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sunarryn · 3 months ago

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DP X Marvel #32

It all began when Dr. Jasmine Fenton—Jazz, to the brave and traumatized—walked into the Avengers Compound in five-inch block heels, a blood-red blazer, and a clipboard with everyone’s most damning psychological profiles printed in 12-point Times New Roman. She had been hired because, quote, “the last six therapists either quit, cried, or developed their own hero complexes.” SHIELD had gone through the best and brightest the world had to offer. They even tried a Wakandan empathy AI once. It cried. The AI cried.

So when Jazz Fenton walked in, armed with a dual PhD in clinical psychology and trauma therapy, the last thing they expected was that she’d personally know what hero trauma looked like. But she did. Her baby brother was a half-ghost interdimensional guardian who once got hit by a nuke and walked it off. Her parents were mad scientists who tried to dissect him. And her godfather was an immortal corporate vampire with a crown kink and a habit of kidnapping. She had seen things. She understood. And more importantly, she didn’t care. She wasn’t here to coddle them.

“Dr. Fenton,” Steve Rogers greeted politely that first morning.

“Please, call me Jazz,” she said with a smile that made even Natasha lower her coffee. “Or Doctor Fenton if you’re about to lie to me.”

Tony Stark made the mistake of raising an eyebrow. “Oh? What are you gonna do, psychoanalyze me into submission?”

She flipped to his file. “‘Severe abandonment issues, destructive self-worth tendencies, martyr complex buried under layers of narcissistic deflection, sleeps three hours a night, probably cries in the shower—’”

“I don’t cry in the shower!”

“That is because you don’t shower, Mr. Stark.”

That shut him up.

From that day onward, fear fell over the Avengers Compound like a thick, fragrant fog of anxiety. Jazz was everywhere. One moment she was on the roof with Clint discussing his grief over Budapest, the next she was in the lab with Bruce making him cry, and the moment after that she had Loki in handcuffs—not because he was arrested, but because he asked for them.

“I just think maybe I’m too attached to the idea of being hated,” Loki muttered, slouched on the therapy couch.

“You are,” Jazz replied, checking her notes. “You’re addicted to conflict because you’ve built your identity on being an outsider. Every time you’re offered genuine affection, you self-sabotage. You’re not a villain, you’re just a lonely youngest child.”

“I—” Loki blinked. “That is horrifically accurate. And incredibly offensive.”

“Cry harder, Sparklehorn.”

Thor, meanwhile, loved her. Adored her. Followed her around like an emotional support golden retriever with lightning powers. He kept trying to give her things—golden goblets, fur cloaks, an entire goat—until one day she casually picked up Mjolnir while fixing a crooked painting and everyone screamed.

“How the fuck—” Sam Wilson shouted.

“Why can she do that?” Peter Parker asked from the ceiling.

“Therapists shouldn’t be worthy!” Tony wailed. “It’s not natural!”

Jazz shrugged and handed the hammer back to Thor. “I was forged in the fires of Midwestern neglect and ghost radiation. You think Odin can break me? Try surviving your brother getting publicly disemboweled by a government robot while your parents take notes.”

She had no chill. None. She was the only person who called Wanda out on her grief projection, made Bucky talk about his repressed ballet skills, and forced Steve to draw a family tree so she could scream “YOUR ENTIRE FRIEND GROUP IS CODEPENDENT.”

“Group therapy!” she declared one Tuesday.

“No,” said literally everyone.

“Too bad. Show up or I will personally guilt you in front of the media using your own trauma receipts.”

And they did. They came. They came because they were afraid.

Tony sat with arms crossed. “This is stupid.”

“Tell that to your inner child.”

“I don’t have one.”

“Exactly.”

Clint sighed. “This is worse than Budapest.”

“Everything is worse than Budapest,” Natasha replied.

Wanda blinked slowly. “I think I just astrally projected my own anxiety. It’s hovering above me like a raincloud.”

Jazz didn’t even blink. “Let it hover. Let it watch you cry. Maybe it’ll finally grow up.”

Civil War? Canceled.

No one dared fight each other under Jazz’s watch. When tensions began rising between Tony and Steve over the Sokovia Accords, she locked them in a soundproof room with juice boxes and didn’t let them out until they hugged it out like the emotionally repressed golden retrievers they were.

“I will tranquilize you both,” she warned through the door. “I have the darts and the upper body strength. Don’t tempt me.”

They made up within the hour.

At one point, Nick Fury tried to get involved. He barged into one of Jazz’s sessions like he still ran SHIELD.

“What the hell kind of therapy involves throwing knives at a target while crying?” he demanded.

Jazz, unfazed, handed him a stress knife. “Want to try?”

He did. And then immediately rebooked weekly appointments.

By week four, the compound was transformed. Hulk was journaling. Peter was actually doing his homework. Wanda was learning healthy coping mechanisms that didn’t involve mind-controlling entire suburbs. Clint and Natasha were having pillow talks about emotional vulnerability. Even Loki was crocheting.

“Do you know what I’ve done?” he whispered as he stitched a duck.

“I’ve read your file,” Jazz said. “And your Tumblr tag. You’re not special.”

“I am special—”

“You’re traumatized, sweetie.”

Meanwhile, Tony—still deeply suspicious—began following her around trying to find proof she was a Hydra sleeper agent. What he found instead was her absolutely unhinged family.

“You’re related to who?” he asked over coffee one morning.

Jazz sighed. “My little brother is Danny Phantom, ghost-powered superhero and part-time physics major. My godfather is Vlad Masters, ex-billionaire and full-time supervillain with a complex. My parents are Jack and Maddie Fenton.”

Tony blinked. “The guys who duct-taped a rocket to a lawnmower and called it science?”

“The very same.”

“No wonder you’re like this.”

Jazz nodded. “Exactly. I was forged in chaos and trauma. Now I’m here to fix you.”

“I don’t want to be fixed.”

“Too bad. I’ve already started rebuilding your psyche.”

“What does that mean—”

“Check your inner monologue. Notice how it’s stopped calling you a worthless meat puppet?”

Tony screamed.

Even Doctor Strange, who allegedly had the answers to the universe, found himself in a corner drinking tea and rethinking the way he suppressed his emotions with sarcasm and facial hair.

“You’re not mystical, Stephen,” Jazz told him. “You’re just emotionally constipated.”

“I literally astral project.”

“Cool. Now try emotional projection. Maybe apologize to Wong.”

“…Wong is asleep.”

“Wake him up.”

By month two, even the press noticed. The Avengers were glowing. Smiling. Making eye contact during press conferences instead of brooding like middle school theater kids.

“What changed?” a reporter asked.

Tony grabbed the mic. “Her name is Jazz Fenton and she scares the hell out of us.”

Steve nodded solemnly. “She made me cry six times in one session. I told her about my dad.”

“She made me draw my feelings,” Clint added.

“I finally cried about Pietro,” Wanda whispered. “In public. It felt amazing. I think I vomited emotions.”

“Dr. Fenton helped me write a song about my grief,” Thor said proudly. “It’s a power ballad. With goats.”

And then came the incident.

The one time the Avengers tried to disobey her. Sam and Bucky had been arguing again. Loudly. And somewhere in the chaos, someone dared say, “It’s not like Jazz can stop us.”

Wrong.

So, so wrong.

Jazz calmly walked into the sparring room, confiscated Bucky’s knife mid-twirl, took Sam’s wings with one hand, and sat both men down with the force of divine intervention.

“You two,” she said in a voice that made the walls tremble, “are not enemies. You are trauma-bonded enemies-to-friends-to-exes-to-besties. You are a trope. You are a fanfiction tag. You are not about to regress into kindergarten slap fights because one of you forgot the others’ favorite breakfast order.”

“…He forgot my birthday,” Sam muttered.

“Because he has memory trauma! You have it too! You both need to go on a spa day and cry it out in a hot tub like normal people.”

And they did.

They actually did.

The day Jazz left for a conference—just one day—the entire compound fell into shambles. Loki started monologuing again, Peter accidentally built a sentient AI who wrote poetry about death, Wanda started glowing red again, and Tony tried to weaponize emotional damage via sarcastic limericks.

The moment she came back, they all lined up like chastised children.

“What did I say about emotionally projecting without supervision?” she asked.

“Don’t do it,” they chorused.

“And?”

Peter sniffled. “We missed you.”

“Damn right you did.”

Jazz smiled, terrifying and fond, and flipped her clipboard. “Now. Who wants to talk about their mother?”

And the Avengers, Earth’s Mightiest Heroes, sat down.

Because nothing—not Chitauri, not Ultron, not even Thanos—was scarier than the therapist who could lift Mjolnir and your deepest childhood wound in the same breath.

Dr. Jasmine Fenton was the real hero. And everyone knew it.

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mercurial-chuckles · 6 months ago

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Half-baked, damn!

Pairing: Steve Rogers x F!Reader x Bucky Barnes, ft. Ransom Drysdale Warnings: Fluff | Language | You found yourself in a pickle | Crack fic | Poly relationship | A teeny bit of non-graphic threat | Allusions to the Blip (but canon-divergent, all's fine and dandy in this universe) | Unedited | ~1.8k | Let me know if I’m missing anything. A/N: This is a half-baked idea that couldn’t wait, so I’m serving it fresh while it’s still...meh. Kindly indulge. I've had quite a day 🥹🩷 And yes, the squirrel incident is inspired by true events from my own life. The left side of my face swelled up so much I had to see a doctor. EVERYONE--even the X-ray guy--had a good laugh...except for me. I was on pain medication for over a week, and now my family tells the story to anyone who’ll listen. It happened almost 12 years ago and I figured...take the inspiration from life. So, here goes🤭🙂‍↕️ Note: Do not Steal, Copy, or Plagiarize any part of my work! Banner and Divider credits to me. Picture credits to the internet. Thank you :) Check out my other works: Masterlist

Indulge Away!

In your modestly chaotic life, a lot of unbelievable shit had happened.

Some of which you were still processing. Stuff that would blow people's minds if you ever played Two Truths and a Lie.

Like the time a squirrel slapped you silly when it fell from a tree while you were riding your moped. Stupidly perfect timing!

Or...

The time Captain America, the former Winter Soldier, and Iron Man broke into your tiny apartment--and in a dazed panic, thinking they were intruders or serial killers--you went full Tangled on Captain America (he was the first through your door), smacking him with your 8.6-inch cast iron pan (a graduation gift from your late Aunt Beth... poor pan, though, cracked right down the middle)

Between the Avengers breaking into your apartment, Tony Stark recruiting you for your weirdly diverse research skills when his AI evolved needing to play God, the purple guy snapping his fingers, then Hulk unsnapping them, and the absolutely insane realization that two ridiculously gorgeous, criminally kind-hearted supersoldiers loved you and you loved them just as much, life had basically blessed you with carefully crafted absurdity.

So, yes, you were proud--extremely so--to say that nothing could possibly surprise you anymore.

Fallacious thought, indeed!

Life could be chaos galore, royally so, because here you were, standing in the dimly lit street, face to face with one of your best friends from middle school, Ransom Drysdale.

He offered you a cookie, and you blinked in surprise, a noise of disbelief escaping you ungracefully as a wave of nostalgia hit.

An image of a boy, almost the pure and innocent reflection of the man before you--so disparate--popped into your mind. He hadn't even reached your height back then. He used to bring you cookies in a Tupperware every day without fail, as a thank you for always defending him from bullies. You used to be badass like that.

But that was a lifetime ago.

Now?

Now you were with two overprotective, over six-foot supersoldiers who made a big deal if you got a papercut.

Dope, right?

And after the shenanigans of Ultron and the blip, you realized you were better off in controlled environments. Plus, it was probably for the best...for the sake of your century-old men's healthy, pumping hearts.

Your career choice was fascinatingly fitting for you, and you were happy.

Ransom Drysdale, however, chose a career that was unimaginable. For someone as smart as he was, you had expected he'd be a writer, lawyer, scientist, hell, any damn thing, really. While not insipid, Ransom chose a surprisingly rad career as a mob boss for a huge Vibranium smuggling cartel. And this man who just dragged you out of the restaurant was no boy, nor did he have that pleasant smile. His smile felt too tainted, too twisted. He filled out a grey cashmere sweater, broad and towering, standing almost as tall as Bucky, maybe even on par with Steve's height. You couldn't really tell when he leaned against the lamppost, his shadow grazing your feet.

Ransom raised a challenging eyebrow, pushing the tissue-wrapped cookie toward you.

Was he just carrying them in his expensive coat?

Anyhoo, of course, you took the cookie, mumbling a thanks. It would've been rude not to, right?

You loved cookies. Ransom knew that. And so did your men, because Steve's voice, "Do not eat that" came sharply through your left earpiece--a Starktech microchip, conveniently concealed in your ear, which was covered by your hair.

You flinched, fearing and praying that Steve's hiss did drown in the silence of the night. God, if you could, you'd smack him. Why would he even think you'd eat it?

"Ya know, when I got the call for such a huge quantity, I had to come personally to see who it was. But I did not expect you," Ransom chuckled, munching on a cookie.

Me neither, Ransom. Me neither.

The only reason you were even on this undercover mission was that the guy, "the link," who took the orders had a type, and, quite unfortunately, you fit the bill. So, the team (minus Steve and Bucky, of course, because they were off on another mission, thankfully) had begged you to dress up and spend the evening flirting with some shady asshole to lure him into leading them to the big boss.

Easy peasy, sweetheart. They'd said.

It's for the people. They'd said.

All you need to do is get him to say the words. They'd said.

You really thought it was a super simple mission, too. If the guy asked too many questions, you just had to convince him of the technical aspects of why you needed so much Vibranium until his brain rotted.

Your role had a character, and she dressed up sexy, too. Me likey, you thought.

And while you were on your way to this fateful mission, Steve and Bucky got back from theirs.

Hell broke loose.

After a horrendous back-and-forth, you tried to convince them you'd be fine. "We got this, we're so close," Nat had exclaimed to your fuming boyfriends.

And you agreed with her. They got this. You believed in their "Easy Peasy" plan. And then Ransom Drysdale strutted up to your table in that fancy restaurant, crumbling the "easy peasy."

"I can't believe my sweet sunshine went rogue," Ransom exclaimed, pushing himself off the lamppost. He sauntered to your side, leaning against the brick wall, facing you with a teasing smile.

You cleared your throat, shrugging, "What can I say? I adapted after the…blip," you said, almost sounding wistful.

Hopefully, you did sound convincing. Gosh, you needed to get paid--preferably a dozen cognitive perception UTMs for your lab-- for all the improv you'd been doing ever since Ransom met you in the fancy restaurant instead of the supposed Edward Silas.

Ransom chuckled, leaning closer with a glint in his eye. "You have a special place in here, sunshine. You know that?" He winked and patted his chest.

Your heart tugged slightly at that.

What can you say?

You were a bit emotional, and those bouts of nostalgic reminiscence spread through your mind like a fog. The warmth of old memories clashed with a growing unease--a fear for yourself and the quiet terror of wondering if your borderline-cavemenish men would burst in, guns blazing.

Ransom was smart, and you'd give him that.

He led you to the side of the restaurant...a real impasse, a pickle of a situation. All three sides were boxed in with towering walls, the back end cluttered with a few garbage bins from the commercial space. The only exit was blocked by Ransom's men, standing stoically, keeping you trapped.

One of Ransom's men stepped forward and murmured something to him, but despite your best effort to listen, the blood pounding in your ears drowned out everything else.

Ransom chuckled softly, nodded, and waved the man away with a casual gesture.

If this went south... Would they make it in time to save you? Ransom had been your friend once. But would that be enough to keep him from pulling the trigger? The thought gnawed at you.

You gulped; this was not what Nat had prepared you for. This was not supposed to happen.

Ransom hadn't said a single incriminating word, no matter how much you had prodded after the initial shock of recognizing each other and the small talk about family. He'd clammed up, keeping everything vague and impenetrable.

You had to get him to talk. You had to.

"And what about you, Ransom?" You asked, trying your damned hardest to keep your tone casual. "What got you into all…this?" you gestured wildly.

Ransom shrugged, offering no answer. "So, what exactly do you need the package for?" He asked instead.

To pack you off to Wakanda so the Dora Milaje would Ka-boom your ass for stealing from them.

But you couldn't obviously tell him that.

"An experiment. I'm a scientist, you see. It's gonna be… let's say…profitable," you grinned conspiratorially, hoping you weren't coming off too creepy.

You immediately felt like you might've gone a little too far with the tone, but you held your ground, watching Ransom's expression. He simply hummed, eyes narrowing slightly as he finished his cookie. He dabbed his mouth with the tissue, carelessly tossing it.

You hated when people did that, and the urge to pick it up and throw it in the bin located a few feet away was itching.

"Don't," Nat's voice came too assured that you were thinking exactly that.

You stifled a curse, resisting the impulse, and cleared your throat instead.

Ransom said nothing, just continuing to stare at you in that almost unnerving way like he knew everything. Did he?

"So…" You started, hoping he'd talk details, plus the silence was killing you.

Ransom's grin stretched wider like he was really enjoying this conversation. He took another step closer, and your muscles tensed as the guards subtly shifted around. Your heart was pounding so hard, that you were convinced Ransom could hear it.

"Tell you what, honey," Ransom said, straightening up and stepping closer. A couple of his guards shifted forward, and you instinctively flinched.

"Why don't you come over to my place? We have a lot to catch up on, don't we? We can talk about the deal, and I'll personally deliver the package to you," Ransom grinned.

Before you could even begin to respond, Nat's voice crackled through your earpiece. "Play it cool. Stall. We're on our way."

You didn't even have time to appreciate the reassurance. Your eyes widened, anticipation ate you up like a termite, and you shifted uncomfortably on your feet, trying to compose yourself.

"Umm… sure, I mean, I've never done these dealings before," you stammered, forcing the words out. "It would be a great help. But only if… if it won't be an issue for you… Do you wanna fix a time? I'm free tomorrow afternoon… or anytime in the week…" You babbled, forcing an awkward laugh, praying your voice didn't shake.

