#iron man reader insert

[animealways]

tony and his child

tony: i recently found out mickey mouse has a kid

y/n with a major voice crack: wHaT?!

tony: you didn't know this?

y/n: nO!

tony: wait i need to look up the name as well its so funny

y/n: oH mAh gAd this is just as bad when i found out hello kitty has a boyfriend

tony now with a major voice crack: hElLo KiTtY hAs A bOyFrIeNd?!?

y/n: hello kitty has a boyfriend!

[shewhohangsoutincemeteries]

most people

Tony Stark x F!Reader

Prompt: “i can't believe you don't like hugs."

Summary: you come home to the tower to hear that your teammate tony has been awake for days. you take it upon yourself to get to complete some much-needed self-care.

Warnings: fluff.

Word Count: 1,741

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The door sounded with a quiet, welcoming ding as the elevator arrived on your floor, the lights of your suite already on and pleasantly dimmed to accommodate to the tenderness of your eyes this late at night. It was a little before three in the morning, and while your flight had had no major issues and the traffic between the airport and Avengers Tower had been blessedly in your favor, it was still agonizing to be getting home so late.

Home.

It still surprised you how quickly you’d come to think of this place as more than just a place to sleep, more than what had originally felt like a ridiculously over-sized hotel room. It had been only six months since Loki’s attack on New York, and while the renovations to the Tower were not yet finished, your suite had been one of the first floors to be completed. And now it somehow felt far more familiar to you than any of the countless beds you had claimed over the last twenty-seven years.

“Welcome back, Ms. Y/L/N,” the cool, friendly voice of Tony’s personal assistant sounded from the invisible speakers above you. “I trust your journey was pleasant.”

“It was, for a nine-hour flight in a broken seat,” you replied with a sigh, stretching out the lingering kink in your lower back. You set your suitcase down by the elevator doors. “And how many times do I have to tell you; it’s just Y/N.”

“I’m sure only once more,” he replied. “As always.”

You chuckled, a small, tired smile lingering on your lips. “Are the others here?”

“Only Mr. Stark is in residence at the moment,” the A.I. informed you as you made your way further into your suite. You toed off your shoes, shedding your jacket and tossing it onto the nearby sofa. “Shall I inform him of your arrival?”

“Oh, no, I don’t want to wake him.”

There was a slight pause. “Mr. Stark is not asleep, Ms. Y/L/N.”

How an A.I. could have a variation in tone, you weren’t sure, but you stopped halfway to unbuttoning your jeans. “And how long exactly has Tony been awake?”

“…Almost eighty-three hours, ma’am.”

“I think I hate ‘ma’am’ even more than my last name.” you sighed, casting a glance towards the room to your left. The door was ajar, and you swore your bed was calling to you. “Where is he?”

“In the lab.”

“…Okay.”

***

A wall of sound greeted you as you stepped into the lab, and you flinched. It lowered immediately to a more bearable level, and you silently praised whatever part of JARVIS’ programming it was that could pick up on your discomfort like that.

“JARVIS,” Tony said without looking up from his work. “Don’t mess with my music.”

He was at the far end of the lab, moving between a couple of workbenches and the hologram of his latest designs with the disorganized, staccato rhythm you had begun to recognize as being a sign of sleep deprivation. There was a half-empty coffee pot on the bench closest to you, the scent of it gone stale. Tony’s clothes were rumpled, as was his hair, and you frowned when you noticed the shadows under his eyes. They were made darker by the blue light of the hologram between the two of you.

“I think we can do better on these reflector panels, J.,” he continued as though he hadn’t noticed you enter. “If this suit is going to work for stealth, I’m going to need the change to be instantaneous.” He waved a hand, and parts of the suit projected in front of him dropped away. “Scrap ‘em. Take it from the top.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hello to you, too, Stark.” you said snidely despite your concern. “Or am I expected to call you ‘sir’ in here, too?”

“Only if you want me to get all tingly over it,” he retorted teasingly, finally pausing long enough to meet your eye. He gave you a genuine, if distracted and exhausted, smile.

“Most people just say ‘welcome home’.”

Tony returned to one of the benches, eyes fixating on a tablet screen. “Are you implying that I could possibly be ‘most people’?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you replied, sidestepping an abandoned helmet prototype. There was an empty coffee mug sitting inside it. The crockery was stained with dark brown rings. You made you way around to his workbench, pushing yourself up to sit on the edge of it beside him. “Tony, when was the last time you got some sleep?”

“You know the answer to that,” he said, pointedly avoiding your eye and focusing his gaze on the work in front of him. “Or did you come all the way down here just for a hug?”

“A hug? Hardly,” you said with a scoff.

Tony met your eye, raising a brow. There was a teasing tilt to his lips, a challenge in his expression. “I don’t accept that.”

“Accept what?”

“I can’t believe that you don’t like hugs.” he said, straightening. He moved to stand in front of you, his hands claiming your knees. You felt a warmth spread up from where he touched you to heat your belly, and you straightened slightly, wetting your lips with the tip of your tongue. “I refuse to accept it. I mean, for a woman completely capable of breaking every bone in my body with her bare hands, you’re downright cuddly.”

As he said the last words he reached up and touched the tip of his finger to your nose tauntingly, and you wrinkled it in response. He chuckled, and you rolled your eyes at him. Something about sleep deprivation always made him lighter, more teasing. While his usual jokes were witty and occasionally flirty, when you found him like this, he was… softer. “Has anyone ever told you that you are a massive dork?”

Tony’s grin widened, and he stepped back, holding up his hands as though you’d just proved his point. “See, anyone else would call me an asshole, but you – sweet, innocent thing that you are – go with ‘dork’.”

“Oh, Stark. Trust me,” you snickered, pushing yourself up off the edge of the table. It closed much of the distance between the two of you, your chest almost meeting his. You made a show of casting your eyes down over him before meeting his eye with a smirk. “If you actually knew me, the last word you’d be using to describe me is ‘innocent’.”

Intrigue flashed in his eyes, a curve to his parted lips sending an unexpected thrill up your spine. He made move to speak, but you pressed a finger to his lips. His smile widened against your skin.

“I’m sure whatever you were about to say would have been rife with innuendo, Tony,” you said. “But honestly, you kind of stink. How long’s it been since you had a shower?”

***

“Y’know, I’m not really sure why I had to stick around for this.” you called out over the sound of rushing water, folding your arms over your chest. You were standing outside the penthouse bathroom, your back against the wall beside the door. Steam billowed out of the open doorway, clinging to your bare arms.

The water shut off, and Tony’s reply came a few moments later, his voice echoing off the tile. “And here I thought you were worried about my wellbeing, sweetheart.”

“You’re not exactly at risk of drowning in the shower, Tony,” you pointed out. You heard his answering chuckle and the sounds of cabinet doors opening and closing. There was a long silence, punctuated only by the quiet sounds of shaving cream being sprayed and a razor against skin. “And you survived it. So, can I go to bed now?”

“And miss out on this quality team-bonding time?” he called out. “Shudder to think.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes with a smile. “‘Team-bonding’? We’re missing a couple of key members here. Unless you’ve got Rogers stashed in your shower caddy.”

“Not exactly the member I’d pick for that,” he replied as he stepped through the doorway, wiping at his jaw with a towel. Another was slung securely around his hips. Rivulets of water marked his bare torso, droplets clinging to his chest. There was a teasing smirk on his lips, and you swallowed. “Now, Romanoff on the other hand—”

“I’m going to stop you there before this conversation devolves into casual misogyny,” you eye-rolled, holding up a hand.

“I’ll have you know I’m an equal opportunity lech.” Tony shot back, amused. “I just didn’t think Thor would fit in the caddy.”

You snorted a laugh.

“Right…” you said. He’d missed a tiny patch of shaving cream on the corner of his jaw, and you reached up to wipe it away with two fingers. Tony’s smile widened as you wiped it on his bare chest. You cleared your throat as you realized the intimacy of your actions. “Well, you’ve managed to navigate the perils of a penthouse bathroom, Iron Man. Congrats.”

“So, what’s your excuse now?”

Confusion creased the skin between your brows. “For what?”

Tony’s smirk twitched, and you recognized the challenge in his eyes. Something in the pit of your stomach fluttered. “For turning down a hug.”

You laughed, shaking your head disbelieving. “God, Stark, you are such a—”

Tony took hold of your arm, surprising you by pulling you toward him and bringing his lips to yours. They were soft and warm, teasing with the taste of spearmint. The clean scent of his body wash enveloped you, his fingers gentle but firm on your arm. The warmth of his body – still bolstered by the heat of the shower – leached into your skin, wrapping you in a ghost of an embrace that made you lean into him. The kiss lasted only a moment before he pulled back again, that expression of taunting flirtation still in place.

You pressed your lips together, your skin tingling. “What was that for?”

He shrugged a shoulder, tightening the towel around his waist. There was an annoying note of nonchalance in his expression, and self-assuredness that told you he knew exactly what kind of effect he’d just had on you. “Call it a thank you.”

“I—” you swallowed, forcing your breath to steady. “Most people just say ‘thank you’.”

He grinned, his teeth grazing his bottom lip. “Didn’t we agree that I’m not ‘most people’?”

.

.

.

tags: @trekkingaroundasgard @ccbsrms @lina-mar@lovely-dreamer19@wittyforachange@wefracturedmotivation@january-echoes@glossyloner@capitalnineteen@youclickedthislink@s0ftness@castieltrash1@drakelover78@queenoftheunderdark@fandoms-pizza-wifi-ym13@lol-you-thought@sebbystanlover-vk@mikariell95@csigeoblue@abrunettefangirlnerd@babyblues915@aar-journey@moistpotatobear @capsironunderoos @bellamyblakemorley@diesinspanishbcimhispanic@sentimentalalien@agustdowney@akumune@xxboesefrauxx@patheticallysentimental@loki-is-loved

[cece693]

Hair Care

pairing: bucky barnes x gender neutral reader tags: me revealing my obsession with bucky's hair, like it's so magestic and beautiful, literal goals, pre-relationship, fluff

You’d never forget the first time you noticed Bucky Barnes’s hair—not the steely glare in his eyes, not the sinewy muscle you could see even through his tac gear, but that mane of dark hair framing his face. There was something so delicate about it, a detail at odds with his reputation as a ruthless assassin. From that day forward, you were kind of obsessed. You find him brooding on the battered sofa in the corner of the compound’s communal lounge. He isn’t exactly open, shoulders bunched around his ears in a constant show of tension, his left arm stiff at the elbow, metal fingers tapping incessantly on the worn-out cushion. It’s a habit you’ve noticed—something he does whenever he’s trying to ground himself.

You approach tentatively. The hum of chatter from the other Avengers buzzes in the background, but you’ve always found that when Bucky’s in the room, your attention anchors itself to him alone. When he notices you, he doesn’t speak. He barely nods. Yet, there’s something about the set of his jaw that invites you forward.

In your hands, you hold a small caddy filled with combs, hair ties, and a few hair products you’ve swiped from various corners of the compound. You’ve hidden them under your bed or in locked drawers, hoarding them specifically for moments like this—moments when Bucky might let you fuss over him and reintroduce a bit of softness into a life that has been anything but gentle.

He’s a killer. Everyone knows that. A living weapon with scars on his body and deeper ones in his mind. He came to the Avengers still haunted by Hydra’s touch, always looking over his shoulder as if the ghosts of his past might leap out at any second. He’s carved from muscle and edged by lethal grace, capable of killing even the mightiest Avenger in a blink. Yet here he is, perched quietly on the couch, allowing you to hover beside him, your hands itching to do exactly what you’ve been dreaming of.

“Yeah?” he finally says, voice rough in his throat.

“You good if I—?” You let the question trail as you gesture toward his dark hair.

He nods again. “Go for it,” he mutters, tone low but not unkind.

There’s a ripple of movement around you; one or two of the team glance over, double-taking at the sight of the half-rehabilitated Winter Soldier moving to sit on the ground as you move to sit behind him. Sam arches an eyebrow from across the room, his expression flickering between amusement and mild disbelief. Steve stands near the kitchen, arms folded over his chest, and though he tries to hide it, you can see the slight curve of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You place gentle hands on Bucky’s shoulders, pressing ever so slightly. He exhales a pent-up breath. His muscles relax just a fraction. Your fingers slip into his hair, and you marvel at how surprisingly soft it is, given his tough exterior and the rough life he’s led. You lean forward, biting your lip in concentration as you separate sections of his hair. The hush that settles around you two feels oddly comforting—like a cocoon. Even with the half-lit chaos of the compound happening at the periphery, time slows when you’re carefully braiding Bucky’s hair.

“You doin’ okay?” you ask quietly, easing the question into the calm space.

Bucky’s breath hitches, as though the words took him by surprise. “Trying,” he replies after a moment, voice nearly swallowed by the hum of other conversations. “Better. Just…some days are rough.”

You bind the first small braid, letting it frame his temple, and then start working on the next. “You’ve come a long way,” you say. It’s not empty praise. You’ve watched him wrestle with the nightmarish tangle of Hydra’s conditioning—hacking at it with therapy sessions, mental exercises, and stubborn will. He’s still got scars that he doesn’t let anyone touch, trauma that clings like a shadow, but he’s standing on his own two feet in the light, and that alone is worth everything.

He hums in acknowledgment. For a moment, you can’t tell if he’s politely brushing off the compliment or letting it settle in. Either way, you take his silence as permission to continue, your fingers dancing nimbly across his scalp.

By the time you secure the last twist of hair, you’ve created an elaborate braided style that accentuates the handsome angles of his face. He pulls out his phone, flips the camera to check your work. There’s a faint smirk ghosting across his lips as he tilts his head to examine the result. Then that tiny smile vanishes—lost under the weight of a practiced, brooding scowl. “Looks good,” he tells you, as quiet as always. It’s a compliment with a thousand unspoken thanks hidden inside it.

You grin, your heart fluttering in your chest. “You sure? I can change something if—”

He shakes his head, standing up. Even then, he doesn’t brush you away. Instead, he moves carefully, almost protectively, so he doesn’t mess up the braids. His broad frame dwarfs you, the black combat boots and the gleaming metal arm a reminder of everything he’s survived—and everything he’s still capable of. And yet, with all that lethal energy coiled in his body, he gives you a nod—one that’s practically gentle.

The rest of the Avengers stare. Tony nearly drops the coffee he’s sipping. Natasha pretends she hasn’t noticed but glances out of the corner of her eye, lips curved. In the hush that falls over the lounge, you catch a flicker of amusement mixed with that strange, collective awe. A Winter Soldier meticulously groomed, hair woven into intricate braids. It’s jarring. Surreal. But you can’t help the surge of pride that warms your chest.

Bucky moves a step closer to you, so close you swear the edge of his vibranium fingers brushes against your hip. It’s a casual stance, but you feel its significance all the same. He doesn’t usually allow anyone in his personal space unless it’s you. He holds your gaze for a moment, and for all the wordless tension thrumming between you, there’s something tender there—something that makes your cheeks heat despite yourself.

Then, in that gravelly baritone, he murmurs, “Thanks,” so softly that no one but you can hear. There’s gratitude in his eyes; an acceptance that for now, while he fights to reclaim his life, you’re here to anchor him in the gentlest of ways.

You clear your throat. “Anytime,” you reply, ducking your head to hide your smile. In your mind, you already know that you’ll be back—caddy of hair supplies in hand—the next time he needs it. Maybe one day, you’ll braid his hair and then let his hands find their way into yours, no more lines of hesitation drawn between you. But for now, this small intimacy is more than enough. He turns away, glancing at you over his shoulder like he wants to say something else, but disappears.

[loversrocktvgirl2]

my mini multiverse of madness…

Falling Asleep Headcanons (Tony, Steve, Peter)

masterlist

Tony

When you fall asleep near Tony, it’s cuddled up in a blanket on a chair, watching him in his workshop, in his element. It takes about fifteen minutes for him to realize you fell asleep, and the second he does, he feels bad. 

You’re gonna get a neck cramp in the morning if you sleep on this damn chair all night, and y’know what? He’s not gonna have that. 

Keeping you in your little blanket wrap, he picks you up and he carries you upstairs to go to bed. 

Normally, Tony can spend hours upon hours upon HOURS down in the workshop, fine tuning and inventing and building. It’s been a bit of a problem for everyone who knows him—his lack of sleep can make him insufferable in Stark Industry meetings, and it’s not good for him to be alone for so long with his thoughts just to keep them all to himself—but you’ve been the exception in the sense that, instead of insisting on dragging him up to bed night after night, you just come downstairs and stay there. If he’s gonna be your problem, then you’re gonna be his. 

He likes that you come and keep him company now, but sometimes he gets so caught up in his work that he forgets you’re there, and when he remembers, he always feels guilty. 

So tonight, he carries you up to bed and instead of sneaking back downstairs, he decides to stay with you.

You make yourself comfortable with him so easily that his heart sort of melts a bit, and he holds you closer to him, gently tracing soft circles on your back, breathing in rhythm with you. The cold night air comes in through the cracked-open window, and he finds himself relaxing enough to close his eyes and drift off to sleep, something he’s struggled with for a long time. 

