Chronically Obsessed

Pairings: Steve Rogers x daughter!Reader, platonic!Tony Stark x Reader, Steve Rogers x Tony Stark (if you squint really hard)

Synopsis: “I’m sorry,” you croak, your voice still sore from crying, “ have we met before?”

Tony takes a swig at his bottle. “You don’t know me?” His voice has an incredulous tone behind it, like he can’t possibly fathom why you’re surprised about the fact that he’s so comfortable around you.

You can’t, for the life of you, think of any reason for why he is.

“Of course I know who you are, but how, why do you know who I am?” 

“Oh,” he shrugs, “not a lot you can hide from me. But your secret is safe, scout’s honor.”

Or,

Y/n receives a call at 2 AM about the critical state of her father, and there’s not much she can do but rush to Avengers’ Tower to be by his side. Apparently, Tony had the same idea.

Word Count: 2.8k

A/n: Managed to crank out another Rogers!Reader fic. It’s meant to be the same au as fractions of him (read here), but I think the ages clash. I just like writing all these ideas out, though. Thanks @currentlygettinglobotomized for proofreading :)

You wake up from your sleep at the sound of your phone vibrating on your nightstand. 

The clock next to your phone reads 2:37 AM, and you wonder who has the audacity to call at this time. Still, you move to answer the phone, because if you’re getting a call this late (or early? You don’t have the mental capacity to think about that right now), it’s probably important.

It better be important.

When you look at the screen, you see it’s an unknown number. You don’t normally answer these calls, but you’ve already woken up, so you might as well answer.

The line is quiet for a few seconds, before a somewhat robotic voice comes through.

“Hello, is this Y/n Rogers?”

You freeze.

For all 15 years of your life, you’d gone by Y/n L/n rather than using your real last name, as being the daughter of Steve Rogers would’ve brought in a lot of unnecessary attention.

As far as you know, nobody (other than your dad) has ever called you by or heard your real name, so hearing it said by a complete stranger on a strange number startles you, and wakes you up completely.

“I’m sorry?” You stutter through the phone, mentally berating yourself for how unsure you sound. 

“Y/n M/n Rogers. Is that you?”

“Yea – Yes. That’s me…” You know there’s a big chance that you’ll end up in some sort of trouble if someone found out about your relationship to Captain America, especially since you’ve just confirmed it.

But something inside you tells you you did the right thing by answering truthfully, and if you’ve learned anything from your dad, it’s to trust your gut 100% of the time.

There’s a small silence before the voice on the other side speaks again. “This is JARVIS, from Stark Industries,” that explains the robotic voice, you think. “You have been called about Captain Rogers’ health. He is in critical condition, and has previously requested th…” 

JARVIS continues speaking, but you’re not really listening anymore. Your dad, in critical condition? He’s come home before with bullet holes and stab wounds, saying it wasn’t a big deal and that he would just shake it off, whatever that meant.

If he was in such a bad state that they had to call you, you don’t want to imagine what sort of injuries he’s suffering, even though your mind begins to wander.

Your chest starts tightening, and you suddenly feel a shortness of breath coming on before JARVIS’ voice calls you back to reality.

Not a fun reality in anyway, but reality regardless.

“Are you still there, Ms. Rogers?” his voice does little to nothing to calm you down, but you realize that his purpose probably isn’t to calm hyperventilating daughters.

You force yourself to take a deep breath before answering. “ Yeah, sorry. What were you saying?”

“I was asking whether or not you would like to visit your father while he is hospitalized,” JARVIS responds. 

“Yes. Yes, please, when and where can I see him?” You cringe at how desperate you sound, but you figure you’re allowed to be a little disoriented with the situation at hand.

“Avenger’s Tower is open for your arrival right now, if convenient for you.” 

“Ohmygod, thank you. I’ll be right there. “

“Excellent. Upon your arrival, feel free to use the front entrance. You’ll be allowed in and taken to the correct floor.”  You’re already fully dressed - or as dressed as one can be at such a time - and putting on your shoes when he answers you, so you only manage to throw a thank you at your phone before hanging up.

You’re out the door and flying down the stairs faster than ever before. You’re into the taxi and giving the address to the little shop across the tower (you don’t want to give the cab driver any reasons to suspect you) even faster.

Upon your arrival, you pay him with haste and make your way across the road, and into the building, which strangely has no security guards (you later learn that JARVIS is better than any other human security).

There’s no one at the lobby either, but something about the absent whirring in the background tells you it’s not empty at all.

Your suspicions are confirmed when you’re startled by a now familiar voice from the ceiling. “Welcome, Ms. Rogers. Please head towards the elevator.” 

You’re still a little unsettled at the sound of your real last name, but you put the thought aside as you walk - read run - towards the elevator.

The silence as it ascends automatically is uncomfortable, and you can’t help but pace around the box. What if you never saw your dad again? 

A pit grew in your stomach. The last time you’d talked you were kind of preoccupied, and you’d hate for your last conversation to be one where you were rushing him because someone you were making plans with for the afternoon was texting you.

You’re taken away from your depressing thoughts by the bing! of the elevator as it reaches your designated floor, and you realize that you have no idea what to do now. 

JARVIS seems to have left you, so you decide to find the way yourself. Three pathways lay ahead of you. You figure the middle one is most likely to lead you to your dad and take the risk.

Farther down the hall, too far in your opinion, rooms that have a semblance to those in hospitals start appearing on either side of you. Against your better judgment, you begin peering into the windows of each to find out which one your dad is in.

The first few are empty, but the following rooms are not a pretty sight. Some - too many - of the other Avengers lie in hospital beds, bloody and bruised. If their heart monitors say anything, it’s that they’re barely clinging on to dear life.

You quickly look away. These heroes are people too, and you imagine they wouldn’t like for their first time meeting you - meeting anyone, for that matter - to be while they’re black and blue in hospital gowns. 

It still feels weird to see the Falcon, one of your favorite Avengers, looking so vulnerable, though.

