junegoal

[junegoal]

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

[junegoal]

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.

[junegoal]

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.

[junegoal]

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

[junegoal]

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.)

[junegoal]

I loved your story late nights and little ears, if I could request a part 2... It could be a part where the reader makes plans for the promised (tomorrow) night, Part 2. The reader has sent the kids to sleepover at her parents' house. When Tony comes home late from work and finds out they are home alone, he really feels like a kid at Christmas 😅 and after that long hot night, they get the news of their new baby.

LATE NIGHTS AND LITTLE EARS - part 2

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

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

ᯓ★ Genre: fluff, romance, rom-com

ᯓ★ Word count: 7.7k

ᯓ★ Summary: what the asks said (thankfully I was able to merge (?) them together)

ᯓ★ TW(s): mild sexual content , suggestive humor,

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

You don’t wake up to soft cuddles or sleepy “Mom?” whispers. You wake up with an elbow in your ribs and a foot shoved under your shirt.

By the time the sun is streaming through the windows, Nova is snoring directly on Tony’s chest, and Howard is using your stomach like a pillow while softly humming some Minecraft song in his sleep. Tony’s other arm is stretched out, uselessly reaching toward you, like even in dreams he’s still trying to get to you.

You catch his eye as he cracks one open.

He mouths: Help me.

You mouth: Later.

Because you have a plan.

You survive the morning—barely. There’s syrup in someone’s hair (you’re trying not to think about whose), Nova turns the living room into a spa for stuffed animals, and Howard tries to “upgrade” his toothbrush with small motorized parts. Tony kisses your cheek and says something about a meeting in the city, and vanishes into the sleek hum of his Audi.

You, meanwhile, are already working your magic.

It starts with a call.

Grandparents are thrilled. The twins? Less so—at first.

“I don’t wanna go,” Howard pouts, clinging to your leg like a small, determined barnacle.

You crouch down and cup his cheeks gently. “It’s just one night. You’ll go over, eat cookies, stay up late watching movies, and I promise—Daddy and I will come visit in the morning.”

“Promise promise?” Nova asks, narrowing her eyes like a tiny mob boss.

“Promise promise,” you say, sealing it with a pinky swear and a kiss on each forehead.

By 5:00 p.m., they’re gone—bags packed, buckled into the car with snacks and enough toys to colonize Mars. You wave goodbye from the porch, standing there until the taillights vanish.

And then the house goes still.

Silent.

Deliciously quiet.

You lean against the door, exhale slowly, and grin to yourself.

Now you get ready.

You don’t go over the top—just enough. Enough to make Tony Stark forget what day it is.

The lingerie is black lace, sleek and dangerous, paired with a silk robe that clings in all the right places. You light a few candles. Nothing cliché—just warm and low, casting shadows across the bedroom like soft hands.

Then you wait.

And wait.

The clock ticks past 8:00.

You start to wonder if he got stuck in traffic—or worse, dragged into a last-minute Stark Industries disaster.

You’re pacing the hallway when you hear the door unlock downstairs. The sound of polished shoes against hardwood. A jacket being thrown over a chair.

And then, his voice.

“Sweetheart?” A pause. “Why is the house so quiet? Should I be worried?”

You smile to yourself.

You descend the stairs slowly, one hand gliding along the banister, your robe barely tied, the hem whispering over your thighs. You stop halfway down, right where the light hits you just enough.

Tony looks up from the bottom of the stairs and goes completely still.

His jaw literally drops.

“The kids,” you say softly, “are spending the night at their grandparents.”

You swear you see his pupils dilate.

“No interruptions,” you add, taking one step lower.

He blinks like he’s just been told Santa is real and brought him a Ferrari.

“We have the whole house,” you finish, your voice velvet.

Tony’s dropped his briefcase somewhere between stunned silence and total disbelief. He stares at you like you just descended from heaven itself.

“You mean—” He gestures around wildly. “They’re not here? Like, actually not here? Like, I could scream right now and no one would run in asking where their sock went?”

You smile. “Exactly.”

Tony exhales through a slow, stunned laugh. “This is the best day of my life. I’m not even exaggerating. I’d like to thank the Academy, the board of grandparents—” He takes a breath, eyes locked on you like you’re a wish he made months ago and forgot ever came true. “—and most of all, my incredibly hot, terrifyingly perfect wife.”

You raise a brow. “Are you going to keep talking, or are you going to come up here and show me what you’ve been waiting two weeks for?”

Tony doesn’t answer.

He just moves.

In seconds, he’s bounding up the stairs two at a time, hands already reaching for you. The second he reaches the landing, he pulls you in like gravity was invented just for this. His mouth captures yours in a kiss that's slow at first—reverent—but quickly deepens, fingers gripping your waist through silk, pulling you against him like he can’t get close enough.

“You look…” he breathes between kisses, trailing his lips along your jaw, “like trouble.”

You smile against his mouth. “Good. I was aiming for ‘dangerous.’”

He slips his hands under your robe, voice low and rough. “Oh, baby. You nailed it.”

He kisses you again, one hand sliding up your back, the other already toying with the delicate strap of your lingerie.

The bedroom becomes a shared orbit—clothes falling, kisses deepening, every touch slow and burning. It’s not rushed. There’s no frantic need to finish before someone knocks. You savor each second, every shift of his weight, every whisper against your neck.

He kisses a line down your spine, murmuring your name like a prayer. You arch into him, your hands in his hair, both of you rediscovering every curve, every sound, every memory of what it feels like to love each other without holding back.

There’s laughter. There are whispered teases. There are moments where you pause just to look at each other—flushed, breathless, smiling like you’ve just remembered exactly why this marriage is your favorite thing in the entire universe.

And afterward, tangled in sheets, legs intertwined, Tony’s fingers lazily stroking along your hipbone, he murmurs into your ear, “I missed this. You.”

You smile against his shoulder, soft and sleepy. “We needed this.”

He presses a kiss to your hair. “Let’s send the kids to your parents once a week.”

You snort. “You think they’d survive?”

“Not the grandparents. The kids.”

You both laugh.

And then, wrapped in warmth and silence, you finally drift off together.

Just the two of you.

No interruptions.

No elbows to the ribs.

No glitter in the sheets.

Just you and Tony.

Exactly where you belong.

---

You think you're both too tired for anything else.

After hours of rediscovering each other in a house blessedly devoid of chaos, after kisses that left your lips tingling and touches that lit up every nerve ending, you're lying there in the dim candlelight, breath still uneven, Tony's arm heavy across your waist.

But then he moves.

Just the smallest shift—his thumb brushing the inside of your thigh, his breath warm on your neck, his lips trailing one slow kiss beneath your ear.

You tilt your head back without thinking, and that's all the invitation he needs.

"Round two?" you whisper, your voice already gone husky.

Tony hums, lips pressed to your shoulder. “You’re kidding, right? This is a celebration. We’re child-free. I’m making the most of it before someone walks in and asks me to fix their action figure’s leg.”

So round two happens. Then, eventually, round three—somehow in the shower, laughter muffled by hot water and lips pressed to wet skin.

By the time you both collapse into bed again, it’s sometime past 3 a.m., and your body feels like melted butter wrapped in silk.

You don’t remember falling asleep.

You just remember his hand in yours.

The next morning, you're still tangled up in each other when your phone buzzes from the nightstand.

You blink blearily at it, groaning into the pillow. Tony rolls over and drapes himself across your back like a very heavy, very smug blanket.

“You have to move,” you mumble.

“Incorrect. I live here now.”

“Tony.”

He kisses your shoulder again. “You’re warm. I’m comfortable. The bed still smells like sex and vanilla. This is utopia.”

You somehow escape his grip, though he clings dramatically and groans like you're abandoning him in a war zone. You throw on leggings and one of his hoodies, hair still messy from the shower, and grab your phone.

A text from your mom: Kids are doing great! Hope you two slept in. Come over for breakfast if you're up to it—bring donuts?

You grin and turn around. “You up for a family breakfast?”

Tony groans into the pillow. “Do I have to wear pants?”

“Only if you want the kids to continue respecting you.”

He lifts his head. “So… no pants, then.”

You throw a pillow at him.

----

You stop at Tony’s favorite donut place on the way—he insists on picking out the box himself, stacking it with enough sugar to fuel a small city. He wears a beanie and sunglasses, but it does absolutely nothing to hide the fact that he’s Tony Stark. You get stopped twice before you even pay, and he handles both with charm, kisses your temple in between autographs, and carries the donut box like it’s a fragile artifact.

“Ready to face the chaos again?” you ask as you pull into your parents’ driveway.

Tony grins, reaching over to squeeze your thigh. “Let’s bring the Stark Circus back to town.”

You barely make it up the porch steps before the front door bursts open and two small humans tackle you.

“MOMMY!”

“DADDY!”

Howard wraps around your waist like a vine, Nova practically flies at Tony, who manages to catch her with one arm and the donuts with the other.

“Hi, tiny tornadoes,” he says, kissing the top of her head.

“You smell weird,” Nova mumbles.

Tony looks at you, smirking. “Vanilla and victory.”

“Tony.”

Your parents come out behind them, smiling warmly. Your mom hugs you tightly, eyes crinkling. “You both look well-rested.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Tony mutters.

You elbow him lightly. “Thank you for taking them.”

Your dad shrugs. “They helped me reorganize the garage. Which means everything is now upside down, but they were very proud of themselves.”

The morning unfolds with sweet, sleepy laughter and sugar-fueled chaos. You all crowd around the kitchen table, your mom pouring coffee, Tony helping Nova eat her frosted donut without getting the entire thing on her shirt (he fails). Howard tries to explain how he and Grandpa used a wrench to "fix the garden hose into a water cannon."

Tony grins proudly. “That’s my boy.”

Your parents ask gentle questions, the kids chatter nonstop, and you sit there, warm coffee in hand, Tony’s arm draped around your shoulders, feeling like this is exactly the kind of morning you used to dream about before you had it all.

Not perfect. Not quiet.

But real. Yours.

And you wouldn’t change a second.

----

You don’t even make it all the way inside the house before the chaos begins again.

Howard explodes through the front door with a dramatic wail. “I call MOMMY FIRST!”

Nova stomps in behind him, arms crossed, chin raised. “No fair! I didn’t get to sit next to her in the car! You did! It’s MY turn!”

You raise an eyebrow, still holding the donut box from earlier as a peace offering. “You know I don’t belong to anyone, right?”

Tony saunters in last, shutting the door with a sly smile. “That’s not what you said last night.”

You spin around. “Anthony.”

He holds up his hands, grinning. “I’m just saying—someone was calling me her favorite about eight hours ago.”

“I was asleep eight hours ago.”

“You were screaming my name eight hours ago.”

“TONY.”

Howard gasps. “MOM?!”

Nova’s eyes widen dramatically. “What were you doing to Daddy?!”

Tony slaps a hand over his mouth, fake-gasping. “Betrayed! Betrayed by the woman I let wear my hoodie!”

You roll your eyes, walking toward the kitchen. ��Okay. No one’s anyone’s favorite. You’re all equally dramatic and exhausting.”

“See?” Tony calls after you. “She loves me the same amount as the kids. I win!”

Howard appears in front of you seconds later, arms wide. “But I was born first! You said I was born first by two whole minutes, which means I was your baby first!”

Nova storms into the kitchen behind him. “I let you do my hair yesterday! That means I win! That’s, like, love law!”

Tony strolls in, smug as ever, sipping the last of your coffee from your mug. “And who bought you that silk robe you like so much, hmm? I rest my case.”

You hold up a hand. “Stop. Stop, all of you.”

They all freeze, watching you with wide, hopeful eyes. It’s absolutely ridiculous. Your fully grown husband and your two small children, standing shoulder to shoulder like they’re waiting for the final rose in a reality show.

You sigh, placing the donut box on the counter, and cross your arms.

“Let’s make something very clear,” you say slowly. “I love all of you—”

“Yes!” Howard throws a fist in the air.

“But—” you continue, raising your voice slightly over Nova’s victory twirl, “—I also need five uninterrupted minutes to put this box of donuts away and go to the bathroom in peace. Whoever lets me do that wins.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then all three bolt for the hallway, shouting, “I’LL CLEAN THE LIVING ROOM,” “I’LL DO THE DISHES,” and—yes, from Tony—“I’LL MAKE THE BED! AND FLUFF HER PILLOWS! AND MAYBE MASSAGE HER FEET LATER—LOVE ME MORE!”

You press your fingers to your temples.

But you’re laughing.

Because this is your life.

Ridiculous, exhausting, loud—and completely perfect.

You finally manage to sneak away to the bathroom, closing the door with a sigh of relief. As you wash your hands, you catch your reflection in the mirror. Your hair’s a little messy, you’ve got a faint smudge of jelly near your shoulder, and your cheeks are pink from too much laughing.

You smile to yourself.

Down the hall, you hear Tony shout, “I said fold the blankets, not roll yourself into them like a burrito, Howard!”

You shake your head.

Back to normal.

And honestly? You wouldn’t trade it for anything.

---

Evening settles into the house like a sigh—soft, warm, and finally calm after a day that felt like a game show you didn’t sign up for.

Baths are done. Pajamas are on. Teeth brushed (with minor toothpaste explosions). You’ve read the same book twice, sung one song quietly, and now the twins are tucked in, sleepy and smelling like clean cotton and bubblegum.

Tony sits on the edge of Howard and Nova’s shared bed, one hand smoothing back his daughter’s curls while the other holds Howard’s tiny fingers. Both kids blink up at him with that specific, tired sparkle of almost-sleep.

Tony smiles. “Alright, troublemakers. Sleep tight.”

Nova yawns. “’Night, Daddy.”

Howard mumbles something incoherent into his pillow, already halfway to dreaming.

And then, soft as a promise, Tony leans in and says, “I love you 3000.”

Nova says it back. Howard too, barely audible but there.

You stand in the doorway, arms crossed over your chest, heart full and aching at the same time. The way Tony glows in dad mode… it doesn’t get old. Somehow, even after all these years, it still tugs at you—this perfect mix of genius, goofball, and pure devotion.

Tony joins you at the door, flipping off the light with one last glance back.

You both pad down the hallway, not talking, not needing to.

It’s that comfortable quiet—earned, deserved.

You change into pajamas, brush your teeth side by side. He’s already under the covers when you climb into bed, his arm lifting automatically so you can curl against him.

Tonight isn’t about heat or tension or sneaking touches under the sheets.

Tonight is warm skin and steady heartbeats.

His arm tightens around your waist. You bury your face into the space between his shoulder and chest. It smells like cedar and shampoo and him.

Tony presses a soft kiss to your forehead.

“I like this,” he says quietly.

“Cuddling?”

He hums. “No laundry on the floor. No screaming. No one demanding snack refills or asking how babies are made.” A beat. “But also yes, cuddling.”

You laugh softly against his chest.

The last thing you hear before you drift off is his voice, muffled but certain: “I love you 3000, too.”

The next morning, you're back in the hustle.

Nova’s lost her shoe. Howard wants to wear pajama pants to school. Tony claims the toaster is “conspiring against him,” and your coffee is still sitting on the kitchen counter when you’re halfway down the driveway.

But somehow, miraculously, you make it to the school drop-off line on time. Tony insists on walking them in with you, sunglasses on, looking like a rockstar who just woke up (because he is and he did).

After dropping the kids off, the two of you are halfway back to the car when Nova’s teacher, Ms. Lane, waves you both down.

“Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Stark!”

Tony straightens like he’s about to be asked to build a new wing for the school.

You smile politely. “Good morning!”

Ms. Lane approaches with a clipboard and a warm, over-caffeinated teacher energy. “Just a heads-up—we’ll be holding our annual parent-teacher meetings next month. It’s a great chance to chat about how the kids are doing, share some highlights, and you know…” she glances at Tony, then quickly back to you, “…any challenges, too.”

Tony grins. “Challenges? Are we talking about the time Nova tried to sell her brother’s sneakers during recess?”

“She’s resourceful,” Ms. Lane says, diplomatically.

Tony looks proud. “That’s my girl.”

You elbow him gently. “We’ll be there. Thanks for letting us know.”

As you turn back to the car, Tony leans in close and mutters, “Parent-teacher meetings. Sounds… ominous.”

“Relax,” you say with a smirk. “I’m sure it’ll just be a perfectly normal day of hearing how your children are running the school like a miniature Stark Industries.”

He nods. “We should bring a slide deck. Maybe a portfolio.”

You laugh as you slide into the passenger seat. “Or maybe just bring snacks so we can bribe the teachers.”

Tony starts the car, glancing over at you with a grin. “That’s why I married you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Because I think like a criminal?”

“Because you think like a mom and a criminal. Hot combo.”

He pulls out of the lot as you shake your head, but you're smiling.

----

Friday night, and for once, the house is quiet.

The twins are asleep—finally—after Nova insisted she couldn’t sleep without her pink stuffed unicorn and Howard asked no fewer than four existential questions before conking out mid-sentence.

You’re curled up on the couch in one of Tony’s old MIT hoodies, legs tucked under you, blanket across your lap. The lights are low, the TV murmuring something you’re not really watching. You’re sipping chamomile tea, but it doesn’t help the tightness in your chest or the weird ache behind your eyes. You’ve felt… off, for a few days now. Not quite sick, not exactly tired—just not yourself.

Tony comes up behind you, drops a kiss to the crown of your head, and sinks onto the couch beside you. His hand slips across your thigh, warm and familiar, thumb brushing lazy circles.

You lean against him automatically, and he presses a kiss to your neck, soft and lingering. “Hey,” he murmurs. “You’re awfully quiet tonight.”

You hum, trying to smile. “Just tired, I think.”

Tony’s hand shifts slightly, fingertips trailing under the hem of your hoodie. “I could help with that. You know… wear you out a little.”

His voice is low, teasing. It usually makes your stomach flip. Tonight, though, it only twists your insides a little more.

You rest your hand over his and stop him gently.

“Tony,” you whisper. “I… don’t think I can tonight.”

He pulls back immediately, searching your face. Not annoyed. Just—concerned.

“Hey, hey, that’s okay,” he says softly. “Are you alright?”

You nod, but it’s a little shaky. “Yeah. I just don’t feel good. Haven’t all week, honestly.”

He brushes your hair back. “You want me to get you something? Ginger ale? Hot water bottle? A foot rub? A Netflix documentary on aggressive cults?”

That earns him a small laugh. You shake your head and curl into his side. “Just stay here.”

So he does. He holds you. Rubs your back. Kisses your temple. And doesn’t ask again.

You fall asleep like that—tangled up in his warmth, wrapped in something unspoken but safe.

The next morning, Tony is up and gone before the sun.

A soft note on the kitchen counter—Lab emergency. Promise I’ll be back before bedtime. Love you forever, T.

You smile faintly, but your heart’s already pounding, nervous and fluttery.

Because today’s the day.

The test has been hidden in the drawer beneath the extra hand towels for a week. You’ve been waiting for the right moment. Waiting to feel sure.

You slip into the bathroom, shut the door softly behind you, and take a deep breath.

Five minutes later, you're sitting on the edge of the tub, hands shaking.

Two pink lines.

Two.

You’re pregnant.

Your breath catches, not quite joy yet—more like shock wrapped in awe, wrapped in the kind of quiet panic that only comes from knowing everything is about to change.

You don’t tell Tony. Not yet.

You don’t even text him.

Because before you share this with him—or anyone—you want to spend time with your babies. Just them. Just for a moment longer, while it’s still the three of you.

You pad into the kids’ room in the early morning hush. They’re tangled up in blankets, Nova snoring softly, Howard drooling on his pillow.

You kneel beside Nova’s bed and nudge her gently. “Hey, baby. Wanna come hang out with Mommy? Just us?”

She mumbles something, blinks slowly, and then—when it registers—her eyes widen.

“Can we have pancakes?”

You smile. “We can have anything you want.”

She grins and throws off her blankets.

You spend the morning in the kitchen together, making a glorious mess. Nova cracks the eggs too hard. Flour gets in her hair. You let her put chocolate chips in everything. She giggles when you sneak a mini pancake heart onto her plate.

Later, you sit out on the porch wrapped in a blanket, Nova on your lap, watching the trees sway. She tells you a story about a girl who tames dragons using glitter and juice boxes. You kiss the top of her head and don’t say anything, just hold her tighter.

That night, when Tony gets home, you greet him like usual. You don’t say a word about the test. You just watch your daughter run into his arms and wonder how you ever got this lucky.

The next morning, you do the same thing—but this time, it’s Howard.

You find him already half-awake, blinking up at you with sleep-puffed eyes. “Is it breakfast already?”

“Only if you want it to be,” you whisper. “Wanna hang out with just me for a little bit?”

He sits up like he’s been called to action. “Yes.”

You make waffles this time—he demands peanut butter and bananas on his. You sit at the table together, eating slowly, his foot resting on your shin under the table like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You end up on the living room floor building Lego towers and spaceship launchpads. At one point he looks up at you, cheeks pink, eyes bright.

“I like when it’s just us.”

Your heart tightens. “Me too, sweetheart.”

Later, you’re lying on the couch with him curled up against your chest, his breath warm and steady.

You rest a hand over your stomach, heartbeat racing.

Because soon, everything changes.

But right now?

Right now it’s just you and your boy.

And everything is still perfectly whole.

---

You wait until the house is calm. Until the kids are in bed, and the only sound is the hum of the dishwasher and the lazy ticking of the wall clock.

Tony is sitting on the couch in his sweatpants and a t-shirt that says Stark Expo 2008, scrolling through something on his tablet. You’re curled beside him, your legs draped over his lap, pretending to read while your heart tap dances behind your ribs.

It’s been two days since you found out.

Two days of smiling at your kids with your hand resting on your belly. Two days of hugging Tony a little tighter. Two days of carrying this secret and feeling it grow heavier—and more beautiful—by the second.

You close your book.

He glances over at you. “Everything okay?”

You nod, but your throat is thick. “I need to tell you something.”

His face stills, tablet lowering. “Okay. Do I need to sit down?” he adds, joking.

“You’re already sitting.”

“I meant emotionally.”

You smile. It helps. “Tony.”

He sets the tablet down and gives you his full attention. His expression is soft now, serious, that quiet Tony Stark intensity that only shows up when it really matters.

You slide your legs off his lap and turn to face him, tucking one foot under yourself.

“I’ve been feeling off all week,” you begin, “and I wasn’t sure why. I thought it might just be stress or lack of sleep or—you know, parenting two energy goblins—”

He snorts. “Goblins. Accurate.”

“—but I took a test. Just to be sure.”

His brow creases, but he stays silent, listening.

You reach into the pocket of your hoodie. You’ve been carrying the test with you like some kind of talisman, folded up in a tissue, hidden away.

You hold it out.

Tony looks at it. Then at you. Then back at it.

You don’t say anything else.

Because you don’t have to.

He blinks once.

Then again.

“Wait,” he breathes.

You nod, eyes misting.

“You’re…”

“I’m pregnant.”

For a long second, all you hear is his breath catching.

Then, quietly, like it’s too precious to say out loud: “You’re serious?”

“Yes.”

His hand covers his mouth. He blinks again, like his brain’s still catching up.

And then he laughs.

Not loud—more like this stunned, breathless sound that bubbles up from his chest and tumbles into a smile so wide it makes your eyes burn.

“Holy sh—” He stops himself, eyes flicking toward the ceiling, where the twins are asleep. “Holy wow.”

You laugh through your tears. “That’s not a word.”

He reaches for you, cupping your face like you’re glass and gold all at once. “Are you okay? Are you… are we okay?”

You nod, pressing your forehead to his. “Yeah. I think we are.”

And then he kisses you.

Soft. Deep. Like he’s memorizing the taste of this moment.

When he pulls back, his hand slides to your stomach, resting there with something between reverence and wonder.

He whispers, “We made another one?”

You nod, smiling, your cheeks wet.

He looks up at you, eyes glossy but shining. “You’re magic, you know that?”

You breathe out a laugh. “I was kind of terrified you’d freak out.”

“I am freaking out,” he admits, voice shaky with disbelief. “In the best possible way. Like—panic and joy had a baby, and now we’re having a baby.”

You both laugh at that. Quietly. Holding each other.

It’s not loud, or explosive, or dramatic.

It’s just the kind of happiness that sits between two people like a heartbeat. Gentle. Steady. Real.

You don’t talk much for the rest of the night. You just lie curled against each other, his hand never leaving your belly, your fingers tangled in his.

And in that stillness, you both know:

This is the beginning of something new.

Again.

And it’s already perfect.

---

It turns out, keeping a pregnancy secret from two seven-year-olds is harder than hiding a missile in a shoebox—especially when your husband is suddenly acting like you’re made of crystal.

You try to play it cool.

But Tony?

Tony is on full overdrive.

He won’t let you carry the laundry basket. He hovers in the kitchen if you so much as glance at a knife. He’s installed two new air purifiers. He won’t let you climb a step stool to get the winter mugs from the top shelf.

And he says nothing to the kids. Just acts weirdly intense around you 24/7.

It starts to throw the twins off.

“Why is Daddy being so weird?” Howard whispers one night, peeking around the corner to spy on Tony as he fluffs the couch cushions like he’s prepping for a royal visit.

Nova narrows her eyes. “He’s acting like Mommy’s about to explode.”

“Maybe she is,” Howard says, clearly impressed.

You overhear the entire exchange from the kitchen, hiding your smile behind a mug of peppermint tea.

The week passes in a blur of mild chaos and increasingly suspicious children. And then: the parent-teacher meeting.

You arrive at the school together—hand in hand, dressed like the effortlessly hot couple you are. You in your favorite wrap dress and boots, Tony in a sleek charcoal blazer and that perfectly messed-up hair that takes him exactly 45 seconds to achieve.

You’d almost call it a date… if not for the fluorescent lights and smell of crayons.

The teachers greet you with warm smiles—some warmer than others.

“Mr. Stark,” says Ms. Hamilton, the older but still flirty science teacher. She’s got lipstick that’s just a little too red and eyes that linger a little too long. “It’s so nice to finally meet you in person.”

Tony offers his hand, smile polite. “Nice to meet you too, Ms. Hamilton. Thanks for not blowing anything up in the name of chemistry this year.”

She laughs like he’s handed her diamonds. “Oh, you’re funny, too.”

You glance sideways at him. His smile freezes for half a second, eyes flicking to you like a silent help me, but you just raise an eyebrow.

Ms. Lynn, the twins’ English teacher, steps in next. “Mr. Stark, I have to say, you’re not what I expected. I was thinking… more ‘boardroom billionaire,’ less…” she waves a hand vaguely, “…broad-shouldered genius superhero dad.”

Tony clears his throat and shifts his weight. “Ah, well. I multitask.”

You fold your arms slowly. “Do you?”

He flashes you a desperate little smile.

The meeting proceeds with Nova and Howard’s glowing academic reports, peppered with the occasional “strong personality” comments that make Tony grin proudly and you mentally start budgeting for future therapy.

But you can’t stop watching the way the teachers keep sneaking glances at your husband. You’re used to it—he’s Tony Stark—but tonight, it’s getting on your nerves. Because he hasn’t shut it down. Not directly.

And you’re pregnant. And hormonal.

And maybe just the tiniest bit possessive.

You lean closer, whispering, “Your teacher fan club is getting bold.”

Tony lets out a slow breath and turns to you.

And that’s when he does it.

He places his hand gently over your belly.

Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just… deliberately.

You stiffen a little, caught off guard.

He speaks casually, voice warm. “Honestly, I’m just impressed you’re still here tonight. You’re kind of doing double duty.”

You blink at him. He’s still looking at the teachers, but now with this soft, proud smile that’s 100% Tony in protective-husband-and-dad mode.

You see their faces shift—confused, then surprised, then sheepish.

Your heartbeat thuds.

Ms. Hamilton tilts her head. “Double duty?”

Tony squeezes your waist. “She’s pregnant.”

You exhale sharply. He said it. Just like that.

“I… what? Oh—oh!” Ms. Lynn says, eyes widening. “Congratulations!”

“Thank you,” you say, finding your voice, suddenly filled with so many feelings you’re not sure whether to laugh or cry.

Tony’s hand stays firmly on your stomach, like it belongs there. And maybe it always has.

The teachers politely scramble to adjust their tone and offer more genuine congratulations. The flirting vanishes like steam in a storm.

You lean in, voice low. “So much for keeping it a secret.”

Tony leans down, brushing his nose along your temple. “What? Was I not supposed to mark my territory?”

You elbow him, laughing under your breath. “You’re such a menace.”

“I’m a menace in love,” he says sweetly. “With you.”

You roll your eyes, but your hand finds his over your stomach.

Yeah. It’s out now.

And you’re not even mad.

---

You wait until you’ve passed the first trimester before telling the twins. Not because you're trying to keep secrets—okay, maybe a little—but because you want to be sure. You want to see the tiny life on the screen, hear the heartbeat, feel the ground under your feet settle before you drop this beautiful bomb on your kids.

And when you do?

Howard screams. Actually screams.

Nova shrieks, jumps up and down, and immediately asks if she can name the baby “Princess Warrior Pancake Sparkle.”

You gently say you’ll think about it.

They’re thrilled. You take them out for ice cream that night, and Howard keeps hugging you randomly like he’s afraid you’ll float away. Nova talks to your stomach in the car like she’s already having full-on big sister conversations.

Tony watches them both with the dumbest, softest grin on his face. He looks over at you and mouths, we did that.

You just nod. Hand on your belly. Full in every sense of the word.

A few months later, you’re lying on the ultrasound table again, hand in Tony’s, the tech grinning at the screen.

“Well,” she says, turning the monitor toward you. “I hope you’re ready to be outnumbered.”

Your breath catches.

Tony stares. “Is that—?”

“Yep,” the tech says. “Two girls. Identical twins.”

You squeeze Tony’s hand. Hard. He squeezes back, then immediately starts muttering something about learning braids and building a second nursery and stocking the fridge with juice boxes.

You can’t stop laughing. Neither can he.

When you tell the twins later that day, Nova literally falls off the couch from excitement. “TWO BABY SISTERS? I’M GONNA DIE!”

You laugh so hard you almost do.

She’s already planning matching outfits, bunk bed configurations, and which princess books they’ll read. She kisses your belly five times before bed and tries to draw the babies a picture in crayon. It’s… mostly pink scribbles with the word “QUEENS” under it.

Howard smiles. He hugs you. He even high-fives Tony.

But he’s quieter than usual.

You don’t say anything—yet. You just watch him. Notice how he clings to your side at bedtime, how he watches Nova giggle to herself while coloring a “welcome banner.”

You tuck them both in that night, extra tight.

And a couple hours later, after Nova’s fallen into deep, even breaths, you and Tony exchange a glance and slip into the room again.

Tony kneels beside Howard’s bed and rubs his shoulder gently. “Hey, bud.”

Howard stirs. His lashes flutter open.

“You okay?” you whisper. “Can you come hang out with us for a bit?”

He nods sleepily, rubbing his eyes, and lets Tony lift him up without a word. You bring him into your room, settle him in between you like you did when he was smaller.

At first, he’s quiet. He stares at the ceiling.

And then he whispers, “I’m happy.”

Tony hums. “I know, buddy. We know you are.”

“But…”

Your heart clenches. “But?”

Howard swallows. “What if the babies like Nova more?”

You blink, not sure you heard that right. “What?”

“They’re both girls,” he says, eyes still locked on the ceiling. “So maybe… maybe they’ll like her more. And she’ll want to do stuff with them and not me. Like tea parties and princess games. Or sleep in the same bed when they’re bigger.”

His voice wobbles near the end. Barely audible.

Tony exhales softly, brushing Howard’s curls back from his forehead. “Hey. Hey, listen to me. That’s not going to happen.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” Tony says, quiet but certain. “Because they’re gonna love you like crazy. You’re their big brother, Howard. Their protector. Their superhero.”

You pull Howard against you and kiss the top of his head. “They’ll look up to you. They’ll run to you when they’re scared. They’ll laugh at your jokes, and you’ll teach them all the best stuff—like building Legos and making slime and how to be brave.”

“But what if they want to do girly stuff?”

“Then we’ll learn girly stuff together,” Tony says without missing a beat. “I’m already halfway to being a certified hair stylist. You think I’m letting you skip out on that?”

Howard smiles a little. “You’re not good at braids.”

“Yet.”

You snort. Howard leans his head on your shoulder.

“They’re gonna love you,” you say softly. “All of you. Nova, too. But that doesn’t mean they’ll love her more. There’s enough love for all of us.”

Howard’s eyes drift closed again, lashes still wet.

“Okay,” he whispers.

You and Tony lie there a while longer, one of his hands over your belly, the other cradling your son.

Your son who’s already carrying the weight of love he hasn’t even met yet.

Your heart aches with it—in the best way.

Because family?

It keeps growing in ways you can’t predict.

And every little piece finds its place.

----

It starts one morning when you try to step over a sea of Legos in the hallway and nearly go into labor right there.

You lean against the wall, clutching your very pregnant stomach, breath shallow.

Tony rushes over like you’ve been shot. “What happened? Is it time? Did you sneeze too hard again?”

You point down. “Legos.”

He stares. Then at your belly. Then back at the hallway.

And that’s when it hits both of you: you’re going to be out of space in about five minutes.

The twins’ current shared room is already a war zone of action figures and glitter. Layla and Charlotte will need theirown spaces someday. And let’s be real: Howard is starting to request “privacy” and Nova asked yesterday if she could “just once sleep without Howard breathing like a dragon."

It’s time.

Tony doesn’t waste a second. He opens a new tab mid-breakfast and starts muttering specs to himself. “Five bedrooms. Walk-ins. Full baths. One level. Manhattan. Rooftop. End of discussion.”

“You’re seriously apartment shopping while brushing your teeth?”

He shrugs. “Multitasking.”

And within two weeks, you find it.

A penthouse in Manhattan—top floor, wraparound rooftop terrace, massive open floor plan kitchen into a sprawling living room with wall-to-wall windows overlooking the skyline. It’s all one level (thank God), with five bedrooms, each with its own en-suite bathroom and walk-in closet. There’s even a sixth bathroom for guests and a private elevator entrance. It’s sleek but homey, modern but warm. And the nursery space catches the sunlight just right.

You don’t even have to say yes. You look at Tony, and he’s already nodding.

“I want you happy and barefoot in this kitchen,” he says, grinning, rubbing your belly. “And I want the kids having Nerf wars on that terrace without knocking over my holographic displays.”

“You mean your lab toys.”

He kisses your cheek. “Tomato, to-mah-to.”

When you break the news to Howard and Nova, they’re not thrilled at first.

Howard frowns dramatically. “But this is our house. What about my window? I like my window.”

Nova crosses her arms. “I don’t want to move! My unicorns live here!”

“Your unicorns are plushies.”

“They’ll be sad!”

You sit down carefully, rubbing your lower back. “Guys, we’re not kicking the unicorns out. They’re coming too. And guess what?”

Nova lifts her head, suspicious. “What?”

“You’ll each get your own room.”

There’s a full five seconds of silence.

Then Nova gasps.

“Wait, like, my own closet? And no Howard touching my stuff?!”

“Yes.”

Howard’s eyes go wide. “And… I can decorate mine with all my Iron Man posters?”

Tony smirks. “You better.”

They shriek in unison and start talking over each other—curtains, walls, themes, whether or not a lava lamp counts as a fire hazard.

By bedtime, they’re planning a moving-in party and asking if they can have their names carved into the front door.

Tony handles everything.

Movers. Interior designers. Custom closets. Advanced air filtration systems. You’re seven months pregnant with twins and barely able to tie your own shoes—he refuses to let you lift a finger.

“I love you,” he says one morning while fitting compression socks onto your legs, “but you’re officially on ‘do not lift anything heavier than a throw pillow’ status.”

You want to argue, but it feels too good to sit while someone else handles it.

He checks the security, upgrades the entire floor to JARVIS-access only, triple-pads every sharp edge he can find, and installs black-out blinds with remote controls that make Howard declare it’s “just like a space station.”

The day you officially move in, Tony doesn’t leave your side for more than three minutes. Even while coordinating movers and directing people to the right rooms, he keeps circling back to you like a satellite.

“You good?” he whispers constantly.

“I’m sitting on a velvet armchair in a room bigger than my childhood house. I’m great.”

He grins and kisses your forehead, hand sliding over your round belly. “They’re gonna love it here.”

So will you.

Because even amid the chaos, the packing tape, the box forts and noise, there’s something steady now. Something settled.

It’s not just a new home.

It’s the place where your already beautiful life is about to grow in the best, loudest, and most chaotic way possible.

And with Tony by your side, hand on your back, whispering a thousand ideas about nursery lights and organic paint, you realize:

You wouldn’t trade this chaos for anything.

---

Moving in takes a couple of weeks. Getting used to the new place takes a little longer.

The penthouse is stunning. It has everything you could ever want and more — sunlight pouring in through floor-to-ceiling windows, quiet corners that make it feel cozy despite the size, and enough space for everyone to just… breathe. But there’s something disorienting about suddenly living in a place with more bathrooms than people. You keep forgetting where you left things. The first week, you accidentally open the linen closet three times looking for the pantry. And Howard asks daily why one of the guest toilets has its own chandelier.

But slowly, it starts to feel like home.

The kitchen smells like your favorite tea. Nova’s unicorns are now arranged like a royal court on her bed. Howard has taken over one of the walk-in closets to build his “secret lab” (which currently just has a flashlight and a lot of duct tape). The nursery is nearly finished — soft warm tones, little cloud mobiles, and two cribs waiting like open arms.

And Tony?

Tony is absolutely, irredeemably, disgustingly smitten.

You swear he falls more in love with you every day — which would be great, except now he looks at you like you hung the stars, all the time.

“Have I told you how good you look pregnant?” he says one morning, leaning over the island while you’re trying to find a cereal box that doesn’t make you nauseous. His eyes are half-lidded, voice low.

You blink at him, bloaty, swollen, wearing a robe and slippers that don’t match.

“Tony, I haven’t washed my hair in three days.”

“I know,” he says dreamily. “It’s hot.”

You snort. “You’ve got issues.”

“Yup. And all of them revolve around how much I want to kiss your belly right now.”

Which he does. A lot.

He kisses your belly in the kitchen. On the couch. In the hallway. Before bed. First thing in the morning. Talks to it like the twins can hear every word.

And the twins? Yeah. They notice.

Howard first.

He watches Tony one evening as your husband crouches in front of you, murmuring to your bump like it’s a radio that might respond. Then Howard quietly disappears. Five minutes later, he returns wearing a suit jacket (one of Tony’s, dragging on the ground) and kneels next to you dramatically.

“Hi babies,” he says in a low voice. “This is your cool big brother speaking. I’m also a genius. Like Iron Man. But younger.”

You choke on a laugh.

Tony stares. “Okay. Wait. Did you just Tony Stark me?”

Howard shrugs seriously. “You talk to the belly. I can too.”

Nova doesn’t take long to follow.

The next day, she brings you water and fluffs your pillows with alarming force.

“Are you comfy, Mommy? You have to be comfy for Layla and Charlotte. I read online that your uterus is their house.”

Tony’s coughing in the background, trying not to laugh.

Nova scowls at him. “And you need to let her nap. Her feet are probably swollen.”

Then she plants a wet kiss on your belly, mutters, “Sleep tight, babies,” and walks out like she’s closing a business deal.

Tony crosses his arms, deeply offended. “She stole my move.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Looks like you’re being copied.”

“I should feel proud, but I feel threatened.”

The following few days turn into a competitive whirlwind.

Howard builds you a footstool. Nova makes you a belly-rubbing schedule. They both start calling the twins “my babies” and take turns putting their ears to your bump and narrating what they think the girls are saying.

“Layla says she wants me to name my new robot after her,” Howard insists.

“Charlotte says she’s excited to play tea party with me and not you,” Nova snaps.

“Layla says she hates tea.”

Tony looks at you like he might burst from joy. “This is better than cable.”

At night, when the kids are asleep and you’re curled up beside him, your legs aching and your belly full and tight, Tony wraps himself around you like a warm, protective shell.

“They’re already fighting over them,” you murmur, half-laughing.

He brushes your hair back, fingers gentle. “They’re in love with them already. Just like we are.”

You smile sleepily. “They’re going to be the best siblings.”

He kisses your forehead. “Because they learned from the best.”

Then his hand moves to your belly again, as it always does now, resting there like a promise. He whispers something only the girls can hear.

And you lie there, safe, full, and loved — with the two kids tangled in blankets down the hall and two more growing steadily inside you.

The house is new. The furniture is new.

But the love? That’s always been there.

And it’s only growing.