Ransom's lips twitched. "Adorable as ever, aren't you, Angel?" He stepped back, tilting his head. "I told you, you have a special place in my heart. It's funny you think I haven't kept tabs on you, sunshine."

Then, without warning, he pulled a gun from under his coat, pressing it against your side.

Your heart thumped wildly.

"Wh… wh.." You couldn't even form a sentence, your brain short-circuiting as your mind went blank. In that split second, all you could think of was whispering, I love you to Steve and Bucky.

No. No. No. No.

"I don't wanna hurt you," Ransom said, almost apologetic. "But I have to protect myself, right? So why don't you ask your little boy band to back off before things get ugly?" Ransom's voice was low.

"Ransom."

"Come on, honey. We have so much to catch up on," he said smoothly, gesturing for you to move.

His guards were all ready with guns pointing in various directions.

You complied, walking beside Ransom as he led you toward the car. A guard opened the door, his own gun drawn, facing the street.

"I don't fucking think so," Bucky's voice boomed from behind.

Before you could even think or sigh, Bucky tackled Ransom to the ground out of nowhere, pushing Ransom's gun into your hand.

Then chaos.

In the next few seconds, the fastest action sequence of your entire life unfolded--Clint, Nat, Steve, and Bucky took down Ransom's guards with terrifying efficiency, it was almost mind-bendingly sexy.

Steve strode straight for you while Bucky held Ransom tight, staring him down.

"Buzzkills! You really need to learn to share. I mean, come on...We were having such a fun reunion, weren't we, Sunshine?" Ransom said smugly.

Steve grabbed your hand, firmly pulling you from behind Bucky and took the gun away from your shivering hands.

"Don't worry about the reunion," Bucky gritted, securing Ransom. "There's plenty planned for you, asshole."

And as Ransom was directed into the car, he turned to you and winked, flashing a smug, almost warning smile.

Steve's hold on you tightened.

"You were friends with that shit?" Bucky growled as he walked close to you.

You groaned, faceplanting into Steve's bicep with a muffled curse, because holy shit…

Well… did you enjoy this crumbly mess?

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just-dreaming-marvel · 1 month ago

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Kiss The Girl ~ Tony's Version

MAIN MASTERLIST / MARVEL MASTERLIST / MUSICAL INSPIRED FIC MASTERLIST

Tony Stark x Female!Reader

Word Count: 840ish

Request: Natasha hacking into Jarvis and making him okay Kiss The Girl every damn time Tony and reader are in the same room together because everyone can see Tony's in love with her (except for herrrr) (and she loves him too, he's just kinds blind too lol). And Tony just being like "uhhhhhhj idk what's going on, there's something wrong with jarvis, he's all messed up" and threatening to burn his motherboard if he doesn't stop making every interaction he has with her awkward because of the damn song. And eventually he's like scolding Jarvis and being like "what the fuck do I do to make you stop, I've rewritten the codes, everything, just STOP" and Natasha walks in like "hmmmm idk maybe if you like ya know kissed the girl, he'd stop with the music". Eventually they do kiss, which prompts a soft "well, my job here is done 😌" from Jarvis lol

Notes: Sorry this is so short! Hopefully, people still like it!

“Close your mouth, Stark,” Natasha said, “you’re drooling everywhere.”

“I am not!” Tony argued.

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Whatever.” She took another sip of her drink as she watched Tony watch you. You had just found your way to the pool, where all the other team members were already. “Why don’t you just make a move already? Everyone can see that you are head over heels for her. Well… everyone but her.”

“I’m not head over heels. I’m… barely head.”

Natasha laughed. “You’re ridiculous, Stark. Truly ridiculous. Where did that confident, playboy man go?”

“He’s right here.”

“Then go talk to her.”

He shook his head. “I can’t.”

“You’re an idiot.”

Tony ignored Natasha and watched as you headed over to a chair near Bucky and Steve’s chairs. You smiled and laughed as you joined their conversation. Tony glared, gripping his drink tighter.

“Careful there, Stark,” Natasha teased. “You may turn green with jealousy.”

“Leave me alone, Red,” he grumbled, standing up and heading over to you. Despite you wearing a swimsuit, Tony’s eyes couldn’t pull away from your face. Your smile always mesmerized him. As he grew closer, your smiled turned his way.

“Hey, Tones,” you greeted, making him feel like he was your favorite person.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he replied.

You smiled at him— bright, beautiful, and dazzling. And just as he was about to sit down next you—

“There you see her

Sitting there across the way”

Tony froze. His smile died and his should briefly left his body.

“JARVIS…” he muttered.

“Sir?” JARVIS replied far too innocently.

“You’re playing The Little Mermaid soundtrack.”

“I was under the impression it fit the moment.”

Bucky snorted into his drink. Steve tired not to laugh. You, though, looked around confused.

“Wait,” your brain was slowly catching up. “Was that Kiss the Girl?”

“Nope,” Tony replied a little too loudly. “Definitely not. It was a malfunction. A total glitch. JARVIS has been… weird lately.”

“Perhaps you should consider the possibility that your AI has taste,” Natasha chimed in, walking past with a smirk. “I, for one, think it’s very romantic.”

Tony gave her a look that could have melted vibranium. “You did this.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She winked. “Maybe you should just kiss the girl and see if it stops.”

“I— You— Ugh!” And then Tony stormed off.

“Tony?” You called after him, but didn’t chase him, still confused about the entire situation.

~~~

The next day, you entered the lab with a notebook in hand.

“Hey, Tones,” you said, “I had an idea for a new Arc—“

“Yes, you want her

Look at her, you know you do…”

Tony slammed his wrench on his work bench. “Okay!”

You blinked. “What?”

“JARVIS has a virus. That’s what this is. A musical virus. He’s obsessed with sea creatures and romance, it’s a whole… thing.”

“Sir,” JARVIS interrupted, “the statistical likelihood of a romantic confession leading to a successful partnership—“

“MUTE.” Tony turned a dangerous shade of red. “I will literally strip your entire code. Don’t test me.”

You tilted your head. “You okay, Tony?”

He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Fine. Just fine.”

~~~

Three days later…

Tony had reprogrammed JARVIS and created a firewall just for musical cues. One that he hoped that Natasha herself couldn’t even break. He walked into the kitchen where you were laughing with Bruce. When you noticed him, you smiled widely.

“Sha-la-la-la-la-la, don’t be scared…”

Tony dropped the coffee pot. “WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO?!” He yelled at the ceiling. “I HAVE REWRITTEN YOUR ENITRE SYSTEM—“

“Uh, Tony?” Bruce cleared his throat. “You’re yelling at your AI again.”

“YES. Because he’s clearly possessed by some cursed musical spirit!”

Natasha strolled in, sipping her tea like she hadn’t a care in the world. “Hmm. Or you could just kiss her.”

Tony spun. “No! You don’t just kiss someone like her. She’s not a casual kiss girl. She’s a ‘ruin-your-life-in-the-best-way’ kind of girl. If I screw this up, I don’t just lose a kiss. I lose her.”

“Tony?” You called softly.

He clenched his eyes shut. He had forgotten that you were still in the room. Slowly, he turned to face you. “How much of that did you hear?”

“Uh, all of it. I was sitting right here.”

“Awesome. I’m just going to—“

“Wait!” You crossed the kitchen and grabbed his wrist before he could scramble away. “I guess it’s a good thing that I’m a ‘ruin-your-life-in-the-best-way’ kind of girl who wants to kiss you too.”

His heart stopped betting for a moment. “Wait, really?”

“Really.”

“…Huh.” He stepped closer. “I mean, if it’ll shut JARVIS up.”

You leaned in. “That’s as good a reason as any.”

And then you kissed him, slowly, sweet, and perfect.

“You gotta kiss the girl…”

“JARVIS!”

“I’m sorry, sir. Please, keep going.”

You giggled, head coming to rest on Tony’s shoulder. “Maybe we should go somewhere else.”

“I agree.” Tony swept you up and over his shoulder.

“Tony!”

“Sorry, now that we’ve kissed, you have to put up with romantic-as-all-hell-while-being-extremely-cheesy-Stark.”

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forthebrokenheartedthings · 25 days ago

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Everything Left Unsaid (One Shot)

Summary: You’ve been Bucky’s best friend for five years. His partner. His safe place. He’s never told you he’s in love with you. Then you start dating someone else—someone who doesn’t know you, not really. Bucky says nothing. Until a double date turns into a breaking point. You follow him into the rain. And everything he’s held in? Comes out. It’s messy. It’s raw. It’s years of love, finally spoken. And once the damn breaks, there’s no going back.

TW: Emotional Manipulation (Not Bucky), Gaslighting, Explicit sex scene, Bucky Barnes

AN 💌 I hope you love them as much as I loved writing them.

WC: 7900 +

The double doors to the kitchen hiss open as you and Bucky walk in, still shaking off the rain and smoke from a botched infiltration in Midtown. You peel off your damp jacket, fingers stained from the warehouse’s scorched remnants, and glance over your shoulder at him.

"You," you start, stabbing a finger toward his chest, "are not allowed to say ‘trust me’ ever again."

"I was right," Bucky grumbles, tugging off his gloves, "you just didn’t listen fast enough."

"Fast enough? I was too busy saving your titanium ass from getting cooked by a flamethrower because someone thought it was a decoy unit."

He scoffs, heading toward the counter where a box of donuts sits open. "You’re still mad I beat you to the file."

"No, I’m mad you tripped the silent alarm and then smiled about it like it was some clever prank." You pluck a powdered donut from the box and toss it underhand. It hits him square in the shoulder. "Dick."

He catches it midair without looking and mouths the word, thanks with a smirk.

You both freeze when a voice cuts through the room.

"You two married yet, or is this just your elaborate foreplay?"

Sam's leaning against the fridge with a coffee mug in hand, grinning like the devil. Steve’s next to him, visibly amused. Tony swivels on a barstool with exaggerated interest.

"Oh, this should be good," Tony says. "What’s the over-under on when Barnes admits he’s fully domesticated?"

Bucky doesn’t even blink. "I’ll admit it when you admit your AI's smarter than you."

Tony gasps. "You wound me, Winter Barbie."

You roll your eyes and step between them, half-leaning into Bucky like it’s the most natural thing in the world. "Don’t listen to them. I still like you, metal gremlin."

You tilt your face up and press a light kiss to his cheek.

It’s quick. Familiar. Thoughtless—except not really. It lands just at the edge of his stubble, and the moment your lips brush skin, he goes still. Not stiff. Just still.

The room goes a little quieter.

Bucky's eyes flick toward you, unreadable. Then he clears his throat, shrugs, and mutters, "You’ve got powdered sugar on your mouth."

You smirk, swipe it off with your thumb, and pop it in your mouth. "Sweet. Like me."

Steve mutters something that sounds like "God help me," and leaves the room.

Tony leans in, stage-whispering, "So when’s the wedding? Can I be flower girl? I throw excellent glitter."

Sam drains his coffee with a sigh. "I’m giving it two months before they make us all regret having ears."

You laugh and elbow Bucky lightly. He just watches you for a beat too long, donut forgotten in his hand.

When you step away to grab a drink from the fridge, he stays still, staring at the floor like it’s saying something only he can hear.

Then quietly, like a prayer to himself, he says, "Yeah. Sweet like you."

Bucky’s still standing where you left him, powdered donut in one hand, staring at nothing in particular, when Tony’s voice slices in again.

"Barnes," Tony says, circling him like a shark that smells emotional repression, "I’ve seen cinderblocks with more facial range. Except, you know—" he gestures toward you, bent over in the fridge, "—when she’s in the room."

You snort, still bent over the fridge door. "You stalking his face now, Stark?"

"Oh, I take notes," Tony says. "Weirdest thing—he only smiles like a real person when you're around. It’s like watching a grizzly bear try yoga. Strange. Slightly dangerous. Beautiful in a tragic, masculine way."

Bucky finally turns toward him. "Don’t you have a board meeting to ignore?"

Tony grins. "Rescheduled. I’ve got better things to watch."

You shut the fridge, twist the cap off your drink, and walk back toward them like you’re rounding home base. "Can we give the man a break? You’re gonna scare off the only person here who’ll kill spiders for me."

"He’s not going anywhere," Sam mutters, now sifting through the box of donuts. "He’s been stuck to you like duct tape for five years."

You step up to Bucky and bump your shoulder into his lightly. "Ignore them," you say, voice low enough for only him to hear. Then you reach up, tousle his hair deliberately—which earns you the glare he usually reserves for terrorists. "Besides, I like you better when you’re not smiling for anyone else."

The color hits his cheeks like it’s on a timer.

Tony makes an exaggerated gagging noise. "This is worse than the Nat/Bruce thing. At least they were subtle."

"They weren’t," Steve calls from the hallway.

You look up at Bucky and grin. He’s staring straight ahead like someone just hit pause on his processor. You reach out, tap the center of his chest with two fingers. "Say you’re fine without blushing. Go on."

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Glares. "Eat your donut."

You wink and turn away, pleased.

Behind you, Tony whispers to Sam, "He’s doomed."

Sam shakes his head slowly. "He’s been doomed."

Four months ago – Atlantic City, 3 a.m.

It was raining the way movies overdo it—thick sheets, warm and relentless, soaking you to the skin in seconds. You and Bucky ducked into the only open storefront on the boardwalk, leaving a muddy trail behind you, both of you covered in bruises, minor cuts, and what you really hoped was your own blood.

It was a gift shop.

A truly heinous one. Blinding fluorescent lights, shelves of seashell snowglobes, and racks upon racks of T-shirts so ugly they bordered on criminal.

You looked at him. He looked at you. You both burst out laughing.

"We’re going to die of tetanus in a store that sells foam sharks," he muttered, flexing his shoulder with a wince.

You pulled your shirt away from your body. "Okay, yeah, we can’t go back to the quinjet dripping in blood and Jersey swamp water. New rule. We wear the shame."

Bucky squinted at a rack. "You’re joking."

You grabbed a shirt off the top and held it up to his chest. Bright yellow. Giant cartoon lobster. Text: 'HOT & CLAW-FUL.'

He raised one eyebrow. "This is a war crime."

"Agreed," you grinned. "So let’s match."

"You’re out of your mind."

"C’mon, Barnes." You leaned in, eyes shining with pure chaos. "It’ll be our thing. Battle trauma and bad taste."

He rolled his eyes, but he didn’t say no.

Ten minutes later, you emerged from the dressing room wearing a mint-green monstrosity that read ‘I’M WITH STUPID’ — arrow pointing sideways. He followed behind you in the accompanying ‘HAPPY WIFE, HAPPY LIFE’ tee.

You turned to look at him and nearly choked.

"You—oh my God—Bucky, you look like someone dared a hitman to do improv."

He stared at you deadpan for a full beat. Then his mouth twitched.

Then—actual laughter. Real laughter. Loud and short and startled, like he couldn’t stop it if he tried.

It was the first time you’d heard it. Not a dry chuckle. Not a huff of breath. A real, gut-level sound. And when it finally ran out, he looked at you with something unreadable in his eyes.

"We do look cute," he mumbled, voice low.

You blinked. "What?"

He cleared his throat immediately. "Said we—uh—look like idiots."

You didn’t call him on it. But you never forgot it.

Later that night, you’re curled into one corner of the main rec room couch, hoodie oversized and fuzzy socks tucked beneath you. The lights are dimmed, just the flicker of the TV lighting the room. A few other team members had been in and out—Sam passed through muttering about weather anxiety—but now it’s mostly quiet.

On screen: cows flying across a storm-ripped highway. You’ve got Twister playing for the ninth time this year.

Bucky sits beside you, one arm draped along the back of the couch, the other idly holding a bowl of popcorn you keep stealing from. He's already tossed you one "you know what happens, why are you this excited" look tonight, and you met it with a smug, popcorn-filled grin.

You don't explain it to him anymore. You don’t need to.

"Favorite part’s coming," you murmur, already sliding a bit closer to him.

He huffs through his nose. "The cow?"

You gasp, mock-offended. "The tornado science! The tension! The cow is an emotional metaphor."

"You just like yelling ‘DEBRIS!’ with her."

You don’t deny it.

As the wind howls on screen and chaos unfolds, your head slips sideways, resting softly against his shoulder. He goes still—briefly—but doesn’t shift away. You scoot just slightly closer, like it’s muscle memory.

Eventually, your breathing slows, your grip on the popcorn bowl loosens, and your body melts comfortably against his side.

Bucky doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe too loud. Just stares at the screen while the storm rages and the wind howls and your hand is resting against his ribs like it belongs there.

He watches you more than the movie.

You don’t stir when he gently adjusts the blanket over your legs or when his fingers brush a strand of hair from your cheek.

You definitely don’t hear him whisper, voice barely above the sound of the screen:

"Yeah. ’Course you did."

He stays still long after the movie ends.

Bucky’s already pacing in the training room when you stroll in fifteen minutes late, two coffee cups balanced in one hand and zero remorse in your eyes.

He turns the moment he hears the door. "You’re late."

You hold up the coffee like a peace offering. "I’m also generous."

He narrows his eyes at the cup, snatches it from your hand. "You always think a bribe excuses you."

"Bribe?" You twist off your jacket and toss it aside. "Please. That’s a custom-ordered, double shot espresso with two pumps of hazelnut and exactly three ice cubes. That’s a love letter."

He sips it. Says nothing.

Smirks, faint and involuntary.

You stretch your arms overhead. "What are we doing today? Grappling? Disarm drills? Or are you gonna try to sweep the leg again like you’re a Cobra Kai dropout?"

He sets his coffee on the ledge and cracks his knuckles. "Let’s find out."

Ten minutes later, you’re both sweaty, breathing hard, and circling each other on the mat.

You fake left. He counters. You duck under his arm, sweep his leg—and this time, he goes down.

You land on top of him with a triumphant thud, both of you laughing, breathless.

"Pinned," you grin, straddling his waist, hands on his chest. "Finally."

"You cheated."

"Did not."

"You smiled like you were gonna flirt, and then took my knees out."

"It worked, didn’t it?"

He huffs a laugh, head thunking against the mat. "You’re evil."

