Warning/Rating: PG-13, romantic tension and intimacy. Contains passionate and escalating kissing, sensual physical affection, mild language, themes of desire and attraction, and suggestive undertones. No explicit sexual content.
Word Count: 677 K
The city sprawls beneath the windows of Hank's office, a constellation of lights that blur into insignificance the moment you meet his eyes across the mahogany desk.
"You should've left an hour ago," he says, loosening his tie with one hand, that dangerous smile playing at the corner of his mouth. The kind of smile that's won over countless juries and probably countless women.
"So should you." You don't look away. You've learned that with Hank Palmer, looking away is the same as losing.
He rounds the desk slowly, deliberately, his expensive shoes silent on the carpet. "But here we are."
"Here we are," you echo, and the air between you feels charged, electric, like the moment before lightning strikes.
Hank stops just close enough that you can smell his cologne - something dark and woody that probably costs more than your rent. His eyes, those sharp, assessing eyes that miss nothing in a courtroom, trace your face like he's memorizing evidence.
"Tell me to stop," he murmurs, his voice dropping to that low register that makes your pulse quicken.
"I don't think I will."
His smile widens, triumphant, and then his mouth is on yours.
The first kiss is surprisingly gentle - a question more than a statement. His lips are soft, warm, tasting faintly of the bourbon he'd been nursing. Your hands find his chest, feeling the expensive cotton of his shirt, the solid warmth of him beneath it. He kisses you again, deeper this time, his hand cupping your jaw with a tenderness that contradicts his reputation.
Then again. And again.
Each kiss is different - some slow and exploring, others urgent and demanding. He kisses you like he argues cases: with complete commitment, devastating precision, and absolute confidence in the outcome. His other hand finds your waist, pulling you closer, and you go willingly, your fingers sliding up to his shoulders.
"God," he breathes against your mouth, and kisses you once more, harder now, with an intensity that makes your knees weak.
He breaks away only to trail his lips along your jaw, pressing kisses to the sensitive skin there each one sending sparks down your spine. His stubble rasps deliciously against your skin. You tilt your head back, giving him access, and feel his satisfied hum against your throat.
"You're dangerous," you manage to whisper.
"Look who's talking." His mouth finds that spot just below your ear, and you gasp. He smiles against your skin before pressing another kiss there, then another to your temple, soft and almost reverent.
Your hands thread through his hair, and he makes a sound low in his throat that does absolutely nothing to slow your racing heart. He kisses your cheekbone, your other temple, the bridge of your nose, like he's mapping every inch of your face and committing it to memory.
When his lips return to yours, the kiss is consuming, all-encompassing. His hands frame your face now, holding you like something precious, and you kiss him back with equal fervor, equal need. The city lights paint you both in amber and shadow.
He walks you backward until your back meets the cool glass of the window, and the contrast makes you shiver - or maybe that's just him. His mouth moves to your neck, pressing a trail of kisses down the column of your throat, each one deliberate, purposeful. Your pulse hammers beneath his lips.
"Hank…"
He kisses your collarbone, then your shoulder where your blouse has slipped, his hands steady at your waist. "I've got you," he murmurs against your skin, and somehow you know he means it in more ways than one.
When he finally pulls back to look at you, his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, his carefully maintained composure thoroughly undone. His thumb traces your kiss-swollen bottom lip.
"Stay," he says simply.
And with the city glittering behind you and Hank Palmer looking at you like you're the only thing that matters, you find yourself nodding.
"Okay," you whisper. "Okay."
He smiles - genuine this time, without the courtroom charm - and kisses you again.
🧡 kissing in bed / lazy kiss / cuddling, this is 100% Tony Stark!!! Can you make something with Tony + pregnant Wife?
Sunlight and Softness
Pairing: Tony Stark x Wife F!Reader
Heart Game
Warning/Rating: PG; Married domestic romance, pregnancy. Contains tender kissing and physical affection, references to pregnancy and fetal movement, mild language, themes of tender devotion and domestic contentment.
Word Count: 758 K
The afternoon sun filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse bedroom, casting golden stripes across rumpled sheets and tangled limbs. You're not sure what time it is - only that Tony declared it "mandatory rest time" an hour ago and pulled you back to bed with that irresistible grin of his.
Now you're here, wrapped in Egyptian cotton and your husband's arms, and you can't think of anywhere else you'd rather be.
"You're staring," you murmur, eyes still closed, feeling the weight of his gaze on your face.
"Observing," Tony corrects, his voice rough with contentment. His fingers trace lazy patterns along your shoulder, down your arm, back up again. "There's a difference. Observing is scientific. Romantic, even."
You crack one eye open to find him propped on his elbow, looking at you like you're something precious. His hair is a disaster - your fault, from running your fingers through it earlier - and there's a softness to his features that the rest of the world rarely sees.
"Romantic," you repeat, smiling. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"I'm a romantic guy." He leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, slow and sweet. "Ask anyone."
"Pretty sure Pepper would disagree."
"Pepper's biased." Another kiss, this one to your temple. "She never appreciated my gift-giving genius."
You hum as his lips trail to your cheek, feather-light and unhurried. Everything about this moment feels suspended in amber - the warmth of the sun on your skin, the weight of the blanket pooled at your waist, Tony's hand splayed possessively across your hip.
When his mouth finally finds yours, it's lazy and languid, the kind of kiss that has nowhere to go and all the time in the world to get there. His lips are soft, tasting faintly of the coffee he had earlier, and you sigh into it, letting yourself sink deeper into the pillows.
Tony shifts closer, careful of the swell of your belly between you. His hand slides from your hip to rest there instead, palm warm through the thin fabric of your sleep shirt - his sleep shirt, actually, stolen from his drawer weeks ago when your own clothes stopped fitting comfortably.
"Hi," he whispers against your mouth, and you can feel his smile.
"Hi yourself."
He kisses you again, deeper this time but still unhurried, his thumb stroking gentle circles over your rounded stomach. When you part, he doesn't go far, just rests his forehead against yours, breathing you in.
"How are my two favorite people doing?"
"Your favorite people are tired," you say, but there's no heat in it. "Someone kept us up late working in the workshop."
"Someone wanted to finish the new crib design." His hand continues its soothing motion, and you feel the baby shift beneath his touch, a flutter of movement that makes you both pause. Tony's eyes light up the way they always do when he feels it - pure wonder, like he's witnessing something miraculous. "Hey, there's my little genius."
"Your little genius is using my bladder as a trampoline."
"Gets that from me. The genius part, not the trampoline thing." He presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then the sensitive spot beneath your ear that makes you shiver. "Want me to talk to them? Explain proper bladder etiquette?"
You laugh, the sound melting into a contented sigh as he nuzzles into your neck. "I don't think they're listening to reason yet."
"They will. They're a Stark." His voice is muffled against your skin, warm breath tickling. "We're very reasonable people."
"You're ridiculous people."
"Ridiculously charming." He pulls back just enough to look at you again, and the tenderness in his expression makes your chest ache in the best way. His hand cups your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone. "Ridiculously in love with you."
Before you can respond, he's kissing you again, soft and slow and perfect. You curl into him, one hand fisting in his shirt, the other finding his hair. The baby does another little flip between you, and Tony smiles against your lips, his hand moving to cradle your belly with something like reverence.
Outside, the city hums with its usual chaos. But here, in this sun-soaked sanctuary of tangled sheets and lazy kisses, there's only this: his warmth, his touch, his love wrapped around you like a promise.
"Love you too," you whisper when you finally break apart.
Tony's answer is another kiss, and then another, and you lose count of them all as the afternoon stretches on, golden and perfect and yours.
I’m thinking I’m thinking… reunion sex with Peter Highman x wife reader… Peter returning from one of his business trips and he’s just starving for his wife. That man is intense… some dirty talk too please
Back to You
Pairing: Peter Highman x Wife F!Reader
Warning/Rating: 18+; explicit, graphic sexual activity (oral sex, manual stimulation, penetration, multiple orgasms described in detail), rough sex, explicit language and dirty talk throughout, unprotected sex, possessive themes, adult content.
Word Count: 2.9 K
The sound of keys jangling in the lock made your heart skip. You'd been waiting - trying not to watch the clock, trying not to pace - but the moment you heard that familiar fumbling at the door, all pretense evaporated.
Peter stumbled through the doorway, rolling his carry-on behind him with one hand while loosening his tie with the other. He looked exhausted - rumpled suit, hair slightly disheveled, five o'clock shadow darkening his jaw - but the second his eyes found yours, something electric sparked to life in his expression.
"Well, well," he said, that trademark smirk already playing at his lips. "If it isn't my favorite person in the entire world. And before you ask, yes, that includes Ryan Gosling. Though it's close."
You crossed your arms, leaning against the hallway wall with a smile you couldn't suppress. "Five days, Peter. Five days of radio silence except for three texts that said 'Airport hell,' 'Client is an idiot,' and 'Miss your ass.'"
"In my defense," he said, abandoning his luggage right there in the entryway and stalking toward you with predatory focus, "I was being extremely specific about what I missed. Your ass is exceptional. It deserved its own text."
"Just my ass?"
"Oh no, baby. That was just what I could type with one hand while the other was—" He stopped directly in front of you, close enough that you could smell his cologne mixed with airport staleness and something uniquely him. "Well, let's just say I've been thinking about you. Extensively. In great detail. With visual aids I created myself."
Heat flooded through you. "Peter…"
"Do you know," he continued, his voice dropping lower as one hand came up to brace against the wall beside your head, caging you in, "what it's like to sit through a four-hour client presentation about sustainable design blueprints when all you can think about is how your wife sounds when she comes? Because I do. Intimately. The guy next to me definitely thought I was having a stroke."
"You're ridiculous," you breathed, but your hands were already reaching for him, fisting in his shirt.
"I'm horny," he corrected. "There's a difference. Well, no, I'm both. But primarily the second thing." His free hand slid to your waist, fingers pressing in possessively. "I've been on planes, in cabs, in meetings with clients who wouldn't know good architecture if it bit them on their remarkably flat asses, and the entire time I've been thinking about getting home to you."
"Yeah?" You tilted your chin up, challenging. "What exactly were you thinking?"
Peter's eyes darkened, his grip on your waist tightening. "Dangerous question, sweetheart. You sure you want the answer? Because I've had five days to compile a very detailed list, and I'm not known for my brevity."
"Try me."
"Okay." He leaned in, lips brushing your ear as he spoke. "I was thinking about how you taste. How you feel wrapped around me. The little sounds you make when I'm inside you - those breathy gasps that drive me absolutely insane. I was thinking about making you scream my name so loud the neighbors finally have something legitimate to complain about."
Your breath hitched. "Peter -"
"I was thinking," he continued, his hand sliding from your waist to your hip, then lower, cupping your ass and pulling you flush against him, "about fucking you so hard you forget every single day I was gone. About making you come so many times you lose count. About reminding you exactly who you belong to."
You could feel him, hard and insistent against your stomach, and it sent a bolt of pure want straight through you. "Big talk from someone who can barely stand up straight."
He pulled back just enough to look at you, and his grin was absolutely wicked. "Oh, baby. I could be on my deathbed and I'd still get it up for you. That's not exhaustion - that's five days of pent-up frustration with your name on it."
"Then maybe," you said, sliding your hands up his chest to loop around his neck, "you should stop talking and do something about it."
"There she is," Peter murmured appreciatively. "I missed that mouth. Both the smart-ass comments and the other things it does." He kissed you then, hard and demanding, one hand tangling in your hair while the other gripped your ass possessively. He tasted like airplane coffee and mint gum and desperation, and you melted into him, five days of missing him pouring into the kiss.
When he pulled back, you were both breathing hard.
"Bedroom," he said, voice rough. "Now. Unless you want me to take you right here in the hallway, which, don't get me wrong, I'm absolutely willing to do, but I'd prefer our first time in five days to involve a bed. I'm traditional that way."
"Since when are you traditional about anything?"
"Fair point." He kissed you again, biting your lower lip. "But I have plans for you, and they require space. And possibly some of that upper body strength I've been maintaining specifically for sexual purposes."
You laughed, breathless, and took his hand. "Come on, then."
He followed you down the hallway, but he couldn't seem to keep his hands to himself. His fingers traced up your spine, slipped under the hem of your shirt, squeezed your hips. By the time you reached the bedroom, you were both practically vibrating with need.
Peter spun you around as soon as you crossed the threshold, backing you toward the bed with purposeful steps. "Do you have any idea," he said, his hands already working at the buttons of your shirt, "how many times I jerked off thinking about this moment? Because it's embarrassing. I'm a grown man. I should have more self-control."
"How many?" you asked, helping him with your buttons because his fingers were shaking slightly - whether from exhaustion or arousal, you couldn't tell.
"Let's just say the hotel shower got a lot of use." He pushed your shirt off your shoulders, his eyes raking over your exposed skin with naked hunger. "Jesus Christ, look at you. How did I survive five days without this?"
"You're such a drama queen."
"I'm a man in love with his wife's tits," he corrected, his hands coming up to cup your breasts through your bra. "There's a difference." He thumbed your nipples through the fabric, watching with satisfaction as they hardened under his touch. "And the rest of her. But right now, specifically the tits."
You reached for his belt, but he caught your wrists.
"Uh-uh," he said, shaking his head. "I've been fantasizing about this for five days. We're doing this my way." He guided your hands above your head, holding them there with one hand while the other traced down your body. "You're going to stand here and let me touch you, and you're going to tell me how much you missed me."
"Peter…"
"That's not telling me." His free hand popped the button of your jeans, slid down the zipper with agonizing slowness. "Come on, baby. Use your words. You're usually so good with them."
"I missed you," you breathed as his fingers slipped beneath your waistband. "I missed you so much."
"More specific." He traced the edge of your panties, not quite touching where you needed him. "What did you miss?"
"Your hands," you gasped. "Your mouth. The way you - oh God!"
He'd slipped one finger beneath your panties, finding you already wet. "The way I what?" he prompted, circling your clit with maddening lightness. "Finish that sentence."
"The way you touch me," you managed. "The way you make me feel. Peter, please."
"Please what?" But he was already pushing your jeans and panties down your hips, releasing your wrists so you could step out of them. "You're going to have to be more specific than that, sweetheart. I've been gone five days. My memory's a little fuzzy."
"You're such an asshole," you said, but it came out breathless and wanting.
"Yeah, but I'm your asshole." He straightened up, his hands going to your bra clasp. "And you love it." He unhooked it with practiced ease, tossing it aside and immediately cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples. "You love when I make you beg. When I take control. When I fuck you so hard you can't think straight."
"Yes," you admitted, arching into his touch.
"That's my girl." He leaned down, taking one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard enough to make you gasp. His other hand slid between your legs, two fingers pushing inside you without warning. "Fuck, you're so wet. Were you thinking about me?"
"Yes," you moaned as his fingers curled inside you, finding that spot that made your knees weak. "Every day. Every night."
"Did you touch yourself?" He added a third finger, stretching you, his thumb finding your clit. "Did you make yourself come thinking about me?"
"Yes! Oh God, Peter!"
"Good girl." He pumped his fingers faster, his mouth moving to your other breast. "But I bet it wasn't the same, was it? Your fingers aren't as good as mine. You couldn't make yourself come as hard as I can."
"No," you gasped, your hands fisting in his hair. "Not the same. Need you. Need you inside me."
"Soon," he promised, but he didn't stop, didn't slow down. "First I want to feel you come on my fingers. Want to watch you fall apart. You're close, aren't you? I can feel it. Your pussy's getting so tight."
"Peter - I'm -"
"That's it, baby. Come for me. Show me how much you missed me."
The orgasm hit you like a wave, your whole body tensing as pleasure crashed through you. Peter held you through it, his fingers still moving, drawing it out until you were shaking and gasping his name.
"Beautiful," he murmured, slowly withdrawing his fingers. He brought them to his mouth, sucking them clean with a groan. "I missed that taste. I missed watching you come. I missed -" He stopped, shaking his head. "Okay, no, I'm done being patient. Bed. Now."
