#clint barton x reader

Peter Parker aka. Spider-Man

Peter has been through a lot. He’s fought villains, lost people he’s loved, and carried the weight of responsibility since he was a kid. But nothing—not Venom, not Doctor Octopus, not the Green Goblin—has ever hit him as hard as opening his phone and seeing you.

He’s perched upside-down on a fire escape, mid-stakeout with Daredevil, when his phone buzzes. He barely glances at it at first, assuming it’s an update from MJ or the Bugle. But then—his Spidey-Sense misfires. His stomach drops. And suddenly, he’s scrambling so fast that he almost falls off the fire escape.

“...Parker?” Matt’s voice is suspicious, brow furrowing beneath the red mask. Peter clutches his phone like a lifeline, heat rushing to his face, his entire body going rigid. “Uh—nope! Nothing’s wrong! Totally fine! Just, uh—gotta—go!” Before Matt can say another word, Peter web-slings away, heart pounding.

Later, in his apartment, he stares at the image, biting his lip so hard he might draw blood. Then, fumbling with his phone, he types back: You cannot just drop this on me in the middle of a mission. I almost DIED. You’re gonna make it up to me. In person. Immediately.

Tony Stark aka. Iron Man

Tony Stark is always the one making people flustered. He’s the king of inappropriate timing, the grandmaster of chaos. So when you flip the game on him? When you send him something completely indecent while he’s in the middle of a live press conference? Oh, he is in trouble.

He’s mid-sentence, standing in front of a sea of reporters, when his phone vibrates. He glances at it without thinking, because hey, it might be about stock prices or another alien invasion. But no. No, it’s you. In the filthiest pose imaginable.

He visibly freezes. Blinks. Blanches. Then—his brain blue screens. The entire room stares as Tony suddenly cuts off mid-sentence, clears his throat, and forces a smirk that’s absolutely not covering up a crisis. “Uh—ladies and gentlemen, I think that’s enough questions for today.”

The moment he’s offstage, he stumbles into the nearest private room, yanks at his tie, and pulls out his phone like it holds the meaning of life. He types back immediately: Oh, now you’ve done it, sweetheart. I hope you’re home right now, because I’m on my way, and I’m bringing consequences.

Steve Rogers aka. Captain America

Steve is not a prude. He’s been around, he’s seen things. But there’s something about you—about the way you know exactly how to knock the breath from his lungs—that makes him feel like a kid again.

He’s in the middle of a strategy meeting with Sam and Bucky, his shield leaning against the table, when his phone vibrates. He checks it without thinking, eyes flicking down—and then every muscle in his body tenses. His grip on the phone tightens. His ears burn red.

“You good, Rogers?” Bucky gives him a knowing smirk, because he immediately recognizes that look—Steve flustered beyond belief. Steve clears his throat, hard, locking his phone like it’s offended him. “Fine,” he says, voice a little too even. “Let’s, uh—let’s keep going.”

But later, when he’s alone, he exhales deeply, pressing a hand over his face before looking at the image again. Then, with slow deliberation, he types: I hope you know what you just started. Because I don’t break my promises, sweetheart. And I promise—you’re not leaving that bed when I get there.

Thor Odinson aka. God of Thunder

Thor has seen battles, has waged wars across the cosmos, has faced monsters and gods. But when his phone pings—when he sees the absolute sin that you’ve just sent him—he forgets how to breathe.

He is in the middle of the Avengers’ common room, laughing boisterously with Bruce and Natasha, when he pulls out his phone. He expects something simple—a text from his brother, perhaps, or a message from Jane. But instead? Instead, he sees you.

The entire room feels it when Thor’s laughter stops. There is a moment—just a beat of silence—before the lights flicker. The air crackles with static electricity. His fingers twitch around the phone, and then, in a low, very serious voice, he mutters, “By the Norns…”

Natasha raises an eyebrow, but Thor abruptly stands, clearing his throat. “I must depart. Urgently.” Bruce frowns. “What? Why?” Thor barely offers an explanation before storming out of the room, typing furiously: You dare tempt the God of Thunder? Very well, little one. You shall learn what it means to summon a storm.

Loki Laufeyson aka. God of Mischief

Loki is the undisputed master of control. He is calm, composed, always one step ahead of everyone else. But when you send him something so shameless, so brazen, in the middle of an important diplomatic event in Asgard—he nearly drops his goblet of wine.

