeavor to wear looser-fitting shirts in the future to minimize any… obstruction.
Respectfully,
Steve
He tries. For about three hours. Then he sees the smile you give him when he walks in wearing a baggy sweater and it makes him immediately revert to his old, form-fitting henleys. He’d rather you have a clear view of his heart, even if it comes with a free show.
TONY STARK !!
He’s in his workshop, ostensibly calibrating a new boot thruster. You’re on the mezzanine level above, thinking the whir of machinery will cover your phone call with your best friend. You miscalculate. FRIDAY, ever the loyal AI, has been piping your voice down to him at a slightly increased volume for the last ten minutes. He’s been listening with the delight of a cat who found a laser pointer.
"I’m serious!” you laugh into the phone. “The first thing I look at in a man is his heart. The fact that his tits are in front of his heart is not my fault, like, at all!”
The sound of a wrench clattering to the floor echoes through the workshop. You peer over the railing. Tony is standing there, arc reactor glowing a cheerful blue through his black AC/DC shirt. He’s looking up at you, hands on his hips, a look of pure, unadulterated triumph on his face.
“Hold on,” he says, holding up a finger. He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t need to. He taps his chest, right over the reactor. “Just for the record. My heart? Right here. Glowing. Literally. Made it myself. But the packaging?” He gestures grandly to his torso with both hands.
He starts walking up the stairs, a slow, deliberate saunter. “I’ve been called a lot of things. Genius. Billionaire. Playboy. Philanthropist. But never, and I mean never, has someone so accurately identified the core struggle of dating me. The inner light versus the outer… majesty. It’s a burden I bear with grace.”
He reaches the top, leans against the railing next to you, and pokes your arm. “For the record? Yours are pretty great too. And I’m not just saying that because I’m contractually obligated as your boyfriend. I’m saying it because I’m a student of anatomy, and I appreciate a well-designed… cardiovascular support system.” He winks. “Now, I’m gonna go have a suit made with a window over my heart.”
PETER PARKER !!
You think he’s in his bedroom, which shares a paper-thin wall with the living room where you’re talking to your friend, Ned, who is also in on the secret and currently building a Lego Death Star.
“Ned, I swear,” you whisper, clicking a piece into place. “The first thing I look at in a man is his heart. It’s what makes Peter… well, Peter. The fact that his heart is behind, like, the most perfect, sculpted chest I have ever seen in my life? That’s just an unfortunate design flaw I’ve learned to live with.”
There’s a thump from the other room, followed by a muffled “Yeowp!” and the sound of something clattering. A moment later, Peter appears in the doorway to his room. He is shirtless, having apparently been in the middle of changing out of his Spider-Man suit. His chest is, indeed, exactly as you described. His face is the color of a ripe tomato. He’s holding a half-eaten Pop-Tart.
“Did- did you just-” He stabs the Pop-Tart in your direction. “Did you just call my chest a ‘design flaw’?”
“Peter!” You scramble to your feet. Ned is frozen, a Lego brick suspended mid-placement, his eyes wide with terror and excitement.
Peter takes a step forward, his eyes wide. “I— I heard you say it was perfect! You said perfect! Right? Ned, did she say perfect?” He looks at Ned for confirmation.
Ned gives a tiny, terrified nod.
“Okay. Okay, good.” Peter takes a deep breath, the Pop-Tart trembling in his hand. He looks down at his own chest, then back at you, then back at his chest. “So, if it’s perfect, then… it’s not a flaw. It’s a… a feature! For… for heart protection! That’s what it is! The heart is super important, so it needs, like, a really strong, aerodynamic casing. Yeah. A casing.”
He nods to himself, seemingly convincing himself of this new, self-generated logic. He takes a bite of his Pop-Tart, chews thoughtfully, and points the remaining half at you again. “So, what you’re saying is, you’re dating me for my heart, and my ‘chest casing’ is just a very, very appreciated bonus. A premium upgrade. Like… like the leather seats in the Spider-Mobile.”
“We don’t have a Spider-Mobile, Peter,” Ned says quietly.
“We could, Ned!” Peter yells, gesturing wildly with his Pop-Tart, a piece of strawberry filling flying off and hitting the wall. He turns back to you, his expression now a mix of shyness and budding confidence. “So… you like the casing? The… the whole… package?”