[junegoal]

Part 2 of my request 😁 Thankyou @amethystarachnid for writing❤️

Thankyou so much for writing my request CHAOS & CONFETTI... I still can't believe it... I'm crying rn!!😭 That was very cute & lovely including the title! (exactly what I wanted) I hope it wasn't boring or bothersome for you to write it 😟

Can you please write a part 2 for it? Tony & y/n settle into their marriage and fight over something one day and somehow Bucky becomes the mediator and does his best to to solve it for them and again somehow becomes the third wheel when they make up🤣 and in the end y/n announces to all the avengers that she's pregnant with twins? (Ofcourse you can write it only if you want to and only if you have time. No rush no pressure!☺️) Sending loads of loveeeee!❤️

CHAOS & CONFETTI - Part 2

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

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

ᯓ★ Genre: tiny but of fluff, lots of angst, fluff is back

ᯓ★ Word count: 6.1k

ᯓ★ Summary: what the ask said

ᯓ★ TW(s): emotional arguments, silent treatment / emotional distancing, crying / emotional breakdowns, jealousy, hints of emotional neglect (you asked for angst and I angst delivered)

ᯓ★ Part 1

ᯓ★ Blind Trope Game - thank you for 800 followers!

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

A few weeks after the honeymoon, married life settles into something that doesn’t feel entirely real yet. Not because it’s bad—it’s not—but because it still catches you both off guard sometimes. The way Tony says “wife” like he’s still tasting it. The way you write “Stark” on forms without thinking. The way the world didn’t suddenly shift because you got married, but it did anyway, in small ways.

You come home from grocery shopping and Tony has labeled every snack in the pantry with sticky notes that say “do not touch,” “I will know,” and “back off—married privilege.”

You label them all back with “mine now,” and he acts betrayed for an hour until you kiss his neck and steal his chips anyway.

There are moments that are ridiculously sweet. Like the morning he wakes up before you—an actual miracle—and makes pancakes. Bad ones. Flat and uneven. But he stacks them on a plate and draws a little heart in syrup and proudly presents them like they’re gourmet.

You eat every bite. He beams. You both pretend not to notice the batter on the ceiling.

Then there are the less glamorous parts.

You argue. Not loud or dramatic, but sharp. Over dishes. Over Tony leaving tools in the kitchen. Over you forgetting to mute your alarm for the third time in a row. Over stupid things, things that mean nothing but feel like everything in the moment.

One night you yell at him because he forgot to tell you a team meeting got rescheduled, and you showed up alone to an empty conference room. He shrugs, says it slipped his mind. You snap. He snaps. Then you’re both in silence, backs to each other in bed, angry without really knowing why.

In the morning, he leaves a note on the bathroom mirror.

Still learning. Sorry. I love you. (Also, don’t forget that meeting at 10.)

You text him I love you too and buy his favorite coffee on the way home.

The thing is, marriage doesn’t fix things. It doesn’t make people perfect. But it does make you want to try harder.

Tony tries. He tries more than you expected. He writes reminders on his hand. He asks how your day was and actually listens. He puts his work down to join you for dinner. Sometimes you catch him just staring at your ring when you’re talking, like he still can’t believe it’s real.

You start leaving notes in his lab. Sometimes sweet. Sometimes silly. Sometimes just drawings of hearts or random doodles. He collects them. Tapes them to a wall. Calls it the “reason-to-not-blow-up-the-world corner.”

He still sneaks into bed at 3 a.m. sometimes, reeking of oil and caffeine. You grumble and pull him in anyway.

There are new routines. Movie nights on Fridays with popcorn and bad sci-fi. Sunday mornings spent half-awake, tangled in blankets, trading kisses and soft jokes. Grocery trips where Tony insists on buying ten boxes of cereal and argues with a six-year-old in the snack aisle over the last box of fruit snacks.

There are also interruptions. Missions that drag one of you away for days. Press interviews. Training. Real-life things. But even then, the first thing you both do when you're back is reach for each other. Like magnets. Like instinct.

You start getting used to the small things. The toothbrush you now share a drawer with. The way Tony always leaves one sock on the floor no matter how many times you ask him not to. The way he holds your hand in elevators, even if it's just you two.

One night, during a rare lull in chaos, you both end up on the rooftop. You’re in sweats. He’s in an old hoodie. There’s leftover takeout between you and city lights stretched far beyond.

“You ever think about how this is it?” he asks suddenly.

“What do you mean?”

“This. Us. Life now.”

You nod. “A lot.”

He leans back on his elbows, looking up at the sky. “I used to think being with someone meant sacrificing stuff. Freedom, time, your... I don’t know. Identity.”

You glance at him. “Do you feel like you gave something up?”

“No,” he says immediately. “That’s the weird part. I feel like I got more. Like everything I was doing before was... incomplete.”

You smile, quiet. “Same.”

He looks at you. “You make it feel less like a life I built to protect myself from the world, and more like a life I actually want to live in.”

“That’s the sappiest thing you’ve ever said.”

“I’ve got more if you want ‘em.”

You lean into his side. “Save it. I want to pace myself.”

He wraps an arm around you, and for a while, you sit like that—watching the lights, holding onto each other, married not just in name but in the thousand quiet decisions that add up to love.

There’s still a long way to go. Still mornings where you argue over coffee filters. Still nights where one of you is too tired to talk. Still habits to unlearn, and new ones to build.

But there are also morning kisses. Shared playlists. Stupid inside jokes. A life you’re choosing every single day.

You never expected it to be perfect.

But it’s yours.

And it’s more than enough.

---

It starts small. Like it always does.

You don’t even remember what the first thing was. Something dumb. Something about him skipping a meeting he said he’d go to. Or maybe it was you canceling dinner with him because a mission got extended. You’re both tired, busy, stretched thinner than usual, and the words don’t come out right.

Tony makes a joke—sarcastic, sharp. You don’t laugh. You respond with something clipped. He rolls his eyes. You cross your arms. There’s a pause, one of those quiet ones where you could both still back down. Could still walk it back.

But you don’t.

“You said you’d be there,” you say, biting the inside of your cheek to keep your voice even.

Tony doesn’t look up from the tablet he’s halfheartedly pretending to read. “Yeah, well, things happen. Get over it.”

That does it.

You step forward, arms folded. “Excuse me?”

“I said get over it,” he says without looking at you. “God, do we need to turn every little thing into a debate now?”

You stare at him, stunned. “Every little thing? So me caring that you bailed on something important is just a littlething?”

He finally looks up, and his expression already has that defensive tilt you know too well. “It’s not like I was out partying. I was working. On our stuff. For us. Sorry if I don’t have time to play dress-up for a PR shoot.”

Your jaw clenches. “It wasn’t just PR. It was a joint appearance. You said you’d be there. I sat there for two hours answering questions we both were supposed to handle.”

He shrugs. Shrugs.

That shrug hits harder than if he’d screamed.

“I’m not perfect,” he says, voice low and flat. “You knew that when you married me.”

“Oh, don’t you dare pull that.”

He stands, finally. “Then what do you want from me? To grovel? To admit I suck? Fine. I suck. Happy now?”

You blink hard, trying not to let the sting behind your eyes show. “No. I’m not happy. That’s the point.”

Silence falls like a brick wall between you.

And for the first time since the wedding, neither of you reaches for the other.

Tony exhales, dragging a hand through his hair. “I need to go cool off.”

You don’t stop him. Just stand there as he leaves the room, barefoot, angry, shoulders stiff. You don’t know where he goes. You don’t follow. You’re not sure if you should.

It’s hours later when he comes back. You’re in bed already. The lights are off. You hear him pause in the doorway. Hear him move around the room slowly, like he’s trying not to disturb you.

You face the wall. You don’t say a word.

Neither does he.

He gets into bed carefully, the mattress dipping slightly. You feel the space between your bodies like it’s a canyon. Normally, he’d curl around you, kiss the back of your shoulder, mumble something ridiculous or soft or sweet.

Tonight, he doesn’t.

He turns off the last lamp, and the room is dark.

You lie there, eyes wide open, heart aching.

Married life isn’t always easy. You knew that. You just didn’t think the silence would hurt more than the words did.

---

The next morning, the silence follows you both like a shadow.

Tony is already out of bed when you wake up. No note. No coffee waiting. Not even the sarcastic “Morning, sunshine” he throws your way on the worst days. You lie there for a minute, eyes fixed on the ceiling, wondering if last night really happened or if your brain’s just playing reruns of something worse.

But no, it happened. All of it. Every word, every sharp tone, every slammed door.

You shower slowly, drag your feet through the motions, and throw on clothes without thinking. There’s a brunch with the team—something Natasha insisted on after the last chaotic mission. “No business talk, no suits, just food,” she’d said. “You two lovebirds better show up or I’m hunting you down.”

You almost cancel. You almost text her some excuse, blame it on exhaustion, fake a headache. But Tony’s going. You know that much. And the thought of him being there without you, laughing and joking like nothing’s wrong, leaves a pit in your stomach.

So you go.

The restaurant is one of those rooftop ones downtown, with string lights and too many plants and a view of the skyline that’s almost aggressively pretty. The team is already gathered around a long table when you arrive—Natasha, Steve, Sam, Wanda, Bruce, and... Bucky. Because of course he’s there.

You spot Tony instantly. He’s at the far end of the table, sunglasses on even though they’re sitting in the shade. He’s talking to Bruce about something that looks tech-related. He doesn’t glance your way.

You sit down between Wanda and Sam. They both greet you with easy smiles, but they fade quickly when they catch your expression.

“You okay?” Wanda asks under her breath.

You nod. “Just tired.”

It’s not a lie, but it’s not the truth either.

Conversation flows around you, but you only catch bits and pieces. Bruce is explaining some AI thing. Natasha’s teasing Sam about a video she found of him singing karaoke. Steve is trying and failing to understand brunch menus.

Tony laughs at something Steve says. It’s small, just a soft sound, but it slices right through you.

He hasn’t laughed with you since before the fight.

Across the table, Bucky watches you. Not in a judging way, not smug. Just quiet. Perceptive. Like he’s putting puzzle pieces together one blink at a time.

You reach for your mimosa and drink it like it might dull the ache in your chest.

Halfway through the meal, Tony stands up to grab another coffee from the bar. You look up without meaning to. He doesn’t look back. His shoulders are tense. He runs a hand through his hair while waiting for the drink, and for a second, you wonder if he slept at all.

“You two okay?” Bucky asks, finally, voice low but not unkind.

You blink at him. “What?”

“You and Stark,” he says, nodding toward Tony. “You haven’t looked at each other once. It’s weird.”

“We’re fine,” you say automatically.

He doesn’t press. Just gives you that look—level, understanding, with just enough skepticism to make you feel transparent.

“Sometimes people fight,” he says, tearing a piece of toast. “Doesn’t mean it’s over. Just means you give a damn.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

Bucky shrugs. “But what do I know? I’m still single and sleeping next to a knife.”

Later, as everyone gets up to leave and people start peeling off in groups, Tony walks right past you on the way to the elevator. He says something to Steve, cracks a joke to Sam, even claps Bucky on the shoulder.

He doesn’t say a word to you.

He doesn't look at you.

You don’t stop him.

The silence stretches.

And every step you take away from him feels heavier than the last.

You hold it together just long enough to make it to the elevator.

Everyone else filters out onto the sidewalk, scattered in small clumps, laughing and waving each other off. Tony disappears around the corner with Bruce and Steve, still chatting like nothing happened. Like you hadn’t spent the whole brunch pretending you weren’t hurting.

The moment the elevator doors close and you’re alone, it hits.

You press the back of your hand to your mouth and squeeze your eyes shut, but it’s too late. The tears come fast—hot and sudden. The kind that don’t ask permission. Your shoulders shake with the force of trying to keep it quiet, but you end up letting out a soft, broken sound you barely recognize as your own.

The metal box is still moving. Too slow. Or maybe too fast. You don’t even know anymore. You just want to be somewhere private. Somewhere you can fall apart without the weight of pretending you're fine.

You don’t hear the footsteps until the doors start to close and a hand jams between them.

Bucky.

He steps inside, silent as always, and doesn’t say anything at first. Just glances at you, then away again. Then back.

You quickly wipe your face and turn toward the wall, mortified. “Please don’t.”

He doesn’t move. Just lets the elevator ride continue. You expect him to say something sarcastic or to walk out the second it dings.

But he doesn’t. He stands next to you, quiet but present, and somehow that makes the tears come harder.

“I’m fine,” you say, voice cracked and barely there.

He glances down at your reflection in the mirrored paneling. “You’re not.”

You shake your head, trying to find words that don’t sound pathetic. “We had a fight.”

“I figured.”

“He’s ignoring me.”

“Yeah.”

You sniff and press your palms to your eyes. “I thought marriage would mean... I don’t know. That we’d at least talk things out.”

Bucky shrugs, leaning against the rail. “He’s scared.”

You turn your head, still blinking through tears. “Of what? Me?”

“Of screwing it up,” he says, not unkindly. “You matter more than anyone else has. That kind of pressure makes people—especially people like Stark—stupid.”

You give a weak, humorless laugh. “So I should just wait for him to be less stupid?”

“No. He should pull his head out of his ass,” Bucky says. Then, after a beat: “But I can help.”

You look at him, surprised. “You want to help me fix my marriage?”

He shrugs like it’s not that weird. “Better than watching you both mope around pretending you’re fine. It’s exhausting.”

You snort through your tears. “You’re surprisingly soft for a guy with a metal arm and five expressions.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I have six expressions. Don’t disrespect me.”

The elevator dings and opens on your floor, but you don’t move yet.

Bucky finally steps forward and presses the door hold. “Seriously. I’ll talk to him. Or trick him into being somewhere you are. You can talk. Or yell. Or throw things. I’ll bring snacks.”

You laugh despite yourself. “Why are you being nice to me?”

He smirks just a little. “Because you’re the only one who ever shares their fries. And because, believe it or not, I like you. You make him better.”

You nod, trying to gather yourself. “Okay. Just... maybe don’t tell him I cried in the elevator.”

He holds up a hand. “Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a scout.”

“Still counts.”

You smile, still shaky, but real this time. “Thanks, Bucky.”

He tips his head slightly. “Go drink some water. And maybe don’t text him while you’re still crying.”

“Too late.”

“Of course.”

As he finally lets the elevator doors close, he says, almost too casually, “I’ll handle Stark.”

And somehow, you believe him.

---

When you get home, everything feels too quiet.

The lights in the hallway are dimmed, soft and warm like nothing’s wrong. But something is wrong, and it clings to you like humidity, thick and pressing. You slip off your shoes, drop your bag by the door, and listen for sounds—music, movement, Tony.

You hear him in the kitchen. Silverware clinking. A fridge door closing. Then footsteps. Heavy, purposeful.

You steel yourself.

When he rounds the corner, his eyes are on you immediately. And there’s something off about his expression. Not tired. Not even guilty. He looks annoyed. But not the kind of annoyed that comes from running late or a frustrating meeting. It’s sharp. Focused. Personal.

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “So. You and Barnes.”

You freeze. “Excuse me?”

He gestures vaguely, his voice low and bitter. “Saw the footage. Security in the elevator. You two looked cozy.”

You feel the breath catch in your chest. “Are you serious right now?”

“I’m just asking how long the two of you have been playing emotional support while I’m out here getting the silent treatment.”

Your hands curl into fists. “He found me crying, Tony. After you spent the whole brunch ignoring me like I didn’t exist.”

He scoffs. “And you just—what—poured your heart out to the brooding soldier? Let him comfort you while I—what? Deserve to feel like crap alone?”

“You made me feel like crap alone!” you snap. “You didn’t even look at me! You couldn’t say one word to your wife all morning!”

He pushes off the wall, voice rising. “Because I was mad, okay? And I didn’t want to make it worse. I figured space was safer than saying something I’d regret!”

“Well, guess what?” you shout back. “You don’t get to give me the cold shoulder and then get jealous when someone else actually notices I’m falling apart!”

Tony’s jaw flexes. “So what, now you’re running to Barnes every time we hit a rough patch? That’s how we’re doing this?”

“I didn’t run to anyone!” Your voice cracks, too loud now, echoing in the hallway. “I didn’t want anyone to see me like that! But he was there, and he was kind, and I couldn’t keep it together anymore!”

Silence falls, but it’s not a peaceful one.

It’s thick, angry, fragile.

Tony shakes his head slowly, like he’s trying to rein it in, but his next words land like glass shattering. “Maybe you should’ve stayed with him. Sounds like he knows how to handle you better.”

Your heart stutters.

You step back like he’s slapped you.

Tony’s face falls instantly, regret hitting him too late. “Wait. I didn’t—”

“No,” you say, voice suddenly cold. “You did.”

You don’t wait for him to explain. You turn and walk down the hallway, quick, breath shallow. He follows.

“Wait, come on. Don’t—don’t walk away. I didn’t mean it like that. I was pissed, I wasn’t thinking—”

“I know you weren’t thinking,” you throw over your shoulder. “That’s the problem.”

You open the door to the guest room. It smells like dust and unused sheets. You walk in anyway.

Tony stops in the doorway, looking heartbroken. “You’re not seriously—”

“I’m not sleeping next to you tonight,” you say, not meeting his eyes. “I can’t.”

He exhales like the wind’s been knocked out of him. “Y/n, please.”

You turn your back to him and pull the door shut behind you.

It clicks softly, final.

You sit on the edge of the bed in the dark, chest tight, tears threatening again. You don’t cry this time. Just stare at your wedding ring, thumb brushing over the band, wondering how the hell things got so messy so fast.

On the other side of the door, you think you hear him say your name.

You don’t answer.

---

The next morning, the guest room is cold.

You wake up wrapped in too many blankets, but it doesn’t help the emptiness you feel. You stare at the ceiling for a long time before getting up. No sounds come from the rest of the apartment. No footsteps. No coffee brewing. No sarcastic Tony humming show tunes while making a mess in the kitchen. Just silence.

You don’t know if he slept at all.

You splash cold water on your face, trying to clear the fog. You’re not even sure what emotion is strongest anymore—hurt, guilt, anger, exhaustion. It’s all too much, too heavy, and sitting right on top of it is something else. Something that’s been bothering you for a while now.

You sit down on the edge of the bed again, hand resting over your stomach without even thinking about it.

The last few weeks have been… off.

You’ve been tired, more irritable than usual. Little things have made you cry, even before the fight. Tony spilling juice on your favorite hoodie had you tearing up for ten minutes. Commercials have made you emotional. Your mood’s been swinging so wildly that even you started avoiding yourself.

And then there’s the nausea. Not full-blown sickness, but little waves of it—in the morning, after coffee, when you get too hungry. You told yourself it was stress. Too many missions, too many wedding thank-you notes, too much adrenaline and crashing emotions afterward.

But now…

Now, sitting in the quiet with last night’s fight still fresh in your chest, you feel something else underneath it all.

A suspicion.

A possibility.

You don’t tell anyone. Not yet. Not even yourself, not out loud. Because if you say it, it becomes real. And you’re not ready for that—not when you and Tony aren’t even speaking.

You pull on a hoodie, quietly exit the room, and pass the master bedroom door. You hesitate. There’s no sound from inside. You keep walking.

Bucky texts you around noon.

[Bucky]: You alive? Or should I send a search team?

You stare at it for a second before replying.

[You]: Alive. Barely.

[Bucky]: Need air? Or coffee? Or a baseball bat? I’m flexible.

You smile faintly despite yourself.

[You]: Coffee. No bats. Not yet.

He meets you outside a café near the tower. He’s wearing a black hoodie and sunglasses like he’s dodging press, but the moment he sees you, he lowers them slightly, checking your face like he’s looking for bruises. You sit across from him at one of the little outdoor tables, wrapping your hands around the cup he already ordered for you.

You take a sip, then a breath.

“I slept in the guest room.”

Bucky nods slowly. “He looked like hell this morning.”

“Good,” you mutter, then sigh. “No. Not good. I feel awful.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“I said some things. So did he. And then he accused me of running to you and basically implied I’d be better off—” You shake your head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“He’s an idiot,” Bucky says. “But he’s your idiot. And he knows he screwed up.”

You nod, staring into your coffee. “I just don’t know if talking right now will help or make it worse.”

“Then give it time,” he says. “Not too much. But enough for you both to remember you’re on the same team.”

You’re quiet for a while. Then you glance at him. “Bucky… have I seemed… weird to you lately?”

His brow furrows. “Weird how?”

“I don’t know. Mood swings. Crying over nothing. Getting mad at Tony faster than usual. Nauseous for no reason…”

He tilts his head. “Sounds like stress.”

You nod again but don’t speak. Your hand drifts back to your stomach.

Bucky catches the movement but doesn’t comment on it. Just sits back and folds his arms.

“You think there’s more going on,” he says.

You glance away. “I don’t know yet.”

“If you ever want backup figuring it out, you know I’ve got your back, right?”

You smile at him, grateful. “Yeah. I know.”

He looks around, like he’s making sure no one’s listening, then leans in a little. “Also, not to brag, but I’m really good at punching Tony in the shoulder until he listens. Just say the word.”

You laugh, and for a moment, the knot in your chest loosens.

But even as you sip your coffee and make small talk, a quiet question presses at the back of your mind.

What if you’re pregnant?

And even more terrifying: What will that mean for you and Tony if you are—especially now?

---

You spend two more days dancing around the silence in your apartment.

Tony’s careful now—he doesn't snap, doesn't push, but he also doesn’t try to talk about it. He leaves coffee in the kitchen with a sticky note that just says “for you” and your initials scrawled like an afterthought. He sets your favorite snacks out on the counter when he knows you’ll be in the common area. He exists quietly, like he’s trying not to scare the peace away.

You miss him.

But you’re still hurt.

And underneath it all, that unspoken maybe grows louder in your mind. You’ve ordered a test, shoved it in the back of a drawer, and stared at it like it might explode. You haven’t touched it yet.

You want things right with Tony before you add that to the storm.

So when Bucky texts you the morning of the third day, you know something’s up.

[Bucky]: I need help in the lab. Come now.

[You]: You don’t go in the lab.

[Bucky]: Just come. Wear shoes. Don’t ask questions.

You almost don’t go. But something tells you not to ignore him. And when you step into the lab, you immediately know he’s up to something.

It’s empty. Too empty.

Then you hear footsteps behind you—and turn to find Tony standing by the door, looking like he’s been shoved into the moment by force. His hair is messy. He’s in sweats. And he looks about as surprised as you.

“Did Bucky lure you here, too?” he asks, rubbing the back of his neck.

You nod slowly. “Yeah.”

There’s a long, strange pause.

Neither of you speaks. Neither moves.

Then Bucky’s voice crackles over the lab intercom. “I’m locking the door.”

“What—Bucky—” Tony rushes to the panel, but the door hisses and locks. “This isn’t funny!”

“You’re not leaving until you fix your crap,” Bucky says casually. “Talk. Cry. Kiss. Whatever. I’ll be back in an hour. Maybe.”

The intercom cuts off.

You stare at Tony.

He sighs and leans on the nearest counter. “I deserve that.”

“Yeah, you do.”

Another pause.

Tony exhales hard. “Look… I screwed up. I know I did. And I was jealous, which is stupid, because it’s Bucky, and you’re my wife. But I felt like I already lost you.”

“You ignored me for a whole day. You made me feel invisible.”

“I know,” he says, his voice dropping. “I didn’t know how to undo it without making it worse. I didn’t want to come to you with the same damn ego that started the fight.”

You nod slowly. “I get that. I was angry too. Still kind of am.”

He gives a weak smile. “Yeah. That tracks.”

“But,” you say, stepping closer, “I didn’t stop loving you.”

His face shifts, softer. “Not even when I said the dumbest thing I’ve said since calling Thor ‘sparkles’?”

You choke out a laugh. “Not even then.”

He reaches for your hands, and you let him take them.

“I’m sorry,” he says, looking you straight in the eye. “For the fight. For shutting down. For accusing you. For forgetting I’m not in this alone anymore.”

You nod. “I’m sorry too. For shutting you out. For letting someone else comfort me before giving you a chance to try.”

“You were hurting. I wasn’t there. That’s on me.”

You pull him closer, resting your forehead against his. “I missed you.”

He closes his eyes. “God, I missed you too.”

You stay like that for a moment, quiet and still.

Then he pulls you into a kiss—slow, apologetic, real.

When you break apart, the lab door suddenly hisses and slides open. Bucky is standing there with a protein bar in his mouth, sunglasses on, arms folded like he planned the whole thing down to the second.

Tony squints at him. “You watched the whole thing, didn’t you?”

Bucky takes a bite and chews. “You’re welcome.”

“Creep,” Tony mutters, but he’s smiling now, that tired, lopsided one that means he’s at peace again.

You laugh. “He really did lock us in here.”

“I told you,” Bucky says, smirking. “Six expressions. One of them’s ‘matchmaker.’”

From then on, Bucky becomes your permanent third wheel.

He doesn’t leave your side for a week—not even subtly. He shows up at your door every morning under the pretense of “needing breakfast,” even though he doesn’t eat half of what’s on the table. He shows up when you go out with Tony for lunch, sliding into the booth before either of you can stop him. He walks with you through the park while you and Tony try to have a soft moment.

Tony threatens to change the tower’s security codes just to ditch him.

“You’re the one who said I’m family now,” Bucky reminds him smugly. “Family shows up.”

“Family leaves eventually,” Tony says, exasperated, while Bucky slouches on your couch, chewing popcorn loudly.

But secretly, you’re glad he’s there. Even Tony is. Because Bucky’s presence lightens the mood. Gives you both someone to joke with when things still feel a little raw. And he becomes the buffer when either of you starts to overthink.

A few nights later, after Bucky finally leaves—after you pretend not to see Tony slide the deadbolt behind him—you sit on the edge of the bed again. Tony watches from the doorway.

“You okay?” he asks, voice gentle now.

You nod. “Just… been thinking.”

He steps closer. “About what?”

You hesitate, fingers brushing your stomach. You haven’t taken the test yet. Haven’t even told Tony you suspect. You open your mouth to say something—but the words get stuck.

So instead, you smile faintly and say, “About how weird it is that I missed having Bucky around when he’s not even gone ten minutes.”

Tony groans and flops onto the bed face-first. “This is my life now, huh?”

You lie down beside him, hand resting lightly on his back.

Yeah, you think. This is your life now.

And maybe it’s about to get even more complicated.

---

You stare at the white stick in your hand, perched on the closed toilet seat like it’s holding all the answers in the world. Five minutes. That’s all it takes. Five minutes that feel like an hour.

You wait.

The silence in the bathroom is sharp. You think maybe you hear Tony in the other room talking to FRIDAY about a new project, his voice distant, unaware. He has no idea what you’re doing in here. You told him you were organizing laundry.

When the timer on your phone goes off, you glance down.

Negative.

Your heart clenches—not in relief, not quite in disappointment either. Just… confusion. You stare at the result for a while longer before tossing it in the trash and sitting back against the counter, arms around your knees.

It doesn’t feel right.

Your gut still twists when you wake up in the morning. Your mood is still unpredictable. You still cried last night watching an ad about puppies. Something’s going on. You feel it. But one test says otherwise.

So you book a doctor’s appointment the next day. Quietly. No fanfare, no questions, no Tony.

You slip out after breakfast while Bucky is raiding your fridge again and Tony’s too busy complaining about it to notice you sneaking your bag over your shoulder. You leave a note—simple and vague.

“Running an errand. Be back for dinner. Love you.”

The appointment is quick but tense. Blood work. A gentle smile from the doctor. She asks questions and you answer them all honestly, even though your mind races.

And then, you wait again.

This time, it’s the nurse who comes back in holding a folder. She gives you that look—the one that says something important is about to land in your lap whether you’re ready or not.

“Congratulations,” she says softly. “You’re pregnant.”

Your breath catches.

You blink at her, stunned. “But I— the test I took—”

She smiles. “It happens more often than you’d think. Especially early on. But you are definitely pregnant.”

Your mind swirls. Tony. The fight. The silence. The makeup. Everything. You don’t even realize you’re gripping the armrests of the chair.

“Oh,” you say, barely able to keep your voice steady. “Okay. That’s… a lot.”

“There’s more.”

You sit up straighter. “More?”

She hands you the ultrasound printout. Two little dots. Two little flickers. She taps gently, smiling.

“Twins.”

You feel the world slow down. You don’t even have words. Just two tiny spots on a black-and-white printout and the thundering of your own heartbeat.

You’re pregnant.

With twins.

By the time you get home, your head is still spinning.

There’s a dinner already happening in the Tower’s common area. Someone decided the team needed “quality bonding,” which in practice means takeout containers, mismatched drinks, and Thor cheerfully passing around flagons of who-knows-what. Steve is in his polite-and-suffering mode. Natasha is watching it all with an amused smirk. Bruce is already halfway through a bottle of wine he probably didn’t intend to finish.

Bucky is there too, and he notices you walk in first. He watches your face carefully. You’re trying to play it cool, but he can tell something’s shifted. His eyes narrow like he’s about to say something—but you shake your head subtly and take a seat beside Tony instead.

Tony leans in and murmurs, “Where were you?”

You kiss his cheek. “I’ll tell you in a second.”

He leans back, squinting. “That sounded ominous.”

You just smile.

You let the dinner carry on for a few more minutes. Someone makes a joke. Thor is dramatically retelling a battle with an alien slug that apparently involved three goats and a frying pan. There’s laughter. It feels warm, chaotic, familiar.

And then you clear your throat.

Everyone looks over.

You set your drink down, heart thudding. “I, uh… I have an announcement.”

Tony straightens a little beside you. “Okay, now I’m nervous.”

You look around the table. “I wanted to tell Tony first, but then this dinner happened, and it kind of feels right to say it with all of you here. Since you’re family.”

Bucky’s eyes widen just slightly. He knows. Somehow, he already knows.

You take a breath.

“I went to the doctor today,” you say, watching Tony’s brows furrow. “Because I’ve been feeling a little… off.”

Tony turns fully toward you now, eyes sharp with worry. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You squeeze his hand. “Because I wanted to be sure before I scared either of us.”

You reach into your pocket and pull out the ultrasound printout, placing it gently in front of him.

Tony stares.

Natasha leans forward. Steve’s eyes widen. Bruce sets his glass down slowly. Thor is grinning like an idiot.

Tony looks back up at you, speechless.

“You’re serious?” he says, voice rough.

You nod, smiling now. “We’re having a baby.”

There’s a pause.

You tap the paper again. “Two babies.”

The table explodes.

Bruce chokes on his drink. Natasha actually gasps. Steve makes a sound like someone just punched him in the joy. Thor lets out a victorious HA! and claps Tony so hard on the back he nearly faceplants into the table.

“TWINS,” Thor declares. “A BOUNTIFUL BLESSING. YOU MUST NAME ONE OF THEM AFTER ME.”

“No,” Tony coughs, stunned, still staring at the photo. “Absolutely not.”

Natasha grabs the ultrasound and holds it up to the light. “Oh my god. You’re gonna be a dad. A dad, Tony. Like, diaper duty and car seats and ‘where’s the pacifier’ dad.”

Bucky leans across the table, grinning. “You’re so screwed.”

Tony finally looks back at you. “Twins?”

You nod, beaming.

He exhales hard and pulls you into the most careful, reverent hug you’ve ever felt from him.

And then, true to form, he pulls back just far enough to mutter, “Okay, but you’re not allowed to hang out alone with Barnes anymore. You are clearly too fertile.”

You slap his shoulder. “Tony!”

Bucky leans back smugly. “Told you I was good luck.”

Tony groans, face buried in your neck.

And even with all the teasing, the laughter, the chaos—you’ve never felt more sure of anything in your life.

You’re going to have twins.

You’re building a family.

And you’re not doing it alone.

[junegoal]

I recognize my ask hahahaha it's meeee! I was talking about Bubble Baths! Real proposal, and more hot scenes pleeeease 👀🥺

BUBBLE BATHS - part 2

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

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

ᯓ★ Genre: fluff, romance, rom-com

ᯓ★ Word count: 7.1k

ᯓ★ Summary: After a heartfelt proposal, you and Tony Stark plan a dreamy beach wedding and honeymoon, only to face an invasion of privacy that tests your resilience but deepens your bond. 

ᯓ★ Part 1

ᯓ★ TW(s): Invasion of privacy (non-consensual photography), Emotional distress and anxiety following the violation, Mild sexual content and intimacy, Paparazzi harassment, Strong language

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

It starts a few months after the rooftop surprise.

You notice it right away—not because Tony suddenly changes, but because you know him too well to miss even the smallest shift.

He starts acting weird.

Not bad weird, not mission-stressed or work-overload weird. Not even grief-weird, the way he gets when a memory sneaks up on him from somewhere deep and uninvited.

No, this is something else.

He’s fidgety. Overthinking everything. Tapping his fingers constantly against tablet screens. Humming songs you’ve never heard before and stopping mid-chorus to stare at nothing. Getting distracted halfway through sentences. Saying “hey babe, you wanna go to Paris tomorrow?” at breakfast like it’s the most normal thing in the world. (You said no. You had laundry.)

You catch him checking his pocket. Constantly.

Sometimes he walks into a room, looks around like he’s forgotten something, and walks back out without saying a word. Other times he just stares at you. Long, lingering stares that aren’t quite his usual flirty ones.

It’s like he’s buffering.

But the weirdest part?

He’s being… subtle.

Tony Stark. Subtle.

It’s almost alarming.

You try to give him space, but eventually you can’t take it anymore.

“So,” you ask one night while you’re watching a movie on the couch. “Are you dying?”

Tony jerks upright like you just poked him with a taser.

“What?! No! I mean—no, I’m fine. I’m great. Why would you think I’m dying?”

You give him a look. “Because you’ve been acting like a squirrel with a tax evasion problem for three weeks.”

“I have not been—okay, that’s specific.”

“You twitch when you lie.”

“I twitch when I’m in love,” he shoots back, trying to cover the nerves with charm. “It’s part of the experience.”

You raise an eyebrow.

He cracks. “Okay. Maybe I’ve been planning something. But you’re not allowed to guess. Or snoop. Or FRIDAY will electrify you.”

“Noted.”

You drop it—for now.

Until a few days later, when he tells you to wear something fancy.

“You mean like cocktail fancy? Or black-tie fancy?” you ask, eyeing your closet.

“Fancy enough that the maître d’ will call me ‘sir’ and not in an ironic way.”

“…So tux-fancy.”

He shrugs. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

The night starts off exactly how you’d expect from Tony Stark.

He shows up in a tailored suit, hair flawless, arc reactor dimmed to a low romantic glow. You’re wearing that dress he loves—sleek, off-the-shoulder, deep red—and he looks at you like you just walked off the cover of a dream.

“You’re gonna ruin my fragile billionaire heart,” he says, offering his arm.

“I thought your heart was 80% sarcasm and iron.”

“It’s currently 100% yours.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help smiling as you let him lead you out the door.

The car is sleek. The playlist is full of love songs disguised as ironic picks. He keeps checking his watch. You pretend not to notice.

But when you get to the restaurant—some swanky, rooftop place he’d name-dropped weeks ago—you find out very quickly that something has gone horribly, hilariously wrong.

There’s a sign on the front entrance: CLOSED FOR PRIVATE EVENT.

Tony stares at it for a full ten seconds.

Then: “What the hell do you mean private event? I was the private event!”

A security guard recognizes him instantly. “Mr. Stark, sorry sir, there was a double booking—some governor’s engagement party, real last-minute—”

Tony is already pulling out his phone. “No. Nope. I own this building. I’m going to fire whoever’s in charge of reservations and then rehire them just to fire them again.”

You reach for his arm. “Hey. It’s okay.”

“No it’s not. This was supposed to be perfect.”

You smile. “It still can be.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “I had a plan. Music. A view of the skyline. The champagne with the gold flakes. I even had a backup speech in case I panicked and forgot the first one.”

You pause. “Wait. Speech?”

He freezes.

“Forget I said that.”

“…Tony?”

“Nope. Not saying another word.”

You catch his hand and thread your fingers through his. “Let’s just walk. Come on. You can rant at me in Central Park. That’s fancy, right? Historical. Trees.”

He hesitates, then sighs. “You’re too good for me.”

“I know.”

He smiles, still frazzled, but already less panicked. You end up walking a few blocks and cutting through a side street that leads you into the park. The night air is cool and crisp, the kind that makes everything feel a little more alive.

You find a vendor cart near a path lit by old-style streetlamps. Tony looks at the hot dogs, then at you.

“I can’t believe this is happening.”

You grin. “I can. You’re with me. Of course this is happening.”

You buy two hot dogs, because why not. You sit down on a bench by the water, stars peeking through the trees overhead. He tries to sulk. You bump his shoulder with yours.

“Best date ever,” you whisper, just to mess with him.

He snorts, still chewing. “Shut up.”

You lean your head on his shoulder.

And for a while, you just sit there, the two of you under the stars, feet kicking softly at the gravel path. You feel his tension slowly bleed away. His arm slips around your shoulders. He kisses your hair.

Then he shifts beside you, turning so he’s facing you more directly.

“I had a whole thing planned,” he says quietly. “Fireworks. A drone light show. A monogrammed dessert cart with strawberries shaped like Iron Man helmets.”

You grin. “That sounds… horrifying.”

“I was gonna have FRIDAY narrate our relationship highlights in Morgan Freeman’s voice.”

“Oh my God.”

“I panicked, okay?”

He puts the hot dog down on the bench beside him and stands up, suddenly fidgeting again. Then he reaches into his jacket pocket.

The small velvet box is instantly recognizable.

Your breath catches.

“I wanted it to be perfect,” he says, voice cracking a little. “But the truth is, nothing about us has ever been perfect. You came into my life when it was a mess. When I was a mess. And you didn’t fix me. You just… made me want to be better.”

You stand up slowly, heart thudding.

Tony opens the box.

There’s a ring inside—simple, elegant, unmistakably him. A platinum band, a diamond that glimmers like starlight, but nothing flashy. Just beautiful.

Just like you.

“I don’t want to do perfect anymore,” he says. “I just want to do forever. With you.”

Your throat goes tight.

“Will you marry me?” he asks, voice soft, a little shaky. “Hot dog and all?”

You start laughing through the tears. “Yes,” you say, instantly. “Of course I will.”

He slides the ring onto your finger, hands warm and trembling.

Then he kisses you like it’s the first time all over again—beneath the stars, the scent of hot dogs and city air wrapped around you, his heart in your hands.

You stay there a while longer, cuddled on the bench, whispering about everything and nothing. He keeps looking at the ring on your finger like he can’t believe it’s real.

You don’t care that it wasn’t perfect.

It’s yours.

And that’s more than enough.

---

The proposal doesn’t change everything.

It just deepens it.

Tony still makes a mess of his socks. Still tries to bribe you into skipping laundry day. Still invents absurd tech at 3 a.m. because he got “a vibe.” Still needs your arms around him on nights when he’s too quiet, when the silence of the penthouse feels like a weight only you know how to lift.

But now he says “fiancée” every chance he gets.

It comes out in everyday things. At brunch with friends. On a phone call with someone at Stark Industries. Once, loudly, in a hardware store aisle, just because you sneezed and he wanted an excuse to say it again.

Fiancée.

It makes your heart flutter every single time.

He tries to play it cool, but you catch him looking at you like he can’t believe you’re real. Like maybe you’ll vanish if he blinks too long.

You don’t. You’re still here.

You’re always here.

Planning the wedding becomes your shared obsession.

Tony pretends he doesn’t care about details, but he absolutely does. You discover this when he argues passionately with a florist over the symbolism of hibiscus versus frangipani. (“One says ‘love in a tropical paradise,’ the other says ‘I panic in the face of floral ambiguity.’”)

You pick the beach together.

A private stretch of white sand, tucked into a remote little cove in the South Pacific. The water’s impossibly blue. The breeze smells like coconuts and salt and sunshine. The kind of place that makes you forget there’s a world beyond this one.

Tony falls in love with it instantly. “We’re buying this entire island. I don’t care how many warlords I have to outbid.”

You laugh. “We’re just renting it for the week.”

“Fiancée, please. This is me we’re talking about.”

The weeks blur together in soft mornings and sun-drenched afternoons, tangled sheets and shared coffee, whispered plans at midnight with your legs knotted together under the covers.

You lead. Always.

Not just with decisions—though yes, you’re the one who chooses the cake flavors (three, because Tony insisted on a backup for the backup) and who vetoes the mechanical doves he wanted to fly overhead during the vows.

But you lead him in other ways, too.

At night, when he’s restless, you pull him to bed with that look in your eyes, the one that makes him drop whatever he’s doing and follow without question. You push him down onto the mattress, straddling his waist with deliberate slowness, watching the way his breath catches.

You don’t let him do anything but feel.

Your lips ghost over his jaw, his throat, the hollow between his collarbones. You whisper his name like a prayer as you guide his hands to your hips and take your time sinking down onto him, rocking slowly until he’s breathless beneath you, undone by the softness of your touch.

“Let me,” you murmur every time, and he does.

He lets you worship him.

Lets you kiss your way down his body on lazy Sunday mornings, lets you undress him after long days when his mind won’t stop spinning. You trail your fingers down his chest and watch the tension bleed out of his shoulders, his eyes fluttering closed as you tell him how much you love him.