He’s reclining on his throne, listening to some dull ambassador drone on about trade negotiations, when his phone vibrates. He lifts it lazily, expecting nothing of importance—until he sees you.

His entire body goes rigid. His grip tightens around the goblet, the silver denting beneath his fingers. His green eyes darken, and for the first time in centuries, he feels his pulse stutter. The ambassador keeps talking, oblivious, but Loki? Loki is seething.

Later, in his chambers, he lounges on his bed, turning the phone over in his fingers before smirking. Then, with slow, careful precision, he types: You dare tease the God of Mischief? Oh, darling, you are in such trouble. And you know how much I enjoy trouble.

Clint Barton aka. Hawkeye

Clint Barton is used to chaos. He’s fought alien invasions, taken down crime syndicates, and, most impressively, lived in a house with three dogs and somehow survived. But nothing—not the Avengers, not S.H.I.E.L.D., not even Kate Bishop’s endless sarcasm—could have prepared him for this.

He’s in the middle of a debriefing with Captain America and Black Widow when his phone vibrates. Normally, he’d ignore it, but boredom gets the better of him. He sneaks a glance, tilting the screen just slightly—and immediately chokes on his coffee.

“Barton?” Natasha’s voice is sharp, her suspicious gaze snapping to him. Steve looks concerned. Clint, on the other hand, is malfunctioning. He quickly locks his phone, pressing it to his thigh like it’s burning him. “Yep. All good. Just… wrong text thread. You know how it is.”

The second he’s alone, he whistles, rubbing a hand down his face before sending a text: You are absolutely trying to kill me, aren’t you? I’m a trained marksman, babe. You know I always hit my target. Hope you’re ready.

Natasha Romanoff aka. Black Widow

Natasha Romanoff is a professional. She’s endured psychological conditioning, trained with the deadliest assassins in the world, and can lie so well that even she forgets what’s real. But when you send her something so utterly filthy, in the middle of a high-stakes poker game with some very dangerous people—she nearly loses her composure.

She’s holding a perfect poker face, one leg crossed over the other, a cigarette between her fingers (purely for effect). Then, her phone buzzes. She never checks her phone during missions, but for some reason, she does this time.

The second she sees the image, her fingers twitch. She almost fumbles her cigarette. Almost. A single slow breath is all that betrays her before she locks the screen and smirks, adjusting her sunglasses to hide the flicker of heat in her gaze.

Later, after she’s won the game (because of course she has), she finally responds: You must be very confident, sending me something like that. I hope you know what happens when I catch my prey, моя любовь (my love). Because I always catch them.

Bucky Barnes aka. Winter Soldier

Bucky is already always on edge. He spent decades being controlled, his mind fractured, his instincts constantly telling him that danger lurks around every corner. But when his phone vibrates in the middle of a mission briefing and he makes the mistake of checking it—he nearly self-destructs.

He’s sitting next to Sam Wilson, arms crossed, trying to focus on the tactical discussion. Then, out of habit, he glances at his phone. And suddenly? His enhanced heartbeat spikes. His grip on the phone tightens, metal fingers creaking.

Sam immediately notices. “Dude. You okay?” Bucky doesn’t answer. He just exhales deeply, jaw clenching, and locks his phone like it’s personally offended him. “Fine,” he mutters, but the way his throat bobs betrays him.

Later, in the privacy of his room, he leans against the wall, pressing his flesh hand over his face before looking at the image again. Then, he types—slow, deliberate, full of promise: You are playing with fire, doll. And you know I don’t burn alone.

Matthew Murdock aka. Daredevil

Matt has learned to control himself. He has to, considering his senses pick up everything. The heartbeat of a liar, the scent of blood, the whisper of fabric against skin. But when he puts in his earpiece during a stakeout with Elektra and hears you—sultry, teasing, wicked—his composure shatters.

Your voice is a purr, warm and full of amusement, as you describe, in explicit detail, exactly what you want to do to him. Every syllable slides into his ear like a sin, and for the first time in years, Matt Murdock forgets how to breathe.

“Murdock.” Elektra’s voice is unimpressed. “Are you even listening?” Matt clenches his jaw, forcing his expression into something neutral as he slowly removes the earpiece. “Yeah,” he lies, his voice way too tight. “Loud and clear.” But his fingers twitch, betraying him.