You climbed onto the bed on shaky legs, and Peter finally started stripping off his own clothes. Tie, shirt, undershirt, all tossed carelessly aside. His belt hit the floor with a clatter. By the time he was naked, you were practically squirming with anticipation.
He was beautiful - lean muscle, scattered freckles, and hard everywhere that mattered. His cock jutted out from his body, flushed and ready, and your mouth watered at the sight.
"Like what you see?" he asked, that cocky smirk back in place as he climbed onto the bed.
"You know I do."
"Yeah, but I like hearing it." He settled between your legs, his hands running up your thighs. "Tell me."
"You're gorgeous," you said honestly. "I love your body. I love how you feel against me, inside me."
He kissed you, swallowing the rest of your words. "I love you too," he murmured against your lips. "So fucking much. Even when you're being a smart-ass. Especially then, actually."
"Peter," you breathed, wrapping your legs around his waist. "Please. I need you."
"I know, baby. I know." He reached between you, positioning himself at your entrance. "I've got you." And then he pushed inside in one smooth thrust, filling you completely, and you both groaned at the sensation.
"Fuck," Peter gasped, his forehead dropping to yours. "Fuck, I forgot how good this feels. How perfect you are. How -" He pulled out almost completely, then slammed back in, making you cry out. "How fucking amazing it is to be inside you."
"Move," you demanded, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Peter, please move."
"Bossy," he said, but he was already complying, setting a hard, fast rhythm that had the headboard hitting the wall. "Is this what you wanted? Me fucking you hard? Making you scream?"
"Yes," you moaned, meeting him thrust for thrust. "Yes, just like that. Don't stop."
"Wasn't planning on it." His hands gripped your hips, angling you so he could go deeper. "I'm going to fuck you until you can't walk straight. Until you feel me for days. Until every time you move, you remember exactly who made you feel this good."
"God, Peter!"
"That's right, say my name." He leaned down, biting your neck hard enough to leave a mark. "Let everyone know who you belong to. Who makes you feel this good. Who fucks you like this."
"You," you gasped. "Only you. Peter, I'm…"
"Already? Fuck, baby, you're so responsive. So perfect." He shifted, one hand sliding between your bodies to rub your clit. "Come on, sweetheart. Give me another one. I want to feel you come on my cock."
The combination of his fingers and his cock and his filthy words pushed you over the edge again, your orgasm ripping through you with even more intensity than the first. You cried out his name, your body clenching around him, and Peter groaned.
"Jesus Christ," he panted, his rhythm faltering. "You feel so fucking good when you come. So tight. So perfect. I'm not going to last."
"Don't," you managed, still trembling from your orgasm. "Want to feel you come. Want you to fill me up."
"Fuck," Peter groaned, his thrusts becoming erratic. "You can't say things like that. I'm trying to - oh God!"
"Come for me, Peter," you whispered in his ear. "Please. I need it. Need you."
That did it. He thrust deep one last time, his whole body going rigid as he came with a shout of your name. You felt him pulsing inside you, felt the warmth of his release, and it sent another small aftershock of pleasure through you.
Peter collapsed on top of you, both of you breathing hard, sweaty and satisfied. After a moment, he rolled to the side, pulling you with him so you were tucked against his chest.
"So," he said after his breathing had slowed, his voice rough and satisfied. "On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate that reunion?"
You laughed, pressing a kiss to his chest. "Eleven. Definitely an eleven."
"Damn right." He ran his fingers through your hair, gentle now in a way that contrasted sharply with how rough he'd been moments before. "I really did miss you, you know. Not just the sex. Though the sex is phenomenal and I'm absolutely doing that again in about twenty minutes."
"Twenty minutes?" you teased. "You're not as young as you used to be."
"Watch it," he warned, but there was no heat in it. "I'm plenty young enough to make you regret that comment. In fact -" He rolled on top of you again, pinning you to the bed with a grin. "I think I need to prove a point."
"Peter, you just -"
"I'm aware of what I just did," he interrupted. "I was there. Very actively participating, if you recall. But I've got five days of missing you to make up for, and we've barely scratched the surface." His hand slid down your body, fingers tracing patterns on your hip. "Besides, I distinctly remember promising to make you come so many times you lose count. We're only at two. That's not losing count. That's barely getting started."
"You're insane," you said, but you were already arching into his touch.
"Insane about you," he corrected. "There's a difference." He kissed you, slow and deep this time, less frantic but no less intense. "I love you," he murmured against your lips. "Even when you mock my sexual stamina."
"I love you too," you said, smiling. "Even when you're an arrogant ass."
"Especially when I'm an arrogant ass," he corrected. "That's when I'm most charming." His fingers found your clit again, circling slowly. "Now, where were we? Oh right. I was proving a point about my stamina and your ability to count."
You gasped as he slid down your body, settling between your legs with a wicked grin.
"Peter."
"Shh," he said, his breath hot against your inner thigh. "I'm working. Very important work. Husbandly duties and all that." He pressed a kiss to your thigh, then another, moving closer to where you needed him. "Besides, you taste like both of us right now, and that's incredibly hot. So really, you're doing me a favor."
"You're ridiculous," you breathed, but your hands were already tangling in his hair.
"Yeah," he agreed, looking up at you with those dark eyes full of mischief and love and desire. "But I'm your ridiculous. And I'm home. And I'm going to spend the rest of the night reminding you exactly why you married me."
"I married you because you're charming and funny and - oh God!"
He'd put his mouth on you, cutting off your words with a long, slow lick that had your back arching off the bed.
"Keep going," he said, pulling back just enough to speak. "I like hearing why you married me. It's good for my ego."
"Your ego doesn't need any help," you managed.
"Fair point." He went back to work, his tongue doing things that made coherent thought impossible. And true to his word, he didn't stop until you'd lost count of how many times he'd made you come, until you were boneless and satisfied and completely his.
Later, much later, when you were both finally exhausted and tangled together in the sheets, Peter pressed a kiss to your forehead.
"Next business trip," he murmured sleepily, "you're coming with me. I don't care if it's boring. I don't care if it's just meetings and airport food. I'm not doing five days without you again."
"Deal," you whispered, already half-asleep.
"Good." Another kiss, this one to your temple. "Because I love you. And I really, really love coming home to you."
You smiled, snuggling closer. "I love you too. Even when you're insufferable."
"Especially when I'm insufferable," he corrected, and you could hear the smile in his voice. "That's when I'm at my best."
Warning/Rating: PG-13, romantic wedding moment, emotional intensity. Contains passionate kissing, tender intimate moments, themes of vulnerability and commitment, references to past struggles and emotional scars, and no explicit sexual content.
Word Count: 578 K
The officiant's words fade into white noise as Tony's eyes lock with yours. Those warm brown eyes that have looked at you across lab tables at three in the morning, across pillows in the quiet dark, across a thousand ordinary moments that somehow led to this extraordinary one.
"I now pronounce you husband and wife."
Your heart stutters.
"You may kiss the bride."
Tony's smile starts slow - that private smile reserved only for you, the one without performance or pretense. His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone with a tenderness that still surprises you after all this time. The calluses on his fingers, earned from years in the workshop, catch slightly on your skin.
"Hey," he whispers, and there's a tremor in his voice you've only heard a handful of times. Vulnerability looks beautiful on him.
"Hey yourself," you manage, your own voice thick with emotion.
"So... we did it." His other hand finds your waist, drawing you closer. "You're stuck with me now. Legally binding. No returns, no exchanges."
"Tony…"
"I know, I know. Stop talking and kiss you already." But he pauses, his forehead touching yours, and you feel him take a shaky breath. "I just need a second to... God, look at you. How did I get this lucky?"
Your fingers curl into the lapels of his Tom Ford tuxedo. "Kiss me, Stark."
"Yes, ma'am."
When his lips meet yours, the world narrows to just this: the firm press of his mouth, the taste of champagne and promise, the way his hand slides into your hair, careful not to disturb the pins holding your veil. The kiss starts gentle like he's afraid you might disappear if he holds too tight.
But then you sigh against his mouth, and something shifts.
Tony pulls you flush against him, deepening the kiss with a passion that makes your knees weak and your bouquet slip forgotten from your fingers. You hear it hit the floor with a soft thud. Distantly, you register cheers and applause, Rhodey's wolf whistle, Pepper's delighted laugh. But it all feels far away, muffled by the thundering of your heart and the way Tony is kissing you like you're his salvation.
Because maybe you are. Maybe you're the person who taught him that he could be loved not for the armor or the money or the genius, but for the man underneath all of it - flawed and scarred and trying so damn hard to be better.
When you finally break apart, both breathless, Tony rests his forehead against yours again. His eyes are suspiciously bright.
"I love you," he says, and it sounds like a vow all over again. "I'm going to spend the rest of my life making sure you never regret this."
You smooth your hands up his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath your palms. "I could never regret you, Tony. Never."
He grins then - that full-wattage smile that still makes your stomach flip - and laces his fingers through yours. "Ready, Mrs. Stark?"
Mrs. Stark. The name settles over you like a blessing.
"Ready."
Together, you turn to face your future: the applauding guests, the life you'll build, the adventures waiting just beyond this perfect moment. His hand squeezes yours, warm and solid and real.
And as you walk back down the aisle as husband and wife, you know with absolute certainty that this - this love, this man, this beginning - is everything you never knew you needed.
💖 rough kiss / hot and heavy / making out for Peter Highman because we know he's intense
Collision Course
Pairing: Peter Highman x F!Reader
Heart Game
Warning/Rating: PG-13 romantic tension, workplace chemistry. Contains passionate kissing and heavy making out, physical intimacy (hands over/under clothing), charged sexual tension, mild language ("damn," "shut up"), and themes of attraction/unresolved feelings between characters.
Word Count: 696 K
"You're insufferable, you know that?"
Peter's eyes glinted in the dim light of his apartment, the city sprawling below through those ridiculous floor-to-ceiling windows he'd insisted were "architecturally essential." He loosened his tie with one hand, that infuriating smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
"And yet," he said, voice dropping lower, "you're still here."
You should leave. You'd told yourself that twenty minutes ago when the argument about his latest project had devolved from professional critique into something else entirely - something charged and dangerous. But your feet stayed planted on his polished hardwood floor, your pulse hammering against your throat.
"Maybe I'm a glutton for punishment."
"Or maybe…" Peter closed the distance between you in two strides, and suddenly the air felt thinner, "You like that I don't handle you with kid gloves."
His cologne hit you first, expensive and woodsy, then the heat radiating from his body. You'd been dancing around this for months - the loaded glances across conference tables, the arguments that felt more like foreplay, the way his gaze would linger on your mouth when you challenged him.
"You're awfully confident for someone who -"
His mouth crashed against yours before you could finish, swallowing whatever sharp retort you'd prepared. The kiss was nothing gentle, nothing tentative - it was all consuming heat and barely restrained hunger. His hand cupped the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair with just enough pressure to make you gasp against his lips.
You grabbed his shirt, pulling him closer, and felt his responding growl vibrate through your chest. Peter kissed like he did everything else - with complete focus and devastating precision. His teeth caught your bottom lip, tugging, and you couldn't stop the sound that escaped your throat.
"That's what I thought," he murmured against your mouth, smug even now.
"Shut up," you breathed, and pulled him back in.
This time you gave as good as you got, your fingers working the buttons of his shirt while his hands mapped the curve of your waist, your hips, pulling you flush against him. He walked you backward until your shoulders hit the cool glass of the window, the contrast making you shiver.
"Cold?" His lips traced your jaw, found that sensitive spot below your ear.
"No." Your voice came out rougher than intended. "Don't stop."
Peter's laugh was dark, pleased. "Wasn't planning on it."
His mouth returned to yours, deeper this time, more demanding. One hand braced against the window beside your head while the other slid beneath your blouse, palm hot against your ribs. You arched into his touch, your own hands exploring the lean muscle of his back, feeling him tense and flex under your fingertips.
The city lights blurred behind your closed eyelids. Every nerve ending felt electrified, hyperaware of everywhere he touched you - his thigh pressed between yours, his thumb brushing the underside of your breast, his lips moving from your mouth to your neck with bruising intensity.
"You drive me crazy," he said against your collarbone, and you felt the words as much as heard them. "Every damn day, walking into meetings with that sharp mind and those eyes."
You tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging his head back to look at him. His pupils were blown wide, lips swollen, that carefully maintained composure completely shattered.
"Peter."
"Yeah?"
"Less talking."
His grin was wicked. "Yes, ma'am."
This kiss was slower but no less intense, a deep exploration that made your knees weak. His hands roamed with purpose now, learning every curve, every place that made you sigh or grip him tighter. You lost track of time, lost in the taste of him, the weight of his body pinning you to the glass, the delicious friction building between you.
When you finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Peter rested his forehead against yours. The city glittered behind you, indifferent to the way your world had just tilted on its axis.
"So," he said, voice rough and low, "still think I'm insufferable?"
You traced your thumb across his bottom lip, felt him shudder. "Absolutely."
"Good." He captured your mouth again, softer this time but no less promising. "Wouldn't want to disappoint."
reader comforting rdj, crying? - idk all plot but i would love to see some comfort in ur style - rlly enjoy ur work!!
When the Armor Falls
Pairing: Robert Downey Jr x F!Reader
Warning/Rating: 16+; emotional vulnerability, mention of past trauma and self-doubt, intimate physical affection (non-sexual), depictions of emotional breakdown/crying, themes of insecurity and redemption, tender comfort and vulnerability
Word Count: 2 K
The Malibu house is dark when you step inside.
Not just dim - dark. The kind of darkness that feels intentional, like someone pulled all the curtains closed and turned off every light, choosing to sit with shadows instead of facing the world. The Pacific Ocean stretches endlessly beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, moonlight glinting off the waves, but inside it's silent except for the distant, rhythmic crash of surf against the cliffs below.
Your keys clatter against the entry table, too loud in the quiet.
"Robert?"
No answer.
Your heart does a small, anxious flip. He'd texted earlier - something brief and uncharacteristically flat. Long day. See you tonight. No emoji, no signature wit. You'd known then that something was off, but you hadn't expected this.
You move deeper into the house, your eyes adjusting to the low light. The living room comes into focus gradually: the sleek modern furniture, the art on the walls, the carefully curated space that usually feels warm and lived-in. Except tonight, there's a figure on the couch.
Robert.
He's sitting in the corner of the sectional, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely between them. His head is bowed, shoulders curved inward like he's trying to make himself smaller. He's still wearing his clothes from set - dark jeans, a button-down with the sleeves rolled up - but they're rumpled now, like he's been sitting there for hours.
"Hey," you say softly, approaching slowly. "I didn't see you there."
He doesn't look up. "Yeah. Sorry. Didn't mean to lurk in the dark like some kind of vampire." His voice is rough, scraped raw. "Though I guess I've played enough of those."
The joke lands flat, hollow. He knows it too.
You round the couch and sink down beside him, close but not touching yet. Giving him space to breathe, to choose. "Bad day?"
"You could say that." He lifts his head finally, and even in the darkness you can see the exhaustion etched into his features. The lines around his eyes seem deeper, his jaw tight. "Just one of those days where everything feels... I don't know. Heavy."
You study him carefully. Robert Downey Jr. - the man the world sees as quick-witted, charismatic, untouchable. The man who turned his life around and became a legend. But you know the truth beneath the armor. You know about the weight he carries, the ghosts that still whisper in quiet moments.
"Talk to me," you say gently.
He shakes his head, a small, dismissive gesture. "It's nothing. Just tired. Long shoot, you know how it is." He attempts a smile, that trademark smirk that's charmed millions. "I'll be fine. Just need a drink and some sleep."
But his hands are trembling slightly where they're clasped together.
"Robert."
Something in your voice - the tenderness, the knowing - makes him flinch. His jaw works, muscles jumping beneath the stubble. For a long moment, he doesn't speak. Then, quietly: "I don't want to do this tonight."
"Do what?"
"Fall apart." His voice cracks on the last word. "I'm so fucking tired of falling apart."
Your heart breaks a little. You shift closer, your knee brushing his thigh. "You're not falling apart. You're human."