He clings to your voice like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth.

And when it’s his turn to give back, he does so with devotion.

He kisses your ring finger when you least expect it—brushing his lips over your knuckles like you’re sacred. You’ll be reading, or working, or talking about appetizers for the rehearsal dinner, and suddenly he’s on one knee, pressing reverent kisses along your hand.

“I still can’t believe you said yes,” he whispers.

You smile. “I’d say yes again.”

He takes that as a challenge.

One afternoon, you’re sunbathing on the beach, stretched out on a towel in a black bikini that makes him nearly combust. He brings you fresh fruit and sets it down like a peace offering, his eyes trailing down your body with zero subtlety.

“You know,” he says, sitting beside you, “I’m very impressionable right now. I could be convinced to make bad decisions.”

You smirk. “Bad decisions, huh?”

“I’m extremely suggestible.”

You lean in, brushing your lips against his ear. “Then take me to the water.”

His pupils blow wide. “Yes, ma’am.”

You drag him into the surf with a wicked grin, waves curling around your ankles. The water’s warm and shallow, sunlight painting gold over his skin. You press against him, mouths meeting in a kiss that’s all teeth and promise, your hands sliding down his back.

You don’t go any further than that—not with potential seagull witnesses—but the way he looks at you afterward, flushed and grinning and entirely yours, makes it worth it.

At night, the two of you talk about the ceremony.

He wants to write his own vows. You joke that he’ll cry halfway through. He swears up and down he won’t.

You’re already imagining him red-eyed and emotional while you stand barefoot in the sand, veil tangled in the breeze, sunlight haloing around you like something out of a dream.

You imagine him saying “I do” and slipping that second ring onto your finger, and suddenly it feels so close you can taste it.

One night, back at the penthouse while packing for the trip, you find him in the closet staring at his suit choices like he’s solving a Rubik’s cube.

“Babe,” you say gently, stepping up behind him. “You okay?”

He nods. “Yeah. Just… I keep thinking I’m gonna mess this up.”

You wrap your arms around him from behind, resting your chin on his shoulder. “You won’t.”

“I’ve never had something this good. I keep thinking maybe I’m not… you know. The guy who deserves it.”

You press a kiss to the back of his neck.

“You’re mine,” you whisper. “That’s all that matters.”

He turns around and kisses you then, slow and deep, like he’s trying to carve the feeling of your love into his bones.

That night, you make love with the balcony doors open, the wind warm on your skin and the stars overhead watching silently. You ride him slowly, his hands gripping your hips, your name falling from his lips over and over like a promise.

After, you stay curled together under the sheets, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm.

“I want the first dance to be barefoot,” he says sleepily. “In the sand. No shoes. Just you and me.”

You smile against his chest. “Done.”

“I’ll ruin your dress.”

“You’ll ruin it anyway.”

He laughs, and you feel it in your ribs.

“God, I love you,” he says again, like it still surprises him every time.

“I know,” you whisper. “And you’re not gonna mess anything up.”

You kiss him once more before sleep tugs at you both.

The beach is waiting.

And so is forever.

---

The dress is a secret.

A sacred one.

You tell Tony this with all the gravity of a person informing him about a top-tier classified operation, and he immediately takes it as a personal betrayal.

“What do you mean I can’t see it?” he says, blinking at you like you just canceled Christmas.

“It’s tradition,” you reply, sipping your coffee like you’re completely unfazed by the way he’s full-on pouting at the breakfast bar in just pajama pants and a sleep-rumpled scowl. “You’re not supposed to see the bride’s dress before the wedding.”

He leans dramatically across the counter. “You think I care about tradition? I’ve worn a tux made of nanotech and piloted a suit through a wormhole. I think we’re past the part where I follow rules.”

You raise an eyebrow. “This rule stays. You’ll thank me later.”

“I already thank you daily. Repeatedly. Often in bed.”

“Tony.”

“Emotionally. I thank you emotionally.” He grins, then tries a new tactic: puppy-dog eyes. “Just a hint? A color swatch? A vague silhouette?”

You stand, rounding the counter and brushing past him with a kiss to his stubbled cheek. “Nope.”

He watches you go, completely scandalized. “You’re cruel. This is emotional warfare.”

You laugh all the way to the bedroom.

The truth is, you already found the dress. The moment you tried it on, it was like something clicked into place. It wasn’t just a dress—it was the dress. Soft, romantic, a little daring. Off-the-shoulder, with a slit up the leg high enough to make Tony’s jaw drop. Not that he knows.

You had to physically restrain yourself from texting him a selfie in the dressing room.

Instead, you walked out of the boutique grinning like a fool, carrying a garment bag like it was treasure. And it is. It’s for you. For that one perfect moment when he sees you walking barefoot across sun-warmed sand and realizes you’ve been his long before you said the words.

But Tony Stark is not patient.

He starts trying to sneak hints out of you at every opportunity.

At dinner: “So… this wedding dress. Would you say it’s… breathable? Asking for scientific reasons.”

In bed: “If you wore the dress right now, just for like five minutes—totally not for visual testing purposes—I swear I’d be on my best behavior.”

In the shower: “You could whisper it to me. Like a little bath-time secret. Just a neckline description. Strapless? Halter? Armor-plated?”

You laugh every time.

Because for all his brilliance, Tony doesn’t stand a chance against your willpower.

You always shut him down gently. With a smirk. A kiss. A whispered, “You’ll see soon enough.”

One night, he gets especially creative.

You’re stretched out in bed, limbs tangled together, your leg draped over his hip as he runs his hands over your back. It’s late—past midnight—and the penthouse is quiet except for the low hum of city lights beyond the windows.

He kisses your shoulder. Then your collarbone. Then the little spot just under your ear that always makes your breath hitch.

“You know,” he murmurs, lips ghosting against your skin, “if you tell me about the dress, I might just repay the favor with a preview of what I’ll be wearing underneath my tux.”

You snort. “Is that supposed to be a bribe?”

“It’s a temptation.”

You roll on top of him, pinning him down with your thighs on either side of his hips. “Temptation goes both ways, Stark.”

He groans dramatically. “You’re evil. Sexy and evil.”

You lean down, lips brushing his. “Still not telling you.”

He drags his hands down your sides. “What if I guessed? I’m very good at guessing.”

“Try it and see how fast I relocate the ring to a cereal box.”

“Cold,” he gasps, clutching his heart. “Fiancée, how dare you threaten me at my most vulnerable.”

You kiss down his chest, slow and teasing. “You’ve never been more spoiled in your life and you know it.”

“Yeah,” he groans as your mouth trails lower. “Yeah, okay, that’s fair.”

That night, you make him forget the dress entirely—at least for a while.

You ride him slowly, hands braced on his chest, taking your time until he’s gasping your name like it’s holy. His fingers tremble on your waist as you roll your hips, and when he comes, it’s with a quiet, broken sound against your neck, clinging to you like you’re the only real thing in the world.

Later, he lies sprawled across the bed, hair mussed, lips kiss-bruised, completely wrecked.

And then, still breathless: “Okay. But is there a slit in the skirt?”

You throw a pillow at him.

He laughs so hard he nearly falls off the bed.

You don’t give in.

Not through fittings, or packing, or even the night before the wedding when he texts you from his own room on the island:

TONY: just realized you’re probably sleeping in THE dress room TONY: tell it I said goodnight TONY: and that i respect its mystery TONY: but i am still thinking about it TONY: a lot TONY: it’s ruining me

You send him a photo of a folded towel shaped vaguely like a dress.

He responds with five emojis and a threat to “hack your closet.”

You fall asleep smiling.

He has no idea what’s coming.

And you can’t wait to see the look on his face.

---

The morning of the wedding arrives in layers of light and salt-sweet air.

You wake early, earlier than you mean to, the hush of the private island’s quiet settling over your skin like a soft blanket. The breeze carries through the open windows, warm and laced with distant waves and rustling palm leaves. The kind of stillness that makes everything feel holy, like the world is pausing just long enough for you to breathe it in.

You lie there for a moment in the bed alone, heart fluttering in your chest like it’s trying to keep rhythm with the moment.

He’s somewhere across the beach in another suite, forbidden from seeing you this morning—an idea that made him very vocal, very dramatic, and very hard to separate from your side last night.

Still, he’d kissed your hand before parting with a whispered, “This is the last time I kiss you as your fiancé. When I see you next, I’ll be the luckiest damn husband alive.”

You touch your ring now, smile slipping across your face like sunlight over sand.

Preparations pass in a soft blur.

You get ready in a villa filled with flowers, music playing low, the air heavy with perfume and laughter. The dress waits in the center of the room, still tucked in its garment bag. You draw the zipper down slowly, like it’s a secret unfolding just for today.

When you step into it—off-shoulder sleeves hugging your arms, the slit in the skirt slicing up your leg with just the right amount of danger—you feel like you’ve stepped into the version of yourself Tony always sees when he looks at you.

Powerful. Beautiful. His.

There’s no veil. Just sun-warmed skin, your hair loose and adorned with tiny pearl pins. No shoes. Just sand and earth and the promise of something that feels bigger than vows.

The aisle isn’t an aisle, not in the traditional sense. It’s a stretch of soft sand between two rows of white folding chairs, scattered petals, and gentle waves rolling just beyond. A simple arch draped in gauzy fabric and flowers marks the end.

But what makes your breath catch as you step out of the villa and onto the path isn’t any of that.

It’s him.

Tony’s standing under the arch in a light gray suit, the jacket open, feet bare like yours, hands fidgeting at his sides until he sees you.

And then he stops moving.

You can feel the silence ripple across the guests as you walk toward him, the music a faint background melody, drowned out by the pounding of your heartbeat. He’s not smiling at first—his face is just open. Raw. Awestruck.

Then his lips part, and you see it: wonder.

He whispers something—probably a curse word—and his hand goes to his chest like he needs to physically keep his heart from flying out of his body.

You smile through the tears welling in your eyes.

He looks wrecked. Utterly, beautifully wrecked.

When you reach him, you take his hands.

He swallows hard. “You are… you’re not real. I’m dreaming. This is a tech-induced hallucination. I died on the way here.”

You lean in, brushing your nose against his. “You’re very much alive.”

“I’m gonna black out.”

You squeeze his hands. “Not yet.”

The officiant speaks, but most of it is a blur. You and Tony are locked in your own world, fingers twined, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in slow, grounding circles. He doesn’t take his eyes off you once. You catch him wiping a tear off his cheek halfway through.

When it’s time to say your vows, you go first.

“I’ve loved you in every version of you that I’ve met,” you say, voice shaking just a little. “The broken one. The arrogant one. The one who didn’t know how to be soft. And now the one who gives me more love than I ever thought I’d deserve.”

You glance down, heart thudding. “And I promise, no matter what changes—what we build or lose or grow into—I will be yours. Fully. Always. Even on the days you leave your socks in the fridge.”

That earns a laugh from him—wet and bright.

He clears his throat, blinking rapidly as he takes out a small, crumpled note from his pocket.

“I wrote five versions of this,” he says. “And all of them were terrible. Too technical. Too dramatic. Too many aerospace metaphors.”

You giggle, and he smiles.

“But here’s what I know. You found me at my most unlovable and didn’t flinch. You held my ego with both hands and still managed to make room for my heart. You let me be afraid. And then you made me brave. I don’t deserve you. I probably never will. But I promise to spend the rest of my life trying to be the man you already believe I am.”

You don’t realize you’re crying until he lifts your hand and kisses your fingertips.

The rings are exchanged. The kiss is soft and slow, a breath shared between two people who’ve already lived lifetimes in each other’s arms. You hear applause, feel laughter against his mouth, and when he pulls back, he says, “Mrs. Stark,” like it’s a revelation.

The reception starts before you realize it.

The beach transforms into a dreamscape—tables under lanterns, long white cloths billowing in the breeze, fairy lights strung between palms. The music is slow and sweet, the kind of song that makes you want to sway in place, barefoot and drunk on each other.

Tony keeps his hand on your back like he’s anchoring himself to reality.

“Everyone here is just a background blur,” he murmurs in your ear as you dance under the stars. “I’m only seeing you.”

Later, there’s food—decadent dishes and finger foods Tony insisted on personally taste-testing four times. There are speeches, stories, clinking glasses, soft laughter.

But the moment that sears itself into your memory is when you sneak away with him to the edge of the water after dinner, hands entwined, the party behind you still glowing with joy.

You wade ankle-deep into the tide, the hem of your dress floating like sea foam.

He spins you once, then pulls you close again, foreheads touching.

“I’m not letting go of you,” he says, voice quiet. “Not for anything.”

You press a kiss to his jaw. “You’re stuck with me now.”

He hums. “I was stuck the day you kissed my forehead after a press conference and called me your ‘brilliant idiot.’”

You laugh, and he kisses you again.

The party picks up behind you. Music shifts into something louder, more rhythmic. Guests dance, barefoot and sun-warm, champagne flowing like a waterfall. But you and Tony stay at the edge of it, tangled up in each other, quietly drunk on the afterglow of forever.

This is the beginning.

And neither of you is in a rush to move past it.

----

You stay on the island for three more days after the wedding. Just the two of you.

No guests, no staff, no expectations. Just open sky, clear water, and Tony Stark with his shirt perpetually half-buttoned, walking barefoot like he owns the sand itself. (Which, to be fair, he probably does—he rented the whole island, after all.)

You wake up each morning tangled in white sheets, warm limbs and salt-crisped hair, Tony always impossibly close. Sometimes you wake to him kissing your shoulder. Sometimes he’s already halfway through building something questionable in the sand outside the villa. Once, you catch him balancing fruit on a palm frond, muttering to himself about "island physics" and declaring it a prototype for "self-sorting beach smoothies."

You don’t ask.

The honeymoon, in its island phase, is all lazy days and even lazier nights.

You swim in shallow coves, snorkel just long enough for Tony to start giving each fish an AI-generated name, and make love under the shade of palm trees with nothing but the ocean as witness. You shower outside. Eat fresh fruit with your fingers. He feeds you mango slices and gets sticky juice on your lips just to have an excuse to kiss it away.

Everything is laughter and skin and sunlight. His hands never leave your body for long.

Even when you’re just curled up reading together, your leg draped over his, he’s tracing circles on your calf like he’s memorizing it.

“Do we ever have to leave?” he asks one night, chin resting on your chest, his voice hushed and a little sleepy.

“We’d run out of wine eventually,” you reply.

He sighs. “Cruel. Reality is cruel.”

But he doesn’t resist when it’s time to move on. Because there’s more. And he has plans.

The next leg of the honeymoon is Tony-level luxury: a private suite on a cruise ship so elite it doesn’t even call itself a cruise. It’s a “floating experience in ultra-exclusivity,” as the brochure says.

You read that line out loud and Tony throws a pillow at it.

The ship is a towering marvel of design, part yacht, part high-tech resort. It sails through sapphire-blue waters, docking at beautiful ports you barely pay attention to because your suite alone is bigger than most apartments. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Private deck. Infinity hot tub. An actual butler.

And also: paparazzi.

They find you on day two.

It starts when you're lounging on the upper deck in a red wrap and sunglasses, sipping something fruity while Tony reads something way too complicated for a man who’s supposed to be on vacation.

You lean over and murmur, “You do realize it’s not illegal to stop working.”

He blinks up. “This isn’t work.”

“You’re annotating the ship’s schematics.”

“It’s a recreational annotation.”

You roll your eyes and kiss his temple.

That’s when you hear the click. The first camera shutter. And you feel him stiffen under your hands.

You both look up. From across the water on a yacht nearby, long lenses glint in the sun.

Tony sighs.

“Showtime,” he mutters.

But you beat him to it.

You lift your drink in a sarcastic toast, wrap your arm around his neck, and pull him in for a kiss—long and slow and entirely smug. His startled chuckle vibrates against your mouth.

When you pull back, you whisper, “Let them know we’re thriving.”

“Oh, baby,” he murmurs. “I married the right woman.”

Over the next few days, the headlines go wild. The world can’t get enough of the billionaire genius and his impossibly warm, private, beautiful bride. Photos appear of you two sunbathing, laughing in the hot tub, walking hand-in-hand along the polished deck. One of you feeding Tony a bite of cake with your fingers breaks Twitter for a full hour.

Tony’s irritated, but also deeply smug.

He scowls at every new tabloid and yet brags when you’re voted “Best-Dressed Couple at Sea.”

“Do they know I didn’t wear shoes for two full days?” he grumbles, scrolling through his phone.

“Yes, and they loved it,” you say, sliding into his lap in a silky robe and stealing the device from his hand.

He grins into your collarbone.

Privacy becomes a game. You duck into quiet hallways, steal kisses in elevators, sneak into the spa at midnight because “what’s the point of wealth if not spontaneous naked steam sessions?”

Tony makes a point to surprise you constantly. Breakfast in bed with strawberries cut into hearts. A rented cinema room where he plays cheesy rom-coms and throws popcorn at your face. A private stargazing excursion where he spends the first hour trying to outshine the constellations with compliments.

“You’re glowing more than Orion’s Belt right now.”

“Tony, Orion’s Belt doesn’t glow.”

“Exactly. You’re better.”

You never stop laughing.

Even when the paparazzi catch you again during a spontaneous deckside dance—Tony in swim trunks and a linen shirt, you in a sarong and sunglasses—neither of you cares.

Because under the flashbulbs and luxury, the cruise becomes something more: a floating reminder that no matter how big the world gets around you, you’ve built something small and indestructible in each other.

Some nights, after too much wine and dancing, you curl up in bed with your head on his chest and whisper, “We could disappear. Just keep sailing.”

Tony runs his fingers through your hair. “Maybe we already did.”

You fall asleep like that. To the rhythm of the waves. To the sound of his heartbeat against your ear. To the quiet knowledge that no matter where the world chases you, you’re always home together.

And the cruise?

It’s just the beginning of your forever.

---

You’re lounging on your private deck, the sun warm against your bare skin, salt-slick and soft from the ocean breeze. The cruise ship has been everything you could’ve hoped for—quiet moments, laughter, soft silk robes dropped to the floor like afterthoughts. And this deck? It’s become a haven. No one is supposed to be able to see you here. The angles are perfect. The privacy absolute.

Or so you thought.

You’ve just unwrapped your top—tan lines be damned—and stretched out on the sun lounger when you hear it.

The faintest click.

It’s not the breeze. Not a bird. It’s sharp. Mechanical.

A camera.

You sit up quickly, wrapping your arms across your chest, heart already racing. You scan the surrounding area—your deck is bordered by railings, a few planters, and a sheer privacy screen... but past that...

Movement. Someone crouching behind a decorative privacy divider.

“Tony?” your voice is already shaking.

He’s inside, grabbing a drink from the minibar, but at the sound of your voice—tight and wrong—he’s out in a second. One look at your face, your bare shoulders, your arms clenched around yourself, and he knows.

It all happens fast.

Tony sees the photographer.

His voice goes cold and sharp. “Hey.”

The man jerks up, tries to bolt. Too slow.

Tony’s on him in three strides.

“What the hell are you doing?” he snarls, grabbing the guy’s arm and twisting the camera from his hands. “You broke onto our private deck?”

“I—I didn’t think anyone was out here—” the man stammers.

“Oh, you didn’t think? You didn’t think while you were snapping photos of my wife half-naked?” Tony’s voice is dangerous now. Deadly quiet. He’s already pulling up the playback on the camera, his jaw locking when he sees exactly what you were afraid of.

Tony deletes the photos one by one. But it’s not enough.

He lifts the camera. Then, with no hesitation, slams it against the deck rail. Metal and glass splinter and collapse. He kicks it over the edge, straight into the water.

The man flinches back. “That’s expensive equip—”

“I don’t give a damn,” Tony growls. “You’ll never work again. I’ll make sure of it. You violated her privacy, broke the law, and I will sue. I’ll drag your name so far down in court you won’t even get hired to photograph seaweed.”

Security’s already on its way—summoned by a Stark override Tony initiated the second he stepped outside. The man tries to protest, tries to explain, but Tony just stands between him and you like a wall, like a storm.

You haven’t said anything.

You’re standing against the deck doors now, Tony’s shirt thrown on, barely buttoned, your hands trembling as you grip the fabric closed. You can’t stop your breath from stuttering. Can’t stop your eyes from welling up.

It wasn’t supposed to happen here. Not on your honeymoon. Not in your safe place.

By the time security drags the man away, Tony’s shaking.

He turns back to you and his face crumbles. “Baby—”

You shake your head, trying to force a smile. “I’m okay.”

He steps toward you slowly, like you’re porcelain.

“No, you’re not.”

You let out a broken breath and fold into his arms, burying your face in his chest. He pulls you close, tighter than tight, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other around your waist. You can feel how furious he is under the surface—his muscles tense, his pulse pounding. But his voice stays soft when he speaks to you.

“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have let this happen.”

“It’s not your fault,” you mumble.

But the feeling sticks. All day. Even after he files the lawsuit personally, gets the cruise staff involved, and makes ten phone calls to his legal team. Even after they confirm the photographer will be charged and blacklisted.

Even after all of that, you still feel... hollow.

You curl up on the couch in the suite with your knees tucked under you. You try to laugh at a movie Tony puts on, but the smile doesn't reach your eyes. You try to eat dinner, but you pick at your plate.

You feel watched, even when you know you aren’t.

Exposed. Violated.

He sees it all. Every flicker across your face. Every little way your shoulders stay tense, like you’re waiting for another camera to click.

Later that night, you’re brushing your teeth in the bathroom when he comes up behind you and wraps his arms around your waist. He rests his chin on your shoulder and meets your eyes in the mirror.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he says quietly. “I know this hurt you.”

You nod, slowly. “I feel like I can’t breathe all the way.”

He doesn’t try to fix it with words. He just turns you gently, takes your face in his hands, and kisses your forehead.

“Come to bed with me,” he murmurs.

You do.

He tucks you in like something precious. Pulls the sheets around you and slides in behind you, spooning you close. His chest against your back, his breath warm against your neck. His hand rubs slow circles on your side until your body finally, finally starts to soften.

“I’ll protect you,” he whispers. “Always.”

You believe him.

But the feeling lingers like a shadow.

And tomorrow, he’ll fight like hell to bring back the sun.

----

The paparazzi are gone.

Swept off the ship like dust in a storm.

Tony makes sure of it. Not just the one who trespassed, but any “media-affiliated guest” on board who so much as asked about you afterward. Their names are pulled, their access revoked, and by the next day, it’s like they never existed.

The silence that follows feels different.

Not eerie. Not empty.

Safe.

And slowly, your shoulders begin to relax.

The deck becomes yours again. Yours and Tony’s.

You still keep a light robe tied around you when you step out into the sun at first, fingers brushing over the knot at your waist like it’s armor. But there’s no camera shutter. No strange eyes. Just wind, salt, and Tony sitting nearby with sunglasses perched low on his nose, watching you like you hung the stars.

“Hey,” he says one morning, as you pour yourself a mimosa.

You glance over. “Yeah?”

He lifts his sunglasses, brows raised slightly. “I haven’t seen that smile in a few days.”

You don’t realize you’ve been smiling until he says it.

It’s small. But it’s there.

You walk over and sit beside him, your knee knocking gently into his. He lifts your hand to his lips and kisses each fingertip like they deserve worship.

“I missed you,” he murmurs.

“I was right here.”

“No. I mean this you.”

You lean into his shoulder and say nothing, because your throat tightens, but this time—it’s not sadness. It’s the gentle ache of relief. Of something beginning to settle inside you again.

The next few days blur together in the best way.

There are bubble baths, long ones. You pour so much bath foam in your massive suite tub that Tony jokes it’s become a marshmallow pit. You laugh as bubbles cling to your shoulders and float in your hair. He sinks in behind you, legs on either side of yours, arms around your middle.

“You’re getting soft,” you tease him, leaning back into his chest.

“You married me like this,” he replies, nosing along your temple. “Hopeless. Smitten. Foam-scented.”

You spend hours in that bath, doing nothing but touching skin and whispering things you won’t remember exactly later—only how they made you feel. Warm. Protected. Desired.

The hot tub on the private deck becomes a favorite.

It’s quiet at night, the sky above vast and dark, stars scattered across it like glitter tossed by careless gods. The water is steaming. Your bodies are bare.

Tony always pulls you close in the water, thighs straddling his, your hands sliding into his hair as the jets hum quietly beneath you. He lets you lead—lets you take your time. Your mouths meet slowly, over and over, kisses dragging like the lazy pull of waves.

His hands stay firm at your hips, holding you there like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

Sometimes you’re too breathless to speak. Sometimes you whisper his name and he says yours like it’s the only one that’s ever existed.

It’s slow. Intentional. Healing.

You fall asleep in tangled sheets and wake up to sunlight slanting across the room and Tony already staring at you, the back of his fingers brushing your cheek.

“Still real?” he murmurs.

“Too real. You snored.”

“I don’t snore.”

“You snored into my shoulder for two straight hours.”

“False,” he deadpans. “You dreamed it. Fake news.”

You laugh, and he grins, brushing your hair out of your eyes before kissing you good morning.

Eventually, the cruise comes to an end.

There’s no press waiting at the dock. No flashing cameras. Just a sleek private car, blacked out windows, and the quiet hum of city traffic.

Tony holds your hand the entire drive home.

When the car pulls up to the house—your house now, your shared home—it doesn’t feel like returning to real life.

It feels like stepping into the next chapter.

The front doors open to the familiar scent of cedar and warm electronics. Everything’s exactly where you left it. The art. The scattered gadgets. The throw blanket you’d always steal and Tony would pretend not to notice.

You set your bags down and stand in the foyer, blinking into the golden light filtering through the windows.

Tony comes up behind you, wraps his arms around your waist from behind, and rests his chin on your shoulder.

“Welcome home, Mrs. Stark.”

You close your eyes and breathe him in.

“Home,” you whisper.

And it is. In every way that matters.

That night, after dinner and laughter and dancing barefoot in the kitchen to a playlist Tony swears was generated by “your exact heart-rate metrics,” you fall into bed together with limbs still warm from wine and dancing.

He slides under the covers beside you, pulling you on top of him. You kiss along the scar on his shoulder, down the line of his chest, your hands learning every curve of muscle like it’s your first time again.

He watches you, eyes soft, worshipful.

“You’re glowing,” he says. “It’s not the stars. It’s you.”

You don’t speak—you just press your forehead to his and breathe together.

His hands cradle your hips, and you move slowly, in no rush, like you have forever—because you do. You take your time, memorize every sound he makes, every gasp, every whispered praise.

Afterward, he holds you close, his breath slow and deep beneath your ear.

You draw idle patterns over his chest and smile to yourself.

You’re home.

And nothing—not cameras, not press, not the weight of the world—can take this from you.

[junegoal]

I know your requests are closed, but daaaamn, I need another part of "Forced Marriage" 😭😭😭😭😭 a late honeymoon, oh, to Italy, I love Italy 😭 and more of Tony being the cutest, sweetest and the most loving and devoted husband EVER!!!! 🤧 also, KIDS 🥹 what about twins? One of each? Let the girl dream 😭 but Tony taking care of a pregnant wife and dad!Tony is the best thing ever, especially yours 🩷🩷

Again, I know your requests are closed, I 100% respect that, don't mind me 🫠

FORCED MARRIAGE - part 2

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

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

ᯓ★ Genre romance, fluff and spicy

ᯓ★ Word count: 8.3k

ᯓ★ Summary:what the asks said lol

ᯓ★ TW(s): nothing I think, just a little spicy scene

ᯓ★ Part 1

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

Italy is your idea, but Tony’s the one who makes it perfect.

He books everything before you can blink—private jet, villa in Tuscany, romantic dinners lined up for a week straight. “If we’re finally doing this,” he says, tossing you a smirk as he flips his phone shut, “we’re doing it the right way. No boardrooms, no cameras, no press. Just you and me.”

You glance at him over the top of your coffee mug. “So, no suitcases filled with arc reactors and gadgets?”

He lifts a brow. “I only packed one suit of armor, thank you very much.”

He’s joking—mostly—but the truth is, Tony’s been different. Since the gala, since that bathroom, since everything... he’s been present. He makes time. He listens. He loves you, openly and without shame, and you can feel it in everything he does. He doesn’t need to say it every day, though he does, in little ways:

In the way he brushes hair behind your ear without thinking.

In the way he sets an extra pillow where your knee gets sore sometimes.

In the way he kisses your shoulder in the morning and whispers, “Still here.”

The flight to Italy is quiet and calm. For once, neither of you needs to pretend. You fall asleep with your head on his shoulder, and when you wake up, he’s still holding your hand.

The villa he’s chosen is perched on a hillside, surrounded by vineyards and olive groves. The air smells like rosemary and warm stone and blooming flowers. The sky is impossibly blue.

You walk through the stone archway into the sun-drenched villa, and Tony whistles, impressed—even though he’s the one who bought the place for the week.

“Okay,” he says, dropping your bags inside the doorway. “I have a checklist.”

You give him a look. “A checklist? You?”

“Oh, don’t act surprised. I can be organized. Sometimes.” He clears his throat. “Item one: kiss wife in Tuscany.”

You arch a brow. “That’s oddly specific.”

“I’m a man of taste.” He walks over, grabs your waist, and kisses you slow and deep until your knees nearly give out. When he finally pulls back, he’s smiling like an idiot. “Check.”

You laugh against his mouth. “What’s item two?”

“Make pasta. Badly. Burn things. Throw flour at each other. Rom-com level disaster.”

And he’s not wrong.

Later that afternoon, after a lazy nap wrapped in crisp linen sheets and a warm breeze drifting through the open balcony, Tony insists on making fresh pasta from scratch, despite the fact that neither of you really knows what you’re doing.

It starts with enthusiasm and ends in chaos. Flour coats the kitchen, your hair, Tony’s face. A cracked egg drips off the counter. You accidentally launch a handful of dough across the room, and Tony dramatically declares war by smearing tomato sauce on your cheek.

You shriek, lunging at him, but he catches you around the waist and lifts you up onto the counter, kissing you like it’s the only thing that matters in the world.

And maybe it is.

Dinner is a slightly undercooked mess. You both eat every bite anyway.

Afterward, barefoot and tipsy on a bottle of red wine Tony opened with too much force, you sit outside under a canopy of fairy lights, the stars just beginning to show.

Tony has his arm around your shoulders. You’re wearing one of his loose t-shirts, and he’s in soft linen pants and nothing else. The warm wind rustles through the cypress trees, and there’s music playing from a small speaker nearby—some classic Italian tune Tony insisted was necessary for the vibe.

You lean your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart.

“I like this version of us,” you murmur.

Tony presses a kiss to your hair. “Me too.”

“Why’d it take us so long to get here?”

He exhales slowly, like he’s been thinking about that a lot too. “Because I was a coward,” he admits. “And I didn’t deserve you. But I’m not letting you go now.”

You lift your eyes to his, studying the way the firelight flickers in them. “I’m not planning to leave.”

His smile is soft, nothing like the smirks he used to give you. “Good.”

The first day of your honeymoon ends with you curled up in his lap, the air filled with the scent of wine and rosemary, your laughter echoing in the hills.

And for once, there’s no bitterness. No tension. No fear.

Just love. And peace. And Tony Stark, holding you like he never wants to let you go.

---

The next morning starts off peaceful—until it doesn’t.

You wake before Tony, sunlight streaming in through the sheer curtains, birds chirping somewhere outside. You stretch, a sleepy smile playing on your lips as you take in the soft warmth of the sheets, the way Tony’s hand is still resting on your hip even in his sleep.

But then your stomach lurches.

Suddenly. Violently.

You barely make it to the bathroom before you're on your knees, heaving into the toilet.

Tony stumbles in moments later, his hair a disaster, shirtless and wide-eyed. “Sweetheart?”

You wave him off weakly, spitting out the last of the bile. “M’fine.”

“You’re not fine,” he says, kneeling beside you like he’s ready to call in a full emergency medical team. “Are you sick? Food poisoning? Was it the undercooked pasta? I knew we shouldn’t have eaten that. I swear if this is salmonella, I’m buying the entire food safety board of Italy.”

You groan and slump against the cool tile, resting your head against the wall. “Tony, calm down. It’s probably nothing.”

“Nothing?” His voice goes up an octave. “You were throwing up! That’s literally something. That's a huge, very alarming something!”

“I’m okay,” you mumble. “Just… nauseous.”

Tony’s already pulling his phone out, muttering to himself. “We need a doctor. Maybe two doctors. No, we’ll fly one in from Switzerland. Private jet. I’ll—”

“Tony!” you cut him off, grabbing his wrist. “Let’s just go to a pharmacy first, okay? It might just be… something simple.”

He pauses, looking at you with deep concern. “Fine. But if they don’t have what you need, I will buy the village. Just saying.”

—

The pharmacy is small and rustic, nestled between two cafes in the heart of the nearby town. It smells like lavender and lemons, with shelves stacked high with herbal remedies and charmingly mismatched bottles.

Tony sticks out like a sore thumb in his expensive sunglasses and hoodie, hovering behind you like a nervous bodyguard.

An elderly Italian woman emerges from the back, dressed in a floral blouse and bold red lipstick. Her silver hair is piled high, and she eyes you both with a mischievous glint.

“Americani?” she guesses immediately, grinning. “Luna di miele?”

“Honeymoon,” Tony murmurs, leaning toward you. “She knows we’re newlyweds.”

The woman winks. “Amore è nel’aria.” Love is in the air. She shuffles closer. “Come posso aiutarti, cara?”

You point to your stomach, trying to mime nausea. “I woke up feeling sick—stomach… blegh.”

The woman squints, then gives you a long, appraising look. She glances at Tony. Then back at you.

And with a delighted little “Ah-ha!”, she reaches behind the counter… and slaps a box onto the counter with a proud flourish.

Tony leans in to read the label.

Then blinks.

Then blinks again.

“A pregnancy test?” he says, voice cracking slightly.

The woman beams. “Sì! Congratulazioni!”

You stare at the box. Then at her. Then at Tony.

“Wait,” you whisper. “She thinks I’m pregnant?”

Tony looks at you, visibly pale. “Are you…?”

“I don’t know!” you hiss.

The woman pushes the box closer to you, her voice cheery and loud. “Due linee rosa! Pink lines, baby!”

You awkwardly thank her, pay for the test, and practically drag Tony out of the pharmacy, the woman shouting behind you, “Felicità! Fate una femmina, è meglio!” Make a girl—it’s better!

Tony’s quiet the entire way back to the villa.

You are too.

The test sits on the bathroom counter like a bomb.

You stare at it. He stares at you.

And finally, with shaking hands, you take the test and close the door.

Minutes pass.

Tony paces outside, muttering under his breath. “Okay. Okay, if it’s positive, we’ll handle it. We’ve got this. I mean—what even is a crib, really? Just a fancy baby cage, right?”

You open the door.

You’re holding the test.

Two pink lines.

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to.

Tony sees it.

His face goes blank. Then slowly, slowly, the emotion starts to flood in—shock, disbelief, and something so soft it nearly makes your knees give out.

He swallows hard. “We’re… gonna have a baby?”

You nod, lip trembling. “Yeah.”

Tony doesn’t move at first.

Then, suddenly, he’s got you in his arms, lifting you off the floor and spinning you around in the hallway.

“Holy hell,” he breathes, kissing your forehead, your cheeks, your mouth. “We’re having a baby.”

You laugh, half-crying, clutching the front of his shirt. “I guess we really are on our honeymoon now.”

“Guess we are.”

He sets you down gently, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I love you,” he whispers. “And I already love this little person we made. And I swear, I’m gonna do this right. No matter what.”

You nod, wiping tears off your cheeks. “I know.”

And when he kisses you again, slow and full of awe, the world seems to stand still—just the two of you, your hearts beating in sync, in a tiny villa in Italy, already beginning the next chapter of your life.

---

The rest of the honeymoon is nothing like you expected—because now, everything is different.

Tony doesn’t let you lift a finger. Not even a coffee cup.

You try to protest—at first. “Tony, I’m pregnant, not fragile.”

But he just lifts a brow, gently takes the mug from your hand, and says, “You’re carrying my child. Which means you’re now a VIP-class spaceship. No turbulence. No sudden movements. Maximum comfort only.”

He’s serious, too.

He adds extra pillows to the bed, orders decaf espresso—grudgingly—for you every morning, and Googles every possible fruit, cheese, and spice to make sure you’re not eating anything “even remotely suspicious.” He downloads four pregnancy tracking apps and cross-references them.

Tony Stark is in full dad mode.

One evening, when you go to watch the sunset with him and try to sit on the stone ledge around the patio, he nearly has a heart attack.

“Nope,” he says, scooping you up like you're made of glass. “You’re not breaking any part of your body before this kid is born.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s like a two-foot drop, Tony.”

“I’ve seen ankles snap for less. Google ‘cobblestone hazards in Tuscany.’ I dare you.”

He makes everything dramatic, but it’s not just nerves—it’s adoration.

He touches your belly like it’s already precious. Talks to it when he thinks you’re asleep. Whispers things like, “You’re gonna love your mom,” or “We’ll start with science toys and then move to building suits,” or, “If you’re a girl, don’t even look at boys until you’re thirty.”

You hear it all.

And your heart falls for him a little more every day.

—

Three days after the pregnancy test, you decide to return to the pharmacy. You owe her—Nonna Rosa, as you find out—for the moment that changed everything.

Tony insists on carrying a bouquet of bright flowers and a bottle of fancy wine.

“I don’t care if she’s probably against drinking because she’s old-school and religious,” he says, adjusting his sunglasses. “She deserves something expensive.”

When you walk into the little shop again, she spots you instantly.

“Ahhhh! La bambina!” she cries, throwing up her hands.

Tony laughs. “Told you. Psychic.”

She rushes over, pulls you into a firm hug, then plants both hands on your cheeks and stares. “Si vede negli occhi! I can see it in your eyes.”

“You really knew,” you say in disbelief. “I hadn’t even missed a period yet.”

She shrugs like it’s nothing. “È l’istinto. It’s instinct. And the glow. And the way he looked at you.”

Tony smirks. “What glow? I was a nervous wreck.”

“You were in love,” she corrects him.

He goes quiet, squeezing your hand.

Nonna Rosa spends the next half hour giving you tea samples for nausea, a handmade charm bracelet for “protection of la madre e il bambino,” and instructions on what herbs to steep at different stages of pregnancy. You leave the shop with two bags of supplies, your stomach sore from laughing, your heart warm.

Before you go, she hugs you both again, then whispers in your ear, “He will be a good papa. You are already a good mama.”

You blink back tears. “Thank you.”

—

Back at the villa, Tony’s affection only deepens.

When you get emotional watching a commercial about olive oil, he doesn’t laugh—he just pulls you into his arms, rubbing your back until the tears pass.

When you mention feeling bloated, he books a private massage therapist who specializes in prenatal care and says, “I’ll tip her enough to pay her rent for a year.”

When you start craving fresh mozzarella and figs at midnight, he drives an hour to the next town to find it.

You fall asleep with his hand resting on your belly every night.

You wake up to forehead kisses and whispered I-love-yous every morning.

And somewhere in between all of that, it finally clicks: This isn’t just a changed man.

This is a man who wants to build something with you.

A life. A family. A future.

—

On the last night of the honeymoon, you stand on the balcony with him, watching the Tuscan sky fade into stars. He wraps his arms around you from behind, hands resting just under your growing waistline.

“You know,” he murmurs against your ear, “I used to think love was a weakness.”

You tilt your head slightly. “And now?”

He presses a kiss to your temple. “Now I know it’s the only thing worth fighting for.”

You cover his hands with yours. “You’re going to be a great dad, Tony.”

He swallows hard, voice a little rough when he answers. “Only because you’re going to be the heart of this family.”

---

Coming back home feels different this time—like you’re stepping into a new chapter. One that hums quietly with anticipation and change.

Tony doesn’t let you carry a single bag off the plane, despite the fact that you’re still barely showing. “You’re carrying everything that matters,” he says, snapping his fingers at Happy, who takes your suitcase with a nod. “She gets airport princess treatment now.”

The Stark penthouse has been dusted, prepped, and stocked—Tony made sure of it before you even landed. There’s already a room cleared out across from your bedroom, not quite a nursery yet, but he looks at it with this strange sort of awe every time he walks by.

The next morning, he’s up at 6 a.m., pacing, already dressed and muttering to himself as he taps anxiously at his StarkPad.

You’re still brushing your teeth when he pokes his head into the bathroom. “Are you ready? We should leave in ten. Maybe fifteen, if we account for traffic. I already paid off three guys to clear the garage so Happy can pull the car around faster. Also—I downloaded the entire obstetrics textbook from Harvard Medical School and cross-checked it with six blogs. I’m ready for this.”

You spit into the sink and blink at him. “Tony. We’re just getting an ultrasound.”

“Exactly!” he says, eyes wide like you’ve just missed the apocalypse. “An ultrasound. Our baby. Who, by the way, has not responded to any of my nightly pep talks. I think they’re already ignoring me.”

