#mcu reader insert

He's lounging, one leg crossed over the other, hands steepled in his lap. Not a single hair out of place, nor muscle braced. Whether that means he trusts you to fly safely out of this storm, or simply doesn't care whether the damn thing goes down in flames, you're not sure. You don't ask.

You don't want the answer.

So when the radar pings a safe-house just a hundred clicks off-course, you make a hard turn toward it with zero apology.

The landing is rough. Metal groans as the craft slams down on a barely-visible patch of ice-washed earth. But she holds. Barely.

You unbuckle fast, tossing Loki a look over your shoulder. "Hope your highness can handle a night in a little mountain shack."

His brow raises. His smirk is slow, knowing.

You don't give him the satisfaction of looking flustered. You just shove the hatch open and duck out into the freezing sleet with a scoff.

You'd never usually leave a craft in the open like this, but the visibility is shit and the airspace is fucked; no one will be flying overhead - not even the combatants that'd been pursuing you fifty-odd clicks back.

The safe-house cabin appears like a ghost out of the storm, flickering through thick sheets of sideways rain. You reach the door, slap your hand on the bio scanner, and hear the click of the lock just as Loki falls into step and you both slip out of the weather.

The door shuts with a solid thud - and for the first time in hours, silence rings.

Peace. Safety.

Both of you stand still, breathing hard. You're not sure if it's the cold or the tension. Maybe both.

But it’s tranquil in here. Nice, even. Far from a little mountain shack.

You step further in, the dim lights automatically fading on, and you glance at the windows, which seem to be holding tight against the icy rain lashing against them. Wind howls through the trees and scratches at the glass like a leopard's claws, but the place seems solid.

No sooner had you stepped in further did thunder crack so close it felt like the gods were arguing just over the mountain-

Wait...

"That's not your brother, is it?" You look at Loki over your shoulder, half-joking.

"No," Loki's low, rich voice chuckles behind you. "Not nearly dramatic enough."

You're almost soaked-through from the dash, a chill threatening to settle into your bones, but you notice that, though isolated, the safe-house isn't freezing. The lights are low and warm, casting the room in comforting haze. It feels luxurious; hardwood floors, thick rugs, a fireplace in the centre of the wall, opposite to the kingsized bed draped in earth-coloured linens and furs and- wait. Fuck.

Bed. Singular.

You look around and quickly confirm the sheepish feeling sinking into you. This is a studio. Designed for one. Or for a couple.

Who... the fuck decided that only one bed was appropriate for safe house?

Instead of making it a big deal, you declare, "I'm going to shower to warm up."

Loki looks to the stone mantle and says "I'll make a fire."

But as soon as the word fire leaves his lips, the empty cavity hisses to life, flames beginning to spark and build. You bite your lip as Loki scowls.

"Spooky," you tease, twirling your finger to the ceiling. "The cabin must be haunted by helpful ghosts."

Loki swings that scowl on you, but softens it. "We do also have technology on Asgard, you smug little goblin."

You smirk and turn on your heel. "You keep calling me things like that and I'm gonna think you’re flirting."

"I am," he calls after you.

You don't dignify it with a reply. You also don't stop smiling as you close the bathroom door.

The bathroom, and the shower itself, match the quiet wealth of the rest of the place. Such a shame, you think as you let your shoulders ease under the spray, that this place must be empty most of the time. It's exactly the kind of place you can imagine yourself... being. Just relaxing, letting go. Preferably alone, considering the one-bed situation.

Your stomach pings in a cluster of nerves as you lather the fig and sandalwood suds over your skin, trying to scrub the tension from your shoulders - tension that, annoyingly, has less to do with the mission and more to do with the god in the other room.

Loki is… a menace. Not just in the field. Not just in battle. But here. In the quiet. In the glances. In the way he looks at you like he’s already peeled your thoughts apart and likes what he sees.

The bed is big, and it's not like you'd mind sharing it with Loki - you'd known since the first time you worked with the God of Mischief that you'd likely fall into bed together at some point or another - but this... it feels forced. Like two dolls some child is guiding into a kiss.

Soon you're standing in front of the mirror, brushing your teeth, wiping a path through the fog on the glass to look yourself in the eye and coach yourself mentally, as if you were a child: just because you're under the same covers does not mean you will have sex with him.

You feel your cheeks warm as you realise that Loki probably isn't thinking about any of this. At all. Even though he makes no efforts to hide his physical attraction to you, that doesn't mean he's... wanting, in the same way you are.

Besides, he's your mission partner. Your headache. Your shadow in the field. The beautiful thorn in your side when you're not under fire. Taking it further could make it messy.

You throw on some standard-issue lounge clothes; socks, underwear, sweat shorts, tank top, and a cloud-soft sweatshirt, all found in the bathroom's linen cupboard that must contain at least two dozen different size options.

When you walk back into the main area, the warmth instantly seeps into your skin like a gentle summer evening. One deep breath, and you've eased further.

Loki looks up from the couch where he's lounged with his head against the headrest, hands folded over his stomach. He's still in his tac gear.

"There's a change of clothes in there," you nod to the bathroom.

Loki's eyebrow lifts. In a slow pulse of green, his clothes change into a softer, yet seemingly still tailored, all-black set that covers his limbs entirely. It looks too good for something summoned out of spite. "Over my dead body," his eyes rake over you, critical on the surface, heated underneath.

With a roll of your eyes you make your way to the bed. "I'm tired," you say, seeing it in his eyelids. "Ready to sleep?"

"I'll tend to my needs and then take my rest here." He stands and heads towards the bathroom.

"Loki," you put a little casual laugh in your voice. He stops and turns his head. "The bed's huge. We can share it."

He doesn't say anything for a moment, and you're worried you've fucked it. That you've been presumptuous. That he's going to say something about how he'd rather die than share sheets with the likes of-

"Very well," he tilts his head in agreement, barely looking at you before he closes the bathroom door.

Internally, you're screaming. Outwardly, you're pressing the heels of your hands to your eyes, wondering if there was any possible way you could've made it more awkward.

You hear the shower spray and try to think about anything other than him in here.

Whatever. Whatever. You take a breath through your nose and slip under the sheets. The lights are still dim. You narrow your eyes, and test the cabin, saying "it's time to sleep."

The lights dim to nothing, the fire pulls back from roaring to gently crackling, creating a cozy atmosphere that's calling you to sleep. But the second you settle in, you get that sinking gut feeling that sleep isn't going to come easy. Your limbs are tired, your eyelids heavy, but your mind is still buzzing with adrenaline.

You're staring at the ceiling when Loki reenters, crosses the room, and slides into the sheets on the other side of the bed. And sure, the bed is big, but he's still less than an arm's length away. You didn't realise how close you'd feel until he was there.

"Sweet dreams," you say with a subtle teasing lilt to try and disguise your nerves, eyes still on the ceiling, fingers playing with the hem of your sweatshirt.

You hear his head turn to look at you. Hear a small, faintly amused puff of air through his nose. "Try not to dream about me too vividly. I don’t want to wake to you whimpering." He turns, back to you, and settles in.

You bite your lip, the heat returning tenfold, but you chuckle. “Who's the smug little goblin now."

In an effort to get the adrenaline out, to help your mind complete whatever it feels it needs to, you start replaying the mission in your head. Every bullet, every chase, every snarky little jab Loki threw at you in that seductive voice, every- ... oh shit.

You almost forgot.

You press your smiling lips together, suppressing the giggle threatening to betray you. But it slips out anyway - a little puff of laughter in the dark.

That moment. The one that sent you over the edge.

Loki shifts beside you. "Don’t start," he warns. His words are a blade being drawn from its sheath.

“I didn’t say anything," you retort, now openly grinning at the ceiling.

"You thought it," he snips. He knows exactly what you're thinking about and hates it already.

You roll onto your side to face him, arm tucked under your head. "I'm just remembering a moment from today. A glorious one."

He exhales through his nose. "You truly have a death wish."

You grin wider. "You ate shit so hard on that slippery boulder."

The silence between you stretches like wire. Taut. Dangerous.

You keep going anyway.

"One second you’re monologuing, all broody Asgardian menace - 'You dare challenge me?' - and the next? Boom. Legs in the air. Splashdown."

You can feel the heat rising from his side of the bed. His magic pulses just faintly through the room. Static before a lightning strike.