Later, alone in his apartment, he plays the message again. And again. Until his own heartbeat is thunderous in his ears. Then, with a slow smirk, he records his reply—his voice low, gravelly, barely more than a rasp: Angel, you have no idea what you’ve just done. And I promise—you won’t be able to walk tomorrow.

Frank Castle aka. The Punisher

Frank Castle does not fluster. He’s a man who’s seen the worst of the world, a soldier who has lost everything. He does not get distracted. But when he’s sitting in the middle of a grimy bar, brooding over a whiskey, and his phone vibrates—everything stops.

He checks it absently, expecting intel from Micro or maybe a warning from Daredevil. But instead, he gets you. And just like that, his grip on the glass tightens. His jaw locks. His entire body tenses, muscles coiled, because you have just sent him something so utterly indecent that he has to set his whiskey down before he crushes the glass.

The bartender notices. “You good, man?” Frank barely glances up, his fingers white-knuckled around his phone. “Fine,” he mutters, voice rough. He shoves his phone back in his pocket and downs the rest of his drink in one go.

Later, in the dead of night, he finally lets himself look at the picture again. He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face, before sending a single message: You think you’re real cute, huh? Yeah. Keep that same energy when I get home. See if you’re still smirking when I’ve got my hands on you.

Marc Spector aka. Moon Knight

Marc has lived multiple lives. A mercenary. A vigilante. A fist of vengeance. But the moment his phone vibrates in the middle of a stakeout, and he sees you—he nearly blows his own cover.

He’s perched on a rooftop, watching a weapons deal go down, his mind sharp and focused. Then, out of habit, he checks his phone. His breath hitches. His grip tightens around the device, and he has to physically restrain himself from groaning. Khonshu’s voice rumbles in his mind: "Your mortal desires are distracting, Spector." Marc grits his teeth. "Yeah, no shit."

“Something wrong?” Jake’s voice purrs from inside his head, amused. “She send you something nice, hermano?” Marc rolls his eyes, exhaling sharply before locking his phone. “Mind your damn business.” But his pulse is thundering.

Later, back at his apartment, he leans against the wall, staring at the image before typing: You have no idea what you’ve just done. Hope you’re home. Hope you’re ready.

Johnny Storm aka. Human Torch

Johnny Storm is used to attention. He thrives on it. He’s a celebrity, a hero, a walking flame. But when you send him something scandalous in the middle of a live television interview, even he isn’t ready for it.

He’s laughing, flashing his signature cocky grin at the camera, when his phone buzzes. He checks it without thinking—because hey, it might be Sue yelling at him again—but instead, it’s you. In the filthiest pose imaginable.

Johnny visibly chokes. His entire body tenses. For the first time ever, he forgets what he was saying. The interviewer blinks. “Uh… Johnny?” His brain short-circuits. His face heats—literally. The tips of his ears ignite before he clenches his fists and forces himself to not spontaneously combust on live television.

The second the interview is over, he’s sprinting to his dressing room, slamming the door shut and typing frantically: Ohhh, you are in trouble. You’re really trying to set me on fire, huh? Hope you’re home, babe, ‘cause I’m flying over. Right. Now.

Reed Richards aka. Mister Fantastic

Reed Richards is a genius. His mind is constantly working at speeds beyond human comprehension. But when he’s mid-lecture at a prestigious scientific conference and his phone vibrates—his brilliant mind suddenly goes blank.

He absently checks his phone, half-expecting an alert from the Baxter Building. But instead, it’s you. Wearing almost nothing.

For a solid ten seconds, he is frozen. His eyes slightly widen. His fingers twitch. And then, very slowly, he locks his phone and clears his throat. “Ah—excuse me, esteemed colleagues, but I must—um—attend to an urgent matter.”

Later, he adjusts his glasses, staring at the image with a fascinated, almost scientific appreciation. Then, with methodical precision, he types: You are a very distracting woman. I will be conducting an… in-depth study on you as soon as I return. Expect a thorough examination.

Felicia Hardy aka. Black Cat

Felicia Hardy is a master of seduction. She flusters men for fun. But when she’s in the middle of a high-stakes casino heist, and you send her something utterly indecent, even she loses her composure.

She’s leaning against the bar, sipping an expensive martini, eyes locked on her mark. Then, her phone buzzes. She lazily checks it, expecting an update from her crew. But instead? Instead, she sees you.