When you wake up in the morning and find yourself here, you smile, because you know that he loves you. 

Steve

When you fall asleep on Steve, it’s after the two of you went on a date. You’d gone to a nice restaurant and then out dancing, and you’d had a wonderful time with him. You liked that he was a little bit old fashioned. It was a nice change of pace from all the more modern men you’d been on dates with. You felt like he treated you with more respect than they did, too. 

You rode back to the Avengers tower on his motorcycle, your arms wrapped around his toned chest, feeling the cool air against your skin and his warmth against you. 

You felt comfortable and safe. Motorcycles normally scared you a bit, especially when there was a great deal of traffic. But riding on Steve’s motorcycle on a back country road in the cool night, hugging onto him, you felt safe and happy. You were tired, your feet hurt from dancing in high heels, but you were content to be there. You leaned your head against his back and closed your eyes, relaxed. 

You weren’t quite asleep by the time he’d gotten you both home, but you’d almost drifted off a bit. “Sorry,” you said casually. 

“No, it’s okay,” Steve assured with a smile. “I like that you trust me enough.” You smiled back and him, and he helped you off of the motorcycle. Carrying your shoes, he walked you up the stairs to your bedroom.

While you got unready from your date and ready for bed, he did the same, sliding off his shoes and jacket and switching out his dress pants for pajama pants, leaving his white t-shirt on. When you came back into your bedroom, he was already lying under the covers. You climbed into bed and he brought your into his arms, and you drifted off to sleep. 

Peter

When you fall asleep on Peter, it’s in the middle of your movie night together. You’re relaxed on the couch with his arm around you, watching a bad comedy movie from twenty years ago, and you’re pretty tired. 

You like the movie, it’s not that—but you’re so comfortable this close to him, the blanket wrapped around you, back against the couch and head on his shoulder, that you find yourself drifting off to sleep. 

When Peter realizes that you’ve fallen asleep, he gets a little bit stressed out. 

What does he do? Does he just stay still? Does he carry you to bed? Does he fall asleep too? He’s panicking. 

Tony passes by the room and chuckles when he sees you peacefully sleeping and Peter stressing out over it. “Hey, kid, it’s okay, just stay still,” Tony says quietly, amusement clear in his tone. Peter nods in understanding and just freezes. Tony laughs a little, keeping his voice down so that he doesn’t wake you. “Don’t freeze, just…stay there. Finish your movie.”

Peter nods again. “Okay,” he whispers. He tries his best to remain calm and relax back into the couch. 

Within thirty minutes, he’s fallen asleep with you.

Thor passes by to grab a midnight snack and he sees the two of you passed out on the couch together, and he lets out a soft chuckle. “Ah. Young love,” he remarks quietly to himself and walks away, letting the two of you sleep. 

In the morning, you both wake up, still on the couch. Natasha’s sitting in a chair, reading the newspaper casually. “Morning, lovebirds. Don’t worry. Everybody already saw you cuddling.”

Peter blushes and you laugh. You turn to him. “I’m hungry, you wanna get breakfast with me?” He nods and you grin, and he follows you into the kitchen.

[pancaketax]

MASTERLIST | Tony Stark x Male Reader

genre ⋆ heavy angst , slow burn, unrequited crush, recovery from trauma , family issues, hurt/comfort , fluff romance at some point.

On going. (CHAPTERS LIST BELLOW) word count: 234k

Summary : Lost in a life that no longer fits, you find yourself trapped in an endless routine. Between a dead-end job and a toxic roommate situation that drains you bit by bit, you're sinking into a daily existence where hope feels distant. Each day brings more difficult choices, and you begin to wonder if you'll ever escape this vicious cycle.

But everything changes when an unexpected opportunity arises a position at Stark Industries. Though the thought of starting over terrifies you, you don’t really have a choice. You take the plunge, leaving your comfort zone behind and stepping into a job that you hope will offer you a chance to start fresh. But amidst it all, you’re left to ask What remains when everything else is torn away ?

CHAPTER 1 A Ghost Among the Living CHAPTER 2 Fading Into the Background CHAPTER 3 Between Shadows and Spotlights CHAPTER 4 Against the Clock CHAPTER 5 Crossroads CHAPTER 6 The Weight of a Choice CHAPTER 7 No Turning Back CHAPTER 8 No Rooms for Lies CHAPTER 9 Fractured Resolve CHAPTER 10 Rest for the Weary CHAPTER 11 Learning to Hold CHAPTER 12 Under the Surface CHAPTER 13 Cracks and Conforts CHAPTER 14 Shattered Lines CHAPTER 15 Hidden Stains CHAPTER 16 Dragged Back CHAPTER 17 The Art of Breaking Things CHAPTER 18 The Hunt CHAPTER 19 Arms of Iron

more coming soon ♡

If you want to be part of my taglist you can click here !

[captinamericashusband]

Flirt | Tony Stark x Male!Reader

A/N: Omg a fanfic that isn't about Steve Rogers?!?! Hope you enjoy :) Also, school is starting soon but I will try to write as much as I can. I actually do find writing these enjoyable. Fanfic writing is different but fun. It's nice to use my English somewhere aside from just writing essays 🥹.

P.S. Listen to this song right now or I will hurt you:

Flirt

Word count: 2.8k

Summary: During a night out with his close friend, Y/N encounters Tony Stark and they immediately hit it off. Get that bag, Y/N!

Warnings: Alcohol use

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Are you sure about this, Sal?" Y/N said, uncertainty laced in his voice.

"100% sure. You need to get your mind off of that cheating douchebag." Sal responded with no hesitation. A small sigh came from Y/N's mouth. He knew deep down that she was right.

After finding out his ex had been cheating on him, Y/N had rotted in his house for almost two weeks, completely isolating himself from the outside world. Only today, when his closest friend Sal practically broke his front door down, had he been freed from his lovelorn pitying.

Now, Sal was forcing Y/N out for a much-needed night out in town, determined to help him forget about his troubles, at least for just a couple of hours. The two were currently headed to one of the liveliest bars downtown, with the promise of copious amounts of alcohol and good company.

"Look, I know this might not be what you want right now," Sal said, giving Y/N a reaffirming pat on the shoulder. "But, just trust me. We're going to enjoy the night, the drinks and the people, and," Sal's head turned slightly, giving a Y/N a small smirk, "we might even find you a nice man there."

Y/N turned downward and began shaking his head to hide the smile forming on his face – he ultimately failed. "Yeah, yeah alright." While his very recent relationship's ending was abrupt and messy, the idea of finding someone new was very enticing. His previous boyfriend was, according to Sal, "hot trash", so he believed tonight could be the chance to find a truly suitable partner for him.

"That's the spirit," Sal grinned, tightly hugging Y/N's side. "Now let's go and make very questionable decisions."

Y/N chuckled despite himself, softly pushing Sal off of him. Maybe tonight would be when he'd truly move on.

------------------------------------

According to Y/N's inner monologue, the bar itself was quite lovely. It was a quaint, hole-in-the-wall establishment yet very populated. People occupied the bar's booths in large groups, their conversations filling the atmosphere with a nice volume. The warm and soft lighting gave the space a slight touch of intimacy. As he continued looking around, Y/N grimaced as he glanced toward a corner of the bar and saw a couple making out, their hands touching in places that were definitely inappropriate for a public space. However, despite seeing the touchy-feely pair, Y/N could tell tonight would be somewhat fun.

The two settled down on two barstools at the bar's front. Sal, being the more outgoing of the one, wasted no time waving down the bartender. "Two tequila shots, please," she said with a grin. It was a tradition for the two to begin a night out with tequila shots – a nice ritual that set the tone for the night.

The bartender slid two shot glasses filled to the brim with tequila. The two each grabbed a glass, Sal raising hers and toasting, "to a night of fun and forgetting."

Y/N raised his also, saying, "Cheers to whatever comes our way." The two smiled at each other, clinking their glasses before downing their drinks in one swift gulp.

Y/N's face scrunched in pain upon swallowing. The feeling of tequila was familiar to Y/N as he and Sal have spent multiple nights out together. However, he never grew as much of a tolerance as her for the throat-burning it caused when ingesting it. He coughed slightly, but laughed, a tingly feeling spreading throughout his chest.

Sal leaned over, slightly nudging Y/N's elbow. "So, what'll it be next for us? Should we try something strong or should steady ourselves for tonight?"

Y/N thought deeply for a moment before responding. "Let's try something different," he said, feeling bolder. "How about margaritas?"

Sal laughed. "Alright, margaritas it is. Don't blame me though for how shit-faced you might get."

Y/N rolled his eyes, but couldn't prevent the smile from forming on his face. "I guess we'll see," he replied, feeling the anticipation from what the night has to offer.

------------------------------------

Sal and Y/N had 3 margaritas and 4 tequila shots in each and were already a tad inebriated. Despite the bar being quite packed, their egregiously loud laughter carried around the room, causing people to look at them with slight annoyance.

Suddenly, Sal's eyes widened and she began choking on her drink. "Holy shit, bitch," she semi-yelled, catching Y/N's attention. "Don't look behind you, but Tony 'Richboy' Stark just came in with a really hot dude."

Y/N wasn't the type to listen to directions he was told – especially when inebriated – so despite Sal's warnings, he immediately looked. And Sal was correct. There, unmistakably, was Tony Stark clad in a simple tux with a black tie near the bar's entrance. Next to him was an equally attractive man, taller, with blonde hair and broad shoulders. Upon second glance, Y/N realized the other man was the Captain America.

Y/N's eyes had wandered on Tony while he was surveying the bar's interior. For a brief moment, their gazes met under the glow of the bar's warm lighting. Y/N quickly looked away. However, his curiosity got the better of him and he glanced once more. Tony's eyes were still on him, firm but with an undertone of curiosity. Y/N wanted to so desperately look away, but their stare lingered. The world seemed to fade during their intimate stare-off. A palpable tension was shared between them, and it wasn't until Tony flashed Y/N a small smile before heading to a vacant booth that it vanished.

A slight slap on Y/N's arm broke him from his trance. "Dude! I literally told you not to look and guess what you did? Look!" Y/N had to quiet down Sal's loud reprimanding voice, afraid a certain someone would hear her. She regained her composure after a few minutes of quiet yelling and continued drinking her third margarita. "Okay, but he was definitely checking you out," Sal slurred with a volume even a person outside the bar could hear.

A loud cough erupted from Y/N's mouth, an attempt to drown out Sal's voice. "He was absolutely not," he protested, taking a sip of his drink. "He was just checking out the place, and our eyes coincidentally met when he was looking at the front of the bar."

"Oh, Y/N," Sal said, slowly shaking her head. "I know you may be slow in the head–" Y/N was about to object before Sal put a finger to his lips, effectively shutting his mouth. "But you'd practically have to be blind to not notice him eyeing you like a piece of fine meat."

"Okay, but..." Y/N was at a loss for words, partly for the fact he was intoxicated but also because Tony Stark was definitely checking him out. Their stare-off lasted a little too long to be considered anything but friendly. "Wait, why were you looking at him I thought we weren't supposed to look?"

"Well, Y/N," Sal said, sloppily standing from the bar stool and grabbing her purse. "I will be going to the bathroom right now. I hope nothing significant will occur during my absence, like, say, a certain Avenger approaching you while you're sat here all alone." She winked, her gait wobbly from the alcohol.

Before Y/N could yell at her to return, she already turned the bar's corner into the restrooms. Y/N silently cursed, downing his margarita before ordering another one. His heart was beating fast, and he glanced towards where Tony was sitting. As if on cue, Tony looked up from his conversation with Captain America, catching his gaze. This time, Tony's smile widened, and he leaned in and whispered something to Steve. Y/N's pulse quickened. Then, Tony stood up from his booth and started towards Y/N. He quickly turned around, "fuck, fuck, fuck," he whispered under his breath.

Y/N could feel Tony's presence approaching. He radiated wealth, power, and overall playboy hubris with each step. As he drew closer, Y/N's anxiety reached a peak. He started drawing his focus away from the intimidating man, attempting to look very intently at the bar's collection of liquor. But Tony's sensation, magnetic as ever, couldn't be ignored by Y/N.

Tony sat on the barstool Sal was on before she left. Y/N felt his palms and the back of his knees becoming clammy, unsure if it was from the alcohol or the undeniably attractive billionaire beside him. It was probably the latter. Tony cleared his throat to catch the attention of the bartender. "I'll take a beer, please."

After Tony got his beer, an uncomfortable silence washed over the two men. Tony wasn't speaking and Y/N was too out of it to verbalize anything. Wasn't Tony – billionaire, playboy, philanthropist – Stark supposed to start their conversation, he silently thought. Suddenly getting very impatient, Y/N put the burden on himself to verbally approach Tony first. "I always thought you were a hard liquor person," Y/N's voice came out, evident in his speech that he was decently drunk.

Tony glanced at Y/N, a hint of amusement in his expression. "I've been trying to lay off the drinking for a while," he replied, taking a sip of his beer. "Only wimpy drinks for me tonight."

Y/N nodded, trying to focus on Tony's words despite his tipsiness. He could feel Tony's eyes on him, curious and unwavering. His gaze was intimidating but felt strangely warm at the same time.

Tony leaned in slightly, his tone teasing. "And what about you. I didn't peg you to be a margarita guy."

Y/N smiled, his confidence from the liquid courage abating his nerves. "I like to keep 'em guessing, Mr. Stark." He took another sip of his margarita. "Only the good ones."

Tony's grin widened slightly. "Does that make me one of the 'good ones'?"

"That depends on how you treat me tonight," Y/N replied, his voice flirtier than he expected it to be.

Another silence came after Y/N's words – a comfortable one, unlike the last time. Y/N sneaked a few glances towards Tony, finding him looking straight ahead bearing a small content smile.

"So what brings you here with" – Y/N gestured towards Steve – "that hunk of a man," Y/N asked, cutting through the quiet.

Tony set down his beer. "Well, I just got off a very important business meeting and decided to head here to unwind. Heard this place had some...interesting company." He then looked towards Y/N. "Capsicle's here as my plus one."

Y/N felt his cheeks go red. "'Interesting company,' huh?" he echoed, his nervousness returning again.

Tony nodded, his expression playful. "Very interesting," he reaffirmed. "And it seems," Tony picked up his beer, gesturing it towards Y/N. "I've made the right choice."

A sudden cough erupted from Y/N's mouth, elicited by Stark's notorious innate flirtiness. "You can't just say that, Tony. We just met and you don't even know my name."

Tony chuckled, clearly amused by Y/N's reaction. "You're right," he admitted, leaning back slightly. "But I don't need to know your name to recognize you're someone worth talking to." He took another quick sip of his beer. "Names are just a formality anyway. I'd rather know the person behind the name."

Y/N felt a mix of embarrassment and intrigue. Despite knowing of Tony's infamous charismatic boldness, it felt nerve-wracking being on the receiving end of it. It was a strange experience. "You surely know how to keep someone on their toes, Mr. Stark."

Tony smiled, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "So, whaddya say? Do I get your name or do I have to keep guessing for a little longer?"

Y/N hesitated briefly before deciding to play along with Tony's game. "Keep guessing, lover-boy."

Tony's eyebrows raised, clearly enjoying the challenge and the nickname. "Let's see..." he said, his face stern with faux concentration. "You strike me as a Jay. Or a Phil." He watched Y/N's expression closely, trying to see if there was any hint he was on the right track.

Y/N couldn't help but laugh. "Nice try, but you're way off. Guess again."

A small sigh came from Tony. "Dammit. I thought I almost had it," he said, feigning playful disappointment. "Okay, how about...Cameron? Or Mitchell?"

Y/N shook his head once more. "Nope. Not even close."

Tony leaned in closer, his smile turning into a small smirk. "Alright, I give up. What's your name, mystery man?"

Y/N also leaned in, relenting at Tony's surrender. "It's Y/N," he half-whispered. "But I did enjoy you guessing."

A genuine smile found itself on Tony's face. "Y/N, huh? I like it – it suits you." He raised his beer in a small toast. "To new friends, and to keeping things interesting."

Y/N clinked his margarita with Tony's brown beer bottle. "To new friends," he repeated.

"So," Tony said, taking another sip of his bottle. "Tell me more about yourself."

------------------------------------

Tony and Y/N talked for what seemed like hours, the passage of time becoming irrelevant to them. Y/N went on an extended rant about his ex-boyfriend, Tony listening intently, which Y/N very much appreciated. Tony in turn told Y/N about Avengers and Stark Industries business. Y/N tried hard to understand Tony's talks on logistics, all for the sake of how Tony's eyes lit up with interest when talking about the nitty-gritty of his company.

After I while, their conversation started dwindling down. The initial flirtiness settled down to a comfortable silence. The buzz from the alcohol had faded into a pleasant comfort that made Y/N feel warm inside. Y/N looked around the bar, noticing how the crowded place had thinned out. "Looks like we cleared the place out, huh?"

