amethystarachnid

[amethystarachnid]

Could you please write this if you're interested so that I can get it out of my mind?

bombarding a whole long dramatic plot so sorry in advance (guilty as charged)

so pepper has always been dangerously in love with ts and once she became the ceo of stark industries, tony gets a new pa, ofc our girl y/n. Tony falls in love with her and it annoys pepper. she makes attempts to get his attention but before she knows y/n falls for him too. pepper does her best to break them up but the lovely couple get married. pepper's last try was to tell tony that y/n cheated on him when she gets preggo and that's not his baby. of course he doesn't believe her at first but she manipulates him psychologically with fake evidence and stuff and he confronts her cuz he is heartbroken and tries to breakup with y/n. y/n feels betrayed when she comes to know that it was all made up by pepper to get tony. she tries to tell him but he doesn't listen anymore. so they breakup and she leaves to her parents house. months pass, she tries to recover from the heartbreak and has her baby there. a year or two passes and she slowly gets used to her new life and the kid is happy with their grandparents. tony, meanwhile somehow agrees to marrying pepper bcoz of her evil tricks and one day, he has to attend to a meeting in another town where y/n lives now and comes across his kid (some cute interactions b/w tony and the kid plz) at a park and later finds out that its y/n's child. when the kid asks y/n if she knows that man, she doesn't say that its the kid's father for obvious reasons. they both meet & talk, y/n's heart shatters when he tells her he is marrying pepper, they have a little confrontation again but this time he makes one last attempt to make sure that what pepper said is really true. he does some facts check and finds out she lied. he finds out her plan. he is emotionally shattered with regret now but tries to win his wife, child and y/n's parents back. he makes pepper apologize to y/n before he gets her arrested. it takes time but the family is gradually & finally together and lived happily ever after!

BEFORE ANYBODY ASKS, YES NOT AT ALL A FAN OF PEPPER

Thankyou! ❤️

SECOND CHANCES

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

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

ᯓ★ Genre: fluff? never heard of it, romance (if you squint), ANGST but happy ending

ᯓ★ Word count: 5.2k

ᯓ★ Summary: what the ask said

ᯓ★ TW(s): emotional manipulation/gaslighting, betrayal & heartbreak, toxic relationship dynamics (Pepper's actions), divorce/separation themes

ᯓ★ gurl I don't really like Pepper either but you...damn slay, hope you enjoy the fic

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

Pepper Potts has always loved Tony Stark—dangerously so. It’s a love that burns too bright, too possessive, too desperate. She remembers the early days when she was just his assistant, cleaning up his messes, organizing his chaos, and secretly wishing he would see her as more than just the woman who kept his life in order. She waited, patient and calculating, believing that one day he would realize she was the only one who truly understood him. And when she became CEO of Stark Industries, she thought that day had finally come.

But Tony Stark is nothing if not unpredictable.

He doesn’t see the way Pepper’s fingers linger when she hands him reports, doesn’t notice the sharp edge in her voice when she reminds him of meetings he’s missed, doesn’t catch the way her eyes darken when he flirts with someone else. To him, Pepper is brilliant, capable, indispensable—but not his. Not in the way she wants to be. He’s oblivious, wrapped up in his own world of inventions and near-death experiences, never realizing that the woman who runs his company would tear the world apart if it meant having him for herself.

And then you arrive.

You’re the new personal assistant, handpicked by Pepper herself—though she’ll soon regret that decision. You’re efficient, quick-witted, and unafraid of Tony’s sarcasm. The first time you meet, he’s in the middle of dismantling a prototype in his workshop, grease smeared across his cheek, music blaring so loud the walls vibrate. You don’t flinch when he ignores your greeting, just walk over to the control panel and turn the volume down yourself.

Tony pauses, wrench in hand, and finally looks at you. "Who are you?"

"Your new PA," you say, unfazed. "Y/N. Pepper hired me."

He raises an eyebrow, intrigued. Most people either stammer or snap at him—you do neither. "You any good?"

"I guess you’ll find out."

And just like that, he’s interested.

It starts small—a joke here, a shared eye-roll there. He likes the way you don’t tiptoe around him, the way you match his energy without trying too hard. You bring him coffee exactly how he likes it, remember his meetings before he does, and somehow manage to keep up with his rapid-fire thoughts. Before long, he’s seeking you out, not just for work, but because he enjoys your company.

Pepper notices.

At first, she tells herself it’s nothing. Tony has always been charming, always had a way of making people feel special. But then she sees the way he looks at you—like you’re a puzzle he can’t wait to solve. She hears the laughter drifting from his workshop, the easy banter between meetings. And worst of all, she sees the way you look back at him—like he’s more than just the genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist. Like he’s just Tony.

It makes her blood boil.

She tries to reclaim his attention—scheduling unnecessary meetings, dropping by his office with thinly veiled excuses, even dressing sharper, smiling brighter. But Tony is already slipping away, his focus shifting to you in a way it never did for her.

And then it happens.

One late night in the lab, after hours of working side by side, Tony turns to you and says, "You know, I could get used to this."

"Used to what?" you ask, though you already know.

"Having you around."

The words hang between you, charged and undeniable. And when he kisses you, it’s not the careless flirtation Pepper is used to—it’s real.

By the time Pepper realizes what’s happening, it’s too late. Tony is in love with you. And you? You’re in love with him.

And she’ll do anything to tear you apart.

---

Pepper’s attempts to reclaim Tony’s attention start subtly—just enough to make you question if you’re imagining things. She lingers too close when discussing company matters, laughs a little too brightly at his jokes, and always seems to appear just as the two of you are sharing a quiet moment. At first, you brush it off. Pepper is his friend, his former assistant, his CEO. Of course, they’re close.

But then the comments start.

"Tony always hated it when people rearranged his tools—just a heads-up." (Even though he’d just praised you for organizing his workspace.)

"He never takes anyone seriously who doesn’t challenge him intellectually." (Said after you’d spent hours debating engineering concepts with him.)

"You know, he gets bored easily." (Whispered just as Tony was smiling at you from across the room, looking anything but bored.)

You don’t say anything to Tony. You don’t want to seem jealous or paranoid. But the tension builds, and Pepper’s tactics grow bolder—suddenly needing him for "urgent" meetings when he’s with you, "accidentally" scheduling you for conflicting appointments so you miss time together, even making pointed remarks about how replaceable assistants are.

Tony, for all his genius, is oblivious.

Until the night he finds you crying in the hallway outside his lab.

You hadn’t meant to break down—you were stronger than this. But Pepper’s latest barb had cut deep: "He’ll always come back to me in the end. I’m the one who knows him best."

Tony stops dead when he sees you. "Y/N?" His voice is uncharacteristically soft. "What’s wrong?"

You try to wave it off, but he won’t let you. He cups your face, thumbs brushing away your tears, and when you finally admit what’s been happening, his expression darkens.

"She’s been doing what?"

The next day, he confronts Pepper. You don’t hear the argument, but you see the aftermath—her storming out of his office, eyes blazing. And from that moment on, Tony makes his choice very clear.

He doesn’t just defend you—he chooses you.

He takes you out on real dates, not just stolen moments between meetings. He introduces you as his girlfriend at company events, his fingers laced with yours, daring anyone to question it. And when Pepper tries one last time to sabotage things—sending you on a fake assignment to another country—Tony shuts it down immediately, pulling you into his arms and murmuring, "You’re not going anywhere."

It’s not long before he’s sliding a ring onto your finger, kissing you in front of the entire world, and grinning like a man who’s just won the best prize in the universe.

Pepper watches from the sidelines, her face unreadable.

But you don’t care.

Because Tony Stark is yours.

And when you find out you’re pregnant, he drops to his knees right there in the lab, pressing his forehead against your stomach, whispering promises to both of you.

Pepper may have loved him first.

But you’re the one he loves now.

---

The moment you tell Tony you’re pregnant, his entire world shifts. You see it in his eyes—the way they go impossibly soft, the way his hands tremble just slightly as they cradle your face. He kisses you like you’re something sacred, murmurs promises against your lips, and from that day forward, he’s different.

Gone is the careless playboy, the man who used to smirk his way through life like nothing could touch him. Now, he hovers. He frets. He brings you breakfast in bed, rubs your feet after long days, and talks to your belly like the baby can already hear him.

"You’re going to be so loved," he whispers, his palm pressed gently against your still-flat stomach. "So, so loved."

You’ve never seen him like this—so open, so tender. It makes your heart ache in the best way.

But Pepper watches.

And she hates it.

You don’t realize how deep her resentment runs until the day Tony comes home with storm in his eyes. He’s quiet, too quiet, and when you reach for him, he doesn’t pull you close like usual.

"Tony?" you ask, your voice small.

He exhales sharply, running a hand over his face. "We need to talk."

Your stomach drops.

Pepper has planted her poison carefully. Fake messages. Edited security footage. A fabricated story about you and some nameless Stark employee, all designed to make Tony doubt the one thing he’s ever been sure of—you.

At first, he refused to believe it. But Pepper is smart. She knows his insecurities, knows how to twist the knife just right. "You really think someone that perfect would stay faithful? Come on, Tony. You’re not that naive."

And now he’s standing in front of you, jaw clenched, looking like his entire world is crumbling.

"Tell me it’s not true," he says, his voice rough.

Your breath catches. "What?"

"Pepper showed me—" He stops, like the words physically hurt him. "She said you’ve been… with someone else. That the baby might not be mine."

The room spins.

You reach for him, desperate. "Tony, no. No. You know I would never—"

"Do I?" The words are quiet, dangerous. "Because the evidence is pretty damn convincing."

There’s no anger in his voice. Just pain. And that’s worse.

You want to scream, to shake him, to make him see. But the man in front of you isn’t the Tony who whispers love into your skin. This is the Tony who’s been betrayed too many times, the one who’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

And Pepper has made sure it does.

"I think… we need some time apart," he says finally, his voice hollow.

You feel the crack in your chest before you even process the words. "Tony, please. You know me. You know I would never hurt you like this."

His eyes flicker—just for a second—like part of him wants to believe you. But then his walls slam back up.

"I need to be sure," he says. And then he walks out.

The door clicks shut behind him.

And for the first time since he kissed you in his lab, you feel truly alone.

Pepper has won.

For now.

---

The days after Tony walks out are a blur of numbness and pain.

You try calling him. He doesn’t answer.

You send texts, long paragraphs pouring your heart out, begging him to listen. They go unread.

You even go to the Tower, only to be stopped by security—"Mr. Stark’s orders."

Pepper’s victory is absolute.

The worst part is the baby. His baby. The one he had been so excited for, the one he had whispered promises to in the dark. Now, every time you feel the faintest flutter in your stomach, it’s a reminder of what you’ve lost.

You can’t stay in New York. Not when every corner of the city reminds you of him. Not when Pepper’s smug smile lingers in the back of your mind.

So you pack your things.

It’s raining the day you leave. Fitting, really. The sky cries the tears Tony refuses to shed. You take one last look at the penthouse—the home you had started to build with him—before closing the door behind you.

Your parents welcome you with open arms, but their worried glances don’t escape you. They don’t ask questions, not yet. They just let you collapse into your childhood bed, your body wracked with silent sobs.

That night, you dream of him.

Tony’s laughter. Tony’s hands tracing patterns on your skin. Tony’s voice, low and tender, murmuring "I love you" against your lips.

You wake up gasping, your cheeks wet.

Reality crashes back down.

He doesn’t love you anymore.

He doesn’t even trust you.

And that… that breaks you more than anything else.

You press a hand to your stomach, choking back another wave of tears.

"I’m so sorry, little one," you whisper. "Daddy… Daddy doesn’t want us anymore."

Somewhere, miles away, Tony stares at a half-built crib in his workshop, his chest hollow.

And Pepper?

She smiles.

----

Months pass.

The sharp edges of your heartbreak dull into a constant, aching throb. You learn to live with it, to breathe around it. Some days are easier. Some days, you wake up reaching for him, only to remember all over again that he’s gone.

But then Nova arrives.

Your beautiful, perfect baby girl—with Tony’s dark lashes, his expressive eyebrows, even the same little crease in her forehead when she’s fussy. She’s a tiny piece of him, and it hurts so much you can barely stand it.

But you love her more than anything.

Your parents, who had never fully trusted Tony (his reputation as a reckless playboy had always made them wary), now despise him completely. They don’t say it outright, but you see it in the way your father’s jaw tightens at the mention of his name, the way your mother’s voice goes sharp when she mutters about "that man" under her breath.

Still, they adore Nova.

Your father, who had always been stoic, melts the first time he holds her. Your mother spends hours rocking her, humming lullabies you haven’t heard since you were a child. They become the perfect grandparents—patient, doting, fiercely protective.

And you? You throw yourself into motherhood.

Nova becomes your entire world. You memorize the sound of her giggles, the way her tiny fingers curl around yours, the warmth of her little body pressed against your chest as she sleeps. You tell her stories—safe ones, happy ones—never mentioning the father who doesn’t even know she exists.

You wonder, sometimes, if Tony ever thinks about you. If he ever wonders about the baby.

But then you remember the coldness in his eyes when he walked away, and you force yourself to stop.

Meanwhile, in New York, Pepper’s manipulation deepens.

She’s careful, calculated. She doesn’t push too hard, doesn’t make it obvious. Instead, she weaves herself into Tony’s life, filling the spaces you left behind.

"You’re better off without her," she murmurs when she finds him staring blankly at the crib he never finished building.

"She would have just dragged you down," she says when he snaps at his team for no reason, his temper shorter than ever.

And Tony, lost in his own guilt and grief, doesn’t question it.

He throws himself into work, into missions, into anything that keeps him from thinking about you. The few times someone dares to bring you up, he shuts them down immediately.

"Don’t."

He doesn’t want to hear it. Doesn’t want to remember.

Because if he lets himself think about you—about the baby—he might break.

And Pepper?

She watches, satisfied.

She won.

At least, that’s what she thinks.

---

Two years.

Two years since you last saw Tony. Two years since your heart shattered into pieces. Two years of learning how to live without him.

Nova is your light.

She’s growing so fast—already running on tiny, unsteady legs, babbling in that sweet, nonsensical way toddlers do. She has Tony’s mischievous grin, his expressive eyes, and an energy that never seems to fade. Your parents adore her, spoiling her with love and laughter.

Life is… peaceful.

Not what you dreamed of, but good.

Until fate intervenes.

Tony doesn’t know why he agreed to this business trip.

Pepper had insisted—some merger that required his personal attention. He’s been distant lately, even with her. Their engagement feels hollow, a decision made out of exhaustion rather than love. But he goes through the motions, because what else is there?

Then, during a rare moment of solitude, he wanders into a small park near his hotel.

And that’s when he sees her.

A little girl, no older than two, with wild curls and a bright pink sunhat. She’s crouched in the grass, utterly fascinated by a ladybug crawling on her tiny finger.

Tony slows, watching her. There’s something… familiar about her.

She looks up, and her eyes—his eyes—lock onto him.

"Hi!" she chirps, waving enthusiastically.

Tony blinks. "Uh. Hi."

The kid scrambles to her feet, toddling over with zero hesitation. "I’m Nova!"

"Nova," he repeats, the name settling strangely in his chest. "Cool name."

She grins, and god, that smile. It tugs at something deep inside him. "You have a beard," she announces, reaching up like she’s going to poke it.

Tony instinctively leans back, but he’s smiling now. "Yeah, I do. You like it?"

Nova nods seriously. "It’s scratchy."

He barks out a laugh. "Yeah, it is."

She tilts her head, studying him with an intensity that feels far too knowing for a toddler. "You look sad."

Tony freezes.

Before he can respond, a voice cuts through the air—a voice he hasn’t heard in years but would recognize anywhere.

"Nova! Where are you, sweetheart?"

His heart stops.

And then you appear, hurrying down the path, your eyes widening in horror when you see who your daughter is talking to.

Time stops.

Tony stares at you. You stare back.

Nova, oblivious, beams and points. "Mama! Look! I found a beard man!"

You swallow hard, your hands trembling as you scoop her up. "I see that, baby."

Tony’s gaze flicks between you and Nova—his nose, his smile, his eyes—and realization slams into him like a freight train.

Oh.

Oh no.

Nova tugs on your sleeve. "Mama, do you know him?"

Your throat tightens. You can’t lie to her, but you can’t tell the truth either.

"...Yes," you whisper. "A long time ago."

Tony’s expression shatters.

And just like that, the past crashes into the present.

The air between you and Tony is thick with unspoken words. Nova, sensing the tension, clings to you a little tighter.

“We need to talk,” Tony says, his voice rough.

You hesitate. You don’t want this—don’t want to reopen old wounds in front of your daughter. But the look in his eyes tells you he won’t let this go.

“Not here,” you murmur, glancing down at Nova.

Tony follows your gaze, his expression softening as he takes in her curious little face. He reaches out, almost instinctively, but stops himself. “Right. Yeah.”

You take Nova back to your parents’ house, leaving her in their care with a kiss on her forehead. She doesn’t understand why you look so upset, but she pats your cheek with her tiny hand. “Mama okay?”

You force a smile. “Mama’s fine, sweetheart.”

Then you step outside, where Tony is waiting.

The café is quiet, nearly empty. You sit across from him, your hands wrapped around a mug you don’t drink from.

Tony doesn’t waste time. “She’s mine.”

It’s not a question.

You exhale shakily. “Yes.”

His jaw clenches. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

The question stings. “I tried, Tony. You wouldn’t listen. You believed Pepper over me.”

He flinches. “I—I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t want to know,” you fire back, your voice breaking. “You walked away and never looked back.”

Tony runs a hand through his hair, frustration and guilt warring in his expression. “I’m engaged to Pepper now.”

The words hit like a physical blow. You knew it was coming—had seen the headlines—but hearing it from him? It still rips through you.

“Congratulations,” you say flatly.

Tony’s eyes narrow. “You don’t mean that.”

“What do you want me to say, Tony?” You laugh bitterly. “That I’m happy for you? After everything?”

He leans forward, his voice dropping. “I just—I need to know. One last time. Did you cheat on me?”

You stare at him, your heart shattering all over again. Even now, after all this time, he still doubts you.

“No,” you say, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest. “I loved you. Only you.”

Tony searches your face, as if looking for any hint of a lie.

And for the first time, something flickers in his eyes—doubt. Not in you.

In Pepper.

Back in New York, Tony does what he should have done years ago.

He digs.

Pepper’s lies unravel quickly under his scrutiny. The fabricated messages? Traced back to an untraceable server—one linked to her private accounts. The “security footage” of you with another man? Edited. Poorly, once he looks closely.

And then he finds the final nail in the coffin—an email from Pepper to a private investigator, instructing him to "find anything, real or not, to break them apart."

Tony sits in his workshop, staring at the evidence, his blood running cold.

He’d let her manipulate him.

He’d abandoned you.

He’d missed two years of his daughter’s life.

The guilt is crushing.

But more than that?

The rage.

Pepper walks in, smiling, unaware of the storm brewing. “Tony? The wedding planner—”

“We’re done.” His voice is ice.

She freezes. “What?”

Tony stands, tossing the files onto the table between them. “I know what you did.”

Pepper’s face pales as she sees the evidence. “Tony, I can explain—”

“Get out.”

“You don’t understand—”

“GET OUT!”

She flinches, but Tony doesn’t care.

He has one thought, one mission.

Fix this.

You’re putting Nova to bed when the knock comes.

Your father answers, his voice sharp. “You.”

Tony’s reply is quiet but firm. “I need to see her.”

You step into the hallway, your heart pounding. Tony looks wrecked—his eyes red-rimmed, his shoulders slumped.