For the rest of the week, every time you see him, he finds a way to “casually” stretch, or “accidentally” lift his shirt to scratch his stomach, or wear shirts that are two sizes too small. He’s incredibly subtle about it, which is to say, he’s not subtle at all. It’s the most endearing thing you’ve ever witnessed.
THOR ODINSON !!
You’re on a balcony of the New Asgard compound, enjoying the crisp sea air. Your friend, a visiting diplomat from a neighboring realm, is with you. The conversation has turned to your rather unconventional relationship with the King of New Asgard.
You shrug, playing it cool. “I’m not shallow. I look at a man’s heart first. The first thing I looked at is his heart. The fact that his massive tits are in front of said heart is absolutely out of my control and, by hence, not my fault.”
A deep, rumbling chuckle, like the first tectonic shifts before an earthquake, sounds from directly behind you. You spin around. Thor is there, leaning against the doorframe, Mjolnir resting on his shoulder. He is wearing a simple linen shirt, which is doing absolutely nothing to conceal the fact that he is built like a god. Because he is one.
“My dear Lady,” he booms, his voice filled with mirth. “You wound me! You speak of my heart, a noble and valiant organ, and yet you give no quarter to the guardians that stand before it?” He sets Mjolnir down and spreads his arms wide, presenting himself like a museum exhibit. “These are not mere ‘tits,’ as you so quaintly call them! They are the Pillars of the Storm! The Twin Peaks of Thunder! They have weathered the blasts of dying stars and the embrace of a thousand battlefields, all to protect the heart you so wisely prize!”
He flexes. Once. Just once. It’s not a conscious flex; it’s just what happens when he moves his arms. The linen shirt makes a sound like a ship’s sail in a gale.
He then walks over, throws a heavy arm around your shoulder, and pulls you into his side, pressing your cheek against one of said Pillars of the Storm. You can hear his heartbeat, a deep, steady drum.
“You see?” he says to your friend, his voice now a theatrical whisper. “She is not a fool. She seeks the core, the very essence of a warrior’s spirit. And if, in her noble quest, she must pass through the glorious gateway of my chest?” He shrugs, the motion making your head bounce. “Then I say, let the gateway be ever open.”
From that day forward, every outfit he wears is either too tight, unbuttoned to his navel, or made of a material that is, by his decree, “strategically thin to aid in cardiac identification.”
PETER QUILL !!
You’re on the Milano, in the cockpit, while Gamora is sharpening a sword in the corner.
“I’m telling you,” you say to her, keeping your voice low. “It’s about the heart. I look at the heart first. The fact that his heart is behind what is arguably the most annoyingly perfect chest in the galaxy is a struggle I face every single day, and it is not my fault.”
The Milano’s engines hum. A second later, the cockpit door slides open with a dramatic hiss.
Peter Quill is standing there, wearing his red leather jacket, unzipped, with nothing but a pair of faded jeans underneath. His “annoyingly perfect chest” is on full display. He’s leaning against the doorframe, one arm up, trying to look like a ’80s movie heartthrob. He’s holding his Zune in the other hand, and the opening chords of “Holding Out for a Hero” by Bonnie Tyler begin to play.
He points at you. “I heard that.”
“Oh, for the love of—” you start.
He pushes off the doorframe and struts into the room, walking a tight circle around your chair. “You look at my heart. My heart. Which is huge, and full of love, mostly for you, but also for ’80s pop culture and my ship. But the chest? The chest you called ‘arguably the most annoyingly perfect’? No, that’s actually just totally true.”
He stops in front of you, plants his feet, and does a little shimmy.
“Quill,” Gamora says without looking up from her sword, “you are making a spectacle of yourself.”
“I’m not making a spectacle, Gamora, I’m responding to feedback,” he says, never taking his eyes off you. He leans in close, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “My heart, babe? All yours. But I need you to know that these?” He gestures to his chest. “They’re not just in front of my heart. They are my heart. They’re the physical manifestation of my emotional availability. When I’m happy, they’re firm. When I’m sad, they’re… still firm, but a little less perky. It’s a whole system.”
