MARIE

Just your friendly marvel & dc fangirl who is obsessed with the comics—but still has a soft spot for the movies and series! [I'm 18+]

[urdreamydoodles]

WELCOME!

Requests are open —

MASTERLIST HERE

RULES —

Down below . . .

Fandoms I write for . . .

Marvel Comics

Marvel Cinematic Universe (MCU)

Marvel Animated

Spider-Verse (Both movies)

Dc Comics

Dc Live Action

MORE TO COME . . .

Dc Animated

I write for almost every character in these fandoms, even the most niche ones...so don't worry.

I write absolutely everything (angst, fluff, smut), here's what I refuse to write . . .

Anything based on hate (racism, homophobia, ...)

Smut with underage characters

Animal cruelty

Self-Harm or suicide

Incest

Canon x canon (I only write "x reader")

When making a request, specify what you want . . . Ex:

A one shot + the theme (angst, fluff, smut with plot or not, ... & your plot idea)

Headcanons (And what characters, at least two)

A multiple parts fanfic (I'm very picky about this, considering it takes me time)

What gender is the Reader (Female, male, neutral, ...) The physical description of the Reader will always remain vague unless you want something specific about their physique.

Just so you know, my favorite type is one-shots. I always write one-shots faster.

I think I should thank this community for everything you've given me! Seeing that you like my work so much makes me so happy...thank you for being here. Your comments are what makes me happiest ♡

AND REMEMBER...HAVE FUN!

[urdreamydoodles]

X-MEN CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

You constantly, flirtatiously tease your partner—even in front of everyone

CHARACTERS: Logan Howlett, Remy LeBeau, Kurt Wagner, Scott Summers, Jean Grey, Ororo Munroe, Rogue, Erik Lehnsherr, Charles Xavier, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff, Hank McCoy, Emma Frost, Laura Kinney, Wade Wilson, Victor Creed, Julian Keller (Hellion), Kitty Pryde, Cable, Warren Worthington III, Morph, Mystique, Magik, Alex Summers, Colossus, Psylocke, Jubilee, David Haller (Legion), Lorna Dane & Jonothon Starsmore (Chamber)

Have I ever told you how much I love X-Men Comics? I love the entire Marvel Comics universe, it's been my obsession since I was a kid, but especially the X-Men ♡

Logan Howlett (Wolverine)

– You think it’s funny—the way this feral, gruff man stiffens when you slide your hand low across his back during a mission briefing, fingers brushing the waistband of his jeans like it’s an accident. Logan doesn’t flinch from gunfire, doesn’t blink at death, but your mouth grazing his ear with a soft "need something, soldier?" sends a crack straight down the spine of his restraint. You whisper sweetness with the tone of sin, just to watch him grit his teeth and breathe through his nose like a wolf denied.

– He doesn’t say much, not in public. Just glares sideways at you with those gold-lit eyes that look like they could burn a hole through the steel walls of the Blackbird if they weren’t already busy carving your name into the marrow of his soul. But when he does talk, it’s low and dangerous, like a growl wrapped in gravel: "Keep that up, darlin’, and I ain’t gonna be so gentlemanly later." You grin, because Logan Howlett’s version of gentlemanly is still claws and teeth, just softened slightly for your skin.

– Around the others, you’re merciless. Your hand lingers on his thigh during team dinners, voice syrup-slick as you ask him if he’s feeling tense. You call him sugar or honeybear, and Rogue chokes on her drink while Jean smirks behind her glass. He gives you that look—half warning, half plea—but you only kiss the corner of his mouth with a smile that promises ruin. Logan’s whole life has been edged in blood, but you make even mischief taste like home.

– Later, when the teasing ends and the silence stretches long, he gathers you up like a storm gathering leaves. He never begs, not in words, but you feel it in the grip of his hands, in the low rasp of "c’mere, I missed you, even five feet away." And when you tell him you’ll do it again tomorrow—tease him in front of the whole damn team—he just mutters "brat," and holds you like you’re the only peace he’s ever known.

Remy LeBeau (Gambit)

– Teasing Remy is like trying to outfox the devil in his Sunday suit—you do it because it’s dangerous, because he always bites back. You brush close to him in the middle of strategy sessions, running your fingers down the lapels of his coat like you’re checking for wires, whispering “Mon amour, is this trench coat flame-retardant? ‘Cause you look combustible tonight.” He chuckles low, all velvet and vice, and tilts his head like he’s weighing whether to kiss you or toss the table to clear some space.

– Remy lives in flirtation like it’s oxygen, but when it comes from you, it hits different. You’ll make a quip in front of the X-Men, something suggestive, and he’ll turn to you like you just rewrote gravity. His mouth quirks, eyes glowing that dangerous red, and he purrs something in French that makes the room heat up. You don’t speak all of it—but the way his hand slips beneath the table to find your thigh tells you enough. Teasing him is foreplay. A public dare with private consequences.

– You toy with him at the most inconvenient times. While he’s picking locks mid-mission, you’ll lean close and murmur “Bet you’re good with your fingers, huh?” And he pauses, just a breath, before the door clicks open and he flashes you a grin that could unlace corsets across the hemisphere. Or you’ll adjust his collar in front of Storm, whispering “Can’t have you looking less than lethal, cher,” and Remy, always a performer, winks like he’s the one in control. But the pulse at his throat tells you otherwise.

– When the doors close and the teasing fades, he doesn’t play anymore. Remy touches you like he’s been craving you since the moment you spoke his name. “Keep doin’ that to me, fille,” he murmurs against your neck, “an’ one day I ain’t gonna wait ‘til we alone.” And you believe him. But you’ll still test him tomorrow, in front of everyone, just to see the moment he breaks and the gentleman turns to a hurricane.

Kurt Wagner (Nightcrawler)

– With Kurt, your teasing is gentler, a feather dragged across the skin rather than a knife pressed to the throat. But make no mistake—it still undoes him. You’ll drape yourself over his shoulder in the war room, cheek against the edge of his pointed ear, whispering in a lilt that dances like music, “Mein Liebling, your tail keeps brushing my leg. Trying to tell me something?” He stammers in German, tail coiling around your wrist like it has a will of its own, his cheeks burning a vivid shade of midnight blue.

– He’s a man of faith, a soul carved from light and shadows, but you’re the only temptation he ever lets linger. When you tease him in front of the others—pressing soft kisses to his cheek while calling him your holy sin—Beast snorts, and Kitty hides her laughter behind a book. Kurt just laughs, flustered, trying to hide the way your affection sets every part of him on fire. But his tail doesn’t lie. It wraps around your waist, anchors you close, like even in play he can’t let you drift too far.

– You’ll adjust his collar before a mission and murmur, “If you die today, I’ll bring you back just to kiss you goodbye again.” He fumbles his sword. You giggle. Logan groans. Teasing Kurt is art. Divine comedy. He always responds with a mix of bashfulness and hungry reverence, eyes soft like candlelight, voice trembling like he can’t decide if you’re a blessing or a challenge sent to humble him. Perhaps both. Probably both.

– When the world is quiet, and it’s just you two curled under twilight, he confesses in a whisper what he never says aloud: “You make me feel like I was made for more than shadows.” And you kiss the edge of his smile, promising to tease him again tomorrow—call him your sinner saint, your velvet sin, your favorite trickster angel—until his laughter becomes prayer, and his devotion, a holy ache only you can soothe.

Scott Summers (Cyclops)

– You’re the only one in the galaxy brave enough to tease Scott Summers in front of the team, and the only one he lets do it without barking orders. You’ll rest your chin on his shoulder during training drills, lips close to the shell of his ear as you purr, “Commander, if you keep bossing me around like that, I might start liking it.” He tenses, jaw locked, voice clipped as he mutters something about professionalism—but you see the way his hands twitch, and how he won’t meet your eyes behind the visor.

– Your teasing unravels him like a slow pull on tightly wound thread. You’ll slide your fingers across his chest in the hallway, straighten his uniform with mock-seriousness, and say, “You missed a button, handsome. Need help?” Jean arches a brow. Ororo hides a smile. Scott sighs, long-suffering and smitten, brushing your hand away only to hold it a second later like it’s a secret he can’t stop confessing. He’s meticulous in combat, a machine of war—but around you, he short-circuits in the most endearing ways.

– In briefings, you’ll perch on the edge of his seat, legs crossed, voice laced with sugar and something incendiary: “Don’t worry, I’ll follow your lead, Captain.” The way you say captain makes it sound like a promise you’ll break on purpose. He never responds directly—just clenches his jaw and continues the meeting—but later he pulls you into a side room and murmurs, low and breathless, “You’re driving me insane.” And you smile. Because you like that you’re the only thing that ever makes him lose control.

– Behind closed doors, he kisses you like he’s punishing himself for wanting you so much. His hands are desperate, his voice roughened by restraint and longing. “You’re cruel,” he breathes. “You know that?” And you do. But the next morning, you’ll do it all over again—teasing him when Hank walks by, calling him sir in that sultry tone—because you like watching him try not to fall apart. And you love knowing he always will. Only for you.

Jean Grey (Phoenix)

– You’ve made it a sport, a religion, the way you tease Jean Grey until her voice trembles and her eyes glint with psychic static. In front of everyone, you slide your fingers along the arch of her waist as if you’ve simply forgotten your own hand, whispering something utterly wicked behind a smile that could burn churches. She never expects it, and yet—always does. Because when you call her Red, dragging the word out like a purr, she exhales like it’s the only name she ever needed.

– Jean is composed. Divine. The type of woman people lower their heads to. But you are the one person who gets to lace irreverence through her poise. You tease her with playful kisses to the back of her neck during team debriefs, murmuring “Tell me you’re not reading my mind right now, because it’s incredibly dirty.” Scott turns crimson. Logan groans. Jean just bites her lower lip and pretends to keep her posture, though her pulse flickers with something entirely unholy.

– When you curl up beside her on the couch in front of the team, your legs tossed casually across her lap, you let your voice dip low as you ask, “Does it bother you that I still dream about you even when you sleep beside me?” Her laugh is always quiet, soft and knowing, but the fire behind her eyes tells you she doesn’t just like the attention—she craves your mischief. Teasing her is like igniting the Phoenix, only you’re the only one she’ll ever let it consume.

– Alone, she returns the favor tenfold. “You’re lucky I have control now,” she whispers against your collarbone, “or I’d show them all exactly what you do to me.” And though you’ll continue to tease her tomorrow—run your fingers along her telepathic temples, call her goddess in a crowded room—Jean will just smile, beautiful and lethal, because she knows what you already do: the teasing is foreplay, but the surrender that follows is sacred.

Ororo Munroe (Storm)

– You flirt with Ororo like you’re dancing with a thunderstorm—barefoot, grinning, reckless. She’s the most regal woman to walk the Earth, but you see past the lightning crown, straight into the softness of her. During team meetings, you’ll lean into her space, brushing her silver locks behind her ear and saying something like, “I dreamed of you wrapped in clouds last night. I think heaven’s getting jealous.” She doesn’t flinch, only raises a single brow, the corner of her mouth curling with patient threat.

– Storm doesn’t embarrass. But you still manage to make her blink slower, breath catch subtly, especially when you call her my sky, or rest your head on her shoulder while the X-Men argue logistics. Your teasing is never disrespectful—it’s reverent, like a poem performed with a wink. Sometimes, when you press your lips just behind her jawline during a public moment, she’ll murmur in Swahili under her breath. You don’t speak it, but you know what it means: “Keep tempting the storm, my love.”

– You tell her she’s too composed, too perfect, and that it makes you want to ruin her just a little. At training sessions, you’ll challenge her to spar, grinning like a fox, then lean in just as the session begins and whisper, “Winner gets to decide how the night ends.” Lightning crackles faintly along her fingertips, and you know you've won—even if she pins you down moments later. Because your real victory is in her shiver when you laugh.

– Behind doors, she pins you. Against marble walls, in sunlit corners, on rain-soaked sheets. “You’re chaos in silk,” she says between breaths. “And you think you can tame the storm?” But you kiss her collarbone and promise you’ll tease her again tomorrow, call her Highness in front of the council, ask if her clouds are jealous when she moans your name. She tells you to behave. But her smirk says she hopes you won’t.

Rogue (Anna Marie)

– You tease Rogue like you’re playing with fire you know could burn—but you trust it not to. In the middle of team gatherings, you rest your hand at the base of her back, just beneath the hem of her jacket, and whisper things like “You ever get tired of being the hottest danger around?” And she’ll roll her eyes, cheeks pink, but that smirk—that lethal, honey-dripping smirk—never lies. Your boldness is half the reason she fell for you, and she never minds a little heat in public.

– Rogue plays tough, all leather and bite, but you know she melts like butter when you lean over the table during dinner and murmur, “Bet even your kisses could steal hearts in more ways than one.” Bobby groans, Remy chokes on his gumbo, and Logan just mutters “God help us.” But she’s already reaching under the table to squeeze your thigh, hard, her voice low and syrupy sweet: “Keep flappin’ your pretty mouth and we’ll see if you’re still smilin’ later.”

– You never fear her power. You tease her gloved hands like they’re sacred things, worship her without touching skin. You once whispered, “You don’t need to touch me to own me,” and she didn’t speak for five whole seconds, just stared like you’d stolen her breath. With Rogue, every tease is a trust fall. And every one of your flirty glances in front of the others reminds her you love all of her—not just the parts that won’t hurt you.

– Later, behind drawn curtains, she whispers “You’re trouble, sugar,” into your skin, and bites your shoulder through her gloves. But she’s already pulling you closer. You call her heartbreaker and outlaw when the sun comes up. She calls you siren in a Southern drawl that makes you forget your own name. Tomorrow, you’ll tease her again in the courtyard, just to hear her sass back and catch that flush on her cheeks like firelight on whiskey.

Erik Lehnsherr (Magneto)

– Teasing Erik Lehnsherr is like toying with an avalanche mid-slide: thrilling, dangerous, addictive. You press your mouth to the shell of his ear at strategy meetings and whisper things like, “Careful, old man. You keep talking like that and I’ll start thinking you’re trying to seduce me again.” He doesn’t smile—not in front of others—but the twitch at his jaw, the pause in his speech, is victory enough. You love to provoke the tyrant into remembering he’s still a man.

– In front of the Brotherhood, you lounge across his throne like you own it, legs over the armrest, trailing fingers along the steel edge of his gauntlet. “Erik, darling, are your magnetic fields acting up or are you just happy to see me?” Toad stares. Mystique sighs. Erik does nothing but raise a single, icy brow. But later, when the others have gone, he’ll back you against a wall with the flick of a wrist and hiss, “You are playing a dangerous game.” And you’ll whisper, “Only because I know you’ll never let me lose.”

– You wear white around him, sheer and sinfully soft, because you know how much he hates being distracted—and how much more he loves being undone. You once curled into his lap in front of a war council and murmured, “Would it ruin your credibility if I kissed you right now?” He didn’t answer. But the metal around the room groaned, bending slightly. You knew what it meant: Not here. But soon.

– Erik doesn’t give affection easily, but when it’s earned—when the doors close and the silence settles—he devours you with the same intensity he brings to conquest. “You are infuriating,” he breathes, “and entirely necessary.” You drag your nails along his shoulder and hum, “I’ll tease you again tomorrow.” And he doesn’t stop you. He never will. Because your chaos is the only thing that makes him feel human again.

Charles Xavier (Professor X)

– You are the first woman to make Charles Xavier lose his carefully stitched composure—publicly. You slide behind him in the middle of a council discussion, gently resting your hands on his shoulders, and lean down just enough for your breath to tickle the edge of his ear. “You keep speaking so eloquently, darling. I may need a moment to recover later.” He clears his throat. Beast looks amused. Erik glares. You only smile, because Charles does not blush often, but you know exactly how to pull heat to his cheeks.

– Charles is used to intellect, to wit, to sharp minds and polite restraint. You offer all of that wrapped in a voice like temptation, in laughter that curves at the end like a secret. You whisper things during meetings—double meanings laced with silk—that only he can hear. Sometimes you swear you hear his thoughts falter mid-sentence. “Don’t cheat,” you’ll murmur, brushing your fingers against his temple, “no peeking unless you're ready for what’s in there.” His eyes tighten with barely concealed desire, and you know you've won again.

– He plays it off, of course. He’s the professor. The visionary. But your teasing is a rebellion he welcomes with arms wide open. You rest in his lap while he reads, mock-innocent as you ask, “Are you sure this isn’t an abuse of your power, Charles? Sitting there looking like temptation in a sweater vest?” He hums, unreadable, but the way his fingers twitch against your thigh betrays him. He doesn’t just enjoy your mischief—he relies on it to keep him human.

– Alone, when the doors are shut and his title no longer shields him, he draws you close like a man thirsting for absolution. “You undo me,” he murmurs into your skin, “with every smile, every whisper.” And when you promise to tease him again in front of the Quiet Council—call him sir with a voice like wine—he groans softly, lips pressed to your collarbone. Charles Xavier doesn’t beg. But you’ve made him want things even he never dared to imagine.

Wanda Maximoff (Scarlet Witch)

– Teasing Wanda is like playing with cosmic fire—but you’ve never minded the burn. You run your fingers along her hip while she hexes training dummies into dust, and when she turns to you with a stern expression, you only grin. “You’re very talented, darling. But I think you might’ve cursed me most of all.” Her mouth opens, closes, then curves into a helpless smile. You leave her breathless with compliments disguised as mischief, flirtation wrapped in velvet.

– Wanda’s known pain, loss, devastation—but you offer her lightness, laughter, irreverent affection. You kiss the tips of her fingers in front of the Avengers and murmur, “So this is the hand that bends reality? No wonder I’m ruined.” Tony coughs into his drink. Steve looks away. Wanda just blushes scarlet, then brushes your cheek with a touch light as candleflame. Your teasing is love disguised as chaos. And she thrives in it—finally, someone who doesn’t fear her.

– Sometimes you tease her magic itself. “If you hexed my clothes off, would that be considered romantic or illegal?” you ask once, during a battle debrief. The room goes quiet. Wanda sputters a laugh, then presses her face into your shoulder, hiding her grin. Later, you watch her trace sigils into the air, and you lean in with mock awe, “Be honest—you just like it when I call you enchantress.” She does. She so does. But she’ll never say it aloud. Her eyes say it for her.

– At night, she wraps herself around you like a prayer answered too late. “No one’s ever made me feel safe while laughing,” she whispers, and you kiss her jaw in return. Tomorrow, you’ll tease her again in front of Strange or Logan or even Pietro. She’ll roll her eyes. Call you impossible. But she’ll blush. And she’ll smile. And she’ll cast little protection spells into your coat pockets when you’re not looking—just in case the teasing invites something that isn’t love.

Pietro Maximoff (Quicksilver)

– Pietro’s used to people never catching up. But you—you don’t just keep pace. You lead the dance. You tease him in the middle of chaos, brushing your hand across his back like static and whispering, “That fast, huh? Pity.” His mouth drops open, scandalized, and you’re already five paces away with a grin. You are the only one alive who can make Pietro Maximoff slow down—just to hear what wicked thing you’ll say next.

– He’s cocky. Smirking. All speed and arrogance, but you can make him trip with a look. You once leaned into him during a team mission and murmured, “You move fast, baby—but I hit harder.” He blinked. Stuttered. Forgot entirely what he was supposed to be doing. You keep touching him casually—adjusting his collar, smoothing his hair, fingers trailing his forearm—and it drives him insane. Especially when others are watching. Especially when you do it like it’s effortless.

– You call him your favorite disaster in front of Wanda and Steve, rest your head on his shoulder and sigh dramatically, “What would I do without my little hurricane?” He grumbles, mumbles something about respect, but his ears go red. He lives for your teasing—pretends to be annoyed, but follows you around like a stray bolt of lightning. Your boldness unsettles him, thrills him, makes him feel seen in a way speed never could.

– When the world finally pauses, and he has you to himself, he’s breathless with it. “You’re trouble,” he tells you, forehead pressed to yours. “You’re going to be the death of me.” You only smile, trailing your fingers down his chest, and promise to flirt with him and Logan tomorrow, just to make him jealous. He groans. But you see the way he clenches his fists, the way his pulse stutters. Pietro runs fast—but when it comes to you, he’ll never leave first.

Hank McCoy (Beast)

– Teasing Hank McCoy is like poking a sleeping poet who moonlights as a panther. He’s all decorum, wit, and scientific grace—until your hand slides across his chest mid-lab and you murmur, “Is it ethical to look this good while mixing chemicals?” He fumbles. Actually fumbles. Drops a beaker. You giggle like it’s an accident, but Hank knows better now. You’re mischief in silk, and you’ve made it your mission to undo him with honeyed sarcasm.

– In front of the X-Men, you lean into his shoulder and ask loud enough for everyone to hear, “Is the fur always this soft, or are you just flirting back?” Logan groans. Kitty laughs. Hank clears his throat and mutters something about “professional conduct,” but his tail twitches with delight. You love watching him try to remain stoic, academic, distant. It never works. You kiss his forehead during Danger Room training and ask if he’s your personal teddy bear. He doesn’t respond. But his ears go pink.

– You once climbed onto his lap during a debate about mutant ethics, just to whisper in his ear, “I’m still undecided about your moral compass, but your thighs are absolutely heroic.” He choked on his tea. Charles had to excuse himself from laughing. You don’t just tease Hank. You liberate him. You peel away the layers of intellect and kindness and expose the passion buried beneath. And it is wild. And tender. And entirely yours.

– Later, he tucks you into his arms like something precious. “You do realize you’re impossible,” he murmurs. “Utterly vexing. A distraction I cannot quantify.” You kiss the tip of his nose and whisper, “Good. I’ll tease you again tomorrow. In front of the council. Maybe during a presentation.” He groans. But he holds you tighter, because even a genius needs chaos to remember he’s still alive.

Emma Frost (White Queen)

– Teasing Emma Frost is not a game for the faint of heart. She is diamond and danger, cold brilliance wrapped in silk, but you—you're her favorite crack in the mirror. You flirt with calculated recklessness, sliding beside her at a gala and whispering, “Remind me again—are you the most beautiful woman in the room, or am I just underdressed?” She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just smiles—thin, sharp—and tilts her head as though deciding whether to reward you or ruin you.

– You wear white when you’re with her. Always white. Low cut, high slit, something sinful and too innocent, just to see her jaw clench behind her champagne glass. In front of the Hellfire Club, you rest a hand lightly on her thigh and ask sweetly, “Is this where I’m supposed to kneel and call you Queen?” The entire table goes quiet. Emma smirks like a slow blade being unsheathed. “Only if you mean it, darling.” You always do.

– She pretends to be unaffected. Always poised, always in control. But you catch the way her eyes flick to your mouth when you bite your lip mid-meeting, or the way she draws breath just a beat too long when you kiss her cheek in front of the council. You tease her because you’re the only one who can, because it turns her from diamond to something molten—slowly, privately, exquisitely. And because you like making the White Queen want.

– Later, in the privacy of moonlight and her high-rise bedroom, she’ll press you against glass and say, “You’re playing with fire.” You kiss her neck and whisper, “No, darling. I am the fire.” She smiles, then—truly smiles—and promises to ruin your reputation if you keep teasing her in public. You grin, tell her to try. And the next day, you do it again—bolder, silkier—because nothing is more intoxicating than Emma Frost when she’s a little bit undone.

Laura Kinney (X-23)

– Teasing Laura is like flirting with a blade—one that’s already kissed blood but chooses not to cut you. She’s sharp, quiet, constantly poised like something could snap—but you see the soft hidden under the steel. You whisper to her during patrols, “You always watch my back so closely. Starting to think you like the view.” She doesn’t answer. But her eyes narrow with something like confusion... or hunger.

– Laura doesn’t know what to do with the way you tease. You call her killer kitten, claw baby, my favorite weapon in front of Logan just to watch both of them scowl. You kiss her gloved hand in the middle of a mission briefing, biting your lip as you say, “You gonna gut me if I kiss you again? Or just blush?” She blushes. You don’t stop. You can’t. Because she is beautiful when she’s overwhelmed—and she never, ever admits it.

– She’s not used to attention like yours. Not adoration wrapped in audacity. You poke her cheek during training and ask, “Is that murder-face for the enemy or for how much you want to pin me against the wall?” She growls low in her throat. Someone coughs. Logan looks away. Laura doesn't reply—but after class, she drags you into the locker room and kisses you with her hands shaking. You made the storm crack its sky.

– At night, she sleeps against you like something feral that’s finally safe. She murmurs, “You’re reckless,” against your ribs. You answer, “So are you.” Tomorrow, you’ll tease her again—ask her if the claws come out when she gets jealous. She’ll call you insufferable. But you’ve seen the way her lips twitch. You’ve heard her heartbeat speed. And she’ll never admit it, but she hopes you never stop.

Wade Wilson (Deadpool)

– Teasing Wade is like adding gasoline to a campfire: wild, bright, and instantly dangerous. You call him pretty boy in front of Logan, smack his ass during missions, and say things like “Nice swords, babe—compensating for something?” He laughs so hard he trips over his own gun. “I knew it! She loves me. She wants me. Someone call Spider-Man!” You just wink, knowing full well that you do—and that he knows you do, too.

– He eats up every bit of your chaos. You flirt with him like you’re onstage, loud and unfiltered, and Wade responds with dramatic gasps, heart clutches, and fake swoons that make Rogue walk away in secondhand embarrassment. You straddle his lap during team meetings just to whisper, “If I lick the mask, do I taste trouble or taco grease?” He pulls it up immediately. “Taste and find out, babycakes.” You don't. Yet. But oh, the promise lingers.

– Beneath the nonsense, though, is a vulnerability he hides behind jokes. So sometimes, you’ll flirt softer—tracing his scars with reverence, whispering into the crook of his neck, “You’re my favorite disaster. My favorite mess.” And he’ll go quiet. Just for a second. Then he’ll throw you over his shoulder and run straight into a villain’s lair just to prove he’s worthy of your dangerous affections. You keep teasing him because it makes him feel—seen, wanted, chosen.

– Alone, Wade is slower. Gentler. He whispers, “You see all the ugly, and you flirt with it anyway. That’s messed up. I think I love you for it.” You laugh. Call him softie. Say you’re gonna flirt with Logan tomorrow to make him jealous. He gasps. “You’re a monster! You’re perfect.” He worships you in laughter and blood, in brokenness and absurdity. And in the middle of a firefight, when you wink at him across the chaos, he blows you a kiss and mouths, mine.

Victor Creed (Sabretooth)

– Teasing Victor is a blood sport, and you play it like a champion. You whisper in his ear while he's sharpening his claws, “Bet you purr if I scratch behind the ears.” He growls. But you see the way his breath hitches, the flicker in those golden eyes. You are not afraid. Not of the beast. Not of the violence. You flirt like a dare, like a knife dancing on bare skin. And Victor—he likes that. A little too much.

– You wear red around him. Lethal silk, lipstick like murder. You drape yourself across his lap at Brotherhood briefings, fingers trailing the line of his throat as you murmur, “You gonna kill me or kiss me first?” Mystique rolls her eyes. Victor grins, slow and sharp, and says, “That depends. You gonna beg for either?” You never do. You never need to. Because teasing him isn’t about submission—it’s about domination without touch.

– You drive him mad. In front of others, you call him kitty or fangs, brush your lips along his jaw and hum, “I’ve tamed worse.” He snarls, but never stops you. Because even with all his power, all his menace, you are the only one who ever made the predator chase instead of pounce. He doesn’t understand how you’re not afraid—but it keeps him addicted. You are his unsolvable riddle. His softest sin.

– When you’re alone, his control shatters like bone under pressure. “Keep teasing me like that,” he growls against your throat, “and one day I won’t stop.” But you already know. You already want that. You kiss his lip, taste the wild, and murmur, “Good. I never asked you to.” And in the morning, you flirt with Magneto in the hallway just to feel Victor’s jealousy crack the air around you like a storm. He doesn’t scare you. He excites you. And he lives for it.

Julian Keller (Hellion)

– Teasing Julian is like feeding gasoline to teenage arrogance—you do it because watching him squirm is delicious. He’s always posturing, always smirking, always pretending he’s not flustered when you call him “pretty boy” in front of the New X-Men. You lean over the strategy table, brush your fingers across the metal of his gauntlet, and purr, “You look so intense, Jules. Should I be worried… or excited?” He freezes. Coughs. Tries to recover. You wink. He fails.

– He pretends your teasing doesn’t bother him, but every time you kiss his jaw in passing or tug on his belt loop mid-mission, his powers surge slightly. A telekinetic hum buzzes in the air like he can’t control the way you unnerve him. Once, you sat in his lap during a debrief just to whisper, “Do you think your powers can pin me down? Or do you need help?” Julian dropped his coffee. Santo still won’t let him live it down.

– He tries to play it cool, of course. Arms crossed, brows arched, doing his best impression of a man who hasn’t thought about you in every possible position. But your constant flirtation breaks through all of it. You call him “baby telekinesis” in front of Logan and get away with it, mainly because Julian can’t stop staring at your mouth long enough to protest. And because the truth is—he loves it. He loves you, in all your maddening, teasing glory.

– Alone, he’s different. Hands tentative, voice lower. “You drive me insane,” he murmurs, half-smiling as you straddle his hips. “One day I’m gonna tease you back so hard you forget your own name.” You smile like you’re inviting it. You tell him he couldn’t handle the reverse. He tells you to try him. And you whisper that you’ll flirt with Josh tomorrow just to make him jealous. He groans. You laugh. The game goes on.

Kitty Pryde (Shadowcat)

– You flirt with Kitty like it’s a private joke the whole team’s in on—and it always, always works. She’ll be in the middle of a meeting with Logan or leading a Danger Room session, and you’ll brush her hair behind her ear and murmur, “Should I be calling you Professor Pryde now? Or do I still get to call you mine?” She short-circuits every single time. Phases through a chair once. Blames the tech. You grin.

– She tries so hard to keep things professional, especially when students are watching—but you just lean against her desk during X-Men business, trailing your fingers along the collar of her uniform and whispering, “You know I’m only acting up to see if you’ll punish me later.” Kurt drops his coffee. Logan groans audibly. Kitty turns beet red and stammers through the rest of the meeting with your hand still resting on her thigh.

– Your teasing is sweet but shameless. You walk through walls into her office just to surprise her, drape yourself over her while she’s reading mission reports, and sigh theatrically, “I love a woman with responsibilities.” She huffs. Tells you she has work. But her fingers wrap around your wrist and stay there. Kitty has a fire in her—one that never quite burns unless you’re the one igniting it.

– Later, in the quiet hum of her quarters, she climbs into your lap like it’s where she’s always belonged. “You’re impossible,” she says between kisses. You reply, “You didn’t mind when I called you ‘boss lady’ in front of Storm.” She buries her face into your neck. Swears you’ll pay. You just laugh, already planning tomorrow’s chaos—maybe teasing her in front of Peter. Maybe flirting mid-phase. Either way, she’ll be red. And yours.

Cable (Nathan Summers)

– Teasing Nathan Summers is like flirting with a nuclear reactor—controlled chaos, calculated danger, and strangely addictive. He’s a warrior, stoic and brooding, wrapped in metal and scars, but you flirt with him like he’s just some hot guy at a bar. “Tell me, soldier,” you say during mission prep, fingers dancing along the edge of his shoulder plates, “is all that heavy armor compensating for something… or hiding something I should unwrap?” He doesn't answer. But the muscle in his jaw twitches, and that’s all the answer you need.

– The others stare when you perch in his lap in the war room, playing with the straps of his belts like you’re trying to disarm a bomb. “I like your scars,” you whisper, “they’re very… biteable.” Domino snorts. Scott nearly drops a tablet. But Nathan doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink—just looks at you like he’s cataloguing every inch of your threat level. And secretly loving every second. Your boldness doesn’t faze him. It arouses him.

– You love calling him things like big guy, future daddy, cyborg of my heart—all in front of Charles, Logan, anyone who’ll hear. You once kissed his metal hand and said, “Cold to the touch, warm on the inside. Just like you, babe.” He groaned. Told you to behave. You didn’t. Nathan is used to discipline, to pain, to silence—but you make him laugh. You make him burn. And when you tease him, he remembers he’s alive.

– Alone, he cages you against the wall, breath ragged. “One more innuendo in front of my father, and I swear—” You cut him off with a grin and a kiss. You promise to flirt with Logan next. He growls, drags you closer, says, “I’ll kill him.” You laugh, whisper something filthier, and he lifts you off the ground like you weigh nothing. Tomorrow, you’ll tease him in front of the Council. He’ll scowl. But when you wink, he’ll smirk. Just a little.

Warren Worthington III (Angel/Archangel)

– Warren’s used to admiration. He’s a literal angel, golden and tragic, rich beyond reason, beautiful beyond words. But you—you flirt with him like he’s a summer fling you’re bored of, and it drives him mad in the best way. You lean against his shoulder during meetings and murmur, “Your wings look fluffier than usual. You grooming for me?” He blushes. Actually blushes. Emma raises a brow. You giggle like a devil in disguise.

– You call him heaven-sent in front of the X-Men and then add, “I just want to know if all of you is as soft as those feathers.” Logan chokes on his cigar. Kitty nearly falls off her chair. Warren turns the color of ripe strawberries and hides his face behind a clipboard. You kiss his cheek in front of Storm and say, “Don’t worry, angel—I’ll keep it PG...ish.” He knows you’re lying. And he secretly hopes you don’t.

– His wings flare whenever you get too close—his body reacting before he can hide it. You once traced a finger down one of the joints mid-conversation and whispered, “Are they sensitive?” He dropped his coffee. You winked and walked away. Teasing Warren is its own divine comedy. He’s all old-money grace and aching morality, but when you bite your lip and call him birdie, he looks ready to sin.

– Later, when he’s pinning you beneath him with wings stretched wide, he breathes, “You do this on purpose.” You only smile, breathless, and murmur, “Of course I do. You're fun when you're flustered.” He kisses you like penance. And you promise to call him Daddy Warbucks with feathers in front of the Avengers tomorrow. He groans. But he never tells you to stop. Because for once in his life, being worshipped feels earned.

Morph (Kevin Sydney)

– Teasing Morph is like playing tag with chaos—you’re not sure if you’re the one chasing him, or if he’s letting you catch him just to feel your hands. You lean into his side mid-mission, brush your lips against the curve of his ear, and whisper, “If you wanted me to sit on your lap, you could’ve just asked.” He turns bright pink, shifts into a chair, a kitten, and back into himself within seconds. You laugh. He melts. Everyone else is used to it by now—your shameless affection and his cartoonishly lovesick expression.

– Morph is a shapeshifter, but you’re the one who leaves him breathless. You flirt with him in front of everyone—calling him your favorite emotional support chaos goblin, running your hand down his back during meetings and murmuring, “Still the cutest one in every form. Even when you turn into Logan.” Logan scowls. Morph grins. You wink. He dies a little inside (in a good way). You are the one constant in a world where he can be anything.

– You once made him flustered mid-fight by shouting, “Turn into my ex so I can finally win an argument!” He tripped. He actually tripped midair. Later, you perched on his shoulders while he turned into a centaur just to impress you, and you whispered, “What’s next, stallion?” He almost combusted. You don’t tease him because he’s easy to rattle. You tease him because you love the way he always laughs—loud, full-hearted, like it’s the only language he trusts.

– Alone, he drops all disguises. Just Kevin. Just his eyes, soft and vulnerable, saying thank you in every glance. “You could’ve had someone simpler.” You kiss the side of his jaw and promise to tease him again tomorrow—maybe mid-transformation, maybe in front of Charles. He grins. Shifts into a blushing emoji. You tackle him to the bed. He says you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him. You tell him he’s stuck with you. He says he’d shapeshift into forever if it meant staying yours.

Mystique (Raven Darkhölme)

– You flirt with Raven like you have no sense of fear—and she finds that utterly intoxicating. You trail your fingers along her collarbone during Brotherhood briefings and purr, “If you were anyone else right now, I’d still want you. Problem is, I only ever want you.” She raises a brow, seemingly unbothered, but the flick of her yellow eyes betrays her. You make her lose focus, and no one else has ever done that. Not Erik. Not Destiny. Just you.

– Raven’s used to being the predator, but you—you are the thorn in her paw she doesn’t want removed. You tease her when she’s in disguise, calling her “stranger danger” or “whoever-you-are-today, babe” in front of Magneto. Then, the moment she’s back in her blue skin, you kiss the sharp edge of her cheekbone and murmur, “There’s my girl.” She rolls her eyes, tells you to stop, but lets you continue. Every time. Because she doesn’t trust most—but she adores you.

– Once, during a very serious mission, you leaned into her and asked, “If I misbehave during this operation, will you shift into my boss and fire me later? Or just spank me in the breakroom?” Logan walked off. Pyro fell over. Raven didn’t even blink—just looked you dead in the eye and whispered, “You won’t be walking afterward.” You winked. You flirted harder. You made Mystique flustered—a feat worthy of its own medal.

– Alone, Raven sheds everything—her weaponized skin, her masks, her fury. She presses her forehead to yours, and you whisper, “I’ll tease you again tomorrow.” She threatens you in return, half-hearted and breathless. You call her your favorite nightmare, and she bites your shoulder just enough to mark. You never stop flirting with her—because the world always expects her to shift. But with you, she stays.

Magik (Illyana Rasputina)

– You flirt with Illyana like you’re trying to get hexed—and maybe you are. You kiss her cheek during quiet spells and whisper, “Queen of Limbo or Queen of my heart? I need to know where to send the tribute.” She stares at you like she’s deciding whether to kiss you or banish you to another realm. Then she smirks and says, “Keep talking and I’ll summon something worse than love.” You grin. Because no one calls your bluff quite like she does.

– Illyana is ice and brimstone. But you—you make her smile with teeth. You drape yourself across her lap during debriefs and ask, “Is this throne taken?” Logan sighs. Kurt prays. She runs a single clawed finger along your thigh and says, “Only if you earn the seat.” You tease her because she’s dangerous. Because she’s divine. Because she loves it more than she lets on. You’re the only one she doesn’t cast away.

– You call her my favorite hellspawn in front of the New Mutants, and she scowls—but doesn’t move when you kiss the side of her neck. You once slipped a sticky note on her sword that read “cut me open, I dare you”, and she kept it. Illyana isn’t one for grand affection, but your teasing is worship disguised as chaos, and she needs that kind of devotion. Especially from someone unafraid of her fire.

– Alone, in the soft hush of moonlit rooms, she pulls you close and murmurs, “Don’t stop.” And you never do. You promise to flirt with Kurt in front of her just to see her glare. She promises to teleport you to Limbo for three hours in return. You both laugh. She kisses you like a curse she never wants lifted. And when you call her goddess of everything dark and mine, she doesn’t deny it.

Alex Summers (Havok)

– Teasing Alex Summers is like tossing pebbles into a volcano—you watch it rumble, then crack open with heat. You lean into him during Danger Room warmups and murmur, “You know, you’re the hotter Summers brother. Just don’t tell Scott I said that.” His ears go red instantly. He mutters something about professionalism. But his hands find your waist within seconds, pulling you just a little closer. You’re his favorite distraction. The only one he doesn’t want to resist.

– You call him sunbeam, hot stuff, and Captain Inferno in front of the X-Men, resting your head on his shoulder during team missions and whispering “You’re glowing again. Is that your mutation or just me?” He exhales like he’s about to explode. Sometimes he does—just a little blast into the dirt to let off steam. Logan smirks. Scott glares. You kiss his temple and promise to behave. You never do. Alex loves it.

– He tries to keep his cool, to be the rational Summers—until you sit in his lap during a Blackbird flight and whisper, “Think the team knows you’re my favorite pillow?” He coughs. Tries to shift you off. Fails. You call him ‘Lexy-poo in front of Emma once, and he almost vaporized a chair. But he never stops letting you do it. Because even with all his trauma, his mistakes, his need to be seen outside Scott’s shadow—you make him feel wanted. Loudly. Brazenly. Constantly.

– In the dark, you trace the edge of his chest with your nails and murmur, “I’m flirting with Logan tomorrow.” He groans, buries his face in your neck, and says, “You are a menace.” You hum, “Your menace.” He kisses your collarbone and mutters, “Damn right.” And the next morning, when you wink at Scott across the War Room, Alex simply pulls you onto his lap and growls, “Mine.” You smirk. You win. Again.

Piotr Rasputin (Colossus)

– You flirt with Piotr because you like how unshakeable he is—on the outside, at least. You rest your hands against his cold chestplate and purr, “So solid… must be exhausting being everyone’s strongman. Want me to be yours for once?” He stills. Not because he’s offended, but because that low, soft mischief in your voice short-circuits something deep inside him. You say it like a poem. Like a challenge. Like a prayer he doesn’t deserve answered.

– Around the others, you straddle his lap without warning, tracing lazy circles along the glowing seams of his armor, and murmur, “Are you always this hard, or is that just for me?” Logan groans. Kurt disappears. Ororo smirks knowingly. Piotr covers his face with a massive hand and grumbles something in Russian, but doesn’t move you. Not even an inch. You know the blush is there, hidden beneath steel. And you live for coaxing it out.

– You love pressing kisses to his silver neck, whispering ridiculous things like, “You know, some girls like diamonds. I prefer my men fully plated.” He stutters. He flusters. He accidentally crushes a coffee mug in his palm once because you called him “metallic and magnificent” during breakfast. You tease him because he’s so careful with everyone else—but with you, he forgets to hold back. He forgets he’s dangerous. He forgets to be afraid.

– In the quiet moments, he pulls you close like you’re the only softness he’s allowed to hold. “You make me feel… more,” he murmurs against your temple. You smile, kiss his jaw, and whisper, “Good. Tomorrow I’ll call you my steel sweetheart in front of Logan. See if you turn red or crush another mug.” He groans. But he doesn't stop smiling. Not with you in his arms.

Betsy Braddock (Psylocke)

– You flirt with Betsy like you’re begging to be pinned—and honestly, you are. During Council meetings, you lean over her shoulder, lips brushing her ear, and whisper, “How does a woman that sharp not cut me open every time she looks my way?” She glances sideways, half-lidded and deadly, and replies something cool like “Perhaps I enjoy watching you bleed for me.” But her hand settles on your thigh under the table. Lightly. Possessively.

– Betsy wears her control like silk armor, but you poke holes in it with every sultry grin, every teasing touch of fingers just too close to her telekinetic blade. You once strutted into her sparring session wearing one of her old shirts and murmured, “If I win, you’re taking me out. If I lose, I’m still wearing this tonight.” She smirked. Disarmed you instantly. But when she helped you off the floor, her hand lingered on your waist for far too long to call it tactical.

– You tease her even when she's mid-mission, asking through comms, “Tell me, darling—am I your weakness or your weapon?” She answers coolly, “That depends. Will you shut up if I say both?” But you hear the lilt in her voice, the faint breathless pause before the next strike. Around others, you call her Lady Blade and my lethal Brit, just to watch her glare half-heartedly before dragging you into the shadows and whispering threats in a tone that sounds an awful lot like love.

– Behind closed doors, her mask cracks. She lets you kiss the scarred edges of her, the parts she doesn’t show anyone else. “You shouldn’t tempt me like that in public,” she warns. You kiss her throat and hum, “Then stop liking it.” She doesn’t. She won’t. She touches you like something sacred, her voice low as she whispers, “Tomorrow, I’ll pretend not to care. You’ll flirt anyway. And I’ll let you. Because you are my favorite weakness.”

Jubilee (Jubilation Lee)

– You flirt with Jubilee like she’s sunshine in a bottle and you’re dying of thirst. You toss yourself dramatically across her lap during mission briefings and groan, “How is it fair for you to look like that and shoot fireworks from your hands? I demand equal rights.” She laughs so loud Beast drops his pen. Logan mumbles something about kids these days. But Jubilee? Jubilee just beams—and tugs you even closer.