Her eyelashes flutter. Her lips part just slightly. And for the first time in years, her poker face cracks. The bartender—oblivious—raises an eyebrow. “Everything okay, miss?” Felicia exhales, smirking as she locks her phone. “Oh, it’s better than okay.”

Later, she lounges on silk sheets, staring at the picture before purring into her phone: You really think you can tease me, kitten? Oh, sweetheart… you just made a very expensive bet. And I never lose.

Stephen Strange aka. Doctor Strange

Stephen Strange is not easily shaken. He’s fought cosmic horrors, bent reality, and wielded power beyond mortal comprehension. But when he’s in the middle of a magical duel with Dormammu, and you send him a sinfully explicit picture—he almost loses.

He’s mid-incantation, floating above the Sanctum’s rooftop, when his phone vibrates. Normally, he’d ignore it—except something in the back of his mind tells him it’s you. He flicks his fingers, glancing at the screen—and immediately regrets it.

His spell stutters. His fingers twitch. The fabric of reality briefly warps. Wong, standing below, yells, “What the hell was that?!” Stephen clenches his jaw, locking his phone immediately before snapping his wrist and repairing the timeline. “Nothing,” he mutters. “Absolutely nothing.”

The moment the battle is over, he retreats into his study, loosening his Cloak, before typing: You dare distract the Sorcerer Supreme? You have no idea what you’ve just unleashed, darling. And I do hope you’re prepared for consequences beyond mortal comprehension.

Namor aka. The Sub-Mariner

Namor is a king. He does not answer to anyone. He has waged war against the surface world, stood against the mightiest heroes, and commands the loyalty of an entire empire. But when he is seated on his throne, discussing politics with his council, and his communicator vibrates—everything else becomes irrelevant.

He glances down, expecting a diplomatic missive. Instead, he is greeted by you—a vision of temptation, captured in a way that only he has the privilege to see. His grip on the communicator tightens, his lips parting slightly. The light of the display reflects in his dark, narrowed eyes.

The council drones on, but Namor hears nothing. His golden gauntlets flex, his knuckles tightening as his jaw sets. A slow, deliberate exhale is all that betrays his reaction. But those closest to him—his most trusted generals—see the flicker of something dangerous in his expression. A storm, barely contained.

Later, as he stands upon his balcony, overlooking the endless ocean, he types a single response: You seek to tempt a king, my love? Then be prepared for the wrath of a god. When next we meet, you will drown in my devotion.

Johnny Blaze aka. Ghost Rider

Johnny Blaze has seen Hell—literally. He has ridden across the desolate highways of damnation, stared into the abyss, and laughed. But when he’s sitting in a biker bar, nursing a whiskey and half-listening to some guy ramble about the Devil, his phone vibrates. And when he checks it—he nearly sets the whole place on fire.

The image of you is burned into his mind, seared into his soul. He sucks in a slow breath through his teeth, his fingers tightening around the glass. His knuckles go white. Somewhere deep inside, the Spirit of Vengeance chuckles.

“Something wrong, Blaze?” One of the other bikers eyes him warily. Johnny forces a smirk, setting his whiskey down before he crushes the glass in his grip. “Nah,” he rasps, his voice a little too rough. “Just realized I got… unfinished business to take care of.”

Later, on his Hellfire-coated bike, he sends a text: You got a real bad habit of making me wanna sin, sweetheart. And I promise—I’ll make sure you repent. Over. And over.

Eddie Brock & Venom aka. Venom

Eddie Brock has been through hell. He’s fought monsters, been one himself, lost everything, and still kept going. But nothing—not a damn thing—could prepare him for the absolute carnage of getting that picture from you in the middle of a crowded subway.

He’s scrolling through his phone absentmindedly, Venom muttering in his head about wanting tater tots, when the image loads. For a solid five seconds, he is completely still. Then—

“Eddie.” Venom’s voice rumbles, amused. “Your mate is very… bold. We approve.” Eddie, red-faced, slams his phone against his chest like that’ll somehow erase what just happened. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, eyes darting around to make sure no one saw. A teenager across from him raises an eyebrow.

Later, when he’s alone, he finally lets himself look at the picture again. A slow, predatory grin spreads across his face as he types back: Oh, you think you’re being cute, huh? Yeah. Just wait till I get my hands on you. Hell, maybe we’ll even let Venom have a little fun, too.