The next room over is somehow an even worse sight. That may be because it’s your dad, someone you know and dearly love, but you’re willing to bet that the way there are bones sticking out in the wrong places, wounds so ugly you flinch, and a sickly purple color littering every inch of him are the real reason you feel your stomach churn in ways you’ve never felt before.

There’s a whizzing sound coming from the door knob, and you guess that it’s JARVIS unlocking the door, signaling for you to step inside. 

You’re stuck in place, though, eyes lazer-focused on the body of a man that doesn’t really look like Steve. It’s far too hideous to be him, you try to convince yourself.

Because your father heals, and if this is a healed version of him, that means he was at some point worse. 

You don’t want to see him worse.

You don’t notice the tears streaming down your face until they cause an uncomfortable itch at your neck. You’re sniffling into the sleeve of the sweater you’re wearing, which only makes you cry harder when you realize it’s one that you ‘borrowed’ from your dad.

This is the man who you’ve perceived as invincible and indestructible your entire life. The constant figure who comforted you in times when no one else could.The person who taught you lessons more valuable than gold.

But in this moment, this feeling frozen in time, he is nothing more than a corpse fighting death itself for a chance to live again.

You don’t know how long you were standing there, hands covering your face, head facing down towards your feet. What you do know, however, is that there are streaks of daylight sneaking in through the windows of the Tower, and you’d rather shed all your tears and say all your words to your father (though he probably wouldn’t hear you) before there is a bigger crowd of spectators.

Which means you have to go in that room - the room with the man and the hospital bed - now. 

Now.

Right now.

Nownownownowno–

You take a deep breath before you let yourself spiral any further. You’ll have time to do that for the rest of the day when you rot in your pajamas instead of being at school like you’re supposed to be.

You figure whatever is supposed to happen doesn’t really matter, though, because you were never meant to be in this situation, yet here you are.

The doorknob is in your hand before you have time to second-guess it, and you twist the handle while bracing yourself for whatever it is you’ll have to face in the room.

As soon as you step foot in it, you know you’re going to be in the room for a while. There’s a weight in the air, one so barely noticeable yet unbearably thick. It keeps you  stuck to the ground while somehow pushing you to walk, and you can’t help but obey it until you’re beside your dad.

You’re probably supposed to say something,   words about how much you miss him, despite the fact that he’s technically still here, and how you need him to get better, but even though you feel those words, you can’t bring yourself to say them.

Still, it feels weird to have cried all those hours outside his door, just to stare some more when you finally get inside. 

So, you take a deep breath, and finally look at him for once.

“Hi dad,” you whisper, your voice raspy and dry. 

Some part of you expects him to stir, to open his eyes and give you a lopsided smile the way he always does, before angling his head to you and responding with a tired ‘hey.’

He doesn’t move though, and you realize how dumb of a fantasy that was. He’s beaten to a pulp, of course he isn’t going to wake up now.

You realize that if you keep trying to figure out the perfect thing to say, you’ll stay silent forever. 

You don’t want to stay silent forever.

So, you think back to your day, the part before the tears, searching for anything to tell him; anything to take your mind off the current situation.

“I met JARVIS today,” you sniffle, “he’s very… alive.” You’re not sure what you’re getting at, but it’s better than hearing nothing but the heart monitor, so you push yourself to keep going.

“He called me ‘Ms. Rogers’. For a second I didn’t even realize he was talking about me.” You let out a small laugh, as if it would help in making you feel any less alone in this moment.

“It’s weird to be called that. Feels distant, I guess. Like I’m Captain America’s daughter, not Steve Rogers’.” You break into tears for the second time today, and you have a feeling it won’t be the last.

For a second, just for a moment, you feel little bit glad that your dad’s not awake to see you cry like this. You imagine your bloodshot eyes and tangled hair you didn’t think to comb when you left the apartment aren’t a pretty sight. 

You’d hate for them to be the first thing he sees.

That is, if he ends up waking up at all. It’s not a thought you want to dwell on, but your tears seem to know the weight of the situation. Your dad is hurt – gravely – in ways he’s never been before.

There is a chance that it’s the final straw. The droplet that makes the cup overflow. The bullet wound that makes his body dry out completely to the point of no return.

“I can’t do this without you, Dad,” you sob. “I need you.”

You really do. A life where he’s not there to take care of you, to comfort you and to spend silent nights next to you on the couch doesn’t feel like a life you’d like to have.

“Please don’t leave me. Please-“ 

The door to the room opens, and in walks … Tony Stark himself. He doesn’t notice you at first; his gaze is trained on his feet - much like you were not long ago - but based on the dark circles around his eyes and the half empty bottle of booze in his hand, you figure that even if he was looking right at you, he wouldn’t take note of your presence.

You’re wrong, though, because as soon as he looks up - most likely to say something to Steve - he sees you and freezes.

It’s not one of those pauses when someone is scared or confused, like they’re trying to figure out what the next best step is. Instead, his shoulders relax once he scans you from head to toe.

“Oh,” he sighed, “It’s just you.” He closes the door behind him and moves towards Steve, not clearing any of your doubts in the way.

You’ve never seen him before - not outside of news channels and fashion magazines - so you don’t know why in the world he seems so comfortable around you. 

You doubt your dad would have told him about you, since the whole point of you carrying a fake name is to make sure your identity is kelp a secret, and giving that information to the person who spills secrets when he has nothing else to say - your dad has been a victim of this, now the whole world knows about the incident with the USO girl and the key to to locker room - is not very secure.

“I’m sorry,” you croak, your voice still sore from crying, “ have we met before?”

Tony takes a swig at his bottle. “You don’t know me?” His voice has an incredulous tone behind it, like he can’t possibly fathom why you’re surprised about the fact that he’s so comfortable around you.

You can’t, for the life of you, think of any reason for why he is.

“Of course I know who you are, but how, why do you know who I am?” 

“Oh,” he shrugs, “not a lot you can hide from me. But your secret is safe, scout’s honor.” He raises his right hand to emphasize his point, and since you don’t seem to have another option, you decide to trust him.

A silence hangs in the air, much more uncomfortable than you thought it’d be the first time you met Tony. Then again, you hadn’t imagined it would be under such extreme circumstances.