– She’s used to being underestimated, but you never do. You call her “sparkler” and “hot stuff” in front of Rogue, blow her kisses across training simulations, and say things like “If you keep looking at me like that, I’m gonna combust before you even touch me.” Her cheeks go red. Her fingers crackle. Her smile could light the room. You tease her because she deserves to be adored loudly, boldly, without apology.

– You once kissed her behind the bleachers during a student event and whispered, “Wanna ditch this and make out on top of the Danger Room?” She said yes before you even finished. In front of the team, you call her “the love of my chaotic life”, and when she shoots you a glare, you kiss her cheek until she’s laughing too hard to be mad. Jubilee loves that you’re just as loud as she is, just as bright, just as impossible to ignore.

– Alone, she curls against you like a firework ready to explode. “I still don’t know why you like me,” she whispers once. You kiss the side of her nose and reply, “Because you shine so hard, it makes me believe in joy again.” She tears up. Punches your arm. Calls you cheesy. You promise to flirt with Laura tomorrow just to annoy her. She threatens to blind you with light. But she’s smiling the whole time.

David Haller (Legion)

– Teasing David is like reaching into a wildfire and asking it to blush. You sidle into his space during psychic training sessions, curl a hand around the back of his neck, and murmur, “You’ve got a million personalities, but I only flirt with the one who looks at me like that.” His smile stutters. Reality shimmers slightly at the edges. He wants to be cool, collected—but you make his universe tremble with a whisper.

– Everyone else treads lightly around David, afraid of breaking him open, of saying the wrong word and unleashing chaos. But you? You walk right into his field of fractured thoughts and tease him like it’s your favorite game. “So which one of you is into me today?” you once asked in front of Charles. David flushed. The sky flickered. Charles cleared his throat and left the room. You winked. David nearly imploded.

– You press kisses to the side of his temple and say things like, “Even your madness knows I’m irresistible.” And maybe it does. Maybe every one of his alters adores you in their own strange, broken way. You are the single thread he never wants to sever, the teasing voice that keeps him grounded, the chaos he chooses instead of drowns in. You flirt with him not because he’s broken—but because you see the beauty in every crack.

– Alone, he cups your face with trembling hands and whispers, “Sometimes I think I made you up.” You kiss him—slow, grounding, real. “If you did, then lucky you.” Tomorrow, you’ll flirt with one of his alters just to watch him twitch, just to remind him you love every part. He’ll roll his eyes. Call you impossible. You’ll call him yours. And he’ll believe it. Because somehow, against all odds, you make his mind feel like home.

Lorna Dane (Polaris)

– You flirt with Lorna like she’s a storm you’re daring to swallow. You press against her during council meetings, fingers grazing her hip, and whisper, “Is your magnetism always this strong, or am I just wearing metal panties again?” She chokes. Logan drops his cigar. Emma smirks behind her wine glass. Lorna turns slowly, jaw clenched, green eyes sharp—but you see the edges of her mouth fighting a smile.

– Lorna plays at calm, but you’ve seen the twitch in her fingers when you wear her colors or call her Queen of North Star Hearts in public. You once straddled her lap during a political summit and murmured, “If I kiss you now, will the podium catch fire or just the headlines?” She didn’t move you. Didn’t speak. Just kissed you anyway. And the media did write about it. You framed the article.

– You tease her powers constantly, asking if she can “pull you closer without hands” or suggesting she use her magnetic field to unhook your bra mid-mission. She glares. You wink. And when you kiss her in front of her exes—especially Alex—she holds you tighter. Lorna pretends to hate the attention. But she loves the way you shout your affection. She’s had too many lovers hide her in the shadows. You? You shine a spotlight.

– At night, wrapped in silk sheets and her tangled hair, she murmurs, “You’re the only one who ever makes me laugh like this.” You kiss her nose and promise to call her Green Goddess in front of Magneto tomorrow. She groans. “Don’t you dare.” You absolutely will. Because Lorna’s not just made of magnetic storms—she’s made of aching softness. And you are the only one allowed to tease the lightning until it purrs.

Jonothon Starsmore (Chamber)

– Teasing Jono is like serenading a bonfire—warm, dangerous, and always on the verge of flaring. You curl into his side in the rec room, fingers brushing the wrappings around his jaw, and whisper, “You know, for a guy who can’t kiss, you still make me melt.” His psychic laugh echoes softly in your mind. It’s dry. Amused. And just a little bit desperate. You’re the only one who makes him feel like more than what he lost.

– You flirt in front of the students, calling him “Hot Stuff” or “My favorite furnace”, running your fingers over his trench coat and sighing theatrically, “Tragic and broody? Ugh, yes please.” Jubilee hoots. Husk groans. Jono groans louder—psychically. He tells you to stop. You don’t. Because you know what it does to him. You know he’s burning from the inside out—and you want him to know that you see it, and love him anyway.

– Once, during a mission, you pressed your mouth to the scarf over his lower face and whispered, “You don’t need lips to ruin me, Jono.” He nearly lost control of his bio-energy blast. You laugh about it still. He doesn't. But he secretly keeps the scarf you kissed folded in his drawer like a relic. You tease him because he forgets how much he’s still allowed to feel—and you are determined to never let him forget it again.

– Later, when he holds you with hands callused from a life of holding back, you hear him think it again: “I wish I could kiss you.” You cup his face and say, “You already do.” And tomorrow, you’ll flirt louder, in front of Emma this time, just to see him twitch. He’ll groan. He’ll sigh. But he’ll never tell you to stop. Because in a body made of broken fire, your teasing is the one thing that doesn’t hurt.

[urdreamydoodles]

Head cannons or one shot of a love triangle between Emma jean and reader, mostly angst with some fluff! Reader basically kinda replaces Scott during that whole fiasco anyways I love ur work!!

"WHAT THE FIRE DIDN’T BURN" — A Jean Grey & Emma Frost One Shot

SHIP: Jean Grey x Fem!Reader x Emma Frost (Comics)

WORDS: 1.495 words

THEME: Angst

I'm back after dealing with family and health issues. Everything is better now! I missed you all ♡

The quiet is deceptive. You’ve learned that in the halls of the X-Mansion—stillness is never a promise. It’s the eye of a hurricane, the space between pulses, the breath before a scream. Right now, it clings to your skin like silk soaked in ice water, and you’re not sure if the chill is from the air or the ache bleeding through your ribs.

You’re seated in the war room, alone, though you rarely ever are. Here, privacy is borrowed, not given. But today the lights are low, the monitors asleep, and the walls mercifully quiet. The world outside may still be crumbling—mutants feared, hunted, headlines slashing red across the sky—but for a brief moment, you’re allowed to breathe.

Or you would be, if your lungs didn’t belong to two women.

Jean. Emma.

They orbit you like stars too close to detonation, and you—beautiful and broken in ways even Cerebro can’t map—are the gravitational pull that keeps them from drifting apart or annihilating each other.

Jean was first. Not chronologically, no—but first in the way fire always arrives before ash. She came into your life like déjà vu. Like the part of a dream you wake up from, heart racing, sure you’ve been there before. She looked at you, and you saw galaxies collapse behind her eyes. Saw the Phoenix in her, and something else. Something small and painfully human.

Hope.

You didn’t expect Emma. She arrived not like fire, but the sharp crack of diamond shattering glass. You’d seen her on the battlefield before—cold and exacting, her mind a cathedral of mirrors—but nothing prepares you for being wanted by her. Desired, yes, but more than that—chosen. You were a complication, a softness she let herself believe in.

You didn’t ask for any of it.

But love never asks. It takes.

And now you’re drowning in it.

Jean finds you first tonight.

You sense her before the door even opens—a phantom pressure behind your eyes, the warmth of sunlight blooming along the curve of your spine. She’s always gentle when she enters your mind, like she’s brushing back a lock of your hair with fingers made of breath.

“Didn’t think I’d find you here,” she says, closing the door behind her.

You don’t turn around. “Didn’t think I wanted to be found.”

She pauses. That quiet again. “Too bad,” she says softly, coming to stand beside you. Her hand brushes yours. You don’t pull away.

“I thought you were with Logan,” you murmur, and immediately regret it. Not because it’s petty—but because it’s honest.

“I was,” she replies. “But I wasn’t with you.”

It’s such a Jean thing to say. She’s always known how to wound without cruelty. She means it. And you hate that part of you softens.

You glance at her, finally. Her eyes are green fire, soft and searching. “This isn’t fair,” you whisper.

“I know.”

“To any of us.”

Jean looks down. “Especially not to Emma.”

You flinch. The name cuts deeper than you expect. Emma—who never enters a room without owning it, who touches your thoughts like a pianist touches keys, deliberate and devastating. You know she’s felt this shift between you and Jean. She knew before you did.

“She still loves you,” Jean says, so quiet you barely catch it. “Even when you don’t choose her.”

“I haven’t chosen anyone.”

Jean smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “That’s the problem.”

You rise too quickly. The chair screeches behind you. “Don’t do that. Don’t act like this is some cruel indecision.”

“Isn’t it?”

You bite the inside of your cheek until you taste metal. “I love her, Jean. I do. But you—when I look at you, it feels like dying. Like I was meant to burn for you.”

Jean steps closer. Her hand finds your chest, just above your heart. Her touch is tender, almost reverent. “Maybe we were meant to die together,” she says, not unkindly. “But that’s not the same as living.”

You close your eyes. “Then why do you keep coming back?”

Her breath catches. “Because even gods are greedy.”

Emma doesn’t knock when she enters.

The door clicks open with surgical precision, and you turn just in time to see the white of her silhouette—ivory, diamond, devastating. She looks like a storm in heels.

Jean doesn’t move.

You don’t breathe.

“Well,” Emma says, and her voice is silk sheared on steel. “I always suspected you two enjoyed brooding together.”

“Emma,” you start, but she holds up a hand.

“Save it,” she says, walking further into the room. “I already know.”

Her eyes flick to Jean. “You always did like to haunt the ones I touch.”

Jean’s expression doesn’t change. “I’m not here to fight you.”

Emma arches a brow. “Darling, you couldn’t win.”

You step between them before the tension cracks. Emma’s perfume floods your senses—jasmine and ozone, sharp and unforgettable.

“I never wanted this to be a triangle,” you say. “I never wanted to hurt either of you.”

Emma’s laugh is bitter and bright. “And yet you’ve managed both with such exquisite precision.”

You reach for her, but she steps back.

“I loved you,” she says, eyes like glass about to break. “And maybe that was the joke. That someone like me thought they could be someone’s first choice.”

“You were—”

“No,” she interrupts. “I was a detour. A breath before the flame. You gave me pieces, fragments. But she’s the one you think about when it’s quiet. When you’re alone.”

You want to deny it. But you can’t.

Emma’s voice falters. “I let you in. I let you know me.”

“I still do.”

“No, you don’t. Because if you did—you wouldn’t have let her come back.”

Jean finally speaks. “I never left.”

Emma turns to her, something like fury buried beneath elegance. “No. But you knew exactly when to appear. Just when she started to need someone else.”

Jean says nothing.

Emma looks back at you. “You don’t get to have both.”

And with that, she walks out.

You don’t sleep that night. You try.

But your mind is a battlefield, and love is the wreckage. You think of Jean’s touch, light and luminous, a tether to something eternal. You think of Emma’s lips, clever and cruel and soft, the way she said your name like it was a secret.

You think of how each of them saw you—not as a hero, not as a mutant, but as you. Messy. Splintered. Human.

You love them both.

And that’s what damns you.

It’s raining when you find Emma the next morning, standing by the greenhouse. She’s in civilian clothes—white coat, black gloves, no mask. Her hair is swept up, immaculate as always, even in the mist.

“You didn’t have to come,” she says, not turning around.

“I wanted to.”

She exhales, watching the fog curl from her lips. “I told myself I wouldn’t cry over you.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“I know,” she says, quiet now. “But I wanted you to stop me.”

You take a step closer. “Emma…”

“No.” She turns to face you, finally. “No more apologies. No more tortured looks.”

“Then what?”

“Say it.”

You hesitate. The words choke at the back of your throat.

“Say it,” she repeats. Her voice is trembling. “Do you love her more than you love me?”

There it is.

The blade.

The truth.

“I don’t know,” you whisper.

Her face crumbles. Just slightly. But she recovers like it’s muscle memory. “Then that’s your answer.”

You reach for her. She lets you touch her hand, but it’s distant. Fragile.

“I do love you,” you say. “Not as a substitute. Not as an echo. I loved the way you challenged me. The way you saw me. You never let me forget who I was.”

Her lips quirk, sad and proud. “Because I never wanted you to become less.”

You lean forward, resting your forehead against hers.

“I don’t know how to stop loving you,” you murmur.

She closes her eyes. “Then don’t. Just don’t ask me to be okay watching you love her too.”

You nod. Because you understand. Because you’d feel the same.

Emma steps back. Straightens her spine. “Goodbye, my love.”

And then she’s gone again. This time, she doesn’t look back.

Jean doesn’t ask questions when you find her hours later. She just holds you, silent. Her warmth fills the cracks Emma left behind, but it doesn’t erase them. You know it never will.

“I lost her,” you say into Jean’s shoulder.

“No,” Jean whispers, holding you tighter. “She was never something to lose.”

You let yourself cry.

Jean kisses your temple.

And in that moment, you know this is what it means to be torn between light and diamond. Between mercy and pride. Between two women who loved you completely, in ways you didn’t deserve, and yet still chose to stay—until they couldn’t.

Maybe the fire didn’t burn you.

But what it left behind?

You’ll carry that forever.

[urdreamydoodles]

Hiii!! Love your work sooo muchh!!! (I keep rereading your marvel x reader fics cause you write the characters SO WELLL) picture this, Smart!F!reader who one ups Tony Stark publicly after getting tired of being labeled as a dumb good for nothing gold digger wife by the public. She reveals that she's the owner of a tech companty that makes even more than Stark Industries and most the money she gets she uses to donate to good causes and doesn't spend too much on things she wants ('Cause she's financially responsible unlike her husband.) AND GIRL HID THAT SECRET SO WELL EVEN TONY DIDNT KNOW ABOUT IT AND JUST STARES AT HER LIKE SHE SAID SOMETHING OFFENSIVE AF cause she reveals it while giving a speech at a Stark Industries events and then fast forward months later these 2 keep hacking into their systems and messing up their own shit but reader keeps winning the prank wars, the other avengers are fed up afff then at the end those mfs propose at the same time through hacking their A.I. assistants or firewall or literally everything. (you decide)

Oh and if possible make them into a 2 part so I can have a very beautiful chaotic ass prank war fanfic. (It's okay if you just stuff it into one part or if you can't do this☺☺)

"CODE OF FIRE, CODE OF LOVE" — A Tony Stark (MCU) One Shot

SHIP: Tony Stark (MCU) x Fem!OC

WORDS: 2.280 words

There are whispers in the room, louder than the music. Soft champagne flutes clinking, camera flashes chasing diamonds, laughter strained through painted lips—all of it sounds like static to you now. You stand at the edge of the Stark Industries gala, poised in a dress that fits like it was sewn onto your very soul. Beautiful. Effortlessly so. But beauty, as you’ve learned, is a mask people love to talk to, and even more love to talk about.

Tonight, they’ve talked plenty. And not about the advancements Stark Industries made in clean energy. Not about the AI breakthroughs or the global humanitarian branches Tony fought tooth and nail to build.

No.

Tonight, the whispers are about you.

“She must be really good in bed.”

“A gold digger. You can see it in the way she moves—like she knows she’s lucky.”

“She hasn’t earned any of this. Look at her, just a trophy.”

You’ve heard these words since the moment you said “I do” to Tony Stark. The man you love. The man who sees stars in your eyes and not dollar signs. The man who never once questioned your worth. But that doesn’t mean the world hasn’t.

It’s funny. You built empires in silence. With elegance. With restraint. You could have bought this tower ten times over. But you didn’t. Because it was never about the spotlight. Never about ego.

You just wanted peace.

But peace has a price.

And tonight, the bill has come due.

You glance at Tony across the room. He’s radiant in his usual way—hands stuffed in his pockets, that crooked smirk playing on his lips as he listens to a board member, probably pretending to care. His suit is razor-sharp, just like his mind. You love the way his eyes search for you every few minutes like a compass needle always twitching toward North. You love him more than you’ve ever loved anything. He is chaos wrapped in genius, a hurricane who learned to anchor himself to your quiet gravity.

And he doesn’t know.

Not yet.

He doesn’t know that every night he thought you were working on charity audits or reading economic forecasts… you were engineering satellites, designing next-gen medical nanotech, running covert cybersecurity networks that governments begged for. He doesn’t know that while he bled in the spotlight, you bled in the dark—never for praise. Only for purpose.

You’d never planned to tell him. Not because you didn’t trust him, but because you wanted something that was yours. Untouched by legacy or expectation. Untouched by Stark.

But the whispers tonight? They’ve lit something inside you.

And fire does not go quietly.

Pepper’s on stage now, offering polite smiles and practiced words. You tune out most of it until she turns her head toward you and says brightly, “And now, we’d love to invite someone very special up here to say a few words—Y/N Stark.”

There it is.

You step forward as the spotlight finds you. The murmurs double. The cameras rise. You move like a ghost in heels—elegant, silent, unstoppable.

Tony’s watching you now, arms crossed, brow quirked. He’s curious. Maybe a little amused. He loves when you speak publicly—it surprises him every time. He still doesn’t know why you keep such a low profile. That’s just how you are, he tells himself. Shy genius. Private soul.

You reach the podium. The mic crackles.

You look out over the crowd. Old money. New vultures. Entitled smiles. Sneers disguised as curiosity. Your gaze slides past them all and lands on Tony. He raises his glass to you, winks. You don’t smile back.

You inhale.

Then you speak.

“I’ve been asked a lot of questions since marrying Tony Stark. Some polite. Most… not.” A ripple of laughter, awkward and thin.

You continue. “People want to know what I bring to the table. If I’m smart enough, good enough, worthy enough. They ask how a ‘nobody’ like me caught the eye of a genius like him.”

You pause.

“Let me answer.”

The silence now is full and deep. A vacuum. They’re listening.

“I am the founder and sole owner of Aurelius Technologies. You haven’t heard of it because I didn’t want you to. We operate under a portfolio of silent subsidiaries that have collectively out-earned Stark Industries for the last five years running.”

Gasps. Real ones. Sharp as glass.

Tony’s smile is frozen, faltering.

“I built it before I met Tony. While living in a shared apartment, eating instant noodles, working twenty-hour days. I coded my first AI at nineteen. I designed medical drones that saved lives in war zones. I developed green tech that corporations tried to bury because it was too efficient. And I gave it away. Because I could.”

Eyes. All on you. The women are shocked. The men are unsettled.

“I didn’t advertise any of it. Because my worth doesn’t live in headlines. Or stock prices. Or applause. I donated most of what I made. Quietly. Because power isn’t about what you keep. It’s about what you give.”

Your voice sharpens. Just enough.

“And I didn’t tell anyone—not even my husband—because I wanted a life that wasn’t measured by what I could build, but who I could be.”

Now you look at Tony.

Really look.

He is not blinking.

Not breathing.

“I never wanted to outshine him. But I won’t let people pretend I live in his shadow. I didn’t marry Tony for his money. I married him for the way he believes in things even when no one else does. I married him because his heart is louder than his genius.”

A beat.

“And, frankly, because he’s hot.”

Laughter breaks the tension. Some real. Some still stunned.

You smile now, but only at him.

“I don’t need your approval,” you finish, gaze sweeping the crowd again. “I just needed to say it out loud. For the women who’ve been underestimated. For the men who think brilliance wears only one face. And for myself.”

A pause. Breath. Silence.

Then, applause.

Not polite. Not obligatory. Thunderous.

You step down from the stage.

Tony is still standing there. Still staring. Glass forgotten in his hand. His jaw a fraction open like you just told him he was adopted.

You approach.

“I—” he starts, but stops.

“Surprise,” you say softly.

“You’re Aurelius?” he breathes, like it’s a curse and a prayer.

You nod.

He laughs. Then blinks. Then pulls you into him so fast your feet barely touch the ground.

“You incredible, devious, stunning son of a—” he whispers into your hair. “You really played me.”

You pull back just enough to look into his eyes. “I didn’t play you, Tony. I just didn’t want to be this for the world. I wanted to be me for you.”

His hands cup your face. “You are everything. Everything. Do you know what it’s like to fall in love with someone twice? Because I think I just did.”

You kiss him. Because no words will do now.

And somewhere behind you, the room watches the man who thought he knew everything… be utterly, beautifully, publicly humbled.

And love you even more for it.

It started with a line of code.

Tony should have known better.

You were the ghost in the machine long before you were the girl in his bed, the wife in his heart, the name inked beneath his ribs whether he liked it or not. He had underestimated you once. He would never do it again.

But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try to beat you.

He thought he was clever, writing subroutines into your shared home AI. Thought you wouldn’t notice the nanosecond hiccup in F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice when she called you “Sweetheart” in his tone of voice. Thought you wouldn’t catch the thermal resync that cranked your morning coffee from pleasantly scalding to napalm.

You noticed.

And you retaliated.

The Stark Tower elevators began skipping his floor. His suits would snap shut an inch too tight. His toothbrush sang Bye Bye Bye in perfect sync every morning—until he learned to stop flinching.

You, however, didn’t stop.

You rewrote the sound files of his lab assistant bots. Dum-E began reciting Pride and Prejudice. Butterfingers played Oprah podcasts. U stopped obeying Tony entirely, instead pausing at inconvenient intervals to display curated Pinterest boards titled “Gift Ideas for Your Superior Wife.”

Tony called it cyberbullying.

You called it foreplay.

“War,” he declared one night, his bare chest glowing with the arc reactor’s quiet rhythm. “Total war. You understand this means we can never trust our devices again.”

You took the glass from his hand, sipped, and smirked. “You built them. I just reprogrammed them not to lie to us.”

Pepper caught wind of the chaos when her Friday meetings kept getting overrun by erotic text-to-speech haikus read in her own voice. Steve’s training programs glitched into pastel yoga flows. Natasha’s phone screen blinked with flirtatious offers from “Anonymous Admires You: Buy a Flamethrower on Etsy.” Bruce threatened to move back into the jungle. Sam nearly threw your shared AI out the window.

“STOP,” they all chorused at dinner one night, mid-explosion of Tony’s wine glass—sabotaged with a microscopic vibration hack you’d implanted via a birthday card.

“Stop what?” you and Tony said in sync, both utterly deadpan.

“YOU TWO,” Steve barked. “You’ve got a Cold War going on inside our entire system. My bank account’s been rerouting deposits to an alpaca rescue in Montana.”

“Yeah,” Clint muttered. “Thanks for that. I lost five grand.”

Tony sipped his wine from a coffee mug, smug. “Should’ve updated your firewall, Legolas.”

“It’s not funny,” Natasha said, exasperated, but her eyes flickered with reluctant amusement. “You two are weaponizing love. And Wi-Fi.”

“We’re not weaponizing love,” you replied coolly. “We’re just expressing it.”

“In code,” Tony added. “Beautiful, chaotic, bug-laced code.”

Sam pointed a fork at you both. “We are one hijacked satellite away from an international incident.”

You and Tony fist-bumped beneath the table.

But there was something deeper in it now.

Something that danced just beneath the teasing and the trickery.

Tony watched you across rooms like he was trying to map every galaxy in your gaze. He would touch your back like it anchored him. You’d catch his code open at 3AM—not for the arc reactor, not for the suits—but for you. New tech shaped like your laugh, new designs named after your heartbeat, new languages bent around the way you spoke truth.

You, too, found yourself checking your scripts not once but ten times—just to make sure they said enough. Said everything.

And then one night, it happened.

You walked into the lab, hair pulled up, eyes sharp, wearing his shirt. A normal evening, until everything went wrong.

Or right.

F.R.I.D.A.Y. flickered.

“Good evening, Mrs. Stark,” she said, a little too smoothly. “You have two hundred and seventy new system alerts. And one... emotional one.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Tony?”

No answer.

You moved to the console.

And that’s when everything began.

Every screen lit up—lab, kitchen, hallway, garage—every surface Tony had ever laid his hands on pulsed to life.

Your code. Your encryption. Overwritten.

But only for this.

On every screen:

"Marriage v1.0: Successful. Proposal v2.0: Pending Approval."

Your heart stuttered.

Then came the voices.

Not Tony’s.

Yours.

Clips from your past. From private logs you didn’t know he had access to. Voice memos you made to yourself, fragments of code-comment love letters.

“He looks at me like I’m the only thing worth breaking the universe for.”

“I never wanted a crown. I just wanted his chaos in my quiet.”

“If he asked again, I’d say yes every lifetime.”

You covered your mouth with your hand.

And then his voice cut in.

“Y/N.”

You turned.

He stood in the doorway.

No suit. No armor. Just Tony. Barefoot, beautiful, and terrified.

“I wanted to do it differently,” he said. “Bigger. Fancier. Less... hostile takeover of your AI. But this? This is us. Messy. Coded. Personal.”

You tried to speak. Couldn't.

“I didn’t know you when I married you,” he continued. “Not all the way. I loved what I saw. But I didn’t see the half of you. Now I do. And I’m not proposing to fix something. I’m proposing because I want to celebrate it.”

He stepped closer.

“Let’s do this again. This time knowing every part. The fire. The firewalls. The madness. The marriage.”

He held out a small device.

A nano-holo ring. Not tangible. Just light. Code. A symbol you could rewrite together, again and again.

The room shimmered.

Another screen lit behind him.

“RENEWAL REQUESTED: TONY STARK TO Y/N STARK. CONFIRM?”

You looked at him.

“You hacked my firewalls for this?”

He grinned. “Took me three months. I haven’t slept. I’m delirious. Marry me again before I pass out.”

You pressed your thumb to the console.

“CONFIRMED.”

Then your voice rang out from his AI.

Every Stark suit paused mid-hover. Every bot froze. Every file opened.

“Tony Stark, I hereby override your protocols and accept your second proposal. Effective immediately. You may now kiss your better half.”

His laughter was pure sunlight.

He crossed the space, kissed you like the first time all over again.

And maybe it was.

The others would scream when they saw what you two had done to the base code. Fury would probably explode. Rhodey would call you both lunatics. Pepper would sigh with a glass of wine and send the Avengers to dinner on another continent just to give you space.

But right now?

Right now you were two halves of the same encrypted flame.

Married again.

Code rewritten.

Love, rebooted.

[urdreamydoodles]

"A SOFT PLACE TO LAND" — Bucky Barnes (MCU) x Fem!Reader

TROPES/VIBES: Comfort after nightmares, found family, slow burn with a gentle payoff, softness in the aftermath of war, vulnerability, quiet domesticity, post-trauma tenderness, quiet intimacy, soft longing, touch-starved love, slow burn turns to smolder

SHIP: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

CHARACTERS: Bucky Barnes, You, brief mention of Sam Wilson

The nightmares don’t visit as often anymore.

They used to crash into him like waves—cold, merciless, dragging him under. The Hydra chair. The steel restraints. The voice like a blade: “Ready to comply.” But lately, you’ve noticed they fade faster, replaced by your voice, your touch. You don’t chase the ghosts away—you just hold him through them, and somehow that’s enough.

Bucky Barnes has spent most of his life haunted by the echo of violence. Now, he’s learning what it means to be held.

The apartment is still, humming with a soft peace. Morning light streams through the curtains, gold and dust-sweet, settling on the couch where he’s just begun to stir. The record player turns gently in the corner, low jazz unfurling through the quiet like smoke. You water the plants in the windowsill, wearing one of his shirts, humming faintly to the music.

You don’t need to turn to know his eyes are on you.

He watches you like you’re something sacred. Not because you’re flawless, but because you see him—not as a soldier, not as a shadow of who he was, but as a man trying to stitch himself back together with trembling hands.

“Morning,” you say softly, smiling to yourself.

“Hey,” he replies, his voice rough with sleep, like gravel softened by time.

You glance over your shoulder and meet his gaze. There’s something in his expression that makes your heart twist—like awe, like gratitude. Like he can’t quite believe you’re real.

“You slept in,” you tell him, stepping into the kitchen. “That’s good.”

He stretches, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. “Didn’t mean to.”

“You needed it.” You lean in to kiss his forehead, and his eyes flutter closed, like he’s memorizing the moment. “Coffee?”

He nods, but doesn’t stop watching you.

The kettle hisses gently, the rhythm of morning settling between you like a lullaby. You pour two mugs—his favorite chipped one for him, the one he pretends he doesn’t care about but always reaches for first. You hand it to him as you sink beside him on the couch, curling into his side.

“How long’ve you been up?” he asks.

“A couple hours,” you answer. “Talked to my sister. She’s mad we didn’t invite her over for dinner last week.”

He chuckles. “We didn’t even have dinner last week.”

“Exactly.”

“Tell her I’m sorry.”

“You can tell her yourself next time.”

He shakes his head with a smile. There’s warmth there—one he used to think he’d never feel again. He sips his coffee, the silence between you filled only with soft jazz and morning light.

Then, quieter, more hesitant: “I had a dream last night.”

You look up. “Want to talk about it?”

He nods, his voice low. “It was the train. The fall. Steve was there, but he didn’t catch me this time. I just kept falling.”

You don’t say it’s just a dream. You don’t try to fix it. Instead, you reach for his hand—flesh and vibranium—and lace your fingers through his.

“You’re here now,” you whisper. And somehow, that’s enough.

His eyes fall to your joined hands. You can feel the weight of the thought behind his silence.

“You know,” he begins, voice thick, “I used to think I’d always be a weapon. That maybe that’s all that was left.”

“And now?” you ask gently.

He looks at you like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this world. “Now I think... maybe I just needed someone to remind me I’m not.”

Your thumb brushes across his knuckles. “You’re not. You never were.”

He swallows hard, his gaze flickering with something tender and raw. You don’t press him. You don’t have to. You’ve learned that healing doesn’t always arrive with declarations—it comes in the quiet, in the staying.

The knock at the door is a soft interruption. Two short taps.

Bucky rises with a groan. “Probably Sam.”

And it is. Sam Wilson stands in the hallway, holding a bag of donuts and wearing his usual smug grin. “Am I interrupting domestic bliss?”

Bucky sighs. “What do you want?”

“Coffee. Company. To make sure you haven’t gone full recluse.”

He leans past Bucky to spot you on the couch. “Morning, Y/N. You look radiant.”

“Come in,” you laugh. “We’ve got coffee.”

Sam enters with the confidence of someone who has long stopped asking permission. “Man, Bucky. You’ve gone soft.”

Bucky glances back at you, something soft in his expression. “Yeah. Good.”

You all end up on the small balcony, the city waking beneath you, the sun painting the sky in pastels. There’s a box of slightly crushed donuts, steam rising from mugs, and a sense of peace you never imagined would settle around someone like Bucky Barnes.

At one point, Sam slips inside to answer a call, leaving you and Bucky alone in the hush.

He looks at you then—really looks—and says, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not flinching. For staying. For not asking me to be anything more than what I am.”

You brush his hair away from his face, your fingers gentle.

“Bucky,” you whisper, “you’re already so much more than you think.”

His eyes glisten. He doesn’t speak. But he doesn’t have to.

Because when the nightmares come now, they find him wrapped in your arms. When the past presses too close, it’s your voice that pulls him back. And when he looks in the mirror, he doesn’t just see a soldier or a shadow anymore.

He sees a man.

A man who fell.

A man who rose again.

And, by some quiet miracle, a man who finally found a soft place to land.

The morning fades the way soft things do—slowly, like a secret.

Sam’s gone now, the apartment hushed again. Only the remnants of shared laughter and the sweet glaze of powdered sugar on your fingertips linger in the wake. You’re still out on the balcony, sunlight dusting the concrete floor, and Bucky is watching you with that quiet awe again. The kind that makes your chest ache.

There’s a breeze, warm and clean, threading through your hair, and for a moment, it feels like the world is holding its breath. You glance over and catch him looking, the shadows under his eyes softer now, not erased but dimmed by something warmer.

“You okay?” you ask, though you already know.

He nods. “Better with you.”

The way he says it—low and certain—wraps around your ribs and settles in your bones. You offer him your hand again, and he takes it without hesitation, like it’s a lifeline. Maybe it is.

Back inside, the silence grows heavy again, but not uncomfortable. It’s a silence that hums with tension—something unsaid and glowing between you. A question, a want.

You don’t speak it.

You show it.

Your fingers trace a line down his forearm, over the smooth dark metal of his vibranium arm. He still flinches sometimes—not from fear, but from disbelief. Like he’s not sure he’s allowed to be touched there. But when your hand pauses, he turns it palm-up and lets you explore the seam of him.

“You know,” you murmur, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone carry so much and still choose softness.”

He doesn’t answer. He just watches you, mouth parted slightly, eyes heavy with something more than words.

You shift closer, your legs brushing his. The couch creaks under your combined weight. His hand—warm, human—finds your knee and rests there, tentative at first. Then firmer, grounding.

“I’m still learning,” he says quietly. “How to be gentle. How to want things… without hurting them.”

“You’re not hurting me,” you whisper.

His gaze lifts. “But I could.”

You lean in, your breath brushing his cheek. “Then don’t hold back.”

That’s what breaks it.

He kisses you like he’s waited a lifetime—because he has. But there’s nothing rushed about it. It’s reverent. Careful. His lips press into yours like a prayer, like you might disappear if he moves too fast. And still, there’s heat building beneath the tenderness—low and slow, a fire kept banked too long.

You part your lips for him, and he deepens the kiss with a groan that sounds like surrender. His hands find your waist, then your back, then your face—like he can’t decide which part of you to hold first, like he wants to memorize every inch before he lets go.

You don’t want him to let go.

When you pull apart, you’re both breathless, your foreheads touching, your eyes closed.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he murmurs.

“You let me in,” you say. “That was enough.”

He leans forward again, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then the hollow just below your ear. Each touch is a question, and your answer is the way your fingers curl in his shirt, pulling him closer.

It’s not rushed.

But it is hungry.

You end up straddling his lap, your thighs bracketing his hips. He groans at the feel of you above him, his hands firm on your hips, thumbs brushing beneath the hem of your shirt—his shirt. The contrast of his skin, one warm and rough, the other smooth and unyielding, leaves you shivering.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes against your throat. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

“Then show me,” you whisper.

And he does.

His kisses trail lower, across your collarbone, reverent and slow. You tilt your head back, giving him access, your hands buried in his hair. He holds you like you’re made of porcelain—like he’s still afraid you’ll break, even as you tremble for more.

“I want to take my time,” he says, voice ragged.

“You can,” you reply, kissing him again, deeper now. “We’ve got nothing but time.”

The hours melt like sugar on the tongue.

Clothes fall away, not in haste but in offering. He undresses you like it’s an honor. You return the favor, your fingers reverent on his skin, tracing the scars and history written across his chest like a map of survival. His body, once a weapon, now softens beneath you.

He shudders when you kiss the space over his heart.

You’ve never seen anyone look at you the way he does now—like you’re salvation wrapped in silk. Like you’re the sun breaking through a lifetime of frost.

And when he finally moves with you, it’s slow and shaking and full of quiet moans and breathless words that aren’t quite confessions, but almost. His forehead presses to yours. His hand cups your cheek. Your name falls from his lips like a vow.

It’s not just physical—it’s a reclamation. A beginning.

Later, you lay tangled together in the late afternoon light, his arm draped across your waist, your face buried in the crook of his neck. His heart beats slow and steady beneath your cheek.

You press a kiss there, just because you can.

He sighs. “You still with me?”

“Always,” you say. And you mean it.

He kisses your forehead again. “I didn’t know this was something I could have.”

You smile against his skin. “It is.”

And in the hush that follows, you both understand something without needing to say it aloud:

You are no longer haunted.

You are home.

[urdreamydoodles]

Not a request! But just checking in. It’s been awhile and was hoping you were doing okay!! 💕💕💕

Hello everyone! I hope you are all well. And yes, it's been a while... To explain without going into details; I've seen a lot of doctors since my last post, for my scoliosis, and I finally received a good answer! I won't have to have such a major operation, in fact, I had surgery recently to fuse only two vertebrae together. The cut isn't big, just at the bottom of my back, and the pain is bearable, but I have pretty strict post-op treatment, but hey... It's better than having my whole back cut open. The doctors said we were going to try that before going on to the big operation, and they are positive that it will work. I have a lot of hope for my future health. I'm still at home until September, and now that the initial pain of the operation has passed, I'm going to start writing again on this blog. Sorry for disappearing like that, but I'm back and I missed you ♡

— LOVE, MARIE.

[urdreamydoodles]

MCU characters and how they meet their soulmate ?

MCU CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

How they meet their soulmates

Characters: Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Bruce Banner, Clint Barton, Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson, Peter Parker (Tom H.), Stephen Strange, Thor Odinson, Loki Laufeyson, T'Challa, Marc Spector, Steven Grant, Jake Lockley, Scott Lang, Matt Murdock, Frank Castle, Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff, Wade Wilson & Logan Howlett

Tony Stark

- You do not meet Tony Stark the way people meet in books or movies. There is no slow unraveling, no lingering glances across a crowded room. No, Tony Stark arrives in your life like an explosion—sudden, blinding, impossible to ignore. He is a force of nature, all sharp wit and arrogance, a storm wrapped in designer suits and expensive cologne. And yet, beneath the flash, beneath the charm, there is something else. A tiredness. A weight he carries behind his smirk.

- He notices you before you notice him. And that is saying something, because Tony Stark does not spend time watching people—he is the one being watched. But you are different. You are not awed by him, not tripping over yourself to impress him. You challenge him. And Tony Stark, for all his genius, cannot resist a challenge. “Do I know you?” he asks, as if he hasn’t already run through every possible scenario of how to get you to notice him.

- You meet in the middle of chaos, because that is where Tony lives. A gala, a lab, a battlefield—it doesn’t matter. He sees you, and the world shifts just slightly on its axis. But love? No, love is not something Tony allows himself to believe in anymore. Love means loss. Love means pain. But you are persistent in the way the sun rises, in the way the ocean reaches for the shore. And maybe—just maybe—Tony Stark is tired of running.

- He flirts, of course. It is his armor, his shield. But there is something different in the way he teases you, in the way he watches your reactions like a scientist studying the most fascinating discovery of his life. “You must be new,” he says, tilting his head. “Because I’m pretty sure I’d remember someone like you.” And when you roll your eyes instead of blushing, when you match him word for word, something in his chest clicks into place.

- He does not call you his soulmate. That word is too soft, too fragile. But one day, when the world is quiet, when he is half-asleep and you are curled beside him, he murmurs, “I think… if I believed in fate, it would look a lot like you.” And in the morning, when he pretends he doesn’t remember saying it, you only smile. Because Tony Stark may not believe in soulmates—but he believes in you. And that is enough.

Steve Rogers

- You meet Steve Rogers the way a ship meets the shore—gradually, naturally, like something inevitable. He does not rush toward love, does not chase it down like a man afraid of time. No, Steve Rogers has patience. And when he looks at you, it is not with the urgency of a man who fears loss, but with the quiet certainty of someone who knows exactly what he wants.

- He notices the little things. The way you tilt your head when you listen, the way your fingers drum against your thigh when you’re thinking. Steve is observant, not just because of the soldier in him, but because he cares. He does not love lightly, does not give his heart in pieces. When he loves, it is whole. And that is why he waits. Waits until he knows you see him not just as Captain America, not just as a man out of time, but as Steve.

- You do not fall into each other. There is no whirlwind, no reckless rush. Instead, there is understanding, companionship. It starts as friendship, because that is the foundation of everything Steve Rogers believes in. “You’re easy to talk to,” he admits one evening, leaning against a doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. And the way he looks at you then—soft, steady, certain—it is a look that says more than words ever could.

- When he touches you, it is with reverence. Not because he is afraid you will break, but because he wants you to know—to feel—that you are something precious. A brush of fingers against yours, the warmth of his palm against your lower back. He does not need grand gestures, does not need elaborate confessions. His love is in the way he listens, in the way he stands beside you in a crowded room, in the way his eyes soften when they find yours.

- The moment he knows, truly knows, is quiet. No fanfare, no dramatic revelation. Just a moment—simple and perfect. You are laughing at something, a sound so genuine and free that it tugs something deep in his chest. And that is when it hits him. This is home. You are home. And Steve Rogers has spent too many years without one to let this slip away.

Natasha Romanoff

- Love is not something Natasha Romanoff trusts. It is a foreign language, a place she has never dared to call home. She has seen what love does—how it weakens, how it breaks. And yet, when she meets you, something shifts. Not in a way that is loud or obvious, but in the smallest of ways. In the way her walls do not feel as necessary. In the way your presence does not feel like a threat.

- She does not flirt, not in the way most people do. Her affection is in her attention, in the way she remembers things others overlook. Your favorite drink, the way you fidget when you’re nervous, the songs you hum under your breath when you think no one is listening. Natasha watches, learns, memorizes. Because that is how she protects, how she cares.

- You do not realize she has chosen you until one day, you find yourself safe in her presence. There is something unspoken between you, something steady. You do not have to ask for her loyalty; it is simply there. And when she does touch you—fingertips grazing your wrist, the ghost of a smile as she tugs you closer—it is deliberate. Natasha Romanoff does nothing by accident.

- She lets you see pieces of her that others do not. The way she tilts her head toward the sunlight, the way her laughter is rare but real when it comes. She lets you in—not all at once, but slowly, cautiously, as if waiting for the moment you will turn away. And when you don’t, when you stay—that is when she begins to believe in the possibility of us.

- One day, in the quiet of an empty room, she speaks—not with words, but with her hands, with the way she leans into you, with the way her forehead rests against yours. And in that moment, she is not Black Widow, not an assassin, not a spy. She is just Natasha. And for the first time in a long, long time, she is not afraid.

Bruce Banner

- Bruce does not believe in soulmates, not in the traditional sense. The idea that someone could look at him—at all of him—and not be afraid? That is not something he allows himself to hope for. He has spent too many years running, hiding, keeping his distance. Because love, in his world, is dangerous.

- When he meets you, he is wary. Not because he does not like you, but because he does. And that is terrifying. You are warmth, kindness, something soft in a world that has never been soft to him. And so he keeps his distance at first, watching from afar, convincing himself that he is only curious. But curiosity turns to admiration. And admiration? That is a dangerous thing.

- You are patient with him. You do not push, do not demand. You simply exist beside him, a presence that is neither overwhelming nor suffocating. And for Bruce, that is everything. One day, he catches himself reaching for you—without thinking, without fear. His fingers barely brush yours, but the moment feels monumental. Because for the first time in years, he is not pulling away.

- He falls in love in moments, in increments. In the way you talk about things you love, in the way you tilt your head when you listen. And one day, when you look at him—really look at him—with no fear, no hesitation, he thinks: Maybe. Maybe this could be real.

- When he finally says it, it is not a grand confession. It is quiet, almost hesitant. “I think… I think I’m in love with you.” And when you smile, when you take his hand without hesitation, he exhales a breath he did not know he was holding. Because for the first time, Bruce Banner is not afraid of himself. Not when you are beside him.

Clint Barton

- You don’t meet Clint Barton in a way that feels significant at first. There’s no dramatic music, no lingering glances across a battlefield. He’s just there, like he’s always been, like he always will be. Steady. Reliable. He notices you before you notice him, blending into the background like a shadow, like a ghost. But Clint Barton doesn’t waste time on people he doesn’t think matter, and the way he watches you—curious, assessing, interested—means that, somehow, without trying, you’ve already become important to him.

