“Finally a face to the name” he remarks, the corner of his mouth turning upward. As your father nudges you to entertain the other guests, you obey, turning around just in time to see Coriolanus watching you leave. Still, nothing was assumed from such a hasty interaction if it weren’t for Coriolanus agreeing to your father’s invitation to come to a family dinner.

His wife, Livia attended with him. Awkwardly you took the seat across from him, Coriolanus surprisingly strikes up a conversation. Asking of your future, your career, any plans. And you being the polite little thing your father raised you to be, answer each question. And you try not to let it unsettle you when his eyes linger even as he lifts his cup to drink. His wife speaks with him but it’s painfully obvious he isn’t listening to a word she said.

You are ever fascinating to Coriolanus and all the more frustrating. He chose his wife, someone he despised just so he would never be under the manipulation of emotion again. And there you are. The daughter of a man he didn’t really consider a friend, merely a political tool to aid his rise into power. You are a weakness, one he ought to destroy. Or perhaps better yet; one to control. 

When your father isn’t around, Coriolanus, ever the opportunist will always grasp the chance to approach. You are just perfect aren’t you? Polite, well-spoken, and now, seated at the piano, playing so eloquently. He rests his hand on top of the polished surface as he once again strikes up a conversation. Unable to resist getting so close to you, tilting your face up so you must look at him with his finger under your chin. “Keep these little talks between us” he tells you. And you, raised to be the polite little lady, obey. 

Even when he has you engaging in such acts. You utter not a word to your father. Your voice hitches when his fingers teasingly trail down between your legs, resting on your underwear. Tugging the fabric down to your midthigh as he presses you to some corner in the many halls of your opulent mansion as he fingers you. He coaxes you as you reach your high. Shushing you when your whines get a little too loud, surely you don’t want your father to find out do you?

Coriolanus is willing to keep this as long as he can. He will convince himself it’s merely just a little passionate entanglement he allowed himself to get in. No matter how many times he has you underneath him or bent over his desk. Your father doesn’t question your little visits. For Coriolanus out of the kindness of his heart tells your father he has taken you under his wing, aid you with your career choices. And if your father grows suspicious – well Coriolanus has always had plans to be rid of him. And as for his wife, she has been quite of an inconvenience too. Kill two birds with one stone, he supposes.

Tony Stark

Yes, your dad was friends with The Tony Stark. Well they weren’t exactly friends; acquaintances was the better term. Still, they spent a great deal of time together, often going out for drinks or working on a new business project. You had heard plenty about Tony, not just from your father but the media aka the tabloids had something new to say about him. It didn’t take long before you finally met him and just like you; Tony heard a great deal from your dad.

Tony invites your dad to formal events, but strangely insists on him bringing the whole family along. Other times are spent enjoying the sun, where you’re invited to his enormous mansion and his massive pool. You pretend not to notice Tony’s miserable attempt to hide that he’s ogling you. Even behind his sunglasses as you dry yourself off. All while he pretends to hear your father talking to him about some business matter.

Before, Tony used to turn down many of your dad’s invitations. Such as family dinner, a casual game of pool with a few drinks on the side. One can’t imagine the busy life he has. But quite recently, Tony begins coming over. Surely you can’t be the reason. Of all the girls in the world for Tony Stark to have the hots for…it had to be you.

Tony always lingered behind. Pretending as if he cared about whatever you talked about – how is college, matter of fact, how is life treating you. He loved making you laugh, teasing how you must be quite the heartbreaker. Missing the brief annoyance on his face whenever your dad interrupted. Tony offers to help with anything. Anything, he reassures. Just come to him, he’ll let his secretary know to send you right in with no questions.

It would have happened sooner. If not today, then some other day. In truth, it was just a matter of time, just one moment with you where Tony can’t help himself. It isn’t to say Tony doesn’t feel guilty, he does. You have so much ahead of you; smart and beautiful. Supposed to be with a well off boy your age, yet here he is. His mouth on yours, tongue moving against yours. You taste so sweet, your perfume lingering in the air. And Tony knows he wouldn’t be able to stop, even if he wanted.

