#bm.writes

retired price, his pension steady, his beard a little grayer and shoulders still thick enough to throw a shadow over you. the years didn’t soften him much, they just settled into him and made him heavier in the best way, the kind of weight you lean on. the kind of weight that pins you to a mattress when he wants you quiet.

and you?

barefoot because he hates hearing your steps on the hardwood. he always says you should take it slow, to watch your balance.

jobless because he insisted, grumbling about “the strain” and “the stress” until you gave in.

pregnant because he couldn’t keep his hands off you once he finally got his damn cabin in the woods.

he builds the nursery by hand. no store-bought crib, no mass-produced nonsense. he sands every panel, and measures every rail twice.

“kid’s not even here and i’m already losing sleep,” he grumbles, but when he sees you in the doorway, one hand resting on your belly, he softens in that price way, barely noticeable unless you know him like you do.

“c'mere, love.” always that low voice. always with the same quiet urgency. he pulls you against him, big rough palm sliding over your bump, thumb stroking slow circles like he’s grounding himself.

you feel him breathe you in. you feel him relax. you feel him claim.

simon’s been watching you- religiously watching you.

he’s obsessed, but not everything about you makes him hard. no… or maybe yes. because sometimes he hates you- you’re too friendly, always smiling, always apologizing, always too sweet and so damn gullible for his liking. he hates you, but he wants you. more like he needs to claim you.

for quite some time now, he’s memorized your schedule with a precision of a soldier-clock in, clock out on weekdays; movies or books and a glass of white wine to loosen the edges of your nights; groceries and errands on weekends. and he’s noticed… you never really have anyone coming over and this detail sits in his mind like a pulse.

to pick the lock on your apartment door is never a challenge. he can only shake his head in disappointment. he can now go in and out of your place. he sinks into your couch, slow enough for the cushion to remember him. the dent will stay though, he wonders if you’ll ever notice. on the center table sits your reading pile- romance novels…he scoffs but his fingers graze the covers, leaving a faint print of heat

he moves to your kitchen. on the sink rests your wine glass from last night. he lifts it, tilts it toward his mouth, runs his tongue along the rim. the wine is stale, but beneath it, there you are. a ghost of sweetness. a trace of saliva that’s nearly evaporated. he tastes it anyway.

the next room- your bedroom. cozy and intimate, but too small for two. he sits on your soft bed; it creaks under his weight. the sound makes him harder- the thought of you there, soft, pliant, half-asleep makes him clench his jaw. he wants to ruin this stillness, claim it until the bed frame breaks.

he stands and goes to your drawers. pulls one open, there he finds fresh underwears, folded neatly. he plucks a baby-pink pair, wondering how something this small could cover anything. he brings it to his nose- no, this isn’t your scent. just clean fabric. he puts it back, his eyes shifting to the laundry basket beside the dresser.

he rummages until he finds a soft white lace one- creased, worn, soft with use. he inhales.

this… this is you.

he closes his eyes, the scent of you seeping into the rawest parts of him, making his cock twitch under his tightening pants. he rolls it tight and slips it into his pocket.

the morning was quiet, sunlight spilling through the kitchen window and your coffee still steaming as you scrolled through your phone. across the room, bucky was babysitting, which mostly meant sitting cross legged with your two year old in front of the fridge, helping him stick magnetic letters onto the door.

you smiled, half distracted, until the pattern of letters caught your eye.

sH0w ME uR

your brows arched.

then he added another.

“T.”

“I.”

“good lord, buck,” you muttered, setting your mug down and pinching the bridge of your nose.

he didn’t even glance your way, just reached for another letter, that damn smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“T.”

“S.”

“is this your idea of foreplay,” you asked, voice low and half laughing, “or are you trying to tell me our son’s hungry?”

he finally looked up, blue eyes glinting with mischief. “can’t a guy multitask?”

you tried not to smile but failed miserably and then you muttered, “you’re impossible.”

“sit.” price pats his thigh, voice low and edged with command. you swallow and still hesitating.