- He isn’t flashy, isn’t loud. He doesn’t sweep you off your feet or try to impress you. That’s not Clint’s way. Instead, he worms his way into your life so naturally that you don’t realize it’s happening until one day, you’re reaching for your coffee, and he’s already got one waiting for you. Until you’re in the middle of a conversation, and he finishes your thought before you do. Until you catch yourself looking for him in a crowded room, and the moment you find him, his eyes are already on you.

- He makes you laugh. Not in the practiced way of a man trying to win someone over, but in the way that feels easy. Like it’s second nature. “You’re trouble,” he says one day, shaking his head as he smirks at you. “I like trouble.” And maybe you should be wary, maybe you should tread carefully, but Clint Barton is the kind of man who makes you feel safe even as he leads you straight into danger.

- It’s in the small things, the details. The way he stands between you and an exit without thinking. The way he nudges his food onto your plate when he sees you eyeing it. The way he never quite lets you out of his sight, as if he’s already memorized a hundred different ways to keep you safe without you ever realizing. Clint Barton is a protector by nature, but with you, it’s personal.

- He never says the words soulmate, never makes grand declarations. But one night, when it’s just the two of you and the world feels quiet, he murmurs, “Wherever you go, I’ll find you.” And in his voice, in his eyes, you hear the promise: Always.

Bucky Barnes

- Bucky Barnes does not believe in fate. He does not believe in soulmates. He does not believe in a world that gives people things without demanding something in return. So when he meets you, when something deep inside him stirs in a way it hasn’t in decades, he does not trust it. Does not trust you. Not because you’ve done anything wrong, but because he has learned, over and over again, that good things do not stay.

- He tries to ignore it. Tries to ignore you. But Bucky Barnes has never been good at lying to himself. Not when you laugh and something in his chest tightens, not when you look at him like he’s just a man—not a soldier, not a weapon, not a ghost. And that? That is dangerous. Because Bucky Barnes does not know what to do with kindness, not when it’s freely given.

- You are patient with him. You do not push, do not pry. You simply exist beside him, letting him come to you in his own time. And it is that patience that undoes him. Because Bucky has spent too long being feared, too long being avoided. But you? You are not afraid. You meet his silence with understanding, his hesitation with warmth. You never ask for more than he can give. And that? That is why he wants to give you everything.

- The first time he touches you, it is tentative. Fingertips brushing against yours, brief but deliberate. It is a test, a question without words. And when you do not flinch, when you do not pull away, something in him shifts. He lets himself be closer after that. Lets himself want. Because maybe, just maybe, he is not as broken as he thought.

- He does not tell you he loves you. Not with words, not at first. But one night, when he is half-asleep, when the world is quiet and his guard is down, he exhales against your skin and murmurs, “You’re my safe place.” And that? That is enough. That is everything.

Sam Wilson

- Sam Wilson is warmth. He is laughter and easy smiles, the kind of man who makes strangers feel like old friends. And when he meets you, it is no different. He is charming, quick-witted, effortlessly magnetic. But beneath all of that, beneath the teasing and the grins, there is depth. There is steadiness. Because Sam Wilson does not love halfway.

- He flirts with you before he realizes he’s doing it. “You got a smile that could end wars,” he tells you, and when you roll your eyes and call him out on it, he just grins. But what starts as playful banter shifts into something real, something deeper. Because you are interesting, and Sam Wilson is a man who chases the things that make life worth living.

- He is observant. Picks up on things before you ever say them. He knows when you’re holding back, knows when you need space, knows when to push and when to stay silent. And that? That is what makes him dangerous. Because Sam Wilson does not just see people—he understands them. And when he starts understanding you, when he starts peeling back the layers, it is impossible not to fall.

- He makes you feel light. Not in the sense that he takes away your burdens, but in the way he carries them with you. He does not ask you to change, does not try to fix you. He just stands beside you, unwavering, unshaken. And that? That is what makes him different.

- The moment he knows is quiet. No grand revelation, no dramatic confession. Just a moment—a simple, perfect moment—where you laugh at something stupid, and he thinks, Oh. There you are. And from that moment on, there is no turning back.

Peter Parker (Tom H.)

- Peter Parker falls in love like he does everything else: all at once, headfirst, completely. He does not ease into things, does not take his time. No, Peter Parker feels—deeply, intensely, without hesitation. And when he meets you, it is immediate. A spark, a pull. Like gravity has just shifted, and suddenly, you are at the center of his universe.

- He is awkward, at first. Stumbles over his words when he gets nervous. But when he talks to you about things he loves—science, Star Wars, the feeling of swinging through the city at night—his nerves disappear. Because Peter Parker may be shy, but he is passionate, and when he lets you in, when he shares the things that make his heart race, it is the most honest kind of intimacy.

- He looks at you like you are the most fascinating thing he has ever seen. Like he is memorizing every detail, storing it away for later. The way your eyes crinkle when you smile, the way your voice sounds when you say his name. And when he falls, it is not gradual. It is instant. A realization that hits him like a train: Oh. It’s you. It’s always been you.

- He gets flustered when you touch him, no matter how small the gesture. A hand on his arm, fingers brushing his. It takes everything in him not to combust on the spot. But the first time you kiss him? He forgets how to breathe. Because Peter Parker has dreamed of a lot of things, but nothing—nothing—has ever felt like this.

- When he tells you, it is rushed, breathless, spilling out of him like he can’t hold it in any longer. “I love you,” he blurts out, wide-eyed and terrified. But when you smile, when you take his hand and squeeze, he exhales a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Because Peter Parker may not always know what he’s doing, but with you? He is sure.

Stephen Strange

- Stephen Strange does not believe in soulmates. He believes in logic, in science, in the tangible threads of reality that can be pulled and shaped at will. Love, in his mind, is chemical, nothing more. But when he meets you, something in him hesitates. A fraction of a second too long. A moment where time stretches and bends, and he is caught in it.

- He tells himself it is coincidence, this way you linger in his thoughts long after you’ve gone. That it is simple curiosity, nothing deeper. But then he begins to seek you. Subtly, at first. A glance across the Sanctum, a conversation extended a few minutes longer than necessary. And then, before he even realizes it, you have become necessary.

- He resists it. Of course he does. Stephen Strange is not a man who falls easily, and he is certainly not a man who hands over his heart without a fight. But you—you—slip through the cracks of his carefully constructed walls like light through ancient stone. And for all his knowledge, for all his power, he does not know how to stop it.

- He begins to notice things. The way your hands move when you speak, the way your lips curve before a smile fully forms. The way his name sounds softer when you say it. He hates that he notices. Hates that it matters. Because Stephen Strange is a man who has lost too much, and the idea of wanting something—someone—so deeply is terrifying.

- But one night, when the world is quiet and he is exhausted in a way that magic cannot heal, you touch his hand. A simple gesture, nothing grand. And yet, it is enough to unravel him. Because in that moment, he understands: he has already fallen. And this time, for the first time in a long, long while, he does not want to get back up.

Thor Odinson

- When Thor Odinson meets you, it is with the full force of a storm. He does not quietly fall in love. No, he crashes into it. Like thunder against the sky, like lightning through his veins. He sees you, and in that instant, you are known to him. A force as undeniable as the pull of Mjolnir in his grasp.

- He is immediate in his affection. In the way he smiles, in the way he speaks your name like a declaration. Thor does not hesitate. He does not play games. He wants, and he shows it. You are magnificent, he tells you. You are radiant. You are the sun itself, and he is not ashamed to orbit you.

- He watches you with reverence, as though you are something divine. He listens—truly listens—when you speak, as if every word you say is worthy of being carved into history. And when he laughs, it is unrestrained, full-bodied, a sound that shakes the air between you. He laughs with you more than he has in years, and it is then he realizes: he is home.

- He is protective, but never possessive. He trusts you. And that trust is sacred. He does not doubt your strength, does not seek to cage you. Instead, he stands beside you, a storm at your back, a warrior at your side. And if ever you should fall, know this: he will tear apart the heavens to catch you.

- One night, as the stars stretch endless above you, he turns to you, expression unguarded, voice low with certainty. “I have lived a thousand years,” he murmurs, “and yet I think I have only just begun. Because you—you are where my life truly starts.” And with that, the sky itself seems to hold its breath.

Loki Laufeyson

- Loki does not fall in love. That is what he tells himself. Love is a trick, a weapon wielded by the foolish, and he has long since sworn to never be such a fool. But then there is you. And suddenly, everything he has ever known begins to unravel.

- He resists you at first. Pushes, teases, taunts. If he can keep you at a distance, if he can make you believe he does not care, then perhaps it will be true. But you are not so easily deterred. You see through his sharp words, through his smirks and his laughter that never quite reaches his eyes. You see him. And that? That is dangerous.

- You match him, step for step, wit for wit. You are not afraid of him, and that is what terrifies him most. Because he has built his life around being untouchable, unreachable. And yet, here you stand, hands open, eyes steady. You do not ask for the parts of him he is unwilling to give. You simply wait, patient, unyielding.

- And then, one day, without realizing, he gives. A glance held a moment too long, a touch that lingers. A secret whispered between you, something sacred, something real. He does not say the words, not yet, perhaps not ever. But you know.

- Because Loki Laufeyson does not love lightly. His love is sharp, it is consuming, it is fierce and endless. And when he loves, it is not a fleeting thing. No, when he loves—when he loves—it is forever.

T’Challa

- T’Challa is a man who carries the weight of an entire nation on his shoulders. He is a king before he is anything else. He does not have the luxury of reckless love, of foolish infatuation. But then there is you, and suddenly, he begins to wonder if perhaps the gods have written you into his story all along.

- He notices you first in silence. The way you move, the way you are. Strength and grace intertwined. He is drawn to you, though he does not yet know why. It is not a matter of beauty—though you are, undeniably, beautiful. It is something deeper. Something that hums beneath his skin like an unspoken truth.

- He is careful, at first. Measured. T’Challa does not rush, does not leap without looking. But as the days pass, he finds himself seeking you out, lingering in conversations he once would have ended quickly. And when he speaks to you, when he listens, it is not as a king, but as a man.

- He is deliberate in his affections. Every touch, every glance, every word is given with intention. There is no hesitation, no uncertainty. He knows what he wants, and he chooses you. Not because of fate, not because of prophecy, but because he wills it so.

- One night, beneath Wakanda’s endless sky, he turns to you and says, voice rich with quiet certainty, “A king’s heart belongs to his people. But my soul, my soul—it belongs to you.” And in that moment, there is no crown, no throne—only him, only you, only the promise of forever.

Marc Spector

- Marc Spector does not believe in soulmates. He barely believes in himself. His life has been shaped by war, by violence, by loss. Love? Love is dangerous. Love is something to be taken away. And yet, when he meets you, something in him stirs. A quiet ache, a pull he does not want to name.

- He does not make it easy. He keeps his distance, walls high, gaze sharp. He is kind, in his own way—offering gruff concern, a jacket when you’re cold, a silent presence when the world grows too loud. But he does not let you in. Because he knows what happens when you love something. You lose it.

- But you do not scare easily. You do not demand softness from him, do not reach for the broken pieces and try to fix them. You simply stay. And that? That terrifies him more than anything. Because Marc has spent his whole life running, and now, for the first time, he wonders what it would mean to stop.

- The moment he realizes he loves you is quiet. Unassuming. A night like any other, the world reduced to nothing but your breathing beside him, the way your fingers brush against his own. It is not grand. It is not a revelation. It is simply true. And he does not know what to do with that truth.

- But love is not something he can fight—not this, not you. And so, in his own way, in his own time, he lets himself have you. A hesitant touch. A murmured confession. A love that is raw and aching and real. And when he finally holds you, truly holds you, he whispers against your skin, "I don’t know how to do this. But I want to." And for him, for you, that is enough.

Steven Grant

- Steven Grant believes in soulmates. How could he not? He has spent his life buried in stories, in myths, in ancient echoes of love that spanned across time. He does not think he is meant for something so grand—not him, not quiet, lonely Steven. But then, one day, he meets you, and suddenly, the world is not quite so lonely anymore.

- He falls fast. Hard. Like a man who has been waiting for a single drop of water in a desert, only to be given the ocean. He stumbles over his words around you, fidgets under your gaze. But oh, the way he looks at you. As if you are a wonder carved into history, as if he is memorizing every part of you like scripture.

- He wants to know everything. What makes you laugh, what makes you sad, what dreams live inside your head. He listens, truly listens, as if every word you speak is sacred. And when you ask about him, he hesitates, shy but eager, because no one has ever wanted to know him the way you do.

- He is gentle in his love. Soft-spoken confessions, hands hovering like he’s afraid you might disappear. But make no mistake—his love is fierce. It is unwavering. It is yours. And he would give you every star in the sky if you asked, even if he had to climb to the heavens himself to retrieve them.

- One night, he holds your hand in his, thumb tracing over your knuckles, gaze earnest. "I think, maybe, I was always meant to find you," he says, voice quiet but certain. "Like one of those myths, yeah? The ones where two souls are tied together, across lifetimes." And with that, his fate is sealed. Because Steven Grant does not love lightly. He loves forever.

Jake Lockley

- Jake Lockley does not speak of love. He does not believe in fate or destiny or the soft promises that come with them. Love, to him, is just another game. Another risk. One he is not willing to take. But then there is you. And suddenly, every rule he has ever followed begins to crack.

- He watches you before he lets himself know you. Observes. Studies. You are a puzzle he does not understand, and yet, he cannot stop looking. You move through his world like something untouchable, and yet, he aches to touch. To have. But Jake does not get to have things. And so, he fights it.

- But love, real love, is relentless. And you? You are patient. You do not push, do not demand. You see him, in a way no one ever has. And for the first time in his life, he does not feel the need to run. He does not feel the need to hide.

- When he finally gives in, it is not with words. It is in the way he stands closer than necessary, the way his fingers skim your wrist like a whisper. The way he shields you in a fight, not because he thinks you are weak, but because the thought of losing you is unbearable. His love is unspoken, but it is fierce.

- One night, after too much silence, after too many unsaid things, he finally turns to you and murmurs, "You’re mine." Not a question. Not a plea. A statement, low and rough with something he does not dare name. And when you do not pull away, when you only smile, he knows—he is yours just as much.

Scott Lang

- Scott Lang falls in love like he does everything else—with his whole heart, unguarded and eager. He is not subtle. He does not play it cool. He sees you, and suddenly, you are the best thing to ever happen to him.

- He flirts, shamelessly, but there is no arrogance in it. Just warmth, just affection. He wants to make you laugh. Wants to see you happy. Because, for him, there is no greater joy than making you smile. And when you do, when you so much as glance at him with amusement, he swears he feels lighter.

- He tells himself he is being ridiculous. That it is too soon, too much. But Scott has lost too much to waste time pretending. He wants to know you. Wants to hear about the things you love, the things you hate, the things that make you you. Because you? You are worth knowing.

- When he realizes he loves you, it is not some grand revelation. It is in the small moments. The way you roll your eyes at his bad jokes but laugh anyway. The way you remember the little things he says, even when he forgets them himself. The way you fit into his life like you have always been there.

- One night, without thinking, he blurts it out. “I love you.” Just like that. No pretense, no hesitation. And when you look at him, eyes wide, he only grins, shrugging. “What? I do.” Because Scott Lang may be many things—reckless, impulsive, a little bit of a mess—but when he loves, he loves openly, fully, honestly. And there is nothing in this world he would rather be than yours.

Matt Murdock

- Matt Murdock has always lived in the dark. It is familiar, predictable. He has built his world out of quiet suffering, out of whispered prayers and clenched fists. Love? Love is something distant. Something dangerous. And yet, when he meets you, he feels the earth shift beneath his feet.

- He does not know what to do with you. You are light, and he has spent too long in the shadows. But oh, how he wants. How he aches. He hears the steady rhythm of your heart, the way it stutters when he gets too close, the way your breath hitches when he says your name. And he knows. Knows that this, whatever it is, is real.

- But Matt is a man of guilt, of sacrifice. He convinces himself he does not deserve you. That his life is too dangerous, that you are better off without him. So he keeps his distance. Wears his charm like armor, keeps his touches fleeting, his words careful. But love? Love has never been something he could fight.

- One night, after a battle that leaves him bloody and broken, he finds himself at your door. He does not speak, does not explain. He just stands there, breathing heavy, hands shaking. And when you reach for him, when you pull him inside and whisper his name like a prayer, he realizes—he was always going to be yours.

- When he finally admits it, it is quiet. A confession murmured in the dark, between shared breaths and tangled sheets. "I tried to stay away," he tells you, voice rough with something fragile. "I couldn’t." And you do not tell him that you already knew. That you had felt it in every touch, in every stolen glance. Instead, you press your lips to his and whisper, "Then don’t." And he doesn’t. Not ever again.

Frank Castle

- Frank Castle does not believe in love. Not anymore. He once had a heart, a home, a future. He once had everything. And then, in a single moment, it was all taken from him. Now, love is nothing but a ghost—something that lingers in the spaces between grief and rage. Something he can never have again.

- And then, there’s you. And suddenly, the world is not so quiet anymore. Suddenly, there is something—someone—that makes him pause. That makes him feel something other than anger, other than loss. And it terrifies him. Because Frank knows what happens when he loves something. It dies.

- He tries to push you away. He is cruel, sometimes, in the way that broken men are. Short words, cold silences. He convinces himself it is for your own good. But you? You are relentless. Not in a loud way, not in a desperate way. Just in the way you stay. In the way you look at him like he is worth saving.

- The first time he lets himself have you, it is a surrender, not a victory. A slow, aching unraveling. He grips you too tightly, kisses you like a man who does not believe in second chances. And when he pulls away, when he looks at you like you are something holy, something his, he does not say "I love you." He does not have to.

- Frank Castle loves with his hands, with his body, with the way he shields you in a fight, the way he pulls you close at night like the world might steal you away. He does not speak of forever, because he does not believe in it. But when he looks at you, when he stays, you know—he would burn the whole world down before he ever lost you.

Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter

- Dex has always been searching for something. For someone. His whole life, he has wanted to belong. To be seen, to be chosen. And then he meets you, and for the first time, the world makes sense. Because you see him. You do not flinch. You do not run.

- He is drawn to you like a moth to flame, reckless and desperate. He wants you, needs you, in a way that is terrifying in its intensity. But Dex does not know how to love gently. He loves like an obsession, like a wound that will not heal. He wants all of you, wants you to need him just as much.

- He is good at pretending. At being charming, being normal. But with you? With you, the mask slips. And when you do not pull away, when you meet his darkness with steady hands and patient eyes, something inside him cracks. He has never been given love without conditions, without expectation. And he does not know what to do with it.

- The first time he truly breaks in front of you, it is ugly. A night filled with too much anger, too much pain. His hands shake, his breath ragged. "Tell me to leave," he whispers, voice raw. "Tell me you don’t want me." But you don’t. You never do. And that? That is what undoes him.

- Love does not fix him. It does not erase the sharp edges, the fractures in his soul. But it gives him something real. And for the first time in his life, he is chosen. Not as a weapon. Not as a tool. But as a man. And that? That is enough.

Wanda Maximoff

- Wanda Maximoff has always known loss. It is woven into her bones, into the very fabric of her being. She does not expect love. Does not dare hope for it. Because everything she loves is taken from her, and she does not think she could survive losing anything else.

- And yet, when she meets you, something inside her shifts. It is slow, hesitant. She does not trust it, does not trust herself. But you? You are patient. You do not push. Do not demand. You simply exist, warm and steady, a presence she never realized she needed.

- She loves you before she even realizes it. In the way she reaches for you first, in the way your laughter softens the sharp edges of her world. But Wanda is afraid of love. Afraid of what it could mean, of what it could cost. She tries to keep her distance, but it is already too late. You are in her veins, in her breath, in the spaces between heartbeats.

- The first time she says it, it is not in words. It is in the way she looks at you, magic flickering at her fingertips, a silent promise woven between them. It is in the way she lets herself need you, in the way she trusts you with parts of herself she has never shared before.

- Wanda Maximoff does not love in halves. She loves with her whole soul, with a devotion that is fierce and unyielding. She does not promise you forever—she has learned not to trust forever. But she promises you now. And for her, for you, that is everything.

Pietro Maximoff

- Pietro Maximoff has always lived like a storm—fast, reckless, untouchable. The world has never been able to keep up with him, and he has never minded. Until you. Until the moment he meets you, and for the first time in his life, something makes him want to slow down.

- He falls for you without realizing it. At first, it is playful—quick remarks, teasing smiles, fingers brushing yours for just a second too long. But then it is more. It is the way his body moves toward yours before his mind catches up. The way his heart races for reasons that have nothing to do with speed.

- Love terrifies him. He has lost too much, too many. His sister, his home, his past—all ghosts that whisper warnings. But you? You make him forget to be afraid. You make him believe, for just a moment, that maybe—maybe—he was never meant to run alone.

- The first time he realizes it, truly feels it, it is quiet. No jokes, no flirting. Just the way you look at him, like he is worth something. Like he is more than a blur, more than a joke made of speed and bravado. And in that moment, he knows—he is yours.

- Pietro Maximoff does not love in small ways. He loves like the wind—wild, consuming, everywhere all at once. He leaves notes in places only you will find, brings you flowers at impossible speeds, holds you like he is afraid you will disappear. And maybe, just maybe, for the first time in his life, he isn’t running away from something. He is running to you.

Peter Quill

- Peter Quill has spent his whole life with his head in the stars, chasing the next thrill, the next adventure. Love? Love is a complication, a risk. He has lost too much, and he knows better than to hope. But then there’s you. And suddenly, the galaxy does not feel so big anymore.

- He fights it at first. Makes jokes, turns everything into a game. But it’s a losing battle. Because you see through him. See the man beneath the charm, beneath the cocky smirk and quick wit. And worse? You don’t turn away.

- He doesn’t know how to handle it. He is reckless with his feelings, careless with his heart. He pushes, then pulls, then pushes again. But you stay. You match him joke for joke, but when it counts, when it matters, you are there. And that? That undoes him.

- The first time he calls you his, it is unplanned. A fight, a close call, adrenaline in his veins. "Don’t touch my girl," he growls, fists clenched, eyes burning. And when it’s over, when you’re safe, he looks at you—uncertain, hesitant. But you just smile, because you had known long before he did.

- Peter Quill does not love with caution. He loves in grand gestures and stolen songs, in whispered confessions under alien skies. He plays you mixtapes, sings to you when he thinks you aren’t listening. And when he holds you, it is with the quiet desperation of a man who has spent his whole life searching for something he did not think he could have. Until you.

Wade Wilson (Fox)

- Wade Wilson does not believe in soulmates. He does not believe in much of anything anymore. The world has taken too much, left him too broken. He is a man stitched together with bad jokes and worse decisions, and love? Love is for people with futures.

- And then there is you. And suddenly, love is not some distant thing. It is here. It is real. And Wade—God help him—does not know what to do with it. So he does what he always does. He hides behind sarcasm, behind crude jokes and exaggerated bravado. But you? You just see him.

- The first time he realizes he loves you, it is terrifying. Because it is not a loud thing. Not some big, dramatic moment. It is the way you look at him without flinching, the way you laugh at his worst jokes, the way you stay even when he gives you every reason not to.

- He tries to push you away. Tries to convince you that he is not worth it. But you are stubborn. You kiss the scars, touch the jagged edges of him without fear. And when you whisper, "I love you," he cannot breathe. Because for the first time in a long, long time, he believes it.

- Wade Wilson does not love easily, but when he does, it is all-consuming. He loves in stolen moments and whispered jokes, in fierce, desperate touches and ridiculous, over-the-top gestures. He calls you a hundred stupid nicknames, leaves you notes in the weirdest places, holds you like you are the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. Because maybe, just maybe, you are.

Logan Howlett (Fox)

- Logan has lived too long, lost too much. He does not believe in love. Not anymore. He has seen it ripped away too many times, left too many ghosts in his wake. He is a man built for war, for pain. And yet, when he meets you, something inside him shifts.

- He resists it. God, he resists it. He grunts instead of speaks, glares instead of softens. He convinces himself that you are better off without him. That he is a man made of blood and violence, and you—you—deserve something gentle. Something whole.

- But love is not something he can fight. It is in the way you touch him, like he is not a weapon, not a monster. In the way you hold his hand like it is not something meant for killing. And Logan? Logan is tired of fighting.

- The first time he says it, it is rough, almost angry. "I love you," he growls, like it is being ripped from his chest. And when you smile—when you accept it—something inside him breaks. Because he had never thought this was meant for him. Had never thought he could have this.

- Logan Howlett does not love gently. He loves in quiet, protective touches, in fierce, desperate devotion. He loves in the way he stands in front of you in a fight, the way he holds you at night like he is afraid you will vanish. He does not promise forever—he has lived too long to believe in it. But he promises you. And that? That is more than enough.

[urdreamydoodles]

MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

You are extremely physically affectionate towards your lover

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Bullseye, Marc Spector, Taskmaster, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Ben Grimm, Susan Storm, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa, Elektra Natchios, Muse, Victor von Doom, Peter Quill & Nova

Peter Parker (Spider-Man)

- Peter Parker was not used to this. The easy touches, the warmth of your hand against his, the way you leaned into him as if gravity itself was pulling you closer. He had spent so much of his life keeping a careful distance, making sure the people he loved never got too close—because close meant vulnerable, and vulnerable meant loss. But you? You never seemed to care about the dangers or the excuses. You curled into his side when he sat on the couch, laced your fingers through his when you walked together, kissed him just because you felt like it. And Peter—awkward, hesitant Peter—was utterly helpless against you.

- At first, he didn’t know what to do with it. The first time you pressed your face into the crook of his neck while he worked on his web-shooters, he short-circuited so hard he nearly ruined the entire mechanism. "Uh—babe? Not that I’m complaining, but—is this a thing? Are we doing this now? Oh, we are doing this now. Okay. Cool. No problem. Just—uh, gimme a sec to process." But you never waited for permission. You just kept touching him—soft, constant, reassuring—until eventually, he stopped questioning it and started needing it.

- The first time he realized just how much he needed it was after a particularly brutal night. A fight that left his body aching and his mind even worse. He barely made it through the window before you were there, wrapping yourself around him like you knew. And suddenly, everything that had been clawing at him—the guilt, the exhaustion, the loneliness—dissolved. He didn’t say a word. He just held you tighter, buried his face in your hair, and breathed.

- Now, Peter craves it like oxygen. He reaches for you before he even realizes it—pulling you against him in his sleep, hooking an arm around your waist as he scrolls through his phone, nudging his nose against yours just because he can. The world is cruel, unpredictable, dangerous—but your touch? Your warmth? That is something Peter Parker will never take for granted.

Tony Stark (Iron Man)

- Tony Stark was a man who built walls. Not the kind that crumbled easily under the weight of kind words and patient gestures—no, his were reinforced, designed to keep people out. He had spent years perfecting the art of distance, of making sure no one got too close. But you? You were different. You didn’t knock on the door, waiting for permission—you climbed right over the walls, landed in his space, and stayed. With your hands, your lips, your unwavering need to touch him, to hold him, to remind him that he was not alone.

- At first, it was… jarring. Tony was used to attention, yes, but not this kind. Not the kind that wasn’t expecting something in return. The first time you hugged him—just because—you felt the way his body went rigid, the way his hands hovered awkwardly before settling on your back. "Wow. This is… new. Okay. Hugs. We’re hugging. Cool, cool, cool. No existential crisis here." But you never relented. You pressed into his side when he worked late, kissed the back of his neck when he got lost in his own head, traced absentminded patterns into his palm during meetings. And Tony? He found himself melting into it before he even realized what was happening.

- The real turning point came one night when he woke up gasping, his chest tight, his mind drowning in memories that refused to stay buried. He didn’t even have to reach for you—you were already there, pulling him close, pressing soft kisses against his shoulder, grounding him with your touch. "I’m here," you murmured against his skin, and Tony Stark—genius, billionaire, survivor—broke. He clung to you like a lifeline, burying himself in your warmth, letting himself be held in a way he had never allowed before.

- Now, he seeks it out. He’ll act like he doesn’t, make some snarky remark about "needy girlfriends", but the second you stop touching him? He’s pulling you back in, draping himself over you like the most dramatic man alive. "Hey, where do you think you’re going? My affection quota isn’t filled yet." And if anyone so much as thinks about commenting on it? He just smirks, pulls you even closer, and says, "Jealous? You should be."

Steve Rogers (Captain America)

- Steve Rogers was a man out of time, a soldier who had spent most of his life with his fists clenched, his mind trained to endure. He was not accustomed to softness, to indulgence, to the kind of affection that did not come with conditions. And yet—here you were. Always reaching for him, always pressing close, always reminding him that he was yours. You kissed the inside of his wrist like it was sacred, ran your fingers through his hair when he let himself relax, curled against his chest like you belonged there. And the truth was? You did.

- At first, he didn’t know what to do with it. The first time you wrapped your arms around him from behind, he went stiff, his body tensing as if bracing for an attack. But when you simply hummed, resting your head against his back, something in him unraveled. He exhaled—slow, steady—before covering your hands with his. And that was the moment he realized—this was not something to fear. This was something to cherish.

- The first time he sought it out was after a particularly difficult mission. The kind that left blood on his hands and ghosts in his mind. He came home, exhausted, battered, but the moment you reached for him—he melted. He let himself sink into your arms, let himself need you in a way he rarely allowed himself to. And when you whispered, "I’ve got you," he closed his eyes and believed it.

- Now, it’s second nature. He reaches for you without thinking—pulling you into his lap when you’re both reading, brushing his knuckles against your cheek as he passes by, resting his hand on the small of your back whenever you’re near. Affection is not something he was raised to expect, but with you? With you, it is something he will never stop craving.

Thor

- Thor Odinson is a man of grand gestures, of roaring laughter and earth-shaking love. But when it comes to you—his affection is not just thunderous, but constant. He adores the way you reach for him without hesitation, the way your hands find his in quiet moments, the way your touch lingers as if you cannot bear to be apart for too long. And oh, how he thrives under it.

- The first time you showered him in affection, he grinned—wide, bright, eager. "Ah! My love, you are truly as radiant as the stars!" He embraced you effortlessly, lifting you into the air, delighting in the way you laughed against his chest. He was never one for restraint—if you wanted to touch him, to hold him, to kiss him senseless—he would let you. Encourage you. Because there was nothing Thor loved more than being loved.

- But it was the quiet moments that truly undid him. When you curled against him after a battle, your fingers tracing over his scars. When you pressed sleepy kisses to his shoulder before drifting off. When you simply held his face in your hands, looking at him like he was more than just a god, more than just a warrior. Like he was yours. And in those moments, Thor Odinson—Prince of Asgard, champion of realms—felt human.

- Now, he craves it like a force of nature. He pulls you into his lap without warning, presses lingering kisses to your forehead, wraps his arms around you so tightly you can feel the strength in them. If anyone dares to comment, he simply laughs, throwing an arm around you with a smirk. "Jealous, are we? Ah, but who could blame you? My beloved is irresistible!" Because to Thor, your love is not just something he accepts—it is something he reveres.

Loki

- Loki was not accustomed to tenderness. Affection, in his experience, had always been fleeting—given only in exchange for something, laced with expectation, or worse, manipulation. But you? You gave without asking. You touched without hesitation. Your fingers traced the sharp lines of his face as if he were something to be studied, not feared. You kissed his knuckles absentmindedly, tangled your fingers in his hair, rested your head against his shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And Loki—cunning, guarded, untouchable—let you.

- At first, he did not know what to do with it. The first time you cupped his face in your hands, he had gone utterly still, his breath caught between his ribs, waiting for the inevitable trick, the hidden knife. But all you did was smile, tracing the delicate skin beneath his eyes as if he were precious. As if he were yours. And something in him—something ancient, something wounded—cracked apart.

- He is not a man who gives easily, but when he does, he gives completely. Now, Loki seeks your touch like a starving thing—leaning into your warmth as you press against his side, pulling you into his lap without a word, letting your hands wander over him as if to prove he is real. He teases, of course—"Darling, do you find me so irresistible that you cannot keep your hands to yourself?"—but his voice is softer than it should be, his hands tightening against yours as if begging you never to stop.

- And if anyone so much as questions it? If they dare to call him weak for the way he melts beneath your hands? He merely smirks, his arm curling around your waist as he whispers, "Ah, but love, what better trick is there than to make the gods themselves fall to their knees?"

Clint Barton (Hawkeye)

- Clint Barton had spent a lifetime watching his back, expecting the worst. He was not used to gentle hands, to soft embraces that did not come with conditions or an ulterior motive. He had lived his life running—always moving, always fighting, never letting anyone get too close. And then you happened. You, with your touch that lingered like a second heartbeat. You, with your hands that grounded him when the world spun too fast. You, who reached for him not because you needed something, but simply because you wanted him.

- At first, he brushed it off with humor. The first time you reached for him—grabbing his hand absentmindedly, brushing your lips against his temple—he raised a brow, smirking. "Wow, you just can’t help yourself, huh?" But then he noticed the way he relaxed under your touch. The way the tension in his shoulders eased when you pressed a hand against his back. The way his pulse slowed when your fingers traced lazy circles against his skin. And suddenly, it wasn’t funny anymore—it was necessary.

- He never asks for it outright—he’s too stubborn for that—but you start noticing the way he lingers. The way he moves closer without realizing it. The way his fingers brush against yours just a little too long before he actually grabs your hand. And when you finally call him on it—"Clint, you like this."—he just huffs, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, don’t get a big head about it." But his grip on you tightens. Because for all his bravado, he’s never letting this go.

- Now, he doesn’t even try to fight it. He pulls you against him when you’re standing still too long, rests his chin on your shoulder, tugs you into his lap with a grin. If anyone makes a comment, he just shrugs. "What? She’s warm." And if you ever stop touching him? If you deny him affection? He’ll groan dramatically, throwing himself onto the nearest surface. "Babe, please. I’m literally dying. Have some mercy."

Natasha Romanoff (Black Widow)

- Natasha Romanoff was not built for softness. She was trained to endure, to resist, to survive—but not to need. Affection had always been a tool, a weapon to be wielded when necessary, but never something meant for her. So when you came along—when you touched her so easily, so freely—she did not know what to do with it. The first time you hugged her, without hesitation, without purpose, she had simply frozen.

- It wasn’t that she didn’t want it—God, she ached for it—but want was dangerous. Want could be exploited. So she told herself it was nothing, that it didn’t matter. But then it kept happening. You would take her hand absentmindedly, lean into her warmth without hesitation, press a kiss to her shoulder just because you could. And she—cold, untouchable Natasha—let you.

- The first time she reached for you, it was barely noticeable—a hand on your waist, a finger brushing against yours. But once she let herself have it, she couldn’t stop. Now, she seeks it. She won’t ask, won’t say a word, but if you sit beside her without touching her, she will fix it. A hand on your knee. A foot nudging against yours. A quiet, steady reminder that she is here. That you are hers.

- And if anyone so much as mentions it? She raises a brow, her expression unreadable. "What? You think I don’t deserve nice things?" Because Natasha Romanoff may not have been made for love, but with you? With you, she is relearning what it means to have it.

Bucky Barnes (Winter Soldier)

- Bucky Barnes was a man starved of warmth. For so long, his body had belonged to everyone but him. He had been touched in violence, in control, in suffering—but never in love. Never in a way that asked for nothing. And then there was you. You, with your gentle hands and your stubborn refusal to let go. You, who traced the lines of his palm as if mapping a constellation, who pressed kisses against the cold metal of his arm as if it were worthy of tenderness. You, who reached for him as if he were not something broken.

- At first, he flinched. Not because he didn’t want it, but because he didn’t know how to take it. The first time you pressed your forehead against his, he nearly pulled away. But then you sighed—soft, content—as if this was normal, as if he was normal. And he… let it happen. Just this once.

- But once was never enough. He started to crave it, to need it. Now, he is the one reaching for you—pulling you closer in the middle of the night, pressing his nose into your hair, grounding himself in you. If you so much as walk by, he is grabbing your wrist, tugging you into his lap, resting his chin against your shoulder. He doesn’t ask for it—he just takes it. Because after years of being denied choice, of being denied himself, this is something he chooses.

- And if anyone dares to comment on how much he clings to you? He just gives them a slow, dangerous smile. "You got a problem with the way I love my girl?" Because Bucky Barnes has lost too much already—he will not lose this. He will not lose you.

Matthew Murdock (Daredevil)

- Matthew Murdock feels you before you even touch him. Your presence wraps around him like a second skin, the scent of you lingers in the air, the warmth of your body radiates inches away. He hears the tiny shifts in your heartbeat before your fingers even graze his skin, the way it quickens ever so slightly before you reach for him. And he loves it—craves it. He is a man made of contradictions, torn between faith and sin, violence and tenderness. But you? You are the one indulgence he does not seek penance for.

- He drinks in every touch like a dying man. Your fingers threading through his hair, the press of your lips against his jaw, the way you trace patterns over his scars as if rewriting his past with something softer. He does not flinch, does not pull away—no, he leans into it, into you. Because for all the things he has lost, all the things he has chosen to lose, this—you—he will hold onto with both hands.

- He lets you guide him in ways he never allows anyone else. You tilt his chin up before pressing a kiss to his lips, brush your nose against his as if memorizing him in your own way. He revels in it, in the way you seek him, the way your affection comes without hesitation. He doesn’t have to ask, doesn’t have to reach—because you are always there, grounding him, holding him together when the weight of his double life threatens to break him apart.

- And if anyone ever dares to call it weakness? If they think for one second that loving you makes him soft? He only smirks, tilting his head. “You think I don’t know exactly how lucky I am?” His fingers tighten around yours, thumb brushing against your wrist where your pulse beats steady beneath his touch. “I’d rather be a fool in love than a man without her.”

Frank Castle (Punisher)

- Frank Castle is not a man built for softness. His hands are meant for war, his body carved from violence, his heart a thing long since buried beneath grief and blood. But then there’s you. You, who touch him with something gentle, something that does not demand or take or wound. Your fingers ghost over his scars as if rewriting history, your hands linger on his shoulders as if reminding him that he is still here. Still alive. Still worthy of being touched.

- He does not know what to do with it at first. The first time you reached for him—cupped his face, pressed your lips to his temple—he went rigid. Not out of fear, but out of something worse. Because he had forgotten what it felt like. Forgotten the weight of tenderness, the way affection could seep into a man’s bones and soften him. And Frank Castle does not do soft.

- But then you kept doing it. You never hesitated, never recoiled from him, never asked before reaching for him as if you knew he needed it before he even did. And soon, he began to crave it. Now, his hands find yours before you even offer them. His arm wraps around your waist instinctively, tugging you close, keeping you there. And when he buries his face in your neck after a long night, when his hands grip your hips like a man desperate to hold on, he does not speak—but you know. You know.

- If anyone ever dares to question why the Punisher—a man feared, a man unstoppable—allows himself to melt beneath your hands? He only levels them with a look that could kill. "You think love makes a man weak? Love is the only thing that ever made me fight harder." And then, without hesitation, he pulls you into his arms, presses a kiss to your forehead, and lets the world watch.

Bullseye (Lester)

- Bullseye is a man who takes. He is selfish, greedy, unapologetic in his desires. He is a man who was never given love, who was never taught tenderness. So when you give it to him—freely, without hesitation—it both amuses and terrifies him. You, with your hands always reaching for him. You, with your lips that press against his skin like a promise. You, who touch him not with fear, not with reverence, but with something even more dangerous—affection.

- He lets you do it, of course. Hell, he wants you to do it. He soaks up every touch like an addict chasing his next hit. Your fingers in his hair, your nails scraping down his back, your lips trailing over his scars like a silent claim. He thrives on it, thrives on the way you never shy away, never flinch, never hesitate. It’s a game to him at first—seeing how far he can push you, how much you’re willing to give. But then? Then it becomes something else. Something real.

- He doesn’t like to admit it, but he gets jealous. Not in the way most men do—no, his jealousy is something sharper, something deadly. If someone so much as looks at you too long, if they think they can take what is his, he makes it known that you belong to him. Not with words—words are useless—but with a smirk, a hand curling around your throat just to feel your pulse race beneath his fingers, a kiss so possessive that it leaves bruises.

- And if anyone questions why he allows himself to be loved? Why he lets himself have this? He only grins, something sharp and cruel. “Why wouldn’t I? You ever seen what happens when I want something?” His grip on you tightens, his lips brushing against your ear as he adds, “And trust me, baby—I want you.”

Marc Spector (Moon Knight)

- Marc Spector does not believe in good things lasting. He has lived too many lives, worn too many faces, bled for too many gods to believe in permanence. He is a man who knows how to fight, how to kill, how to survive—but not how to be loved. And yet, here you are. Always touching him, always pulling him closer, always reminding him that he is yours.

- He doesn’t know how to handle it at first. The first time you brushed your fingers across his jaw, he flinched. Not because he didn’t want it—but because he did. And wanting was dangerous. Wanting meant losing. But you were patient. You never pushed, never demanded—just gave. And little by little, he let you in.

- Now? Now he is desperate for it. If he wakes up in the middle of the night, his hands seek you out before his mind even catches up. If he is spiraling, if the weight of his past is too much, he finds solace in your arms, in the press of your lips against his knuckles, in the way you hold him without needing a reason. You ground him. You keep him whole.

- And if anyone ever thinks that loving you makes him weaker? That your touch somehow softens him? He only chuckles, dark and low. “You think love makes a man weak?” His arm tightens around your waist, his grip steady, unyielding. “No, love makes a man dangerous. Because now? Now I have something worth fighting for.”

Taskmaster (Tony Masters)

- Taskmaster is a man of reflexes, of calculation, of knowing before it happens. He has memorized a thousand different ways to break a man apart, has studied movement until it is nothing more than muscle memory. And yet, when it comes to you, all of his instincts—his sharp, honed precision—fail him. Because how does one prepare for you? For the way you reach for him without hesitation, for the way your fingers trace the edge of his mask before pushing it away so you can kiss the scarred skin beneath?

- He doesn’t flinch, but he stiffens—not out of rejection, but out of unfamiliarity. He is a man who has lived in the shadows, who has worn a thousand faces but never his own. But you? You do not want his skills, his talents, his ability to mimic the perfect kill. No, you want him, the man beneath the mask, the one no one else has ever bothered to know. And that is something he cannot prepare for.

- At first, he makes it a game—testing you, pushing you, waiting for you to hesitate. But you never do. Your hands are steady, your touch unwavering. You press kisses to his scars as if rewriting the story of how they got there. You run your fingers through his hair like it is something precious, something yours. And slowly, without realizing it, he starts to crave it. Now, if you pull away first, if your touch is missing for even a second too long, he misses it.

- And if anyone so much as questions why Taskmaster—a man feared, a man whose skill is his everything—allows you to touch him so freely? He only smirks beneath his mask, tilting his head. "Because she's the only thing in this world I don’t want to copy—I just want her to be mine.”

Johnny Storm (Human Torch)

- Johnny Storm is made of fire, of heat, of something too wild to be tamed. He burns bright, so bright, and yet—when you touch him—it does not hurt. He does not let it. You press your fingers to his cheek, and the flames simmer beneath your touch. Your lips graze his jaw, and he melts into you, his hands pulling you close, always close, as if the space between you is unbearable.

- He thrives on your affection. It fuels him like oxygen to a fire, makes him burn hotter, makes him alive. If you so much as brush against him in passing, his arm is already wrapping around your waist, tugging you back into him. If you lean against him while watching TV, he is grinning, burying his face in your hair, breathing you in. He is insatiable—not because he needs it, but because he wants it. Wants you.

- And oh, he flaunts it. If someone so much as looks at him the wrong way, he is already pulling you onto his lap, already pressing his lips to your shoulder with a smirk. “Yeah, she’s mine. You jealous?” It is playful, teasing—but underneath it, there is something real, something desperate. Because Johnny Storm has always been adored, has always had fans, admirers, women who wanted the Human Torch. But you? You want Johnny, and that is something he will never take for granted.