But is it really all that bad when the sun comes up the next day and there you are only wearing his buttoned shirt. Leaving your legs bare for him to see. Nothing washes his guilt away than you on your knees. Hand gripping your hair as you suck his cock, your head bobbing up and down. “You look so fucking hot right now, you know that?’ Tony groans with a half chuckle escaping him. And when he cums in your mouth, watching you swallow every drop. Oh god, he is ready to go at it again.

The two of you settle into something neither you and Tony know what to call it. Girlfriend, fuck buddies, sugar baby? No one knows. Tony does love spoiling you. Dinner at five-star restaurants, designer clothes, and luxury vacations where you tell your dad that you’re traveling with a few friends. And of course you both fuck, a lot. Either in the back of some limo or riding him while he pretends to be at ‘work’.

Tony knows to be careful. The last thing he wants is the media broadcasting your scandalous little relationship, which would be an awful way for your dad to find out. But the more Tony thinks about it, would it really? To be fair you can’t just tell a good old friend hey I am fucking your daughter. Yes he would lose your father’s trust and any business deals, but he would have you. And if you were to lose your home and source of income at such a cost, Tony would open his door. Come right in.

Joel Miller

Joel was a good friend of your dad’s. Apparently, according to him, Joel and his brother once helped on the side of the road when his truck broke down, and they have been on good terms ever since. Your dad invites him over often. Joel being a carpenter and all, usually helped with repairs around the house. You pretend not to notice as you sit nearby the way he grunts as he lifts the heavy stuff or the sound of his boots moving around. 

You recall the first time you met him. He was carrying something into the garage when you greeted him. Joel looked at you for a moment, taking in your pretty dress before awkwardly looking away and gruffed his name. Sometimes he and your dad would sit together, drinking a bottle of beer. Talking about whatever men usually talked about. They had similar jobs, which made it easy for them to get along. Every now and then you’d peek over, only to find Joel looking back. Your eyes would lock for a brief moment before he glances down at the beer in his hand. 

Other times you’d find him in the kitchen with a mug of coffee in hand. The moment you walk in, the air is filled with awkward tension, one you could cut with a knife. He would avoid your gaze almost entirely even as he spoke to you. You assumed he didn’t like you, for reasons you couldn't place. Unaware that Joel was very much attracted to you, doing everything he can to not bend you over this goddamn table. 

He just wishes you would leave him alone. Why must you hover while he fixes your dad’s truck? Don’t you know how easily he can peek at your panties down there. You were off limits. He didn’t need anyone to tell him that. Every time your dad offers for him to come inside, Joel wants to say no and go his merry way. Every little thing you did, excuse his French, made him so fucking hard. The way you call him Mr. Miller drives him crazy. That when you started calling him Joel now and then. He sometimes wishes you would go back to calling him Mister or even sir. 

Then there was Sarah. When Joel mentioned her, your dad immediately offered for you to babysit. Insisting it would be no trouble at all. Despite every rational thought telling him not to, Joel grudgingly agrees. Lamenting his decision the second it left his lips. Having you in his home was the last thing he wanted. He was supposed to be pushing you away dammit, not bring you closer. 

Joel was a far more jealous man he would ever admit. It frustrated him how pretty you looked. Who are you dressing up so nicely for, hmm? The pink gloss on your lips, the way you had a habit of pouting those said lips. Joel just wants to – god he wants to. And your goddamn perfume, always lingering in the air even long before you leave. Your dad would joke that all the boys fight among themselves over you. Joel can’t even bring himself to entertain the joke, his knuckles tightening. 

Joel has a habit of interrupting your ‘dates’. Some guy would offer to walk you home and there Joel was, offering you a ride instead. He didn’t deserve you – Joel knows that all too well. You should be with someone younger, more gentle. Not him. He was just protecting you. The world was rough, filled with disgusting vile men who only wanted one thing. Never mind the way he can’t stop his eyes from drifting to your bare legs in the passenger seat. And he was seething. The way he saw that guy getting all friendly with you. And here you are eyeing him, trying to seem innocent, seem small but you are far from a doe. 