"If you were wise you'd shut your mouth," he says darkly, "before I'm forced to shut it for you."

You laugh again - quieter this time, taunting. "Oh yeah? What’s the plan - another lecture about respect?" You prop yourself up on an elbow, searching the air for more sass. "Or... just another bout of empty threats and semi-inappropriate workplace banter?"

Loki turns. Slowly. He shifts to mirror you - rising on one elbow, lifting his face so you can see him in the flicker of firelight.

And fuck... he looks dangerous like this. Hot and dangerous. Hair damp and curling at the ends, shadows cutting beneath his cheekbones, pale blue eyes locked on you like you’re something he’s actively backing into a corner.

He tilts his head, and, with a devastating sweetness, he says, slowly, "Tease me again, and I’ll put you on your back and tickle you until you sob."

You blink. "Huh-what?"

Loki leans in just slightly - close enough that his breath ghosts over your mouth. "You heard me. One more snide little comment and I'll have you writhing. I will take my time. And you will not know mercy."

Your brain flatlines. Your mouth parts. You should say something sharp - should snap back, keep the banter going - but your body betrays you with a single thud of heat low in your stomach.

He sees it.

Of course he fucking sees it.

Loki's eyes narrow and you know - you know he’s cataloging every flinch, every breath. "It's the perfect punishment, wouldn't you agree?" he continues softly, dangerously. "Intimate, humiliating… leaves no mark. You won’t run to your beloved Captain Rogers with bruises. Just memories you can’t scrub off."

Your throat’s dry. You manage a single nervous chuckle. "You wouldn’t."

He smirks like the mischief he is. "We both know I would."

You go quiet.

Dead quiet.

Because the worst part is, you don't know whether you want him to or not.

And Loki - bastard that he is - sees that, too. He leans back slowly, satisfaction dripping from every hard line of his body as he settles into the pillow again.

You lie there, heart pounding, every nerve on fire. The storm still rages outside, but now it's got competition.

Loki chuckles deep and low, and it feels like thunder cracking beneath your skin.

"Wise choice," he murmurs.

And fuck, you hate him.

You hate him.

Well... no.

You don't hate him.

And you hate that you don't hate him.

You shift under the covers, giving an exaggerated sigh as you turn away from him. "Jeez. You're so fucking dramatic," you mutter under your breath.

A mistake.

"Oh, you poor little fool."

A catastrophic mistake.

Before you can even suck in another breath, his magic crackles through the air. It's an electric, humming snap that raises the fine hairs on your arms a second before you feel it.

The pillowcase under your head moves. It slides off the cushion with a treacherous slither, wrapping itself around your wrists with a speed and precision that makes your stomach drop. You jerk instinctively, but it's too late - your hands are caught, ensnared, pinned above your head, wrists bound together tight enough to be secure but loose enough to tell you this is a game.

His game.

You barely manage a grunt of protest before Loki’s hands are on you - turning you onto your back in a fluid, almost lazy motion, like he’s not even trying. His fingers are wickedly strong around your waist, holding you down just long enough for him to shift, knee pressing between your legs, swinging himself up until he straddles your hips.

You struggle, wild and panicked, kicking your legs and jerking your torso, but you’re half-covered in blankets and utterly unprepared for a fight - in soft sleepwear, no armour - and he’s bigger, heavier, faster, magical.

You buck hard, trying to dislodge him, but all it earns you is a low, infuriating chuckle from above.

"Is this truly the best you can fight?" he purrs, tightening his grip just enough to remind you who’s in charge.

"Fuck you," you scowl, jerking your hands against the bonds.

"Rude." He tsks, smirking down at you, his hips pinning yours to the bed with effortless control. "And after I warned you so nicely."

You twist again, but it's useless. You’re stuck. Fully at his mercy.

And the worst part?

You can feel the slow, deliberate shift of his body against yours - his thigh pressing against your bare skin, the long line of him caging you in - and it sparks heat low in your gut that has nothing to do with rage.

"You can’t seriously - Loki, come on," you start, trying to wriggle your wrists free, but the enchanted fabric tightens at his will, dragging a frustrated, helpless sound from your throat. "This is stupid and dramatic. You proved your point, now let me go."

He just tilts his head, studying you like a cat might study a bird fluttering with a broken wing.

"Tell me," he murmurs, voice dangerously low as he settles further, "did you really think that would go unpunished?"

His hands start inching forward.

You glare. "I really think you’re a dickhead."

His eyes gleam, a spark of delight dancing at the edges. "Mm. Defiant. I expected nothing less."

His fingers descend like vipers, darting straight for your sides, and the second they make contact... fuck.

You jerk so violently the bed frame gives a protesting creak.

You arch instinctively, breath hitching, but you refuse to laugh. Refused to give him the satisfaction.

"Nothing?" he muses, leaning closer, eyes flaring in delight. "Oh, you’re going to be so fun."

You twist under him, trying to wriggle free. The pillowcase tightens slightly in response. You grit your teeth as he drags his fingers up and down your ribs with merciless precision.

You hold on, digging your heels into the mattress, biting your bottom lip hard. His touch is devastating. Too practiced. Light one moment, firm the next, zeroing in on your most sensitive spots with surgical precision.

And still, you don't laugh.

Until-

"Ah," Loki says softly. His fingers found it - a spot just beneath your left rib, sensitive as hell, one you hadn’t even known would betray you.

Your body jolts. A tiny gasp escapes your throat. Then, like a damn cracking, a laugh punches from your lungs.

Triumphant, Loki’s smirk deepens - not cruel, not quite - something darker, warmer. Endeared, even. And utterly smug.

"There it is," he whispers, tilting his head. "I knew you’d be a screamer."

You flush, full-body and furious. "I hate you," you huff through gritted teeth, breath coming fast.

He clicks his tongue. "Then you’ll loathe what comes next."

And then he really begins.

You couldn’t hold it in anymore. You burst with laughter, loud and sharp, your body trembling wildly beneath his tickling hands.

And gods, he’s good at it - depravedly good. His fingers dance, spider-light one moment, then digging mercilessly the next, zeroing in on every little vulnerable spot like he’s been studying you for months.

Which he probably has, the bastard.

You shriek again, trying to twist away, but his weight on your hips keeps you absolutely pinned.

"You should’ve held your tongue," Loki drawls, his voice maddeningly calm over your frantic squirming. His voice drops. "Gods, you’re responsive."

"I swear I'm gonna get you for this- SHIT!" you gasp out between bursts of helpless, writhing laughter, but the threats fall flat - your voice breaking with each choked, humiliating giggle he wrings from you.

"You’re welcome to try," he murmurs, dragging one hand from your side up under your sweatshirt to your underarm, circling lightly where the skin’s thinnest, most sensitive.

You convulse so hard under him you nearly tip him sideways, but Loki handles it easily, smirking like this is all beneath him - like your thrashing and desperate yelps are just entertainment.

He skims the pads of his fingers lightly over your stomach, watching with lazy amusement as you shudder uncontrollably.

You kick your legs, trying to knee him, but he just rides out the bucking like he’s enjoying it, settling heavier against you with a rough grind of his hips that makes your brain white out for a second - makes you way too aware of how warm he is. How solid.

"You are such a dick," you gasp, breathless.

"No," he grins. "I’m your reckoning."

You whimper - actually whimper - as he attacks your sides again, fast and brutal, forcing desperate laughter out of you until you’re gasping between giggles, your whole body arching and twisting under him.

Loki only hums thoughtfully, shifting his weight slightly so his hips press more firmly against yours - deliberately - and the new friction is a whole fresh hell you’re not prepared for.

Heat spikes through you, brutal and wanted, mixing with the overwhelming sensation of his hands tormenting your skin.

He sees it.

Of course he fucking sees everything.

And the bastard has the audacity to smile wider. Slow, wolfish, knowing. His fingers skitter up your sides again, sending you into another fit of helpless, humiliating giggles.

"Fuck! This is so messed up-"

"You could have avoided this," he drawls, utterly unbothered. "All you had to do was keep that clever little mouth shut."

You grit your teeth, trying to focus. "This- this is petty. This is some villain-ass shit. No wonder Thor used to kick your ass when you were younger."

"Oh?" he says, digging his fingers against the fabric covering the soft space under your arms, dragging a laugh straight from your lungs. "You want to talk about childhood trauma now? In the middle of this? How very Avenger of you."