He then tries to do the chest-bounce thing, but he tries a little too hard, throws himself off balance, and trips over a crate, landing on his back with a loud oof. Bonnie Tyler keeps playing.
He lays there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, his perfect chest rising and falling. “This is fine,” he says. “I meant to do that. It’s a power move. You’re supposed to be impressed.”
Drax, who has been silent this whole time, finally speaks. “His chest is adequate. The female is correct, however. The placement is illogical. A warrior’s heart should be the most accessible target to prove one’s valor. Hiding it behind flesh is a sign of a coward.”
Peter scrambles to his feet. “Okay, first of all, Drax, shut up. Second of all, babe, for future reference?” He pulls you up from your chair, spins you, and dips you, his annoyingly perfect chest now right at eye level. “If you’re gonna objectify me, at least use a better adjective than ‘annoying.’ I’m thinking ‘devastatingly handsome chest unit.’ Or ‘the twin engines of the Quill-star.’ I’m workshopping it. We’ll come up with a official title together.” He grins, wide and irrepressible. “Partners in crime. And in appreciating my rack.”
sharing a bed hcs w various marvel characters (-.-)zz
includes: kurt wagner, remy lebeau, bucky barnes, peter parker, matt murdock, johnny storm *comic inspired, no mcu
i kinda got in the zone and just wrote general sleeping headcanons if you don’t mind
kurt wagner;
always moving around,, tossing and turning even in the deepest of sleeps. he’s warm to lay with, so you often find yourself too hot for comfort!
sleepily wraps or lays his tail onto your leg, especially when he’s right about to fall asleep for the night.
pretty deep sleeper, will wake up if you shake him or say his name loud enough but it will take a couple tries. he’s also very stubborn about getting up before he wants.
often finds himself holding your hand, will be half way across the bed but his arm will still be reaching over to you.
has a ton of blankets even though he’s basically one himself. very willing to share and not a hog actually!
remy lebeau;
clingy in his sleep, even before sleep too! often drapes an arm over you.
messy sleeper. drools and snores lightly but somehow still looks gorgeous?? his face is so so pretty in the early morning light.
bed head is wild, always sticking up even though it usually is messy every day, it always appears messier in the mornings.
another morning mention, sleepy voice is so beautiful!!
if wearing one, his shirt always rides up and stays that way alllll night.
freaking bed hog -_-
bucky barnes;
always nervous before bed. always has trouble falling and staying asleep.
sleeps stiff as a board unless he’s really tired, then he’ll be in a more comfortable “average” sleeping position.
night sweater (yyyeuck)
somehow always ends up on the edge of the bed.
goes to bed around late 12pm but gets up early like around 5:40-6:30 am on most days. never wakes you up though unless you ask!
actually snores pretty loud but swears up and down he doesn’t and that he’s super silent!
likes to take up very little space but is a blanket hog snd always accidentally grabs most of them.
the bathroom is steamy as shit after he showers.
peter parker;
similar to bucky he’s nervous but mostly because he doesn’t want to make you uncomfortable!
hasn’t ever shared a bed before so he definitely clings to the edge the first couple times.
very sweet but a slight pillow hog, but he doesn’t really use blankets. only has one which is wild!!
sleeps in corny shirts he has somehow collected over the years. and old ass pajama pants that are too short.
snores softly, it’s more cute and a nice background noise than obnoxious.
ends up hugging you in his sleep, or when he falls asleep too. he really wants to be near you but only if your okay with it!
very cute bed head heh
matt murdock;
not a big cuddler imo, very aware of the space and usually wants some distance himself.
sleeps pretty still unless he’s stressed (which is always let’s be fr)
doesn’t snore but does drool a lot!
slight bed head but it’s so pretty and just a bit messy that looks so good.
tummy sleeper, enjoys having your hand on his shoulder or back for comfort and support.
if he’s had a really hard day he’ll definitely hold you. but won’t say anything unless you start a conversation about anything else other than what might’ve happened.
often sleeps with his back to you, not that he meaningly does it just happens!
will try to make sure you fall asleep before him so he knows your comfortable.