But his voice is steady.

“I know the truth,” he says. “And I’m so, so sorry.”

You don’t move.

Tony swallows hard. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. But I’m here. For Nova. For you. If you’ll let me.”

Nova’s sleepy voice floats from her room. “Mama? Beard man back?”

Tony’s breath catches.

And just like that, the walls around your heart crack.

Because no matter how much he hurt you…

She deserves her father.

You step aside.

“Come meet your daughter, Tony.”

---

Nova sits cross-legged on her bed, blinking sleepily as Tony steps into the room. She tilts her head, studying him with those big, curious eyes—his eyes—and then grins. "Beard man!"

Tony's throat tightens. He crouches beside her bed, his hands trembling slightly as he brushes a curl from her forehead. "Hey, kiddo."

You stand in the doorway, arms crossed, heart pounding. This moment feels surreal—like something you dreamed of a thousand times but never thought would actually happen.

Nova reaches out, patting Tony's scruffy cheek. "You came back."

"Yeah," Tony whispers, voice rough. "I did."

You step forward, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Nova, sweetheart, remember how we talked about your daddy?"

She nods, swinging her little legs. "Daddy far away."

You take a deep breath. "Well... he's not far away anymore."

Tony's gaze flicks to you, surprised, grateful.

Nova gasps. "You my daddy?"

Tony swallows hard. "Yeah, baby. I'm your daddy."

For a second, no one moves. Then Nova throws her arms around his neck with a squeal. "Daddy! Daddy home!"

Tony hugs her tightly, his face buried in her hair, shoulders shaking. You have to look away, blinking back tears.

Winning back your parents is harder.

Your father glares when Tony walks into the living room, Nova perched happily on his hip. "So. You're back."

Tony sets Nova down, letting her scamper off to play before facing your parents. "Sir, I—"

"Don't 'sir' me," your dad snaps. "You broke my daughter's heart. You abandoned your child. And now you waltz back in like nothing happened?"

Tony doesn't flinch. "You're right. I messed up. Worse than messed up. But I love them. And I'm going to prove it."

Your mother crosses her arms. "How?"

"However long it takes," Tony says, looking at you. "A day. A year. Forever. I'm not leaving again."

You bite your lip, torn between hope and fear.

Nova chooses that moment to barrel back in, clutching a crayon drawing. "Look! I drawed Daddy!"

The crude stick figure has an exaggerated beard and a big smile. Tony takes it like it's priceless art. "This is going in my office. Right next to my Nobel Prize."

Nova giggles. "What's a No-bell Prize?"

Tony grins. "Something way less important than this."

Your mother's stern expression cracks, just a little.

The days that follow are a whirlwind.

Tony is everywhere—helping with bath time, reading bedtime stories, letting Nova "fix" his watch with her toy tools. He soaks up every second with her, like he's trying to memorize it all.

With you, he's careful. No grand gestures, no empty promises. Just quiet, steady presence.

He brings you coffee in the morning, just the way you like it.

He washes the dishes after dinner without being asked.

He sits with you on the porch after Nova's asleep, talking about everything and nothing, like he's relearning the sound of your voice.

One night, as fireflies flicker in the yard, Tony turns to you. "I don't deserve either of you."

You study his profile—the tired lines around his eyes, the new gray in his beard. "Maybe not," you admit. "But Nova loves you. And I... I could learn to trust you again."

Tony reaches for your hand, hesitating just before contact. You close the gap, threading your fingers through his.

His breath catches. "That's all I need."

Nova's laughter floats through the open window as she dreams.

And for the first time in years, you let yourself believe in happy endings.

---

The weeks pass in a warm, sunlit haze—mornings filled with Nova’s delighted squeals when Tony carries her downstairs, afternoons spent in the backyard as she "helps" him tinker with gadgets (mostly handing him the wrong tools while he pretends they’re exactly what he needed), and evenings where the three of you curl up together, Nova snug between you as Tony reads her favorite stories with ridiculous voices.

She adores him.

And Tony?

Tony is wrapped around her tiny finger.

You catch him staring at her sometimes, his expression so full of awe it makes your chest ache. Like he can’t believe she’s real. Like he can’t believe he almost missed this.

One night, as you tuck Nova into bed, she clutches Tony’s sleeve. "Daddy stay forever?"

Tony’s breath hitches. He presses a kiss to her forehead. "Yeah, baby. Forever."

She grins, satisfied, and drifts off to sleep still holding his hand.

With you, Tony is patient. Careful. He doesn’t push, doesn’t rush. But slowly, the walls between you crumble.

It’s in the way he brushes his fingers against yours when you pass him a coffee.

The way he pulls you close during Nova’s chaotic dance parties in the living room, his laughter warm in your ear.

The way he looks at you when he thinks you don’t notice—like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

One evening, as you wash dishes side by side, his shoulder bumps yours. "You’re happy?"

You glance at him, surprised. "Yeah. I am."

Tony nods, his gaze drifting to where Nova is sprawled on the rug, coloring furiously. "Me too."

Simple words. But they mean everything.

Pepper’s apology comes on a rainy afternoon.

Tony had warned you. "You don’t have to see her. But she will face what she did."

You agreed, if only for closure.

Pepper looks nothing like the polished CEO you remember. Her hair is limp, her eyes shadowed. When she speaks, her voice is hollow.

"I’m sorry."

You don’t forgive her. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But you nod, because Nova is playing in the next room, and you refuse to let bitterness take root in your life again.

Tony’s hand finds yours, squeezing gently. Then he turns to Pepper, his expression cold. "The authorities are waiting."

As she’s led away, you exhale, feeling a weight lift from your shoulders.

Tony pulls you into his arms. "It’s over."

You bury your face in his chest, breathing him in.

Nova toddles in then, clutching her favorite stuffed Iron Man toy. "Daddy! Up!"

Tony scoops her up effortlessly, pressing a kiss to her cheek before leaning down to brush one against your lips.

And just like that, the last of the shadows fade.

Later, when Nova is asleep and the house is quiet, Tony slides a small box across the kitchen table.

You open it with trembling hands.

Not an engagement ring.

A family ring—three intertwined bands, one for each of you.

"Whenever you’re ready," Tony murmurs.

You slip it onto your finger.

It fits perfectly.

---

Moving into Stark Tower feels like stepping into a new life—one you never thought you’d have again. The penthouse is different now, brighter, filled with toys and tiny shoes left haphazardly by the door. Nova’s laughter echoes through the halls as she races from room to room, her little feet pounding against the floor as she explores her new home with wide-eyed wonder. Tony follows her everywhere, letting her "test" his tech (which mostly consists of her smashing buttons and giggling when lights flash) and watching her with a softness in his eyes that still makes your breath catch.

The media, of course, loses its collective mind.

STARK’S SHOCKING REUNION! TONY STARK REMARRIES EX-WIFE—SECRET LOVE CHILD REVEALED!

The headlines scream from every tabloid, paparazzi swarming the Tower’s entrance for days. Tony handles it with surprising patience, giving one carefully worded press statement before shutting it all down—but not before the world gets a glimpse of Nova in his arms during a rare public outing, her tiny hands clutching his face as she babbles something only he seems to understand. The photo goes viral instantly—Tony Stark, Billionaire Playboy, Completely Smitten by Toddler Daughter.

You and Tony don’t rush the wedding.

You’ve already been married once. You’ve already had the grand spectacle. This time, it’s just the three of you in the Tower’s private garden, Nova twirling in her little white dress between you as Tony slips the ring back onto your finger. His hands are steady, but his voice wavers when he says, "I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you."

You believe him.

Because every morning since you moved in, you’ve woken up to coffee and breakfast in bed—just like he used to do when you were first married. Because he still looks at you like you’re the most incredible thing he’s ever seen, his fingers brushing against yours whenever you’re close enough. Because he spends hours on the floor with Nova, building block towers just to let her knock them down, his laughter mingling with hers in a way that makes your heart ache.

He’s trying. Really trying.

And it’s working.

Nova adjusts faster than you expected. She loves the Tower—loves the "big windows!" and the "fast elevator!" and especially the fact that Daddy’s workshop is now her playground. Tony, who once banned everyone from touching his tools, lets her stack screws into precarious piles and "fix" his suits with a plastic wrench. FRIDAY adores her, playing nursery rhymes on command and dimming the lights when she naps. The Avengers, once wary of Tony’s sudden family life, are quickly won over by Nova’s enthusiastic hugs and Tony’s uncharacteristic softness around her.

But it’s the quiet moments that undo you.

Like when Tony carries a sleepy Nova to bed after movie night, her head tucked under his chin, his voice a low murmur as he tells her a story about a princess who was also an engineer.

Like when you catch him watching old videos of her on his phone—footage he missed, moments he’ll never get back—his thumb brushing over the screen like he’s committing it all to memory.

Like when he pulls you close in the kitchen, his lips finding yours in a kiss that still feels like coming home, Nova’s giggles ringing out as she tugs on his pant leg. "Daddy! My turn!"

He lifts her up, peppering her face with kisses before leaning in to press one to your lips too.

"My girls," he murmurs, like it’s the greatest title he’s ever held.

The media can speculate all they want. The world can whisper about your whirlwind reunion. But here, in this little corner of the universe you’ve rebuilt together, none of it matters.

Tony’s hand in yours. Nova’s arms around both of you.

This is everything.

And this time, you’re not letting go.

maybe y/n forgave him too quickly? ik but I couldn't take it anymore with the angst so forgive me...

and if you want to laugh just know that for the first picture on this post I had to search on Pinterest 'divorce aesthetic'...yeah I'm ashamed of myself

[amethystarachnid]

About Stark Reality (Show): I like the idea of more about their family part ❤️ maybe a family vacation or just Tony being the best dad! We know this man is the most dad material EVER

THE STARK REALITY (SHOW) - part 3

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

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

ᯓ★ Genre: fluff, romance

ᯓ★ Word count: 6.8k

ᯓ★ Summary: the show has officially ended and Tony decides to take you and your two kids on a cruise, which...may be not the best decision

ᯓ★ TW(s): nothing I think?

ᯓ★ Part 1 | Part 2

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

Three years pass like a breath. One minute you're carrying Liam in your arms for the first time, his tiny fist wrapped around your pinky like he’s staking a permanent claim to your heart—and the next, he’s a grinning, curious, dangerously clever toddler with a wild streak and a fondness for climbing places he absolutely shouldn’t.

Layla, now nine, is still the queen of the house, still dramatic, still bossy, still Tony’s clone in every way that gives you both headaches and heartache in equal measure. But she’s also fiercely protective of her little brother. Which is sweet. Until they fight over who gets the last pancake or who gets to sit next to you on the couch. Then it's war.

After Liam was born, you and Tony ended the show for good—quietly, no press release, just a final fade to black. It wasn’t a dramatic goodbye, because it didn’t need to be. Life got bigger than the cameras could hold.

And now, nearly a decade into marriage, Tony Stark is planning your anniversary vacation like he’s organizing a military mission.

Well, he was planning something a little more private—a yacht, five-star service, no one but the four of you, maybe a few bodyguards in the background.

But you’d seen the plans and raised your eyebrow. “Tony, the kids are going to be bored out of their minds.”

“They’ll have their tablets.”

You gave him the look.

“Okay, okay,” he’d said, sighing like you’d just told him he had to share his dessert. “What if… and hear me out… we go with something more civilian. Luxury cruise. Mediterranean. Other kids, other parents. Normal-ish.”

You had nodded.

Tony had groaned.

And now—here you are, three days before departure, sitting in the middle of your bedroom surrounded by a disaster zone of half-packed luggage, sunscreen, children’s swimsuits, and Tony muttering to himself while reading a list on his tablet like it's a classified briefing.

“We’ve got… swim diapers. Liam’s armbands. SPF 100 because your husband and your son both burn in direct moonlight. Noise-canceling headphones. Seasickness bands. Emergency droid. My backup sunglasses. The backup to the backup sunglasses. Do we have the snacks?”

“I put the snacks in four different bags,” you say, crawling over to zip up Layla’s luggage, which she packed herself. You open it just to double-check.

It’s nothing but dresses, glittery sandals, and one tiara.

You sigh and start over.

Meanwhile, Liam is standing in his open suitcase, yelling, “I wanna pack ME!” and throwing all of his plush toys on top of himself.

Tony looks up. “You know… we could still cancel and just build a full cruise deck on the back of the compound.”

“We are not building a floating Stark tower in the backyard.”

“I didn’t say backyard. I said compound. Very different vibes.”

You give him a look.

He groans again and drops onto the bed dramatically.

“Packing was easier when it was just me and a bottle of scotch,” he mutters.

“That’s because you packed zero things and bought everything you needed after landing.”

“Exactly. It was elegant. Efficient. Emotionally low-risk.”

At that moment, Layla walks in, sunglasses already perched on her head, a purse the size of her torso slung across her shoulder. “Can I bring three pairs of heels?”

You both stare at her.

“…No,” you say. “You’re nine.”

She sighs like you’ve just crushed her soul. “Fine. Two.”

Tony leans over and whispers, “That’s your fault.”

“She gets the sass from you.”

“She gets the fashion drama from you.”

“Excuse me?” You look around and gesture to the chaos. “I’m the one packing logically.”

Layla, already ignoring you both, twirls and walks back down the hall to “repack.”

Tony looks at you. “We’re going to need a vacation from the vacation.”

You laugh, tired but excited. “Probably.”

—

By the time you make it to the port, the chaos has leveled up.

Liam hates the check-in line, Layla wants to “go make friends with the other rich kids,” and Tony gets recognized in the terminal and spends fifteen minutes convincing a group of tourists that yes, he’s really just here for a normal family trip.

Still, the cruise ship is stunning. Massive, sleek, and shining in the Mediterranean sun. Your suite—because of course Tony upgraded—has a private balcony, three beds, and enough space for the kids to spread out their chaos without immediately stepping on each other.

Within ten minutes of entering the room:

Liam is pantsless.

Layla has already claimed the top bunk and declared herself "Captain of the Ship."

Tony is trying to program JARVIS into the cruise room’s smart system without getting caught.

You sit on the edge of the bed, already kicking your shoes off. “This was a great idea.”

Tony flops next to you, arm around your shoulders. “So great. Genius level, even.”

You bump his leg with yours. “You’re trying to take credit now, aren’t you?”

“Me? No.” He kisses your cheek. “Just basking in my impeccable decision-making.”

You glance at the open suitcase still waiting to be unpacked and sigh. “You didn’t even bring socks.”

“…I don’t need socks. I’m on a boat.”

“Tony.”

“I’ll buy socks.”

—

The cruise days start as chaos and end in sweet exhaustion.

Layla makes three best friends within the first hour—one of them the daughter of a famous tech entrepreneur, the other two just as loud and stylish as her. She’s in heaven.

Liam, meanwhile, is either running or sleeping. There is no in-between. He decides the pool is his kingdom, and Tony spends most of the time chasing him, slipping on wet tile, and giving the lifeguards a reason to stay on high alert.

You mostly laugh, take pictures, and share quiet moments with Tony on the balcony once the kids are asleep. It's not exactly the private, candlelit anniversary trip he imagined, but it's real, and full of joy, and maybe even better than what either of you had planned.

One night, Liam climbs into your lap during dinner, sticky from dessert, half-asleep and humming something only he understands. Tony sits across from you, watching you two with that soft expression he never lets the public see.

Later, after the kids are tucked in and the lights are low, Tony pulls you out onto the balcony, wrapping his arms around you from behind.

You lean into him, watching the stars over the dark water.

“Ten years,” he murmurs. “Can you believe it?”

“Not really.”

“You still make me crazy.”

“Because I convinced you to take a family cruise instead of renting a private island?”

“Because you still look at me like I’m worth the trouble,” he says, quieter.

You turn around to face him, eyes soft. “You’ve always been worth the trouble, Tony.”

He leans in, forehead against yours. “Happy anniversary, honey.”

And beneath the stars, with the ocean stretching out in every direction, you kiss.

Back in the room, Liam snores. Layla mutters something about glitter in her sleep.

And for now, the world is quiet.

Just the four of you.

Exactly the way it should be.

---

Each day on the Mediterranean cruise settles into its own rhythm—chaotic, golden, sun-soaked. Mornings begin with Liam crawling into your bed while it’s still barely light out, chubby fingers patting your face and whispering “Mama, wake up,” as if he’s telling a secret. You groan softly and curl your arm around him, but Tony—Tony pretends to be dead to the world, one arm flung dramatically over his face until Liam starts patting his chest too.

“Daaaaddy,” Liam whines in his high little voice, “we hafta go get waffles.”

Tony, without opening his eyes, mutters, “Are the waffles going anywhere?”

“They’re gonna go in my tummy!”

That’s usually enough to get him to sit up, hair a mess, voice gravelly. “Good reason.”

By 8:00 a.m., the four of you are at breakfast on the top deck buffet, where Tony drinks two espressos like shots and you slowly nurse coffee while watching Layla explain the differences between three kinds of croissants to her new best friends. She talks with her hands, hair already pulled into a messy bun with sunglasses perched on top of her head—her morning fashion ritual more consistent than your own skincare routine.

Tony’s hand slides onto your thigh under the table. You raise your eyebrows at him.

“Don’t,” you mouth.

He grins like a teenager caught in the act. “Just reminding you I exist.”

“You exist loudly.”

“You didn’t seem to mind last night.”

You kick his shin under the table. He winces—worth it.

Liam, meanwhile, is using a sausage link like a wand, waving it at the woman sitting at the next table. She’s dressed in head-to-toe designer beige and gives your son a tight, unimpressed smile.

“He’s expressing himself,” Tony says to her, completely deadpan.

You stifle a laugh and say, “Sorry—he thinks it’s a magic wand.”

“Wand of Breakfast,” Tony says solemnly. “Very rare artifact.”

The woman turns back to her book. You’re pretty sure it’s upside down.

—

Late morning is for pool time.

Liam, equipped with floaties, splashes with joyful abandon in the shallow section while Tony lies back in a lounge chair next to you, sunglasses on, legs outstretched, sipping something cold and citrusy. He’s got that sun-kissed glow, salt in his hair from earlier, and every five minutes he turns just enough to whisper something suggestive in your ear.

“You know, the spa has private couple’s rooms.”

You hum noncommittally.

“I could book it right now.”

“I have sunscreen all over me.”

“I could help rub it in.”

You roll your eyes but he catches the way your mouth twitches in a smile.

Layla, meanwhile, has dragged two of her cruise friends into a “synchronized swimming practice,” which mostly looks like them flopping backward into the pool in unison and screaming. She has also declared herself the “Pool Princess” and is genuinely upset that the ship doesn’t have a crown to offer her.

A group of women on the other side of the deck—bikinis, diamonds, barely older than twenty-five—stare openly at Tony every time he gets up. He either doesn’t notice or pretends not to. You suspect it’s a little of both.

One of them, when you pass by on your way to the towel rack, leans over and whispers, “Is that really Tony Stark?”

You nod with a practiced smile. “Yep. And that’s really his floaty-wearing son trying to cannonball into the pool.”

You look over just in time to see Liam mid-air, shrieking, “I’m IRON BOY!” before he lands with a splash that soaks half the deck.

Tony salutes him from his chair. “Solid form.”

—

Afternoons are the quietest—blissfully so.

Liam naps. Layla heads to the kids’ activity room or the theater to rehearse for whatever cruise production she’s convinced them to let her star in.

You and Tony sneak to the adults-only lounge. The lighting is low, the music soft. It's not entirely private, but it's quiet, and you’re surrounded by older couples sipping wine and younger couples taking mirror selfies.

