#mcu headcanons

thank you so much for requesting and feeding my hyperfixation!! below you will find four separate baby blurbs for bucky, john, yelena, and bob. each section will have it's own summary, warnings, and whole lotta smut! enjoy :D

BUCKY BARNES X READER — you're with him in wakanda when he's cured of the trigger words in his head. he's able to touch you for the first time without feeling scared of himself. (established relationship, post-cacw | 1k words)

Bucky Barnes can’t remember the last time he felt this free. Maybe sometime in 1942, he guesses — before he got drafted, before Hydra captured him, before they put those goddamn words in his head. It feels weird that they’re gone now; to be without the dark cloud of impending doom that, at any moment, someone could utter the words and he’d just snap. 

But now, freshly cured and living on the Wakandan countryside, he can touch you for the first time without being terrified of himself.

“You’re so pretty,” he mumbles as his vibranium hand trails up the expanse of your bare back. He keeps his flesh one on your thigh, smoothing his thumb over the plush skin there, and tilts his scruffy chin to smile up at you. He’s got you straddled over his lap, barely clothed and bathed in golden candelight, like some kinda angel brought to life.

“You’re pretty,” you correct with a lovesick grin, raking your hands through his silky, growing locks.

Bucky leans instinctively into your touch. “Don’t make this about me,” he says, squinting.

“It is about you,” you remind him with a giggle, ducking down to kiss his neck. “I’m supposed to compliment you—” Your lips brush his pulse in a chaste kiss. Bucky fights back a shiver. “—Supposed to make you feel good.”

“You do,” Bucky sighs a contented moan, pulling you further into him. “You always do…”

summary : Bruce Wayne always imagined what it would be like if one of his children's biological parents would try to take them back. He just didn't think one of them would be Tony Stark.

word count : 0.8k

type : imagines

pairing/s involved : Bruce Wayne x Adopted! Reader, Tony Stark x Biological! Reader

warning/s : none.

here is my masterlist!

Bruce Wayne stalked you before he adopted you.

The perfect start for a heartwarming father-child tale.

You were just a feral raccoon on Gotham's streets, pickpocketing to live another day but with style.

Because unlike the average street rat, you were apparently a tech genius with pocket-sized armory, and zero regard for safety or legal patents.

OSHA violations? You were the OSHA violation.

Bruce noticed immediately.

He has radar for troubled orphans with violent hobbies.

Especially the ones who built an illegal lab out of garbage in an abandoned building like it was a goddamn science fair.

You tried to be sneaky with the voice modulator and suit disguise.

But the man's adopted enough traumatized kids to know exactly how tall you are, your likely BMI, and how old you probably act after trauma number twenty-seven.

Besides, if your tech landed in the wrong hands? Yikes.

Better Bruce's creepy parent surveillance than Joker's Saturday night plans.

"Wow, lucky me. Gotham's brooding bat takes an interest. You got a thing for orphans or what?"

"I am one."

"Oh shit. Sorry."

You got scooped up into the Wayne's Disaster Shelter.

Dick was overjoyed (as usual).

Jason bro-fisted you and said, "Street rat survival team, assemble!"

Tim adored the free nerd competition.

You bribed Cass with sign language and helped Damian upgrade his murder gadgets (Bruce: "Only non-lethal, I swear to God.").

Alfred loved you like his own but also wanted to strangle you every time you exploded something in the manor and then politely help clean it up with tea and cookies.

And Bruce? Legally your father now.

For security reasons, of course. And emotional ones he won’t admit because he's made entirely of shadows and bad coping skills.

But then Tony Stark happened.

Gala Night: Rich People Pretend They Care™.

Bruce in full playboy mode. Tony in full party gremlin one. The Bat kids hiding in various corners eating free shrimp.

Tony meets you. Calls you Wayne’s "newest collectible action figure."

Ha ha.

But then you banter back. Same sarcasm. Same smugness. Same self-sabotaging charm. Tony froze. Not funny anymore.

Bruce’s eye twitches every time Tony breathes near you.

