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tinyshyteacup · 1 month ago

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TW: cussing, tension, loki is still villainous, creepy vibes, loki is manipulative, some fluff, breif mention of SA (off page)

Part 5

Touch that Takes - Part 6

The door shuts with a low hiss, metal on reinforced metal, and the air shifts—warmer than the hall, closer somehow. The lighting is low and golden, flickering slightly as if mimicking the sunset you never saw today. The silence settles around you like a blanket that’s been waiting.

But even in your half-present state, you know this place is off.

The room is full of objects that should feel familiar—almost feel familiar—but they’re set slightly wrong, like a painting copied by someone with shaky hands. The layout is close to something you once knew, but not quite. The furniture—modular, softened with fabric throws—echoes of a room you think you might have known.

A picture frame here.

A teacup there.

A blanket you recognize, but one corner is torn now, frayed with time.

“This… is…” you murmur, blinking slowly, trying to place it.

Bucky stands beside you, just close enough that you feel his warmth but not his touch.

He notices your tension. The way your eyes scan everything like you're counting ghosts. He crouches slightly to your height, voice gentle.

“It’s not the Tower, Doll,” he says softly. “Haven’t been there in a few years.”

He rises again and moves across the room, picking up a battered little stuffed bear from a shelf—the same one you used to rest on your nightstand in Stark Tower, right beside your glass of water and emergency chocolate stash.

“After the Ultron incident, we moved everything here. Stark built the Compound, made it safer. Secluded. Out of the city.”

His voice softens further.

“I thought you might like it here, like your own little Central Park."

Your gaze flickers toward the bed. A worn quilt lies folded over the foot. You don’t remember it, but your fingers twitch with muscle memory.

The room is an amalgam of then and now—your old life resurrected inside newer walls.

There’s a tall bookcase filled with worn paperbacks, the spines cracked. Some you remember by title, others feel like strangers.

A stack of vinyl records sits near the corner with an old player humming faintly under a thin film of dust.

And on the far wall, there’s a series of photos pinned haphazardly—sun-bleached, wrinkled.

You and the Avengers.

One of you mid-laugh, perched on Thor’s shoulders.

Another, your head on Tony’s shoulder while he pretends to frown.

“I... we never took photos ... before,” Bucky murmurs behind you, noticing your gaze.

Everything is too familiar to be coincidence, too alien to be comforting.

And Bucky feels that weight in your silence.

He steps forward cautiously, his flesh hand hovering before gently brushing a lock of tangled hair behind your ear.

“I tried to make this place feel like home for you. For when…”

He swallows. “when we found you.”

His voice fractures just a little, like he’s finally saying something out loud he’s practiced for years.

“You and I—we always shared space. Ever since i arrived. I’d wake up and you’d be there, or curled up with me cause I had a nightmare.”

He gestures toward the far corner, where a reading nook has been built. A small, cushioned alcove with fairy lights strung haphazardly along the wall. Your old teacup sits beside a candle that hasn’t been lit in years.

“This was always yours too, I wanted you to have something just for you when you came back.”

You stand frozen. Eyes glassy. Mind somewhere between reality and memory.

The Leech in you doesn’t understand the significance. But some part of you—the quiet, sleeping part—aches.

Your fingertips reach out and brush the corner of the bookshelf.

The edge is worn smooth.

And that’s when you whisper.

“The Tower… had city lights at night.”

Bucky nods, a smile touching the corner of his lips—wistful, aching.

“Yeah. You used to fall asleep watching them."

You’re trembling subtly—not cold, not afraid. Just lost. Muscles taut from exhaustion, from too much stimulation after so long in sensory shadow.

He brushes a piece of matted hair from your cheek.

"Come on, Doll. Let’s get you clean. You’ll feel better.”

The mirror is fogged from the warm water. Shadows drift behind the glass like ghosts. Steam curls along the tile walls in slow, lazy spirals. The light overhead is softened by condensation, casting a gold-glow over everything—gentle, diffused, like dusk in a snowstorm.

Bucky kneels on the warm mat beside the clawfoot tub, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His metal hand rests still beside him. The other dips a soft cloth into the water. No rush. No tension.

You sit inside the bath—knees tucked tightly to your chest, arms wrapped around your shins. Watchful. You haven’t spoken in minutes, but your eyes never leave him.

Not hostile. Just unsure. Waiting for a signal.

You flick your gaze upward, head tilting like a wary creature sensing a change in air pressure.

A low, breathy chitter leaves your throat as a bubble pops too close to your ear.

Bucky doesn’t react.

He just wrings out the cloth gently and dabs it against your shoulder.

“Water’s still warm, Doll. Let me know if it’s too much.”

You twitch slightly at the contact, nostrils flaring as if cataloguing his scent. Not because you know him, but because something inside you is trying to decide if this man is safe.

He keeps his movements slow. Measured. Never abrupt.

Your hand darts up when his fingers near your neck, but instead of striking, you press your palm—flat and small—against his chest. Feeling the heartbeat.

Steady.

Safe.

“Its just me, Doll.” Bucky murmurs. "Your safe I promise."

Your brows knit. The sound of his voice… it doesn’t frighten you.

He dips the cloth again, gently working the grime from your skin. Dried blood, caked sweat, filth from forgotten floors. It melts off in slow smears.

You close your eyes briefly and sway.

Then suddenly—your head jerks.

A whimper builds in your throat. Confused, low.

You push your face under the water like you're trying to hide. It’s not panic—more instinct. A learned response.

“Hey—hey, easy,” Bucky says softly. He doesn’t grab you. He waits until your head surfaces again.

Your lips part slightly. Breathing in short huffs. You don’t know why you did that. You shake your head once. Twice. Like it might reset something.

"You're not with them now,” he adds, quieter. “You’re with me.”

You blink at him. Your hair clings to your cheeks. A single drop of water trails down your nose.

“Will it hurt?” you whisper, barely audible.

He stills. His jaw clenches, like the question slices him open.

“No, Doll,” he says, and his voice cracks faintly at the edges. “Not with me. Never.”

The strands are no longer matted. He’s spent nearly an hour working each knot free with his fingers, slow and careful. You didn’t fight.

You just watched him with owl-wide eyes through the little compact mirror he pressed into your palm, blinking occasionally as if you didn’t understand why he was doing it.

He washes you like you're porcelain. His flesh hand supports your back while he pours warm water over your head.

His touch is featherlight. Not possessive. Not hesitant either.

Reverent.

You watch him.

Every movement.

He pours water over your shoulders. Rubs your skin with a cloth—never lingering too long. Always moving as if your body is something sacred.

“You did this for me once, you know,” he says softly, as he comtinues his movements. “Back when I couldn’t remember what day it was.”

He works the soap into a lather, fingertips massaging your skin with care.

“I was so broken. Couldn’t speak. You didn’t flinch once.”

You tilt your head slightly. Your eyes are studying his mouth now. His lashes. His brow.

Familiar.

Home.

“You’re the reason I’m here, Doll.”

He rinses your skin carefully, then wraps a warm towel around your head.

Once your hair is wrapped in a towel, he holds out a robe.

You sit on the closed toilet lid, legs swinging slightly, watching him clean up the bath. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t crowd you. Just moves around the room like he knows it isn’t about him.

When he kneels again, he looks up and holds out his hand, palm-up.

“Doll,” he says low, “can I do something?”

You tilt your head at him, brow furrowed.

“What ?”

“Just this,” he says gently, lifting your hand, fingers splayed and trembling slightly.

You stare at him a long moment.

Then you ask—genuinely, innocently.

“Is this part gonna hurt?”

His face caves a little, but he hides it well. He smiles softly. Heartbroken.

“No, Doll. Not even a little.”

You nod once.

Permission.

He presses his lips to your knuckles—barely a whisper of a kiss. It’s a slow, still moment, like time has narrowed down to only that breath.

You watch him do it, intently, eyes searching his face like you’re trying to decode a language you once knew.

Then, softly.

“Do I have to sleep with you now?”

The question isn’t flirtatious. Or shy. It’s a clinical assumption. A transaction. Something learned.

Bucky jerks back slightly—just his eyes at first. Then his breath catches, and he sets your hand down with painful slowness.