“Do you have any idea what you’ve been doing to me these last few weeks?” And when you dare to act confused, he pulls the truck to a stop. Before you know it, his hand grabs the back of your neck, his mouth crashing against yours. Joel orders you to the driver’s back side and you see no room to deny him. It's quite late by the time you come home, your dad is already asleep. Suppose you’re grateful as Joel’s cum drips down your legs. This isn’t the last time you’re sure of it. 

Haytham Kenway

You noticed Haytham quite a while ago. Your father didn’t mention him much. All you knew was that he was an associate of your father’s; he didn’t show up often and from what you gathered, a very busy man. You had no idea what Haytham actually does and to be truthful you haven't got the slightest clue to what your father did either. Your father was a business man of sorts, that is all you were ever told.

Curiosity got the better of you so you sneaked off one afternoon to see what they discussed. Haytham always stood tall, his hands clasped behind his back. As he was discussing matters with your father, he suddenly stops and eyes the corner where you were hiding, making you jump. “Seems we have a little spy among us,” he remarks. Your father demanded you show yourself; introducing you to Haytham properly not without a small lecture, of course. Haytham simply nodded in acknowledgement and you returned the gesture, embarrassed. 

During his visits to your father, Haytham would conventionally stumble upon you. Haytham is well aware of his attraction to you; not exactly the best predicament to find himself in. He notices your beauty as any man would, but something else lures him in. He quite enjoys your conversations. Clever thing aren’t you? A shame your father keeps you hidden behind these walls. 

Haytham finds it quietly amusing how easily you’re startled. And he won’t deny how enticing it is to hear ‘Mr. Kenway’ fall from your lips. Haytham tries not to stare whenever you pass by or in the rare instances, being in the same room as your father. Still, every so often, he takes a peek at you from the corner of his eye, offering a small, secret smile.

Haytham is the ever gentleman with you. Most can tell the two of you are close, or at the very least that the grandmaster is fond of you. But even if one suspects something more, they can never accuse him outright. Not even your father suspects him. Haytham offers to escort you for your safety, always ready to lend you his hand whenever you step down from a carriage or a horse. 

And if he happens to catch you sneaking out, wondering somewhere you are not meant to. He'll simply offer to bring you back and promise to keep it between the two of you. A time Haytham has gifted you a book of an author he heard you mention in passing or a necklace he knows would catch your eye. And when you gush over it, Haytham tries not to smile too smugly to himself. 

Haytham is greatly respected by your father and by society, he must not be so terrible of a man to end with and you trust him don’t you? Even in the state you find yourself in. It started simple, conversations traded back and forth and before you know it, his mouth is on yours. Your face is cupped by his hands and when you pull away, a quiet moment settles between you. His thumbs brushing against your bottom lip before he leans in to kiss you once more. His hands drift to the fabric of your dress, tugging it down just enough for your shoulder to be bare as he presses a soft kiss against the skin. And so, the night slips away just with the two of you. 

And with this increase of infantilizing comes an increase of manipulation. It’s obviously all for your own good, and he’ll pull out all the stops to make you believe it; honey sweet words, guilt-tripping, planting paranoia from fabricated what-if’s, condescending jabs at how “childish” you’re acting, full-on intimidation… you name it, he can do it.

You’ll soon feel reduced to a simple house pet, waiting for him at the front door if you want anything done. He feeds you. Gives you baths. Buys you clothes and plays dress up with you. Walks you (he’s not above a child leash if you don’t behave). It’s all so dehumanizing, like you have no free will over your own life.

And if you were to constantly disobey him? Fight him every step of the way despite all of the lies and manipulations? Somehow weasel your way out of locked doors and handcuffs?

“Okay.” You give yourself one final, disappointed look-over in the mirror before heading towards the bathroom door. “I’m serious, don’t sugarcoat anything, but do you think—” 

The door swings open, and Peter’s right in front of you, beads of water still visible on his torso and a towel wrapped around his waist. 

“—this is too slutty?” you finish, quieter, right as he blurts, “Oh my god.” 

Peter blinks. His head does a tiny shake, as if trying to rid himself of a dizzy spell. “What?” he asks. 

Probably not your best phrasing. “I just mean, is it too booby,” you try again. You have the urge to tuck your arms around your middle self-consciously, but you worry that would only make the boob predicament worse. 