Tony set his beer bottle down, stretching his arms. "Guess we did. Time flies when you have fun. Or when you're with a cute person."

A warmth covered Y/N's face red. "It's been nice talking to you, Tony." He checked the time on his phone, eyes widening when he saw the time. "It's getting quite late. Me and Sal...where is that girl anyways?" Sal's entire existence completely slipped from Y/N's mind.

"Looks like Cap and your friend are hitting it off quite well." Y/N glanced towards the booth Steve was sitting in. There was very much indeed Sal chatting up a storm with Captain America. What surprised Y/N the most was that Steve actually enjoyed talking to her? He nodded, smile bright and charming as Sal's mouth moved continuously.

"Huh," Y/N mused. He looked towards Tony once more. Y/N wasn't quite sure how but Tony looked even more attractive since the last time he looked.

"I think it's time for us to call it a night, Y/N," Tony said, his voice slightly disappointed. Y/N also found himself unhappy as well. "Though, I'd like for us to see each other again. For margaritas or beer – or something stronger if you prefer." He pulled a sleek black business card from his pocket and handed it to Y/N.

"I'll take you up on that, Tony," Y/N replied, pocketing the card. Y/N stared softly at Tony, feeling a fluttery feeling in his chest. He noticed the closeness between them on the bar chairs.

Y/N hesitated for a brief moment, his mind racing with both excitement and nerves. The temptation to close the gap between them was overwhelming, and he could feel himself gravitating towards Tony.

Tony's gaze flickered towards Y/N's lips, seemingly understanding his intentions. Y/N felt a surge of confidence rush through him. He wanted this, and he knew damn well Tony did too. Without thinking further, Y/N closed the space between him and Tony, lips connecting in an intimate kiss.

Their lips started slowly at first – tentative as if testing the waters. But then Tony responded, pressing back with a gentle ferocity that made Y/N's stomach flutter. The kiss was slow and exploratory, full of curiosity and intrigue.

Y/N's eyes closed as he felt himself melt into Tony's touch. His hands found their way towards Tony's shoulders, linking them around and slightly grazing the fabric of his suit. Y/N could feel Tony's hands lightly caressing his waist, sending tingles around his entire body.

When they both pulled away, Y/N's eyes fluttered open and met Tony's, a mixture of surprise and fluster playing around both of their smiles.

"Wow," Y/N said, breathless. "That was unexpected."

"Yeah," Tony responded, sounding winded himself. "I definitely want to see you again now."

------------------------------------

Tony and Steve insisted on driving Y/N and Sal home, however, Y/N protested heavily against it. Sal was definitely on board with the idea but was drowned out by Y/N's persistent opposition.

After saying their goodbyes to the two Avengers, Y/N and Sal started on home. "So...," she began, sporting a toothy smile.

Y/N reciprocated her wide grin. "We'll debrief tomorrow."

FIN

A/N: Catch the Modern Family names 😼 Hope you enjoyed it!

[amethystarachnid]

Hi! I absolutely love your work sooo much (especially “LAZY DAY” with Tony) 🥹💕 If it’s okay, could you write a fluff story of Tony and shy fem reader?

This is just an example... She tends to hold back from telling Tony how she really feels, even when she needs him, because she doesn't want to be a bother (even though he’d love to be there for her). One day, she came home feeling down after a long, exhausting day at work without saying a word. But Tony, always so tuned in to her, noticed right away and cheered her up with sweet words, lots of praise, and warm hugs ❤️

Sorry if this is a weird request, and I’m just a beginner in English! Thank you so much for your amazing work 🥰

SAFE ARMS

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

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

ᯓ★ Genre: romance fluff, tiny bit of angst but more comfort

ᯓ★ Request from: normal request

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 5k

ᯓ★ Summary: you aren't used to ask for help, always scared to be a bother for the people around you, but your boyfriend, Tony Stark himself, is ready to change that.

ᯓ★ TW(s): reader is insecure but nothing that need a tw

ᯓ★ Comment if you want to be added to the taglist (specify if you want the everything taglist or for a specific character)

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

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 sun is just beginning to peek through the blinds when you wake up, casting soft, golden beams across Tony’s penthouse. Everything here is sleek, modern, and feels like it belongs in a world you’re still getting used to. Sometimes, it’s hard to believe that this is your home now, not just some temporary stay in Tony Stark’s glamorous life.

You turn in bed, expecting to find him beside you. But the sheets are cold, and you know what that means: he’s already up, probably buried in his lab, tinkering with some new piece of tech or fussing over another upgrade to one of his suits. The thought brings a small smile to your face, but it also settles a familiar ache in your chest.

Living with Tony is both exciting and intimidating. He’s never made you feel anything less than wanted here, even if his world feels overwhelming. Even though he’s Tony Stark—a genius, a billionaire, Iron Man—he’s somehow managed to make you feel like you belong in his universe. And yet, there’s a shyness that sticks to you, holding you back from fully opening up. It's not that you don’t trust him; it’s just… well, you’re afraid of being too much, of being a burden, of pulling him away from things that feel so much bigger than you.

You tell yourself that this is the reason you don’t go looking for him right now. After all, he’s probably working on something important; he wouldn’t want to be interrupted. Right?

With a small sigh, you roll out of bed, pulling one of his oversized hoodies around your shoulders. The familiar smell of him, a mix of his cologne and the faint metallic tang of his workshop, wraps around you like a comforting hug. It helps, a little.

Your bare feet make almost no sound as you pad through the penthouse, moving toward the kitchen. A small army of coffee machines stands proudly on the countertop—Tony has never been subtle about his obsession with caffeine. You pick the espresso machine, going through the motions of making yourself a cup and trying not to think about how empty the kitchen feels without him here.

You sip your coffee in silence, leaning against the counter, your thoughts drifting back to last night. Tony had been working late, as usual, and by the time he came to bed, you’d already been half asleep. You hadn’t even really said goodnight. It’s a small thing, but it gnaws at you now, the missed chance to tell him how much he means to you.

As you finish your coffee, you hear a faint hum from downstairs—the familiar, low buzz of Tony’s lab. You can almost picture him there, leaning over one of his projects, brow furrowed in concentration, the soft glow of his tech casting a blue light over his face.

Before you realize what you’re doing, you’re halfway to the lab, hugging his hoodie close. You stop just before the entrance, heart pounding in your chest. You don’t want to bother him. What if he’s in the middle of something crucial?

You turn, ready to head back upstairs, but then you hear his voice.

“You know, you can come in, right?” His tone is light, teasing. You don’t even have to see his face to know he’s smirking.

You feel your cheeks heat up. Caught. But the way he says it makes you feel a little bolder, like maybe it’s okay to want his company.

Stepping into the lab, you find him exactly as you imagined, bent over a small arc reactor, wires and tools scattered around him. He glances up as you walk in, and his smirk softens into a warm smile.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” he says, setting his tools down and straightening up. “Come to help me save the world?”

You chuckle, hugging yourself a little tighter. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Lucky for you, I do,” he teases, stepping closer. He reaches out, a gentle hand tilting your chin up so he can look at you fully. “But, honestly, I’d much rather spend my morning with you.”

His eyes are soft, a little tired, but the way he looks at you never fails to make your heart race. Even after all this time together, it’s hard to believe someone like him could look at you like that, like you’re the most important person in the world.

“Don’t you have… things to do?” You gesture toward the scattered tools, trying to ignore the way your stomach flips at his touch.

“Plenty,” he says, shrugging as if it’s the least important thing. “But I can make time. For you? Always.”

You swallow, the weight of his words settling over you like a warm blanket. He says things like that all the time, so casually, but you know he means them. And yet, you can’t quite shake the nagging feeling that you don’t deserve it, that you’re just a distraction from the incredible work he does every day.

Tony watches you, his expression softening even more as he picks up on your hesitation. He’s always been able to read you so easily, seeing right through the walls you try to keep up.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his hand moving to cup your cheek, thumb brushing softly along your skin. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”

You want to tell him, to explain all the things you keep buried—the doubts, the fears, the overwhelming feeling that you’re somehow out of place here, with him. But the words stick in your throat, too heavy to push out.

“It’s nothing,” you say instead, forcing a smile. “I just… didn’t want to bother you.”

His brow furrows, and he studies you in that intense way he has, like he’s trying to decipher a complicated equation. “Bother me?” he repeats, a hint of disbelief coloring his voice. “You could never bother me, sweetheart. You know that, right?”

“I just… you’re always so busy,” you say, your voice quieter than you’d like. “And I know what you do is important. I don’t want to distract you.”

He sighs, his hand dropping from your cheek to take your hand instead, his fingers wrapping around yours warmly. “You’re not a distraction,” he says, his voice low and earnest. “If anything, you’re what keeps me grounded. Reminds me why I do all this in the first place.”

You look down at your joined hands, your heart aching with how much you want to believe him. But that small voice in the back of your mind—the one that insists you don’t belong in his world—won’t quite quiet.

He lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles, and you finally meet his gaze. There’s something raw and vulnerable in his eyes, something that reassures you that, despite all his bravado, he really means every word.

“Besides,” he says, breaking the silence with a soft smile, “I could use a little distraction now and then. Keeps things interesting.”

You can’t help but laugh, the sound slipping out before you can stop it. He grins, clearly pleased with himself for coaxing a laugh out of you, and pulls you closer, wrapping an arm around your waist.

“See?” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your forehead. “This is exactly what I mean. I need this. I need you.”

The sincerity in his voice nearly undoes you. You lean into him, letting his warmth seep into you, and feel some of the tension begin to melt away. Maybe he’s right. Maybe you’re allowed to want him, to need him. It’s not something you’re used to, but he makes it feel… okay.

“Thank you,” you whisper, the words feeling inadequate but all you can manage. He seems to understand, his hold on you tightening slightly.

“Anytime,” he replies, his voice soft. “You don’t have to thank me, you know. I like being here for you.”

As you stand there, wrapped in his arms, you feel a familiar swell of warmth and contentment. It’s easy to forget about the doubts when you’re here with him, when he holds you like you’re his whole world. You want to stay like this forever, to keep him close and hold onto this feeling.

After a few moments, he pulls back slightly, looking down at you with a gentle smile. “How about we get some breakfast?” he suggests, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Unless you’re in the mood for some early-morning science experiments.”

You shake your head, smiling. “Breakfast sounds nice.”

He nods, taking your hand in his and leading you toward the kitchen. You don’t miss the way he keeps his hand on yours, his thumb tracing soft patterns along your skin, as if he’s reminding you that he’s here, that he’s not going anywhere.

In the kitchen, he moves around easily, gathering ingredients, cracking jokes about his questionable cooking skills, though you know he’s actually a pretty decent cook when he puts his mind to it. You watch him, a soft smile playing on your lips as he makes his way through the routine with a surprising amount of focus.

As you sit together, sipping coffee and sharing bites of scrambled eggs, the silence between you is comfortable. And for once, you don’t feel like you need to say anything more. His presence alone is enough to chase away any lingering doubts, even if only for a little while.

You walk through the front door, shoulders slumped, heels clicking softly against the floor as you make your way into the penthouse. The apartment is dimly lit, a golden glow spilling from the tall floor lamps that line the hallway, giving the whole space a quiet, warm ambience. But tonight, the usual comfort it offers feels far away, unreachable. Work had been a marathon of stress—a heavy, seemingly unending to-do list combined with a particularly harsh round of feedback from your boss. All you want is to disappear into bed and leave this day behind.

As you move into the living room, your tired eyes scan the familiar space, hoping Tony’s already in his lab or engrossed in some project. It’s not that you don’t want to see him. You do, more than anything. But you feel raw, your emotions precariously close to spilling over, and you don’t want to worry him with this heavy weight you’re carrying. You tell yourself it’s better if you deal with it alone.

But, like always, Tony surprises you.

You’re barely three steps in when you hear him. “Hey, gorgeous.” His voice is low, gentle, and immediately makes you stop in your tracks. You look over, and there he is, standing by the kitchen island, casually leaning against it with his usual effortless charm, a small smile tugging at his lips.

His gaze softens as he takes in your appearance. You’re not exactly hiding how tired you are, and the moment he sees the weariness etched on your face, his expression shifts. His smile fades, replaced by a look of concern.

He’s in front of you before you even realize it, his hands reaching out to rest gently on your shoulders. “Tough day?” he asks softly, his thumb stroking comfortingly along your arm.

You nod, swallowing down the lump that’s been building in your throat. “Something like that,” you manage, trying to force a small smile, but it barely reaches your eyes.

Tony’s brows knit together, and he studies you intently for a moment, taking in every detail, every sign of exhaustion, of stress. He knows you well enough to see through the act, to recognize the way your shoulders slump just a little more than usual, the slight downturn of your mouth that you’re trying to hide.

Without a word, he slips one arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him, and with his other hand, he cradles the back of your head, holding you to his chest. His scent—clean, with that hint of metal and machinery that always lingers around him—fills your senses, and you let out a shuddering breath, finally allowing yourself to relax, if only a little.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, his voice a warm rumble against your ear. “You’re home now. You don’t have to keep it together here.”

The words are simple, but the way he says them, so soft and sincere, chips away at the wall you’ve built around yourself today. Your shoulders sag, and before you can stop yourself, you’re leaning fully into him, letting his strength hold you up.

Tony’s hand rubs soothing circles along your back, and you can feel him swaying slightly, as though he’s rocking you, trying to melt away the tension that clings to you.

“You know, I was going to ask about your day,” he says, his tone light, almost playful. “But something tells me it wasn’t exactly a five-star experience.”

A humorless laugh escapes you, and you nod against his chest. “That’s putting it mildly.”

“Thought so.” He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands moving to cup your face. His thumbs brush away a stray tear you hadn’t even realized had fallen, and his eyes meet yours, full of a warmth that feels like it’s wrapping around you, even more comforting than the physical closeness.

“Listen,” he says, his voice dropping to that low, intimate tone that he reserves only for you, “you know you’re incredible, right? Like… undeniably, unbeatably, ridiculously amazing.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes a little, even as your lips twitch into a tiny smile. “Tony…”

“No, no, don’t ‘Tony’ me,” he interrupts, grinning slightly. “I’m serious. They’re lucky to have you. They’re damn lucky. And if they can’t see that, then they clearly don’t know what they’re doing.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your heart ache in the best way, and you feel another tear slip down your cheek. “Thank you,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. It’s all you can manage, but the gratitude in those two words is enough to make him lean forward and press a soft kiss to your forehead.

“Come here.” He guides you over to the couch, still holding you close. He sits down first, then pulls you onto his lap, wrapping his arms around you as if he can shield you from all the worries of the world. “Now, I want you to tell me everything, but first… let’s get you a little more comfortable, okay?”

With a gentle tug, he pulls a soft throw blanket around your shoulders, tucking it securely around you. You settle against his chest, feeling the warmth of his body seeping into yours, and let out a long, shaky breath.

For a few minutes, you don’t say anything. Tony doesn’t push, doesn’t try to make you talk. He simply holds you, his fingers running soothingly through your hair, tracing little patterns along your shoulder. Slowly, bit by bit, the tension that’s been coiled tightly within you begins to unwind.

Finally, you begin to tell him about your day, about the endless meetings and the impossible deadlines and the feeling that no matter how much you give, it’s never quite enough. You tell him about the criticism, the way it felt like a blow to the chest, and how you’d spent the rest of the day doubting yourself, questioning if you were really cut out for this job.

He listens, his face a mixture of empathy and frustration, his hand never stopping its comforting rhythm. When you finish, he’s quiet for a moment, his gaze intense as he processes everything you’ve told him.

“Alright, first of all,” he begins, his voice firm but gentle, “none of this—none of it—means you’re anything less than extraordinary. I know it’s hard to see that right now, but you need to know it. You’re one of the most capable, hardworking, and downright brilliant people I know, and anyone who says otherwise clearly doesn’t know what they’re talking about.”

A tear slips down your cheek, and Tony wipes it away, his thumb lingering on your skin. “I mean it,” he continues, his tone softening. “You’re allowed to have bad days, but don’t ever think that one rough day—or even a hundred—defines who you are. You’re incredible, and you don’t have to prove that to anyone.”

You can’t help the small, shaky smile that tugs at your lips. “Thank you, Tony. I… I needed to hear that.”

He presses a gentle kiss to your temple. “Good. Because I’m not done yet.”

You chuckle, feeling the weight on your chest ease a little more. He shifts slightly, so you’re facing him, his hands still cradling your face as he looks at you with a tenderness that makes your heart ache.

“I need you to know,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, “that you’re not alone in this. You have me, always. And I’ll be here, on the days that feel impossible and the days that feel amazing and every single day in between. You don’t have to carry everything by yourself, okay?”

The tears come more freely now, but this time, they’re mixed with relief, with gratitude, with the overwhelming feeling of being truly seen, truly loved. “Thank you,” you whisper again, your voice breaking slightly. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Good thing you’ll never have to find out,” he replies, a soft smile playing at the corners of his lips.