i know i said remy has a beautiful morning / sleepy voice but matt easily wins the contest
johnny storm;
cuddling w you all the time. while falling asleep and during asleep. always has his hands around your torso if possible!
snores somewhat loud and it’s a tad annoying! but swears he’s way too good for snoring and that he’d neverrr
often brings you late night snacks or drinks.
if you don’t wake up when he wants you he’ll poke your cheek until you wake up or he gets bored and just loudly (yells) your name.
nice to sleep with if your cold, but terrible during heatwaves and summertime. you actively push him away and he gives you the best puppy eyes ever.
has like 5 pillows and many blankets but only uses one blanket. he never wakes up under it anyway.
either sleeps only in boxers or boxers + tank top combo
actually likes cooler showers, it’s so nice laying with him after a cool shower and sends you both right to sleep.
very odd sleep schedule. most nights he heads to bed around 11 pm but some nights if he’s really invested in a project or something he’ll be up nearly all night. wakes up really late though, enjoys sleeping in
thank you for reading, requests are open for mha and marvel characters rn ^-^ they would be very appreciated
your suit was torn in several spots, the symbolic webbing ripped open to reveal bloodied skin. the window sill of the mansion was slick, the rain doing little to help your case. thunder struck in time with your soft bang against the edge, knocking the window open. you slid inside, quietly latching the lock behind you.
lightning flashed, illuminating the room. you pried the mask off your head, hair bouncing free as you breathed deeply. your wounds ached, and you grimaced when a particularly harsh throb wracked your ribs. you leaned against the wall, grateful for the dark that encased the room.
remy was out for the night, you were certain. he’d left you a note, saying he and the guys went to a gaming hall. you’d smiled fondly at the tiny heart he left next to his name.
you stumbled into the bathroom, blood smearing along the walls and the counter. the toothbrush cup fell over, spilling onto the floor. you went down next, your shaking arms barely able to hold yourself up.
before you could even think of picking them up, lights flicked on as the floors creaked.
“chère?”
you reached for the door, throwing your limp body against it. remy’s shadow appeared from under the door, his knuckles tapping against the wood, “did i wake ya up? y’alright?”
“m’fine, remy,” you shakily spoke, biting back a wince as your fingers dipped into the wound. you felt the hard casing of the bullet. “can’t lie t’remy, mon ami. let him in, please.” your nails grazed the bullet, a quiet grunt leaving your lips at the ache.
your brows knit together when the door you rested on began to rattle. it warmed, and you quickly scooted away when you saw the purple flecks of kinetic energy swirling around the doorknob. “remy—!”
it opened.
and there he was.
dressed casually—in one of those crop tops he adored and jeans—like he didn’t bankrupt other gamblers and win every game of poker. his crimson hair was fluffy.
“where’s your coat?” you asked with a gentle frown. it was cold outside, didn’t he wear one?
“you bleedin’ on our floor ‘n askin’ about some coat?” he knelt next to you, necklaces clinking as he tore his gloves off. you watched him tug the first aid kit from the cabinet, flicking it open and getting to work. remy was uncharacteristically quiet, which worried you deeply. he hadn’t acknowledged the suit you wore, nor gloated about the sheer amount he’d won tonight.
you grimaced when the bullet clinked on the tile, feeling your enhanced regeneration tingle through your cells. “i knew,” remy spoke, resting a comforting hand on your thigh, “‘bout de…spider thing. did’ya think i wouldn’t notice?”
you looked away, silent and ashamed.
“m’not mad at ya, chère. not even a lil,” he soothed, clasping a firm hand under your jaw and guiding your face back to his, “just wish ya told remy sooner. he didn’t wanna see ya like t’is before ya told him.”
“i’m sorry,” you whispered, feeling the skin of the wound close. remy stared down at it, dual-colored eyes swirled with confusion. “i heal over time,” you explained, “gunshots take longer, usually.” he shook his head with a fond grin, as if the thought of your wounds taking longer to heal would quell his worries.
remy’s eyes were molten, swirling with sparks of purple and admiration. it was quiet, his thumb simply sweeping over your cheek as your healing tingled your cells. “how much did you win?” you asked after a while, allowing him to scoop you up and carry you to the bedroom. “i’m offended, chère. ‘course i won lots,” he smirked lazily, “wan’ somethin’? remy’ll get it for ya.”