“What—Doll… what did you just say?”

You blink at him, confused by his expression.

“Isn’t that what happens?” you ask. “After… after someone touches you like that?”

His mouth opens. Then closes. His voice is hoarse.

“Fuck—no. No, that’s not—” He rubs a hand over his face, trying to compose himself, his own memories bubbling to the surface.

“Did they… did Hydra ever… make you do that?”

Your brow furrows again. You shake your head.

“No. They left me before that. I wasn’t useful enough.”

That admission hits him like a body blow.

He exhales hard and shifts to sit beside you instead of in front, giving you space but refusing to leave your side. His flesh hand settles between you on the bench, palm up, open if you want it.

He stares at the wall for a long moment before speaking.

“We never have to do anything like that, Doll. Not for anyone. Not unless we want to.”

“Even if I’m with you ?” you ask quietly.

His voice is barely audible.

“Especially if you’re with me.”

The fluorescent lights of the compound's basement cast harsh shadows as you pace outside Loki's reinforced cell, your movements now jerky and predatory.

Your eyes, once warm and kind, have gone completely black—pools of endless hunger that make both Tony and Bucky shift uncomfortably.

"Please," you rasp, your voice barely recognizable. The shy, gentle girl who used to bring them coffee and worry about everyone else's wellbeing is nowhere to be found.

"I need it... I can't..." Your hands shake as black tendrils begin seeping from your fingertips like ink bleeding into water.

Bucky's jaw clenches, metal arm whirring. "Doll, just give us a few more hours we could—"

"No!" The word tears from your throat, more animal than human. "Please, just... just let me have him." Your head tilts unnaturally, nostrils flaring.

Tony's arc reactor glows brighter with his agitation. "Thumbelina, this is insane. We're talking about Loki here. The guy who tried to take over New York with an alien army."

From within his cell, Loki's smooth voice cuts through the tension like silk. "Oh, by all means, continue your fascinating debate about my suitability."

He lounges on his cot with theatrical nonchalance, though his green eyes are sharp with interest.

"The little wraith grows hungrier by the moment. I can practically taste her desperation from here."

Your head snaps toward him, and the tendrils extending from your arms pulse with eager darkness. "He's strong," you whisper, pressing closer to the reinforced glass. "Stronger than humans. I won't hurt him ... much."

"Hurt me?" Loki laughs, rising gracefully to approach the barrier. "My dear creature, I am a god. Your touch would be but a gentle caress."

His voice drops to a purr. "Come now, don't let these mortals' squeamishness keep you suffering."

Bucky steps protectively closer to you, but you're already reaching toward the glass, tendrils spreading across its surface like searching fingers.

"Please. I'm so hungry it hurts."

"This is a bad idea," Bucky mutters.

Tony crosses his arms, arc reactor pulsing with agitation. "Oh sure, let's just serve up our resident psychopath like he's an all-you-can-eat buffet. What could possibly go wrong?"

But his sarcasm can't hide the concern in his voice.

From within his cell, Loki's smooth voice cuts through the tension like silk. "Anthony Stark, ever the wit. Though I must say, comparing me to mortal sustenance is rather insulting." He lounges on his cot with theatrical nonchalance, though his green eyes are sharp with interest as they track your every movement.

"This is such a bad idea," Tony mutters. "Like, historically bad. We're talking 'Trojan Horse' levels of bad decision-making here."

"Listen to her beg," Loki's voice drops to an intimate whisper that carries clearly through the cell's speakers. "Such a sweet, desperate little thing. Tell me, darling, when did you last feed properly? When did someone last take care of your needs?"

Loki taps the glass with one elegant finger. "Tick tock, little wraith. How much longer will you let these frail mortals' deny you what you need?" His voice becomes a seductive purr. "I could feed you properly. Completely. The way you deserve."

"God, he's like a vampire pickup artist," Tony grumbles. "What's next, gonna offer her a ride in your flying chariot?"

His gaze shifts to Bucky with predatory amusement. "Tell me, soldier, how does it feel knowing you cannot provide for your beloved? That you must watch her beg for scraps from a monster?"

"Shut up," Bucky snarls, stepping forward, but you grab his arm.

"Please," you whisper, and the sound is broken, desperate. "I promise I'll be careful. I'm just so hungry."

Tony looks between you and Bucky, then at Loki's smug expression. "FRIDAY, triple the security protocols. Any sign he's trying to escape or manipulate the situation, we flood the cell with knock-out gas."

"Already done, Boss."

The cell door's locks disengage with a series of mechanical clicks.

You slip inside like smoke, tendrils already extending toward Loki, who stands with arms outstretched in mock welcome.

"My my what a hungry little pet," he croons, and your tendrils make contact with his pale skin. "Take what you need."

The moment your energy begins to flow into you, your shoulders sag with relief.

Loki's hand comes up to cup your cheek with deceptive tenderness, his thumbs stroking your cheek as your tendrils wrap around his wrists.

"There we are," he murmurs, voice like velvet. "Look how beautiful you are when you feed, darling. So powerful, so alive." His green eyes bore into your blackened ones. "They would have you ashamed of this gift."

Through the glass, Bucky's entire body goes rigid. "Get your hands off her."

Loki's smile widens as he pulls you closer, letting your tendrils snake up his arms like lover's caresses. "Look how she trembles with gratitude," he says, loud enough for them to hear, though you can feel him tense as your drain intensifies.

His illusion magic shimmers around him, maintaining his composure while hiding the true cost. "So eager, so desperate for what only I can properly provide."

"I'm gonna kill him," Bucky snarls, metal fist slamming against the glass.

"Easy there, Manchurian Candidate," Tony warns, though his own jaw is clenched tight.

"Such aggression," Loki chuckles. "Though I suppose frustration manifests in many ways."

Bucky freezes, and Loki's smile widens. "Oh, how delicious. You haven't, have you? All this possessive rage, and you've never even been offered so much as a kiss from these delicate lips." Loki mocks tilting your chin up, your to far into feeding to ever register his voice.

"That's enough," Tony snaps, stepping between them, his protective instincts flaring. "Back off, Reindeer Games."

But Loki continues, voice like honey-coated poison. "No wonder the poor thing is starving. Emotionally and physically neglected."

Loki ignores them then returning his attention to you as your tendrils pulse with satisfaction.

One of his hands slides to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair. "You feel that, don't you, sweet thing? How much stronger I am than your fragile mortals?"

His voice drops to an intimate whisper. "How much more I can give you without breaking?"

Your feeding intensifies involuntarily at his words, and he lets out a soft cooing sound as he strokes your cheek with his knuckles.

"She responds so beautifully to me," Loki calls out, his free arm wrapping around your waist as you lean into him, lost in the feeding.

"Tell me, Barnes, when was the last time she looked this satisfied in your arms?"

Bucky's breathing is ragged with fury. "You son of a—"

"Language," Loki tsks, pressing his lips to your temple in a mockery of affection. "We wouldn't want to upset our little wraith with such crude words."

His hand traces down your spine possessively. "She's far too refined for such brutishness, aren't you, darling?"

You make a soft sound in your throat, your consciousness flickering between the animalistic hunger and something dangerously close to contentment.

His scent—cold and sharp like winter wind—fills your senses.

"That's it," he encourages, his voice a seductive purr. "Take everything you need. Don't let their guilt make you stop."

His lips brush your ear. "I can give you what they never could."

"Stop talking to her like that," Bucky warns, but there's desperation creeping into his anger.

Loki chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest where you're pressed against him. "Like what? Like she's precious? Desired?"

His hand cradles your head as your tendrils pulse stronger. "Like she's not a monster to be contained but a fellow goddess to be worshipped?"

Your feeding slows as satisfaction begins to replace the desperate hunger, but Loki's words snake into your consciousness. His fingers trace patterns on your back that feel almost like runes.

"You see how perfectly we fit?" he whispers, meant only for your ears. "How right this feels? They fear what you are, but I celebrate it."

His lips ghost across your cheek. "Let me show you what it means to be truly powerful."

But as your eyes begin to clear from solid black to their natural color, the intimate spell breaks and something like guilt crashes over you.