You’re still there, poised above him, your hands pressed to the warm fabric of his shirt, when the door opens.

Sam steps in, freezes, then slowly backs up. "I’ll come back when it’s not weirdly sexual."

You don’t move.

Neither does Bucky.

Sam’s gone again before either of you says a word.

You burst out laughing. "God, his timing is perfect."

Bucky mutters, "He does it on purpose."

You stay there a second longer than necessary. Just looking at him. Just breathing the same air.

Then you push up to your feet and offer him a hand. "C’mon, lover boy. Lunch duty calls."

He rolls his eyes, but takes your hand.

"You’re gonna slice off your thumb."

"I’ve had this arm for seventy years. I think I’ve got it."

You lean in, watching Bucky hack at a red bell pepper. "You’re murdering that thing. That’s not chopping. That’s vengeance."

"Could’ve just done this yourself," he grumbles.

You grin, reaching for the cutting board. "Where’s the fun in that?"

The two of you are elbows-deep in a chaotic lunch prep. Something vaguely Italian, something involving way too many ingredients, and a playlist you keep switching every time he tries to play anything post-1945.

You reach over, flick a bit of water at him from the sink.

He turns slowly. "You’re gonna regret that."

You flick again. This time, straight at his face.

"You’re done."

You yelp and duck as he grabs a wet dish towel and whips it toward your hip. It hits with a satisfying snap. You retaliate by lobbing a handful of flour at him. It explodes against his chest like a smoke bomb.

The kitchen fills with chaos and laughter. He grabs for you, you dodge, and it turns into a slapstick chase around the island.

Steve walks in mid-sprint, takes one look at the flour cloud, the abandoned bell peppers, the absolute mess of you two—and just sighs.

"Nope."

He backs out the door without another word.

You lean against the counter, breathless, flour in your hair, laughing uncontrollably. Bucky’s grinning too, cheeks pink, shirt a disaster.

"You’re a menace," he says, brushing a streak of flour off your jaw with his thumb.

"And you’re terrible with knives."

He flicks your forehead, gentle. "Shut up."

You bump his hip. "Make me."

He doesn’t.

Instead, he goes back to dicing the pepper—still terribly—and you stand next to him, shoulder to shoulder, like there’s nowhere else in the world either of you is supposed to be.

The hallway is quiet, the low hum of the compound’s overhead lights the only sound as you drift toward the residential wing. You don’t even think about it—you just walk to Bucky’s door and push it open without knocking.

He’s inside, barefoot, freshly showered, pulling a shirt over his head.

"You ever heard of knocking?" he asks, not looking up.

"You ever heard of locking the door?"

He shakes his head, faint smile tugging at his mouth. "You want something?"

"Somewhere to land," you say, already walking past him.

You collapse onto his bed like it’s your own, grabbing one of his pillows and hugging it to your chest. It smells like him—soap, leather, that slightly metal tang that never really fades.

He grabs the book from his desk, sits on the edge of the mattress. "You know you’ve got your own room, right?"

"It’s cold. And lonely. And doesn’t come with built-in bedtime stories."

He raises an eyebrow. "You want me to read to you?"

You stretch out, head resting against the center of his chest now, hand curled near his ribs. "You’re halfway through something," you say, pointing at the worn paperback on the nightstand. "C’mon. Make it dramatic."

He sighs. "You’re gonna fall asleep in three pages."

"I will if you’re boring."

He flips the book open with a shake of his head, leans back against the headboard, and starts to read.

His voice is low. Steady. Not trying to perform—just giving the words shape.

You listen for a while, eyes drifting shut. Every now and then he shifts, ever so slightly, adjusting to cradle you better without waking you. His metal arm rests against your back. His other hand drifts to your hair, fingers brushing through it like it’s instinct.

Ten minutes in, your breathing changes. Slows.

He keeps reading anyway.

In the hallway, Sam passes by. He pauses just outside the half-closed door. Takes in the image: you fast asleep against Bucky’s chest, his hand in your hair, his voice soft even now.

Sam doesn’t knock. Doesn’t tease.

He just smiles. A small, quiet thing. Then he keeps walking.

Back in the room, Bucky’s voice trails off as he realizes you’re gone to the world.

He marks the page. Sets the book aside.

And stays there with you for a long time.

The city sprawls out beneath the compound’s west balcony, all golden haze and soft street noise. It’s late—later than you intended to be awake—but you and Bucky sit shoulder to shoulder in the cool night air, nursing slow drinks and slower conversation.

You’re both in T-shirts and sweatpants. His sleeves are pushed up. Your hair’s still mussed from sleep. Neither of you has mentioned it.

You steal his phone while he’s mid-sip.

"Hey—"

"You’ve got, like, three playlists labeled Workout and one labeled Stuff She Likes?" you grin, scrolling. "What is this, Barnes? Sentiment?"

He lunges half-heartedly for the phone. "That’s private."

"Mmhm." You scroll again, smirking. "Fleetwood Mac? Hozier? Lana Del Rey?"

He mutters into his glass, "You said you liked that song once."

"That was six months ago."

He shrugs, staring out at the skyline. "It’s a good song."

You press play.

The soft thrum of guitar filters through the balcony speakers. You settle deeper into your chair, stealing a glance at him. He doesn’t look at you, but his fingers tap lightly against the glass in his hand, like he knows the rhythm.

"Bucky," you say quietly.

"Yeah?"

"You ever make a playlist of stuff you like?"

He pauses.

Then: "Yeah."

You tilt your head. "Where is it?"

He finally turns to look at you, eyes unreadable in the dark.

"You’re listening to it."

You don’t say anything.

Just sit there a little closer than you were five minutes ago. Listening to music you forgot you loved, playing from a phone you didn’t know he guarded like a secret.

And beside you, Bucky doesn’t say another word.

The late afternoon sun casts long shadows over the compound’s training deck. You and Sam lean against the railing near the edge, both sipping electrolyte drinks like you’ve earned them—because you have. The sparring session was brutal. You’re still sweating.

"You really gonna pretend that wasn’t a low blow?" you ask, nudging him with your shoulder.

Sam smirks. "I don’t fight fair against people who fight like gremlins."

You snort. "You’ve been hanging out with Bucky too long."

He gives you a look. "I could say the same."

You roll your eyes and lean back, letting the breeze cool your neck. The compound stretches out behind you. Beyond the railing, the tree line sways with wind. It’s quiet up here. Too quiet for what Sam’s clearly building up to.

"So," he says slowly, "you and Barnes…"

You groan. "Sam—"

He holds up a hand. "I’m not starting shit. I’m just saying—five years, shared brain cell, matching battle bruises. It’s impressive how long you’ve both managed to not get together."

"We’re friends."

"Uh-huh."

"We are."

"Sure. And I just coincidentally saw him reading to you while you drooled on his chest the other night."

You flush. "Shut up."

Sam shrugs, then goes quiet for a few beats.

You both watch the trees for a while.

Then you say it, soft and thoughtless. "He’s my person."

Sam turns to you. "Yeah?"

You nod. "Always has been."

He studies you. "Then why do you sound sad when you say that?"

You blink.

And it hits you a second too late—how true it is. That slight ache behind your words. Like you know something’s there, but you won’t let yourself name it.

You look away. "I don’t."

Sam doesn’t argue.

He just takes a slow sip of his drink and says, "Okay."

You both stand there a while longer, letting the wind speak for you.

The compound’s garage is quiet, save for the low whirr of a torque wrench and the hum of old rock bleeding from a dusty speaker on the counter.

Bucky’s crouched beside one of the team’s motorcycles, sleeves rolled, fingers smudged with grease. His metal hand adjusts a bolt like it’s second nature—smooth, practiced, something that doesn’t require thinking. Which is exactly why he’s doing it.

He doesn’t hear Steve come in. Just senses him. The shift in the air. That familiar presence.

Steve doesn’t say anything at first. Just walks around the bike, nodding once like he’s inspecting Bucky’s work. Then leans a hip against the nearby workbench.

A beat.

Then: "You ever gonna tell her?"

Bucky doesn’t look up. "Tell who what?"

"You know who. You know what."

He exhales through his nose, grabs a rag, wipes his hands like it gives him something to do. "It’s not like that."

Steve crosses his arms. "It’s exactly like that."

"She’s my friend."

"She’s your girl."

Bucky goes quiet.

The wrench gets set down. Carefully. Deliberately.

Then he says it, like the words taste like blood: "She’s everything I never thought I’d get."

Steve doesn’t interrupt.

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, grease streaking his temple. "That’s why I can’t touch it. You know what happens when I touch things I care about."

Steve’s voice softens. "She’s not a bomb, Buck."

"No," Bucky says, low. "She’s a home. And I’ve never had one that didn’t burn down."

Steve just watches him for a second, something flickering in his eyes—sadness, maybe. Recognition.

Then, gently: "She already knows. Maybe not the way you think. But she knows."

Bucky doesn’t answer.

He just sits back on his heels, eyes distant, grease-smudged fingers curled into fists.

The table is small, scratched from years of card games and caffeine rings. You’re both barefoot, knees knocking under the surface every few hands, too lazy to adjust anymore.

Bucky shuffles with one hand, elegant and smooth. You tease him every time he does it. He never stops.

"You cheating again?" you ask, watching him deal.

"I’m just better at this than you."

"That’s rich coming from a man who thinks three of a kind beats a straight."

"That happened once."

"Three times."

He rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile tucked into the corner of his mouth.

You lean back in your chair, pretending to study your hand. "Y’know, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you let me win."

"I do. Every time."

You glance up, surprised to find his gaze already on you.

The room suddenly feels too quiet.

You swallow, set your cards down slowly. "You’re not as slick as you think you are, Barnes."

He doesn’t respond. Just watches you. Like he’s waiting for something.

And for a second—just a second—you lean forward.

It’s instinct. Half of one. But you catch yourself. You don’t pull back fast, just… stall. Hovering in a space that wasn’t supposed to exist between you.

His breath shifts. Yours catches.

Then you blink, smile like it was a joke, and drop your cards on the table.

"Draw," you say.

Bucky looks down at the cards.

Then back at you.

He doesn’t smile again after that.

Not even when you flick a joker at his forehead on your way out of the room.

It starts like nothing.

You come into the kitchen late one morning, hair damp from a quick shower, grabbing a banana and muttering about being late. Bucky’s sitting at the counter, sipping coffee, flipping a pen between his fingers.

You kiss his cheek without thinking—something you’ve done a hundred times—and open the fridge.

"I met someone," you say casually, like you’re announcing a weather update. "Yesterday. At that weird coffee place near Bryant Park."

Bucky’s pen stops spinning.

"Oh?" he says.

You’re rummaging through the shelves. "Yeah. We started talking about books. He bought me an extra lemon bar ‘cause the guy at the counter thought I was with him anyway. Whole thing was kinda funny."

"What’s his name?" Bucky asks, too evenly.

"Ethan." You pop a grape into your mouth. "Don’t know if it’ll go anywhere. He seems cool though. Tall. Real smooth."

You grin. You don’t see how Bucky’s fingers tighten around his coffee cup.

You don’t notice the pause before he says, "Huh. Smooth."

Then you start canceling.

You skip movie night. "Ethan got tickets to something last minute," you text.

You bail on your Thursday spar. "I’ll make it up to you," you promise.

You don’t.

The next week, you miss a team dinner. Don’t even text first this time.

Bucky shows up anyway. Sits in his usual seat. Orders your usual drink. Doesn’t say anything when it sits untouched.

When Sam asks, "She coming?" Bucky just shakes his head.

Later, when Steve mentions he hasn’t seen you in a few days, Bucky shrugs. "She’s probably just busy."

"Busy," Steve echoes. But his tone isn’t casual.

Bucky stops texting you at night. Stops sending you those dumb memes you always liked. He starts showing up early to meetings. Sits further from you in briefings. Doesn’t make a thing of it.

But every time someone says your name in a room and you’re not there?

He flinches.

It’s supposed to be nothing.

Just a casual night—team pizza and bad TV, no agenda, no pressure. Bucky’s in the rec room with Sam and Steve, half-watching something with car crashes and questionable dialogue. He hasn’t asked about you.

He’s learned not to.

But when the door opens and you walk in, his head turns automatically.

And then he sees him.

Ethan’s got his hand resting casually on the small of your back. He’s laughing at something you just said. You’re holding a pizza box like a peace offering. Your eyes scan the room like this is normal.

Like this doesn’t matter.

"Hey," you say, smiling. "Hope you saved us a seat."

Us.

You set the pizza on the table, then turn toward the couch. "This is Ethan."

The room stills.

Ethan nods, friendly and warm. "Nice to meet you guys. I’ve heard a lot about this crew."

He extends a hand to Steve, who shakes it with that polite but measured grip. Sam’s smile is tight. Tony—already half-exiting the room—pops his head back in and goes, "Oh, so this is the famous Ethan."

You chuckle. "I haven’t said that much."

And Bucky?

He says nothing.

He just watches.

You don’t notice how he doesn’t blink when Ethan drapes an arm across the back of your chair.

How his jaw clenches when Ethan makes a joke about how "she always gets competitive with movies—bet I’ll regret sitting next to her."

How every single person in that room—Sam, Steve, even Tony—glances toward Bucky with the kind of tension people usually save for explosives.

Because there is one in the room.

And it has Bucky Barnes’ face.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even shift when you lean into Ethan and laugh at something in his ear.

He just stares at the screen, expression flat.

Until the pizza box is opened and the first slice hits your plate.

Then—quietly—he stands and walks out.

No words.

No drama.

Just silence.

The kind that sounds exactly like a fuse burning out.

It’s the second time Ethan shows up at the compound that things start to fray.

You’re in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for some kind of potluck Tony insisted on throwing. You’re talking—telling a story from a recent op, gesturing wildly, laughing.

"Wait," Ethan says, interrupting mid-sentence. "Didn’t you say it was your left leg you landed on?"

You pause. "No. It was the right."

He chuckles like it’s adorable. "You sure? Pretty sure you said left the first time."

You blink. "I’m… sure."

Bucky, across the room slicing bread, stops mid-cut.

Steve watches him. Closely.

You laugh it off. "Either way, I didn’t break anything. Just a solid bruise."

Ethan leans in like he’s sharing something private. "Well, maybe next time don’t try to be the hero."

He means it as a joke. Maybe.

You smile like it didn’t land wrong. "That’s kind of in the job description."

A little later, you hum something under your breath while stirring sauce.

Ethan leans beside you and murmurs, "You still listening to that moody stuff? Thought we were gonna get you into real music."

Bucky’s hand clenches.

"Real music?" you echo.

"Y’know, fun stuff. Not that downer guitar chick thing. What’s her name?"

You don’t answer.

You change the song. You always change the song.

Later, at the table, you reach for seconds.

Ethan puts a hand gently over yours. "Babe," he says under his breath, "we’re trying to be good this week, remember?"

You smile.

It doesn’t reach your eyes.

Across the table, Bucky is silent. His food’s untouched. His eyes are on you.

Sam clears his throat, loudly.

Ethan doesn’t notice.

You do.

You say nothing.

When it’s over, Ethan goes to say goodbye, hand brushing down your spine like punctuation.

You stay behind to clean up.

Bucky’s already stacking plates. Quiet. Focused.

"Don’t," you say softly.

He pauses. "Don’t what?"

"Whatever that look is. Don’t."

"I didn’t say anything."

"That’s worse."

He looks at you then, really looks.

"I’m not mad at you," he says quietly. "I’m mad at myself."

You don’t ask what he means.

You don’t want to hear it.

You just take the plates from his hands and start rinsing.

And he watches you like he’s watching something walk out of a burning building.

Sam’s door creaks open slowly, and before he even looks up from tying his laces, he mutters, "You better be bleeding."

Bucky steps in. Closes the door behind him.

His voice is too calm. That’s how Sam knows it’s bad.

"I’m going to kill him."

Sam exhales slowly. "Which him are we talking about?"

Bucky just stares.

"Cool," Sam says. "So, Ethan then."

There’s a long silence. Bucky doesn’t pace. Doesn’t explode. Just stands there, fists flexing and relaxing like a heartbeat.

"He talks over her," Bucky says finally. "Like she’s an inconvenience to his story."

Sam nods once.

"Corrects her. Tells her what to eat. What music to like. And she just—she laughs it off. Like it’s fine."

"She does that," Sam says quietly.

Bucky swallows hard. His voice drops. "She used to play that music in my room. Every damn night."

Sam looks up.

"She doesn’t even put it on anymore. She changes it when he’s around." Bucky’s voice cracks like it wants to be angry but can’t get past broken. "He’s rewiring her. Right in front of us."

Sam stands, walks over, and leans on the edge of his dresser. "You said anything to her?"

"What the fuck am I supposed to say?" Bucky snaps. "That I’ve been in love with her since the first time she called me out on my knife skills and didn’t flinch? That I let her fall asleep on me because it’s the closest thing I’ve had to peace in seventy years?"

He shakes his head, voice tightening.

"I see her smiling, but it’s not her. It’s smaller. Like she’s rationing it."

Sam doesn't move.

Bucky's jaw flexes. "If she ever asks me to sit across from him, pretend to play nice? I’ll say yes."

Sam raises an eyebrow. "Even if it wrecks you?"

"She won’t be alone," Bucky says quietly. "Not with him."

Sam watches him a long moment, then nods once. "Alright. Let me know when the curtain goes up."

The rec room is warm and low-lit, late afternoon sun spilling in gold through the windows. You lean against the back of the couch, half-watching a movie with Sam while Bucky sits on the floor, elbows on his knees, aimlessly flipping a poker chip through his fingers.

You’ve been thinking about it all day.

Trying to make it feel casual. Simple. Like it’s just logistics.

"So," you start, tone light, "Ethan and I are doing dinner Friday. Thought it might be fun to make it a double."

The chip freezes in Bucky’s hand.

Sam turns his head so slowly it’s almost comical.

You keep your voice breezy. "I figured we could try mixing groups a little, you know? He’s met most of the team now. Might be good to—blend worlds."

You glance at Bucky, and there’s a flicker of something unreadable in his face. Just for a second.