Right. Circumstances.

You turn your attention back to your dad, the sadness of the moment setting back into your bones.

You hear Tony’s footsteps coming in your direction, but you don’t have it in you to turn around. You’re exhausted, really, and you’re not even sure how you’re still standing.

“He’ll be okay,” Tony says, now standing next to you. “Just took a pretty harsh hit, but it’s nothing he can’t shake off. Banner said so.”

You try your best to believe him, you really do, but it’s hard to find any comfort in his words when your dad is right in front of you, looking very much not okay. Not much you can do about that, though, so you tear your eyes away from the hospital bed and towards Tony.

A deep, exhausted sigh leaves you. “Sure hope so, he promised to take me out for brunch on Saturday,” you try to joke, but based on the lack of overall reaction from Tony, you failed. It’s fine; this isn’t exactly the most joke-friendly environment. 

Another silence overcomes the two - well, three - of you. You stare at your feet, since you’ve just managed to convince yourself to stop looking at your dad. Tony, on the other hand, is looking straight at him, like it’s the first and last time they’ll ever be in each other’s presence. 

If anyone were to open the door, they’d be able to sense the worry radiating in the room. They’d be able smell the tears and alcohol and a weird sterile scent that only hospitals manage to have. They’d also probably think that its recipients are crazy, because admittedly, the quiet is unbearable, and the awkwardness is too.

Thankfully, Tony decides to break the silence with a loud clearing of his throat. “J said you’ve been down here for a while.” He pauses like he’s waiting for you to say something, then coughs to cover the stiffness of the moment when you don’t. “I’d be a pretty bad host if I didn’t invite you to breakfast or something.”

Deep down, you want nothing but to stay here and lie in your misery, letting tears out until you have none left to cry, at which point you’ll stand in silence until your knees give out. But that’s not healthy to any extent, and you’re sure your dad would scold you for your thoughts if he were awake. 

“Breakfast sounds good, if it’s not too much of a bother.”

Tony sets down the bottle in his hand. “Not at all, kid.”

A/n: believe it or not, I started writing this like 5 months ago and only finished it today bc i have no sense of time control. any feedback is welcome <<<3

And I really love my wife @currentlygettinglobotmized

Pairings: Pattinson!Bruce Wayne x Reader

Summary: You and Bruce share a quiet moment of tea and embrace at midnight, and you cherish every single second that you get with him. Bruce is tired, but you can tell he loves these moments too.

Word Count: 667

A/n: finally wrote something after like two weeks of procrastinating, yay! My wheel of names was not helpful in choosing what to write, so I pulled this out of the depths of my heart. Thanks @currentlygettinglobotomized for helping me out <3

It’s pouring outside, the cold rain echoing throughout the city as it hits the ground, but you didn’t expect him to be back anytime soon. Bruce has always had a habit of putting anything and everything over his own needs, so a little rain doesn’t stop him, at least not usually. But you see the fatigue in his eyes, and the lack of reluctance in his bones when he drapes himself over you; something he rarely does, especially while still in the armor.

Not that you mind it, though. The Batman is meant to be terrifying, sure, but knowing the man under the mask gives you some peace of mind, and you know that even though the Bat exudes darkness and gloom, Bruce is nothing but. It’s especially obvious when he takes off his cowl, and you can see the way his jaw clenches with all-too-human anxiety. 

You can’t help but take him into your arms.

And you can’t help humming a lullaby you vaguely remember from your childhood. You certainly can’t help laying kisses on his hair, regardless of its matted-down state, or the way you run your fingers through the same. It smells nice, like your shampoo with the bright pink cap that Bruce said was a disgrace to his bathroom decoration (all black, of course), and it puzzles you how he doesn’t reek of sweat considering the fact that he’s been running around for the past few hours in a suit that you’re sure is insulated somehow.

The kettle rings in a corner of the cave, one that grew slowly over time with a combination of kitchen appliances and fluffy blankets. You reluctantly let go of Bruce, making your way to the nook and coming back with a tray of tea and a few biscuits; he’s gained an affinity for that sort of thing after being with Alfred for so many years. 

Bruce sips the tea slowly, while you organize his desk. You’re careful not to catch glimpses of anything important - you know Bruce stresses when you know anything about his ‘nightlife’ - as you try to make stacks and clear space for work. If you got your way, Bruce would go straight to bed after a night of patrol, but you know he won’t. At least your heart will be somewhat at rest knowing he’s working in a place that doesn’t look like a tornado flew through it. 

Once he’s done eating, you manage to convince him to change out of the suit, but not before wiping his face free of the dark make-up surrounding his eyes. He won’t do it on his own, and you’re tired of his complaining about his acne. You’re not sure how a man so smart can’t figure out that the source of his unclear skin is his lack of care towards it, but you won’t argue with him.

You like wiping it off anyways; it’s one of the few moments where you get to hold him like that.

When Bruce lets out a deep sigh, one you know must have hurt to form in his lungs considering how bruised he always is, you know the little peace you had is over. Reluctantly, you help him over to his desk from where he was previously seated under the guise of wanting a few more moments with him. Bruce wouldn’t let you help him if you askedー he’s too proud for that.

Bruce then sits at the chair, worn-out and grayed, and you can see his face change from tired to determined, even though the stiffness in his body betrays his mind. Still, he reaches out for your hand as you leave, planting a small kiss you know means more than any words he’d be able to muster up the courage to say.

You turn back and plant a similar kiss on his cheek, pretending that you don’t notice the way his skin turns a pretty shade of pink as you go up the stairs and away from the Batcave.

A/n: battinson is my favorite Batman, but ig I'm biased since I’ve technically only watched like half of the dark night. All ik abt dc is basically from fanfictions lol

Pairings: 40s!Bucky Barnes x Reader, Steve Rogers Mentioned

Summary: Reader and Bucky have a dilemma; she can’t like him because he’s a player - there’s no way she’ll let herself be just another one of his girls. He can’t like her because he’s a lady’s man, and lady’s men aren’t supposed to get attached. Still, the odds are against them, or for them, because they end up falling for each other anyway.