Loki's arm tightens around your waist.

"I understand your hunger. All of it." His voice becomes a seductive promise. "You deserve someone who isn't afraid of your power."

"Okay, that's enough puppet show for one day," Tony snaps his fingers a couple times. "Sunshine, you got what you needed? C'mon Time to go."

But as you begin to pull back, Loki catches your chin gently. "Until next time, my sweet wraith. And there will be a next time."

Your tendrils retract as your eyes clear from solid black to their natural color, guilt crashing over you in waves. "I'm sorry," you whisper to Loki, then turn to the glass where Bucky and Tony wait with barely contained fury. "I'm so sorry."

Loki straightens his shirt with practiced ease, his illusion never faltering. "Nothing to apologize for, darling. You were perfect."

As the cell locks reengage, you stumble toward the exit, but not before catching Loki's final words.

"Sweet dreams, little one. I'll be thinking of our next... encounter."

You lean against Bucky's chest once you're outside, yourself again—shy, guilty, and quietly spoken. But Bucky's arms are rigid with barely contained rage.

"I'm sorry I didn't mean to loose mysel—"

"Hey," Tony says gently, his protectiveness overriding his sarcasm for once. "You did what you had to do, Sunshine. We all did."

But behind the reinforced glass, Loki's knowing smile promises this psychological game is just beginning.

Once the heavy footsteps fade and the basement falls silent, Loki's perfectly composed mask finally cracks.

His illusion magic wavers like heat shimmer before dissolving completely, revealing the true cost of your feeding.

Dark, web-like veins of necrosis spread across his arms where your tendrils made contact, the flesh appearing desiccated and gray as if life itself had been leached away.

His usually pristine skin looks paper-thin and brittle, with patches that seem almost translucent.

The damage extends beyond the surface - his hands shake with genuine weakness, and when he tries to conjure even a simple illusion, the magic flickers and dies.

Despite his godly constitution, your hunger had taken more than he'd anticipated.

Loki sinks onto his cot, breathing heavily as he examines the spreading decay. A twisted smile plays at his lips despite the pain - the game had been worth it.

The seeds of doubt he'd planted, the way you'd responded to his touch, the rage in the soldier's eyes.

His accelerated healing would restore him within hours, but the psychological damage he'd inflicted on your little family would linger much longer.

As the necrotic patterns slowly begin to fade, he's already planning his next move in this delicious game of manipulation.

133 notes · View notes

amethystarachnid · 3 months ago

Note

Hey this is my first ever request. I hope you'll write it. Can i ask for tony stark & y/n's wedding with natasha, bruce, steve, thor and happy (no other characters plz) as their friends and help them with the arrangements and its just so chaotic and fun since planning, shopping and to the actual ceremony. Y/n is nice, friendly and grateful for their help and tony keeps sassing around and sneaks in between just to kiss y/n and the avengers see it and tease him about it 😙 and fluffy and funny things like that

please 🥺🥺🥺❤️❤️❤️

CHAOS & CONFETTI

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

ᯓ★ Pairing: Anthony “Tony” E. Stark x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: fluff, romance, some action

ᯓ★ Word count: 6.4k

ᯓ★ Summary: what the ask said

ᯓ★ TW(s): nothing I think?

ᯓ★ Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The ring on your finger still feels surreal. Even after a week of wearing it, you catch yourself staring at it when you think no one's looking. The moment Tony got down on one knee, there was no hesitation in your answer. You said yes before he even finished the question. He grinned like he’d just hacked the Pentagon and pulled off the ultimate prank, and now, somehow, you’re planning a Stark-level wedding with… well, the Avengers.

That’s probably your first mistake.

Tony, of course, insists on making it a “team effort,” because as he says it, “What’s the point of having a super squad if you can’t weaponize them for cake tastings and table arrangements?” You tell him that sounds like a terrible idea. He kisses your forehead and says, “Exactly. It'll be memorable.”

You should’ve known then.

It starts on a Tuesday morning. You’re sitting on the couch in the common room of the tower, scrolling through Pinterest and wondering if it's physically possible to have too many fairy lights at a wedding. Tony walks in, grabs a handful of almonds from a bowl like it’s popcorn, and announces, “All right, my brilliant, beautiful fiancée. I have assembled the wedding planning task force.”

You lower your phone. “You did what?”

He gestures dramatically toward the door.

One by one, they enter.

Natasha, looking vaguely amused but sipping black coffee like she’s preparing for a long day. Bruce, already carrying a clipboard, wearing a kind expression that says, I’m going to pretend this is going to go smoothly. Steve follows, nodding politely, trying very hard not to look panicked. Thor enters last, in full Asgardian armor because he "wasn't informed this was a casual event." Happy peeks in from the hallway, clearly trying to sneak away, but Tony pulls him in like he's the final piece of some ridiculous Avengers puzzle.

You blink.

“This is your task force?”

Tony beams. “Dream team, baby.”

Happy raises a hand. “I’m only here because he promised me donuts.”

You sigh, rubbing your temples. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

The first meeting is held in the main conference room — the same one used for life-or-death mission briefings and SHIELD-level security threats. Now it's got swatches of fabric and floral samples spread across the table like war plans. You watch as Natasha neatly organizes everything while Steve attempts to color-coordinate swatches with a look of deep confusion. Bruce starts sketching layout options on his tablet. Thor is poking a bouquet of peonies, asking, “Are these the Midgardian ones that smell like roasted goat, or am I thinking of another?”

Tony stands at the head of the table, arms folded like he’s directing a military operation. “All right, let’s break it down. We’ve got catering, decor, venue, music, guest list, cake, bachelor party, bachelorette party—”

“You’re not planning the bachelorette party,” you cut in.

Tony winks. “Only a few ideas. Flamethrowers. Helicopters. Flamethrowers on helicopters.”

Natasha hums. “I volunteer as tribute to veto everything he just said.”

Bruce raises his hand like a concerned science teacher. “Should we maybe start with something simple? Like... theme?”

Steve nods quickly. “Themes are good. I like themes. Patriotic ones, maybe. Red, white, and—”

“No,” you and Tony say at the same time.

Thor slams a fist onto the table, nearly toppling a centerpiece. “There should be fireworks! Endless fireworks!”

Happy sighs. “If this turns into another interdimensional incident, I’m not putting it on the insurance report.”

You stand slowly, trying not to laugh. “Guys. One thing at a time.”

The next few hours are a blur of chaos.

Natasha is shockingly good at organizing people, and quickly takes the reins on logistics. She starts grilling you for decisions like she's interrogating a HYDRA agent. “Color palette. Pick three. No more.” You sputter and try to point to a mood board. She slaps it out of the way. “Those are four colors. Cut one.”

Bruce is quietly mapping out seating charts, but keeps asking you if anyone has a “history” with anyone else. “I just don’t want to seat Thor next to someone who might cause an incident.” He glances at Thor, who is now drinking coffee straight from the pot. “Again.”

Steve is surprisingly passionate about tuxedo fittings and insists on a classic, timeless look. You think he’s just relieved to be dealing with suits and not high-tech weaponry. He draws some concept sketches that actually look like Vogue covers.

Meanwhile, Happy is trying to figure out how to get food trucks onto the tower’s helipad, and Tony is now suggesting that the cake should be a life-size ice sculpture of the two of you, filled with champagne.

You look over at Bruce, who looks like he aged ten years in an hour.

By day three of planning, things have escalated.

Natasha is now your maid of honor by default because she scares everyone else into submission. She's made a spreadsheet so color-coded it could qualify as modern art. You love her.

Thor has taken over flower selection and is sending crates of Asgardian flora to Earth. You walk into the living room to find a bouquet that’s pulsating with blue light. It might be sentient.

Steve is still holding out hope for a marching band.

Happy has started asking you both if you’d rather elope.

Bruce is designing a stress-free “meditation zone” for the reception, complete with bean bags and aromatherapy diffusers. It smells like lavender and impending doom.

You and Tony, of course, are having the time of your lives.

Every evening, you collapse onto the couch with him, both of you exhausted and grinning. He pulls you into his lap, your legs draped over his, and kisses your cheek. “Best decision I ever made,” he murmurs.

“You mean proposing?”