You both have the same mannerisms. The same smart-ass grin. The same way of dodging personal questions like Olympic champions of emotional deflection.

Tony knew. Deep in his drunken, guilty billionaire gut: Oh no. Mine.

Cue late-night JARVIS hacking montage.

Files, orphanage records, street crime reports, horrifying childhood summaries that feel like Tony's cave trauma but worse.

Built a secret scrap lab like a teenage Iron Man Jr. School genius. Criminal record. Charmer of the press. Tactical flirting. Oh God they’re actually mine.

The guilt spiral became worse. "My maybe kid became Gotham’s feral tech goblin because I wasn’t there. Holy shit, I suck."

JARVIS' voice echoed through the lab. "Sir, emotionally unhealthy levels detected."

"JARVIS, put on my latest Spotify playlist."

"The one labeled 'Daddy Issues', Mr. Stark?"

Tony began to sob. "Yes."

Told Pepper. Told Rhodes. Told Happy.

"Lemme guess. You're gonna drunk-crash Wayne Manor and demand a paternity test?" Rhodes asked, deadpan.

"Correction: fully drunk—"

"No." Pepper interrupted. "We're doing this civilly."

"Civil to the man who dresses like a furry bat?"

"TONY."

Bruce ignored all of Tony’s cryptic "sooo hypothetically…" texts for a week straight because he knew exactly where this drama train was going.

Meanwhile, you? You laughed.

"Wow. Adopted by one billionaire, fathered by another. I'm so blessed. Somebody get me a third sugar daddy for the collection."

"I know a guy." Jason smirked, making eye contact with Damian.

"I offer Grandfather!" The young boy raised his hand. "Or Mother, if you prefer women."

But that night? You cried into Dick’s shoulder until you passed out, because what the hell even is your life anymore?

Happy? Furious? Running away to Metropolis? Maybe Clark Kent needs another child.

The manor went dead quiet.

Sarcasm and jokes were replaced by awkward coughs and therapy recommendations.

Formal meeting day arrived: you, Bruce, Alfred, Tony, Pepper.

All pretending this was normal and not a weird custody divorce hearing.

Double paternity tests (Stark AND Wayne labs because billionaires trust no one).

Tony, for once in his life, tried sincerity:

"Hey... Look. I'm not here to screw things up. If you're mine, I wanna make it right. Please."

"Do I get the Malibu penthouse?"

"I'll give you the world." Dead serious. Collective awkward silence follows.

They wanted to keep it secret.

Good luck. The media pounced like starving wolves. "WAYNE’S NEW KID ACTUALLY STARK’S LOVE CHILD???"

The Internet exploded.

Memes. Fanfics. Conspiracy threads. Elon tried to adopt you using a tweet.

Your life was hell.

Bruce and Tony tried to sue everyone. Alfred began pouring whiskey in his tea.

"Don't worry," Tim said. "If the tests are negative, this all goes away."

Sure. But everyone knew the truth already.

And when the test came back positive?

You just closed your eyes and sighed.

Long. Painful.

Like you aged 300 years in a second.

Tony spoke up first, beaming. "...So, Disneyland?"

"No, but I take cash."

"Noted."

Congratulations.

He doesn’t fall in love easily—but when he does, it’s forever. He’s not just loving you, he’s choosing you, every day.

• Sometimes you catch him staring at you like you’re a lighthouse in a storm he didn’t think he’d survive.

• When you’re tired, he tucks your hair behind your ear and whispers, “You’re safe. Just rest.”

• Likes sitting in the kitchen with you in the mornings, both of you in your pajamas, reading in silence while the coffee brews.

• His love language? Acts of service. Fixes squeaky doors, replaces broken zippers, makes sure the knives are always sharp—quiet things that say “I see you. I’m here.”

• You dance with him to old jazz music in the living room, barefoot, heart to heart. It’s slow, swaying, like time has forgiven him for a while.

• He has nightmares sometimes. When he wakes up shaking, you hold him while he clings to you like you’re his anchor.

• Occasionally he speaks in Russian or Romanian in his sleep—and though you don’t understand the words, you understand the longing in his voice.