"Same thing, isn't it?" He laughs, bitter and sharp. "God, you should've seen me today. We were doing this scene and I just... couldn't get there. Couldn't find it. The director kept calling cut, and everyone was being so patient, so understanding, and I wanted to scream. Because I could see it in their eyes. That look. Like, 'Is he okay? Is he slipping?'"
"I'm sure that's not -"
"It is." He cuts you off, not unkindly. "It's always there. That question. That doubt. Because no matter how many years go by, no matter how many movies I make or awards I win, I'm always going to be the guy who fucked it all up. The cautionary tale who got a second chance." His voice drops to barely a whisper. "And everyone's just waiting to see if I'll blow it again."
You reach for his hand, covering his clasped fingers with yours. They're cold despite the warmth of the house. "That's not true."
"Isn't it?" He finally turns to look at you, and the rawness in his eyes steals your breath. "I saw the articles today. Someone dug up old photos, old stories. 'Remember when Robert Downey Jr. was arrested?' 'A look back at Hollywood's most spectacular fall from grace.' Like it was yesterday. Like I'm still that person."
"You're not."
"How do you know?" The question comes out desperate, almost pleading. "How do you know I'm not just... one bad day away from being him again? One mistake, one moment of weakness."
"Because I know you." You squeeze his hand, firm and grounding. "I know the man who shows up every day and does the work. Who fights for his sobriety, who loves fiercely, who's built something beautiful out of the wreckage. That's who you are."
His breath hitches. For a moment, you think he might deflect again, might retreat behind another joke or dismissal. But then his face crumples, and the first tear slides down his cheek.
"I'm so tired," he whispers. "I'm so tired of being strong. Of being the comeback story. Of proving myself over and over again. Some days I just want to be... enough. Just as I am. Without the weight of everything I've done and everything I'm supposed to be."
"Oh, Bobby." You pull him toward you, and he comes willingly, collapsing against your chest like a puppet with cut strings. His arms wrap around your waist, holding tight, and you feel the dampness of tears soaking through your shirt.
"I don't know if I deserve this," he says, muffled against you. "This life. You. Any of it. What if it all gets taken away? What if I wake up one day and it's all gone, and I'm back where I started?"
You thread your fingers through his hair, holding him close. "Then we'll face it together. But Bobby, listen to me. You're not going back. You're not that person anymore. You've done the work. You've earned this life."
"Have I?" He pulls back slightly, looking up at you with red-rimmed eyes. "Because it doesn't feel earned. It feels like I'm constantly one step ahead of disaster. Like I'm running on a treadmill and if I stop, even for a second, everything will catch up with me."
Your heart aches for him. For the burden he carries, the impossible standards he holds himself to. You cup his face in your hands, thumbs brushing away the tears on his cheeks.
"You don't have to run anymore, Bobby," you tell him. "You don't have to be perfect. You don't have to prove anything to anyone - not to the world, not to the media, not to yourself. You're allowed to have bad days. You're allowed to be tired and scared and human."
"But what if -"
"No what-ifs, Bobby." You lean forward, pressing your forehead to his. "Right now, in this moment, you are here. You are safe. You are loved. Not because of what you've accomplished or who you used to be or who you might become. Just because you're you. Flawed, complicated, beautiful you."
A sob breaks from his chest, raw and unguarded. He buries his face in your neck, and you hold him through it - through the tears, through the shaking, through the release of everything he's been holding in. You don't try to fix it or make it better. You just hold him, your anchor in the storm.
"I love you," you murmur into his hair. "I love you when you're strong and when you're breaking. I love you on your best days and your worst days. I love you, Robert. All of you."
His grip tightens. "I don't know what I did to deserve you."
"You don't have to do anything. That's the point." You press a kiss to his temple. "You just have to let yourself be loved."
Time loses meaning. You sit there in the darkness, holding him as the moonlight dances across the water beyond the windows. The sound of waves rolling against the shore below fills the silence - steady, eternal, grounding. Gradually, his breathing evens out. The tears slow. The tension in his body begins to ease, muscle by muscle, until he's soft and pliant against you.
"Come on," you say eventually, gently. "Let's go to bed."
He nods against your shoulder, and you help him up. He's unsteady on his feet, wrung out and exhausted, so you keep an arm around his waist as you guide him toward the bedroom. He leans into you, trusting you to hold him up.
In the bedroom, you help him undress - not with urgency or desire, but with tenderness. Each button undone is an act of care. You peel away the layers until he's down to his boxer briefs, and then you pull back the covers and guide him into bed.
He watches you with heavy-lidded eyes as you strip down to your underwear and slide in beside him. Immediately, he reaches for you, pulling you close until you're pressed together, skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat.
"Thank you," he whispers into the darkness. "For seeing me. For staying."
You kiss his shoulder, his jaw, his lips - soft, chaste kisses that speak of comfort rather than passion. "Always."
He tucks his face into the curve of your neck, and you feel him exhale - a long, shuddering breath that seems to release the last of the tension. Your fingers trace idle patterns on his back, soothing and rhythmic.
"I'm scared," he admits quietly. "All the time. That I'll mess this up. That I'll lose you. That I'll prove everyone right."
"I know." You hold him tighter. "But fear doesn't mean you're failing. It means you care. It means this matters to you. And that's okay."
"How are you so wise?"
You smile against his hair. "I'm not. I just love you enough to see clearly."
He makes a soft sound - not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
"Good thing you don't have to find out."
Silence settles over you both, comfortable and warm. Outside, the ocean continues its endless rhythm, waves breaking against the cliffs in a timeless lullaby. A cool breeze carries the scent of salt air through the slightly open window. But in here, in this bed, in this moment, there's only the two of you. His breathing deepens, and you think he might be drifting off when he speaks again.
"I'm going to be okay, aren't I?"
It's not really a question. It's a hope, fragile and tentative.
"Yes," you tell him with absolute certainty. "You're going to be okay. We're going to be okay."
His arms tighten around you one more time, and then you feel him relax completely, surrendering to sleep and safety and the knowledge that he doesn't have to carry everything alone.
You stay awake a little longer, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, feeling the rise and fall of his chest against yours. This man - brilliant, broken, brave - \has trusted you with his darkest fears and deepest vulnerabilities. He's let you see behind the mask, beneath the armor, into the tender, scared heart of him.
And you'll guard that trust with everything you have.
"I love you," you whisper into the darkness, knowing he can't hear you but needing to say it anyway. "Every part of you. Always."
In his sleep, Robert shifts closer, as if even unconscious he's seeking your warmth, your presence, your love. You press a kiss to his forehead and let your own eyes drift closed.
Tomorrow, the world will still be there with all its demands and judgments. Tomorrow, there will be new challenges and old demons. But tonight, in this quiet sanctuary, there's only this: two people holding each other through the darkness, proving that sometimes the bravest thing you can do is let yourself be held.
I need to send -💙 drunken kiss / tipsy- for our Tony!!!
Champagne Confessions
Pairing: Tony Stark x F!Reader
Heart Game
Warning/Rating: PG-13, romantic fluff, one-shot focused on romantic tension and emotional vulnerability. Contains tipsy characters, champagne-fueled confessions, flirting, witty banter, and a passionate kiss.
Word Count: 645 K
The last guest had stumbled out twenty minutes ago, leaving you and Tony alone in his penthouse with nothing but empty champagne flutes, the glittering Manhattan skyline, and about three drinks too many coursing through your veins.
"You know what your problem is?" Tony said, swirling the amber liquid in his glass as he leaned against the floor-to-ceiling windows. His bow tie hung loose around his neck, and he'd lost his jacket somewhere around midnight.
"I wasn't aware I had a problem," you replied, kicking off your heels and curling your legs beneath you on his obscenely expensive couch. The room tilted pleasantly when you moved too fast.
"You're too smart." He pointed at you with his glass, nearly sloshing whiskey onto his white shirt. "It's intimidating."
"Says the man who built a nuclear reactor in a cave."
"With a box of scraps," he added automatically, then grinned - that boyish, lopsided grin that made your stomach flip. "See? You even know my origin story. You pay attention."
"Maybe I just have a good memory."
"Maybe you like me."
The words hung in the air between you, suddenly charged with something that had been building all night - all month, if you were honest with yourself. Every meeting where his eyes lingered a second too long. Every briefing where he stood just slightly too close. Every joke that felt like it meant something more.
"You're drunk," you said, but your voice came out softer than intended.
"Tipsy," he corrected, pushing off from the window and crossing to the couch. He moved with that particular careful precision of someone who knew exactly how intoxicated they were and was compensating for it. "There's a difference. Drunk is when I'd do something stupid. Tipsy is when I'd do something honest."
Your heart hammered as he sat beside you - closer than necessary on the sprawling sectional. You could smell his cologne mixed with expensive whiskey and something uniquely him.
"And what honest thing are you planning to do?"
Tony set his glass down on the coffee table with a decisive click. When he turned to face you, his eyes were darker than usual, pupils blown wide in the dim lighting. "Tell you that I've been thinking about kissing you since you corrected my calculations in front of the entire board meeting three months ago."
"I was right," you whispered.
"You were magnificent." His hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone. "You're always magnificent. It's extremely inconvenient."
"For who?"
"For me. Makes it very hard to concentrate on saving the world when you're around being all... competent and beautiful and…"
You kissed him before he could finish, closing the distance between you in one champagne-brave moment. His lips tasted like whiskey and something sweet, and for a second he went perfectly still, surprised. Then he made a sound low in his throat and kissed you back like he'd been waiting for permission.
His fingers threaded through your hair as he deepened the kiss, and you gripped the front of his shirt to steady yourself - though whether you were dizzy from the alcohol or from him, you couldn't say. Probably both. Definitely both.
When you finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Tony rested his forehead against yours.
"So," he said, voice rough and wondering, "that just happened."
"Tipsy honesty?" you managed.
"Best kind." He smiled against your lips, already leaning in again. "Want to be honest some more?"
You answered by pulling him closer, and somewhere in the back of your champagne-fuzzy mind, you thought that maybe being too smart wasn't a problem after all - not if it had led you here, to this moment, to him.
"For the record," Tony murmured between kisses, "you're still intimidating."
"Good," you whispered back. "Don't get comfortable."
His laugh vibrated against your mouth, warm and real and perfect. "Wouldn't dream of it."
Question- do ya write fluff and like sickfics- if soo- might i request a sick rdj being taken care of by reader?? :3
Fever
Pairing: Robert Downey Jr x F!Reader
Warning/Rating: 13+; mild language, romantic tension, non-explicit intimate moments (cuddling, kissing), fever-induced confessions of love, fluff and emotional vulnerability
Word Count: 2.8 K
The key to Robert's Malibu house is cold in your hand as you let yourself in, already calling out, "Babe, I brought those scripts you wanted to -"
You stop dead in the foyer.
The house is quiet. Too quiet. Robert doesn't do quiet. He does commentary tracks on his own life, provides his own soundtrack, narrates his breakfast like it's a David Attenborough documentary.
"Bobby?"
A pathetic groan echoes from upstairs.
You take the stairs two at a time, and when you push open the bedroom door, you're greeted by what can only be described as a crime scene. Tissues are scattered across the nightstand, the floor, the bed itself like the world's saddest confetti. The curtains are drawn. There's a bottle of NyQuil tipped over on its side. And in the center of this chaos, buried under what appears to be every blanket he owns, is your boyfriend.
He looks terrible.
His hair is sticking up in seventeen different directions, his face is flushed fever-bright, and his eyes are glassy when they focus on you.
"Oh thank God," he croaks, voice absolutely destroyed. "You're here. I can finally tell someone my last wishes."
You drop your bag and cross your arms. "You're not dying."
"I'm absolutely dying." He coughs dramatically, which turns into a real cough that sounds painful. "This is it. This is how Robert Downey Jr. goes out. Not in a blaze of glory, not saving the world, but taken down by -" He pauses to check his phone. "- according to WebMD, either the flu or late-stage Ebola."
"You don't have Ebola."
"You don't know that. You're not a doctor. Are you a doctor? Did you go to medical school when I wasn't looking?"
You move closer, pressing the back of your hand to his forehead. He's burning up. "When did this start?"
"Mmm." He leans into your touch like a cat. "Yesterday? Maybe the day before? Time is a flat circle when you're circling the drain of mortality."
"Very poetic." You head to the bathroom, already cataloging what needs to happen. Thermometer. Medicine. Fluids. "Have you taken anything?"
"I took a meeting with the Grim Reaper. He said he'd get back to me."
“Bobby.”
"I took some DayQuil at night and NyQuil this morning. I'm a maverick. I play by my own rules."
You return with the thermometer and a bottle of actual fever reducer. "That explains so much about you as a person. Open."
He eyes the thermometer suspiciously. "Where's that going?"
"In your mouth, you child."
"Just checking. I've seen those medical dramas. Things can go south fast." But he opens obediently, and you slip the thermometer under his tongue.
While you wait, you start gathering tissues, straightening the chaos. Robert watches you with fever-bright eyes, the thermometer sticking out of his mouth like a tiny sword.
It beeps. You check it. "102.4."
"Is that bad? That sounds bad. That's bad, right?"
"It's not great." You shake out two pills and hand them to him with a water bottle from the nightstand. "Take these."
He struggles to sit up, and you help him, propping pillows behind his back. He's shivering despite the fever, despite the mountain of blankets. When he reaches for the water, his hand shakes slightly.
Something in your chest tightens.
"Down the hatch," you say gently.
He swallows the pills, then flops back dramatically. "Your bedside manner needs work. Where's the sympathy? The coddling? I'm a delicate flower."
"You're a delicate something." You brush his hair back from his forehead. It's damp with sweat. "When's the last time you ate?"
He waves a hand vaguely. "Food is a construct."
"That's a no." You head for the door. "I'm making soup."
"You don't have to."
"I'm making soup."
"I'm not hungry."
He meets your eyes, and for just a second, the bravado drops. He looks exhausted and miserable and small in that big bed.
You're in the kitchen, chopping vegetables with more aggression than strictly necessary, when your phone buzzes.
Robert: I'm dying
You smile despite yourself.
You: You're not dying. I'm making soup.
Robert: The soup won't get here in time
Robert: Tell my story
Robert: Make sure they get my good side in the obituary photo
You: Which side is that?
Robert: WOW
Robert: WOUNDED
Robert: I'm adding you to the list of things that killed me
You're sautéing onions when the next text comes.
Robert: How's the soup
You: It's been five minutes
Robert: Feels like five years
Robert: I'm so alone
Robert: So cold
Robert: Like Leo on that door in Titanic
You: There was room for both of them and there's room for your dramatics AND my soup. Patience.
Robert: Patience isn't one of my virtues
You: I'm aware. What ARE your virtues?
Robert: I'm very pretty
You: Debatable at the moment
Robert: RUDE
Robert: I'm sick and you're bullying me
Robert: This is abuse
You: This is love, actually
There's a pause. Then:
Robert: Yeah okay that was smooth
Robert: You get a pass
Robert: But hurry up I'm wasting away
The soup takes forty-five minutes. Homemade chicken noodle, the kind your mom used to make, with extra garlic because Robert swears by garlic for everything. "It's nature's antibiotic," he always says, usually while adding it to things that have no business containing garlic.
You ladle it into a bowl, grab a sleeve of crackers, pour fresh water, and arrange everything on a tray like you're room service at a five-star hotel.
When you push back into the bedroom, Robert's eyes light up.
"Oh thank God. I was starting to see a white light."
"That's the lamp, babe."
"Tomato, tomahto." He tries to sit up and winces. You set the tray on the nightstand and help him, adjusting pillows, making sure he's steady. "You're really good at this," he says, and there's something soft in his voice.
"I have practice." You settle the tray across his lap. "My little brother used to get sick all the time."
"So I'm like your little brother. Great. That's exactly the vibe I'm going for in this relationship."
"You want the soup or not?"
"I want the soup." He picks up the spoon, dips it in, blows on it carefully. Then he tastes it, and his eyes close. "Oh my God."
"Good?"
"It's -" He takes another spoonful. "It's really good. Like, suspiciously good. Did you make this or did you order it and just pretend?"