“No, bringing in Thor. Did you see the flowers? That bouquet tried to bite Steve.”

You laugh and rest your head on his shoulder. “This is insane.”

He looks at you like you hung the stars. “Yeah. But it’s our kind of insane.”

The next big challenge? The tasting.

You arrive at the test kitchen where Natasha has scheduled three catering options. Bruce brings a whiteboard with notes on allergies, dietary restrictions, and approximate quantities based on caloric intake. Thor eats an entire tray of appetizers before anyone can stop him.

“Are we allowed to bring mead?” he asks.

“Only if you don’t set the table on fire again,” Steve mutters, reaching for a napkin.

Tony's contribution is hiring a celebrity chef just to impress you. The guy barely makes it through the first course before Natasha pulls him aside and quietly tells him that if he adds foam to anything again, she'll relocate his kneecaps.

By the end of the tasting, you’re so full you can barely move, and Happy is asleep at the table. Bruce is analyzing your reactions with the seriousness of a nuclear scientist. “You smiled more with Option B. It could be the truffle oil.”

Tony grabs your hand and kisses the back of it. “Whichever you pick, we’ll serve it in floating platters. I already have prototypes.”

“I don’t need floating food, babe.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You say that now.”

As the weeks go by, the chaos only deepens. You find Thor stringing up lights with Steve, both of them arguing over voltage. Natasha and Happy somehow become co-DJs when you veto Tony’s playlist filled entirely with AC/DC. Bruce builds a drone-based photography system, and Tony insists it wear a tiny tux.

But in the middle of all the madness, you find the sweet parts.

Steve brings you tea one afternoon, gently telling you to take a break. Natasha helps you pick out your dress — no nonsense, no drama, just her calm voice telling you that you look powerful. Bruce lets you cry on his shoulder when you get overwhelmed. Thor, for all his dramatics, leaves little hand-written notes with weird Asgardian blessings around the tower. Happy gives you a thumbs-up every time you pass him, like he’s reminding you that you got this.

And Tony?

He’s always there.

When you’re too tired to think, he carries you to bed. When you’re stressed about table settings, he makes you laugh until you can’t breathe. He doesn’t care about the flowers or the suits or the menu. He just wants to marry you.

“Even if the cake explodes and Thor sets the band on fire,” he says one night, tangled up in bed with you. “As long as you say I do, it’ll be perfect.”

You smile, heart full.

“Deal.”

---

The planning doesn’t slow down. If anything, it ramps up to levels you didn’t even think were possible. Every day feels like some kind of mission briefing gone horribly off-track, and yet, somehow, you’re still moving forward. You try your best to keep things under control, to be nice and grateful because, honestly, they’re all putting in a ridiculous amount of effort. Even Happy, who is definitely pretending he wants nothing to do with it but still shows up every day with a new logistical solution.

Tony, however, is a menace.

He loves the chaos. Feeds off it. While you’re trying to go over the finalized guest list with Bruce and Natasha, Tony is in the corner trying to convince Thor that it would be hilarious to have fireworks shoot out of the cake when you cut it. Thor is all in. Steve is not.

“I’m not stopping you,” Steve says, flipping through his list of responsibilities. “But I will say, if you set fire to the cake, I’m not going to be the one explaining it to Y/N.”

Tony leans back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head. “She loves me. She’ll forgive me.”

You glance up from your notes. “You sure about that?”

Tony smirks. “Eighty percent.”

Happy sighs heavily. “I don’t get paid enough for this.”

Dress shopping gets scheduled for the following week, and Natasha is fully in charge. You don’t argue. She’s efficient, has good taste, and knows how to make a decision. She also immediately bans all men from the process.

Tony hates it.

The moment he hears about it, he whirls around from his latest wedding-related disaster (arguing with Bruce over whether AI-controlled serving trays are really necessary) and looks betrayed. “Wait. I’m not invited?”

Natasha doesn’t even look up from her tablet. “No.”

Tony gestures to himself. “But I’m the groom.”

“That’s exactly why.”

He turns to you, desperate. “Babe.”

You try to keep a straight face, but the pout he’s giving you is so ridiculous that you have to look away. “You’ll be fine.”

“I won’t be fine. I’ll be suffering.” He groans and leans dramatically against the counter. “I can’t believe you’re leaving me with these guys.”

“You’ll survive.”

He watches as Natasha gives you a rundown of the appointments. “Fine. But I will be sneaking in at some point.”

Natasha doesn’t even blink. “I will have you thrown out.”

On the day of, you make sure to kiss Tony before you leave, which is the only reason he lets you go without more whining. Natasha, to no one’s surprise, is the best possible person to take dress shopping. She’s brutally honest, efficient, and knows how to keep the process from feeling overwhelming. She even lets you pause for snacks in between appointments, which automatically makes her your favorite person for the day.

Some dresses are immediate no’s. Some are contenders. Some are almost perfect. But then, after a few hours, you put one on, and the moment you step out of the dressing room, you know. The fabric is soft, the fit is perfect, and when you catch sight of yourself in the mirror, your heart stumbles in your chest.

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “That’s the one.”

You turn, studying yourself. “You think?”

She nods. “You look dangerous in that dress.”

You laugh. “That’s not exactly the goal.”

“No, but it’s a bonus.”

You let out a slow breath. It’s real now. The ring on your finger, the wedding planning, the future you’re about to have with Tony. The idea of marrying him never scared you, but seeing yourself in a wedding dress makes it all feel even more real. You grin. “Yeah. This is the one.”

Back at the tower, Tony is pacing like an impatient child waiting for a present. Every time someone walks into the common room, he turns, hopeful. When it’s not you, he groans.

Steve is on his third cup of coffee, watching with mild amusement. “You could do something productive.”

Tony scoffs. “I am being productive. I’m preparing to be emotionally supportive.”

Happy flips through a magazine. “You’ve done nothing but sigh dramatically for the last twenty minutes.”

“I’m really good at sighing dramatically.”

When you finally get back, arms full of shopping bags, Tony practically launches off the couch. The moment you step through the door, he’s there, kissing you before you can even say hi. He cups your face, tilting his head as he presses soft, lingering kisses against your lips.

Natasha rolls her eyes. “She was gone for five hours, Stark.”

Tony ignores her. “Did you miss me?”

You laugh, arms winding around his neck. “A little.”

He grins. “What’d you get? Show me.”

“Absolutely not.”

His grin fades into something comically devastated. “Why are you so mean to me?”

Thor, who has just walked in, claps a hand on Tony’s shoulder. “Do not despair, friend Stark. The element of surprise is a most sacred Midgardian wedding tradition.”

Tony groans. “You’re all conspiring against me.”

Steve smirks. “And?”

Tony glares at him.

In the following weeks, things only escalate. The wedding planning moves forward at full speed, with each Avenger handling their own responsibilities. Natasha keeps everything running smoothly. Bruce finalizes logistics. Thor continues to be overly enthusiastic about everything. Steve tries to be the responsible one but ends up getting dragged into nonsense anyway. Happy threatens to quit at least once a day, but never actually does.

And Tony?

Tony sneaks kisses every chance he gets.

You could be reviewing seating charts, and suddenly he’s there, pressing a kiss to your temple. You could be talking to the florist, and he’ll dip in, dropping a quick peck on your cheek before disappearing. You could be mid-conversation with Natasha about final headcounts, and suddenly his arms are around your waist, lips grazing the side of your neck.

It doesn’t go unnoticed.

Steve groans every time it happens. “Do you have to do that?”

Tony smirks. “Yes.”

Natasha just raises an eyebrow. “At least try to be subtle.”

Thor, who clearly finds the entire thing entertaining, simply nods in approval. “Affection is a most glorious thing.”

Bruce sighs. “Can we get through one meeting without this?”

Tony grins. “Doubt it.”

You’re not exactly helping. Every time he sneaks a kiss, you let him. Maybe even encourage it. He makes you laugh, makes you feel loved, makes even the most ridiculous parts of planning fun. The stress never lasts long when he’s around.

One night, after a particularly long day of decisions, you find yourself curled up with him on the couch. The tower is quiet. Everyone else has gone to bed. It’s just the two of you, warm and comfortable.