Then it’s gone.

"Sure," he says.

Just that. Simple. Too fast.

You blink. "Really?"

He shrugs. "Why not."

Sam says nothing, but his eyes are screaming. You can feel them boring through the back of your skull.

You cross your arms. "Bring someone, obviously. No pressure. Sam probably knows someone who can tolerate you for two hours."

Bucky smirks faintly, but it doesn’t touch his eyes. "I’ll ask around."

Sam leans forward, setting his drink down slowly. "This sounds like a terrible idea," he says, voice dry as the Mojave.

You shoot him a look. "I’m not asking you to come, Wilson."

"Not for me," he mutters. "For him."

Bucky doesn’t flinch.

You catch the edge in Sam’s tone but choose not to push. "It’s just dinner."

"No such thing," Sam mutters.

Bucky stands, tossing the poker chip back onto the coffee table with a soft clack. "Let me know where."

And then he walks out.

Not dramatically.

Just gone.

You stare after him, mouth slightly open.

Sam exhales, pinches the bridge of his nose.

"You two are gonna kill each other," he mutters. "And I’m gonna have to officiate the damn funeral."

The restaurant is one of those modern, steel-and-glass places with a name you can’t pronounce and candles that smell like irony. You’re seated already, laughing at something Ethan just said, one hand wrapped around your glass, the other brushing the edge of the linen tablecloth. You keep checking the door.

Then Bucky walks in.

He’s in black—black button-down, sleeves rolled to the forearm, jacket slung over his shoulder. His hair’s tied back. He’s not smiling.

He’s not looking at you.

A woman walks beside him—tall, pretty, confident in that effortless New York way. Sam’s friend, you remember vaguely. She's polite. Friendly. She greets you with warmth.

Bucky just nods.

You don’t know where to put your hands.

Ethan stands and shakes Bucky’s hand, too firm, too performative. “Glad you could make it, man.”

“Sure,” Bucky says, tone unreadable.

You feel the shift immediately.

The way his eyes flick to your glass when Ethan refills it for you without asking. The way he doesn’t sit until his date is settled. The way he keeps his hands folded in his lap, like he’s bracing for something.

You’re all pretending to be normal.

Ethan is telling some story about a board meeting. Bucky’s date listens politely. You laugh when you’re supposed to.

Bucky doesn’t laugh.

He doesn’t speak much, either.

When he does, it’s short. Clipped. Measured.

Ethan orders the second bottle of wine before you finish your first.

Bucky glances at the label. Doesn’t say a word.

And then the waiter comes back.

Menu in hand.

Pen poised.

And Ethan speaks first.

The waiter barely finishes asking before Ethan’s voice cuts in, confident and smooth.

“She’ll have the halibut,” he says, flashing a smile. “No sauce. Sub greens for the fries.”

Your mouth opens. Not wide. Just enough.

Like your body can’t decide whether to protest or laugh it off.

You glance at him.

Ethan doesn’t look back.

Just says softly—soft enough that only you and Bucky can hear— “Don’t make me remind you again.”

It’s casual. Gentle, even. Except it’s not.

You go quiet.

And Bucky—

—stops breathing.

His fork doesn’t move. His shoulders don’t shift. His eyes stay locked on the tablecloth like it just declared war.

The woman next to him, his date, senses it. Her eyes flick between you and him. Something passes across her face—uncertainty, maybe. Or pity.

The silence is a heartbeat too long.

Then Bucky stands.

Not abruptly. Not loudly.

He just folds his napkin. Sets it beside his plate. Pushes his chair back with surgical quiet.

“I’ll be outside.”

You blink. “What? Buck—”

He’s already walking.

His date glances at you, at the table, then quietly reaches for her purse. “I think I’ll call it too.”

You offer to order her a car.

She smiles faintly. “He already did. Said he doesn't do rideshare apps. Too ‘traceable.’” She says it like it’s a joke. But her eyes linger on the door.

And then she’s gone too.

You sit there with Ethan’s hand on your knee and your heart somewhere in the sidewalk outside.

You stand slowly.

Ethan doesn’t even look up from his phone at first.

Then, casually, “Where are you going?”

You pause. “Out.”

He finally looks at you. His mouth twitches—half-smile, half-warning. “We haven’t even ordered dessert.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You said you were.”

You blink at him. “Ethan—”

He sets his phone down, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Don’t make this a thing. It’s been a nice night.”

Your stomach twists.

You don’t answer. You just grab your coat and move for the door.

Behind you: “Seriously? You’re just walking out?”

You don’t turn around.

You push through the restaurant doors—

—and the rain hits you like a wall.

Hard. Cold. Real.

And there he is.

Bucky.

He doesn't speak at first.

You stand there, rain soaking through your dress, breath uneven, watching the way his fingers clench and unclench like they’re trying to hold something in that doesn’t want to be kept.

His jaw flexes.

And then he laughs.

It’s bitter. Hollow. It dies before it even gets out of his throat.

“I told myself I could handle it,” he says. Voice low. Rough. “Told myself I could watch it happen. You and him.”

You don’t move.

“But then I saw the way he looked at you in there.” He gestures behind him, toward the glowing restaurant windows. “Like you’re something to manage. Like you’re furniture. Background noise.”

“Bucky—”

“You haven’t smiled in weeks,” he says, and it’s a knife. “Not really. Not the way you used to. Not the way you did when it was just us.”

You open your mouth, but he cuts you off.

“And you—” he points at you now, soaked, shaking. “You changed your music. Your food. You stopped showing up.”

“Things are just—”

“No,” he snaps. “Don’t give me that. You disappeared. One day you were there—laughing at my cooking, stealing my hoodies, falling asleep with your head on my chest—and then you were gone. Like none of it mattered.”

You swallow hard. “You never said it mattered.”

His expression cracks.

For the first time in weeks, maybe months—he lets you see all of it.

“I didn’t think I could,” he whispers. “I didn’t think I was allowed.”

The rain keeps falling, soaking both of you straight through, but neither of you moves.

You can hear it in your chest—his breathing. Too fast. Too shallow.

“I’m in love with you,” Bucky says.

Just like that.

No hesitation.

His voice breaks like it hurts to say it—but he says it anyway.

“I have been,” he continues. “Since long before I even knew what to do with it.”

You’re frozen.

He doesn’t look away. “I didn’t tell you because I thought I’d ruin it. Ruin us. And maybe I already did. Maybe I waited too long. But I can’t—” his hand gestures, desperate, “—I can’t stand by and watch someone like him shrink you.”

“I didn’t see it,” you whisper.

“Yes, you did.” His voice is gentler now. “But you didn’t want to.”

Silence.

Rain dripping from your lashes.

And then:

“I don’t expect anything,” he says quietly. “I just needed you to know.”

You step forward.

One step.

Then another.

And before he can say another word, your hands are in his hair, his name falling off your lips, and you kiss him.

Hard.

Desperate.

Like your body just remembered what home feels like.

He doesn’t hesitate. His arms wrap around your waist, lift you up like instinct. You gasp against his mouth as your feet leave the ground, your fingers knotting tighter into his hair. The kiss breaks only for breath—just enough for you to whisper, “You idiot.”

Then your mouth is on his again.

There’s nothing soft about it.

It’s wild and soaked and years in the making.

And when he finally sets you down, forehead pressed to yours, both of you gasping—

Neither of you lets go.

The compound door clicks open, rain dripping in behind you, and Bucky barely waits for it to shut before you’re against the wall, his mouth on your neck.

You’re soaked—your dress clinging, his shirt plastered to his chest, both of you shaking from more than just the cold.

Your hands are in his hair again. You never even remember putting them back there. His fingers press into your hips like he still can’t believe you’re real.

Then you hear it.

"Uh—"

You freeze mid-kiss.

Bucky’s lips stay against your jaw for a beat longer before he pulls back, breathless.

You both turn.

Steve’s standing in the kitchen, holding a dish towel and looking every bit like someone who just walked in on a private movie. He covers his eyes with it, half-laughing, half-mortified.

"Oh my god," he mutters. "Finally. But also—Jesus."

To his left, Tony stands with a drink in one hand and a deeply amused expression.

He slow claps.

"No notes," he says. "Excellent execution. Loved the intensity. Real Nicholas Sparks climax."

Sam is silent.

Just staring.

Mouth open. Processing. Concerned.

"Y’all good?" he finally says. "Do we need to… call someone? Light a candle? I don’t know what protocol is here."

Bucky’s hand never leaves your hip.

Yours never leaves his hair.

You just smile.

"Goodnight, boys," you say sweetly, walking backward toward the hallway with Bucky close behind, his hand firmly guiding you like he’s not planning on letting go for a second.

Tony raises his glass.

Steve laughs and shakes his head.

And then you’re gone.

The door clicks closed behind you with more force than either of you intended, and suddenly there is only darkness, only the sound of your breaths and rain still dripping somewhere behind the walls. You’re tangled, desperate, skin slick.

Bucky’s mouth crashes into yours, teeth grazing, tongue urgent and claiming. His hands grip your thighs, lift you, and instinct drives you right back onto him—legs wrapping tight around his waist, pressing him closer. You're standing, but it’s like you're weightless, tethered to him.

You yank at his hair—long strands plucked free from the rainy night—fingers curling into his scalp. He groans, deep and ripping between your lips, breath rough and broken. One metal hand slides under your dress, fingertips searing over bare flesh. You gasp around a moan, head lolling back.

He lowers you to the bed with godlike care for the beast he’s just unleashed. His hands splay across your ribs, memorizing the slow-thumping beat beneath his fingers. His lips kiss down your spine, biting and worshipful both. You feel every thread of fabric around you vanish.

Your hands go straight to his belt. You undo it with swift impatience. He stops you, thumbs catching the hem of your dress, pulling it higher before lifting you so he can slip it off your hips.

Your skin shows first to each other in the soft glow of the bedside lamp—your bodies illuminated in real, flesh-and-blood detail. No choreography. Just hunger.

He parts your thighs, lips hovering near your core. A soft exhale, a whispered, "Mine." Then he’s kissing you —tongue sliding, exploring, teasing, tasting. You cry out, and your nails dig into his shoulder, leaving crescent marks he’ll wear proudly. His fingers slip inside you—gentle at first, then curl and stretch.

You feel him stop, pull away, and just when you panic, his metal hand cradles your cheek. He kisses you again, slower now, his voice husky, "I’ve wanted this for so long."

Your breath hitches. He moves, sliding inside you in one powerful thrust. You gasp, arching your back.

He moves slowly, then faster—hands in your hair, one arm around your back, holding you close as your bodies collide. The bed creaks. Your moans fill the space between words. He buries his face in your neck, chasing scent and solace.

Your legs tighten around him. "Yes," you whisper. "God, yes."

He steadies you, thrusts deep—slow, fucking deep—then draws away only to come back with everything he’s held in for months… years. You shudder, chest trembling, nails scoring his back.

"Don’t stop," you breathe. It’s more plea than command. He answers with more fierce persistence.

Something loose and fragile inside you snaps—you come apart on him, gasping in his arms. He groans low—fucking groans—and follows after, teeth clenching, whole body flooding before collapsing across yours.

The world stops.

You collapse together, chests rising, bodies sticky and slick, internal storms quieted at last by each other's touch. He buries his face in your hair, kisses your forehead in tiny, reverent gestures.

You run your fingers over every ridge of his arms, thighs, chest—like you're sealing yourself in forever.

After a long moment, you say, "Finally."

He lifts his head, voice soft with awe. "Yeah."

And with no sense of hurry, you drift into sleep together—entwined, at peace, at home.

It’s warm.

Not just the blankets. Not just the air thick with sunrise.

But him.

He’s behind you, arm slung low around your waist, chest pressed to your back, breath feathering slow and even against your shoulder. Your bodies are still tangled, your legs looped around his like you never learned how to sleep apart.

You don’t want to move.

But you do—slowly, carefully, just enough to turn and face him.

His eyes open the second you do.

Not groggy.

Not startled.

Just soft.

You blink up at him. "Been awake?"

He nods, barely.

"How long?"

"Long enough to not want it to end."

You smile, cheek pressed into his pillow. "That’s disgustingly sweet."

He shrugs, metal hand smoothing down your spine. "You bring it out in me. Don’t spread that around."

"Your secret’s safe." You shift, dragging your hand across his ribs, over the faded scars and firm muscle. "For now."

Bucky leans in, kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then just hovers there—like he wants to keep kissing you but he doesn’t want to break the moment.

You kiss him instead.

Slow. Lazy. Morning-sweet.

Then you stretch. "Shower?"

He raises a brow. "Together?"

You grin. "You really asking that?"

He laughs, full-bodied and happy. "God, I love you."

He freezes.

You freeze.

Neither of you speaks for a long second.

Then he clears his throat. "I mean—I didn’t mean—"

You cut him off with another kiss.

"You did."

He exhales, eyes wide.

You kiss him again. "I love you too."

His arms wrap around you tighter like he’s afraid someone’s going to pull you away.

You stay there for a while longer.

Because there’s no rush now.

There’s everything.

The kitchen is warm with sunlight and sarcasm. Steve’s already nursing a mug. Sam’s reading something on a tablet. Tony is, predictably, poking at a holographic spreadsheet he’ll abandon in five minutes.

You walk in barefoot.

Wearing Bucky’s shirt.

Nothing else.

Bucky follows a step behind, hair still damp, that same unreadable smugness barely hidden behind his yawn.

Sam’s the first to notice.

He glances up, squints, freezes.

Then chokes spectacularly on his coffee.

"Jesus," he wheezes.

Tony turns. Smiles.

Then full-on claps.

"Round two of the Barnes Redemption Arc," he says, grinning. "This one has considerably more nudity."

Steve doesn’t even pretend to be surprised.

He just lifts his mug and says, "Took you long enough."

You roll your eyes and walk straight to the coffee pot like this is any other morning.

Bucky follows, pulls down your favorite mug, pours for you. Like muscle memory.

Sam is still coughing. "I’m sorry, are we all just acting like this is normal now?"

Steve shrugs. "It was inevitable."

Tony raises a brow. "Inevitable and loud. The walls here are thin."

You sip your coffee calmly. "Then maybe don’t eavesdrop."

"I wasn’t the one narrating," Tony shoots back. "That was him."

Bucky, unbothered, sips his own mug. "Not sorry."

Sam just shakes his head, muttering into his hand, "This is some old-school enemies to lovers fanfic bullshit."

You lean into Bucky’s side, plant a kiss on his jaw in full view of everyone.

"I’m happy," you say simply.

He wraps his arm around your waist and murmurs back, "Me too."

Tony groans. "You’re gonna make me believe in love, and I hate that for me."

You kiss Bucky again.

Just to be sure it’s real.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky x you #the winter soldier #james bucky buchanan barnes #winter soldier #james buchanan barnes #steve rogers #the avengers

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magikdarkholme · 4 months ago

Text

— starks daughter and the falcon

pairing — Joaquín Torres x femstark!reader

summary — some random posts and comments to start off my little universe i may be creating… WE SHALL SEE!

notes — fc is Enya umanzor, using her cuz she’s cool and pretty asf but reader doesn’t have to look like that!!!!

masterlist

An - Tony is sooo dad core, like the 👍 …😭😭also some usernames etc might be inconsistent but we move

@y/n

liked by JoaquínTorres, SamWilson, P.Parker2001 and 2,397,403 others

y/n: for once I have no words 🙂‍↔️

SamWilson: Yeah cuz you always yapping.

⤷y/n: Don’t give me attitude boy. I remember what you did…

Avengersfan3000: ooo lol, I wonder what Sam did

⤷y/n: He got caught following ai girls on Instagram… @SamWilson watch your back

Starkgirl: LOL NOT AGAIN SAM

Joaquintorres: wow lol my gf is so pretty lol

⤷Tonystark: Okay bud, calm down

Tonystark: 👍

⤷y/n: Wow... no need for the aggression dad.

CarolDanvers: Is that my shirt?

⤷y/n: Whattttt... lol noooo just.. very similar

@y/n

liked by Kate.bishop, N.romanoff, P.Parker2001 and 1,300,000 others

y/n: #pepperony4eva #myparentsarebetterthanurs

P.parker2001: not pictured - what he did after :/

⤷user234: omg what did he do after?

⤷y/n: He started off by throwing water at me and peter, then he launched FRESH strawberrys at us :/ Tony Stark is not a good person y'all. + pep is allergic too strawberries and he forgot.. AGAIN.

stargirl13: LMAOO are we surprised? did y'all see his expo? this man is so unserious...

Joaquintorres: Awe :) my parents in law are so cute

⤷Tonystark: You are ONE step away from me deleting all of your accounts, snd preventing you from creating new ones.

⤷y/n: If you do that i will tell mom what you did.. she wont be happy. Leave my bf alone damn!!!!

@Joaquintorres

liked by Samwilson, N.romanoff, y/n and 800,000 others

Joaquintorres: i am THE ‘i❤️mygf’ truther … i really do LOVE MY GF!!!!

Tonystark: lol u flopped

⤷y/n: WHO taught you that…

⤷P.parker2001: my bad…

Samwilson: Soon you wont have a ‘gf’. Stop acting lame boy.

User69: He is too hot for her..

⤷y/n: thats not what yo mama said last night

@y/n

#mcu #mcusmau #tonystark daughter #avengers x reader #joaquin torres x reader #stark!reader #tony stark x daughter!reader #smau #marvelsmau #danny ramirez #falcon #joaquin torres #joaquintorressmau

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mostly-marvel-musings · 2 months ago

Note

Can I request a tony stark fanfic based on Super Bowl by stray kids ? 🙇‍♀️

Main Event

A/N: This had been marinating in my inbox for the longest time. Leave a heart or comment if you’ve enjoyed.

Pairing: Tony Stark x Reader

Warning: none!

Tony Stark Masterlist

You weren’t supposed to be impressed.

Not by him, anyway.

But here he was shirt slightly unbuttoned, arc reactor glowing like he’d swallowed a star, swagger turned up to eleven commanding the stage at a Stark Expo press event like it was the damn Super Bowl halftime show.