You stifle a laugh and wipe your mouth. “It’s the size of a lime, Tony. It doesn’t know you’re talking to it.”

He scoffs. “Rude. I’m extremely charming.”

You roll your eyes and walk out to grab your coat, and he immediately follows, already fretting. “Do you want snacks? Water? What if you get cold in the waiting room? Should I bring a backup sweater for you? And backup for the backup?”

“Tony.”

“Yeah?”

“I love you. But if you don’t stop panicking, I’m going to need medical attention.”

He stops in his tracks. Blinks. Then smiles sheepishly. “Right. Sorry. I’m chill. Totally chill.” He takes a deep breath. “Super chill.”

—

He’s not chill.

Not at the clinic. Not even a little bit.

The poor nurse tries to ask you your name, and Tony blurts it out before you can. “Y/N Stark. She’s my wife. We're having a baby. We're very in love. Also, she's been nauseous, but not today, which I think is progress.”

The nurse gives you a knowing look. You just squeeze Tony’s hand and smile. “We’re here for the first ultrasound.”

They lead you into a cozy, softly lit room with pale blue walls and framed photos of smiling families. Tony paces while you settle onto the exam table, fidgeting as the tech preps the machine.

When the image appears on the screen, the room goes quiet.

There, nestled in the grainy black-and-white blur, is a tiny flicker.

A heartbeat.

Tony’s breath catches audibly. He reaches for your hand, slowly, as if afraid the image might vanish if he moves too fast.

“That’s… them?” he asks softly.

The tech nods, smiling. “That’s your baby.”

Tony doesn’t speak for a full minute. He just stares.

Then, very quietly, he whispers, “Hi, little one.”

You watch him fall in love in real time.

And you know—it’s not just the baby. It’s everything.

You. This life. What you’ve built together.

—

The decision to go public happens faster than you expect.

Tony insists on it.

“No secrets,” he says, pacing in front of the kitchen counter one evening. “I want the world to know. I want them to know. This kid is already the best thing I’ve ever done, and I haven’t even taught them quantum physics yet.”

You raise a brow from the couch. “Tony. I’m barely out of the first trimester.”

He walks over and kneels in front of you, hands on your knees, eyes uncharacteristically serious. “Let me tell them. Let me tell the world how proud I am of you. Of us.”

How can you say no to that?

The announcement goes live two days later: a candid photo of you and Tony on the villa balcony in Italy, your hand resting on your still-flat belly, his arms wrapped around you, both of you laughing like the world doesn’t matter.

The caption reads:

“Coming soon: Baby Stark. And yes, I’ll be building them their first lab by age two. Sorry not sorry.”

The internet breaks.

The press explodes.

Everyone—Avengers, friends, even business rivals—starts reaching out with congratulations.

Even Fury sends a one-word text: Finally.

But none of it compares to the way Tony wraps his arms around you that night, resting his chin on your shoulder as you both scroll through the comments and messages.

“Do you think the baby knows?” you ask softly.

Tony kisses your cheek. “They will. They’ll know they’re loved. Every second. Every minute. Every breath.”

---

Designing the nursery becomes Tony’s newest obsession—something he throws himself into with the same intensity he once reserved for building Iron Man suits and revolutionizing energy.

“We’re not doing boring pastel zoo animals,” he declares one morning, pushing open a tablet full of sleek digital mockups. “This kid’s getting a lab-themed nursery. Chrome mobiles, circuit-board wallpaper, floating shelves for STEM-themed books… I already made a list.”

You arch an eyebrow from where you’re sitting on the couch with swollen ankles and a glass of juice. “They’re going to be born, not code an AI straight out of the womb.”

Tony smirks, sitting beside you and gently lifting your feet into his lap to massage them. “Hey, never underestimate Stark genetics.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help smiling. “Fine. But I want warm tones. Something cozy, not just… titanium chic.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Cozy, but genius. I can work with that.”

And he does. Every evening, you both find yourselves in what was once the empty guest room, standing in the center and imagining your future together.

Color palettes are tested. Tony builds a crib from scratch—out of wood, not metal, because you insisted. He even softens enough to let you choose plush animals for the shelves, despite his comments like, “That bunny’s IQ looks suspiciously low.”

You spend hours hand-painting little constellations across one wall, while he hooks up a night light system that projects stars onto the ceiling.

He reads to your belly at night.

And with every laugh, every tiny kick, every moment you catch him staring at you like you hung the moon—you feel safer. Stronger.

But as weeks stretch into months, something begins to feel… different.

It starts small. You notice that your belly seems to be expanding faster than you expected. You chalk it up to genetics, maybe even water retention, but at your next prenatal yoga class, a woman due at the same time gives you a sideways glance.

“How far along are you again?” she asks, trying to sound casual.

“Twenty-four weeks,” you answer, wiping your forehead.

Her brows lift. “Wow. You’re carrying… a lot.”

You try to brush it off. But later, while Tony’s measuring a bookshelf he’s installing in the nursery, you find yourself tugging down your maternity shirt, eyes lingering on the mirror.

Your belly looks… big.

Bigger than the books say it should be.

That night, lying beside Tony with your hand resting over your belly, you whisper, “Do you think it looks… too big?”

He immediately looks over, concerned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean compared to other women this far along. I saw someone today—same week. She looked half my size.”

Tony sits up a little, his expression sobering. “Are you uncomfortable? Is something hurting?”

“No,” you admit. “Just… wondering.”

He rubs your arm gently. “Well, there’s a million variables. Body type, position of the baby, fluid levels. Maybe our kid just takes after me—big head, big brain, huge personality.”

You smile, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes.

“Let’s call the doctor tomorrow,” he says softly. “Just to check.”

You nod, heart beating a little faster.

And that night, even as he wraps his arms around you and rubs soothing circles against your side, you can’t help feeling something stirring inside you—more than just kicks and flutters.

A question.

A feeling.

Like your body’s holding more than it’s letting on.

---

The next morning, Tony insists on clearing his entire schedule—even cancelling a meeting with the UN tech board—so he can come with you to the OB-GYN.

He doesn’t pace this time. He just holds your hand the entire ride over, thumb tracing slow circles over your knuckles, lips pressed tight in a line he only wears when something's tugging at his heart.

You’re nervous, but not scared. Not really. You just… need to know.

The waiting room is quiet. The exam room colder than usual. And when the gel hits your belly and the ultrasound machine hums to life, your breath catches in your throat.

The doctor’s eyes narrow slightly at the screen, her lips parting. But she doesn’t look alarmed. Just surprised.

Tony notices immediately.

“Okay,” he says, his voice already loaded with anxiety, “that’s not your standard everything’s fine face. What’s going on?”

The doctor smiles, calm and steady.

“Well,” she says, turning the screen toward you both, “you were right about the belly size. Because you're not carrying one baby, Mrs. Stark. You're carrying two.”

You blink. Your brain stutters.

Tony's mouth falls open. “Twins?”

The doctor nods. “Fraternal. Two separate amniotic sacs. One girl…” She moves the probe slightly, points to one side of the screen. “And one boy.” She points to the other.

You stare, heart suddenly thudding so loudly you swear it echoes in the room.

Tony’s breath leaves him in one long exhale. “You’re kidding.”

“Not even a little,” the doctor chuckles. “Congratulations.”

He doesn’t speak right away. He just looks at the screen, wide-eyed, hands slowly releasing yours only so he can press his fingers to the monitor, as if touching it would make it more real.

Then he whispers, so soft it almost breaks you: “A daughter and a son.”

You’re too stunned to say anything for a few seconds.

Then your eyes fill with tears. Not panic. Not fear.

Overwhelmed joy.

Tony turns to you like he’s seeing you all over again.

“You’re incredible,” he says, voice shaking. “You’re actually growing two little humans in there. We made two.” He laughs—a little wild, a little breathless—and swipes his hands down his face. “I need to sit down.”

The doctor smiles. “I’ll give you a few minutes. We’ll go over all the details shortly. Everything looks perfect so far.”

The door clicks closed behind her.

Tony still hasn’t moved. He sits down beside you slowly, as if his knees have given out, and then pulls your hand into his lap. His eyes are shining now, and when he looks at you, it’s like you’re the only thing holding him to the earth.

“Twins,” you say, still not believing it. “I knew I was getting bigger faster but I thought maybe it was just… I don’t know. Pizza.”

He laughs, head falling forward to rest against your shoulder. “We’re gonna need a bigger house.”

You run your fingers through his hair, still blinking away tears. “We already have a whole building.”

“Okay, then we need a wing.”

He lifts his head again, and you both look at the screen once more. Two tiny flickers. Two little lives.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You nod. “Yeah. Are you?”

Tony doesn’t answer with words. He leans forward and kisses you—slowly, reverently, like you’re made of starlight and safety and everything good he’s ever wanted but never believed he deserved.

“I didn’t think I could love you more,” he says against your lips. “But I do.”

And just like that, the weight of the world becomes something warm. Something shared. Something beautiful.

Later, in the car, he announces: “We’re going public. Today. No waiting.”

“Tony…”

“Nope,” he cuts in. “The people deserve to know. And by people, I mean everyone I’ve ever met, looked at, or cyberstalked.”

The new post goes up before the elevator even opens at the penthouse:

“Plot twist: there are TWO Starklings incoming. Yes, I’m panicking. No, I won’t be sleeping for the next 18 years.”

It takes 10 minutes for #StarkTwins to trend worldwide.

And somehow, despite the chaos, despite the double-shock, despite the massive life shift ahead…

You feel calm.

Because he’s right here.

And for the first time, so are they.

---

Shopping for one baby had already been a bit overwhelming. Shopping for two?

That’s a whole new kind of madness—and Tony, of course, leans into it with full-throttle Stark intensity.

“Two of everything,” he declares the morning after the appointment, standing at the foot of your bed with a stylus in one hand and a digital checklist hovering in midair. “Cribs, monitors, sound machines, swaddles—God help me, even diapers. Y/N, do you know how many diapers twins go through?”

You blink blearily up at him, still nestled under the covers. “Please don’t start our day with horror stories.”

“I’ve done the math,” he says gravely, eyes scanning the list like it’s a mission report. “We’ll need at least 9,000 in the first year. That’s not a joke.”

You groan into your pillow. “Don’t say things like that before coffee.”

“Already brewing,” he says, flashing a charming grin. “Also, I hired a twin consultant.”

You sit up, eyes wide. “That’s a thing?”

“It is now,” Tony says, smug as ever. “She’s flying in from Copenhagen. Best in the field. She’s helping with layout optimization and efficiency training. No chaos. Only balance.”

You can't help but laugh. “You act like we’re launching a small army.”

“Babies are a small army,” he replies. “Except they cry, poop, and will destroy your sleep schedule for the foreseeable future.”

—

You visit every boutique in the city—and a few in Paris and Milan via video call. Tony buys out entire sections of one shop in SoHo and has a luxury baby furniture company build two matching custom cribs, one with silver inlay and the other with a star-and-moon motif to match the constellation wall you painted.

The nursery becomes a shared haven—one room for both babies. You and Tony stand in the center of it often now, surrounded by soft creams, deep navy, gold accents, and the twinkling of projected stars overhead.

“Think they’ll like sharing?” you ask one night, brushing your fingers along the edge of one of the cribs.

Tony comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, now fully rounded and glowing with life.

“They’ll be born into the same chaos,” he murmurs, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Might as well share a room and plot world domination together.”

You laugh, leaning into him. “They’ll be a team.”

He presses a kiss to your temple. “Like us.”

—

The names come slowly—weeks of gentle debates, late-night whispers, and quiet moments with your hands joined over your belly.

You go through everything from classic to avant-garde. Tony suggests “Nova” at one point; you counter with “Juliet.” He proposes “JARVIS Jr.” and you tell him he’s banned from naming privileges for 48 hours.

But one evening, long after the sun’s gone down and you’re curled together in bed, you whisper something that changes everything.

“Lyra,” you say softly, fingers resting just left of your navel. “Like the constellation.”

Tony’s silent for a moment. Then he nods slowly, thoughtfully. “Lyra Stark.”

You glance at him. “Too much?”

He shakes his head. “No. It’s beautiful. Poetic. Strong.”

You both look at your belly. She kicks gently, as if in approval.

“And for him?” you ask.

Tony turns his head to look at you. “Kyle.”

“Kyle?”

“Yeah.” He brushes a lock of hair away from your forehead. “Simple. Strong. Doesn’t sound like he’ll invent a killer AI. I like it.”

You smile. “Lyra and Kyle.”

He leans in to kiss you, slow and soft. “Perfect.”

From that moment on, they’re no longer just “the twins.” They’re Lyra and Kyle.

—

As the months pass, their room transforms into a blend of art and innovation—one side with celestial details, soft blues and silvers for Lyra, and the other in calm earth tones, burnt oranges and forest greens for Kyle.

The cribs stand side-by-side beneath a floating mobile of glowing planets and stars Tony designed himself.

Two nameplates hang above the cribs now—crafted from brushed gold and reclaimed oak.

You catch Tony staring at them often. Not with fear. Not with panic.

But with awe.

“They’re really coming,” he says one night, hands cradling your belly, now round and firm beneath your shirt. “I still can’t believe it.”

“They’re lucky,” you whisper, brushing his hair back. “They’ll have you.”

He looks at you, eyes tender. “No. They’ll have us. And they’ll know they were wanted. Every heartbeat. Every breath.”

And that night, curled against him, you feel them kick together for the first time—one, then the other. Strong. Sure.

A team already.

----

The gala is one of those high-profile events that Tony would normally glide through with ease—press, flashing cameras, board members with tight handshakes and tighter smiles. And normally, you’d stand by his side with calm grace, fingers looped through his arm, chin held high.

But tonight feels different.

You’re in your final weeks now. Your belly is undeniably big—so big you had to be sewn into your custom gown while standing because sitting was temporarily off the table. The dark green silk flows beautifully around your curves, but it doesn’t hide anything. Lyra and Kyle are front and center, snug inside you, and moving constantly like they know they’re being paraded through the public eye.

You adjust the shawl around your shoulders for what feels like the fifth time as Tony finishes shaking hands with a Stark Industries partner near the entrance. You shift your weight carefully, not wanting to put too much pressure on your back or feet, which have been swelling lately.

You feel eyes on you—discreet glances from women in body-hugging gowns and men in tailored suits, some with raised brows, others with polite smiles that barely mask surprise.

You try to ignore it.

But you still feel awkward. Huge. And far too visible.

Tony notices the moment your smile dims.

He excuses himself mid-conversation and makes a beeline straight to you, hands immediately landing on your waist and back, steadying you, grounding you.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, scanning your face. “Too much?”

You give him a half-smile, trying to sound lighter than you feel. “Just a little… self-conscious.”

His expression softens instantly, like someone flipped a switch inside his chest.

“Hey,” he murmurs, tipping your chin up with two fingers. “You are glowing. I mean it. You look like a goddamn goddess.”

You snort softly. “A swollen goddess.”

“An unstoppable goddess,” he corrects, kissing your forehead. “Who’s literally growing two new Starks inside her body and still managing to look like the cover of Vogue.”

You roll your eyes, but it helps. His hands don't leave your body for the rest of the night. Every step, every moment, he’s there—offering your hand to lean on, reminding you to sit every twenty minutes, checking that the event staff remembered your water and low-sodium snacks. He even shoos off the press photographers after ten minutes so you don’t have to stand for long.

“You're carrying my entire legacy,” he murmurs once when he helps you into a velvet-lined seat. “The least I can do is keep you off your feet.”

He doesn’t let go of your hand for the rest of the night.

—

Three days later, everything changes.

It starts at dawn. The sky is still painted soft blue and orange when you wake to a strange, warm pressure low in your belly. Not a kick. Not a cramp.

Something else.

You try to stand, and that's when it hits you—sharp and low, then easing into a dull, pulsing wave. You gasp, holding your stomach. Your water breaks seconds later.

Tony is at your side before you can even call for him. He stumbles out of bed in a flurry of blankets and panic.

“What? What? Was that a real gasp? Did something—?”

“My water broke,” you say breathlessly. “It’s happening.”

He stares at you, frozen.

Then: “Holy sh—okay. Okay, yeah. You’re fine. We’re fine. We practiced for this.” He’s already grabbing the go-bag, the phone, barking orders to FRIDAY to call the doctor and alert the hospital.

By the time you’re in the car, gripping his hand and trying to breathe through another contraction, Tony’s all business—but his other hand never stops stroking your back.

“You’re doing amazing,” he says, over and over. “You’ve got this. We’ve got this.”

Labor is long. Hours stretch by, filled with pain and sweat and exhaustion. But he never leaves your side.

Not when you scream through the harder contractions.

Not when you cry from the pressure and the fear.

Not when you beg for it to be over.

And when your body finally gives in and the room is filled with the high, wailing cries of not one—but two—new lives, Tony’s the first to cry.

A nurse lays your daughter on your chest—tiny, pink, with a shock of dark hair and fists curled tight. You barely have time to kiss her head before they bring your son, his cry a little softer but just as strong, his fingers already clutching at your gown.

Tony’s beside you, eyes full of awe and wet with tears. His hands shake as he touches them for the first time.

“They’re here,” he whispers. “Lyra and Kyle. They’re real.”

You manage a tired laugh, voice cracked. “They’re perfect.”

He kisses you hard and long and trembling.

----

Bringing Lyra and Kyle home is like stepping into a dream you didn’t know your heart had written.

But it’s not quiet.

And it’s definitely not restful.

The moment the elevator opens into the penthouse, the real chaos begins.

Lyra starts crying first—sharp and commanding, as if announcing her reign as the older sibling (by two minutes). Kyle follows almost immediately, softer but no less insistent. The sound echoes off the marble floors and sleek walls as if bouncing from every corner of the building.

Tony, still in a soft gray hoodie and cradling the car seat with Kyle, looks at you with eyes wide and shell-shocked. “Did anyone install a mute button? No? Cool. I’ll look into that.”

You’re too exhausted to laugh, but your hand reaches for his anyway, grounding yourself.

The nursery—your carefully designed sanctuary—suddenly feels smaller and louder and much less serene. You gently lay Lyra into her crib, her tiny arms flailing in protest, and immediately Kyle decides he does not want to be separated. His cries ramp up to what Tony calls “critical red alert levels.”

“Okay, okay, he needs backup,” Tony murmurs, scooping him up again with a gentleness that nearly breaks your heart. “Come on, little guy. It’s not that bad. You’re not even paying rent.”

The next 72 hours pass in a blur of feedings, burp cloths, diaper changes, and the faint sound of your sanity unraveling thread by thread.

You barely sleep—maybe an hour at a time. Your body aches. Your hormones are crashing like tidal waves. You cry for no reason sometimes, holding Lyra against your chest in the dark while Tony rubs your back and doesn’t ask questions.

But through it all, he’s there.

Tony Stark, billionaire genius playboy-turned-husband and father, rises to every occasion like he’s been preparing his whole life for this. He’s in the nursery before you even wake to the monitor’s buzz. He handles diaper duty without complaint—even when Kyle somehow manages to get him twice in one change.

He rocks Lyra for hours when she won’t settle, singing her old ‘80s rock ballads off-key, whispering jokes she’ll never remember.

He lets you nap uninterrupted by lying to the entire world that you’re “in a meeting” when reporters start requesting statements and the board tries to reschedule him for “important discussions.”

“The most important discussion I’m having today,” he says firmly into the phone, “is with two humans who weigh less than a cantaloupe and poop like it’s a competitive sport. So unless the building is on fire—no, you know what? Even if it’s on fire, deal with it without me.”

And then he silences his phone and lays beside you while the twins nap, his arm draped protectively across your waist, both of you catching a precious thirty minutes of sleep.

When you wake from one of those naps to the scent of warm food, you shuffle groggily into the kitchen to find him with Lyra strapped to his chest in a baby wrap and a pan of eggs cooking in front of him.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says with a grin. “Lyra says she likes her eggs over easy. She also says I’m her favorite. Sorry, I don’t make the rules.”

You smile so hard you almost cry again.

Later that night, when both babies are miraculously sleeping in their cribs at the same time—tiny arms thrown up in near-identical poses—you lean against the nursery doorway, arms crossed gently over your chest, and watch Tony fuss quietly over the room.

He’s rearranging things that don’t need rearranging. Checking the monitor angle. Adjusting the blanket placement in the cribs.

You walk over and wrap your arms around his waist from behind.

He leans back into your touch immediately. “Can’t believe they’re real.”

“I can’t believe we made them.”

He turns in your arms, eyes soft. “You did most of the work, let’s be honest. I just—”

“You’ve been amazing,” you interrupt gently. “Really.”

He smiles—crooked, a little tired, a little emotional. “I don’t want you to do any of this alone. Ever.”

You pull him down into a kiss. It’s quiet. It tastes like sleep deprivation and love.

---

Life with twins becomes a mosaic of moments—some loud and chaotic, others quiet and golden.

Lyra and Kyle grow faster than you ever thought possible. One moment they’re impossibly small, sleeping curled against your chest, and the next they’re crawling in opposite directions at alarming speeds while Tony frantically tries to babyproof a Stark-level security system from the babies themselves.

“They’re teaming up,” he says one evening, watching as Kyle opens the bottom drawer in the kitchen and hands a spoon to Lyra. “They’re forming a hive mind. You see this, right?”

You’re laughing, even as you pluck the spoon from Lyra’s grip and gently redirect her back toward her soft play area. “They're not a hive. They're siblings.”

“They’re mutinous,” he mutters, but his grin betrays his pride. “Tiny, adorable rebels.”

—

Their first steps come unexpectedly, of course.

You and Tony are both in the nursery one late afternoon, folding laundry together on the floor while the twins babble nonsense to their stuffed animals. Kyle is focused on his favorite one—a green plush dinosaur with a snagged eye—while Lyra, ever observant, is watching you.

You catch her gaze just as she starts to push herself upright.

Tony notices first. “Oh,” he whispers. “Oh-oh-oh.”

She wobbles—one foot, then the other, barely stable—and then she walks.

Three full steps.

Straight into your arms.

You burst into tears, laughing and holding her tight. “You did it, baby!”

Kyle, not to be outdone, immediately lets go of his toy and tries the same thing. He takes two steps, then falls dramatically onto his padded backside, completely unbothered.

Tony claps like he’s just witnessed a world record. “You guys! You guys! You’re walking now? We need helmets. We need security.”

From that day forward, it’s chaos all over again. Mobility changes everything. They explore every room. Open every drawer. Kyle develops a fascination with Tony’s gadgets, and Lyra becomes obsessed with books—she likes to flip through them, point at the pages, and babble nonsense words that sound oddly like commands.

“Mini CEO,” Tony says proudly, watching her point at the same picture of a rocket over and over again.

—

Their words start coming around the same time.

But they’re not exactly dictionary-ready.

Lyra says “muh-muh” when she wants milk and “dah-dee” when she sees Tony walk into the room. Kyle invents his own phrases—“boo-moo” for blanket, “wah-wah” for water, and something that sounds like “da-blurf” that could mean literally anything depending on the tone.

To outsiders, it’s pure chaos.

To you and Tony, it’s a fluent second language.

You translate with ease at the park, at brunches, at family gatherings.

“She wants her bunny,” you say when Lyra looks up at you with big eyes and says “bun-yah-nah.”

“He dropped his truck in the fountain,” Tony explains, deadpan, when Kyle starts shouting “wuh-bloop!” repeatedly and pointing furiously at the edge of the garden.

It becomes a running joke among your friends and staff that only the two of you can understand them.

“You’re like their personal interpreters,” Rhodey says one afternoon, watching the twins toddle around the tower’s rec room.

“More like their unpaid assistants,” Tony mutters, grinning as he catches Kyle mid-wobble and swings him onto his hip. “Bilingual in toddler and fluent in chaos.”

—

By the time Lyra and Kyle are two, your lives are unrecognizable from the ones you had before them. Your house is a blend of elegance and mess—designer furniture paired with foam corner guards, baby gates guarding arc reactors, and a fridge covered in crayon masterpieces you can’t bring yourself to take down.

You and Tony barely sleep some nights, but when you do, it’s together—your bodies curled protectively around each other in a house that now echoes with tiny feet and sweeter-than-anything laughter.

The twins babble to each other constantly—words and sounds you don’t always catch, but that clearly mean something to them. A private language. A world of their own.

Sometimes you watch them from the doorway as they sit together with books or blocks or their favorite stuffed toys, heads close, trading secrets.

“Do you think they know?” you ask Tony one night, as Lyra pats Kyle’s head before handing him her bunny.

“Know what?”

“That they changed everything.”

Tony wraps an arm around your shoulder, pulling you close as the sunlight glows through the window and warms the nursery floor.

“They are everything,” he says softly.

---

Mornings in the Stark household now begin with chaos.

Not a metaphorical kind. No—this is toddler-level bedlam.

The twins wake up at exactly 6:14 AM every single day like little precision alarm clocks forged in the fires of mischief. Today is no different.

You're jolted awake by the sudden crackle of the baby monitor, followed by a loud—and completely unintelligible—battle cry.

"MAH-DEE BEEPBOOP!" Kyle shouts, his voice shrill and��dramatic.

"NOOO KAH-LOOO! DABBA ME!" Lyra wails immediately after, and the sound of what might be a plush bunny hitting the crib bars echoes through the monitor.

You groan softly into your pillow. “They’re fighting over Beepboop again.”

Tony, face smushed into the pillow, mumbles, “I’ll give you two million dollars if you go get them.”

“Make it three and coffee.”

He sighs, rolls out of bed, and limps toward the nursery in pajama pants and a shirt that says “World’s Okayest Dad.”

You follow moments later to find him kneeling between two cribs, holding up the infamous Beepboop—a lumpy stuffed robot with one missing arm.

Kyle points with all the moral authority of a tiny Supreme Court judge. “BEEPBOOP me, Dadda. Me say dib-dib-dib! Lyyyyra cheat!”

Lyra scowls, pigtails wild. “NO! Bepbop NO dib-dib! Me hug Beepboop ALL night! Me! Me! Me! MAAAAAA!”

Tony’s trying not to laugh. “Okay, okay. Court is in session. Both plaintiffs, present your evidence.”

You squat down beside him and gently take Beepboop. “What if Beepboop gets two turns today? Lyra can have him during story time, and Kyle during nap time?”

They both squint at you like suspicious diplomats.

Kyle crosses his arms. “Hmph. Nap boring. Bepbop NO nap.”

Lyra’s lip quivers. “But me hug him! Hug like—like foreber!”

You hold Beepboop up and look between them. “Teamwork or timeout?”

A long beat.

Then—both toddlers sigh in unison, as if burdened by the unbearable injustice of compromise.

“Fiiiine,” Kyle mutters.

“Me HUG first,” Lyra insists one last time.

—

Breakfast is…something.

Tony makes pancakes, but Kyle insists on helping, which really means slapping the counter with flour-covered hands and taste-testing raw batter with his fingers.

“NOOOO EGGY!” he yells dramatically as Tony cracks one into the bowl.

Tony raises a brow. “What do you mean ‘no eggy’? It’s a pancake. Pancakes need eggs.”

“No eggy, no eggy, NOOOO!” Kyle insists, absolutely scandalized.

Meanwhile, Lyra has decided her only utensil today is a measuring cup, which she is currently using to ladle syrup from the bottle directly onto her pancake. The pancake is now more syrup than food.

You sit with your mug of tea and watch, amazed that these tiny humans are somehow so much like you and Tony and yet such chaotic goblins.

“Banana?” Lyra asks, holding up a pancake completely drowning in syrup.

“You want banana on that?” you ask.

She nods like it’s obvious. “Banana IN pancake. Like brrrrr-BAM. ‘Splode banana.”

Tony stares. “Okay… That’s actually a genius idea. Banana explosion pancakes. Trademark pending.”

—

Midday is supposed to be calm.

Supposed to be.

But then there’s the puzzle incident.

Lyra wants to complete a big animal puzzle. Kyle wants to climb on it like Godzilla.

Lyra screeches, “NO SMOOSH ELEFAMP!” as Kyle lays across the puzzle dramatically.

You’re folding laundry when she marches into the living room with two chunky toddler fists clenched and fire in her eyes. “MOM-MEEE. Bubba make puzzle DEAD. Him SMASH elefamp.”

Kyle shouts from the floor behind her, “HIM NAP with effa-famp! Nap! It cuddly!”

Tony watches the scene like a referee between tiny wrestlers.

“I have no idea what’s happening,” he mutters. “They both sound right.”

You lean over and whisper, “He’s cuddling the elephant piece. She thinks he’s committing puzzle war crimes.”

Tony nods solemnly. “That tracks.”

—

Nap time is sacred.

Except no one wants to sleep today.

Tony’s strategy involves lying between their little toddler beds and making spaceship noises. “The sleep ship is docking. Commander Kyle, permission to close eyes.”

Kyle blinks at him and deadpans, “Me NO commander. Me banana.”

Lyra giggles. “Commander Nana!”

Tony puts a hand over his heart. “You’re right. Commander Banana, lead the sleepy fleet.”

You stifle laughter from the doorway as he drones on: “Fueling dreams… activating nap boosters…”

By some miracle, both fall asleep fifteen minutes later. You and Tony high-five silently and collapse onto the couch.

“Remember when we thought we were tired before we had kids?” you whisper.

Tony nods, eyes already closing. “Fools. Arrogant, well-rested fools.”

—

Bath time is wet, splashy, and full of giggles.

Kyle babbles a long, incomprehensible monologue involving “tub-fish” and “soap army,” while Lyra insists the shampoo bottle is “Prince Bubble” and must not be harmed.

By the time they're in pajamas and tucked in, you and Tony are damp, exhausted, and laughing under your breath.

“Me lub you, Dadda,” Kyle whispers as his eyes flutter closed.

“Me lub you, Momma,” Lyra echoes.

You and Tony freeze.

Those are the clearest words they’ve spoken all day.

Your throat catches. Tony blinks rapidly, lips curving.

“I love you both more than the whole world,” you whisper, smoothing back Lyra’s hair.

Tony leans in and kisses their foreheads gently. “Even more than my vintage car collection. And that’s saying something.”

[junegoal]

Hii!!

Sorry ik in your bio it says reqs are closed but I needed to get this out of ny head😭

Tony w/ a curly-haired s/o? Something sweet and fluffy and stuff

Or maybe a little drabble or smthn of Tony with a shy s/o whos love language is quality time? Maybe she specifically likes hearing his voice and all his sarcastic comments

Anywho please answer this whenever and take your time

Also take care of yourself!! Remember to drink water and eat something!!!<3<3

TONY WITH A SHY CURLY HAIRED S/O - A Drabble

Tony is like the king of extroverts to I think it's only right for him to have a shy s/o, like opposites attracts type of thing...

The first time you meet the Avengers, you barely say a word.

“She talks,” he teases, slinging an arm around your shoulder with a protective pull. “Just not to people she doesn’t like. So don’t take it personally, Cap.”

Your curls are always a point of fascination for him. He’ll twirl one around his finger absently while working, half-focused on a screen and half-focused on you.

“How the hell does it still smell like coconut?” he murmurs, nose buried in your hair. “What sorcery is this? Do you do rituals in the shower? Are you a witch?”

“It’s conditioner,” you mumble, curling closer to him.

“Conditioner,” he repeats like it’s a sacred relic. “God-tier stuff. We should patent your head.”

You love his voice. The sarcasm. The commentary. The rambling. You’d never admit it out loud, but sometimes you ask him things just to hear him talk.

“You don’t actually care what an arc reactor does,” he narrows his eyes at you suspiciously after your third “explain it again?” in one week.

You give him a tiny smile, half-hiding behind your mug of tea.

“You just like my voice, don’t you?” he grins. “Knew it. Knew I sounded sexy when I’m being a genius.”

You spend hours doing nothing together, just lying around, you tracing patterns on his chest while he drones on about quantum nonsense or celebrity gossip or what he’d name your hypothetical dog.

Sometimes you fall asleep with your ear pressed to his chest, listening to his heartbeat and the occasional sarcastic comment aimed at FRIDAY.

“She’s drooling on me,” he’ll whisper dramatically.

“She’s perfect,” he’ll add, softer.

hope you like it <3

[junegoal]

Hey if you're still writing requests, can you plz make one where Tony's kid/s hear him & yn one night (iykyk) and ask what are those noises and randomly popping the question how they were born..?? His responses to questions like this would be epic😂 You can write it however you want... Thanks!

Your recent works "Stuck" and "Prom" were awesome btw

LATE NIGHTS AND LITTLE EARS

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

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

ᯓ★ Genre: fluff, romance, rom-com

ᯓ★ Word count: 5.8k

ᯓ★ Summary: what the ask said + family cuddle attack at the end

ᯓ★ TW(s): mild sexual content (but like three spicy scenes, only one more explicit), suggestive humor, and awkward discussions involving young children asking about adult topics

ᯓ★ I've tried being more explicit than usual in the spicy scenes and I dont know how it turned out...

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

It starts, like most mornings, with screaming.

Not the horror-movie kind, though. The kid kind. The kind that comes with stomping feet, a door slamming somewhere down the hallway, and the unmistakable crash of a cereal bowl hitting the tile. It’s 7:03 AM. The sun hasn’t even crept through the curtains yet.

“Howard Stark the Second, I swear to god—”

“That was Nova’s fault!”

“Was not! You pushed me!”

You groan, already reaching blindly for Tony beside you, only to find empty sheets and the faint scent of coffee lingering on his pillow. Of course. He’s escaped. Again. Probably hiding in the lab with his AI and his fancy espresso machine while you’re left to referee the Hunger Games: Child Edition.

You throw the blanket off and shuffle toward the disaster zone, feet cold against the marble as you round the corner into the kitchen.

Nova is standing on a chair, her curls sticking up in five different directions, her favorite purple pajamas soaked in milk. She’s holding a spoon like a weapon. Howard is shirtless, pouting, arms crossed like he’s preparing for a legal battle.

And in the middle of the chaos—Tony Stark, billionaire-genius and traitor to mornings—leans casually against the island counter, sipping coffee like this is all just background noise to his suave little world.

You glare at him. “You heard that and didn’t step in?”

He shrugs, holding out your mug like a peace offering. “I figured you’d want to start your day with a warm beverage and the beautiful sound of our children expressing themselves creatively through violence.”

“Tony.”

“Babe.”

He winks at you, all smug and gorgeous in his sweatpants and vintage Black Sabbath tee, and you hate that it still makes your stomach flip. Even after ten years. Even after two kids and zero sleep and more milk-related incidents than you care to count.

You take the coffee, but not the bait. Not yet.

“Go upstairs and change,” you tell Nova gently, brushing milk off her sleeve. “And Howard, you don’t get to push your sister because she took the last Lucky Charms marshmallow.”

“She licked it, Mom.”

“Tony,” you say, not taking your eyes off Howard, “tell your son what we think about food-based revenge in this house.”

Tony takes a dramatic sip of his coffee, then says, “Only if it’s funny.”

You shoot him a look. He puts his hands up in surrender.

“Okay, okay. No food-based revenge. Unless it involves whipped cream and your mother.”

“Tony!”

Howard’s face twists into a grimace. “Ew! Why are you like this?”

Nova screams from upstairs, “I HATE MILK! I NEED A TOWEL!”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “I am running away. I am joining the circus.”

“You’d look hot in sequins,” Tony muses, setting down his mug. “But I have better ideas. One of them involves locking the bedroom door, and the other involves my mouth—”

The kitchen timer dings before he can finish. You groan.

“Did you make pancakes?”

Tony grins. “Blueberry. I added protein powder. Because I care about your glutes.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Are you trying to butter me up?”

He takes a step closer, crowding into your space. “Literally and figuratively.”

His hand slides around your waist, his palm warm even through the oversized hoodie you slept in. He leans in, mouth brushing your ear. “Five minutes. Closet. No one will notice.”

You let yourself close your eyes for one beat. Just one. Because god, the man is intoxicating, and he knows it. Always has. You remember what five minutes with Tony Stark can do to your sanity—and your vocal cords.

Then Nova yells from upstairs again. “I CAN’T FIND ANY PANTS!”

Tony sighs against your neck. “Our children are a menace.”

“Wonder where they got it from.”

He grins and presses a quick, heated kiss to your cheek before releasing you.

You move like a well-oiled machine through the morning madness. Pancakes are served. Nova is bribed into jeans with the promise of extra syrup. Howard gets a lecture about breakfast table etiquette while sneaking a bite of Tony’s second helping. You pack their lunches while Tony puts their backpacks by the door—only to realize they’ve drawn on them in permanent marker again. There’s glitter in Nova’s hair. A Lego in Tony’s shoe.

Somewhere between tying shoelaces and signing a permission slip, Tony grabs your hand. “You know I’m crazy about you, right?”

You give him a tired but fond look. “Even when I smell like milk and mediates sibling fights before 8 AM?”

“Especially then.”

He steals another kiss—this one longer, deeper—and you don’t fight it. Not even when you hear the twins gagging in unison behind you.

“Gross,” Nova mutters, grabbing her water bottle.

“You’ll understand when you’re older,” Tony calls as they head for the front door.

“You guys kissed! In front of us! That should be illegal!”

Howard points at his eyes, then at the two of you. “I’m watching you.”

The door closes behind them, the school bus rumbling down the street seconds later.

Silence settles. Blessed, beautiful silence.

You sigh, leaning against the counter. Tony is already beside you again, fingers walking up your thigh. “So. About that closet…”

You snort. “You are incorrigible.”

“And horny,” he says brightly. “Don’t forget horny.”

“I have exactly thirty minutes before I need to be on a Zoom call.”

He glances at the clock. “Thirty minutes is practically a romantic getaway in Stark Standard Time.”

You roll your eyes—but you’re already moving, letting him tug you down the hallway and into the closet. He locks the door with a flourish, spins you into his arms like he’s still the playboy from years ago. And maybe he is, a little. But now he’s your playboy. Your husband. Your chaos. Your partner in pancake crimes and stolen morning quickies.

He tilts your chin up, voice low and sincere this time. “You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Even in that hoodie. Especially in that hoodie.”

You arch a brow. “Is this where you ask me to leave it on?”

“Oh no, this is where I take it off very, very slowly.”

And maybe it’s not Paris or a penthouse or some wild escapade in Monaco, but in this tiny closet, surrounded by shoes and laundry and the faint echo of your kids’ chaos—you feel like the luckiest woman in the world.

---

It’s chaos. Again.

You knew it would be. School pick-up always is. But today? Today is worse.

The moment you pull up in the car, Nova is standing outside the gate, arms crossed, face scrunched into a perfect replica of Tony’s trademark pout. Howard is next to her, holding a half-crushed science project and looking deeply betrayed.

You barely get the car into park before Nova is yanking the door open.

“I’m never speaking to Ms. Rivera again,” she declares, climbing into the backseat with the kind of melodrama that makes you want to laugh and scream all at once.

Howard flops in beside her with a heavy sigh. “She made me sit next to Logan. Logan chews pencils.”

You blink. “Wait—what happened to Ms. Rivera?”

“She said I couldn’t glue glitter on my rocket ship because it’s ‘not realistic,’” Nova huffs. “But it’s space! Space is supposed to be magical!”

“She doesn’t understand the vision,” Howard mutters solemnly.

“Clearly,” you reply, pulling back into traffic. “So, glitter rockets and pencil chewers. Got it.”

As you drive, your phone buzzes. A text from Tony.

bring the tiny chaos goblins to the lab. surprise for them. and for you 😘

You smile despite the traffic, then glance in the rearview mirror. “Wanna stop by Dad’s lab before we go home?”

Nova perks up immediately. “Is Dum-E there?!”

Howard leans forward. “And Butterfingers? And the cool robot arm thing that almost decapitated Dad last week?”

You hum thoughtfully. “All the above. But only if we all agree not to glue glitter to anything inside Stark Industries. Deal?”

Nova hesitates. “What if it’s tastefully applied?”

“Deal, Nova.”

She sighs dramatically. “Fine.”

Twenty minutes later, you’re stepping into the glass-paneled elevator of Stark Tower, kids practically vibrating with excitement. The AI greets you by name—well, greets you politely and then calls the twins “incoming small agents of entropy.” Accurate.

The lab is buzzing, literally. Lights flicker, machines whir, and in the middle of it all, Tony is crouched beside a new prototype—a sleek, four-legged bot that looks like a cross between a puppy and a drone.

Nova lets out a shriek of joy. “YOU MADE A ROBOT DOG?!”

Tony grins, looking far too pleased with himself. “Meet Bark-E. Still in beta. Sometimes mistakes shadows for threats. Or feet.”

As if on cue, the robot dog whirs to life, scans the twins, and starts barking—an adorably mechanical, high-pitched sound that makes both kids dissolve into laughter.

While they chase Bark-E around the lab, Tony comes up behind you, slipping an arm around your waist and pulling you close.

“You like your surprise?” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple.

“I thought the robot was the surprise.”