“Baby.” Peter’s still looking at you like you’re speaking another language. “What?” 

You look down at your highly visible cleavage, then back up at him. “You know what I mean,” you say softly. 

“Okay, speaking from a strictly straight male standpoint,” Peter says, unabashed as his eyes dip to where yours just where, “I can’t condone the idea that there is such a thing as too booby. But even if I was, like, a ninety-five-year-old conservative woman, I couldn’t—I would still think you look beautiful.” 

Your heart balloons. It’s not a compliment you got much before you met Peter. Hot, sexy, sure, but not beautiful. 

“God.” The word slips from your boyfriend’s mouth so softly it almost sounds like a prayer. His hands find your waist, skimming down the satiny material of your dress to rest on your hips. “You’re amazing. Is that the eyeshadow trick you were talking about?” 

You nod, cheeks warming. “You watched me do it.” 

“It looks different with the dress on,” he agrees. “Fuck. Not to be corny, but you’re seriously taking my breath away. I can’t breathe right now.” 

A little laugh stutters out of you, and Peter smiles. He’s looking rather breathtaking himself, fresh-faced from the shower with a piece of damp hair still clinging to his forehead. You unstick it and comb it back in with the others already fluffed up after being toweled off. He smells like his shampoo. 

“Can I kiss you,” he asks, “or will I mess up your makeup?” 

“Be careful,” you warn, smiling as you lean in. 

He is, but his hands give away his hunger, bunching in the fabric at the base of your spine to get you closer. He makes a low, needy sound in the back of his throat, and for half a second you wonder if it’s for your benefit but then you remember that he was right earlier. Peter is always honest with you. 

You laugh when you pull away, going to get a bit of tissue paper to blot away the lipstick you’ve left on him. A glance in the bathroom mirror shows that yours is, thankfully, intact. 

“Are you sure this dress will be appropriate?” you ask, less insecure now but still nervous as you wipe at Peter’s upper lip. “Regardless of how much you like it, it’s still a formal thing and I don’t want to be…indecent.” You cringe. There’s no word that sounds nice. 

Your boyfriend’s brows furrow. His hands skim up your arms, and he looks like he’s about to reply when you fold the toilet paper and stick it between his lips. “Blot,” you murmur. 

He does. “Sweetheart.” He squeezes your upper arms, a silent request for you to look up at his eyes. You find them soft and earnest. “There’s nothing inappropriate about what you’re wearing. It is a formal thing, and you’re wearing a formal dress. You look beautiful.” That word again. Your cheeks burn. Peter kisses one of them. “No one is going to have anything to say about how you look other than how beautiful you are,” he promises. 

You let the sincerity of his words seep into you, pooling like a warm drink in your belly. The inside of your lip finds its way between your teeth. Now you’re feeling bashful for other reasons. 

It’s obvious by Peter’s grin that he can tell. He gives your arms another squeeze before moving you out of the way and going to where his clothes are laid out on the bed. 

Steve is wrapped around you like he always is, his body curled to yours with the ease of instinct. Like this is how every night ends. Except it isn’t, because apparently, he hasn’t held you like this in five years.

His arm is firm across your middle, his hand warm and restless, brushing absent patterns against your skin as if he’s checking, again and again, that you’re still here. His grip tightens slightly whenever you shift, as if some part of him is still bracing for the moment you disappear again. 

Every so often his fingers shift - to your waist, your shoulder, the back of your arm - small movements made half-asleep, the kind that feel less like affection and more like reassurance that you’re still real.

But you don’t feel real, not really. 

Your thoughts spin, chasing themselves in circles - Wakanda, the ash, Steve’s arms around you there, Steve’s arms around you here, the way nothing in between exists. The way five years vanished in what was seconds for you.

The edges of time feel wrong. Like you’ve stepped back into someone else’s life and left yourself behind in Wakanda.

Steve shifts behind you, the low rumble of his voice breaking softly into the dark.

“What is it?” he asks, lips near your ear, voice heavy with sleep but not unaware. “You’re miles away. Talk to me.”

You shift beneath the weight of his touch, then turn to face him, needing to see him, needing him to see you. His eyes find yours in the dark.