“my suit kinda needs repairs,” you sheepishly admitted, and he laughed. “mm. dunno ‘bout supportin’ such…dangerous endeavors..” he got you comfortably in bed, joining you quickly, and tucked you close. remy was always warm. you buried your face in his chest, hiding from his blazing eyes upon your next words, “and i wanted to go shopping for a dress for emma’s event..”
“ooh, now dat—remy’s got plenty,” his lips pressed against your head, “oughta let me see ev’ryone of ‘em. touch, too. tha’s requirement. needa see if the…quality is worth de price.”
you smiled and giggled, keeping your warm face hidden from him, “required, huh? you sure it’s just to test the fabric quality?”
“guilty as charged,” he mused, dragging his fingers along your spine, “close ‘dem eyes, chère. sleep f’remy.”
you hummed softly, the ache in your bones fading as remy’s touch soothed them. outside, sirens still blared and criminals still ran rampant—but right now? you were simply remy’s.
DAREDEVIL … MATTHEW MURDOCK
you’d learned how to circle matt.
adapted to his schedules, shifted around mishaps, smiled through painful throbs of bruises—you’d perfected it.
until you seen him out.
you were perched on a balcony, fingers barely grazing the iron safety bars. it was 3am, and matt was usually asleep at this time. home from a long day of court, and tonight, he mentioned going out to drink with foggy and karen. he was home at midnight—why was he out now?
you quietly leapt across buildings, pausing every time he paused, moving when he moved. his cane tapped lightly against the concrete, the familiar clicks making your heart rate slow.
then, a hand shot from the darkness.
matt was yanked into an alley, and you launched into action. you watched as the man threw matt to the ground, and before matt could retaliate, you were there. your fist collided with the thug’s face, webs zipping! out. your foot landed on his shoulder, launching yourself and him up as you threw punch after punch and kick after kick. the webs clung to him, pinning his struggling and bruised frame against the brick wall.
your feet touched the pavement, kneeling in front of a winded matt.
“sir, sir, are you alright?”
“i knew it,” he breathed, smiling in that utterly pleased way of his. you tried to subdue your increasing heart rate, handing him his cane, “knew what?” matt’s head tilted knowingly, hands drifting forward to grip your waist.
“i’m not a fool, sweetheart. i know your heartbeat,” matt leaned up, and you had to look away from him, “it got faster. you’re nervous. i know your footsteps—your breaths.” matt pushed himself off the ground, and you slid his cane in his hand. he took a step towards you, lips still pulled into that infuriating smile of his. you tried to pull away quickly, but he caught your wrist, “i know your touch, your hands. even if they’re covered.”
“did you plan this or something?” you embarrassedly asked, keeping your eyes averted as he tugged you closer. his lips curled up further, and you groaned in disdain, “matt!”
“don’t be like that,” he cooed, “i was getting tired of you tiptoeing around it. so, i gave you a reason to tell me.” your head thumped against his chest, a heavy sigh leaving your lips. he swayed you lightly, chin propped atop your head. he smelled like warm sheets and the candle on the nightstand.
“go home, please.”
“come with me,” he countered, bringing both arms around you. his fingers traced the webbing of your suit, trailing around the spider design on your back. “i can’t,” you muttered, tensing when one of his hands dragged up your arm. his fingertips grazed along your mask, and you clasped his wrist tightly, “matt…”
“just for a minute, baby,” he whispered, “please?” you hesitated, nodding briefly. matt lifted your mask over your nose, and you felt his breath tickle your lips.
then, you felt his softness.
matt’s hands held your face, his shoulders dropping in utter bliss. you backed him into the wall, smiling into the kiss. you broke apart, foreheads resting together.
your lips parted to speak—
“hey, can you let me down please? i need to go to the doctor!”
your head jerked up, and matt laughed:
“foggy?!”