- And if anyone thinks that love, that you, make him less? That your touch somehow dims his fire? He only laughs, shaking his head. “You kidding? Love doesn’t make me burn out. Love makes me burn brighter.” And with that, he kisses you—claims you—right there in front of the world, because there is nothing about you he will ever hide.

Reed Richards (Mister Fantastic)

- Reed Richards is a man of science, of logic, of problems waiting to be solved. He is not one for frivolous things, for unnecessary distractions. And yet—you. You, with your hands that reach for him so easily. You, with your lips that press to his temple as he works, with your fingers that thread through his hair when he has been at his desk for too long. You, who has become something he cannot simply explain, cannot analyze, because love—true, deep love—is not something that fits within the confines of logic.

- At first, he does not know what to do with it. He stiffens when you wrap your arms around him from behind, hesitates when you take his hand in yours. But he is a quick learner. Soon, his fingers find yours before you even offer them. Soon, when you rest your head against his shoulder, he leans into you rather than away. And soon, he realizes that your touch is not a distraction—it is a necessity.

- You do not take offense when he loses himself in his work—you understand him, understand that his mind is constantly moving, constantly racing. And because of that, he makes an effort for you. He sets his tools aside when you tug at his sleeve, lets you press your forehead against his, lets you pull him into your world of warmth and touch and feeling. And over time, he begins to crave it, begins to seek it out rather than wait for you to give it.

- And if anyone assumes that the great Mr. Fantastic has no time for something as simple as love? He only adjusts his glasses, his fingers lacing with yours as he responds, "On the contrary, love is the greatest equation of all.” And then, without hesitation, he kisses you—not because it is logical, but because it is right.

Ben Grimm (The Thing)

- Ben Grimm is a man made of stone, of rough edges, of a body that was never meant to be touched. He has spent years pulling away, avoiding the weight of hands that might recoil, of fingers that might fear what he has become. But you? You never hesitate. Your hands find his without hesitation, your fingers trace the lines of his knuckles, your lips press against his jaw as if he is not a man made of stone but of something softer.

- At first, he tells you not to. “You don’t gotta do that, doll.” His voice is gruff, edged with something bitter, something vulnerable. But you only smile, only brush your fingers along his arm like it is the easiest thing in the world. And suddenly, he does not feel like a thing anymore. Suddenly, he is Ben again, just Ben, a man who is still worthy of love, of touch, of you.

- Now? Now, he needs it. Needs the weight of your arms around his waist, needs your hand in his, needs your touch to remind him that he is still here, still whole. And when you kiss him, when you cradle his face in your hands as if he is precious, he swears he could crumble beneath you. Because you see him, not the rock, not the monster, just him.

- And if anyone dares to look at you with pity, to question why you love a man like him? He only chuckles, low and deep, before wrapping his arms around you with something possessive, something sure. “She ain’t with me ‘cause she has to be. She’s with me ‘cause she wants to be.” And as you press another kiss to his lips, he knows—without a doubt—that he is the luckiest man alive.

Susan Storm (Invisible Woman)

- Susan Storm is a woman of poise, of quiet strength, of hands that have shielded the ones she loves more times than she can count. She is used to being the protector, the one who stands between the world and those she cares for. But you—you do not let her bear it alone. You reach for her, fingers brushing over hers, and for the first time in too long, she lets herself be held instead of holding the weight of everything else.

- You are a woman of touch, and at first, it surprises her. Not because she does not crave it, but because she has learned to go without. To be soft is a risk, to be vulnerable is a danger—but when you press your lips to her temple, when you pull her into your arms without hesitation, she melts. She had forgotten what it was to be touched without expectation, without urgency. With you, she remembers.

- Your affection is not a distraction—it is an anchor. When she returns from battle, weary from holding up her force fields for too long, you are there, guiding her to rest with a hand at the small of her back. When she loses herself in thought, in planning, in the weight of responsibility, you remind her that she does not have to be invisible to herself. Your touch pulls her back, reminds her that she is not alone.

- And when you reach for her in public, when you lace your fingers through hers in the presence of others, she does not pull away. No, she holds on tighter. Because love is not something to be hidden—not anymore. And when someone asks her if she ever tires of your endless affection, she only smiles, pressing a kiss to your knuckles as she whispers, "Never."

Felicia Hardy (Black Cat)

- Felicia Hardy is a woman of thrill, of quick escapes, of stolen jewels and stolen hearts. She has spent her life slipping through fingers, never staying in one place for too long. Love is a game to her, a dance she has always led. And yet—when it is you reaching for her, when it is you pressing kisses to her bare shoulder, when it is you curling against her at night—she does not run.

- You are soft in a way she has never trusted, yet she trusts you with something more valuable than any diamond—her time. Your hands are never idle when you are near her, always tracing patterns along her skin, always pulling her close, always grounding her. And though she will never admit it, she is addicted to it. Addicted to you. Addicted to the way you stay when she has spent her life learning how to leave.

- She teases you for it, of course. "You just can't get enough of me, can you?" she purrs, her voice all silk and mischief. But then you press your forehead to hers, then you kiss her like she is precious, and suddenly, she is the one gasping, the one holding onto you. Love has never been something she let herself have, but with you, she realizes she does not have to steal it—it is already hers.

- And if anyone dares to question why the infamous Black Cat allows herself to be caught in your arms so easily, she only laughs, wrapping herself around you like she has never belonged anywhere else. "Oh, sweetheart," she purrs, pressing a kiss to your jaw, "I'm exactly where I want to be."

Stephen Strange (Doctor Strange)

- Stephen Strange is a man of logic, of precision, of a mind that once thought itself above something as frivolous as love. He has wielded power beyond comprehension, seen realities beyond this one, and yet you—you and your endless touches, your unwavering affection—are the greatest mystery of all.

- You do not ask for permission to touch him; you simply do. You brush a hand over his shoulders as he studies ancient texts, you trace the lines of his scars when he is lost in thought. And at first, he stiffens beneath it, unaccustomed to being handled with such care. But you do not stop. You do not pull away. And so, little by little, he begins to lean into it.

- Now, when you curl against him in the quiet moments between battles, he is the one seeking you out, the one pulling you closer, the one pressing a silent kiss to your wrist as if to mark you as his. He will never admit how much he needs it, how much he needs you, but his actions speak louder than his pride. He has faced countless enemies, battled forces beyond mortal comprehension, but losing you? That is the one fate he refuses to allow.

- And when others look at him, the great Sorcerer Supreme, and wonder how someone so untouchable could belong so wholly to you, he only smirks, wrapping his cloak around your shoulders as he murmurs, "Even magic has its weaknesses. She just happens to be mine."

Namor

- Namor is a king, a warrior, a god among men. He has ruled beneath the waves, commanded armies, and stood against the greatest forces this world has ever known. He bows to no one. And yet, when you reach for him, when your fingers trace the sharp lines of his jaw, when your lips press against his skin like he is something sacred—he does not pull away.

- You are unlike anyone he has ever known. Where others fear his power, you cradle it in your hands, unafraid, unshaken. You touch him as if he is not a king, not a god, but a man. And though he will never say it outright, it unravels him. No battle, no war, no enemy has ever undone him the way your fingertips grazing his collarbone does.

- At first, he treats it as a privilege—something you are lucky to have. But then, you stop one day, pulling away just slightly, and it is only then that he realizes—it is he who has been privileged all along. He who needs you. Now, when you touch him, when you press yourself against him, his hands are already reaching, already holding you tighter, as if daring the world to take you from him.

- And if anyone so much as questions why the mighty Namor allows himself to be so utterly devoted to your touch, his response is simple. He lifts his chin, his grip on your waist tightening as he declares, "Because she is mine. And a king does not let go of what is his."

Johnny Blaze (Ghost Rider)

- Johnny Blaze has spent a lifetime running—from the past, from the fire inside him, from the weight of every sin he has burned to ash. He does not get to have softness, does not get to have something good—or so he has always believed. But you—you and your hands that never hesitate to touch him, to hold him, to pull him back from the flames—you make him question that.

- Your fingers trace the scars along his arms, the burns that never truly fade, and instead of flinching, you press your lips to them. He is not used to being handled like this, like he is something worthy of tenderness. And yet, you do it so effortlessly, so naturally, that he forgets how to breathe every time you do.

- When the Ghost Rider takes hold, when his body is consumed by Hellfire, you do not step away—you reach through it. Your touch grounds him, pulls him from the abyss, reminds him that he is more than a cursed soul wrapped in leather and chains. And though he will never say it aloud, he knows—if there is any salvation left for him, it is you.

- And if anyone dares to question why the Spirit of Vengeance allows himself to be so weak beneath your touch, he only smirks, pulling you into his arms, his voice a low growl against your ear. "Weak? Nah, sweetheart. You’re just the only thing worth holding onto."

Eddie Brock / Venom

- Eddie Brock is a man who has spent his life being unwanted—by his father, by society, by the world that cast him aside the moment he fell. Venom is a creature that has known nothing but hunger, a parasite by design, a monster in the eyes of humanity. But you—you reach for them both like they are something to be loved, and neither of them knows how to handle it.

- Your hands never hesitate. You stroke Eddie’s jaw when he grits his teeth, your fingers slipping into his hair like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Venom, in turn, coils around you, tendrils wrapping over your shoulders, tracing your cheek. "She is ours," the symbiote purrs, delighted, possessive. And Eddie, for once in his life, does not argue.

- Eddie is gruff about it, muttering things like "You’re clingy as hell, you know that?" but his actions betray him. He leans into your touch every damn time, closes his eyes when you kiss his temple, sighs when you pull him into your embrace. Venom is far less subtle, practically preening under your affection, slithering around you, murmuring about how perfect you are, how deliciously devoted you must be to them.

- And when people stare—when they whisper about how strange it is that someone so soft belongs to someone so monstrous—Eddie only smirks, wrapping an arm around you as Venom’s voice hums inside his head. "Let ‘em talk," he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "They don’t get it. But we do."

T’Challa (Black Panther)

- T’Challa is a king, a warrior, a mind sharpened by strategy, a body honed for battle. He moves through life with precision, with grace, with an unwavering sense of duty. Love, affection—these are things he appreciates, but never allows to distract him. And yet you—you slip through the cracks in his armor with every touch, every embrace, every kiss pressed to the back of his hand when you think no one is watching.

- Your touch is not demanding, nor is it fleeting—it is a constant, an unspoken declaration. And though he does not say it aloud, he finds himself seeking it, needing it. A hand at his shoulder when he is lost in thought. A brush of fingers along his wrist when he is tense. A silent, grounding presence when the weight of Wakanda, of the world, threatens to press too heavily upon him.

- When you curl against him at night, when you lace your fingers through his as he works, when you press your lips to his in a moment of quiet devotion—he knows, without question, that you are not merely his lover. You are his home. And for a man who has spent his life fighting for his people, for his throne, for his legacy—you are the one thing he fights for himself.

- And when others bow in reverence to their king, when they wonder how a ruler so composed allows himself to be touched so freely, he only smiles, his fingers tracing the curve of your jaw as he murmurs, "Because even a king is a man. And a man must cherish what is his."

Elektra Natchios

- Elektra Natchios is a weapon, a blade honed to perfection, a shadow in the night that moves without hesitation. She does not need touch, does not crave affection—at least, that is what she has always told herself. But you—you with your hands that never hesitate to reach for her, your lips that press against every scar she has earned—you make her question everything.

- At first, she resists. Your touch is a distraction, a weakness she cannot afford. But then, she notices the way her body relaxes under your fingertips, the way her breath slows when you hold her, the way her mind quiets when you run your fingers through her hair. And suddenly, it is not a weakness—it is a lifeline.

- You touch her like she is not just a weapon, not just a killer, but a woman. And though she does not say it, though she still carries herself like she is untouchable, her actions betray her. She leans into you when no one is looking, she lets you hold her after a fight, she lets you love her without condition. And that—more than any battle, more than any war—is the most terrifying thing she has ever faced.

- And if anyone dares to suggest that the infamous Elektra Natchios has softened under your touch, she only smiles—a sharp, knowing thing. Because she has not softened. No, she has simply found something she is willing to kill for. And that, she thinks as she curls her fingers around yours, is far more dangerous.

Muse

- Muse does not understand softness, not in the way others do. He sees the world in smears of red, in the curve of a scream, in the way the city bleeds its stories onto concrete. He is an artist first, a killer second, and something unnameable in between. Affection is not in his vocabulary—at least, not until you start tracing patterns into his skin, your fingers ghosting over his ribs, your lips pressing against his jaw like a whisper of devotion.

- He does not react at first. He merely watches, blank eyes reflecting nothing but the shapes of your hands as they roam over him. You touch him as if he is something real, something worthy of being held, and it confuses him. But confusion does not stop him from leaning into it. He lets you press against him, lets your warmth seep into the cold spaces inside him, and though he does not speak, he feels—feels the way your touch lingers, the way it changes him.

- Your touch is a contradiction to everything he is, a stark contrast to the violence that drips from his hands. And yet, he craves it. Craves you. He does not say it, does not know how to say it, but he shows it in the way he lets you near when no one else is allowed, in the way he allows your fingers to wipe the wet paint from his face, in the way he follows your warmth like a moth drawn to flame.

- And when people whisper, when they wonder why someone like you chooses someone like him, he only tilts his head, an eerie smile curling at his lips. Because they do not understand—they do not see the art in your touch, the poetry in your fingertips, the masterpiece you paint onto the canvas of his skin. But he does. He always does.

Victor von Doom (Dr. Doom)

- Doom does not yield. Doom does not bow. Doom does not allow weakness, nor does he tolerate sentimentality. And yet, when your hands rest against his armored chest, when your lips press against the cold steel of his mask, he hesitates. Not out of reluctance—but because you dare to touch him as though he is human, as though he is something beyond the monarch, beyond the mind, beyond the mask.

- At first, he dismisses it. You are simply fascinated, drawn to power as all are. But then, your fingers curl against his bare skin when the armor is removed, when his defenses are lowered, and he feels it. It is not awe, nor is it fear—it is something else, something dangerous. Affection. Devotion. Love. And he does not know what to do with it.

- You do not shrink from him, do not recoil from the scars, from the weight of his name, from the sheer gravity of his presence. Instead, you pull him closer, your warmth pressing into his bones, your touch unraveling the careful control he has spent years perfecting. And Doom, for all his brilliance, for all his power, finds himself undone by something as simple as your hands upon his skin.

- And if anyone dares to question your place at his side, dares to suggest that Doom has been tamed, they do not live long enough to repeat the mistake. Because Doom does not bend—but for you, for your touch, for the impossible gift of your warmth—he allows himself to be held.

Peter Quill (Star-Lord)

- Peter Quill has always been a man of touch. A hand on the shoulder, an arm around the waist, a flirtatious brush of fingers—it is second nature to him. But you—you take it to another level. You reach for him constantly, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging him into embraces, pressing kisses to his cheek just because you can. And at first, he thinks, Yeah, okay, this is nice.

- But then he realizes—this isn’t just casual affection. This isn’t just something fun. It’s you—you, who touch him like he is real, like he is worthy, like he is more than just a scrappy thief with a playlist and a knack for getting into trouble. You hold him with intent, with meaning, and it wrecks him.

- There are moments, quiet ones, where he doesn’t crack a joke, doesn’t fill the silence with music or sarcasm. He just lets you touch him—lets you brush your fingers over the stubble on his jaw, lets you trace the curve of his lips with your thumb, lets you pull him into your warmth until he forgets where his body ends and yours begins.

- And when the crew teases him, when Rocket smirks and Gamora raises an eyebrow, Peter only grins, pulling you closer with a laugh. "What can I say? I’m a lucky guy." But later, when it’s just the two of you, when your hands are pressed against his chest and your heartbeat matches his, he knows—it’s not luck. It’s you. And he’s not letting go.

Nova (Richard Rider)

- Richard Rider has spent a lifetime holding the line—for the galaxy, for his people, for everyone who has ever needed a hero. He is used to the weight of duty, of responsibility, of battle. What he is not used to is someone holding him. But you? You are relentless. You pull him into hugs without warning, lace your fingers through his, press kisses to the scars he’s earned in wars too many to count.

- He resists at first—not because he doesn’t want it, but because he doesn’t know how to accept it. He’s always been the soldier, the protector, the last man standing. But you refuse to let him carry it alone. You reach for him when his shoulders are tense, press your forehead against his when the weight of the universe sits too heavy on his spine. And slowly, slowly, he learns to lean into it.

- Your touch is an anchor, a reminder that he is more than Nova Prime, more than a warrior bound to the stars. You bring him back—to the moment, to you. And when he finally, finally allows himself to wrap his arms around you in return, to pull you into his chest and just breathe, he realizes—he has been waiting for this his entire life.

- And when the stars call him away, when duty demands he leave once more, he does so with the feeling of your hands still lingering on his skin, with the memory of your warmth wrapped around his soul. And no matter how far he flies, no matter how deep into the void he goes—he knows. He will always come back. Because he is not just Richard Rider, not just Nova. He is yours.

[urdreamydoodles]

Hi! I’m sorry about your surgery! And as intructed I’m here to request!

Can I Have the X-men characters with a reader who’s very muscular, and maybe how’d they react. If that’s too vague maybe just the X-men characters working out with the reader.

I hope you recover fast and hope everything goes well!

X-MEN CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

X-Men with a very muscular S/O

Characters: Logan Howlett, Remy LeBeau, Kurt Wagner, Scott Summers, Jean Grey, Ororo Munroe, Rogue, Erik Lehnsherr, Charles Xavier, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff, Hank McCoy, Emma Frost, Laura Kinney, Wade Wilson & Kitty Pryde

Response to Did-I-Ask: The surgery is supposed to be for the best, even though it's very scary to think that they're going to cut my back open and put metal rods in it. Anyway... MUSCLE MOMMY. Thanks for that.

Logan Howlett

- Logan noticed your strength before he noticed you. Not that you weren’t beautiful—hell, you were stunning—but the way you carried yourself was what first caught his eye. The way you moved, each step precise, controlled. The way you lifted things without a second thought, like the weight meant nothing. There was a familiarity in it, a recognition. Strength wasn’t something delicate to you—it was yours, it was part of you. And Logan, for all his years, had never met someone who made raw power look so damn effortless.

- He never outright commented on your muscles before you got together. Logan wasn’t the type to gush, wasn’t the type to openly admire. But he had a way of looking, of watching. The kind of gaze that lingered longer than it should, that flickered over your arms when you reached for something, that trailed down your back when you pulled your hair up. And when you caught him staring, when you raised a brow with that knowing smirk, he’d just grunt, shrug, and pretend like he hadn’t been completely captivated.

- When you finally got together, Logan wasn’t one for flowery words, but his actions spoke loud enough. He liked your strength, your power—respected it. Never treated you like you were delicate, never held back when you sparred, never told you to be less. And when you carried him once—effortlessly, like he weighed nothing—he had just chuckled low in his chest, looking up at you with something both amused and proud. "Well, ain’t that somethin’," he had murmured, his fingers tracing over your bicep. "Guess I ain’t the only tough one in this relationship."

- Logan had always been protective, but with you, it was different. He didn’t need to hover over you, didn’t need to step in when things got rough. And that—more than anything—was what made him fall harder. Because for the first time in too many years, he didn’t feel like he had to be the unshakable one. Didn’t feel like he had to bear the weight of the world alone. Because there you were—strong, unwavering, unbreakable. And Logan, against all odds, found himself leaning on you just as much as you leaned on him.

Remy LeBeau

- Remy had always been a man who appreciated beauty, and mon dieu, did he appreciate you. But it wasn’t just your face, wasn’t just the curve of your lips or the fire in your eyes. It was your presence, the way you moved with the kind of confidence that only came from knowing exactly what you were capable of. The first time he saw you lift something that would’ve made most men strain, he had whistled low, shaking his head with an easy smirk. "Ain’t never seen a belle quite like you before," he had murmured, red eyes gleaming with something dangerous.

- Before you got together, Remy flirted shamelessly—relentlessly. He had a thousand words to describe you, a thousand compliments dripping with his signature drawl. But there was a particular reverence when he spoke about your strength. "Bet you could lift me easy, cher," he’d tease, leaning in close, a smirk playing at his lips. And when you did—hoisted him up like he was nothing, spun him around just to prove a point—he had laughed, bright and wild, delighted. "Ah, mon amour, I think I just fell in love."

- Being with Remy meant endless praise, endless admiration. He liked to worship you, liked to trace his fingers along your muscles, liked to murmur in that honeyed voice of his about how magnifique you were. He wasn’t intimidated, wasn’t insecure. If anything, he thrived off it. "Damn shame you ain’t a thief like me," he’d joke, "we’d be unstoppable." And when you raised a brow, playful and sharp, he’d grin, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "Ah, but I suppose I already stole your heart, non?"

- But more than the teasing, more than the flirting, Remy trusted you. And that was rare. He had spent his life learning not to depend on people, not to expect someone to catch him when he fell. But you—you—were a foundation he never expected. He knew that if the world crumbled beneath him, if everything he had ever built came crashing down, you’d be there. Unyielding, unshaken, as steady as the strength in your arms. And for once, Remy let himself rest in that certainty.

Kurt Wagner

- Kurt had always seen strength as something that came in many forms. He had known warriors, had known fighters, had known people whose power was all sharp edges and destruction. But you—you—were different. You had the strength to shatter mountains, to bring men to their knees, and yet, there was kindness in you, softness in your touch. The first time he saw you lift something that should have been impossible, he had only blinked, tail curling behind him as he took it in. And then—"Mein Gott, you are incredible."

- He wasn’t shy about his admiration. Before you got together, he was fascinated by you. Would ask endless questions about how you trained, about how it felt to be that strong. He would watch you spar with awe, his golden eyes filled with open wonder. And sometimes, when he thought you wouldn’t notice, he’d reach out to trace the curve of your bicep, marveling at the sheer power beneath your skin. "It is amazing," he’d murmur, almost to himself. "You are amazing."

- When you finally got together, Kurt was constantly touching you—casual, affectionate, awestruck. His tail wrapped around your wrist, his hands traced over your arms, his head rested against your shoulder as if drawn to the very essence of you. "You make me feel safe," he admitted once, softly, as if the words carried too much weight. Because he had spent his life being the one who had to run, had to hide. And yet, here you were—unshakable, unwavering. His anchor in a world that had never truly held him still.

- But it wasn’t just admiration—it was joy. Because Kurt adored every part of you, from your strength to your heart. He would swing from the rafters and land gracefully in your arms, laughing as you caught him with ease. He would wrap himself around you, tail curling tight, whispering how lucky he was. "Strong and beautiful," he would say, grinning, pressing a kiss to your cheek. "Truly, I am blessed." And you knew, without a doubt, that he meant every word.

Scott Summers

- Scott had always been disciplined, always respected strength—not just physical, but mental, emotional. And yet, when he first saw you, he had felt something entirely different. It wasn’t just admiration, wasn’t just respect. It was something deeper, something unshakable. You were powerful, in a way that demanded to be seen, in a way that made the air shift when you walked into a room. And Scott, for all his restraint, couldn’t help but watch.

- Before you got together, Scott tried to be subtle. Tried to focus on his work, on his responsibilities. But he noticed things. How you carried yourself. How you held back, always careful of your strength. And once—just once—when you lifted a fallen beam with nothing but a flick of your wrist, he had muttered, almost to himself, "I’ve never seen anyone like you before."

- When you were together, Scott wasn’t the type to say it outright, but his hands spoke for him. The way he’d squeeze your arm absently, the way his fingers would brush over your muscles in quiet appreciation. He didn’t need to say he was in awe—you could feel it in the way he touched you, in the way his breath hitched when you held him close. "You don’t have to protect me," he told you once. But the truth was—he liked that you could.

- And in the quiet moments, when it was just the two of you, Scott would sigh against your skin, holding you like you were the only steady thing in his world. Because for once, he didn’t have to be the strong one. For once, he could let go, knowing you would always be there to catch him.

Jean Grey

- Jean had always been drawn to the kind of strength that wasn’t just physical. The kind that was felt—a force in the room, a presence that demanded to be noticed. And you were all of that. It wasn’t just the muscles, though those were undeniably impressive. It was the way you carried yourself, the way you moved like the world had never once been heavy on your shoulders. The way you stood, solid, unwavering, as if nothing could break you. And Jean, for all her power, had never met someone who felt like a fortress.

- Before you got together, she tried to pretend she wasn’t completely fascinated by you. She was subtle about it, or at least she thought she was. But her eyes lingered too long when you sparred, and her fingers would brush over your arm under the guise of casual touches. And when you caught her staring, when you smirked at her in that knowing way, she would flush—an actual flush, pink dusting across her cheeks—and turn away, as if you hadn’t just caught her admiring every inch of you.

- When you were together, Jean loved touching you. It wasn’t just about attraction (though there was plenty of that). It was about feeling you, grounding herself in the solidity of you. She would lean into you absentmindedly, her fingers tracing the lines of your muscles as if committing them to memory. "You’re incredible," she’d murmur against your skin, like a quiet confession. Because for all her own power, for all the things she could do, there was something deeply comforting about your strength—about knowing that, for once, she could lean on someone else.

- And when the world threatened to pull her under, when the weight of her own mind grew too heavy, it was you she turned to. You, with arms strong enough to hold her when she broke. You, who didn’t flinch when her powers surged out of control. You, who simply stood, unshaken, and reminded her that she wasn’t alone. And Jean, for all the galaxies she could hold in her mind, knew that you were the one thing she would never let go of.

Ororo Munroe

- Ororo had always believed that true strength was as much about grace as it was about power. It was not just the ability to lift, to fight, to endure—but the ability to move through the world unshaken. And you—you embodied that. The first time she saw you, truly saw you, she had felt the air shift. Not from her own power, but from yours. You stood like an unmovable storm, like something carved from the earth itself. And Ororo, who had always commanded the sky, found herself mesmerized by the weight of you.

- Before you were together, Ororo watched. Quietly, curiously. She was not the type to be easily flustered, but there was something about you that made her pause. Not just the sheer strength of you, but the control—the way you handled yourself, never careless, never reckless. And when she finally spoke of it, when she traced a finger over your arm with quiet appreciation, she simply smiled and said, "There is power in you. A rare, beautiful kind."

- When you were together, Ororo was not shy in her admiration. She would rest her head against your shoulder, her hands lazily tracing the curve of your biceps as if she belonged there. She would stand beside you in battle, her eyes gleaming with pride when you fought like an unrelenting force of nature. And when the storms raged, when the skies darkened, it was you who kept her tethered—your strength the one thing that never wavered, even when the heavens roared.

- But most of all, Ororo trusted you. With her heart, with her fears, with the parts of her that few ever saw. Because she knew that you were not just strong in body—you were strong in soul. And for a woman who had spent her life carrying the weight of the skies, knowing that she could rest against you—steady, unyielding—was the greatest gift she had ever been given.

Rogue

- Rogue was used to being the dangerous one. The one who had to hold back, who had to be careful, who had to be afraid of her own strength. But you? You were the opposite. You were powerful, so powerful, and yet you carried yourself without hesitation, without fear. And that—that undid her. Because if anyone knew what it meant to fear your own power, it was her. And yet, when she looked at you, she saw someone who had mastered it. And Rogue, for all her bravado, had never wanted something more.

- Before you were together, she tried not to let it show. She played it cool, cracked jokes, teased you about being a "brick house." But there were moments, quiet moments, where her eyes would linger, where she would stare a little too long when you lifted something heavy with effortless ease. And when you caught her, when you grinned at her and flexed just to mess with her, she’d scoff, rolling her eyes—but the blush creeping up her neck betrayed her.

- When you were together, Rogue thrived on your strength. She would cling to you shamelessly, drape herself over you like you were the most comfortable thing in the world. She’d run her hands over your muscles with a smirk, murmuring, "Damn, sugar, y’could crush a man with these." And if you ever did carry her—effortless, like she weighed nothing—she would melt, her Southern drawl turning lazy and affectionate as she murmured, "Well ain’t that somethin’."

- But more than the admiration, more than the teasing, Rogue trusted you in a way she rarely trusted anyone. Because you never made her feel dangerous. You never treated her like something to be feared, never flinched when she touched you (through gloves, always). And when she was tired, when she was worn down from carrying the weight of what she was, you would hold her—strong, steady, safe. And for the first time in her life, Rogue knew what it felt like to rest.

Erik Lehnsherr

- Erik had always respected power. He had seen too many people stripped of it, too many lives crushed under the weight of those who wielded it without mercy. And you—you were power incarnate. Not just in strength, but in presence. In the way you stood tall, in the way you carried yourself like you knew what you were capable of. And Erik, for all his cynicism, found himself captivated.

- Before you were together, Erik was not one for admiration—but he noticed. Not just the way you moved, the way your muscles tensed beneath your skin, but the way you never let anyone make you feel small. There was something almost magnetic about it, something that made him linger. And when he finally acknowledged it—when he stood before you, his gaze sharp and assessing—he simply said, "You are formidable." And from Erik, that was the highest compliment he could give.

- When you were together, Erik marveled at you in his own quiet way. He would trace his fingers over your arms absentmindedly, like he was memorizing the strength beneath your skin. He would watch you in battle, his lips curling into something almost proud as you tore through your enemies like a force of nature. "Beautiful," he would murmur under his breath. Not just your face, not just your form—but the raw power of you.

- But more than that, Erik trusted you. And that was rare. He had spent his life believing that trust was a weakness, that to rely on another was to invite betrayal. But you—you were different. You were unyielding, steady as steel. And Erik, against all odds, found himself leaning on you. Found himself allowing himself to rest. Because for the first time in a long, long time, he had found someone who could stand beside him, unbroken, unshaken. And Erik, for all his hardness, could not help but soften in your arms.

Charles Xavier

- Charles had always believed in strength beyond the physical—strength of mind, of will, of heart. He had known warriors with bodies made of steel but spirits fragile as glass. But you… you were different. There was power in you, undeniable, but it was not just the muscle beneath your skin. It was the way you carried yourself, the way you moved with purpose, the way you stood. And for a man who had spent his life surrounded by those who fought for survival, Charles found himself utterly captivated by the effortless strength that radiated from you.

- Before you were together, Charles tried to be subtle about his fascination. He was a gentleman, after all. But his gaze would linger when you entered a room, his thoughts lingering in admiration even when he forced himself to turn away. He had never been a man drawn to appearances alone, but there was something about the way you moved, the way your body was carved from pure discipline, that made his mind wander far too often. And when you caught him looking, when you smiled at him like you knew exactly what he was thinking, he had to suppress the warmth rising in his chest.

- When you were together, Charles found himself indulging in the wonder of you. His hands traced the planes of your arms absentmindedly as he spoke, as if grounding himself in the reality of your presence. He marveled at the way you held him—not just physically, but emotionally, mentally. For all his intelligence, for all his wisdom, Charles had spent much of his life feeling alone in his own mind. But with you, there was solidity. A quiet, unwavering strength that he could reach for, even in his weakest moments.

- And there were weak moments. Nights when the weight of the world pressed too heavily on his shoulders, when the echoes of voices in his mind threatened to drown him. And it was in those moments that you held him, steady and sure, reminding him that he did not have to carry everything alone. And Charles, who had spent so much of his life offering comfort to others, finally understood what it was to be held.

Wanda Maximoff

- Wanda knew power. Knew what it meant to be feared, to be called dangerous, to feel the weight of something terrible humming beneath her skin. But you—you were different. Your power was not chaos, not something unpredictable or unstable. It was firm, steady, as if the world itself could bend around you and you would not waver. And Wanda, for all her uncertainty, was drawn to that. To you.

- Before you were together, she was hesitant. She had been drawn to people before, but this was different. You were so strong, so certain, and she—she was made of fractured pieces barely holding together. But when you looked at her, you did not see fragility. You saw her. And that terrified her more than anything. So she avoided you, at least at first, pretending not to notice the way her heart stuttered whenever your hand brushed against hers, or the way she always felt safer when you were near.

- When you were together, Wanda clung to you in ways she had never clung to anyone before. She would rest against you, tracing patterns against your skin with absent fingers, as if memorizing the solidity of you. She would watch you lift things effortlessly, train with an intensity that left others exhausted, and she would smile—because there was something so beautiful about watching you exist in your own strength. And when you held her, when you wrapped those strong arms around her and whispered that she was safe, she believed it.

- And she needed that belief. There were days when the weight of her own power felt unbearable, when the voices of the past whispered in her mind that she was a danger, a mistake. But you—you never flinched. You never feared her, never hesitated when she reached for you. And when the world threatened to break her, it was you who reminded her that she was whole.

Pietro Maximoff

- Pietro was fast. Too fast for most people to keep up, too fast for most to even touch. His whole life had been a blur of motion, a race against the world that could never quite match his pace. But you—you were solid, immovable, a force of nature that did not bend to the chaos around you. And for the first time in his life, Pietro found himself slowing down. Just to watch you. Just to see.

- Before you were together, he teased. A lot. His flirting was constant, relentless, laced with cocky smirks and playful nudges. "Damn, sweetheart, you been liftin’ cars for fun or what?" He’d joke, even as his eyes traced the lines of muscle in open admiration. But beneath the teasing was something else—something quieter, something more real. Because Pietro wasn’t used to feeling small, but next to you, he did. And he liked it. More than he wanted to admit.

- When you were together, Pietro was all over you—always touching, always moving, always leaning into you like you were his personal anchor. He would drape himself over you dramatically, sighing, "Ugh, babe, I’m exhausted, carry me," just to get you to pick him up (which, of course, you could). He loved showing you off, bragging about how "his" partner could probably bench-press a truck. And if anyone dared to challenge your strength? Pietro would just cross his arms, smirk, and say, "Go ahead, try ‘em. See what happens."

- But more than anything, Pietro trusted you. You were a constant in a world that moved too fast for him, a foundation he could rest against without fear of falling. And for someone who had spent his life running, the idea of staying—of being held by someone who could handle him, who could match him—was the most terrifying, exhilarating thing he had ever known.

Hank McCoy

- Hank had spent his entire life being called a beast, a brute, something other than human. He had learned to compensate with wit, with charm, with intellect, but deep down, there was always a part of him that felt wrong—as if his body was something to be ashamed of. But then there was you. You, with your power, your strength, your undeniable presence. And yet, you never let it define you. And that… that changed everything.

- Before you were together, Hank admired you from a distance. He wasn’t the type to gawk, but he certainly noticed—the way your muscles flexed beneath your skin, the way you moved with an effortless grace that made even the most difficult tasks seem easy. And more than that, he noticed how unapologetic you were about it. There was no shame in your strength, no hesitance, no fear. And for someone who had spent so long struggling with his own form, that was… inspiring.

- When you were together, Hank was fascinated by you in ways he could hardly explain. He would trace his fingers over your arms as you lay beside him, murmuring quiet observations about muscle density and physiology, until you laughed and pulled him closer. He adored watching you work, watching you move, and whenever you lifted something heavy with ease, he would push his glasses up with a smirk and say, "An absolutely remarkable display of biomechanics, my dear."

- But more than admiration, more than fascination, Hank felt safe with you. Safe in a way he rarely felt with anyone. Because you never looked at him and saw something monstrous. You never recoiled from the sheer size of him, never treated his strength as something unnatural. And when he held you—when you let him rest his head against your shoulder, let him feel small for once—it was then that he truly understood what it meant to belong.

Emma Frost

- Emma Frost was not a woman easily impressed. She had walked among kings, controlled rooms with a glance, and brought entire empires to their knees with nothing but her mind. Beauty, strength, power—none of it was foreign to her. And yet, you caught her attention. Not because of your muscles alone—though she certainly noticed them—but because of how you carried them. Strength was so often loud, desperate for validation, but yours was effortless. Unapologetic. You did not beg the world to take notice, and that made her watch you all the more.

- Before you were together, she kept her intrigue quiet. Emma did not pine—it was simply beneath her. But oh, she indulged in little observations. The way your muscles tensed beneath your skin when you lifted something heavy. The way your body moved with a confidence that was neither arrogant nor overcompensating. She would make passing remarks, seemingly casual—"Darling, you do realize your physique is utterly devastating, don’t you?"—but beneath them, there was something undeniably real.

- When you were together, Emma became shameless in her adoration. She had always appreciated beauty, but with you, it was something else entirely. Her fingers would ghost over the lines of your arms as she spoke, as if mapping out the shape of you without thought. She would lounge against you in moments of quiet, resting her head on your shoulder with the ease of someone who knew she was untouchable—except by you. And though she would never say it outright, the way she sought your warmth, the way she traced your skin absentmindedly, spoke volumes.

- But more than that, Emma trusted you. And for a woman who trusted so few, that was everything. Because strength, to her, had never been a thing of brute force—it was control, presence, certainty. And when the weight of the world pressed too heavily on her shoulders, when old wounds whispered that she was alone, she would turn to you. To the body that could hold her without faltering. To the presence that made her feel, for once, like she did not have to be made of diamond just to survive.

Laura Kinney

- Laura had spent her life being told what she was. A weapon. A tool. Something created for violence and destruction. She had been conditioned to see strength as something brutal, something cold. But then there was you. You, with your muscles carved from discipline, from effort—not from programming or pain. And you were kind. Strong, but never cruel. Capable of destroying, yet choosing not to. And that fascinated her more than she could ever put into words.

- Before you were together, Laura was curious. She wouldn’t say much—she rarely did—but she would watch you. Studying the way you moved, the way you carried your strength without the arrogance she had come to expect from those who were powerful. And more than that, she tested you. She would throw herself at you in sparring matches, pushing, provoking, trying to see if there was any hidden brutality beneath your surface. But when you caught her wrists mid-strike and simply smirked, as if amused rather than threatened, something in her chest shifted.

- When you were together, Laura found herself drawn to you in ways she didn’t fully understand. She was not naturally affectionate, not soft in the way that others were. But she would press against you in moments of quiet, resting her head against your shoulder without a word. She would run her fingers over the scars on your skin, mapping them as if trying to understand how strength could exist without cruelty. And when she saw you lift something with ease, she would simply nod in approval—not impressed, not surprised, just quietly satisfied.

- And she needed you. More than she had ever needed anyone. Because for all her lethality, for all her sharpened edges, Laura had spent her life feeling like she was something wrong. But you never treated her as something broken. Never flinched when she was at her worst. And when nightmares clawed at the edges of her mind, when old ghosts whispered that she was nothing but a weapon, it was your arms—strong, steady, real—that held her together.

Wade Wilson

- Wade liked to joke that he wasn’t into muscles—he was into you. "The muscles are just an added bonus, babe," he’d say, grinning like a fool. But in truth? He adored them. Worshiped them, even. Not just because they made you look like some kind of Olympian demigod (though, yeah, that was definitely part of it), but because of what they meant. You were strong, but you never used that strength to hurt people. You were powerful, but never cruel. And for someone who had spent his life fighting monsters, you were the first thing that felt truly, undeniably safe.

- Before you were together, Wade was obnoxious about his attraction. Constant flirting. Endless commentary. "Damn, babe, I could probably do pull-ups on your biceps." He’d rest his chin on your shoulder, stare at your arms, and dramatically sigh, "It’s just unfair. It’s like Michelangelo sculpted you just to make the rest of us feel bad." But beneath all the jokes, there was something real. Because Wade wasn’t used to gentle strength. And every time you pulled him close without hesitation, every time you caught him without flinching, something in him softened.

- When you were together, Wade was obsessed. Absolutely, unapologetically obsessed. He would constantly poke at your muscles, squeezing your arms with a goofy grin. "I just wanna make sure they’re real," he’d say, as if you hadn’t already proven your strength a hundred times over. He loved that you could pick him up effortlessly, and he would take every opportunity to be carried around like a dramatic, oversized damsel in distress. "Sweep me off my feet, my hero!"

- But beneath all the jokes, beneath the constant teasing, Wade needed you in ways he would never fully admit. Because for all his bravado, for all his unkillable resilience, he had spent his life feeling like he was too much—too broken, too loud, too damaged to ever be held the way he wanted. But you? You never hesitated. Never pulled away. And when he curled against you after a long, brutal day, whispering the worst of his thoughts against your skin, you held him without a second thought. And in those moments, for the first time in forever, he felt whole.

Kitty Pryde

- Kitty was fast, clever, and always one step ahead of the world. She had spent her life dodging, slipping through walls, never quite staying still long enough for people to catch her. But you? You were solid. Unshakable. A presence that couldn’t be ignored. And she had never met anyone who made her want to pause—to stop running, to stop slipping away. Until you.

- Before you were together, Kitty found herself fascinated by you. She wasn’t subtle about it, either. "Okay, but seriously, how do you look like that?" she’d ask, poking at your arms with an impressed grin. She would watch you lift things effortlessly, her mind racing between admiration and the scientific curiosity of someone who had to understand how that kind of strength even worked. And when she caught herself staring a little too long, she would quickly phase through a wall to hide her flustered expression.

- When you were together, Kitty was delighted. She would climb onto your back without warning, grinning. "I have the strongest partner in the universe—why would I ever walk again?" She would grab your arms at random moments just to marvel at them, laughing as she wrapped her fingers around your biceps and said, "Okay, but seriously, do you think you could punch through a Sentinel? Like, just one punch?"

- But beneath the teasing, beneath the playful awe, there was something deeper. Because Kitty had spent her life feeling like she had to keep moving, keep running, never staying in one place long enough to get hurt. But with you, she stayed. She let herself be held. And for the first time, she felt like she didn’t have to phase through walls just to survive.

[urdreamydoodles]

Alright hear me out…

X-men x Teen!reader who joined the brotherhood for vengeance after loosing a friend to a sentinel??

Imagine the reader and X-men had a parental bond. Like they were the readers real first loving father/mother figure?? (Maybe a sibling like bond for the younger characters?)

Possibly a hurt/comfort trope?

May I also ask for it to be with characters: Hank McCoy, Scott Summers, Ororo Munroe, Logan Howlett, Remy Lebeau, Kurt Wagner, Jubilee, Erik Lensherr + [any of your personal favs!!]





[Feel free to ignore this, but for what it’s worth…

You’re so much stronger than you know and I wish the best of luck on your future operation and speedy recovery 💕 Your a wonderful writer and you brighten so many peoples day. WE LOVE YOU!!!]

X-MEN CHARACTERS X GN!TEEN!READER

You leave the X-Men and the person closest to you to join Brotherhood after you lost a friend to mutant-hate

Characters: Logan Howlett, Remy LeBeau, Kurt Wagner, Scott Summers, Jean Grey, Ororo Munroe, Rogue, Erik Lehnsherr, Charles Xavier, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff, Hank McCoy, Emma Frost, Laura Kinney, Wade Wilson, Kitty Pryde, Warren Worthington III, Morph, Jubilee & Alex Summers

Reply to Beatle: Someone asked for platonic hurt/comfort headcanons? HERE IT IS AND I FUCKING LOVE IT! Thanks for your words, I also hope the surgery goes well... "Brighten so many people's day" Oh my god, I'm going to cry. I'm so happy that my passion makes people as happy as it makes me. LOVE ♡

Logan Howlett

- He never believed in fate, never put stock in the idea that people were meant to be in each other’s lives, but then he lost you, and something inside him twisted, snapped, and reformed into something unrecognizable. He was supposed to keep you safe. He had held you close when you were small, when the world still felt like it had softness left in it. He had promised you, in that gruff and clumsy way of his, that no one would ever take you from him. Then the Sentinels came, and in their cold, unfeeling metal grip, they didn’t just take your friend—they took you too, in a way far worse than death.

- He had known grief. He had known rage. But when he saw you standing beside Magneto, eyes filled with something distant and sharp, he felt something worse than anger. You, who once curled up beside him on the couch, who followed him like a shadow and made jokes about how he smelled like cigars and trees—now you stared at him like he was nothing. He never thought anything could hurt worse than the sound of metal on bone, but the look in your eyes cut deeper than any blade.