Word Count: 1.6k

A/n: This came to me in a dream (I wrote the entirety of it on my phone at 11pm) and I gaslit myself into thinking it doesn’t need to be proofread. I promise it’s still good though (I think). Again, English isn’t my first language, but enjoy!

From the moment you met James - or Bucky, as he was called - you knew he was a player.

Really, that much was determined even before you first interacted with him. You could see it in the sharpness of his eyes and how annoyingly perfect his smile was. And it was evident in the way he carried himself, too; like a man who’d received far too many compliments for one lifetime, and felt like he deserved them.

He did deserve them, though. Because as much as you’d hate to admit it, Bucky Barnes is gorgeous, beautiful even, and he’s already wormed his way into your heart, even though he doesn’t even know it.

To him, you’re someone just out of his reach; always around but never with him. Bucky doesn’t know why, but he knows that he needs you, and has spent every waking moment since meeting you trying to convince himself that he likes the thrill of the chase, and not you. Because he’s a lady’s man; a playboy of sorts.

He can’t just like you. 

He can’t just think you’re kind or that you’re probably the smartest person he’s met. And he most definitely can’t think that you look amazing in that sundress you’re wearing. 

Damn Steve for inviting you to the monthly picnic their families have together.

This is supposed to be a relaxing moment for him, surrounded by people who actually know him. But when you’re around, Bucky is hardly relaxed; his heart beats a little too hard, and his palms sweat. He tries not to think about that as he brings you a slice of the cake Ma baked.

“Cake, M’lady?” Bucky cringes internally at the nickname as soon as he says it, but he has bigger fish to fry right now.

“Thank you, Buck,” you say, smiling and taking the slice from him. You may be trying to convince yourself that you don’t have a crush on Bucky, but you at least have manners.

Before you can take a bite out of the amazing cake that Mrs. Barnes baked, you notice Bucky’s lack thereof. “Where’s your slice?” You ask. 

Bucky smiles at that. “Gotta serve all the pretty ladies first, but I appreciate the concern." He has that stupidly perfect grin on his face that makes you wanna kick him and kiss him and so much more at the same time.

“Just making sure there’s still more cake for me. We all know you lack self-control when it comes to sweets,” you say, before taking an unnecessarily aggressive bite of your cake.

It’s low, you know, to be so blatant about his lifestyle when he just got you a slice of cake and called you pretty, but you know he does that with all the ladies; and you’re not about to be another notch on his bedpost.

Bucky tries not to take too much offense from your words, but he hates how right you are. He hates that he really does chase after far too many pretty faces and red lips. He hates that in the end, that’s what distances you from him.

Sadly, old habits die hard, and instead of being heartfelt like he wants to be (for once), another flirtatious comment escapes him. “I can have as much control as you’d like me to, Sparkle.”

“Go bother someone else, James,” you say, because you can’t form any full thoughts - let alone sentences - when he calls you that. It’s a stupid name that he gave you ever since you insisted on bedazzling Steve’s third cast of the year, and it’s even more stupid how much you blush when he says it.

“Whatever you say~,” Bucky says in a sing-song voice, before flashing you the most heart-warming, cheek-reddening, pulse-quickening, brain– no.

No, no, no, no, no.

You’re supposed to despise Bucky for all his escapades. You’re supposed to be throwing daggers at the man for all the heart-breaking he does. You are most definitely not supposed to be blushing at his nicknames and flirting back at him over a slice of cake.

There’s nothing you can do but mentally sigh at your involuntary reaction to him. It’s not your fault you’re not invulnerable to his charm; No man should be that luring!

And to make matters worse, you’re pretty sure Steve saw you laughing with Bucky from your spot under the tree, and he’s probably gonna spend the rest of his life - because Steve is nothing if not persistent - trying to get the two of you together.

Damn Steve Rogers for inviting you to this family picnic.

Hating Bucky Barnes is proving to be a challenge; he’s actually kind now, and uses his brain for something other than conquests in places he really shouldn’t be. 

It’s gotten to the point where you don’t even mind patching him up after whatever fight he got himself into trying to stand up for Steve (when he’ll learn to let Steve have his own adventure, you’ll never know). You even make him tea now, which means a lot considering you used to just kick him out after taking care of Steve.

Speaking of Steve, you know exactly what he’s up to. Ever since the picnic, in which he realized that you and Bucky actually make a good pair, he’s been finding reasons to make the two of you interact, including getting into more fights than usual.

Bucky’s noticed it too, but he’s not complaining. Anything to spend time with a gorgeous gal like you, he’ll tell himself, so that he doesn’t have to reflect that it’s not about a nice gal like you, but rather a nice gal that is you.

“Will you stay for dinner this time? My mom’s been bugging me for letting you leave the house without a ‘proper reward for your heroism.’” You ask. You never thought you’d hear those words coming out of your mouth; inviting Bucky Barnes for dinner with your family, but as it turns out, life has its ways.

“Dinner with the family already?” Bucky asks through a playful smile, “I thought you’d let me at least take you out first.”

You opt to keep your mouth shut to avoid saying something you’ll regret along the lines of ‘sure, what time?’, instead continuing to clean the cuts on his face.

How a man looks that amazing with all these injuries remains a mystery to you, no matter how many times you see him like this.

There’s a silence between the two of you now, but it’s not awkward or uncomfortable. It’s weirdly soothing, which is not an emotion you’d ever think yourself feeling with Bucky in a 10-foot radius of you.

“You know,” he starts, voice softer than you think you’ve ever heard on him, “sometimes I let myself get a little more beat up than usual so I’ll have a reason to see you for a little longer.”

Your hands freeze in their position bandaging his cuts, and Bucky asks himself what on earth am I saying. You don’t say anything to object to his confession, though, so he keeps on going.

“And I don’t eat the cookies Ma makes so I can tell you we had some left-over when I come by the next day.”

Bucky should stop talking, he really should, because this is making him question what he’s been trying to distract himself from. He’s never done this for other girls before, he’s wanted them to hold him like he wants you to.