• He keeps a photo of you in his wallet. It’s worn at the corners from how often he takes it out to look at it when he thinks you’re not watching.

First thing after he comes home from a hard day, he just wants to strip to his briefs and flop face down on the bed between your spread legs.

He starts by licking you through your panties. There’s something he finds so alluring about basically straining for a taste of you. He likes when he has to work for it and that’s why he’s wrapped around your fingers.

The cloth of your underwear is soaked with his spit and your arousal by the time he finally slips it off. His movements are slow, almost reverent. His fingers trace your skin as they slide down your legs, and he plants kisses as he goes.

When he begins eating you out proper, he’s making love to your pussy. He French kisses it— tongue giving light swipes, lips and teeth devouring, hands bringing you closer and holding you in place for him. The kisses get deeper, and he begins to moan. The more pussy-drink he gets, the more he babbles about how good you are for him and how he loves the taste and feel of you. You’re almost too gone to get any of that. His voice muffled into your cunt gets you trembling.

His thumb plays with your clit sloppily. He likes spitting on it or massaging a bit of his pre into it. And every once in a while, he’ll pull back to stare at your folds like it’s the most unique design he’s ever seen. His other fingers spread and play with your cunt, but he can’t stay away for too long, so he’ll give you a big lick from hole to clit or shove his tongue deep in you before returning to gazing. His eyes are wide with wonder for two whole minutes before he dives back in.

The way he sucks at your arousal makes loud slurping noises. You’ve scolded him for it before, lightly smacking his shoulder at his “table manners.” But he just stares at you— sometimes with an incorrigible, lazy grin; sometimes dead serious as he says, “Stop being embarrassed at me loving your pussy.” You’ve learned to let it go, because on the days you scolded him, he just held on tight to your hips and slurped louder. He’d go on eating you out, orgasm after orgasm, till you were all wrung out.

Gonna tell you something Anon, I love it when guys have that. It's cute and attractive.

Pairing: Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Clint Barton, Thor, Loki, James “Logan" Howlett, Remy Lebeau, Kurt Wagner, Tony Stark, Peter Parker x Fem!Reader

Tags: fluff, suggestive, body worship, teasing, muscles, established relationship

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions

A/N: Probably one of the most attractive things on guys. At least to me. Other than strong hands.

Steve keeps himself very neat, not really because of you, not at first, it's just a habit that he still has from his army days. That being said he didn't miss the way you look at him when he does it. He knows you're looking so he takes his time.

Bucky is a bit more clumsy with it since losing his arm. His new one is good but it's cold on his skin when he needs to groom himself and be nice. But... maybe you can give him a hand when he needs it.

Clint doesn't bother with it much because he doesn't have much of a visible happy trail. It is there when you really look or run your hand down his abs. That being said he doesn't quite see why you like it so much, it's just body hair.

Thor never quite cared to keep himself overly well groomed or to cut down on any body hair. When he tried his hair grew back rougher, which you can feel as you touch his stomach. To him it was never something he had to think about, besides you like it.

Loki brags about how good he looks. Every part of him, even the happy trail which he always keeps well maintained. As he gets ready for bed he might take it slower, to give you time to look.

Logan has always been covered in a lot of rough, bushy hair and his happy trail is no different. For him it's like a path that you can follow as you kiss his body. In fact he has referred to it as that numerous time, making you blush at the implications.

Remy often gets asked if his hair is red everywhere, and yes it is. He chuckles when he tells you that you should check for yourself. Despite how he may seem he does keep himself well trimmed, from his belly all the way down.

Kurt does have a bit more hair there and it's quite soft and fluffy. It's one of the rare parts on his body that's not as cold as the rest of him. But it is quite dark, almost black in contrast with his blue skin.

Tony wants you to look at him as he gets changed. He wears his pants a bit lower when he knows he can work from home. Seeing you ready to kiss every inch of him won't make work easier.

A/N: trying to get back on track of posting consistently🥺 here is a shorter one first... enjoy reading ♡

Marvel Masterlist Masterlist

Frank Castle doesn’t do romance, but...