"I made it, you ass."
"I'm just saying, you're beautiful, funny, smart, and you can cook? I'm starting to think you're a robot sent from the future to make me fall in love with you."
"Mission accomplished then."
He grins, then winces. "Ow. Even smiling hurts."
"Then stop being charming for five minutes, Bobby."
"Impossible. It's hardwired into my DNA." But he focuses on the soup, eating slowly. You watch him, noting the way his hands are steadier now, the way some color is coming back to his face that isn't just fever flush.
Halfway through the bowl, he pauses. "It's too hot."
"You've been eating it for five minutes."
"Now it's too hot."
"It's literally cooling down as we speak."
"The spoon is hot. It's burning my delicate mouth."
You take the spoon from him, blow on it elaborately, and hold it out. "Better?"
He leans forward and lets you feed him, eyes locked on yours. "Much better."
"You're ridiculous."
"You love it."
"Debatable."
He finishes most of the bowl before pushing it away. "I'm full."
"You had like six spoonfuls."
"I'm a delicate eater."
"You once ate an entire pizza by yourself in twenty minutes."
"That was different. That was art." He yawns, and it turns into another cough. When it passes, he looks exhausted again. "Will you stay?"
The question is quiet, almost hesitant. This is the Robert that not many people see - the one under the quips and the bravado, the one who's afraid of being too much or not enough.
"Of course I'll stay." You move the tray and climb onto the bed beside him, careful not to jostle him too much. "I brought my laptop. I can work from here."
"No." His hand finds yours under the blankets. I mean stay stay. Like, here. With me, Bobby.
"You want me to just lie here?"
"Is that okay? I know it's boring. I know you have things to do. I just -" He stops, frustrated with himself. "I just feel better when you're close."
Your heart does something complicated in your chest. "Then I'll stay close."
You settle in beside him, and he immediately gravitates toward you, resting his head on your shoulder. He's warm but you don't move. You just run your fingers through his hair, gentle and rhythmic.
"We could watch something," you offer. "Take your mind off feeling terrible."
"What do you want to watch?"
"I'm not the sick one. You pick."
He reaches for the remote, flipping through options. "What about Ocean's Eleven?” he asks, while you’re settling into the bed further. “That one's solid."
"Solid? That movie is a heist masterpiece. Brad Pitt. George Clooney. The whole ensemble. It's gold." He's already selecting it.
"It's fun, I'll give you that."
"Fun? Darling, it's theatrical perfection. Also, I refuse to watch anything with introspection while I'm feeling this pathetic. I need glamorous criminals pulling off impossible jobs, not emotional character studies." He settles back against you.
"Fair enough."
"Besides," he adds, shooting you a look, "I could probably pull off a heist right now. Very mysterious. Very suave."
"You can barely breathe."
"A quiet heist. Silent. Professional. I'd be the tech guy. No running required."
The movie starts and Robert does minimal commentary, mostly because the fever is catching up with him again, but he perks up during the good parts.
"This is the setup - watch, watch." he mutters, pointing at the screen like you can't see it.
"I'm watching."
"See? Perfect execution." He yawns, wincing. "Okay, no more talking. My throat hates me."
"Your throat hates you because you won't stop talking."
"Lies. Slander. A conspiracy -"
"Robert."
He settles back against you, grumbling. "You're no fun when you're being responsible."
"Someone has to be."
His hand finds yours again, lacing your fingers together. "Thank you," he says quietly. "For being here. For putting up with me."
"Always."
You stay like that through the rest of the movie, his head on your shoulder, your fingers in his hair. He dozes off somewhere around the rooftop scene, his breathing evening out into something deeper and slower.
You should probably move. Your arm is falling asleep. You have emails to answer, calls to return.
But he's holding your hand like you're the only solid thing in his world, and you can't bring yourself to let go.
You wake to Robert thrashing beside you, mumbling incoherently. When you touch his forehead, he's burning up again - hotter than before.
"Bobby. Hey, wake up."
His eyes open but don't quite focus. "Where - what -"
"You're okay. You're home. You have a fever." You're already moving, getting the thermometer, more medicine. "I need you to stay awake for me, okay?"
"'m so hot," he mumbles. "Why is it so hot?"
"I know, baby. Hold on."
The thermometer reads 103.1. Not quite hospital-level, but close enough to make your heart race. You coax more medicine into him, then head to the bathroom for a washcloth.
When you return, he's trying to kick off the blankets with uncoordinated movements.
"No, you need to stay covered."
"Too hot," he insists, and his voice cracks. "Can't - I can't."
"Okay, okay." You help him, leaving just a sheet. Then you press the cool washcloth to his forehead, and he sighs with relief.
"That's good," he murmurs. "That's really good."
You keep the cloth moving - forehead, temples, back of his neck. Slowly, gradually, he starts to calm down.
"You're still here," he says after a while, and he sounds surprised.
"Of course I'm still here."
"You should go. You're gonna get sick."
"I have an excellent immune system."
"I'm serious." He tries to focus on you and mostly succeeds. "You don't have to do this. I'm a grown man. I can take care of myself."
"You thought you had Ebola."
"A reasonable self-diagnosis given the symptoms."
“Bobby.” You cup his face gently, making him look at you. "I'm not going anywhere. Okay? You're stuck with me."
Something in his expression crumbles. "I don't deserve you."
"Probably not," you agree, which startles a laugh out of him. "But you're stuck with me anyway."
"Lucky me." His eyes are starting to close again. "You're the best thing that ever happened to me. You know that?"
"You're delirious."
"I'm lucid. For the first time in my life, I'm seeing clearly, and what I see is you, taking care of my sorry ass at 2 AM, and I just -" He stops, swallows hard. "I love you. I don't say it enough. I hide behind jokes and deflection and…"
"I know you love me," you say softly. "You show me every day."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He catches your hand, presses a kiss to your palm. "You're my person. You know that? My person."
"You're my person too."
"Even when I'm gross and sweaty and pathetic?"
"Especially then."
He smiles, eyes already drifting closed. "Gonna marry you someday."
"Okay, Bobby, you're definitely delirious."
"Nope. Stone cold sober. Well, fever-hot sober. Gonna marry you and make you soup when you're sick and watch terrible movies and -" He yawns. "And love you forever."
Your throat is tight. "Go to sleep, Bobby."
"Stay?"
"I'm not going anywhere."
You keep the washcloth moving until his breathing evens out, until the fever breaks and he's sleeping peacefully. Even then, you stay, watching the rise and fall of his chest, his hand still holding yours.
"I'd marry you too," you whisper to the darkness. "Just so you know."
Morning light filters through the curtains, and you wake to the smell of coffee.
You sit up, disoriented. The bed beside you is empty, the blankets thrown back. From downstairs, you hear the unmistakable sound of Robert singing.
You find him in the kitchen, wearing his ridiculous Iron Man pajama pants and a faded sweatshirt, dancing with a spatula.
"You're up," he says brightly when he sees you. "I made coffee. And toast. And I was going to make eggs, but then I remembered I don't actually know how to make eggs, so there's toast."
You stare at him. "Bobby, you were dying twelve hours ago."
I got better, baby. He does a little spin, and okay, he's still a bit shaky, but he's upright. "Modern medicine is a miracle. Also, your soup. Mostly your soup."
"You're insane."
"I'm recovered." He pours you coffee, adds cream and sugar exactly how you like it. "Thanks to your excellent nursing skills."
"My nursing skills that you complained about constantly?"
"I was delirious. Fever dreams. Can't be held accountable." He hands you the mug, and his eyes are clear and bright and so full of affection it makes your chest ache. "Seriously though. Thank you. For staying. For taking care of me. For not smothering me with a pillow when I was being insufferable."
"The day’s still young."
He laughs, then moves closer, backing you against the counter. "I meant what I said last night."
"You said a lot of things last night."
"The important things." His hands find your waist. "About you being my person. About loving you. About…" He pauses, suddenly uncertain. "About marrying you someday."
Your heart skips. "You remember that?"
"I remember everything." He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. "I know I was feverish and pathetic, but I meant it. All of it."
"Robert."
"I'm not proposing. Not right now, not like this, not in my Iron Man pajamas - although, actually, that's pretty on-brand." He stops himself, takes a breath. "I'm just saying. Someday. When you're ready. If you're ready. I'm -"
You kiss him, cutting off the ramble. He tastes like coffee and mint toothpaste, and when you pull back, he's grinning.
"So that's a yes to someday?"
"That's a yes to someday."
"Excellent." He kisses you again, deeper this time. "You know what this means?"
"What?"
"I should get sick more often. Really milk this whole caretaking thing. You're very attentive when I'm dying."
You shove him lightly. "You're not getting sick again."
"But the soup…"
"I'll make you soup when you're healthy."
"It's not the same. There's no drama. No stakes."
"I'm leaving."
"No, you're not." He pulls you back, wrapping his arms around you. You're stuck with me, remember? You said so.
"I'm regretting that decision."
"No, you're not."
And he's right. You're not.
"Eat your toast," you say instead. "Before you relapse."
"Yes, nurse." But he's smiling, and so are you, and when he kisses your temple, you think that maybe getting sick was the best thing that could have happened to him.
Warning/Rating: PG-13, romantic, emotionally intimate one-shot focused on vulnerability and genuine connection, mild language, first kiss, romantic tension, emotional walls breaking down.
Word Count: 691 K
You're standing too close, and Hank knows it's deliberate.
"You're doing that thing again," he says, swirling the bourbon in his glass without drinking it. A tell. You've learned to spot them.
"What thing?"
"That thing where you look at me like you're waiting for something honest to come out of my mouth." He takes a sip now, buying time. "Spoiler alert: I'm a lawyer. Honesty isn't really in my skill set."
"Bullshit." You don't move away. The dim light from the single lamp in his hotel room casts shadows that make everything feel like a confession waiting to happen. "You've been honest with me plenty of times. You just dress it up in sarcasm so you can pretend you weren't."
His jaw tightens. There it is - that micro-expression that means you've hit something true.
"That's a hell of a theory," he says, but his voice has gone quieter. Dangerous territory. "You get that from a psychology textbook or a fortune cookie?"
"From watching you." You take the glass from his hand, set it on the table. His eyes track the movement, then snap back to your face. "You think if you keep talking, keep deflecting, I won't notice that you're terrified right now."
"Terrified." He laughs, but it's hollow. "Of what, exactly?"
"This." You step closer. "Me. The fact that you can't bullshit your way out of whatever this is."
For once, Hank Palmer - who has a closing argument for everything, who can talk his way out of a guilty verdict with a smile and a perfectly timed pause - says nothing. His breath has gone shallow. You can see his mind working, cataloging exits, preparing defensive strategies.
"I should -" he starts, but doesn't finish.
"You should what? Run? You've been doing that since the day we met." Your hand comes up to his chest, feeling his heart hammering beneath expensive cotton. "I'm still here, Hank. I've seen you at your worst. I've heard every cynical, self-sabotaging thing that comes out of your mouth. And I'm still here."
Something cracks in his expression. The armor he's worn so long it's become a second skin.
"You shouldn't be," he says, and for the first time, there's no performance in it. Just raw honesty. "I'm a disaster. Ask anyone. Ask my family. Ask my ex-wife. Ask -"
You kiss him.
It's not gentle. It's not tentative. It's the kiss of someone who's done waiting for him to give himself permission to want something real.
For a heartbeat, he freezes - shocked into stillness. Then something breaks open inside him, and he's kissing you back like a drowning man finding air. His hands come up to frame your face, then slide into your hair, and the kiss deepens into something that feels like surrender and claiming all at once.
When you finally break apart, his forehead drops against yours. His breathing is ragged.
"Fuck," he whispers. It's not eloquent, but it's honest.
"Yeah," you agree.
His thumb traces your cheekbone, and his eyes - those sharp, calculating eyes that miss nothing - are wide with something that looks like fear and wonder tangled together.
"You got past it," he says quietly. "I don't know how you did it, but you got past every single defense I have." He laughs, shaky and disbelieving. "I don't let people do that."
"I know."
"I don't know how to do this." The admission costs him. You can see it. "The real thing. Without the exit strategy already planned."
You kiss him again, softer this time. "Then don't plan. Just stay."
His arms wrap around you, pulling you close, and he buries his face in your neck. You feel him breathe you in, feel the tension in his shoulders that speaks to years of holding himself apart from everything that could hurt him.
"This is a terrible idea," he murmurs against your skin.
"Probably."
"You're going to wreck me."
"Maybe." Your fingers card through his hair. "Or maybe you'll finally let yourself have something good."
He pulls back just enough to look at you, and there's something raw and unguarded in his expression that makes your chest ache.
Every time I see Tony in that plaid shirt I practically start ovulating, I can't explain how sexy I find it so I really need to ask you for some really dirty smut involving that shirt… I don't know if I'm creative enough to write the complete and detailed asks you receive, I'm terrible at that 😂 but… maybe Tony and Reader are already a couple and it's the first time she's seen him wearing a shirt like that and she goes crazy seeing him? Or maybe they're not a couple yet, but they're crazy about each other and when she sees Tony wearing that shirt she can't resist and decides to admit she's crazy about him? I don't know, feel free to write whatever you feel most comfortable with, the only thing I ask is that he doesn't take that shirt off during sex. THANK YOU!!!!
Plaid Perfection
Pairing: Tony Stark x F!Reader
Warning/Rating: 18+; graphic sexual activity (oral sex, manual stimulation, unprotected penetration, multiple orgasms), explicit language, multiple positions (couch, standing against window), power dynamics/dominance, rough/aggressive sex, intense physical intensity, marking/scratch potential (implied through gripping/physical intensity), control and submission themes, sexual teasing
Word Count: 3.2 K
You’ve seen Tony in a lot of things. The Iron Man suit, obviously. Expensive three-piece numbers that cost more than most people’s cars. That Black Sabbath t-shirt he refuses to throw away despite the holes. Once, memorably, nothing but a towel and that infuriating smirk.
But this?
You stop dead in the doorway of the penthouse, your brain short-circuiting like someone just hit it with an EMP.
Tony’s standing by the windows, silhouetted against the New York skyline, wearing a plaid shirt. Not just any plaid shirt - a perfectly fitted button down in shades of blue and grey that somehow makes his eyes look even more intense. The sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, exposing those surprisingly muscular arms, and it’s tucked just slightly into his jeans in that effortlessly casual way that shouldn’t be hot but absolutely is.
Your mouth goes dry.
He's holding a tumbler of whiskey, gesturing with his free hand as he talks to JARVIS about something technical you can't process because all the blood has left your brain and traveled decidedly south. The fabric pulls across his shoulders when he moves, and you can see the definition of his back, the way it tapers to his waist.
Oh god.
Your heart is hammering against your ribs. You're pretty sure you've forgotten how to breathe. This is ridiculous - you've been dating for six months. You've seen him naked. You've done things with this man that would make a sailor blush. But something about this shirt, the casual domesticity of it combined with how devastatingly attractive he looks, is destroying every coherent thought in your head.
"JARVIS, run those calculations again and -" Tony turns, catching sight of you, and his words trail off. Those whiskey-brown eyes sweep over you, and you watch in real-time as his expression shifts from distracted genius to something far more dangerous. "Well, hello there."
You manage to close your mouth. Barely. "Hi."
One dark eyebrow arches up. "Hi?" He sets down his glass with deliberate slowness, turning to face you fully. "That's all I get? I haven't seen you in three days and the best you can do is 'hi'?"
"I -" You swallow hard, trying to pull yourself together. "Sorry. Long day."
"Uh-huh." He's studying you now with that unnerving intensity he usually reserves for his projects, and you can practically see the gears turning in that brilliant mind. His lips curve into a slow, knowing smile that makes your stomach flip. "You okay there, sweetheart? You look a little... flushed."
Fuck.
"I'm fine," you lie, finally managing to move from the doorway. You set your bag down on the console table with hands that are definitely not shaking.
"Fine," Tony repeats, drawing out the word as he moves toward you with the predatory grace of a panther. "That's interesting. Because from where I'm standing, you look like you just saw something that short-circuited that beautiful brain of yours."