“Oh, sweetheart. That’s the kids’ surprise.”

You tilt your head. “And mine?”

He smiles. That slow, wicked one. “You’ll see.”

But not yet. Not while the kids are riding Bark-E like a mechanical bull and trying to convince JARVIS to play Let It Go on loop over the speakers.

After about forty-five minutes, you pry the twins off the robot and promise ice cream at home if they behave on the way out. They do. Barely.

By the time dinner is done—chicken nuggets and mac and cheese, because parenting is survival—and the twins are finally tucked into bed, you’re drained. Exhausted. But also... alive. Somehow, despite the madness of the day, there’s a buzz under your skin that hasn’t gone away since Tony whispered in your ear at the lab.

You’re curled up on the couch, scrolling through emails you’ve already read three times, when you feel him behind you.

His hand slides over your shoulder, down your arm, then rests on your thigh. “They’re asleep.”

You glance up. “Are you sure?”

He leans down, mouth brushing your ear again. “I double-checked. They’re both snoring. Loudly.”

You turn your head slightly. “And you think that means we can just... sneak off and have a moment?”

“I don’t think,” he says, already pulling you to your feet. “I know.”

He leads you to the bedroom, slow and quiet, the way you used to sneak out of galas to find somewhere dark and private. The air shifts the second the door clicks shut. You barely get a word out before Tony’s lips are on yours—hungry, hot, and so very intentional.

“Shhh,” he whispers against your mouth when you let out a soft gasp, already tugging at the hem of your shirt. “We have to be quiet.”

You grin against his lips. “You saying I’m loud?”

He pauses, eyes gleaming. “Sweetheart, we broke the headboard last time.”

You laugh—and he kisses the sound right out of you, backing you toward the bed with that same eager, greedy energy that never seems to fade, no matter how long you’ve been his. Clothes fall away like a ceremony. Hands roam like they’re remembering. Reclaiming.

The sheets are cool beneath you, his skin hot and grounding above you. His mouth drags along your collarbone, your breast, your hip, before he settles where he knows you need him most.

You bite your lip, hard, to keep from making a sound.

“Good girl,” he whispers against your skin, teasing, adoring. “Just like that.”

His tongue moves with devastating precision, and your hands claw the sheets, toes curling, your body trembling as heat builds fast and sharp. You can’t help the little whimper that escapes—and he looks up immediately, smirking.

“You’re gonna get us caught.”

You glare down at him, breathless. “Then stop making me feel that good.”

“No can do, Mrs. Stark.”

And he doesn’t. He keeps going, patient and thorough and infuriatingly skilled. When he finally moves up your body, sliding into you in one slow, perfect stroke, your back arches and your fingers dig into his shoulders.

“Tony—”

“Shhh,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. “I got you. Just keep it quiet, baby.”

It’s slow. Intense. Torturously quiet.

You’re both holding back—moans swallowed in kisses, gasps muffled in the crook of his neck. Every movement is deliberate, every thrust a silent promise, every brush of his thumb against your clit driving you closer to that unbearable edge.

He mouths your name like a prayer when you come, your whole body shuddering under him. You bury your face in his shoulder to muffle the cry that wants to escape, and he follows moments later, breathing hard, hips stuttering as he releases deep inside you.

For a while, there’s only the sound of your hearts pounding and your breaths syncing up. Then Tony chuckles softly.

“I think we pulled it off.”

You hum sleepily. “Pretty sure Howard talks in his sleep. If he says something weird tomorrow, it’s on you.”

Tony kisses your temple. “I’ll take the blame. Always do.”

He pulls the blanket over both of you, tucking you into his arms like the world outside doesn’t exist.

And maybe, for now, it doesn’t.

Tony’s still catching his breath when you nudge him with your foot. He groans, face buried against your neck like a man defeated.

“Come on,” you whisper, threading your fingers through his hair. “We need to shower. And put on actual clothes.”

“We just reached post-coital bliss,” he mumbles. “What kind of monster are you?”

You laugh, gently pushing him off of you and rolling out of bed. “The kind of monster who knows our kids have a sixth sense for us being naked and vulnerable. If we don’t cover our tracks now, we’re getting interrogated at 6 AM.”

Tony groans louder, but he follows. Mostly because your naked backside is swaying just enough to motivate him.

“You’re so responsible,” he mutters as you tug him into the ensuite bathroom. “It’s unsettling.”

You turn on the shower, testing the temperature. “And you’re so irresponsible it’s amazing we haven’t been arrested for public indecency.”

“Twice,” he corrects, stepping in behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist. “We have been arrested. Twice.”

“Right, and who sweet-talked their way out of it both times?”

Tony kisses your shoulder. “My hot, brilliant, morally flexible wife.”

You roll your eyes and lean back into him as the water pours over you both.

Of course, the “quick shower” turns into a slippery, steamy second round—because Tony Stark has zero self-control when your naked body is in arm’s reach and you’re laughing like that, cheeks flushed from the water and the way he touches you like you’re still the only thing in the universe that matters.

By the time you finally drag yourselves out of the shower and into pajamas—Tony in his unnecessarily tight sleep pants and a ridiculous Stark Industries tank top, you in one of his old shirts that practically hangs to your knees—it’s past midnight. The house is still. Blissfully quiet.

You collapse into bed, limbs tangled, hair damp, bodies finally at rest.

And for once… no interruptions.

Until morning.

At precisely 6:47 AM, the bedroom door flies open like a SWAT team raid, and the twins launch themselves into your bed like missiles.

“WAKE UUUUUP!” Nova yells, half on top of your stomach.

Howard dives for Tony, who lets out a strangled grunt as his son elbows him square in the ribs.

“Jesus—ow, okay, good morning, no need to attack the man, I’m delicate—”

“You said we could have pancakes today!” Howard declares, still perched on Tony like a feral cat.

Nova pulls the blanket off you both. “And cartoons! It’s Saturday!”

You blink blearily, groaning as Nova’s icy feet wedge themselves under your thigh.

Tony rubs his eyes and grins at the ceiling. “Why did we have children again?”

“Because we’re masochists,” you mutter.

“Right.”

It’s a typical Stark Saturday for a solid two minutes. Cartoons, demands for pancakes, squirming under the covers. But then Nova freezes suddenly, eyebrows scrunching like she’s solving a mystery.

“Wait… did anyone else hear weird noises last night?”

Tony’s eyes snap open.

Howard squints. “Yeah! Like… thumping. And then Mom made this sound like when you stub your toe but you’re trying not to yell?”

Your soul leaves your body.

“I—I stubbed my toe,” you say quickly. “Exactly. That’s… wow, good ears, buddy.”

Nova isn’t convinced. “And I think I heard Dad say something like ‘oh my god, yes’?”

Tony chokes on air. “That was—uh—I was watching a documentary! About—uh—quantum physics!”

You look at him like really? but he forges ahead with gusto.

“And there was this incredible experiment and I was very passionate about the outcome.”

Nova tilts her head. “Do quantum physics experiments make Mom giggle like that too?”

“Okay!” you say brightly, sitting up. “Time for pancakes! Who wants whipped cream?”

Howard narrows his eyes. “You never offer whipped cream unless you’re distracting us.”

You reach for your robe and sigh. “That’s because I’m always distracting you. It’s called parenting.”

Tony has his face buried in a pillow, quietly laughing like a man on the brink.

Nova crawls up beside him. “Dad. Are you giggling?”

“No, sweetie,” he says through the pillow. “I’m just emotionally overwhelmed by your curiosity.”

Howard frowns thoughtfully. “Do you think it’s ghosts?”

“YES,” Tony says quickly. “Yes. Our bedroom is haunted. That’s what you heard. Definitely ghosts.”

Nova gasps. “COOL.”

Howard’s eyes widen. “Can we set a trap?!”

You grab both their hands and pull them toward the door. “Only after breakfast. And cartoons. And not asking any more questions about last night. Ever. Again.”

They both nod solemnly.

Then Nova whispers to Howard, “I bet Mom and Dad were doing something weird.”

Howard nods sagely. “Yeah. Probably… like taxes.”

Tony leans close to you as you herd the twins out of the bedroom. “That was almost catastrophic.”

You shoot him a look. “Stark.”

He grins, eyes twinkling. “Yes, Mrs. Stark?”

You roll your eyes and turn back to the kids. “Alright, haunted pancakes it is.”

And somehow, despite the mortifying inquisition and suspicious glares from two seven-year-olds, it’s still the perfect kind of morning—chaotic, loud, absurd... and full of love.

Exactly what you signed up for when you married Tony Stark

The rest of Saturday is surprisingly smooth—almost suspiciously so.

You make pancakes. The kids watch cartoons. Tony pretends to “ghost hunt” with Nova using an old thermal scanner from the lab, while Howard builds a pillow fort so structurally sound it could probably withstand a mild earthquake. There are no tantrums, no glitter explosions, no emergency phone calls.

It’s just past lunch when it happens.

You’re sitting on the living room floor, helping Nova braid tiny ribbons into her dolls’ hair, when Howard suddenly looks up from his coloring book with that unsettlingly calm expression he inherited directly from his father—the one that usually means he’s about to ask something that will emotionally derail everyone in a five-mile radius.

“Hey Mom,” he says casually, like he’s asking what’s for dinner. “How did me and Nova come into the world?”

You freeze.

Like… freeze.

Tony, sitting on the couch across from you with a wrench in one hand and a half-disassembled Roomba in the other, slowly turns his head like a man who’s just been caught by a sniper scope.

You meet his eyes. You both silently panic.

Nova doesn’t even look up. “Yeah, I was wondering that too.”

Howard continues like he’s just hitting you with casual Sunday curiosity. “Did we come from a rocket? Or like… a lab?”

You blink. “A rocket?”

“Well, you and Dad are scientists,” he says, shrugging. “So maybe you built us. In the basement. With like, wires and lasers and science juice.”

Nova gasps. “I want science juice!”

Tony chokes. “There’s… there’s no such thing as science juice, baby.”

You clear your throat, trying to regain your footing in the rapidly spiraling conversation. “Okay, so—so first of all, no rockets. Or labs. You’re not robots. You’re not built.”

Howard’s eyes narrow. “So we weren’t assembled?”

“No.”

Tony jumps in. “You were... born. Like regular kids.”

Nova frowns. “How though?”

You and Tony both stare at her like she just asked how to dismantle a nuclear warhead.

Howard leans forward, totally serious. “Yeah. We know it involves, like… bellies. But how’d we get in there in the first place?”

There’s a beat of stunned silence where you mentally prepare to just hurl yourself off the balcony.

Tony puts down the Roomba and stands up like he’s giving a TED Talk. “Alright. So. Listen. This is… this is one of those very important questions that you absolutely deserve an answer to.”

You nod like a hostage. “Yup. Totally important. Super reasonable question.”

Tony points a finger upward, warming up. “But also one of those questions where the answer is like… a very complicated lasagna. With layers.”

Nova’s eyes light up. “I love lasagna!”

Howard looks confused. “What does lasagna have to do with babies?”

Tony continues, completely unfazed. “Well, the top layer—the cheesy, delicious layer—is the part you already know. Babies grow in a special place inside a mommy’s belly called a uterus. It’s like a deluxe baby hotel.”

You’re silently begging him not to keep going.

“And the next layer,” Tony says, gesturing like he's on a cooking show, “is how they get there, which involves… uh… teamwork. From both parents.”

You add quickly, “Teamwork. Loving, adult teamwork.”

Howard squints. “Like… like when you and Dad built the treehouse?”

“Yes!” you say way too fast. “Exactly like that! Teamwork, tools, and a lot of planning.”

Tony nods solemnly. “And some sweat. And maybe a splinter.”

Nova scrunches her nose. “Ew. That sounds messy.”

Howard tilts his head. “But how do you start building the baby?”

Tony glances at you. You glance at Tony. You both realize there’s no way out. So, you go for the parental classic:

“Well,” you say slowly, “when two adults love each other very much—”

Howard’s eyes go wide. “OH MY GOSH. You used magic didn’t you?!”

You nearly sigh in relief. “Yes! Magic. Science magic.”

Tony picks it right up. “Love-powered science magic. That’s exactly it.”

Nova gasps. “Is that why I sparkle when I dance?”

Tony beams. “Absolutely, sweetheart. Full of sparkle DNA.”

Howard looks impressed. “So you and Mom did love-magic teamwork… and then BAM! We happened?”

You clap your hands. “Boom. Nailed it.”

They both nod slowly, processing. And then—just like that—Nova goes back to brushing her doll’s hair and Howard starts coloring again like he didn’t just casually nuke your day with a conversation worthy of wine and therapy.

You exhale, flopping back onto the carpet. Tony collapses beside you a second later.

“That was too close,” you whisper.

“Too close? That was war,” he mutters. “I barely survived the ‘splinter’ metaphor.”

“I hate you for that, by the way.”

He smirks. “You laughed.”

You sigh, reaching over to lace your fingers through his. “I can’t believe we’ve got another ten years of this.”

Tony grins. “Ten years? Sweetheart, we’re gonna be explaining puberty in holograms by then.”

You groan and bury your face in his shoulder.

Nova looks up from across the room. “Do you think babies fart inside the belly?”

You both groan.

Tony whispers, “We’re not gonna make it.”

---

It’s Tony’s idea.

Which should automatically raise red flags. But he’s lounging back on the couch, one arm draped behind you, the other absently spinning a screwdriver between his fingers like a fidget toy, and he says it so casually you almost don’t catch the trap.

“Let’s go out tonight.”

You pause mid-sip of your coffee. “Out… like out where?”

He shrugs. “Nice dinner. Fancy restaurant. Kids can wear shoes that aren’t Velcro. You can wear that red dress that makes me forget my name.”

Nova, sitting upside down on the armchair, perks up. “Can I wear glitter?!”

Howard glances over. “Are we allowed to go to fancy places? We’re loud.”

Tony waves a hand. “We’re Starks. We can go anywhere we want.”

You raise a brow. “That’s exactly the kind of energy that gets us kicked out of places.”

But the idea lingers. It’s been a while since you dressed up for something that wasn’t a gala or charity event or chaos-fueled tech conference. The thought of slipping into something silk and elegant, seeing Tony in a blazer that hugs just right, the kids actually clean and styled and not covered in suspicious playground gunk…

Yeah. You’re in.

Two hours later, the chaos of getting ready is in full swing.

Howard insists on wearing a tie, which turns into a twenty-minute battle against a YouTube tutorial and an uneven knot. Nova is determined to wear glitter tights under her dress, and after some negotiation, you allow it—because she istechnically wearing a dress and real shoes. Progress.

Meanwhile, you slip into the closet, closing the door behind you. The red dress Tony mentioned still hangs in the far corner, mostly untouched since your anniversary dinner last year. It’s sleek, figure-hugging, with a slit up the leg and a neckline that toes the line between elegance and hello there.

You slide it on. It fits like sin.

The door creaks open behind you without warning, and you don’t have to turn around to know it’s him.

There’s a low whistle. “Sweetheart.”

You glance at him over your shoulder. “Too much?”

Tony’s leaning in the doorway, wearing a black suit with the top two buttons of his shirt undone, no tie, blazer cut to absolute perfection. His eyes rake down your body like he’s seeing you for the first time again.

“If we didn’t have kids waiting downstairs,” he says, voice low and already dangerous, “I would lock that door and make you very, very late to dinner.”

You smirk, smoothing your hands down the front of the dress. “We do have kids waiting.”

“I know,” he groans, stepping forward and sliding his arms around your waist from behind. “Why do we have kids again?”

“Because your ego and my hormones teamed up.”

He laughs, presses a kiss to the curve of your shoulder, and lets his hands wander a little lower than strictly appropriate for the timeframe. “I love this dress. It should be illegal.”

“You say that every time I wear it.”

“And I mean it every time.”

You manage to escape his hands with a playful swat and make it back downstairs, where the twins are already posing dramatically like they’re attending the Oscars.

“Do we look rich enough?” Nova asks seriously.

Howard adjusts his slightly crooked tie. “I feel like I should own a company.”

Tony grins. “You do. It’s called Starklings, Inc. Specializing in mischief and luxury fruit snacks.”

The restaurant is upscale, candlelit, absurdly elegant—and predictably swarmed by paparazzi the second your car pulls up.

Tony slips out first, offers you a hand like a proper gentleman, and then lifts Nova from the car while Howard walks out like he’s been doing red carpets since birth. You’re met with the familiar onslaught of camera flashes and distant shouts:

“Mr. Stark! Over here—!”

“Is that your family?”

“Mrs. Stark, you look amazing—!”

Tony keeps one hand at the small of your back, the other protectively on Howard’s shoulder. The flashes bounce off his sunglasses, and he leans in close enough for you to feel his grin against your cheek.

“You’re the hottest person here.”

You elbow him gently. “You say that to distract me.”

“I say that because it’s true. And I’m trying very hard not to get handsy in front of the photographers.”

You glance down. His hand has, indeed, slid lower than is publicly acceptable.

“Tony.”

He corrects himself with a smirk and guides you all inside.

Once you’re at the table—a private booth with a view of the skyline—things settle into a surprisingly cozy rhythm. The kids order mocktails with extra cherries. You sip wine. Tony keeps sliding his foot along your ankle under the table like a man with zero shame and absolutely no concern for consequences.

You give him a warning glance.

He winks.

Nova draws a robot on her napkin and tells the waiter she’s going to build one that serves spaghetti. Howard eats his fancy grilled salmon with ketchup. Tony doesn’t stop looking at you the entire night, his hand always somewhere—your knee, your thigh, your lower back when you gets up to help Nova with the bathroom.

It’s subtle. Kind of.

Okay, not subtle at all. But it’s him.

As dessert is being cleared—Nova covered in chocolate mousse and Howard bargaining for another bite of your crème brûlée—Tony leans over and murmurs, “If I don’t get to unzip that dress tonight, I’m going to have a full-blown existential crisis.”

You smile sweetly. “Guess you’ll have to wait until the kids are asleep.”

He groans into his wine glass.

On the ride home, both kids fall asleep in the backseat—Howard drooling slightly, Nova curled up with a strand of her glitter tights stretched over her face like a superhero mask.

You rest your hand on Tony’s thigh as he drives. He glances at you, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Best idea I’ve had all month.”

“Dinner?”

“Taking you out. Watching you walk around in that dress. Being reminded exactly how lucky I am.”

You hum, squeezing his leg just enough to make him shift in his seat.

“I hope you’re planning on making good on that zipper promise.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “That zipper’s already living on borrowed time.”

And somehow, amidst the glamour and chaos, the spark still feels as new and electric as it did before kids, before marriage, before anything was certain.

Even when the car smells like mousse, and one of the kids is softly snoring like a chainsaw.

You glance at Tony.

Yeah. You’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

The second the car pulls into the garage and the twins are carefully extracted from the backseat—sleepy, grumpy, sticky with melted chocolate—Tony gives you a look.

The Look.

The one that promises that the minute tiny people are unconscious in their beds, you're going to be very, very thoroughly reminded about the zipper situation.

You smirk back at him, both of you speaking silently across the car hood like spies.

Step one: Get kids to bed. Step two: Lose the fancy clothes. Step three: Absolutely wreck the newly washed sheets.

Easy. Foolproof.

You both move like a synchronized tactical unit. Pajamas, teeth brushing, wiping faces, untangling glitter tights. Nova mutters something about robot spaghetti in her half-sleep. Howard insists he doesn't need help but still manages to put his pajama pants on backward.

You're barely containing your laughter as you herd them toward their rooms, exchanging conspiratorial glances with Tony every few seconds.

“Alright, you gremlins,” Tony says, crouching down dramatically. “Tonight, you sleep in your own beds like champions. Like grown-up, sophisticated individuals who can eat grilled salmon with ketchup.”

Howard yawns and salutes. Nova mumbles something incoherent and shuffles to her bed like a zombie.

You and Tony high-five behind their backs.

Victory is so close.

You tuck them in, kiss their foreheads, tiptoe toward the door…

And then.

“Wait!”

Howard bolts upright like he’s just remembered a critical world-saving mission. Nova follows, wide-eyed and alarmed.

“We want to sleep in your bed!” Howard blurts.

“Yeah!” Nova clutches her stuffed unicorn with the force of a thousand suns. “Your bed is bigger! And fluffier! And it smells like cookies and Dad's weird soap!”

You and Tony freeze mid-step. Like deer. Caught. In existential-crisis headlights.

Tony clears his throat. “Buddy, we love you. But your mom and I were planning some very important... adult... lying-down activities.”

You elbow him sharply. "Tony."

Howard pouts. Nova’s lower lip quivers.

"We miss family sleep nights," Howard says, voice small.

Nova sniffs. “You used to let us sleep with you.”

Your heart cracks a little. Okay. That's not fair. They're pulling the nostalgia card and they're doing it well.

Tony runs a hand through his hair like he’s being physically pained by the loss of his plans. He looks at you. You look at him.

Surrender.

You sigh dramatically. “Fine. One night.”

Both kids explode in victorious cheers.

“But—" Tony holds up a finger, still clinging to scraps of authority, "—if we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”

Which is how you end up raiding the matching pajama drawer—yes, Tony insisted on having one made years ago—and soon all four of you are decked out in ridiculous, soft, Stark-family matching pajamas: little arc reactors printed on the shirts and "Team Stark" on the pants.

You all pile into the giant bed in a mass of limbs and giggles and pillows. Nova immediately claims Tony, curling against his side with her unicorn jammed between them. Howard stakes his claim on you, plopping himself firmlyagainst your chest and wrapping an arm possessively over your torso.

Tony tries—tries—to edge closer to you, stretching out an arm, wriggling his fingers in your direction with the saddest, most dramatic look of longing.

Howard narrows his eyes and shoves Tony’s face away with one tiny but determined hand.

"Mine," he mumbles sleepily.

You clap a hand over your mouth to muffle your laughter.

Tony blinks at you over Howard’s stubborn little head, looking personally betrayed. He mouths, This is war.

You smile sweetly, mouthing back, You lost.

He pouts for about five seconds before Nova wiggles closer and pats his cheek comfortingly. “Don’t worry, Daddy. You can have cuddles too.”

Tony surrenders with a groan, wrapping his arms around Nova and the unicorn, glaring at you playfully over the tops of both their heads.

You wink at him.

For a few minutes, the room settles. The twins drift off quickly, soft breathing and little twitches as they tumble into deep sleep. The low hum of the city outside fills the background.

You shift slightly, trying not to wake Howard, and meet Tony’s eyes in the soft dark.

He mouths, You owe me.

You mouth back, Tomorrow night.

He grins like Christmas just came early.

For now, though—you lay there, Howard snuggled against you like a koala, Nova draped across Tony like he’s a human jungle gym, the warmth of your family a soft, heavy comfort around you.

Tony reaches out across the tiny bodies between you, brushing the tips of his fingers against yours in the middle of the bed.

Connection. Even through chaos.

You squeeze his fingers gently and close your eyes, feeling him do the same.

Maybe the night didn’t go exactly the way you planned.

But honestly?

It’s kind of perfect.

part 2 with them trying for another kid? or something else? let me know in the asks ;)

[junegoal]

can you write a drabble with tony & fem reader how he comforts y/n's insecurities, not feeling good enough, post partum body image issues, etc. soft and caring tony warms my heart and your writing makes my day 🧡

TONY STARK COMFORTING READER - A Drabble

You’re standing in the closet, the old dress stuck halfway up your thighs, the zipper refusing to budge. You twist, tug, swear under your breath.

Your heart sinks, your hands clenching at the fabric like maybe if you pull hard enough, you’ll find the woman you used to be.

You don’t hear Tony’s footsteps over the thick carpet. His hands are on your hips in the next second.

“Mmm. Looks like I walked in on something very promising,” he murmurs against you, voice deep and rough from sleep. You stiffen instead of leaning into him, and he notices immediately, hands going still.

“It doesn’t fit,” you admit quietly, hating the way your voice cracks. “None of them fit. I don’t… I don’t look good anymore.”

“You think I’m gonna love you less because you gave me a son?” he breathes, words hot against your ear. “Because your body is different? Jesus, honey. I look at you and all I see is the woman who made me a father. You’re not just sexy. You’re fucking divine.

On the bad days, when you catch yourself in the mirror and flinch, Tony seems to sense it, no matter where he is. Sometimes he sends you a text full of dirty, ridiculous compliments (“Bet that ass could cause a traffic accident. In fact, I’m filing a report right now.”).

He lets you steal all his hoodies and run around barefoot, and every single time he catches you like that, he makes a low, appreciative sound in the back of his throat and grins like you’re the sexiest thing alive.

And in the quietest, softest moments, like now, when your baby is finally asleep against your chest and Tony’s curled around both of you in bed, one arm heavy and warm around your waist, you let yourself believe him.

[junegoal]

Hope you're doing awesome!

I read a lot of stories of tony spoiling y/n, or comforting her, taking her on a vacation etc. I want to see y/n comforting and taking care of tony stark now. Like her being the most sweetest person in the world to him and babying him after media pressures or when he's back from missions and stuff like that. From little things to notable surprises. Can you write this please?

Thanks ✌️

BUBBLE BATHS

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

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

ᯓ★ Genre: fluff, romance, rom-com

ᯓ★ Word count: 6k

ᯓ★ Summary: where Tony Stark learns the true meaning of luxury: being spoiled rotten by the love of his life. Between bubble baths, snacks, and excessive cuddles, world-saving can wait.

ᯓ★ TW(s): one spicy scene at the end, Tony is tired and just needs some love, so much fluff It needs a TW

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

You hear the click of the elevator long before you see him.

It's past midnight, and you’re curled up on the couch in one of Tony’s oversized MIT hoodies—well, technically yours now, considering how often you steal it—and a pair of fuzzy socks. The lights are dimmed low, save for the soft glow of the lamp beside you and the muted blue flicker of the TV, playing some late-night documentary you haven’t been paying attention to. You’ve been waiting. Hours pass differently when Tony’s gone. Slower. Quieter. A little heavier.

The elevator chimes again and your head turns toward it instinctively. Your body’s already moving before you even register it fully—blanket discarded, feet padding softly across the marble floor. The doors slide open and there he is.

He looks tired.

Not just the usual “I’ve been flying in a metal suit for hours” kind of tired, but something deeper, weightier. The kind that clings to his shoulders and hides in the corners of his eyes. His posture is straight because he makes it that way, because it’s Tony Stark and he’s always got to act like the wear and tear doesn’t get to him. But you know better.

“Hi, sweetheart,” you say, voice gentle.

He doesn’t speak right away. His eyes find yours, and there’s a pause—a beat, two, three—and then his shoulders drop the tiniest bit. He exhales like he hasn’t since he left for the mission three days ago. And then he says, “Hey.”

You walk up to him slowly, careful not to rush, like approaching a frayed wire. His suit’s off already; FRIDAY probably helped him out of it in the lower levels. He’s in a black shirt, sleeves pushed up, smudged with grease and maybe soot, and jeans that look like they’ve seen better days. His hair is a little messy, dark circles bruising the skin under his eyes, but he’s here. Safe.

You reach up and cup his face with both hands. His stubble is scratchy, warm under your palms. “You okay?”

Tony closes his eyes and leans into your touch, just a fraction. “Not really.”

“Come on,” you whisper. “Let me take care of you.”

You guide him through the living room and down the hall, your hand brushing his as you lead him. He doesn’t resist. He never really does when it comes to you, not when you’re soft with him like this, when you speak like he’s something precious, like he’s not carrying the world on his back half the time. He lets you pull him along like a balloon on a string, tethered only by the warmth of your presence and the quiet affection in your voice.

In the bathroom, you flip on the soft light and start the shower. You don’t have to ask; you know the water temperature he likes, and he always lets you fuss. He stands there watching you, silent, the corners of his mouth twitching like he’s trying to decide whether or not to smile. You peel off his shirt first, careful not to brush too hard against his ribs when he winces.

“Did you get hurt?” you ask, already checking him over.

“Just bruises. Nothing’s broken,” he says, and then adds, “I think.”

“Let me see.”

He lets you. You step closer, fingertips ghosting along his sides, eyes narrowing at the darkening mark on his left side. You hum softly, disapproving, but don’t scold him. He’s had enough of that from the rest of the world. With you, he gets something else entirely.

When he’s finally undressed, you help him into the shower, making sure he’s steady before stepping back and letting him be. You give him space but stay close, sitting on the edge of the tub, listening to the water and the way he sighs beneath it. You hear the thud of his forehead hitting the tile, and your heart clenches.

He doesn’t cry. Not where you can hear, anyway. But he gets quiet. Withdrawn. That’s how you know something’s wrong.

After a few minutes, you get up and grab one of the warm towels from the dryer, the one you tossed in earlier just in case he came home tonight. When he steps out, you’re there, wrapping it around him like he’s something fragile, drying his hair with soft fingers, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“Bed?” you ask.

He nods.

You help him into fresh clothes—soft cotton pants, a worn t-shirt—and tuck him into bed like he’s a kid home sick from school. He doesn’t even fight it, just lays back and watches you move around the room like you’re the only solid thing in the world. You grab the lotion he likes, the one that smells faintly of cedar and clove, and sit beside him, lifting one of his hands.

“Give me five minutes,” you murmur, already massaging the lotion into his palms.

His eyes flutter closed. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it.”

“I do,” he says quietly, and it’s the easiest truth he’s spoken all night.

You take your time, moving from his hands to his forearms, rubbing gentle circles into his muscles, soothing away the tension. You press kisses to his knuckles, to the little scar near his thumb, to the place where skin meets arc reactor on his chest. You don’t ask him to talk. Not yet. You just stay close and pour your affection into every little touch, every whisper of care.

When you finally slide under the covers next to him, he turns toward you immediately, arms going around your waist, head tucking into your neck like it’s instinct. You wrap yourself around him, one hand in his hair, the other stroking down his back.

“I missed you,” you whisper.

“Missed you more,” he breathes, his voice barely audible.

“Want to tell me what happened?”

He shakes his head. Not yet. Maybe not tonight.

You nod. “Okay.”

And you mean it. He’ll talk when he’s ready. Until then, you’ll hold him like this, like he’s the most important thing in the universe. Because to you, he is.

---

You wake up to the feeling of something warm and heavy draped across your back, anchoring you in place like a human paperweight. For a few seconds, you can’t move. Then you realize it’s Tony, all six feet of him wrapped around you like he’s trying to fuse into your spine.

He’s snoring a little. Not loud, just a soft rumble near your ear. One of his legs is thrown over both of yours. His arm is curled tightly around your waist, his nose buried in your hair. If you shift even slightly, he makes a noise that can only be described as a grumpy bear being disturbed from hibernation.

You smile into the pillow. You’re not going anywhere.

The room is bathed in early morning light, the golden kind that makes everything look soft and expensive. The windows are slightly fogged from the contrast between the chilly morning air outside and the warmth inside the penthouse. The sheets are a tangled mess, mostly kicked to the bottom of the bed, because Tony clings like a koala in his sleep and always ends up stealing most of the blanket.

You try to stretch one arm toward the nightstand to check the time on your phone, but Tony tightens his grip like a sleep-deprived anaconda.

“Babe,” you whisper.

He grumbles.

“Tony.”

He grunts, face still smushed against your neck. “No.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“Don’t care. No.”

You stifle a laugh. “I need to pee.”

There’s a long pause. Then, with the gravitas of a man making a life-altering decision, he mumbles, “Fine. But hurry. I need you for… survival.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Mm-hm,” he says proudly, releasing you with the enthusiasm of someone surrendering their last slice of pizza.

You slide out from under his arm and shuffle to the bathroom, hair a disaster, legs a little sore from being wrapped around like a pretzel all night. When you return a few minutes later, Tony is lying on his stomach, face buried in your pillow, arms and legs sprawled out like he was dropped from a helicopter and landed in a starfish position. His hair is sticking up in about five different directions. One eye cracks open as you approach.

“You abandoned me,” he says hoarsely, voice thick with sleep.

“You let me go.”

“Under duress.”

You roll your eyes and climb back into bed. He immediately rolls onto his side and reaches for you again, pulling you close until your face is squished against his chest. He smells like sleep and cedar and just a hint of motor oil, because somehow, even after showering, there’s always a bit of workshop left on him.

“Hungry?” you ask, pressing a kiss to his collarbone.

“Starving. But not for food.”

You swat his side. “Gross.”

He chuckles, the vibration buzzing under your cheek. “I meant cuddles. Obviously.”

“Uh-huh.”

Tony hums contentedly and strokes his fingers along your back. “You’re warm.”

“I’m a human, Tony.”

“No, you’re a space heater wrapped in a girlfriend. It’s perfect.”

You grin and press another kiss to his chest. “Let me make you breakfast.”

“Why? When I have everything I need right here?”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“And yet, somehow, you’re still dating me.”

You sit up, straddling his waist and gently brushing the hair out of his eyes. “That’s because I’m the most patient person in the world.”

“You’re the best person in the world,” he says without missing a beat.

Your smile softens. His eyes are still heavy-lidded with sleep, but there’s something clear behind them now. Less weight, less noise. Like a knot’s loosened somewhere behind his ribs.

“I’m making you breakfast,” you say, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “No arguments.”

“Fine. But I’m going to sit there and make dramatic love eyes at you the whole time.”

“That’s a threat.”

“That’s a promise.”

You laugh as you climb off of him and grab your robe. “Don’t fall asleep again.”

“No promises,” he says, already halfway there.

You pad into the kitchen, hair wild, socks mismatched, humming softly as you pull out eggs and toast and fruit. You know his coffee order by heart—black, with just a splash of that ridiculously expensive hazelnut creamer he pretends he doesn’t like. You make it without asking, setting it down on the counter where he always leans.

Right on cue, Tony appears a few minutes later, wrapped in a blanket like a very grumpy, very billionaire burrito. His hair is still a mess. His face is scruffy. His eyes squint against the morning light like he’s never encountered daylight before.

“Are you… wearing the comforter?” you ask, eyebrows raised.

“It’s called fashion,” he says, voice rough. “Look it up.”

You snort. “Coffee’s on the counter, diva.”

He shuffles over to it, dragging the blanket like a cape, and picks up the mug with both hands like a Disney princess cradling a woodland creature.

“You’re a menace,” you mutter fondly as you flip the eggs.

“You love this menace.”

“Unfortunately.”

He leans on the counter, sipping his coffee, watching you cook. For a few minutes, it’s just comfortable silence—the smell of food, the hiss of the stove, the occasional sip of coffee. Then he speaks.

“You know… I don’t know how I did all this before you.”

You glance over your shoulder. “Made breakfast?”

He smirks faintly. “Existed.”

You turn back to the stove quickly, cheeks warming. “Don’t get sappy on me, Stark. It’s too early.”

“I’m serious,” he says, quieter now. “You’re the only part of my life that doesn’t come with caveats. The only thing that feels… easy. And good. And like it’s mine.”

You set down the spatula and walk over to him, slipping between his arms and the counter. He pulls you in, coffee mug still in one hand, and rests his chin on top of your head.

“I’m yours,” you say, simple and true.

He nods. “Yeah. You are.”

A few minutes later, you serve him a plate of eggs, toast, and strawberries, and he looks at it like you’ve handed him the keys to the kingdom.

“You cook like a goddess,” he says reverently.

“It’s eggs.”

“You touched them. That makes them better.”

“You’re so full of it.”

He grins and digs in like he hasn’t eaten in days, which honestly, knowing him, might be true. You sit across from him, sipping your tea and watching as he alternates between shoveling food in his mouth and telling you about some dumb thing Rhodey did on the mission. He’s more animated now, more alive. It’s like every minute with you recharges him a little more.

When he finishes, he pushes the plate away and reaches across the table to grab your hand.

“So what’s the plan for today, Nurse Y/N?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Nurse?”

“Well, you did take care of me. Bathed me. Fed me. Snuggled me. Pretty sure this is a wellness retreat now.”

“I charge extra for spa services.”

He smirks. “I’ll pay in kisses.”

“Rejected.”

“Hugs?”

“Denied.”

“Uninterrupted access to the Stark credit line?”

You pause.

He winks. “I knew that would get you.”

You laugh and squeeze his hand. “The plan is: you’re resting. No lab. No suits. No new tech. You’re staying in bed and letting yourself recover.”

He groans dramatically, slumping in his chair. “You’re cruel.”

“You’re lucky I don’t lock the workshop doors.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would. FRIDAY, remind me to—”

“Miss Y/N is already authorized to lock the lab, sir,” FRIDAY chimes in cheerfully.

Tony stares at the ceiling. “Traitor.”

You grin and stand up. “Come on, you big baby. I’m running you a bubble bath.”

He perks up. “With the lavender stuff?”

“Yes, with the lavender stuff.”

“And the candles?”

“I’ll light the candles.”

“Marry me.”

“Finish your bath first.”

“Damn.”

---

You don’t rush the bath.

You never do when it’s for him.

You take your time in the bathroom, pulling out the lavender bubble soak that Tony pretends he doesn’t like but secretly adores—because he always exhales differently the moment the scent hits the air. You pour it into the stream, watching as the water froths up with soft clouds of bubbles, warm steam curling into the air. The candles go next—four of them, arranged on the counter and the ledge near the tub. Vanilla, sandalwood, something vaguely cinnamon that you don’t even remember buying but smells like home now.

The lights are dimmed. The towels are warm. And when Tony walks in, he stops in the doorway and just… stares.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “So when I said bubble bath, I didn’t realize you were going to summon a whole spa.”

You glance over your shoulder at him, smug. “Only the best for the most dramatic patient in the tri-state area.”

Tony’s still wrapped in his comforter-cape, hair a mess, face soft with something halfway between affection and disbelief.

“You spoil me,” he says, stepping closer.

“You make it really easy.”

You test the water one more time and then gesture to the tub. “Alright, Iron Man. In.”

Tony drops the blanket and strips with absolutely no shame. He never has any, really. You’re the one who blushes for both of you. He’s got a few bruises along his ribs, some darker patches on his shoulders—signs of the mission you haven’t asked him about yet—but he moves fine. Tired, but fine.

He slides into the water with a groan so exaggerated you’d think he was melting into the seventh circle of paradise.

“Oh my god,” he says, eyes fluttering shut. “This is illegal. You’re a sorceress.”

You perch on the edge of the tub beside him, reaching for the shampoo. “Tilt your head back.”

His eyes crack open. “You’re going to wash my hair now?”

“Yes. It’s crusty.”

“It’s sexy bedhead.”

“It’s grease, Tony.”

He sighs theatrically but leans back anyway, his head cradled in your hands as you scoop water over his scalp. You work the shampoo into his hair gently, fingertips massaging his scalp, careful around a healing cut near his temple. He makes a sound that’s not quite a moan but definitely in the same neighborhood.

“Remind me why I don’t make you do this every day?”

“Because you’d be impossible to deal with.”

“You already think I’m impossible.”

“Correction: I know you are.”

His smirk melts into something softer as your nails graze through his hair again. “This is my favorite thing.”

“You say that every time I do anything nice.”

“That’s because you keep one-upping yourself.”

You rinse the shampoo out slowly, tilting his head back to pour water from a plastic cup down the back of his hairline, careful not to splash his face. He watches you the whole time, eyes heavy-lidded, lips parted just a little.

“Come in,” he says suddenly.

You blink. “What?”

“Come in the tub.”

“I don’t have my—”

He splashes water at your arm. “Excuses.”

“You’re such a child.”

“And you love me.”

You hesitate for a beat, biting your bottom lip as his grin grows wider.

“Come on,” he says, voice dipping into something smoother. “I’m lonely. It’s cold. You made all this hot, bubbly magic. Come share it with me. For the sake of the planet.”

You snort. “That’s a stretch.”

“You’ve seen the Avengers’ mental health scores. Me naked in a bubble bath with you is a public service.”

You laugh, but the truth is, it’s not like you needed convincing. You pull your robe off, peel out of your pajamas, and slide into the tub across from him. The water is perfect—warm and soft and just the right kind of relaxing. You settle in, knees brushing his under the bubbles.

Tony’s already grinning like a kid on Christmas.

“There she is,” he says.

“I was gone for thirty seconds.”

“Felt like a year.”

He leans forward slightly and tugs you closer until your legs are over his, knees to chest. You roll your eyes but let him, resting your arms on his shoulders, hands slipping into his damp hair again. His own hands find your waist under the water.

You stare at each other for a moment, soft steam rising between you, bubbles clinging to his arms. His face is warm and relaxed in a way it only gets around you.

“I wish I could freeze this moment,” he says.

You smile. “You’d get wrinkly.”

“Worth it.”

You cup his cheek and lean forward, kissing the corner of his mouth. “You’re so sappy in the mornings.”

“Only with you.”

You sit like that for a while. No rush. No chaos. Just the occasional slosh of water and the muted sound of the city below the tower. At one point, you pick up a loofah and start scrubbing gently at his shoulders, and he groans again like you’re performing actual miracles.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says against your collarbone, arms wrapped lazily around your waist under the water.