Tony presses close, lips brushing your neck. “You know… no kids. Quiet room. Dim lighting.”

“I know exactly where this is going.”

“I mean, I’m just saying. We could find a storage closet.”

“You are a literal billionaire. On a luxury cruise. And you want to hook up in a broom closet?”

“It’s about the thrill, honey.”

You laugh. “Your version of thrill used to be fighting aliens.”

He leans in. “You’re hotter than aliens.”

“Don’t let Thor hear that.”

“Thor hasn’t seen you in that sundress.”

You roll your eyes, cheeks warm, and try not to react when his hand lands a little too high on your thigh under the table.

You manage to resist—for now.

But you do kiss him in the hallway on the way back, with just enough tongue to make him groan and mutter something like, “You’re lucky I love our kids.”

—

Dinners are formal, and Layla lives for it. She changes three times before deciding on a dress that matches her purse. Tony pretends to judge her outfit like a fashion critic on an old reality show.

“You look fabulous, darling, but where is the drama?”

Layla gasps and returns with a boa.

“There it is,” he says, clapping.

Liam hates the fancy clothes but tolerates them for the tiny, buttered rolls they bring to the table in silver baskets.

The dining room is full of couples in polished resort wear, murmuring over candlelight. You’ve had at least two people a night recognize Tony and you both smile politely, nod, keep it moving.

Except for the man from Monaco who tried to flirt with you while Tony was feeding Liam mashed potatoes.

Tony hadn’t said a word—just stared at the guy like he was calculating his net worth, car insurance, and soul value all at once.

The man left.

You’d kissed Tony’s cheek. “Down, tiger.”

“I didn’t do anything,” he said, but his hand was already creeping onto your leg under the table again.

Liam interrupted by flinging a green bean into your wine.

—

Nights are your favorite.

The kids asleep—finally, finally—the room is quiet, moonlight glinting off the waves just outside the balcony.

Tony pulls you into bed, arms circling your waist, eyes soft and sleepy but still mischievous.

“I know you were pretending to be uninterested earlier,” he murmurs against your skin.

“Was I?”

“You wore that dress to dinner and expected me to behave?”

You laugh quietly, fingers slipping into his hair. “You’ve behaved worse for less.”

He nips at your neck, lazy, hungry. “I missed you.”

“I’m literally here.”

“I missed you all day. The real you. The wife. The woman. Not Mommy, not cruise guest #3072. You.”

That makes your breath catch a little. Even after all these years, he still knows exactly where to press, how to peel you open with words.

You kiss him like you mean it—because you do—and lose yourself in the hush of the night and the comfort of his body curved around yours.

In the morning, Liam will wake up too early again. Layla will demand her tiara. Someone will spill juice, and Tony will pretend he didn’t drop his phone in the hot tub again.

But for now, it's quiet.

It’s golden.

And it’s yours.

---

The first excursion off the ship starts bright and early, just after sunrise, with Liam sitting squarely on Tony’s chest and whispering, “Wake up, Daddy. We goin’ on ‘sploring!”

Tony groans something unintelligible, muffled by the pillow, but Liam persists with soft little pats on his cheeks and forehead. You stretch beside them, the sunlight slanting through the balcony doors already promising heat.

Layla, on the other hand, has been up since six, dressed in a linen romper, sunglasses on her head, a small crossbody bag packed with everything from a journal to a compact mirror. She is, of course, ready for the day. A queen on a mission.

You’re headed to a small coastal town in the south of France—cobblestone streets, colorful markets, turquoise sea, and ancient ruins perched on cliffs. A picturesque stop. Cruise guests had the option to book private or group excursions, and Tony, grudgingly, had gone with the group version for the sake of the experience.

But the moment you’re gathered with a collection of mostly well-dressed strangers on the dock, Liam on your hip, Layla holding your hand, and Tony standing beside you with a straw fedora and dark sunglasses like he’s hiding from MI6, you realize just how out of place your family is among these people.

Everyone else seems… neat. Quiet. Curated.

Then Liam lets out a loud, “I gotta pee again!” and Tony just points dramatically to the nearest café like he's on a mission from God.

Layla wrinkles her nose. “Why didn’t you go on the ship?”

“I did, Lay-luh!”

You make a mental note to bring two extra sets of clothes next time.

—

The tour guide is a patient, smiling French woman named Elise who clearly gets paid a lot to tolerate tourists with delicate egos and expensive shoes. She raises her eyebrows just slightly when she sees who Tony is, but to her credit, she doesn’t make a big deal of it. Just gives a warm, “Bonjour,” and hands Layla a tiny flower crown made of local blooms, calling her petite princesse.

Layla beams. Tony melts. It’s honestly unfair.

You start the walk through the narrow village streets, Elise pointing out local bakeries, churches from the 1600s, little art studios. Liam insists on holding Tony’s hand, swinging it as he walks, narrating every step with “I saw a CAT!” or “Look, dat house is blue!”

Tony plays along the entire time, adding nonsense facts. “Did you know, that blue house? Built entirely from alien-resistant plaster. Probably.”

“REALLY?!”

“No.”

Liam laughs and throws his arms in the air. “You’re silly, Daddy.”

Elise leads the group to a local market, and that’s where things go full chaos.

Layla finds a hand-painted fan and decides she must have it. Tony agrees but ends up buying three, plus a woven bag, a handmade doll for Liam, and two jars of artisanal jam. You, meanwhile, are trying to keep Liam from knocking over a pyramid of tangerines with his chubby hands.

You turn for one second—and he’s got an entire baguette in his arms.

“Sir,” the vendor says, amused.

Tony shrugs. “He’s passionate about carbs.”

—

By the time you reach the ruins at the cliffside, the group has fallen into a rhythm. A few older couples smile knowingly at the kids. Some of the more aloof passengers seem to avoid you—possibly because Liam threw a cherry at a man's blazer at the last stop (you did apologize).

Tony keeps pace beside you, one hand on your lower back, occasionally snapping photos of you when you’re not looking.

“Are you sneaking pictures of me?”

“Always. You’re hot when you’re momming.”

You give him a shove. “Stop saying ‘momming’ like it’s a verb.”

“Momming. Verb. Definition: looking hot while keeping everyone alive.”

Layla groans loudly ahead of you. “Stop flirting! You’re married!”

“Exactly why I get to flirt,” Tony calls back. “It’s in the vows. Page three, I think.”

Liam stops to talk to a snail he’s found on the trail. You let him, because he’s content and not moving, and that’s enough of a win.

Tony catches up and kisses your temple. “You’re doing amazing, babe.”

“You say that like we’re hiking Everest.”

He lifts his shirt to wipe his forehead. “Emotionally? We are.”

—

Lunch is at a family-owned restaurant with a shaded patio overlooking the sea. Everything smells like olive oil, herbs, and warm bread. You all sit at a large table with others from the tour group, and Layla immediately starts a conversation with a British couple about the pros and cons of yacht schools.

“She sounds like a diplomat,” the wife whispers to you later.

“She’s nine.”

“Exactly.”

Liam sits in Tony’s lap for most of the meal, dipping fries into Tony’s sauce, occasionally shoving one into his mouth to “share.”

Tony doesn’t even blink. Just eats the bite like it’s fine cuisine.

You reach over and brush crumbs from both of their mouths. Tony leans into your hand, cheek resting against it for just a second, eyes warm and tired and in love.

—

On the ride back to the ship, the kids pass out in your arms.

You lean into Tony’s side, exhausted, full of sun and sea air, and for a moment the bus feels like your own private world.

He brushes your hair behind your ear. “Next stop: ice cream in Italy.”

You smile. “That’s tomorrow.”

“I’m planning ahead. I’m efficient now. Haven’t you noticed?”

“You forgot socks again today.”

He grins. “But I remembered to pack your perfume.”

You press your face to his shoulder and exhale. “I’m so glad we did this.”

He kisses the top of your head. “Me too. Even if our son tried to steal a baguette and our daughter almost joined a cruise school cult.”

---

The kids are finally at the cruise’s kids club, both barely awake from their naps but delighted by the prospect of pirate-themed crafts and a scavenger hunt. Layla marches in with purpose, hand in hand with Liam, already explaining the rules of treasure-hunting like she’s the ship’s captain.

Tony watches them disappear behind the colorful doors, then turns to you with a slow, satisfied smirk.

"Alone," he says, like it’s the rarest word in the universe. “Truly, deeply, uninterruptedly alone.”

You raise a brow. “You say that like we’re not going to get a call in an hour because Liam tried to eat glitter.”

“Shhh,” he says, placing a finger over your lips. “Don’t jinx it. This is sacred.”

And before you can answer, his hand slides into yours and he tugs you toward the elevators. You expect him to walk fast—he doesn’t. He saunters. One hand in his pocket, the other keeping you close, fingers brushing over your knuckles like he’s been craving the feel of your skin all day.

You both know where this is going. It’s not spoken aloud—it doesn’t have to be.

The elevator ride up is quiet, charged, a slow climb wrapped in anticipation. Tony turns toward you halfway, eyes lowered, and tugs you just a little closer, his free hand skimming your waist like he’s drawing a path for where his hands want to go.

He leans in, mouth brushing your ear. “When we get inside, you’re not lifting a finger.”

You glance at him with a sly smile. “What if I want to?”

His lips curl into something darker. “Oh, sweetheart. You won’t need to."

The moment the door clicks shut behind you, he crowds you gently into the wall. No rush. No frenzy. Just his body pressing into yours, warm and solid, and the long, slow kiss he’s clearly been saving since breakfast.

Your fingers find his shirt, tugging it loose, your mouths moving in sync, deeper, more urgent. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for permission—it knows it’s already yours.

His hands slide under the hem of your dress. Not grabbing. Just resting. Palming your hips like he’s grounding himself. Then sliding up, fingers grazing bare skin, drawing in every soft gasp you give him.

“Missed this,” he whispers into your neck. “Been thinking about you all damn day.”

You smile against his jaw. “Even during the baguette incident?”

“Especially during the baguette incident.”

He lifts you gently, your legs wrapping around him with ease, and carries you to the bed. He doesn’t drop you or toss you down. He lays you there like you’re precious. Like this moment is something rare and treasured, not just desired.

And when he moves over you, mouth on your collarbone, tracing every inch he can reach, it’s with the reverence of a man who’s not just making love to a body—but worshiping a life, a history, you.

His hands are everywhere—under your back, in your hair, smoothing along your thighs—and your body arches into his like it’s muscle memory, like you were made for this kind of closeness.

He whispers your name like a vow.

You breathe his in like a prayer.

Clothes become a forgotten detail. Time stretches, turns hazy. There’s no sound but the waves outside the balcony doors and the quiet, desperate gasps exchanged between tangled sheets. His voice dips low as he murmurs soft, filthy praise into your skin, each word curling your toes and tightening the ache between you.

And when it ends—when the world finally steadies—you’re lying against his chest, his arms tight around you, his hand tracing lazy circles over your back.

You both exhale at the same time. Like you’ve come home.

He tilts your face toward his. Kisses you again, slow and deep.

“Think we’ve got time to go again?” he murmurs.

You hum thoughtfully. “If Liam doesn’t start a glitter rebellion in the next thirty minutes?”

“Then we’re living dangerously.”

You laugh softly. He pulls the blanket over both of you, tucking you into his side.

For the moment—warm, satisfied, and utterly tangled up in each other—you let the rest of the world fade.

It can wait.

---

The knock on the suite door is sharp—three raps, crisp and unexpected.

You and Tony, still wrapped in the slow afterglow of stolen time, both freeze.

Tony is the one who answers it, slipping on a robe as he crosses the room. You sit up quickly, adjusting the sheets around yourself, heart already beating faster with that eerie parental sense that something isn’t right.

It’s a crew member, polite and concerned. “Mr. Stark, sorry to interrupt, but the kids’ club called. Your son Liam is asking for you and his mother. He’s alright, just shaken up a bit. Took a little fall.”

Tony’s whole demeanor shifts instantly—shoulders stiffen, voice lowers. “Is he hurt?”

“No injuries, sir. Just scared.”

You’re already climbing out of bed, throwing on the first dress you can find. “We’ll be there in five.”

Tony turns to you as the door shuts. He’s already pulling on his clothes with military precision, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—guilt.

“We shouldn’t have left them,” he mutters, grabbing his shoes.

You fasten your dress and slide your feet into sandals. “Tony, they were having fun. We needed a little time. He’s okay.”

Tony doesn’t respond right away. He’s halfway to the door before he turns, rakes a hand through his hair, and says, “He asked for us. That’s enough.”

The walk to the kids’ club feels longer than it is. The ship is quiet, most guests are still out exploring the port or lounging at the pool. The luxury around you feels strange now—too calm compared to the tightness in your chest.

When you arrive at the colorful doors, a staff member waves you in. “He’s just in the cozy corner. He calmed down a little after we called, but he’s been asking for you non-stop.”

You spot him immediately—curled into a plush beanbag, one sock off, clutching his favorite stuffed lion. His cheeks are red from crying, lashes wet, bottom lip trembling. His tiny body looks even smaller surrounded by the oversized cushions and toy chests.

“Mommy!” he sobs the second he sees you, launching off the beanbag with a stumble.

You catch him in your arms and kneel, holding him tight as he buries his face in your neck. Tony crouches beside you, his hand brushing through Liam’s hair, voice soft and steady.

“Hey, buddy. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“I f-fell,” Liam sniffles. “My knees didn’t get broken but I thought they did.”

You laugh quietly through your own held-back tears. “Oh, honey. That must’ve been scary.”

Tony presses a kiss to Liam’s temple. “You’re the toughest kid I know.”

Liam hiccups a little. “I was lookin’ for you. I didn’t know where you went.”

That’s the dagger.

Tony glances away for a second, jaw tight.

You hold Liam close, brushing the sweaty curls off his forehead. “We were just upstairs, baby. We would’ve come running no matter what. We did come running.”

Liam’s little arms tighten around your neck.

Tony lets out a long breath. “Should we take Layla too?”

One of the staff members approaches. “Actually, she’s having a blast. She’s with two other girls her age—she’s already told them all about her pet rabbit and the time she met Captain Marvel.”

Tony rubs a hand over his face, chuckling despite himself. “Of course she is.”

You turn to Liam. “Do you want to come back with us for a little bit? Or stay here now that you’re feeling better?”

He clings tighter. “Come back. I want a snuggle. You and Daddy.”

So you leave with him in your arms, Tony’s hand on his back, guiding you both.

Back in the suite, you lie on the couch together—Tony, you, and Liam between you, swaddled in a blanket, the television quietly playing a nature documentary he won’t actually watch. His eyes stay on you both, calm again but a little wide, like he’s not taking anything for granted right now.

Tony strokes Liam’s hair in soft, steady movements.

After a while, your son’s breathing evens out. He’s asleep again, this time without tears.

You meet Tony’s gaze. He looks wrecked—but in that quiet, internal way. Like it hit him somewhere soft he doesn’t always admit exists.

“Hey,” you whisper. “We didn’t do anything wrong. He’s safe. He’s learning the world. Sometimes it’s a little scary.”

Tony nods, but he doesn’t speak yet.

You reach across Liam and touch his wrist. “We’re allowed to have time for us.”

“I know.” His voice is gravel. “Doesn’t mean I don’t feel like a jackass.”

You smile softly. “You’re a dad. We’re supposed to overthink every second.”

He leans down and kisses Liam’s hair again. “I love this little guy too much, that’s the problem.”

You brush your thumb over Liam’s hand. “Same here.”

There’s a knock again about thirty minutes later—it’s a crew member returning Layla, who insists on telling Liam all about the treasure map she made and how she “totally bossed it like Black Widow.”

Liam yawns, still snuggled up between you both.

Layla leans over him and plants a loud kiss on his forehead. “Next time, don’t fall. Or at least do it in style.”

Tony laughs, finally, the tightness in his shoulders easing. “Yeah, buddy. Learn from your sister.”

---

The next morning, it starts.

You're brushing your teeth, eyes still heavy with sleep, when a tiny knock taps at the bathroom door. Before you can respond, it opens, and there’s Liam—bedhead, sleepy eyes, dragging his stuffed lion by the tail and blinking at you like you’ve been apart for years instead of hours.

“Mommy,” he whispers, voice hoarse from sleep. “I missed you.”

You crouch and pull him in for a hug, soft and warm and weighty in that familiar toddler way. His arms wrap around your neck like he’s scared you’ll disappear again. It’s sweet. A little heartbreaking.

“I was just in here, baby,” you whisper against his curls.

“I know.” He presses his cheek to your shoulder. “But I didn’t see you. I had a dream the cruise left without me.”

You feel the sting in your chest immediately. “Oh, honey… We’d never leave without you. Not ever.”

He nods against you but doesn’t let go.

By the time you’re dressed, he’s clinging to your hip, refusing to be put down. You carry him to breakfast in the ship’s restaurant, balancing him with practiced ease while Tony and Layla follow behind, sleepy but bright-eyed.

Tony leans closer as you settle into a booth, voice low. “You want me to take him for a bit?”

You glance down at Liam. He’s clutching the front of your shirt with one hand and holding a small piece of toast in the other, resting his cheek against your chest like it’s his safe haven.

You offer Tony a soft smile. “Let’s give him a little time.”

Tony nods, even smiles—but something flickers behind his eyes. Just for a second.

The rest of the morning is more of the same. Liam won’t go to the kids’ club unless you promise to sit just outside it, and even then, he runs out every twenty minutes to make sure you haven’t moved. Layla is thriving—leading group games, charming the staff, talking in a pretend accent like she’s on her own reality show. But Liam? He wants you, and only you.

Tony watches it all, quiet. He doesn’t say anything at first.

But by late afternoon, when you’re in the lounge reading a book with Liam curled up in your lap again—despite Tony offering to build LEGO with him—he finally breaks.

“You think this is gonna last forever?” he says lightly, sitting beside you with two drinks in hand.

You raise an eyebrow, accepting the iced tea. “You mean the clinginess?”

He shrugs, leaning back. “I mean, I get it. You’re the favorite.”

You close your book. “Tony.”

“No, no. It’s fine. He wants you. All the time. Every second of the day. Who wouldn’t want you?” He takes a long sip. “Just don’t forget about the other Stark in your life.”

You nudge his leg gently. “Jealous of a three-year-old now?”

“Yes,” he says, deadpan. “Have you seen his eyes? Pure manipulation. He’s weaponized the pout.”

You laugh quietly. “He’s just scared. He had a big feeling and didn’t know how to handle it. He’ll balance back out.”

Tony watches you for a beat, then sighs and stretches his arm along the back of the seat. “I know. I do. It’s just…”

You tilt your head. “Just what?”

“I miss you.” His voice softens. “Not in the obvious way. I mean the little stuff. Touching your back while you cook. You looking up at me over your coffee. Whispering things to make you laugh. You know, married things.”

You shift Liam carefully so he’s leaning on a pillow instead of your shoulder, then lean into Tony’s side.

“I miss those things too,” you whisper.

Tony kisses the top of your head. “I know it’s dumb.”

“It’s not dumb. He just needs me a little more right now. That doesn’t mean I don’t need you.”

He hums low. “You sure?”

You nod. “Cross my heart.”

Later that night, once the kids are asleep—Liam curled between a stuffed lion and your old T-shirt, Layla sprawled like a starfish across her bed—you and Tony finally sit together on the balcony, a glass of wine between you.

The sea is calm, moonlight skipping over the surface. The end of the cruise is two days away, and neither of you want to talk about packing.

Tony takes your hand, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles. “He’s gonna grow out of it, isn’t he?”

