The hand beneath your chin guided you along with his voice. "Open your mouth, you lazy thing." Your eyes stayed closed as you melted against the palm beneath your jaw. With your mouth obediently open, you let your lover brush your teeth for you.
You were standing but your brain looked at the act of walking the way it would a distant, foggy memory. Completely open to being guided, like a puppet. To him though, it was the complete opposite. You were adorable.
"Lower your head now." he said while rinsing the toothbrush under water and setting it aside. With eyes barely cracked open, you allowed him to slowly lean you over the sink and bring the half handful of water in his palm to your mouth.
"Rinse." The gentle command never fully reached your brain. Instead, you swallowed the water and suddenly, with a harsh shake at the back of your neck, whatever remained was forced back out into the sink.
Like a raccoon caught in headlights, you blankly stared into the mirror while he muttered under his breath and wiped the toothpaste stained water from your mouth and neck with a cloth. "Tastes disgusting…"
At your half mumbled complaint, he let out a faintly amused sigh. "Of course it tastes disgusting. You drank something you weren't supposed to." He tilted you back toward his palm again and pushed water into your mouth once more. Bent down close enough to your face, he watched you with complete focus. "This time, rinse."
You lazily swished the water around in your puffed cheeks, your eyes already beginning to drift shut again. Eventually growing tired of it, you spat the water out. With a cupped handful of water, he gently washed your mouth. Something soft brushed against your lips, leaving behind the fading trace of warmth.
"Come on let's go back to bed, big panda." You grumbled as if protesting the teasing tone but still allowed him to pick you up. Your legs dangled off to the side while your arms lazily wrapped around his neck without even bothering to open your eyes.
As he carried you away with him, you tucked yourself beneath his chin for the soothing feeling of his pulse. No matter what happened, having a man who would take care of you felt as lovely as a soft breeze.
Where you drunkenly confess to them and promptly pass out, leaving the ball in their court.
As soon as you begin to drift off, they frantically try to wake you up, patting your cheek as they nearly beg you to wake up and explain yourself. When they finally accept you’re dead to the world, they have to bite back a smile as they play over your slurred words as they restlessly pace, unable to sleep in anticipation of talking to you tomorrow. Probably has to take a lap to get rid of some energy.
Wally West, Roy Harper (“babe, me too! BABE!”), Johnny Storm (“Wait, are you being fr!?), Pietro Maximoff
Immediate denial, figures you’re confused or just messing with him. You weren’t in the right state of mind, you were just drunk and clingy, he shouldn’t delude himself into thinking anything more of it. It wouldn’t be fair to you. And when you don’t remember it the next day, he keeps quiet, even if he replays that certain memory more than he should. You eventually end up remembering and confront him.
Barry Allen, Bruce Wayne, Jean Paul Valley, Scott Summers, Bucky Barnes
Doesn’t bring it up, but the way he acts around you after that noticeably changes. His touches start to linger, his words become more fond, and he tries to fluster you at any given opportunity. Now that he knows about your feelings, he’s more open, cherishing this pre-relationship stage. And if there’s something irritatingly knowing about his smirk, then maybe he could be tempted to tell you the reason why.
Hal Jordan (smug hoe), John Stewart, Kyle Rayner, Ted Kord, Wally West, Dick Grayson, Matt Murdock, Logan Howlett, Remy Lebeau (mister bedroom eyes)
Just assumes you’re dating now, and from that moment onward, he acts like your boyfriend. Does not realize you have no recollection of your ‘confession’ and that you’re profoundly confused by his sudden affection, even thinks you’re being shy when you stare at him with wide eyes after he kisses the corner of your mouth. After actually having a conversation, you never let him live it down.
Guy Gardner, Booster Gold, Jason Todd, Johnny Storm, Wade Wilson, Marc Spector
An asshole that finds the whole situation hilarious and definitely holds it over your head. When you wake up the next morning, he keeps alluding to it without outright stating it until you get annoyed enough to call him out on it. Immensely enjoys watching you jolt in realization before groaning in embarrassment.