"Your ego is showing, Stark."
"My ego is always showing. It's part of my charm." He stops a few feet away, close enough that you can smell his cologne - something expensive and woodsy that makes you want to bury your face in his neck. "But we're not talking about me. We're talking about the way you looked at me just now."
You try for casual, leaning back against the table. "I don't know what you mean."
"No?" He takes another step closer, and you're acutely aware of how the shirt moves with him, the fabric shifting across his chest. "So you didn't just stand in my doorway for a full thirty seconds looking like you wanted to either jump me or spontaneously combust?"
"I was admiring the view," you say, gesturing vaguely toward the windows. "The skyline is particularly nice today."
Tony laughs - that rich, warm sound that never fails to make your toes curl. "The skyline. Right. JARVIS, did she look at the skyline when she came in?"
"Miss’ gaze was directed approximately forty-five degrees below the skyline, sir," JARVIS replies, the AI's British accent somehow conveying amusement. "Specifically, at you."
"Traitor," you mutter.
"I prefer 'accurate'." Tony's close enough now that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. "Want to try again? What's got you so distracted?"
You could lie. You could deflect. You could use one of the dozen witty comebacks usually at your disposal. Instead, your traitorous eyes drop to his chest, tracking the line of buttons down the plaid fabric, and when you drag your gaze back up, his smile has gone absolutely wicked.
"Oh," he says softly, dangerously. "Oh, this is good."
"Don't."
"It's the shirt." He sounds delighted. "You're losing your mind over a shirt."
"I am not."
"You absolutely are." He spreads his arms, looking down at himself. "I have to say, I didn't peg you for the lumberjack type, but I'm not complaining. Should I grow a beard? Take up axe-throwing?"
"You're impossible."
"I'm observant. There's a difference." He's circling you now, and you track him with your eyes, unable to look away. "Let's see... elevated heart rate, dilated pupils, that little flush creeping down your neck..." He stops behind you, and you feel the heat of him at your back. His voice drops lower, lips close to your ear. "Tell me, sweetheart, what exactly is it about this shirt that's got you so worked up?"
You close your eyes, trying to steady your breathing. "Tony…"
"Is it the color? The fit?" His hand comes to rest on the table beside your hip, caging you in. Not touching, but close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him. "Or is it something else? Maybe the way it's just casual enough to make you think about lazy Sunday mornings? Me wearing this and nothing else while I make you coffee?"
Your breath catches audibly, and he chuckles, the sound vibrating through you.
"Yeah, that's what I thought." His other hand joins the first on your opposite side, fully bracketing you now. Still not touching, but surrounding you with his presence. "You know what I think? I think you like seeing me like this. A little less polished. A little more... accessible."
"You're never accessible," you manage, proud that your voice is mostly steady. "Your ego takes up too much space."
"Ouch." But he sounds amused rather than offended. "And yet here you are, practically vibrating with want because I put on a different shirt. What does that say about you?"
"That I have terrible taste in men?"
"The worst," he agrees cheerfully. His lips brush the shell of your ear - barely contact, just enough to make you shiver. "But you're still not answering my question. What is it about this shirt, specifically, that's making you want to climb me like a tree?"
You spin around to face him, and the movement brings you chest-to-chest. His eyes widen slightly at your sudden boldness, but that infuriating smile doesn't waver.
"You want to know?" Your voice comes out lower, rougher than intended. "Fine. It's everything, okay? It's the way it fits across your shoulders, the way I can see the definition of your arms, the way it's just tight enough that I can see your body but loose enough that I want to get my hands underneath it."
The words tumble out faster now, six months of being with Tony Stark teaching you that sometimes the only way to deal with his teasing is to meet it head-on.
"It's the fact that you look both completely casual and unfairly hot, and it's making me think about pushing you down on that couch and unbuttoning it slowly, running my hands over your chest, feeling the fabric and your skin and -" You break off, breathing hard. "It's driving me absolutely insane, and you standing here being smug about it is not helping."
For a moment Tony looks genuinely surprised. Then his expression shifts into something darker, hungrier. The playful teasing drains away, replaced by raw want.
"JARVIS," he says, his eyes never leaving yours. "Privacy mode."
"Of course, sir."
The lights dim slightly, and you know the windows have gone opaque, sealing you both away from the world.
"Say that again," Tony commands, his voice gone rough and low.
"Which part?"
"The part about pushing me down on the couch." His hands finally make contact, settling on your hips and pulling you flush against him. You can feel exactly how much your confession affected him. "Because that sounds like an excellent plan, and I'm very interested in hearing more details."
"I thought you were supposed to be the genius," you breathe. "Do I need to spell it out?"
"Oh, I'm a genius," Tony agrees, walking you backward toward the couch. "But I'm also a man who appreciates clear communication. Especially when it involves my girlfriend telling me all the filthy things she wants to do to me."
Your legs hit the couch and you sit down hard. Tony follows, but instead of sitting beside you, he remains standing, looking down at you with that intense focus that makes you feel like the most important thing in his universe.
"Here's what's going to happen," he says, reaching down to cup your chin, tilting your face up. "You're going to tell me exactly what you want. And if you're very good, very specific, I might just give it to you."
"Might?"
"I'm incentivizing clear communication." His thumb brushes over your lower lip. "So start talking, sweetheart. What do you want to do with this shirt that's got you so worked up?"
You reach up, fingers finding the top button. "I want to unbutton it. Slowly."
"Then do it."
Your fingers are steadier than you expected as you slip the first button free. Then the second. The fabric parts, revealing the arc reactor's blue glow and the scarred skin around it. You've seen it a thousand times, but it never fails to make your heart clench - this proof of his survival, his strength.
"Keep going," Tony murmurs.
Third button. Fourth. The shirt falls open, revealing the defined planes of his chest and stomach. You spread your hands over his skin, feeling the warmth of him, the steady beat of his heart. Then you slide your hands up and over his shoulders, pushing the fabric back slightly but not off.
"I want to touch you," you say, suiting action to words. Your fingers trace the lines of his muscles, feeling them flex under your touch. "I want to feel the shirt against my skin while you -"
"While I what?" He catches your wrists gently, stopping your exploration. "Use your words."
"While you fuck me."
His eyes go dark, pupils blown wide. "There she is. My brilliant, dirty girl." He releases your wrists, his hands going to his belt. "Stand up."
You obey, and he takes your place on the couch, legs spread, the open shirt framing his body like a gift. He's gorgeous like this - confident and commanding and entirely focused on you.
"Come here."
You move to stand between his legs, and his hands immediately go to your waist, then slide under your shirt. His palms are warm against your skin as he pushes the fabric up and over your head, leaving you in your bra and jeans.
"Much better," he murmurs, leaning forward to press a kiss to your stomach. "But you're still wearing too much."
His fingers make quick work of your jeans, sliding them down your legs along with your underwear. You step out of them, and he pulls you down to straddle his lap. The fabric of his shirt brushes against your bare skin, and you gasp at the sensation.
"That's it," Tony says, his hands spanning your ribcage, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts. "That's what you wanted, isn't it? To feel this shirt against you?"
"Yes," you breathe, rolling your hips against him. Even through his jeans, you can feel how hard he is.
"Greedy," he chides, but his hands are already reaching behind you to unhook your bra. It falls away, and he makes a low sound of appreciation. "Fucking beautiful."
He leans forward, taking one nipple into his mouth, and you arch into him with a moan. His tongue circles the sensitive peak while one hand palms your other breast, and the combination of sensations - his mouth, his hand, the brush of plaid fabric against your skin - is almost overwhelming.
"Tony," you gasp, threading your fingers through his hair. "Please…"
"Please what?" He switches to your other breast, giving it the same attention. "I want to hear you say it."
"Please fuck me. I need - I need you inside me."
He pulls back, his lips curved in satisfaction. "Since you asked so nicely." His hands go to his jeans, and you lift up enough for him to free himself. He's hard and ready, and the sight makes your mouth water.
"Condom?" you ask, though you're on birth control and you're both clean - it's just habit at this point.
"Unless you object, I'd really like to feel you," Tony says, his hands gripping your hips. "All of you."
"Yes," you agree immediately. "God, yes."
He positions himself at your entrance, and you sink down slowly, taking him inch by inch. The stretch is perfect, that edge of too-much that quickly melts into pleasure. Tony's head falls back against the couch, his jaw clenched, and you can see the cords of his neck standing out with the effort of staying still.
"Fuck," he grits out. "You feel incredible."
You're fully seated now, and you take a moment to adjust, to savor the feeling of being completely filled. The shirt hangs open on either side of him, and you run your hands over his chest, feeling his heart racing under your palms.
"Move," Tony commands, his fingers digging into your hips. "Show me what you wanted."
You start to ride him, slow at first, finding your rhythm. The fabric of his shirt brushes against your breasts with every movement, adding another layer of sensation. Tony watches you with hooded eyes, his gaze tracking every movement, every expression that crosses your face.
"That's it," he encourages. "Take what you need. Use me."
You pick up the pace, chasing the pleasure building in your core. Tony's hands guide your movements, helping you find the angle that makes you gasp and clench around him.
"There?" he asks, hitting that spot again. "That's the spot, isn't it?"
"Yes," you moan. "Right there, don't stop!"
"Wouldn't dream of it." But then he's shifting, planting his feet and thrusting up to meet you, and the change in angle makes you cry out. "Though I have to say, as much as I'm enjoying the view, I think we can do better."
Before you can process what he means, he's standing, taking you with him. You wrap your legs around his waist instinctively, and he carries you to the nearby wall, pressing your back against the cool glass.
"Much better," he says, adjusting his grip. "Now I can really fuck you properly."
He suits action to words, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in. The new position lets him go deeper, harder, and you can do nothing but hold on and take it. The plaid shirt brushes against your oversensitized skin with every thrust, a constant reminder of what started this.
"Is this what you wanted?" Tony asks, his voice strained with effort and pleasure. "When you saw me in this shirt? Did you imagine me fucking you against the window?"
"Yes," you gasp. "God, yes, exactly this!"
"Greedy girl." But he sounds pleased, even as his rhythm becomes more erratic. "What else? What else did you imagine?"
You can barely think, let alone speak, but you manage: "Your hands. Wanted your hands on me."
One of his hands releases your hip, sliding between your bodies to find your clit. He circles it with his thumb, and the added stimulation makes you clench around him.
"Fuck," Tony groans. "You're close. I can feel it. Come on, sweetheart. Let me feel you come."
His thumb presses harder, circling faster, and it's too much. The tension that's been building since you first saw him in that damn shirt finally snaps. Your orgasm crashes over you in waves, and you cry out his name, your body clenching rhythmically around him.
"That's it," Tony encourages, never stopping his movements. "So fucking perfect. So good for me."
He fucks you through it, prolonging your pleasure until you're shaking in his arms. Only then does he let himself go, his rhythm faltering as he chases his own release.
"Where?" he manages to ask.
"Inside," you gasp. "Want to feel you."
That's all it takes. Tony buries himself deep with a groan, and you feel him pulse inside you, filling you with heat. His forehead drops to your shoulder, his breath coming in harsh pants against your skin.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. You're both trembling, hearts racing, bodies still joined. The plaid shirt is rumpled now, damp with sweat, but still on his shoulders.
"So," Tony finally says, his voice rough and satisfied. "The shirt stays in the rotation?"
You laugh breathlessly, running your fingers through his hair. "The shirt definitely stays in the rotation."
"Good to know." He lifts his head to look at you, and despite everything you just did, the tenderness in his eyes makes your heart skip. "Though I have to say, if this is the reaction I get, I'm buying one in every color."
"You're impossible."
"You love it." He kisses you softly, sweetly, at odds with the thoroughly debauched state you're both in. "You love me."
"I really do," you admit, because it's true. You love him in his expensive suits and his ratty t-shirts and yes, especially in this plaid shirt that's going to feature prominently in your fantasies from now on.
"Good." Tony carefully lowers you to your feet, steadying you when your legs wobble. "Because I love you too. Even when you objectify me for my clothing choices."
"Please. You objectify yourself constantly."
"Fair point." He shrugs out of the shirt, and you mourn its loss even as you appreciate the view of his bare chest. He wraps it around your shoulders instead, and the fabric is warm from his body, smelling like his cologne and sex and home. "Come on. Let's get cleaned up, and then I'm ordering Thai food and we're watching that documentary you've been bugging me about."
"The one about the Mars rover?"
"That's the one." He takes your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. "But tomorrow, I'm wearing this shirt again, and we're going to see if we can beat our previous record."
"What record?"
Tony's grin is absolutely filthy. "How many times I can make you come while wearing it. I'm thinking we can hit at least five."
You laugh, letting him pull you toward the bedroom. "You're on, Stark."
"JARVIS, make a note," Tony calls out. "Order more plaid shirts. Apparently, they're a worthwhile investment."
"Noted, sir," JARVIS replies, and you could swear the AI sounds amused. "Shall I suggest flannel as well?"
"Don't push your luck," you warn, but you're smiling.
Tony just laughs, pulling you close for another kiss. And if his hand is already wandering, well - you're not complaining. After all, he's still technically wearing the shirt, draped over your shoulders, and that's close enough to count.
You have a feeling it's going to be a very long, very satisfying night.
Warning/Rating: PG-13, romantic reunion, emotional intensity. Contains passionate kissing, references to a dangerous mission and minor injuries (bruises, cuts), mild language, and themes of worry/separation anxiety.
Word Count: 590 K
You had memorized the sound of the elevator arriving at the penthouse - the soft chime, the whisper of doors sliding open. For three weeks, every time you heard it, your heart had leapt into your throat, only to sink again when it was Happy, or Pepper, or anyone else bringing updates that weren't enough.
He's fine. Still working. You know Tony.
But you didn't know if he was fine. You knew the mission was dangerous, that he had gone dark for days at a time, that the last message had been clipped and terse in a way that made your stomach twist.
So when the elevator chimed at 2:47 AM on a Tuesday, you had already resigned yourself to disappointment. You didn't even look up from where you sat curled on the couch, staring blankly at a book you hadn't actually read in hours.
Then you heard his voice.
"Hey."
One word. Rough, exhausted, unmistakably him.
Your head snapped up so fast it should have hurt. Tony stood in the doorway, still in his damaged armor - or what was left of it. The arc reactor glowed through a cracked chest plate. His face was a mess of bruises, a cut above his eyebrow, dirt and dried blood streaked across his jaw. He looked like he'd been through hell.
He looked alive.
The book hit the floor. You were moving before you had made the conscious decision, crossing the space between you in seconds. His name broke from your lips, "Tony" and then you were crashing into him, hands reaching for his face, his shoulders, anywhere you could touch to confirm he was real.
"Careful, the armor's -" he started, but you didn't care.
"You asshole," you choked out, and kissed him.
His sharp intake of breath was swallowed by your mouth on his. For a heartbeat he stood frozen, surprised, but then his arms came around you - one still gauntleted, one bare - and he was kissing you back with a desperation that matched your own.
It wasn't gentle. It was three weeks of terror compressed into a single point of contact, every sleepless night and unanswered message, every worst-case scenario you had imagined pouring out through your lips against his. You tasted copper and salt, felt the rough stubble of his jaw under your palms, the way he pulled you closer like he needed the contact as much as you did.
When you finally broke apart, gasping, his forehead dropped against yours. His eyes were closed, dark lashes stark against bruised skin.
"You're an idiot," you whispered back, but your fingers were gentle as they traced the cut above his eye, cataloging every injury. "You're a reckless, brilliant idiot and I -"
"I know." His hand came up to catch yours, pressing your palm flat against his chest where you could feel his heart beating, strong and steady beneath the arc reactor. "I know. I'm sorry."
The armor was disengaging now, piece by piece falling away until it was just him - just Tony in a torn undershirt, battered and exhausted but here, solid and warm under your hands.
"Don't do that again," you said, even though you both knew it was a promise he couldn't make.
"Can't guarantee that," he admitted, but his thumb brushed across your cheekbone, catching a tear you hadn't realized had fallen. "But I can guarantee I'll always come back to you."