But really, Bucky should stop talking before you start accepting that this entire time, you’ve been head-over-heals for the man, instead of hating his guts like you’ve been pretending to.

“And I pick flowers that remind me of you - the bright and colorful ones - and I bring them all the way up to your door because I think that I’m finally gonna own up to my feelings just to throw them away by the steps and walk back home feeling like a scardy-cat.”

You’re staring at each other now; your eyes digging deep into his blue orbs, his digging into yours. But when you don’t say anything back - when you don’t give him a green light or a red light or a yellow or orange or anything at all, Bucky sighs and moves to stand up from your bed, where he’d been situated.

Maybe it’s that action, the feeling that he’s about to leave, the notion that this could be the end, but you can’t let Bucky go. You put your weight on the hand on his shoulder and push him back down to his seat.

“I bought more clothes in yellow because you once said the color looks nice on me.”

It’s Bucky’s turn to freeze now, his eyes stuck on your face and his heart beating against his ribcage; he swears he can feel it in his stomach.

“I read The Hobbit because I heard you talking about it to Steve, even though I didn’t get the hype. And this one time–” you take a quick breath, “this one time I didn’t go to the Valentine’s Day party and chose to stay behind with Steve because you always come around to his place at some point in the day, and I wanted to get to see you at least once.”

You inhale a deep breath before continuing. “I guess what I’m trying to say is–“

“I love you too. Or I like you too; either one works.”

You laugh at his words, really laugh, and suddenly Bucky’s heart jumps all the way back into its normal place in his chest. It makes him smile - a radiant, beaming smile - and in the next second you’re embracing each other in a hug that’s well overdue, considering the years you’ve spent pinning after each other for.

It’s all sweet and all perfect, and for once, you don’t have to pretend that you hate Bucky Barnes with all your heart.

“Yea,” you say. “Either one works.”

A/n: thanks for reading! any feedback is welcome.

Pairings: Jason Todd x Reader

Summary: Jason Todd doesn’t need anything; It’s dangerous and inefficient. But above all else, Jason most definitely doesn’t need you.

Word Count: 1.5k

A/n: When I started writing this I thought it was gonna be a short angst story, but it turned out pretty fluffy. Thank you @currentlygettinglobotomized for proof-reading, as always. Enjoy!

Jason Todd doesn’t need you.

He’s survived so long on his own - it doesn’t make any sense to need anyone else. 

He doesn’t need your warmth, in those nights when he feels the aching in his mind seep through to his bones. He doesn’t need you to hold him - to care for him in ways so tender he almost forgets he was even hurting in the first place.

He doesn’t need your attention. He doesn’t crave to feel seen in the way that only you can achieve, making him feel worthy. Your words of affection don’t echo in his soul, they aren’t the reason he puts an effort into anything at all.

He doesn’t need your shelter. When the screams of the world get far too loud, he doesn’t seek your comfort - he doesn’t seek his home in you. No, you don’t calm the roaring waves within him, you don’t still his soul.

Jason Todd does not need you, or anyone for that matter. He’s strong, brave from years of being beaten down by a world he longed to be a part of. He’s independent and grounded, his own roots grown deep into a system filled with poison he now needs to survive.

So to say that he needs you, that you’re vital to his survival, is an utter lie. It betrays the very identity that he’s been trying to build for himself; a person so distant they’re nothing but a shadow. A man so legend-like that the mere thought that he could have something human like pain or desire is ignored in turn of fearing him and his story.

But, when he sneaks through your window for the third time that week, and strips himself of his mud soaked boots before the dirt and grime gets all over the floor, he lets himself forget that for a moment.

He takes off his helmet, leaving it on the table, which he knows you set up specifically for him, if the instant noodles or first aid kit are anything to go by. He pries his gloves off his hands, and then sheds the jacket before walking deeper into your apartment. 

He’s quiet - he was trained to be - but you still hear him and get up from your bed in your room down the hall, moving towards him. Or maybe you just know his presence, and you felt his very soul the moment he landed on your fire escape.

It wouldn’t be surprising, considering the amount of time he spends here.

“Hi, Jay.”

Jason twists from his position facing the microwave towards you, and the two of you stand in silence for a few moments, nothing but the hum of his food cooking and Gotham’s nightlife ringing out into the atmosphere. 

It’s routine by now; these visits of his. They always go the same way, except when they don’t, in which case they end with a screaming match and a few tears and then weeks of non-contact.

But that’s routine too, you figure, because without fail, Jason will crawl back through your window sporting a wound - physical or not - and you’ll nurse him back to health to the best of your ability.

“Hey Clumsy, didn’t mean to wake you,” he says, somewhere between a whisper and something more. There’s always something more with Jason. 

You smile at the nickname, even though you claim to hate it whenever he uses it. You earned it on one of the first interactions with The Red Hood, in which you somehow managed to trip over your own feet during your trip from the kitchen to your couch, where he was laying, in dire need of medical assistance.

On the plus side, you managed to make him laugh, and for a brief moment, he didn’t feel like he was about to die. 

“It’s okay. You know I don’t mind it, anyway.” You’re next to him now, getting out a bowl and fork for him. Jason frowns a little at your actions - he doesn’t like it when you go the extra mile for him, when he can survive with the bare minimum - but decides not to comment on it. 

You’ve been on a roll of peaceful nights, and he likes it when he doesn’t have to spend his day (and night) thinking about when it’s finally socially acceptable to show up at your place again after yelling at you. Somehow, it ends with him being vulnerable to a punch or some words, and all his inhibitions are thrown out the window when he comes back to you.

He likes coming back to you.

“Plus, I get to spend time with you,” you add. You give Jason a big smile, or as big as a smile can be at this time, and proceed to plate his food.

Jason smiles at your words. He’d never admit to himself, but he probably enjoys your presence more than you could ever enjoy his. “You just like looking at my muscles,” he teases, flexing his arms behind his back to emphasize his point. “Admit it.” 

“How’d you know?” You fake gasp. “I could’ve sworn I was discreet about it!” You bring your hand to forehead in the most dramatic way possible, before you and Jason break out into intense laughter.