T’Challa aka. Black Panther

T’Challa is a king, a warrior, a legend. His mind is a fortress, his will unshakable. But when he is seated in the royal palace of Wakanda, surrounded by dignitaries, and his Kimoyo Beads alert him to a personal message—his focus wavers.

He allows himself a discreet glance. And in that moment? His heart skips a single beat. His fingers—steady even in the heat of battle—tighten just slightly around his beads. His expression does not change. But to those who know him well—Okoye, Shuri—they notice the subtlest flicker of something dangerous in his eyes.

Shuri smirks. “Brother,” she murmurs, leaning in. “You look… distracted.” T’Challa exhales deeply, locking the message with a casual flick of his fingers. “I am merely… anticipating a conversation.”

Later, when he is alone, he reviews the picture once more, fingers grazing his jaw before he types: You are testing my patience, beloved. And you know I am a man of great discipline. But for you? I am willing to break my own rules. Expect me soon.

Elektra Natchios aka. Elektra

Elektra Natchios does not fluster. She has slit the throats of kings, danced on the edge of oblivion, and played cat-and-mouse with death itself. But when she is sharpening her sai on the rooftop of a New York high-rise and her phone buzzes—her grip falters.

The blade nicks her glove. Barely. But it happens. Her lips part in a slow, dangerous smirk as she tilts the phone toward the moonlight, drinking in the absolute audacity of your message.

“Something amusing?” A voice—a rival assassin, lurking in the shadows. Elektra does not answer. She merely tucks her phone away, standing smoothly, her stance lethal. “Yes,” she purrs. “Something… very amusing.”

That little comment made your eye twitch, your mouth moving and spewing words before your brain could even process what the fuck it entailed. “Sure, whatever you say, golden titanium guy.”

A minute ago, one could describe you as smug in that totally amazing comeback—the quirk found on the side of your lips was enough proof of that. But that was a minute ago. Now, you’re fucking terrified. To say that you were shocked by your own words would be an understatement—you froze, taking a moment to register what the fuck you just said and contemplating whether to run in humiliation or kill yourself in front of three of the Earth’s Mightiest Heroes™️.

Because it would’ve been fine if Iron Man himself released his suit blueprint to the press—or maybe if it was leaked from somewhere—‘cause then you would’ve had a concrete alibi. You could’ve blamed it on the press. You could’ve blamed it on the leakers who released the files in 144p resolution. But it wasn’t. None have been close enough to leak even a smidgen of it. All they had was the very first model made out of scraps and deconstructed missile parts. Only the born-genius CEO Mr. Anthony Edward Stark (and very close friends) would know the specifics.

It was then that you came to an interesting realization that your very hyperactive mouth would possibly be the death of you.

Tony paused, the gears in his head slowly turning while he tried to digest your mini fuck-up. “Okay, first of all, it’s titanium gold-alloy; get your stolen facts straight—it’s in the specifics. Second… how do you know that?”

“What that?” As you can see, your new tactic is to play dumb, and it’s working pretty heavenly so far. Heavy on the so far part.

“That! Because as far as I know—‘cause, TMI, I control which files get released—and that, specifically, was not public info.”

“I—woah—I didn’t say anything. Did you see me say something…?” You looked at Thor for backup, telepathically pleading to go along with your bullshit—and by telepathic, you mean obnoxiously large eyes staring and quick eyebrow quirks. He slowly shook his head before looking away, avoiding further eye contact. Suspiciously. “Exactly! Even the big guy agreed. I said nothing.”

Tony lifted a finger, mouth opening as if he was intending to make a point. Blinked once. The point vanished. His mouth closed, finger still raised. “You’re trying to gaslight me, aren’t you?” As if the realization had finally settled, he continued, “It’s not working.”

“I’m really no—what was that?” You froze, feeling the low vibrations from the ground in your already weakened knees—either from defending your case or the earlier happenings, you don’t quite recall.

Then all of a sudden, their tiny in-ear comms buzzed, a certain redhead assassin’s voice coming through. “Hey, you’ve got an incoming.” She said, almost out of breath, as she wrestled a mob of human-sized cyclops aliens, inching closer to where all of you were.

So really, it’s no surprise that even you—the resident if-I-don’t-see-it-it-doesn’t-exist—noticed, ‘cause that hair was criminally way too iconic to forget, and, apparently, your dirt-poor eyesight seemed to turn into perfect 20/20 vision when hot women were present (relatable).