You smile, eyes fixed on the horizon. “He will. And then we’ll miss it.”

He groans. “You’re right. We’ll cry over his first sleepover.”

You bump your shoulder into his. “You’ll cry. I’ll just spy on him from the car.”

Tony laughs. “Deal.”

There’s a quiet moment—peaceful, full of salt air and the sound of your kids breathing through the open doors. Then Tony speaks again, softer this time.

“Thanks for not shutting me out.”

You glance at him. “You mean when you got jealous of your toddler?”

He winces. “I mean when I got petty and whiny about something completely understandable.”

You lean in and kiss him—slow, warm, lingering. “You’re allowed to have feelings too, Stark. Especially when they’re about loving your family too much.”

Tony smiles into the kiss. “God, I do love this family too much.”

You nod. “We all do.”

And as the cruise edges toward its end, your little family settles back into its rhythm. Liam eventually lets Tony carry him again. Layla keeps ruling the kids’ club with an iron fist and sparkly headband. And you? You keep being the steady center they all orbit around.

---

The return trip is a whirlwind of bags, sleepy children, and half-finished room service pancakes shoved into takeout boxes at the last minute. Tony tries to coordinate the luggage while you wrangle the kids, who have both entered that tired-yet-overstimulated phase of travel where everything is a crisis. Liam cries because he dropped his stuffed lion, and Layla keeps asking if they’re home yet… while still on the ship.

“Next vacation,” Tony mutters, sunglasses slipping down his nose as he hoists the last suitcase onto the portside luggage cart, “we teleport.”

“If anyone’s going to invent that,” you say, adjusting your bag as Liam clings to your leg, “it’s you.”

“Right after I invent self-packing suitcases and kids who enjoy jet lag,” he grumbles.

You smirk and hand him Liam’s lion. “Maybe just focus on the teleportation.”

The flight home is more manageable than expected—Liam sleeps most of the way curled against your side, and Layla entertains herself by drawing on the in-flight tablet, sketching the cruise ship with surprisingly accurate details. Tony passes out beside you both halfway through the flight, mouth slightly open, his hand still on your knee like a tether in his sleep.

By the time you arrive back at your Malibu home, it’s late afternoon. The sun slants golden through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and everything smells faintly like salt and stone and home. There’s that soft exhale of relief that settles over the whole house when you unlock the door—bags dropped, shoes kicked off, familiarity settling into your bones like a second skin.

Layla races to check on her stuffed rabbit, and Liam collapses onto the couch in a pile of blanket and curls. Tony pulls you into a long, grateful hug in the middle of the living room.

“Home,” he murmurs into your neck.

You smile. “Finally.”

—

The next few weeks are filled with soft, domestic chaos—jet lag, school pickup lines, laundry you didn’t realize you’d brought back. Layla has questions about constellations now, having stared at them every night on the ship, and Tony gets her a telescope within 48 hours. Liam, still mildly clingy, insists on helping you cook every dinner, which mostly results in flour-covered countertops and a thousand tiny spoonfuls of sauce “taste tests.”

But something else settles in too.

You notice it first on a quiet Tuesday afternoon, when Liam is napping, and Layla is at a playdate. You’re alone in the kitchen, making tea, and a sudden wave of nausea rolls through you out of nowhere. Sharp, sour, familiar.

You stare at the kettle and blink.

It couldn’t be.

But a few days later, it happens again. You’re folding laundry, and the room spins just a little. Then comes the food aversion—the eggs you loved last week now smell like betrayal—and the tiny ache low in your back that you recognize all too well.

It’s a whisper of a suspicion at first. Then a certainty you can’t ignore.

You take the test in your bathroom on a calm, sleepy Saturday morning while the kids watch cartoons downstairs. The house is quiet, sunlight spilling through the windows, and for a few minutes, it feels like time is holding its breath with you.

Two lines.

Clear. Bright. Undeniable.

You stare at them for a full minute before you even realize you’re smiling.

Then your breath catches.

You’re pregnant.

Again.

A soft laugh escapes you, then a quiet, stunned “oh my god.”

Downstairs, you hear Tony telling Liam not to eat a crayon and Layla defending the legitimacy of her cartoon choices with dramatic flair. Everything feels sharp suddenly. Alive.

You press a hand to your stomach.

Hello, little one.

—

You don’t tell him immediately.

Not because you don’t want to—but because you want it to be right. Special. You’ve done this twice already, but it still feels like a miracle every time, and you want to hold it close just a little longer before the whirlwind begins.

So you watch him. For a week.

You watch the way he picks up Liam when he’s too tired to walk. The way he helps Layla with her math homework, pretending he’s terrible at it just to make her laugh. The way he still kisses you every morning like it’s the first time.

You memorize it all.

And one night, after the kids are asleep, curled up together on the couch with wine you haven’t touched and a movie playing in the background, you nudge his leg.

“I have something to tell you.”

Tony pauses the movie instantly, turning toward you. “Okay. What’s up?”

You reach behind the couch and pull out a small gift box. Inside is a white onesie with “Third Time’s the Charm” printed across the front in Tony’s unmistakable font. His brow furrows for half a second—then he freezes.

Then looks at you.

Then back at the onesie.

“Wait.”

You nod slowly.

“No way.”

You grin. “Way.”

He’s silent for a second, blinking hard. “You’re serious? We’re…?”

You nod again.

He exhales like someone punched all the air out of his lungs—then laughs, all breathless and disbelieving.

“Another one?” he whispers.

“Another one.”

Tony lets out a wild, thrilled laugh and practically tackles you in a hug, arms wrapping around you so tightly you almost lose your balance. He kisses you once, then again, then pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

“You keep surprising me, woman.”

You stroke his cheek, grinning. “You love it.”

“I do,” he says, eyes glinting. “God help me, I do.”

And in that moment, wrapped up in each other on your quiet Malibu couch, with the scent of salt air and old popcorn in the room and the soft sound of your children breathing upstairs, everything feels infinite again.

A new adventure. A new heartbeat.

A new little Stark.

[amethystarachnid]

I like indulging myself in sorrowful things when I'm sad (prolly not good). The new tony fic rusted love was my request. Thanks for making it. It was very touching. I really felt bad for luke and y/n. Nobody deserves things like these but somehow we are forced to face them. I wish things aren't very difficult and unpredictable all the time. (yep a lil sob story sry & maybe more sad fics?)

I hope you are doing well in general and wishing you all the good things in life. Give us more of your amazing work! Please keep it coming girl 🖤🖤

i’m happy you liked the fic and i hope you are doing well too!! <3

i also like to read sad things when i’m sad, kinda like in maths - x - = + lol

i was torn between writing a part 2 for rusted love with an happy ending or leaving it like this for the ✨angst✨to not ruin it.

let me know what you think in the comments or in the asks xoxo

[amethystarachnid]

Hiii, I was wondering if you could do a Loki x reader story where the reader is of one of Frigga’s ladies in waiting/a daughter of a friend of the crown who has shown promising magical ability? Frigga agrees to give her lessons in sorcery alongside Loki and they instantly get along but their friendship becomes more. Maybe she defends Loki against Thor and his friends when they belittle him. You’re my one of my favorite Loki writers so it would mean so much, thanks!

EXILED HEARTS

⤷ LOKY LAUFEYSON

ᯓ★ Pairing: Loki Laufeyson x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, some angst and some fluff

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 7.8k

ᯓ★ Summary: As Frigga’s protégée, you grow close to Loki through shared magic and understanding. But courtly judgment, Odin’s decree, and whispered scorn force you and Loki to choose between royalty and each other. In the end, you choose love—and build a life far from the palace’s golden cage.

ᯓ★ TW(s): nothing I think, just some angst

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 candlelight dances on the silk-lined walls of the royal library, casting flickering shadows across the shelves as you press deeper into the alcove. Your fingers hover over a page in a worn tome, ancient Asgardian glyphs etched in gold leaf. The script feels alive beneath your touch, humming faintly—perhaps only in your mind, but you like to believe it’s real. You’re not supposed to be here, not this late, and not without permission. But curiosity is louder than decorum.

You recite the lines again, under your breath. The ancient incantation rolls off your tongue imperfectly, but something in the air tightens—a hush, like the world is holding its breath. You flinch as a row of candles flares, a gust of invisible wind whipping past your cheek. Then it’s gone. Stillness returns. But your heart pounds.

“That passage,” a voice says softly behind you, “is not meant to be read aloud without guidance.”

You turn so quickly your braid slips over your shoulder. Queen Frigga stands just within the archway, her silhouette gilded by moonlight from the tall windows. She doesn’t look angry—curious, perhaps, or quietly amused. Her head tilts as she studies you, eyes soft but sharp as ever. You’re not sure if you should kneel, apologize, or bolt.

“My queen, I—I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” she says, stepping into the room. “If you had meant to cause trouble, I suspect the whole wing would be in disarray by now.”

You flush, clasping your hands in front of you. You’ve served at the court long enough to know better than to touch books not offered freely. But the Queen has always held herself with grace, and now, she moves beside you with no hint of reprimand.

“You read it aloud correctly,” she says, eyes still on the book. “That’s more than most trained mages can say.”

You blink, stunned. “I did?”

A faint smile curves her lips. “Your magic is unrefined, but it's there. Stronger than I expected.”

The words wrap around you like a cloak you’re not used to wearing—warm, heavy, significant. You’ve always known the spark lived inside you, but it was private. Unspoken. Tucked away in dreams and half-lit evenings when you whispered spells into your pillow and imagined stars answering back.

“I don’t... I don’t know what to do with it,” you admit. “I thought maybe if I read enough, something would just—click.”

“Magic doesn’t click,” Frigga replies. “It unfolds. Like silk. Or music. Or a storm.”

She glides her fingers over the open pages and closes the book gently. “You have great potential, my dear. And you’ve been quite patient, haven’t you? Serving in silence. Observing.”

You nod. You've been a shadow in these halls for years now—your mother once a dear companion to the Queen, your name a small one tied loosely to the court. When you first arrived in the palace, you were told to mind your manners and stay out of sight. You did. But you never stopped watching.

Frigga reaches out, her fingers brushing just above your wrist. You feel a warm pressure—not a touch, exactly, but something more delicate. Like a thread catching yours.

“I will teach you,” she says, voice gentle but sure. “But not alone.”

You frown slightly. “Not alone?”

“My youngest son still studies. Perhaps not as diligently as he should, but it would benefit him to have a partner. And you may find him... enlightening.”

Your breath catches. You’ve seen Prince Loki, of course—everyone has. A dark figure in green and gold, wry and sharp-eyed, moving through the palace like a secret. He’s aloof, cold at times, always ten steps ahead of everyone else in the room. He’s also the Queen’s favorite, though no one says it aloud.

The thought of studying beside him is equal parts terrifying and thrilling.

“I would be honored,” you say quickly. “Truly.”

Frigga smiles. “Good. Come to the east courtyard tomorrow morning. Before the sun rises. Bring nothing but yourself.”

And just like that, the Queen turns and leaves, her robes whispering like wind through silk. You stand there for a long moment after she’s gone, heart still fluttering, hand resting over the closed tome as though it holds something more than paper and ink.

Maybe it does.

The east courtyard is cold before dawn, the stone slick with dew. You wrap your cloak tighter around your shoulders, breath clouding in the pale light. No one else is here yet. The palace is still asleep, save for the guards at their posts. You stand by the marble fountain, trying not to let your nerves chew at your composure.

Then you hear footsteps. Precise. Measured.

Loki appears from the far archway, his green cloak trailing behind him like a shadow with purpose. He glances at you once—expression unreadable—and then looks away just as quickly.

You straighten. “Good morning, Prince Loki.”

He raises an eyebrow, his tone cool. “So you're the Queen’s new pet project.”

You bite back a retort, keeping your voice even. “She offered to teach me.”

“Yes, she does enjoy playing tutor now and then. Don’t mistake it for favoritism.” He steps closer, arms folded across his chest. “I assume you’ve read half the library already. Tell me—what does the Eltherian sigil for balance look like?”

You hesitate. “Three intersecting crescents, forming a triangle.”

“Impressive.” He sounds almost disappointed. “So you are a little witch.”

“I’m not trying to impress you.”

He tilts his head, a crooked smile forming. “No? Most people do.”

Before you can answer, Frigga appears through a shimmer of light, stepping into the courtyard like the sunrise itself. She doesn’t greet either of you—just smiles softly and lifts her hands. A circle of runes spirals into the air around her, forming a translucent dome.

“Now,” she says, “we begin.”

And begin you do.

---

It starts with silence.

Not the awkward kind, but something more curious. Comfortable. Or perhaps simply patient.

Loki doesn’t speak much during your first few lessons together. He watches. Assesses. He makes no effort to hide the way his eyes flick to your hands as you shape energy into form, or the faint quirk of his lips when you mispronounce something in old Vanir. He rarely corrects you aloud, but you always feel the judgment just behind his gaze.

But you also notice the way he lingers after Frigga dismisses you both. The way he conjures minor illusions absentmindedly while you review a scroll, as though daring you to ask questions. And one morning, he surprises you.

“You shouldn’t hold your palm flat when summoning a sigil,” he says suddenly, as you're struggling to stabilize the glowing arc of a protective ward. “You’re letting too much energy pool in your wrist.”

You glance at him, caught off guard. He’s sitting cross-legged nearby, an illusion of a raven perched on his shoulder. He doesn’t look up from his book.

You frown and adjust your hand, tilting it slightly, trying again. This time the sigil hums with steadiness, and the edges no longer flicker.

“How did you know I was doing it wrong?”

Loki shrugs. “I’ve been watching.”

He says it so plainly, like it means nothing. But something in the way he says it makes your chest flutter.

From that day on, things begin to shift.

Loki is sharp and unpredictable, like a blade half-hidden in silk. But he’s also brilliant. His understanding of runes, language, and magical theory is far beyond what any of your tutors could have offered. You learn more from watching him for an hour than from studying texts for days.

And surprisingly—he starts to share.

“You overthink the spell before casting,” he says one day, as you're practicing duplication charms. “Your mind races ahead of the magic. It won’t follow you if you run from it.”

You exhale. “That’s not very comforting.”

He tilts his head. “Who said magic is supposed to be comforting?”

And yet, when you cast the spell again and it holds, you catch his expression soften.

Sometimes he shows you tricks that aren’t in any book. Subtle sleight-of-hand movements that help anchor concentration, mnemonic phrases he created himself to recall complex sequences. His magic is elegant, and full of flair—showy, yes, but also intimate. Thoughtful. Personal.

And you start to respond in kind.

You show him a meditative chant your mother taught you, one that calms the mind before a spell. You teach him a gesture from your family’s minor sigil-craft—a flick of fingers that stabilizes wards at the edge. He doesn’t admit it, but you catch him using it the next morning when he thinks you aren’t looking.

Frigga notices.

She rarely comments, but there’s a certain smile she wears now when she watches the two of you sparring or laughing quietly over a scribbled note. She leaves the sessions earlier now, allowing space to grow unmonitored. She doesn’t need to nurture what is clearly blooming.

One day, in the garden after a particularly draining session, you both sit beneath the shade of an ancient tree. Loki conjures two glasses of chilled wine with a flick of his fingers, handing one to you without a word.

You accept it, raising an eyebrow. “Poisoned?”

“Only mildly,” he replies with a smirk.

You laugh, and he watches you with a strange look in his eyes. Not amused, exactly. More like... reverent. But it passes quickly.

You sip and let the silence stretch between you, the warmth of the wine settling in your limbs.

“Why do you try so hard to hide how kind you are?” you ask quietly.

He stiffens just slightly, the smirk faltering. “Kindness is a liability in court.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He turns his face away from you, his voice lower now. “Kindness is a performance. Just like cruelty. Just like charm. It’s all costume.”

You study him carefully. “And which one are you wearing now?”

Loki doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t look away, either.

The bond forms in quiet things.

The way you begin to fall into rhythm when you cast spells side by side. How his presence begins to anchor you instead of unnerve you. How your laughter comes easier in his company, and how his sharp edges soften when you’re near.

He teases you. Constantly.

“You hold your wand like it’s a fork,” he mutters one morning.

“At least I don’t use mine like a toothpick,” you snap back, without missing a beat.

He blinks, then laughs—a full-bodied, rich sound that startles both of you.

After that, his teasing becomes more frequent. But now it’s paired with warmth. With glances that linger too long. With conversations that go on well past your lessons.

And sometimes, your hands brush when you pass him a book or a vial or a rune-stone. Neither of you ever comments on it. But neither of you pulls away.

One evening, weeks into your lessons, a storm rolls across the palace—lightning crackling violet across the sky, thunder low and distant. You find Loki already in the library alcove, cross-legged on the carpet, eyes scanning a floating scroll.

“Can’t sleep?” you ask softly.

He glances up. “Can’t ignore the noise.”

You sit beside him without asking. The storm outside is a mirror to something in your chest—wild, unsettled.

He conjures a flame in midair, letting it dance between his fingers. “Do you ever think about leaving?”

You tilt your head. “Asgard?”

He nods. “All of it. The court. The roles we play.”

You hesitate. “Sometimes. But I don’t think I’d belong anywhere else.”

“Maybe you’d belong everywhere.”

You smile faintly. “Or nowhere.”

Loki looks at you for a long moment, something in his gaze quiet and unguarded.

“You’d make an excellent liar,” he says softly.

You blink. “That’s a compliment?”

“From me, it is.”

And when the thunder rumbles again, you don’t flinch.

By the time your lessons have stretched into months, you and Loki are inseparable. At least, in your private hours. In court, things remain unchanged. Loki is still the prince, and you are still a lady of no consequence. But in the shadowed corners of the palace—in the gardens, in the library, in the stillness of the early morning—you are equals.

You know the exact angle of his smile when he’s about to say something clever. He knows the cadence of your laugh before it breaks free. You can feel when his magic flares too hot, and he can sense when yours begins to fray. You speak in half-sentences now, and still understand each other perfectly.

There’s something between you. Something unspoken.

It curls like a spell just on the edge of being cast. Like a secret waiting to be whispered into the dark.

But neither of you gives it voice.

Not yet.

One night, you find him in the observatory, leaning against the railing, staring out at the stars. His cloak is gone, his tunic unfastened at the collar. He looks more boy than prince. More truth than mask.

You step beside him. “You always come up here alone?”

“Only when I wish someone would follow.”

You glance sideways. “Did you wish for me?”

He smiles faintly, not answering.

The two of you stand there, the cosmos yawning open before you. In the hush of starlight, everything else falls away.

Loki speaks first.

“Magic is the only thing that’s ever made sense to me. The rest—the throne, the rules, the lies—it’s noise. But this...” He gestures outward. “This is real.”

You nod slowly. “I know. It’s the only time I feel like I’m me.”

His eyes flick to yours. “You always seem like you.”

“Only because you see me clearly.”

His breath catches. Just for a second.

Then, softly: “I do.”

The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s full—of everything you could say. Everything you both choose not to.

---

It begins in moments Loki doesn’t expect.

When your laugh echoes off stone walls and silences the static in his head. When your hands brush as you pass a shared spellbook and he feels a flare of heat in his chest that has nothing to do with magic. When he finds himself watching you instead of the stars, wondering if your smile is ever meant for him alone.

He knows what it is.

Of course he does. He’s read every poem, every legend. He’s watched others pine and ache and confess. He’s mocked them for it. But this — this — sneaks up on him. A thread quietly tying itself around his ribs each time you tilt your head and ask him something only he would know. Each time you call him by name like it’s not a title but something softer.

He realizes he wants to touch your hand without magic. To walk beside you with no pretense. To hear you call him justLoki and not think it strange.