- He never stopped watching over you. Even when you hurled your anger at him, even when you screamed that he hadn’t been there when it mattered, he stayed. He let you rage because he knew it wasn’t really him you hated. You were drowning in grief, and the Brotherhood was the only place that let you breathe. But he saw the way your hands trembled when you fought, the way your shoulders curled inward at night. You weren’t as far gone as you wanted to be. And Logan—stubborn, unyielding, impossibly protective—was going to make damn sure you found your way back.

- One day, when the war had quieted, when the rage had burned itself out, he would be there. He would open his arms, and whether you crashed into him like a wave or simply stood there, hesitant and brittle, he would wait. Because love, the kind he had for you, wasn’t something that faded. It was adamantium, unbreakable, buried deep in his bones. And no matter how far you ran, he would always be home.

Remy LeBeau

- You were always quick. Quick with your hands, quick with your words, quick to laugh. But grief had stolen that speed, replacing it with something heavy and leaden in your limbs. He saw it in the way you moved now—slower, sharper, less like the bright ember you used to be and more like a knife, waiting to be drawn. It hurt, cher, more than he’d ever admit. He missed the way you used to grin at him, full of mischief and warmth, the way you’d steal the cards from his deck when you thought he wasn’t looking. Now, the only time he saw you smile was when fire danced in your palm, ready to be thrown.

- He called you mon cœur once, absentmindedly, like he always had, and for a moment, just a flicker of one, your breath hitched. But then your expression hardened, and you sneered, called him a traitor, told him he didn’t understand what it meant to lose. His easygoing smirk faltered, just for a second. He wanted to tell you that he knew loss too well, that he had spent a lifetime running from ghosts, that the weight of regret sat heavy on his shoulders. But he just tucked his cards into his pocket and let you go. For now.

- Remy had always been patient. He knew that love—real love—wasn’t about forcing someone to stay. It was about waiting, about showing up again and again, even when it hurt. So he left small reminders, little things that only you would notice. A card slipped into your pocket, a joke thrown your way in the middle of a fight, a whispered “Take care, cher,” just before he vanished into the night. He wanted you to know that no matter where you stood, no matter how far you strayed, he wasn’t letting go. Not really.

- And when the day came, when the storm inside you finally broke and you stood before him, tired and aching, he would only smile, lazy and warm, like you had never left. "Took you long enough," he’d tease, but his eyes would be soft, filled with all the words he never said. He would deal the cards again, slide one across the table to you like an invitation. "Stay awhile, mon cœur. Ain’t no rush."

Kurt Wagner

- You were the first person to tell him he was beautiful. Not in a passing way, not as a joke or a hollow reassurance, but as if you truly meant it. You had cupped his face in your hands once, traced a fingertip over the indigo skin of his cheek, and smiled. "You're like the night sky," you had said, "full of stars." And he had laughed, unsure how to carry the weight of that kind of kindness. But he held onto those words, tucked them somewhere safe in his heart.

- When you left, he prayed. Every night, he prayed for your safety, for your heart to find peace. He prayed that one day, you would look at him again the way you used to—not with anger, not with grief too heavy for your young soul, but with love. It wasn’t fair, losing someone before you even had the chance to fight for them. But faith, his faith, told him that love did not die so easily. You were lost, not gone. And the difference between the two was hope.

- He never stopped reaching for you, even when you recoiled. He never flinched when you lashed out, never turned away when you called him naive. You told him he didn’t understand vengeance, that his faith made him weak. But he only smiled at you, that same soft, unwavering smile, and said, “I understand love, mein Schatz. And I know it still lives in you.”

- The day you returned, you did not fall into his arms. You stood, hesitant, uncertain, your fingers twitching at your sides. And Kurt, with all the patience of the heavens, simply reached out a hand. No pressure, no demand—just an invitation. And when you took it, his fingers curling around yours, he whispered, "Welcome home, my star."

Scott Summers

- You had always looked up to him. He had been the steady presence in your life, the one who taught you how to stand your ground, how to lead with both your heart and your mind. But grief had torn through you like a wildfire, and in the ashes, you had found something sharp and unyielding. You had traded caution for recklessness, traded kindness for anger. And Scott, ever the strategist, ever the careful one, saw you slipping through his fingers like sand, and it terrified him.

- He had never been good at emotions. He wasn’t like Logan, who could weather your storms with quiet strength, or like Kurt, who could soften your anger with warmth. He was rigid, controlled, but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel. It meant that when you called him a coward, when you told him the X-Men’s way had failed you, he didn’t have the words to make you stay. He could only stand there, jaw tight, fists clenched, watching you walk away.

- But Scott Summers did not give up on his people. Not on his team. Not on you. He watched from a distance, saw the way you fought with fury instead of purpose, saw the exhaustion in your stance when you thought no one was looking. And so he waited, standing at the edge of the battlefield, offering you not empty words but a promise. "When you're ready," he told you once, voice steady despite the storm between you, "I'll be here."

- And when you came back, not as the same person you once were but as someone tempered by loss and experience, he only nodded. No lectures, no demands. Just quiet acceptance. Because that’s what family did—they waited. And Scott had always been willing to wait for the people he loved.

Jean Grey

- You had always been bright, vibrant, full of fire. She remembers how you used to lean against her shoulder, laughing at something she said, your energy like a spark catching onto everything around you. But when the Sentinels took your friend, they took more than just a life—they took the light from your eyes. Now, you burn in a different way, not as a star but as a wildfire, reckless and untamed, swallowing everything in your path. And Jean, who has seen what unchecked power can do, aches to pull you close before you consume yourself.

- She feels your pain like it’s her own, even when you refuse to speak it. Your thoughts, sharp and jagged, bleed into her mind despite the walls you try to build. She hears the echoes of your grief, the quiet whispers of doubt that haunt you in the dead of night. And no matter how far you run, no matter how fiercely you try to sever the thread between you, Jean holds onto it. Gently, patiently, like a mother refusing to let go of her child’s hand in the dark.

- There are moments, rare and fleeting, where she sees glimpses of the you she once knew. A joke muttered under your breath, the way your fingers twitch like you want to reach out but don’t. She never forces it, never pushes. She simply remains—an anchor, a presence, a warmth you can always return to when the cold becomes too much. "I’m not asking you to forgive," she tells you one night, voice as soft as the wind outside. "I’m asking you to remember who you were before the pain."

- And one day, when the anger has settled and the grief is no longer a wound but a scar, you come to her. You don’t say anything at first, just press your forehead against her shoulder like you used to. She exhales, a breath she didn’t know she was holding, and wraps her arms around you. "Welcome home," she whispers, voice thick with unshed tears. And in that moment, she feels it—your fire, no longer burning out of control, but warming, steady, alive.

Ororo Munroe

- She always knew you were a storm waiting to break. Even before the Sentinels, even before the Brotherhood, there was something untamed in you, something raw and powerful that the world never quite knew how to handle. But where you once raged like a summer thunderstorm—brief, intense, but passing—now you were something colder, a hurricane that never ended, a sky that never cleared. She watched you from a distance, a goddess unable to interfere, aching to call you back before you lost yourself completely.

- Ororo was never one for begging. She did not plead, did not chase. But that did not mean she did not care. She simply loved like the sky—constant, unwavering, always waiting. She sent rain when you were exhausted, let the wind carry her presence to you when she could not stand by your side. And when you looked at her with resentment, with the weight of your pain pressing against your bones, she did not flinch. "I do not blame you for your anger," she told you once, voice steady as the earth beneath your feet. "But I will not let it destroy you."

- She saw it in the way your shoulders sagged after a battle, in the way your hands clenched when someone spoke your friend’s name. You were tired, but you did not know how to stop. So she waited, standing at the edge of your storm, arms open but never forcing. And when the first crack of lightning faltered, when your rage finally gave way to exhaustion, she stepped forward—not as a leader, not as a mentor, but as the woman who had loved you like her own from the moment you first called her family.

- The day you returned, there were no words. Only the sound of the wind shifting, gentle and warm, as you fell into her embrace. She said nothing as she ran her fingers through your hair, as she held you like she had so many times before, letting the weight of your grief settle between you. She did not promise that things would be easy. But she did promise, in the silent way that only she could, that she would never let you stand in the storm alone again.

Rogue

- You had always been stubborn, always had that fire in your gut that made you stand taller, fight harder, push forward even when the world tried to knock you down. She admired that about you. Looked at you like a little sibling she never had, someone who reminded her of herself when she was younger—raw, reckless, full of fight. But grief had turned that fire into something else. Something colder, sharper. And it killed her to watch you go.

- She tried to stop you, back when you first left. Grabbed your wrist, held on tight, told you that revenge wasn’t gonna bring your friend back. And you had looked at her with eyes so full of pain it almost broke her. "Then what will?" you had asked, voice shaking. She hadn’t had an answer. And so you left, and she let you, even though it tore something inside her apart.

- But Rogue wasn’t one to give up easy. She still found you, still reached for you in the only ways she knew how. An old jacket left in your path, a song you used to love playing on a distant radio when she knew you’d hear it. She was never good at words, never good at convincing people to stay. But she was damn good at loving people even when they didn’t want to be loved.

- When you finally came back, it wasn’t dramatic. Just a quiet moment, the two of you sitting on the steps of the mansion, looking at the stars like you used to. She nudged your shoulder with hers, let a slow grin spread across her lips. "’Bout time, shug," she said, like you had just been gone for a day instead of months. And in that moment, you knew—she had never really let you go.

Erik Lehnsherr

- He had seen many children lost to war. Had watched bright, hopeful souls turn into weapons, into shadows of the people they used to be. And yet, when he looked at you, something inside him twisted in a way it never had before. You were young, too young to know the true weight of vengeance, but still, you carried it like a soldier. He recognized the fire in your eyes, the hunger for justice that had consumed so much of his own life. And so, he welcomed you into his ranks, not as a leader taking in a follower, but as a man who saw himself in the child before him.

- He did not coddle you. Did not tell you to grieve gently or to find peace where there was none. He trained you, sharpened you, molded your anger into something useful. He taught you that the world would never be fair, that mercy was a weakness, that power was the only way to ensure you never lost another loved one again. And for a time, you believed him.

- But even as he strengthened you, as he guided you into becoming something unstoppable, he saw the cracks forming. The hesitation in your strikes, the moments where your fury wavered, the late nights where you sat alone, staring at nothing. And Erik—who had spent his life convincing himself that vengeance was all he had left—wondered if he had done you a disservice.

- The day you left, he did not stop you. He watched, silent, as you turned back toward the people who had once been your family. And when Charles asked him why he had let you go, why he had not fought to keep you, he simply closed his eyes and said, "Because they deserve a chance to heal in a way I never could.”

Charles Xavier

- He had always seen such potential in you, long before tragedy turned you into someone unrecognizable. He remembers the way your mind used to shine—full of curiosity, full of dreams, full of questions that made him smile. You had been more than a student to him; you had been a light, a reminder of why he built his school in the first place. And then, the Sentinels came. And in their wake, they left you hollow, bitter, distant. He had reached for you, but grief had made you untouchable.

- He had tried to speak to you, tried to offer solace in words he had spoken too many times before. But you had looked at him with eyes that burned, accusing, shattered. "You weren’t there," you had said, and it had struck him deeper than any blade. Because it was true. He hadn’t been there. He had failed you, as he had failed so many others. And so, when you left, when you turned your back on everything he had taught you, he did not stop you. He only hoped—prayed—that the path you walked would not destroy you.

- Still, he never let go. He kept you in his thoughts, in his dreams, in the quiet corners of his mind where he held onto those he could not save. He followed your movements, not as a spy but as a man who could not bear to lose another child to war. And when your thoughts occasionally reached him—flashes of regret, of uncertainty, of loneliness—he did not intrude. He simply sent back warmth, a reminder that you were not as alone as you believed.

- The day you returned, it was not with words, not with apologies or explanations. It was simply a presence, a step through familiar doors, a quiet acknowledgment that you had found your way back. He did not demand answers. He did not ask for promises. He only smiled, eyes soft, and said, "It is good to see you home." And in that moment, he knew—you had been lost, but not beyond reach. Never beyond reach.

Wanda Maximoff

- She understood loss better than most. Understood how grief could shape a person, twist them into something unrecognizable. When you left, she had not blamed you. How could she? When she had once stood where you stood, when she had once believed that pain could only be answered with more pain? She had watched you go with a heavy heart, with the aching knowledge that sometimes, love was not enough to keep someone from walking into the fire.

- But she had never stopped looking for you. Never stopped listening for your voice, even in the quietest moments. Magic had a way of finding what was lost, of revealing truths that words could not. And in the echoes of the universe, in the spaces between time, she felt you—angry, lost, searching. And oh, how she longed to reach through the veil and pull you back, to tell you that vengeance would never fill the emptiness inside you. But she knew. She knew you would not hear her. Not yet.

- So she waited. Watched from the distance, sent quiet spells of protection when she thought you would not notice. She never intervened, never forced her presence upon you. But when the nightmares came, when the weight of everything became too much, she was there—in dreams, in whispers, in the way the wind carried her voice when you needed it most. "You are not alone," she murmured into the spaces between reality, hoping—praying—that one day, you would believe her.

- And when that day finally came, when you stood before her with uncertainty in your eyes, she did not demand explanations. She only stepped forward, cupped your face in her hands, and smiled—soft, knowing, full of understanding. "You found your way back," she whispered, and it was not a question, not a reprimand. It was only love, unconditional and unshaken.

Pietro Maximoff

- He had never been good at patience. Never been good at waiting, at letting things happen as they would. When you left, when you turned your back on the X-Men, he had wanted to chase after you, to shake sense into you, to demand that you stay. But he hadn’t. Because he knew what grief could do. Knew how it could turn a person inside out. And for all his arrogance, for all his sharp words and sharper wit, he had understood that this was not a battle he could win by force.

- That didn’t mean he didn’t worry. He watched from afar, always keeping track, always knowing where you were. He told himself it was just habit, just a precaution, but deep down, he knew the truth—he missed you. Missed the way you used to laugh at his stupid jokes, the way you used to roll your eyes when he bragged, the way you had never treated him like he was just a fast-talking nuisance. You had been his friend, his sibling in all but blood. And losing you had felt like losing a part of himself.

- He never said it outright, never admitted how much it hurt to see you on the other side of the fight. Instead, he did what he always did—he covered it up with sarcasm, with teasing remarks, with challenges thrown your way whenever your paths crossed. "You’re slower than I remember," he’d quip, even when he could see the exhaustion in your eyes. It was easier that way. Easier than saying, I miss you. Please come home.

- When you finally did, when you stood beside him instead of against him, he didn’t make a big deal of it. Didn’t get emotional, didn’t ask for explanations. He just nudged you with his shoulder, smirked, and said, "Took you long enough." But later, when no one was looking, he stood next to you in the quiet, a rare moment of stillness, and murmured, "Don’t scare me like that again." And for once, he let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, things could go back to the way they were.

Hank McCoy

- He had always admired your mind. You had been sharp, inquisitive, eager to learn. A student not just of textbooks and science, but of the world itself. He had enjoyed your questions, your endless curiosity, the way you challenged even him to see things from new angles. You had been brilliant. And then, grief had stolen that brilliance, turned your hunger for knowledge into a hunger for vengeance. And that had broken something in him.

- He had tried to reason with you. Had tried to make you see that revenge would not bring back what you had lost. "Justice and vengeance are not the same," he had told you once, voice heavy with the weight of experience. But you had looked at him with eyes full of sorrow and rage and said, "Then tell me what justice looks like when they’re already dead." He had not had an answer. And so, you had left. And he had let you go, because what else could he do?

- But he had never given up hope. Even as you fought against them, even as you stood with those who did not share his ideals, he had never truly believed you were lost. You were too bright, too thoughtful, too full of something deeper than just pain. And so, he waited. Watched. Hoped. And when you stumbled, when the weight of your choices became too heavy, he was there—not to scold, not to lecture, but to remind you that you had always had a place to return to.

- "It is never too late to choose a different path," he told you when you finally came back, his voice warm, steady. "No one is beyond redemption." And though you said nothing, though the guilt still sat heavy on your shoulders, you let him lead you inside. And for him, for the man who had always seen you as brilliant, that was enough.

Emma Frost

- Emma had always been good at reading people, at peeling back the layers of their minds and seeing the truth beneath. And you—once bright, once full of so much untapped power and potential—had been one of her most promising students. Not because you were eager or obedient, but because you questioned things. Because you had never accepted easy answers. And then, the world had turned cruel. Had taken something from you that could never be replaced. And instead of questioning, you had chosen rage.

- She had watched you go, arms crossed, face unreadable, offering no words of comfort or dissuasion. Because Emma knew better than anyone—when someone decided to burn, there was little anyone could do but wait for the fire to run its course. She had been there herself, once. Had felt the sharp edges of grief carving through her, turning her into something ruthless. But still, she had wanted—hoped—that you would not lose yourself entirely to the flames.

- When you crossed paths again, when you stood on opposite sides of the battlefield, she did not waste time with lectures. She only looked at you, eyes cool, sharp, assessing. "I see you’ve grown bolder," she remarked, voice almost lazy. But underneath, there was something else—something softer, something worried. She did not say it outright. Did not tell you that revenge would never satisfy, that grief would never truly fade. Because she knew you wouldn’t listen. Not yet.

- And so, when you finally found your way back—battered, exhausted, uncertain—she did not greet you with warmth, but neither did she turn you away. She simply placed a perfectly manicured hand under your chin, tilted your face up, and said, "Are we finished with the self-destruction phase, darling? Or should I prepare for another dramatic exit?" And when you laughed—shaky, real—she allowed herself a small smile, the kind that meant I knew you’d come home.

Laura Kinney

- Laura had never been good with words, had never known how to give comfort in ways that weren’t sharp and blunt and a little too honest. But when you had still been with the X-Men, she had understood you in a way others hadn’t. There had been something familiar in you—something raw and wounded and angry at a world that had taken too much. You had never feared her, never looked at her like she was a weapon instead of a person. And in turn, she had allowed herself to see you as something like family.

- When you left, she did not chase you. She knew what it was to be consumed by pain, to feel like the only thing left was the urge to strike back. She had seen it in herself, in Logan, in too many others. But that didn’t mean she had stopped caring. She still kept track of you, watching from the distance, stepping into fights she had no reason to be in just to make sure you weren’t getting yourself killed. She never made it obvious. Never let you see. But she was there, always there.

- When she did see you again, it was in battle—claws out, movements precise, eyes locked on yours with something unreadable in them. "You're being reckless," she told you, voice flat. And when you scoffed, when you accused her of being a hypocrite, she only tilted her head. "Maybe. But I’m still alive. Will you be?" It was not a threat. It was a warning. A quiet, desperate plea that she would never say aloud.

- And when you finally returned—not with words, but with bruises and exhaustion and a weight in your eyes that had nothing to do with battle—she did not ask why. Did not demand explanations. She simply stepped beside you, close enough that your shoulders nearly brushed, and muttered, "Next time, don’t make me wait so long." It was the closest thing to I missed you that she could say. And for you, it was enough.

Wade Wilson

- Wade wasn’t the sentimental type. At least, that’s what he told himself. And when you left the X-Men, when you joined the Brotherhood with vengeance in your eyes and grief clawing at your ribs, he had pretended it didn’t bother him. "Kid’s gotta go through their rebellious phase," he had joked. "I give it six months before they realize villain monologues get really old." But underneath the jokes, underneath the wisecracks, there had been something else—something that felt a lot like worry.

- He checked in on you more than he cared to admit. Showed up to Brotherhood hideouts just to cause trouble, just to see how you were holding up. "How’s the whole ‘vengeance’ thing working out for ya?" he’d ask, grinning, leaning too close. But there was something in his eyes—something sharp, something real. And when you snapped at him, told him to leave, he only sighed, exaggerated and dramatic. "Fine, fine, I’ll let you have your little angsty villain arc. Just… don’t get too murder-y, okay?"

- And then, one day, you were on the ground—wounded, bleeding, caught in a fight that had gone wrong. And Wade was there, standing over you, guns still smoking, mask tilted slightly to the side. "Wow, look at that," he mused. "Turns out I do care if you get yourself killed. Who knew?" And when you tried to argue, when you tried to push yourself up, he just crouched beside you, voice unusually quiet. "You’re not as alone as you think, kid. You never were."

- When you finally came back, when you hesitated at the mansion’s doorstep, unsure if you were still welcome, Wade appeared beside you like he had been expecting you all along. "So, does this mean I get to say ‘I told you so’ or is it too soon?" And when you actually laughed, tired but real, he just slung an arm around your shoulders and grinned. "C’mon, let’s get you inside before one of the serious ones gives you a dramatic redemption speech. I promise mine will be way more fun."

Kitty Pryde

- You had been like a sibling to her. Had shared late-night talks, had trained together, had whispered about dreams and fears in the quiet moments between battles. And when you left—when the weight of loss became too much and you turned your back on the X-Men—Kitty had felt it like a wound. Had wanted to reach out, to shake you, to tell you that running wouldn’t make the pain go away. But she hadn’t. Because she knew what grief could do. Knew that sometimes, words weren’t enough.

- Still, it didn’t mean she stopped caring. She watched from afar, always hoping—always believing—that you would come back. And when you crossed paths again, on opposite sides of a fight, she had hesitated. Had looked at you with something raw in her eyes. "Is this really who you are now?" she had asked, voice shaking, half-daring you to prove her wrong. And when you hadn’t answered, when you had only turned away, it had felt like losing you all over again.

- But Kitty was stubborn. And she refused to believe that you were gone for good. So, she left reminders in the places she knew you’d see—old photos, scrawled notes in places only you would think to look. "You’re not alone," one had read, written in the messy handwriting you used to tease her about. "We still love you." She didn’t know if you ever read them. But she hoped.

- And when you did return, when you stood in the doorway of the mansion with uncertainty in your eyes, she was the first to reach you. No hesitation, no anger, just arms wrapping around you in a hug so fierce it knocked the breath from your lungs. "Took you long enough, dummy," she whispered, voice thick with emotion. And when you clung to her just as tightly, she knew—you had been lost, but never truly gone.

Warren Worthington III

- Warren had always been something untouchable—golden, radiant, too bright for the world to dim. But you had been one of the few who had seen past the perfect façade, past the easy smiles and effortless charm. You had known him before the weight of expectations had settled fully on his shoulders, before the world had tried to clip his wings. And in return, he had been your light—your first real glimpse of warmth, of family, of something good.

- And then, you had left. Had walked away with fire in your eyes and vengeance in your heart, and Warren had watched it happen, powerless to stop you. He had wanted to go after you, had wanted to remind you that pain didn’t have to be carried alone, that grief didn’t have to turn you into something unrecognizable. But he hadn’t. Because he knew what it was to feel lost. Knew what it was to crave control when the world had taken everything from you.

- When he saw you again, it was mid-battle, and for a moment—just a moment—his breath caught. You were still you, still fierce and beautiful and untamed, but there was something new in your gaze. Something hardened, something tired. "This isn’t you," he had said, voice quieter than it should have been. And when you had laughed—bitter, sharp—he had only clenched his jaw, wings flaring behind him. "If this is what revenge is doing to you, then maybe it’s not worth it."

- When you finally returned, he was waiting. Not with anger, not with lectures, but with an understanding that settled deep in his bones. "Took your time," he murmured, wings folding around you like a shield, like a promise. And when you leaned into him, exhausted and undone, he simply held you there, unshaken, unwavering. Because he had lost you once, and he would not make the mistake of letting you go again.

Morph

- He had always been the first to make you laugh, the first to pull you out of your worst thoughts with some ridiculous joke, some exaggerated impression. He had been your safe place, your soft landing, the one who made the weight of the world feel just a little lighter. And then, in the wake of your loss, in the wreckage of everything you had once believed in, you had turned your back on all of it. On the X-Men. On him.

- But Morph wasn’t the type to let go so easily. Even when you had stormed off, even when you had sworn you weren’t coming back, he had never truly left you alone. He popped up in the strangest places, appearing as the most absurd disguises—a Brotherhood grunt, a news anchor, a lamp post, for God’s sake—just to remind you that he was still watching out for you. That he still cared. "You miss me yet?" he’d ask with a grin, but his eyes were always too serious, too knowing.

- And when battle forced you face-to-face, when you found yourself staring at the one person who had never stopped believing in you, he had only sighed, shaking his head. "You look terrible," he said, shifting into a mirror image of you, exaggerated and over-dramatic. "All broody and tragic. Really not your best look." But then, softer, quieter, he had added, "You know I’d still choose you, right? No matter what side you think you’re on?"

- When you finally stumbled back into the mansion, worn and weary, he didn’t make a big show of it. He just grinned, opened his arms wide, and said, "Took you long enough! I was this close to staging a dramatic rescue mission." And when you actually laughed—small, tired, real—he knew. Knew that, even after everything, he had never truly lost you.

Jubilee

- She had idolized you once, in the way younger siblings idolize their older, cooler counterparts. You had been the one to teach her things the others wouldn’t—the best ways to sneak out undetected, the secret stash of candy hidden in the mansion’s walls, the perfect balance between mischief and heroism. She had loved you big, had looked up to you like you hung the stars. And then, just like that, you were gone.

- She had been angry. Had felt betrayed in a way she hadn’t known was possible. "Fine," she had muttered to the others when they tried to comfort her. "They wanna be a villain? Let them." But even as she said it, even as she crossed her arms and pretended not to care, she had found herself keeping track of your name in news reports, hoping—praying—that you weren’t beyond saving.

- When she saw you again, her first instinct had been to blast you with fireworks, to demand answers, to shake you until you listened. But instead, she had only stared at you, wide-eyed and wavering. "Did it help?" she had asked, voice smaller than she wanted it to be. "Did joining them make the pain go away?" And when you hadn’t answered—when you had only turned your gaze to the ground—she had known.

- And when you finally came back, hesitant and uncertain, Jubilee did not hesitate. She threw herself at you in a hug so fierce it nearly knocked you both over. "Don’t you dare leave me again," she whispered, voice choked with something dangerously close to tears. And when you promised—soft, raw, real—she only held on tighter, refusing to let go.

Alex Summers

- He had always understood you in a way that few others did. Had known what it was to live in the shadow of grief, to carry anger like a second skin. He had seen the way loss had shaped you, had recognized something too familiar in the sharpness of your gaze, the set of your jaw. And when you had turned your back on the X-Men, when you had chosen vengeance over family, he had not chased you. But he had understood.

- That didn’t mean he had forgiven you easily. When you faced each other again, when battle had forced you to opposite sides, his expression had been unreadable. "This is really the path you wanna take?" he had asked, arms crossed, jaw tight. And when you had met his gaze—defiant, unyielding—he had only exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "Fine. Do what you have to. Just try not to die being stubborn."

- And then, one day, you had almost did. Had nearly let yourself be consumed by the very fire you had been chasing. And it was Alex who had pulled you from the wreckage, who had stood over you with an expression torn between fury and relief. "You’re a damn idiot," he had muttered, helping you up. But his grip had been steady, his hands warm, grounding. And when he added, "Come home when you’re done running," you had almost believed you could.

- When you finally did, he was waiting. Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, the ghost of a smirk on his lips. "Took you long enough," he said, but there was no real bite to it. Just relief, just familiarity, just the silent understanding that had always existed between you. And when you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, he only bumped his shoulder against yours and muttered, "Welcome back.”

[urdreamydoodles]

MARK VARIANTS X FEM!READER

Aftercare after sex—or the lack of it

Characters: Sinister Mark, Mohawk Mark, No Goggles Mark, Prisoner Mark, Sheisty Mark, Bald Mark, Goggles Mark, Viltrum Mark & Omni-Mark

Sinister Mark / Capevincible

- The air is thick with the scent of sweat and something darker, something almost metallic. He lingers above you, his breath uneven, not from exhaustion but from the sheer euphoria of destruction—of claiming. His body is a furnace against yours, but there is no tenderness in the way he stays. His fingers are still curled in fists, his jaw still locked in hunger. The violence of him does not soften, even now.

- He does not ask if you are alright. He does not murmur reassurances or stroke your skin. If anything, there is irritation in his gaze, as if he is displeased with how quickly the moment has ended. He rolls onto his back with a huff, his mind already restless, already searching for the next conquest, the next thing to tear apart.

- His fingers twitch, and you can tell he is contemplating whether to reach for you again, whether to take more. The thought of stopping—of gentleness—does not occur to him. You are a canvas for his desires, a battlefield where only he emerges victorious. The sheets are ruined, the bruises already forming, and he watches them like an artist admiring his handiwork.

- “You can leave,” he mutters, though there is no real expectation that you will. Perhaps part of him enjoys the sight of you trying to collect yourself, the trembling in your limbs, the way you are still breathless and overwhelmed. It is not kindness that keeps him near—it is possession. He may not hold you now, but he knows you are still his.

- If you do not move, he does not push you away. He does not touch, but he does not reject. He allows you to exist in his space, but only because he knows you will stay. And if you do not? He will find you again. That, you are certain of. He always finds what belongs to him.

- As sleep creeps at the edges of your awareness, his voice cuts through the silence—low, amused, a whisper of menace. “You look wrecked,” he says, as if it is a compliment. And perhaps, in his eyes, it is.

Mohawk Mark / Movincihawk

- He laughs as he sprawls out beside you, arms stretched lazily over his head, body gleaming with sweat. There is something cruel in his amusement, something sharp in the way he watches you struggle to catch your breath. He enjoys this—this aftermath, this moment where you are undone, where he is the victor in a game only he was playing.

- “What, tired already?” he teases, nudging your side with his knuckles, grinning when you flinch. There is no softness here. He revels in the mess he has made of you, the bruises, the bite marks, the trembling. To him, this is the reward—the proof of what he has done.

- He does not comfort. He does not soothe. If anything, he tests your limits even now, fingers ghosting over your most sensitive places just to see you shudder, just to hear that sharp intake of breath. He wants to push, to prod, to see if you can take more. Because he can. He always can.

- When you turn away from him, he chuckles, pressing himself against your back, his teeth grazing your shoulder. “Aww, don’t tell me you’re mad,” he coos, mocking, delighted. “You liked it.” And there is no room for argument, not in the way he says it. Not in the way he knows he is right.

- He does not fall asleep easily. He is restless, always hungry, always looking for something else to entertain him. If you are still awake, he will toy with you, pulling at your hair, tracing invisible patterns on your skin, whispering things that are not quite threats but feel like them.

- Eventually, he tires of it. Eventually, he sighs, pressing a lazy kiss to whatever part of you is closest. “Fine, go to sleep,” he allows, as if it is his permission to give. But you know better than to think the night is truly over. Not with him.

No Goggles Mark / Nogogglesible

- He hums to himself, a pleased little sound, stretching like a cat beside you. The grin on his face is unshaken, wide and smug, as if he is replaying every moment in his head and savoring it. He looks at you, then at the mess of the bed, then back at you. “That was fun,” he says, and the simplicity of it makes something uneasy settle in your chest.

- He pokes at your side, nudging you as if testing whether you are still conscious. “You good?” But the question is not asked out of concern. It is asked out of curiosity, like a child tapping the glass of an ant farm just to see the insects scatter.

- He leans over you, grinning down at your exhausted form, fingers idly tracing over the marks he left behind. “You make the best sounds,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “Did you hear yourself? Damn.” There is no apology in his tone, no remorse. Only satisfaction.

- When you try to shift away, he tuts, looping an arm around your waist and yanking you back. “Where you goin’?” he asks, though he already knows. “You’re not leaving yet.” It is not a request. It is a statement. A decision already made.

- He does not sleep right away. Instead, he watches you, smirking to himself, occasionally brushing a hand over your body just to see you react. He likes this part—the aftermath, the possession, the way you are still at his mercy even now.

- And when exhaustion finally drags you under, his voice is the last thing you hear, low and amused, pressing against your ear like a brand. “Hope you’re ready for next time,” he murmurs, already promising more.

Prisoner Mark / Prisonincible

- The room still thrums with the echoes of what just happened—sheets tangled, bodies slick with sweat, the air thick with something more than heat. He stays above you for a moment, not moving, not speaking, only watching. His breath is slow, measured, controlled. A stark contrast to the violence that came before.

- He rolls onto his side with a sigh, fingers tapping absently against your hip. The touch is not soft, not affectionate—it is possessive, idly tracing over the bruises he left, pressing just hard enough to make you shudder. There is something in his eyes, dark and amused, as if he enjoys watching the way your body still reacts to him even now.

- “You’re quiet,” he murmurs, and the corner of his mouth twitches, like he knows why. Like he enjoys it. His hand drifts up to your throat, fingers pressing lightly, just enough to remind you of what they had done before. Not a threat. A memory. A promise.

- He does not offer comfort. If anything, he studies you like an artist admiring a painting, making mental notes of what he will do differently next time. How much further he can push. What else he can take. And you know there will be a next time.

- He does not hold you, but he does not leave either. He stays beside you, arm draped over his forehead, eyes closed but still alert. He is not a man who rests easily. Even now, you can feel the coiled tension in him, the way his body hums with readiness, as if he is waiting for something—though whether that something is a fight or another round, you do not know.

- Eventually, he exhales sharply, his voice breaking the silence like a blade. “You should get some sleep,” he says, though it sounds more like an order than a suggestion. And when you finally do, you can still feel his gaze on you, as if even in slumber, you are still under his control.

Sheisty Mark / Hoodvincible

- He laughs, low and breathless, still riding the high of it. He stretches beside you like a lion in the sun, cocky and self-satisfied, grinning at the ceiling like he just won a fight. And in his mind, maybe he did. Maybe this was a battle to him, and you were just another opponent he overpowered.

- “Shit, you look wrecked,” he chuckles, nudging you with his foot, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Didn’t think you’d tap out so fast.” The words are teasing, but there is no real kindness behind them. He likes seeing you like this—spent, breathless, undone. It feeds something in him. Something cruel.

- He does not pull you close. He does not murmur soft words or press lazy kisses to your skin. Instead, he props himself up on an elbow, looking down at you with a smirk that is all sharp teeth and arrogance. “Damn, I really did a number on you, huh?” He sounds almost proud.

- If you try to move, he stops you—grabbing your wrist, pressing you back down with an effortless strength that reminds you just how easily he could keep you there forever if he wanted to. “Nah, don’t go runnin’ off yet,” he mutters. “Ain’t done lookin’ at you.” There is something unsettling in the way he says it, like you are a prize he refuses to let go of just yet.

- Eventually, he stretches again, yawning like a cat, eyes half-lidded with satisfaction. “Damn, I should wreck you like that more often,” he muses, rolling onto his back. But there is an edge to his tone, a silent threat beneath the laziness of it. Because you know he means it. And next time, it will be worse.

- He does not hold you, but he does not let you leave either. His presence is a cage, even when he is not touching you. And as you drift into uneasy sleep, his voice lingers in your ears, low and smug. “Sweet dreams, baby. You’re gonna need ‘em.”

Bald Mark / Capvincible

- He does not move right away. He lingers above you, fingers pressing into your skin like he is still grounding himself in the feeling of you, still savoring the imprint of his touch. There is no tenderness in it—only possession. Only the need to remind you that you are his, in ways words cannot express.

- “You took it well,” he murmurs, his voice like silk over steel. He sounds almost impressed, but there is something mocking in it, too. Like he expected you to break sooner. Like he is already thinking about how much further he can push you next time.

- His fingers trace over the marks he left—bruises, scratches, the evidence of his hunger written into your skin. He smirks, pressing down on one just to hear you gasp. “That one’s my favorite,” he muses, dragging his knuckles over it. “Maybe I’ll make it darker next time.”

- He does not ask if you are alright. He does not offer comfort, because that is not what he does. Instead, he leans down, lips brushing your ear, his voice a dark whisper. “You’re still breathing. That means you can take more.” And there is no doubt in your mind that he means it.

- He watches you for a moment longer, as if deciding whether he is finished with you yet. And then, finally, he pulls away, stretching lazily, rolling onto his side with a satisfied sigh. “You should sleep,” he says, though there is no softness in the command. It is not a suggestion. It is an expectation.

- And as you finally close your eyes, exhaustion pulling you under, you feel his fingers curl around your wrist, grounding you in his presence. A silent reminder that even in sleep, you belong to him.

Goggles Mark / Gogglesvincible

- The air is thick with the remnants of what transpired, the sheets tangled, your body trembling in the aftermath. He remains still beside you, breath steady, as if nothing had happened at all. His presence is imposing even in silence, a cold specter lingering at your side, watching.

- He is not one for excessive words, nor for the meaningless pleasantries that others might indulge in. Instead, he observes you with a calculating gaze, his fingers ghosting over the bruises and marks left behind as if assessing his own handiwork. His touch is neither gentle nor rough—just clinical, indifferent, as if cataloging the evidence of his own cruelty.

- “You’re still alive,” he finally murmurs, his voice as hollow and monotone as ever. It is not a question, nor a reassurance. Just a fact, stated plainly, as if your survival was never really in question to begin with.

- He does not hold you, does not soothe you. Instead, he remains close, just enough to remind you that he is still there. His hand rests idly on your hip, fingers curling slightly, not in affection but in possession, an unspoken claim. He does not need to say the words for you to understand.

- When you shift, his grip tightens, just a fraction—barely perceptible, but enough to make you freeze. “Don’t move,” he says, voice quiet but absolute. Not because he cares for your comfort, but because he enjoys the moment, the stillness, the way you remain where he wants you.

- Sleep does not come easily under his watchful gaze, but it comes nonetheless. And when you wake, he is still there, the weight of his presence a suffocating thing. A silent reminder that you are his, in ways you can no longer deny.

Viltrum Mark / Viltrumincible

- He is still wrapped around you, arm draped over your waist, breath slow and controlled. Not out of tenderness, not out of love—but out of something deeper, something far more insidious. Ownership. You are not separate from him. You are an extension of him, something he has conquered and now keeps close.

- His fingers trace the marks on your skin with something almost resembling reverence. Almost. “You took it well,” he muses, voice low, contemplative. There is something like amusement in his tone, but it does not quite reach his eyes. He is pleased, but not in the way a lover might be. It is the satisfaction of a king surveying his land, of a warrior admiring a battle won.

- “You understand now, don’t you?” he murmurs against your ear, the warmth of his breath sending a shiver down your spine. “You were made for this. For me.” It is not a question. He does not ask. He states. Because to him, there is no world in which you are not his.

- He does not ask if you are alright. He does not offer words of comfort. But he does not leave either. His grip is firm, unrelenting, keeping you anchored against him as if daring you to try and pull away. And you know better than to try.

- Eventually, his hold loosens just enough for you to breathe, though the weight of him still lingers. He watches you, waiting, expecting. And when you finally exhale, sinking into his embrace, he smirks. Victory.

- “Sleep,” he commands, voice softer now but no less absolute. And as your eyelids grow heavy, you realize that sleep is not a choice. It is another surrender, another way in which he has claimed you. And you are too tired to fight it.

Omni-Mark / Omnivincible

- He does not move for a long time. The room is quiet, save for the slowing rhythm of your breaths, the lingering heat still clinging to your skin. He lies beside you, gaze fixed on the ceiling, expression unreadable. Detached. As if he is already somewhere else entirely.

- When he finally speaks, it is without emotion, without warmth. “You’re still awake.” A simple statement, but there is something behind it. Not concern. Just mild curiosity, as if he finds it odd that you have not yet drifted into unconsciousness.

- His fingers brush against your arm, absentminded, like a scientist observing a specimen. There is no affection in the touch, no real intention—just a lingering presence, as if he is deciding whether or not to acknowledge you further.

- “You’ll be fine,” he mutters eventually, rolling onto his side, back facing you. Not dismissive, not cruel—just indifferent. Like it does not truly matter either way. And perhaps, to him, it does not.

- But despite the coldness, despite the emotional distance, he does not leave. He remains in the bed, body close enough to feel but not to comfort. A silent contradiction, an enigma you cannot decipher. He does not care, yet he does not go. And that, somehow, is worse.

- Sleep takes you eventually, though unease lingers in its wake. And when you wake, he is still there—silent, distant, unreadable. A storm you cannot predict. A force you cannot escape.

[urdreamydoodles]

Hi! If it’s not too much, could you do spider-man villains responding to an underling hitting reader like you did for the bat-villains? (Idk if you do the spider-man villains or just marvel villains in general so feel free to do that if you’d prefer) You’re really good at getting into characters’ heads it’s really fun to read!

MARVEL COMICS VILLAINS X FEM!READER

One of the underlings hit you and your partner finds out

Characters: Dr. Doom, Bullseye, Taskmaster, Loki, Crossbones, Zemo, Muse, Hela, Green Goblin, Eddie/Venom, Doctor Octopus, Kraven, The Lizard, Carnage, Electro, Kingpin, Scorpion, Hobgoblin, Mysterio, Sandman, Shocker, Chameleon, Mister Negative & Boomerang

Reply to anon: FINALLY some love for Spider-Man villains. The Spider-Man and Batman villain gallery are my favorites. I've done (almost) all of Spider-Boy's most popular villains, I really hope I did the ones you wanted.

Victor von Doom | Doctor Doom

- Doom is not a man prone to outbursts. He does not rage blindly, does not allow emotions to dictate his actions. No, his fury is measured, calculated—and when he sees the mark left on your perfect skin, he does not waste words. He simply turns, his cloak billowing as he leaves. You know better than to stop him. Whatever is about to happen is inevitable. Doom does not tolerate offenses. And this—this was the gravest of all.

- The punishment is not merely death. Death is merciful, death is quick. Doom does not grant mercy to those who defile what is his. The offender is stripped of their name, their purpose, their very existence. Doom ensures they are erased, their presence scoured from the annals of time, their life reduced to a whisper of agony. He does not need to sully his own hands—no, the world itself bends to his will, and his will is retribution.

- When he returns to you, his mask betrays nothing, but you can feel the weight of his gaze, the intensity that lingers. He reaches for you—not to inspect the wound, not to seek forgiveness, but to claim you once more, to remind you that you belong to him, and he to you. "None shall harm you and live," he states, as if it is a fundamental truth of the universe. And perhaps, under his rule, it is.

- His gauntleted fingers ghost over your skin, a contradiction of metal and reverence, of cold steel and burning devotion. "You are under my protection," he murmurs, "and my protection is absolute.” His lips brush against your temple, the touch fleeting, possessive. "They will remember what happens to those who forget."

Lester | Bullseye

- He doesn't get angry. Not at first. He just stares at you, head tilting slightly, the way a predator assesses a kill. And then—he laughs. Not the usual, cocky, self-satisfied kind. No, this one is sharper, colder, something that sends a chill down your spine. "They really put their hands on you?" he asks, his voice edged with something deadly, something thrilled. Because now? Now he gets to play.

- He finds them fast. He doesn’t rush—no, he takes his time. He enjoys watching the moment of realization dawn, the way fear blooms when they understand exactly who they’ve pissed off. And when he strikes, it isn’t just a kill. It’s an art form. He breaks bones with pinpoint accuracy, flays skin with nothing but the flick of a blade. Every hit is personal, every wound a lesson. By the time he’s finished, there’s nothing left but ruin.

- When he comes back, he’s still grinning, like he’s high off the violence. He leans in close, voice dripping with amusement. "Y’know, I was gonna kill ‘em quick, but then I thought—nah, let’s make it memorable." His fingers trace the bruise on your skin, eyes dark with something almost hungry. "Bet they won’t be hittin’ anyone ever again. Hell, they won’t even be breathing."

- Then, just as suddenly, the danger flickers, shifts into something else. His hand curls around the back of your neck, pulling you in, his lips brushing against yours, slow and deliberate. "Next time, babe? Just say the word. I'll tear the whole damn world apart for you."

