Originally posted by protect-anthony-edward-stark

ALL THE THINGS HE WAS DENIED

pairing:tony stark x male reader
synopsis: Just an imagine/headcannon that has Tony showing just how bad his daddy issues are along with kinks I believe he has (praise, calling male reader ‘daddy’, etc.)

There were things Tony craved without ever having the words for them. Not sex—he’d had plenty of that. Not validation—he’d learned how to buy it. No, what Tony Stark really wanted was to be wanted. To be seen as enough. Not as Iron Man. Not as a genius. Just as Tony. And with you, that craving had a name. And that name—on his tongue, in a whisper, in a breathless moan, or a sheepish morning murmur—was Daddy.

It started with a joke. As many of Tony’s defense mechanisms did. “Thanks for the save, Daddy,” he teased after you pulled him off the battlefield, armor smoking, ribs bruised.

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

He stilled. Just for a second. Something about the way you didn’t flinch or mock the nickname. Something about how you said it like it meant something.

Since then, the game changed.

There were nights when Tony would curl into your lap on the penthouse sofa, head resting on your thigh, flicking through news feeds with one hand while you toyed lazily with his hair. “You worked hard today,” you’d murmur, fingers brushing his scalp. “Did so well on that presentation.”

Tony would hum—quiet, pleased, the sound barely audible over the city noise. His hand would slide up your thigh, slow and needy. “I like when you say that,” he admitted once. “That I did good. Makes my chest feel weird. Good weird.”

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Originally posted by teenagebuckybarnesonsteverogers

MORE THAN METAL

pairing: bucky barnes x male reader
synopsis: bucky had many insecurities. However, his largest one was his body. No, he didn’t have body dysmorphia or an eating disorder; bucky saw his body as a weapon. Something not human. Luckily, you’re there to make him see otherwise.

The problem wasn’t the metal. It was everything around it. The flesh stitched onto bone, stretched over old scars like a poor attempt at hiding war crimes. The fractured skin where Hydra had carved ownership. The way people looked at him when they thought he wasn’t watching—like he might snap, like he was more machine than man. A ticking time bomb with blue eyes and a past written in blood.

Bucky hated mirrors.

They didn’t lie. They showed him the full picture: the ruin, the weapon, the ghost of a man he once was. And yet you—you looked at him like you were staring at a sunrise. Not the aftermath of an avalanche.

“Hey, Buck,” you said one afternoon, padding into the shared kitchen at the compound. You offered him a lazy smile and a bottle of water. “Mission tomorrow. You ready?”

He didn’t meet your eyes. He didn’t trust himself to. “I’m always ready.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

You always meant things. Always saw him deeper than anyone else dared.

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “Don’t worry. The weapon still works.”

Your expression shifted. Hurt, subtle but visible, flickered across your features. “You’re not a weapon.”

“Yeah?” He bit out, pushing up from the counter. His voice came out harder than he meant. “Tell that to the pile of bodies behind me. Tell it to the people who flinch when I walk into a room. Hell, tell it to this—” He raised his left arm and clenched the vibranium fingers into a trembling fist. “This isn’t a body. It’s a fucking warning label.”

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Originally posted by tonydaily

NOT ANOTHER GIFT

pairing: tony stark x male reader
synopsis: You were tired. Not of loving Tony, but of trying to feel loved back without a price tag attached. Tired of him buying you gifts as apologies for missing important dates or almost dying while being Iron Man.

You weren’t ungrateful. Let’s make that clear.

The Aston Martin DB11 parked in the garage? A dream.

The custom Omega watch with your initials etched on the inside of the band? Timeless.

The Maldives trip he booked (first class, private villa, ocean-view everything) after missing your anniversary? Postcard perfect.

But it didn’t mean anything when he wasn’t there.

It was the dinner reservation he forgot—your favorite little Italian spot you both used to sneak away to before everything got so damn loud. The place where he once whispered over bruschetta that he thought you might be the last good thing in his life.

He forgot.

And the next morning, there was a new car parked in the driveway with a bow. Like you were some spoiled housewife in a romcom who could be pacified with horsepower and leather seats.

You stood in the doorway that morning and looked at the gift—gleaming, beautiful, impersonal. The thing is, you never asked for any of this. You just wanted him. In all his sarcastic, over caffeinated, too-smart-for-his-own-good glory. But he was always in meetings. Always flying off with the team. Always bleeding on a rooftop somewhere before sending you a sheepish text that he’d be “a little late.”

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YOU’RE A MONSTER, BUT YOU’RE TRYING

pairing: platonic! bruce banner x gender neutral reader

The cabin sits at the edge of the world.

Mountains roll like the spines of sleeping beasts beyond the trees, and the lake out front is glass until the wind touches it. You like it here. It’s far from people. Far from cities. Far from the tightness in your chest that comes whenever someone gets too close and you imagine the worst again—that the power locked inside you might slip.