“Probably not.”

“Rude.”

“True.”

He grins and nips lightly at your neck. “I’m going to marry you.”

“You say that every time I run a bath.”

“Because every time you do, it becomes more true.”

You lean back and raise an eyebrow. “What, like you’re going to propose in a bathtub?”

His face goes mock-serious. “Do not test me. I will absolutely make that your origin story.”

You burst out laughing and splash him. “Please don’t make my proposal soggy.”

“No promises.”

You settle back against him, your back to his chest now, his chin resting on your shoulder. His arms curl around you underwater, fingertips drawing lazy circles on your hip.

“I hate the press,” he says quietly, voice closer to his real self now.

“I know.”

“I hate the way they make me feel. Like I’m not allowed to just… exist. Without performing.”

You tilt your head to rest against his. “You don’t have to perform for me.”

“I know,” he whispers. “That’s why I love you.”

You cover his hands with yours. “You’re allowed to rest. You’re allowed to feel small sometimes. I’ll carry you when you need it.”

“I’d like to see that. I’m like, 180 pounds of pure trauma.”

You chuckle and kiss his knuckles. “Good thing I’m strong.”

He tightens his arms around you, and for a while, you both just sit there. Quiet. Warm. Safe.

The bubbles eventually start to fade. The water cools. But neither of you move. Not until Tony presses one more kiss to your shoulder and whispers, “Okay. Now I’m ready to get out. Only if you promise to wrap me in one of those ridiculous fluffy towels.”

“They’re Egyptian cotton.”

“They’re sentient clouds and I want five.”

You laugh and nod. “Deal.”

---

Getting out of the bath is harder than it should be, mostly because Tony refuses to move unless you promise at least two of the following: a pre-warmed towel, a cozy robe, a snack, or a kiss every thirty seconds for the rest of the day.

You promise all four. Not because he demands it—but because you want to. Because he’s looking at you with wet hair flopping into his eyes, bubbles clinging to his chest, and that rare soft look he only lets you see. He’s your favorite brand of ridiculous.

You step out first, wrapping yourself in your towel and reaching for his. You hold it open like you’re waiting to swaddle a very large, mildly spoiled baby.

Tony steps out with all the regality of a retired king and walks into the towel like it’s a five-star treatment.

“Oh, yeah,” he says as you start rubbing at his hair. “This is the life. Love, pamper, repeat.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Lucky? No, no. That’s part of the Stark brand.”

You give his hair an affectionate scruff and roll your eyes. “Come on, drama king. Into the robe.”

“I better get snacks.”

“You’ll get them when you stop dripping on the floor.”

Eventually, you both make it back to the bedroom, towels exchanged for soft robes—his navy, yours white, both stolen from a Stark-owned resort somewhere in Maui. Tony keeps brushing against you like a cat, bumping your hip with his and pretending it’s an accident every time.

You toss a couple of snacks onto the bed—grapes, crackers, little chocolate pieces—and crawl under the blankets. He follows instantly, wrapping himself around you like he’s part blanket himself.

“Grapes me,” he mumbles, head resting against your chest.

“You have two hands, Stark.”

“Yeah, but I’m emotionally fragile.”

You pick up a grape and hover it over his mouth. He opens obediently like he’s been training for this moment.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m in love.”

You pop another grape into his mouth and stroke your fingers through his damp hair. He’s heavy against you, all warm limbs and relaxed breath. His eyes are closed now, lashes brushing your collarbone.

“You gonna fall asleep on me again?” you ask softly.

“Maybe,” he mumbles. “You’re comfy. Smell good. And you’re warm. This is a trap, and I’m willingly walking into it.”

You kiss the top of his head. “You should nap.”

“I should do many things,” he murmurs, already fading. “But you’re winning right now.”

He’s out before you can tease him again. His body slackens, jaw unclenching, breath evening out. He looks younger when he sleeps—less armor, less weight. Like the man under all the noise is finally allowed to exist for a few minutes.

You don’t move.

You just lie there with him, his cheek against your chest, his arms curled around your waist. Occasionally, he makes a little sound in his sleep—like a sigh or a hum. You stay like that for nearly an hour, stroking his hair, watching the light change through the curtains. The world stays quiet.

Then you slip out of bed carefully, tucking the blanket around him like you’re wrapping up a treasure. You make sure FRIDAY keeps the room warm, dim, peaceful. He doesn’t even stir when you leave.

Time for the surprise.

You’ve been working on it for days—well, more like planning it. Coordinating, sneaking around his workshop schedule, getting FRIDAY’s help to intercept some of his appointments. He doesn’t know yet. You wanted to wait until after the mission, when he’d be too tired to argue, too soft to deflect. Now’s the perfect moment.

The rooftop is already prepped.

It’s still early enough in the day that the sun hasn’t started to set, but the light is warm and golden, the city below alive and buzzing. You’ve set up a little lounge area—blankets, a heater in the corner, a tray of his favorite snacks and drinks, and an old projector set up to play the first movie you ever watched together. There's even a little string of lights hanging over the edge of the glass.

You light a few candles—because he’s secretly obsessed with the vibe, and you like seeing him try to pretend it’s not affecting him—and make sure everything’s perfect.

Then you go back downstairs.

Tony’s still curled up in bed, one arm flopped across your pillow like he’s hugging it. His hair is a mess again, and the robe’s slipped off one shoulder. He looks peaceful. It almost feels cruel to wake him.

You sit down beside him and gently run your fingers through his hair.

“Hey, baby.”

He stirs, makes a noise like he’s arguing with a dream.

You press a kiss to his forehead. “Come on, sleeping beauty. I’ve got something to show you.”

His eyes crack open slowly. “If it’s not more bubble bath, I’m rioting.”

“No more baths. But you’ll like this.”

He grumbles but sits up, rubbing his eyes. “Is it food?”

“There’s snacks.”

“Sex?”

You give him a look. “You’re wearing a robe. And still slightly damp.”

“Not a no.”

You laugh, grabbing his hand. “Come on, Stark. Trust me.”

“I always do,” he says simply, letting you pull him to his feet.

He follows you without question, robe dragging behind him, hair sticking out in every direction, like a very expensive puppy.

When the elevator doors open onto the rooftop, he pauses.

“Oh,” he says.

Just that.

He steps out slowly, eyes sweeping over the setup—the lights, the blankets, the movie screen flickering quietly in the background. The soft pillows. The tray of snacks. The fact that it’s all just… quiet. Peaceful.

You watch him as he walks forward, robe still half open, hair blowing a little in the breeze.

“You did all this?”

“FRIDAY helped.”

“Traitor AI.”

“Don’t blame her for loving you.”

He turns to look at you, eyes soft and something else—something you can’t name yet, but it makes your heart ache in a good way.

“I just thought you deserved a break,” you say. “Not a press conference. Not a celebration. Just… this. Quiet.”

Tony takes your hand, pulls you gently down onto the blankets beside him. “You made me a fortress.”

“Yeah,” you murmur. “I made you a fortress.”

He kisses you—soft, slow, grateful. No teasing. Just the kind of kiss that says thank you without needing to say it out loud.

The two of you curl up under the blankets as the movie starts. Half the time, he’s not even watching it—just looking at you, touching your hand, brushing his fingers down your arm. At some point, he feeds you a grape in revenge, grinning like an idiot.

You end up tangled together again by the end of the movie, his head in your lap, your fingers brushing over his cheekbone. His eyes are closed, smile lazy.

“You keep surprising me,” he says quietly.

“Is that a good thing?”

He opens one eye. “It’s the best thing.”

You lean down and kiss him again, long and deep, the kind of kiss that makes the city disappear, the rooftop vanish, the noise drop off the edge of the earth.

When you pull back, he smiles up at you, sleepy and safe.

“I’m gonna marry you,” he says again.

You raise an eyebrow. “You keep saying that.”

“And one day, it won’t just be a bath threat.”

You laugh, and he closes his eyes again, melting into your lap like he was built for this—like this is where he belongs.

You think he might fall asleep like this—his head in your lap, arms curled around your waist, the sky turning shades of orange and pink behind him.

But then his hand moves.

Slowly, fingers tracing along your thigh beneath the blanket, warm and deliberate. His eyes are still closed, but his mouth twitches at the corners, and you know that look. That sly, sleepy Tony Stark brand of trouble.

“Don’t start something you’re too tired to finish,” you murmur, combing your fingers through his hair again.

“I’m never too tired for you,” he says, voice low, lazy. “I’d rally from the grave.”

You huff a laugh, but your heart skips a little when his hand slides higher. His thumb brushes your skin under the hem of your shorts, and the way he looks up at you—soft, hungry, familiar—makes your whole body react.

“You’re dangerous,” you whisper.

He grins. “And yet you keep climbing into bed with me.”

“This isn’t a bed.”

He shifts up to sit beside you, one arm sliding around your waist, his lips brushing your neck now. “It could be. Temporarily.”

“We’re on the rooftop.”

His teeth graze your skin, and you shiver. “All the better.”

“Tony,” you breathe, half a laugh, half a warning.

His hands slip around your waist, pulling you gently into his lap. You straddle him, warm in your robe, hearts pressed close together under the heavy knit blanket. His eyes are darker now, focused entirely on you.

You kiss him. Slowly, deeply. He groans into your mouth, hands tightening on your hips like he’s grounding himself. You feel his pulse under your fingers, the way his body shifts toward yours like you’re the only thing tethering him to earth.

The world disappears again—just the two of you, the golden haze of sunset, the quiet flicker of the projector forgotten behind you.

But then his hand slides up your back, and your robe shifts. You break the kiss, breathless, blinking down at him.

“Tony.”

He hums against your collarbone.

“We’re still… on the roof.”

He pauses. “Technically, yes.”

“I love you, but I am not making you moan my name where a security camera might still be working.”

He groans dramatically, flopping back onto the blankets like he’s been wounded. “You ruin all my dreams.”

“I save you from your own lack of foresight.”

“You could’ve just let me have this one.”

You stand, pulling him up with you, trying not to laugh. “Come on. Bedroom. Now.”

He perks up instantly. “See? Still got the magic words.”

You lead him back inside, fingers laced with his, and he’s suddenly all boyish energy again—grinning like he’s already ten steps ahead of whatever’s about to happen. But the moment the bedroom door closes behind you, something shifts.

It’s quieter in here. Softer.

Tony lets go of your hand only to cup your face with both of his, eyes scanning yours like he’s grounding himself again.

“I really love you,” he says quietly.

You kiss him instead of answering, your hand sliding behind his neck to pull him closer.

And then you push him gently toward the bed.

He goes willingly, sitting back against the pillows as you climb into his lap again, your knees on either side of his hips. You pull his robe open slowly, watching his breath hitch as you lean in to kiss down the line of his jaw, across his throat, the hollow of his collarbone.

You take your time. You always do with him.

Because for all his bravado, all the ego and flash, Tony melts under gentleness. Under care. And no one gets to see him like this—so open, so trusting—except you.

You strip him down with slow hands, lips brushing over every new inch of skin you uncover. He touches you like you’re a miracle, like he still can’t believe you’re real. His hands don’t roam like they used to. Now they worship. He maps you like a blueprint he wants to memorize by touch alone.

When he tries to flip you over, you stop him with a shake of your head.

“Let me take care of you.”

His eyes go wide, then soft. He nods.

You guide him down against the pillows, straddling him again, hands braced on his chest. His arc reactor pulses beneath your palm, warm and steady, and you lean down to kiss just beside it.

He groans softly, fingers flexing against your thighs, but he doesn’t try to take control again. He just watches you, eyes full of awe and something deeper.

You kiss him as you move, as your bodies align and slide together, breath hitching in tandem. He breathes your name like a prayer when you sink onto him, your hands on his chest, your forehead pressed to his.

He touches you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. Like this—this slow, reverent kind of love—is something he doesn’t know how to ask for.

You give it to him anyway.

You rock together slowly, mouths meeting again and again, his hands never leaving your skin. He whispers your name into your shoulder, your throat, your mouth. Every time, it sounds like I love you.

When he comes, it’s with a quiet, broken sound, his head buried against your neck, his arms wrapped tight around you. You hold him through it, stroking his hair, pressing kisses wherever you can reach.

You don’t move right away. You just stay like that—tangled together, warm and safe, the world shrinking down to nothing.

Eventually, you shift, easing off of him slowly and reaching for the towel you’d left on the nightstand earlier. He watches you with heavy-lidded eyes as you wipe him down, gentle and sweet, still brushing your fingers through his hair every now and then.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs, pulling you down beside him.

“You’re spoiled.”

He hums. “Only by you.”

You kiss his temple and press the towel aside, grabbing the lotion you keep in the drawer—part of your usual post-mission care kit. He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue when you push his hair back and start rubbing it into his shoulders.

He sighs like you’re massaging heaven into his bones.

“Seriously, marry me.”

“You say that every time I touch you with lotion.”

“Because I’m emotionally impressionable when I’m moisturized.”

You laugh, and he turns his head to kiss your wrist.

After a few minutes, he flips you both over gently, reaching for the same lotion. “Your turn.”

“You don’t have to—”

He gives you a look. “Don’t argue with the genius billionaire giving you a shoulder massage. You’ll lose.”

You melt under his hands, laughing quietly as he works the lotion into your back, his touch just as careful as yours had been. His kisses are soft and warm against your spine. Every inch he touches feels lighter.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he says quietly.

“You’re never gonna have to find out.”

He pulls the blanket over both of you when he’s done, settling beside you again, one arm tucked beneath your neck, the other around your waist.

You stay like that, hearts still racing, breath slow and steady.

He falls asleep before you do.

And when you finally drift off, it’s to the sound of his heartbeat beneath your cheek and the feeling of his arms wrapped around you like he never wants to let go.

[junegoal]

REBLOGGING MY REQUEST Y'ALL!!! INCREDIBLY HAPPY!!!! Love you @amethystarachnid thankyou very much! Made my day 😭😭😭❤️❤️❤️

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

please 🥺🥺🥺❤️❤️❤️

CHAOS & CONFETTI

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

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

ᯓ★ Genre: fluff, romance, some action

ᯓ★ Word count: 6.4k

ᯓ★ Summary: what the ask said

ᯓ★ TW(s): nothing I think?

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

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

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

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

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

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

That’s probably your first mistake.

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

You should’ve known then.

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

You lower your phone. “You did what?”

He gestures dramatically toward the door.

One by one, they enter.

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

You blink.

“This is your task force?”

Tony beams. “Dream team, baby.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The next few hours are a blur of chaos.

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

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

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

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

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

By day three of planning, things have escalated.

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

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

Steve is still holding out hope for a marching band.

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

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

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

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

“You mean proposing?”

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

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

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

The next big challenge? The tasting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t need floating food, babe.”

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

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

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

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

And Tony?

He’s always there.

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

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

You smile, heart full.

“Deal.”

---

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

Tony, however, is a menace.

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

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

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

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

Tony smirks. “Eighty percent.”

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

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

Tony hates it.

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

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

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

“That’s exactly why.”

He turns to you, desperate. “Babe.”

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

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

“You’ll survive.”

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

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

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

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

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

You turn, studying yourself. “You think?”

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

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

“No, but it’s a bonus.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m really good at sighing dramatically.”

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

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

Tony ignores her. “Did you miss me?”

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

He grins. “What’d you get? Show me.”

“Absolutely not.”

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

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

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

Steve smirks. “And?”

Tony glares at him.

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

And Tony?

Tony sneaks kisses every chance he gets.

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

It doesn’t go unnoticed.

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

Tony smirks. “Yes.”

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

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

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

Tony grins. “Doubt it.”

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. “For what?”

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

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

He grins. “Damn right it is.”

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

His arms tighten around you. “Me neither.”

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

Until it breaks.

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

“Hey, what’s up?”

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

You stop writing. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

Gone.

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

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

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

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

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

“Talk to me.”

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

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

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

He’s there before you hit the floor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t rush you.

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

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

You laugh wetly. “Liar.”

He grins. “Only a little.”

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

You fall asleep in his arms, exhausted.

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

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

“Tony wants you on the roof.”

“The roof?”

He nods. “Just go. Trust me.”

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

Magic.

The roof has been transformed.

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

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

You just stare.

“What is this?”

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

“You—how?”

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

You’re speechless.

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

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

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

You laugh. “I remember that.”

“I never forgot it.”

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

Tony takes your hand. “Say yes.”

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

“Say it again.”

“Yes.”

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

And somehow, it’s perfect.

---

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

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

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

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

“You’re not getting a tattoo.”

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

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

“Bold of you to assume.”

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

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

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

“You’re going to be gone for hours.”

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

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

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

“That’s not comforting.”

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

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

“I always do.”

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

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

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

“Let’s cause minimal but memorable chaos.”

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

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

The night flies.

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

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

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

Bruce sighs. “Please no battles.”

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

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

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

Tony lifts his glass. “To functional chaos.”

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

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

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

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

“You doing okay?” she asks.

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

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

You look at her. “Of course I do.”

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

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

She smirks. “Smart man.”

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

Tony is already waiting.

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

“Miss me?” he mumbles into your neck.

“Always.”

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

“So much.”

He grins. “Me too. Don’t tell Steve.”

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

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

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

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

Together.

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

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

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

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

“Good weird?”

“The best kind.”

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

You smile. That sounds right.

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

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

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

“I’m holding it together.”

“You’re not.”

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

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

“I’m not crying.”

“Yet.”

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

Then the music starts.

Tony’s heart skips a beat.

And then you’re there.

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

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

“You’d wait,” you whisper back.

“Forever.”

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

Everyone laughs. Even Natasha.

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

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

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

“Again?” you murmur.

He grins. “Probably.”

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

The reception is chaos in the best way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Same thing.”

You laugh, leaning against him as the music swells.

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

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

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

“Morning, Mrs. Stark.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then it gets... less sweet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tony nods. “Okay, not mad.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yet.”

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

“You’re good at it so far.”

“I plan to get even better.”

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

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

And it's already everything.

[junegoal]

Hello I read this storyline somewhere and I want to see his version. can you write Rdj X female reader where he and y/n have a a lot of age gap and y/n is deeply in love with him. you can make them colleagues or whatever you want. he has small kid/s but no wife ,divorced or dead... your wish. reader always finds a way to flirt like staring at him and all that girl in love things and try her best to express her feelings. he has a soft spot/special place for her but keeps dodging her attempts as his priority is not only his partner but also someone who is mature enough to take care of his children like a mother. she believes age is just a number & keeps trying to prove that she can do all that and does her best to be a good mom but he prioritizes age. after desperate tries for love, reader does something really shocking to grab his attention. i read that she sends him her alluring pics but u can put smtg else if you're not comfortable. but that's when he loses it and scolds her. she feels humiliated, cries and leaves but his kids asks for her and that's when he gets her back and she apologizes for acting out of mind and they make up and he slowly realizes he loves her too and they kiss one day😊 If you do not write for real people, you can make it tony stark but plz don't involve anyone or anything marvel. no hate i just want it to be different. also, i hope you write all kinds of requests but if you don't want to write this, i can understand. its ok. english is not my first language so sorry if this is too long and any mistakes occur.

ALMOST HOME

⤷ ROBERT DOWNEY JR.

ᯓ★ Pairing: Robert Downey Jr. x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: fluff, romance, some action

ᯓ★ Word count: 5k

ᯓ★ Summary: what the ask said

ᯓ★ TW(s): nothing I think?

ᯓ★ you can't even imagine how many times I wrote Tony instead of Robert...I hope I corrected everything lol. This is my first time writing for a real person and probably my last because I felt kinda awkward (?) writing this...hope you like it anyway tho! wanted to give it a try

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ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The first time you met Robert Downey Jr., you were a nervous wreck. You had just landed a role in a big movie, and he was one of the leads. The idea of working with him, standing in the same room as him, was something you never thought would happen. You grew up watching his movies, admiring his effortless charm, his talent, his everything. But none of that compared to what it felt like to meet him in person.

He was magnetic.

The moment he walked onto set that day, you couldn't take your eyes off him. He had that signature smirk, the kind that made you weak in the knees, and his energy was infectious. Everyone gravitated toward him, and you were no exception. He noticed you almost immediately, tilting his head slightly as if trying to figure out where he had seen you before.

"You're the newbie," he had said, his voice smooth and teasing. "First big gig?"

You nodded, barely managing to get out a response. "Yeah. First time working with a legend too."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Oh, honey, flattery will get you everywhere."

That was how it started.

Since then, you've worked on multiple projects together, and in that time, your admiration has only grown. You've fallen for him—hard. You know it’s ridiculous, that there’s an age gap, that he has a life far more complicated than yours, but none of it stops the way your heart races when he’s near. You flirt shamelessly, hoping he’ll finally get the hint, but he always dodges it. Not cruelly, not unkindly, but carefully, as if he knows how fragile this thing between you is.

It doesn’t stop you from trying.

Today is no different. You’re at a press event for your latest movie together, a film where your characters have a complicated relationship—one that mirrors your real-life dynamic a little too closely. Interviews, photos, endless talking—it’s all part of the routine. But the real fun is the game you play with Robert.

He’s sitting next to you, wearing that perfect suit that makes him look effortlessly handsome. His tie is slightly loosened, the top button of his shirt undone. You let yourself stare, knowing he’ll notice. He always does.

"You’re staring," he says under his breath, turning his head slightly so only you can hear.

You don’t look away. "Maybe I just like what I see."

He exhales sharply, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "You’re relentless, you know that?"

"And yet, you still haven’t given in," you tease, tilting your head at him.

"Because I know better."

You roll your eyes. He always does this—pushes back just enough to keep you at arm’s length but never so far that you lose hope. He likes you, you know he does. It’s in the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention, the way he always finds a reason to be near you, the way his eyes soften when you say something ridiculous just to make him laugh.

But there’s a wall.

A wall built from his past, from his responsibilities, from his fears.

And part of that wall is named James and Lily.

You’ve met them before, of course. Robert talks about them all the time, his face lighting up whenever he mentions his son and daughter. The first time you saw them was on set, when Robert had brought them by for a visit. James, with his messy dark hair and bright brown eyes, was a ball of energy, running around and asking endless questions. Lily, still a baby at the time, clung to her father, big eyes staring curiously at the world around her.

You remember how carefully Robert held her, how he always kept one eye on James while making sure Lily was safe in his arms. It was a side of him you hadn’t seen before—softer, more vulnerable. It made you fall for him even more.

But it also made you realize why he keeps his distance.

Robert isn’t just looking for someone to love—he’s looking for someone who can be a mother to his children. And in his eyes, you’re too young, too inexperienced. You can see it in the way he hesitates every time you push a little too hard, the way he pulls back just when you think he might finally let himself want you.

Still, you can’t help yourself.

"Do you ever get tired of running from me?" you ask, keeping your voice light as the interview starts wrapping up.

He sighs, leaning closer, his breath warm against your ear. "I’m not running. I’m protecting."

"From what?"

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and for a second, you think he might actually answer. But instead, he shakes his head, a small, sad smile on his lips. "You’ll understand one day."

The words sting more than you expect. Because you already understand. You understand that he’s scared, that he’s been hurt before, that his children come first, always. But what he doesn’t understand is that you’re not just some starstruck girl with a crush. You love him. And you’re not going anywhere.

For now, though, you let him think he’s won this round.

But Robert Downey Jr. has no idea just how stubborn you can be.

---

The afternoon sun casts a warm glow over the quiet neighborhood as you pull into Robert’s driveway, your heart pounding just a little harder than it should. You’ve been here before—not often, but enough that it shouldn’t feel like this much of a big deal. And yet, it does.

You know why.

It’s not just about rehearsing lines. It’s about being in his space, where he’s not Robert Downey Jr., the larger-than-life actor, but just Robert—the man, the father, the person he keeps tucked away from the rest of the world. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t make your stomach flip knowing that you were stepping into that part of his life, even if it was just for an afternoon.

When you knock on the door, it swings open almost immediately, and there he is—leaning against the frame like he was expecting you the second you pulled up.

“You’re early,” he says, one eyebrow lifting in amusement.

“You sound surprised,” you tease, crossing your arms.

He steps aside, gesturing for you to come in. “I figured you’d be fashionably late. Make an entrance. Give me time to mentally prepare.”

You roll your eyes as you step into the house, inhaling the familiar scent of something faintly sweet—probably whatever scented candles he always has burning. The place is warm, lived-in. Photos line the walls—some of him with the kids, some of his old movie moments, a few candid shots that make you smile.

“Please, I’m a professional,” you say, looking back at him with a smirk.

Robert chuckles, shaking his head. “We’ll see about that.”

The sound of tiny footsteps thumping against the hardwood floor interrupts your banter, and before you can react, a small body crashes into Robert’s legs.

“Daddy!”

James.

The three-year-old grips onto Robert’s pants, his big brown eyes blinking up at him before shifting to you. He takes you in for a second, curiosity flickering across his face.

Robert crouches down, ruffling James’s already-messy dark hair. “Bud, you remember Y/N, right? She’s my friend.”

James doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he tilts his head at you like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. Then, to your absolute delight, he grins.

“You’re pretty.”

You let out a surprised laugh. “Wow, you’ve got great taste, kid.”

Robert groans, shaking his head. “Don’t encourage him. He already thinks he’s a smooth talker.”

James tugs on Robert’s sleeve. “She’s like a princess, Daddy.”

Robert looks at you, unimpressed. “See what you’ve done?”

You press a hand to your heart, dramatically sighing. “I’m honored. Really. I think James is my favorite person now.”

James beams, clearly pleased with himself.

Before you can say anything else, a tiny, wobbling figure appears from around the corner. Lily. The one-and-a-half-year-old clutches a stuffed bunny in one hand and her thumb in her mouth, her big brown eyes locking onto you. She doesn’t say anything—just stares, as if assessing whether or not you’re a worthy addition to her afternoon.

“Hey, sweetheart,” you coo, crouching down a little to meet her gaze.

She doesn’t move for a moment. Then, slowly, she toddles forward, reaching out—toward you.

You freeze, glancing at Robert. He looks just as surprised as you.

“She doesn’t usually—”

But before he can finish his sentence, Lily plops herself right in front of you, holding out her bunny as if offering it to you. Your heart nearly melts on the spot.

“For me?” you ask softly.

She nods.

Robert exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Well, that’s new.”

You glance up at him. “What, she doesn’t usually like people?”

“She doesn’t usually like anyone this fast.”

You look back at Lily, who is still watching you with those impossibly big eyes, and you swear your heart expands in your chest.

“I’m honored,” you whisper, taking the bunny carefully. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

She grins—a tiny, toothy thing that makes Robert shake his head in disbelief.

And just like that, you’re in.

James tugs on your hand suddenly, his excitement bubbling over. “Come play with me!”

You glance at Robert, raising an eyebrow. “I thought we were rehearsing?”

Robert folds his arms, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Apparently, you’ve been recruited for something far more important.”

James bounces on his toes. “Come on! Come on!”

You laugh, allowing him to pull you toward the living room, where toys are scattered across the floor—cars, action figures, stuffed animals. It’s a child’s wonderland.

Robert sighs, following behind you. “Guess we’re doing this now.”

You sit cross-legged on the floor, James plopping down beside you while Lily waddles over and settles into Robert’s lap.

James immediately starts explaining the “rules” of whatever elaborate game he’s come up with, something about superheroes and princesses and bad guys. You nod along seriously, determined to keep up.

Robert, however, just leans back against the couch, watching you with something unreadable in his expression.

You meet his gaze. “What?”

He shakes his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Nothing.”

But it’s not nothing. You can feel it in the air, in the way his eyes linger a little longer than they should.

Lily shifts in his lap, grabbing onto his shirt. “Daddy,” she murmurs.

He glances down at her. “Yeah, baby?”

She points at you. “Princess.”

Robert lets out a soft laugh. “Oh boy. Now you’ve really done it.”

James nods vigorously. “Yeah! Y/N is the princess. And you’re the knight, Daddy.”

You smirk. “Oh, I like where this is going.”

Robert groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “Fantastic. Just fantastic.”

You spend the next hour immersed in their world, letting James lead the way while Lily occasionally chimes in with her limited vocabulary. Robert, despite his initial protests, plays along—because, of course, he does. He’s a natural with them, effortlessly switching between playful and protective, always keeping an eye on both kids even when he’s pretending to be a dragon or a brave knight.

And you?

You’re completely and utterly in love.

Not just with Robert, but with this. With the laughter, the chaos, the warmth of it all.

At some point, Lily crawls into your lap, resting her tiny head against your chest as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. James sits beside you, chattering about something you can barely follow, and when you glance up at Robert, he’s already looking at you.

There’s something different in his eyes now. Something softer.

You swallow hard, offering him a small smile. “What?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he just watches you, his expression unreadable.

Finally, he exhales, shaking his head. “Nothing,” he murmurs. “Just… you’re good at this.”

You glance down at Lily, who is dozing off against you, and then at James, who is still playing but leaning into your side like he’s already claimed you as his.

Your heart stutters.

“Maybe I just like spending time with them,” you say quietly.

Robert doesn’t look away. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Maybe.”

And for the first time, you think you’re starting to break through that wall.

---

The next time you see Robert, it’s not because of work.

It starts with a text—short, casual, as if it’s no big deal.

Robert: Hey, no pressure, but James keeps asking if you can come over.

You stare at the message, your heart doing an embarrassingly enthusiastic flip. It’s only been a few days since you last saw them, but apparently, that was enough time for James to miss you. And, if you’re reading between the lines correctly, Robert is letting you know that it’s not just James—it’s him, too.

You: Are you sure it’s James who’s asking?

You expect him to deny it, to brush it off, but instead, his response comes almost immediately.

Robert: Don’t get cocky.

You grin at your phone.

That’s how it starts.

At first, it’s just occasional visits. You drop by for an hour or two, entertaining James with his ever-evolving games while Lily clings to you like you’ve been a part of her life forever. Robert watches, sometimes joining in, sometimes just leaning against the wall with that unreadable expression that’s becoming more familiar.

But then, something shifts.

Because it’s not just James and Lily asking for you—it’s Robert.

He doesn’t always say it outright, but you can tell. The way he texts more often. The way he calls and casually asks what you’re doing, if you’re busy, if you feel like stopping by. The way he doesn’t protest when you stay a little longer, when you help put Lily to bed, when you make dinner with him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And before you know it, you’re there all the time.

Like now.

Lily is in your lap, her tiny hands gripping your fingers as she babbles happily, her words still forming but getting clearer every day. She’s pointing at things, demanding names for everything in sight.

“Tree,” you say as she points out the window.

“Te-ee,” she repeats, her little brow furrowed in concentration.

You grin. “Close enough.”

She beams, clearly proud of herself. Then she turns, pointing at Robert, who is sprawled out on the couch, watching you both with amused eyes.

“Da-da.”

Robert smirks. “Well, at least she’s got that one down.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, please. That was probably her first word.”

“Actually, it was ‘baba.’” He stretches, arms behind his head. “But yeah, I came pretty close after that. She’s obsessed with me.”

Lily makes a sound of protest, reaching for you. “Yaya!”

You blink. “Wait—was that supposed to be me?”

Robert raises an eyebrow. “Sounds like it.”

Your heart stutters in your chest. “Lily, sweetheart, are you trying to say my name?”

She grins, nodding enthusiastically. “Yaya!”

Robert lets out a low whistle. “Damn. She’s really gone and named you.”

You should not be this emotional over a nickname formed by an eighteen-month-old, but you are.

Lily snuggles against your chest, and you kiss the top of her head, your voice soft. “I think I love you, kiddo.”

Robert doesn’t say anything, but when you glance up, his expression is different.

Softer.

Like maybe, just maybe, he’s letting himself believe this could be something real.

James comes barreling into the room a second later, effectively breaking the moment.

“Y/N! Come see what I built!”

You laugh, shifting Lily so you can stand. “Alright, alright. Lead the way.”

James grabs your hand, pulling you toward his latest Lego masterpiece, and as you follow him, you don’t miss the way Robert watches you go.

Like he’s realizing, piece by piece, that you’re already a part of this family.

And the craziest part?

You feel like you belong.

---

You don’t plan on spending so much time at Robert’s house.

It just… happens.

At first, it’s occasional visits. Then, before you know it, it’s almost every other day. The kids expect you now. James asks for you in the mornings, wondering if today is a “Y/N day.” Lily waddles around the house, clutching her stuffed bunny, babbling “Yaya” like it’s the most important word in her vocabulary.

And Robert?

He doesn’t push you away. If anything, he makes it easier for you to stay.

It’s little things—leaving an extra hoodie on the couch because he knows you’ll eventually get cold, making enough dinner for you without asking, sending casual texts that don’t really ask you to come over but make it clear that he wouldn’t mind if you did.

You’ve fallen into something. A rhythm. A life.

And it scares you how much you love it.

—

Today is one of those days where you’re not supposed to be at Robert’s house—but you are.

You were only supposed to stop by for a little bit. Just to see the kids, maybe help Robert with dinner. But then James begged you to stay for movie night, and Lily climbed into your lap, hugging you like she never wanted to let go, and suddenly, leaving didn’t feel like an option.

So now, you’re curled up on the couch with James tucked under one arm and Lily sprawled across your lap, her little fingers gripping your hoodie like she’s making sure you won’t disappear. Robert sits at the other end of the couch, legs stretched out, watching the screen with lazy amusement.

Halfway through the movie, James shifts, resting his head against your chest with a content sigh.

“Mommy, can you—”

Silence.

Your heart stops.

James freezes, his body tensing like he realizes his mistake too late.

Robert sits up straighter.

Lily, oblivious, claps her hands and repeats, “Mommy!”

The air in the room changes instantly.

Your throat goes dry. Your pulse pounds in your ears.

James lifts his head slowly, wide brown eyes flicking between you and Robert, realizing what he just said. “I—I mean—”

Robert clears his throat. “Hey, bud.” His voice is calm, steady, but you can see the tension in his shoulders. “You know Y/N isn’t your mommy, right?”

James nods quickly, his little face crumpling. “I know! It just… just came out.”

Lily, still unaware of the awkwardness, buries her face in your chest, mumbling, “Mommy, Mommy,” like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You finally find your voice, forcing a gentle smile. “It’s okay, buddy. I know you didn’t mean anything bad.”

James’ lip wobbles. “You’re here all the time. You do stuff like a mommy.”

And there it is.

Robert runs a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “James, come here for a second.”

James hesitates, then slowly gets up, moving toward his father. Robert pulls him into his lap, resting a steady hand on his back.

“You know that just because someone spends time with us, it doesn’t mean they have to be your mom, right?”

James nods, but he still looks upset. “But I like when Y/N is here.”

Robert glances at you. Your heart clenches at the conflict in his eyes.

“I like when she’s here too,” Robert admits, his voice softer now. “But we have to be careful about words like that, okay?”

James sniffles. “Sorry.”

You step in before Robert can say anything else, offering James a reassuring smile. “Hey, no need to be sorry. I love spending time with you guys.” You ruffle his hair, making him giggle a little. “And I love that you feel comfortable with me. But I also know that your mom is important to you, and I’d never try to take her place, okay?”

James nods again, looking slightly reassured. “Okay.”

Robert squeezes his shoulder before letting him go. James immediately climbs back onto the couch, curling up against you again, as if he doesn’t want to let the moment linger too long.

Lily, on the other hand, is still contently murmuring, “Mommy,” into your hoodie.

Robert rubs his face, clearly at a loss. “She’s not letting that one go, huh?”

You chuckle, running a soothing hand down Lily’s back. “She’s still little. It’s probably just because James said it.”

Lily snuggles closer, sighing happily. “Yaya… Mommy.”

You and Robert make eye contact again.

His expression is unreadable, but you can tell he’s thinking. Processing.

You’re not sure what happens next.

But for now, you hold Lily close, let James press against your side, and pretend that this—whatever this is—isn’t completely terrifying.

---

You refuse to give up.

Robert might keep brushing off your advances, sidestepping every attempt you make, but you know what you feel. You know that this thing between you is real. The way he looks at you when he thinks you don’t notice, the way he lets you into his world, the way he trusts you with James and Lily—it all means something.

And yeah, you’re younger than him. By a lot. But what does that really matter?

Age is just a number. It doesn’t define who you are, what you’re capable of, or how much love you have to give.

So you keep trying.

You spend more time with the kids, doing everything you can to show him that you’re not just playing house—you can be what they need. You cook dinners, read bedtime stories, soothe Lily when she wakes up crying in the middle of the night. You handle James’ tantrums with patience, help with his schoolwork, listen when he rambles about his favorite superheroes.

And you don’t do it just for Robert. You love these kids. You love them so much it scares you.

But no matter how much you give, how much you prove, Robert won’t let himself see it.

He keeps you at arm’s length. Always careful. Always drawing that invisible line between you.

And it’s driving you insane.

One night, after another long day at his house—after another quiet moment where he looked at you like he wanted to say something but didn’t—you go home feeling restless.

You sit on your bed, staring at your phone, heart pounding.

You know what you’re about to do is reckless. Stupid, even. But you’re desperate. You need him to see you. Not as the younger woman he keeps dismissing, not as just a friend, not as just the person who takes care of his kids.

You need him to see you as a woman.

Your fingers tremble slightly as you open the camera, angling the shot just right. It’s not too much—but it’s enough. Enough to make him look twice. Enough to get his attention.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you hit send.

The moment the message delivers, your stomach twists.

Minutes pass. No response.

Then your phone rings.

Robert.

You hesitate, suddenly second-guessing everything. But it’s too late to back out now. You take a deep breath and answer.

His voice is sharp, controlled—but there’s something simmering underneath. “What the hell was that?”

Your throat goes dry. “I—”

“No,” he interrupts. “Don’t even try to explain. What were you thinking?”

You clench your phone, your face burning. “I was thinking that I wanted you to see me, Robert.”

He lets out a harsh breath. “See you? You think this is how to do that?”

You grit your teeth. “You won’t look at me any other way.”

His silence is heavy.

You push forward, voice shaking but firm. “I’ve done everything. I’ve been there for you, for the kids. I’ve proven that I’m not just some stupid girl with a crush. And you—” You swallow hard, your eyes stinging. “You keep acting like it doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter.” His voice is lower now, but no less intense. “That’s the problem.”

“Then why—”

“Because you’re young, Y/N!” His voice rises, frustration spilling over. “Too young for this. Too young for me.”

Your heart cracks. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s reality.”

Tears blur your vision. “Reality? Reality is me taking care of your kids like they’re my own. Reality is you looking at me like you want this just as much as I do but being too much of a coward to admit it.”

His breath catches, but he recovers quickly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You laugh bitterly, wiping at your face. “Right. Because I’m just some stupid kid, right? Too young to understand?”

He sighs, but it’s not soft. It’s tired. “Y/N…”

“Forget it.” Your voice breaks. “I get it now.”

And you hang up before he can say another word.

You don’t go back to his house after that

---

You don’t go back.

Not the next day. Not the day after that. Not even when James sends you a voice message asking if you’re coming over.

You can’t.

It’s not fair to them, but you can’t even bear the thought of looking at Robert right now. Not after what happened. Not after the way he made you feel—like you were stupid, like you were nothing more than a reckless girl who didn’t know any better.

So you stay away.

Days turn into a week. Then two.

Your phone stays quiet. No messages from him. No calls.

Maybe this is what he wanted all along.

Maybe you were the only one who ever believed this could be something more.

Then, one evening, your phone buzzes.

It’s late, and you almost don’t check. But when you do, your chest tightens.

Robert: James won’t stop crying for you.

You sit up in bed, your heart pounding.

A minute later, another text.

Robert: Lily keeps asking where you are. She won’t go to bed. I don’t know what to tell them anymore.

You blink back tears, gripping your phone.

This isn’t fair to them.

They don’t deserve this.

Your stomach knots as you hover over your screen, hesitating.

Then, finally, you type:

You: I’ll come over.

—

When you step into Robert’s house, the first thing you hear is James’ little sniffles from the couch.

The second he sees you, he scrambles up, his face streaked with dried tears. “Y/N!”

He rushes forward, throwing his arms around your waist before you can even breathe. “Where were you? I missed you so much!”

You drop to your knees, hugging him tightly. “I’m so sorry, buddy.”

Lily, who had been curled up against Robert, suddenly perks up. Her eyes widen, and then she lets out a squeal. “Yaya!”

She wobbles toward you as fast as her little legs will carry her, practically falling into your lap. You pick her up, burying your face in her soft curls, your heart aching with guilt.

Robert stands a few feet away, watching you carefully. His face is unreadable, but there’s something different in his eyes.

You swallow hard, then look back at the kids. “I didn’t mean to disappear. I promise.”

James sniffs, still clinging to you. “You won’t leave again?”

You glance at Robert. He holds your gaze for a long moment before looking away.

“I won’t,” you say softly.

—

After the kids finally go to bed—Lily curled up against you, James holding your hand until he drifts off—you head to the kitchen. You expect Robert to just let you leave after that, to let this whole thing go unspoken.