Tony presses a kiss to your forehead. “You still having fun?”

You nod. “Yeah. It’s a lot, but… it’s good.”

He smiles, fingers trailing down your arm. “I’m proud of you.”

You blink. “For what?”

“For handling all this. For putting up with me. For making this whole thing feel like an adventure instead of a chore.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “You do realize I’m marrying you, right? The chaos is part of the package.”

He grins. “Damn right it is.”

You curl closer, resting your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. “I can’t wait.”

His arms tighten around you. “Me neither.”

The wedding is getting closer. The chaos is getting bigger. But in the middle of it all, it’s just you and Tony, making something beautiful out of the madness.

---

The wedding is a few days away, and everything is supposed to be settling into place. Most of the big decisions have been made. The dress is hanging safely in a protected, no-Tony-allowed section of the tower. The guest list is finalized, the seating chart approved by both Bruce and Natasha, the menu confirmed, the flowers—despite Thor’s best efforts—mostly Earth-based and non-sentient.

Tony has started counting down the days with a marker on the fridge like a child waiting for Christmas. Every morning he puts a red X over the date with the flair of a man who’s waiting for his reward at the finish line.

You’re excited. You’re happy. You’re also exhausted.

Between fitting appointments, final walkthroughs of the venue, constant emails, and all the little decisions that never seem to end, your brain feels like it’s been stuffed with confetti. Pretty, yes. Useful, no.

But you manage. You stay kind, patient, grateful, because these people—this mismatched, chaotic, wildly dramatic little team—have thrown themselves into your wedding planning like it’s a top-priority mission. You love them for it. You love Tony for dragging them into it. You love everything about how personal and messy and strange this whole experience has been.

Until it breaks.

It starts with a phone call. You’re halfway through checking the RSVP confirmations when your phone rings. Natasha’s name flashes on the screen. You answer without hesitation, still scribbling notes with your other hand.

“Hey, what’s up?”

She’s quiet for a second. Then, “The venue’s flooded.”

You stop writing. “What?”

“There was a pipe burst. Something about a pressure valve and a broken sprinkler system. Water damage everywhere. They’re saying it’s unusable for at least two weeks.”

Your stomach drops. You feel the blood drain from your face.

“But—we’re getting married in four days.”

“I know. I’m already calling around for backups.”

You try to stay calm. Try to be rational. It’s just a place. A building. There are other buildings. But this wasn’t just avenue. It was the venue. The one that made your eyes light up when you walked in for the first time. The one that made Tony say, “Yup, this is it,” before you’d even gotten past the lobby. The one where you’d imagined everything—your walk down the aisle, your first dance, the way the light would hit the stained-glass windows as you said your vows.

Gone.

You thank Natasha. You hang up. You sit there for a few minutes, just breathing.

When you go to tell Tony, he’s mid-conversation with Happy and Bruce about generator backups and emergency lighting in case of a power outage. He looks up when he sees your face.

“Hey,” he says, all warmth and confidence. “What’s wrong?”

You open your mouth. You try to speak. Nothing comes out.

Happy excuses himself quietly. Bruce gives you a concerned look, then leaves too. Tony walks over, brows furrowing.

“Talk to me.”

“The venue,” you say, voice shaking. “It’s ruined. A flood. Natasha’s trying to find something else but… there’s no way it’ll be the same.”

Tony is quiet for a second. Then, “Okay. We’ll fix it.”

You nod, but it doesn’t help. Not really. You stay composed until later, when everything’s done for the day and you’re back in your room. The moment the door closes behind you and it’s just you and Tony, your knees buckle.

He’s there before you hit the floor.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until you’re in his arms, shaking and breathless and broken in a way you didn’t expect to be. It’s not just about the venue. It’s the stress and the exhaustion and the feeling of watching something you’d planned and dreamed about slip through your fingers days before it was supposed to become real.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, burying your face in his chest. “I’m sorry, I just—I held it together all day and I didn’t want to ruin it for anyone and now I—”

“Hey, hey, hey.” His voice is soft, grounding. He pulls you into his lap on the bed, arms around you like steel. “You don’t have to apologize. Not to me. Not ever.”

You clutch at his shirt, your tears soaking into the fabric. “I just wanted it to be perfect.”

Tony kisses your forehead, your temple, the top of your head. “It will be perfect. Not because of the venue. Not because of the cake or the flowers or anything else. Because I’m marrying you. And that’s the part that matters.”

You try to breathe. Try to calm down. It takes a while.

He doesn’t rush you.

He just holds you, letting you cry it out. When you’re finally able to sit up and look at him, your eyes are puffy and your nose is stuffy and you feel like a mess.

He brushes your hair out of your face and smiles. “Still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

You laugh wetly. “Liar.”

He grins. “Only a little.”

He helps you into bed, wraps you in blankets, orders your favorite food without asking. You eat in bed, curled against him, your hand in his, your heart aching but not quite as broken as it was before.

You fall asleep in his arms, exhausted.

The next morning, he’s gone when you wake up.

You blink blearily, expecting to find a note or maybe a text. Instead, you get Bruce knocking gently on the door with a mug of coffee and a nervous smile.

“Tony wants you on the roof.”

“The roof?”

He nods. “Just go. Trust me.”

You throw on some clothes and make your way up, still rubbing sleep from your eyes. The elevator opens, and you step out into—

Magic.

The roof has been transformed.

There’s a platform built on the far end, draped in soft white fabric, like a makeshift altar. Rows of sleek chairs line the area, facing the skyline. Twinkle lights hang overhead, and flowers—real, Earth-approved ones—spill from every corner. There’s a soft breeze, the scent of roses and something faintly citrusy in the air. The city stretches out behind it all, breathtaking.

And standing in the middle of it, wearing a suit and a grin and holding a cup of coffee in each hand, is Tony.

You just stare.

“What is this?”

“Your new venue,” he says, walking over to hand you a cup. “It’s got a hell of a view.”

“You—how?”

He shrugs. “Told Friday to run a logistics sweep. Got some contractors up here overnight. Bruce handled power. Natasha blackmailed the city into expediting a permit. Thor brought a truck full of flowers. Happy made sure nobody fell off the roof.”

You’re speechless.

He looks proud. A little smug. Mostly just happy. “It’s not the original plan. But I figured... why not get married right where we fell in love?”

You blink. “We fell in love on the roof?”

“Kind of. First time I realized you were the one? You were yelling at me up here after I blew up the north wall during that party. You looked incredible, even covered in plaster dust. Told me I was reckless and stupid. Then kissed me before storming off.”

You laugh. “I remember that.”

“I never forgot it.”

You look around again. It’s beautiful. It’s not what you planned. It’s better.

Tony takes your hand. “Say yes.”

You smile through the tears starting to form again. “I already did.”

“Say it again.”

“Yes.”

He kisses you, right there in the morning light, on the roof of the tower, surrounded by the strange, beautiful life you built together. And you know—no matter what else goes wrong, no matter what chaos the next few days bring—this is the part that matters. This is the part that will last.

And somehow, it’s perfect.

---

Tony starts complaining the moment the bachelor and bachelorette parties are mentioned.

“Why do we have to split up?” he whines, slumped dramatically across the couch like it’s the worst news he’s ever received. “We’re getting married. This is the opposite of the point.”

You’re sitting beside him, casually going through a list of last-minute tasks. “Because that’s how it works, babe.”

He lifts his head. “That’s how it used to work. Back when people thought it was cool to black out in Vegas and wake up with a hangover and a questionable tattoo.”

“You’re not getting a tattoo.”

“I might,” he says, then quickly backpedals when you raise your eyebrows. “Okay, I won’t. But still—what if I just... come to yours? I could wear a wig. No one would know.”

You laugh, leaning over to kiss his temple. “You’ll survive one night without me.”

“Bold of you to assume.”

But despite all his theatrics, he agrees. Mainly because Natasha tells him she’ll tase him if he ruins the plan, and Steve says something about “tradition” in that annoyingly calm voice of his. Bruce promises it won’t be wild, just a chance to relax, unwind, and have fun before the big day. Happy says nothing, just sighs in quiet resignation because he knows he’ll be dealing with the fallout either way.