You throw your head back and laugh through gritted teeth, managing a whiny: "I really hate you."

He laughs. "You wish." His hands dive back to your sides.

"I wait- Loki- okay please!" you gasp, twisting hard, but the pillowcase tightens again, holding your wrists captive.

"Oh, now you beg?" Loki teases, fingers squeezing at your waist until your whole body bucks. "Where was this charming submission before?"

You shake your head wildly, laughing so hard your ribs hurt, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. Every time you think he’s about to let up, he switches tactics - light teasing along your stomach, a wicked squeeze at your hips, brutal tickling up your ribs again until you’re choking on helpless giggles.

He finds the hollow just above your hip bone and presses - firm and slow.

You squeal. Actually squeal.

He grins wider.

"Oh, you sweet thing," he purrs. "I could do this all night."

You swear at him in every language you know.

He just chuckles darkly, slow and satisfied, like he’s feasting on your misery.

"Say you’re sorry."

You growl through clenched teeth, body trembling from the effort to wrench free.

"Never."

He pauses. Cocks a brow.

Then he leans down. Slowly. Until his nose brushes yours.

You take a shuddering breath in, still panting, now caught in a frantic freeze state. Like your base animal instincts are twisted into some weird belief that if you don't move he won't see you.

"Never?"

Your heart flutters at his low, commanding voice. The pure heat in it, so obviously intentional.

The pads of his fingertips and the faint graze of his blunt nails tease along the bare skin where your tank has ridden up. Your fingers tighten around the pillow case.

"Then I suppose..." he starts, sliding his hands higher. Palms smoothing against your sides, fingers trailing, taunting.

"You and I..." You feel the curve of his grin in his voice. "...will be here a very… very long time.”

You gasp when you feel his fingers press against the bare skin of your lowest ribs. "N-n-no-nnn-!"

But your protests are swallowed in laughter. Drowned in gasps and cackles. You're out of breath, out of threats, out of any form of resistance.

Loki's dark chuckle sings against your ear. Sends tiny sparks of pleasure down the skin of your neck.

And he keeps going - meticulous and devastating - drawing it out until you’re breathless, boneless, wrists still trapped high above your head, body burning with exertion and heat and something darker, something hotter, curling low in your belly and spreading like wildfire.

"Okay- okay okay!" You squeak, some high and helpless whine in the back of your throat. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry- please stop it!"

Loki finally slows, dragging one last, maddening trail up your side that makes you jerk involuntarily.

He sits back, straddling your hips lazily, surveying you. Admiring his work. His hair is wild around his face, his eyes bright with wicked satisfaction, incandescent with smug delight. His gaze stays locked on you, drinking in every breathless tremor.

You glare up at him, chest heaving, cheeks burning, completely at his mercy - and the way he looks at you, the way you feel under his hands... you can't show it.

"That..." you pant, "was an egregious HR violation."

"Oh dear," Loki rolls his eyes. "The paperwork."

"Oh, I'll show you fuckin' paperwork-"

"What shall it say, darling? How will you explain this? I'm so terribly fascinated by the prospect of our little tryst becoming immortalised in public record."

"That was not a tryst that was an attack and - hey, fuck you, untie me - it was uncalled for."

Perfectly in time with the raising of his brow, the pillowcase around your wrists loosen. But Loki makes no effort to get off you.

And you make no effort to push him off, even as you prop yourself up by the elbows, chin tilted back to look him in the eye.

"Poor thing," he soothes. And with that teasing edge, there's a softness. A devastatingly gentle thread of temptation laced through his voice. His smirk. His sheer fucking audacity.

He cocks his head to one side, pushing the damp curls back from his face, regarding you with a lazy challenge. "Was the big bad God of Mischief too hard on you?"

You lower your brow and pout, "Yes."

His head turns the other way. His smirk is devastating. "Do you need me to kiss it better?"

Every bit of heat in your over-exerted body goes to one of two places, and your lips part with a puff of air, almost like you'd been winded.

That small, insecure part of you whispers that this is a cruel trick. That he's having you on. He doesn't mean it, he-

Fuck.

Your breath hitches when the back of his hand finds your lower stomach. Your fists tighten as he trails his knuckles along the soft, exposed skin, his eyes not leaving yours. You swallow. He lifts a brow. A quiet question.

Your tongue slips out to wet your drying lips. "Maybe."

It's pitiful, but it's the only word you think you can say without it wobbling and-

Loki's shaking his head, shifting backward, lower. "I need a yes."

"Yes, then."

"And a please."

"Go fuck yourself."

He chuckles. "So sulky. What am I going to do with you?"

But before you can answer, his lips meet bare skin. Your back arches when his mouth brushes low across your stomach, just above the waistband of your shorts. He’s barely kissing - it's more breath than lips - but every exhale is warm and deliberate, as if he's savouring the feel of your skin against his mouth.

"You’re far too brazen for someone so soft," he murmurs. His fingers press just beside your hipbone, not quite pinching, not quite tickling, just enough to make your thighs twitch and your breath catch. "So easily undone, and still mouthing off."

His lips trail a slow line across your abdomen, kissing deliberately, as if each inch deserves reverence. Then- a single puff of air against your navel, followed by a nip of his teeth that makes your hips jerk.

You yelp. "Hey!"

He grins against your skin. "Thought you'd lost your voice for a moment."

The muscles of his shoulders dance under his shirt as he slowly pulls himself higher, chest brushing yours, hands planted by your head as he mouths a trail down your neck, grazing his teeth along the slope of your collar. Just enough to make your skin sing.

He lowers himself onto you carefully, hands dragging down your sides again, this time with full intention. His palms cup your waist, pulling you up into him.

The friction is electric.

Your chest heaves, thighs trembling under the weight of him - and he takes his sweet, unhurried time, moving over you like a storm in slow motion. He kisses the erratic pulse beneath your ear, nips, soothes, nudges his nose against your neck as your fists curl in his hair.

Your breath stutters when he finally pulls back enough to look at you.

Hair wild, breath shallow, eyes locked on yours like he wants to memorise every flicker of thought passing behind them.

He dips lower.

This time, his lips ghost over yours.

Once.

Twice.

Not kissing you. Not yet. Just tasting the shape of your mouth with his breath, taunting the final inches that separate you.

"Ask me," he murmurs, so soft you almost miss it.

Your jaw flexes.

"No."

He gives a dark chuckle. The sound brushes your lips. "Still so proud. Even now."

You glare, but the heat in your cheeks betrays you.

He leans in again, mouth brushing yours. "You want me."

Your breath catches.

"You want me," you retort.

He smirks. Hums. Kisses the corner of your mouth.

Just once.

Then the other.

Teasing. Gentle. Laying claim with infuriating grace.

You feel your eyes flutter.

He lingers. Breath to breath. Lips agonising close to yours.

"Say it," he breathes.

And you can’t anymore.

You’re done pretending.

"Just-... kiss me," you rasp.

And Loki does.

Not rough. Not possessive.

Deep. Measured. Devastatingly thorough.

His mouth moves over yours with patience, with precision, like he wants to map every gasp you give him and drag them out for his own pleasure.

You groan into it before you even know it’s happening.

Your hands twist in his hair as he deepens the kiss, tongue teasing your bottom lip before claiming more, drawing it out, savouring the moment like a rare vintage.

You kiss him back harder.

Because gods help you, you’ve wanted this. For too long. Through too many missions and almost-maybes and can’t-haves and don’t-even-think-about-its.

And now he’s everywhere.

His hands are under your tank top, resting against your waist as he keeps you under him. His body presses down, moulding into yours, every inch of him demanding and anchoring and terrifying in the way it feels so right.

You gasp into his mouth when his hand skims higher, palm dragging heat up your side, sliding beneath the edge of your top without hurry. Not groping. Just... feeling. Claiming space.

Your hips lift without your permission, chasing friction, chasing him.

He groans softly into your mouth. You swallow it greedily.

Loki pulls back just slightly, breathing hard. His forehead rests against yours, both of you straining against the gravity of the moment.

Still not enough.

His hands tense with the last dregs of his self-control, his body pressing down as if to imprint the shape of you onto his bones.

"You want this?" He pants. “You want me?”

"Yes," you gutter out. "Gods, yes."

He smirks against your lips. "Swearing to gods now, are we?" One hand slides back down your waist, hooking under your thigh, hitching it up over his hip. "How flattering."