Guy Gardner, Wade Wilson, Clint Barton, Remy Lebeau, Pietro Maximoff
Awake the whole night, going through the seven stages of grief, and facing their own insecurities. Would it be selfish of him to be with you, make you deal with his flaws and baggage? He takes a long look at himself and realizes that he doesn’t have the power to turn you away or go back, and that he can only hope you can accept all of him.
Ted Kord, Barry Allen, Jean Paul Valley, Roy Harper, Jason Todd, Peter Parker, Kurt Wagner, Bucky Barnes
Already planning your future together. Grounds himself, or at least tries to, but he’s on cloud nine right now. Definitely spends the time until you’re awake preparing something for you, like a gift or breakfast, waiting to give you an affirmative answer. Finally, an end to his pining…! Oh, you don’t remember—
Kyle Rayner (him and the painting he pulled an all nighter doing—), Booster Gold, Johnny Storm
You two are actually already married, but he’s very flattered and finds you to be a very adorable drunk. After tucking you into bed, he has to hold back laughter and instead cradles you with a smile, perfectly content.
Dick Grayson, Hal Jordan, Barry Allen, John Stewart, Peter Parker, Scott Summers, Kurt Wagner
His brain crashes, and probably stands above your sleeping form in shock for a couple minutes before heading out for patrol. He’s just distracting himself before he emotionally unpacks that. Bones were (accidentally) broken that night.
Bruce Wayne, Logan Howlett, Marc Spector
He never brings it up. In fact, he actually begins to distance himself, slowly disappearing from your life. He convinces himself it’s for the better, that being with you would only putting a target on you, that he would eventually be the one to hurt you. He’s saving you from the pain of having your heart broken, or worse.
Matt Murdock (The only thing he brings is hurt), Clint Barton (Bailing before he has to actually admit his own feelings and ruin another relationship), Pietro Maximoff (running away is what you’re best at, isn’t it), Wade Wilson (you’ll be fine without him, better off, even)
Pietro, my kind but manipulative and flawed husband 😭
Marvel Comics Characters Receiving a Dirty Picture from You in Public
Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Marc Spector, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa & Elektra Natchios
God, I love Marvel Comics...
Peter Parker aka. Spider-Man
Peter has been through a lot. He’s fought villains, lost people he’s loved, and carried the weight of responsibility since he was a kid. But nothing—not Venom, not Doctor Octopus, not the Green Goblin—has ever hit him as hard as opening his phone and seeing you.
He’s perched upside-down on a fire escape, mid-stakeout with Daredevil, when his phone buzzes. He barely glances at it at first, assuming it’s an update from MJ or the Bugle. But then—his Spidey-Sense misfires. His stomach drops. And suddenly, he’s scrambling so fast that he almost falls off the fire escape.
“...Parker?” Matt’s voice is suspicious, brow furrowing beneath the red mask. Peter clutches his phone like a lifeline, heat rushing to his face, his entire body going rigid. “Uh—nope! Nothing’s wrong! Totally fine! Just, uh—gotta—go!” Before Matt can say another word, Peter web-slings away, heart pounding.
Later, in his apartment, he stares at the image, biting his lip so hard he might draw blood. Then, fumbling with his phone, he types back: You cannot just drop this on me in the middle of a mission. I almost DIED. You’re gonna make it up to me. In person. Immediately.
Tony Stark aka. Iron Man
Tony Stark is always the one making people flustered. He’s the king of inappropriate timing, the grandmaster of chaos. So when you flip the game on him? When you send him something completely indecent while he’s in the middle of a live press conference? Oh, he is in trouble.
He’s mid-sentence, standing in front of a sea of reporters, when his phone vibrates. He glances at it without thinking, because hey, it might be about stock prices or another alien invasion. But no. No, it’s you. In the filthiest pose imaginable.