You and Natasha plan your night first. You’re not interested in strippers or weird party games. You want good food, good drinks, and your friends. She books a private space at your favorite rooftop bar, the one with the soft lighting and the killer mocktails, because she knows you’ve been trying to cut back a little during wedding prep. She invites only the closest people—Bruce is obviously excluded, and Tony’s already been banned—but she manages to wrangle in a few of your girlfriends from outside the tower. It’s the kind of night you’ve been too busy to even consider having lately.

Tony sees you before you leave. He doesn’t say much. Just stands in the doorway of your shared closet, arms folded, watching you get ready with a pout on his face.

“You’re going to be gone for hours.”

You give him a look in the mirror. “You’ll be fine.”

“I don’t know what to do with myself.”

“Steve’s literally picking you up in fifteen minutes.”

“That’s not comforting.”

You walk over and smooth your hands over his chest. “We’ll both have fun. Then we’ll meet back here and tell each other everything. Deal?”

Tony leans down to kiss you slow, sweet, and just a little smug. “You’ll miss me.”

“I always do.”

He lets you go with another kiss and a dramatic farewell. “If I die of boredom, tell my AI children I loved them.”

Natasha is already waiting by the elevator when you step out. She gives you an approving look. “Looking good, bride-to-be.”

“You too,” you say with a grin. “Ready to party?”

“Let’s cause minimal but memorable chaos.”

Your night is perfect. It’s everything you need it to be. Laughter, drinks, a killer view of the city. Your friends are loud and affectionate, spilling stories about your past, sharing toasts that are equal parts hilarious and heartfelt. Natasha orders food like you’re feeding an army and refuses to let anyone lift a finger, even the servers.

You catch up with people you haven’t seen in months, soak in their excitement and support, and for the first time in weeks, you feel like a human being again instead of just a stressed-out checklist machine. Natasha gets you to dance—badly—on the patio, hair blowing in the wind, drink in one hand, the other raised to the sky like you're invincible.

The night flies.

Meanwhile, Tony’s version of a bachelor party is exactly what you'd expect.

Steve insists on something classy. “A night of celebration, not debauchery,” he says with conviction.

Thor brings the opposite energy. “There must be mead! And feasting! And perhaps a minor battle!”

Bruce sighs. “Please no battles.”

They settle on something in the middle: a private lounge downtown, secure and quiet but with excellent food, a vintage liquor selection that Tony personally curated, and enough space for Thor to swing his arms dramatically without hitting anything fragile.

Tony pretends to sulk for the first hour. “She’s probably having more fun than me,” he mutters into his drink.

Steve rolls his eyes. “She’s with Natasha. That means at least three emergency escape routes and zero felonies.”

Tony lifts his glass. “To functional chaos.”

Despite himself, he ends up enjoying the night. Thor tells dramatic stories that may or may not be true. Steve manages to get a little tipsy, which is both rare and hilarious. Bruce brings out a toast so heartfelt that Tony actually gets quiet for a minute after it. Happy mostly drinks and keeps a watchful eye on the rest of them like a chaperone who gave up on enforcing the rules but still doesn’t want anyone to die.

There are gifts, mostly joke ones. Thor gives him a ceremonial Asgardian dagger and declares it a wedding token. Steve presents him with a framed photo of the team, signed like it’s a yearbook. Bruce gives him a box labeled “for emergencies only,” filled with calming teas and a card that says don’t blow anything up in neat handwriting.

At one point, Tony slips away to the balcony and checks his phone. He doesn’t message you—he promised not to—but he stares at your contact photo for a while, smiling like an idiot.

Back at your party, you’re sitting with Natasha on a velvet bench, sipping water and watching the skyline.

“You doing okay?” she asks.

“Better than okay,” you say. “This was perfect. I didn’t think I needed it, but I did.”

She nods, eyes flicking to your face. “You love him.”

You look at her. “Of course I do.”

“Good. Because if you hurt him, I’ll end you.”

You laugh. “He said the same thing about you.”

She smirks. “Smart man.”

Eventually, the party winds down. People hug you goodbye, kiss your cheek, tell you they can’t wait for the big day. Natasha rides back with you, quiet and content, until the elevator doors open and you both step into the penthouse.

Tony is already waiting.

You don’t even say anything. You just walk straight into his arms. He smells like whiskey and something expensive, and he wraps around you like he’s been waiting all night for this.

“Miss me?” he mumbles into your neck.

“Always.”

He pulls back to look at you. “Did you have fun?”

“So much.”

He grins. “Me too. Don’t tell Steve.”

You press your forehead to his. “We’re getting married tomorrow.”

He exhales slowly, like he still can’t quite believe it. “Yeah. We are.”

And for a moment, in the quiet, it’s just the two of you again—no planners, no checklists, no chaos. Just love. Raw, overwhelming, and real.

You fall asleep wrapped around each other, wedding on the horizon, the city quiet outside the windows. Whatever comes next, you’re ready.

Together.

The morning of the wedding is clear and warm. Not too hot, not too cold, and not a cloud in sight. It’s like the universe knew you needed one day to go exactly as planned. The whole tower is buzzing with activity—hairdryers, zippers, camera clicks, and Bruce muttering to himself as he tries to figure out how to tie a bowtie.

You’re tucked away in a private suite upstairs, surrounded by soft music and the quiet murmur of Natasha and a few close friends. Your dress is hanging from a rack, safe and perfect. You’d kept it hidden for so long that just seeing it now makes your heart jump.

Natasha walks up behind you with a coffee. “You nervous?”

You take a sip and nod. “Yeah. But also no. It’s weird.”

“Good weird?”

“The best kind.”

She grins. “He’s been pacing downstairs since dawn.”

You smile. That sounds right.

Downstairs, Tony is pacing. In a tux. With the sleeves already half-rolled because “this is a wedding, not a hostage situation.” Steve is trying to get him to calm down. Happy gave up and is just watching from the corner like a man who’s seen some things.

“I just don’t want anything to explode,” Tony mutters, adjusting his cufflinks again. “That’s not unreasonable, right?”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “No. But I think you’re more likely to explode than anything else.”

“I’m holding it together.”

“You’re not.”

“I’m emotionally stable,” Tony says. Then he turns and yells, “WHERE’S THE FLOWER GUY?”

Bruce appears in the doorway with a box of tissues. “Thought you might need these.”

“I’m not crying.”

“Yet.”

The rooftop looks stunning. Twinkle lights, soft flowers, sunlight hitting the city skyline just right. Thor is waiting in the front row, wearing something that might be armor but also might be a tux. No one’s sure. Natasha is in her seat, legs crossed, sunglasses on, looking like she runs the world.

Then the music starts.

Tony’s heart skips a beat.

And then you’re there.

Walking toward him, dress flowing, eyes locked on his. Everything else fades. The noise, the nerves, the people. It’s just you. Every step is one closer to forever, and Tony’s face—usually smug, snarky, or smugly snarky—softens completely. His eyes shine.

“You’re late,” he whispers when you reach him.

“You’d wait,” you whisper back.

“Forever.”

The ceremony is simple. Funny. Sweet. Bruce officiates because he’s the only one calm enough to speak without breaking into tears. He keeps it short. He says, “I’m not going to make a speech, because let’s be real, this is already the most emotionally overwhelming moment in this tower’s history.”

Everyone laughs. Even Natasha.

Vows come next. Yours are heartfelt. You talk about love in chaos, about finding peace in Tony, about the way he made you believe in things again.

Tony’s are half promises and half jokes. He swears to never leave a project unfinished. He vows to keep kissing you every morning, even if you’re grumpy. He says he’ll always let you have the last slice of pizza, even if it hurts.

“And I promise,” he says, voice catching a little, “to love you when things are good, when they’re bad, and even when I’ve accidentally set something on fire.”

“Again?” you murmur.

He grins. “Probably.”

You kiss. The team cheers. Thor yells something in Asgardian that no one translates. You think it’s something like “long may they party.”

The reception is chaos in the best way.

Food everywhere. Laughter. A playlist that bounces from soft romantic to complete dance-floor anarchy. Tony spins you around on the dance floor like he’s waited his whole life to do it. He steps on your dress. You step on his foot. You both laugh so hard you forget the choreography you didn’t practice.