°•♡...he learns the rhythm of your days with exact precision. He knows when you’ll be tired before you say it, knows when silence is better than words. He adjusts himself around you instinctively, the way soldiers do for one another - making room, covering angles, staying alert without making a show of it. He never frames it as care. He would tell you it’s just awareness. But somehow, you are always accounted for.

°•♡...he touches you like you’re something that could be hurt. Not fragile - just human. His hands are always controlled, even when everything else in him is coiled tight. When he pulls you close, it’s slow, deliberate, checking your reaction with every inch of movement. A hand settles at your back, broad and warm, not to keep you there, but to let you know he’s there if you need it. Frank has spent most of his life learning how much force it takes to break something; with you, he is careful in a way that borders on reverent. He doesn’t linger to make a point or prove anything - he lingers because letting go feels like stepping away from something he can’t afford to lose.

°•♡...he lets you see him when he’s tired. Really tired. The kind of tired that strips away vigilance and leaves only the man underneath. He sits with you on the couch, head tipped back, eyes half-closed, your legs tangled together, letting himself rest against you, trusting you to witness his softness without asking him to explain it.

°•♡...when he kisses you, it’s never casual. There’s always a pause beforehand; just a fraction of a second where he studies your face like he’s looking at art, like he needs to be sure you’re really here with him. His hand comes up slow, rough palm warm against your jaw, thumb pressing lightly where your pulse jumps beneath his skin. It’s not possessive, never - it’s anchoring. Like if he holds you still enough, the noise in his head will finally quiet. He kisses you with intention, with the kind of care that comes from knowing exactly how much damage careless touch can do. No urgency, no hunger that overwhelms - just depth, presence, the steady pressure of someone choosing this moment fully. And when he pulls back, he doesn’t move far; his forehead rests against yours, breath uneven, eyes closed to brace himself against the weight of how much this means. He stays there longer than necessary, memorizing the feel of you, the warmth, the calm - storing it somewhere he can reach when the world gets loud again.

°•♡...he becomes meticulous about your safety. The first thing he looks for in a room are the exits. He looks for suspicious faces. He adjusts where you stand before you even realize you’ve moved. When you’re talking, he listens past your words - to the tension in your voice, to the way your shoulders shift when someone makes you uneasy. He steps between you and strangers so smoothly, conversation unbroken, body angled to shield. If you ask about it, he brushes it off with a grunt, tells you you’re overthinking it. But it isn’t nothing. It’s instinct reshaped by care, violence taught restraint. It’s Frank taking everything he knows about surviving and turning it toward one singular purpose: making sure you are safe.

°•♡...he lets you touch his scars. Not all at once and not without a breath held in between. He watches your hands carefully, not stopping you, just gauging - he needs to be sure this doesn’t change the way you see him. And when your fingers trace the old marks, he stays still, solid beneath your touch. You don’t comment, you don’t ask, you don’t treat it like something fragile or shameful. After a moment, his shoulders ease, just a little, and he exhales like he didn’t realize he’d been holding it in. He doesn’t say anything about it. He just lets you stay close, and that quiet allowance feels like something sacred.

°•♡...he remembers things the way he remembers details before a job. How you take your coffee or what you do when you can’t sleep. He notices the scar you’ve long stopped thinking about, his thumb brushing over it gently, almost apologetic, understanding exactly what lives underneath his hands. He never mentions any of it, never frames it as care. Frank doesn’t say he’s paying attention. He just proves it - consistently, impossible to miss.

°•♡...he sleeps better when you’re there. He still wakes early, still keeps his awareness sharp. But his body settles faster when you’re beside him, as if it recognizes safety before his mind can argue. Sometimes he wakes in the night and reaches out, just to make sure you’re real. Just to remind himself he isn’t alone in the dark anymore.

°•♡...he fixes things you never ask him to. The loose cabinet hinge. The door that doesn’t quite latch. The lamp that flickers when it shouldn’t. He never says anything about it, never expects thanks. He just notices what bothers you and removes the problem so that you’re life is easier.