When the radio on your tac vest wakes you with an alert of incoming comms, the first thing you register is the cold.

Then the ache - deep, lazy, sated - a bruised exhaustion thrumming through every muscle. Your brain struggles up from a black ocean of sleep just as the radio, somewhere across the room, starts crackling to life.

Loki groans low beside you. You feel the movement - sheets slipping off marble skin, the faint stretch of long limbs - and you grunt, rolling onto your stomach, grinding your forehead into the pillow. Everything hurts in a way that makes your mouth curl into a smug little smile against the linen.

The night comes back in flashes. Sharp. Shattering.

Claws-in, teeth-bared, breathless destruction of all the tension that had simmered between you for months. You hadn't so much fallen into bed with him as wrecked each other - over and over again - until your bodies finally gave out, tangled in the wreckage.

Maybe an hour of sleep. Maybe two. Not enough to be functional.

You groan as you push yourself upright, the blanket sliding off your bare back.

Loki sits at the other edge of the bed, dragging a hand through his wild, tangled black hair. The dim morning light coming through the frosted windows slices across his bare shoulders, illuminating the faint, red half-moon marks you left raked into his skin.

You'd be smug about it if your legs would fucking work.

The radio then crackles with the pilot's message:

"Seven minutes out. Chopper can't land. Buckle in for hover extraction."

You swear under your breath, shivering as the cold air hits you. You stagger toward the pile of tactical gear you’d dumped near the fireplace, yanking on your thermals, combat pants, boots, shirt, jacket, ignoring the way Loki watches you, one arm braced casually on his knee, the other draped over his thigh.

Comfortable. Loose. Dangerous.

You grab your tactical vest and the climbing harness slung over it, trying to move quickly, but your hands are clumsy, your joints stiff and sleep-starved. The straps tangle. You hiss in frustration, tugging at them.

Then, you hear the bed creak.

You feel him stand.

You don't turn.

Loki approaches with slow, measured, deliberate steps across the wooden floor. Each one a promise.

The air crackles between you, sharp and bright.

By the time he stops behind you, you’re holding the harness out in front of you like an fool, still wrestling it into some recognisable shape. You can practically hear the smirk in his silence.

He reaches out and, without a word, takes the harness from your fingers.

You lift your chin, refusing to look at him.

His knuckles brush yours. Not an accident.

You glare at the wall in front of you as he circles, slow and lazy.

Then he kneels. Right in front of you.

Looking up, lazy and wicked, his hair falling forward like a curtain of night sky. His body is bruised, unbothered, utterly relaxed. It should be illegal for anyone to look that composed after what the two of you did.

His hands move to your thigh, looping the first strap around it with maddening care. He doesn't rush. Just smooths it in place and gives it a slow, tightening pull. You feel it bite into your skin, feel his fingers curl with precision.

"You seem... compromised," Loki says lightly, his fingers brushing against your bare skin where your pants gap slightly at the hip.

You narrow your eyes.

Another strap glides between your thighs. His hands are firm, his thumbs brushing near places he has no business touching right now, not unless he wants round two on the cold floor. Maybe he does.

"Compromised?" you repeat, voice scratchy with lack of sleep and and too many hours of sinning.

He flashes a slow grin, wicked and pleased with himself, fingers tightening the strap until it bites your hip.

"Fatigued. Shaky. Thoroughly plundered," he drawls. "Tell me, darling - whoever could be responsible for that?"

You snort, pressing your lips together hard to bite back the traitorous smile twitching there.

"Self-satisfied bastard."

He smirks. "I do take pride in my work."

He pulls another strap between your legs, adjusting the belt with slow, taunting movements that are absolutely unnecessary and make you grind your teeth.

You narrow your eyes. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

"Doing what?" His voice is all innocence, but his hands are anything but. "Making sure you don’t fall out of your harness mid-air? You're welcome."

His fingers ghost under the hem of your top, smoothing the waistband flat against your belly. Every touch is too much. Too slow. You hold perfectly still, trying not to tremble.

"You’re not subtle," you mutter, raising a brow as you feel your lips flush.

"Ironic," he muses in satisfied purr, "coming from someone who, not four hours ago, was screaming herself hoarse begging for-"

You kick him lightly in the shin. He catches your ankle with lightning speed, holding it aloft for a second, grinning up at you like the absolute bastard he is.

"Temper," he tuts, releasing you.

He finishes the rest methodically, hands sliding around you with the same precision he uses when breaking into a vault - like he already knows where you’re most vulnerable.

"You know," he says lightly, eyes fixed on the buckles, "I should do this more often. Watching you squirm while I dress you. It’s…" He clicks the buckle shut with a soft snap. "Endearing."

You refuse to shiver. Refuse to give him the satisfaction. But you're admittedly speechless.

When he finally sits back on his heels, looking up at you, his eyes are molten as he whispers:

“Perfect.”

You roll your eyes and lean down to grab the carabiner clips, but Loki beats you to it.

He stands.

One slow movement - shoulders rising, body unfolding to full height - and you suddenly feel too small in his shadow, the air sucked clean from your lungs.

He steps in close, smooths a hand over the centre strap down your chest, fingers dragging slowly. Then he reaches for the buckle at your waist and snaps it into place with a decisive click.

You feel the strength of it reverberate through you, far more intimate than it has any right to be.

And he doesn’t let go.

Instead, he curls his fingers around the central loop, just above your navel, and lifts.

Effortlessly.

You don’t even have time to react before your boots leave the floor. Your breath hitches. Your hands scramble for balance, but he just stands there - arm slightly bent, muscles slack, holding you aloft with casual strength, like you weigh nothing at all.

Your eyes snap to his.

He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t leer.

He just watches you - dark and still, like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do. His grip is unbreakable, his expression unreadable.

The air between you goes molten.

He holds you there for a full, punishing heartbeat. Then another. And another.

Then, finally - finally - he lowers you, so slow you swear he’s savouring every inch of contact as your body slides back into place.

Your boots touch the floor. Barely.

"Perfect," he murmurs again. "Safe and sound."

Your breath stutters. You feel warm all over. Unmoored.

"You done?" you rasp, not trusting your voice.

He chuckles, quiet and pleased. "Oh, not even close."

You exhale through your nose, clenching your fists at your sides to keep from grabbing him.

The radio crackles again: "On approach. Be ready. Thirty seconds."

You tighten your shoulder straps brutally, trying to focus. Trying not to think about how he still smells like smoke and sweat and you.

Loki finally magics on his gear, lazy and unconcerned, buckling himself in with casual grace. You want to slap him. Or straddle him again. It's really fucking hard to tell.

The storm had eased a little - less hectic wind but still smatterings of icy rain. The helicopter blades whir louder, slicing the air like a knife through satin, as you reluctantly leave the cabin behind and run, side-by-side with Loki, the short distance to the pickup point.

You clip yourself and him to the main retrieval cable, double-checking the lines with stiff, professional efficiency.

Your hands brush at the connection point. He catches your fingers in his and holds them just long enough to make your pulse stutter.

"You're trembling," he says barely over the wind, eyes glinting.

"Shut up," you mutter, clicking the radio twice to signal all is good. Pushing his hands away from the line so his skin doesn’t catch.

He chuckles, deep and low.

Above you, the cable jerks taut, the winch starting to pull.

You and Loki are yanked upward together, slammed chest-to-chest, bodies colliding with force as you're hauled into the storm-torn sky.

Your breath catches. Loki grins down at you, devilish.

"Another round when we get back?" he calls into your ear over the wind.

You narrow your eyes, baring your teeth in a wicked smile.

"Only if you leave your harness on."

He throws his head back and laughs - a wild, delighted sound ripped away by the screaming wind - as the two of you disappear into the storm.

.

One of the perks of working at the Avengers Tower is that it has everything you could possibly need. From a state-of-the-art gym to a food court packed with excellent restaurants, you honestly would never need to leave if you didn’t have a cat waiting for you at home. 

And today, you’re thankful for one amenity in particular: the fully stocked pharmacy. 

A small red shopping basket dangles from your arm while you shuffle along the aisles, blearily looking for something that will help alleviate the awful stuffy-shivery-sore-throat feeling that you’re currently fighting. Your shift at the reception desk starts soon, and you have managed to get to work just early enough to grab some medicine before you’re stuck at the desk all day. 