SPIDERMAN … PETER PARKER
it was hard being new york’s third spidey.
you usually stayed under the radar, cleaning up when peter or miles couldn’t—but there was one tiny issue.
they had no idea it was you.
peter was at grad school for the majority of the day—miles surely contemplating his existence in high school—so you had opportune time to be spidey during the day. they’d tried to contact you, of course, but you’d made it a point to avoid them at all costs.
right now, you were perched on a rooftop, eyes skimming across the city as you held a large icee in your hand. you sipped casually, flinching when your comms began to ring. your fingers pressed against your ear, a soft hum leaving your lips.
“hi, honey,” you greeted, “what’s up?”
peter didn’t answer.
“peter?”
“why didn’t you tell me?”
“tell you what?” you calmly asked, keeping your voice level despite the panic creeping up your spine. peter sighed, displeased, “delmar’s pickle sub was on sale an hour ago.”
“oh,” you laughed, relieved, “i’m sorry, i didn’t know it was.” peter groaned childishly, and you vaguely heard the bustling sounds of the cafeteria. “are you with miles?”
“yeah. gonna take him to get some actual food for his final week,” you heard him call him over, and then you heard his voice, “hey, pete’s taking me to get actual food. do you wanna go?”
your lips parted to agree, but a loud screech and explosions sounded nearby. you heard the phone rustle, “what was that? baby?”
“nothing—i gotta go, have fun!”
you swiftly hung up, ignoring the way peter called you back instantly. you tugged your mask back on, tossing your empty icee cup in a trashcan as you swung to the scene. you landed atop a streetlight, frowning when you saw a group of men holding women hostage.
their massive guns waved haphazardly, and you teasingly called out, “got a license for those?”
“it’s the spider!”
“which one?!”
you catapulted yourself at them, web bombs flying from your palms. the sticky threads flawlessly coiled around them, pinning them in one webbed up cluster. “huh. that was easy,” you shrugged, walking over to the women.
“hi,” you whispered, “anyone hurt?”
they shook their heads as you gently guided them away. you flinched when a sharp pain pierced your side. you glanced down, spotting an unfamiliar object. the dart’s contents were glowing purple, and your body broke into shivers upon its dispersal into your bloodstream.
“haha! it worked!” the cluster cheered.
you shot a web, barely able to swing properly. you crash landed on a nearby roof, curling up into a ball as your body shook. you were freezing despite the boiling hot weather.
“spidey?” the voice was warbled, but you recognized the familiar red and blue suit, accompanied by the black and red one. you tried to move, to hide from him, but his hand carefully moved you on your back.
“hey, hey, what happened?”
you shook your head, fingers grazing the rooftop’s edge. you were in agony. cold, hot, boiling, freezing, shivering, paralyzed.
“you need fresh air,” miles worriedly said, his hands nearing the hem of your mask. you weakly slapped them away, and he looked at peter for guidance.
“we promise we’ll keep your secret,” peter comfortingly said, “we can help you.”
“i don’t want it,” you heaved, mustering up enough courage to toss yourself off the edge. your body freefell, but your webs missed their landing—
a hand coiled around your wrist, your body dangling against the wall. you tiredly looked up, spotting peter upside down in front of you. he was stuck to the wall, one hand next to your head as the other held you up by your wrist.
“i tried to give you openings, but i seriously can’t take it anymore,” peter reached for your mask, yanking it up and off before you could react, “baby, please. we need to get you to the hospital.”
your mind was rendered to nothing but mush.
you could only hum and grumble, and you grimaced when he swept you up. your vision went dark, all you felt was his arms.
when you woke, he was staring at you with an intensity and a sadness you hadn’t seen since aunt may.
“pete?” you tiredly whispered. he didn’t speak, his knee bouncing rapidly, “are you mad?”
“i’d be a hypocrite if i were mad,” he sighed, shifting from his seat and sitting next to you on the bed. his fingers traced along your cheek, a weak smile on his lips.
“you could’ve told me.”
you didn’t answer to that, lifting your hand to cup his. his warmth permeated the cold of your skin. you shrugged softly, and he laughed as he pressed his lips to yours. “mm. i guess i didn’t tell you either, huh?”
“no, you didn’t,” you mused, “i found out because you left your mask in—“
“you promised not to talk about that!”
WOLVERINE … LOGAN HOWLETT
“she’s not herself—logan!” charles shouted, turning in his wheelchair in an attempt to stop him.