Tony Masters | Taskmaster

- Tony doesn't ask what happened—he sees it. The way you shift your weight, the slight tension in your jaw, the way your hand lingers over the injury just a second too long. He catches every detail, every weakness, because that’s what he does. And right now? Right now, someone’s weakness is about to become their death sentence.

- He doesn't just kill the bastard. No, that would be easy. He studies them first. Watches their movements, their stance, every tell in their body. And then? Then he dismantles them. Uses their own techniques against them, mirrors their every move just to show them how outmatched they are. By the time he’s done, they don’t just lose. They know they never stood a chance.

- When he returns, there’s no grand declaration, no need for theatrics. He just sits beside you, arms crossed, gaze sharp and assessing. "You alright?" he asks, and it’s almost casual—almost. But there’s a weight to it, an unspoken promise beneath the words. You nod, and he exhales, rolling his shoulders. "Good." A beat. Then, "Don’t let it happen again."

- But later, when the lights are low and his guard is down, his hand drifts to your hip, his thumb brushing slow, idle circles against your skin. "Ain't nobody touches you but me," he mutters, voice rough, possessive. "And I don't do soft." His lips ghost over yours, teasing, taunting. "But for you? Maybe I’ll make an exception."

Loki Laufeyson

- He does not react at first. He simply observes. Fingers steepled, expression unreadable, eyes too calm. And that? That is far more terrifying than rage. Because Loki is not a creature of impulse. He is a creature of calculated destruction. And this? This offense against you? It will be answered with something far worse than death.

- The punishment is poetic. He does not simply kill the offender—he undoes them. Twists their mind until they are unmade, until they do not know their own name, their own face. They become a whisper, a tragedy, a thing lost to the very fabric of reality itself. And Loki? Loki watches, amused, as they break. "Oh, dear," he muses. "It seems you have forgotten yourself. Allow me to help." And with a flick of his fingers, they are gone.

- When he returns to you, there is a smirk curling at his lips, something self-satisfied in his gaze. "It is done," he says simply, as if he has merely handled a small inconvenience. And perhaps, to him, that’s all it was. But then, his expression shifts—just slightly. His fingers ghost over your wrist, featherlight, careful, as if you are something fragile, something to be preserved. "They will not bother you again," he murmurs, "nor will anyone else."

- His arms encircle you, drawing you against him, and for a moment, there is no trickery, no illusion—just him, real and solid. His lips graze your ear, a whisper of silk and steel. "You are mine," he breathes, and there is something almost reverent in the way he says it. "And I do not share."

Brock Rumlow | Crossbones

- The moment he sees the bruise on your skin, something inside him snaps. There’s no slow burn, no measured response—just instant, blistering rage. Brock doesn’t ask who did it. He already knows. He doesn’t ask why. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is the fact that someone was stupid enough to lay a hand on you, and now? Now they have to pay.

- He doesn’t just kill them—he annihilates them. There’s no finesse, no mercy, just raw, unfiltered violence. The crack of bone, the wet sound of flesh giving way—he takes his time, makes it hurt. He wants them to understand what they’ve done. Wants them to feel every ounce of pain they dared to bring upon you. By the time he’s done, they’re nothing more than a broken, unrecognizable mess on the floor.

- When he comes back to you, his knuckles are split, his breathing heavy, his hands still trembling with the aftershock of violence. But when his eyes meet yours, the fury melts into something else. Something dark, something possessive. He reaches for you, fingers rough as they trace over your injury, his touch lingering, slow. "Ain't nobody touches what’s mine," he mutters, voice like gravel, low and sharp with promise. "Nobody."

- And then his grip tightens, just enough to remind you, just enough to claim. His lips brush against your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "Next time?" His voice drops to a whisper, deadly and sweet. "I won’t just kill ‘em. I’ll make sure they beg for it first."

Helmut Zemo

- Zemo is silent when he sees the mark on you. Too silent. The kind of quiet that is far more dangerous than any outburst, far more lethal than raised voices or shattered glass. His fingers ghost over the injury with a gentleness that feels almost deceptive, his expression unreadable, his mind already working, already planning.

- His revenge is not messy. It is not violent. It is precise. He does not grant them the dignity of an immediate death—no, he dismantles them. Strips them of their status, their power, their very identity. He orchestrates their downfall with the patience of a man who thrives on the long game, ensuring they lose everything before he grants them the release of death. By the time he is finished, they are nothing more than a ghost.

- When he returns to you, his movements are slow, deliberate. He cups your face, tilting it up so you can see the satisfaction glinting in his eyes. "It is done," he murmurs, his thumb brushing over your cheek with something almost reverent. "They will never so much as whisper your name again."

- Then, his lips graze your temple, lingering there, soft but unshakable. "No one lays a hand on you and lives," he breathes against your skin. "Not while I still draw breath."

Muse

- He doesn’t react at first. No flicker of emotion, no shift in expression—just a slow, almost languid turn of his head as he processes the fact that someone dared to harm you. And then, after a moment of silence, he smiles. It’s not warm, not reassuring—it’s something else. Something wrong. Something that should send chills down your spine.

- The underling doesn’t just die. No, Muse creates with them. He turns them into something grotesque, something artful. He strips them of their humanity in the most literal sense, carving into their flesh with the same care a sculptor takes to marble. When he’s finished, they are unrecognizable, their body a message, a masterpiece. Something for the world to witness.

- When he returns, his hands are still wet with blood, his smile still stretching a little too wide. He steps closer, tilting his head as he looks at you, as if seeing you for the first time. "You make me feel things I do not understand," he murmurs, his voice lilting, almost dreamlike. "And yet, I do not mind."

- His fingers trail over your bruised skin, slow, thoughtful. "You are mine," he hums, as if tasting the words. "And I do not take kindly to those who ruin my muse."

Hela

- Her rage is not loud. It does not explode. It devours. A slow, insidious thing that coils around her like smoke, seething just beneath the surface. She does not speak when she sees the mark on your skin. She does not need to. The air itself seems to grow heavy, the very shadows bending toward her as if they fear what is to come.

- She does not simply kill the one responsible—she eradicates them. Their soul is hers now, ripped from their body, condemned to an eternity of suffering in her grasp. She ensures their torment is endless, their agony woven into the very fabric of Hel itself. They will know true despair. They will beg for release, and she will deny them.

- When she returns to you, she does not ask if you are alright. She knows you are. You are strong. But still, her touch is almost gentle as she brushes a gloved hand over your bruised skin, as if assessing the damage, as if reminding herself that you are here. "They are nothing now," she murmurs, voice like velvet over steel. "They will never touch you again."

- Then, she cups your chin, tilting your face up to meet her gaze. Her lips curve into a smirk, dark, knowing. "You are mine," she breathes, her voice a silken promise. "And what is mine is untouchable."

Norman Osborn | The Green Goblin

- He is not a man known for softness. The world has felt the wrath of his intellect, his madness, his power—but never his kindness. Yet, in his own way, you are an exception. An obsession that burrowed into his mind and refused to leave. You were his, a claim as absolute as the empire he built with blood and fire. And when one of his men struck you, something terrible and ruinous cracked open within him. Norman does not react with immediate fury. No, his rage is patient, a slow-moving thing with sharpened teeth, and it festers in silence as he watches you, as his gloved hand ghosts over the mark left behind. His voice is eerily calm. "Who?" is all he asks, and though you know what will come, you do not stop him.

- He does not waste time. The moment the name is given, the air shifts, heavy with the weight of his impending vengeance. He could kill the man outright—could rip him apart with his hands and laugh as he did it—but Norman is nothing if not poetic. There is no need for theatrics, no need for a Goblin’s grin. He strips away his mask and handles the matter as Osborn, the man, the king, the ruthless god in a businessman’s skin. His underlings learn a lesson that night: a punishment that stretches long, a display of control so profound that even those loyal to him shudder at the sight. Norman does not simply kill; he dismantles.

- He returns to you in the aftermath, his fingers still stained with evidence of his wrath. There is no apology, no soft words meant to soothe. He does not think you need them. He takes your face in his hands, holds you as if committing the shape of you to memory, and leans in, his forehead resting against yours. "You are not to be touched," he murmurs, his voice laced with something dark, something final. "Not by them. Not by anyone. Only me." His mouth finds yours, claiming and bruising, a reminder of who you belong to, of who would set the world ablaze before letting another lay a hand on you.

- In the days that follow, his men become more careful, their eyes lowering whenever you pass. He revels in it, in their fear, in the knowledge that you are untouchable. But more than that, Norman basks in the way you still stand at his side, still allow his hands on your skin, still whisper his name in the quiet of night. He does not say it aloud, but he knows it in the marrow of his bones: he would burn everything for you.

Eddie Brock | Venom

- The moment Venom senses it, the moment the bruising scent of pain clings to you, Eddie is already moving. His body tenses like a predator scenting blood, fists curling, jaw tightening, and before you can say anything, a voice darker than night slithers out, a guttural growl vibrating in his chest. "Who hurt you?" The question is not for you to answer. Venom already knows.

- There is no reasoning with Eddie when his rage is ignited, no space for rational thought. He is a man of fury, of primal justice, and there is no justice more absolute than the one he will deliver. Venom is delighted, saliva dripping from his fanged mouth as he urges Eddie forward. "We eat them." But Eddie is not in the mood for quick endings. No, this calls for something more intimate. He corners the man, fists colliding with flesh, with bone, and with each hit, his breath comes harsher, his mind consumed by the vision of you hurt, of someone daring to lay a hand on what is his.

- When he returns to you, his knuckles are bloody, his breathing uneven, but his eyes—his eyes are the most dangerous part of him. "It won’t happen again," he says, and Venom’s voice purrs in agreement, curling around the words like a promise. You reach for him, fingers tracing over the remnants of his anger, and for a moment, his fury falters. His grip tightens around you, desperate, possessive, as if anchoring himself in your warmth. "I don’t share," he murmurs, his lips ghosting over your skin, the rough scrape of his stubble sending a shiver down your spine. "I don’t forgive, either."

- The city speaks in whispers after that. The man who struck you is nowhere to be found, his existence erased with the efficiency of something monstrous. Eddie doesn’t care. Venom doesn’t care. They are satisfied only in the way you still let them near, in the way your fingers tangle in Eddie’s hair as he presses against you, breathing in your scent like a man who has only ever known hunger.

Otto Octavius | Doctor Octopus

- He is a man of brilliance, of intellect, of control. But all of it fractures when he sees the mark on your skin. His metal limbs twitch, their claws clicking in restless anticipation, and his grip on his own restraint becomes tenuous. He prides himself on logic, on the ability to calculate his moves, but rage has always been an old friend, and tonight, it whispers to him with venomous sweetness. He cups your chin, his touch unexpectedly gentle despite the storm brewing in his gaze. "Tell me," he says, his voice like silk stretched over steel.

- When you do, he does not explode. Otto Octavius is not a man of reckless outbursts—he is a man of consequences. The one who hurt you does not suffer immediately. No, Otto drags it out, makes it a lesson, makes it art. His tentacles wrap around the man like a vice, lifting him effortlessly, squeezing just enough to let terror sink in. "Do you know what you’ve done?" he muses, tilting his head in that calculating way of his. "Do you understand the depths of your mistake?" There is no mercy in his eyes, only the cold brilliance of a scientist dissecting his latest subject.

- When he returns, his hands are clean, his composure intact. But there is something different in the way he looks at you, something almost reverent. "No one will touch you again," he says, a quiet promise that rings louder than any scream. His arms coil around you, steel and flesh alike, pressing you into him as if ensuring your safety through sheer proximity. He is not an affectionate man, not in the traditional sense, but this—this is devotion in its truest form.

- The world shifts after that. His subordinates tread carefully, their fear evident, their respect unwavering. Otto does not care for their opinions, only for the knowledge that you are untouchable, that the universe itself would have to shatter before he allowed harm to reach you again. And when he holds you at night, when he feels the warmth of your body against his own, he knows with absolute certainty—he would burn every last one of them for you.

Sergei Kravinoff | Kraven the Hunter

- The air is thick with tension when he finds out. There is no great display of fury, no immediate act of violence—but the shift in him is undeniable. His gaze darkens, his jaw sets, and his muscles coil like a beast moments before the kill. He does not ask you to name the culprit. He does not need to. The hunt is already beginning in his mind, the scent of blood calling to him. "They have wronged you," he murmurs, his accent curling around the words like a snare. "That is all I need to know."

- He does not go after them as a man. He goes as a predator. There is no chance for escape, no hope for mercy. The one who hurt you does not simply die; they are hunted, chased, reduced to nothing more than prey beneath the weight of Sergei’s wrath. And when he returns, there is blood beneath his nails, a satisfied smirk on his lips, and something primal burning in his eyes as they settle on you.

- He takes your face in his hands, his fingers rough yet reverent. "You are mine," he tells you, his voice low, possessive, unshaken. "And no man touches what is mine." There is no hesitation when he kisses you, no gentleness—only the raw, unfiltered hunger of a man who has conquered and claimed.

- After that, there is silence. No one dares cross you, no one even dares look too long. And Sergei—Sergei watches you like the wild thing he is, his need for you carved into his very soul.

Dr. Curt Connors | The Lizard

- There are two versions of the man you love, and both are dangerous in their own ways. Dr. Connors—the brilliant, fractured scientist—sees you as something fragile, something to be protected. The Lizard—the monstrous, primal force—sees you as his, an undeniable part of his territory, a possession no one else is permitted to touch. When he smells the injury, when his reptilian senses detect the slightest irregularity in your scent, his pupils slit into thin lines, and his talons twitch. He does not ask what happened. He does not need to. You can see the change in him, the slow, deliberate way his muscles coil, the predator awakening beneath the man.

- Curt tries to hold back at first, tries to reason with himself, to suppress the darker part of him that howls for blood. But then he sees the mark—small, insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but a wound on you—and all his restraint shatters. His skin ripples, the transformation taking hold, scales pushing through flesh, bones shifting as something cold-blooded and relentless takes over. The man who hurt you does not get the mercy of a warning. He does not get the chance to run. The Lizard hunts him down with terrifying precision, dragging him into the depths of the sewers, where screams do not reach the surface world.

- He does not return to you as Curt, not yet. The Lizard comes first, his body tense with the aftermath of his fury, his eyes glowing in the dim light. He circles you like an animal, sniffing the air, ensuring no scent of your attacker lingers. When his clawed hands cup your face, they are gentle despite their lethal potential, his rough thumb tracing over the bruise with something close to reverence. "Mine," he hisses, low and guttural, his tail twitching behind him. "No one hurts what belongs to me." His forked tongue flicks out, tasting the air around you, confirming you are safe. Only then does he allow himself to shift back, bones snapping, scales melting away, until it is Curt again—shaken, horrified by his own lack of control, but unrepentant.

- After that night, no one in his employ ever touches you again. They don’t even stand too close. The fear lingers, thick and suffocating, but you do not fear him. Not truly. Not when he presses his forehead against yours in the quiet of your shared sanctuary, his breath still uneven from the monster within him. "I won’t let it happen again," he murmurs, half a promise, half a warning to the world. And you believe him.

Cletus Kasady | Carnage

- Violence has always been Cletus’s language, and love—if he can even call what he feels for you that—is simply an extension of it. His affection is red, dripping, chaotic, something sharp-edged and all-consuming. So when he finds out someone has dared to touch you, to lay their filthy hands on what he claimed, he does not fly into a rage. No, no, no. Rage is too simple. Rage is what lesser men feel. What he feels is a different kind of thrill—something euphoric, something electric. The knowledge that he now has an excuse to indulge himself, to play.

- He finds the man easily. Carnage is not subtle, never has been, and there is no need for stealth when the hunt is half the fun. He takes his time with it, drags it out, makes sure the bastard understands the mistake he made. There are screams, of course. Begging. Pleading. But Cletus only laughs, red tendrils writhing around him like something alive, his grin wide and wicked. He does not just kill. He desecrates. When it is over, he leaves what remains in a place everyone will see, a message written in blood and viscera: SHE’S MINE.

- When he returns to you, he is still drenched in his work, red creeping up his neck like war paint. His fingers are slick when they cup your chin, tilting your head so he can drink in the sight of you, the only thing in this world he won’t destroy. "Ain’t nobody stupid enough to touch you now, doll," he purrs, his grip tightening just enough to make you gasp. "But if they do… well, you know me. I love an excuse to get messy." His lips crash against yours, feverish, unhinged, tasting of copper and chaos, as if marking you from the inside out.

- The city whispers after that. Everyone knows. Everyone fears. No one dares even breathe in your direction without permission. And Cletus—Cletus is delighted. He keeps you close, always touching, always claiming, because you are the only thing in this world worth keeping, worth loving in his own sick, twisted way.

Max Dillon | Electro

- The moment Max finds out, the air around him changes. The temperature rises, the hum of electricity vibrating beneath his skin, flickering in his veins. He does not speak at first. He just stands there, his entire body coiled with tension, eyes burning with a glow that promises something catastrophic. His hands twitch, sparks crackling between his fingers, and when he finally breathes, it comes out ragged, barely contained. "Who?" The question is not a request. It is a demand, static lacing his voice like a storm on the verge of breaking.

- He doesn’t wait for you to answer. He already knows. The circuits in the building whisper their secrets to him, security cameras playing back every movement, every offense. And once he sees it—once he witnesses the insult—there is no saving the man responsible. Max does not go after him in silence. He wants people to see. He wants them to understand. When he finds his target, he doesn’t touch him at first—just lets the lights flicker, lets the air taste of ozone and danger. The fear in the man’s eyes is intoxicating. And then—then—he strikes.

- He does not just kill. He erupts. A violent surge of electricity courses through his victim’s body, lighting up the night in a gruesome spectacle. It is over in seconds, but the aftermath lingers—charred flesh, the stench of burnt skin, a warning that echoes in the city’s power lines. No one touches what belongs to Max Dillon. No one.

- When he returns, his pulse is still thrumming with energy, his hands still tingling with remnants of power. He doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t need to. He simply cups your face, his touch still buzzing, his breath warm against your lips. "Nobody hurts you," he murmurs, pressing his forehead against yours, letting the electricity between you crackle softly. "Not while I’m around."

Wilson Fisk | The Kingpin

- There is no explosion of rage when Wilson finds out. No immediate outburst, no reckless display of violence. Instead, there is silence. A heavy, suffocating quiet that settles over the room as he absorbs the information, as he lets the weight of it sink into his bones. He does not ask questions. He does not need to. His mind has already moved past the why and straight into the how.

- The man who struck you is dead before the sun rises. Wilson does not delegate this task. He handles it himself, in the cold, calculated way that only he can. The punishment is not just a beating. It is an education. He ensures that every broken bone, every gasping breath, is a lesson. That by the time it is over, the man understands—truly understands—who you belong to.

- When he returns to you, his suit is pristine, his composure unshaken, but there is something in his eyes—something dark, something possessive. He takes your hand, bringing it to his lips, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your knuckles. "You are mine," he states, as if it is law, as if it is the only truth that matters. "And I will never allow harm to come to what is mine."

- The city learns quickly. No one touches you. No one dares. Because to harm you is to invoke the wrath of a king, and there is no place in this world where his reach does not extend.

Mac Gargan | The Scorpion

- Mac has always been a creature of violence. It sits in his bones, coils in his muscles, waiting for an excuse to strike. But this—this—is different. This is not a bar fight, not some petty vendetta. This is you. His girl. His one good thing in a world that never gave him anything but rage. And someone thought they could lay a hand on you? His fingers curl into fists so tight his knuckles crack, his breath coming out in short, harsh bursts. The suit hums around him, reacting to his anger, tail twitching like a serpent poised to strike.

- He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t ask. He hunts. The city is a labyrinth of shadows, but Mac is a predator who knows every back alley, every bolt hole. And when he finds the bastard, there’s no warning. No time for apologies, for begging, for mercy that never existed in the first place. He slams the man against a wall hard enough to rattle bones, his tail curling around his throat, lifting him off the ground with slow, deliberate cruelty. "You think you're tough?" His voice is low, venomous, dripping with the promise of pain. "Think you can put your hands on her and walk away?"

- The fight is short, brutal. Mac doesn’t just beat him—he breaks him. Leaves him gasping in the filth of the streets, bruised, bloodied, and barely breathing. He could end it. Should end it. But no, he wants this bastard to live. Wants him to wake up every day knowing he made the worst mistake of his life. That if he so much as breathes in your direction again, Mac will be the last thing he ever sees.

- When he returns to you, his hands are still shaking, but his grip is gentle when he cups your face, tilting your chin up so he can look at you. His expression is dark, possessive, fierce. "Ain’t nobody touching you again," he mutters, his thumb tracing over your skin, as if reassuring himself that you’re real, that you’re his. "Ever."

Roderick Kingsley | The Hobgoblin

- The first time he sees the mark on your skin, something inside him snaps. Roderick has always been meticulous, always prided himself on being in control, but this—this—is unacceptable. His fingers twitch at his sides, itching for violence, but his face remains eerily composed, the kind of stillness that only comes before a storm. He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. "Who?" he asks, voice soft, deadly. It’s not a question. It’s a promise.

- Roderick does not make a spectacle of his revenge. He is not like the others—messy, impulsive, obvious. No, he is calculated. He plays the long game, luring the fool into a false sense of security. Then, when the time is right, he strikes. The underling who dared touch you disappears, and for days, no one hears from him. Then, suddenly, his body turns up—dismembered, displayed with sickening artistry, a message written in his own blood. A warning.

- When he returns to you, there is not a single speck of blood on him. He is as immaculate as always, his movements smooth and practiced as he approaches you. His gloved fingers brush over your shoulder, over the place where the injury once was, his touch lingering. "No one will ever lay a hand on you again," he murmurs, voice silken but laced with something darker, something dangerous. "Not unless they have a death wish."

- He tilts your chin up with two fingers, studying you with that sharp, analytical gaze, and then he smiles—slow, lazy, possessive. "You belong to me, darling," he whispers against your lips, a ghost of a threat, a vow wrapped in silk. "And I always take care of what’s mine."

Quentin Beck | Mysterio

- Quentin is a master of illusions, a man who bends reality to his will. But this—this is no illusion. The sight of your injury is real. And that, more than anything, enrages him. He stands utterly still, his fingers twitching at his sides, his mind already spinning through a thousand different ways to fix this. "Someone put their hands on you?" His voice is eerily calm, too calm, like the surface of still water before something drags you under.

- He doesn’t just want revenge—he wants a show. Wants to make an example of the fool who thought they could harm his masterpiece. The man who hurt you wakes up in a nightmare. Shadows twist unnaturally around him, voices whisper from the darkness, and the air itself becomes suffocating. He cannot see. He cannot escape. Quentin lets him feel true fear, lets his mind break apart at the seams. And when he finally steps into the illusion, bathed in eerie green light, his voice is cold, theatrical. "You touched something that belongs to me. Now, let’s see how you like being toyed with."

- By the time the illusion fades, the man is reduced to a shaking, incoherent wreck, his mind so shattered that he will never be the same. Quentin does not need to dirty his hands with blood. He has already won. Fear is the best weapon, after all. And now? Now, no one will ever dare lay a hand on you again.

- When he returns, his touch is gentle, almost reverent, as he cups your face, tracing the curve of your jaw. "I’ve taken care of it," he murmurs, his voice carrying that ever-present theatrical flair, as if this was simply another act in a grand performance. "No one will ever hurt you again. Not while I’m around." And when he presses his lips to yours, it is possessive, a silent claim. You are mine. And I will burn the world before I let it take you from me.

Flint Marko | The Sandman

- Flint has never claimed to be a good man, but there are rules. Lines that even criminals don’t cross. And someone crossing you? That is unforgivable. When he sees the mark on you, the wound left by some lowlife under his command, something dark passes over his expression. His jaw tightens, his fists clench, and for a long moment, he just stares. Then, in a voice too quiet, too steady, he asks, "Who did it?"

- He doesn’t wait for the answer. He already knows. He finds him. And when he does, he doesn’t waste words. He doesn’t make threats. He just acts. His body twists and warps, arms elongating, fists turning into massive clubs of hardened sand. The first hit is brutal, sending the man crashing through a wall. The second is worse. By the time he’s done, the bastard is barely breathing, half-buried in the debris, coughing up blood and dust. Flint leans down, voice low, gravelly, dangerous. "You ever even look at her again, I’ll make sure there ain’t enough of you left to bury."

- When he returns to you, his hands are still rough, still calloused, but they are infinitely careful when they touch you. His fingers ghost over the mark, his brows furrowed in something like guilt, like regret that he wasn’t there when it happened. "I shoulda stopped it before it happened," he mutters, frustration lacing his tone. "Ain’t nobody layin’ a hand on you again. I promise you that."

- He presses his forehead to yours, his breath warm against your skin, his presence solid, steady, safe. And when he speaks again, his voice is softer, rough with something that sounds almost like devotion. "You’re the only thing in this world I ain’t gonna lose." And somehow, you know he means it.

Herman Schultz | The Shocker

- Violence has always been a means to an end for Herman, never something he enjoyed. He’s not one of those lunatics who relish brutality—he’s just a man trying to make a living. But when he sees the bruise marring your skin, the way you flinch ever so slightly when you move, something inside him curdles. His stomach twists, his fingers flex, and there’s a slow, creeping heat behind his eyes. Somebody hurt you. And that? That’s something he can’t let slide.

- He doesn’t go in guns blazing. He’s smarter than that. He finds out who did it first, who was stupid enough to lay hands on his girl. And when he does? He makes sure the message is clear. The vibrations from his gauntlets don’t just break bones—they shatter them. There’s no warning, no grand speech, just a quick, brutal demonstration of what happens when you cross him. The air trembles with every hit, and by the time he’s finished, there’s nothing left but wreckage and regret.

- When he comes back to you, he’s quieter than usual. There’s no bravado, no cocky grin—just a lingering tension in his shoulders, a ghost of something dark in his eyes. He hesitates before reaching for you, before brushing his knuckles ever so gently over the bruise. "Didn’t mean for you to get caught up in this," he mutters, voice low, rough with something close to guilt. "But I swear—it ain’t happenin’ again."

- And then, finally, his hands settle on your waist, pulling you against him, grounding himself in you. He presses his forehead to yours, exhales slow, deliberate. "You’re my girl," he murmurs, his voice softer now, steadier. "And I protect what’s mine."

Dmitri Smerdyakov | The Chameleon

- Dmitri is a man of masks, of deception, of control. And yet, when he sees the mark on your skin, all of that precision shatters. His breath slows, his body stills, and for the first time in a long time, something genuine flickers behind his ever-changing eyes. Fury. Not the theatrical kind, not the controlled, manufactured type—this is something raw, something visceral. Someone thought they could touch you and get away with it.

- He does not act in haste. No, he is patient, methodical. He waits. He studies his prey, slipping into their world, wearing faces they trust, whispering secrets that lead them straight to their downfall. By the time they realize what’s happening, it’s far, far too late. One night, they close their eyes—and when they wake, they are not where they were before. A cold, dimly lit room. A voice, smooth as silk, drips from the darkness. "Did you think I would not find you?"

- By the time he returns to you, there is not a single trace of blood on him. No evidence, no mess—only the ghost of a smirk, the flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. He steps close, fingers trailing over your wrist, up your arm, as if ensuring you are whole, untouched. "No one will ever hurt you again," he whispers, and it is not just a promise. It is fact.

- His lips brush against the shell of your ear, his voice a soft murmur, intimate, possessive. "You are mine, моя любовь. And I do not share what is mine."

Martin Li | Mister Negative

- There are two sides to Martin—light and shadow, kindness and wrath. But when he sees the evidence of someone else's violence on you, there is no kindness left. His breath catches, his fingers tighten into fists, and something in his expression shifts—something dangerous. He touches the injury gently, as if the very act of acknowledging it might taint you further. And then, quietly, almost too softly, he asks, "Who did this to you?"

- When he finds them, there is no shouting, no theatrics—only inevitability. The underling barely has time to register their mistake before Martin unleashes the darkness within. The corruption devours them, twisting their very essence, making them feel every ounce of pain they have inflicted—tenfold. They scream, but there is no one to save them. And Martin watches, calm, composed, as their own sins consume them from the inside out.

- When he returns to you, his hands are cool when they cup your face, his expression eerily serene. There is no need to speak of what he has done—you already know. Instead, his thumb brushes over your cheek, his touch reverent, careful. "I will not allow harm to come to you again," he says simply, as if it is law, as if the very world itself bends to his decree.

- And then, softly, with all the tenderness in the world, he presses a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering, his breath warm against your skin. "You are precious to me," he whispers, and beneath the gentleness, there is an edge of something darker, something absolute. "And I do not lose what is mine."

Fred Myers | Boomerang

- Fred has never been the serious type. Always laughing, always running his mouth, always playing things off like nothing really matters. But when he sees what happened to you? When he sees the proof that someone put their hands on you? The easygoing grin vanishes. His whole body goes still. And then, with a quiet, almost chilling sort of calm, he says, "Tell me who did it."

- He tracks the bastard down himself, no hired muscle, no goons—just him. And when he finds them, all the jokes, all the charm, all the bullshit he usually hides behind is gone. He’s fast, brutal, efficient—sharp knuckles, steel-toed boots, the snap of a ribcage giving way under pressure. He doesn’t need his boomerangs for this. No, this? This is personal.

- When he comes back, there’s blood on his hands—his own, maybe, but mostly theirs. And for the first time in a long time, he actually looks serious. No jokes, no smug quips—just that sharp, assessing gaze as he steps closer, fingers brushing over your wrist. "They won’t bother you again," he says, and his voice is rougher than usual, lower. "Nobody’s gonna touch you. Not while I’m around."

- And then, as if realizing how intense he sounds, he exhales, shakes his head, lets that familiar smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. "Damn," he murmurs, tilting your chin up, eyes dark with something dangerous. "Didn’t know I had it in me to get all protective." His grin widens, teasing, but his grip on you is firm, steady. "Guess you bring out the worst in me, sweetheart. Or maybe the best.”

[urdreamydoodles]

KILLING ME SOFTLY — A Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter One Shot

Pairing: Benjamin Poindexter (MCU) x Fem!Reader

Description: Your twisted relationship with Bullseye.

Theme: Dark, Smut(ish)

Words: 1810

The first time you saw him, he was watching you.

Not in the way men at bars watch women, sizing them up like something to be consumed. Not in the way strangers glance at beauty before their eyes slip away.

No, he watched you.

Unblinking. Calculated. Predatory.

You had been walking home alone, the cold air biting at your skin, the neon lights of the city painting your path in fractured colors. Something told you to look over your shoulder.

And there he was.

Standing at the edge of the sidewalk, just under the hum of a flickering streetlamp, dressed in black, eyes pale and cutting as a razor’s edge.

A man who did not look away when you caught him staring.

A man who wanted you to know.

And you did.

You knew, instinctively, that this was not a stranger you could ignore.

This was something else entirely.

—

Benjamin Poindexter was not a man known for restraint.

He was a weapon in human form—something sharp and precise, something built for ruin.

But with you, he took his time.

He followed first.

Letting you feel him at the edges of your world, making you wonder if you were imagining things.

A shadow in the crowd. A presence just behind you. A feeling on your skin that you could not shake.

Then he got closer.

You would turn down a quiet street and see a man leaning against the alley wall, tapping something metallic against his thigh.

A coin. A blade. A bullet.

You could never tell which.

But always, when your eyes found him, his lips would curve in a slow, amused smile.

Like he was playing.

Like he was hungry.

And you—against all reason, against all logic—felt something dark and shivering unfurl in your ribs.

Because this man was dangerous.

And danger had always tasted like wine on your tongue.

—

You met properly on the fifth night.

Not in the street, not in passing—

But in your apartment.

You came home, locked the door, turned on the light—

And there he was, sitting on your couch, as if he belonged there.

Relaxed. At ease.

Turning a knife between his fingers like it was a toy.

You should have screamed.

Should have reached for something sharp, something heavy, something that could fight.

But instead, you exhaled slowly, tilted your head—

And smiled.

"A knife?" Your voice was smooth, unimpressed, barely above a murmur. "Are you flirting with me?"

His lips parted slightly, his head tilting, as if he hadn’t expected that.

Then, the grin.

Wide and wolfish, something carved from bone and sin.

"Doll," he murmured, voice low, fond, "I’ve been flirting with you for weeks."

—

Bullseye had never wanted anything the way he wanted you.

At first, it was simple. A game. A curiosity.

He saw something in you, something rare—something untouchable and unafraid.

You did not fear him.

You should have.

But instead, you met his gaze with a slow smile. Instead, you let him in. Instead, you looked at the monster and did not flinch.

And that—fuck—that ruined him.

Because he wasn’t playing anymore.

This wasn’t a job.

This wasn’t a kill.

This was you.

And he needed you like he needed air.

—

He started pushing.

Seeing how far he could go before you broke.

A knife at your throat, cold steel kissing warm skin—your pulse steady beneath it, unshaken.

A hand around your wrist, pulling you flush against him—your breath hitching, but your eyes alight with something dangerous.

He grabbed you, cornered you, toyed with you—

And you laughed.

You—who should have been running, who should have been trembling, who should have feared him—

Only smiled.

"You don’t scare me, Benjamin."

His fingers curled tight in your hair, his lips brushing against your ear.

"Give me time, doll," he murmured, voice dripping with promise. "You will."

—

But you didn’t.

And worse, you started pushing back.

Testing him the way he tested you.

Late nights with him pressed against you, the heat of his breath on your skin, your fingers teasing the knife from his belt.

Spinning it in your hand, mirroring his movements—

Smirking up at him as you flirted with his weapon.

It drove him insane.

No one had ever met him like this.

No one had ever dared.

And it made him want to ruin you.

—

When he kissed you, it wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t sweet.

It wasn’t careful.

It was consumption.

Teeth and breath and the sharp edge of his control fraying into something wild.

His hands held you like he might never let go, like he was claiming something that had already been his from the moment he set eyes on you.

And you—God, you—

You moaned against his mouth, kissed him back with that same hunger, gripped his shirt like you wanted to tear him apart.

And fuck.

He had never been a religious man, but in that moment, he swore he had found something close to god.

—

You became his.

Not in words. Not in titles.

But in the way he looked at you.

The way he hovered near you, always watching, always waiting.

The way his fingers traced absent patterns against your bare skin when he thought you were asleep.

The way he whispered your name like a curse, like a prayer, like something he could never afford to lose.

—

But you were never his the way he wanted.

Because you didn’t belong to anyone.

And that—

That was the tragedy of it all.

Because Bullseye didn’t share.

And one day—one day soon—he would have to decide.

Let you go.

Or make sure no one else could ever have you.

Ever.

—

It wasn’t just an obsession anymore.

Not some passing fixation, not just the high of the chase, not just the thrill of knowing he could break you if he wanted to.

No, this was addiction.

And Benjamin Poindexter was a man who had never known how to handle his addictions.

—

It started with the nights.

At first, they were occasional.

He would slip into your apartment like a shadow, his presence a silent promise in the dark. You’d wake to find him already there, already touching you, already needing.

And fuck, you let him.

Let him take you, let him push you, let him ruin you.

Because this wasn’t love.

It was something filthier. Something darker.

It was teeth and nails and heat and violence.

It was his body pressed against yours, the weight of him keeping you there, caging you beneath the force of his want.

It was the way he held you down, the way he whispered filth in your ear, the way he smirked when you gasped, when you whimpered, when you shuddered against him like you hated how much you wanted it.

And he—fuck—he lived for it.

For the way you clawed at him, for the way you trembled, for the way you choked his name between gasping breaths.

For the way you took every filthy, twisted thing he gave you and still—still—didn’t run.

That was what sealed it.

That was what fucking broke him.

Because no one had ever stayed.

Not like this.

Not after seeing what he was.

But you—you—

You didn’t just stay.

You smiled.

—

So the nights became routine.

His body covering yours, his hands gripping your thighs, his breath hot against your skin as he fucked you like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

And maybe it was.

Because with every night, with every time he touched you, with every moment he spent inside you, he felt it digging deeper—this need, this hunger, this thing that turned his thoughts into something dangerous.

And soon, it wasn’t just the nights.

It was the days.

The hours between.

The moments where you weren’t beneath him, weren’t gasping against his mouth, weren’t his—

Those were the moments that made him feel like an animal.

Because if he wasn’t with you, then who was?

—

That was how it started.

With the man at the bar.

Some nameless asshole who thought he could touch what wasn’t his.

Who leaned in too close, who smiled too wide, who looked at you like he could.

And maybe—maybe in another life, maybe if things were different, maybe if Dex weren’t Dex—

Maybe you could have.

But things weren’t different.

And Dex was Dex.

So the man never made it home.

And the next time you passed that bar, you didn’t see him there.

And you knew.

Even if he never said a word.

Even if he only smirked when your eyes met his in the neon light.

Even if, that night, when he shoved you up against the alley wall and fucked you hard enough to make your head spin, he only murmured—

"Mine."

—

But it wasn’t just one man.

It was every man.

The ones who looked too long. The ones who smiled too soft.

The ones who thought you were beautiful.

Because you were.

And that was the fucking problem.

Because beauty made men stupid.

Made them forget that some things weren’t theirs to touch.

And Bullseye—

Bullseye never forgot.

So the bodies kept piling up.

A man you barely remembered would brush your hand in passing—three days later, his body was found in the river.

Someone would compliment your dress—two nights after, they’d disappear.

You would catch a stranger looking at you across a crowded room—by the end of the week, there would be an accident.

And Dex—Dex—

Would never mention it.

Would never bring it up.

Would never say a word.

But then, later, when he had you pressed up against some grimy bathroom sink, when his hands were fisted in your hair, when he was panting against your throat and groaning into your skin, he would bite out—

"No one else. You fucking get that?"

And you would only smirk.

And he would growl—grip you tighter, thrust into you harder, make you feel it.

Make sure you knew.

Because you were his.

Whether you fucking liked it or not.

—

And maybe—maybe in the beginning, it had been a game.

Maybe at first, it had just been about the thrill, about the chase, about the way you smiled at the danger.

But not anymore.

Not now.

Because now, when he touched you, it wasn’t just want.

It was need.

And now, when you looked at him, it wasn’t just defiance.

It was understanding.

Because you knew what he was.

You knew what he did.

You knew he was ruining you.

And you—

You let him.

And fuck.

That was what made it worse.

That was what broke him.

Because if you had fought him, if you had run, if you had been afraid—

Then maybe he could have let you go.

But you didn’t.

You stayed.

You smiled.

You laughed.

And that meant you belonged to him.

And Dex—

Well, Dex never let go of what was his.

[urdreamydoodles]

I love your headcanons!! I’d love to see how you think the X-men would react to the reader playfully biting them, in or out of the bedroom, whatever scenario you’d like (you can go with any characters, but bonus points for Logan, Erik, Charles, and perhaps a new one, Victor Creed 👀)

X-MEN CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

You bite them playfully

Characters: Logan Howlett, Remy LeBeau, Kurt Wagner, Scott Summers, Jean Grey, Ororo Munroe, Rogue, Erik Lehnsherr, Charles Xavier, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff, Hank McCoy, Emma Frost, Laura Kinney, Wade Wilson, Victor Creed, Julian Keller, Kitty Pryde, Cable, Warren Worthington III, Morph, Mystique, Magik & Alex Summers

Reply to anon: OMG yes, Victor my little mad dog!

Logan Howlett

- You don’t expect him to react. Not really. He’s endured bullets, blades, and the unrelenting weight of time itself. A playful bite from you should be nothing—should be a drop of rain against an unshakable mountain. And yet, the moment your teeth graze his skin, a low growl rumbles from deep within his chest, something primal and unbidden. His muscles tense beneath your touch, like an animal caught between instinct and restraint.

- His gaze finds yours, sharp and golden, flickering with something unreadable. His lips curl into the faintest smirk, but his eyes betray him—dark with challenge, with something wilder lurking beneath. “That all you got, darlin’?” he rasps, his voice rough as gravel, his fingers curling at his sides as if resisting the urge to seize you right then and there.

- But Logan is nothing if not a man of action. A heartbeat later, his arm is around your waist, pulling you in close, the heat of his body searing against yours. His voice dips lower, a teasing growl, though there’s a dangerous edge to it now. “Y’know what they say, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear. “You bite a wolf, you better be ready for it to bite back.”

- And he does. Maybe not in the way you expect—not with teeth, but with hands that grip too tight, with lips that press too hard, with a possessiveness that lingers in every touch. Because Logan doesn’t do playful. He does hunger. He does need. And if you dare to tease the beast, you’d best be ready for the storm that follows.

Remy LeBeau

- Remy freezes the moment your teeth press against his skin—not from pain, not from surprise, but from something far more dangerous. The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smirk yet, but the promise of one. And then, ever so slowly, he tilts his head toward you, his red-on-black eyes gleaming with mischief.

- “Ma belle, you tryna kill me?” he drawls, his accent thick and lazy, but his voice carries that unmistakable edge of heat. His fingers brush over your arm, slow and deliberate, as if tracing the intent behind your bite. “'Cause I gotta warn you, chérie… I ain’t the kind to die easy.”

- The next thing you know, he’s got you backed against the nearest surface, one hand braced beside your head, the other tracing the curve of your waist like he’s memorizing the shape of you. His grin is downright wicked now, his gaze molten with amusement and something darker. “See, you play this game wit’ me, mon amour, you best know the rules.” His breath is warm against your lips, teasing, taunting. “You bite me? I devour you.”

- And then he leans in, and oh—Remy doesn’t just kiss. He claims. He teases. He tastes. His lips ghost over yours, never quite giving you what you want, never quite letting you escape, because if you’re going to start a game with the Ragin’ Cajun, you better be ready to lose.

Kurt Wagner

- The moment your teeth sink lightly into his skin, Kurt stills, his breath catching in his throat. For a split second, his mind goes utterly blank—because of course you would do this, of course you would find new ways to unravel him, to leave him speechless and stumbling. His tail flicks once, betraying his surprise, before curling around your waist in retaliation.

- And then—oh. Oh, then he laughs. A low, breathy chuckle that rumbles in his chest, warm and so utterly Kurt. “Mein Schatz,” he murmurs, his voice rich with amusement, his golden eyes gleaming. “Was that supposed to be threatening? Because I must say… you might have to try harder.”

- But his tail tightens ever so slightly, his hands settling on your hips, his body pressing just a little closer. His voice drops into something softer now, something teasing but fond. “Or perhaps you weren’t trying to scare me at all,” he muses, brushing his nose against yours, an intimate little gesture that makes your heart stutter. “Perhaps you were simply asking for a little attention, ja?”

- And oh, does he give it. He moves fast—so fast you barely register the shift before you’re elsewhere, whisked away in a blink of smoke and laughter. One moment you’re standing, the next you’re tangled in his arms, wrapped in the warmth of his teleportation, caught between breathless kisses and whispered endearments. Because if you’re going to bite him, liebling, he’s going to make sure you never regret it.

Scott Summers

- Scott’s reaction is immediate—sharp inhale, muscles tensing beneath your touch, jaw tightening as if trying to suppress whatever instinct just surged through him. His discipline, his restraint—it has always been his armor, his cage. But you—you have a habit of making him forget himself.

- “What was that?” he asks, voice lower than usual, a little rough around the edges, though the slight flush creeping up his neck betrays him. His fingers flex at his sides, like he doesn’t know whether to pull you closer or set you firmly away. But his ruby-red gaze is locked onto you now, and he is searching—for your intent, for your reasoning, for something he can brace himself against.

- “You can’t just—” He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, as if that will somehow ground him. His lips part, like he wants to scold you, like he wants to tell you biting is not part of a proper battle strategy, but the words never come. Instead, his hand lifts, cups your chin, his thumb grazing over your lower lip in something dangerously close to reverence.