Soon, the two of you settle down into a calmer atmosphere, silently sitting down on opposite couches with the occasional glance up at each other. 

It’s moments like these that you’re glad Jason showed up at your window that night, in need of help from anyone, and that you let him in. Moments in which you’re able to just be, regardless of how the outside world is. You get to just exist in his presence, and he gets to revel in yours. 

“Thanks for dinner,” Jason says, slightly waking you from a nap you didn’t even realize you’d taken.

“It’s no problem, Jay,” you say for probably the thousandth time, even after telling him there’s no need to thank you.

When Jason comes back from washing his dishes in the kitchen, you’ve dozed off for a second time on the couch. 

He allows himself to smile for a second, thinking about letting you stay on the couch, considering how comfortable you look. But he’d probably get a talking to the next time he stops by if he lets you sleep with your neck at the weird angle it’s currently at.

At least that’s the excuse he gives himself to scoop you up into his arms in a bride’s carry, and take you to your room down the hall. Really, he likes the feeling of you against him; it brings him comfort. 

Sadly, he can never bring himself to initiate any contact aside from those nights when the tears are already falling from his eyes, so he’ll treasure this moment as much as he can, even if you’re too tired to appreciate it.

When he finally reaches your bed, he puts you down in a careful manner he didn’t know he was capable of, before covering your body with the Red Hood blanket he’d jokingly bought for you as a Christmas present the year before. He hadn’t actually expected you to use it, back then, but he’s pleased to see that it’s always on your bed - when it isn’t in the laundry, that is - even in those moments when the two of you aren’t really on talking terms.

Jason is practically outside your bedroom door when he decides, why not, and sneaks back inside to plant a soft and fleeting kiss to your forehead.

He doesn’t know it, but you wake up that morning feeling very happy for no apparent reason, and go about your day with a pip in your step, despite not knowing of his actions now.

Soon after closing your bedroom door and double checking the locks that he set up on your door after discovering that it was surprisingly easy to pick your previous locks, Jason is dressed and out the door (window, technically, but it’s all semantics).

The chill of the world outside your apartment soon hits Jason as he runs from rooftop to rooftop, and he suddenly wishes that he would’ve finally taken your offer to rest on the couch instead of choosing to freeze at one of his many safehouses.

He knows he can’t do that, though, because he knows he’ll get too attached; and nothing good comes from attachment. 

Whenever he lets himself grow a routine, Jason stops being the character he wants to be, and starts being human again. But being human allows for error, and Jason can’t afford to have errors in his line of work. Error is the line between life and death; Jason knows better than anyone that death is to be avoided.

Still, as he sits back on his bed and its lumps that hit weird spots in his back, Jason can’t help but think about a reality in which he stays. A reality in which he allows himself to be vulnerable. A reality in which he cares, and a reality where you care just as much. 

Because Jason Todd doesn’t need you; he doesn’t need anything other than himself. 

But he’d be lying if he said he didn’t want you.

A/n: thank you for reading! any feedback is welcome

Pairings: Platonic!Sam Wilson x Reader, Platonic!Bucky Barners x Reader, Reader is Steve’s Daughter

Summary: Steve goes back in time to return the stones, and decides to stay there. Y/n, his daughter, can’t help but feel abandoned, and to make matters worse, Steve decided to leave the shield - and the responsibility that comes with it - to her.

Word Count: 2.5k

A/n: this is an AU I’ve had in my head for a while, and I’m glad I finally got to write it out. Again, english isn't my first language. Thank you @currentlygettinglobotomized for proof-reading. Enjoy!

Being the daughter to the one and only Captain America has its benefits.

That's what you tried to remind yourself as you walk towards the museum, flashing lights and loud reporters following your every step. You've learned how to tune them out by now, to focus on getting from where you are to where you need to be, but you're not on your best game today. You chalk it up to nerves - the crowd's never been this big before, and it's usually filled with fangirls, not government officials - but you know that's not the reason why you feel uneasy.

To be truthful, you haven't been on your best game for a while now, that seems to be a side effect of your father's absence. Maybe it's because you miss him, because he brought you comfort, or maybe because you feel absolutely abandoned by the way he fled without so much as a warning, just to give you a huge responsibility after coming back, but this time away from him has not done you any good.

Either way, he left you with a mess to clean up, so that's what you're doing now.

You think you're finally about to burst until you see Sam coming in your direction. It's great to see someone who isn't trying to dig holes into your heart behind a microphone. He's smiling, which isn't a rare sight, but you doubt there's much to be happy about today. Really, you're stressed and currently resenting him for looking like he's slept in the last few days.

When he reaches you, you feel a weight lift off your shoulders, though that might just be because the reporters were forced to move farther away from you. The paparazzi isn’t new to you, but everything is overwhelming today. Side effects of big speeches, you figure.

"I can feel the nervous radiating off you," he says, and if it was anyone other than Sam, you might have become defensive at his words.

He's become something of  an uncle to you over the years, ever since he and many other shocked superheroes found out that Captain America was not in fact a virgin, but rather a father of a now 19 year-old girl.

You have no reason to lie to him, at least not right now, so you let your guard down. "I am nervous. It's a big day."

"And you'll do great. Just give the speech, which I know you've practiced in the mirror at least 12 times," he pauses to look pointedly in your direction, and you can do nothing but shrug, because you know he's right. "You don't have to take any questions if you don't want to. Just walk off stage, I'll be by the steps, and then we'll drive off into the eternal sunset or whatever you kids imagine these days."

Part of you wishes you could keep your practically tattooed-on frown, but you'd be lying if you said Sam's words didn't help, even if just a little bit. "What would I do without you?" You ask, stopping before the steps of the stage you're supposed to be up on.

Sam smiles before beginning to move into the crowd of politicians. "Worry yourself to death, probably."

Imagining the audience in their underwear is not as effective as you thought it would be.

Your voice is still stuck in your throat and your hands are still sweaty no matter what color of lacy panties you envision the front row in. Your knees still wobble and your eyes still water even though the senator looks hilarious in heart-printed boxers.