“i don’t give a damn,” he snarled, spinning on his heel, “she’s mine. some fish-bowl headed lunatic ain’t takin’ her from me.” ororo stood instantly, grabbing her jacket and following him out. he briefly shot her a look of gratitude and utter respect, to which she nodded once.
storm always had his back.
the jet rumbled as it zipped through the air, and its screens displayed you in the city. mysterio hovered near you, the sky dim as the people’s symbol of hope ebbed away. “get me as close as you can,” logan grumbled to scott, who didn’t respond with one of his usual remarks.
he understood the gravity of the situation.
you, the girl who swung with webs through new york city, hands outstretched to whoever needed help—a child who fell off their bike, a man kicking a vending machine that took his money, the elderly woman who needs help crossing the hectic street—you were there.
now, you were suspended midair, body lifeless as mysterio’s control seeped into your mind. citizens cried and begged, their fingertips barely able to reach you.
“ah, the x-men,” mysterio cooed, “come to save a fellow hero?”
the jet landed harshly, and logan leapt out. he stormed closer, feeling the soft breeze of ororo’s aura behind him. jean and scott joined them, their eyes blazing with rage.
“where did you take them?” scott shouted. mysterio’s arms stretched wide, “allow me to show you.”
the city faded to black.
bodies were thrown and tossed about, and logan seen you. your suit was shredded to pieces, your mask completely gone. your eyes were black, tears staining your cheeks. blood coated your skin as you stood atop a pile of bodies.
how long had you been here?
what were you seeing?
he turned around, tensing when he realized that he was the only one here. logan sprinted toward you, and your eyes jerked to him. you jumped, webs slinging out to stop him. webs cocooned him in seconds.
your fingertips dug into his face, “sick joke, mysterio. using him against me.”
“bub—“
“stop talking,” you seethed, fresh tears filling your eyes, “i will break your neck.” logan’s claws slid free, slicing through the webs and shoving you against the ground. his hand pressed against your throat—a warning. “listen to me,” his tone was firm, eyes dark with anger, “yer stuck in an illusion. he threw me in here w’you.”
“you’re—lying!” your knee dug harshly into his stomach, but he didn’t move. logan’s claws dug into the asphalt, solidifying his posture, “i ain’t lyin’, stubborn thing. it’s logan,” he stressed, eyes flicking all over your injuries, “look.”
he cautiously raised a hand, reaching for the neck of his white shirt and tugging the collar down. a thin chain with a ring looped onto it—the stupid matching rings you’d bought as a peace treaty after a big argument. you faltered in your fight, hand lifting to further pull the shirt down—
“now yer just pushin’ it.”
then he felt your fingertips brush along a scar.
one that very little knew was there.
the scar that you’d given him for moments like these, moments that needed proof and grounding. logan relaxed, leaning back and pulling you up with him. you traced the tiny X with care, and he frowned when tears filled your eyes. “c’mon, sweets. don’t cry.”
your palms roughly swiped at your eyes, your breaths growing scarce, and his hands easily found your wrists, “stop. breathe.”
you cried apologies, falling into his arms. logan sighed, standing up with you secure in his hold. he rubbed your back as he walked through the domain, ears tuned into finding his comrades.
when he reconnected with the group, ororo greeted you with a soft smile. you stayed in his arms, eyes forcefully averted from the carnage you’d unleashed in here. logan wasn’t worried about getting stuck in the domain, he knew they’d find their way out eventually.
but right now, he had you—his darling spider—in his arms, and you needed him.
HUMAN TORCH … JOHNNY STORM
you’d broken your arm in an intense fight with sandman. you remembered the sick crack, the way your forearm was angled incorrectly as you sheepishly showed it to the emergency room workers. you hadn’t been able to reset the bone, so it had begun to heal like that. the doctors, pitifully, had to re-break the bone just to fix it.
it healed a week ago.
johnny still hadn’t stopped pampering you.
he refused to “hand you over” to peter when the city called, he refused to let you do literally anything. tonight, peter had messaged you, desperate for help on an intel-related task. johnny was sleeping, and so, you’d taken the opportunity.
you quietly snuck out of the bedroom, suit zipped up and ready to go. herbie appeared at the end of the hallway, his little head tilting curiously. you knelt in front of him, gently rubbing his head, “i’ll be back soon, herbie. don’t worry.”