“don’t make me say it again.”

you move slowly, lowering yourself onto his lap as his hand finds your waist immediately, firm and unyielding, while the other still holds the cigarette he confiscated from you.

“i thought the rules were clear, no smoking in the common area.”

then, almost languidly, he brings the cigarette to your lips.

“open,” he says, and you obey.

“inhale.”

you take a long, slow drag. the smoke coils in your lungs, a familiar warmth and dizzying feeling.

“hold it,” he murmurs, thumb brushing the edge of your lips. he leans closer, palm sliding up to hold your jaw, lips hovering just above yours.

“exhale,” he whispers.

you release the smoke in a sigh. he catches it, lips parting close to yours, sucking it in before turning his head to exhale away.

“again,” he says, voice a husk of command.

you bring the cigarette back, another deep inhale. and this time, he tilts his head, taking an angle, and pressing his lips yours and then he murmurs, “exhale.”

your lips form a soft o, smoke unfurling between you, only for him to steal it, a breath shared like a second kiss.

he exhales slowly, the ghost of smoke tracing the air between you. his hand tightens at your waist.

“no more smoking in the common area, sweet girl,” he murmurs against your ear, his voice rough silk.

“get back to your quarters.”

the lights were dimmed, pale blue and silver washed over the ice. you looked ethereal. short sparkling dress hugging every curve, hair pinned perfectly, gliding across the rink with effortless grace beside your partner. the music swelled and he lifted you into a perfect throw jump. you spun and theb landed. his hands steady on your waist, guiding you into the next lift like you weighed nothing.

from the stands, ilya rozanov sat rigid, jaw clenched so tight it could cut glass. arms crossed, eyes dark, that white jacket from earlier now looked too tight across his broad shoulders.

the routine ended with a dramatic final pose, your partner dipping you low, face inches from yours. and the crowd erupted.

you bowed, smiling politely, cheeks flushed from exertion. but the second you stepped off the ice, ilya was there. towering, waiting like a storm cloud in human form.

you spotted him immediately and smirked, still catching your breath.

“ilya. you came.”

he stepped close, voice low and rough, english clipped and heavy with that delicious russian accent.

“da. i came. who is this… boy touching you? lifting you? holding you like he has right?”

you raised an eyebrow, twirling a loose strand of hair, still riding the post-performance high.

“that’s my partner, rozanov. we’ve been skating together for two years. it’s called pairs skating. not a crime.”

ilya’s eyes narrowed. he didn’t shout. he never really did. he just got… quieter, more intense. one big hand caught your elbow, pulling you gently but firmly away from the barrier, closer to his chest.

“is not right,” he muttered, struggling a little with the words but making his point crystal clear. “he holds you here—” his palm brushed your waist “—and here—” fingers ghosted your lower back. “too close. too fucking long. i do not like.”

you laughed softly, tilting your head up at him with that sassy little grin.

“that’s a you problem, ilya.”

his nostrils flared. for a second, you thought he might just throw you over his shoulder and drag you out of the arena. instead he leaned down, breath warm against your ear, voice dropping into that dangerous rumble.

“a you problem?” he repeated, accent thickening. “da. is my problem when other man touches my girl. makes me want to break his arms. then put my hands on you instead. Show you how real man holds what belongs to him.”

you shivered despite the cooling rink air. “possessive much?”

ilya’s lips twitched, the closest thing he had to a smile.

yes-cember, i do | proposal collections

7th december | miguel o’hara | kitchen fight proposal | a broken mug

“fine! then marry me, if you think you can handle me forever!”

tags: mix of angst and fluff.

notes: not beta read. this is written in advance to make sure i can get it posted on time. hope you like it. i grabbed the divider from @saradika-graphics 💛 ty ty ty

miguel is pacing around the kitchen like a storm. one hand clutching his datapad, the other stabbing buttons on the microwave because apparently one more protein bar will fix whatever crisis he’s drowning in. you tried, for the third time, to get his attention. not to fight. to talk. to plan. to be partners.