°•♡...when you talk, he listens. Not the way people pretend to listen, waiting for their turn. When you’re talking, he’s locked in; his eyes stay on you, posture turned your way, attention fixed as if nothing else in the room matters more than what you have to say. Even the small things, even the thoughts you trail off from and try to dismiss before they’re finished - he never interrupts, never rushes you forward. Sometimes he doesn’t say anything at all; he might not always respond with words, but he remembers. And later, when it counts, he proves he heard you.

°•♡...he adjusts himself to you. He shortens his stride when you walk together, lowers his voice when you’re worn thin, shifts his weight so you’re never crowded or left behind. He reads your body language with the same instinct he reads a room, responding without asking, without drawing attention to it. He doesn’t think of it as care. It’s just awareness, reflexive and unspoken - and it’s rooted in how much he wants you to be comfortable, to be safe.

°•♡...he lets you see him smile when no one else is around. It isn’t often, and it never lasts long. Just a brief curve at the corner of his mouth when you catch him off guard, something unguarded slipping through before he can stop it. It’s gone almost as soon as it appears, but he doesn’t take it back. He simply looks away, leaving the moment where it is - something small and unspoken that belongs to the two of you.

°•♡...he stops walking away. He doesn’t say it outright, doesn’t mark the moment he realizes that you’re his home. He just… stays. He stops trying to distance himself, stops reminding you that this can’t last, that he’s not someone you should build anything around. Frank Castle doesn’t make promises, especially not the kind that sound like hope, but he lets you fold into his life anyway. Lets your presence become part of his routines, your silence something he recognizes as familiar instead of dangerous. He stays beside you at night, fully present, no exits planned, no escape routes mapped. For Frank, that choice costs him more than violence ever did - and he makes it anyway.

°•♡...loving you rewrites the rules he thought were unbreakable. He still doesn’t believe he deserves good things, still carries the weight of his past like it’s welded to his bones. But he lets himself want you anyway, lets himself stay. And maybe he never says the words out loud, but every day, in a hundred quiet decisions, Frank Castle makes the same choice: you.

Your feedback and criticism is greatly appreciated; feel free to leave a comment, it means more than you know 💕

Thank you for stumbling onto my blog, enjoy reading 💫

— masterlist.

Loki conjuring little illusions to entertain or annoy you; he'll definitely turn your phone into a frog if you don't give him enough attention.

Him occasionally talking in asgardian mid-dreams.

Romantic gestures that come off as theatrical… until you realize he means every single one.

Teaching him how to use a microwave, and him never trusting it.

Loki being insanely protective, but learning to respect your independence (eventually).

The first time you got sick around him, he completely panicked, cause human fragility is horrifying to him.

Him trying to keep his darker tendencies hidden from you, but you seeing them anyway, and gently helping him carry the weight.

Loki casually shapeshifting into you just to mock you. “Look at me. I’m you. I drink lukewarm coffee and forget where I put my keys.”

Mid-fight bickering that ends with intense make-outs and forgetting what you were even arguing about.

Him calling you “my love” or “darling” in ten languages you don’t know, and theb refusing to translate.

Long, lazy mornings where he refuses to let you leave bed; “The world can wait. I can’t.”

Bite marks. Everywhere. But elegant ones; deliberate, perfectly placed, like he’s signing his name on your skin.

You asking if he used magic during that moment, and him giving you that grin: “Darling, I don’t need magic for that.”

That sharp glint in his eyes when someone else makes you laugh; too sharp to be human, too quiet to be innocent.

“Who was that?” he’ll ask softly, almost too casually, but his fingers tighten on your waist.

The temperature in the room subtly dropping when he’s irritated, rising again when you stroke his arm and say his name like a balm.

Loki magically closing every cupboard you leave open… and then opening them all at once just to scare you for fun.

Him being deeply offended by Midgardian alarm clocks. One morning, he hexed it into a chicken. You had to buy a new one.

Lazy sundays curled up on the couch, Loki draped across you like a spoiled cat, purring contentedly while watching crime documentaries he doesn’t understand.