Tony Stark was the show.

And he knew it.

“I don’t build things to fit in,” he’d said earlier that day, brushing soot off his sleeve from a freshly tested micro drone.

“I build things so the rest of the world tries to catch up.”

He looked at you when he said it. Not the press. Not the board. You.

Because lately, Tony had been doing something dangerous. He was showing off.

You watched him from the wings, arms crossed, expression neutral.

He winked mid-speech, of course he did.

And when the presentation ended, music thumping, lights flashing, drones spelling “STARK” across the sky—he strutted off stage like a man who just won a championship and still had enough energy to flirt with danger.

You didn’t clap. You just quirked an eyebrow as he approached.

“Subtle,” you said.

“Wasn’t aiming for subtle,” he replied. “Was aiming for jaw-drop. How’d I do?”

“You look like a man who made a bet with himself about how many camera angles could catch his ‘good side.’”

“Joke’s on them,” Tony said, leaning in, eyes glinting. “All my sides are good.”

He was close now—so close you could smell the faint trace of cologne and adrenaline. There was a smug curve to his lips, the kind that said I win. Always do.

You tipped your head. “You hungry for something, Stark? ‘Cause you’re prowling like a man looking for dessert.”

“Only if you’re on the menu, sweetheart.”

There it was, the full Tony Stark treatment swagger, smirk, sex-on-a-stick confidence.

“All flash. No follow-through,” you said, cool as ice.

That stopped him. Just for a second.

Then the smirk curved wider. Slower. Lazier.

“Challenge accepted.”

Later That Night…

The afterparty was in full swing, but Tony wasn’t on the floor with the guests. He was in the private lounge, drink in hand, tie loosened, watching the security footage of you absolutely wrecking a lab tech in a playful debate about AI ethics.

“God, she’s hot when she argues,” he murmured to himself.

“Sir,” came JARVIS’s voice, dry as ever. “You say that daily.”

“Because it’s true daily.”

And when you walked in cool, collected, knowing damn well he was waiting, he stood up like the game was on again.

“Back for round two?” he asked, voice low, smug.

“I don’t play games,” you replied. “But I do win.”

He stepped in, close enough to feel your breath. “What exactly are you trying to win, sweetheart?”

You just smirked. “The main event.”

And when your lips met his, it wasn’t a kiss. It was a score. A touchdown in the fourth quarter. A scream-inducing, camera-flashing, highlight reel kind of kiss.

Tony Stark might’ve been the MVP. But you?

You were the one who made him sweat.

#tony stark x reader #tony stark fanfiction #tony stark imagine #tony stark fluff #tony stark smut #the stark squad #anon asks #marvel fanfiction #tony stark #mostly marvel musings #iron man fanfiction #iron man x reader #iron man fic

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callalillywrites · 1 month ago

Text

A Civil War of Charades

Written for @steverogersbingo. D2 - Team Cap.

Steve Rogers Masterlist | Steve Rogers Bingo | Main Masterlist

Pairing: Steve Rogers x F!Reader

Word Count: 1530

Summary: The Avengers have split into two teams for a game of charades. Team Cap might soon be behind Team Iron Man, but Steve has a trick or two up his sleeve to catch up and possibly win the game. You.

Warnings: established relationship; Steve's sneaky but Reader knows him well enough; good-natured competition

A/N: I know I could've written something that matched canon with the whole team thing, but I thought this idea was far cuter and way more fun time write.

I do not give permission to have my works copied, translated, reposted, or fed into an AI machine.

****

Whoever decided playing charades was a good idea didn't account for how competitive a group of superheroes could get.

The two teams, Team Cap and Team Iron Man, proved formidable opponents of each other.

"You're not going to win this, Cap. Give up now," Tony shouted above the others.

Steve simply shook his head. "Never gonna happen. We can do this all night if necessary."

"You're down over thirty points," Rhodey pointed out. "Even a lightning round won't save you."

"He's right, old man. You and your team are toast at this point."

"We'll see," Steve said, not nearly as daunted at their lower score as everyone else thought he should be. After all, he had a plan. He just needed Tony to step into his trap, and his plan would unfold just as he knew it would.

"You're dreaming, Capsicle. Absolutely dreaming."

Steve had bite his lip to keep his face from splitting into a wide grin. It would only give away his plan, and he'd be damned if he'd give that away, especially as he heard, "And that's twenty points from Team Iron Man. Name-calling is out of bounds, Stark, and you know it."

"This is a stupid rule," Tony groused even as he watched you wiped the points from his team. "It's not my fault that these names come to me. Or that they fit others so well."

"It's also poor sportsmanship, and you know it," you countered. "Remember what happened last time? Do we really need another emergency response from maintenance because you can't learn to play nice with others?"

"Who says I'm not playing nice?"

You merely arch your brow at Tony before letting your gaze drift over to Steve.

Steve couldn't help letting a small smile slid across his lips as he met your gaze. You were just too cute and sweet for your own good sometimes, even if you were the baddest of them all with your powers. How he ever managed to catch your eye, he'd never know, but he never failed to be thankful for it.

"I call foul," Tony raged, his finger coming up to point between Steve and you. "This is favoritism right here, and I won't stand for it."

Steve almost wished your gaze didn't leave him to return to Tony, having basked in it. He'd never get enough. He was sure of it.

"That's fair," you said after a moment. "I have a proposition for you both then. I'll give your points back, Tony, if you'll let me play the lightning round with Steve. Thirty seconds to get as many points as possible. Winner will be called after that. Deal?"

Steve watched as Tony eyed you harder. He could see Tony's mind twisting and turning over every possible outcome of accepting your offer. It was clear that Tony had some doubt that you wouldn't cheat in some way to help Steve win, but Steve knew you better. You'd never use your powers in such a way. Against a bad guy, maybe, but never anyone in the room.

"Tones, you sure we can trust her?" Rhodey asked, eyeing you as well.

"Ah, Rhodes, it hurts my feelings that you don't trust me," you said though you never let your smile fall from your face. "Come on, Stark. Time's up. Lose your points or let me play the final round?"

Tony stared at you a moment longer before he shouted, "Fine, play the lightning round with your boyfriend. Let's see just how good you two truly are. You'll need three-five points to tie and thirty-six to win. Thirty seconds is all you get."

Your smile blossomed into something that nearly stole Steve's breath.

"That's all we'll need," you assured, returning the points to Tony's team.

Tony reset his watch while you grabbed up a prompt slip from the hat the two teams had been using. You quickly read whatever words had been printed before neatly folding it and setting it aside. Meeting Steve's gaze, you said, "Ready."

Tony's team count down, then shouted, "Go."

Those thirty seconds proved the longest and shortest of the evening as Steve quickly and accurately guessed each of your efforts. One right after another, you seamlessly moved from one idea to the next with him keeping pace right alongside you. The way he could read each one would've astounded anyone who hadn't witnessed how well you two worked together. It's the reason you two typically went on missions together and performed them so flawlessly.

Steve could make out the points on his team creeping higher and higher. They were sure to catch up to Tony's team without any issues. He could almost taste victory, making the comeback he knew he would with your help.

His team cheered when you two tied the game.

"Two seconds," Tony shouted in warning.

A spark came into your eye at hearing that, moving into your next clue for him.

He called out everything he could think to match the movements you made. His brain couldn't quite compute what it was that you were doing with your hands. It was so unlike him not to be able to read what you were doing.

"And time," Tony and his team shouted.

Steve groaned.

He'd been so close to victory, too.

Both teams cheered and groaned at not being able to proclaim themselves the victor.

At least for a minute, they did.

After that, everyone worked together to clean up the common room and get it back to the way it's supposed to look.

"Good game, my love," you said, coming up to Steve's side. "Maybe you'll beat him next time."

"Yeah, maybe," he agreed, his arm wrapping around you and tugging you close. "Thank you for helping us out back there. Don't know what we'd do without you."

He should've known by the way your smile shifted, but he was still unprepared when you said, "Oh, I'm pretty sure you would've played a bit more fairly without me around."

"What do you mean, sweetheart?" he asked, feigning innocence and failing miserably if your face was anything to go by.

"Don't play the fool, my love. It doesn't become you. I figured out your game early on, and it's why you tied instead of won tonight."

Steve's brows pinched until it hit him. "You made us tie on purpose."

"I did."

You didn't sound the least bit repentant, either.

"You forget that I know you, Steven, and I know when you're up to no good. You made Tony call you those names, knowing I'd step in and dock him points. You were banking on it."

"But, I—"

You held your hand up, stopping him from trying to talk his way out of trouble.

"He's your friend and teammate, my love, even if he tries you every now and then. You both have your faults, but I love you and I like him. I won't play favorites, and you know it. This way, you're both back to being even. No more need to one-up one another."

Steve knew you had a point and did his best to look as contrite as he could. If he could pull off his kicked puppy face, he knew you'd forgive him that much faster, but then, you could also…

"Put that face away, my love. It's not going to work tonight."

"What'd the punk do this time?" Bucky asked, coming up to finish clearing up the cups and cans from the area where you and Steve worked. "He only looks like that when he's trying to get out of trouble."

"Not everybody needs to know that, jerk," Steve groused, earning him a gruff chuckle from Bucky and a sweet smile from you.

"Everybody already knows, my love. It's one of your tells."

"It is?"

You nodded. "It's a cute tell though, but you can put it away. You were forgiven right after I figured out your little ploy."

"So, punk here was trying to cheat, huh?"

A proud gleam entered Bucky's eye at the idea of that.

"Don't encourage him. Go and help your lady love, soldier, and leave your friend to me."

Bucky disappeared then, happy to take the hint you'd given him.

When he was out of earshot, you murmured, "I'm sorry I couldn't let Team Cap win tonight, but maybe I can make it up to the team's captain a little bit later. What do you say?"

Steve caught your coy smile and felt himself grinning in anticipation.

"Not sure that's going to fully teach me a lesson, sweetheart."

You glanced over your shoulder as you moved a bit away from him, heading towards the kitchen with the bag you'd finished filling. "Guess you'll have to find out what I have planned then, won't you?"

Well, you didn't need to tell him twice to get a move on then.

The common room was cleaned in record time, giving him the opportunity to sweep you up and toss you over his shoulder. Your laughter could be heard all the way back to your shared quarters, causing the others to simply shake their heads even as they hid their happiness for their Cap and you.

#steve rogers bingo #steve rogers #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x female reader #established relationship #marvel mcu #mcu #fluff #team bonding #game night #team cap #team iron man

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amethystarachnid · 7 months ago

Text

CHRISTMAS PROPOSAL - part I

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

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

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, fluff

ᯓ★ Request from: MARVEL Holiday special

ᯓ★ Request: Fantastic event 😍 I want to make a request for Fem reader + Tony Stark, please! "Christmas morning surprise", breakfast in bed made by Tony, a surprise gift: Tony proposing the reader and saying the most beautiful things and cuddling by the tree later, drinking hot cocoa 😍 (@heygoodgirly)

ᯓ★ Word count: 4.8k

ᯓ★ Part II

ᯓ★ Summary: Tony Stark has never been one for romantic things but for you, oh, for you he'd become the most romantic man on earth. And that's exactly what he's trying to be as he gets ready to pop the question

ᯓ★ TW(s): fluff fluff fluff

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

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

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

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The morning light spills softly through the gaps in the curtains, painting warm streaks of gold across the bedroom. You’re cocooned in the blankets, your face nestled into the pillow, completely oblivious to the world. For once, there’s no sound of the whirring gadgets or the mechanical hum of some early-morning project Tony’s working on in his lab. The quiet feels suspicious. But you don’t wake, not yet.

Downstairs, the man himself is pacing. Stark Tower—or what’s now become a semi-permanent Stark-and-You Tower—is unusually serene, save for the sound of Tony muttering to himself. In the kitchen, an array of utensils clutters the countertop. Pots, pans, and a suspiciously stained cutting board bear evidence of an attempt at cooking. Actual cooking. Not JARVIS ordering the latest Michelin-starred meal.

“Okay, okay, just… flip it gently,” Tony says under his breath, staring down a pan like it’s a volatile science experiment. His hair is a mess, and there’s a smear of flour on his cheek that he hasn’t noticed yet. “How hard can eggs be? They’re just tiny little things. People do this every day.”

The spatula makes contact, but predictably, the omelet doesn't cooperate. It folds awkwardly, and a piece flops onto the burner. Tony groans, his free hand tugging at his hair.

“Yeah, this is going great. Real Gordon Ramsay stuff here.” His voice is dripping with sarcasm as he glares at the breakfast carnage. He pauses, tapping his fingers against the counter, before grabbing another egg and cracking it into a fresh bowl. “She better appreciate this. Slaving away like a 1950s housewife… minus the pearls. Or the misogyny.”

JARVIS chimes in unprompted. “Might I suggest using a lower heat setting, sir? You appear to be—”

“No, no, no. I got this, J. Do not swoop in with your fancy AI advice. This is a Tony Stark original, and I’ll be damned if technology fixes my… whatever this is.”

“As you wish,” JARVIS replies smoothly, the slightest hint of amusement in his tone.

Tony manages to plate something passable, a mixture of eggs, toast, and fruit that—miraculously—looks edible. He surveys his handiwork with a critical eye, then lets out a huff. “If this doesn’t scream ‘romantic Christmas breakfast,’ I don’t know what does.”

There’s a small box tucked into the pocket of his sweatpants, a box that has no business being near sizzling pans or flour-covered counters. He knows better. He’s Tony Stark, after all. Precision is his thing—normally. But today? He feels like a live wire, energy sparking unpredictably under his skin.

“Okay. Breakfast first. Then the thing. Easy.” He picks up the tray and heads for the stairs, deliberately ignoring the persistent flutter in his chest.

The bedroom is still quiet when he pushes the door open with his shoulder, the tray balanced precariously in his hands. You’re exactly where he left you, sprawled under the covers with one arm flung lazily over your head. The sight makes his lips quirk into a crooked smile, the kind he reserves for moments no one else gets to see.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” he says, his voice low but teasing. “Or should I say Sleeping Beast? You snore, you know.”

You stir slightly, mumbling something incoherent, and he snickers. “I’ll take that as a ‘good morning, Tony. Thanks for the breakfast-in-bed surprise. You’re the best boyfriend in the known universe.’” He sets the tray down on the nightstand and leans over to press a kiss to your temple. “I know, I know. I’m amazing.”

You blink awake slowly, your eyes adjusting to the soft light. “What…?” Your voice is thick with sleep, and you prop yourself up on one elbow, squinting at him. “What are you doing?”

“Delivering five-star cuisine,” he says, gesturing grandly at the tray. “Emphasis on the ‘five.’ I wouldn’t check the Yelp reviews if I were you.”

Your gaze shifts to the tray, and a small laugh escapes your lips. “You… made this?”

“Shockingly, yes. With these very hands.” He holds them up for emphasis. “And I only started one tiny grease fire, which I think is a personal record.”

You sit up more fully now, the blankets pooling around your waist. “Why? What’s the occasion?”

Tony shrugs, leaning casually against the bedpost, though there’s nothing casual about the way his heart thuds at your question. “Can’t a guy just do something nice for his girlfriend without getting the third degree? It’s Christmas, in case you forgot. Figured I’d play Santa and spoil you a little.”

Your smile softens, and you reach for the coffee mug on the tray. “You’re full of surprises, Stark.”

“That’s what they say,” he replies, sitting on the edge of the bed and watching as you take a sip of the coffee. He’s relieved when you don’t grimace. Coffee, at least, is one thing he knows he can’t mess up.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you say, picking up a fork and spearing a piece of toast.

“Of course I did,” he retorts. “You’re lucky I didn’t bring out a violinist for ambiance. Thought about it. Decided it was too much.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet, here you are. Voluntarily waking up next to me every day. Who’s the ridiculous one now?”

There’s a comfortable rhythm to your banter, one that makes the rest of the world fade away. He watches you eat, his expression softening when you’re not looking. Every now and then, you catch him staring, and he brushes it off with a quick quip or a self-deprecating joke, but the truth is, he’s just… captivated.

He’s done a lot of big things in his life. Saved the world, built a legacy, even cheated death a couple of times. But this—sitting here with you, on a lazy Christmas morning—is one of those rare moments that feels monumental in its simplicity.

Tony taps his fingers against his knee, his mind racing even as he tries to keep the conversation light. He’s thinking about the box in his pocket, about the way your eyes will light up when you see what’s inside. He’s thinking about how terrifying and exhilarating it is to want something so deeply, to want you forever.

“So, on a scale of one to ten,” he says, breaking the silence, “how would you rate the masterpiece I just served you? Be honest. But remember, I have an ego to protect.”

You tilt your head, pretending to deliberate. “Hmm… solid eight. Maybe eight-point-five.”

“Eight-point-five?” he echoes, feigning offense. “What, did the toast offend you?”

“It’s a little… uneven,” you tease, holding up a slightly charred edge. “But I’ll let it slide.”

He rolls his eyes dramatically. “Unbelievable. This is the thanks I get.”

Leaning closer, you kiss the corner of his mouth, a soft and lingering gesture that immediately shuts him up. When you pull back, your grin is mischievous. “Better?”

“Marginally,” he mutters, though his smirk gives him away.

You settle back against the pillows, the tray balanced carefully on your lap. Tony leans on one arm, his gaze drifting over your face as you savor the last bites of breakfast. He’s nervous, though he’d never admit it out loud. Not yet. He wants to do this right—to give you a memory you’ll carry with you forever. But more than that, he wants you to know just how much you mean to him, even if he’s not always the best at saying it.

For now, though, he keeps it light, keeps it normal. There’s time. At least, he hopes there’s time.

“By the way,” he says, his voice tinged with mock seriousness, “you��re washing the dishes.”

Your laughter fills the room, and for a moment, all his nerves fade away.

The warmth of the room is a cocoon against the chill of the winter morning outside, and you’re tangled in each other, limbs intertwined and bodies pressed close beneath the covers. The breakfast tray is forgotten, pushed aside to make room for this: the kind of quiet intimacy that feels like a luxury. Tony’s arm is draped over your waist, his thumb absently brushing along the curve of your hip as if he’s memorizing the feel of you.