“I just…five years?” you whisper, voice cracking. “Everyone keeps saying it, but it doesn’t make sense. I haven’t been gone. I haven’t. I feel like I just saw you. Like I’m still there. I don’t know if I’m real, Steve. I don’t know if any of this is.”

Steve exhales softly as he takes your hand in his, guiding it to your chest and pressing it over your heartbeat. His own hand remains on top like he’s anchoring you to the rhythm beneath your skin.

“See?” he murmurs. “It’s still beating. I remember it from that day - I felt it until the moment you disappeared in my arms. But it feels real to me now, it felt real to me then too. And it beats the same now as it did before.”

You blink up at him, eyes glassy.

“It doesn’t matter how long it’s been, or how impossible this all is. You’re here now; I can feel you - you’re warm, you’re breathing, you’re alive.” His lips brush your forehead, and he pulls you closer, as if there’s any distance left to close. “And if you can’t hold onto that, hold onto me. I’m right here.”

Bucky’s voice breaks first. 

Steve turns at the sound of his name to watch his oldest friend come apart in front of him. Ash drifts from what were Bucky’s fingers, like something already gone before Steve can reach for it, and the confusion on Bucky’s face hurts worse than fear.

Bucky’s there, solid, and then he isn’t.

Steve doesn’t scream. He can’t. His chest locks up, lungs burning, mind refusing to catch up to what his eyes have just witnessed. But before the grief can swallow him, before he can register the finality of it, his mind jerks to you like a survival instinct.

The universe has already stolen so much from him. It can’t have you, too.

The thought hits him with a clarity so sharp it nearly drops him to his knees. He spins, scanning the field with wild, desperate eyes, boots already moving before he’s aware of it.

He spots you near the tree-line, still alive, confusion etched into your face, like you haven’t realised yet that something is terribly, irrevocably wrong.

Steve doesn’t slow down. He crashes into you, wraps his arms around you, twisting so his body absorbs the impact when you hit the earth. His body locks around yours so tight he can feel the steady beat of your heart against his own frenzied pulse.

Body trembling, he presses his forehead to yours, trying to memorise the shape of you, the warmth of you, everything about you in case this was the last time.

“Steve—what’s happening?”

“Please.” His voice cracks, rough with panic, as he crushes you closer, burying his face in your hair. His grip is desperate - tight enough to leave bruises, tighter still like sheer force might keep the universe from daring to pry you loose. “Not you. Please—please, not you too.”

He didn’t know who he was pleading to. Fate? Cosmic balance? Some twisted god who’d already taken too much from him? But the words tumble out anyway, raw and frantic, because if he says them enough, if he holds you tightly enough, maybe it would be enough to keep you.

The weight of his desperation coils tight in his chest, constricting his ribs, clawing up his throat.

You try to soothe him, hands curling against his shoulders, “Steve—hey—Steve, I’m right he—”

And then his arms crash against his chest, the warmth of you gone. Absence where a woman had been just seconds ago. 

Dust floats through his fingers, settling where your body was, and Steve stares blankly at what little remains of you. A pile of dust. The familiar, crushing ache of a grief too heavy to bare seeps into his bones, hollowing him out from the inside, leaving only the imprint of you burned into his heart.

How could something so real be so quickly erased?

She crossed her arms, eyeing you with something akin to surprise; it was as though your questioning her was, at the very least, unexpected.

“You think I’d let you fall?” Selina’s smirk found its way to her lips, and she opened her arms, hands reaching out for you. “Not in this life, darling.”

Her eyes found yours, a spark of challenge shining in them, urging you to follow her words.

You stepped back. Cold air filled your lungs. Adrenaline from your pounding heart surged through your body.

One second you were on the rooftop, and the next, your feet were no longer touching the ground. The sounds of the city filled your head. What if you didn’t jump hard enough? One more body, one more life lost in a Gotham night.

A distant horn took you out of your trance; Selina’s hand gripped your forearm, steadying you as you landed dangerously close to the edge.

“See?” Her smirk didn’t waver, full of pride. “I told you I wasn’t going to let you fall.”

© sozzoe. do not copy, post as yours, translate, or use my work for any AI purposes.