You kissed him again, softer this time. A promise of your own.
I have an idea for a delicious and dirty smut with Tony… he and reader are married and enjoy a lot of roleplay. One day they decide to go to the same bar and pretend they don't know each other. They'll talk, flirt A LOT, and Tony will invite her to "his place" to finish the night there. Obviously, she accepts, and after a few glasses of wine, they'll go to bed and have hot, delicious sex, full of dirty talk, hair pulling, and back scratching, because we know Tony loves it. When they're done, they'll look at each other, laugh, and say they loved this experience. Then they'll talk about how much they love each other and how happy they are in their marriage. Some aftercare too… thank you! ❤️
Strangers in the Night
Pairing: Tony Stark x Wife F!Reader
Warning/Rating: 18+; explicit, graphic sexual activity (oral sex, manual stimulation, penetration, multiple orgasms described in detail), rough/aggressive sex, language, power dynamics/dominance, dirty talk, hair pulling, biting/marking, control and submission themes, roleplay scenario
Word Count: 6.4 K
The candlelight flickered across the private corner table at Marea, casting dancing shadows over the remains of their anniversary dinner. You swirled the last of your wine, watching your husband over the rim of your glass with that particular gleam in your eye that always meant trouble - the good kind.
"So," Tony said, leaning back in his chair with that trademark smirk playing at his lips, "I've been thinking."
"Dangerous," you teased.
"Says the woman who suggested we recreate the Tokyo incident last month." He raised an eyebrow. "My back still has the scars to prove it."
"You loved every second."
"Guilty." He reached across the table, fingers tracing idle patterns on your wrist. "But I think I've got something that'll top even that."
You leaned forward, intrigued. "I'm listening."
"There's this bar. Sophisticated, classy, the kind of place where beautiful strangers meet over expensive whiskey." His eyes locked onto yours, dark and intense. "What if we... didn't know each other?"
Your pulse quickened. "Go on."
"You go in first. Find a spot. Look devastating - which, let's be honest, isn't exactly a challenge." His thumb pressed against your pulse point, feeling it jump. "I come in twenty minutes later. We're just two people in a bar. No history. No inside jokes. Just... chemistry."
"And then?" Your voice had dropped to that husky register that always drove him crazy.
"Then I seduce my wife like she's the most fascinating stranger I've ever met." He lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "Because she is. Every single day."
Your heart melted even as heat pooled low in your belly. "You're really good at this."
"I know." The cocky grin was pure Tony Stark. "So what do you say? Tomorrow night. The Aviary. Eight o'clock."
You pretended to consider it, though you both knew your answer. "One condition."
"Name it."
"We stay in character. No breaking. No matter what."
His eyes darkened with promise. "Oh, sweetheart. You have no idea what you just agreed to."
"I think I have some idea." You stood, smoothing your dress. "But Tony?"
"Yeah?"
"Try to keep up." You walked away from the table, throwing him a look over your shoulder that promised everything.
The Aviary was exactly as Tony had described - all dark wood, amber lighting, and the kind of sophisticated atmosphere that made you feel like you'd stepped into a film noir. You'd chosen your outfit carefully: a black dress that hugged every curve, heels that made your legs look endless, and confidence that came from knowing exactly what the night would bring.
You settled into a leather booth with a clear view of the entrance, ordering a dirty martini from the attentive bartender. The first sip was perfect - cold, sharp, with just enough bite.
At exactly eight-twenty, the door opened.
Tony walked in like he owned the place - which, knowing him, he probably did. He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, no tie, the top two buttons of his shirt undone in that casually devastating way he'd perfected. His eyes swept the room with practiced ease, the arc reactor's subtle glow visible beneath the fabric.
When his gaze landed on you, he paused. Just for a heartbeat. Just long enough for you to see the flash of heat before he schooled his expression into polite interest.
He headed to the bar, ordered something undoubtedly expensive, and made no move in your direction. The game had begun.
You crossed your legs slowly, and watched him watch you in the mirror behind the bar. His lips curved almost imperceptibly.
Two could play at this game.
You pulled out your phone, scrolling through it with apparent disinterest while very aware of his eyes on you. Five minutes passed. Then ten. The tension stretched between you like a live wire.
Finally, he stood. Picked up his glass. And walked over with the kind of confidence that should be illegal.
"This seat taken?"
You looked up, letting your gaze travel slowly from his shoes to his face, taking your time. "That depends."
"On?"
"Whether you're going to be interesting."
His smile was devastating. "I've been called many things. Interesting is definitely on the list." He slid into the booth across from you without waiting for permission. "Tony."
You took another sip of your martini, considering him. "That's quite an entrance."
"I like to make an impression." He set his glass down - whiskey, neat, of course. "And you are?"
You told him your name, watching his eyes darken as he repeated it, tasting it like fine wine.
"Beautiful name," he said. "Almost as beautiful as the woman wearing it."
"Does that line usually work for you?"
"I don't know. Is it working?"
You laughed despite yourself. "Points for honesty."
"I find it's underrated." He leaned back, studying you with unabashed interest. "So what brings a woman like you to a place like this? And before you answer, please know I'm aware of how cliché that question is."
"Self-awareness. I like that." You mirrored his posture, relaxed but engaged. "Maybe I'm meeting someone."
"Are you?"
"Not anymore." You let that hang in the air between you. "He didn't show."
"Then he's an idiot." Tony's voice dropped lower. "Or fictional. Please tell me he's fictional because if a real man stood you up, I'm going to have to track him down and have words."
"Protective. That's sweet."
"I'm really not." His smile turned wicked. "But I am opportunistic. His loss is very much my gain."
"Confident."
"Accurate," he corrected. "There's a difference."
You signaled the bartender for another drink. "So what's your story, Tony? Besides making dramatic entrances and rescuing abandoned women in bars?"
"Who says I'm rescuing you?" He tilted his head. "Maybe you're rescuing me."
"From what?"
"Boredom. Mediocrity. Another night of the same old thing." His eyes never left yours. "And something tells me you're anything but ordinary."
"You don't know anything about me."
"Not yet." The promise in those two words sent heat racing down your spine. "But I'd like to. Call it... scientific curiosity."
"Are you a scientist?"
"Among other things. Engineer, inventor, philanthropist, devastatingly charming conversationalist." He ticked them off on his fingers. "The list goes on."
"Modest too."
"Modesty is for people who have something to be modest about." He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "I prefer honesty. For instance, I could pretend I came over here to make small talk about the weather or ask what you do for a living. But the truth is, I saw you sitting here looking like every fantasy I didn't know I had, and I thought, 'Stark, if you don't talk to her, you're going to regret it for the rest of your life.'"
Your breath caught. Even knowing it was a game, the intensity in his eyes made your pulse race. "That's quite a line."
"It's not a line if it's true." He reached across the table, fingers hovering near yours. "May I?"
You nodded, and he traced the back of your hand with feather-light touches that somehow felt more intimate than a kiss.
"So here's what I'm thinking," he continued, his voice dropping to that low, rough register that always undid you. "We could sit here and play the usual games. Ask about jobs and hobbies and where we went to college. Or..." He turned your hand over, thumb pressing against your palm. "We could skip the boring parts and get to the interesting stuff."
"And what would that be?"
"Tell me something real. Something you don't usually share with strangers in bars."
You considered him, this man you knew better than anyone, playing stranger with such conviction it made your heart race. "I like taking risks."
"Yeah?"
"Calculated ones. The kind where you know exactly what you're gambling and decide it's worth it anyway."
His smile was slow and dangerous. "Funny. I'm something of a gambler myself."
"Is that what this is? A gamble?"
"The best kind." His fingers laced with yours. "High stakes. High reward."
"And what exactly are you hoping to win?"
"The rest of your evening." He said it simply, directly, his eyes never leaving yours. "Maybe more, if I play my cards right."
You should have been prepared for this - you'd agreed to it, planned it, wanted it. But the heat in his gaze still made your stomach flip. "That's presumptuous."
"Is it?" He leaned closer, close enough that you could smell his cologne, that familiar scent that meant home and safety and passion. "Because from where I'm sitting, you haven't pulled your hand away. You're leaning in, not back. And unless I'm very much mistaken. Which I'm not - you're enjoying this as much as I am."
"Maybe I'm just being polite."
His laugh was low and rich. "Sweetheart, there's nothing polite about the way you're looking at me right now."
"How am I looking at you?"
"Like you're deciding whether to kiss me or kill me." He brought your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles that sent electricity shooting up your arm. "For the record, I'm hoping for the former."
"You don't even know me."
"I know enough." His thumb traced circles on your wrist. "I know you're intelligent - the way you banter tells me that. I know you're confident. You're sitting here alone in a bar like you own it. I know you're adventurous - you're still here, talking to me, when you could have shut this down ten minutes ago." He paused. "And I know that when I touch you like this, your pulse races."
Damn him for being right.
"Your turn," you said, trying to regain some control. "Tell me something real."
"I'm very good at reading people." His eyes glinted with mischief. "And right now, I'm reading that you want me to kiss you but you're not going to make it easy."
"Confident and perceptive. Dangerous combination."
"You have no idea." He released your hand, sitting back. "But I'm a patient man when the prize is worth it."
"Is that what I am? A prize?"
"You're a revelation." The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard. "And I have a feeling this is going to be a night I'll remember for a very long time."
The bartender appeared with fresh drinks - another martini for you, whiskey for him. Tony raised his glass.
"To chance encounters."
You clinked your glass against his. "To taking risks."
"To beautiful strangers who make you believe in fate." His eyes held yours as you both drank.
The conversation flowed like the alcohol - smooth, intoxicating, with an underlying burn. You talked about everything and nothing, trading stories that were carefully edited to maintain the illusion. He told you about his work in "technology" with a vague wave of his hand. You mentioned your own career in equally nonspecific terms.
But beneath the surface details, the real conversation was happening in looks and touches, in the way he leaned closer with each passing minute, in how your foot found his under the table.
"Dance with me," he said suddenly.
"There's no music."
"There's always music." He stood, offering his hand. "You just have to listen."
You let him pull you up, lead you to a small clear space near the windows overlooking the city. He was right - there was music, soft jazz filtering through hidden speakers. His hand settled on your waist, pulling you close, and you rested your hand on his shoulder.
"This is very smooth," you murmured as you swayed together.
"I have my moments." His breath was warm against your ear. "Though I have to admit, you're making it easy."
"How so?"
"You fit perfectly right here." His hand pressed against the small of your back. "Like you were made for it."
You were. You had been. But he wasn't supposed to know that.
"You're quite the romantic for a stranger in a bar."
"Maybe you bring it out in me." He spun you gently, pulling you back against his chest. "Or maybe I just recognize something extraordinary when I see it."
"And what do you see?"
He turned you to face him, his hand coming up to cup your jaw. "Someone who's going to change my life."
The words hung between you, heavy with meaning only the two of you understood. Your heart hammered against your ribs.
"That's a lot of pressure for a first meeting."
"Then we better make it count." His thumb brushed your lower lip. "I'm going to kiss you now. If you don't want me to, tell me to stop."
You didn't tell him to stop.
His lips met yours with a gentleness that belied the heat in his eyes, a soft exploration that quickly deepened into something more urgent. You gasped against his mouth and he took advantage, his tongue sliding against yours in a dance you'd perfected over years but felt new in this moment, in this game.
When you finally broke apart, you were both breathing hard.
"Come home with me," he said, his voice rough with want.
"I don't usually…"
"I know." He pressed his forehead to yours. "Neither do I. But there's nothing usual about this. About you." His hands framed your face. "I have a feeling if I let you walk out of here, I'll spend the rest of my life wondering what if."
You pretended to consider it, even though every cell in your body was screaming yes. "What exactly are you offering?"
"Everything." His smile was pure sin. "Wine, conversation, the best view in the city." He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. "And if you're very lucky, I'll make you forget your own name."
"That's quite a promise."
"I always deliver." He pulled back, eyes searching yours. "So what do you say? Take a chance on a stranger?"
You traced the arc reactor through his shirt, feeling his sharp intake of breath. "Show me this view."
His smile could have lit up the city. "Best decision you'll ever make."
The elevator ride to Tony's penthouse was an exercise in restraint. You stood on opposite sides of the car, the tension so thick you could taste it. His eyes never left you, tracking every breath, every shift of your weight.
"You're staring," you said.
"Can you blame me?" He unbuttoned his collar. "I'm trying to figure out if you're real."
"I could say the same about you. Do you bring all your bar pickups here?"
"You're the first." He said it so seriously you almost believed he'd forgotten the game. "And if I have anything to say about it, the last."
The elevator doors opened directly into the penthouse, and you stepped out into a space that was pure Tony - sleek, modern, with floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the glittering Manhattan skyline.
"You weren't kidding about the view."
"I never kid about views." He moved to the bar, pulling out a bottle of wine that probably cost more than most people's cars. "Red okay?"
"Perfect."
You walked to the windows, looking out at the city spread below like a carpet of stars. Behind you, you heard the soft pop of the cork, the gentle glug of wine being poured.
"Here." He appeared at your shoulder, offering a glass. "To new beginnings."
You touched your glass to his, the crystal singing. The wine was exquisite, rich and complex, warming you from the inside.
"So," you said, turning to face him. "You brought me to your place. Now what?"
"Now..." He set his glass down on a nearby table, then took yours and did the same. "Now I do what I've been wanting to do since I saw you in that bar."
He kissed you again, but this time there was no gentleness, no hesitation. This was pure want, raw need, his hands sliding into your hair as he backed you against the window. The glass was cool against your back, a sharp contrast to the heat of his body pressed against yours.
"Tell me to stop," he murmured against your lips.
"Don't you dare."
His laugh was dark and delicious. "That's my girl."
Wait - no. You weren't his girl. You were a stranger. The slip made your pulse race even faster.
If he noticed, he didn't show it. His mouth moved to your neck, finding that spot just below your ear that made you gasp. His hands roamed your body like he was memorizing it, like he hadn't touched you a thousand times before.
"Bedroom," you managed to gasp out.
"Demanding. I like it." But he didn't move, too busy marking a path down your throat. "Though I'm thinking right here might work just fine."
"Tony…"
"Say my name again." His teeth grazed your collarbone. "I like how it sounds in your mouth."
"Tony." You pulled his head up, forcing him to meet your eyes. "Bedroom. Now."
The smile he gave you was pure wickedness. "Yes, ma'am."
He took your hand, leading you through the penthouse to a bedroom that was all dark colors and luxury. The bed was enormous, covered in what looked like silk sheets. More windows showcased the city, making you feel like you were floating above it all.
"Last chance to change your mind," he said, even as his hands found the zipper of your dress.
"Not a chance."
"Thank God." He slid the zipper down slowly, his knuckles brushing your spine. "Because I've been thinking about getting you out of this dress since the moment I saw you."
The dress pooled at your feet, leaving you in nothing but black lace and heels. His sharp intake of breath was gratifying.
"Jesus Christ." His hands skimmed your sides, reverent and hungry all at once. "You're perfect."
"Your turn." You reached for his shirt, making quick work of the buttons. The arc reactor glowed between you, a reminder of who he really was, but you pushed the thought away. Tonight, he was just Tony. A stranger. A fantasy.
His shirt joined your dress on the floor. You traced the lines of his chest, the definition of his abs, feeling his muscles jump under your touch.
"Like what you see?" The cocky grin was back.
"You'll do."
He laughed, pulling you against him. "I'll do? Sweetheart, by the time I'm done with you, I'll be the standard by which you measure every other man."
"Big talk."
"Big delivery." He walked you backward toward the bed. "Let me prove it."
The back of your knees hit the mattress and you fell backward, bouncing slightly on the silk sheets. Tony stood over you, his eyes dark with desire as they roamed over your body.
"Fuck," he breathed. "Look at you."
"You going to just stand there and stare, or are you going to do something about it?"
"Oh, I'm going to do something about it." He knelt on the bed, crawling over you like a predator. "I'm going to do a lot of things about it."
His mouth found yours again, hot and demanding, as his hands made quick work of your bra. When his palms cupped your breasts, you arched into his touch with a moan.