He leans forward, pressing his lips to yours in a gentle, lingering kiss, as if he’s pouring all the reassurance, all the comfort, all the love he has for you into that one, tender moment. You sink into it, feeling your worries and doubts melt away, if only for a little while.

When he pulls back, he studies your face, brushing his thumb along your cheek. “How about a little pampering tonight?” he suggests, his tone warm, playful. “You’ve had a rough day, and I happen to have a few ideas for how to make it better.”

A small laugh escapes you, and you nod, leaning your forehead against his. “That sounds… perfect.”

He grins, kissing the tip of your nose before he stands, carefully lifting you in his arms. You let out a surprised laugh, clinging to his shoulders as he carries you into the bathroom. He sets you down gently, and you watch as he begins filling the large, luxurious bathtub with warm water, adding your favorite bath oils, the ones that smell like lavender and vanilla.

When he’s done, he turns to you, his eyes warm and gentle. “Go on,” he says, nodding toward the tub. “I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

You smile, the weight on your chest almost completely lifted now, and slip into the warm, soothing water. As you sink down, feeling the stress and tension dissolve, you can’t help but feel a sense of overwhelming gratitude for him, for his love, for the way he always seems to know exactly what you need.

After a while, you hear a soft knock on the door,

and you smile as Tony peeks in, holding a cup of tea in one hand and a book in the other. “Thought you might want some company,” he says, his voice soft and tentative, as though he’s giving you the option to say no.

“Come on in,” you reply, your heart warming at the sight of him.

He sits on the edge of the tub, placing the tea within reach, and opens the book, reading softly to you as you soak. His voice is a comforting background, and you close your eyes, letting the words wash over you.

When you finally step out of the bath, he’s there, wrapping a towel around you and pulling you into his arms once more. “Feel a little better?” he asks, his tone gentle.

You nod, smiling up at him. “A lot better, actually. Thank you, Tony. For… everything.”

He brushes a damp strand of hair from your face, his expression tender. “Anytime, sweetheart. You’re worth it. Every single bit.”

In that moment, you know that no matter how hard the days get, you’ll never have to face them alone. And that’s more than enough.

Over time, something shifts within you. At first, it’s subtle—a moment here and there where you catch yourself hesitating, wondering if you should share your thoughts, your concerns, the little pieces of your day that feel too insignificant to mention. But then you remember the way Tony looked at you that night, the way he held you close, told you you’d never be a bother to him, and slowly, that hesitance starts to fade.

The shift is gradual, like the way daylight slowly warms the early morning sky. You don’t wake up one day suddenly unburdened by your worries. Instead, it’s the little things, small instances where you catch yourself reaching out, sharing something with him that you might have once kept to yourself. And each time, his response is the same—warm, attentive, and never anything but patient. The more you share, the more you feel a weight you hadn’t even realized you were carrying begin to lift.

One evening, after another long day, you’re sitting on the couch, thumbing absently through your phone, waiting for him to finish up in the lab. Normally, you’d keep to yourself, not wanting to intrude on his work time. But tonight, something is different. You remember the way he’d told you he wanted to know everything, even the little things, and you feel a gentle nudge inside yourself to let him in, to trust that he means it.

So, instead of waiting in silence, you pick up your phone and shoot him a quick message:

“Hey, I’m out here missing you. How’s it going in the lab?”

It’s a small step, but it feels significant. Not even a minute later, you hear his phone chime, followed by the sound of his quick footsteps coming down the hall. He appears in the doorway, wiping his hands on a towel, a curious grin on his face.

“You missing me, huh?” He raises an eyebrow, leaning against the doorframe, his eyes alight with playful warmth. “Well, in that case, the lab can wait.”

You laugh, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. He crosses the room and sits beside you, slipping an arm around your shoulders as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. The fact that you reached out, that you asked for him instead of waiting in silence, feels like another small triumph, a step toward something better, something more open.

Over the next few weeks, you find yourself testing this new sense of freedom more and more. At first, it’s little things—telling him about a frustrating conversation at work, venting about the coworker who talks too loudly on phone calls, or sharing a funny meme that you know will make him laugh. He listens, reacts, and responds with the same steady interest, the same comforting warmth, as if there’s nothing in the world he’d rather do than sit and hear you talk about your day.

Then, on a quiet Saturday night, you reach another milestone without even realizing it. You’re lying together on the couch, your head resting on his chest as he absentmindedly traces patterns along your arm. You feel safe, calm, and in a moment of vulnerability, you decide to share a worry that’s been nagging at you.

“Tony,” you begin, hesitating as you search for the right words. He hums, a gentle sound of encouragement, his gaze steady on you as he waits for you to continue.

“I’ve been… worrying about my performance at work,” you admit softly. “I know I do a good job, but sometimes I feel like I’m not as capable as everyone thinks. Like, any day now, they’re going to figure out I’m a fraud.”

You’d never have admitted this before, would have held it tight, afraid that voicing it would make it real. But here, in his arms, under his reassuring gaze, you feel safe enough to let it out.

He doesn’t respond right away, and for a moment, you worry that you’ve said too much, that maybe this is one of those things he doesn’t want to hear. But then, he shifts, sitting up slightly so he can look directly into your eyes.

“You’re serious?” he asks, his voice laced with genuine surprise. “Y/N, that couldn’t be further from the truth. You’re incredibly talented—you’re doing a great job because you are great at what you do. Do you have any idea how impressive you are to me?”

You bite your lip, feeling the usual wave of doubt, but his words are grounding, steadying you. He reaches out, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, his gaze filled with a sincerity that makes your heart race.

“And even if you did stumble—because let’s be real, everyone does sometimes—you’d still be amazing. You’re allowed to have moments of doubt, but don’t let them make you forget how incredibly talented you are.” He pulls you close, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “Besides, anyone who can put up with me is automatically a superhero in my book.”

His lightheartedness draws a laugh from you, and you feel a weight lift from your shoulders. His faith in you is unwavering, and bit by bit, you find yourself starting to believe in it, too.

After that, opening up becomes a little easier. When you’re feeling overwhelmed, instead of bottling it up, you find yourself seeking him out, talking things through rather than sitting in silence. You start leaving little notes for him around the house—sticky notes on his desk, text messages while he’s working, small reminders of the way you feel, of your gratitude and love.

One evening, after an especially stressful day, you come home and immediately collapse onto the couch, letting out a long sigh. Tony’s head pops around the corner a moment later, a curious grin on his face.

“Rough day?” he asks, coming over to sit beside you, his hand immediately finding yours.

You nod, squeezing his hand. “One of those days where nothing went right,” you admit, sinking into the couch with a groan. Normally, you’d put on a brave face, act as though it didn’t bother you, but tonight, you feel safe enough to let him see the truth.

He chuckles softly, pulling you into his side. “Well, lucky for you, I have the perfect solution,” he announces, his voice filled with that familiar mischief.

Before you can ask what he means, he’s standing up, tugging you along with him into the kitchen. He moves around with practiced ease, grabbing ingredients from the fridge and pantry as he explains his plan.

“We’re making pizza from scratch,” he declares, rolling up his sleeves. “Trust me, nothing takes the edge off a bad day like smashing some dough around. Plus, I happen to know a certain someone who loves pizza.”

You laugh, feeling a flicker of excitement push back against the fatigue. Together, you roll out the dough, sprinkle on toppings, and laugh as flour ends up on both of your faces. It’s messy, fun, and by the time the pizza is in the oven, you realize you’ve completely forgotten about your bad day.

As the pizza bakes, you sit at the kitchen island, resting your head on your hand, watching him with a soft smile. The gratitude you feel in this moment is almost overwhelming, and for once, you don’t hold back.

“Thank you, Tony,” you say softly, reaching out to take his hand. “For… for all of this. For always being there.”

He looks at you, his expression shifting from playful to sincere in an instant. “Always,” he promises, giving your hand a squeeze. “And, hey, thanks for letting me be there. I love that you’re opening up to me more. It means a lot.”

You smile, feeling a warmth spread through you at his words. It’s a reminder that this is a two-way street, that your openness matters to him as much as his support does to you.

The more time passes, the more natural it becomes. You talk about everything now—your fears, your hopes, your triumphs, and your failures. The walls you’d once held up so carefully have crumbled, replaced by a new sense of trust and security that you never thought possible.

One night, you find yourself lying in bed beside him, staring up at the ceiling in the soft glow of the bedside lamp. He’s already half-asleep, his breathing slow and even, but you reach over, slipping your hand into his and giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Hey, Tony?” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

He stirs, squeezing your hand in return. “Yeah?”

There’s a long pause as you gather your thoughts, trying to find the words to express the depth of your gratitude. “I just… I just wanted to say thank you. For everything. For… helping me feel safe enough to be myself with you.”

He turns toward you, his eyes soft and filled with a tenderness that takes your breath away. “You don’t ever have to thank me for that,” he says, his voice gentle. “I love you for exactly who you are. And I’m just glad you’re letting me in.”

He presses a soft kiss to your forehead, wrapping his arm around you and pulling you close. In his embrace, you feel a profound sense of belonging, a feeling of being loved and accepted completely, and for the first time in a long time, you allow yourself to believe it fully.

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[fattummyt]

Bruce Banner & Tony Stark/Female Patient Reader - "Do You Concur?" 🌶️

Summary: The reader pays a visit to her primary OBGYN, Dr. Banner, to discuss some pain she's experiencing during orgasm and the results of her exam are surprisingly pleasing.

Tags: Doctor AU!, Obstetrician Gynecologist, Medical Kink, Professionals, Gifted Hands, POV First Person, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Self-Insert, Humor, Vaginal Fingering

Warnings: explicit, dubious consent, brief fat joke, mention of weight loss

Author's Notes: This fanfiction describes events where clear consent is not established, so to be safe, I have tagged it at dubious consent. L/N = Last name. Revisiting this reminded me I wrote a second chapter that I never posted! I'll have to circle back on that.

Read it on AO3 here!

You flinched, unable to control your labored breath now as you whimpered. "D-doctor I'm starting to—" “—I apologize, it'll be just a bit longer. I believe I may have felt something."

This thin paper gown left you feeling a bit cold and overexposed for your liking.

You heard what sounded like people talking outside your room followed by a short knock, and somebody stepped in.

"Are you well?" His voice brought a tightness to your chest.

"Yes, Dr. Banner."

He pulled open the privacy curtain and the strong scent of either his cologne, aftershave, hair gel, or a fragrant blend of all three wafted across your face.

He smiled gently, his pearly whites threatening the vibrance of that of his lab coat.

"How are you feeling today?"

"Fine." You replied, a bit too briskly.

"Oh, just fine? Well, maybe I can do something about that."

I hope you can do a couple things with those gifted hands.

He took a seat in a rolling stool beside a computer desk and promptly began typing into a file that appeared to be about you.

"So I understand you've been experiencing some pain in your pelvis?"

"Yes, Dr. Banner."

"Can you describe this pain?"

"Well, it's sorta like a sharp poking feeling at the opening of my vagina. It's less pain and more of a discomfort."

"Hmm, okay, so this discomfort you're experiencing, is this something you experience consistently, is it only when you sit?"

"Um..." You paused, dropping your shoulders as you examined the floor.

"I only feel it after I uh—reaching orgasm."

His fervent typing paused, which alarmed you, however his eyes never left the screen.

"Are you currently sexually active?"

You squirmed, "Um, what do you mean by sexually active?"

He crossed his knees and scooted closer to you, his undivided attention so powerful, it made your stomach ache.

"By sexually active, I mean, have you, in the past 4 weeks, participated in any sexual activities that may include clitoral stimulation or vaginal insertion?"

"Oh, yes."

"Thank you." He nodded quietly, and scooted back to begin typing at his computer again.

"Please, excuse me, I'm just taking down some notes. I'll only be a moment, then we can continue moving forward with your exam."

Your heart's upper chamber must've heard that because it skipped an entire beat.

An exam? I didn't think I'd need an exam. I thought I'd just stick a swab up my concha and go.

His clipboard rested comfortably in his lap as he turned and approached you again, this time, his posturing a bit more intimate.

"Would you mind if I did a brief examination? This would involve a visual exam of your vulva, clitoris, and labia, and an internal exam where I'd insert my fingers into your vagina and check for any abnormalities."

You hadn't even been fully listening. You'd gotten lost tracing the grey streaks that decorated his hairline and panicked a bit.

Also, Dr. Banner does this thing where he uses his hands a lot when he speaks, and unknowingly has been 👉👌-ing this entire time.

"Abnor...malities?"

"Yes, so any unexpected lumps, foreign objects, things of that nature."

You fiddled with your gown for a moment, a bit unsure.

"I can assure you, I've done exams like this a countless number of times and you're in good health, you haven't had any children, and you seem fairly responsible, so I can't foresee running into any issues."

He smiled, and for the betterment of your vagina, you decided to say yes.

"Great. A nurse will be back in to escort you to your exam room where you'll be instructed to sit back with your legs in stirrups. Are you comfortable with that?"

"Yes, Dr. Banner."

The next room you were escorted to was much smaller and a lot more intimate. The lights were dim and your stirrups were cold, but the room felt air tight and warm.

You couldn't hear anyone from inside so when Dr. Banner knocked, you were a bit startled before answering.

"Come in."

He still had that gentle smile on his face as he entered.

"Thanks for being patient. Give me a second to get prepped and we can begin."

You nodded, trying to slow your heartbeat as you heard the sink run shortly before the snap of his latex gloves.

He took a seat in front of you, a clear unlabeled bottle in hand.

"Alright, first I'll begin with the external exam. Please let me know if you experience any discomfort."

You nodded, your cheeks, ears, and face growing 20% warmer.

The sight of Dr. Banner between your open legs was simply too much for you to handle. You took to laying back against the reclined chair and looking away.

"Feeling okay? I'm just going to adjust these stirrups a bit. Let me know if you experience any discomfort." He asked, hidden behind your gown.

"Yes, Dr. Banner."

Your legs were promptly stretched wide, just enough that you could feel a cool breeze on your spread labia.

He took a seat in front of you and began to fill the silence with small talk.

"So, how were the holidays?"

"Um, pretty good, I got a pillow from my great aunt."

"Hey, that's pretty practical. You know what I got? All my coworkers chipped in and got me a home gym set."

"Wow. That's super generous."

"I know huh? I love it so much, but you know, I wonder if maybe they just secretly wanted me to lose a few pounds."

Not fond of fat jokes, you gave your most sarcastic, robotic laugh and he chuckled.

His warm breath tickled your thighs and you couldn't help it, the image of Dr. Banner's mouth so close to your pussy made you feel—

Your clit throbbed.

You felt it.

It definitely throbbed.

Fuck me. Maybe he wasn't watching?

All of these ideas ran through your head before he cleared his throat, shocking you back into reality.

He stood up and somehow seeing him once again rekindled the inferno of blood rushing in your face.

"Alright. Everything looks great. Now all that's left is the internal exam. Is there anything you need from me?"

Please choke me until I fall unconscious.

"No. Thank you Dr. Banner."

"Great, then let's jump right into it. I'm going to be applying some water based lube to your vagina, it may be a bit cold, but it'll warm up shortly after contact."

He looked down and you heard what sounded like a bottle cap opening, followed by the squirt of a healthy dose of lubricant.

"I'm going to apply it to your vagina now."

As his fingers made contact you were alarmed by the sudden sliminess of the lube as well as the warmth of his fingers bleeding through his gloves.

You bit your lips, staring up at the ceiling, trying desperately to avoid eye contact.

"Ok. I'm going to insert my finger now. Let me know if you experience any discomfort."

You nodded, gripping the edges of your seat, concentrating on regulating your breath as his wet, thick finger slowly slipped in.

You abandoned your prior plans and held your breath as you felt his knuckle brush against you and his finger begin to explore inside your hole.

He glanced down at you for a moment and his mere gaze made your skin tingle.

"Are you experiencing any discomfort?"

You shook your head, fervently.

"Good. Do any of the movements I'm making with my fingers replicate the discomfort you mentioned before?"

His finger dipped in as deep as possible, hooking up and pressing right against your G-spot.

You finally exhaled as your skin began to buzz with a familiar warmness of your impending orgasm.

"N-no." You moaned, breathily.

"Hmm." He muttered, he shifted his hand and now his knuckle brushed against your clit as he stirred inside you.

You flinched, unable to control your labored breath now as you whimpered.

"D-doctor I'm starting to—"

“—I apologize, it'll be just a bit longer. I believe I may have felt something."

Every time his glove grazed your clit you throbbed uncontrollably, your walls beginning to constrict around him.

He slowly pulled his finger out, having mercy on you, before you heard the cap of the bottle pop open and shut.

"I need to apply more lube. It should only take a second. Please mind the coldness."

This time his two fingers slid into you with a wet, sticky squelch, his thumb smearing your clit with lube.

You whined unbridled, your nails piercing the cushion seat as your hips snapped.

"Please, try to remain composed for the duration of the exam, Miss L/N. It'll be over very shortly."

"Mmm-s-sorry Doctor."

His two fingers ground against your G-spot, his thumb rubbing tiny, incidental circles on your clit.