His voice is soft when he speaks, carrying none of the usual bravado. “Y’know, if I could freeze time, I’d keep us here. Just like this.”

You hum contentedly, your cheek resting against his chest, where the steady thrum of his heartbeat feels like a secret melody. “I wouldn’t mind that,” you murmur, tilting your face to meet his gaze. His brown eyes are warm and intent, studying you like you’re a puzzle he never wants to solve.

The comfortable silence stretches, broken only by the faint sound of the city beyond the windows. But then, a sudden thought strikes you, and you sit up slightly, your hair mussed from sleep and your eyes sparkling with realization.

“Wait,” you say, breaking the spell. “We still have to open gifts. It’s Christmas morning, remember?”

Tony groans dramatically, flopping back against the pillows as though you’ve just suggested something truly exhausting. “Oh, come on, can’t we stay in bed for a few more hours? Maybe the gifts will open themselves.”

You laugh, wriggling free from his hold, but he’s faster. Before you can fully escape, his arms wrap around you, pulling you back down onto the mattress. You let out a playful squeal, but he doesn’t relent.

“Tony!” you protest, though you’re grinning. “The gifts—”

“Can wait,” he says firmly, his hands settling at your waist to keep you firmly in place. His voice softens, turning almost serious as his eyes meet yours. “Besides, I’ve got something more important right here.”

His tone makes you pause, your smile faltering for just a second as you study him. There’s something in his expression—a mix of vulnerability and determination—that you don’t see often. It sends a flutter through your chest, though you can’t quite put your finger on why.

“More important than presents?” you tease, trying to lighten the mood. “That doesn’t sound like the Tony Stark I know.”

“The Tony Stark you know has layers,” he quips, though his usual sarcasm feels gentler now, like a shield he’s only half-raising. His hands find yours, lacing your fingers together, and he takes a deep breath before speaking again.

“Look, I had this whole plan,” he begins, his words coming quickly now, like he’s worried he might lose his nerve. “Candles, music, maybe even fireworks—because, y’know, I’m me. But then I realized… all of that stuff doesn’t really matter, does it?”

You blink at him, your brows knitting together in confusion. “Tony, what are you—?”

“Shh,” he cuts you off gently, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Let me do this, okay? Just… let me get it out before I explode or short-circuit or something.”

Your heart is racing now, a mix of anticipation and disbelief. You nod, unable to find your voice.

“I’ve been a lot of things in my life,” he says, his gaze unwavering. “A genius, a billionaire, a total pain in the ass. But with you, it’s different. You make me want to be better. Hell, you make me better. And it’s not just the big stuff—though saving the world is a hell of a lot easier when I know you’re waiting for me to come home. It’s the little things, too. The way you laugh at my stupid jokes, or how you somehow manage to make this place feel like an actual home.”

His voice wavers slightly, and he swallows hard, his grip on your hands tightening. “I used to think I had everything I needed. The cars, the suits, the fancy tech. But then you came along, and suddenly none of that mattered. Because you… you’re my everything. And I don’t want to waste another second pretending I don’t know that.”

Your breath catches as he shifts slightly, pulling a small box from the pocket of his sweatpants. He holds it up, his hand trembling just enough for you to notice.

“I’m not great at this kind of thing,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I know one thing for sure: I don’t want to wake up another day without knowing you’re mine. So, will you—?”

“Tony,” you interrupt, your own voice trembling now. You press a hand to your mouth, overwhelmed by the flood of emotions surging through you.

His face falls slightly, panic flashing in his eyes. “Oh, no. Is this a bad time? Did I—? I should’ve waited, shouldn’t I? Or maybe done the whole fireworks thing. Damn it, I knew I should’ve—”

“No, no, it’s not that,” you say quickly, though your tone is teasing now, even as tears glisten in your eyes. You let out a shaky laugh, leaning back slightly as if considering. “I don’t know, Tony… this is a pretty big decision. I mean, are you really sure you can handle me forever?”

He stares at you, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “What—? Of course, I’m sure! Are you seriously asking if I—?”

“I mean,” you continue, biting back a grin, “I do snore, apparently. And I’m not great at remembering where I put my keys. Plus, I make you watch all those sappy holiday movies—”

“Yes!” he blurts out, his voice a mix of exasperation and desperation. “Yes, I can handle all of that. Hell, I’d watch ‘Love, Actually’ on repeat for the rest of my life if it means you’ll say yes. Just—please. Don’t make me beg. I’m Tony Stark, for God’s sake.”

You can’t hold it in any longer. The laughter bubbles out of you, and you reach up to cup his face, your thumbs brushing over his stubble. “You’re such a dork,” you whisper, leaning in until your foreheads touch. “Of course, I’ll marry you.”

For a moment, Tony just stares at you, his brain clearly struggling to process your words. Then, his face breaks into a grin so wide it’s almost boyish, and he lets out a breathless laugh, relief washing over him like a tidal wave.

“You’re really saying yes?” he asks, as if he can’t quite believe it. “You’re not messing with me, right? Because if this is some elaborate joke—”

“I’m not messing with you,” you assure him, your own smile mirroring his. “I’m saying yes, Tony. A thousand times yes.”

He doesn’t wait another second. His arms wrap around you, pulling you into a kiss that’s both fervent and tender, a kiss that feels like a promise. When you finally pull away, both of you are breathless, your foreheads still pressed together.

“Merry Christmas,” he murmurs, his voice soft and full of wonder.

“Merry Christmas,” you reply, your fingers tangling in his hair as you kiss him again.

The massive tree in the corner of the penthouse sparkles like something out of a holiday dream, its glittering ornaments and twinkling lights casting a warm, golden glow over the room. The fireplace crackles softly, and the faint sound of holiday music hums in the background, setting the perfect cozy scene. You’re curled up on the plush couch, nestled into Tony’s side, a thick blanket draped over both of you. Your legs are tangled together, and in your hands is a mug of steaming hot cocoa, its sweetness enhanced by the swirl of whipped cream and the faintest hint of peppermint.

You glance at the tree, then at the pile of opened gifts scattered around the room. Wrapping paper is crumpled in corners, bows are tossed aside, and the faint smell of pine from the tree mingles with the chocolatey aroma of your drinks. But none of that holds your attention for long.

Your eyes drift down to your left hand, where the delicate engagement ring Tony slipped onto your finger just a little while ago catches the firelight. The diamond—a perfect, understated yet dazzling stone—is framed by a sleek, modern band that feels so you it’s uncanny.

“I still can’t believe this,” you murmur, holding your hand up slightly to admire the ring again. “It’s perfect. The size, the design… it’s like you read my mind.”

Tony smirks, taking a sip of his cocoa before setting the mug on the coffee table. “Please. You think I’d propose to you without doing my homework first? I might be reckless, but I’m not stupid.”

You turn to him, one brow raised in playful skepticism. “Homework? Is that what you’re calling it?”

“Absolutely,” he says, his tone teasing but with a glint of pride in his eyes. “I had spreadsheets. Diagrams. A whole team of—”

“Tony!” you cut him off, laughing as you swat at his chest. “You did not have a team.”

“Fine,” he relents, grinning. “But I did pay attention. All those times you casually pointed out rings in magazine ads or that one time you dragged me past Tiffany’s and sighed at the window display? Let’s just say I’ve been taking notes.”

You shake your head, marveling at him. “And the size? How did you get that right? Don’t tell me you measured my finger while I was sleeping or something creepy like that.”

Tony’s grin widens, and there’s a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. “Would you believe me if I said I have a natural talent for guessing ring sizes?”

“No.”

“Fair enough,” he concedes. “I may or may not have borrowed one of your rings when you weren’t looking. For research purposes.”

“Research purposes,” you repeat, your voice dripping with amusement. “Wow, I didn’t realize getting engaged to you would involve so much corporate espionage.”

“Hey,” he says, feigning indignation, “it worked, didn’t it? Look at that ring. Perfect fit, perfect style… just like the woman wearing it.”

The sincerity in his last words catches you off guard, and your playful retort dies on your lips. Instead, you feel a warmth spreading through your chest, a kind of joy so profound it’s almost overwhelming.

“You’re really something, you know that?” you say softly, setting your mug down so you can turn toward him fully.

Tony leans back slightly, a cocky grin on his face. “Something amazing, I hope.”

“Something infuriating,” you tease, your fingers brushing over the stubble along his jaw. “But yeah… amazing too.”

His grin softens into something more genuine, and he cups your face with one hand, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. “You make it easy, you know. Wanting to get this stuff right. You deserve it, all of it. The ring, the world, the whole damn galaxy if I could give it to you.”

You feel your throat tighten, and you lean into his touch, pressing a kiss to his palm. “I don’t need the galaxy, Tony. I just need you.”

There’s a flicker of something vulnerable in his expression, a glimpse of the man who hides beneath the sarcasm and the bravado. He leans in to kiss you, a slow and tender kiss that feels like a promise, like the future you’re both stepping into together.

When you pull back, you settle against his chest again, letting out a contented sigh. “So,” you say after a moment, your voice light, “what’s your favorite gift so far? Besides me saying yes, obviously.”

“Obviously,” he echoes, smirking as he runs his fingers through your hair. “That’s number one by a mile. But if I had to pick something else… I’d say the socks.”

You blink, confused. “The socks?”

“Yeah,” he says, nodding seriously. “You know, the ones with my face on them? Absolute game-changer.”

You laugh so hard you nearly spill your cocoa. “I knew you’d love those. Happy to know they rival the engagement ring.”

“Well, they don’t exactly rival the ring,” he admits, his tone turning thoughtful. “But they do add a certain… flair to my wardrobe. Can’t wait to wear them to the next board meeting.”

You groan, burying your face in his chest. “Please don’t.”

“No promises,” he says, kissing the top of your head.

You’re quiet for a while after that, the two of you simply enjoying the warmth and comfort of being together. The fire crackles softly, and the snow outside begins to fall more heavily, blanketing the city in a shimmering white coat. You watch it through the enormous windows, your head still resting against Tony’s shoulder.

“I think this might be my favorite Christmas ever,” you say after a while, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Only might?” Tony quips, though there’s a softness to his tone. “What do I have to do to make it the undisputed champ?”

“Hmm,” you pretend to think, holding up your hand again to admire the ring. “You’ve set the bar pretty high, Stark. Proposing and getting me the perfect ring? You might’ve peaked.”

“Peaked?” he repeats, feigning offense. “Please. This is just the beginning. Wait until next Christmas. I’ll have holographic wrapping paper and drones delivering your presents.”

You roll your eyes, laughing. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he says, tightening his hold on you, “you said yes.”

You smile, snuggling closer to him, and let your eyes drift shut. The weight of the moment settles over you like the warmest of blankets, and for the first time in a long time, you feel like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

Neither of you speaks for a while, content to simply be. The snow falls outside, the fire burns low, and the city below buzzes quietly with life. But up here, in this little corner of the universe, it’s just the two of you—and that’s more than enough.

The fire crackles softly in the background as you nestle further into Tony’s side, your legs draped lazily over his lap beneath the plush throw blanket. The mug of cocoa you abandoned earlier sits on the coffee table, now lukewarm, but neither of you has the energy or desire to move. The world beyond the enormous penthouse windows is a snow-covered wonderland, the city twinkling like something out of a postcard. But here, in Tony’s arms, the rest of the world feels like an afterthought.

You’re staring at your ring again—still unable to get over how perfectly it suits you—and twirling it gently on your finger. “I can’t believe we’re actually engaged,” you murmur, the words still foreign and thrilling all at once.

Tony hums, his fingers idly tracing patterns along your arm. “Yeah, well, it was bound to happen eventually. I’m a catch, after all.”

You snort, poking him in the ribs. “You’re lucky I love you, Stark. Otherwise, you’d be proposing to your ego.”

“Please,” he retorts, grinning. “My ego would’ve said no. Too much competition.”

Your laughter echoes warmly in the cozy space, and he pulls you closer, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “But seriously,” he continues, his voice softer now, “I’m the lucky one.”

The sincerity in his tone melts your teasing grin into a tender smile. “We’re both lucky,” you say, leaning up to kiss him briefly before settling back against him. “But now that you’ve got me locked down, we should probably start thinking about the next steps.”

Tony perks up at that, his eyebrows raising in mock surprise. “Next steps? Wow, didn’t realize we were rushing through the milestones. What’s next, matching sweatpants?”

“Don’t tempt me,” you tease, poking him again. “But seriously, we should start thinking about the wedding. You know, dates, locations, that kind of thing.”

“Oh, sure,” he says, waving a hand as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “We’ll rent out a castle or something. Maybe a yacht. Or both. Castle on a yacht. I’ll make it happen.”

You roll your eyes, laughing. “Tony, we don’t need a castle on a yacht. I was thinking something more… intimate.”

“Intimate,” he repeats, like the word is entirely foreign to him. “Okay, define ‘intimate.’ Like… eighty people instead of eight hundred?”

“More like thirty,” you say, smirking at his dramatic gasp. “And maybe somewhere beautiful but low-key. A vineyard? A garden? Somewhere that doesn’t involve holographic invitations.”

Tony pouts, his bottom lip sticking out like a child denied dessert. “You’re no fun. I had this great idea for AI-driven seating charts.”

“Tony,” you groan, laughing as you swat his arm. “No AI at the wedding.”

“Fine, fine,” he concedes, though you can tell his brain is already whirring with ideas. “But we’re keeping the open bar. And there will be cake. A ridiculous amount of cake.”

“Deal,” you agree, grinning. “And maybe a live band? Something classic.”

“Classic, huh?” Tony muses, tilting his head as he considers. “Sinatra? Ella? Or are we talking ‘classic’ like… AC/DC?”

You laugh, burying your face in his shoulder. “I should’ve known you’d sneak AC/DC into this somehow.”

“Hey, it’s our wedding,” he says, his tone teasing but with a playful wink. “And by ‘our,’ I mean you’ll pick all the details, and I’ll just show up in a ridiculously expensive tux and look charming.”

You snuggle closer, your smile softening. “That’s all I really need, anyway.”

There’s a pause as the two of you settle into the quiet again, but you can feel Tony’s fingers fidgeting against your arm, a sure sign that his mind is still racing. You glance up at him, your brow raised. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly, though the sheepish look on his face betrays him.

“Tony,” you press, sitting up slightly. “Spill.”

He hesitates for a moment, his eyes darting toward the window as if searching for an escape. Finally, he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Fine. It’s just… I was thinking. About… you know, after the wedding.”

“After the wedding?” you echo, tilting your head. “You mean the honeymoon?”

“Sure,” he says, though his tone is distracted. “But I was also thinking… further out. Like… a house. Or maybe—hypothetically—a kid. Or two.”

Your mouth drops open slightly, caught completely off guard. “You’re already thinking about kids?”

“Hypothetically!” he clarifies quickly, though there’s a nervous energy to his voice. “I mean, I’m just saying… it’s crossed my mind. Once or twice. Or, you know, a dozen times.”

You’re quiet for a moment, processing his words. Then, a slow smile spreads across your face, and you lean back against him, wrapping your arms around his waist. “Tony Stark, are you saying you want to be a dad?”

He shifts uncomfortably, his cheeks tinged with the faintest hint of pink. “I’m saying… I wouldn’t hate the idea. I mean, think about it. A tiny human running around with your smarts and my charm? World domination is practically guaranteed.”

You laugh, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he says, grinning now, “you said yes.”

You shake your head, your heart swelling with affection. “I think you’d be a great dad, Tony. Once you figure out how to baby-proof all your gadgets.”

“Oh, please,” he scoffs, though his smile is genuine. “I’d invent a whole line of Stark-brand baby-proof tech. Patent it. Make billions.”

“Of course you would,” you say, rolling your eyes. “But maybe we should focus on the wedding first before we start planning our takeover of the parenting world.”

“Fair,” he concedes, pulling you closer. “But just so you know, I’m already brainstorming names. You should’ve heard the one I came up with yesterday. Absolute gold.”

“Oh no,” you groan, laughing again. “I’m almost afraid to ask.”

He leans in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Tony Junior. Think about it. T.J. for short.”

You burst out laughing, your head falling against his chest. “We are not naming our child Tony Junior.”

“Fine, fine,” he says, chuckling along with you. “We’ll workshop it.”

As your laughter fades, you settle against him again, your fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on his chest. The firelight dances across the room, casting shadows on the walls, and you feel a profound sense of peace, of rightness, in this moment.

“Hey,” you say softly after a while, looking up at him. “I love you.”

His expression softens, and he leans down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. “I love you too.”

You smile, your hand drifting down to rest over his. “And for the record, I can’t wait for all of it. The wedding, the house, the future… everything. As long as it’s with you.”

Tony’s grin is slow and warm, and he wraps his arms around you like he never plans to let go. “Then it’s a deal.”

The two of you sit there for a long time after that, the snow falling steadily outside and the fire burning low. Together, you dream and plan and tease and laugh, painting the picture of a life that feels almost too perfect to be real. But with Tony by your side, you know it’s all possible—and more.

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arlana-likes-to-write · 7 months ago

Text

Second Chance - Chapter 17

Masterlist

Warnings: chemo treatment, mention of guilt, Tony is a worried father, mention of death (reader likes to make bad jokes)

Relationship: Yelena x reader, Avengers x reader (platonic), Tony x reader (platonic)

Word Count: 4.4k

The constant moving of Yelena’s hand up and down your back woke you up. It was soothing even though it pulled you out of sleep. The Black Widow’s presence was comforting even though your bones and mind ached—her warmth eased some of the pain. Your eyes fluttered open, and you stared at the Black Widow in your bed. You waking up went unnoticed by the blonde as her hand kept moving. She seemed lost in her own world, so you had time to observe her—observe the way her blonde hair was braided and some of the hair was pulled out of the braid from sleeping. The small hairs curtained around her face. The sun from the window bounced around the room, and the rays reflected in her green eyes. She was breathtaking. As long as you had, you would remind her.