You know how easy it would be. Just a breath. A panic. A bad dream. The wrong emotion. So you live alone.

Almost.

Bruce doesn’t knock when he visits anymore. He just pushes the screen door open like he belongs, takes one look around the cabin you never quite finish furnishing, and sets the grocery bag down on the counter like a ritual.

“Still eating like a medieval monk, I see,” he murmurs, peering into your nearly empty fridge. He doesn’t say it like a joke. Just a fact, soft and dry and familiar.

You sit in the sunlit corner by the window while he starts a kettle, leaning back in the chair like your spine’s made of brittle glass.

“You know, it took me years to stop counting the days since my last ‘incident,’” he continues, not turning around. “Like it was a prison sentence. Day 47 without transforming. Day 112. Day 304. I kept expecting the green guy to come crashing back through.”

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GENTLEMAN’S AGREEMENT

pairing:steve rogers x male reader
synopsis: You and Steve had been dating for a few months now, and you treated him like a king. Opening doors for him, keeping PDA to a minimum around others, watching your language around him—anything and everything to not make Steve uncomfortable. However, is Steve really that innocent as people think he is? No.

You had rules. Not ones carved in stone, but worn into your bones over years of disciplined self-control.

Rule #1: Never push Steve Rogers.

The man had seen war. Frozen, thawed, time-skipped, and then tossed headfirst into a world of smartphones and sex jokes on Twitter. You weren’t about to be the reason he short-circuited. It was easy to keep your touches brief, your kisses chaste, and your compliments confined to respectable territory.

“You look sharp, Cap,” you’d say, adjusting his collar with a practiced touch. Never hot. Never devastating. Never do-you-have-any-idea-what-you-do-to-me? Because that would break:

Rule #2: Don’t let Steve know you’re constantly on the verge of losing your goddamn mind over him.

So yes—your relationship was filled with old-school charm: opening doors, polite forehead kisses, sleeping with a gap between your bodies like it was the 1940s and touching too much would summon divine punishment.

You thought you were protecting him. You thought he needed it.

He proved you wrong on a Thursday night.

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THOSE 4 TERRIFYING WORDS

pairing: steve rogers x male reader
synopsis: ‘We need to talk’ is a universal line delivered when one wants to break up. Everyone knew this, even Steve (a man from the 40s). Not wanting to lose the one person he loves, Steve is determined to show you why that’s a bad idea.

You’d only said four ordinary words—“we need to talk”—but the moment they left your mouth, Steve Rogers went sheet-white, like you’d just handed him divorce papers wrapped in vibranium foil. You don’t notice the storm gathering behind his eyes—you’re already stepping into the corridor—but Steve hears the click of the latch and decides two things simultaneously:

1. You won’t have time to second-guess the relationship if he eliminates every reason you could possibly be unhappy.
2. He absolutely will not let you finish a sentence that starts with “we need to talk.”

He tugs on a Henley you once said makes his shoulders look “bite-worthy,” slicks his hair into a movie-poster wave, and cooks you dinner. Not just any dinner—lasagna with homemade pasta sheets, because apparently pasta rollers are what Amazon Prime is for when you’re catastrophizing at 3 p.m.

You walk in still dusted with rooftop grit, and the smell of basil hits you first. Then Steve appears holding a casserole dish like it’s Mjölnir, blue eyes shining with equal parts hope and mortal terror. “Uh… hi?” you say, eyebrow cocked.

“Welcome home, sweetheart.” He kisses your cheek, voice syrup-sweet. “Take a hot shower, get comfy. Everything’s taken care of.”

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I’VE DECIDED AND YOU’RE WHAT I WANT

pairing: bucky barnes x male reader
synopsis: You and Bucky were dancing around each other—you know it, he knows it, the tower knows it, hell, you think even Fury knows it—yet you reject every one of his advances. It’s not that you don’t feel the same way, but after everything that Bucky has gone through, you don’t want him to be pressured into anything. He deserves some peace after Hydra. However, Bucky knows what he wants and is determined to show you that.

You’re halfway through your morning run around the perimeter of the compound when the sound of metal-shod footsteps falls in rhythm beside you. You don’t need to look to know it’s Bucky—his gait is unmistakable. “Mind if I tag along?” he asks, breath perfectly even.

You shrug, pretending the sight of his damp hair and sleeveless tee doesn’t light up your hindbrain like a Stark-tech billboard. “Free country, Barnes.”

He chuckles. “So they tell me.”

The two of you do another lap in comfortable silence. Then, on the downhill stretch, he tries once again. “Dinner tonight? Nothing fancy—just the little shawarma place in town. No mission talk, no debriefs, just…” His lips twitch. “Just me wantin’ to hear you complain about the Mets in real time.”