"Miss L/N, you're grinding into my hand."

You panted, your feet trembling in your stirrups.

"I'm— D-doctor B-anner." You pleaded, holding his gentle, searing gaze before you threw your head back, the dim lights of the ceiling blinding you as you came.

Dr. Banner waited patiently as your walls thrashed around his fingers before slowly relaxing.

You gazed dazedly at the dim fluorescent lights, before your eyes came to focus on Dr. Banner who had removed his gloves and now stood beside you.

"Did you feel any pain at all during this exam?"

"No, Dr. Banner." Your voice a bashful whisper.

"Did you experience any discomfort as you achieved orgasm?"

"No, Dr. Banner."

"How do you feel as of now?"

You blinked, a sarcastic tone in your voice. "Empty."

He showed a restrained smile, chuckling a bit as he adjusted his glasses.

There was a quick, jaunty knock at the door and in stepped a man in scrubs, a procedure mask, and a surgeon's cap on.

"Hello, hello, hello." He sang, giving you a short wave, before scribbling on his clipboard.

As if Dr. Banner knew this man, for the first time, he broke into informalities.

"What's with the get up?"

The man paused, cocking his head at Dr. Banner, before ultimately choosing not to respond to his comment.

"Bruce. Have you given your lovely patient a proper diagnosis?"

Dr. Banner came around to stand at the end of your chair, the other man joined him before speaking.

"Unfortunately I wasn't able to determine the source of your discomfort, Miss L/N, so I decided to ask a colleague for a second opinion. I believe you may have heard of him? His name is Dr. Stark. He runs this practice."

"Greetings, Miss L/N. I presume your exam went well?" He glanced knowingly at Dr. Banner before his crows feet scrunched up into his smile.

You nodded before Dr. Stark turned toward Dr. Banner.

"Dr. Banner, I suggest that we do some further examinations to ensure that your patient is no longer experiencing any pain or discomfort during orgasm. I recommend 30 minutes of heavy oral stimulus. Do you concur, Doctor?"

Dr. Banner faced toward you and for the first time, his demeanor shifted from one of utmost professionalism to one of lascivious mischief.

"Yes, I concur."

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[uncpanda]

Broken

AN: I’ve been on a kick lately of Peter being Tony’s biological son. This came from that. 

Pairing: Tony Stark X Fem Reader

You watch the sky over the top of your book. You gave up on actually reading hours ago, but you kept up the pretense for the sake of normalcy. You glance over at your son. Peter’s leg is bouncing, and his science homework has been abandoned. You can’t bring yourself to chastise him for it. In fact, it inspires you to toss your book to the side. 

Peter glances at it, “Do you think . . .” 

You smile at him, “He’ll be fine. He’s survived worse.” 

“Yeah, dad’s survived terrorists, aliens, and Norse gods, but this was a friend.” 

You stand up, and go to your son. He’s almost taller than you now, but not quite. He burrows into the hug. Peter had been back from Germany for less than two hours, and the bruises he had acquired during his first Avengers foray as Spiderman were already healed. You praised God for his healing abilities. 

You also know he’s feeling guilty because Tony wouldn’t take him along to confront Cap and Bucky. 

That’s when you spot the tiny light over his shoulder. You turn him gently to watch as Tony flies towards the tower. You both go out to greet him. You take in a sharp breath when you see his face. It’s bruised and bloody. That’s all Peter needs to see before he rushes to his dad. You watch as Tony hugs him close and kisses the top of his head. 

They walk towards you together, with Tony slightly leaning on your sixteen year old son. You hug him gently and Tony clings to you. You look at Peter, “Do me a favor, go get Helen Cho. I want her to take a look at your dad.” 

Peter is gone a second later, and Tony’s grip tightens on you. The first sob wracks his body. The second one brings you both to the ground as you continue to hold him. After a few seconds he says, “He killed my mom.” Your heart breaks, and you hug your husband even tighter. 

[msmk11]

Never Ever

Tony Stark x fem!reader

WC: 1.3k

CW: Fluff; mentions of lunch?; Tony Stark being a gentleman 😅

Summary: Your new boss never ever does one-on-ones

Day 28 of mk’s mad dash

You’re finally starting to feel your first-day-nerves settle, and it’s a relief. After getting some one-on-one time this morning with Natasha, your boss’ previous assistant, the job doesn’t seem all that bad.

Though first-day nerves are normal, you suppose they’ve been exacerbated by the fact that you would be working for Avenger and billionaire Tony Stark. Natasha has assured you that despite his powers and influence, he’s really all bark and no bite, and that you’ll have no problem “handling him.”

Still, it’s hard to know if you 100% believe her, seeing as you’ve yet to actually meet your boss.

Regardless, Natasha has just left you to go to some Avengers meeting, so you feel relieved to know that you probably have a solid hour before you finally, hopefully (or not hopefully) meet Mr. Stark.

You decide that your first order of business is to decorate your desk with a few keepsakes from home and pictures of your friends and family.

Right in between your two monitors you set your little rubber ducks- one pink and one yellow. You neatly set out your dark blue coffee mug in the right corner and a picture frame of your cat in the other.

The last things to go up are your pictures. With a handful of thumb tacks, you stick them on the cork board walls surrounding your desk. A couple of the pictures you put up are you with your family- all of you bearing happy smiles on vacation or a holiday. Others are with your friends- your roommates from college, your old high school coworker, and your childhood best friend, Thomas.

“Is that your boyfriend?”

As you adjust the picture of you and Thomas you smirk. It’s a question you’ve both gotten many times, and the answer is always “No. that’s my best friend Tho-“

You look up from the picture and stop mid-sentence, eyes widening as you realize that you’re talking so very casually to none other than your boss.

“Oh! Uhm, Mr. Stark! Hi!” You stutter, introducing yourself, “I’m your new assistant.”

You cringe, “though I’m sure you figured that much out yourself.”

Your boss scans you seriously and then breaks out a smirk, “Please, loosen up around me- I’m just your average playboy, billionaire, superhero. And call me Tony. Mr. Stark was my father’s name.”

An exasperated chuckle escapes you and you nod, “right, okay. Sorry, Tony. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

The brunette motions for you to follow him and you oblige.

“You as well. You know, Natasha spoke very highly of you after your interview, so I’ve been very curious to meet the one who impressed the Black Widow.”

Heat creeps to your cheeks against your will, and you’re glad Tony is looking forward as he walks and not at you.

“I guess I’ll have to thank her for the glowing recommendation.”

You arrive outside what you assume is Tony’s office- given its size and grandeur.

Tony confirms your suspicions a second later. He opens the door and gestures for you to go in first.

You let out a meek thank you and scurry in, moving off to the side so he can follow. His office is impressive to say the least. It’s spacious and really, really fancy. His desk is made of the sleekest dark wood with two high-tech computers adorning its surface. Tony has the most wonderful view too- a huge window looking out onto the rooftops of New York’s most beautiful skyscrapers.

An “oh wow,” escapes your lips before you can stop it.

Your boss lets out a chuckle at your awe and nods for you to go look. You make your way over to the window and lean your hands against the windowsill.

“I already knew I loved New York. But this. I mean, wow.”

Tony joins you, standing at your side, “it is quite a view.”

The awe in his voice is obvious and you glance over at him. But he’s not looking at the city. He’s already looking at you.

“Yeah, it is,” you say, trailing off.

Your boss holds your gaze for a second before clearing his throat and looking away.

“Anyways, I just wanted to get you acquainted with where my office is and get to know you a little. I’m assuming Natasha explained all your tasks to you?”

You nod, “Yes, she did. But…sorry, I hope you don’t mind me asking, don’t you have an Avengers meeting right now?”

Tony looks down at his watch and curses, “Steve is going to kill me.”

Then he looks up at you with a smirk, “Already doing pretty damn good at your job though.”

He heads towards his office door but hesitates when he grabs the handle, “I stand by what I said, by the way. I do want to get to know you. Lunch is on me today, at noon. You can meet me out in the lobby.”

Once you nod affirmatively at him, Tony opens the door and leaves, another muttered curse reaching your ears as you follow him out.

You’ve just finished the last of your paperwork before lunch when Natasha sidles up to your desk.

“Hey hot stuff,” she teases.

You give her a weird look, “Heyyyy Natasha?”

“So, a little birdie told me that Tony’s taking you out to lunch.”

Excitement overtakes your confusion, “oh yeah! He is! I actually need to be down in the lobby in five minutes.”

Natasha smiles at you like she knows something you don’t.

“What?!”

“Is this Tony’s new assistant?” a voice adds.

It’s a man- Hawkeye, you think.

He extends his hand with a smirk, “My name’s Clint, nice to meet you.”

You shake his hand firmly, but your eyes don’t leave the redhead’s face.

“Pleasure, really. But what’s going on, Natasha?”

“Tony’s taking you to lunch,” she huffs.

“Yeah? And? It’s not a big deal.”

“It’s a huge deal,” a third voice adds.

This one, you know for sure.

Pepper Potts.

“It’s just lunch,” you sigh, exasperatedly.

“Stark doesn’t do ‘just lunch’,” Clint tells you matter-of-factly, “never ever.”

“Not when I was his assistant,” Natasha states.

“Or when I was before Natasha,” Pepper adds.

“Tony does company lunches sure, but never ever one-on-one,” Clint finishes.

Your stomach flips nervously in your stomach.

“So then why me? Why how?”

The redhead looks at you with that smirk of hers again, “who’s to know?”

She looks at her watch, “and I believe you’ll be late if you don’t leave now.”

You jump up from your chair, cursing.

“We’ll talk later.”

You try to ignore the eyes that follow you as you walk to the elevator.

For as tall as the building is, the ride down in the elevator is fast. When you emerge into the lobby, you’re relieved to find that you beat Tony downstairs.

Only by a few seconds though, it seems, because he emerges from another elevator only moments later.

He spots you instantly and gives you the smile you always see him use on the news.

When he approaches you, he brushes your arm gently, guiding the both of you to where his car is stowed away- A car that is nicer than anything you’ve ever seen, nicer even than your own home.

Like a gentleman, your boss grabs your door before you can and opens it for you. He extends his other hand to help you into the low-riding car and you willingly accept. When your palms touch, a spark shoots up your arm and you just barely withhold a shiver.

Then, the door shuts resoundly.

*****

You don’t bother reaching for your door handle, because you know you’ll only be stopped before you even get the chance.

Tony is around to the passenger side door so fast you wonder if he hopped out while the car was still rolling.

The brunette holds out his hand to help you out of the car and sparks run through your body at his touch, even after all this time.

Once he’s shut the door behind you, his hand moves from yours to wrap around your waist and rest lovingly on your hip.

“Why thank you, Mr. Stark,” you tease, “quite the gentleman.”

Tony presses a searing kiss to your lips that sends your stomach up in butterflies.

“You’re welcome, Mrs. Stark.”

[animealways]

Tony: no matter what circumstances whatever you do never bet with my kid

Avengers: ok?

Later that day

Sam: hey!

Y/n standing on a balcony: what!?

Sam: i bet 10 bucks you won't ju-

Y/n jumps down from the third floor and only gets a broken foot: now where is my money bitch

Sam: wha da fu-

Tony: damn it! Not again how the fuck am i gonna explain this shit to pepper!?

[my-status-single]

The One Where Peter Parker Has a Baby: Chapter 1

He’s four. His name is Ben. He’s with Happy. They won’t let him run to him. He’s four. His name is Ben. He’s with Happy. He can’t go to him. He’s four. His name is Ben. He’s safe with Happy. He’s safe. His name is Ben. He’s four. He’s Peter’s.

She had been pregnant. 

It had been early. 

So early that it had been months before she even realised. Half of the universe disappeared, Peter included.

And months later she had given birth to their son.

Their son.

Ben.

Fic Summary: Mostly canon compliant fic that centres around the relationship of Tony Stark's daughter and Peter Parker.

From the Author: This is a Peter Parker/Reader fic. It jumps back and forth between the "present" (after the blip is reversed) and the past (pre blip reversal). The main focus is Peter and our girl Y/N, but there will be exploration into other relationships as well. These include but are not limited to Tony/Steve Peter/Harley Harley/Harry Peter/Harley/Harry Steve/Bucky Tony/Stephen. Each chapter will have content warnings listed that are specific to the chapter just for added security, there will also be a summary of the chapter if the content is something you don't want to engage with but would like to continue to the next chapter. There will also be a comprehensive list of warnings. The severity of these topics varies from very intense to simply implied. Be sure to check the individual chapters for more detailed descriptions of how these themes are used.

Fic Content Warning: Underage sex, unplanned pregnancy, teen pregnancy, polyamoury, child abuse/neglect, parental death, suicide, self harm, Tony Stark in Endgame Chapter Word Count: 1743 Chapter Summary: This chapter sets up the premise of the story. Touches briefly on Peter and Y/N's relationship, as well as introduces us to Y/N's powers. Chapter Content Warning: Teen regnancy/unplanned pregnancy-We discover that Y/N was pregnant during the blip. Peter and Y/N are in high school at this point. Blip-The Blip is a part of this series, the way Peter was blipped is mentioned Mentions of anxiety/depression-It is implied that Y/N struggled/struggles with mental health Parental death (not Tony)-Peter has dead parents Descriptions of injuries-After the battle with Thanos many characters are injured, Tony and Y/N's are discussed Medical themes-Tony and Y/N are in a medical centre, Y/N is in a coma

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Please, if there is ever something in this or any of my fics that you feel needs a content warning, feel free to message me and I will make sure to add it. I want this to be a safe place for everyone.

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Ao3 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

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May 2023

Peter has known her for as long as he’s known anything. 

Back before his parents died, they had been prominent members of the Oscorp Foundation. They worked directly with Norman, and so Peter grew up spending a lot of his time with Harry Osborn. Occasionally, though, there would be a collaboration between Oscorp and their largest competitor, Stark Industries. With S.I. came Tony Stark, and with Tony came his daughter. 

She was about a year younger than him and Harry but she held her own just fine. She was smart as a whip and full of fire. 

He’d been in love with her for longer than he knew what love was. 

They had taken such a liking to each other that Tony made the effort to get them together as often as possible. Eventually, moving them to New York full-time after Peter’s parents died. Tony made an effort to keep up the relationship even then. He did it for his daughter; she’d become so attached to Peter. And he had done the same. 

The sun rose and set with Y/N Stark as far as he was concerned. 

The bond between them grew as they did. They became halves of the same whole. One rarely without the other. He held her when she sobbed, broken and exhausted, after spending the court-ordered time with her mother. She calmed his overloads after he was bit. They knew each other instinctually. Better than they knew themselves in some ways. 

And yet, there was never anything romantic.

Until there was.

They both knew. When they’d grown old enough to understand what love, marriage, and dating were, they knew it was inevitable. That there was no Peter without y/n. 

And that is a very daunting thing to face at such a young age. 

And they understood that there would be no going back once they crossed that line. 

They knew they would cross it eventually. 

But they had all the time in the world to cross it. And now, when they were so perfect as friends, neither wanted to risk what they had. 

And so they didn’t.

There was flirtation that couldn’t be helped. There were touches that toed the line between platonic and romantic, touches that lingered. Nights where they would fall asleep next to each other and wake up in a state where you couldn’t tell where one started and the other ended.

But it never went further.

Until it did

They were good kids, really. Good students, excelling in their studies, involving themselves in extracurriculars, making a difference in their community. They were good avengers as well. They weren’t officially on the team, certainly were never put in harms way. But Tony allowed them to patrol the city in the evenings, and to train with the team at the compound on the weekends. They excelled there too.

But everyone has times when they just need a break.

It happened the first time during one of those breaks

.

They had finished midterms, Natasha had been kicking their asses in training for the last month, they were tired.

And so they snuck into the hangar and hacked one of the jets. Because she could override her father’s protocols without even blinking. Spain. She had wanted to go to Spain. He’d remembered her talking about it, so he puts in the coordinates and settles in for the ride.

They’ve shared a room, a bed, countless times at this point and yet somehow this is different. Somehow this leads to their mouths on each other and their virginities lost to each other.

Things change after that.

It takes a while for them to get over it. To admit “I want you” and “I always have” and “I don’t want to wait anymore”. But once they do, once they allow those walls to be broken down they are inseparable.

The funniest thing about the whole ridiculous situation is their behaviour barely changes. 

They simply kiss now. Because they already spent nights in the others bed, they already were always touching the other somehow, they already could read the others mind and anticipate their needs. So at school, no one noticed they were dating until Peter gave her a quick kiss before running off to some sort of internship activity.

Its been years now. They are perfect. Ideal. He loves her with everything in him. 

And that’s why, when the invasion starts, he webs her to the bed so she can’t follow after him as he goes toward the battle. 

Why he goes to the battle despite her screams, her begging, her pleading. Why his last words as he disintegrates in Tony’s arms, after pleading whispers of “I don’t want to go” are “I don’t want to leave her.”

He spends five years living a life with no memory of his previous one. No memory of her, of Tony, of Spiderman. 