Steve gives a speech that’s so sincere you almost cry. Then Thor follows with a toast involving a large mug, the phrase “battle love,” and a story about two trolls who fell in love during war.

Bruce tries to restore balance with a nerdy but touching tribute. Happy just nods from his seat and raises his glass, the most heartfelt gesture from him yet.

Natasha hands you a shot and says, “To surviving the planning. May the marriage be easier.”

At one point, you catch Tony sneaking extra slices of cake behind the display. He holds one out to you with a wink. “Marriage is about sharing.”

You take the bite. “It’s also about not stealing the desserts before the official cutting.”

“Same thing.”

You laugh, leaning against him as the music swells.

By the end of the night, your feet hurt, your face aches from smiling, and you’re more in love than you’ve ever been.

The next morning, you wake up next to your husband.

It’s weird and wonderful to think of him that way. He’s already awake, lying on his side, head propped on his hand.

“Morning, Mrs. Stark.”

You roll over and smile. “Hey, husband.”

“You want coffee, or do we open gifts first?”

You blink. “You want to open presents before caffeine?”

Tony shrugs. “Some of them are suspiciously shaped. I have questions.”

You end up dragging a giant pile of gifts into the living room and dumping them on the floor. It’s like Christmas, except the tags say things like “To the newlyweds” and “Open in private, for legal reasons.”

The first few are sweet. A framed painting of your wedding venue, pre-flood, from Bruce. A handmade quilt from one of your old college friends. A gorgeous bottle of rare wine from Happy with a note that says “Don’t drink this unless it’s been a really long day.”

Then it gets... less sweet.

From Thor: A polished Asgardian fertility idol. It’s very detailed. You both stare at it for a while.

Tony nods. “So we’re having a conversation with HR later.”

From Natasha: A small black box. Inside, several tasteful but unmistakable... accessories. She’s labeled each with helpful instructions. One is labeled “for stress relief.”

You laugh so hard you fall over. Tony takes one look and says, “I have questions, but also, respect.”

From Steve: A thick book titled Marriage: A Field Manual. Inside, he’s made notes in the margins. Actual notes. With diagrams.

Tony flips through it. “Did he annotate a marriage guide?”

You lean over. “Is this a strategy section?”

“Oh my god, he included tactical retreat advice.”

From Bruce: A gift certificate for couple’s therapy. You blink at it. Then open the card. Prevention is better than reaction, he wrote. Also, it comes with a free massage session.

Tony nods. “Okay, not mad.”

The best one might be from Happy. It’s a plain envelope. Inside is a photo of Tony, asleep at his workbench, drooling on a half-built gadget. The caption reads You’ve come a long way, kid.

Tony goes quiet after that. Just holds the picture and smiles.

Later, you find a small box hidden behind the others. There’s no name, just a tiny tag that says for when you remember why you did this.

Inside is a tiny hourglass. The sand flows so slowly it takes a full hour to drop. There’s no note. But you don’t need one.

Tony wraps an arm around you, holding you close on the floor.

“You know,” he says, “for all my griping... this was kind of perfect.”

You rest your head on his shoulder. “Because you married me?”

“Exactly. And because Thor didn’t accidentally blow something up.”

“Yet.”

He kisses your forehead. “I like being your husband.”

“You’re good at it so far.”

“I plan to get even better.”

You close your eyes, content and warm and more loved than you ever thought possible.

And as the sunlight pours through the windows, filling the room with soft golden light, you realize this is only the beginning.

And it's already everything.

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tokyicons · 2 years ago

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alittlesketchy3 · 2 months ago

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So I made a layout map of what I HC the avengers tower to be since I couldn't find anything on what it is, I needed a map to help visualize it

Also, some headcannons about Avengers Tower Domestic Life (some built off of truth, some true, some just headcannons) (mostly Bruce headcannons):

-Hulk and Bruce have separate bedrooms, but both are relatively barren

-Nobody dares go in Hulk's room. One time Natasha peeked inside to find Hulk and found his entire room covered in shelves and on the shelves were little glass animals, and in the center of the room is just a mattress and blanket and a plush animal. Anyone who goes in Hulk's room besides hulk would break anything, and since nobody wants to piss off Hulk they don't go in there

-Natasha and Thor spar a lot, Steve and Thor spar a lot, Thor likes to spar. Thor keeps trying to convince Bruce to turn into Hulk to spar but Bruce doesn't want to

-Clint has one of the highest up rooms because he likes to be up high

-Thor likes to be in Bruce and Tony's lab because he's curious about Midgardian tech. At first the two are like "umm I guess" but they realize Thor isn't as dumb as he seems and he helps them build stuff sometimes

-Tony isn't allowed to cook. Neither is Steve. Bruce and Natasha can cook. Clint can only make simple things. Thor would over-season everything and kill someone so he's not allowed to cook

-Sam likes to stop by whenever he's in the city. He's allowed to cook.

-Bucky ends up living in the tower. He and Steve share a room since they're able to restrain one another if the other wakes up fighting from a nightmare

-Thor and Bruce's rooms are right beside one another's. Bruce has grown to like being near Thor, and Thor is the only one who can go toe-to-toe with Hulk in a pinch

-Thor may not be able to make Hulk calm down back into Bruce, but he can make Hulk calm down enough to stop smashing things.

-Bruce's transformation into Hulk is incredibly painful, since his bones have to snap and then reform, his skin has to stretch insane amounts, his muscles may rip in the process, and his organs have to swell to man times their size to be able to accommodate for Hulk. The reverse is true for Hulk: it's excruciating because everything has to be compressed and shrunk. They both probably scream in agony and have not so pretty marks from changing.

-Thor doesn't ever get sick.

-Tony turns legal documents and printed information about upcoming missions into paper airplanes and sends them about the living room. Sometimes there are 15-20 paper airplanes scattered around the room. He's mastered the technique of folding paper airplanes.

-Steve likes to sit outside on the deck and draw the sunsets, or he likes to draw his fellow Avengers while they're just doing stuff.

-Bucky ends up being able to trust Bruce to tell him anything and finds that Thor is able to give more powerful and anchoring hugs than Steve, so only Steve and Thor get to give Bucky hugs. Soon, Hulk can too.

-The lab(s) gets caught on fire at least once a month.

-Equipment often needs to be replaced in the training room because of Thor and the supersoldiers, while Hulk doesn't go in the training room

-Steve and Bruce are actually good buddies (they bond over talking about statistics, Tony, and just basic life stuff, they have similar views on life and like talking to each other in a philosophical manner) and everyone is a lot closer knit than most people realize

-Bruce doesn't know how to say no very well if he isn't in a bad mood so everyone else will say no for him if they can tell he doesn't want it, like in public or things

-Bruce doesn't like going in public alone, especially not in NYC

(Sorry this was long, I'll probably post more HCs for X-Men and Avengers)

#avengers tower #domestic life in the avengers #Bruce banner #Thor Odinson #Steve rogers #natasha romanoff #Clint Barton #Bucky Barnes #Sam Wilson #the avengers #avengers headcannons

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mrs-elsie-barnes · 2 years ago

Text

The Old Gods and The New - Chapter 2

Cosmic Political Game | Loki x Reader

Loki and Thor arrive at the Avengers compound and Loki gets his first look at the mortal that has everyone so confused.

Chapter Warnings: False/medical imprisonment, masturbation, language, reader shapeshifting so some descriptions of hair and eyes but not skin colour.

Series Masterlist | Loki Masterlist | Masterlist

Thor and Loki arrived in the dead of night when only a single flood light was left illuminating the empty lawn that sprawled between the buildings of the Avenger’s compound. The two gods left a large, circular, burnt patch of grass when they landed, marking their dramatic entrance back into the lives of the Avengers and leaving a smouldering pattern in their wake.

Safe inside the private penthouse, Wanda took the lead explaining the vivid and detailed dreams they had all been experiencing since your arrival. Thor had laughed heartily, slapping the small witch on the back and sending her flying forwards with the force. But Loki was intrigued, a slow smirk appeared on his face as he sat to the side of the vast living room, toying with sparks of magic between his fingers and thinking of the beings he’d met that could wield such powers.