Your heart catches in your throat. It would be so easy to say yes. Instead you slow to a walk and tug your sweat-rag from your pocket. “Bucky, you deserve a clean slate first. Space. Time to figure out what you want that isn’t tied to Hydra nightmares or SHIELD paperwork.” You wipe your face, avoiding his eyes. “I’m not—”

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LOVING YOU FELT LIKE DROWNING

pairing: tony stark x male reader
synopsis: During Tony Stark’s deepest pit of self-destruction and addiction, you were by his side. Day in and day out, you would clean up the mess from yet another party and help Tony relieve his massive hangover. However, after months of the same routine and Tony’s unwillingness to get help, you walked away. It wasn’t that you didn’t love him, but being with him (at that time) felt like drowning.

Loving Tony Stark was difficult. It came with a slew of inherited fractures—Howard’s clipped praise, Maria’s silent dinners, people who saw him as only a means to an end—that sank into Tony’s marrow and festered until they bloomed into self-destructive behaviors. You learned to see the pattern: every champagne spray, every paparazzo grin, every dawn spent coaxing him off a kitchen island because he’d decided gravity was optional. They were all new skins stitched over the same old wound.

You met him at MIT, a blur of red-lined schematics and five-hour problem sets away from graduation. He’d crashed a freshman robotics seminar because he was “bored of his own genius,” then took a seat beside you, feet on the desk, chewing bubble gum that smelled like expensive scotch masquerading as candy.

“Mind if I copy?” he asked, yet was already looking at your screen.

You should have told him off. Instead you laughed—because the formula on your screen was an answer to a question he’d posed in Scientific American three months earlier: “Is there an elegant way to reduce vibrational noise in miniature arc rings?”

You turned the laptop so he could see better, attention snagged by the tiny crease at the corner of his mouth when he pretended not to be impressed.

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LITERATURE IS OUR (ENEMY) FRIEND

pairing: tony stark x male reader
synopsis: Tony Stark didn’t do subtle. He was grand gestures, loud declarations, and endless charisma bundled up in tailored suits and tech brilliance. But this time, the genius billionaire found himself feeling spectacularly out of his depth—falling for a man who spoke literature as he did with technology.

Tony Stark didn’t do subtle. He was grand gestures, loud declarations, and endless charisma bundled up in tailored suits and tech brilliance. But this time, the genius billionaire found himself feeling spectacularly out of his depth—and Pepper was living for it.

The reason was simple, infuriating, and utterly captivating: you.

You, who preferred Hemingway over holograms, Shakespeare instead of circuit boards, and Freud rather than fusion reactors. Pepper had introduced you at a charity gala, her old college friend who had carved a career out of teaching literature and sociology at Columbia. Tony had initially dismissed you as just another academic type, but when you’d effortlessly quoted Whitman during a conversation about morality and technology, he’d been hooked.

Now, Pepper had the dubious pleasure of watching Tony Stark, inventor and superhero, nervously pacing around his lab, muttering lines from The Great Gatsby. “I can do this, Pepper,” Tony insisted, waving a dog-eared copy of the classic novel. “‘So we beat on, boats against the current…’ see? I’ve got it! He’ll love this stuff.”

Pepper raised an eyebrow, hiding her amusement behind a cup of coffee. “You realize he’s going to know you memorized a random Gatsby quote off the internet, right?”

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Promise To Return Pt. 3

RECAP: He pressed his hands to his face, unable to stop the torrent of tears. All he could see was the half-faded memory of you—your warm smile, the way you used to loop an arm around his shoulders or tug Bucky into a playful headlock. All he could hear was Bucky’s agonized accusation: ‘maybe you never really believed in him coming back at all.’ “It’s not true,” Steve whispered to the empty air, voice cracking. “I swear it’s not.” But there was no one around to hear him. Nothing but the echo of silence, and the ghost of your promise that you’d find your way home—somehow.

The first thing you notice—every time you wake—is the stench. The cot beneath you is nothing but two sagging strips of army-issue canvas, always a little damp, always gritty with rust. Disinfectant and wet iron cling to the fabric so thickly you taste it when you breathe. You have learned to lie perfectly still in that stink: if your chains clink, if the mattress whispers, boots come pounding down the passage and the guards start shouting guttural orders you still can’t translate.

So you drift. In the strip of darkness between one interrogation and the next, you summon the memory of a bedroom on Dean Street in Brooklyn: wallpaper peeling in fern-shaped curls, a radiator that clanged like church bells at sunrise, the bitter half-cup of coffee Steve always forgot on the night-stand. In that memory Steve lies on your left—small shoulders braced against yours. Bucky stretches on your right, grin crooked, hair pushed off his forehead the way you used to tease it back for him.

Hold on, Steve murmurs in the daydream, mouth brushing the column of your throat, fingers combing through your hair with agonizing tenderness. We’ll come get you.

Damn right, Bucky adds, nipping your ear just to wrench a laugh out of you. Nobody keeps our boy for long.

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