But focusing on the rising issue at hand.

It felt as if time stood still, neither of you moving an inch except for taking a few puffs of breath, waiting for the unexpected. Well, that was until a huge monstrosity appeared in your peripherals, making your flight-or-flight (in this specific situation) reflexes activate. It was green—and no, it wasn’t Hulk (but even if it was him, you think you’d react the same way—in the name of self-preservation and all). It has a face vaguely reminiscent of an ant if you’ve seen it under a microscope, and a big, bulky body that puts sixteen-wheelers to shame.

Now, in theory, this would be the perfect time to try and experiment with hypothesis number three—for the sake of science, of course. However, you’re gonna take an educated guess that if that thing does as much as touch you, you really wouldn't be able to test the rest of your hypotheticals. Permanently.

So you infer that it would be more than nice to sit this one out. Flight it out, if you will.

“We’re gonna continue this conversation later. We’re not done yet.” Tony muttered, briefly looking at you before taking off—with you comfortably nestled in his arms, in an unexpected princess carry. You could only do as much as blink before you were already up in the sky, hands grazing the clouds. Man, whoever sold the story that clouds are soft was fucking lying. It felt damp—and sad.

“Oh my fucking god, I’m airborne.” You whispered, half from disbelief, half from glee. It's not your fault you couldn’t hide that giddy excitement bubbling inside you! Because damn, you weren’t only flying literal meters above the ground; you were also being carried by thee fucking Iron Man—in the flesh! Not to mention the on-the-spot encounters with three Avengers? Holy shit.

“First time?” Your kidnapper quipped, still as smug as ever. You’d smack him if you could—but you wouldn’t, not when he literally has a hold of your life right now.

And Tony—poor, unfortunate Tony—does not fucking understand why he brought you with him. So don’t even attempt to ask—he, too, does not have the answer. He needs his lawyer. And maybe his emotional support american cheeseburger. Because the fuck—what was he thinking, swiping an innocent civilian all of a sudden? It’s not as if you were alone; the captain and the god were with you—you would’ve been safe either way. But it felt as if pure instinct took over, and in the briefest moment of weakness, he’d already gotten you 15 meters off the ground.

“Ugh,” You groaned, with all the dramatics your afloat body has, “You’re annoying,” and finished with a faux sigh.

And Tony, never one to leave a good banter (even if a thousand unsaid thoughts plagued his mind), jumped at the chance. “Thanks, it’s part of the charm.” And god, you can just feel his infuriating, signature smirk without looking inside the robo-suit.

You really, really would've been pissed if only you didn’t have this unfair favoritism toward this overgrown, genius nepo baby (technically).

That’s a lie; favoritism does not exist in your vocabulary.

…But if you were asked, though, your answer may or may not bear a close resemblance to a lady assassin somewhere in the vicinity… perchance… maybe…

“You’re charming? Really?” You deadpanned, feigning disinterest as you attempted to fight off that smile trying to burst from your conniving lips. And damn, you thought you did a pretty good job… but the thought quickly disappeared when you could just feel the judgment radiating off the most verbal judger there is (a.k.a. him, the one and only).

“Sweetie, I saw the heart eyes. You’re not fooling me.”

Now that made you roll your eyes. “Great, you just ruined it.”

“The foreplay? Oh, I would never!” He exclaimed with all the drama he could flare up—channeling his inner (and outer) diva to mess with you. Tony thinks he’s flirting; you just think he’s cosplaying an idiot.

“Eugh,” your eyes rolled on their own, “Not with that attitude, you w—”

The static coming from his helmet-thing cut you off, hearing a faint buzz of comms from the concerningly close proximity you had. No, seriously—it’s mere inches. And it would’ve been romantic if only you weren’t currently negotiating with your eyes not to roam down—only because you’re like a thousand percent sure that the moment you take a glimpse, motor sense and mobility would have you imagine free-falling and plummeting to the cold, hard ground. It’s not a good look.

Meanwhile Tony? Yeaaahhh, he’s enjoying this far too much. He had F.R.I.D.A.Y. scanning your micro-expressions and he’s damn sure you’re close to ruining your pants right at this very moment. He could weaponize that, yes, then maybe he’ll bore witness to your flushed face? What a reward. Your flushed face, he meant. Don’t get it twisted.