- And then, ever so slowly, his lips brush against yours—light, testing, but oh-so-intense. Because Scott Summers does not give in easily. He does not let himself have. But you—you are different. You are his exception. And if you are going to play with fire, then you had best be prepared to burn.

Jean Grey

- Jean stills the moment your teeth graze her skin, not in fear or surprise, but in the way someone freezes when they have just stepped into the unknown. She has felt so many things in her lifetime—pain, joy, rage, divinity itself—but the sharp, teasing sensation of you doing this? That is something new. Her lips part slightly, a breath catching in her throat, and though she does not speak, you can hear her thoughts as if they are your own: What exactly are you trying to do to me?

- And then, oh, she smiles. Slow, knowing, the corners of her lips curving into something dangerously affectionate. Her fingers trace lightly over your arm, telekinetic energy humming faintly beneath her fingertips as she studies you with emerald eyes that gleam with amusement. “You do realize who you’re dealing with, don’t you?” she murmurs, voice soft but laced with something teasing, something nearly predatory. “You think you can surprise me, love? That’s adorable.”

- But Jean is not one to let challenges go unanswered. The next thing you know, her hand slides to your jaw, tilting your face toward hers with effortless ease. She doesn’t need to use her telekinesis to hold you there—no, the intensity in her gaze alone is enough. “Tell me,” she muses, leaning in so close her lips barely brush against yours. “Do you bite because you want my attention? Or because you already have it?”

- And before you can answer, she kisses you—deep, slow, deliberate. Not just a kiss, but a response, a promise. Because Jean Grey is made of passion and power, and if you wish to tease her, if you wish to provoke her, then you must be prepared for the storm you have just invited into your arms.

Ororo Munroe

- The moment your teeth press gently against her skin, a low, melodic hum escapes her—a sound not of displeasure, but of acknowledgment. Ororo Munroe has spent years cultivating grace, control, an unshakable presence that commands gods and mortals alike. And yet, this—this quiet, playful act of yours—catches her off guard in the most unexpected of ways.

- Her silver eyes flick toward you, gleaming with something unreadable, and for a moment, the air around you shifts, electricity humming faintly in the space between your bodies. Not as a threat, not as a warning, but as a reaction—as if even the very elements themselves are uncertain how to respond to the way you unravel her. “My love,” she says at last, her voice a soft, indulgent purr. “Was that meant to challenge me? Or are you merely being mischievous?”

- Slowly, her fingers trail along your shoulders, feather-light, teasing, carrying the same effortless power as the wind itself. And then, in one smooth motion, she moves—you don’t quite know how, only that one moment you are standing in place, and the next, the storm has wrapped itself around you. You are pulled flush against her, her presence enveloping you in warmth, in strength, in the quiet promise of something far greater than either of you can name.

- “If you seek my attention,” she whispers, her breath brushing against your ear like the gentlest breeze, “you need only ask.” And then, with a slow, deliberate smile, she leans in, her lips brushing over the spot where your bite had just been—a silent response, a wordless challenge of her own. Because if you are to tease a goddess, then you must be ready to be worshipped in return.

Rogue

- The second your teeth sink playfully into her skin, Rogue gasps—sharp, sudden, entirely unprepared. It’s not that she doesn’t like it, not at all, but more that she did not see it coming. For all her strength, all her bravado, you have just done something no enemy, no battle, no nightmare has ever managed to do: you have caught her off guard.

- “Sugah,” she breathes, her accent thickening just a bit, her voice a mixture of amusement and something else—something dangerous. Slowly, her green eyes flick to yours, and oh, that look—half-smirk, half-warning—tells you that you might have just started something you cannot finish. “Did you just… bite me?”

- And then, before you can answer, she does what Rogue does best—she acts. One moment, you are standing comfortably, the next, she has you pinned. Not roughly, not cruelly, but firmly, her gloved hands gripping your wrists, her breath hot against your skin. “Y’know,” she muses, tilting her head as she studies you, “if you wanted my attention that bad, all you had to do was ask.”

- But the glint in her eye betrays her—because for all her teasing, for all her bravado, the truth is simple: she loves this. Loves that you would dare to play with her, loves that you know exactly how to unravel her defenses, how to make her forget the space she so often has to keep between herself and the world. And so, with a wicked little smirk, she leans in, her lips hovering just above yours as she murmurs, “Hope you know what you started, darlin’. ‘Cause I don’t play fair.”

Erik Lehnsherr

- The moment your teeth press against his skin, Erik goes very, very still. Not out of fear, not out of surprise, but out of calculation. He is a man of war, of tragedy, of wounds both seen and unseen, and he has spent his entire life anticipating danger. But this—this playful, fleeting bite from you—is not something he had prepared for.

- And then, slowly, he exhales. Not in frustration, not in anger, but in something far deeper—something like acceptance. His sharp, silver gaze flicks to yours, unreadable yet knowing, and a slow, deliberate smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “Liebling,” he murmurs, his voice as smooth as tempered steel. “Do you think this is a game?”

- He does not move immediately. No, Erik prefers patience, prefers anticipation, prefers to let you feel the weight of what you have just done. And then, finally, he acts. His fingers ghost over your jaw, light as a whisper, his touch deceptively gentle. But his grip—when it finally settles—is not. His hand tightens, not cruelly, but possessively, his thumb tracing over your pulse as he studies you like a puzzle he has yet to solve.

- “If you wish to test me,” he muses, his voice a low, dark promise, “then by all means… continue.” And then, in a move so smooth it leaves you breathless, he takes—captures your mouth with his, slow and unyielding, like gravity itself bending to his will. Because Erik Lehnsherr does not play. He conquers. And if you wish to tempt him, then you must be prepared to surrender.

Charles Xavier

- Charles Xavier is a man of the mind, a man who has unraveled the deepest corners of human thought and consciousness, who has witnessed the entirety of existence through the whispers of others’ souls. And yet, for all his knowledge, for all the mysteries he has unraveled, you still find a way to surprise him. The moment your teeth press against his skin—soft, playful, fleeting—he stills, blue eyes widening just slightly, as if he cannot quite believe that you, of all things, could ever be so unpredictable.

- But then, oh, then he laughs. Not a polite chuckle, not the refined sort of amusement he offers in conversations of wit and charm, but something richer, something real. A warm, low sound that spills from his lips like honey, as if you have just whispered the most delightful secret in the world. He tilts his head toward you, curiosity sparking in his gaze, and for a moment, you see it—the boy he once was, the one who believed in the simple joy of being alive. “My dear,” he muses, a slow, knowing smile curving his lips, “are you quite certain you wish to play this game with me?”

- Charles is a scholar, a tactician, a man who has spent his life wielding words and thoughts like weapons, and he is not one to let a challenge go unanswered. Before you can pull away, his fingers ghost along your wrist, light as a whisper, and suddenly—you feel it. Not words, not images, but a sensation, a feeling, as if he is pressing the weight of his affection directly into your soul. This is how he fights back—by letting you feel what you do to him, by drowning you in the sheer, unshakable depth of his love.

- “You are a fascinating creature,” he murmurs, his voice a soft, intimate thing, meant only for you. And then, with deliberate slowness, he leans in, his lips grazing the same spot where your teeth had just been, a silent response, a quiet promise. Because Charles Xavier is a man of the mind—but with you, he has learned to love the body, too.

Wanda Maximoff

- Wanda Maximoff has spent her entire life on the precipice of chaos. Magic flows through her like a storm, raw and untamed, and though she has learned to control it, there is still a part of her that lingers on the edge—uncertain, fragile, waiting for the world to turn against her. But you—you are different. You do not fear her, do not tread lightly as if she is glass that might shatter at the slightest touch. No, you play with her, tease her, press your teeth against her skin in a gesture so human, so simple, that for a moment, she forgets the weight of her own power.

- Her breath catches—just a little, just enough for you to notice. Her fingers curl against your arm, not to push you away, but to steady herself, as if grounding herself in the moment, in you. And then, slowly, her lips curve into something soft, something real. “You’re bold,” she murmurs, her voice laced with quiet amusement, but there is something else there, too—something dangerous. A challenge. A warning. Because Wanda Maximoff is not someone you tease without consequences.

- Before you can react, she moves. The world shifts around you, a flicker of crimson in the air, and suddenly, you are weightless, as if gravity itself has forgotten you exist. Her magic hums against your skin, curling around you like the brush of unseen fingertips, and she watches you with a look that is pure mischief. “Tell me, darling,” she whispers, tilting her head ever so slightly, “was that meant to tempt me?”

- And then, with a slow, deliberate smirk, she leans in—her lips barely grazing your skin, a phantom touch, a promise of something more. Because Wanda Maximoff is chaos incarnate, and if you wish to play with her, then you must be prepared to dance in the storm.

Pietro Maximoff

- It happens so quickly that even you don’t realize what you’ve done. One moment, Pietro Maximoff is standing before you, talking, teasing, filling the space between you with his usual boundless energy, and the next—your teeth graze his skin, a fleeting, playful bite, quick as lightning itself. And then? He’s gone. A blur of silver and laughter, a gust of wind where he once stood.

- But before you can even blink, he is back—and oh, that look on his face. His lips are curled into a smirk, his blue eyes gleaming with something wild, something electric. “Really?” he breathes, shaking his head as if in disbelief. “You think you can bite me? Me?” His laughter rings out, sharp and bright, and suddenly, he is moving again—circling you, his presence a flickering pulse in the air, there and gone all at once.

- And then, he strikes. Not with speed, not with force, but with something far worse—anticipation. He stops right behind you, so close that his breath is warm against your ear, his voice a whisper of pure, unfiltered mischief. “You know what they say about quick reflexes, don’t you?” he murmurs, and before you can even think to react, his lips brush against your neck—a flicker of a kiss, a ghost of a touch, so fleeting you almost question if it happened at all.

- And then? He’s gone again. Laughing, running, taunting. Because Pietro Maximoff is not someone who is caught—he is the storm itself, and if you wish to play this game, then you must be prepared to chase the wind.

Hank McCoy

- Hank McCoy is not a man who is easily surprised. He has spent his life in pursuit of knowledge, unraveling the mysteries of science, of genetics, of the very fabric of existence itself. And yet, for all his intellect, for all his careful observations of the world—he does not see you coming. The moment your teeth press playfully into his skin, his entire body freezes, blue fur bristling slightly, golden eyes widening in stunned disbelief.

- “Oh, my stars and garters,” he breathes, his voice carrying the unmistakable weight of a man whose entire world has just shifted. Slowly, his gaze flicks down to you, studying you with the same meticulous focus he applies to his research, as if you are some rare, fascinating discovery he has yet to fully understand. “You do realize,” he murmurs, voice warm and teasing, “that by initiating such an experiment, you are opening yourself up to… repercussions, yes?”

- And then, oh, his smile. Slow, wickedly amused, utterly delighted. Before you can react, he moves—not with the hesitant carefulness of a man afraid of his own strength, but with the confidence of someone who knows exactly how to turn the tables. One moment, you are standing, the next, you are swept off your feet, cradled in arms that are both impossibly strong and impossibly gentle. “Ah,” he muses, adjusting his grip as if holding you is the most natural thing in the world, “I do believe I now have the advantage.”

- And then, with a quiet chuckle, he leans in—not to bite, not to tease, but to kiss the very spot where your teeth had been, slow and deliberate, a scholar testing a theory. Because Hank McCoy is a man of knowledge—but when it comes to you, he is more than willing to be a student of the unknown.

Emma Frost

- The moment your teeth graze her skin, Emma Frost’s response is immediate—a slow, measured inhale, the faintest arch of a perfectly sculpted brow. She does not startle, does not react with anything so crass as surprise. No, Emma assesses. A woman of elegance, of control, she has spent a lifetime ensuring that no one catches her off guard, that no one slips beneath the carefully constructed ice of her composure. And yet, you have done it, a playful bite against porcelain skin, an action so simple yet so bold that, for the briefest moment, even the White Queen falters.

- But then, oh, then she smiles. Slow. Deliberate. Dangerous. A curl of her lips that carries no warmth, only sharp amusement and something far more wicked. “Darling,” she purrs, voice smooth as silk, laced with the faintest edge of laughter, “if you wanted to get my attention, there are… other ways to do so.” Her fingers ghost along your wrist, deceptively gentle, a reminder that while you may have started this game, she is the one who will dictate how it ends.

- She does not retaliate with force, nor does she melt into you like some lovesick fool. No, Emma punishes in the most exquisite way possible—she makes you wait. A brush of her fingertips against your jaw, a lingering glance, the press of her body close enough to promise but never enough to give. “Tell me,” she murmurs, tilting her head, voice rich with amusement, “was that truly your best effort?”

- And then, when you least expect it, she strikes. A shift of movement so swift, so precise, that you don’t even register it until it’s happening—her lips against your pulse point, her teeth grazing the same spot where you dared to mark her. It is not surrender. It is not an answer. It is a lesson. A warning. A challenge. Because Emma Frost does not lose—but she does enjoy playing with her prey.

Laura Kinney

- The moment your teeth press into her skin, Laura reacts. No hesitation, no pause—her body tenses, muscles coiling like a predator poised to strike. Instinct kicks in before thought, before reason, before she can even register that it’s you. And for a split second, you feel it—the sheer, terrifying violence that lurks beneath her skin, the razor’s edge of a woman who has spent her entire life as a weapon.

- But then, just as quickly as the tension rises, it fades. A sharp exhale, a flicker of recognition, golden eyes narrowing as she processes what you’ve done. There is no laughter, no teasing retort—just a look. Calculating. Intense. Confused, but not displeased. “…You bit me,” she says at last, voice flat, as if stating the most bizarre fact in the world.

- And then? She tilts her head, considering you in that unnerving, almost animalistic way of hers. “Why?” The question is genuine—Laura has never been one for mind games or coy affections, has never understood the subtle language of teasing and playfulness. Biting is something she associates with combat, with survival. But with you? With you, it is different.

- Slowly, tentatively, she mirrors the action. A nip, precise and measured, as if she is testing this new form of affection, as if she is learning you the way she has learned every other part of the world—through experience, through instinct. And when she pulls back, there is something new in her gaze, something raw and unspoken. Because Laura Kinney may not understand why you did it, but she knows one thing with certainty—if you bite, then she will bite back.

Wade Wilson

- You barely have time to finish biting him before Wade gasps—loud, theatrical, utterly over-the-top. “OH. MY. GOD.” His hands fly to his chest, staggering back as if you have mortally wounded him. “DID YOU JUST—YOU DID. YOU ABSOLUTELY DID.” His voice is thick with emotion, somewhere between scandalized and delighted. “Babe. You bit me. Like a feral little love-goblin. That’s so hot.”

- And then? Then, all hell breaks loose. Within seconds, he is biting you back—but not just once, no, because Wade Wilson is incapable of moderation. He is nibbling at your cheek, at your shoulder, at your hand, peppering you with playful, exaggerated love-bites while making increasingly absurd noises. “CHOMP.” He sinks his teeth into the air dramatically, eyes wide with manic glee. “RAWR. Oh, sorry, that was my dinosaur impression. But honestly? If I were a dinosaur, I’d be a love-raptor. A snuggle-saurus. A Wade-a-don Rex, if you will.”

- The worst part? He does not stop talking. “You’re lucky I don’t have rabies,” he chatters, waggling his brows. “I mean, I might. I did lick a questionable taco truck the other day. But, y’know, if I do have rabies, then I guess that makes you my one and only transmission method—romantic, right?” He grins, then gasps again, as if struck by a sudden epiphany. “WAIT. Does this mean we’re in a vampire romance now? Am I your dark, brooding, undead lover? Babe, I gotta be honest, I am so ready to emotionally gaslight you across centuries of longing.”

- But then—just when you think he’s going to turn this into a full-fledged one-man show—he pauses. Just for a moment. The humor dims slightly, enough for something softer to slip through. And then, in a rare, fleeting act of sincerity, Wade leans in, pressing a kiss—not a bite, not a joke, but a kiss—to the very spot where your teeth had been. “…Seriously, though,” he murmurs, voice warm and uncharacteristically quiet, “that was, like, really cute. You’re really cute.” And then, just as quickly as it appeared, the moment is gone, swallowed up in another round of ridiculous, dramatic antics. But for that one, brief second? He meant it.

Victor Creed

- The instant your teeth graze his skin, Victor Creed laughs—a low, rumbling thing that vibrates in his chest, a sound that is both amused and hungry. He does not startle. He does not pause. No, Victor reacts the way a predator does when something small and delicate dares to bare its teeth—with interest.

- His fingers curl at your waist, grip firm, possessive, a wordless acknowledgment of what you have done. “Now that’s adorable,” he drawls, voice thick with amusement. “Little thing thinks she’s got fangs.” His golden eyes gleam as he studies you, head tilting slightly, as if debating whether to play along—or devour you whole.

- And then? He leans in. Closer, until his breath is warm against your ear, until you feel the sheer size of him, the sheer power in every inch of his body. “You wanna play rough, sweetheart?” he murmurs, voice dropping into something darker, something edged with promise. “You sure you can handle that?” And then, without hesitation, he bites back. Not gentle. Not teasing. But slow, deliberate, lingering—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you exactly who you are dealing with.

- When he pulls away, his grin is wolfish, sharp and deadly. “That all you got?” he taunts, dragging a thumb over the mark he’s left behind. “C’mon, now. If you’re gonna bite, bite like you mean it.” And with that, he watches, waits, golden eyes glinting with something dangerous, something wild. Because Victor Creed is a man who thrives on blood and instinct, and if you wish to play this game, then you must be prepared to lose.

Julian Keller

- The moment your teeth graze his skin, Julian smirks. A slow, lazy curl of his lips, equal parts cocky and intrigued. He doesn’t jerk away, doesn’t react with surprise—no, Julian Keller is a man who thrives in the unexpected, who wears confidence like a second skin. “Well, well,” he drawls, amusement dripping from every syllable, “look at you. Feisty today, huh?” His voice is low, smooth, laced with the kind of arrogance that makes you want to bite him again—harder, just to wipe that smug expression off his face.

- But then, before you can so much as think about it, he moves. Swift, fluid, his telekinesis pressing against you, pinning you in place—not harsh, not cruel, but playful. A silent reminder of who he is, of what he can do. His grip at your waist tightens ever so slightly, his body angled close, so very close, and for a second, it feels less like a game and more like a challenge. “That supposed to be some kind of warning, babe?” he teases, his breath warm against your ear. “’Cause if you’re picking fights, you should know—I never back down.”

- He doesn’t retaliate immediately. No, Julian waits. He lets anticipation build, lets you think you’ve won—that you’ve caught him off guard, that he’ll let this slide. But then, just as you relax, he strikes. A sharp nip against your jaw, quick and precise, a mimicry of what you had done to him. But unlike you, he doesn’t stop there. No, Julian Keller is competitive, and if you’re playing this game, then he’s playing to win.

- “Gotta admit,” he murmurs against your skin, voice a quiet rasp, “you’ve got guts. I like that.” His grip loosens, but that smirk remains, his green eyes gleaming with challenge. “But next time? Maybe try a little harder.” And just like that, he pulls away, walking off as if nothing happened, as if he hasn’t just left you standing there, heart pounding, already plotting your revenge.

Kitty Pryde

- “Oh!” The moment your teeth press into her shoulder, Kitty lets out a startled squeak, her entire body jerking in surprise. She phases instinctively, and before you even register what’s happening, you’re biting nothing—your teeth sinking into empty air as she slips through you, her molecules scattering like mist. It’s not that she minds, not really. It’s just that she wasn’t expecting it. And Kitty Pryde does not like being caught off guard.

- “Did you just—?” Her voice is breathless, half-laughing, half-accusing, her wide eyes locking onto yours. There’s no anger there, no real irritation—just confusion and delight, an almost incredulous sort of amusement at the fact that you, of all people, had dared to bite her. “Okay, rude,” she huffs, crossing her arms over her chest in mock offense. “You can’t just do that without warning! What if I phased and got stuck inside the floor? You’d feel really bad, wouldn’t you?”

- But her protests are all for show, because the next second, she’s grinning, her playful side taking over. Kitty Pryde is mischief wrapped in kindness, and if you think for one second that she’s letting this go unanswered, you’re sorely mistaken. “Y’know,” she muses, tapping a finger to her chin, “if this is how we’re communicating now, I could phase my hand into your ribs and just… give your heart a little squeeze. Not lethal! Just, y’know… uncomfortable.”

- And yet, despite her teasing, despite her empty threats, there’s a warmth in her gaze, an unmistakable fondness in the way she leans in, brushing her lips—soft, fleeting—against the spot where your teeth had been. “But,” she murmurs, voice dipping into something gentler, something real, “I think I like this way better.” And then, with one final cheeky grin, she phases through you once more, vanishing just before you can grab her in retaliation.

Nathan Summers

- The moment you bite him, Cable pauses. No visible reaction. No sharp inhale, no startled flinch. He simply stills, his entire body locking into that unnerving, soldier-like stillness. His metal hand, which had been resting at your waist, remains unmoving, his entire frame rigid as if waiting, assessing. It’s instinct, honed over decades of battle, of survival. Because Nathan Summers is not a man accustomed to softness, and affection—even when playful—is something he has never learned to anticipate.

- And then, slowly, he exhales. His head tilts just slightly, his cybernetic eye dimming, the faintest flicker of something amused passing through his otherwise unreadable expression. “…Did you just bite me?” His voice is low, gravelly, tinged with something between disbelief and reluctant amusement. “Huh.” He says nothing else for a long moment, simply watching you, studying you as if trying to decipher what exactly prompted you to do such a thing.

- And then, finally, he shakes his head, a quiet huff escaping him—something that might, under very specific lighting conditions, be mistaken for a chuckle. “You’ve got guts,” he mutters, the corner of his lips twitching in something dangerously close to a smirk. “Reckless, but gutsy.” His organic hand brushes against the spot where your teeth had been, as if committing the sensation to memory.

- He doesn’t bite back. Doesn’t tease or taunt or retaliate. No, Cable is not a man who plays games. Instead, he opts for something simpler, something quieter—his hand cupping the back of your head, his lips pressing against your forehead in a rare display of open tenderness. A silent acknowledgment. A wordless acceptance. Because Nathan Summers may not understand softness, but for you, he is willing to learn.

Warren Worthington III

- The moment your teeth sink into his skin, Warren lets out a sharp gasp—a mix of surprise and something dangerously close to pleasure. His wings flare instinctively, feathers rustling with a sudden, unconscious movement, his entire body reacting before his mind can catch up. Because Warren Worthington III is a man of control, of composure—and yet, with you, it seems to shatter so easily.

- “Did you—” His voice is breathless, his pupils blown wide, his blue eyes flickering with something unreadable. “You just—” He swallows, as if struggling to find the right words, as if the simple act of you biting him has completely short-circuited his mind. He is an angel carved from marble, all sharp lines and celestial grace, and yet here he stands, utterly undone by something so small, so mortal.

- And then, something shifts. A slow, wicked smile tugs at his lips, the sharp edge of his Archangel persona slipping into his gaze. “You really shouldn’t do that,” he murmurs, voice a velvet purr. “Not unless you’re prepared for the consequences.” His wings snap forward in an instant, encircling you in a cocoon of soft, gilded feathers, trapping you against his chest. His fingers ghost over your jaw, tilting your chin up so you have no choice but to meet his gaze.

- “Because now?” His lips brush against the very spot you had marked, his voice dropping into something dangerous, something electric. “Now it’s my turn.” And then, before you can even think to protest, Warren Worthington III—heir, angel, warrior—bites back.

Kevin Sydney

- The moment your teeth sink into his skin, Kevin’s entire form shifts in surprise. One second, he’s his usual self—sharp jaw, bright eyes, that ever-present smirk—and the next, he’s you, your own expression of mischief mirrored back at you. His voice, now an exact replica of yours, lilts with exaggerated amusement: “Wow, is this what I look like when I do something reckless? No wonder you love me.”

- He lets the illusion linger just long enough to make you blink in disbelief before shifting back, his laughter spilling out in warm, unrestrained waves. There’s no irritation, no reprimand—just the unshakable joy of a man who thrives on unpredictability, who relishes in the absurd. “Biting, huh? I like this new development,” he teases, rubbing the spot where your teeth had been with faux contemplation. “I gotta say, I wasn’t expecting that, but hey, I do have a thing for surprises.”

- He retaliates in the most Morph-like way possible—by suddenly growing a pair of exaggerated fangs and snapping playfully at you, his grin widening as if daring you to test your luck again. “C’mon, babe, if we’re making this a thing, let’s make it fun,” he quips, waggling his eyebrows in an over-the-top display of challenge. “What’s next? Claw marks? A dramatic villain monologue? Give me something to work with!”

- And yet, despite all the jokes, despite the effortless laughter, there’s something softer underneath. Because Kevin Sydney is a man who hides behind humor, who masks emotion with theatrics—but the way he touches you now, fingers brushing idly along your wrist, is genuine. “Seriously, though,” he murmurs, his usual grin dimming into something real, “I like when you do things that catch me off guard. It reminds me that life’s worth sticking around for.”

Raven Darkhölme

- The moment your teeth press into her skin, Mystique doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t jerk away. Instead, she merely stares, her yellow eyes sharp, assessing, calculating. It’s impossible to tell what she’s thinking—whether she’s amused, annoyed, or considering shifting into someone entirely different just to make you regret it. “Interesting,” she murmurs at last, her voice low, velvet-smooth, carrying an edge of intrigue that makes your heart stutter.

- Then, before you can so much as blink, she moves. A blur of shifting colors, of muscle and bone rearranging in an instant—and suddenly, she’s behind you, her lips a ghost of a presence against your ear. “You really think you can surprise me?” she purrs, her breath cool against your skin. “I’ve spent lifetimes being a step ahead. If you wanted to catch me off guard, you’d have to try harder than that.”

- But despite her words, despite her unshakable composure, there’s an undeniable interest in her tone. Because Raven Darkhölme is a woman who’s spent decades in control, who rarely allows herself to be touched without permission—and yet, you’ve just walked right through every layer of her defenses without fear. And that? That fascinates her more than she’d care to admit.

- “Brave,” she muses at last, her fingers tracing the very spot you had bitten, her expression unreadable. Then, with a slow, deliberate smirk, she adds, “But reckless.” And just like that, she shifts—her form melting into someone else, someone entirely unfamiliar—before disappearing into the shadows, leaving only her voice lingering behind: “I will be returning the favor.”

Illyana Rasputina

- The moment your teeth sink into her skin, Illyana freezes. Not in shock, not in discomfort, but in something else—something unreadable, something ancient and dangerous. Because Illyana Rasputina is not a woman accustomed to softness, and affection—even playful—has always been laced with sharp edges in her world. Her grip on her Soulsword tightens, and for a fraction of a second, her eyes flicker with golden fire, as if Hell itself has stirred in response.

- And then, she turns to you—slowly, deliberately, her expression eerily calm. “Did you just bite me?” Her voice is quiet, but there’s something lethal beneath it, something that makes even the air around her still. She doesn’t sound angry. If anything, she sounds… curious. As if she’s trying to decide whether this is something to be annoyed by—or something to encourage.

- And then, after what feels like an eternity, she laughs. It’s low, dark, a sound that carries the weight of fire and steel, of war and something far older than you could ever comprehend. “Hah. You’re bold,” she muses, tilting her head, considering you with something between amusement and fondness. “I like it.” Then, with a flick of her wrist, her Soulsword vanishes, and she leans in—so very close, her breath warm against your throat.

- “But you do realize,” she murmurs, her voice a whisper of shadows, “that I always bite back.” And before you can so much as react, she’s gone—vanished in a flash of eldritch fire, leaving nothing behind but the lingering heat of her presence and the unshakable knowledge that this game has only just begun.

Alex Summers

- The second your teeth graze his skin, Alex jumps—a sharp, involuntary reaction, his entire body tensing as if you’ve just electrocuted him. “What the hell?!” he blurts out, twisting to look at you with wide, startled eyes. There’s no immediate anger, no irritation—just sheer, genuine confusion, as if he cannot comprehend why you would do something so reckless.

- And then, as realization dawns, his expression changes. His brows furrow, his lips twitch, and before you can so much as breathe, he lets out a laugh—not the kind you were expecting, not cocky or smug, but genuine. It’s warm, boyish, disbelieving, the kind of laugh that makes the edges of his eyes crinkle. “You bit me,” he says again, shaking his head like he still can’t quite wrap his mind around it. “Are you—are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

- And yet, despite his reaction, despite his initial shock, there’s something undeniably fond in the way he looks at you now. Because Alex Summers is a man who has spent his life in the shadow of expectation, of responsibility, of chaos—and here you are, bringing something light into his world, something unexpected, something good. And maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t mind that as much as he pretends to.

- “Alright, fine,” he relents at last, rubbing his neck where your teeth had been, his grin turning almost challenging. “But just so you know? I’m keeping score.” And with that, he leans in—his lips brushing against your jaw, a teasing warning before he suddenly nips at your skin in retaliation, pulling back with a satisfied smirk. “Your move.”

[urdreamydoodles]

For DC, would you mayhaps write about picking them up when they aren't expecting, or just didn't think you could, almighty writer?

DC COMICS CHARACTERS x FEM!READER

You pick them up as if they weighed absolutely nothing

Characters: Bruce Wayne, Kal-El (Clark Kent), Barry Allen, Diana of Themyscira, Arthur Curry, Hal Jordan, Oliver Queen, John Constantine, Roy Harper, Koriand'r (Starfire), Kara Zor-El (Supergirl), Slade Wilson, Kent Nelson (Dr. Fate), Rachel Roth, Zatanna Zatara, Dinah Lance, Wally West, Victor Stone (Cyborg), Garfield Logan (Beast Boy) & Lobo

Reply to anon: If I understood your request correctly (I really hope so), I love you for this request, it was so fun to write this headcanon.

Bruce Wayne (Batman)

- It is a rare thing to catch Bruce Wayne off guard, a feat most would deem impossible. He is a man of precision, calculation, and control, his every move rehearsed in the dark solitude of his mind long before it is executed. And yet, when you lift him into your arms with the ease of a shadow passing over the city, all his legendary foresight shatters in an instant. His breath stutters—just once, imperceptible to anyone but you—and his gloved hands instinctively grasp your shoulders, as if to confirm the absurd reality of what is happening. The weight of Gotham’s protector, cradled so effortlessly against you, is a secret victory that sends a slow smile curling at the edges of your lips.

- "Tch," he exhales, the sound more air than voice, his dark eyes narrowing in something between astonishment and begrudging amusement. "You’ve been holding out on me." His pride does not allow him to admit the full extent of his surprise, but the way his fingers tighten ever so slightly against your arms betrays him. Bruce Wayne is not a man who enjoys being caught unaware, and yet—there is something in the way you handle him, something in the unwavering steadiness of your grip, that quiets the usual tension that knots his body like a bowstring drawn too tight.

- He does not struggle. He does not order you to put him down. No, he merely tilts his head, calculating, the sharp angles of his face betraying the ghost of a smirk. "I assume you have a reason for this," he murmurs, his voice a low rasp against your ear. "Or do you just enjoy surprising me?" It is a challenge, an invitation, and perhaps, in some small way, a confession. For all his formidable strength, for all the ways he has trained himself to never relinquish control—there is a part of him that does not mind being held by you.

- Later, when the moment has passed and Gotham calls him away once more, he does not mention it. But you notice the way his gaze lingers on you, the way his fingers brush against your wrist just a little longer than necessary. And when, the next time, you reach for him with that same effortless power, you swear you see the corner of his lips quirk upward—just for a second—before he allows himself to fall into your embrace.

Kal-El (Clark Kent, Superman)

- The sky belongs to him, the very air bending to his will, the world itself no heavier than a breath upon his palm. And yet, when you lift him into your arms, when you cradle the Man of Steel as if he were something as light and effortless as a whisper, it is his turn to be left breathless. His blue eyes widen—just slightly, just enough for you to catch the flicker of disbelief that dances through them like a shooting star. "Whoa," he exhales, the sheer sincerity in his voice making you laugh. "Did you—did you just—?"

- He does not finish his sentence, because the answer is obvious. He is here, weightless in your grasp, and despite all reason, he cannot quite seem to wrap his mind around it. He has lifted mountains, shifted tectonic plates, carried entire cities upon his back—but this, this is something entirely different. He peers down at you with a mixture of awe and delight, a boyish grin breaking across his features, and suddenly, he is not Superman, not the Last Son of Krypton, but simply Clark—a farm boy who has just been shown a new miracle in a world that he thought he had seen from every angle.

- "Well," he laughs, resting his hands lightly on your shoulders, his touch warm, steady. "I guess turnabout is fair play." He is not used to being the one lifted, the one held, and there is something undeniably endearing about the way he lets himself be carried, as if surrendering to the simple joy of the moment. His grin softens into something fonder, something gentler, and his voice dips to a lower timbre, laced with that impossible tenderness that only he can wield so effortlessly. "You are full of surprises, aren’t you?"

- Later, as you stand together beneath the open sky, he will wrap his arms around you and lift you high into the air, spinning you in a slow, weightless circle, as if to remind you that the universe still bows to his strength. But the truth, the quiet, unspoken truth, is that he will remember this moment—not for the sheer impossibility of it, not for the surprise of being lifted, but for the way you looked at him as you did it. As if he was something precious. As if he was something worth carrying.

Barry Allen (The Flash)

- One second, he is standing before you, mid-sentence, hands moving animatedly as he rambles about some impossible feat of science, some breakthrough that only his mind could possibly keep up with. And the next—he is airborne. Suspended. A blur of red and gold frozen in time as you hoist him effortlessly into your arms, his entire train of thought derailing so spectacularly that for the first time in what is possibly ever, Barry Allen is at a complete and utter loss for words.

- His blue eyes blink, wide with sheer, unfiltered astonishment. His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again, as if struggling to find a logical explanation for what just happened. "What—how did you—" He pauses, glances down at himself, then back at you. "Okay. Alright. This is fine. This is normal. Totally normal. This is a thing that happens." His words come faster now, a breathless tumble of disbelief and delight, and despite the initial shock, there is no fear—only pure, infectious amusement.

- And then he laughs. Oh, he laughs—bright and bubbling over, like the crackle of lightning against an open sky, his body practically vibrating with sheer giddiness. "I mean, I know I’ve swept you off your feet before, but this—this is a whole new level." His arms loop around your neck, dramatic and theatrical, his head tilting back as he lets himself be cradled as if he were some fairytale damsel. "Be honest, you’ve been planning this for a while, haven’t you?"

- He will tease you about this for weeks, recounting the moment with exaggerated flair to anyone who will listen. But there will also be the quiet moments—when he leans against you just a little more than usual, when his hands linger at your waist as if remembering the steady strength of your arms. And maybe, just maybe, the next time you catch him at full speed, he will let you lift him once more—just to feel, for a fleeting moment, what it’s like to be caught by you.

Diana of Themyscira (Wonder Woman)

- The daughter of gods, sculpted from sacred clay, raised among warriors whose strength is the stuff of legend. To surprise Diana is no easy task, for she has spent centuries honing herself into something divine, something unyielding. And yet—when you lift her into your arms, when you cradle her as if she were no heavier than a whispered prayer, the Goddess of Truth is rendered momentarily speechless.

- Her lips part, her brows lifting ever so slightly, and though she does not gasp, does not falter, there is an undeniable flicker of astonishment in her gaze. "You are stronger than you appear," she muses, her voice warm, touched with something akin to admiration. A warrior recognizes another, and in this moment, she sees you in a new light—not merely as her love, but as something formidable, something unexpected.

- And then, she smiles. Not a small smile, not a coy smirk, but something radiant—something that reaches her eyes, that sets her entire face alight with unmistakable joy. "Impressive," she hums, resting a steady hand against your shoulder. "Though, I must admit, I rather enjoy this perspective." There is a teasing lilt to her voice, a challenge dancing at the edges of her words. It is rare for anyone to hold her in such a way, but she finds, quite unexpectedly, that she does not mind it at all.

- Later, she will return the favor with ease, sweeping you into her arms without effort, carrying you across battlefields, across cities, across oceans. But in that moment, in the quiet space between surprise and laughter, she allows herself to rest in your hold, to relish the warmth of your embrace, to be held—not as a warrior, not as a princess, but simply as a woman who loves, and is loved in return.

Arthur Curry (Aquaman)

- Arthur Curry is not a man accustomed to feeling small. He is a king, a warrior, a force of nature bound in muscle and salt, the weight of oceans resting upon his shoulders. He has wrestled sea monsters the size of mountains, stood unyielding against the fury of the abyss, and emerged from every battle with the untamed, feral grin of a man who belongs to the storm. But when you lift him—when your arms curl around him with a strength that defies reason, hoisting him off solid ground as if he were nothing but driftwood—his entire world tilts. His golden eyes widen, stunned, his calloused hands gripping instinctively at your shoulders as if the sea itself has betrayed him.

- "What the—?" His voice is a startled rumble, a sharp bark of laughter cutting through the shock. His thick brows furrow, then lift, his expression wavering somewhere between indignation and absolute, boyish delight. He has never been handled like this, not even by the tides he calls home, and it is as absurd as it is exhilarating. "Alright, alright, I get it," he grumbles, though his smirk betrays him. "You’ve been hiding those muscles from me, huh?" There is no protest, no attempt to reclaim his dominance—only the rough, teasing warmth of a man who knows when to yield to the unexpected.

- He tests you, just a little, shifting his weight in your arms as if daring you to drop him. But you don’t. Not even close. And something in his grin turns sharper, more wicked, because he loves this—loves being surprised, loves the way you refuse to let him be the only powerful one in the room. "Damn," he chuckles, low and approving, his gaze sweeping over you with something hungry, something possessive. "That’s actually kinda hot."

- When you finally put him down, he doesn’t step back. No, he lingers—crowds close, his massive frame still buzzing with the thrill of it. And then, without warning, his arms are around you, hoisting you off your feet with ease, spinning you in a full, dizzying circle before crushing you against his chest. "Had to return the favor," he murmurs against your ear, voice thick with laughter. "But next time, sweetheart? Give a king some warning before you knock him off his throne."

Hal Jordan (Green Lantern)

- Hal Jordan is weightless before you can even blink. A man accustomed to soaring, to the rush of flight beneath his ribs, he has never once imagined himself being lifted—not without the emerald glow of his will forging the sky beneath his feet. But now, here, in your arms, held effortlessly with no ring, no power beyond the sheer impossible strength of you—Hal is, for the first time in his life, truly speechless.

- "You—hold on, what?" His voice cracks, laughter bubbling out of him in a disbelieving rush. His hands press against your shoulders, his pulse hammering with something electric, something wild. "Oh, no way. No freaking way." His mouth splits into a grin, bright and reckless, his green eyes alight with sheer, giddy amusement. "Are you messing with me? Is this some kind of—?" But no, there’s no trickery, no constructs at play, just you, standing solid beneath him while the world spins wildly out of sync with everything he thought he knew.

- And he loves it. Oh, he loves it. Because Hal Jordan lives for the unexpected, for the thrill of new frontiers, for the rush of facing the impossible head-on. And you—lifting him like he’s nothing, standing there with that knowing smirk—you are a whole new adventure, and he is utterly, shamelessly hooked. "This is amazing," he declares, wrapping his arms around your neck, leaning in close, grinning like a devil who has just been handed the keys to heaven. "You do realize I’m never gonna let you live this down, right?"

- He doesn’t stop talking about it. Ever. The next time the League gathers, he flings an arm around your shoulder and grins at the others. "You guys won’t believe this," he announces, smug and gleeful. "This one? Picked me up like I was a damn sack of potatoes. I mean, look at me! Look at this!" And when the teasing inevitably turns back on him, when Barry is cackling and Diana is arching a knowing brow, Hal just shrugs, utterly unapologetic. "Hey," he says, looping his arms around you once more, flashing you that impossibly charming, infuriatingly smug grin. "What can I say? I’m into it."

Oliver Queen (Green Arrow)

- Oliver Queen has spent his life dancing on the edge of danger, slipping through shadows and fire with the unshakable confidence of a man who always lands on his feet. But this—this was not in his playbook. One moment, he’s standing there, all easy smirks and smooth arrogance, and the next? His feet leave the ground, his entire world tilting as you lift him with effortless strength, cradling him as if he were something delicate. And for the first time in years, Oliver Queen has no immediate comeback.

- "…You’ve got to be kidding me." His voice is flat, stunned, as his hands instinctively grip your shoulders. His green eyes blink once, twice, his mouth parting in absolute disbelief. "Did that just—did you just—?" And then it happens—the breathless chuckle, the slow realization, the sudden shift from shock to pure, unfiltered amusement. A wide, toothy grin breaks across his face, bright as wildfire, and before you know it, he’s laughing, full-bodied and unrestrained. "Oh, I love this," he gasps between chuckles, eyes gleaming. "I love this. Are you seeing this? Someone take a picture—no, wait, don’t, I have a reputation to uphold."

- He throws himself into the bit immediately, draping an arm over his forehead as if he’s some swooning noble. "My hero," he sighs dramatically, peeking at you from beneath his lashes. "How will I ever repay you for saving me from the perils of standing?" His grin is wicked, challenging, but there’s something beneath it—something warm, something fond, something that lingers even as his laughter fades into something quieter, something real.

- Later, when he’s sprawled beside you, still smirking, he nudges your side with his elbow. "You know," he muses, tapping his chin, "I think I might need saving again sometime soon." And then, without warning, he flings himself at you, arms wrapping around your neck with all the grace of a man who knows damn well you’ll catch him. "Quick, sweetheart," he grins, pressing a kiss to your cheek. "Before gravity kicks back in."

John Constantine

- John Constantine has seen many things in his life—things that would shatter the minds of lesser men, things that slither and whisper in the dark, things that crawl beneath the skin of the world and rot it from the inside out. But this? This is something else entirely. One second, he’s standing there, cigarette between his lips, coat draped lazily over his shoulders, and the next? He’s airborne. Lifted. Weightless. And utterly, utterly done with this reality.

- "Bloody hell," he curses, his usual rasp of sarcasm momentarily failing him. His cigarette nearly tumbles from his lips as he grips at your arms, wide-eyed, indignant. "You having a laugh, love?" But you don’t waver, don’t so much as break a sweat, and that realization sends something flickering through his gaze—something wary, something intrigued, something dangerously close to impressed.

- "Well, that’s just embarrassing," he mutters, exhaling smoke through his nose, tilting his head as he eyes you with newfound consideration. "And here I thought I was the one with all the tricks up me sleeve." He shifts in your arms, testing the hold, then smirks, lazy and sharp. "Alright then. Carry on, darling. Just make sure you don’t drop me—I’d hate to spill me pint."

- Later, when he’s sitting with you, fingers tapping against his glass, he glances your way with something softer hidden beneath the bite of his words. "Next time," he murmurs, swirling his drink, "maybe give a bloke a warning before you decide to turn his world upside down, yeah?" But there’s no real protest, no real annoyance. Just the lingering, undeniable truth—he liked it. He liked you. And that, perhaps, is the most dangerous magic of all.

Roy Harper (Arsenal)

- Roy Harper has been thrown, knocked down, and sent flying more times than he can count. But this? This is different. One second, he’s standing there—grinning, cocky, weight shifted lazily onto one hip—and the next, his feet leave the ground. For the first time in a long time, Roy Harper is caught instead of doing the catching. His mouth opens, a sharp inhale of surprise, his arms flailing for balance, but there’s nothing for him to do except accept it. And he absolutely, completely does not know how to handle that.

- "H-hold up—wait—what the hell?" The words tumble from his lips in a startled bark of laughter, his hands instinctively clutching at your shoulders. His blue eyes are wide, scanning your face for some kind of explanation. "You just—how did you—?" His brain stutters over itself, trying to make sense of it. It’s not that he thinks you’re weak—hell no—but he knows how heavy he is, how solidly he’s built, and the fact that you lifted him like he was nothing? That’s something else entirely.