“You’re frightened of your own lusts. Typical, petty mortals. They are but dreams,” the gold spark flashed green, lighting up his face and swirling in the dim light of the early dawn. Loki’s leather trousers creaked against the contrasting white of the expensive couches that lined the living space.

“She controls these dreams, what else can she control? What else can she make us think?” Steve rushed out. Loki was impressed. He had never seen the Captain this flustered or confused. Whatever power the little mortal possessed it was surely powerful if it could render the normally clear headed Captain a garbled mess.

“So what do you want of me?” He asked, long legs resting on the coffee table with a soft thunk of his boots.

“We need to know what she is. Is it magic, mutation or something else?” Bruce cleaned his glasses, yawning as he let his eyes drift to the clock above the faux mantle piece. “I’ve run out of ideas, but she can shape shift, change her appearance sometimes, like you,” he looked over at Loki “but we’ve yet to see her pose a material threat…which is somehow worse. That we could deal with. But it’s the-” he trailed off, waving his hand in a circle.

“Not knowing.” Natasha interjected and Bruce nodded at her in agreement.

Loki went quiet, thinking, the magic he had been playing with dying in his hands from sparks to embers to nothing. Shape shifting was, really, simple magic, something his mother had taught him as a young boy. It would seem especially extraordinary to such mortals, but it was also something that, though simple, took a great deal of practice and instruction to perfect. Wherever she had learnt this trick, it must have been somewhere equally magical.

“She can shape shift. Interesting. Can I see her?” Loki bent forwards, resting his elbows on his knees and surveying the Avengers, the golden twinkles that had danced between his fingers now dancing behind his eyes.

“Tomorrow” Steve said, decisively, “I think we should all enjoy some peaceful sleep while we can and then, tomorrow, you can meet her”

“Ahh, she isn’t here, is she?” Loki asked, trying hard not to sound too eager.

“No, we’ve separated her. We thought it would be safer.” Tony tried to explain.

“You’ve imprisoned her?” He scoffed, “frightened children, scared of anything you don’t understand,” Loki stood and walked off, “I have no time for this.”

Loki waited until everyone was asleep before exploring the compound properly. The layout was in clear blocks, with apartments lining up with the offices and laboratories below. Knowing they wouldn’t have let her leave for the secondary building on the campus, one where junior agents and scientists may be living, he deduced she must be somewhere in the medical bays. It didn’t take Loki long to find the secure room in the medical wing, mostly because, once he got close enough, there were hundreds of signs telling people to stay away.

The room itself was dark, but he could see a figure inside through the two way mirror, wearing what looked like a big white t-shirt dress, but it had marks on it, measurements.

The mortals had said she could shapeshift, so it was unclear whether this was her true form, as he watched her hair fade through a spectrum of white, grey and black, curling tight and then falling around her shoulders with each intake of breath while she slept. Like the tide ebbing and flowing along the shore, she seemed to change from one moment to the next, whenever he found a fixed spot, a hair length, a beauty mark, the tone of her skin against the bedding, even her height, it appeared to change again, imperceptibly at first and then it was shocking he had ever held the previous image of her in his mind.

He pressed his forehead against the cool glass and closed his eyes thinking.

Images flooded his thoughts, she was awake in them, smiling, dancing, singing, her hair bright red, then black. She was looking at him and smiling, not smirking or smug, a warm smile. Her white shift morphing into green, gold, black and back again. A gown, a cape, a corset, nothing and back again. He saw others, women and men he had known before and felt their hands, lips, kisses and sweat in his skin. Then he felt her hand, sensed her magic as it touched his own.

He woke with a start just before dawn, the taste of her, of you, of something lost to the passage of time, on his tongue.

The Captain was right to be worried. If you had projected this on him from the other side of the glass without even seeing him, what wonders had you conjured up for the innocent Avengers? If he was right, then your powers had grown immeasurably since you’d last seen each other, but The Captain and the bossy one had suggested you couldn’t explain your powers at all.

This was powerful magic, it thrummed in his bones and called to his own sedir. He had sensed it only once before, a long time ago on Asgard, although it was definitely not Asgardian. Nor was it Midgardian sorcery either.

He smiled, it would be like an Asgardian to play such games with mortals, but equally, perhaps you truly didn’t know your strength. Either way this was going to be an awful lot of fun, Loki thought, flicking his hand to straighten his sleep roughened clothes.

He watched as you woke, blinking, using the blanket to wipe sweat from your eyes. You looked around, through the mirror and straight into his eyes, unseeing, and then turned away. Your hands worked under the thin sheet, disappearing from his direct sight, although he could see the tell tale creep of your fingers as they inched lower.

Behind the glass, you gasped and Loki took a step forward, as close as he dared, watching as you moaned and moved, sighing along with you as you panted out your release. As you moved your hand back above the hospital sheets, your hair shimmered again, blushed pink and fushia.

The sun was starting to lift and the curtains parted on the small glass window, looking out over the surrounding woods. Your arms lifted too, yawning, eyes closed and light flooded the room, your hands touched your hair, assessing the changes in texture, length and colour before dropping back to your sides. The light vanished, back to the ethereal glow of sunrise.

Drumming his fingers he watched you move around the room, you didn’t seem to have any other clothes. But you splashed your face and brushed your teeth, watching the sun rise.

Inside the room you felt hot and itchy still. You had had a vivid dream, not of the people in the compound. Now there was someone new. He was tall, hair dark around his shoulders, lithe but muscular. You had felt him in your dreams, his slender fingers dancing on your forehead and cooling your skin. The tang of metal on your tongue. In the dream he held you, his hands tantalising but not enough to satisfy. In an attempt to rid yourself of this feeling your own fingers had danced beneath the large nightgown you’d been forced to wear, but even as you woke, the feeling lingered.

Washing your face and brushing your teeth did nothing to distract you from the sensation. Instead you climbed back onto the bed, pushed the sheets down and lay back. In vain you tried to picture the man again and as you did your fingertips dipped below the elastic of your underwear. He had dark hair, her hair, in return, darkened, smoothing out the curls into gentle flicks. He wore dark clothing. His fingers were slender, elegant, you felt a nudge against that secret spot inside of yourself and pulled back shocked. Your hands looked different, the usually small palms were wider and the fingers were longer too. You pushed back inside, pressing and grinding into your palm until you felt your legs tighten, toes curling and cried out.

Hopefully that would satisfy you for now. Standing, you examined your ruffled hair in the mirror, admiring the mirror shine of the now dark locks. You were starting to enjoy the changes in your appearance, it was fun, at least, to see yourself with a different body, a different slope to your nose, a tint to your eyes and various textures of hair.

You turned from the small mirror to the larger one next to the door and approached slowly, eyeing the length of your white shift to assess her new height, much taller, at least 4 inches. Stopping in front of the mirror you made your eyes wide, gold flecks alongside dark pupils. They’d go back to grey soon but, for a moment, you enjoyed this ethereal look.

On the other side of the mirror Loki watched, inches away, as you slowly took on subtle characteristics until, suddenly, he could see his dark hair, his blue grey eyes, you even looked taller. He took a step away from the glass. The changes were simple enough, if you knew how, but how had you done it when, surely you, couldn’t see him. He was breathless. The Captain was right, this was no mortal being, this was powerful magic, old magic.

A door along the corridor banged and you both jumped, Loki looked around hastily for an excuse to be here, rifling some papers. When he looked back you were sat on the bed again, cross legged, hair a pale red, eyes the same grey as the morning light beginning to burn through the curtains of your hospital room and his heart clenched. He’d been locked up before, misunderstood and mislabeled as something so much worse than he was. Used and cast aside as a pawn in some cosmic political game.

Loki’s jaw tightened as he made his decision.

He would help you, he would get you out of this prison, he would teach you to control your magic. But he would not give you back to the Avengers.

<< Part 1

Part 3 >>

#Loki #loki laufeyson #Loki Odinson #loki fanfiction #loki fanfic #loki marvel #Loki/Reader #Loki x Reader #Loki x You #Loki/You #Loki/female reader #Loki series #The Old Gods and The New

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