“Don’t fall down now.” Tony jested, holding you tighter and amping up the speed of his gear as he tried to pinpoint a safe roof to drop you off.

“You’re literally holding me—fuck, don’t literally drop me!” And you’re fighting for your life, as you can see; holding on even tighter—tightest, actually.

Tony finds it adorable, and he’s royally pissed off ‘cause he has zero idea why. It’s unbecoming of him, really. The famous genius playboy having a heart failure due to a close-up scene? Comical.

“Stark! We need you down here; stop flirting!” The infamous archer was heard out of breath—it was obvious he was increasingly becoming pissed off with each passing second that the tech genius wasn’t moving to help annihilate those utterly ugly aliens—cutting Tony’s reverie short. Oh right, he thought; there’s still a job to do, then he sighs.

“Heard ya, Legolas. On it.” And of course he had to play it cool; he has a persona to maintain.

“You are one dangerous distraction.” Now Tony’s speaking to you, prior thoughts suddenly out of the metaphorical mental window.

You blinked, eyes darting from left to right as if looking for an imaginary audience-slash-person he could’ve been talking to, with a sole brow raised in judgment, ‘cause it’s most certainly not you. You think. “…I’m not even doing anything.” Well, as far as you’re aware, that is.

“Sure. Stay here—wait for me to come get you out.” Then Tony’s gently lowering you to the ground while briefly killing his firepower to—well—safely escort you over the chaos-less part of the NYC rooftop. If you weren’t actively thinking you’d gone clinically insane, you would’ve gawked at the view. Too bad then, maybe next time.

“This is literally a thirty-story building; how would I even get out?” Well, no need to point out the obvious, is there?

“Tough crowd. See you later, smarty pants.”

“Wha—hey!”

And with that, he flew away; only the sounds of his engine blasting to life served as a memory that he really was there, and honestly? Big respect. He didn’t let anything get in the way of world peace—or whatever the hell that quote meant. All you knew was that whoever made it did not account for aliens manifesting in terms of black holes and causing havoc on Earth, specifically in NYC—but what do you know? Technically, you’re also an alien by default. Just… more human-ish and mildly pathetic.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

“Okay, great. Totally awesome. Let’s see what we’ve gathered so far—uhm—I’m alone; that much is obvious. Did I die, or have I gone clinically insane? The latter part seems more accurate to me. And—eugh—why am I monologuing verbally? Am I crazy? What if there are cctvs and I’m fuckin’ blowing off my shit? This is crazy. Totally crazy. God, I’m doing it again!”

You were rambling.

One moment, you were spouting just a few words of nonsense; then the next, you were reciting essays like sonnets if they had a midlife crisis—which is fucking insane to think about ‘cause you weren’t even nearing midlife yet! God, just thinking about timeline hopping is making you go insane (read: if you weren’t already; refer to statement of the problem numbers two and one, respectively), because that would mean there is an off chance that this wasn’t in the movies—you have zero idea what the premise of this tomfoolery will be—zero. So, you need a plan. Stat.

“Okayokayokay, I need a fuckin’ chalk—or like, a rock that's chalk-adjacent. Need’ta plan this shit out if I wanna stay alive during this whole fuckin’ catastrophe.” Whispering to yourself, keeping your volume in mind, you circled the vicinity—trying to find something to write your short-term plan (preferably on paper, but the ground will do—after all, beggars can’t be choosers). “Okay, found one—okay no, I think that's a carcass, ew fuck. Nevermind.”

Safe to say, you’re positively traumatized.

“Okay, well, I guess we’re going verbal.” You scoffed, gave up on finding something to write with, and just plopped down like a sad piece of puddle. “H-one is either I’ve gone insane—which, actually, isn’t so far-fetched, now that I’m thinking about it. I mean, I did forget my name—which is a crazy thing to think about, actually. And saw some aliens.” You shivered at the thought—an actual, full-body shiver while reminiscing about those damned gooey guts crammed into your memory.

“Fuck those aliens, man. Negative ten outta ten, would never want to experience that ever again.”

Shaking your head to disperse your bittersweet thoughts, the droplets of rain descending from the sky seemed to share the same sentiment. The weather was uncertain; light droplets turned into heavy rainfall, then changed into something mellow—as if knowing how you felt and sharing the same burden with you so you could feel less alone—all in a span of ten minutes (more or less). Precisely like your mood.