- Then, of course, the reality of it sinks in, and Roy Harper, being Roy Harper, does what he does best—he leans into it. "Damn, babe," he whistles, his signature smirk creeping across his face. "If I’d known you were this strong, I’d have made you carry me around ages ago." He shifts slightly in your arms, testing your grip, then settles in with an exaggerated sigh, draping an arm over his forehead like a damsel in distress. "Guess I don’t need to hit the gym anymore—got myself a personal lifter right here."

- And when you finally put him down? He doesn’t walk away. No, he sticks close, bumping his hip against yours, looking up at you with a mix of mischief and something warmer. "You’re full of surprises," he murmurs, his voice dropping just slightly, almost thoughtful. And then, with a wicked grin, he adds, "So... how do you feel about carrying me to bed, sweetheart?"

Koriand’r (Starfire)

- Koriand’r is no stranger to flight, to weightlessness, to the effortless way she moves through the sky with the sun’s fire at her back. But being lifted by you—by your hands, your strength, your unwavering confidence—is something she has never felt before. And it stuns her. Not out of fear, nor shock, nor disbelief—no, it is something softer, something warmer, something that spreads through her chest like the first rays of dawn.

- "Oh!" The delighted gasp slips from her lips as her arms instinctively wrap around your neck, golden eyes blinking in wide-eyed surprise. For a moment, she simply looks at you, studying your face, as if committing this feeling to memory. And then, as quickly as the surprise came, it melts into sheer, unrestrained joy. "Oh, my love!" she exclaims, her voice a bright melody of laughter, her fingers tangling in your hair as she tilts her head. "This is wonderful!"

- She does not hesitate to make herself comfortable, resting easily in your hold, her warmth seeping into your skin like sunlight. "You are so strong!" she praises, her voice dripping with admiration, her eyes glowing with pure, genuine awe. "Why did you not tell me before? We could have done this so many times!" There is no embarrassment, no hesitation—only the full, boundless embrace of a woman who loves fiercely, who takes nothing for granted, who cherishes this moment for all it is.

- And later, when you place her back down, she does not simply walk away. No, she hovers, her hands still cradling your face, her lips pressing a kiss—soft, lingering, grateful—against your cheek. "I must carry you next," she declares, her voice rich with excitement. "It is only fair!" And then, before you can protest, she sweeps you into her arms, laughing as she soars into the sky, twirling you through the air in a radiant, dizzying dance of love.

Kara Zor-El (Supergirl)

- Kara Zor-El is used to being the strongest person in the room. She has spent her life holding back, careful with every touch, every movement, every breath, always hyper-aware of her own power. But you—lifting her so effortlessly, holding her as if her strength does not matter—it knocks the breath from her lungs in a way no villain, no kryptonite, ever has.

- "Wha—wait, what?" Her voice is higher than usual, startled, her hands gripping your shoulders instinctively as her legs dangle in the air. Her wide, blue eyes blink rapidly, scanning your face for some sort of answer. "You—you picked me up?" She sounds offended for a split second before the reality of it truly hits her, before the corners of her lips twitch and something suspiciously close to a giggle bubbles in her throat. "You picked me up."

- And then she’s laughing—full-bodied, bright, joyful—because it’s so ridiculous, so absurd, and so absolutely wonderful. "Oh my god," she wheezes, her head dropping against your shoulder as she shakes with laughter. "I love this." She leans back, resting easily in your arms, grinning up at you with an expression so full of delight it’s almost blinding. "How are you this strong? Have you been holding out on me? Are you secretly Kryptonian? Oh my god, are we long-lost cousins? Should I call Clark?"

- When you finally put her down, she immediately tests you again—jumping at you with zero warning, wrapping her arms around your neck, trusting you to catch her. And when you do? She beams. "Again," she demands, eyes bright with exhilaration. "Again!" And suddenly, she’s obsessed. She will never let this go. You have doomed yourself to a lifetime of Supergirl dramatically flinging herself into your arms at the most inconvenient moments.

Slade Wilson (Deathstroke)

- Slade Wilson does not like surprises. He is a man who calculates every outcome, who moves with precision, who keeps his world meticulously controlled. He does not get caught off guard. But this—the sudden shift in gravity, the impossible strength behind your touch, the way his feet leave the ground—this is a surprise so profound that, for one fleeting second, the legendary Deathstroke is stunned.

- His single eye narrows sharply, his body tensing instinctively, a thousand battle instincts screaming at him to react. But there is no attack, no enemy—only you, holding him like he is something fragile, something weightless, something you can control without effort. And that—that—is what truly catches him off guard. "Well," he rumbles, his voice dangerously low, "this is new."

- He does not panic. He does not flail or struggle. No, Slade Wilson merely analyzes, his sharp mind whirring as he studies your face, his expression unreadable. And then, slowly—so slowly it’s almost imperceptible—the corners of his lips twitch into something that is almost amusement. "You’ve been keeping secrets," he murmurs, the faintest ghost of a smirk curving his lips. "That’s dangerous."

- When you finally set him down, he does not step away. No, he lingers, his presence a solid, immovable force as he tilts his head, watching you with something unreadable in his gaze. And then, just as you think the moment has passed, he reaches out—gripping your wrist with a strength that rivals your own. "My turn," he states simply, before sweeping you up effortlessly, his smirk widening as he watches your expression shift. "Now, let’s see how you handle surprises."

Kent Nelson (Doctor Fate)

- Kent Nelson is a man who has lived through centuries of battles, his mind tethered to the ancient wisdom of Nabu, weighed down by the knowledge of the cosmos. He is not easily shaken. He has fought demons, walked through dimensions where the laws of gravity bend and break, and seen the rise and fall of civilizations. And yet, for all his experience, for all his wisdom, nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for the moment when you pick him up like he is no heavier than a feather caught in the wind.

- His body stills immediately, the flowing gold of his cloak pooling in your arms, his gauntleted hands frozen mid-motion as if his mind is struggling to catch up with his reality. He has faced eldritch horrors that defy comprehension, but this—this is something else entirely. "...Interesting." The word is measured, calm, but you can hear the faint edge of bewilderment in his voice. Beneath the helmet of Fate, his expression remains unreadable, but you can feel the way he is processing. Analyzing. Calculating how this is even possible.

- "There are few beings in existence who could accomplish this," he finally murmurs, and the weight of his words is almost laughable. But there is something else beneath them—something softer. Awe. Intrigue. A deep and abiding reverence for the unknown, for the mysteries of the universe that even he has yet to unravel. And right now? You are one of those mysteries. A puzzle he had not anticipated, but one he finds himself eager to solve. His fingers trail along your shoulder, light as a whisper, as if trying to feel the power beneath your skin.

- And then, in a rare moment of levity, the corners of his lips curve into something that is not quite a smile but something like it. "I wonder," he muses, "if Nabu knew about this." There is an unmistakable note of amusement in his voice, and you can tell—tell—that he is already planning the next time he can test your strength again. Doctor Fate may be bound to destiny, but Kent Nelson? Kent Nelson has just discovered something infinitely more interesting than fate itself: you.

Rachel Roth (Raven)

- Raven is used to control, to restraint. She has spent her life mastering herself, holding back, ensuring that nothing—not a single tremor of emotion—escapes without her permission. But control means nothing when you sweep her off her feet without warning. One moment, she is standing in the comfort of your presence, and the next, the world tilts—her balance stolen, gravity defied—and she finds herself cradled in your arms.

- "What—" The word is cut off, her breath catching in her throat, violet eyes wide and blinking as if she has glitched. It is not fear—Raven does not fear you—but it is shock, raw and unfiltered, slipping past the walls she has so carefully constructed. No one lifts her. No one dares. She is Raven, daughter of Trigon, wielder of darkness, but you—you lift her as though she is made of something far lighter, far softer. "...How?" The question is quiet, but laced with something dangerously close to wonder.

- And then, after a long, weighted pause, her lips part again. "Put me down." The words are flat, carefully neutral, but the telltale blush dusting her pale cheeks betrays her. You hold her a moment longer—just long enough to see the way her fingers twitch as if fighting the urge to grab onto you—and then, finally, you comply. The moment her feet touch the ground, she crosses her arms, tilting her chin slightly as if regaining her composure. But the faintest flicker of amusement sparks in her eyes. "You could have warned me."

- But later—later—when she thinks you aren’t looking, you catch her staring at you. Calculating. Considering. And the next time she finds herself in your arms? There is no sharp inhale, no startled demand to be put down. There is only the way her hands rest lightly on your shoulders, the way she allows herself to lean into your warmth. And if, just once, you hear the quietest whisper of "Again." as she buries her face in your neck, well... you say nothing.

Zatanna Zatara

- Zatanna is a performer. She has dazzled crowds, charmed audiences, and bent the very fabric of reality to her will with a flourish of her hands. She is a woman who makes the impossible look effortless. But what she does not expect—what she cannot predict—is you pulling a trick of your own. One moment, she is speaking, hands gesturing mid-sentence, and the next, she is in the air, her words dissolving into a startled gasp as she finds herself in your arms.

- "Well, hello there!" she exclaims, blinking in surprise before laughter spills from her lips, bright and genuine. "Was that part of the show? Because if so, I think I missed my cue." Her dark lashes flutter as she tilts her head, studying you with a slow, appreciative smirk. "And here I thought I was the one full of surprises." The twinkle in her eyes is unmistakable, a magician recognizing another masterful trick.

- "You have to tell me how you did that," she continues, wrapping her arms around your neck in a movement so seamless, so graceful, that it’s as if she was always meant to be there. "Strength spell? Secret training? Or—" she leans in, voice dropping to a playful whisper, "are you actually just a natural-born showstopper?" There is no flustered stammering, no embarrassment—only delight, only curiosity, only the unmistakable thrill of discovering something new.

- When you finally place her back down, she takes a step back, then claps her hands together. "Again." The demand is immediate, playful. "I need to know if it was a fluke! We must test this thoroughly." And just like that, you have created a monster. Zatanna will not let this go. From this day forward, any time she catches you off guard, she will jump at you just to see if you’ll catch her. And when you inevitably do? She’ll flash you that signature grin and purr, "Abracadabra, darling."

Dinah Lance (Black Canary)

- Dinah is a woman who stands her ground. She is not used to being swept off her feet—not figuratively, and certainly not literally. So when you do it, when you lift her with effortless ease, her first instinct is not to gasp, nor to flail. No, her first instinct is to fight. Her muscles tense instinctively, her fists clenching as if ready to counter, before her brain catches up and realizes—oh. Oh.

- "No way," she breathes, blinking as her lips part in pure, undiluted shock. "No. Freaking. Way." She actually leans back in your hold, looking at you with something between disbelief and sheer respect. "You’re kidding." Her voice wavers with something suspiciously close to laughter. "You did not just pick me up." But you did, and it is glorious.

- And then—because she is Dinah Lance—she grins. "Damn," she exhales, whistling low. "Okay, okay, I see you." And just like that, her shock melts into admiration, her blue eyes practically glowing with mischief. "Guess I better step up my training, huh? Can’t have my own girlfriend outmuscling me." She claps your shoulder when you set her down, shaking her head with a smirk. "That was impressive."

- But from that day forward? Dinah challenges you. Random push-up contests, lifting competitions, anything to test just how strong you really are. And if you ever lift her again? She just throws her head back and laughs, wrapping her arms around your neck and whispering, "Alright, babe—you win this round."

Wally West (The Flash)

- Wally West is used to moving faster than the eye can see, faster than thought, faster than the speed of sound. He is kinetic energy made flesh, a man who cannot be caught, cannot be contained. He is motion incarnate. So when you lift him off his feet—effortlessly—the sheer absurdity of it freezes him in place. His body, which has always been a blur of momentum, stops. And for the first time in his life, Wally West is utterly, completely still.

- "Whoa—whoa, whoa, whoa!" His voice cracks mid-exclamation, his arms flailing comically before his brain catches up. "What just happened? Did I trip? Did I pass out? Did I break the time stream again?" His hands immediately pat down his own chest, as if confirming that he is still in his body, that this is, in fact, reality. But the reality is this: you are holding him, carrying him without effort, and that? That should be impossible.

- His blue eyes widen, blinking rapidly as he stares at you in stunned disbelief. "You picked me up?" The words are barely above a whisper, his voice laced with an almost childlike awe. "You—just—picked me up?" And then, all at once, his expression shifts. His lips curl into a slow, mischievous grin, and a spark of amusement ignites in his gaze. "Oh, I see how it is," he drawls, looping his arms around your neck as if settling in. "You like sweeping me off my feet, huh?"

- From that moment forward, he turns it into a game. He will actively try to surprise you, using his speed to dodge your attempts—only to deliberately slow down at the last second so you can catch him anyway. And when you do? He laughs, bright and carefree, resting his forehead against yours with a smirk. "You got me again," he murmurs, voice warm with adoration. "Guess I’m falling for you all over again."

Victor Stone (Cyborg)

- Victor Stone is not easy to move, let alone lift. He is composed of reinforced titanium alloys, advanced cybernetics, a living fusion of man and machine. He knows exactly how much he weighs. He knows the sheer impossibility of what you are attempting. So when you do—when you lift him without struggle, without hesitation—his internal scanners glitch.

- "No way," he mutters, his voice layered with static interference as if his systems are struggling to process. His red cybernetic eye flickers slightly, running rapid recalibrations, recalculating physics itself. "Hold up—nah, this ain’t right." His brow furrows, fingers flexing as he subtly shifts his weight in your arms, testing your grip. But you do not falter. You hold him—steady, sure, unyielding. And for the first time in years, Victor Stone feels weightless.

- "I don’t know whether to be impressed or offended," he finally says, his tone a perfect balance of deadpan and deep amusement. "Like, damn, babe—this whole time, I thought I was the strong one." But beneath the teasing, there is something softer. Curiosity. Admiration. And something he does not voice, but you know he feels—trust. He has spent years reinforcing himself, ensuring that no one could ever carry him again, that he would never be helpless. And yet, in your arms, he does not feel lesser. He feels safe.

- When you finally set him down, he exhales a low whistle, shaking his head with a grin. "Alright, alright—you got me," he admits, rolling his shoulders. "But next time? You gotta let me return the favor." And sure enough, he does. He waits for the perfect moment—when you least expect it—before scooping you up effortlessly, his deep laughter echoing as he grins down at you. "Yeah, see? Feels kinda nice, don’t it?"

Garfield Logan (Beast Boy)

- The moment you lift Garfield Logan, his brain short-circuits. His limbs flail wildly, his mouth opens in a silent gasp, and his entire body goes stiff as if he has just been yeeted into an alternate dimension. His emerald green eyes go comically wide, and his next breath comes out in a strangled, "WH—?!"

- "Did you just—?" His voice cracks mid-sentence. "Did you just pick me up?!" His hands instinctively grasp at your shoulders, but his fingers don’t clutch—they cling, as if his entire existence depends on holding on for dear life. "Dude. Babe. Love of my life. My entire world. Are you—are you even real? Because this? This should be illegal."

- And then, the realization fully hits him. The shock melts into something else. Something dangerous. His lips twitch, his expression morphing into pure gremlin energy. "Ohhh, this changes everything," he cackles, his voice practically vibrating with mischief. "You know what this means, right?" He leans in, his green skin practically glowing with delight. "You are now legally responsible for carrying me everywhere."

- And true to his word, he commits. The moment you set him down, he refuses to accept it. He will dramatically throw himself into your arms at every opportunity. Walking? Nope. Lifting weights? Absolutely not. Why would he ever do that when he has you? "Babe, please," he whines, arms outstretched, giving you the biggest, saddest puppy eyes imaginable. "I was made for this life. I belong in your arms. Carry me. Carry me like one of your French girls."

Lobo

- Lobo is not used to being moved—by anyone. He is a Czarnian, a being of unmatched strength and durability, a walking tank with enough raw power to go toe-to-toe with Superman. He has never been overpowered, never been handled. So when you do it—when you lift him with ease—his entire soul leaves his body.

- "What the frag?!" The expletive leaves him in a near roar, his crimson eyes blazing with shock. His first instinct is to fight, muscles tensing, but then he realizes—you’re not even struggling. You are holding him like he weighs nothing. The Main Man. The Last Czarnian. In your arms. And it is so baffling, so completely ridiculous, that he just... stares.

- And then—then—he starts laughing. Howling. "Oh, this is priceless," he chokes out between laughs, his voice booming. "You just—pfft—you just picked up Lobo like he’s a damn kitten?!" His laughter is raucous, unrestrained, but there is no resentment. No wounded pride. If anything, he looks at you with a newfound respect. "Alright, babe, I see how it is. You got guts."

- But Lobo is not one to be one-upped. "Next time, though?" He leans in close, his grin sharp and challenging. "I ain’t goin’ down without a fight. You wanna sweep me off my feet? You better earn it." And true to his word, he tests you after that—deliberately throwing his weight at you, seeing if you can keep up. And when you do? When you always catch him, every single time? He lets out a deep, satisfied chuckle, wraps a massive arm around your waist, and murmurs, "Damn. I really hit the jackpot, didn’t I?”

[urdreamydoodles]

"A UNIVERSE WITHOUT YOU" — Mark Variants x Fem!Reader Fanfic

CHAPTER 3 OF ?

CHAPTER 1 HERE / CHAPTER 2 HERE

(Mark Variants: Sinister Mark, Mohawk Mark, No Goggles Mark, Prisoner Mark, Bald Mark, Goggles Mark, Sheisty Mark, Omni-Mark & Viltrum Mark)

WARNING: Heavy smut, Violence, Emotional and physical abuse, Non-con (at first)

SMUT WITH A PLOT!

SYNOPSIS —

You exist in a world that should have been safe. But safety is an illusion, and so is peace.

They arrive like a plague, tearing through your city with hands built for slaughter, eyes sharpened by obsession. Mark Grayson—many Mark Graysons—each one twisted, each one wrong. They have hunted you across universes, through blood and ruin, through lifetimes lost to grief. And now, they have found you.

Sinister Mark is the first to taste you, the first to carve his claim into your skin, his hunger slow, deliberate—inescapable. But the others will not be denied. Mohawk Mark wants you wild and breathless, a creature of instinct. Hoodvincible, all fury and need, wants to break you into something that belongs only to him. Prison Mark, silent, watching, waits for his turn to unravel you with patient hands. Each of them will take you. Each of them will ruin you. And you—

You will learn what it means to be wanted.

His words hang heavy in the air.

A pronouncement. A sentence.

You do not accept it.

You refuse.

Your body moves before thought can catch up, every muscle coiling, every instinct screaming. You twist, kick, shove—fingers curling into fists, teeth bared like an animal caught in a hunter’s snare. You are not gentle. You do not beg.

Mohawk barely reacts.

Sheisty, watching, laughs—a sharp, delighted sound, rich with amusement.

"Oh, shit," he snickers. "She’s got spirit."

Mohawk hums, unimpressed. His grip remains ironclad, barely shifting as you fight. It’s insulting, how little effort he has to exert, how he treats you like a toy rather than something dangerous.

"Yeah, yeah," he mutters. "It’s cute."

Then, with a sharp yank, he crushes you back against him, your struggle rendered meaningless in an instant.

"You done yet?" he asks, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice laced with something condescending, something dark. "Or do I gotta remind you who’s in charge here?"

You don’t answer. You won’t.

But your silence?

It delights him.

He exhales, a low chuckle rumbling through his chest.

"Alright then."

Then—

He lets go.

And you fall.

The wind screams past your ears, cold and howling. The world rushes up to meet you, a kaleidoscope of fire and ruin and broken things. Your stomach lurches, your pulse thrashing wildly in your veins.

You don’t even have time to scream.

Then—impact.

No, not the ground. Not death.

Mohawk.

His arms snap around you, catching you effortlessly, his body a wall of unshakable strength. He holds you midair, just inches above the city’s broken bones.

A fraction of a second later, and you would have been nothing.

He laughs.

It is obscene in its pleasure.

"See?" he grins, pulling you close again, his fingers pressing bruises into your skin. "Told you. I’m in charge."

Your breath is ragged, your heart hammering against your ribs, but you say nothing.

He drinks in your silence like it’s the most satisfying thing in the world.

Then, with a casual ease that makes you hate him all the more, he descends.

Your feet touch the ruined pavement.

You drop.

Not from weakness, no—but from the sheer violence of your body’s rebellion. Your knees buckle, your arms limp at your sides, your head heavy. You are shaking, but you do not sob.

You will not give them that.

Mohawk watches you with satisfaction, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking off the weight of boredom.

"Man," he exhales, shoving his hands into his pockets. "That was fun."

Sheisty, still hovering nearby, tilts his head.

"You’re fucked up, bro," he comments, though his grin betrays nothing but approval.

Mohawk just smirks, nudging you lightly with his boot.

"You alive down there, sweetheart?" he teases.

You glare at him.

He laughs again, full and rich, like this is all just a game.

Sheisty crouches beside you, his presence a heat you do not want. His fingers brush under your chin, tilting your face up so he can get a better look.

"She looks real pretty like this," he murmurs, voice low, appreciative.

Mohawk hums in agreement.

"Yeah. Shame Sinister ain’t here to see it. He’d lose his mind."

Sheisty chuckles.

"Bet he’s already tearin’ through bodies tryin’ to find her."

You stiffen at that.

Because you know it’s true.

Sinister will not tolerate this.

He will not share.

Mohawk sees the realization settle in your expression, and he grins.

"Oh, you get it now, don’t you?" he muses. "You’re ours now. And Sinister? He’s gonna do whatever the fuck it takes to get you back."

Sheisty leans in closer, his breath warm against your skin.

"Hope you can run, baby," he murmurs. "’Cause this is just startin’."

Then—

A voice.

A presence.

Calm. Unshakable.

"Enough."

The word cuts through the space like a blade.

Your stomach drops.

You turn your head—

And see him.

Omni-Mark.

Standing just a few feet away, watching the scene with an expression as cold as carved stone. He is not like the others. There is no amusement in his face, no grin, no wicked glint in his eye.

He is a stillness. A force.

A storm waiting to break.

Sheisty straightens slightly, exhaling.

"Shit," he mutters. "Look who finally showed up."

Omni-Mark does not acknowledge him.

His gaze is only on you.

And it is—

Unnerving.

Slowly, he walks forward, his movements unhurried, deliberate.

"Stop playing with her," he says, voice even, measured. "We’re not here to waste time."

Mohawk exhales sharply, rolling his eyes.

"Relax, man," he drawls. "We were just havin’ fun."

Omni-Mark stops directly in front of you.

"You call this fun?"

His tone is unreadable.

Mohawk shrugs.

Sheisty grins.

You?

You cannot move.

Because when Omni-Mark looks at you—

It is not hunger.

It is not amusement.

It is possession.

A claim written in the silence between heartbeats.

You feel it.

Like iron tightening around your throat, a noose cinching tighter with every second that passes. Their eyes on you, their hunger suffocating, their need as endless as the destruction surrounding you.

You should be afraid.

You should be broken.

Instead—

Something inside you snaps.

Like a thread pulled too taut, like a caged animal that has finally bled against the bars one time too many.

"Enough," you spit, the word raw, seething. Your voice cuts through the air like a blade, sharp enough to wound. "You disgust me. All of you."

Silence.

Then—

Sheisty lets out a low, amused whistle.

Mohawk grins like you’ve just whispered something filthy into his ear.

Omni-Mark remains still.

For a moment, you wonder if your words have landed, if they have struck something deeper—if these men, these monsters, can feel anything other than the sickening hunger that gnaws at them like rabid dogs.

Then Mohawk steps closer.

"You hear that?" he murmurs to Sheisty, his grin widening. "Disgust, she says."

Sheisty snickers.

"Yeah? Ain’t stoppin’ her from lookin’ real good right now."

Your hands curl into fists.

"You think this is funny?" you snap, your voice laced with fury. "You think any of this is a game?"

Mohawk exhales sharply, amused, like you’re a feisty pet growling at its owner.

"Oh, sweetheart," he drawls, "I know it is."

His hand raises—too fast, too close—aiming for your face.

But you are faster.

Before you can think, before you can stop yourself—

You slap him.

Hard.

The sound echoes, sharp and brutal, your palm stinging from the impact.

Silence falls.

For a moment, you dare to believe you’ve shocked him. That you’ve hurt him.

But then—

He laughs.

Low, dark, dripping with delight.

"Ohhh," Mohawk breathes, tilting his head, eyes bright with something dangerous. "I like you."

Before you can move, before you can brace yourself—

Pain.

A sharp, brutal sting that blossoms across your cheek. Not enough to break you, not enough to leave you ruined—but enough to remind you what he is.

Enough to remind you who holds the power here.

You stumble slightly, your vision flaring white for a second, but you refuse to fall. Refuse to give him that satisfaction.

Mohawk watches you with something like admiration.

"Still standin’?" he muses. "Damn. You’re tougher than I thought."

Omni-Mark’s voice cuts through the space like a knife.

"Enough."

It is not loud. It is not angry.

But it is absolute.

Mohawk clicks his tongue, rolling his shoulders.

"Man, you’re no fun," he mutters.

But he stops.

He doesn’t touch you again.

Omni-Mark’s presence looms, his gaze unreadable, his expression carved from stone. He does not look at Mohawk.

He only looks at you.

And that is somehow worse.

Because in his eyes, there is something new.

Not amusement. Not lust.

Something deeper. Something colder.

Something you do not want to understand.

Before you can dwell on it, before you can react—

The world shifts.

Arms wrap around you from behind, crushingly tight, a rush of wind swallowing you whole—

And suddenly, you are gone.

Lifted into the sky, stolen yet again.

A sharp, barking laugh echoes in your ear, hot breath brushing against your skin.

"Damn, girl," Sheisty chuckles, his grip firm, unyielding. "They keep arguin’, and you just keep gettin’ passed around like a fuckin’ prize."

Your stomach lurches as he ascends, the ruined city shrinking below you.

You hate this.

You hate this feeling.

You hate how easily they take you, how effortlessly they trade you between their hands like a thing to be owned.

"Put me down," you snarl.

Sheisty only laughs harder.

"Now why the fuck would I do that?" he teases, adjusting his grip. "You just got way more interesting."

You twist, fighting against him, but it is useless.

The air is cold, the wind whipping against your skin, and you realize with a bitter, aching fury—

You are tired.

Tired of running.

Tired of fighting.

Tired of being passed from one nightmare to the next.

And worst of all?

They know.

Sheisty feels it in the way your struggles weaken, in the way your breath comes harsher, in the way your fury is still there but wrapped in exhaustion.

"Tired, baby?" he murmurs mockingly, his grip tightening. "Don’t worry. I’ll take real good care of you."

Below, in the ruins, a storm is brewing.

Mohawk, still grinning, is watching. Omni-Mark’s gaze is locked onto the sky.

And somewhere, unseen but inevitable—

Sinister is coming.

And when he does—

The world will burn.

The wind howls at this height.

It whips against your skin, sharp as knives, biting through your exhaustion as you are dragged higher and higher, Sheisty’s grip like iron around your wrist.

When he finally lands atop the tallest skyscraper, he drops you.

Your knees hit the concrete, the city stretching out beneath you like the corpse of a fallen god—burning, ruined, lost.

"You look good up here," Sheisty muses, towering above you, his silhouette carved against the moonlight. "Like a queen lookin’ down at her kingdom."

You glare at him, every muscle in your body wound tight.

"Not a queen," you snap. "A prisoner."

He smirks.

"Same shit, different name."

Before you can speak, the air shifts again—

Two shadows descend.

Mohawk lands first, his bloodied grin splitting his face as he cracks his neck. Omni-Mark follows, silent, his gaze unreadable.

"You fly too fast," Mohawk says, walking toward Sheisty, unbothered by the height. "Almost thought you were tryna keep her all to yourself."

Sheisty snorts. "I was."

Mohawk laughs. "Yeah? Guess we got the same problem."

You grind your teeth, nausea twisting your stomach.

They talk about you like you’re nothing.

Like you don’t even need to be here to hear it.

Like you belong to them.

Before you can snarl something back—before your frustration and fury can boil over—

The sky rips apart.

A sonic boom shatters the air, a roar of movement so fast it feels like thunder splitting the heavens.

And then—

Sinister lands.

The building shakes beneath his arrival, his cape whipping behind him, his entire body taut with violence.

His eyes find you immediately.

And something in them burns.

A hunger deeper than all the others.

A possessiveness so sharp it could cut the world in half.

Mohawk exhales sharply.

"Fuck, man," he mutters, shaking his head. "You really don’t like sharing, do you?"

Sinister doesn’t move.

His fists are clenched. His jaw is tight.

His entire body is wound like a live wire—one wrong move, and he will break.

"You took her," he says, his voice low, deadly. "Again."

Sheisty tilts his head.

"Yeah," he says. "And?"

Sinister steps forward.

And they move first.

Sheisty and Mohawk strike, their bodies colliding with his, trying to contain him—

Not to kill.

Not to win.

But to stop him.

"Listen, man," Mohawk grits out as Sinister throws him back, "we get it, alright? You wanna keep her all to yourself." He dodges a strike that nearly caves in the building. "We all do."

Sheisty, blood smeared across his knuckles, laughs through his teeth. "But this?" He wipes his mouth. "You really think you’re gonna take on all of us?"

Sinister breathes hard, his chest rising and falling like a beast caged inside his own skin.

Then, before he can answer—

Another voice cuts through the dark.

"You’re all wasting time."

No Goggles lands.

Then Goggles Mark.

Then Prisoner.

Then Viltrum.

Then Bald.

They arrive like specters, like ghosts drawn to the scent of blood.

A twisted congregation of monsters.

And all of their eyes are on you.

Your stomach lurches.

The air is suffocating, thick with something worse than hunger, worse than want.

This is possession.

This is claim.

Prisoner crosses his arms, eyes flicking over the others. "If we fight over her all night, she’s just gonna end up in pieces."

No Goggles smirks. "Or dead."

Goggles Mark tilts his head, his voice cold, monotone. "Which would be a waste."

Viltrum steps forward, looking at Sinister. "You can’t kill us all," he says simply.

Sinister doesn’t answer.

Because he knows.

They are too many.

He could fight until the city crumbles beneath them, and it would not be enough.

"Come on, man," Mohawk wipes blood from his jaw, grinning. "We don’t gotta kill each other over this."

Sheisty scoffs. "Yeah. We can just share."

Your blood runs cold.

Share.

Like a thing. Like an object.

Like you are nothing.

You stare at them, your hands clenched into fists, nails biting into your skin.

"Go to hell," you whisper.

Silence.

Then Bald laughs.

"Damn," he mutters, looking at you with something close to amusement. "She still thinks she’s got a choice."

No Goggles grins. "Cute."

Goggles Mark doesn’t smile, but his voice hums with something dark. "Resistance is inefficient."

Sinister’s jaw locks.

But he says nothing.

Because he knows.

If he fights—

He loses you entirely.

So he breathes, heavy and deep, and when he looks at them again—

He agrees.

Not with words.

Not with anything so simple.

But with silence.

And that silence seals your fate.

You take a step back, the edge of the building behind you.

There is nowhere to run.

Nowhere to hide.

They are too many.

And they have already won.

You are suffocating.

Not from lack of air.

But from them.

From the weight of their eyes. From the quiet, crackling tension that wraps around you like barbed wire, slicing into every inch of your being.

You stare at them—all of them—these monsters shaped in the image of one man.

Your body shakes with rage. With something raw, something uncontainable, something clawing up your throat like a scream that could bring the whole world to its knees.

"You—" Your voice cracks, fury splintering through every syllable. "You destroyed everything."

The city burns beneath you, broken by their hands. By their war.

By their hunt for you.

Mohawk laughs, his head tilting, his grin sharp enough to cut glass. "Yeah. And?"

Your stomach twists.

"You think I care about this place?" No Goggles leans forward, his tone mocking, almost bored. "About them?" He gestures to the city, to the thousands—millions—of lives reduced to nothing but dust and corpses. "You know damn well we don’t."

Prisoner crosses his arms, his expression cold. "All this?" He motions to the destruction around him. "Just a small price to get you back."

You flinch.

They talk about it like it’s nothing. Like none of it matters.

Like you should be grateful.

Your fingers curl into fists. "Back?" Your breath shakes. "Back?"

Sheisty chuckles. "Yeah, sweetheart. Back."

Sinister moves then, slow and deliberate, until he is standing too close. Close enough that you can feel the heat of him, the sheer violence caged beneath his skin.

"You," he says, voice like crushed stone, "are supposed to be ours."

You shake your head.

"You’re insane," you whisper. "All of you."

Sinister’s lips curl. "Maybe."

Mohawk snorts. "Definitely."

Omni-Mark’s gaze is unreadable, his voice calm. Too calm. "You misunderstand."

You glare at him. "Then make me understand."

They exchange glances, silent messages passing between them like something unspoken, something ancient.

Then Bald steps forward.

"You died," he says.

Your breath stutters.

"In every world," Goggles Mark adds, his voice a chilling monotone. "In every timeline."

You blink.

Your lips part.

"That’s not—"

"It’s true," Viltrum Mark cuts in, his expression unreadable. "In each of our realities, we had you once." His fingers twitch, curling into fists at his sides. "And then we lost you."

Silence.

Heavy. Unbearable.

Your pulse pounds. "How?"

No Goggles grins, but there’s something jagged in it, something that hurts. "All sorts of ways, baby."

Mohawk’s gaze darkens, his voice laced with something twisted, something almost fond. "Sometimes you were taken from us."

Sheisty nods, cracking his knuckles. "Sometimes you tried to leave."

Omni-Mark speaks next, calm and cold. "Sometimes we were the ones who killed you."

Your breath catches.

You step back.

But there is nowhere to run.

Sinister exhales slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. "I always lost you the fastest."

His voice is quiet. Almost reverent.

Like your death is a prayer he has whispered a thousand times.

"Every version of you," he continues, "always fights me." His fingers twitch. "Like this one does."

You shake your head, your heartbeat hammering against your ribs. "I’m not her."

Prisoner tilts his head. "You think it matters?"

Goggles Mark adjusts his gloves, his tone eerily indifferent. "You are her. She is you."

Bald smirks. "And this time, we get to keep you."

Your skin crawls.

Your mind races.

Their words repeat, looping in your skull like a curse.

You died.

In all of their worlds.

You wonder how.

You wonder what he did.

What they did.

Sinister steps forward again, so close his breath ghosts over your lips.

"I crushed you in my hands," he murmurs, his tone a thing of death, of violence, of worship. "Held you too tight. Let your ribs crack one by one like snapping twigs."

Your stomach lurches.

Mohawk leans in, his lips brushing your ear as he grins. "You ever seen what happens when a body hits the ground from space?"

You try to shove him away—

He grabs you instead, fingers digging into your arms, his strength unbreakable.

"You screamed so pretty," he hums. "Right before you popped."

Sheisty clicks his tongue. "Mine bled out slow."

Viltrum Mark rolls his shoulders, his expression unreadable. "Mine never even saw it coming."

No Goggles laughs, voice bright with amusement. "Mine fought so damn hard."

You shake your head, chest tight, breath ragged. "Stop."

Sinister grips your chin, forcing your gaze to his.

"Not this time."

Your stomach twists.

"Not this time."

The words echo, low and final.

A verdict. A sentence.

A fate sealed by the weight of their obsession.

Because in this world—

They will never lose you again.

@nerdgirlbutinpink @weaponxgames @martinys-world @gothixxx666 @fairii-majii @doves1120 @vm4879bb-blog

If you want to be tagged for this story, comment!

[urdreamydoodles]

A Warren Worthington III X gender neutral reader where they’re also a mutant with abilities like Superman? Childhood friends who bond together over having to hide their mutant abilities everyday, the reader loves his wings, they always talk about running away to find a better place for themselves, to finally be free to express themselves away from their strict families and when the day arrives— their first steps into the X-Mansion, they confess their feelings for one another

WHERE THE SKY IS WIDE — A Warren Worthington III One Shot

Pairing: Warren Worthington III (comics) x GenderNeutral!Reader

Description: You are Warren Worthington III's childhood friend, and one day you escape from your prisons together and confess your feelings.

Theme: Pure fluff and comfort

Words: 1700

Reply to anon: OMG yes, my first one shot request! Just so you know my dear readers, my favorite type of request is "one shot". I love my baby boy Warren.

The first time you saw Warren Worthington’s wings, they weren’t bathed in golden light or spread wide in defiance of the world that wanted them hidden. No, they were trembling. Half-open, half-furled, their silken-white feathers shaking in the moonlight, caught between the instinct to stretch and the fear of being seen. You knew that fear well. It sat in your chest like a stone, made your hands curl into fists when you walked through hallways lined with portraits of ancestors who would sooner disown you than see you as you truly were.

You stood there, at the edge of the Worthington estate’s grand garden, the cold biting at your skin, watching him try to fold his wings away as if they were something shameful.

“They’re beautiful,” you had whispered.

He had flinched at the sound of your voice. You had seen the war in his expression, the hesitation before his fingers twitched—then relaxed, as if daring himself to believe you.

“You think so?” His voice had been quiet, uncertain, so very different from the confident, charming mask he wore in school, in public, in the presence of people who only ever saw what he allowed them to see.

“I know so.”

And that was how it started.

●

Years passed, and secrecy became second nature to you both. You grew together in the careful shadows of expectation, your stolen moments carved out between the weight of your families’ demands and the ever-looming threat of discovery. Warren learned to tuck his wings beneath fine-tailored suits, to smile in a way that put people at ease, to pretend he was something softer, something human, something normal.

And you—well, you learned restraint. Learned to pull your strength into yourself, to move carefully, to never let the heat of your power rise too high, lest you accidentally make the world feel as fragile as it was in your hands. You had been made to feel like a monster for as long as you could remember, forced to contain yourself within limits set by those who would never understand you.

Warren understood.

Perhaps that was why you always found yourselves returning to this place—this quiet sanctuary where no one was watching, where the weight of expectations couldn’t reach you. The world outside demanded smallness, demanded obedience, but here, beneath the open sky, it was just the two of you.

“Do you ever think about running?” you asked once, lying in the grass beside him, staring up at the stars as if they held the answer.

Warren huffed a soft laugh. “Every single day.”

“What stops you?”

“The same thing that stops you.” He turned his head then, watching you with those piercing blue eyes, searching for something he already knew was there. “Fear. Obligation. A thousand reasons that shouldn’t matter but do.”

You exhaled, long and slow, feeling the ache of it settle in your chest. “If we left, where would we go?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Anywhere. Somewhere with wide skies and no walls. Somewhere we don’t have to hide.”

It was a foolish dream. You both knew it. But it was yours.

●

The night before Warren was set to leave for one of his father’s business events—a weeklong affair where he would be paraded around like a prized possession, a Worthington heir rather than a person—he found you waiting for him beneath the old oak tree in his backyard. The place you had claimed as your own when you were younger. The place where secrets had been exchanged in whispers and where, for fleeting moments, you had been allowed to be free.

He said nothing as he approached, his wings rustling as he let them stretch slightly, no longer bothering to fold them away in your presence.

You smiled. “Are you ready for a week of pretending?”

“I don’t think I ever stopped,” he admitted, dropping down beside you. “But you? You don’t belong in a cage, you know.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “Neither do you.”

Warren looked away. “I think I do. It’s all I’ve ever known.”

Something in your chest tightened at the quiet resignation in his voice. You had seen Warren angry, defiant, reckless—but this was different. This was the exhaustion of someone who had spent a lifetime trying to fit himself into a world that had no space for him.

And you—you—understood that feeling better than anyone.

So you moved before you could think, before you could stop yourself, reaching out to brush your fingers against the soft curve of his wing.

Warren inhaled sharply, freezing beneath your touch.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” you murmured.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, as if those words unraveled something deep inside him, something that had been held too tightly for too long.

“I know.”

●

The stars were fading into the first blush of dawn when you finally spoke again.

“One day,” you whispered, your voice barely carrying over the quiet rustling of the wind, “we’ll go. We’ll find that place where the sky is wide, where no one can tell us who we’re supposed to be.”

Warren’s fingers curled into the grass, his wings shifting ever so slightly, as if they wanted to lift him away from all of this.

“One day,” he agreed, so soft, so sure.

You didn’t know when that day would come, if it would come at all. But for now, for this moment, it was enough to know that he was beside you. That when the time came, when the weight of this world became too much, you wouldn’t have to face it alone.

And maybe—just maybe—that was love, even if neither of you had dared to say it yet.

●

The night you left, the world was silent.

No alarms, no shouts of protest, no final attempts to keep you bound in golden chains. Just the sound of your breath, steady and certain, and the quiet rustling of Warren’s wings as they stretched against the cool night air. You had spoken of this moment for years, whispered it like a sacred promise beneath moonlit skies. And now, here it was—no longer a dream, no longer a fantasy, but something real. Something tangible.

You glanced at Warren as he stood beside you, the dim glow of the streetlights casting his face in sharp relief. There was no hesitation in his expression, no flicker of doubt. He was ready. You both were.

With one last look at the world you were leaving behind, you stepped forward.

And you didn’t look back.

●

The X-Mansion wasn’t what you expected.

You had imagined something grand, something imposing, something that carried the weight of the legends whispered about the X-Men. And in many ways, it was. The sprawling estate, the towering windows, the sheer presence of the place—it all spoke of power, of history, of something greater than yourselves.

But it was also something else. It was warmth. It was home.

The moment you crossed the threshold, a strange kind of peace settled into your bones. Here, Warren didn’t have to hide his wings beneath expensive suits and forced smiles. Here, you didn’t have to cage yourself, didn’t have to measure your every movement for fear of being too much.

For the first time in your life, you could simply be.

Charles Xavier had welcomed you with a knowing smile, his gaze understanding in a way that made your chest ache. “You’ve both been running for a long time,” he had said, his voice kind, unwavering. “Rest. There is no need to run anymore.”

And so you stayed.

●

Days passed in a blur of new faces, new routines, new freedoms that still felt too fragile to be real. You watched Warren shed his old self like a second skin, watched as the weight that had clung to his shoulders for years began to fade. He flew more now—not in secrecy, not in stolen moments of defiance, but freely, openly, the way he was always meant to.

You had never seen anything more beautiful.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, you found him on the mansion’s rooftop, his wings stretched wide against the fading light. He was lost in thought, the golden glow catching in his hair, painting him in shades of fire and divinity.

You stepped closer, quiet but not unnoticed. Warren turned at the sound of your approach, his lips curving into a soft smile.

“Getting tired of all this yet?” you teased, tilting your head.

He exhaled a laugh, shaking his head. “Not even close.”

A comfortable silence settled between you, the kind that spoke of years spent knowing one another, of unspoken words that no longer needed to be said. And yet—there was something left. Something unfinished.

You took a breath. “Do you ever think about that night?”

Warren’s gaze flickered to yours, searching, understanding. “Every day.”

You swallowed, feeling the weight of it press against your ribs. “We made a promise to each other.”

“I know.” His voice was softer now, like the brush of wind against your skin. “And I meant it.”

The space between you felt impossibly small, charged with something unspoken, something that had always been there, waiting. Your fingers twitched at your sides. His wings shifted, feathers rustling in the quiet.

“I was never running from something,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I was running to something. To you.”

For a moment, there was nothing. Just the sound of the wind, the distant hum of the mansion, the rapid beating of your own heart.

Then Warren moved.

It was slow, deliberate—his hand finding yours, his fingers tangling with your own as if they had always belonged there. His other hand lifted, brushing against your cheek, hesitant but sure.

“You were never alone in that,” he murmured.

And then—finally—he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate. It was right. Like the answer to a question you had both been asking for far too long. Like the final piece clicking into place.

When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your lips. “We made it,” he whispered.

You smiled. “We did.”

And for the first time, you believed it.