"Sensitive," he murmured against your lips. "Good to know."
His mouth moved lower, trailing kisses down your neck, your collarbone, until he reached your breast. When his tongue flicked over your nipple, you gasped, your hands flying to his hair.
"That's it," he encouraged, his voice rough. "Let me hear you."
He lavished attention on your breasts, alternating between gentle kisses and sharp nips that made you writhe beneath him. Your fingers tightened in his hair, pulling slightly, and he groaned against your skin.
"Do that again," he demanded.
You pulled harder, and his hips jerked against yours, letting you feel exactly how much he wanted you.
"Fuck, that's good." He bit down on the curve of your breast, soothing it with his tongue. "You're going to be the death of me."
"Less talking," you gasped. "More action."
"Impatient." But his hands were already moving lower, sliding your panties down your legs. "I like that in a woman."
He settled between your thighs, his breath hot against your most sensitive skin. "Tell me what you want."
"You know what I want."
"Say it." His fingers traced teasing patterns on your inner thighs. "I want to hear you say it."
"I want your mouth on me." The words came out breathless, desperate. "Please."
"Since you asked so nicely." And then his tongue was on you, and coherent thought became impossible.
He worked you with the skill of someone who knew exactly what he was doing, alternating between broad strokes and focused attention that had you climbing toward the edge embarrassingly fast. Your hands fisted in his hair, holding him against you as your hips rolled shamelessly.
"That's it, baby," he murmured against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your system. "Take what you need."
When he added his fingers, curling them just right, you shattered with a cry that probably echoed through the entire penthouse. He worked you through it, gentling his touch as you came down, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs.
"Beautiful," he said, crawling back up your body. His lips were wet with you, and when he kissed you, you could taste yourself on his tongue. "Absolutely beautiful."
You reached between your bodies, palming him through his pants. He was hard as steel, and when you squeezed, he hissed through his teeth.
"Your turn," you said, pushing at his shoulders.
He went willingly, lying back as you straddled his hips. You made quick work of his belt and zipper, freeing him from the confines of his pants. He was perfect—thick and hard and already leaking at the tip.
"Someone's eager," you teased, wrapping your hand around him.
"You have no idea." His head fell back as you stroked him, his hips thrusting into your grip. "Fuck, your hand feels good."
"Just my hand?" You positioned yourself over him, dragging his tip through your wetness. "What about this?"
"Don't tease," he groaned. "I'm dying here."
"Beg."
His eyes snapped open, dark and dangerous. "What?"
"You heard me." You circled your hips, letting him feel how wet you were without giving him what he wanted. "Beg."
"You're evil."
"And you love it." You sank down just an inch, then lifted back up. "So beg."
"Please." The word was torn from him. "Please, I need to be inside you. Need to feel you. Please."
"Good boy." You sank down in one smooth motion, taking him fully.
The groan that ripped from his throat was inhuman. His hands clamped on your hips hard enough to bruise, holding you still as he adjusted to the sensation.
"Holy fuck," he panted. "You feel incredible."
"You're not so bad yourself." You rolled your hips experimentally, and his fingers tightened. "In fact, I'd say you're pretty perfect."
"Flattery will get you everywhere." He thrust up, making you gasp. "But I'm done being patient."
He flipped you suddenly, pressing you into the mattress as he drove into you with a force that stole your breath. You wrapped your legs around his waist, meeting him thrust for thrust.
"Yes," you moaned. "Just like that."
"Tell me how it feels." His voice was rough in your ear. "Tell me what I'm doing to you."
"So good," you gasped. "You feel so good inside me. So deep."
"Damn right." He changed his angle, hitting that spot that made you see stars. "This what you need? This what you wanted when you agreed to come home with me?"
"Yes! God, yes!"
"That's my girl." There it was again, that slip. "Taking me so well. Like you were made for me."
Your nails raked down his back, hard enough to leave marks, and he groaned, his hips stuttering.
"Fuck, do that again."
You obliged, dragging your nails down his back as he pounded into you. The combination of pleasure and pain seemed to drive him wild, his movements becoming more erratic, more desperate.
"Touch yourself," he commanded. "I want to feel you come around me."
You slipped your hand between your bodies, finding your clit. The added stimulation had you climbing fast, your inner walls starting to flutter around him.
"That's it," he encouraged, his voice strained. "Come for me. Let me feel it."
"Tony!" Your back arched as the orgasm hit you like a freight train, pleasure radiating out from your core in waves.
"Fuck, yes!" He thrust through your orgasm, prolonging it, before his own release overtook him. He buried himself deep, groaning your name as he came.
For a long moment, you both just breathed, tangled together in the silk sheets. His weight was heavy on you, comforting, familiar despite the game you were playing.
Finally, he rolled to the side, pulling you with him so you were draped across his chest. His hand traced lazy patterns on your back.
"So," he said, his voice rough and satisfied. "Was I right?"
"About what?"
"About making you forget your own name."
You laughed, pressing a kiss to his chest. "Cocky bastard."
You propped yourself up on his chest, looking down at him. His hair was a mess, his lips swollen from kissing, and there were definitely going to be scratches on his back tomorrow. He looked thoroughly debauched and absolutely perfect.
"Round two?" you suggested.
His eyes darkened. "You're going to kill me."
"What a way to go."
He flipped you onto your back, settling between your thighs again. "You're right about that."
This time was slower, more exploratory. He took his time mapping your body, finding every spot that made you gasp or moan. You returned the favor, relearning him as if for the first time, marveling at how even after all these years, he could still make your heart race.
When he finally slid back inside you, it was with a gentleness that made your throat tight. He moved with long, slow strokes, his eyes locked on yours.
"You're so beautiful," he murmured, brushing your hair back from your face. "So fucking beautiful."
You pulled him down for a kiss, pouring everything you felt into it. The game was still on, technically, but in this moment, it felt more real than anything.
He made love to you slowly, thoroughly, until you were both trembling and desperate. When you came this time, it was with his name on your lips and tears in your eyes. He followed moments later, his face buried in your neck.
Afterward, you lay tangled together, sweaty and satisfied and completely wrung out.
"I think you broke me," you mumbled against his chest.
"Funny, I was just thinking the same thing." His hand stroked your hair. "In the best possible way."
You were quiet for a moment, just breathing together, before you felt him start to shake. You looked up to find him trying to hold back laughter.
"What?" you asked, starting to smile yourself.
"We're really good at this," he said, the laughter breaking free. "Like, concerningly good."
And just like that, the game was over. You dissolved into giggles, burying your face in his chest as he laughed with you.
"Oh my God," you gasped between laughs. "Did you actually tell me I was 'made for you'? Twice?"
"You scratched my back like a wildcat and told me to beg!" He was laughing so hard he could barely get the words out. "Who are you?"
"Your wife, apparently!" You lifted your head, grinning at him. "Who knew we were both such good actors?"
"Speak for yourself. I almost broke character when you did that thing with your hips." He pulled you closer, still chuckling. "Thought I was going to lose it right there."
"Which time?"
"All of them." He pressed a kiss to your forehead. "But seriously, that was..."
"Amazing?" you supplied.
"I was going to say 'the hottest thing we've ever done,' but amazing works too." His hand traced patterns on your back. "You were incredible. I almost believed you were actually a stranger."
"Almost?"
"Well, no stranger has ever known exactly how to touch me like that." He caught your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. "Or looked at me the way you do."
Your heart melted. "Tony..."
"I know, I know. I'm getting sappy." But he didn't stop, his eyes soft as they met yours. "But come on. How many guys get to seduce their wife and have it feel like the first time all over again?"
"How many wives get to be seduced by Tony Stark?" you countered.
"Just one." He rolled you onto your back, hovering over you. "And she's the only one I want. Today, tomorrow, fifty years from now when we're doing this with walkers and hearing aids."
"Romantic."
"I try." He kissed you softly, sweetly, nothing like the desperate passion from earlier. "I love you. So much. You know that, right?"
"I know." You cupped his face, thumbs stroking his cheekbones. "I love you too. Even when you're being a cocky bastard."
"Especially when I'm being a cocky bastard," he corrected with a grin.
"Especially then," you agreed.
He rolled onto his back, pulling you against his side. You settled there, your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart and the hum of the arc reactor.
"We should do this again," he said after a moment.
"What, the roleplay?"
"All of it. The anticipation, the game, the pretending we don't know every inch of each other." His fingers traced idle patterns on your shoulder. "Though I gotta say, knowing every inch of you is pretty great too."
"We could try different scenarios," you mused. "Different characters."
"Oh, now you're talking." You could hear the grin in his voice. "I'm thinking... corporate rivals who hate each other."
"Enemies to lovers. Classic."
"Or I could be a art thief and you're the detective trying to catch me."
"And I seduce the information out of you?"
"I mean, you can try." He squeezed your shoulder. "But I'm pretty good at keeping secrets."
"Tony, you once told a reporter about our sex life because you were tipsy and thought it would be funny."
"In my defense, it was funny. And she asked."
You laughed, swatting his chest. "You're impossible."
"And yet you married me."
"Moment of weakness."
"Seven-year moment of weakness," he corrected. "Eight if you count the year we dated first."
"Best weakness I ever had." You pressed a kiss to his chest, right over the arc reactor. "Seriously though, tonight was perfect. You were perfect."
"We were perfect," he corrected. "It takes two to tango, sweetheart. And you... fuck, you were so hot. The way you played it, the confidence, the teasing." He groaned. "I'm going to be thinking about this for weeks."
"Just weeks?"
"Okay, months. Years. Forever." He tilted your chin up, his eyes serious despite the playful tone. "You make me feel like the luckiest man alive. Every single day. But tonight? Tonight you reminded me why I fell in love with you in the first place."
Your throat tightened. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." He kissed you gently. "You're brilliant and beautiful and brave enough to keep up with me. You challenge me, surprise me, make me want to be better. And you're willing to play elaborate roleplay games to keep our marriage exciting, which, let's be honest, is above and beyond."
"It's not exactly a hardship," you said, smiling through the tears that were threatening. "Getting to fall in love with you all over again? I'd do that every day if I could."
"Don't make me cry," he warned, but his voice was rough. "I have a reputation to maintain."
"Too late. I can see it in your eyes."
"Damn it." He pulled you closer, burying his face in your hair. "You undo me, you know that? Completely and totally undo me."
You held him tight, feeling the truth of his words in the way his arms wrapped around you, in the kiss he pressed to the top of your head.
"I'm so happy," you whispered. "With you, with us, with this life we've built."
"Me too." His voice was muffled against your hair. "Even with all the crazy, the danger, the world-ending threats - I wouldn't change a thing. Because it all led me to you."
You stayed like that for a long moment, wrapped up in each other, before Tony shifted slightly.
"Okay, emotional moment over. My arm's falling asleep."
You laughed, moving so he could adjust. "There's the Tony I know and love."
"Hey, I can be deep and practical." He flexed his arm, then pulled you back against him. "But seriously, we should probably clean up. And hydrate. I read somewhere that's important after... vigorous activity."
"Did you just refer to sex as 'vigorous activity'?"
"I'm trying to be classy."
"Tony, you literally told me you were going to make me forget my own name."
"And did I deliver or did I deliver?"
You couldn't argue with that. "You delivered."
"Damn right I did." He sat up, pulling you with him. "Come on. Shower, water, maybe a snack, and then round three."
"Round three?"
"You think I'm done with you?" His eyes darkened. "Sweetheart, we're just getting started."
The shower was large enough for two with multiple shower heads and enough marble to build a small palace. He adjusted the temperature until it was perfect, then pulled you under the spray with him.
"This is nice," you sighed as the hot water sluiced over your sore muscles.
"Nice?" He grabbed a bottle of expensive shower gel. "I'm insulted. This is a state-of-the-art shower system with -"
"Tony."
"Right. Nice. Nice is good." He poured gel into his hands, working it into a lather. "Turn around."
You did, and his hands began working the soap over your shoulders, your back, massaging as he went. You groaned in pleasure.
"Feel good?"
"So good. You're hired."
"Pretty sure I'm already on the payroll." His thumbs dug into a knot in your shoulder. "But I'll accept payment in other forms."
"I'm sure you will."
He worked his way down your back, his touch shifting from sensual to genuinely therapeutic. When he reached the small of your back, you practically melted.
"You're really good at this," you mumbled.
"I'm good at everything." But his voice was soft, affectionate. "Especially taking care of my wife."
When he was done, you returned the favor, washing his back carefully around the arc reactor. Your fingers traced the scars there, the evidence of everything he'd been through.
"I love you," you said quietly.
"I know." He turned, pulling you against him under the spray. "I love you too."
You stood there for a while, just holding each other as the water ran over you both. It was intimate in a different way than the sex had been - quieter, deeper, more real.
Finally, Tony reached past you to turn off the water. "Come on. Before we turn into prunes."
He wrapped you in a towel so fluffy it felt like a cloud, then grabbed one for himself. Back in the bedroom, he produced two bottles of water from somewhere and made you drink the entire thing.
"Hydration is important," he said seriously.
"You're such a dad sometimes."
"I prefer 'responsible adult.'"
"You literally have a robot that makes you smoothies."
"A very responsible robot." He finished his own water, then pulled back the covers. "Bed. Now."
You climbed in, sighing as you sank into the soft mattress. Tony slid in behind you, pulling you back against his chest. His arm wrapped around your waist, holding you close.
"Comfortable?" he murmured against your neck.
"Mmm. Perfect."
His hand splayed across your stomach, thumb stroking gently. "Not too sore?"
"A little. In the best way."
"Good." He pressed a kiss to your shoulder. "Let me know if you need anything. Painkillers, ice, a massage..."
"I'm fine, Tony. Better than fine." You laced your fingers with his. "Tonight was perfect. You're perfect."
"We've established I'm far from perfect." But you could hear the smile in his voice. "But I'm perfect for you."
"Yes, you are."
You lay there in comfortable silence, the city lights filtering through the windows, casting patterns on the ceiling. Tony's breathing was starting to even out, and you thought he might be falling asleep when he spoke again.
"Hey."
"Hmm?"
"Thank you."
You turned your head to look at him. "For what?"
"For this. For being willing to play along with my crazy ideas. For keeping things exciting. For loving me even when I'm being an idiot." His eyes were soft in the dim light. "For being my wife."
Your heart squeezed. "Tony..."
"I mean it." His hand came up to cup your face. "I know I'm not always easy to live with. The late nights in the workshop, the superhero stuff, the occasional near-death experience. But you stick with me anyway. You make me laugh, you challenge me, you make me want to be better. And you're still willing to dress up and pretend to be a stranger in a bar just to make me happy."
"It made me happy too," you said softly. "Getting to see you like that, to feel that spark all over again. It reminded me why I fell in love with you."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." You turned in his arms so you were facing him. "You're brilliant and funny and brave and so, so good, even when you don't think you are. You make me feel safe and cherished and desired. And you're willing to play elaborate roleplay games to keep our marriage exciting, which, let's be honest, is above and beyond."
He laughed, recognizing his own words. "Touché."
"I love you, Tony Stark. Today, tomorrow, fifty years from now when we're doing this with walkers and hearing aids."
"Now who's being romantic?"
"I learned from the best." You kissed him softly. "Now go to sleep. You're going to need your energy for round three."
"Is that a promise?"
"It's a guarantee."
He grinned, pulling you closer. "Best. Wife. Ever."
"Don't you forget it."
His laugh rumbled through his chest as he settled you against him, your head tucked under his chin. His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear, the arc reactor humming its familiar lullaby.
"Love you," he mumbled, already half asleep.
"Love you too."
As you drifted off, wrapped in your husband's arms, you couldn't help but smile. Seven years of marriage, and he could still make your heart race. Still surprise you. Still make you feel like the luckiest woman in the world.
And if tonight had proven anything, it was that you'd never get tired of falling in love with Tony Stark.
Even if you had to pretend to be strangers to do it.
Can you write for Tony Stark x Wife!reader who is pregnant with their first child. As the way to annoounce the pregnancy, Tony and Wife!reader get Peter a "Best big brother' shirt. Peter is basically their child so, he would be the big brother. I honestly just want a really fluffy fic.