But when you turn, he’s right there.

You freeze, gripping the counter.

He doesn’t look mad. Just… tired.

“You can’t just run away when things get hard,” he says quietly.

You exhale, shaking your head. “Robert, I—” You close your eyes for a second before looking at him again. “I know. And I’m sorry. For everything. I was completely out of my mind that night. I just—” Your voice catches. “I just wanted you to see me.”

His jaw tightens. “I do see you.”

You shake your head. “No. You see my age. That’s all you ever see.”

Robert doesn’t deny it.

But then he says, almost too softly, “It’s not just that.”

You frown. “Then what?”

He lets out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “You… you’re not just someone I can fool around with, Y/N. If I let this happen, if I let myself—” He cuts off, his voice strained. “It’s not just about us. It’s about them.”

Your heart clenches. “I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do,” he says, suddenly sharper. “Because if this doesn’t work, if something goes wrong, they lose you. Not just me. Them.”

You stare at him, stunned.

That thought—God, that had never even crossed your mind.

He exhales heavily, raking a hand through his hair. “James called you ‘Mommy’ the other night. You saw how fast Lily took to you. If I let this happen, and it doesn’t last, you don’t just break my heart. You break theirs.”

The weight of his words sinks into your chest.

For the first time, you see it from his side.

The fear. The hesitation. It’s not just about you being younger. It’s about the fact that, if he lets you in—really lets you in—there’s no going back.

You take a shaky breath. “I don’t want to hurt them.”

“I know.” His voice is gentler now. “And I know you didn’t mean to hurt them by leaving. But you did.”

You swallow hard. “I was embarrassed. I felt humiliated, Robert.”

His face softens, and he sighs. “Yeah. I know.”

A long silence stretches between you.

Then he takes a step closer.

Your pulse jumps, but you don’t move.

“I never wanted to hurt you either,” he admits, his voice low.

You look up at him.

Something shifts in his expression.

Like he’s finally seeing what was there all along.

His hand lifts slightly, like he wants to touch you—but he hesitates.

You don’t.

You reach out, grasping his fingers, squeezing just enough to let him know it’s okay.

His eyes flicker with something unreadable.

Then, finally, he moves.

Slowly, carefully, he cups your face, his thumb brushing lightly against your cheek.

Your breath catches.

He watches you for a second longer, like he’s making sure you’re real.

And then he kisses you.

It’s soft at first—hesitant.

But when you don’t pull away, when you press closer, it deepens.

It’s not just a kiss.

It’s everything.

Every unspoken feeling. Every moment that led to this. Every fear, every hesitation, melting away into something undeniable.

When he finally pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, exhaling shakily.

You close your eyes, your fingers still tangled in his shirt.

Neither of you speaks.

Because for the first time, words aren’t needed.

[junegoal]

Pleeeeease, write a part two of Office Romance for us??? 😭😭😭

OFFICE ROMANCE - part 2

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

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

ᯓ★ Genre: fluff, romance, rom-com, more angst

ᯓ★ Word count: 7k

ᯓ★ Part 1

ᯓ★ Summary: from @zeynbellastark's comment under part 1: Will there be a second part where the reader and Tony's relationship is revealed and misinterpreted because of Nathan?

ᯓ★ TW(s): little spicy scenes, nothing too explicit

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

A few months into your relationship, keeping things a secret is turning out to be a lot harder than you expected. Not because you aren’t careful, but because Tony Stark is the most needy and touchy boyfriend in existence.

He has no concept of boundaries. He’s constantly finding excuses to touch you, stand too close, or outright pull you into his lap when you’re in his office. He whines when you try to make him do actual work instead of flirting with you. He sneaks kisses when he thinks no one is looking. And worst of all, he pouts every single time you remind him that you’re supposed to be keeping things professional at work.

It doesn’t help that he’s incredibly dramatic about it.

Like right now.

"Baby," Tony groans, slumping back in his chair. "I need my daily dose of affection before I collapse from lack of love. Do you want me to collapse? Because that’s what’s gonna happen. Right here. In my chair. You’ll have to explain to the press that I died of neglect."

You don’t even look up from your clipboard. "You’ll live."

Tony gasps. "Heartless. And after all I’ve done for you."

"You mean after all I do for you?" You raise an eyebrow at him. "Like keeping your schedule organized, making sure you actually show up to your meetings, and preventing you from sending inappropriate emails at two in the morning?"

Tony waves a hand dismissively. "Technicalities. Minor details. The point is, I am suffering and you’re ignoring me."

You finally glance up, giving him a look. "We’re at work, Tony."

"So? I think it’s important for morale if the boss gets occasional hugs. Or kisses. Or, you know, a full-on makeout session." He smirks. "For stress relief purposes, obviously."

You roll your eyes. "You’re impossible."

"And yet, you love me anyway."

You hate that he’s right.

But you stay strong. "No PDA in the office, remember? We agreed."

Tony groans dramatically, dragging his hands down his face. "Yeah, yeah, because someone is worried about people calling her a gold digger." He narrows his eyes at you. "You do realize that’s insane, right? No one with a functioning brain would think that."

You sigh. "Tony—"

"No, seriously, do you know who I am? I could date a literal queen and people would still say she’s the lucky one. No one’s gonna think you are after my money, because I don’t date women who need my money. I date women who are awesome. Which you are. The most awesome, actually."

Your heart squeezes, but you shake your head. "That’s sweet, Tony, but you know how people talk. And you might not care, but I do. I worked really hard to get this job, and I don’t want people thinking I’m only here because I’m sleeping with you."

Tony sighs, but there’s no real fight in it. He gets it. He just doesn’t like it.

"So no kissing in the office," he mutters.

You nod. "No kissing in the office."

There’s a pause. Then Tony smirks. "Can I lick you in the office?"

You nearly choke. "What? No!"

"Just checking," he says innocently.

You throw a pen at him.

Despite his complaints, Tony does try to behave.

For about two hours.

Then he starts up again.

First, it’s subtle. He stands too close when you bring him a file, his arm brushing against yours unnecessarily. Then, he starts calling you into his office for completely pointless reasons, just to have you near him. By lunchtime, he’s at his neediest.

"I miss you," he whines, dragging you into the break room with him.

"You saw me five minutes ago," you point out.

"Yeah, but I haven’t touched you in five minutes, and that’s unacceptable."

You look around nervously, making sure no one else is in the room. "Tony—"

He traps you against the counter, caging you in with his arms. "Just one kiss," he pleads. "No one’s around."

You hesitate, because you do want to kiss him. But the second you lean in, the door swings open and you barely manage to shove him away before Rhodey walks in.

"Hey, I was just looking for—" Rhodey stops, eyes narrowing. "What’s going on in here?"

"Nothing," you say quickly, stepping away from Tony.

"Absolutely nothing," Tony adds. "Completely normal, work-related activities."

Rhodey glances between the two of you, suspicion all over his face. "Uh-huh."

Tony clears his throat. "So, uh, what do you need, buddy?"

Rhodey crosses his arms. "I need you to stop being weird."

Tony scoffs. "I’m not being weird."

"You are being weird."

"I think you’re imagining things."

Rhodey raises an eyebrow. "Right. Sure. And you definitely weren’t just about to make out in the break room."

Your eyes widen in horror. "We weren’t—"

Rhodey holds up a hand. "I don’t wanna know. Just keep it out of the office."

Tony grumbles as Rhodey walks away, but when you glance at him, he’s smirking.

"See? He doesn’t care. No one cares. We’re being too careful, babe."

"You just proved why we have to be careful!" You groan, pushing past him. "And now I have to avoid Rhodey for a week."

Tony follows you out, grinning like a man who enjoys making your life difficult.

You do your best to keep things professional for the rest of the day, but Tony isn’t making it easy. Every time you turn around, he’s looking at you like he wants to devour you. Every time you walk past, his hand brushes against yours. And when you’re in a meeting together, he texts you inappropriate things under the table.

By the time your shift ends, you’re exhausted.

But as usual, when it’s time to go home, Tony has other plans.

"My place?" he asks, already knowing the answer.

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. "You act like we don’t already spend every night together."

Tony smirks. "I just like hearing you say yes."

You huff, grabbing your bag. "Yes, Tony. Let’s go to your place."

He grins. "Best assistant ever."

You shake your head as he grabs your hand, dragging you toward the elevator.

Keeping your relationship a secret is exhausting.

But being with Tony? That part’s easy.

---

The moment you step into Tony’s penthouse, he tugs you into his arms, burying his face in your neck. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you so close that there’s barely any space between you.

"You really missed me today, huh?" you tease, running your fingers through his hair.

"You have no idea," Tony murmurs, pressing a soft kiss against your skin. "It’s torture being at work and not being able to touch you the way I want."

You laugh, feeling warmth spread through your chest. "You did touch me all day."

"Not enough," he huffs. "Never enough."

You roll your eyes, but your heart is fluttering. He’s been like this since you started dating—clingy, affectionate, and completely obsessed with being near you. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t love it.

"Come on," you say, pulling back slightly. "Let’s have dinner first. Then you can suffocate me with love."

Tony smirks. "Deal."

Dinner is surprisingly peaceful. You both cook together, which mostly consists of you doing the actual work while Tony steals bites of food and wraps his arms around you from behind. It’s domestic, warm, and easy—something you never expected when you first started working for him.

When you sit down to eat, Tony doesn’t take his eyes off you, watching you with a fond smile. "Have I told you how much I love you today?"

"Only about a hundred times," you say, grinning.

"Not enough, then." He reaches across the table, taking your hand in his. "I love you."

Your heart melts. "I love you too, Tony."

After dinner, he insists on dancing. There’s no music, just him pulling you into the middle of the living room and swaying with you, like he wants to hold onto the moment forever. He presses lazy kisses to your temple, your cheek, your lips.

And when he starts kissing you properly, you forget about everything else.

One kiss turns into two, then three, and before you know it, you’re tangled up in each other on the couch. Clothes come off piece by piece as Tony worships every inch of your skin, murmuring how much he adores you, how lucky he is, how he’ll never let you go.

It’s slow, passionate, and full of love.

Afterward, you end up in the bathtub together, warm water surrounding you as you lean against Tony’s chest. His arms are wrapped around you, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin.

"You okay?" he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

You hum, turning your head to kiss his jaw. "Perfect."

He smiles, squeezing you tighter. "Good. Because I plan on keeping you forever."

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. "You are so sappy tonight."

"Get used to it, sweetheart," he says, grinning. "I’m never gonna stop."

You stay in the bath until the water starts to cool, and even then, Tony refuses to let go of you. You finally convince him to get out, both of you wrapping yourselves in fluffy towels as you step into the bedroom.

That’s when Tony’s phone buzzes.

At first, he ignores it, but then it buzzes again. And again. And again.

He frowns, grabbing it from the nightstand. The second he looks at the screen, his entire body tenses.

Your stomach twists. "Tony?"

He doesn’t answer. His eyes are glued to the screen, his jaw clenched, his hands gripping the phone so tightly you think he might break it.

You step closer, peeking over his shoulder. And the moment you see the messages, your heart drops.

Someone leaked photos of you together.

Not just any photos—intimate ones. Not explicit, but damning enough. You kissing in the office, Tony looking at you like you hung the stars, his hand on your lower back as you walked together. One of you in his car, laughing, him leaning in close.

And the headlines are even worse.

"Tony Stark’s New Plaything? Inside His Affair With His Assistant."

"Caught in the Act: How Tony Stark’s Employee Seduced Him."

"Gold Digger or True Love? The Question on Everyone’s Mind."

You feel like you’ve been punched in the gut.

Your relationship isn’t even a secret anymore. But that’s not the worst part. The worst part is how they’re portraying you. Like you’re just another woman using Tony for money and power. Like you seduced him, manipulated him into a relationship.

Like you don’t actually love him.

Your hands tremble as you scroll through the articles. "Tony…"

His expression is dark. "I’m gonna kill whoever leaked this."

You swallow hard. "It looks bad."

"It looks bullshit," he growls.

"People are going to believe it." Your voice is barely a whisper.

Tony turns to you immediately, grabbing your face in his hands. "Hey. No. I don’t care what people think. You know the truth. I know the truth. That’s all that matters."

You shake your head. "But my job, Tony. My reputation—"

"You think I’m gonna let anyone ruin that?" His eyes burn with determination. "I’ll shut this down so fast they won’t even know what hit them."

Tears well up in your eyes. "I worked so hard to get here. And now everyone’s going to think I just slept my way to the top."

Tony’s face twists with guilt. "This is my fault."

"No—"

"Yes, it is," he says firmly. "I should’ve protected you better. I should’ve kept us a secret like you wanted. I should’ve—"

You shake your head. "No. Tony, this isn’t your fault."

He looks at you, eyes filled with frustration and regret. "Then why does it feel like I just ruined everything for you?"

You exhale shakily, leaning into him. "Because you love me."

His arms wrap around you tightly. "More than anything."

You close your eyes, trying to push away the panic rising in your chest. "What do we do now?"

Tony takes a deep breath. "We fight back."

You nod against his chest, clinging to him as he strokes your hair.

You don’t know what’s going to happen next.

But you know one thing for sure.

Tony Stark is never going to let the world tear you apart.

---

The next morning, stepping into the office feels like walking straight into a battlefield.

The moment you enter, the usual chatter in the bullpen dies down, replaced by hushed whispers and not-so-subtle glances in your direction. Your stomach twists, but you force yourself to hold your head high, keeping your face neutral as if you don’t notice the shift in the air.

You should have expected this. The leaked photos spread like wildfire overnight, plastered across every gossip site and social media platform imaginable. Your name is trending for all the wrong reasons.

"Tony Stark’s Assistant: Opportunist or Mistress?"

"Sleeping Her Way to the Top? Inside the Stark Industries Scandal."

"Another Gold Digger Secures Her Spot—How Long Until Stark Gets Bored?"

They make it sound like you schemed your way into Tony’s life, like you manipulated him, like you’re nothing but a mistake he made.

And judging by the looks people are giving you now, they believe it.

You walk towards your desk, trying to ignore the heavy weight of their stares. But it’s impossible to ignore the whispers.

"I knew something was going on."

"She didn’t seem special—guess she had other skills."

"Must be nice to sleep your way into a billionaire’s life."

"Can’t wait to see how fast he drops her."

Your throat tightens as you clench your hands into fists. The logical part of your brain tells you not to let it get to you, that these people don’t know the truth, that their opinions don’t matter.

But the truth is, they do matter. Because you worked so hard for this job. You spent years proving yourself, climbing your way up through hard work and dedication. And now, in the span of a single night, all of that has been erased.

Now, you’re just Tony Stark’s plaything.

You sit at your desk, trying to focus, but your hands are shaking as you type. You don’t even realize someone is standing next to you until a sharp voice cuts through the tense air.

"You really think you’re fooling anyone?"

You look up, meeting the cold gaze of Sarah, one of the senior executives. She crosses her arms, her lips curled in disgust.

"Excuse me?" you manage, though your voice comes out weaker than you’d like.

Sarah scoffs. "Don’t play dumb. We all saw the pictures. You must be proud of yourself, huh? Landing the richest man in the building? Too bad it won’t last."

Your stomach drops. "I—"

"You knew exactly what you were doing," she continues, her voice low and venomous. "I bet you played the sweet, hardworking assistant for years, just waiting for the right moment to throw yourself at him."

Your hands grip the edge of your desk. "That’s not—"

"Pathetic," she mutters under her breath before walking off.

You feel frozen in place, barely able to breathe.

And then the floodgates open.

A few feet away, two interns giggle as they whisper to each other, their gazes flickering toward you.

"Guess we know how to get promoted around here," one of them snickers.

"Yeah, should we start wearing shorter skirts?"

The security guard at the entrance barely spares you a glance when you pass him, but you catch the small shake of his head, like he’s disappointed in you.

Even people you used to be friendly with avoid your gaze. As if your presence alone is something shameful.

You want to scream.

You want to tell them they’re wrong, that you didn’t plan any of this, that you love Tony, that this isn’t some manipulative game you played to secure a future for yourself.

But what’s the point?

No one will believe you.

They’ve already decided what kind of person you are.

The final straw comes when you’re waiting for the elevator, and two employees step in behind you, continuing their conversation as if you’re invisible.

"Honestly, I don’t even blame him," one of them says. "Tony Stark has always been a womanizer. It’s just embarrassing that she actually thought she was different."

The other one laughs. "Yeah, it’s kind of sad. You can see it in the photos—she actually thinks he loves her. Give it a few months. He’ll get bored, and she’ll be back to being nobody."

The elevator doors open, and you step inside, your vision blurring.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until the doors shut, and the first tear hits the floor.

By the time you reach your desk again, your breathing is uneven, and your heart is pounding so hard it hurts. You can’t do this.

You can’t sit here and let them tear you apart like this.

You stand abruptly, grabbing your bag and rushing toward the exit before anyone can stop you. You don’t even care about what excuse you’re supposed to give.

You just need to get out.

The moment you step outside, the cold air hits your face, but it does nothing to soothe the ache in your chest. You’re gasping for breath, your hands shaking, your entire body feeling like it’s about to collapse under the weight of it all.

Your apartment is the only place you can think to go.

Not Tony’s penthouse.

Not home.

Because right now, you don’t want to be in his world.

Right now, it feels like you don’t belong there.

---

Tony notices almost immediately.

He’s in a meeting when FRIDAY quietly alerts him that you’ve left the building. That alone isn’t unusual—except for the fact that it’s in the middle of the workday, and you never leave without telling him.

A bad feeling settles in his chest.

The second the meeting ends, he strides out of the conference room, pulling out his phone and dialing you. It rings. And rings. And rings.

Then goes to voicemail.

"Hey, sweetheart. Call me back when you get this."

Nothing.

Something is wrong.

He checks the security feed at his penthouse first. If you needed space, maybe you went home—his home. But when the footage shows no sign of you, his stomach twists further.

That only leaves one place.

Your own apartment.

And that means you really don’t want to see him right now.

He clenches his jaw, forcing himself to take a deep breath. If he pushes too hard, if he storms over there, it could just make things worse.

He needs to give you time.

But he won’t just sit back and do nothing.

He turns to FRIDAY. "Get me every damn security feed from the office today. I want to know exactly what happened before she left."

It takes less than a minute before the AI pulls up multiple feeds. Tony watches as people whisper, glare, sneer. His fingers tighten into fists.

Then he sees her. Sarah.

That venomous bitch who’s always had something to say, standing over your desk, cutting you down with words he can’t hear but doesn’t need to.

Then the interns.

The guards.

The employees who looked at you like you were less than them.

The rage that fills him is cold and sharp.

They humiliated you. They made you feel like you didn’t belong.

They made you cry.

Someone is going to pay.

But first, he needs to find the source.

He moves to his desk, opening up Stark Industries’ private network. It takes him less than twenty minutes to trace the leak. The photos were uploaded from an encrypted server, but nothing is untraceable to him.

Nathan Ellis.

That pathetic excuse for a businessman who had the audacity to not only flirt with you but also harass you. The same guy Tony refused to work with because of his shady reputation.

This was revenge.

And Nathan made the mistake of thinking Tony wouldn’t retaliate.

"Oh, buddy," Tony mutters, a slow smirk curling at his lips, though his eyes burn with fury. "You have no idea who you just pissed off."

He cracks his knuckles and starts typing.

---

Your apartment feels suffocating.

You thought coming here would make you feel safe, away from the prying eyes and the cruel whispers, but it doesn’t. The silence is loud, your thoughts crashing over you like waves, pulling you under until you can barely breathe.

You’re curled up on the couch, knees hugged to your chest, your phone face down on the coffee table where you abandoned it hours ago. You haven’t checked the messages, haven’t looked at the calls. You can’t.

Because what if—what if Tony’s mad?

Not at the situation, but at you.

What if this is too much trouble? What if this is exactly why people don’t date coworkers? What if you just ruined everything?

A tear slips down your cheek, and you angrily wipe it away, sniffing.

You don’t want to cry anymore. You’re exhausted. Your body aches from how tense you’ve been all day, your head pounding from trying to hold yourself together.

You close your eyes and try to breathe, try to pretend that none of this is happening, that tomorrow everything will go back to normal—

A knock at the door makes you freeze.

You don’t move.

Another knock, firmer this time.

You know who it is.

But you’re not ready. You don’t have the strength to fight him, to argue, to pretend like you’re okay.

Another knock, followed by his voice.

"Sweetheart. I know you’re in there."

You swallow hard, eyes squeezing shut.

"Please let me in."

Your resolve crumbles.

You don’t even think. You just move.

When you open the door, Tony is standing there, his expression dark with worry. His eyes scan your face, your red-rimmed eyes, the way your shoulders are hunched like you’re trying to make yourself smaller.

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say anything. He just steps inside, kicks the door shut behind him, and pulls you right into his arms.

The moment he touches you, it’s over.

All the pain, all the exhaustion, all the fight drains from your body as you melt against him, gripping the front of his shirt like he’s the only thing keeping you standing.

He holds you so tightly, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. His hand cradles the back of your head, his other arm wrapped around your waist, keeping you pressed to his chest.

"Got you," he murmurs. "I got you."

You bury your face into his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of him, the warmth of his body grounding you.

For the first time all day, you feel safe.

He walks you backward, gently guiding you toward the couch. He sits first, pulling you with him until you’re curled up in his lap, your arms around his neck, his hand rubbing slow circles on your back.

Neither of you say anything for a long time.

You don’t need to.

Eventually, he pulls back just enough to look at you, brushing a thumb across your cheek, catching a stray tear.

"You okay?" His voice is so soft, so careful, like he knows you’ll break if he presses too hard.

You shake your head. "No."

He sighs, resting his forehead against yours. "I know, baby. I know."

Silence again.

Then, finally, he speaks.

"I know who leaked the photos."

You tense slightly but don’t pull away. "Who?"

"Nathan."

Your stomach drops. "What?"

Tony pulls back, watching your expression carefully. "Yeah. I did some digging. The photos were leaked from an encrypted server, but I traced it back to him. He wanted to screw me over after I turned him down. Figured humiliating you was the easiest way to do it."

You feel sick.

Nathan—the same man who made you uncomfortable, who tried to push boundaries—he did this.

Your hands curl into fists. "That son of a—"

"Oh, don’t worry, sweetheart," Tony interrupts, a dark smirk pulling at his lips. "I’m handling it."

You blink at him. "…What does that mean?"

Tony leans back against the couch, one arm still wrapped around you, the other resting on the armrest. He looks so smug, like he’s been waiting for this moment.

"It means Nathan Ellis is about to have the worst week of his life. And then the worst month. And then the worst year."

A chill runs down your spine. "Tony—"

"First," he continues, ignoring the warning in your voice, "I’m making sure every single investor, business partner, and connection he ever hoped to have knows exactly what kind of guy he is. Not just that he leaked my private life, but all the other shady shit he’s done."

Your eyes widen. "Other shady shit?"

Tony shrugs. "Did some digging. Turns out he’s been embezzling money from one of his companies. That’s gonna be a fun headline when it drops tomorrow."

You stare at him. "You’re ruining him."

"Uh-huh." He kisses the side of your head. "That’s step one."

Your heart pounds. "There’s more?"

Tony grins. "Oh, sweetheart. I’m just getting started."

You let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head. "God, you’re terrifying."

He hums, pressing another kiss to your temple. "That’s why you love me."

You stiffen slightly.

Because yeah. That is why you love him.

And you almost lost everything today because of other people’s opinions.

You pull back, meeting his gaze. "Tony… what about the office? The way people treated me today—"

His expression hardens. "I checked the security footage. I saw everything."

Your stomach twists. "I—"

"They’re done."

You blink. "What?"

"Everyone who said anything to you today is done," Tony states, his voice sharp, cold. "I don’t keep employees who think it’s okay to treat my girl like that. If they want to gossip, they can do it unemployed."

Your lips part, completely speechless.

"I don’t care what people say about me," Tony continues, voice softening, fingers tracing your jaw. "But you? No one gets to talk about you like that. No one gets to make you feel like you don’t belong. You do belong. And if they can’t see that, they’re not worth keeping around."

A lump forms in your throat.

"Tony, you don’t have to—"

"Yes, I do." His grip tightens slightly, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away again. "I let this go on for hours. I should’ve been there. I should’ve stopped it before it got this bad. But I’m here now, and I promise you—this won’t happen again."

Tears well up in your eyes. "Tony—"

"I love you," he murmurs, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "And I’m not letting anyone make you doubt that."

And just like that, every wall you tried to put up shatters.

You grab his face and kiss him.

It’s soft at first—gentle, slow, reassuring. But Tony doesn’t stay patient for long. He pulls you closer, his hands cradling your face, his lips moving with a hunger that tells you he hated being away from you even for a few hours.

When you finally break apart, you rest your forehead against his, exhaling shakily.

"…I love you too," you whisper.

Tony lets out a breathy chuckle, pressing another quick kiss to your lips.

"Yeah," he murmurs, voice smug. "I know."

And just like that, you know everything will be okay.

---

The next morning, walking into the office feels completely different.

You’re still nervous—your stomach is in knots, and part of you is bracing for the worst. But there’s a different energy in the air, a tension that wasn’t there before.

The moment you step out of the elevator, people stare.

Not with judgment, not with the sneering whispers of yesterday. No, this time, they’re looking at you with fear.

A few of them instantly lower their heads, suddenly very interested in their work. Others swallow nervously, shifting in their seats. Some even stand up when they see you, as if to offer an apology, but you don’t stop walking.

You don’t need their apologies.

Tony handled it.

And by handled it, he cleaned house.

All the worst offenders from yesterday? Gone. Fired. Security escorted them out first thing in the morning, and apparently, it wasn’t a quiet affair. The entire office heard about it, and now, the atmosphere is heavy with the realization that this isn’t just gossip anymore.

This is serious.

Tony Stark doesn’t tolerate anyone disrespecting you.

As you make your way to your desk, the few employees left in the office shoot you nervous smiles. Some of them—those who didn’t participate in the rumors—actually seem relieved. As if they wanted to say something before but were too scared.

It feels good.

You settle into your chair, logging into your computer, still aware of the quiet hum of hushed voices around you.

Then, a familiar voice breaks through the tension.

"Good morning, sweetheart."

You barely have time to react before Tony strolls up behind you, hands sliding onto your shoulders, pressing a quick kiss to the top of your head.

The entire office stops.

Someone gasps.

You stiffen, eyes wide, but Tony doesn’t seem fazed at all.

He squeezes your shoulders before moving in front of your desk, leaning against it like he owns the place—which, well, he does, but that’s not the point.

He looks smug.

Like he wants them to see.

"How’s my girl doing?" he asks, voice smooth, ignoring the stunned silence around you.

Your mouth opens and closes, heat rushing to your cheeks. "Tony—"

"Did you sleep well?" He tilts his head. "You know, after all that stress yesterday? I was so worried about you."

You shoot him a glare, whispering, "They’re staring."

He grins. "I know."

You resist the urge to bury your face in your hands. "Tony—"

"Relax, sweetheart," he murmurs, leaning in slightly. "No point in hiding now."

He’s right.

It still feels strange, after all the secrecy, after months of sneaking around and avoiding suspicion. But now? It’s out in the open. There’s nothing left to hide.

And the way Tony is looking at you—like you’re the only thing in the world that matters—makes it easier to forget the embarrassment.

You exhale, shaking your head. "You’re so annoying."

He smirks. "You love it."

Before you can argue, he leans in and kisses you.

Right there. In the middle of the office.

Someone drops their coffee.

The entire floor is dead silent.

When Tony finally pulls away, he looks completely unbothered, like this is totally normal.

"You’re impossible," you mutter, pushing him away lightly.

He winks. "That’s why you love me."

Then, before he heads into his office, he turns to the rest of the employees and says, loud and clear:

"Anyone else got a problem with this? No? Good."

And just like that, the conversation is over.

The day moves on, and while the office is still awkward at times—people whispering, adjusting to the new reality—it’s better. No more judgment. No more cruel remarks.

Just acceptance.

And, of course, Tony being completely shameless.

By the time lunch rolls around, he’s stolen at least six kisses, wrapped his arms around you twice in front of everyone, and somehow managed to convince you to have lunch in his office instead of the breakroom.

Which leads to you sitting on his desk, your half-eaten sandwich forgotten as Tony kisses you like he hasn’t seen you in years.

"Tony," you mumble against his lips. "You have work to do."

He hums, pressing a slow kiss to your jaw. "Work’s overrated."

You laugh, pushing at his chest. "You’re impossible."

"And you’re mine," he murmurs, pulling you in again.

You almost give in.

Until a sharp knock at the door interrupts the moment.

"Boss?"

Happy.

Tony lets out an exaggerated sigh, resting his forehead against yours. "If I fire him, do you think people will be mad?"

You snort. "Yes."

Another knock. "Boss, it’s important."

Tony groans, pulling away. "Fine. Come in."

Happy steps inside, looking incredibly unimpressed to see you perched on Tony’s desk.

"Press conference is set," he says. "Media’s already buzzing. It’s happening in two hours."

Your brows furrow. "Press conference?"

Tony grins. "Oh, did I forget to mention that part?"

You give him a look. "Tony."

He sighs dramatically. "Sweetheart, I may have scheduled a press conference to publicly ruin Nathan and clear your name. But only because I love you."

Your stomach flips. "What?"

Happy shakes his head. "He wants to make sure no one ever calls you a gold digger again."

Tony nods. "Exactly. They’re about to learn real fast that if they mess with my girl, they mess with me."

You stare at him, heart pounding. "Tony…"

He shrugs, completely casual. "What? You didn’t actually think I was gonna let them say that shit about you, did you?"

Your throat tightens.

He really loves you.

And he’ll always protect you.

You swallow hard, nodding. "Okay."

Tony grins, leaning in for another kiss.

Happy clears his throat. "Can you not make out in front of me?"

Tony waves him off. "Get used to it, Happy. She’s not going anywhere."

And as you press your lips to Tony’s again, feeling his smile against yours, you know he’s right.

You’re home.

---

A few minutes before the press conference, you’re pacing.

The media is already set up, cameras pointed at the stage, microphones lined up, and reporters buzzing with anticipation. Tony is off somewhere with Happy, probably going over some last-minute details, but your heart is still racing.

You know Tony.

You know he’s going to say something outrageous.

Something insane.

Something that will probably make headlines for the next month.

But you trust him.

Even if your nerves are eating you alive.

Just as you take a deep breath, Tony’s voice cuts through your thoughts.

"Sweetheart, I need you."

You turn to find him striding towards you, looking criminally good in a sharp navy suit, the tie perfectly done, the fabric hugging him in all the right places.

Your brows furrow. "For what?"

He stops in front of you, tilting his head with a grin. "I need you to fix my tie."

You stare at him. Then glance down at the perfectly fine tie.

Then back at him.

"Tony," you deadpan. "Your tie is fine."

He sighs dramatically. "Babe, come on. It’s crooked."

"It’s not—"

"Just fix it, please," he says, giving you that look, the one that makes your knees weak, the one that somehow makes it impossible to say no.

You groan, stepping closer. "You’re ridiculous."

"And yet, you love me."

You ignore him as you reach up, pretending to adjust the knot even though there’s nothing wrong with it. Tony just watches you, smug, like he’s already won.

"You just wanted me to touch you, didn’t you?" you murmur, smoothing down his lapels.

His grin widens. "I always want you to touch me."

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks heat up. "Unbelievable."

Tony leans in, brushing his lips against your temple. "You keep me grounded, sweetheart."

Before you can respond, Happy clears his throat behind you.

"Stark, you’re up."

Tony sighs, stepping back, but not before squeezing your waist. "Showtime."

You follow as he heads toward the stage, but you stop just at the side, out of view of the cameras. This is his moment. You’re just here to support him.

Tony steps up to the podium, flashing the cameras a charming but dangerous smirk.

"Alright, let’s get this over with. I’ve got places to be, and I don’t enjoy wasting my time."

A few chuckles ripple through the audience, but the tension is thick.

"Now, I’m sure you’ve all seen the very dramatic headlines about me and my lovely assistant—oh, sorry, girlfriend—and how, apparently, she’s a master manipulator who somehow seduced me into dating her." He rolls his eyes. "Because obviously, I, a billionaire genius, couldn’t possibly make my own adult decisions."

The room shifts uncomfortably. Reporters scribble notes. Cameras flash.

Tony leans on the podium, looking unimpressed. "Listen, I know you guys love a good scandal, but this? This is just pathetic."

Someone raises a hand. "Mr. Stark, what do you say to claims that Miss Y/L/N is only with you for financial gain?"

Tony scoffs. "Right. Because I’m so easy to manipulate. Clearly, I just throw money at anyone who looks at me a certain way."

Laughter breaks out.

Another reporter tries. "But the leaked photos—"

"—were taken out of context," Tony interrupts, crossing his arms. "Do you seriously think a few pictures mean anything? Do you really believe that’s proof of some grand scheme?"

Silence.

Tony smirks. "Look, here’s the truth. Y/N didn’t seduce me. She didn’t trick me. If anything, it took me months to get her to even notice that I was in love with her."

Your heart clenches.

"And you know what else?" Tony continues, his voice dropping, turning sharp. "The fact that so many of you were so quick to attack her, to assume the worst, to act like she’s some gold digger while completely leaving me out of the equation?" He shakes his head. "That’s just disgusting."

The room is dead silent now.

"Y/N is the best thing that’s ever happened to me," Tony says, voice firm. "She’s smart, hardworking, way too good for me, and she sure as hell doesn’t deserve this bullshit."

The reporters exchange glances. Cameras keep flashing.

Tony straightens, tilting his head slightly. "And because I know some of you still don’t get it, let me make this crystal clear."

Then he turns—

And looks directly at you.

Your breath catches.

You shake your head slightly, eyes widening. "Tony—"

He grins. "Sweetheart, get up here."

Your stomach drops.

The reporters murmur. More flashes.

You freeze. "What?"

Tony beckons you with two fingers. "Come on, don’t make me beg."

The entire room watches as you hesitate.

But Tony’s waiting.

And there’s no way you’re leaving him up there alone.

Swallowing hard, you slowly step onto the stage, your heart hammering.

The second you’re close enough, Tony grabs your hand, pulling you right to his side.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he announces, "this is my girl."

Before you can react, before you can process anything—

He kisses you.

Right there. In front of everyone.

The crowd erupts.

Shouts. Camera shutters. Absolute chaos.

But all you can focus on is him.

His lips are warm, firm, sure. His hands cup your face like you’re precious, like you’re his.

When he finally pulls back, he smirks at the stunned audience. "That answer your questions?"

The press conference is officially over.

---

Tony’s penthouse is quiet when you arrive, a stark contrast to the chaos of the press conference. The moment the elevator doors close behind you, you exhale, letting go of the last bit of tension clinging to your shoulders. Tony’s hand slides down your back, grounding you, pulling you into his warmth.

"Home sweet home," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple.

You hum in agreement, tilting your head slightly to give him better access. "I still can’t believe you did that."

He grins, guiding you towards the couch. "You mean declaring my undying love for you in front of the entire press?"

You let him pull you onto his lap, rolling your eyes. "Yes, that."

Tony shrugs, looking completely unbothered. "Babe, I’d rent out a billboard if it meant shutting those idiots up." His fingers trace slow circles on your thigh, his touch lazy but possessive. "You’re mine. I’m not gonna let anyone make you feel like you don’t belong with me."

Your heart clenches, warmth spreading through your chest.

"I love you," you whisper, leaning in.

His eyes darken slightly, his grip tightening. "Damn right you do."

You don’t give him the chance to say anything else—you press your lips to his, swallowing whatever cocky remark was about to leave his mouth. Tony hums into the kiss, his arms wrapping around you, holding you against him. The world outside fades, leaving just the two of you tangled together.

One kiss turns into another. And another.

Then suddenly, you’re not on the couch anymore.

Tony carries you effortlessly to the bedroom, never once breaking the kiss. Clothes are shed, whispered promises exchanged between gasps, and before you know it, the night dissolves into nothing but heat and tangled sheets.

Later, when your bodies are spent and the adrenaline has melted into something softer, Tony pulls you to the bathroom, insisting on a bath.

You don’t protest.

The oversized tub is already filling with warm, fragrant water by the time he settles behind you, pulling you against his chest. His arms wrap around you, his chin resting on your shoulder as you both soak in the comfortable silence.

"This is nice," you murmur, tracing light patterns on his forearm.

"Mhmm," Tony hums, his lips brushing against the damp skin of your neck. "We should do this every night."

You laugh softly. "I don’t think your schedule allows that, Mr. Stark."

"Then I’ll change my schedule," he replies, his voice casual but firm. "You’re more important."

Your breath catches slightly, and you tilt your head to look at him. He’s watching you, his brown eyes soft but intense.

"Move in with me," he says suddenly.

Your heart stops.

Tony smirks, like he knows exactly what kind of chaos he just unleashed in your brain. "That’s the face of someone overthinking."

"I am not—"

"Yes, you are," he teases, squeezing your waist. "So let me make this easy for you. You already basically live here. Half your clothes are in my closet, and let’s be honest, when was the last time you actually slept in your own apartment?"

You open your mouth. Close it.

Damn it. He has a point.

Tony grins, sensing his victory. "Just say yes, sweetheart."

You shake your head fondly. "You’re unbelievable."

"And yet, you love me," he reminds you, pressing a kiss just below your ear.

You sigh, melting against him. "Unfortunately."

He nips at your shoulder, making you giggle. "I’ll make you regret that later."

"I’d like to see you try."

Tony chuckles, but then his voice softens. "So… is that a yes?"

You turn slightly in his arms, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "It’s a yes."

His arms tighten around you, and you feel his grin against your skin. "Damn right it is."

[junegoal]

Hi I hope you're still accepting requests. I have a request for a Tony Stark x Fem reader - FORCED WEDDING. Their parents force them to get married for business stuff. Tony doesn't like Y/N at all but being a people pleaser, Y/N agrees to get married. Y/N is really nice to him and slowly starts catching feelings for him here and there (or maybe put a little flashback where Y/N liked him since the beginning or something like that) Being the reckless playboy that he is, he doesn't care about Y/N at all and and is very cold to her. (Some angst maybe) After a series of bad experiences like Tony not valuing Y/N or flirting with other women in front of her (or more), Y/N slowly loses hope and gets heart broken (but their parents don't care). Y/N decides to leave him for good and starts acting distant and cold. Y/N gets ready to leave and lead her own life but something really remarkable happens (you can make it whatever you want) and then Tony actually starts falling for Y/N. He regrets his behavior and tries to win Y/N back by doing his best. Obviously Y/N agrees after a lot of tries and they live happily ever after. (I hope it's not a boring storyline for you to write🫠)

You're a very good writer. So you know better. Make whatever changes necessary and add whatever you want but DO NOT INCLUDE PEPPER POTTS.😂 You can write it whenever you want. No rush at all. I just want you to bring this story to life. Thanks!💛

FORCED MARRIAGE

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

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

ᯓ★ Genre: angst, romance, little fluff

ᯓ★ Word count: 9k

ᯓ★ Summary:what the asks said lol

ᯓ★ TW(s): nothing I think, just a little spicy scene at the end

ᯓ★ Man, I seriously need to get better at giving titles to my stories...

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 weight of the diamond on your finger feels heavier than it should. You stare at it, twisting it slightly, watching how the light catches on the sharp edges. It doesn’t feel real, even though the band digs into your skin like a cruel reminder. You’ve dreamed of wearing Tony Stark’s ring before—many times, in fact—but never like this. Never with him sitting on the opposite end of the limousine, arms crossed, eyes focused on the flashing city outside rather than on his new wife.

You don’t expect him to look at you. He hasn’t since the ceremony. Not even when you said, “I do.”

The vows had been meaningless. Promises recited with the enthusiasm of a death sentence. His lips barely moved around the words. His eyes were flat, empty. You knew, standing at the altar in a pristine white dress, that this was just another transaction to him. Just another Stark Industries deal.

You try to ignore the sharp sting in your chest as you sneak a glance at him. He’s still dressed in his tux, but he’s already undone his bowtie, the top buttons of his shirt loosened. His posture is relaxed in the way that tells you he’d rather be anywhere but here. The silence stretches between you, suffocating.

“Are we going straight to the penthouse?” you ask softly, voice barely audible over the hum of the car. You’re not sure why you ask—he doesn’t care where you go.

Tony finally shifts, looking at you with disinterest. “Where else would we go?”

You swallow. He’s right. The honeymoon suite is waiting, though there will be no honeymoon. No whispered affections, no tender moments. Just the formality of sharing space with a man who resents you.

“I just—never mind,” you murmur, pressing your hands together.

A bitter smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “Go ahead. Say what’s on your mind. This is a marriage, isn’t it? We should be able to talk.”

You hesitate. What’s the point? You know how he feels. He made it painfully clear the moment your parents arranged this.

“I was just trying to make conversation,” you admit.