A knot in your neck caused you to groan slightly, and her hand stopped moving. “Hi,” she spoke softly. “I am sorry if I woke you up.” You shook your head and rolled onto your back.

“It’s fine,” you whispered. Your throat was super dry, but reaching for your water seemed like an impossible feat. “What time is it?” You put your forearm over your eyes.

“8,” she answered. “You have treatment at 11.” Shit. You slept for a lot longer than you meant to. “Hey sweetheart,” you put your arm down and looked at her. “Why don’t you have your treatment here instead of at the cancer center?” You shook your head.

“No, I’m fine,” you sighed. “I just need one more hour. Can you wake me up at 9?” You asked her. She nodded.

“Of course,” you rolled onto your side and closed your eyes. There was no way you were going to have your treatment at the tower. That meant you weren’t doing well, and you were fine. Tired but fine.

Yelena watched your breathing even out. It took minutes before you were fast asleep. The blonde sighed and stood up. Not even her leaving the bed caused you to stir. “FRIDAY,” she whispered as she left your room and closed it behind her. “Can you tell Stark I need to speak with him?”

“Of course, Miss Belova,” the AI said. Yelena paced in front of your door until she heard Tony’s frantic knocking on the other side.

“She’s fine,” Yelena said while opening the door.

“Don’t do that.” Tony pushed past her and into your apartment. “If it’s not an emergency, tell FRIDAY to tell me that.” Yelena closed your door and stared at your father with her arms crossed. “Damn near gave me a heart attack.”

“Are you done?” Yelena asked. The man narrowed his eyes but nodded. “She is fine but exhausted.” She walked past Tony and walked into your kitchen. If you were stubborn about going, then at least Yelena could get your snack bag ready. “I suggested having her treatment here, but she said no.” Tony sighed and walked over to your coffee pot. He started the process of making a fresh pot.

“If I remember correctly, her mother was stubborn.” Yelena scoffed and opened up your fridge.

“And you are not,” she pulled out a bag of baby carrots. She saw Tony shake his head out of the corner of her eye.

“It seems to me,” the billionaire poured himself a cup of coffee and took a sip. Yelena cringed at how easily he could consume the hot liquid. “She is stubborn about this because she wants to keep her autonomy,” Yelena stopped packing your snacks and turned to face him. The man was leaning against the cabinets. “If she has her treatment here, then she admits the chemo is affecting her.”

“But it is,” Yelena said, and there was no shame in that. The blonde saw how the simplest of things left you exhausted or the way you pushed your food around your plate. However, she understood the need to have control of your body. You needed to make your own choices, not the cancer’s. Yelena sighed. “Your daughter is stressing me out.” Tony laughed.

“Are you regretting being with her already?” Yelena shook her head.

“Never.” It was a blessing and a curse that she was with you. Tony smiled and squeezed her shoulder as he walked to the door.

“Good. Come get me if you need anything.” Yelena let out a slow breath when Tony left. It was strange how suffocating Yelena felt being in your living space. There was an aspect of who you were in every corner with your artwork on the wall to the scent of the candles you had lit. All Yelena wanted was for you to be close and safe in her arms, but that feeling felt overwhelming sometimes.

Yelena shook her head and saw your bag that you packed for treatment by the door. She grabbed it and dumped it on the counter. Cleaning out the trash, she repacked it. Before she placed your sketchbook back in, she felt the urge to flip through it.

The drawings were mostly of your travels and the animals you’ve seen. When she was about to put it away, she stopped on an unfinished drawing. It was of her. The day she took you to Central Park and the German Shepherd puppy ran up to her. You captured the pure joy on her face when the dog ran up to her. Yelena smiled and carefully ran her fingers over the pencil lines.

She would never forget that day. It made her realize how fragile life could be when you spoke about death and how important you were to her.

Yelena walked back into your room. Your position changed, but you were still fast asleep with your arms wrapped around the pillow she used and your face pressed against it. It pained Yelena to wake you up, but you asked her to. The slight movement of the bed caused your eyes to open. “Is my pillow that comfy, detka?” Yelena teased. You smiled and stretched before burying your face back into the pillow.

“Smells like you,” you whispered. “You left me, and I needed to cuddle with something.” Carefully, your hand moved up her arm and placed your hand behind your neck. It was hard to stop her body from shivering at your touch. “Kiss me,” you whispered. “Please.” You added on quickly.

It seemed natural for Yelena to close the distance between you and her. Your lips were soft against hers, a little dry as your body was dehydrated from you sleeping so long. But it was perfect. You moved Yelena closer to you until she was holding her weight off of you, caging your body with hers.

In this bubble of peace you created with your lips on hers and your hands on her skin, Yelena was buzzing. She felt like she was on fire. However, she had to stop. Slowly pulling away, Yelena looked down at you. Your lips were bruised, and your eyes were slightly blown out. She wondered if her own expression matched yours, but Yelena smirked and let her lips kiss your cheek and down the column of your throat. The small hitch in your breathing made the smile on Yelena’s face grow. You were so responsive to her touch. She rested her head on your shoulder and kissed the skin that wasn’t covered by your shirt. “It is time to get up, baby.” She glanced up at you as you groaned and threw your head back. “You could always—”

“No,” you gently pushed her off, and she landed next to you with a soft thud. “I’m good.” You sat up and swung your legs over the side of the bed. When you stretched your arms over your head, your shirt rose up. Yelena was mesmerized by the small section of your back. There were some imperfections, but you were so soft compared to her. “After a shower, I’ll be good to go,” you turned to look over your shoulder with a smirk. “And no, you can not join me. We would be very late if that was the case.”

Yelena felt the blush overtake her face, and she pulled a pillow over her face, groaning into the soft fabric. Your laughter was music to her ears as you walked into the bathroom. The pillow remained on her face until she heard the shower running. Slowly, she got up and walked over to your closet. She remembered the outfit you wore when you went to treatment together—simple, baggy, and comfortable. She tried to replicate that with the clothes she picked up. The door was cracked open, and Yelena easily placed the clothes on the sink.

“I packed your bag and a few snacks for you.” Yelena said, leaning against the wall. She wasn’t sure you heard her over the water.

“You did that,” you said in disbelief. Yelena smiled.

“Yeah, you are not alone in this.” Again, you were silent. It made Yelena’s anxiety worse because she knew you heard her.

“Thank you.”

Your friends in DC swore by weighted blankets. They went on and on about how it helped them sleep, quieted their mind, and comforted them when their anxiety got too much. However, you hated them. The blanket made you feel trapped and claustrophobic.

As you sat at the cancer center, a needle in your port, and Yelena sitting next to you, you felt like a blanket was over you. You could barely mumble a ‘thank you’ once the nurse left. Now your eyes were closed, and you basked in the weight that was suffocating. You wanted to rip it off. “Stop it,” you said with your eyes still closed. “Stop looking at me like that.” Yelena gasped.

“How did you—” you chuckled and shook your head. “How am I looking at you then, detka?”

“Like I am going to drop dead right here,” you teased with a smile.

“That is not funny.” Her tone was sharp, which made you finally open your eyes. You motioned for her to come closer. When you were able to put your hand on her cheek, her face softened.

“Right,” you whispered. “Sorry, not funny.” Yelena sighed and moved her chair closer to her. She kissed the palm of your hand and held it close to her lips. “I’m okay, Lena. Just a little tired today,” you closed your eyes. After your treatment was over, you would go back to the tower, and you would be tired and stuck there. Trapped. You hated feeling. Especially with how you were feeling, everyone would be hovering. That sounded awful. Maybe you could escape somewhere with Yelena this weekend. You groaned.

“What is wrong?” Your eyes opened at Yelena’s panic. “Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m fine,” you squeezed her hand. “Sorry, I was just thinking,” you sighed. “I want to do something with you this weekend,” you said as you reached for your water bottle that Yelena was quick to hand you. You thanked her with a smile and took a much-needed sip of water. “I want to get away, out of the tower. Seems a little impossible.” Yelena took your water bottle when you were done. Her green eyes were trained on your connected hands, and you could see her mind work a million different possibilities. It was cute. You pushed a piece of her hair behind her ear that pulled her out of her thoughts.

“We could go to Iowa.” Iowa? You were not expecting her to say that. Iowa is a state in the Midwest that borders the Mississippi, Missouri, and the Big Sioux Rivers. What the hell was in Iowa for a Black Widow?

“Iowa,” you said slowly. “What the hell is in Iowa? Besides nice people and corn.” Yelena laughed. The sound filled you with warmth, and it made you smile.

“The Bartons are in Iowa,” you raised her eyebrow in question. “Hawkeye.” OH! She could have said that from the beginning. “He retired to the countryside along with his wife and kids.” A small smile appeared on the blonde’s face. “It is probably my favorite place to go.”

“Then,” you managed to let go of Yelena’s hand and cupped her face. “We go to Iowa.”

“You are crazy! Do you know that? Do you know how insane this sounds? Just this morning you said it wasn’t a good idea for her to go to the cancer center; now you want to whisk her away to Iowa? Are you out of your mind?” Tony ranted.

Through her life, Yelena has been called a lot of things. Crazy was one of them, but it was a rare one. Yelena sighed as she filled a bag with medical supplies. The Black Widow was grateful Tony ran down to medbay after her meeting with Helen. The doctor suggested bringing things for extra hydration, such as gloves, alcohol swabs, needles, and a few bags of fluid. The plan was to leave tomorrow morning, stay until Sunday, and leave late afternoon. So Yelena grabbed two bags of fluid per day to be safe. “Call off the little vacay.” Yelena turned around to face him.

“No,” she said simply. “She was the one to suggest going away. I came up with Iowa. At least she is not going to France.” The blonde continued what she was doing. She knew you had your own supply of medication, but she wanted to grab extra. Tony continued his rant about the possibility of something happening.

“Look,” Yelena slammed her hands onto the table. His voice was giving her a headache. “Trust me that I will take care of her,” she squeezed her eyes shut. “Please.” Tony was quiet until she heard him slump into a chair with a sigh.

“I do trust you,” Yelena turned around to look at him. He was slumped back, and he looked tired. It looked like Yelena had never seen it before. “It’s just—”

“You are a worried father that feels a little out of their element,” Yelena guessed. Tony nodded. “Yeah, I get that.” She walked over to him and sat next to him. She felt a little lost as well. It wasn’t every day you were in a relationship with someone that had a life-threatening illness. “Nat is going to meet us there on Saturday. Laura is married to the most accident-prone Avenger I know.” The small jab at Clint got the man to laugh. “She will be okay, and if anything happens, we will come back here.” Tony nodded again.

“Pepper told me how she fell asleep in her office and she called you,” Yelena nodded. “You carried her back to her room without a second thought. Even this morning, you showed a level of care for her that I didn’t think was possible,” the blonde frowned.

“Are you trying to offend me?” She asked.

“No,” he answered and looked at her. “Are you worried about letting her in just for the possibility of losing her?” Yelena sighed and sat back in her chair. Her hands gripped onto her pants.

“All the time,” she admitted. “But like I told her, if she breaks my heart by leaving, then I am glad I gave it to her to break.”

“I’m so bored,” Kate whined as she lay on your bed. You rolled your eyes as you grabbed clothes and packed them into your bag.

“So sorry I’m so boring,” you teased.

“That is not what I said,” the archer defended. You knew that, but it was fun to poke fun at her. The small bag you were bringing was packed with your clothes, hygiene products, and medication. Your backpack was still packed with your sketchbook, tablet, and chargers from treatment. You needed to add a few more things, but that could wait. “Are you excited?” Kate asked. “To have your first couple vacation.”

“Didn’t expect it to be Iowa,” you huffed when you took the bag off the bed and sat down. “Expected it to be to the Bahamas or the Maldives.” Kate laughed and turned on her side to look at you. Her arm bent so her head could rest on her hand. Somehow her face got softer.

“This is kind of a big deal for her, taking you to Iowa,” she added. “Not even—” the archer’s voice trailed off.

“You know,” you mirrored the way she was lying. “I keep hearing snippets of this ex, but no one is telling me anything.”

“Did you ask Yelena?” You nodded. “And how did that go?”

“She almost bit my head off and not in the sexy way.” You deadpanned. Kate blinked at you. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish.

“Please give a girl a heads up when you are about to have sex so I can leave the state.” You pushed on her shoulder, and she fell onto her back. “Rude,” she grumbled, but she returned back to her position. You smiled. “I can’t tell you,” your smile fell. “Not because I don’t want to. Mostly because I don’t really know what happened between her and Vicky.” Vicky. Ew. You hated that name. “She was nice, but I don’t know,” the archer shrugged. “She rubbed me the wrong way.”

Now you were curious. “Do I rub you the wrong way?” You asked. The archer smirked. Since she was facing you, she missed Yelena leaning against the doorway.

“I don’t know, baby. Why don’t we find out?”

“Kate Bishop,” you felt bad. It would have been easy to warn the archer of the Black Widow’s entrance, but you were a little mean at heart. Kate jumped out of her skin, falling onto the floor with a thud. She was quick to stand up. “You are on my side of the bed.”

“I wasn’t even under the covers,” Kate defended. The blonde rolled her eyes and walked over to you.

“Hi, baby,” she bent down to kiss your lips.

“And that is my cue to leave,” Kate clapped her hands. “See you guys at dinner.” She gave you finger guns while she walked backwards and out the door.

“Bye, Kit Kat,” you called after her and heard the door slam shut. Yelena sat by your head, and you moved your head to rest on your lap. The blonde was still sending daggers to her friend that wasn’t there. “Hey,” you said, and you used one of your hands to squeeze her cheek. “You are going to give her a heart attack.”

“Good,” she looked down at you. Her green eyes were soft, and there was no real bite to her words. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” you answered, took her hands in yours, and played with the rings on her fingers. “Especially now that you are here.”

“Sap,” she smiled.

“Only for you,” you yelped when Yelena moved to rest her back on the headboard and moved you further up her chest. You liked it here—feeling the steady beat of her heart and each calm breath she took.

“Stark is not happy we are leaving,” you hummed. Her hands began to massage the deep knots in your shoulders.

“I’ll talk to him at dinner.” It was team dinner tonight with bonding after. Kate told you that Bruce was arriving back tonight, and you were excited to meet the doctor. “You have magical hands,” you groaned.

“Is that so?” The blonde chuckled. “And here I thought you wanted Kate’s hands on you,” she kissed your shoulder. Again she chuckled as your body tensed up. “Or am I misremembering it?” Her lips touched every part of your skin she could reach. “She wanted your hands on her.”

“You sat up and turned to sit on her lap. There was a playful smirk on her face, but there was no hiding the vulnerability in her green eyes. The fear. You trailed your finger up and down her chest, watching it slowly rise and fall. “Your hands,” you whispered. “Are the only ones I want on me.” It was sudden. The way she flipped you onto your back and covered your body with hers. Her lips were on your neck and caused a gasp to escape your lips.

“So sensitive,” she teased. You laughed and put your hands on the back of her head, forcing her to look at you. “What is it?” She questioned.

“Just want to look at you,” you whispered. “You are beautiful.” The blush covered her cheeks, and she hid her face in your shoulder. You smiled, running your hands up and down her back. Her body sagged against you. The weight was comforting. It felt safe and warm.

After dinner, you sat with the Young Avengers, plus MJ and Ned. Yelena was right when she said they were always here, but they were nice. America started the game. It started off as simply hypothetical scenarios—what would you say to a jealous GPS or to your shoulder if it wanted to lead instead of follow? Then MJ asked a thought-provoking one—what would you say to time if time could answer back? The question stumped you, and you remained quiet as your friends went back and forth. The only person that adopted your silence was Yelena. She seemed lost in her head too.

What would you say to time? A million possibilities raced through your head. Why was her time up and not hers? Why is time moving so fast when you wanted it to slow down? “Hey kid,” you were thankful for Tony’s sudden interruption. He was standing next to Dr. Banner. “Do you have a minute?” You nodded, but before leaving with Tony, you looked at Yelena—a silent question passed through you both. Are you okay if I leave? She gave you a smile, nodded, and followed the duo to the kitchen. “Bruce, this is my daughter. Y/n, meet Bruce Banner,” Tony nudged the doctor with his shoulder. “This one might be smarter than both of us.” Bruce gave you a soft smile.

“Not very hard to be smarter than you, Tony,” the doctor teased him. Tony let out a dramatic gasp.

“Why do I put up with you?” He questioned. You chuckled with a shake of your head.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Doctor Banner,” you offered him your hand. At first he hesitated, but soon his hand contacted yours in a brief handshake. “I read your work on the structural dynamics of oxidoreductases.” You noted the surprise on Bruce’s face.

“Did you read that when you were 10?” Tony teased. You felt your body heat up from being called out.

“I was 13, thank you,” you said and slapped the billionaire on the shoulder.

“Impressive,” Bruce said, then turned to look at Tony. “You may be right. She is smarter than the both of us.” You rolled your eyes.

“Hey Snicker doodle,” you huffed at the annoying nickname Kate gave you. She heard you call her Kit Kat, and all throughout dinner she had been testing candy-themed nicknames. This one wasn’t bad compared to the others. “We are going to play cards. Wanna join?”

You hesitated. It sounded fun, but you wanted to talk more with Bruce. The man was fascinating, brave, and maybe a little stupid for testing his own creation on himself. “Go hang out with them,” Bruce made the decision for you. “We can discuss the complexities of structural biology and enzymology another night.” You smiled.

“I’ll hold you to that, Doctor Banner,” you said. “It was nice to meet you.” You gave them a wave before walking back to your friends. Quickly, you smacked Kate on the back of her head. “Snicker doodle,” you said, ignoring her ‘ouch.’ The hit wasn’t that hard. “Really?”

“What?” The archer complained. “I liked that one.”

“As did I,” Yelena put her arms around you.

“You both are so annoying,” you mumbled with no real hatred in your voice.

“It’s impressive,” Tony pulled his eyes away from you to look at his friend. The doctor was pulling out the leftovers from the fridge to build himself a plate. He returned to the tower after dinner was done and put away. Tony wondered how long he was going to stay. He looked better than the last time he was here—the bags under his eyes weren’t as dark.