It would have been reasonable for you to call off, considering the horrible cold you woke up with, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. If you miss work, your boss Pepper Potts has to come cover your shift, and you know she has much more important things to do than greet visitors and make coffee. 

So you’re determined to make it through your shift somehow, hopefully with the help of the strongest medicine the pharmacy carries. 

You throw a couple of tissue boxes in the basket, along with a bag of cough drops. Then you pick up a bottle of cold medicine, trying to read the tiny print through your watery eyes. 

“Detka?” 

A familiar, soft voice makes you whip your head around. Your heart drops as you spot the two people you were hoping to avoid today – Natasha and Wanda – standing at the other end of the aisle. 

It’s not that you don’t like seeing them. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. You’ve had a hopeless crush on both women for over a year now, even though you know there’s no chance of it ever being reciprocated. They have each other, after all, and the three of you are friends, but nothing more. 

Although the pet names that Wanda insists on calling you certainly aren’t helping you get over your feelings. 

“Hey!” you say, trying to infuse some pep into your voice. You shift the basket so that it’s more hidden behind your back, although you can see Natasha’s sharp eyes already tracking the movement. “What are you two doing here?” 

Wanda steps closer, holding up a bag of chocolate and a box of tampons. “I got a surprise visitor, so Nat promised me treats.” 

You give her a sympathetic look. “Ugh, that sucks. You definitely deserve all the chocolate. They have Lindt over by the register.” 

Natasha moves forward, her gaze trained on you. You feel your cheeks heat under her scrutiny. “You look like you’re not feeling well,” she says softly, cocking her head as she studies you. 

You duck your head, blushing. “No, I’m fine! Just – the weather, you know. It’s chilly.” 

It’s a lame excuse, and if Natasha’s expression is any indicator, she doesn’t believe it for a second. 

“Sweetheart?” Wanda’s voice is so gentle that it makes a lump rise in your throat. Her green eyes are full of concern as she comes over to you and cups your cheek in her palm. “Oh, honey. You’re warm.” She pouts at you, her cool fingers resting against your skin. “You should be in bed, poor thing.” 

“You’re not working today,” Natasha says decisively, already pulling her phone out of her pocket. 

Although a part of you wants to melt into their care, you remind yourself that you have a job to do. And that they surely have better things to do than worry about you. You don’t want to bother them. 

“I’ll be fine,” you repeat, straightening your shoulders. You hold up your basket as evidence. “I have plenty of supplies, and I’ll rest when I get home. It’s nothing, I promise.” 

Both women hesitate, looking like they want to say more, but you glance at your watch and grimace. 

“It’s almost nine – gotta run. I’ll see you two around!” you say, your voice full of fake cheer that comes easily due to your job. You shoot them a reassuring smile before moving away. 

But despite the smiles, your heart is sinking.

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“Did you see how pale she looked?” Wanda asks, accepting the two pills that Natasha drops into her palm. “And her cheeks were flushed too. She’s definitely running a fever.” 

“I know,” Natasha says, handing Wanda a water bottle and sitting down on the couch with a sigh. “Take your meds, babe.” 

Wanda swallows the pills dutifully before frowning at her. “Should we talk to Pepper?” 

“I dunno,” Natasha says, running a hand through her hair. Her expression is tight and worried. “I mean, she’s not ours, Wands,” she says pointedly, raising an eyebrow. 

Wanda crosses her arms with a huff. “She should be. You want her. I want her. What’s the issue?” 

“Um, whether she wants us?” Natasha says with a lopsided grin. “There’s this thing called ‘free will’, babe.” 

“She turns three shades of red every time either of us even look at her,” Wanda says flatly. “I’m pretty sure she likes us too.” 

“Yes, but we agreed not to rush her.” Natasha wraps an arm around Wanda’s shoulders and presses her lips to her temple. “How about we check on her at lunchtime? You still have cramps right now, and I have a mission report that Steve’s on my ass about.” 

“Fine,” Wanda sighs, curling up on the couch, pressing the heating pad in her lap against her stomach. “But I don’t like it.” 

“I know,” Natasha says, holding her close. “Me either.”

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By the time your lunch break rolls around, you’re well and truly miserable. 

Sure, you’re still doing your best to push through. But you can’t stop shivering despite the perfect seventy-two degrees the lobby temperature is always set to, and your throat feels like you’ve been swallowing knives for fun. You’re wearing a mask to avoid spreading whatever bug you’ve managed to catch, and you’re hoping it hides how sick you truly are. 

Usually you would go to the cafeteria for lunch, but the idea of food makes your stomach turn. Instead, you put up the little sign that tells visitors you’re on break and head to the small employee break room located behind your desk. 

There’s not much inside, just a small couch, a mini fridge, and a table with a few plastic chairs around it. You make a beeline for the couch, flopping down onto it and burying your overheated face in the cushions. It feels amazing to be lying down, and you have just enough presence of mind to set an alarm on your phone before slipping into a fever-hazy sleep. 

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Natasha glances at the sign on the reception desk and frowns.

“She already left,” she says, looking around the lobby for any sign of you. 

“I’ll check the cafeteria,” Wanda decides, already turning in that direction. “You check the break room?”

Natasha gives her a curt nod and heads for the door behind the reception desk. There’s a pit of worry making her stomach churn uncomfortably. She feels like she needs to get eyes on you now. She doesn’t like not knowing where you are, especially not when you’re sick. 

A mix of relief and concern washes over her when she finally finds you curled up on the break room couch. She can breathe easier now that she knows where you are, but you look awful. Your cheeks are stained a feverish red, and there’s a thin layer of sweat making your hair stick to your forehead. You’re curled up on yourself tightly and shivering, practically in the fetal position. 

Her heart aches sharply, and she strides over to you, crouching down and watching you sleep for a moment. She knew she shouldn’t have let you work when you were clearly sick. Hers or not, she still cares about you and would do anything for you. 

But she’s going to make this right now. She pulls out her phone and shoots off a quick text to Wanda letting her know that she found you. Then she starts stroking her fingers through your hair, calling your name softly. 

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Everything feels wrong when you wake up. Your skin feels too tight, like you have the world’s worst sunburn, but you’re also somehow wracked with violent shivers. Your head is throbbing horribly and it feels like you’re swimming through a fog, your thoughts disjointed and muddled. 

But you do recognize one familiar pair of blue-green eyes gazing into your own. 

“Nat?” you croak, then your breath catches and you start coughing. It makes your chest ache and your throat burn, and you gratefully accept the water bottle that Natasha suddenly hands you from somewhere. The cool liquid helps soothe your throat, but only a little. 

You clear your throat and blink several times, trying to sit upright and get your bearings. But Natasha holds you down with a gentle hand on your shoulder. 

“Just rest,” she says, her voice soft. “You’re burning up.” 

“Where’m I?” you mumble, trying to clear your foggy head. 

“Work,” Natasha answers patiently. You realize she’s carding her hand through your hair, slow and steady. It feels amazing and you never want her to stop. “You fell asleep on the couch.” 

“Oh, crap!” Your eyes widen and you fumble for your phone. “What time is it? I have to get back to work.” 

Natasha lets you sit up this time, but she shakes her head at you with a frown. “Nope, you’re done working for today, baby. This week too, probably, with that fever you’re running.” 

Your stomach flutters. Baby. That’s definitely new. 

But you shouldn’t read into it. Especially not when you’re gross and sweaty and probably contagious… 

Realization dawns on you and you slap a hand over your mouth, trying to scoot away from the woman next to you. “I need my mask!” you exclaim, your words muffled into your hand. “I’ll get you sick. You should leave, like, now. Seriously, I’m so gross.” 

Natasha gives you an amused, lopsided smirk. “You’re cute,” she says, making no effort to move. “But I’m not going anywhere. It’s fine.” 

“This is not fine!” you protest, gesturing vaguely at yourself. “You don’t want this, Nat.” 

Natasha raises an eyebrow at you. “So you admit you do feel like shit, then.” 

“I didn’t say that.” 

“You didn’t have to,” Natasha says, shaking her head at you and pulling out her phone. “I’m calling Pepper. There’s no way I’m letting you work like this.” 

You should probably be upset at Natasha for talking to you as if it’s up to her what you can and cannot do. It’s definitely not her place to call you out of work. 

And yet, all you manage to feel is…relieved. Relieved that someone else is doing what you couldn’t. That you don’t have to be in charge right now, when you already feel so awful. There’s something oddly comforting about Natasha’s straightforwardness. 