When the dust finally settles after that final battle, he’s the one screaming, begging pleading. Because his girl, his brilliant, beautiful, reckless girl, simply refused to let her father die. 

She’s always had them. The powers, the enhancements, that were so graciously forced upon her by her mother. 

She hated them, hated why she ended up with them. But they gave her the ability to save Tony’s life, despite it being at nearly at the cost of her own.

He’s held back, not sure by whom. He hears Steve yell for assistance to get them both off the battle field and to get them immediate medical assistance.

Her powers are…complicated. 

Her ability to heal is incredible. Whether it be herself or others. But it comes at a cost. 

Healing takes energy. She’s able to choose, when healing injuries, whether to use the injured person’s energy or her own. The severity of the wound would usually influence her decision. 

She was comfortable using someone else’s energy for smaller things, scrapes, bruises, most of Peter’s injuries because of his own accelerated healing. But bigger things…she would use her own “Because I heal better” she would say. 

Like after he’d taken the weight of a building their sophomore year, she’d used her own energy to heal that. He watched the colour drain from her face, watched slashes and bruises come and go across her skin, watched her exhaust herself right in front of him as the pain eased from his body.

After a fight like this neither had the energy to heal something as severe as this. But she did it anyway.

She does heal better. Quicker, more efficiently. It’s hard to leave any kind of mark on her because her body just rids itself of it.

So she lay in a hospital bed, half dead, as her body begins to repair what should be fatal.

Tony was exhausted, on the brink of death, he’d had nothing left to use up. She herself had been spent. So she took, and she gave. She gave what little energy she had left to Tony and took as much pain and damage from him as she could. Took as much as she could until her body gave out.

Tony woke later that night. Exhausted. Badly scarred. Weaker than Peter had ever seen him. 

But alive.

Peter is sitting at her bedside now, holding her hand in his. Needing to feel that it’s warm, needing physical proof that she’s alive. He’s fading in and out of consciousness. Fighting sleep because he can’t risk something happening while he’s asleep. It would be a restless, nightmare filled sleep anyway.

“Tony, we shouldn’t be arguing about this; you’re exhausted; you need to rest. We can talk about this la-“ He can hear Steve’s voice in the next room.

“We’re talking about this now.” Tony responds. 

Peter, even with his heightened senses, can barely hear him. He tries to tune them out, focusing instead on her heartbeat. A comforting, familiar sound that lulls him into a sense of security. 

But the next words he hears make his blood run cold, and his head snap up.

“He’s my grandson. He’s likely scared. He can’t have his mother, so let me see him.” Tony sounds angry despite his severely weakened state.

“Tony…” Steve says gently. “Look at yourself. You’ll only scare him more. He’s my grandson too. Let me look after him.”

Peter takes a moment. 

Grandson. 

Tony has no biological children other than y/n. There is Harley…a boy Peter’s age that Tony had taken in when they were thirteen. They’d been fast friends. And…maybe Harley could have had a child in the five years Peter had been gone…except he’d been in the same place as Harley for the last five years, and there was no child. 

So…so that must mean that y/n had…that she’d had a child. 

Sometime in the last five years she’d moved on…gotten pregnant…had a baby? He shakes his head, his chest aches. His feet move before he’s fully aware of it. He walks into Tony’s room. He stands there silently, until Steve notices him.

“Peter.” He whispers, a sigh in his voice.

Peter laughs weakly, tears on his cheeks that have no right to be there. It had been five years, he had no right to have expected her to wait five years. “I um…” He clears his throat, sniffing. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop…it’s just so quiet here.” He says quietly.

“Kid ther-“ Tony starts but Peter holds up a hand.

“Don’t…don’t. It’s okay. You don’t need to defend…just…if there’s a way I can help? I could call his father, if someone hasn’t already or…or go pick up anything that he might need…or…or I can fuck off if you think that would be bett-“

“Peter.” Tony says as firmly as he’s capable of. Peter looks up. “Come sit. We need to talk.” He says, gentler now.

He’s four. His name is Ben. He’s with Happy. They won’t let him run to him. He’s four. His name is Ben. He’s with Happy. He can’t go to him. He’s four. His name is Ben. He’s safe with Happy. He’s safe. His name is Ben. He’s four. He’s Peter’s.

She had been pregnant. 

It had been early. 

So early that it had been months before she even realised. Half of the universe disappeared, Peter included.

And months later she had given birth to their son.

Their son.

Ben.

[cece693]

Affectionate

pairing: bucky barnes x male reader tags: bucky being treated like a normal being, male reader is very affectionate, kinda like tony, flirting like lil puppies

“Barnes, my sweet metal-armed dumpling, you’ve got bedhead.”

You say it with a chuckle as you effortlessly drape an arm around Bucky’s broad shoulders, and for a moment, the entire room goes silent. Natasha’s trained eyes narrow from across the conference table, ready to spring into action. Tony’s eyebrows shoot up behind his tinted glasses, and Steve actually tenses, fists tightening like he’s expecting Bucky to toss you across the room at any second. All around, the team braces themselves, anticipating a meltdown—a flashback—anything resembling the Winter Soldier they still fear might be lingering inside the man you have so casually slung your arm over.

In the resulting quiet, Bucky’s expression flickers, and for a heartbeat, you wonder if the Avengers might be right. His jaw flexes, and his fingers curl slightly before unclenching.

Then he lets out a small huff of a laugh, the corners of his lips lifting, and you feel his posture relax against your side. “Seriously, you’re making a scene,” he murmurs, quieter than usual. But there’s absolutely no bite behind his voice, no threat—just the husky edge that always manages to send a pleasant shiver through you. “Knock it off,” he adds, though there’s a ghost of a smile there.

Knock it off? Absolutely not. The man is gorgeous—dark hair still damp from a shower, the mechanical arm catching the overhead lights, his face etched with haunted lines that only make him look even more rugged and unfairly attractive. How can you possibly resist? You’re only human (albeit an Avenger-human with a penchant for tackling alien invasions and Hydra remnants). But still, you have eyes.

You just grin, giving his shoulder a quick squeeze before loosening your hold. “Aww, Barnes, you know you’d miss it if I did.”

Bucky grumbles something in reply, but there’s a lightness there, an ease he didn’t carry before. The rest of the team, however, remains on full alert—like big cats itching to pounce. Steve in particular looks about two seconds away from physically peeling you off of Bucky. Even Clint, who was half-dozing in the corner, sits up, eyes keen.

“Cap,” Clint warns softly, nodding toward where your hand is still lingering near Bucky’s nape, fingertips idly tracing the spot where flesh meets vibranium plating.

Steve clears his throat. “Everything okay there, Buck?”

Everyone seems to hold their breath again, and you can practically see the tension in the air. Poor Bruce is looking uncertain, Wanda is biting her lip, and Sam’s eyebrows are drawn together in concern. They’re so worried that Bucky’s going to have an episode, or get triggered, or that he’s going to accidentally crush your bones with that metal fist if you keep…well, doing what you’re doing.

And if this were two years ago, maybe they’d be right. If this were weeks after his deprogramming, back when he couldn’t even look into a mirror without disassociating, Bucky might’ve pushed you across the room with lethal force. Or at the very least, wrenched free of your hold, stiff and wary. But they don’t see the subtle signs that you do: the tension in Bucky’s shoulders is not the tension of danger, but of mild embarrassment. He looks shy, maybe even flustered. He’s definitely not displeased. And if anything, you know he’s grateful you treat him like a normal person, not a ticking time bomb with horrifying memories.

He shrugs off Steve’s concern with a tight-lipped smirk. “I’m fine,” he says. “I’m not made of glass.”

Or vibranium, you add silently with another playful grin. You resist the urge to poke at his arm, but your fingers twitch at the thought. Next time, you promise yourself.

Tony slides a diagnostic tablet across the table as if presenting evidence. “Look, I’m all for affection, but maybe, for the sake of our dear ex-Hydra assassin’s comfort, we keep it PG-13 in the debrief?” He’s half-joking, half-serious, eyebrows shooting up when you lean closer to Bucky again.

You tilt your head at Tony. “I’m not exactly straddling him on the table, Tony. Chill.”

“Just you watch,” Sam mutters under his breath, arms folded across his chest, likely recalling a previous incident in which your casual affection got a bit…handsy. Hey, you can’t help it, Bucky’s arms are a national treasure.

From beside you, Bucky sighs. “Seriously, guys, it’s okay. This—” he flicks his eyes at the point where your forearm slides across his back “—it’s nice.” He lowers his gaze, almost bashful, but admits quietly, “Makes me feel like…y’know. Like I’m—”

“A normal dude, living a normal life,” you finish for him, your voice softer. It’s what both of you want, though neither of you outright says so in crowded company.

“Alright,” Tony relents with a theatrical sigh. “I mean, if Barnes is okay with it, I guess we can let it go.”

“Seriously, Tony,” you huff, “I’m not some savage about to devour the man.”

Bucky sends you a cheeky side glance. “Could’ve fooled me,” he grumbles, but his lips twist into an amused smirk.

“Watch it, metal dumpling,” you shoot back fondly, the new (and very ridiculous) nickname making Tony gag in mock horror.

There’s a collective groan and roll of eyes from the team, but underneath that, there’s this subtle wave of contentment. You can feel it in the air—everyone’s settling into this new normal. Sure, Bucky carries a lot of ghosts and trauma, but right now, with your arm around him, he just feels alive. Connected. Like the piece of him that’s still James Barnes is being coaxed to the surface.

And you? Well, you’re just happy to be the one to coax it out of him. Bucky might be Hydra’s ex-assassin, but you can’t help it—he’s also hot as hell, and you’re pretty sure your vision works just fine, thank you very much.

“Alright,” Steve says, clearing his throat again, a slight pink tinge on his cheeks from secondhand embarrassment. “So…mission debrief?”

“Mission debrief,” you echo. Without missing a beat, you re-sling your arm across Bucky’s shoulders, ignoring the universal eye-roll from the rest of the team. Bucky doesn’t shove you away. He doesn’t tense. He just gives your knee a quick pat under the table, and for a single, quiet second in that big conference room, you can swear you feel a little more at home.

And yeah—maybe you’ll have to tone it down for the sake of collective sanity. But then again, the look in Bucky’s eyes says he needs this just as much as you do.

So if anyone’s got a problem with it, well…they can take it up with the ex-Winter Soldier himself—and hope they can handle the glare he’ll give them for standing in the way of his self-proclaimed “annoying but sweet” Avenger.

[loversrocktvgirl2]

my mini multiverse of madness…

That’s My Girl (Steve Rodgers x Reader Drabble) 

The Avengers were playing around at Tony’s party, each of them trying to pick up Thor’s hammer. The competition had begun when Clint had questioned the integrity of the whole “you can only lift the hammer if you are worthy” thing, and Thor challenged him to try to lift it up himself. After his failure, he invited Tony to try. Tony gave his best attempt before grabbing his Iron Man hand. Soon, he’d recruited Rhodey with his War Machine hand, and the two of them pulled on the handle and still failed to pick up the hammer. Bruce was invited to try, and he got so frustrated that he forced himself to stop. 

Steve rolled up his sleeves and wrapped his hands around the handle, then pulled with all of his might. But even he couldn’t pick it up. 

You felt tired, and so you weren’t participating, about to head upstairs to go to bed. You walked by to say goodnight, though. “Hey, y’all, I’m going to bed, but I’ll see you tomorrow,” you said with a soft smile as you walked by them. Your leg hit the hammer and knocked it down. You bent over, picked it up easily, and handed it back to Thor. “Sorry about that,” you said casually, then walked away upstairs, letting out a small yawn of exhaustion.

The Avengers stared at you, shocked. Steve just grinned. “That’s my girl!”

[pancaketax]

What Remains | Chapter 1 A Ghost Among the Living (Tony Stark x M! Reader)

Summary : The morning unfolds in quiet solitude, the apartment filled with stale air and remnants of your roommate’s late-night mess. At university, the day drags on, lectures feeling distant, classmates engaged in conversations that barely include you. A new animation project is assigned, but motivation is scarce. Eliott’s usual teasing barely registers, while Peter, as always, tries to pull you back into reality. He brings up a Stark-hosted event, sensing you need something to break the cycle. Meanwhile, home is no refuge—tension with Matthew lingers after an unspoken mistake changed everything. As night falls, the walk back feels heavier, each step pulling you toward a place that no longer feels like yours. Post aswell on AO3

word count: 6.9k

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The low hum of the alarm breaks the silence of the room—barely audible, yet enough to disturb the frozen stillness of dawn. It doesn’t truly ring, it vibrates — a discreet, rhythmic, almost organic pulse that makes the nightstand tremble faintly. A bluish glow escapes from its digital screen, casting the shadow of the furniture across the cracked wall. The numbers press themselves into the darkness: 5:42. Too early to live, too late to keep dreaming. But you stopped sleeping at normal hours a long time ago. Habit, or maybe necessity, drives you to rise before the first rays of morning kiss the gray sidewalks of the city.

You lie there for a moment, still, on your back, eyes open, staring at the fissured ceiling as if it might offer you an answer you’ve never known how to ask. Your body is numb, but your mind is already elsewhere, floating in that semi-conscious haze that precedes the gestures of the day. With a slow, almost deliberate motion, you slide the coarse blanket to the side. The cool air bites at your bare skin for a second, drawing a shiver. Your feet search for the floor, settle on the worn-out wood that creaks under your weight. Your hand disappears into your tousled hair, tracing an uncertain path through the knots formed by the night. Your fingers linger for a moment at your temple, as if trying to massage a thought struggling to be born. Then, without a word, without a sound, you get up. Your steps are soft, nearly silent—like an intruder in your own home. The apartment is steeped in warm darkness, disturbed only by the cold reflections of the streetlamp filtering through half-closed blinds.

As you walk down the narrow hallway, a muffled snore reaches you from the living room. You pause on the threshold. Your roommate is slumped on the couch, a blanket lazily thrown over one shoulder. His mouth is slightly open, his breathing uneven. A pale light blinks softly on his face from the TV screen, left on standby. He looks peaceful, almost detached from the very idea of discomfort. You watch him for a second, without animosity, without affection either—just that neutral, distant gaze you now reserve for everything that no longer truly concerns you.

You turn away, slowly making your way to the cramped kitchen. It greets you with its familiar coldness—worn-out surfaces, cracked tiles, cupboard handles hanging loose. You reach for the coffee machine, already prepared the night before, and press the button. A soft click followed by the low rumble of heating water fills the space. The sound, almost comforting, breaks the heavy silence of the apartment. For a few seconds, you stand still, arms crossed, watching the black liquid drip slowly into the carafe. The strong, bitter scent of coffee begins to fill the air, seeping into your nostrils, triggering a sensory memory you don’t try to name.

You open the fridge, its door groaning with a tired sigh. A harsh light spills out, brutally illuminating the remnants of a night you weren’t part of: empty beer cans stacked on the bottom shelf, a torn-open bag of chips, crumbs scattered everywhere, an overflowing ashtray resting directly on the glass, filled with a bizarre mix of cigarette butts and pen caps. A cold, acrid smell hits your nose. You close the door with your foot, irritated but not angry. It’s nothing new. And it won’t be cleaned either. You grab a mug—the same one as always, chipped, with the image of a black cat—and pour the hot coffee into it. The feel of the ceramic against your palm is oddly comforting, almost familiar. You sit on one of the two rickety chairs pulled up to the small table, set against the wall to save space. The room is quiet again, pierced only by the distant hush of a city waking up.

Through the slightly open window, the sounds of the outside world timidly seep in. A lone car horn in the distance, followed by indistinct shouting. You hear hurried footsteps, maybe a jogger, maybe someone rushing to work. The street is still pale, the air probably damp, thick with the fatigue of sleepless nights and the lukewarm promise of an ordinary day. You sit there, listening, watching, letting your thoughts unravel slowly into the diffuse silence.

Here, in this narrow apartment, you are just a blurred outline in a frozen frame. A silhouette among shadows. Background noise in someone else’s routine. You inhabit the walls without leaving a mark; you drift through days like a forgotten dream. You are invisible—even to yourself.

And at university, it’s not much better — just another shadow in the hallways, a figure that doesn’t make waves, a name nobody remembers. You’re alive, but without presence. You exist, but without grounding.

You raise the mug to your lips. The coffee is bitter. It burns your tongue, but you don’t flinch. You cling to the sensation, as proof that you’re still here. You sit there for a long moment, staring into your mug, as if the dark liquid might show you a direction to follow. The acrid smell slowly fades into the still air of the kitchen, replaced by a dull fatigue that nothing seems able to lift. Then, with a methodical gesture, you get up. Your movements are precise, almost devoid of intent—they follow a mechanical routine, as if your body, out of habit, knows what to do without your permission.