And that’s precisely the problem.

You are not just anyone. You are a lady of the court. Trusted. Refined. A daughter of the Queen’s closest friend. Frigga adores you, sees you as a protégé, a favored companion. You were born noble enough to serve royalty — but never quite enough to marry into it.

And he—he is a prince.

He’s always known the weight of that title. It crushes beneath its own expectation. Marriages in court are chess moves. Alliances. Not choices.

He tells himself it would be unkind to give you hope. To let this thing, this want, bloom into something it cannot be.

So he buries it. Quietly. Carefully. He sharpens his wit when you come too close. He flinches back when your fingers nearly touch his. He casts sideways glances when you aren’t looking.

But you notice.

You always notice.

It happens in the training hall.

You’re there with Loki, practicing controlled projection spells when Thor storms in with his usual entourage — Sif, Fandral, Hogun, Volstagg. Their presence fills the room like a gust of arrogance, all laughter and muscle and heavy boots.

“Still playing with illusions, brother?” Thor calls, grinning. “Come train properly. Throw a hammer. Lift something.”

Loki doesn’t look up. “Some of us have more refined pursuits.”

Volstagg laughs. “Refined? More like useless. You could conjure a feast and still starve.”

Sif smirks, arms crossed. “He can conjure shadows, but they’re no use in real battle. At least Thor’s brute strength wins wars.”

Your magic flickers in your palm, spell unraveling.

You look between them—four warriors who have never respected the power of what Loki does. Who see his magic as vanity, not strength. They’ve made jabs before, but today it feels crueler. Sharper. Directed like knives.

Loki says nothing. But you see the stiffness in his shoulders. The quiet set of his jaw.

You step forward before you think twice.

“At least he uses his brain,” you say, voice steady. “He wins with thought instead of swinging wildly until something breaks.”

The room falls silent.

Thor turns to you, brows raised in mild surprise. “Lady Y/N, we mean no offense—”

“I think you do,” you interrupt, stepping closer. “You mock what you don’t understand. Magic isn’t for show. It’s not weakness. And if any of you had half the discipline Loki does, you might learn something beyond brute force.”

Sif’s jaw tightens. Fandral shifts uncomfortably. Even Thor looks vaguely chagrined.

Loki doesn’t move. But his eyes are on you now. Intently.

You hold your ground.

“If you’ll excuse us,” you finish, voice colder now, “we were in the middle of a lesson.”

The warriors exchange glances, then file out with awkward nods, their usual bravado softened.

The silence that follows is deep and heavy. You turn, pulse still racing.

Loki is staring at you like he’s never seen you before.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says quietly.

“I know,” you reply. “But I wanted to.”

A pause. You take a breath.

“They shouldn’t speak to you like that. You’re powerful. Brilliant. You—”

“Don’t,” he says, more sharply than he means to. You stop.

“I’m not a hero, Y/N.”

“I didn’t say you were,” you reply, carefully. “I said you deserve respect.”

He looks at you, and there’s something in his expression that’s almost... pained.

“You shouldn’t stand that close to me.”

You blink. “Why not?”

He exhales. “Because you’ll make me believe this is real.”

Your breath catches. The words hang between you, raw and dangerous.

He turns from you before you can answer, voice quieter now.

“You’re... a lady of court. The Queen favors you. One day you’ll marry someone respectable. Someone who isn’t—me.”

“Someone who isn’t a prince?” you ask softly.

“No.” He swallows. “Someone who isn’t this prince.”

And there it is — the truth, laid bare like a wound.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because if you say the wrong thing, the thread between you might snap.

Instead, you step closer again — slow, deliberate. Close enough for your shoulder to brush his.

“I don’t care what they think,” you whisper. “Or what they expect.”

He doesn’t look at you.

But you feel the way he leans, just barely, into your warmth.

You stay like that, side by side, the air thick with unsaid things. And for now, that’s enough.

---

You are summoned before the Allfather at dawn.

Two guards knock at your chamber door and say only that the King requests your presence. Their expressions betray nothing. Your hands tremble as you lace your boots, and your stomach is stone by the time you reach the throne room.

Odin waits, seated high on his gilded dais. Frigga stands nearby, her face unreadable, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.

You bow low, heart thundering. “You summoned me, my king?”

His voice is cold. Distant. “I did.”

He says nothing for a moment. Just watches you with that single eye, piercing as a blade.

“You spoke out against my son and his companions,” he says, calmly. “Disrespectfully. In front of others.”

You lift your head, confused. “Your Majesty, I—”

“You may think yourself clever,” he cuts in. “But you are not above consequence. I allowed your presence in this court out of respect for your late mother. That grace has now ended.”

The words hit like ice.

“I—please, I meant no harm. I only—”

“You dared to insult Thor, a prince of Asgard, in favor of his brother. And worse, you did so publicly.”

Your heart stutters. He saw. He heard everything.

“My loyalty to Loki—”

“—is inappropriate,” Odin interrupts, voice thundering now. “And suspect. You are no longer permitted within the palace. You will leave by nightfall. You are not to communicate with the royal family again.”

It’s not a punishment. It’s exile dressed in silk.

You turn to Frigga, eyes pleading. “My queen—please—”

Frigga’s voice is soft but firm. “She is young. She spoke in defense of someone she believes in. Surely—”

“I have made my decision,” Odin says flatly.

The finality in his voice is ironclad. There will be no further appeal.

Frigga’s jaw tightens. Her eyes meet yours, filled with sorrow. But she says nothing more.

And so you bow again, this time with your heart breaking inside your chest.

You don’t go to Loki.

You can’t.

Not with what you’ve been ordered. Not knowing it’s your last night within the golden walls you once thought were home.

You pack slowly. Quietly. No servants. No goodbyes.

But as twilight falls, your door creaks open.

Loki stands there.

His eyes rake over you—half-dressed for travel, your spellbook missing from the shelf, your satchel folded on the bed.

He frowns.

“Where are you going?”

You try to say his name, but your throat locks. You look away, and that’s all he needs to know something is wrong.

He steps forward, sharply. “What happened?”

“Loki—”

“No. Don’t lie to me.” His voice rises. “Who sent you away?”

You swallow, tears already rising. “Odin.”

He stills.

“What?”

“He heard what I said. In the training hall. About Thor. About the others. He says I disrespected the crown. I’m no longer permitted near the royal family.”

Loki laughs once, bitter and sharp. “So I’m to lose you because I’m the wrong person to defend.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Yes, it is,” he breathes. “Of course it is. I should have stopped you. I should have warned you what my father is capable of.”

He paces, restless. Like if he doesn’t move, he might collapse.

Then he stops.

“I was coming to see you,” he says, voice softer now. “Because I couldn’t keep pretending anymore. I was going to say it, even if I shouldn’t.”

You stare at him.

He steps closer.

“I love you.”

It doesn’t sound like a confession. It sounds like a surrender.

“I love you,” he repeats, more quietly. “And I tried not to. I tried to be noble. But I can’t stand another day watching you from across a hall, pretending you’re just another sorcerer. Another shadow.”

Your breath trembles.

“Loki…”

“I thought I had time,” he says, laughing again, but it’s broken now. “Time to say it properly. To plan something clever. Something worthy of you. But I don’t. Do I?”

You shake your head, tears falling freely now.

“They’re sending me away,” you whisper. “And I’m not allowed to see you again.”

He steps back, like your words have struck him.

“No,” he says.

You say nothing.

“No,” he repeats, more fiercely this time. “You’re not leaving like this. I won’t allow it.”

“You don’t have a choice,” you say, barely able to stand. “Neither of us do.”

He storms toward the window, magic sparking from his fingertips. “I’ll talk to Mother. To Odin. I’ll threaten—”

“No.” You grab his hand. “If you do anything, he’ll punish you. He’ll hurt you more than he already has.”

He shakes his head, jaw clenched.

“I just got you,” he says, voice cracking.

You pull him in, pressing your forehead against his.

“I know.”

He clings to you. Arms tight around your waist like if he lets go, the whole realm will fall apart. Maybe it already is.

You stay like that until the bells toll the hour. The hour of your exile.

He doesn’t speak again.

You pull back first, trembling. He watches your hands, as though memorizing them.

And then you turn and walk away.

You don’t look back.

You can’t.

Because if you do—you’ll run straight back into him and never leave.

And you can’t afford that.

Not when he’s a prince.

Not when you’re already gone.

---

Loki does not sleep the night you leave.

The moment your footsteps vanish down the hall, the palace feels hollow. He tries to pretend it hasn’t happened. He sits where you last stood. Stares at the place your satchel had rested. Breathes the air as if it still carries your warmth.

But it’s not the same.

It never will be.

He doesn't cry. Not because he isn't shattered — but because the grief settles too low, too deep, for tears. Like stone in his chest. Like ice in his blood.

He doesn’t eat the next day. Doesn't speak.

Thor asks where you’ve gone at breakfast.

Loki leaves the table without answering.

Days pass. Then weeks.

He tries to throw himself into study. Into perfecting spells. Into illusion and fire and silence. But nothing helps.

He stops attending court. Avoids the library. Avoids everywhere you used to be.

When Frigga finds him, he’s in his chambers — the air stifling, windows shuttered, every candle burning too hot.

She sits beside him without asking. She doesn’t offer platitudes. Only a mother’s eyes and quiet understanding.

“I couldn’t stop him,” she says softly.

“I know.”

“I tried. I would have made him see.”

Loki doesn’t look at her. “He never sees me.”

Frigga’s silence answers everything.

When she touches his cheek, he lets her. But he feels nothing. Her warmth is not yours.

“Come back to court,” she urges gently. “Don’t let him take your fire.”

He looks at her then — really looks. And when he speaks, his voice is low and dangerous.

“He took more than that.”

Loki begins to despise Odin.

Not just for banishing you — but for what it reveals.

For how easy it was for the Allfather to cut you away. For how little your voice meant in his grand design. For how quickly love and loyalty were outweighed by appearances and pride.

But what terrifies Loki most is that he begins to believe him.

Not Odin’s justice — but his reasoning.

You are not of the blood. Not a royal. Not a pawn he can use. You were disposable the moment you became inconvenient.

And if that is true...

Then what is Loki?

Whose blood runs in his veins?

He buries the thought like poison. But it festers.

He begins to unravel.

You feel the loss in your bones.

The first few days after your exile are a blur.

You travel to a minor outpost of Asgard’s outer provinces — a quiet, forest-ringed settlement near the eastern fjords. Frigga arranges your passage discreetly. You don’t see her, but a letter arrives, signed in her delicate hand:

You are not forgotten, child. Not by me. May your magic carry you where our laws failed you.

You cry for the first time reading that.

The nights are the worst. You lie awake listening to the wind and wonder if he’s thinking of you. If he feels this phantom pain — this severed thread — the same way you do.

You left without saying it.

You were too afraid that saying the words aloud would shatter you.

But you love him. Fiercely. Completely.

And now it is too late.

You settle in the village as best you can.

The people here know your name, if not your story. They’re kind. Curious. They’ve never met a sorcerer who trained in the palace before, and certainly not one who left under mysterious circumstances.

You take on small magical work — healing charms, weather wards, illusion weaving for harvest festivals.

It is not the life you imagined.

But it is life.

And slowly, the ache dulls to a throb.

But it never vanishes.

You still wear the green ribbon he once conjured for you — tied to your wrist now, fraying at the edges.

Back in Asgard, Loki starts seeing you everywhere.

Not truly — but in every spell he casts. Every half-finished rune where your handwriting used to correct his. Every mirror that flickers with an illusion that looks a little too much like you.

He dreams of you.

Sometimes you speak. Sometimes you don’t. Sometimes you walk away before he can stop you.

Those are the worst nights.

He stops trusting himself.

He picks fights with Thor. He withdraws further from court. When he sees Sif or Fandral, rage curls in his gut like fire, but he says nothing. Not yet.

Frigga continues to reach for him.

But he pulls away. Even from her.

Because you were the one who made him feel worthy. Who looked at him not with pity or fear or expectation — but as someone whole. Someone he could become.

And now, without you...

He doesn’t know who that person is.

Seasons shift.

You grow stronger.

The pain does not vanish, but it becomes a companion — one you carry with quiet grace.

Your magic flourishes without palace constraint. You discover new rituals in the wilds, spells born from root and river. The land teaches you in ways scrolls never could.

Children in the village begin to call you “the silverweaver,” for the way your spells shimmer like thread in sunlight.

But at night, you still sit by the window, gazing toward the northern skies — hoping for a flicker of gold and green. Hoping he might reach for you, even now.

And far across realms, in a tower steeped in shadow and magic...

Loki whispers your name into candlelight.

Every night.

As if that alone might bring you back.

---

Loki is quiet.

Not the poised, calculating quiet that used to mask his cleverness — but a hollow quiet, a kind of stillness that speaks of erosion. Day by day, Thor watches his brother grow more distant. He forgets meals. Avoids mirrors. Sometimes, he vanishes for hours, only to reappear smelling of smoke and magic.

At first, Thor says nothing. For all their history, he’s never been good with Loki’s silences. But this one... this one feels dangerous.

One morning, he finds Loki in the royal library. Not reading. Just standing, unmoving, in front of a shelf where a spellbook used to be. The space is empty now. Loki’s hand rests on the spine next to it, fingers still.

Thor clears his throat.

“You always mocked my dramatics,” he says lightly. “Now you haunt rooms like a ghost.”

Loki doesn’t turn. “Go away.”

But Thor doesn’t.

He steps closer, voice softer now. “You loved her.”

Loki’s fingers curl into a fist.

“I saw it,” Thor continues. “I didn’t understand it at the time. I didn’t respect it the way I should have. But I see now. It broke you when she left.”

“She didn’t leave,” Loki says bitterly. “She was banished.”

“I know.” Thor breathes out, guilt lacing his voice. “And I did nothing.”

That gets Loki to turn — sharply, eyes flashing. “You laughed with them. Mocked me. Mocked her.”

Thor bows his head.

“I did. Because I was foolish. Because I thought it didn’t matter.” He pauses, then meets Loki’s eyes. “But it does. You love her still.”

Loki says nothing.

Thor continues, more gently. “I asked Frigga where she’d gone. She didn’t tell me everything, but she told me enough. I want to make it right.”

“You can’t,” Loki says, voice tight.

Thor straightens. “Maybe not. But I can take you to her.”

Silence. Long. Breathless.

Loki doesn’t dare believe it.

“You know where she is?” he says finally.

“I’ve kept eyes on the outer provinces. Quietly. Just in case.” Thor offers a small, crooked smile. “You’re not the only one who missed her.”

You’re in the woods outside the village, gathering herbs at twilight when you feel it — the magic, sharp and bright, blooming behind you like starlight cracking open the air.

You whirl around, heart stuttering.

Loki steps out from the shimmer of a hidden portal. Slowly. As if unsure you’re real.

You don’t move.

You can’t.

He looks thinner. Paler. His eyes are rimmed with exhaustion. But his face — gods, his face — it still makes something in you collapse.

“Loki?” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just walks toward you, step by step, until he’s close enough to touch.

“I thought I’d forgotten how to breathe,” he says, voice thick. “But here you are.”

You reach for him, fingers trembling.

He catches your wrist — gently — and presses your hand to his chest.

“Still beating,” he murmurs. “Barely.”

You laugh, and it’s cracked and wet and full of disbelief. “How are you here?”

“Thor,” he says simply.

Your eyes widen.

“He knew,” Loki continues. “He saw what I became without you. And he... he helped me find my way back.”

You blink fast, tears gathering. “But your father—”

“He can rot in his throne,” Loki cuts in. “I don’t care what he says anymore.”

You stare up at him. And in a breath, everything comes crashing down — the exile, the silence, the ache.

“I missed you,” you whisper. “Every day. I thought I’d never—”

He silences you with a kiss.

It isn’t sweet. It’s desperate, and aching, and hungry. His hands tremble on your waist like he can’t quite believe you’re real. You kiss him back with years of unsaid words and broken nights behind it.

When he pulls away, his forehead presses to yours.

“I didn’t come just to see you,” he says. “I came to take you back.”

You tense.

“I can’t go back,” you whisper. “He’ll exile me again. Or worse.”

“I know.” Loki pulls back, looking into your eyes. “That’s why we’ll do something he can’t undo.”

You blink.

“We’ll marry.”

Your breath hitches.

“Loki—”

“Not in the palace. Not in gold or glory. But truly. Vows. Magic. Soulbound.” His hand cradles your face. “If I am bound to you, Odin will have no power over it. Not without defying ancient rites. Even he wouldn’t risk that scandal.”

You stare at him, stunned.

“I should’ve done it the moment I realized,” he says. “I should’ve fought then. But I’m here now.”

You say nothing.

Just throw your arms around him and nod against his shoulder.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Yes. Yes.”

The ceremony is quiet.

Thor stands witness, dressed not in armor, but simple Asgardian blue. He says nothing, only nods as you both step forward under the canopy of stars.

Frigga is not there, but you feel her blessing. In the wind. In the stillness. In the soft glimmer that dances across your joining hands when the spell begins.

Loki speaks the old words first — the binding vow of his magic to yours, his heart to yours, his soul to yours.

You echo them, voice shaking but clear.

A ribbon of starlight winds around your wrists, sealing the bond. A vow older than kings.

When it fades, Loki cups your face.

You smile through your tears.

And when he kisses you again, the world rights itself.

Later, after Thor has gone, and the night has grown still, Loki lies beside you in the little cottage, holding your hand like a relic.

“You’re mine now,” he murmurs. “Truly.”

You smile sleepily. “And you’re mine.”

“Forever?”

“Always.”

His eyes close.

---

The Bifröst opens in the high dawn light, casting shards of color across the golden bridge. The wind is cold at this height, but Loki doesn’t feel it. He only feels your hand in his.

You step into Asgard again for the first time since your exile, and the moment your feet touch the bridge’s smooth surface, your breath catches.

Everything looks the same.

And nothing feels the same.

Loki doesn’t let go of you. Not for a moment. His posture is tall, regal, but there’s a tightness in his jaw that only you notice — the readiness of a man still expecting his father’s wrath to strike like lightning. But beside him, you walk unflinching.

Because this time, you’re not just a lady of court.

You’re his wife.

And Odin cannot undo what’s been bound by magic and vow.

At the end of the bridge, Frigga waits.

Her cloak is silver today, soft as falling snow, and her face is unreadable as you approach. But when she sees your hands twined, when she sees the thin thread of starlight still woven faintly around your wrist — the magic of the bond — her expression cracks.

Her eyes shine. And then, impossibly, she smiles.

“Mother,” Loki says carefully.

She says nothing at first. Just lifts her hand — and touches your cheek.

“You’ve come home,” she whispers, voice full of emotion.

“Yes,” you whisper back. “Together.”

Her gaze flicks to her son.

“You found your way,” she says.

Loki’s throat works, but no sound comes.

Frigga exhales, a soft laugh, and pulls you both into an embrace.

For a moment, there is no kingdom. No judgment. Only warmth.

Then, from the far archway of the bridge, another presence approaches.

Heavy boots. Gold-lined robes. The weight of rule etched into every stride.

Odin.

Loki stiffens.

Frigga steps back, her hand remaining on your shoulder. She doesn’t retreat. Neither do you.

Odin stops several feet away. He says nothing.

His eye lands on your face — then drops to your joined hands.

You wait for the outburst.

But it doesn’t come.

His gaze flicks to the faint shimmer of your marriage binding. Ancient, lawful, soul-forged.

He can’t deny it.

So instead, he says nothing. Just watches with that unreadable stare.