The Best Big Brother
Pairing: Tony Stark x Wife!Reader
Warning/Rating: PG, fluffy, family-friendly one-shot focused on love, family bonding, and emotional vulnerability. Contains wholesome family moments, pregnancy announcement, happy tears, and heartwarming interactions between father figures and their adoptive son
Word Count: 3.2 K
The Stark penthouse was bathed in the golden glow of late afternoon sunlight, streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the Manhattan skyline. It was a far cry from the sterile, showroom aesthetic Tony had maintained before - back when the space had been more museum than home. Now, Peter's jacket was slung over one of the barstools, a half-finished Lego Death Star sat on the coffee table (a joint project that had been "temporarily abandoned" three months ago), his chemistry textbook lay open on the kitchen counter next to a half-eaten bag of gummy bears, and candid photos of the three of them lined the shelves between Tony's various awards and arc reactor prototypes.
You paced across the plush carpet, clutching a small gift bag to your chest like it contained the nuclear codes. Inside, carefully folded, was a navy blue t-shirt with bold white letters that read: BEST BIG BROTHER.
"You're going to wear a hole in that very expensive Italian rug," Tony observed from his position on the couch, though his bouncing knee betrayed his own nervous energy. He was trying and failing to look casual, one arm draped across the back of the sofa, the other drumming an erratic rhythm against his thigh.
"Says the man who's been checking his watch every thirty seconds," you shot back, pausing mid-stride to raise an eyebrow at your husband.
"I'm not -" Tony glanced at his watch. Again. "Okay, fine. But in my defense, the kid said he'd be here at four-thirty. It's now four-thirty-two. That's a whole two minutes of my life I'll never get back."
"He probably had to stay after school for decathlon practice," you said, moving to sit beside Tony. The moment you did, his hand found yours, fingers intertwining. His palm was slightly sweaty. "You know Harrington always runs late on Thursdays. And then he always swings by that bodega on the corner for those terrible hot dogs."
"They are terrible," Tony agreed solemnly. "I've offered to buy him actual food from actual restaurants approximately seven hundred times. He has the palate of a fifteen-year-old. Which, granted, he is, but still."
Despite his words, his voice was warm, full of the affection he tried so hard to mask with sarcasm. You squeezed his hand.
"We could've done something more elaborate," Tony said suddenly, his eyes fixed on the gift bag in your lap. "I could've programmed FRIDAY to do a whole presentation. Holographic baby booties. Fireworks. A mariachi band… Do people still do mariachi bands?"
"Tony."
"I'm just saying, a t-shirt feels very... pedestrian. Very un-Stark."
You turned to face him fully, catching the vulnerability flickering behind his trademark confidence. "It's perfect," you said firmly. "It's personal. It's about Peter being part of this family - being the big brother. That's what matters."
Tony's expression softened, and he lifted your joined hands to press a kiss to your knuckles. "When did you get so wise, Mrs. Stark?"
"I married you, didn't I? Someone has to balance out your -"
"Genius? Devastating good looks? Impeccable fashion sense?"
"I was going to say 'tendency toward over-the-top gestures,' but sure, let's go with those."
Tony grinned, that boyish smile that still made your heart skip even after years of marriage. But then his expression shifted, becoming more serious. "You think he'll be happy? Really happy?"
"Tony, he's going to be thrilled," you assured him, placing your free hand on his cheek. "He loves us. We love him. This baby doesn't change that - it just means our family gets a little bigger."
"Our family," Tony repeated softly, like he was testing the words. His eyes dropped to your stomach, still flat beneath your sweater, and his hand moved to rest there gently. "God, we're really doing this. We're going to have a baby. An actual tiny human that we're responsible for not breaking."
"We've kept Peter alive this long," you pointed out.
"Peter came with superpowers and a healing factor. This one's going to be completely defenseless and squishy."
"You're going to be an amazing father. You already are."
Before Tony could respond, FRIDAY's voice filled the room: "Mr. Parker is entering the elevator."
You both straightened immediately, and Tony's hand tightened around yours.
"Showtime," he murmured.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, and Peter practically bounced into the penthouse with the boundless energy of a fifteen-year-old who'd just spent the afternoon swinging through Queens. His hair stuck up at odd angles - definitely from the wind and his mask - and his cheeks were still flushed from exertion.
"Hey!" Peter called out, his voice cracking slightly on the word in that way it still sometimes did. His face lit up when he spotted you both on the couch. "Sorry I'm late! Decathlon ran over, and then there was this thing in Queens - nothing major, just helped Mrs. Taylor get her cat off a fire escape. Oh, and I aced my chemistry test!" He dropped his overstuffed backpack by the door with a heavy thud and immediately headed toward the kitchen. "Mr. Stark, you would've been so proud, the question about molecular bonds was exactly like the one you explained last week, and - wait, is there any of that leftover Thai food from yesterday? I'm literally starving. Like, actually starving."
"Peter," you said, unable to keep the smile out of your voice. "Come sit with us for a minute first."
Peter paused mid-stride, his hand already reaching for the refrigerator handle. His spider-sense clearly wasn't tingling, but his teenage intuition definitely picked up on something. His eyes narrowed slightly as he looked between you and Tony, and he straightened up with that gangly, not-quite-grown-into-his-height posture. "Okay, that's either really good or really bad. Nobody's dying, right? Please tell me nobody's dying. Because I have a history test tomorrow and I really can't deal with -"
"Kid, if someone was dying, would we be sitting here looking like we just won the lottery?" Tony asked, though his voice had a slight tremor that betrayed his nerves.
"I don't know, Mr. Stark, you have a weird sense of humor about these things," Peter said, but he moved to sit in the armchair across from you, perching on the edge with his knees bouncing nervously. "You once made a joke about your own funeral while you were bleeding out in that warehouse in -"
"Different time, different vibe," Tony interrupted, waving his hand dismissively. "This is... this is good news. Great news, actually. Potentially the best news."
"Okay, now I'm really nervous," Peter said, his leg bouncing faster. One of his hands fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. "You're being weird. You're both being weird. Did I do something wrong? Because if this is about that thing with the web fluid in the lab, I swear I cleaned it up."
"You're not in trouble, sweetheart," you assured him with a soft laugh.
You exchanged a glance with Tony, who gave you a small nod. With slightly trembling hands, you held out the gift bag to Peter.
"We got you something," you said softly.
Peter's eyebrows shot up, and he leaned forward with that eager curiosity that was so quintessentially him. "It's not my birthday. Or Christmas. Or... any holiday that I'm aware of?" But he took the bag anyway, practically vibrating with curiosity. "Did I do something? Is this a 'good job not dying this week' present? Because if so, I appreciate it, but you really don't have to keep - I mean, not dying is kind of the bare minimum, you know?"
"Just open it, kid," Tony said, and you could hear the smile in his voice even as his hand found yours again, squeezing tight.
Peter reached into the bag and pulled out the navy blue t-shirt. He held it up, his eyes scanning the words printed across the front. His lips moved silently as he read, his brow furrowing in confusion: "Best Big Brother."
There was a beat of silence.
"This is... nice?" Peter said slowly, tilting his head like a confused puppy. "But I don't have any siblings. I mean, I'm an only child, so I'm not sure why..." He trailed off, his eyes still on the shirt, and you could practically see the gears turning in his head. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. "Wait, is this like a metaphor? Are you guys getting a dog? Because I've been asking for a dog for like two years and -"
Then his eyes went wide, and his whole body went still.
"Wait," Peter said, his voice barely above a whisper. The shirt crumpled slightly in his grip as his hands tightened around it. His eyes darted between you and Tony, getting progressively wider. "Wait, are you - is this -" His gaze snapped to you, then to Tony, then back to you, specifically to your stomach. "Oh my God. Are you pregnant?"
You nodded, tears already pricking at your eyes. "Twelve weeks."
"Oh my God," Peter breathed, and his voice cracked hard on the last word. The shirt fell from his hands into his lap as he pressed both palms to his face. "Oh my God. You're having a baby. You're having an actual baby. A real baby. Like, a tiny human baby."
"Well, we weren't planning on having a theoretical one," Tony quipped, but his voice was thick with emotion. "Those are much less expensive and don't require college funds."
Peter let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob, his hands still covering his face. When he finally lowered them, his eyes were shining with tears and his cheeks were blotchy red. "I'm going to be a big brother?" His voice cracked again, and he looked so young in that moment, so vulnerable. "Really? You guys - you really want me to be - I mean, I'm just -"
"Pete," you said gently, standing up and moving to kneel in front of him, taking his hands in yours. They were trembling slightly. "You're not 'going to be' anything. You already are our son. This baby is going to be so lucky to have you as a big brother."
"The best big brother," Tony added, standing up to join you both. He placed a hand on Peter's shoulder, squeezing gently. "Hence the shirt. Which, for the record, I still think we could've presented better. Maybe with some pyrotechnics or -"
Peter launched himself forward, wrapping his arms around both of you in a fierce hug that nearly knocked you over. His enhanced strength made the embrace almost crushing, but neither of you complained. You could feel him shaking slightly, his face buried against your shoulder.
"Thank you," Peter mumbled into the group hug, his voice muffled and wet with tears. "Thank you for - for choosing me. For making me part of this. I know I'm just some kid from Queens who…"
"Hey," Tony said firmly, pulling back just enough to look Peter in the eye. His hand came up to cradle the back of Peter's head. "You're not 'just' anything. You're our kid. You've been our kid since the moment you walked into my life and made me want to be better." He pressed a kiss to Peter's temple. "This is just making it official."
"Plus, someone's got to teach the little rugrat how to be a Parker-Stark," you added with a watery smile, reaching up to smooth down Peter's wild hair in that maternal gesture that had become second nature over the years. "And you're the perfect person for the job."
Peter pulled back, wiping at his eyes with the heel of his hand, and let out a slightly hysterical laugh. "I'm fifteen. I can barely keep myself alive. How am I supposed to teach a baby anything?"
"You're going to be great," you assured him.
"I'm going to be the best big brother ever," Peter said, his voice gaining confidence even as tears still streaked down his cheeks. A brilliant smile broke across his face. "I'm going to teach them everything. Well, maybe not the Spider-Man stuff right away, that should probably wait until they're at least, like, ten."
"Try thirty," Tony interjected.
"And I'll make sure they know all the best Star Wars movies in the right order, and how to build Lego sets, and -" Peter's eyes widened again, and he started talking faster, the way he always did when he got excited. "Oh my God, I need to baby-proof my web-shooters. And we need to set up a nursery! Do you have a nursery yet? What about names? Have you thought about names? And I should probably finish my homework early from now on so I can help out more, and -"
You and Tony exchanged amused glances as Peter's words tumbled out faster and faster, his excitement building with each sentence. This was the Peter you knew and loved - brilliant, enthusiastic, and talking a mile a minute.
"We've got time, Pete," you assured him, reaching up to smooth down his wild hair again. "Seven more months."
"Seven months," Peter repeated, looking dazed. Then he picked up the shirt again, holding it against his chest. His hands were still shaking slightly. "Can I put this on right now? Is that weird? I kind of really want to put this on right now."
"Not weird at all," Tony said, his voice suspiciously rough. "In fact, I insist. FRIDAY, we need a photo op here."
As Peter pulled the shirt over his head he was grinning so wide it looked like his face might split in half. He looked down at the words on his chest and traced them with his fingers, like he needed to make sure they were real.
You leaned into Tony's side, and he wrapped his arm around you, pulling you close. You felt him let out a long, shaky breath.
"We did good," he murmured into your hair.
"Yeah," you whispered back, watching Peter admire his new shirt with pure joy radiating from every inch of him. "We really did."
Peter smoothed his hands over the shirt one more time before looking up at both of you with shining eyes. "Okay, okay, I have so many questions. Like, so many. When did you find out? How are you feeling?" He directed this last question at you, his expression shifting to concern in that sweet, earnest way of his. "Are you okay? Do you need anything? Should you even be standing right now? I read that pregnant women need to rest a lot, and -"
"Pete, I'm pregnant, not made of glass," you laughed, but your heart swelled at his protectiveness. "I'm feeling good. A little tired, but good."
"She's been incredible," Tony added, guiding you both back to the couch. This time, Peter sat between you, and you couldn't help but notice how Tony's hand immediately found Peter's shoulder while yours rested on the kid's knee. Your little family, together. "Though she did throw up on my limited edition Iron Man sneakers last week."
"Tony!" you protested, swatting his arm.
"What? I'm just saying, the kid should know what he's in for. Babies are gross, Pete. So gross. They're like tiny, adorable biohazards."
"But you're excited, right?" Peter asked, and there was something vulnerable in his voice that made you both pause. His fingers twisted in the hem of his new shirt. "I mean, this is a good thing? You're happy about it?"
"The best thing," you said firmly, wrapping your arm around Peter's shoulders. "We're thrilled, sweetheart."
Tony leaned forward, catching Peter's eye. "Kid, I spent most of my life thinking I'd be a terrible father. That I'd screw it up like Howard screwed me up. And then this annoying fifteen-year-old made me realize that maybe, just maybe, I had something to offer." He reached over and ruffled Peter's hair affectionately. "You made me want to be a dad, Pete. You made me believe I could be one."
Peter's eyes were getting misty again. "Mr. Stark..."
"And now we get to do it all over again," Tony continued, his voice warm. "Except this time, we'll have you to help us. Because let's be honest, I'm going to need all the backup I can get. Especially from someone who actually knows what teenagers are like, since I'll have to deal with that eventually."
"That's like, thirteen years away," Peter said with a watery laugh.
"Exactly. I need time to prepare."
"Are you scared?" Peter asked quietly, his voice dropping. "About the baby?"
"Terrified," Tony admitted without hesitation. "But the good kind of terrified. The 'I-can't-wait-to-meet-this-tiny-person' kind of terrified."
You squeezed Peter closer. "We want you to know something important, Pete. This baby doesn't change how we feel about you. You're our son. You've been our son for years now, and that's not going to change just because there's going to be a baby in the house."
"If anything, you're going to be even more important," Tony added. "Someone's got to teach this kid the ropes. Show them how to navigate life with two slightly crazy parents."
"Slightly?" you and Peter said in unison, then dissolved into laughter.
"Okay, fine, very crazy parents," Tony conceded with a grin. "But seriously, Pete. You're the big brother. That's a pretty big deal in this family."
Peter wiped at his eyes, his smile never wavering. "Can I - can I talk to them?" He gestured shyly toward your stomach, his cheeks flushing slightly. "The baby, I mean. Is that weird? That's probably weird. Never mind."
"Not weird at all," you said softly, shifting to give him better access.
Peter leaned down, his hand hovering uncertainly before you took it and placed it gently on your stomach. He bit his lip, looking suddenly self-conscious, but then he took a breath and started talking.
"Hey, little guy or girl," he said, his voice tender and a little shaky. "I'm Peter. I'm your big brother. And I just want you to know that you're joining the best family in the world. Like, seriously, the best. We're going to have so much fun together. I'm going to teach you about science - I'm actually really good at science, I got an A on my chemistry test today - and we'll build Lego sets, and watch movies, and I'll help you with your homework when you're older, and…" His voice cracked. "And I'm going to love you so much. I promise I'll be the best big brother I can be, even though I'm still kind of figuring out how to be a person myself."
Tony cleared his throat roughly, and when you looked over, you saw him discreetly wiping at his eyes. "Damn it, kid, you're going to make me cry, and I have a reputation to maintain."
"Too late, Mr. Stark," Peter said with a watery laugh, looking up with red-rimmed eyes. "I can totally see you."
You pulled both of them close, one arm around Peter, the other reaching for Tony's hand. "I love you both so much," you whispered.
"Love you too," Peter murmured, his head resting on your shoulder.
Tony pressed a kiss to your temple, then reached over to squeeze Peter's shoulder. "Love you, kid. Both of you." His hand moved to rest on your stomach, joining Peter's. "All three of you."
In that moment, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun, your family felt complete and infinite all at once - a circle of love that was only growing stronger, wider, more beautiful. Whatever came next, you would face it together.
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