You walk to the small table against the wall, where your bag waits—slumped, the fabric tired from too many aimless commutes. You open it in silence, sliding in your sketchbook, its cover bent from too much handling, and your laptop—heavy and warm—handled with care. You check automatically for your charger, a pen, your tangled earbuds. Each object finds its place, like in an emotionless ritual. You head to the coat rack near the door and grab your jacket—the one you wear nearly every day, its elbows worn thin, marked by time and neglect. Before leaving, your eyes drift toward the living room, stopping on the inert silhouette of your roommate. He’s still there, slumped in an awkward position, mouth half-open, uneven breath escaping his dry lips. The blanket has slipped off his shoulder, pooling halfway on the floor like it gave up.

You feel nothing. No tenderness, no irritation. Just that quiet, worn-out indifference that settled between you from the very first day. Two people coexisting out of necessity, like silent passengers on a never-ending ride. You look away, gently close the door behind you. The dry click echoes briefly in the hallway, then silence takes back its reign.

Outside, the air is sharp, biting against your skin. A morning chill that seeps through your jacket and draws an involuntary shiver. You inhale deeply. The damp smell of asphalt, of trash still piled in the street corners, and the more distant scent of warm bread mingle in a strange urban harmony. A new day begins, identical to the last, identical to the one before. One more day where you’ll move among others unnoticed, leaving no trace. You walk down the stairs, your worn-out shoes hitting the concrete with regularity. Each step a note in the monotone symphony of your daily life. The walk to university is short. You know it by heart, but you don’t even look anymore. The same shop windows with the same displays, the same tired faces, the same impatient horns at the same intersections.

As you get closer, the street grows livelier. Students pour in from every direction, carrying the same bags, earbuds in, eyes ringed from short nights. They cross paths, sometimes greet each other in passing, laugh, yawn, call out. Their voices blend with the engines and the early birds. You walk among them, at their pace, but from a distance. You’re there, physically, but no one looks at you. Your existence slips between the cracks of theirs, like a quiet current that never disturbs the flow. You pass through the university gates, enter the main building, then the hallway leading to your classroom. The freshly cleaned floor still smells of harsh disinfectant. The walls display the same old project posters, warped slightly from humidity. You enter the amphitheater—a space with harsh lighting and a ceiling far too high, where the emptiness feels larger than the presence of the students already seated.

The room is half-empty. A few scattered groups talk in low voices, their faces glued to screens or bent over notebooks. You recognize a few figures, classmates whose names you’ve never bothered to learn. They’re part of your class, but there’s no real sense of group. Just a bunch of individuals vaguely gathered by the obligation of a shared curriculum. You pick a seat on the side, mid-height, where you can observe without being seen. You set down your bag, take out your notebook, a pencil. You wait. Around you, the conversations pick up again, mundane. Deadlines, due dates, hoping a teacher won’t show up, overpriced vending machine coffee. Colorless conversations that fill the space without feeding it. The professor eventually arrives, late as usual, walking briskly, a poorly tied scarf around his neck. He drops his bag with a sharp motion, opens his laptop, connects the projector. The screen flickers to life with a familiar hum. The image stabilizes, a title appears: Semester Project – Animated Opening on the Theme of Ecology. He clears his throat, adjusts his voice, then begins to speak.

You hear the words—visual storytelling, meaningful message, symbolic mise-en-scène. He talks about impact, emotion, creative responsibility. Some students jot notes frantically, others nod as if trying to absorb every word. A flicker of excitement rises in the room, barely perceptible, but there. Ideas are already flying. One mentions Japanese inspiration, another a vintage UPA style. Reference names pop up, techniques, color palettes. You stare at your notebook. The first page is still blank. Your pencil grazes the paper, writes a word, then another. Ideas that don’t quite stick, blurry fragments. You sketch a few abstract shapes, faceless silhouettes, lines without depth. Your mind is already drifting. The voices around you become distant, filtered through an invisible bubble. You hear without listening. You’re here, but elsewhere. Always on the edge, always apart.

Your gaze drifts beyond the lecture hall, drawn by the subtle movement of students below in the courtyard. From up here, they look like rushing shadows, their steps paced by habit, their gestures erased by the dull morning light. You watch them without really seeing, your thoughts floating elsewhere, far beyond the university walls. A harsh scrape—the sound of a chair dragged carelessly—pulls you briefly back to the surface. You blink, as if shaking off a dream, then your gaze drops back to your sketchbook. Your fingers, moved by some independent will, resume their slow, distracted dance. A few abstract lines appear on the page—without direction, without intent. They testify to your deep disinterest, that distance between you and the world.

The professor goes on with his presentation, his voice rising above the ambient murmur. The discussions multiply—some students speak without raising their hands, others comment on the projected visuals. The commotion brushes past you without touching, like a distant buzzing. Your pencil drifts again, carving out indistinct forms, like a sleepwalker tracing footsteps in snow. You’re not really there. Another day of class slips by, just like the others, your presence blending into the background. A throat clears, snapping you once more from your daze. You barely lift your eyes, just enough to spot a familiar silhouette settling beside you. Eliott. He makes himself comfortable as if he’s known you forever, elbow resting lazily on the table in perfect nonchalance. He turns his head slightly toward you, a smirk tugging at his lips, and blatantly peeks at your sketchbook.

He’s the kind of guy who stands out in a crowd like this. His sweatshirt outlines a discreet but solid build, maintained without showing off. His dark brown hair is always neatly trimmed, giving his face a near-military sharpness. But what really strikes you are his eyes—two piercing blue sparks, vivid, sharp, almost too bright to be real. When he looks at you, it’s like he sees right through you with unnerving ease.

— “So,” he says, voice laced with mockery, “did you crank out something revolutionary or still stuck in procrastination mode?”

You shrug, barely shifting your gaze. No desire to explain. You quietly turn the page of your notebook, hiding the aimless scribbles that would betray your lack of inspiration. You already know he won’t settle for silence, but you’d rather not invite commentary. He lets out a theatrical sigh, rolls his eyes like the weight of the world just landed on his shoulders, then slowly straightens to look at the professor’s screen.

— “Seriously, who thought giving us a project about ecology was a good idea? They want us to become tree-huggers or what?” His tone is loud enough to draw a few stares, but he clearly doesn’t care.

You stifle a small smile. Eliott often annoys others with his borderline provocative remarks, but you’ve learned to see through them. It’s a mask, a persona he wears religiously: the cocky guy, a bit macho, always ready with a jab to test reactions. A role he plays with almost artistic precision. He glances at you again, his blue eyes catching the pale light filtering through the blinds.

— “You got even a single idea for what you’re gonna do?” he asks, voice lower this time.

You sigh. You shake your head slowly, like even answering costs too much energy.

— “Not really. I don’t even know why I’m still here.”

He arches an eyebrow, mock-surprised.

— “Third year and still lost? Impressive.” He pats your shoulder briefly, almost affectionately, then bends over his own notebook, starting to sketch out half-formed shapes of his own, like he’s following you into the fog.

You let out a soft breath, barely audible, swallowed by the ambient murmurs. Another day pretending, faking progress while everything in you remains frozen. Around you, the project begins to take shape. Conversations become more concrete, ideas intersect, sketches multiply. The group moves forward, inexorably—even without you. You feel like you’re still standing on the platform while the train has already left, carrying with it the momentum you never managed to catch. The bell rings—sharp, metallic—signaling the break. A slight jolt ripples through the room, then everything speeds up. Students pack their stuff with the jittery eagerness of people desperate to escape for a few moments. Some laugh, chat in low voices about their projects, others are already on their feet checking their phones, planning a coffee break or a cigarette outside. You watch them without really seeing, their blurry excitement sliding off your vacant stare.

You stay where you are, arms crossed over your chest, as if that posture might hold your inner world together a bit longer. The amphitheater empties slowly, footsteps echoing off the metal steps, laughter fading. The door closes softly behind the last student. Silence falls again like a cold blanket. Only the low hum of the projector remains, still on, and the pale light bathing your abandoned notebook. You could go outside too. Feel the sun on your skin, watch the others live a simple, light moment. But what’s the point? That world feels distant, like you’re looking at it through thick glass. So you stay. You lower your gaze to your notebook, its pages half-filled with meaningless lines, unfinished sketches, fragments of ideas that died before they formed. You try to take a step back, to understand what you could possibly do with this project, with the coming months, with this degree you’re pursuing almost mechanically.

And there, facing the blankness, a quiet truth sinks in. You’re not really here. Not in this classroom, not in these studies. You’re following a motion without believing in its destination. Motion Design. Three years of learning tools, theories, techniques. Of faking motivation, pretending it all means something. But the truth is, you’re drifting—because you have to go somewhere. Because they told you it was better than nothing. Because you told yourself that maybe, with a diploma in hand, you could try something on your own. Freelance work, independence. But none of it sets your heart racing. None of it really drives you. You realize that sometimes, you envy the ones who have the spark. The ones who argue with passion, who stay after class to work on their projects, who take initiative, who talk in terms of style, narrative, rhythm—with stars in their eyes. You, you look at your screen with indifference. You open the software without conviction. You start things you never finish. And meanwhile, everyone else keeps moving forward.

And there’s that persistent feeling, always humming in the background—the sense that you were pushed aside. You weren’t always alone. You used to be different. You showed up. You went to parties. You brought drinks, food. You talked, you laughed. And then one day, it stopped. You never understood why. There wasn’t a fight, no dramatic gesture. Just the slow, quiet realization that you weren’t invited anymore. That you weren’t included. You went from being “there” to being “too much.” And since then, you’ve drifted. You go missing. You stop giving notice. You isolate yourself—not really on purpose, but not trying to stop it either.

Your mother doesn’t know any of this. She thinks you’re doing fine. That you’re serious. That you’re working hard to succeed. You never really lied to her—not exactly—you just left things out. You didn’t have the strength to disappoint her. So you keep playing your role. You get up every morning, you go to class, you come home late, you say you’re tired. And it’s true. You are tired. Just not in the way she thinks. You don’t even really have an appetite anymore. You don’t feel like cooking, even though it was one of the few things you used to enjoy doing for yourself. You can’t afford the cafeteria, or delivery. Your living situation wears you down, eats away at your energy a little more each day. You’re supposed to cook, eat properly, take care of yourself. But that takes a kind of willpower you just don’t have anymore. The idea of pulling out ingredients, chopping them, watching over a pan… it all feels distant, too complicated, too demanding for a mind already saturated. So you settle for whatever’s there. Leftovers. Cold meals. Packaged food. Anything that gets you through without requiring effort.

You could go out now. Get some air, feel something other than this lethargy clinging to you like a heavy blanket. But you’re still here, sitting. Staring at your notebook, searching for answers that won’t come. Hoping a line, a word, an idea will shatter the invisible wall between you and the person you’re supposed to be. But all you hear is silence. The door opens softly, and a warm draft slides into the empty amphitheater. You don’t move right away, still frozen in your quiet daze. A familiar figure appears in your field of vision. Peter Parker. His shoulder bag thumping against his thigh, his hoodie a bit too loose, sneakers squeaking on the smooth floor. He walks in like the place belongs to him, with that casual ease he brings everywhere. He spots you instantly, a playful smile on his lips, then approaches without a word. He sits next to you, drops his bag on the desk with an automatic gesture, then crosses his arms, watching you like he can read every thought without you saying a thing.

— “Bet you haven’t done a damn thing yet,” he says finally, his usual half-smile glued to his face.

You shrug with that slow detachment you’ve perfected when you don’t want to explain yourself.

— “I’m thinking about it.”

— “Yeah, yeah.” He rolls his eyes, but there’s no malice in it. “You always think about it right up until the night before, and yet you still manage to hand in something decent.” He tilts his head slightly, raising a brow. “But you do know that’s a crap work strategy, right?”

You smile faintly, amused by his familiar honesty.

— “So I’ve heard.”

Peter shakes his head, mock-despair in his eyes, and leans over to glance at your open notebook. He squints, analyzes the forms without commenting, then asks, voice barely louder than a whisper,

— “What’s the project about again?”

You fold your arms on the table, head lowered slightly.

— “An animated title sequence. Ecology theme.” You pause, your tone laced with the soft irony you reserve for uninspiring assignments. “Inspiring, right?”

He lifts an eyebrow, pretending to be impressed.

— “Yeah, sounds like it’ll be packed with moral messages about saving the planet and recycling. Good luck with that.”

You nod silently, lips tight.

— “Thanks for the support.”

The silence that settles next is easy, obvious. You don’t need to fill the space between you with pointless sentences. Peter doesn’t either. He just sits there, perched on the edge of his desk, hands clasped, his gaze drifting between the dark screen and your notebook still lying open. He watches you calmly, attentive but never intrusive. He knows you. He knows you shut down when pressure builds, that you prefer irony to drama, withdrawal to confrontation.

— “You got even a rough idea of what you’ll do?” he asks again, his voice softer now.

You shrug once more. The gesture has become an answer in itself.

— “Not really. I don’t even know why I’m still here.”

Peter turns his head toward you, his expression shaded with a gravity he rarely shows. He looks at you for a moment, as if weighing his words. Then he sighs—a long breath, betraying a quiet worry.

— “You’re fed up, huh?”

You don’t answer right away. You stare at an invisible spot on your notebook, a fleck in the paper, a flaw in the ink. You could say yes. You could spill everything. But you don’t feel the need to. He doesn’t push. He waits. And sometimes, that’s enough. His presence alone serves as a reminder: you’re not completely alone.

You smile—brief, tired.

— “Anyway, you know how it is. I’m just here to survive the day. We’re here for the degree, not to make friends.”

Peter says nothing. He nods slowly, a compassionate smile brushing his lips. He doesn’t pretend. He accepts your cynicism, your exhaustion, without trying to fix them. You pull out your phone—a reflex, just to fill the void. You scroll through the news with a lazy thumb, not really reading. Until one headline catches your eye. You pause, frown, then tilt the screen toward Peter.

— “You seen this?” you ask. “They want us to go to some conference on new technologies.”

He skims the article quickly, his eyes darting from line to line with curiosity.

— “It’s hosted by Tony Stark. Could be cool.”

You raise an eyebrow, half-skeptical, half-annoyed.

— “Mmh. Not really sold on it.”

Peter turns to you, a little surprised.

— “Why not? Not your thing?”

You straighten a bit, sighing.

—“First of all, it’s in the evening. And I’m working that day. Not sure it’s worth the hassle.”

He shrugs, understanding.

— “Makes sense. But still... it’s Stark, y’know.”

You don’t answer. You let the silence stretch a little, then set your phone down face-down on the table, as if that would end the conversation. You stretch slowly, arms above your head, your shoulders cracking under the tension. The break’s almost over. Already, you hear voices in the hallway, footsteps approaching. The bell rings—its metallic echo cutting through the walls of the amphitheater like a sharp reminder. Peter stands up, grabs his bag in one smooth motion, then throws you a sideways glance—half teasing, half concerned.

— “All right, back to your class of ghost-shadows,” Peter jokes with a wink. “At least try to pretend you’re motivated.”

You stay there for a second, once again alone, in the fading echo of his voice. Silence returns, slowly reclaiming the space between the empty rows of seats. Your eyes linger on the now-closed door without really seeing it. It feels like Peter just took a fragment of light with him, leaving the usual shade of your day-to-day behind. Then, little by little, the calm is replaced by a growing murmur. Students return, one by one, in scattered clusters. Footsteps echo on the floor, voices rise again, chairs creak under rediscovered weight. The room fills up slowly—alive, noisy—but to you, it’s like it’s all happening behind a window. You’re here, yes, physically present, but none of it really reaches you.

You haven’t moved. Your arms still crossed, head slightly lowered, gaze lost in the spirals of your sketchbook, while others’ words float around you. But one conversation eventually pierces your bubble. You don’t really mean to listen, but their excitement makes it impossible to ignore. They’re talking about the event tonight. The conference hosted by Tony Stark. His name alone seems to electrify the air. Some are speaking with barely restrained enthusiasm, eyes already sparkling with anticipation, as if they’re hoping for some grand revelation. Others are more reserved, weighing the pros and cons with fake objectivity. There are those who see it as a networking opportunity, a possible step toward a real job. And those who don’t know if they’ll go, but talk about it anyway—just to stay part of the conversation.

You stay frozen in your seat, expression blank. You hear, but don’t listen. The buzz slides over you like rain on glass. Nothing catches. Even if Tony Stark himself walked down from the stage and handed you a personal invitation, you’re not sure it would make a difference. The thought of going feels pointless. Too far. Too loud. Too full of people. And anyway, you’re working that night. That’s what you keep telling yourself. Like a shield. A convenient excuse. A quiet sigh slips from your lips. You dive back into your sketchbook, as if it could serve as refuge, a barrier against the noise outside. You scribble without purpose—shapes without logic, fragments of thoughts barely formed. Just another day of being here, of pretending to function, while your inner self stays motionless. A blurred figure in a world too sharp.

A familiar clearing of the throat interrupts you again. You look up just in time to see Eliott plop down noisily beside you. He folds his arms on the desk, back slightly hunched, and flashes that trademark smirk of his. His piercing blue eyes glint with mischief, but not malice.

— “Come on, man, you can’t be that dead inside. We’re talking about Stark here! It’s not every day we get a shot like this. And we’re doing an afterparty too. Gonna be fun.”