Frigga is the one who speaks.

“They are wed,” she says, her voice light but firm. “By rite. By vow. And by will.”

Odin’s silence stretches.

“Not under my roof,” he says at last, flatly.

“They didn’t need your roof,” Frigga replies.

His jaw tightens.

Loki finally speaks, voice calm but icy. “You banished her. You cast her out for loyalty. But now she returns not as servant, but as my equal.”

“She was never your equal,” Odin says, low.

“She is now,” Loki replies, eyes sharp. “You can no longer pretend I am yours to command.”

Odin looks at him for a long, long moment.

Then he turns.

And walks away.

No decree. No fury. No blessing.

Just a quiet defeat.

Frigga’s sigh is subtle, but full of decades of disappointment.

Loki watches his father vanish into the distance, the old cape dragging like a shadow behind him. Then he turns to you — and for the first time since crossing into Asgard, his shoulders ease.

“You stood tall,” he murmurs, pride in every word.

“I had you beside me,” you reply.

Frigga smiles at you both. “He cannot touch what is bound by older laws than his crown. He knows it.”

Loki’s hand squeezes yours. “Let him try. I’ll burn down the throne room first.”

Frigga gives him a pointed look. “Let’s not start a war just yet.”

The three of you walk through the palace together, and for once, the golden halls feel like yours. Whispers follow, of course — nobles peering from behind pillars, servants pretending not to look. The rumors run ahead of you, unstoppable.

But you walk proudly.

At Loki’s side.

A prince’s wife. A sorceress in her own right. Not a shadow or a servant or a secret.

Not anymore.

---

At first, the court doesn’t know how to respond.

They bow, of course. You are married to a prince. You walk beside Loki now in green-trimmed gowns and silver circlets, your hand on his arm, your back straight. Protocol demands deference.

But behind the smiles, the court stirs like a nest of snakes.

They whisper. Always just behind you. They speak your name with too much reverence, or not enough. You are not royal, not raised in the line of succession, not bred in the traditions of courtly diplomacy. You are — in their eyes — an interloper. A symbol of rebellion. The lady who loved too loudly.

They speak of you in corridors. In gardens. Over wine.

Did you bind Loki by spell?

Did you seduce him to power?

Why would a prince give up his rank for a former lady-in-waiting?

The speculation coils around every room you enter. You hear the sharp pause in conversations. See the too-wide smiles from noblewomen who used to speak freely with you. Even the servants are cautious, uncertain if speaking with you is offense or obligation.

Loki feels it all.

He doesn’t show it — not openly — but you can tell. His shoulders tense at council meetings. His words grow colder with every cutting aside made in your direction. He starts to avoid the court dinners altogether. Not because he is ashamed — but because he is tired.

Tired of pretending.

Tired of seeing you flinch at the weight of scrutiny.

One evening, late, you sit in the highest balcony of the palace garden — where the stars hang low, and the fountains drown out the city noise. Loki stands beside you, silent, watching a comet trail faintly across the dark.

You speak first.

“This isn’t what I thought it would be.”

He doesn’t answer immediately.

“No,” he says at last. “Nor I.”

You look at him. His expression is unreadable.

“I thought,” you begin, voice quiet, “that once we were together — once it was real — the rest wouldn’t matter.”

He turns to you now, eyes tired but soft. “It shouldn’t matter. But this place…” His voice tightens. “This court has never forgiven me for being different. It was naïve to think they’d love the woman who made me stronger.”

You take his hand.

“So what now?” you ask. “Do we just endure it?”

He hesitates.

Then, slowly, he sits beside you, your fingers still laced with his.

“I have lived a life built on approval,” he says. “On proving myself worthy. To Odin. To Asgard. To every lord and scholar and warrior who looked past me.”

You nod, listening.

“I thought royalty gave me power. But now…” He looks down at your hands. “Now I have you. And they would ask me to pay for that with silence. With shame.”

He lifts your hand and kisses your knuckles gently.

“I won’t.”

You exhale, your heart breaking and healing at the same time. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” he says slowly, “that I would rather live unknown — peacefully, freely, beside you — than wear a crown that costs me everything.”

Tears rise behind your eyes.

“Loki…”

He presses his forehead to yours.

“If you would leave this behind with me,” he murmurs, “I will build us a world of our own.”

You nod. Fiercely. Without hesitation.

“Yes.”

Frigga listens in silence as you both tell her.

Her expression does not falter, but her eyes glisten faintly.

“You are certain?” she asks gently.

“Yes,” Loki says. “We want peace. And truth. Not this.”

Frigga reaches for your hand. Holds it between both of hers.

“I always hoped one day you’d return here,” she says. “That you’d be safe within these walls.”

“You gave me that once,” you whisper. “But Asgard never did.”

Frigga exhales. “Then I will help you.”

Loki looks at her. “You’ll aid us?”

“Of course,” she says softly. “You are my son. She is your wife. That makes her my daughter.”

You almost break at those words.

Frigga leads you to a sealed archive — quiet and old, deep beneath the palace — where records of the lesser realms are kept. She scans scrolls and maps, her fingers sure and searching.

Finally, she finds it: a small realm under Asgardian protection, a quiet place of rolling hills and warm sunlight, where trade is simple, governance is light, and nobility is a formality. The people are kind. The land is rich. It is a place where magic is respected, not feared.

“There’s a manor there,” she says. “Untouched for years. Still under crown stewardship, technically.” She smiles. “But I believe I can lose the paperwork.”

Loki clasps her hand. “Thank you, Mother.”

Frigga’s expression softens. “Write to me. Tell me of your seasons. And if you have children—”

Loki lifts a brow.

“—especially if you have children,” she finishes with a fond smile.

Thor finds you both in the gardens the morning you leave.

He looks unusually serious. His cloak is folded over one arm, not worn, and his hammer hangs at his side untouched.

“I hear you’re vanishing again,” he says, trying for lightness.

Loki smirks faintly. “Running from you, specifically.”

“I thought as much.” Thor steps closer, then hesitates. “Are you sure?”

You and Loki exchange a glance.

“Yes,” you say. “This is what we need.”

Thor nods, jaw tight.

“I envy you,” he says. “Sometimes I wish I could leave all this behind. Be someone other than the crown’s shadow.”

Loki tilts his head. “You’re more than that.”

Thor smiles.

Then he looks at you, and his expression changes — softens.

“Take care of him,” he says to you. “He’s an idiot sometimes. But he’s a good one.”

“I will,” you promise, blinking quickly.

Then Thor turns to his brother.

“And you—” He steps closer and places a hand on Loki’s shoulder. “If you don’t name your first daughter after me, I’ll be offended.”

Loki blinks. “You want us to—?”

“Oh, I expect nieces,” Thor says proudly. “A house full of them. Wild, magical little terrors who’ll terrorize me when I visit.”

You laugh — a full, surprised laugh — and Loki rolls his eyes.

“We’ll see what we can do,” you say, smiling.

Thor embraces you both — a rare, bone-cracking sort of hug — and steps back with a grin.

“Go. Be free. Just don’t forget you’ve still got family here.”

And with that, you leave Asgard.

Not in secret. Not in shame.

But together — arm in arm, bound by vow and choice.

Your new home is far from the golden towers, tucked in the folds of a sunlit realm that greets you like an old friend. The manor is modest by royal standards, but beautiful: tall windows, a warm hearth, a garden grown wild with herbs and glowing flowers.

You breathe freely there.

You rise with the birdsong and fall asleep to Loki reading old texts beside the fire. The villagers come to know you with kindness. Children ask you for illusions. Elders thank you for weather wards. It is not the life of a queen — but it is yours.

And Loki, for all his sharp wit and starlit power, smiles more in these quiet days than he ever did in the throne room.

Sometimes he watches you walk through the garden, fingers brushing lavender and light, and he says nothing. Just watches, like he’s memorizing every movement.

Because he chose this.

He chose you.

And for the first time in all his long, guarded life…

He has no regrets.

[amethystarachnid]

guys I was looking through my drafts and I found out I have so many unposted oneshots wtf where did they come from??

I swear my brain's fried, I'll edit them and post them in the next days

[amethystarachnid]

Hi there! I’m looking for a fic about Bucky Barnes x Reader. In the story, they’re happily married, but one day Bucky suddenly asks for a divorce. I think he tells Reader it’s because he found someone else (though I might be wrong). Reader is heartbroken and leaves. Later, Bucky receives a photo of Reader and realizes she has a baby bump, she’s actually pregnant with his child. That’s when he tries to find her again. Reader is understandably upset, but Bucky eventually reveals the real reason he asked for the divorce: he was working on a dangerous case, and the villain had threatened Reader’s life, so he left her to protect her. Does anyone know this fic? Thank you! Xx

I don't know the fic but honestly I'm intrigued, I'm posting this hoping that someone might recognize it! <3

and of you find it please drop the title lol

[amethystarachnid]

What do you think about Bucky's look in Thunderbolts? Especially the post credit scene? And would you write Thunderbolts Bucky fics with the New AvengerZzzz? 😘

i was feral for him for all the movie but the post-credit?? I WAS IN LOVE and I already love this man, but now my love has reached a peak so high omg

once my requests are back open ofc anyone can request a thunderbolts*!Bucky ff <3 (I may be already writing a proper fanfic for Wattpad)

[amethystarachnid]

Hiiiii, I literally just discovered your blog yesterday so forgive me if you had answered this question and I haven't seen it ^^

Are your requests closed or not? In your bio it says they are closed temporarily, but then in your masterlist it says that requests are always open, so I am just a litttttle bit confused that is all

Just asking you before I make a request just in the case they are closed :))

first of all thank you for the question, but I’ll be honest it’s been a while since I updated the masterlist, I don’t really check it often even though it’s pinned on my profile, so please check always my bio.

so yeah, requests are currently closed ❤️

[amethystarachnid]

A drabble of grumpy stark and clingy & funny af y/n please?

much love! 💞

GRUMPY TONY STARK WITH A FLIRTY READER - A Drabble

You steal his wrench mid-tinker. He glares. You wink. “Trade you for my number.” He snatches it back. “I already have it.” “Then why aren’t you using it?”

“Stop humming.” Tony grumbles over his coffee. You lean in, lips brushing his ear. “Make me.” He shoves a donut in your mouth. “Temporary fix.”

You blow him a kiss during a meeting. He deadpans. “This is serious.” “So are my lips. Wanna see?”

“You’re distracting me.” “From what? Your brooding?” You plop onto his lap.

“JARVIS, lock her out.” “Afraid I can’t do that, sir. She bribed me with cat videos.” You smirk. “AI’s got taste.” Tony groans. “Traitor.”

He catches you doodling hearts on his blueprints. “Vandal.” You bat your lashes. “Artist.” “Same thing.” “Then arrest me.” He mutters. “Tempting.”

And once you tow get together...

Tony claims he doesn’t cuddle. Yet every morning, you wake up with his arm slung over your waist like a possessive octopus. "This is a security measure," he grumbles. "You steal blankets."

Movie night. You pick a rom-com. He groans. "I’d rather rebuild an engine blindfolded." Ten minutes in, he’s critiquing the science. You kiss him mid-rant. "Still talking?" He shuts up.

You wear his MIT hoodie. He tries to act annoyed. "That’s vintage." You spin. "Looks better on me." He tugs you closer. "Debatable." Then steals it back—only to hand it to you the next day.

"Stop leaving Post-its on my suits." You grin. "Or what?" He pulls one off the Iron Man armor—"Kissed by the best <3"—and smirks. "I’m charging you for vandalism. Payment due in kisses."

"Tony. Tony. Tony." "What." "Love you." He sighs. "I was this close to a breakthrough." You poke his cheek. "Breakthrough this: say it back." "...Love you. Now go away." (You don’t.)

He buys you ridiculous gifts—a mini arc reactor nightlight, a coffee mug that says "Stark’s Favorite Distraction." You tease him. "Sentimental much?" He scoffs. "Tax write-offs." (The blush says otherwise.)

You dance in the kitchen. He pretends to hate it. Then his hands slide to your hips. "Fine. One song." FRIDAY "accidentally" loops it. He doesn’t complain.

Press asks about his "mysterious girlfriend." He deadpans. "She’s a menace." You wave at cameras behind him. "Hi, I’m the menace!" He drags you away—but not before you see his smirk.

[amethystarachnid]

Requesting you for a really soul-shattering, heart breaking, ugly crying sad ending fic w tony & y/n. My depressed af brain needs it. (Make it like a really bad breakup or divorce but NOT death)

Pweaseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 ofc only if u want to

RUSTED LOVE

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

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

ᯓ★ Genre: pure angst

ᯓ★ Word count: 3.7k

ᯓ★ Summary: you thought marrying Tony Stark would be a living fairy tale, and at first it was: perfect marriage and a perfect babyboy, until he started being more Iron Man than Tony

ᯓ★ TW(s): Emotional Neglect, Parental Absence, Divorce, Child Heartbreak, Abandonment Issues, Chronic Disappointment, Emotional Infidelity (prioritizing work over family), Parental Guilt (you said angst...)

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 penthouse is quiet when you wake up—too quiet. The space beside you in bed is cold, untouched. Tony didn’t come to bed again. You sit up, running a hand through your hair, and listen for any sign of him—the hum of the lab below, the distant clinking of tools, the low murmur of JARVIS responding to his commands. But there’s nothing. Just silence.

Luke’s soft voice drifts from the nursery, calling for you. “Mama? Mama, up!”

You force yourself to move, pushing back the heaviness in your chest. Luke is standing in his crib, arms outstretched, his big brown eyes—so much like Tony’s—bright with excitement. The second he sees you, his face lights up, and he bounces on his toes. “Mama! Up, up!”

You scoop him into your arms, breathing in the sweet, innocent scent of him—baby shampoo and warmth. He clings to you, pressing his face into your shoulder. “Where Daddy?” he mumbles, his words still clumsy, still learning.

Your throat tightens. “Daddy’s working, baby.”

Luke frowns, his little fingers playing with the collar of your shirt. “But… but Daddy said park.”

Your heart sinks. Tony had promised. Again.

You carry Luke to the kitchen, setting him in his high chair as you start breakfast. The penthouse feels too big, too empty, despite the two of you filling it with your presence. You try not to think about the days when Tony used to wake up with you, when he’d pull you into his arms before either of you even opened your eyes, whispering against your skin how lucky he was. When he’d make pancakes with Luke balanced on his hip, laughing as their son smeared syrup everywhere.

Now, the lab consumes him. Iron Man consumes him. And you—you’re left with the pieces of the man you married, the man who used to look at you like you were his entire world.

Luke babbles happily as he eats, telling you some story only a three-year-old could invent, full of half-formed words and wild gestures. You nod along, smiling when he giggles, but your mind is elsewhere—on Tony, on the growing distance between you, on the way he flinches when you touch him sometimes, like he’s already braced for disappointment.

You take Luke to the park alone. He runs ahead, squealing as he climbs the jungle gym, and you watch him with a hollow ache in your chest. Tony should be here. He promised.

When you get back, the penthouse is still empty. You put Luke down for his nap, pressing a kiss to his forehead as he drifts off, his tiny fingers curled around the stuffed Iron Man toy Tony gave him last Christmas.

You find Tony in the lab, bent over a gauntlet, his hands moving with mechanical precision. He doesn’t hear you at first, lost in his work. You stand there, arms crossed, watching him. He looks exhausted—dark circles under his eyes, his hair a mess, his shirt wrinkled.

“You missed the park,” you say quietly.

Tony startles, turning to face you. His eyes flicker with guilt before he schools his expression. “Shit. I—I lost track of time.”

“You always lose track of time.”

He runs a hand over his face. “I know. I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to him—to both of you.”

“When, Tony?” Your voice cracks. “When will you make it up to us? Because it’s always later. It’s always next time. And Luke—he doesn’t understand. He just knows his daddy isn’t there.”

Tony’s jaw tightens. “I’m trying.”

“Are you?” The words spill out before you can stop them. “Because it feels like we’re not even part of your life anymore. It’s just you and the suits and the missions. We’re just—background noise.”

He flinches like you’ve struck him. “That’s not true.”

“Then prove it.” Your eyes burn. “Because I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep waiting for you to remember us.”

Tony stares at you, his expression raw. For a moment, you think he’ll say something—anything—to fix this. But then the console behind him beeps, an alert flashing red. His gaze darts toward it instinctively.

And that’s all the answer you need.

You turn and walk away before he can see you cry.

That night, you lie in bed alone again, listening to the silence. Luke stirs in his room, whimpering in his sleep, and you go to him, smoothing his hair until he settles. You stay there, watching him, wondering how much longer you can keep pretending this is enough.

Tony finally comes to bed hours later, slipping under the covers carefully, like he’s afraid to disturb you. He doesn’t reach for you. He doesn’t say a word.

And that—that hurts more than anything.

You close your eyes, aching for the man who used to love you without hesitation. But the bed feels too big, the distance between you too wide.

And for the first time, you wonder if love was ever enough to begin with.

---

Luke’s fever spikes in the middle of the night.

You jolt awake to the sound of his weak, pitiful cries—not the usual energetic whining, but something small and broken. Your heart lurches as you stumble into his room, flicking on the light to see him curled up in bed, his face flushed, sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead.

“Mama,” he whimpers, his voice hoarse. “Mama, hurts.”

You press a hand to his forehead and your stomach drops. Burning up.

“Oh, baby,” you murmur, scooping him into your arms. He clings to you, his little body trembling, and you carry him to the bathroom, fumbling for the thermometer. The digital readout flashes red—103.2.

Your breath catches.

You call Tony first. It’s instinct, even though you know better by now. The phone rings and rings before going to voicemail. You try again. Nothing.

Luke whines against your shoulder, his fingers clutching your shirt. “Daddy?” he rasps, his big, glassy eyes searching your face. “Want Daddy.”

Your throat tightens. “Daddy’s… busy, sweetheart. But Mama’s here.”

You don’t bother calling again.

Instead, you move on autopilot—children’s Tylenol, a lukewarm bath, cool compresses pressed to his forehead. Luke cries the whole time, his tiny voice cracking as he calls for Tony between sobs. “Daddy come? Daddy help?”

You swallow back the lump in your throat. “Soon, baby.”

But Tony doesn’t come.

Hours pass. The fever dips slightly, then spikes again. Luke drifts in and out of restless sleep, his breaths shallow, his cheeks still too pink. You don’t sleep at all. You sit on the edge of his bed, stroking his hair, whispering reassurances you don’t feel.

Morning comes. The penthouse is still silent.

You check your phone—no missed calls, no texts. Nothing.

Luke wakes up crying again, his voice weak. “Daddy…?”

You close your eyes.

That’s when it hits you—the quiet, devastating truth.

You can’t do this anymore.

Not the empty promises, not the loneliness, not the way your son’s heart breaks every time his father chooses something—anything—over him. Over you.

You think of divorce. The word sits heavy in your chest, ugly and final. But for the first time, it doesn’t scare you. It feels like the only way to stop the bleeding.

You press a kiss to Luke’s forehead, your voice barely a whisper.

“It’s okay, baby. Mama’s here.”

----

The days pass in a blur of quiet heartbreak.

Luke’s fever breaks after two long days, but the ache in your chest doesn’t fade. You watch him play with his blocks on the living room floor, babbling to himself, his little voice still scratchy from being sick. He doesn’t ask for Tony as much anymore—not since that night. It’s like he’s already given up, too.

You kneel beside him, smoothing his hair back. “Hey, baby. What are you building?”

He grins up at you, holding up a lopsided tower. “For Daddy!”

Your stomach twists. Of course.