Just then, Wanda bursts into the room. She spots you and immediately hurries to your side. 

“Oh, honey,” she coos, crouching down next to Natasha and reaching up to feel your forehead. Her soft green eyes are big and worried as she looks you over. “Sweetheart. Straight to bed with you, you’re feverish.” 

You sigh, then have to turn away when you cough again. You know they’re both right, even if you don’t want to admit it. Being in bed sounds amazing, but the part you’re not looking forward to is the long subway ride and ensuing walk home. 

“Let me just rest a bit and then I’ll be up for the walk to the subway,” you say, leaning back against the cushions. You honestly don’t know if you can walk that far without collapsing right now. 

Both Natasha and Wanda stare at you as if you’ve grown two heads. 

“Walk to the subway?” Natasha frowns. “Nuh-uh. You’re coming upstairs with us.” 

Your mouth drops open slightly. “Oh no, I couldn’t ask you to –” 

“You’re not asking, we’re offering,” Wanda interrupts, smoothing a hand over your hair. “Please, detka. Let us look after you. You shouldn’t be alone when you’re this ill.” 

“But what if I get you guys sick?” you ask, biting your lip, your gaze flicking between them. While a part of you wants to give in, you know you would feel awful if you passed on whatever you have to them. 

Natasha turns to Wanda, smirking. “You scared of getting sick, babe?” 

Wanda shakes her head. “I haven’t had so much as a cold since I got my powers,” she says, smiling softly at you. “I’ll be fine.” 

“And I hardly ever get sick,” Natasha adds firmly. “So that’s settled. You ready, sunshine?” She pushes herself to her feet and offers a hand. “Let’s get you taken care of.” 

You accept her hand, feeling something warm grow in your chest. 

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Wanda leads you over to the huge king bed in the middle of the room, and you sit down on the edge of it. You still feel a little shy about being in Wanda and Natasha’s room, even though you’ve been there before. 

Natasha stands across from you, her arms crossed over her chest as she studies you. “I’m getting the thermometer,” she announces, turning to head toward the hallway. 

“Bring the cold meds too, please!” Wanda calls after her before turning to face you. “You certainly need to take something for this fever of yours,” she murmurs, her eyes full of worry as she tucks some hair behind your ear. “Let’s get you into something more comfortable, hm? Would you like to borrow some clothes?” 

You hesitate, biting your lip. “Um, only if you don’t mind…” 

“Of course not,” Wanda assures you, already getting up. She goes over to the dresser in the corner and pulls out a comfy-looking t-shirt and pair of sweatpants. 

“You get changed and into bed, sweetheart,” Wanda says, handing you the clothes. “I’m going to get some tea and soup started. Do you need anything else in the meantime?” 

“No – this is – …um, thank you,” you stutter, your cheeks feeling hot. You still think the other women are being far too nice to you, even though they’ve always been somewhat protective of you. This feels like above and beyond. 

Wanda gives you a reassuring smile, before heading out of the room and closing the door softly behind herself. 

It takes more energy than it should for you to change out of your work clothes and into the ones Wanda gave you. Your joints are aching with every movement, and you feel weak and clammy. It’s a relief to crawl into bed once you finish. 

You relax back against the pillows, pulling the covers up to your chin. The blankets smell like a mix of Natasha and Wanda, and you find yourself missing both of them already. 

It isn’t long before there’s a gentle knock on the bedroom door, though. “It’s me,” Natasha calls. “Can I come in?” 

“Yeah,” you say, although your voice is almost too croaky to be useful at this point, and you dissolve into a coughing fit. 

You’re still coughing by the time Natasha enters and sits down on the bed next to you. When you catch your breath, you realize that she’s rubbing your back in slow circles. There’s a concerned frown on her face as she looks at you. 

“You alright?” Natasha asks softly, handing you a cool glass of water. “Drink a little.” 

“Sorry,” you apologize hoarsely after sipping the water. “I’m so gross right now.” 

Natasha shakes her head. “You’re sick. Don’t apologize.” She holds up a thermometer. “Let’s get your temp, okay?” 

You nod, opening your mouth and allowing her to slip the thermometer under your tongue. While it works, Natasha sets a few supplies on the nightstand: A box of tissues, a bottle of cold and flu medication, and a bag of cough drops. You’re touched at everything she’s thought of for you. 

When the thermometer beeps, Natasha plucks it from your mouth and studies it. 

“101.4,” she reads, frowning again. “You definitely need to be in bed.” She tilts her head, her eyes finding yours. “Why’d you even come in today, baby? You should have called off and stayed home.” 

You sniffle, reaching for a tissue. “I didn’t think it was that bad,” you say honestly, shrugging slightly. “I didn’t want to cause trouble for anyone, especially not Pepper.”

Natasha sighs, giving you a long look. “You’re too sweet for your own good, sunshine,” she says, shaking her head. The corner of her mouth curves in a small smile. “But luckily you have me and Wanda to take care of you.” 

Your heart does an unceremonious little flip. “Thank you,” you say. “You really didn’t have to, I swear, I’ll be fine –” 

“We want to,” Natasha says, cutting you off. “As hard as you find that to believe,” she chuckles, running a hand over your hair. “We care about you. And we want you here. So no more thank yous, ‘kay? Just let us look after you.” 

You blush, not quite sure how to respond. But then your nose tickles and you hastily turn away to sneeze into your elbow – once, twice, then a third time. It leaves your head spinning and your nose running uncomfortably. 

“Bless you!” Wanda exclaims, walking back into the room with a tray in her hands. Natasha blesses you as well and hands over several tissues. 

“Poor thing,” Wanda tuts sympathetically, settling the tray on the nightstand. “Did you give her any medicine yet, Nat? She’s so stuffy.” 

“I was getting to that,” Natasha grumbles, but her tone is fond. She reaches for the medicine bottle and pours out a capful of the red syrup. “Bottoms up,” she says, holding it out to you. 

You grimace a little, eyeing the medicine warily. “Do I have to?” 

“Yes,” Wanda and Natasha answer in unison. 

“Ugh, you two are bullying me,” you complain, which makes both of them chuckle. You swallow down the syrup, making a face afterward. 

“Good girl,” Wanda hums, and your heart flips over again. She pulls the covers up further over you and smooths them out. 

“How’re you feeling?” Natasha asks, sitting down next to Wanda, her gaze never leaving you. “Tell us your symptoms.” 

“Please,” Wanda adds, giving Natasha a look. Natasha rolls her eyes. 

“Um…” You do a mental once-over. “I mean, I think I’m okay?” 

Natasha sighs, giving you a serious look. “That’s not what I asked.” 

Wanda nods. “We want to know, sweetheart. Please tell us, so we can take care of you.” 

She’s so earnest and there is so much care in both their eyes, you feel all your walls crumbling. 

“Um,” you cough, then let out a long breath. “The usual stuff? Throat hurts, headache, muscle aches. Can’t breathe through my nose. I kind of have chills too, I guess.” 

“Thank you for telling us the truth,” Wanda hums, leaning in to kiss your forehead. “I made chicken noodle soup, do you want to try some? It might help your throat.” 

You nod, feeling warm. You can’t remember the last time someone took care of you like this. If ever. Wanda carefully lifts a bowl of steaming soup off the tray and hands it over to you. 

Natasha pulls a blanket off a couch in the corner and drapes it over you, tucking you in. “This’ll help you warm up,” she murmurs. “And I’ll set up the humidifier, that’ll help your congestion.” 

You sip the soup, nodding. You’re too overwhelmed to say much, and there’s a faint prickling at the corners of your eyes. 

After a few spoonfuls of soup, you lower the bowl to your lap and look up at the women still sitting next to you. You set the bowl aside, clearing your throat. 

“Why are you…” you start asking, your cheeks warm. You fiddle with a loose string on the blanket. “I mean, I don’t really get why you guys are doing all this for me? It’s really sweet, it’s just…I don’t understand.” 

You chance a glance up, your heart pounding. 

Natasha and Wanda exchange a glance, something unreadable in both their faces. Silence hangs in the air, heavy with anticipation. 

It’s Natasha who speaks first. She reaches for your hand and threads her fingers through yours, her soft skin cool against your own. 

“We care about you, sweet girl,” Natasha says, her voice low, steady. She holds your gaze, her eyes soft. “More than you know, I think.”