“Or maybe this is an incredibly orchestrated dream sequence simulation? It would explain the… marks?” Muttering, you stared blankly at the symbol magically engraved on your left hand thenar with profound confusion.

“Fuck, exactly like Jumanji. Maybe this is like—a promo for Jumanji 3, but the Avengers Edition?” Sweeping your hair out of your face, you closed your eyes, letting the cold caress of the rain soak you. With everything that happened in the past hour, it was the only thing that felt real.

“This is why I shouldn’t be left alone.” The words slipped before you realized, yet it’s something that sits so heavily. Because in truth, what really did happen to you? God, that was phrased so nostalgically, but you really can’t understand. Your mind just refuses to.

What happened and why were you… here? Wherever ‘here’ was.

Because you don’t remember dying. If you did, you would’ve remembered the phantom pain of being killed once.

You don’t remember being admitted to a psychiatric hospital. If you did, what would happen to your poor siamese kitten?

You don’t remember shifting realities. If you did, then what the fuck. Why this world—specifically?

So really, what did happen?

And, god-fucking damnit, what year was it??

Most importantly, what timeline were you in?

Then, you heard a voice. A smooth, sultry voice that you want nothing more than to ignore. “Would you like me to change that?” He was behind you, and you couldn’t be bothered to look. If you did, then you would’ve looked pathetic and god, you’d rather not have that first impression again.

“Shush, I’m trying to concentrate.”

The man chuckled, “I’m pretty certain that is not how you talk to a God,” or God, rather, as he so graciously dubbed himself.

“What god—oh.” Then you turned around—each passing millisecond making you regret why your body was too curious and decided to take a peek before consulting with your brain.

“Hello, mortal.” The God chuckled in mirth, mischievousness and smugness radiating off him, as a familiar signature smirk made you step back subconsciously.

“Oh. Oh no. This can't be great.” Impulsiveness would be the death of you—if you weren’t certain then, then you’re quite frankly certain now.

“Say, what do you think about a change in scenery?” He asked, giving you the illusion of a choice. You might be inquisitive, but you are not stupid—anything but, actually.

“I precisely think I shouldn’t.” Using your peripherals, you briefly considered jumping off the roof, but seeing a door slightly left ajar, you quickly decided that it would be the less fun but obvious option.

Except, before you even had the chance to have your thought process formulate…

“Wonderful. Not like you have a choice.”

The God of Mischief had already appeared right beside you, grabbing hold of your forearm so you couldn’t do as much as move an inch.

“Haha… what?” You chuckled nervously, sharply staring at where his hand was—traces of green coating his silhouette; a wave of impending doom filled your gut.

“Not what, no. More like where.”

“…I beg your finest fucking pardon—!!”

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did you enjoy this transition chapter? what about being kidnapped TWICE?? i mean that's gotta be a record, rightttt? divas i’m back!! originally, my leon fic was gonna be posted prior to this baby ‘cause i got tew tired by the amount of kids asking for updates (yes, you’re automatically a kid in my dictionary if you keep asking for ud even if there’s a tag that specifically says i’m shit w time n’ ass with ud—i mean, it’s repetitive and it really gets to a point), but then i remember that there were also various people who had shown their love and support and even written a paragraph of how much they enjoyed it! so then i thought, it’s unfair for those beautiful amazing wonderful divas who understand the concept of fic writing and that it takes time, effort, energy, and toooooons of willpower to write one, so you better thank them for this! you’ve been nothing but kind and supportive, and i truly appreciate you for that! i’ve been hit with the absolute worst case of writers’ block and i’ve had to get myself comfortable with the fact that i can’t always write whenever i want ‘cause inspiration is such a beautiful and awful thing to be slave to—so that’s why i kinda struggle sometimes ‘cause words don’t flow as they normally do. anyways, enuff abt personal me thing—i’m really super excited to introduce spidey! maybe he’ll cameo on the next chapter, maybe another new character will… that purely depends on my very unpredictable brain eughh. (but personally, i'm excited to see natasha eufff, it's not her time yet, i'm afraid) AS ALWAYS, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE SUPPORT AND LOVE!! thank you for loving this crackfic as much as i doooo!! (as always, rbs n comms for kisses—i read every single one! ily you amazing beautiful creative divas!)

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