“You wanna show him when he gets home?” you ask carefully.

Luke’s smile dims. He shrugs, turning back to his blocks. “Daddy busy.”

The resignation in his tiny voice is what finally breaks you.

That night, when Tony finally drags himself up from the lab—hair disheveled, oil smudged on his cheek—you don’t greet him with silence like usual. You stand in the doorway of the bedroom, arms crossed, and say the words you’ve been dreading.

“We need to talk.”

Tony freezes. He knows that tone. His eyes flicker with something like fear before he schools his expression. “Yeah. Okay.”

You don’t sit. Neither does he. The space between you feels like a chasm.

“I’ve been thinking about divorce,” you say quietly.

Tony flinches like you’ve struck him. His mouth opens, then closes. For once, the genius who always has a quip, a solution, a way out—has nothing.

You continue before he can find his voice. “Luke doesn’t even ask for you anymore, Tony. He expectsyou not to be here. And I—I can’t keep doing this. Waiting for you to remember you have a family.”

Tony’s breathing is uneven. “I—I didn’t realize—”

“That’s the problem,” you whisper. “You don’t realize. Not until it’s too late.”

He looks gutted. Lost. For a second, you see the man you fell in love with—the one who promised you forever with shaking hands and stars in his eyes.

You take a shaky breath. “Luke’s birthday is in three weeks. I’m giving you one last chance. Be there.Not just physically—really be there. For him. For us. Or I’m done.”

Tony swallows hard. His voice is raw when he finally speaks. “I’ll fix this.”

You want to believe him.

But you’ve heard that before.

---

The days slip by, each one marked by Luke’s growing excitement—and the quiet, gnawing dread in your chest.

"Mama, can I have a dinosaur cake?" Luke asks one morning, swinging his legs at the kitchen counter as he scribbles on a piece of paper with a blue crayon. His tongue pokes out in concentration as he draws what might be a T-Rex—or possibly a very lumpy cloud.

You smooth his hair back, smiling despite the heaviness in your chest. "Of course, baby. A big one, with green frosting for the scales?"

Luke gasps, eyes wide. "And sparkles?"

You laugh softly. "And sparkles."

He cheers, kicking his feet, then pauses. His little face scrunches in thought. "Daddy like dinosaurs too?"

The question is innocent, but it stings. You hesitate, then choose your words carefully. "He does. But even if Daddy’s busy, we’ll still have the best cake, okay?"

Luke nods, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—disappointment, maybe, or just resignation. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask when Tony will be home. Just goes back to coloring, humming to himself.

That’s the worst part.

That he’s already stopped expecting him.

Later, while pushing him on the swings at the park, you test the waters again.

"Hey, bug," you say softly as he giggles, wind rushing through his hair. "What if… what if just Mama and you lived somewhere else one day? Like a new house?"

Luke slows his swinging, little brows furrowing. "No Daddy?"

Your stomach twists. "Daddy would visit. But it would just be you and me most days."

He thinks hard, tiny fingers gripping the swing chains. "Like… like Uncle Rhodey visits?"

You nod. "Yeah. Like that."

Luke is quiet for a long moment. Then, in a small voice: "Daddy not come home now anyway."

The words hit like a punch.

You stop the swing, pulling him into your arms, pressing a kiss to his temple. He doesn’t seem upset—just matter-of-fact. Like he’s already accepted it.

And that? That kills you.

Tony tries.

Sort of.

He comes up for dinner twice that week, though he’s distracted, checking his phone, his leg bouncing under the table. Luke beams the first time, chattering excitedly about his birthday plans, but when Tony blanks on the name of his favorite stuffed animal ("It’s Rex, Daddy," Luke says, crestfallen), the light in his eyes dims a little.

The second time, Tony makes it through the meal—but leaves halfway through Luke’s bath time when a call comes in from Pepper. You hear him murmur "It’s important" before the elevator doors close.

Luke doesn’t ask where he went. Just splashes listlessly in the tub, his dinosaur toys floating forgotten around him.

That night, as you tuck him in, he looks up at you with those big, too-knowing eyes.

"Mama?"

"Yeah, baby?"

He fiddles with the edge of his blanket. "If Daddy not come to my birthday… it’s okay." He says it like he’s trying to convince himself. "We still have sparkles."

Your vision blurs.

You kiss his forehead, lingering a second longer than usual. "Yeah, baby. We’ll still have sparkles."

But as you shut his door softly behind you, you know—

Three weeks won’t change anything.

And you’re done waiting for a miracle.

---

The morning of Luke’s birthday dawns bright and sunny, as if the universe is mocking you.

You wake up early, decorating the penthouse with colorful balloons and dinosaur banners while Luke still sleeps. The dinosaur cake—green frosting, edible sparkles, just like he wanted—sits proudly in the center of the table. You check your phone for the hundredth time.

No messages. No calls.

Tony had mumbled something about "finishing up a project" last night before disappearing back into the lab. You hadn’t even bothered arguing.

Luke comes padding out of his room, rubbing his eyes, his hair sticking up in every direction. The second he sees the decorations, his whole face lights up. "Mama! It’s my day!"

You scoop him up, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "It’s your day, baby! Four years old—such a big boy!"

He giggles, squirming in your arms. "Where Daddy? He see my cake?"

Your smile falters for just a second. "Daddy’s… still working. But he’ll try to come up later, okay?"

Luke nods, but his excitement dims just a little. He doesn’t ask again.

The party is small—just a few of Luke’s friends from the playground and their parents. The kids shriek with laughter as they play pin the tail on the dinosaur and smash open a piñata. Luke runs around with a paper crown crooked on his head, his cheeks flushed with joy.

Every time the elevator dings, though, his head whips around.

Every time, it’s not Tony.

Halfway through cake, one of the little girls—Emma, with curly pigtails—tilts her head and asks, "Luke, where’s your daddy?"

Luke stuffs a huge bite of cake into his mouth, frosting smeared on his chin. "Daddy’s busy," he says, like it’s a normal fact, like saying the sky is blue. "He makes ‘ron Man suits. But Mama got me sparkles!" He points proudly at his cake like that explains everything.

The other kids just nod and move on, but your chest aches.

By bedtime, the penthouse is quiet again.

Luke is exhausted, half-asleep as you tuck him in, still wearing his party hat. He clutches Rex to his chest, his eyelids drooping.

"No Daddy?" he mumbles, barely audible.

Your throat tightens. "Not tonight, baby."

Luke nods, his lips trembling just a little before he buries his face in his stuffed dinosaur. "S’okay. Had best birthday."

You press a kiss to his forehead, blinking back tears. "I love you, Luke. More than anything."

He’s already asleep before you finish the sentence.

You find Tony in the lab at 1 AM, still hunched over a holographic blueprint.

He looks up when you enter, his face flickering with something like guilt when he sees your expression. "Shit. The party—"

"Was today," you say, your voice deadly calm. "Luke waited for you. Kept looking for you. And you didn’t even text."

Tony runs a hand through his hair. "I lost track of time—this new propulsion system—"

"You always lose track of time." The words come out sharp, brittle. "But not today, Tony. Not on his birthday."

He opens his mouth, then closes it. For once, he has no excuse.

You don’t wait for him to find one.

You turn and walk out, the weight of your decision settling over you like a shroud.

Tomorrow, you’ll call a lawyer.

Tonight, you’ll cry where Luke can’t see.

And Tony?

He’ll stay in the lab.

Just like always.

---

The papers arrive three days later.

You hold them in your hands, the weight of them heavier than any suit Tony’s ever built. You don’t cry. Not yet. There’s a strange numbness in your chest, like your heart already knew this was coming long before your mind caught up.

You find Tony in the kitchen, staring blankly at a cup of coffee he hasn’t touched. He looks up when you enter, and his eyes drop to the folder in your hands. His face goes pale.

"You really meant it," he says quietly.

You set the papers on the counter between you. "I did."

Tony doesn’t touch them. Just stares like they might burn him. "I know I screwed up. I know I—" His voice cracks. "But I don’t want this."

"Then why did you make it so easy?" The words come out harsher than you meant, sharp with months of bottled-up hurt.

Tony flinches. He looks down at his hands—the hands that built empires, that saved the world, that couldn’t hold onto his own family. "I thought I had more time."

"You didn’t," you whisper. "That’s the whole point, Tony. Time was the one thing you never gave us."

The silence that follows is suffocating.

Finally, Tony takes a shaky breath. "If this is what you need… I won’t stop you." His voice is raw. "But Luke—"

"He’ll still be yours," you say, softer now. "I’d never keep him from you. But he deserves better than waiting for a dad who never shows up."

Tony nods, jaw clenched like he’s fighting tears.

Explaining it to Luke is harder.

You wait until after breakfast, when he’s curled up on the couch with Rex, still in his pajamas. You sit beside him, running a hand through his messy hair.

"Baby, remember how we talked about maybe living somewhere new? Just you and me?"

Luke nods, clutching his dinosaur tighter. "No Daddy?"

"Daddy will still see you lots," you say carefully. "But we’re going to have a new house. Just us."

Luke is quiet for a long moment. Then, in a small voice: "Daddy not gonna come to my new house either?"

Your breath catches. "He’ll try, baby. But if he doesn’t… it’s not your fault. Okay? It’s never your fault."

Luke sniffles, pressing his face into Rex’s fur. "I wanna stay here."

You pull him into your lap, holding him tight. "I know, bug. But Mama needs this. We need this."

He doesn’t understand. Not really. But he wraps his little arms around your neck and holds on like he trusts you to fix it—even though you can’t.

Tony signs the papers that night.

He doesn’t fight. Doesn’t argue. Just stares at the divorce decree for a long, silent moment before picking up the pen.

When he hands it back to you, his fingers brush yours—just for a second—and his voice is barely above a whisper.

"Tell Luke… tell him I’m sorry."

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat.

And just like that, it’s over.

The fairy tale. The dream. The man who loved you but couldn’t choose you.

You walk away, clutching the papers to your chest.

This time, Tony doesn’t call you back.

---

The apartment is smaller. Quieter.

No lab humming beneath your feet. No JARVIS announcing Tony’s arrivals and departures. Just the sound of Luke’s toys scattered across the living room floor and the soft tapping of your laptop keys as you work from home.

It’s strange, this new life. But slowly, it starts to feel like yours.

Luke adjusts faster than you expected. He loves his new room—painted blue, with glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling—and the park down the street where he can run without FRIDAY reminding him not to scuff the floors. But sometimes, when the doorbell rings, he still perks up.

“Daddy?” he’ll ask, hope flickering in his big brown eyes.

Sometimes, it is Tony.

(Other times, it’s just the mailman.

Luke stops asking after a while.)

Tony’s visits are… inconsistent.

He shows up for the park one Saturday, sunglasses hiding tired eyes, and Luke sprints to him, nearly tripping over his own feet. Tony catches him, swinging him up into a hug, and for a moment, it’s like nothing changed.

But then Luke tugs on his sleeve. “Daddy, you stay for dinner?”

Tony hesitates. Glances at you.

You don’t say no.

(You should say no.)

But the way Luke’s face lights up when Tony nods is enough to make you bite your tongue.

Dinner is awkward. Tony tries too hard, asking Luke about preschool, about his toys, like he’s cramming for a test on his own son’s life. Luke doesn’t notice, babbling excitedly about his new dinosaur book.

When Tony leaves, Luke waves until the elevator doors close. Then he turns to you, grinning. “Daddy remembered!”

Your heart cracks a little.

Because it shouldn’t be a surprise when his father shows up.

Other times, Tony forgets.

Luke sits by the window in his tiny dinosaur backpack, waiting. And waiting.

“Maybe Daddy’s saving people,” he says after an hour, kicking his feet against the couch.

You swallow the lump in your throat. “Maybe, baby.”

(You checked the news. There are no emergencies. No crises. Just Tony in his lab, ignoring the world.)

You take Luke to the park yourself. He doesn’t mention Tony again that day.

One night, as you tuck Luke into bed, he looks up at you with those too-old eyes.

“Mama?”

“Yeah, bug?”

He fiddles with Rex’s tail. “Daddy loves me?”

The question knocks the air from your lungs.

“Oh, baby.” You gather him close, pressing a kiss to his hair. “Daddy loves you so much. He’s just… bad at showing it sometimes.”

Luke nods, like he’s turning the words over in his head. Then, softly: “You show it enough for both.”

You hold him tighter, blinking back tears.

Maybe this isn’t the life you dreamed of.

But it’s yours. And you’ll make sure Luke never doubts he’s loved.

Not for a single second.

maybe it's not what you hoped for...but I hope you like it <3

[amethystarachnid]

please write more angst for tony 🙏 ur forced marriage fic was so good

i have a fic programmed to automatically post tomorrow and when I tell you ya'll not ready for the angst

[amethystarachnid]

Your fic “burnt out and starlight” was absolutely amazing. I think I just read a novel. You perfectly captured the exhaustion of being a doctor and that there always has been two lives on the line .

It was so beautiful!! The intense yearning and the way Loki was always there for the reader🥹🥹keep up the amazing work!!

I'm so happy you liked it since all my knowledge on doctors is based on Chicago Med and I wasn't sure it was accurate enough lol <3

[amethystarachnid]

Hey bestie! A wannabe author and upcoming fic writer here. Your fics & writing style inspire me so much. Leave me a few writing tips please? Tq love ya! ❤️

omg this makes me so nervous...

so first of all when I'm not writing requests I like to write what I want to read, like, if I want to read a (example) Bucky x fem!oc/reader where she is a member of the X-Men and I can't find any fic like that I'll just write It myself lol. this I think it's the most importa thing to keep in mind when writing.

also music helps me so much because it helps me visualize the scenes I want to write.

about my writing style I think I'm still searching my own, it's just that I use the translator a lot so maybe it looks like big phrases or words because of that.

maybe I'll disappoint you, but I don't really know what else to say because I don't really think about writing I just start writing what goes through my mind and most of the work I do is done after the draft and during the review :(

hope you found helpful the little tips I gave you, I'm so sorry Idk what else to say xx

[amethystarachnid]

Hello, will there ever be a part 2 for Almost Home? Just asking 👀

if someone had any ideas on how to continue it of course! I suck at writing sequels without an input lol

[amethystarachnid]

not a request! did you do the art for your page (the profile pic and the pic on ur master list) yourself? xx

I wish I had that kind of talent lmao but no, both those images were made with Bing AI, and I know that a lot of people don't like the thought of using AI but I really didn't have any other options because I can't draw a straight line with a ruler to save my life lol.

[amethystarachnid]

Omg thanks so much for opening the requests again!!💛 (and sorry for dumping my long ass requests girl😭) How have you been?

please give us an innocent & shy y/n and flirty-drunk-jealous tony drabble pleaseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee TQ!

SHY READER & FLIRTY TONY STARK - a Drabble

(you'll find the others drunk/jealous in this post but scroll down, I wanted to try something new and divided it in parts)

Tony Stark notices you the moment you step into the lab—mostly because you trip over your own feet. Smooth.

“New intern or did Fury finally send a spy who isn’t obvious?” He grins, leaning against his desk. You turn red. Mission: Speak. Failed.

You mutter something about coffee runs. He tilts his head. “Uh-uh. Try again, Casper. Louder, for the people in the back.”

“I—I’m here to—to assist,” you squeak. Tony gasps, clutching his arc reactor. “A shy scientist? Illegal. I’m calling SHIELD.”

He nicknames you “Bambi” after you bolt out of the room the first time he winks. (”Like the deer. All wide-eyed and skittish. Adorable.”)

He “accidentally” sends DUM-E to bring you tools—every five minutes. You swear the bot winks at you. (Traitor.)

“Friday, play Careless Whisper,” Tony announces when you drop a wrench. You groan. “I hate it here.” He grins. “No, you don’t.” (…Damn it.)

One day, you snap. “If you’re this annoying, how does anyone like you?” Tony beams. “There’s the fire! Knew it was in there.”

You sigh. He winks. This might be a problem. (…Or the start of something very fun.)

SHY READER & DRUNK TONY STARK

Tony stumbles into the penthouse, tie loose, cheeks flushed. You blink from the couch. Oh no.

“There’s my favorite person,” he slurs, pointing dramatically. “You. Yes, you. The cute one. With the face.”

You sigh. “How much did you drink?” He gasps, offended. “Rude. I’m perfectly sober.” (He is not.)

He flops onto the couch, head in your lap. “You’re so soft. Like a… a cloud. A shy, blushing cloud.” You cover your face. Why me.

“Tony, you’re heavy—” “And you’re beautiful,” he interrupts, poking your nose. “Boop.”

He tries to whisper but it’s loud. “Hey. Hey. Wanna know a secret? I like you. Like, like like.” You groan. “We’re dating.”

“Exactly,” he says, as if this is groundbreaking. “Best decision ever. High five.” (He misses your hand entirely.)

You try to get up. He whines, clinging to your arm. “Nooo, don’t leave. What if I wither without you?” (Drama queen.)

“You need water,” you mutter. He grins. “I need you.” Pause. “…But water’s cool too, I guess.”

SHY READER & JEALOUS TONY STARK

You’re laughing at something Steve said—just Steve, harmless, platonic Steve—but Tony’s grip on his drink tightens. Uh-oh.

“Wow, Rogers. You really needed her to explain the WiFi password?” Tony’s grin is sharp. “Or were you just fishing for conversation?”

Steve blinks. You kick Tony under the table. He fake-gasps. “Violence? From you? I’m wounded.” (He’s smirking.)

When Bucky dares to hug you, Tony loses it. “Barnes. Hands to yourself or I’m donating that arm to science.”

“Why are you texting Steve?” Tony demands. “He asked for cookie recipes.” “…Captain America bakes now?”

You’re late. Tony paces. “Maybe she’s with Bruce—he’s all ‘calm’ and ‘listens’—ugh.” (Bruce, from the couch: “I’m right here.”)

A paparazzi photo surfaces of you smiling at Thor. Tony prints it out, circles it in red. “Explain.” “He told a joke.” “I tell jokes!”

You catch him Googling “how to be more charming than Norse gods”. (Spoiler: He already is.)

Finally, you kiss his pout away. “Relax. You’re the only Stark I want.” He smirks. “Better be.” (Mission: Secure the Girl—complete.)

[amethystarachnid]

Hello, I am wondering if u are still taking requests or not but if you are could I please have a request for a Tony Stark x female reader, who is also best friend of Tony Stark before he came Iron Man, but she was born in the same day as him “May 29th” but Tony Stark is also older by a couple or a few years older then her “Your choice I don’t mind” but She also has similar personality traits as Tony Stark and she is highly intelligent but also she has an Artistic where she can draw or sketch with perfect detail as well and Musician side where she can play any instrument especially with the guitars as well and she is has high medical skills as well but also an Avenger who is selfless and protective of the people she loves especially when it comes to Tony Stark, but she suffers from insomnia, anxiety and panic attacks as well, but she has been by his side through everything as well especially with during his Party and Playboy times as well and she went with him and James “Rhodey” Rhodes in Afghanistan where Tony Stark became Iron Man and she also helped Yinsen with his first Arc Reactor in that cave as well But it’s a fluff and romance ending as at the end where they both reveal their feelings for each other which they had from the moment they met and they have their first kiss between them as well and then also they both happily agreed to be in a relationship with each other as well but Y/N “The Reader” also likes to call Tony Stark by his last name “Stark” as a nickname for him from the moment they met or just Tony as well.

LINES OF THE HEART

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

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

ᯓ★ Genre: fluff, romance, rom-com

ᯓ★ Word count: 4k

ᯓ★ Summary: Tony Stark and his brilliant, artistic best friend have danced around their feelings for years, until jealousy and a heartfelt confession finally bring them together.