Tony laughs, but there’s no warmth in it. “You don’t have to do that. We’re not friends.”

The words slice through you, but you force yourself to nod. “Right. Of course.”

The car slows, pulling up to the towering glass building that is now your home. Your stomach twists as the driver opens the door for you. Tony steps out first without offering a hand. You don’t expect him to. You step out carefully, clutching the fabric of your dress, and follow him into the lobby.

People stare. They recognize him. The famous Tony Stark. Billionaire, genius, playboy. Notorious for avoiding commitment. And yet, here he is, walking beside his new bride with all the enthusiasm of a man heading to his execution.

You step into the private elevator, the doors sliding shut behind you. The ride is silent. You steal another glance at him. His jaw is tight, his hands shoved into his pockets. He doesn’t look at you.

Finally, you reach the penthouse. The doors open with a soft chime, revealing the luxurious suite. It’s beautiful. Elegant. Expensive. But it feels cold.

Tony walks in first, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it onto the nearest chair. He runs a hand through his hair, sighing like this is all a massive inconvenience. “You take the bedroom,” he says flatly. “I’ll sleep in the guest room.”

You blink. “But—”

He turns to look at you, his expression unreadable. “What? Did you actually think we’d be sharing a bed?”

“No,” you say quickly, even though the thought had crossed your mind. Not because you expected him to want you—but because you had hoped, foolishly, that maybe things wouldn’t be so bad.

Tony watches you for a moment, then shakes his head. “I don’t know why you agreed to this.”

You smile, but it’s forced. “Because it’s what our families wanted.”

“That’s bullshit.” His voice is sharp now, eyes narrowing. “You could’ve said no.”

And yet, he didn’t. He could’ve fought harder. He could’ve refused. But he didn’t. He let it happen, just like you did.

You look down at your hands. “I’m a people pleaser,” you say quietly. “It’s what I do.”

Tony scoffs, turning away. “That’s pathetic.”

The words sting, but you don’t react. You can’t. If you let yourself feel everything at once, you might break.

He walks toward the bar, pouring himself a drink. He doesn’t offer you one. You’re not surprised. You watch as he downs the whiskey in one go, then pours himself another.

“You don’t have to be so cruel,” you say softly.

Tony freezes. His grip tightens around the glass, and for a second, you think he might actually apologize. But then he laughs—low and humorless.

“Cruel?” He turns to face you, leaning against the counter. “I married you, didn’t I? That’s enough.”

You clench your hands into fists. “Is it?”

His eyes darken. “Don’t start acting like this is something it’s not. You knew what you were getting into.”

“I know,” you whisper. “But it doesn’t mean it has to be this miserable.”

Tony doesn’t answer. He just downs another drink before disappearing into the guest room, slamming the door behind him.

You’re alone. On your wedding night.

You close your eyes, exhaling shakily. You should’ve known. You did know. And yet, your heart still aches.

Because despite everything—despite his indifference, his resentment—you love him. You always have.

And now, you’re trapped in a marriage with a man who will never love you back.

---

The morning light filters through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse, but it does little to warm the hollow feeling in your chest. You barely slept. Every time you closed your eyes, you were met with the image of Tony walking away from you, his words from last night echoing in your head.

"I don’t know why you agreed to this."

You don’t know why you thought today would be different.

When you step out of the bedroom, the penthouse is silent. For a second, you wonder if he even stayed the night. Maybe he went out. Maybe he found another way to escape this situation.

You wrap your arms around yourself as you head toward the kitchen. You move on autopilot, pulling out ingredients to make breakfast. Not because you expect Tony to appreciate it, but because it’s something to do. Something to ground you in this strange, unfamiliar reality.

The smell of fresh coffee fills the space, and you set two mugs on the counter—one for you, one for him, even though you know there’s a good chance he won’t take it. You try not to care.

The sound of footsteps makes you turn.

Tony walks in, looking as disheveled as ever, his hair messy, his shirt from last night still on, though wrinkled now. He doesn’t acknowledge you as he heads straight for the fridge, pulling out a bottle of water.

“Good morning,” you say cautiously.

He doesn’t look at you. “Sure.”

You wait, hoping he’ll say more. Maybe something about the night before. Maybe something—anything—to ease the tension between you. But he just leans against the counter, unscrewing the cap of the bottle.

“I made breakfast,” you offer, motioning toward the plates on the counter. Scrambled eggs, toast, and some fruit. It’s simple, but it’s something.

Tony glances at it, then back at you. “I don’t eat breakfast.”

It’s a lie. You know it is. You’ve seen enough interviews, enough photos, enough snippets of his life to know that he does. But you don’t call him out on it.

“Right,” you murmur. “Well… it’s there if you change your mind.”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he takes a sip of water and walks toward the living room, already pulling out his phone, his attention elsewhere.

You watch him go, the lump in your throat growing heavier.

This is what your life is now.

You knew Tony wouldn’t love you. You knew he wouldn’t want this. But some naive, hopeless part of you thought maybe—just maybe—you could at least have something. A civil relationship. A fragile sort of companionship. But he won’t even give you that.

You sink into the chair, staring at your untouched breakfast, your appetite gone.

The rest of the day is just as cold.

Tony barely speaks to you. When he does, it’s short, dismissive. He spends most of the day locked in his office, working on something for Stark Industries. You stay out of his way, not wanting to push him, not wanting to make this harder than it already is.

You try to make the penthouse feel more like home, but it’s impossible when the man you’re supposed to share it with treats you like a stranger.

By the time evening rolls around, you’re exhausted—not from doing anything physically demanding, but from the emotional weight of it all. You sit on the couch, flipping through TV channels, but nothing holds your attention.

Tony finally emerges from his office, looking irritated as he checks his watch.

“I’m going out,” he announces.

You blink, turning to him. “Oh.”

You hesitate, debating whether or not to ask, Where? But you already know the answer.

He’s going to drink. He’s going to distract himself from this reality. Maybe he’s going to find someone else—someone who isn’t his wife.

Your stomach twists. “When will you be back?”

Tony sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Don’t wait up.”

The door closes behind him.

And you are alone again.

—

Days turn into weeks, and nothing changes.

You try. You really do.

You greet him in the mornings. You make coffee. You attempt conversations over dinner—when he’s actually around for it. But every effort is met with indifference.

Tony treats you like you don’t exist. Like you’re just a piece of furniture in the penthouse. Like you’re nothing more than an obligation he was forced into.

He comes home late, smelling like alcohol and perfume. You don’t ask where he’s been. You don’t ask if he’s been with someone. You don’t want to hear the answer.

The worst part is, he doesn’t even try to hide it.

One night, he stumbles into the penthouse at nearly three in the morning. You’re still awake, curled up on the couch, waiting—though you don’t know why. Maybe because some part of you still clings to the idea that this marriage isn’t completely broken.

Tony barely acknowledges you as he kicks off his shoes, running a hand through his messy hair. His tie is gone, the top buttons of his shirt undone.

“Did you have a good night?” you ask softly, the words tasting like poison on your tongue.

Tony scoffs, grabbing a bottle of whiskey from the bar. “It was fine.”

You watch as he pours himself a drink, his movements slow and careless. Your hands tighten into fists.

“How long are you going to do this?” you whisper.

He pauses, looking at you for the first time in what feels like forever. “Do what?”

“Pretend I don’t exist.”

Tony lets out a dry laugh. “I’m not pretending.”

The words hit you harder than you expect.

You swallow the lump in your throat. “Tony—”

He raises a hand, cutting you off. “Look, I don’t know what you want from me, okay? I didn’t ask for this. You didn’t ask for this. We’re stuck. That’s it.”

You stare at him, your heart aching. “I just want—”

“What? A real marriage?” He scoffs. “That’s not going to happen.”

Your breath catches.

Tony shakes his head, downing the rest of his drink. “Go to bed, Y/N. Don’t wait up for me next time.”

He walks away, disappearing into his room.

You stay on the couch, staring at the empty glass he left behind.

You don’t cry. Not yet. You’ve spent too many nights crying yourself to sleep already.

But as the silence of the penthouse presses down on you, you realize something.

No matter how much love you have for Tony Stark—

He will never love you back.

---

The days blur into a cycle of indifference and quiet heartbreak. You’ve stopped trying to make breakfast for him. You don’t greet him in the mornings anymore. You don’t stay up waiting for him at night.

Not that he notices.

Tony spends most of his time at the office or out at events, playing the role of the charming billionaire, the playboy, the genius. To the rest of the world, nothing has changed. He’s still the same Tony Stark. The only difference is that now, he has a wife he never wanted.

And you?

You’re just existing in his world.

There are moments—fleeting, painful moments—where you think maybe he’ll soften, maybe he’ll acknowledge you in some way that doesn’t feel like a reminder of your worthlessness. But those moments never last.

Like the time you showed up at one of his galas.

Your presence wasn’t required. You knew that. Tony never invited you, never even mentioned it. But it was a Stark Industries event, and you were a Stark now, whether he liked it or not. So you dressed up, put on a brave face, and arrived with the hope that maybe—just maybe—he wouldn’t ignore you for one night.

That hope didn’t last long.

The moment you stepped into the grand ballroom, you felt the weight of a hundred eyes on you. People whispered, curious about the woman who had somehow managed to tie Tony Stark down.

But Tony?

He didn’t even look at you.

He was in the center of the room, drink in hand, surrounded by people who hung onto his every word. His smile was dazzling, his laugh effortless.

And standing beside him was a woman—tall, blonde, stunning in a dress that clung to her body like a second skin.

You recognized her.

Vanessa Harper. A model, a socialite, someone Tony had been seen with more times than you could count before the wedding.

And the way he looked at her—

It was different.

His arm brushed against hers as he leaned in, whispering something that made her laugh. His hand skimmed her waist, subtle but intimate.

He didn’t even acknowledge your presence.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing yourself to step forward. People greeted you, offering polite smiles and empty words, but your focus remained on him.

When you finally reached his side, your heart pounded in your chest. “Tony.”

He turned, finally noticing you. For a second, just a brief second, something flickered in his eyes—surprise, maybe. Annoyance.

Then it was gone.

“Oh,” he said casually, taking a sip of his drink. “You’re here.”

Vanessa looked at you, then at Tony, amusement dancing in her eyes. “You didn’t mention your wife was coming tonight.”

Tony smirked. “Didn’t think it was important.”

The words cut deeper than they should have.

You forced a small smile, ignoring the way your chest tightened. “It’s a Stark Industries event. I thought I should be here.”

Tony hummed, as if he couldn’t care less. Then, just as easily as he had acknowledged you, he turned back to Vanessa.

And just like that, you were invisible again.

You stood there, hands clenched at your sides, as Tony continued to flirt with her right in front of you.

He laughed at her jokes, touched her arm, leaned in close like she was the only person in the room.

Like you weren’t his wife.

People were watching.

Whispers spread like wildfire, murmurs of pity and curiosity.

You couldn’t breathe.

Your nails dug into your palms as you forced yourself to step back. To turn around. To walk away before the humiliation consumed you.

You didn’t even make it out of the ballroom before the first tear slipped down your cheek.

—

You don’t wait for him that night.

When you get home, you strip out of your dress, wipe the makeup from your face, and curl up in bed, staring at the ceiling.

You tell yourself you won’t cry. That it’s not worth it. That you knew this was coming.

But the tears come anyway.

Because it doesn’t matter how many times he hurts you, how many times he reminds you that you mean nothing to him—

You still love him.

And you hate yourself for it.

—

Tony doesn’t come home that night.

Or the night after.

You don’t ask where he is.

You already know.

---

The phone rings twice before your mother picks up.

“Y/N,” she greets, her voice smooth, controlled. Like nothing is wrong. Like she doesn’t know that you’re crumbling.

You’re already crying before you can speak. Silent tears slip down your face, your chest tight and aching. You’ve held it in for too long. You can’t anymore.

“Mom,” your voice cracks, “I can’t do this.”

A pause. Then a sigh. “Oh, sweetheart. What are you talking about?”

You grip the phone tighter, your fingers trembling. “This marriage,” you whisper. “It’s killing me.”

She says nothing. You hear the faint clink of a teacup being set down, the rustle of fabric. Then:

“Don’t be dramatic.”

You let out a choked laugh, but there’s nothing funny about this. “Dramatic?” you repeat. “Mom, he doesn’t love me. He doesn’t even like me. He treats me like I don’t exist.”

Another sigh, this time more impatient. “Y/N, you knew what this was when you agreed to it.”

“I—” You shake your head, pressing your fingers against your forehead. “I thought it would be different. I thought maybe we could at least—” Your breath hitches. “I thought maybe he would respect me.”

Your father’s voice cuts in this time, deep and firm. “Respect is earned, Y/N. You knew marrying into the Stark family was a business decision, not a fairytale.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “I don’t care about business,” you whisper. “I just wanted to be happy.”

“Happiness is a luxury,” he says. “You have power now. Wealth. Influence. You’re part of something bigger than yourself.”

“I don’t care about any of that!” you cry, gripping the phone so tightly your knuckles turn white. “I’m miserable! I can’t live like this! I want to leave, I want a divorce—”

“Absolutely not.” Your mother’s voice is sharp now, cold.

Your breath catches. “Mom—”

“You will not humiliate us,” she says. “Do you have any idea how much is at stake? Do you think you can just walk away because your feelings are hurt?”

Your stomach twists. “It’s not just my feelings—”

“You’re our daughter, Y/N, but you’re also part of an empire now,” your father interrupts. “And empires don’t crumble over foolish emotions.”

Your lips tremble. “You don’t care,” you whisper. “You don’t care that I’m suffering.”

Silence.

Then your mother says, “You’ll learn to live with it.”

A single tear slips down your cheek.

You nod, even though they can’t see you. “I understand.”

You hang up.

And then you shatter.

You sob into your hands, curling in on yourself. You were foolish to think they’d care. Foolish to think they’d choose you over money, over power, over their damn industry.

You have no one.

Not Tony. Not your parents.

No one.

—

That’s the moment you decide.

You’re done.

Done crying. Done trying. Done hoping for something that will never come.

If Tony doesn’t want you—if your own parents don’t care about you—then fine. You’ll stop caring, too.

—

The change is immediate.

You stop waiting for Tony to come home. You stop caring where he goes or who he’s with. You don’t set the table for two anymore. You don’t check his schedule to see if he’ll be at dinner.

You become distant. Cold. Detached.

And for the first time since your wedding, Tony notices.

At first, he seems relieved. Like your silence is a gift, like he’s finally free of your presence.

But then the days pass, and the atmosphere shifts.

You don’t speak to him unless necessary. When he walks into the penthouse, you barely look at him. When he makes coffee in the morning, you don’t acknowledge him.

You become a ghost in your own home.

And Tony—Tony doesn’t like it.

One night, he comes home late, as usual. You’re in the bedroom, brushing your hair in front of the mirror, your face blank, your eyes lifeless.

He leans against the doorway, watching you.

You ignore him.

Finally, he says, “You haven’t been nagging me lately.”

You meet his gaze in the mirror, but there’s no emotion in your eyes. “I guess I realized it’s pointless.”

Something flickers across his face. He opens his mouth, then closes it.

For the first time, he looks… unsettled.

But you don’t care. Not anymore.

---

You move through the penthouse like a ghost, your presence barely noticeable, your emotions locked away. The woman who once tried to love Tony Stark—the woman who once waited up for him, made his coffee, and longed for a shred of warmth—is gone.

In her place is someone colder, someone who has finally accepted the truth.

There is no marriage here. There is no love.

And now, there won’t even be a contract to bind you to him anymore.

The divorce papers sit on the dining table, neatly stacked, waiting. You’ve spent the last few weeks preparing for this moment. Meeting with lawyers in secret. Finding a new place to stay. Ignoring your parents’ warnings that leaving this marriage would be a disaster for them.

You don’t care anymore.

You refuse to live like this—trapped, invisible, unwanted.

So you’re leaving.

No matter what it costs.

—

Tony doesn’t notice right away.

He still moves through his routine like nothing has changed. He still stays out late, still acts like your presence is an afterthought. But you see the tiny moments of confusion. The flicker of frustration when you don’t react to his usual carelessness.

It’s almost funny.

He spent months acting like he didn’t want you, and now that you’ve given up, he’s irritated by it.

But it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except getting out.

—

The night you decide to tell him, it’s raining. The penthouse is dimly lit, the sound of the storm echoing through the large windows. You sit in the living room, the divorce papers on the coffee table in front of you, waiting for him.

When he finally walks in, he barely glances your way. He tosses his keys onto the counter, shrugs off his jacket, and heads toward the bar to pour himself a drink.

“Tony.”

Your voice is calm. Steady.

He pauses, glass in hand, before finally looking at you.

You gesture to the papers. “We need to talk.”

His eyes flicker to the stack of documents, then back to you. A slow exhale leaves his lips. He already knows.

Still, he walks over, setting his glass down beside the papers. He picks them up, flips through them lazily, and then—

He laughs.

A low, bitter chuckle, like this is some kind of joke.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters.

You don’t react. “I’m leaving, Tony.”

He sets the papers down, his jaw tightening. “You think I’m just going to sign this?”

You lift your chin, meeting his gaze. “Yes.”

His eyes darken. “No.”

A small, humorless smile tugs at your lips. “You don’t get a say in this.”

His fingers drum against the table, slow and deliberate. “You married me. That’s a commitment, sweetheart.”

You flinch at the nickname, at the false sweetness in his tone. He’s never called you that before. Not in affection. Not in anything real.

“You don’t even want me here,” you say, voice hollow. “You never did.”

Something flashes across his face—something unreadable. But then he scoffs, shaking his head. “You’re being dramatic.”

You stare at him for a long moment. Then you reach forward, grab the pen beside the papers, and slide them toward him.

“Sign them.”

He doesn’t move.

Your fingers tighten around the pen. “Tony.”

His jaw clenches. “No.”

You swallow. “Why not?”

He looks at you, really looks at you, and for a second—just a second—you think he might actually say something real.

But then he smirks, that same arrogant, careless smirk he’s always worn. “Because I don’t like losing.”

You let out a breath, shaking your head. “This isn’t a game.”

“It’s always a game,” he counters.

Your throat tightens. He’s doing this on purpose—pushing, prodding, trying to get a reaction. Because if there’s one thing Tony Stark hates, it’s losing control.

But you won’t play his game anymore.

So you stand. “I’m done, Tony.”

He watches you, his expression unreadable as you turn away.

“You walk out that door, and you’re on your own,” he says.

You pause.

Then, without looking back, you whisper, “I always was.”

And then you leave.

—

The streets are slick with rain as you drive through the city, your mind racing.

You should feel relieved.

You’re finally free.

But your chest aches, your hands tremble against the wheel, and for some reason, your eyes won’t stop burning.

Why?

Why does it still hurt?

Why does some stupid, broken part of you still wish he would have stopped you?

You take a shaky breath, gripping the steering wheel tighter. No. You won’t think like that. You won’t let him have that power over you anymore.

You glance at your phone, debating whether to call a hotel or go to your new apartment—

The headlights come out of nowhere.

A blaring horn.

Screeching tires.

The impact is instant.

The world spins, glass shatters, pain explodes through your body—

And then everything fades to black.

—

Tony is still staring at the divorce papers when the call comes.

His phone buzzes on the counter, and for a moment, he considers ignoring it. But then he sees the number.

Unknown.

Something uneasy twists in his stomach.

He answers.

“Mr. Stark?” a voice asks. “We need you to come to Metro General. Your wife has been in an accident.”

Tony’s breath catches.

“What?”

“She was in a car crash. It’s serious.”

His grip tightens on the phone.

“She’s in a coma.”

---

The hospital room is too quiet.

Too still.

Tony sits beside your bed, hands clasped together, eyes fixed on your unmoving form. There are too many machines. Too many wires. The steady beep of the heart monitor is the only reassurance that you’re still here, still breathing.

You’ve been like this for days.

And Tony has never felt more helpless.

He’s seen destruction. He’s seen death. He’s cheated both more times than he can count. But nothing—nothing—prepared him for this.

For the unbearable stillness of you.

For the crushing weight of regret pressing against his ribs, suffocating him.

The doctor’s words keep playing in his head.

“She’s stable, but we don’t know when she’ll wake up.”

If she’ll wake up.

Tony grits his teeth, gripping the armrests of his chair. No. He won’t think like that.

He won’t lose you.

Even if he never deserved you to begin with.

—

The first night, he doesn’t leave the hospital.

The second night, he cancels all his meetings, ignores every call, and stays right where he is—beside you.

By the third night, he realizes something terrifying.

He can’t lose you.

Not just because of guilt.

Not just because of regret.

But because somewhere, in the mess of this forced marriage, between the cold words and cruel indifference—

He started to fall for you.

And he was too much of a coward to see it until now.

—

He doesn’t know when it happens.

Maybe it was the way you always looked at him, even when he didn’t deserve it. Maybe it was the way you tried—really tried—to make this work, to reach for him, even when he pushed you away.

Or maybe it was the way you stopped.

The moment you went cold, the moment you gave up on him—on this—something inside him cracked.

He just didn’t understand it then.

But he understands now.

And he’s going to fix it.

—

When you wake up, your entire body aches.

Your vision is blurry, your throat dry, and for a moment, everything feels unreal. Like you’re floating between dreams and reality.

Then you hear a voice.

“Y/N?”

You blink. Slowly, your eyes adjust, and then—

Tony.

He looks exhausted. His hair is a mess, his clothes are wrinkled, and there are dark circles under his eyes. But none of that matters because the look on his face—

You’ve never seen it before.

Relief.

Genuine, overwhelming relief.

“Hey,” he says, voice rough, like he hasn’t spoken in hours.

You try to speak, but your throat burns. He notices immediately, grabbing a cup of water and helping you drink. His hands are gentle, careful, like he’s afraid you’ll break.

You clear your throat. “What… happened?”

His jaw tightens. “Car accident. You’ve been in a coma for five days.”

Five days.

You inhale sharply, memories crashing into you all at once. The rain. The headlights. The impact.

Leaving Tony.

The divorce.

You shift slightly, ignoring the pain that shoots through your body. “The papers—”

“Forget the papers,” Tony cuts in.

You frown. “Tony—”

“No,” he says, firmer this time. “You almost died, Y/N.”

You swallow, looking away. “I know.”

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “I—” He hesitates. “I screwed up.”

You close your eyes. “Yeah,” you whisper. “You did.”

There’s a long silence. You don’t look at him, but you can feel his gaze on you—heavy, uncertain.

Finally, he speaks. “Give me a month.”

You blink, turning your head toward him. “What?”

He leans forward, forearms resting on his knees. “One month,” he repeats. “Let me fix this. Let me prove that this marriage doesn’t have to end like this.”

Your heart clenches. “Tony—”

“If, after a month, you still want to leave,” he says, voice quieter now, “I’ll sign the papers.”

You stare at him. “You don’t want the divorce.”

His eyes meet yours, raw and open in a way you’ve never seen before. “No,” he admits. “I don’t.”

Your throat tightens. A part of you wants to laugh at the irony. The moment you stop chasing him is the moment he decides to chase you.

But another part of you—one you’re not ready to acknowledge—wants to believe him.

Wants to believe that maybe, just maybe, this isn’t over.

You inhale slowly. “One month,” you say.

Tony nods.

Your lips press together. “Then you sign the papers.”

His jaw clenches, but he nods again. “Then I sign the papers.”

You look away, staring at the ceiling.

One month.

You don’t know if that’s enough time to change anything.

But for some reason, for the first time in a long time—

You think you want it to be.

---

Tony doesn’t waste any time.

The very next morning, he’s already in your hospital room before you’ve even properly woken up, holding a cup of coffee that he shoves into your hands before you can protest.

“I bribed a nurse for it,” he says, sitting down in the chair beside your bed.

You eye him warily. “Isn’t there a rule against giving caffeine to patients?”

“Probably.” He shrugs. “But I figured you could use it.”

You hesitate, then take a small sip. It’s perfect—exactly how you like it. The realization makes your chest tighten.

“Thanks,” you mutter, keeping your eyes on the cup.

Tony leans back in his chair, watching you. “So, uh… how are you feeling?”

You exhale slowly. “Like I got hit by a truck.”

His jaw tightens. “Yeah.” He looks down, tapping his fingers against his knee. “I, uh… I did some reading. About recovery. Apparently, physical therapy helps a lot.”

You blink at him. “You did research?”

He rubs the back of his neck, looking slightly embarrassed. “I might have gone down a rabbit hole.”

The mental image of Tony Stark, billionaire genius, spending hours reading about post-accident recovery makes something in your chest ache.

You push the feeling down.

Before you can respond, there’s a knock on the door, and a nurse steps in with breakfast.

Tony moves quickly, taking the tray from her before she can set it down. “I got it, thanks.”

The nurse gives you a knowing smile before leaving.

You glance at Tony. “What are you doing?”

“Being a good husband,” he says, setting the tray on your lap.

You stare at him. “Since when?”

Tony meets your gaze, something serious flickering in his eyes. “Since now.”

—

The next few days are… different.

Tony is there. All the time.

He brings you coffee every morning. He helps adjust your pillows when you shift uncomfortably. He stays up late when you can’t sleep, talking to you about everything and nothing.

It’s strange.

You don’t know what to do with this version of him. The one who suddenly cares.

And part of you doesn’t trust it.

“Why are you doing this?” you ask one night, after he’s helped you walk across the room for the third time that day.

Tony looks at you, and for once, there’s no sarcasm, no bravado—just quiet honesty.

“Because I don’t want to lose you,” he admits.

Your heart stutters.

You don’t respond.

You can’t.

—

When you’re finally discharged, Tony insists on taking you home himself.

You sit stiffly in the car, staring out the window as he drives.

“I was thinking,” he says after a while, “you should come with me to a gala next weekend.”

You frown, turning to him. “A gala?”

“Yeah.” He glances at you. “It’s one of those boring business events, but I figured it might be good for you to get out, you know? See people.”

You arch an eyebrow. “See people? Or let them see that we’re still married?”

Tony’s grip tightens slightly on the steering wheel. “It’s not like that.”

You scoff. “Sure.”

He sighs, glancing at you again. “Y/N, come on. It’ll be fun.”

You stare at him. “Fun?”

“Well, as fun as these things can be.” He smirks. “Plus, you’ll get to see me in a suit. I know you secretly like that.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he says, “you’re still here.”

For now.

But he doesn’t say that.

And neither do you.

---

The gala is everything Tony warned you it would be: crowded, extravagant, and loud.

The lights are blinding, the conversations blur into a cacophony, and the air feels thick with wealth and power.

You're used to this world. You grew up in it, surrounded by the glittering faces and the endless speeches about success and influence. But tonight, it feels different. Tonight, you feel like an outsider.

Tony stands beside you, his hand lightly placed on the small of your back, guiding you through the sea of well-dressed guests. His presence is the only thing keeping you grounded, and you can't help but feel the weight of his attention on you.

His hand stays there, warm and reassuring, but it's more than just that. His touch—his whole demeanor—is… different.

Gone is the usual cocky, sarcastic Tony Stark. Gone is the man who would flirt with anything that moved and ignore you in favor of his latest conquest.

Tonight, Tony’s focus is entirely on you.

"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice low, as if he's genuinely concerned about how you’re holding up.

You glance up at him, surprised by the softness in his tone. "I'm fine," you answer, though you're not sure if you believe it yourself.

He looks down at you, his eyes filled with something unspoken. "You sure?"

"Yeah," you reply, offering him a smile. "Just not a big fan of crowds."

"I get that," he says, his hand giving your back a reassuring squeeze. He doesn't let go.

You both make your way through the room, and the murmurs of the guests around you grow louder. It’s clear they’re talking about you—about your marriage, about how strange it is to see you with Tony, considering the stories they’ve heard.

But Tony? He’s not listening to any of them.

Every time someone tries to engage with him, he brushes them off politely, always redirecting the conversation back to you. He’s unusually attentive, asking you questions, making sure you’re comfortable, making sure you feel seen in a room full of people who likely don’t even know your name.

It’s a side of him you never thought you’d see.

And it's almost making you second-guess everything you thought you knew about him.

"Can I get you something to drink?" he asks after a few minutes, his hand still lingering on your waist.

You shake your head. "I'm okay."

He nods, looking pleased that you didn’t need anything, but he still seems restless. It’s as if he’s determined to prove something to you, or maybe prove something to himself.

You wonder if he’s thinking about the same things.

Just as you’re about to speak, you see her.

Vanessa.

A striking woman, tall, elegant, with a platinum blonde updo and a smile that could melt ice. You’ve met her before—at one of Tony’s events—but tonight she’s practically glowing in her dress, her eyes immediately locking on Tony when she sees him.

And you know the look she gives him. It’s the same one she’s given him every time they’ve crossed paths. The one that says she wants him, and she wants him now.

Tony notices her at the same time you do, but this time, his reaction is nothing like it used to be.

Instead of leaning in, making a joke, or greeting her with a flirtatious smile, Tony straightens. He subtly adjusts his posture, his hand tightening around your waist, pulling you just a little closer.

Vanessa approaches them, a smirk already playing at her lips. "Tony," she says, her voice smooth as silk. "It's been too long."

"Vanessa," Tony replies, his voice distant, cool.

You can feel the tension in the air. You can see it in the way Tony’s jaw clenches, in the way his eyes stay locked on Vanessa but refuse to soften.

And you realize, with a jolt, that Tony isn’t just ignoring Vanessa—he’s actively pushing her away.

"How’ve you been?" she asks, her eyes flickering to you for a moment, before settling back on Tony.

"I’m good," Tony says curtly, then without missing a beat, he shifts his attention back to you. "Y/N, would you like to dance?"

The question catches you off guard, but you find yourself nodding. "Sure."

Tony gives you a small, reassuring smile, one that feels different from the others. There’s something softer in it. Something more honest.

Before you can even process it, Tony’s already guiding you toward the dance floor, leaving Vanessa standing there, her mouth slightly agape, her eyes narrowing in something like confusion or frustration.

But Tony doesn’t even glance back. He doesn’t give her a second of his attention.

It’s a subtle shift, but it’s a powerful one.

And for the first time since you’ve known him, you can see the depth of his sincerity.

As you step onto the dance floor, Tony takes your hand firmly in his, positioning you against him with a confidence that feels both familiar and strange. He’s not treating you like a business arrangement tonight. He’s treating you like… well, like someone he cares about.

“Don’t worry about them,” he says quietly as you begin to sway together, his voice low enough that only you can hear it. “Let them talk. We’re here for us.”

You blink up at him, surprised by his words. You hadn’t realized how much the whispers in the room had been bothering you until now. The pressure of their eyes, the feeling of judgment. But Tony, as always, manages to take the edge off.

“I’m just…” You pause, unsure of how to put it into words. “I don’t know how to do this.”

Tony meets your eyes, his gaze intense, as if he’s considering everything that’s led you both here. “You don’t have to be perfect,” he says, squeezing your hand. “Just be you. And I’ll be me.”

It’s such a simple statement, but it carries so much weight. For the first time in a long time, you feel like maybe—just maybe—this marriage, this mess of a relationship, might be worth something after all.

The song continues, slow and soft, and you let yourself fall into it, the world around you slowly fading. You focus on Tony’s presence, the warmth of his hand, the rhythm of his movements.

It’s easier this way.

Maybe it’s because of everything that’s happened. Maybe it’s because you’ve both been through so much already. Or maybe it’s because, for the first time, Tony is showing you a side of himself you’ve never seen.

His attention is entirely on you. His eyes never leave yours, his hand never lets go.

The woman who once held his attention effortlessly is nothing now, a distant memory.

“Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice low, “I don’t want to lose you.”

You stop, your breath catching in your throat. You look up at him, searching his face for any sign of the old Tony—cocky, aloof, distant. But there’s nothing there.

His expression is raw, vulnerable in a way that makes your chest ache.

“I’m here,” you say softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And for the first time since you’ve known him, you believe it.

You both keep dancing.

---

Tony doesn’t get a free pass just because he was nice for one night.

You’ve been burned too many times before.

He might have ignored Vanessa, might have acted like a devoted husband at the gala, but that doesn’t erase the months of indifference, the way he used to treat you like nothing more than a business transaction.

So you make it difficult for him.

You don’t reject his gestures outright, but you don’t encourage them either. When he brings you coffee in the mornings, you thank him politely, but you don’t smile. When he pulls out a chair for you at the dining table, you sit without a word. When he lingers too close, when his hand brushes against yours as if testing your reaction, you pull away before he can get too comfortable.

Tony notices.

Of course he notices.

But instead of getting frustrated and giving up—like the old Tony might have—he tries harder.

At first, it almost annoys you.

He follows you around the penthouse, trying to engage you in conversation. He asks about your day, about the books you’re reading, about the movies you like.

He never used to care about any of that before.

One evening, you come home from a short walk and find that your favorite meal is waiting for you on the dining table. The scent fills the air, warm and inviting.

You look at Tony, suspicious. “What is this?”

He shrugs, leaning against the kitchen counter. “Dinner.”

“You cooked?”

Tony scoffs. “Do I look like I know how to cook? I had it made.”

Of course he did.

But the fact that he remembered what you liked, that he went through the trouble, makes something uncomfortable twist inside you.

Still, you keep your expression neutral. “Thanks,” you say, sitting down.

Tony doesn’t join you right away. He just watches, waiting for your reaction.

It’s frustrating.

Because you don’t want to give him the satisfaction.

Because part of you is still scared.

Because if you let yourself believe that this is real—if you let yourself fall for him again—you don’t know if you’ll survive it when he inevitably stops trying.

So you keep your walls up.

And Tony keeps fighting to break them down.

—

He never misses an opportunity to prove himself.

You go out to a small café one afternoon, needing space, needing time to think. You don’t tell Tony where you’re going, but when you step inside, you see him there.

Waiting.

He’s sitting at a corner table, already sipping on a cup of coffee, and when he spots you, he waves like he just casually happened to be there, like he didn’t deliberately track your location and get there before you.

You exhale sharply, marching up to him. “Are you following me?”

Tony grins, unfazed. “I prefer the term ‘coincidentally appearing where my wife is.’”

You fold your arms. “You do realize this isn’t normal behavior, right?”

Tony leans back in his chair, studying you. “Maybe not. But nothing about us has ever been normal.”

You hate how easily he gets under your skin.

Still, a tiny part of you—one you refuse to acknowledge—likes that he’s trying.

You sit down across from him, sighing. “Fine. If you’re going to stalk me, at least buy me a coffee.”

Tony smirks. “Done.”

—

As the days pass, you start to see it.

The change.

It’s not just in the grand gestures or the obvious efforts. It’s in the little things.

The way he listens when you talk.

The way he doesn’t interrupt or dismiss your thoughts.

The way he notices when you’re tired and gives you space, but also notices when you’re upset and refuses to let you wallow.

He’s not just trying to win you over—he’s genuinely trying to be better.

But you still don’t have the answer to the one thing that matters most.

You don’t know why.

Is he doing this just to keep up appearances? To avoid the scandal of a divorce? Or is there something more?

You refuse to let yourself believe in the latter until you’re sure.

Until you have proof.

—

The end of the month approaches faster than you expect.

And Tony? He doesn’t slow down.

If anything, he becomes even more present, more insistent.

He takes you out—to dinners, to museums, even to a drive-in movie one night, which surprises you because you never expected Tony Stark to be the type to sit through a two-hour film in a car.

(He spends half the movie making sarcastic comments about the plot, but you catch him sneaking glances at you more than the screen.)

He also starts touching you more.

Not in a way that feels demanding or forceful—just small, lingering touches. A hand on your lower back as he guides you through a room. A brush of his fingers against yours when he hands you something.

It’s subtle, but it’s enough to make your heart ache.

Because if this isn’t real—if this is all just a temporary act—then he’s being cruel without even realizing it.

So, on the final night before the month is over, you ask him the one thing you’ve been too afraid to say out loud.

“Do you love me?”

The words hang in the air between you, heavy, impossible to take back.

Tony freezes.

You watch as the cocky mask he so often wears slips, as something raw flickers in his expression.

He doesn’t answer right away, and the silence is suffocating.

But you don’t look away.

You need the truth.

You deserve it.

Finally, Tony exhales, running a hand through his hair. When he speaks, his voice is quieter than you’ve ever heard it.

“I didn’t think I could.”

Your breath catches. “What?”

He looks at you, and for the first time, you see it—everything he’s been holding back.

“I never thought I was capable of it,” he admits. “Loving someone. Being loved.” His throat works as he swallows, his gaze never leaving yours. “I pushed you away because it was easier. Because I was terrified.”

You don’t know what to say.

Tony takes a step closer, his voice steadier now.

“But then you left.” His jaw tightens. “And I realized that losing you was worse than anything I was afraid of.”

Tears burn at the back of your eyes. “Tony…”

“I love you,” he says, the words breaking something inside you. “I love you, and I’m sorry it took me this long to figure it out.”

You should say something.

But the emotions overwhelm you, your heart pounding too loudly in your chest.

Tony hesitates, his eyes searching yours. “If you still want me to sign the divorce papers, I will. I won’t force you to stay in something that hurts you.”

Your breath shudders.

This is the moment you’ve been waiting for—the proof that he’s changed, that he’s not just doing this for show.

Because if this were just about avoiding a scandal, he wouldn’t give you a choice.

And yet, here he is, handing you the decision.

You exhale slowly, blinking back the tears.

“I don’t want you to sign them,” you whisper.

Tony’s shoulders relax, relief flooding his face.

You take a step closer. “But I need time. I need to trust that this isn’t just temporary.”

Tony nods, his hands reaching out to gently cup your face. “Take all the time you need.”

And when he kisses you—soft, slow, filled with everything he’s been too afraid to say—you finally let yourself believe that maybe this could be real.

---

Tony is patient with you.

At first, you expect him to push—because that’s who he is. But he doesn’t. He lets you come to him on your own terms.

It starts with small moments.

A kiss in the morning when he brings you coffee, just a quick press of lips before he murmurs, “Good morning, sweetheart.”

A lingering touch at dinner, his fingers brushing against your knee under the table as he listens to you talk.

A slow, lazy kiss in the hallway after an evening out, his hands resting at your waist like he never wants to let go.

The tenderness in his touch, the warmth in his gaze, the way he looks at you like you’re the most important thing in the world—it all makes you realize that this isn’t an act. This isn’t temporary.

Tony has changed.

And more importantly—he loves you.

That’s why, one night, when he kisses you deeper than usual, when his hands slide up your back, pulling you flush against him, you don’t pull away.

You let yourself want this. Want him.

Tony notices the shift immediately. His breathing turns heavier, his hands trembling slightly as they roam your body, like he’s savoring every inch of you.

He breaks the kiss just enough to search your eyes. “Are you sure?”

You answer by kissing him again, tilting your head to give him everything.

It’s slow at first, every touch a reassurance, a promise.

But then, it turns into something more.

Something desperate.

Something you’ve both been holding back for far too long.

—

You don’t leave the bed for hours.

And when you do, it’s only because Tony insists on carrying you to the shower, pressing lazy kisses to your skin as the warm water cascades over both of you.

Afterward, he tucks you into bed, pulling you close, his arms around you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs against your hair. “And I’m yours.”

It’s the first time he’s ever said anything like that.

And you know he means it.

—

A few days later, you attend another event with him.

This time, things are different.

This time, you don’t feel like just a business partner standing at his side.

You feel like his wife.

Tony barely leaves your side the entire night. His hand rests on your waist, his thumb stroking absent patterns against the fabric of your dress. He kisses your temple in between conversations, leans down to murmur comments in your ear that make you laugh.

You feel adored.

Cherished.

But then, you see her.

Vanessa.

She’s standing near the bar, watching Tony like she always does.

You know that look. You’ve seen it before.

The difference is that now, you do something about it.

When Tony turns his attention to greet someone, you make your way across the room, walking right up to Vanessa.

Her lips curl into a smirk. “Oh? Finally ready to fight for him?”

You tilt your head. “No. Just ready to remind you that I’ve already won.”

You don’t give her a chance to respond.

Instead, you turn on your heel, grab Tony’s hand, and pull him with you toward the nearest bathroom.

He barely has time to react before you push him inside, locking the door behind you.

Tony raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Well, this is a surprise.”

You don’t answer.

Instead, you kiss him.

It’s different from before—fiercer, more possessive.

Tony groans against your lips, backing you up against the counter. “Jealous, sweetheart?”

You nip at his bottom lip in response. “Shut up.”

He grins, but it quickly fades as your hands start to wander.

The rest of the world ceases to exist.

—

When you finally leave the bathroom, everyone knows.

Your hair is slightly messy, your lipstick smudged. Tony’s tie is loose, his expression smug as he keeps his arm around your waist, walking you back into the event like nothing happened.

Vanessa glares.

Tony leans in, whispering against your ear, “That was hot.”

You smirk, gripping his hand tighter.

And from that moment on, there’s no doubt left—

Tony Stark is yours.

And he loves it.