“A lot more than you know,” Wanda adds, smiling gently. She cups your jaw, then presses her lips to your cheek, lingering against your skin. Your heart races. 

“We didn’t want to rush you,” Natasha explains. “But we’re here, baby. If you want us too.” 

Your eyes fill with tears, and you almost wonder whether you’re having some sort of fever dream. Can this really be happening? 

“I do,” you say, your voice thick. “I want you too.” 

Wanda and Natasha break into matching, beaming grins. 

“Good, malyshka,” Wanda murmurs, brushing a chaste kiss to the corner of your lips. “Now you just rest and let us take care of you, honey.” 

“We’re not going anywhere.” Natasha moves over to your side, lifting her arm so that you can curl up against her. She holds you close, kissing the top of your hair. “You’re ours.” 

You can’t remember the last time you felt this happy. 

"Yelena," you introduced yourself, an instinct to shield your true name and a comfort to borrow a sister's. You hoped Lena doesn't mind — you didn't expect much to grow out of what may possibly be just a one night stand. (You've never been more wrong.)

"Matt," he chuckled. He had a wry smile on his face, as if he knew something you didn't. "Can I get you a beer?"

You shrugged carelessly. It was a weak moment for you; waking up from what had been chemical subjugation only to have to relearn what your true wants are aside from what Dreykov had programmed in you could leave a girl a little vulnerable, after all. "Sure. Rough day?" You tapped his briefcase that he settled on the counter before boldly reaching up to gently tap the circles that hung beneath his red tinted glasses.

If it wasn't for his senses dialed up to eleven, he might've flinched at your touch. "You could say that."

He heard you hum quietly. "… Corporate douche or martyr lawyer?"

Matt barked out a laugh, pleasantly surprised. "You might've hit it on the money there on the second."

Josie approached with two bottles and placed it between you two, a knowing glint in her eye. You grabbed yours by the neck and took a sharp swig. "I've been told I'm pretty observant."

When Matt reached for his, you clocked the injuries on his knuckles, stirring the intrigue in your gut about the odd lawyer that might've stolen your attention. Conversation flowed easily between you both and one thing led to another and you were waking up at his apartment.

It was stupid to get so attached but you were trained for extraction, whether it was for a target or for yourself, and you packed whatever you left behind from Matt's apartment before he got home.

The darkness of the evening provided cover as you walked briskly in Hell's Kitchen, not out of fear but rather urgency. There were signs of Widow involvement near this particular borough and you wanted out before Dreykov caught a whiff of you or the kind lawyer that burrowed himself into a heart you didn't know you still had.

Unfortunately, you found yourself pinned in an alley by a few thugs with the sole intent of attacking for the hell of it. You caught a shadow above the rooftop but you didn't let yourself dwell on it; you wouldn't be who you are now if you expected anyone to save you. Instead, you sighed dramatically and dropped your bag by the dumpster, rolling your neck casually.

"Listen, boys, I've got a flight to catch. I don't have time to play."

They sneered at what they assumed to be false bravado. "Just hand over your bag, sweetheart, we don't gotta hurt you."

The old nickname had been Matt's, the easy affection he drowned you in always leaving you offguard, and the frustration comes to a peak inside you. With a low curse in Russian, you disarmed and knocked out all three men with fast and hard jabs to their gut and trachea before hooking your legs around the tallest one to bring down in a quick swoop.

You landed silently back onto your feet without even a hint of breathlessness, grabbed your bag and walked off to hail a taxi. You were completely unaware that the Devil of Hell's Kitchen had witnessed it all.

—

"Matt, your ex is back."

Karen lifts her head up from her desk in immediate curiosity as Foggy enters the office with a box of donuts. Matt groans silently, rubbing his eyes from beneath his glasses.

"Which ex?" Karen asks as she plucks a donut from the box and Matt senses the playful grin on her lips.

Foggy leans against the table with a shrug. "Matt never got her real name. She called herself Yelena."

"What, you never learned her real name and you dated her? Matthew," she scolds lightly before wiping away at her lower lip. "What happened? Did she… learn about your nightly activities?"

"Don't say that, you make him sound like a stripper," Foggy groans as he pours himself a cup of coffee.

"No, but I might've found out about hers, the night before she left."

"Wait, so she's the stripper? You never shared this, Matt."

Matt sighs heavily and Foggy raises his hands in silent surrender. "I saw her… take down three thugs from the Dogs of Hell, on her own." The severity of his words settle in like a leaden weight. Vigilante. Mercenary.

"Jeeze, Matt, you sure know how to pick 'em."

—

The threat of your presence hangs above him like a guillotine.

You had been an anomaly, something that he's yet to experience in his time as the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. Your lies flowed smoothly from your tongue without a change of your heartrate and it had terrified him the first time around.

It should've been his first red flag; why stay with a woman that lives her lies as easily as truth?

And yet he stayed, not just because the sex was good, but because there had been an undercurrent of truth that even you didn't seem to be aware of. He remembers the way your heartrate skips a beat when he would catch you by surprise, kissing your shoulder. He remembers the way your smile would feel pressed against his skin when you indulge him in cuddles. He remembers the way your tone lilts in that teasing way whenever you called him 'sweetheart'.

You were allowed to have secrets — maybe that had been why he turned his head away from your blatant lies when he had one of his own.

Now you're back and he isn't sure how to see you again.

However, maybe the Devil might have better luck than Matt Murdock when it comes to you.

—

"I didn't know I'd be meeting the Devil so early. Come to collect my soul?"

He had landed silently on the rooftop but you didn't look up from where you're leaning against the lip of the brick parapet that has a view of the city. The scent of gunpowder and gunoil lingers on you and he finds himself hating it, hates the way he can't smell you beneath the violence you wear like armor.

"That depends. Have you done anything that deserves damnation?"

You snort and your head drops lightly before peering over your shoulder. There's a tinge of amusement that he recognizes, something he had heard from his couch when you'd tease him about something stupid and irrelevant.

"Plenty. Although I figured it'd be God that would smite me down Himself. But you can relax, Mr. Devil… I'm not here to cause trouble."

Truth.

In fact, it's the most truthful you've sounded since he's known you.

"Then what are you doing here?"

"Cleaning up a few messes I left behind. Maybe stop a few messes that might've followed me here…" Something settles into your tone that he can't quite draw out. Regret? Repentance? Before he can pick it out, dissect it the best he can, he hears your footsteps bring you closer to him. He instinctively stiffens, chin dipping slightly to give an approximation of meeting your gaze.

Beyond the gunpowder scent that clings, he catches the perfume you had worn that first night he met you. "Is someone after you?" The gruffness breaks away into something quieter although there's a heat that never goes away, not when the Devil in him senses the need to obliterate whoever could've made you run in the place.

To his surprise, you release a humorless laugh, a hand settling on his jaw where your fingertips trace the edge of the mask where it meets his chin. "Always a hero, aren't you? My favorite martyr…" He stiffens but before he can pull his face away, you sweep your thumb across his cheek, the same way you've done all those years ago.

"You—"

Your breath fanned his hair; your fingers grasped tightly his broad shoulders.

Bucky nipped at your pulse point, his left hand gripping your ass and pressing you into him, his right hand cradled your head, fingers pulling your hair to adjust you just so.

“Don’t go,” you had whispered moments before.                                   

Your vulnerable voice shredding any remnant of restraint so that he practically fell around you, encircling you in his embrace to capture your mouth with his.

Together, you fell back onto your couch.

Your hips rolled up into his, making the most delicious sound leave his lips.

He stayed with you all through the night, holding you close, never letting you go.

Marvel Menaces

@deanwinchesterswitch @foxyjwls007 @princessmisery666

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main masterlist | marvel masterlist | Bucky masterlist

“god dammit.” a string of cuss words leaves your mouth as you run around your manhattan apartment frantically. it’s 4:30 in the morning of your first day, way too early to realize you never asked the dress code.

you stare at the pile of scrubs laying on the bed in front of you.

“what color screams ‘avengers school nurse’?” you mumble to yourself, eyes flicking between your options. rolling your eyes, you pick up your black scrubs, throwing them on over your long sleeve white undershirt.

the wrinkles on your top are smoothed out as you tuck it into the bottoms, checking your appearance one last time in the mirror. you adjust your jewelry before grabbing your bag and running out the door.

the car ride to the tower was silent. you were too busy replaying the content learned from the required online modules in your head. the drive was twenty-five long minutes of you whispering sweet nothings about infection control and workplace safety to yourself.