Still, you decide you have to push through and give the speech. The sooner you start, the sooner you get it over with. And you’re dying to get this over with.

"Steve Rogers is... was a great man. He was a legend. A man who did what little could do. A hero among us." You take a deep breath to keep the tears in your eyes from spilling.

"But like all good things, his life had to come to an end."

The little silence that rang out before you started talking was quickly overpowered by the gasps and whispers of those present. They're most likely wondering the same thing that’s been on your mind as of late; is Captain America really gone?

"He died a peaceful death, surrounded by those who he loved most. But we all know that the life, and now death, of Steve Rogers has a greater impact than just those who were lucky enough to be there.

"So today, we not only recognize the man that he was, but also the symbol that he carried; The symbol of Captain America. A symbol of hope and patience and a possibility for a better future. The space he left behind is difficult to fill-" you take a deep breath "-and it’s not one I'll try to mend.

"I am not Steve Rogers. I can never be him, and I will never try to be him. But as his daughter, as one of the people who knew him best... I will use every single lesson he taught me throughout the little time we had together to be - to be a fraction of what he was.

"A part of us, a part of me, died with him, but Steve was nothing if not resilient. And in this time, every part of him that is reflected in each of us is more important than ever. So let us, too, be resilient. Let us, too, be brave and strong and kind, like he was.

"Because Steve Rogers may be gone, but Captain America lives on forever."

You would kill to be home in your pajamas right now. Instead, you're stuck outside of your favorite Chinese place, being bombarded with flashing lights and burning questions.

In retrospect, you should've let Sam get out of the car to grab the takeout like he offered, but sitting next to him in pure silence after blowing up on him because "No Sam, it's not okay!" (referring to your dad, obviously) did no good for you, and you were in serious need of some fresh air.

Fresh air my ass, you think as you take a deep breath - something you find yourself doing often recently- in order to avoid yelling at the reporters. They're just doing their job, and you're just trying to get to the car before you make a scene that gets you on the first page of some big newspaper for all the wrong reasons.

A part of you hopes they'll realize you're not really in the talking mood and leave you alone for now, but a smarter voice in your head knows that the chances of that happening on today, of all days, are slim to none. 

People are curious, and when curious, they ask questions.

"Ms. Rogers, Ms. Rogers!" You hear from somewhere in the crowd. As much as you don't want to be here, answering one question won't be the death of you.

"Hi," you greet towards the voice, which you now see belongs to a woman who looks too kind to be in this industry. You hope she'll spare you.

"You say Captain Rogers died a peaceful death. Is that to say that he didn't die during the final battle against Thanos?" The question isn't difficult to answer, but it still makes your heart ache. Any question about him makes your heart ache, really.

"No. Uhm, Captain Rogers didn't die during the battle against Thanos.”

"Then how did he die?"

You should've been expecting the question. It was obviously the next one to be asked, given the lack of information given to the public. Most of the details regarding the battle, regarding the reversal of the Blip, in general, was withheld from them. They know that somehow Thanos came back with an army, and that this time around Earth's Mightiest Heroes were prepared, but that's just about it.

It's not like you can introduce the idea of time travel to the general public and expect universal understanding that time is something not to be messed with. People are bound to want to undo mistakes of the past, even if they know it’s dangerous to do so.

It's a fact even you had a hard time processing, even after many nights spent crying in the apartment you grew up in, drowning yourself in blankets that still had the lightest essence of him. 

You were grounded there by what was left of the Avengers after you attempted to make a time-voyage on your own to get a moment with your dad before he went back to return the stones. You remember screaming and crying, but most of all, you remember their pitying looks as they saw you hurting.

You had every right to hurt though.

"My dad made a sacrifice for the greater good of the world we live in. He gave us his life and his death. I only ask that you give his name - our name - some peace."

You dart through the sea of reporters and make a beeline for the car, hoping that you've said enough to keep them away from you.

Technically, your words weren't lies. He did go back in time for the good of the timeline, and every moment from the serum to returning the stones was done in service to the world, but he didn't have to stay back there. No, he chose to do that. He left you, and came back a different man. A man who clearly hadn’t lived the life your dad had.

You try not to think about it too hard as you shut the car door behind you, but you can already feel tears gathering in your eyes.

The quiet tension in the car has died down by the time you and Sam reach your apartment, but he decides it's best to let you be on your own for a while. As much as he helps you, there's only so much a friend of your father's can do to get you closer to healing.

Part of that is letting you think on your own, so Sam drives off after dropping you in front of your apartment building, but not before making your promise that you won't lock yourself in the place for the next week.

You laugh with him, and you say that you won't, but you both know that as soon as you step in the apartment, every emotion you've been trying to suppress will come back rushing to you, and you won't want to do anything but cry and watch tv.

It's the apartment you spent most of your life in, not including the years that your dad was on the run; Tony took you in during that time, helping you cope with Steve’s absence. It didn’t help that you were still adjusting to life in the spotlight, your existence as Captain America’s daughter having been leaked along with the rest of S.H.I.E.L.D. files two years prior.

When your dad came back to you, after the Blip, the two of you moved back into this place. Those five years were difficult, but you were glad to have been able to live them with your dad. It was like you were finally getting back all those years who had lived without him.

Now, the apartment is void of the little joy that it occupied before… everything. 

You kick off your shoes before putting one of your dad’s vinyls in the player. The songs are old and not really your style, but they remind you of him, and you always have a better time when not left in complete silence with your thoughts.

Normally, you’d have turned on some sappy rom-com that you’ve watched a hundred times by now, but the day has been heavy, and you need a shower to wash it away.

You’re barely out of the shower and dressed in comfortable clothes when your phone starts ringing. You mentally curse whoever had the bright idea to try and talk to you today, but go to pick up the phone anyway.

You feel slightly bad for cursing him when you see that the contact on the screen is none other than your dad’s childhood friend, and your favorite uncle (not that you’d ever tell Sam), Bucky.

You swipe to answer his call.

“You did good,” his voice rings from the phone, quiet yet assuring. It’s one of the things you like about him; Bucky always gets straight to the point. 