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 soft hum of the workshop fills the air, the familiar scent of motor oil and coffee lingering around you as you lean back in your chair, twirling a pencil between your fingers. The glow of holographic schematics casts a blue tint over the room, illuminating Tony’s focused expression as he tinkers with the latest upgrade to his suit. His brows are furrowed in that way they always get when he’s deep in thought, his fingers moving with practiced precision over the delicate wiring. You watch him for a moment, the corner of your lips quirking up in amusement. Even after all these years, the sight of him completely absorbed in his work never gets old.

“You’re staring,” he says without looking up, his voice laced with that trademark Stark smirk.

“And you’re avoiding sleep again,” you shoot back, tapping the pencil against your sketchbook. “When was the last time you closed those genius eyes of yours for more than five minutes?”

Tony finally glances up, his dark eyes meeting yours with a mix of exhaustion and defiance. “Sleep is for the weak, and we,” he gestures between the two of you, “are very much not weak.”

You roll your eyes but don’t argue. You know better than anyone that when Tony gets like this, there’s no pulling him away from his projects. It’s one of the many things you’ve always had in common—the inability to switch off your brains, the relentless drive to keep working, creating, improving. It’s why you’ve been inseparable since you were kids, despite the few years between you. Born on the same day, just not the same year. A fact you never let him forget.

“You’re insufferable, Stark,” you mutter, turning your attention back to the half-finished sketch in front of you. It’s a detailed drawing of the workshop, the scattered tools, the glow of the arc reactor in Tony’s chest, the way the light catches the curve of his jaw. You’ve always had a knack for capturing moments like this—tiny fragments of time that most people overlook.

Tony leans over, peering at your sketchbook. “Is that me?”

“No, it’s a very handsome toaster,” you deadpan.

He snorts, nudging your shoulder with his. “Flattery will get you everywhere, sweetheart.”

You shove him lightly, but there’s no real force behind it. “Shut up and go back to your suit. I’m busy.”

Tony doesn’t move, though. Instead, he watches as your pencil glides over the paper, adding shading to the lines of his face. “You know, most people would kill to have you draw them,” he muses.

“Good thing I don’t draw most people, then,” you reply without looking up.

He’s quiet for a moment, and you can practically hear the gears turning in his head. “Remember that time in college when you drew that portrait of me and I accidentally spilled coffee all over it?”

You pause, shooting him a glare. “I still haven’t forgiven you for that.”

Tony grins, completely unrepentant. “I bought you that ridiculously expensive set of pencils to make up for it.”

“And then you broke half of them trying to ‘help’ me sketch.”

“In my defense, I was trying to be supportive.”

“You’re a menace,” you sigh, but there’s no real heat behind it.

Tony’s grin softens into something warmer, something quieter. “Yeah, but I’m your menace.”

The words settle between you, comfortable and familiar. Because that’s what you’ve always been to each other—constants in a world that never stops changing. Through the parties, the scandals, the reckless decisions, the late-night panic attacks when the weight of the world feels like too much—you’ve always had each other’s backs.

You set your pencil down, stretching your arms above your head. “Alright, Stark, I’m calling it. We’ve been down here for twelve hours straight. Even geniuses need to eat.”

Tony makes a show of sighing dramatically, but he’s already shutting down the holograms. “Fine, but only because you’re using that tone.”

“What tone?”

“The ‘I’m about to drag you out of here by your ear if you don’t move’ tone.”

You smirk. “Smart man.”

He follows you out of the workshop, the two of you falling into step like you always do. The tower is quiet at this hour, the city lights twinkling through the floor-to-ceiling windows. It’s moments like these that feel the most real—just you and Tony, no suits, no emergencies, no world-ending threats. Just the two of you, existing in the same space like you were always meant to.

Tony nudges you again as you reach the kitchen. “You’re thinking too loud.”

“And you’re avoiding the fact that you’re starving,” you counter, pulling open the fridge.

He leans against the counter, arms crossed. “I could eat.”

“Understatement of the century,” you mutter, pulling out leftovers.

Tony watches as you move around the kitchen, his expression unreadable for a moment before he finally speaks. “You know, if you ever wanted to, you could just move in here permanently. Save yourself the trip back to your place at 3 AM.”

You pause, glancing at him over your shoulder. “Are you offering me a room in your tower, Stark?”

He shrugs, trying to play it casual, but you know him too well. There’s something vulnerable in his eyes, something he’d never admit out loud. “Figured it’d be more convenient. You’re already here half the time anyway.”

You turn fully to face him, crossing your arms. “Is this your way of saying you’d miss me if I wasn’t around?”

Tony scoffs, but there’s no real bite to it. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

You grin, stepping closer and poking his chest. “Too late. I’m flattered.”

He catches your wrist before you can pull away, his grip gentle but firm. For a second, the air between you shifts, something unspoken hanging in the space between your breaths. Then Tony smirks, breaking the moment. “So, is that a yes?”

You roll your eyes, pulling your hand free. “I’ll think about it.”

Tony’s grin widens, victorious. “That’s basically a yes.”

“It’s basically a ‘shut up and eat your food,’” you retort, shoving a container of takeout into his hands.

He doesn’t argue, just settles onto one of the stools at the island, watching you with that familiar fondness that’s been there for as long as you can remember. And as you sit across from him, stealing fries off his plate just to annoy him, you can’t help but think that no matter what the world throws at you next, you’ll always have this.

You’ll always have Tony.

And really, that’s all that matters.

Moving into the tower is easier than you expected. Tony, of course, insists on handling everything—because when does he not?—and within a day, your belongings are seamlessly integrated into the space next to his. The room is spacious, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of the city, and a door that connects directly to Tony’s private quarters. He brushes it off as a practicality thing, muttering something about "efficiency" and "late-night brainstorming sessions," but you know him better than that. Still, you don’t call him out on it. Some things don’t need to be said aloud.

The other Avengers take your arrival in stride. Natasha gives you a knowing smirk when she sees you hauling in a box of sketchbooks, Clint immediately ropes you into a prank war against Tony, and Bruce offers a quiet, warm welcome before retreating back to his lab. Steve, though—Steve surprises you. You’d known him before, of course, fought alongside him, but living in the same space brings a new kind of closeness. One afternoon, you’re curled up in the common area, sketching absentmindedly in your notebook, when he walks in and pauses, tilting his head.

“You draw?” he asks, genuine interest in his voice.

You glance up, nodding. “Yeah. You?”

He smiles, that earnest, boyish grin that makes him seem younger than his years. “When I have the time. Mostly old-fashioned stuff, though. Nothing like… whatever that is.” He gestures to your sketch, a detailed, almost futuristic rendering of the city skyline.

You shrug. “Different styles, that’s all. You should show me yours sometime.”

And just like that, it becomes a thing. Steve starts joining you in the common area, his own sketchbook in hand, the two of you trading techniques, critiques, the occasional playful jab about artistic choices. He’s surprisingly good—his lines are clean, his shading precise, his subjects often nostalgic: Brooklyn streets, wartime memories, the Howling Commandos. You, on the other hand, lean toward the abstract, the hyper-detailed, the things most people don’t notice—the way light reflects off Tony’s arc reactor, the exact curve of Natasha’s smirk when she’s about to win an argument.

Tony, for his part, is… weird about it.

At first, you don’t notice. He’s always been possessive in his own way, but it’s never been a problem. Now, though, whenever he walks in on you and Steve hunched over your sketchbooks, his jaw tightens just slightly before he forces a smirk and makes some sarcastic comment about "arts and crafts hour." You brush it off—Tony’s always been dramatic—but then the little things start adding up.

Like how he suddenly "needs" your input on a suit design right in the middle of one of your drawing sessions with Steve. Or how he "accidentally" spills coffee on Steve’s sketchbook (you call him out on that one immediately—he’s not slick). Or how, when Steve compliments one of your pieces, Tony mutters something under his breath about "not needing a museum critic."

It comes to a head one evening when you’re in the workshop, fiddling with a new design for your own suit—because yes, you’ve got one now, courtesy of Tony’s insistence that you "stop borrowing his and get your own damn armor." He’s been uncharacteristically quiet all day, tinkering with something on the other side of the room, when he finally breaks the silence.

“So,” he says, voice too casual, “you and Rogers seem… cozy.”

You don’t look up from your work. “We draw. It’s not a crime.”

Tony scoffs. “Didn’t say it was.”

“You’re implying it, though.”

He’s quiet for a beat, then sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not—look, it’s fine. I just didn’t realize you two were suddenly best friends.”

You finally glance up, raising an eyebrow. “Are you jealous, Stark?”

He barks out a laugh, but it’s forced. “Please. I don’t get jealous.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you mutter, turning back to your work.

Tony exhales sharply, then pushes away from his workstation, striding over to you. He leans against the table, arms crossed, studying you with an intensity that makes your fingers still. “You’ve known me longer than anyone,” he says quietly. “You know how I get.”

You meet his gaze, holding it. “Yeah. I do. Which is why I know you’re being ridiculous right now.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just looks at you, his expression unreadable for a long moment before he finally says, “I don’t like sharing.”

The admission catches you off guard. Tony Stark doesn’t admit things like that—not outright, not without layers of sarcasm or deflection. But here, now, in the dim glow of the workshop, he’s laid it bare.

You set your tools down, leaning back in your chair. “You’re not sharing me, Tony. I’m not a damn suit.”

He flinches, just slightly, and you immediately regret the sharpness in your tone. You reach out, catching his wrist before he can pull away. “Hey. Look at me.”

He does, reluctantly.

“You’re my best friend,” you say, voice softer now. “That’s not changing. Just because I hang out with Steve sometimes doesn’t mean you’re getting replaced.”

Tony’s jaw works, his eyes flickering over your face like he’s searching for something. Then, finally, he exhales, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “I know. I’m being an ass.”

“Yeah,” you agree, smirking. “But you’re my ass.”

He rolls his eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “You’re insufferable.”

“Takes one to know one.”

Tony shakes his head, but he doesn’t move away. Instead, he nudges your knee with his. “Just—don’t forget who was here first, alright?”

You snort. “Oh, I’ll never let you live that down.”

He grins then, real and bright, and just like that, the tension dissolves.

Later, when Steve finds you in the common area again, sketchbook in hand, Tony doesn’t interrupt. He just lingers in the doorway for a moment, watching the two of you with an unreadable expression before walking away.

And if, the next day, you leave a new sketch on his workstation—one of him, mid-laugh, the way he only does when it’s just the two of you—well.

Some things don’t need to be said aloud.

----

The Tower thrums with energy, pulsing like a living thing as music spills through every floor. Tony’s parties are always extravagant, but tonight feels different—louder, brighter, more suffocating. You lean against the bar, swirling your drink absently, watching the crowd with a detached sort of amusement. You’ve been to enough of these to know the rhythm—the way people orbit Tony like moths to a flame, the way he plays the part of the charming host, the way his smile never quite reaches his eyes when he’s bored.

And he’s bored tonight. You can tell.

But that doesn’t stop the parade of women from trying their luck.

You take a slow sip of your drink, your grip tightening just slightly as a brunette in a dress that leaves little to the imagination drapes herself over Tony’s arm, laughing at something he says like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard. Tony flashes her that smirk, the one you know is pure performance, but it still sends an unwelcome twist through your chest.

You shouldn’t care.

You don’t care.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

A familiar presence settles beside you at the bar. “You look like you’re plotting murder,” Steve observes mildly, nodding to the bartender for a drink.

You force a smirk. “Only a little.”

Steve follows your gaze to where Tony is now surrounded by no less than three admirers, all vying for his attention. “Ah,” he says, understanding dawning.

You bristle. “Don’t ‘ah’ me, Rogers.”

He holds up his hands in surrender. “Didn’t say a word.”

You scowl into your drink. “Good.”

Steve hesitates, then sighs. “You know he’s not actually interested in any of them, right?”

You roll your eyes. “I’m not an idiot. I know it’s just part of the act.”

“Then why does it bother you?”

The question hangs in the air between you, sharp and unavoidable. You open your mouth to deflect, to brush it off with a joke, but something in Steve’s steady gaze stops you. He’s not judging. He’s just… asking.

You exhale, shoulders slumping. “I don’t know.”

Steve nods like that’s answer enough. “Sometimes it’s easier to see things from the outside.”

You glance at him. “Meaning?”

He shrugs. “Meaning you two have been circling each other for years. Maybe it’s time to admit what you really want.”

Your throat tightens. “It’s not that simple.”

“Isn’t it?”

You don’t answer. Because the truth is, you do know. You’ve known for a while, maybe always, buried under layers of denial and deflection. But seeing Tony like this—flirting, laughing, playing the part—it claws at something deep in your chest, something possessive and raw.

You want him to look at you like that.

Not as his best friend. Not as his partner in crime.

As yours.

The realization hits you like a punch to the gut.

Steve nudges your shoulder gently. “For what it’s worth, he’s not nearly as subtle as he thinks he is.”

You blink. “What?”

Steve just smiles, taking a sip of his drink. “Nothing.”

Before you can press him, a burst of laughter draws your attention back to Tony. One of the women—the brunette—has her hand on his chest, fingers dangerously close to the arc reactor. Something hot and jagged flares in your ribs.

You set your glass down a little too hard. “Excuse me.”

Steve doesn’t stop you.

You weave through the crowd, your pulse loud in your ears. Tony spots you before you reach him, his eyes lighting up in a way they haven’t all night. “There you are,” he says, disentangling himself from the woman with practiced ease. “I was starting to think you’d ditched me.”

You force a smirk. “And miss the show? Never.”

Tony’s grin falters just slightly, his gaze flickering over your face. “You okay?”

“Peachy,” you lie.

He studies you for a beat, then nods toward the balcony. “Air?”

You don’t argue.

The night air is cool against your skin, a welcome contrast to the stifling heat of the party. Tony leans against the railing, the city lights casting sharp shadows across his face. “So,” he says, “what’s really going on?”

You mirror his stance, staring out at the skyline. “Nothing.”

Tony snorts. “Bullshit. You’ve been off all night.”

You sigh, rubbing your temples. “It’s stupid.”

“Try me.”

You hesitate, then— “I don’t like seeing you with them.”

The words hang between you, heavy and undeniable. Tony goes very still.

Then, slowly, a smirk tugs at his lips. “Jealous, sweetheart?”

You shove his shoulder. “Don’t flatter yourself, Stark.”

He catches your wrist, his grip warm and firm. “Too late.”

Your breath catches. His eyes are dark, intense, searching yours for something. You should pull away. You should laugh it off.

You don’t.

The moment stretches, fragile and electric, before Tony finally exhales, releasing you. “We should get back inside,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t move.

You nod, even though you don’t want to. “Yeah.”

Neither of you moves.

Somewhere below, the city hums, indifferent.

---

The next few days pass in a strange, charged haze.

You and Tony orbit each other like twin stars—close enough to feel the pull, but never quite colliding. There are lingering glances, half-finished sentences, moments where one of you almost says something before thinking better of it. The tension is thick enough to cut with a knife, but neither of you acknowledges it outright.

Then, one afternoon, Tony drops the bomb.

"Got a date tonight," he says casually, not looking up from the holographic schematics floating between you in the workshop.

Your fingers freeze mid-motion over your own project. "Oh?"

"Yeah. Some CEO. Pepper set it up." He shrugs, like it's nothing. Like it doesn't matter.

Your stomach twists. "Have fun," you manage, voice carefully neutral.

Tony finally glances at you, his expression unreadable. "You okay?"

"Perfect." You force a smile. "Why wouldn't I be?"

He studies you for a beat too long before nodding. "Right."

That night, you don't wait up. You bury yourself in work, in music, in anything to keep from imagining Tony across the city, laughing with someone else, touching someone else—

You slam your sketchbook shut.

This is ridiculous.

You're being ridiculous.

But the thought won't leave you alone.

The next morning, Tony finds you in the kitchen, already on your third coffee. "Rough night?" he asks, eyeing the dark circles under your eyes.

You don't look at him. "Something like that."

Tony hesitates, then reaches for your wrist. "Talk to me."

You pull away. "Nothing to talk about."

His jaw tightens. "Bullshit."

You finally meet his gaze, your own sharp. "What do you want me to say, Tony? That I spent all night thinking about your date? That I—" You cut yourself off, biting your tongue.

Tony goes very still. "That you what?"

"Nothing." You turn away, but he catches your arm, spinning you back to face him.

"No. Finish that sentence."

His grip is firm, his eyes burning into yours. Something inside you snaps.

"That I hate it!" you burst out, shoving at his chest. "That I hate seeing you with anyone else, that I can't stand the thought of you—" Your voice cracks. "God, Tony, are you really going to make me say it?"

The words hang between you, raw and exposed.

Tony's grip loosens, his expression shifting into something unreadable. "Say what?" he murmurs.

You swallow hard, your heart pounding. "That I'm in love with you, you idiot."

The silence that follows is deafening.

Then Tony's hands are framing your face, his mouth crashing into yours. The kiss is desperate, messy, years of pent-up longing poured into the press of lips and the slide of tongues. You gasp into it, fingers twisting in his shirt to pull him closer.

When you finally break apart, Tony rests his forehead against yours, his breath ragged. "Took you long enough," he mutters.

You huff a laugh, still reeling. "Shut up."

He grins, stealing another quick kiss. "Make me."

And just like that, the tension shatters—replaced by something warm and bright and terrifyingly real.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you know this changes everything.

But right now, with Tony's lips on yours, you can't bring yourself to care.

---

The shift between you and Tony is subtle at first—lingering touches, shared glances, the way you instinctively gravitate toward each other in a room. But the Avengers aren’t just Earth’s Mightiest Heroes—they’re also professional nosy bastards.

Clint is the first to notice.

He catches the way Tony’s hand lingers at the small of your back during a debrief, and his eyebrows shoot up so fast they nearly disappear into his hairline. “Ohhh,” he says, grinning like a shark. “So that’s why Stark’s been in such a good mood lately.”

Tony scowls. “I’m always in a good mood.”

Natasha smirks into her coffee. “No, you’re not.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks burn.

Bruce, ever the scientist, adjusts his glasses and observes, “Honestly, I’m just surprised it took this long.”

Tony throws a wrench at him.

Steve, though—Steve says nothing. He just watches with that quiet, knowing smile of his, like he’d seen this coming from miles away.

And then, one evening, he corners you both in the common area with a wrapped package under his arm. “For you,” he says, handing it over.

You exchange a glance with Tony before carefully unwrapping it—and freeze.

It’s a charcoal sketch, exquisitely detailed, of the two of you. Tony is mid-laugh, head thrown back, his arm slung around your shoulders as you grin up at him, your fingers tangled together. The moment is so intimate, so real, it steals your breath.

You recognize it instantly—the night on the balcony after the party, when everything finally clicked into place.

Tony’s voice is uncharacteristically soft. “Rogers, when the hell did you—?”

Steve shrugs. “I pay attention.”

You swallow hard, tracing the edge of the frame. “Steve, this is…”

“A long time coming,” he finishes gently. Then, with a smirk, “Try not to break each other’s hearts, yeah?”

Tony scoffs, but his arm tightens around your waist. “No promises.”

Clint, who’d been eavesdropping from the kitchen, cackles. “Oh man, we are never letting you two live this down.”

Natasha nods solemnly. “Never.”

You groan, burying your face in Tony’s shoulder as he flips them off.

And if, later that night, you find the perfect spot on your shared bedroom wall to hang Steve’s gift—well.

Some things are worth remembering.

had to rewrite it but I don't like this version :(