You don’t reply right away. You glance to the side, your gaze brushing your phone. The screen lights up under your thumb, revealing another wave of unread content you scroll through without focus. Your thumb moves up and down, mechanical. Your eyes are here, but your mind remains somewhere else.

You let a few seconds pass before muttering, without even looking at him.

— “I’ll see… I don’t know. I’m working that night anyway.”

Eliott rolls his eyes, an amused grimace tugging at his mouth.

— “You always find an excuse, huh? Seriously, you should come. It might clear your head.”

You shrug vaguely. It’s not that you’re refusing the invitation—but you can’t bring yourself to imagine going either. His insistence doesn’t bother you. It barely touches you. Like everything else. You’re stuck in that bittersweet fog where every suggestion feels demanding, every movement a mountain.

And yet, a small voice buried inside whispers that he’s not wrong. That you’re just surviving. That you’ve been floating on the surface of everything for a while now—never diving in. You survive. You conserve energy. You say “no” by default. Or “maybe,” just to avoid saying “I’m too tired.” Eliott eventually gives up. He slouches against the back of his chair, arms crossed behind his head, looking resigned but still amused.

— “You’re really a lost cause, man. But hey, if you change your mind, we’ll be there.”

You turn your head just a little, a small smile flickering at the corner of your lips without staying. You nod—barely—but enough for him to know you heard. Maybe you’ll change your mind. Maybe not. The idea hangs there, suspended, somewhere between possibility and indifference. For now, you’re not there yet. For now, you’re still watching the world go by from the sidelines, unsure whether you even want to step into it.

The day stretches out slowly, weighed down by the stillness of the room and the constant hum of voices. The hours slip by without you really feeling them—punctuated by the tapping of keyboards, the scraping of pencils, tired sighs and the occasional burst of laughter. You’re still there, in your seat, notebook open in front of you, but your thoughts are somewhere else entirely. Every now and then, you doodle, scribble a word, a shape, a diagram you immediately erase. Nothing takes form. Nothing grips you.

Around you, the commotion continues, like a little self-contained world you only float through. The conversations loop endlessly. The Tony Stark event keeps coming up, again and again, like a magnet pulling all the room’s energy toward it. Your classmates talk about it with a mix of excitement and nerves, as if it were some pivotal moment in their careers. Some see it as a professional opportunity, others just want a glimpse of a celebrity. But what keeps coming up—what everyone seems most hyped about—is the after.

You learn it almost by accident, half-listening while pretending not to. The afterparty will be held in a luxury apartment, apparently lent by a student who’s clearly way more loaded than the rest. The comments pour in about the décor, the rooftop jacuzzi, the balcony views. They’re already talking about drinks, playlists, who’s bringing what. The mood is rising, energy building—and you remain still in your bubble. A few people vaguely call out to you, invite you again. Always the same polite smiles, the same hazy looks. Not because they really care about you being there. No—you know why. They remember the convenient version of you: the guy who, without saying much, brings a good bottle, the guy who always adds a little something extra to the vibe. They don’t know you. They don’t know anything about you. But they keep that blurry image: the quiet one, but useful.

That’s when you find out the event isn’t tonight. It’s tomorrow. The news slides over you like a lukewarm drop of water. Nothing changes. One more day pretending, taking up space without really inhabiting it. Another chance to stay on the outside while others make plans, carve out paths you won’t follow. The hours crawl. The afternoon drags like a never-ending rainy day. The professor comes back, still talking about the project. Some students show progress, share ideas. You pretend to listen, nodding now and then, taking a note here and there. But your mind is fogged. Nothing gets through. You’re there—but not really. And finally, the end creeps closer. The sun starts dipping behind the grimy windows, casting the room in a golden light that doesn’t warm you. One by one, voices quiet, things get packed away, bags zip shut in soft rustles. You finally move. Slowly. You close your notebook with almost ceremonial slowness. You tuck your pencil back in its case, your laptop into your bag—every motion precise, measured, meaningless.

Your movements are automatic, like a puppet repeating the same dance every day. You don’t look at anyone. You say nothing. No goodbye, no smile. You slip between the others like a shadow leaving before the room’s even empty. Only the dull sound of your zipper, the gentle scrape of your chair, and the weight of your bag on your shoulder remain behind you. Another day behind you. Another one ahead. Identical. Silent. Outside, the air barely surprises you, but it’s enough to remind you you’re no longer indoors. It’s cooler than the stuffy classroom, and it brushes your face, drawing a subtle shiver. The daylight fades, leaving behind that orange hue that marks the end of a season’s day. You take a deep breath, as if that one inhale might wash away the inertia of the day.

And then, the second your eyes sweep the plaza in front of the university—you see him. Peter. Leaning against a lamppost, hands stuffed in the pockets of his oversized hoodie, one leg bent against the painted metal pole. That eternal half-smile lights up his face—calm, grounded, reliable. He was waiting for you. When your eyes meet his, he straightens with a fluid motion, steps away from the post, and walks toward you with that quiet energy he always carries.

— “So,” he says, one eyebrow raised in a mix of amusement and gentle challenge, “still not convinced about seeing Stark live?”

You sigh, already tired just thinking about the subject again. You shrug lightly, not even slowing your pace.

— “Honestly? I don’t know. I don’t really have the energy for it. I’ve got work that night anyway, and showing up to a conference after… I’ll just end up more exhausted.”

Peter lets out a soft laugh, rolling his eyes, but his smile doesn’t fade.

— “I’ll pick you up after your shift if you want. We don’t have to stay long. Just check it out, feel the vibe, then you can crash.”

You glance sideways at him, a bit intrigued by his persistence. He knows you’re not the type to chase after big social events. He knows crowded rooms, inspiring speeches, charged-up atmospheres—they’re not your thing. But he keeps insisting. Not to be annoying. More like he genuinely wants to pull you out of this fog you’ve been sinking into day after day. Like he’s scared you’ll vanish into your routine without even noticing. You lower your gaze, eyes trailing the sidewalk. You feel the weight of your bag, the sound of your footsteps on the concrete, the breeze brushing your neck. Without thinking, you pull your phone from your pocket and scroll aimlessly. Pointless notifications. Unread messages. News that tells you nothing.

— “Yeah… maybe,” you murmur. “But I’ve got the project too. Not like I’ve got time to waste.”

Peter stops walking for a second—just enough to cross his arms and tilt his head toward you.

— “Dude, when’s the last time you did something just for you? Not for class, not for work—just… for you?”

You stay silent. His question catches you off guard. Worse—it hits home. That emptiness you feel every day has already been whispering the answer. But saying it out loud, admitting it to him—that’s different. That’s a step you’re not ready to take yet. You shrug faintly, a movement so small it’s barely there. You pocket your phone without a word, like that gesture could close the topic.

— “I’ll think about it,” you say eventually, your voice tired, uncertain—but not shut off.

Peter’s smile softens—almost brotherly. He pats your shoulder with his palm, light but full of meaning. Then, without pressing further, he starts walking again beside you.

— “It’s cool. I know your ‘I’ll think about it.’ I’m still coming to get you though, just in case.”

You shake your head slightly, a faint smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. One of those smiles that doesn’t fully land—but Peter always catches it. He knows you. Too well, sometimes. No other words are needed. You walk on together in the fading light, in silence. The streets begin to come alive again. Shop windows light up one by one, people stream out of offices, bikes weave between cars. In the distance, you spot the glowing signs of the grocery store where you work. They’re already blinking faintly in the deepening dusk, dragging a sigh out of you. The world keeps spinning—noisy, fast. But in this quiet walk next to Peter, something feels suspended. Just for a moment. Like in all the background noise, you’ve found a breath of calm.

The walk continues in a lighter mood, almost peaceful. You and Peter exchange trivial things—stories that don’t matter, little observations—just to keep the weight off. Talking without effort, without pressure, without expectation. It’s simple. It’s soft. It’s rare. A moment where you don’t have to perform, or calculate your words. You can just exist—present, unguarded. Then, between two street lamps, between two muffled chuckles, silence settles in again. You let it. You don’t try to break it. And finally, without really meaning to, you sigh—almost under your breath—eyes drifting to the pavement sliding by under your shoes.

— “I don’t really wanna go home tonight…”

Peter doesn’t answer right away. But he doesn’t need to. You feel his gaze on you—steady, listening. You know he understood, the way he always does, with that silent kind of insight that never forces you to say more than you’re ready to. He doesn’t push. He waits. And you keep walking. He knows. Since you arrived in the city, you thought you had found balance. A simple living arrangement. No drama. Matthew was just that quiet but friendly guy, the one things just clicked with. Those late-night kitchen chats, shared beers, the unspoken ease of quiet routines. A soft kind of normal. Built from small gestures and unspoken understanding.

And then came that night. You don’t even know why you did it. A mix of exhaustion, loneliness, tension that had been building in every glance for weeks. That unspoken something that hovered over every meal, every laugh that lingered a bit too long. You kissed him. And everything stopped. Like a light switch flipped mid-motion. In seconds, everything you’d built collapsed. Since then, Matthew has become a bitter shadow in your everyday life. He doesn’t talk to you anymore—or only to throw passive-aggressive remarks. At first, he avoided you. Then came the little comments, the pointed looks, the sighs. He learned to aim right—straight at what hurts. You don’t know if it’s rejection, fear, or just cruelty in disguise. You don’t know. And you don’t want to figure it out anymore.

You rub your hand over your face, already tired at the thought of crossing that threshold, hearing another sigh, seeing his closed-off stare.

— “Matthew’s home tonight, and I just know it’s gonna be a mess again.”

Peter turns his head gently toward you, his gaze calm but touched with concern. He doesn’t judge. He doesn’t dramatize. He just extends the offer like he’s holding out a hand.

— “You wanna crash somewhere else tonight? I can take you in if you want.”

You hesitate. You even slow your pace a little. The idea is tempting. But you shake your head softly, almost automatically.

— “Nah, I’ll be fine. I just… needed to say it.”

He stays quiet for a second, then matches your pace again. His presence remains steady—comforting, but never overbearing. Exactly what you need. Still, he doesn’t drop it entirely. His tone stays gentle, but firmer this time.

— “You say that, but seriously… you don’t have to put up with a roommate like that. If he’s being an ass, maybe it’s time to just step away from it, y’know?”

You smile a little—a crooked, sad smile. The kind born more from irony than joy.

— “Don’t worry. I’ve been through worse, honestly.”

Peter shoots you a more focused look, and his expression shifts slightly. Something in your voice—or your eyes—must have caught his attention.

— “Yeah? Like what?”

You shrug slightly, your gaze drifting to the lit windows of distant apartment blocks.

— “I mean… outside of class, you don’t really know me that well.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. You can feel him processing that. Maybe for the first time, he’s realizing that everything he knows about you is surface-level. He knows the classmate—the quiet guy, sometimes sarcastic, often tired, always a bit distant. But not the rest. Not the weight behind the silences. Not the things you’ve run from to end up here. Eventually, he lets out a sigh, a sideways smile tugging at his lips.

— “You’re good at dodging serious questions, huh?”

You glance at him, raising an eyebrow.

— “You just noticed?”

He lets out a quiet laugh—almost fond.

— “You’re a walking mystery, man. One day, you’re gonna have to open up a little.”

You don’t reply. You leave the sentence hanging in the air between you. It’s easier that way. He seems to understand—again. So he doesn’t push. The rest of the walk unfolds in peaceful silence, broken only by the sound of your steps on the pavement. The streetlamps cast their trembling halos, shop signs flicker as businesses close one by one. Evening settles in for real. The world slows down. At a corner, the two of you stop without needing to say a word. It’s habit. The natural end of the road. Peter slips his hands into his pockets, his gaze settling on you one last time, more serious than usual.

— “If anything happens—send me a message, okay?”

You nod slowly.

— “Yeah. Don’t worry. Good night.”

— “Good night, man.”

He walks off, his steps swallowed by the night. You watch him disappear without moving, then turn in the opposite direction, starting your way back. Each step toward your building brings back that weight you know too well. It’s not fatigue. It’s anticipation. The dread of walking back into that now-hostile space, filled with heavy silences and dodged glances. The air feels colder all of a sudden. Or maybe it’s just the pressure sitting on your chest—the one that always finds you again, right there, every single night.

[softestqueeen]

I need a Stephen strange x reader! Where the reader is Tony starks daughter! Please!

but daddy i love him

pairing: stephen strange x fem!stark!reader

summary: Tony Stark – your father – finds out about your romantic relationship with the infamous Stephen Strange. How will he react to you dating someone who is almost 20 years older than you.

warnings: age gap (about 20 years), a little bit of fighting, spoiler: happy-ish end

wordcount: 954 words

a/n: hey @expensiveinnocentgurl, thank you sm for requesting something, i hope you like this!! finally getting to some requests on here! I will probably write all my open non cm requests, then continue writing for criminal minds. It’s probably my new addiction i fear (sorry not sorry) but now lean back and enjoy while i dive back into my marvel obsession.

The communal area was quiet, only a few team members were spending their free time here reading or watching TV. Your father calls for you, his voice on edge and he didn’t look too happy either. “Can I talk to you? Alone?“

You gulped at the tone. This definitely won‘t be a nice conversation about how your day went. For a second you were questioning what you could have done wrong. And then it dawned on you.

Face paling you though about your apparently not so secret relationship with the sorcerer supreme Stephen Strange. He is not just almost 20 years older than you but also a close friend of your fathers. You and Stephen met your relationship a secret, quietly testing out the waters if the two of you were even a good match.

And you were. The last few months were the happiest of your life. Stephe was the perfect boyfriend. Attentive to your needs, taking care of you in all the right ways and of course always the gentleman. Which is why the two of you had discussed about making it official to the team in about a month or so. You would maybe announce it at Christmas or New Years. Or you would just attend one of your dads’ famous parties together and let everybody be a witness to the PDA the two of you kept to yourselves so far.

But all your plans were chucked out the window when your father led you into his office. You knew exactly what he wanted to discuss one you saw you boyfriend in a chair in front of the big mahogany desk, an apologetic look on his face.

“Please, have a seat,“ your father proses it as a question, though you knew you had to obey his demand.

He takes his seat on the other side of the desk, while you sit next to Stephen.

“When did you think about telling me?” he asked the two of you, even though you know it was aimed more at you. The frown that is slowly appearing on his face is making him appear older than he actually is.

“Tell you what,” you tried to play dumb, even though all three of you knew why you were here. Tony was not having it.

“Are you kidding me? When did you two plan on telling me that you’ve been what? Going out? Seeing each other? Fucking? However, you want to call it,” he almost screamed at you.

“Calm down, Tony,” Stephen told the billionaire with a calm voice.

“Don’t you tell me to calm down when you’ve been with my daughter doing God knows what, behind my back. I want an explanation, and I want it now!”

Stephen reached over and took your hand in his shaking one. He let his fingers run over your knuckles – your father watching the interaction with a clenched jaw – before explaining.

“Tony, I deeply respect you and our friendship, but you have to understand. I am desperately in love with your daughter, and I have been for some time. I promise to take the best possible care of her. You and I both don’t want anything to happen to her. I promise she will have everything she could ever need and more. But you have to trust me in that,” you were fascinated with how calm Stephen stayed. You were a nervous wreck, thinking about all the ways Tony could sabotage your relationship.

“With all due respect Stephen, this is not about a mission or anything this is about my daughter. I know how you’ve been with women in the past and I do not want you to repeat this kind of behaviour with my daughter,” oh your dad was pissed.

“Dad, Stephen and I have been going out for a few months now and he has never treated me bad. Of all the partners I had he is the most attentive, caring, and loving person I have ever come across. We are well aware of the age cap, but it doesn’t matter to us. Don’t you see, we love each other,” you tried to reason with him. He was slowly cracking, and you all knew it. Tony’s eyes wandered to your now interlocked fingers again and you could see his face harden.

“I’m still not happy with this. And what do you mean a few months? How long exactly has this been going on?”

“Next week it would be six months.”

Tony now stood up from his chair and paced the room.

“We wanted to wait until we are ready, you did not. What do you want to do now, dad? You want to forbid me from being with him? Good luck, because I don’t intend to leave him anytime soon. I love him, he loves me. He treats me well and I’m really happy, dad. Shouldn’t that be all that matters?” Stephen squeezed your hand. He admired how you spoke up for him, as he knew how much you valued his opinion.

Tony sat down again, the expression on his face moving into something different, something more tired.

“You know I just want you to be happy, sweetpea. And if that is with a party trick magician then so be it. You are right, I have no right to interfere with this relationship. But you know, I’m worried about you. And Stephen, you hurt her I’ll kill you, is that clear?”

A smile now spread over your face and Stephen answered. “Of course, Stark. No need to worry.”

With that Tony dismissed you both. Even if this was not ideal, you were glad the cat was out of the bag now.

“Wait, how did he even find out?”

a/n: i hope you liked this, if so please leave some notes, likes, reblogs and comments! feedback is very appreciated!

please also consider supporting my ao3: @ softestqueen

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