You sigh before answering. “Yea, that’s what I keep trying to tell myself.”

“Believe me, kid, if you’d done something wrong, you’d know. You did good.”

“I know, I know,” you answer, trying to convince yourself more than him. You’d been planning what to say in that speech for ages, and even though you settled, something in you still felt wrong.

You break the few seconds of silence of the call. “It’s just that… when he gave me the shield, it felt like he wanted me to continue his work, to become Captain America.” You glance at the brown, circular case in the corner of your room, concealing the relic.

“It just feels wrong to hide it, to keep it for myself like I’m the only person who deserves it.”

“If you want, you can always drop it off at my place,” he jokes, pulling a laugh from you. You joke back, saying that you’d bring it around next time you see him.

“But seriously, I know he’d be proud of you. He wouldn’t have given the shield to you if he didn’t trust that you’d know what to do with it.”

 “I don’t know, though. That’s what’s scaring me.”

“You will eventually, though. I know you will,” he responds. Then, he lets out a small breath. “Don’t be a stranger, okay? It’s- it’s hard enough without Steve, those of us still around should stick together.”

Bucky’s the most antisocial person you’ve ever met, so you know he must be hurting if he’s talking about company. In a way, it feels good to know that he’s just as bad as you are, and that you’re not alone in this.

“Uh, yea,” you say. “Thanks, Buck.”

“Anytime.”

The call ends, and you sink back into the sofa, your food now gone cold. You know you should microwave it again, because you won’t enjoy it if it’s cold, but you’re too tired to even reach your tv remote, much less stand and walk all the way to the kitchen.

So, you opt to eat your cold Chinese takeout in silence, with the exception of your dad’s music and the occasional sounds from the now-dark street. You think back on the museum, and the reporters, and the call with Bucky.

It’s a lot to process, and you don’t think you’ll fully get your head wrapped around the situation for a while. You’re tired and overwhelmed and you’re pretty sure you’ve started a big debate over your dad’s legacy that won’t be resolved anytime soon; but for the first time in a long time, you think you’ll be okay.

A/n: thanks for reading! any feedback is welcome.

Pairings: Peter Parker x Reader, Reader is Tony's Daughter

Summary: Y/n and Peter kiss over a movie. When Tony finds out, he lectures his daughter.

Word Count: 854

A/n: hiii! This is my first fanfic and I tried my best, but English isn't my first language. Thanks @currentlygettinglobotomized for beta reading. Anyways... enjoy!

Your dad's being unreasonable.

Sure, he's usually right about a lot of things - an IQ of 270 will get you that far - but this is just one of those things he's wrong about. You're sure of it.

About 3 days ago, Peter had been over to your floor of avenger's tower. The two of you weren't doing anything extraordinary, just a movie playing in the background as you conversed. These movie nights had become a routine between the two of you ever since he'd come by to give Tony some mission reports, but your dad was nowhere to be found. Instead of letting his journey all the way to the tower be wasted (it wasn't really that far, considering his webs), he joined you on the movie you had been watching.

But on that night, something shifted in the air. You weren't paying attention to the movie or whatever topic Peter was droning on about, not that you minded, but rather on Peter. He must have noticed you staring, because he, too stopped talking, and soon enough there was no sound but the beating of your heart - which seemed way faster than you remembered it to be - and the hum of the TV.

You'd never looked at him this way before. You'd never noticed how his skin glowed just right from the reflection of the lamp in the corner of the room, or how his hair was so perfectly messy. But most of all, this was when you first noticed how pretty his eyes were, staring right back into yours. They shone with something - adoration, maybe - that you'd never seen before, and oh how it pulled you in.

Before you knew it, your lips were touching. You don't remember who leaned in first, but it was obvious Peter wanted it just as much as you did. You could feel it in the way he moved against you, gentle but wanting, chasing after your taste. You felt his hands hesitantly move to cup your face, deepening the kiss. You let out a sigh of content, and he takes the opportunity to slip his tongue past your lips.

You could've stayed in that moment forever, and you probably would've, at least for a few moments more, if a certain speedster hadn't decided to break into your floor at that exact moment.

Upon seeing the two of you attempt to break apart from each other, Pietro had said something snarky along the lines of, 'I always knew you two had the hots for each other.' in that annoying way he always does, before threatening to spill the beans of your entanglement to your father.

Now, Tony didn't have anything against Peter, or any set rules about dating set for you, but he seemed to forget that you weren't 11 anymore, and that resulted in a very protective approach from him. If he were to find out about this... whatever this was between you and Peter, he was certain to freak out.

That's what you were experiencing now: 30 minutes on a lecture that felt more like a lifetime about how you shouldn't get involved with Peter, at least not like this.

"... just looking out for you. The life Peter has, it's a dangerous life. I don't want you to be sucked into that because of a little crush-"

"This isn't just a little crush, dad. I care for Peter. He cares about me."

"and I'm not saying that you don't. I believe that he does. But caring won't always be enough when it comes to protecting you."

"Let me decide what's enough. This isn't about you! This is about me!"

"I know this is about you! All of this is for you; I just want what's best for you."

When you realize he's so set on making you stick to his strict moral code that this conversation isn't going anywhere, you sit back down on the couch you didn't realize you'd risen from somewhere in your argument.

"He makes me happy, Dad." Your voice comes out softer than you'd like it to be, but you figure it's fitting for the conversation at hand. "Could you be happy too? For me?"

His brows furrow, his face contorting into what seems like deep thought. You're not sure what there is to think about, though; It's either he deals with the fact that there's something between you and Peter, or he ends up distancing himself from you - and having to deal with the fact that there's something between you and Peter.

The choice seems crystal-clear to you, but then again, you're not sure how your dad's brain works. 

 "I'd do anything for you, kiddo. You know that, " he says, letting out a sigh like the words burn his tongue as he says them. "I can be as happy as you want me to be."

He kneels down to eye-level before wrapping his arms around you. Your dad isn't a hugger, you know that much, but you also know better than to hesitate. He hugs you like he wishes he could say more; you hug him like you're okay with the silence.

A/n: thank you for reading! any feedback is welcome