“johnny?” he beeped quietly.
“sleeping. if he’s up before i leave, tell him i went shopping. wait, no don’t tell him that, he’ll be upset,” you considered a proper response, sighing as you shook your head and came up empty, “just tell him i’m helping pete.”
herbie beeped, nodding. he nuzzled into your hand, and you smiled warmly. “bye, be good.”
he followed you to the balcony, watching you closely as you leapt off it. the sky was blanketed with stars as you zipped through the city, landing calmly on the appointed building. peter appeared from around the corner, waving as he landed. “hey, thanks for coming. did johnny let you go easy?”
“i didn’t wake him up,” you admitted, “didn’t feel like arguing and wasting time.” peter hummed knowingly, perching next to you and pointing at the condemned factory.
“kraven’s got stuff in there. need to know all about it.”
“easy,” you mused.
it was in fact, not easy.
you and peter breathed heavily behind cover, bullet wounds coating the two of you. “i’m sorry,” he whispered, wincing at a throb of pain. “uh-huh,” you mockingly replied, flinching when a bullet embedded the wall next to you.
you silently contemplated what to do—
you were cornered, blood dripping from nearly every part of your body. peter was in a similar shape, wounded and exhausted. you groaned, your head thumping against the wood crate, “use the signal.”
“seriously? johnny’s gonna kill us…”
“i’d rather die to him than these guys, pete. just do it.”
peter visibly accepted his fate, thumb pressing against the line of webbing that alerted the fantastic four. within seconds, your comms rang. you pressed your ear against your shoulder, too tired to raise your hands.
“that better not have anything to do with you.”
“i don’t know how to tell you this,” you laughed weakly, “but it kind of has everything to do with me.”
johnny didn’t speak, comms shutting off. peter met your masked eyes, “how bad?”
“he’s dead silent,” you solemnly said.
“shit.”
the glass erupted into shards, and you flinched when rapid gunshots fired. a bright orange glow encased the room, and you vaguely heard the soft thrumming of sue’s barrier.
loud footsteps sounded to your left, and you saw ben standing over the two of you.
“hey,” you and peter greeted casually, as if the two of you weren’t staining the floor red. johnny landed next to ben, expression utterly displeased and furious. he knelt next to you, sending a nasty stare towards peter as he scooped you up.
“i’m sorry, man!” peter shouted as johnny walked away. he didn’t say a word as he ignited into flames and shot off towards the hospital.
“stupid, stupid,” he muttered, “i’m gonna sell out everything he loves.”
“johnny—“
“you scared me, baby,” he admitted, “woke up to the signal going off, you not in my arms.”
you murmured an apology, doing your best to withstand the heat he emitted. your suit was fireproof, courtesy of reed, but some places were torn. “do you wanna know how long i’m keeping you to myself now?”
you sighed, eyes closing as you accepted the inevitable.
“how long, johnny?”
“three months.”
generous, you thought amusedly.
“you’re also prohibited from communicating with peter for a good year.”
the doctors made quick work of you, and you assured them your healing would take care of what they couldn’t quickly fix. they had other people to help, people that couldn’t self-sustain.
now, you were in bed with johnny.
he had you wrapped in his arms, tightly. “are you gonna hold me like this the whole three months?” you softly asked, tapping your fingers on his back to the rhythm of the song he’d chosen.
“if i have to. i’ll hold you in the shower, at dinnertime, while you get ready,” he listed off, eyes sparkling with mischief. you smiled, cuddling closer to him. he kissed your head, gently pulling you away so he can reach the rest of your face. he peppered kisses on your skin, pausing before he reached your lips.
his blue eyes swirled with worry and love, and you nodded.
he kissed you sweetly, embers flickering in his hair. you separated with a shy laugh, and he embraced you again.
“seriously, don’t scare me like that again. especially don’t just…leave.”
the idea of trying to crawl away during sex for whatever reason, maybe to grab something, maybe your phone rang, something fell on the other side of the room, idk, and you get yoinked by the waist is so fkfnfmfkfkf to me always
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