“miguel! get your wounded ass here right now!!”

of course, he refuses, pretending he heard nothing.

“one month on the HQ couch, i swear to god!!” you yelled at him again, patience running thin.

“you wouldn’t…” he murmured.

“yeah? try me.”

he throws a theatrical, wounded look at the skyline, declares, “you win this round,” and then because dignity is elastic, he points at Peter B. Parker. “and you… GO! stop gawking like you’re reading a menu!”

poor peter scrambles. gwen cackles.

**

the battle had ended in smoke and fractured light. you dragged miguel back into HQ by the wrist, ignoring his muttered spanish curses and the scowl carved into his sharp cheekbones. his suit clung damp against his side where you’d pressed makeshift gauze.

“you’re impossible,” you hissed, shoving him gently into the infirmary chair. “bleeding like a stuck pig and still barking orders. you know how insane that is?”

he leaned back, unrepentant, eyes hooded and gleaming with that stubborn, wolfish grin. “no chance in hell i’d leave you out there alone, querida.”

“don’t ‘querida’ me,” you snapped. the word still curled low in your stomach, though, traitorous heat blooming there as your fingers grazed the hard plane of his chest, sticky with sweat & blood. his muscles tensed under your touch, half pain, half something else.

miguel smirked faintly. “you’re scolding me like my abuela.”

“your abuela didn’t threaten to exile you to the HQ couch for a month.”

that finally cracked him, his mouth broke into a crooked grin, teeth sharp, wicked. “that’s cruel and unusual punishment. you wouldn’t survive a night without me.”

“try me.”

but when you pressed clean gauze against his side, he hissed, and the sound dragged your attention down, your hand braced against his hip, so close, heat radiating through the cut of his suit. his breath hitched. the tension in the air thickened.

“you’re ridiculous,” you murmured. “and reckless.”

“and yours,” he countered, voice dark, velvet, leaning in so close his fangs nearly brushed your lip.

the protest died in your throat. he caught your chin with blood-stained fingers, kissed you like a man still halfway in battle, still buzzing on adrenaline. hard, claiming, desperate. you should have pushed him back. should’ve reminded him he was hurt, but instead you found yourself straddling him in that sterile chair, his claws dragging slow fire down your thighs.

“you can’t-” you gasped against his mouth.

“can’t what?” he rasped, grinding up into you with bruising intent. “can’t need you? even half-dead, i’ll always need you.”

the infirmary lights hummed overhead. his body was fever-hot beneath you, each movement fraying the line between fury and hunger. he groaned into your skin when you tugged his hair, muttering low in spanish, promises that burned and soothed all at once.

and when you finally leaned back, lips swollen, breathless, you laughed. “i meant you can’t fight while you’re wounded, idiot.”

marc has always been the impossible dad muse for me, so i dissected his alter egos first. this is a mix of mcu series and comics versions (preferably mackay’s run).

(edit: marc is finally included here, hehe)

series!steven grant

sweet and gentle, steven is constantly running “how-to” manuals for baby care in his head. working in the museum’s gift shop and interacting with children daily has trained him in patience, which naturally extends to your little one. he’ll guide marc subtly in their headspace but never wants to steal marc’s “firsts”, he wants marc to experience every panic, frustration, and triumph.

your six-month-old son is fussy. marc crouches by the crib as notices drooling, small rashes on the chin, and constant rubbing at his left ear.

“little one’s teething, marc.” steven murmured softly in their headspace.

marc blinks, trying to mask panic. “how did you know?”

steven adjusts his glasses, glancing at your drooling, fussy baby. “symptoms, timing… lower teeth usually erupt around six months. he’s right on track.”

marc rubs his temple. “where’d you learn all that?”

“try grabbing a book, eh?” steven scoffs lightly, but there’s a softness in his tone. then, he reaches for the pacifier. “fill it with her breastmilk, freeze it, give it to him when he’s fussy. let him chew.”

marc watches, half amused, half in awe. trusting steven comes naturally, even in the chaos of new parenthood.