“you’re here! good.” tony seems to be in a much better mood today, clapping his hands together once in approval.

“good morning, mr. stark.” you smile, adjusting your bag on your shoulder as you approach him.

“let’s get you up to the lab with banner.”

a few hours go by, and now you’re squinting your eyes as you watch banner run some kind of test on a blood sample. he’s really great about explaining things as he does them, which you find yourself really appreciating- even if some of the words are a bit out of your scope of practice.

you jump in your seat as the silence is broken by someone throwing the door of the lab open, running right through it.

“dr. banner! look! i-i collected a sample of the weird bio-organic residue left behind by the Lizard! and i wan- oh!”

the man stops in his tracks once he sees your confused expression. he gives you a sheepish smile, lowering his hand with the vile in it.

“oops-sorry, i didn’t realize you were busy…”

your head tilts slightly before you look the guy up and down. he’s wearing a flannel over a star wars t-shirt. his baggy jeans hang loosely around his hips; you decide they probably wouldn’t stay up without the belt secured around his waist. his brown curls stick out messily on one side - clearly from his rushed entrance to the lab.

he notices your stare, quickly averting his gaze. his eyes squeeze shut briefly, obviously uncomfortable with the attention.

you can’t help the small grin that pulls at your lips. as if he wasn’t cute before, his nervous habits were really convincing you.

you tear your eyes from him to look over your shoulder at dr. banner, who’s already watching you with a knowing grin.

“hello to you too, peter.” he sighs, coming around from the lab table to approach the new kid. “this is y/n. she’s my new assistant in the lab and med bay.”

this makes you quirk an eyebrow at him. jumping down from the stool you were sitting on, you join banner and the guy you now know is peter, scoffing in dramatized offense.

“assistant? i’m a registered nurse, actually.” you correct him with a playful smile, reaching out your hand to peter. “it’s nice to meet you.”

he looks at you with a dazed smile, not even registering your waiting hand. bruce bumps into his shoulder to bring him out of his daze, forcing a grunt out of peter.

“oh, sorry,” he blurts, finally shaking your hand. “it’s really nice to meet you too.”

it’s hard to hide your smile as he holds your hand for a bit longer than what’s typical for a handshake. you clear your throat awkwardly, letting go of his hand first.

banner reaches out and grabs the vile from peter, shaking his head at the boy as he saunters back to the lab’s workbench.

peter’s still staring at you when you finally turn around and walk back to your stool. he follows right behind you, taking your polite smile as an invitation to join you.

“you’re a nurse? that- thats really cool!” his voice breaks a bit at the end, making him clear his throat. “how long have you done that for?”

“thank you! i graduated when i was nineteen, so about three years now.” you cringe at your tone that comes out more like bragging than confidence.

his eyes widen a bit. “wow, cool.” he says under his breath. “so, you’re like, twenty-two?”

“yup.” a small chuckle falls from your lips, looking over at banner who’s swabbing the vile peter just brought in. “so, where’d you get that… um, goo from?”

“some weird alien thing that’s been destroying the city.” he says shortly as he shuffles over to banner. “does she know i’m spider-man?” he whispers-very loudly-despite trying to speak privately with the doctor.

“she’s sitting four feet away from you, so she does now.” you talk about yourself in the third person, snorting at his failure of subtly. “i’m sure i’ll end up taking care of you at some point anyway. plus, i signed about a hundred pages of paperwork regarding confidentiality.”

he grimaces at how quickly he revealed his secret identity, smiling awkwardly at you.

“so, that’s how i got the sample…” he admits lamely, trying to brush his mistake off.

“i didn’t think spider-man would be so… young?” you squint your eyes a bit, cocking your head to the side in curiosity.

“hey, i-i’m only two years younger than you.” he protests, raising an accusatory finger. he puffs his chest out a bit before crossing his arms over it, clearly trying to appear more mature.

you throw your head back in laughter at his defensive stance.

peter blushes at this, his eyes darting around anywhere but you.

the lab doors open, a cursing tony stark walking through. he’s holding a dirty paper towel to his arm that’s dripping blood onto his black sabbath t-shirt.

you jump up from your place on the stool, approaching him right away. “how’d that happen?” you ask calmly, moving his hand and the paper towel to get a good look. he hisses at the air hitting what looks like a pretty deep gash on his forearm.

“i was welding a piece of armor plating. a piece of shrapnel got thrown up at me.” he clears his throat to hide the shakiness in his voice.

“are you okay, mr. stark?” peter’s concerned voice gets closer as he approaches him. tony sends him a reassuring smile, even though the amount of blood coming from his arm makes him feel woozy.

“you definitely need some stitches. there’s some little pieces of metal in there too that i’ll have to get out.” your confident tone assured tony that you knew what you were doing. “i got this, dr. banner!”

walking out the lab doors, you lead tony to the med bay that’s a short walk down the hallway. peter follows on tony’s heels, still looking worried.

you nod for stark to sit down on one of the examining tables, him listening begrudgingly. peter plops down into one of the rolling stools, frowning as he gets a closer look at tony’s arm.

“i’m gonna numb you, so i can clean it and get it closed up.” you say softly as you set some supplies down on the metal tray next to tony, then walking to the handwashing station.

the latex gloves make a loud snap as you pull them up into place. you sit in the other rolling stool, taking tony’s forearm in hand. cleansing the wound by flushing it with sterile saline, you make simple small talk with him to try and keep him breathing normally.

peter watches this all with admiration. if he didn’t have a thing for nurses before, he sure does now. the way your fingers confidently work at cleaning the wound, how you walk tony through each thing you do, and your small apologies anytime tony hisses from pain-it all makes his chest tighten with attraction.

his eyes travel back up to your side profile, observing your casual expression with your bottom lip stuck between your teeth in focus. in that moment, he has to hold back a sigh.

“how’s that?” your voice breaks peter’s thoughts. he looks at tony’s arm that’s now bandaged up expertly with a red cohesive wrap.

“i chose red so it’d match your suit.” you say, as if it’s not the sweetest thing peter’s ever heard.

tony gives his signature smirk to you, rotating his arm to appreciate your work. “thanks, kid. you’re pretty great at what you do.” he pats your upper arm in a fatherly manner before standing up. his gaze falls on peter, who’s still staring at you with a dopey half-smile.

“parker!” tony snaps his fingers in front of his face. “don’t you have something to do other than ogling the new nurse?”

a red flush crawls its way up peter’s neck at an impressive speed. he jumps up, avoiding your eyes at all costs. “i wasn’t ogling- oh my god.” he rushes out of the room, shaking his head at how obvious he is.

“i should’ve known you’d have a thing for her.” tony calls out loudly after him, making sure peter can hear even down the hallway. he can never let the kid off easily.

you shake your head in low laughter before looking up at tony. “leave him alone. it’s cute.” you say through laughter.

“alright, but don’t say i didn’t warn you when he’s coming to you every time he gets a mosquito bite.” tony points his finger at you.

you roll your eyes at him as you pull your gloves off, tossing them in the trash. “yeah, yeah.” you mumble under your breath, running the hot water as you scrub your hands.

the sound of tony’s chuckle is quiet as he walks out of the med bay, but you still catch it. all these heroes would definitely keep you busy.

You turned toward him, blinking against the tears gathering in your eyes. He looked back at you with such quiet concern, his brow faintly creased, but his touch stayed feather-light, as though he was afraid of startling you further.

When you couldn’t force words past your dry throat, he didn’t press. He only sat up, sliding closer, and reached for the worn book that always seemed to linger on his nightstand. “Would it help if I read to you?” he asked, already flipping it open, his accent softening the syllables into something steady and safe.

You nodded, still trembling. Zemo tucked the blanket higher over your shoulders, keeping one hand resting against you, and began to read aloud. The cadence of his voice was slow and deliberate, each line delivered like a promise: that the nightmare wasn’t real, that you weren’t alone, that morning would come soon enough.

Little by little, the words dulled the edges of your fear. You leaned into him, your head finding his chest, and his free arm curled instinctively around you. The rise and fall of his breathing beneath your cheek paired with the rhythm of his reading until your pulse slowed, your body unclenching inch by inch.