The Blip changed him like it did with all the members of the team that survived those 5 years. But Bruce carried around so much guilt Tony never understood why. “She looks so much like you,” Tony wasn’t convinced. Sometimes he would stare at you and try to find himself in your features. He saw more of Jessica than himself.

“Really? I don’t see it.” Bruce shrugged.

“Because you don’t see the look in your eyes when you are working in the lab,” he put the plate in the microwave to heat up the food. “It was the same look she had when she brought up my paper.” Tony stood next to him, his back against the counter as he watched you.

It seemed like you were playing spoons, and Wanda and Vision joined the game. Your laughter mixed with the others, and it tugged at Tony’s heart. “Have you thought about what I asked you?” He kept his voice low so no one could hear them. “A way to cure her without using bone marrow.” Bruce opened the microwave when it beeped.

“I have some ideas,” the doctor sighed. “I’ll have to run some tests.” Tony nodded. “But Tony,” the billionaire looked at his friends; Bruce was staring at his food as if he was gathering the courage to eat. “Have you considered she doesn’t want to be saved?” Bruce’s comment froze Tony to the spot. It transported him to the time Bruce openly admitted to trying to kill himself. At the time, it was such a throwaway comment, but Tony thought about it a lot.

“I would never force her,” Tony said. “But I want to give her options.” Bruce nodded.

“I’ll be in the lab,” he said. “Working late.” The doctor walked towards the lab before Tony could respond. He sighed. Gods, he needed a drink. When you laughed again, Tony couldn’t look at you. Instead, he walked over to Pepper and Morgan. A heaviness threatened to drown him, and he was struggling to fight the tide.

Taglist: @likemick, @averagetmblrusser, @wandaromamoff69, @simpforyelenabelova, @cd-4848, @simpforyelenabelova @nymph0puppp, @sparks123123

#second chance #yelena belova x reader #yelena belova x you #yelena belova x y/n stark #yelena belova x y/n #tony stark x reader #tony stark x you

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irondad-and-spiderson · 1 year ago

Note

Hi! Sorry to bother, idk if you take asks like this (if you don't feel free to ignore!) but do you know any good fics where SI employees bully/threaten/mistreat Peter and Tony comes to the rescue? Thank you so much for your time 💙💙

Hi! I absolutely do! I might just take forever to respond and take your prompt a little loosely 😃 The three under the cut are employees with (valid) security concerns. I know there are more that I can’t find, so anyone feel free to add some 😉

A Big Security Issue by FotiBrit

When Peter lost his Stark Industries Staff ID, Tony handed the kid his own. That was never an issue, until Peter had to check in at the front desk.

The Cusp of a Breath by SpaceCowboysFromMars

“That was the most stressful thing I’ve ever experienced.” Peter says as he and Tony make their way into the crowd. He wipes his sweaty palms on his thighs, cringing when he remembers how much the suit costs.

“You got shot on patrol last month.”

“This was worse.”

Or; Peter is introduced as the official heir of Stark Industries, but not everyone is completely welcoming of his presence. Luckily, he has a pretty awesome mentor to keep him on track.

the love (and other things) you inherit by ironfidus

“Which is why,” Catherine says, unblinking, as delicately as she can, “the board requires that you name a successor in the event of your untimely demise. The risk has simply become too great for us to ignore.”

Tony Stark’s spent a large portion of his life thinking about legacy: his legacy, his company’s, Iron Man’s. He’s spent a lot of time fighting to protect his legacy, too. But today, with a lawyer as his witness and FRIDAY as his one-AI cheerleading squad, he stops, takes a step back, and lets go instead—because for the first time, his legacy isn’t about him, not really.

And as FRIDAY would say: it’s about damn time.

Alternatively: Tony updates his will and gets himself an heir, Peter gets a promotion (for lack of a better word), and the rest of the world gets a wake-up call—in that order. Ft. an impatient board of directors, a Stark Industries charity gala, and a universe in which Tony Stark gets to be happy.

Security Bias by Sara (ctrsara)

Happy Hogan asks Daren Anderson to help him out with a little project.

My take on idk-bruh-20's irondad fic ideas #128: Fic where, after a security incident in which some bozo accused Peter of trespassing at Stark Tower, Happy holds an emergency briefing for the entire SI security team.

The topic of the briefing? The absolutely untouchable, vital-to-know-if-you-want-to-keep-your-job level of importance of one Peter Parker.

Five Times Tony Stark's Fabled Intern Just Showed Up + One Time He Was Invited by kingdomfaraway

While Leroy didn’t like gossip, he wasn’t immune to it and he’d heard about a young boy claiming to be Tony Stark’s intern showing up randomly throughout the building. He just figured it was some random mystery, a Stark Industries cryptid if you will.

Never did he think he’d have a sighting.

“Are you Peter Parker?” Leroy questioned, narrowing his eyes at the young boy, looking for any signs of deceit.

“Oh yeah, that’s me, hi!” Possibly Fabled Intern Peter Parker reached into his pocket and pulled out a badge and lanyard, this one with his face on it and INTERN written underneath it. “Mr. Stark got me a badge so I can get nachos whenever I want.”

Chapter 1 of 200 Park Avenue (5+1) by Sara (ctrsara)

Peter hasn't seen Mr. Stark, or been able to go out as Spider-man since he turned down his invitation to join the Avengers a few weeks ago. He ends up at Stark Tower rather randomly, finding an unlikely hero in Mr. Stark's AI, then keeps returning for different purposes.

The first chapter is a short I did for Comfortember 2022 that I've just kept thinking about. I'm building on that story and creating a 5+1 to explore the new dynamic (post-Homecoming) in another way.

5 Times Peter Visited Stark Tower and 1 Time He Stayed

Home by patrochilles_trash ((it’s less angsty than it sounds))

Tony had been out of the country for weeks on SI business, and Peter was having a hard time. He missed him, plain and simple.

Okay. Maybe not so plain and simple.

Peter had a rough time in the weeks and months that followed the final defeat of Thanos in the ruins of the Compound. Thrust back into life, only to be forced to fight for the lives of the entire universe for the second time at only sixteen-years-old, and then to be told that his last living relative died in a crash during his five year absence did wonders for his psyche.

He developed a nasty form of separation anxiety toward his mentor-turned-adoptive-father -- not that Tony fared much better himself -- and his therapist had said it was a side effect of PTSD and that it would get better over time.

A small field trip fic to SI where Tony has been out of the country for a few weeks, and Peter isn't handling it well.

Don't be fooled. This garbage fluff to avoid my other fics that I'm writing

#ask #fanfiction #iron dad #tony stark #spider son #peter parker #fic rec #answered

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atlasscrumpit · 4 months ago

Text

Tony Stark/Reader

A.S.T.A

(Tony's newest Ai is adjusting to being objectified)

You stood in Tony's lab looking down at his newest creation.

'So, she's a little different from your other robots,' you commented. He rolled his eyes and moved around the synthetic body.

'She's not a robot, she's an artificial intelligence with a state of the art synthetic body, her name is ASTA,' he said. You rolled your eyes and looked down at her. She did look very real.

'And you just so happened to create a pretty woman with boobs?' you said. He looked at you unamused as you chuckled softly.

'People don't get upset when sculptures make female bodies, do they?' he said. You rolled your eyes once more, something you this quite a bit around Tony.

'Whatever, just don't ever let me catch you screwing the damn thing.'

It was odd getting used to having a life like robot running about the tower. It was nice to have someone to cook and clean but, it still made you feel rather unsettled.

Tomorrow Tony was unveiling his latest creation to the world, you couldn't wait to hear what the men had to say about her.

At dinner you sat next to Tony.

'What are you going to make her wear tomorrow?' you asked. He glanced up from his meal.

'I don't know, probably a dress or something,' he said. You stared at him with a deadpan look.

'Seriously? If you want people to take you seriously and not treat her like a sex doll, don't put her in a dress,' you said.

'I wanted to show the range that she has, and how human she can look,' he said. You sighed.

'Go for it, but if it bites you in the ass don't come crying to me.'

The next day went as expected, greasy journalists all asking the same sexist questions over and over.

Once it was done Tony lead Asta out the back where you were waiting.

'Oh, don't give me that look. Most of the questions were intelligent ones. Save for a few,' Tony mumbled. You chuckled and rolled your eyes as he spoke to some people, you glanced at Asta. You could've sworn you could see emotion in her eyes as she watched Tony. She turned to you with her usual friendly smile.

'Humans treat artifical intelligence rather...intimately,' she said. You looked at her in confusion.

'What do you mean by that?'

'Well, humans seems to not look into my eyes and only at the artifical breasts on my body, the only ask questions about what my body can do and if I have...private areas. Are all a.i's treated like this?' she asked. You smiled sadly at her innocence.

'Not all a.i's no, just the ones that look like women,' you said. She looked at you for a moment, trying to understand.

'So, they treat me like this because I look like a woman? So, you are treated this way even thought you are the same species?' she asked. You looked at her sadly and sighed.

'Unfortunately. That's just how it is in the world right now. Trust me, I get it. I've had to work twice as hard to be seen as half as strong as Tony,' you admitted. She sat down beside you and for a moment you forgot she was a robot.

'I don't think I like being a woman,' she said making you chuckle.

'None of us do.'

#Tony Stark #Avengers #Reader insert #Avengers x reader #Tony Stark x Reader

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sam24 · 2 years ago

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Minivans And Pawnshops

Summary: You were out on a mission for a week, and when Tony, your self-appointed overprotective bodyguard, notices your Greek god of a boyfriend acting weird, he makes it his personal duty to figure out why. By asking Steve what was going on? Hell no. By slipping a Stark Tracker on him and shoving 11 people into an 8-seater Honda Odyssey to follow him.

Pairing: Steve Rogers x fem!reader

*****

“Take a left.” Friday’s monotone voice rang out.

“Take a left here, Happy,” Tony instructed, looking up from the Stark Map on his phone.

Happy rolled his eyes, mumbling something along the lines of I know, the robot already told me.

“This isn’t necessary, Tony,” You repeated for about the hundredth time. “Steve is not cheating on me.”

“My evidence says otherwise,” Tony urged Happy to drive faster, earning a grumble from the latter. “He’s acting very suspicious, always going out and coming back late every time.”

“Actually, I can vouch for Tony on that one,” Clint adds from his squished place in the last row of the mini-van, practically sitting in an annoyed Natasha’s lap. “He’s been acting pretty weird.”

“Doesn’t automatically mean that he’s cheating,” You defended. “He probably has other reasons.”

“Fine. Cheating or fight club. Which would you prefer?” Tony cocked his head at you, and you shoved it back.

“If he is bedding another woman, I will make sure he cannot bed any woman ever again!” Thor declared loudly into your ear, Wanda also wincing on the other side of him.

“You mean cut his dick off?” Sam piped in from the back, who was purposefully shoving into Bucky with every turn the car made.

“Um, indeed. I think so,” Thor shrugged. “I am not sure what I meant either.”

“Uh Mister Stark?” Peter turns around from the passenger seat that he was sharing with a very uncomfortable Bruce. “Did you really have to bring all of us? I have a lot of math homework to finish.”

Tony waved him off. “I have like 30 assistants back at the tower, kid. Someone will do it for you. Plus, all of us have to catch Rogers in the act and publicly shame him.”

You turned back to Tony, remembering what you both were initially arguing about after the ringing in your ear settled down. “You didn’t have to sneak a damn tracking device on him! You could have just asked what he was doing like a normal person.”

“Fuck being normal. At least be grateful that I waited for you until you came back from your mission to catch him red handed.” Tony smirked. “Or should I say cum handed.”

Everyone gagged.

“Actually, I don’t think that’s how it works,” Vision frowned, basically underneath Wanda. “The semen technically would not be in the Captain’s hand, unless-”

“Vis, honey.” Wanda just shook her head.

“Plus, I already asked Cyborg over here.” Tony pointed to the back at Bucky, who was still glaring at Sam. “He went uhh, I don’t know and ran away,” Tony said in his best dumb jock voice.

“Nothing is going on, Tony.” Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Just turn the car around.”

“I agree with Barnes.” Natasha kicked Tony’s seat from the third row. “Turn around, Happy.”

Bucky looked past Sam and Clint, who were hitting each other’s knees with their own. “Steve told you too?” He asked in Russian with a raised eyebrow.

Natasha shook her head with a smirk. “No. I’m just smart like that.”

“Too late, buddy,” Tony ignored their secret conversation, flashing a fake smile over his shoulder. “Like the great John B once said, ‘We didn’t come this far to get this far’.”

Peter whipped around once again, his eyes lighting up at the quote. “Mister Stark, I’m really glad that you’re watching my TV show recommendations, but I’m pretty sure someone else said it before he did-”

“Happy, take another left here.” Tony called out, mimicking the AI who just said it seconds before.

You rolled your eyes, the red dot in the center of Brooklyn on the phone screen catching your attention. You had no reason to doubt Steve’s loyalty toward your relationship. He loved you and you loved him and you knew that he would never do anything to hurt you. But, you were curious as to why Steve was apparently acting weird while you were gone, and what the hell he was doing in Brooklyn.

“Trust me, Tone. He’s not cheating. I’ll just ask him when he comes back, it’s probably just some stuff he has to take care of.”

“C’mon guys,” Bucky pressed. “Let’s turn around. I need to pee or something.”

“Hm, sounds like you're in denial.” Tony said to you, ignoring Bucky once again. “Don’t worry, the next step will be coming soon. Anger,” Tony announced with a grin like it was some kind of flashy news headline.

“Tony, why the hell does it sound like you want my boyfriend to be cheating on me.”

“Aw come on, it’s not like that,” Tony gestured at Happy to take a right. “I’m just looking out for you.”

You rolled your eyes once again, rubbing your wrist, remembering the death grip Tony had on you earlier as he dragged you into the light blue Honda Odyssey packed tight of Avengers in the back of his garage. He was saving it for his future family, he had claimed when you asked why Tony Stark of all people owned a minivan.

“Stop!” Tony yelled, and Happy quickly stepped on the brake, sending everyone flying forward. You heard Bruce and Peter groaning in the front. “This is it. The big reveal,” he announced.

You immediately scooted ever closer to Tony as he pressed his forehead to the window.

“He’s having an affair with . . .” Tony paused with a frown, his sunglasses sliding down the slope of his nose. “The owner of Vintage Pawn Shop?”

Pawn shop? Didn't Steve say something about a pawn shop a while back?

Identical confused eyebrow furrows made their way onto everyone’s faces, except Bucky’s and Natasha’s, as you spotted your unmistakable 6 foot 2 super soldier through the glass littered with fingerprints.

He was describing something to the old lady working in the store, looking hopeful and tired, like he had been searching for it for days. She nodded and raised her finger in a one minute, honey type of way and started rummaging through some things behind the counter. She pulled out a small box from somewhere, opening it and gently placing it in front of Steve.

You squinted your eyes, accidentally shoving Tony’s head into the window of the car as you craned your neck closer, trying to read the woman’s lips.

She said something along the lines of This might be what you’re looking for, sweetie, and Steve’s eyes lit up, a clear wave of nostalgia crashing over him. With gentle calloused fingers, he lifted a ring out of the box, admiring it with a soft smile.

“Friday,” Tony called out, face still squished between you and the car window. “Connect to the store’s CCTV.”

Before you could ask since when the hell Friday could do that, the Stark Map with a You have arrived at your destination adorned on its screen quickly was replaced with the live footage from the store’s cameras.

“Did this belong to someone that you knew, honey?” The old woman’s kind voice grainily made its way through the speaker of Tony’s phone as she noticed Steve’s eyes glistening with tears.

Everyone tried to move closer to the phone for Steve’s reply in the overcrowded car. “Ow!” You heard Clint yell, probably at Sam. “That was my foot, dumbass!” He was immediately shushed.

“Yeah.” Steve nodded, still smiling at the ring. “My ma’s.”

Multiple gasps were heard throughout the car, Happy’s being the loudest.

A weeks old, sleepy memory that was buried deep into your brain immediately flooded back.

You and Steve were wrapped around each other, your ear pressed to his heart, slowly lulling you to sleep with a familiar beat.

“Y’know, you remind me of my ma.” Steve randomly declared against your hair, and you peered up at him to meet the soft currents in his eyes. “Beautiful. Kind. Doesn’t take shit from anyone.”

He pressed a kiss to your lips as you smiled, cupping your face to pull back and look at you. He stared lovingly at you for a while, settling into a comfortable silence.

“Everything okay?” You turned your head to kiss his palm. The last time he had looked at you for this long without talking, it was right before he burst into tears after you had almost died on a mission.

“Yeah, sweetheart. Just thinking.” He pulled you back into his chest, placing another kiss on your forehead. “She would’ve loved you.”

After a little bit of silence, he spoke again. “Her ring was beautiful.”

“Oh?” You hummed.

“Yeah.” He nuzzled his nose into your cheek, a slight Brooklyn accent slipping through as he talked slowly, his words laced with sleep. “Don’t know where it is, but I wanna find it for you. I’ll look through every pawn shop in the state. And when I find it I’ll propose when the time’s right under the stars and you’ll say yes because you’re just like my ma, and Ma loved me more than anything in the world.”

If Steve had brought up the topic of marrying you during the day when you were wide-awake, you probably would have had a stroke of happiness.

But right now, it was night.

It was night and you were half-asleep, wrapped up in Steve’s warm arms, feeling more at peace there than you ever had anywhere else.

Nothing but peace.

So you just drowsily grinned into his bare chest, your hand snaking up to rest on his cheek. “She loved you more than anything in the world, huh?” You repeated. “Well then I guess your Ma and I are pretty similar.”

You looked up from the screen and back at the window, staring at the ring in Steve’s hand with wide eyes. The sunlight bounced off of it and the jewel sparkled in the light with an elegant touch. Steve was right- it was absolutely gorgeous.

A smile crept onto your face, matching the one on Steve’s.

“Why the hell are you smiling?” Tony’s voice interrupted your daze. “He’s gonna propose to the side chick!”

#marvel fanfiction #steve rogers x reader #tony stark is dumb #but we still love him

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