He visibly freezes. Blinks. Blanches. Then—his brain blue screens. The entire room stares as Tony suddenly cuts off mid-sentence, clears his throat, and forces a smirk that’s absolutely not covering up a crisis. “Uh—ladies and gentlemen, I think that’s enough questions for today.”
The moment he’s offstage, he stumbles into the nearest private room, yanks at his tie, and pulls out his phone like it holds the meaning of life. He types back immediately: Oh, now you’ve done it, sweetheart. I hope you’re home right now, because I’m on my way, and I’m bringing consequences.
Steve Rogers aka. Captain America
Steve is not a prude. He’s been around, he’s seen things. But there’s something about you—about the way you know exactly how to knock the breath from his lungs—that makes him feel like a kid again.
He’s in the middle of a strategy meeting with Sam and Bucky, his shield leaning against the table, when his phone vibrates. He checks it without thinking, eyes flicking down—and then every muscle in his body tenses. His grip on the phone tightens. His ears burn red.
“You good, Rogers?” Bucky gives him a knowing smirk, because he immediately recognizes that look—Steve flustered beyond belief. Steve clears his throat, hard, locking his phone like it’s offended him. “Fine,” he says, voice a little too even. “Let’s, uh—let’s keep going.”
But later, when he’s alone, he exhales deeply, pressing a hand over his face before looking at the image again. Then, with slow deliberation, he types: I hope you know what you just started. Because I don’t break my promises, sweetheart. And I promise—you’re not leaving that bed when I get there.
Thor Odinson aka. God of Thunder
Thor has seen battles, has waged wars across the cosmos, has faced monsters and gods. But when his phone pings—when he sees the absolute sin that you’ve just sent him—he forgets how to breathe.
He is in the middle of the Avengers’ common room, laughing boisterously with Bruce and Natasha, when he pulls out his phone. He expects something simple—a text from his brother, perhaps, or a message from Jane. But instead? Instead, he sees you.
The entire room feels it when Thor’s laughter stops. There is a moment—just a beat of silence—before the lights flicker. The air crackles with static electricity. His fingers twitch around the phone, and then, in a low, very serious voice, he mutters, “By the Norns…”
Natasha raises an eyebrow, but Thor abruptly stands, clearing his throat. “I must depart. Urgently.” Bruce frowns. “What? Why?” Thor barely offers an explanation before storming out of the room, typing furiously: You dare tempt the God of Thunder? Very well, little one. You shall learn what it means to summon a storm.
Loki Laufeyson aka. God of Mischief
Loki is the undisputed master of control. He is calm, composed, always one step ahead of everyone else. But when you send him something so shameless, so brazen, in the middle of an important diplomatic event in Asgard—he nearly drops his goblet of wine.
He’s reclining on his throne, listening to some dull ambassador drone on about trade negotiations, when his phone vibrates. He lifts it lazily, expecting nothing of importance—until he sees you.
His entire body goes rigid. His grip tightens around the goblet, the silver denting beneath his fingers. His green eyes darken, and for the first time in centuries, he feels his pulse stutter. The ambassador keeps talking, oblivious, but Loki? Loki is seething.
Later, in his chambers, he lounges on his bed, turning the phone over in his fingers before smirking. Then, with slow, careful precision, he types: You dare tease the God of Mischief? Oh, darling, you are in such trouble. And you know how much I enjoy trouble.
Clint Barton aka. Hawkeye
Clint Barton is used to chaos. He’s fought alien invasions, taken down crime syndicates, and, most impressively, lived in a house with three dogs and somehow survived. But nothing—not the Avengers, not S.H.I.E.L.D., not even Kate Bishop’s endless sarcasm—could have prepared him for this.
He’s in the middle of a debriefing with Captain America and Black Widow when his phone vibrates. Normally, he’d ignore it, but boredom gets the better of him. He sneaks a glance, tilting the screen just slightly—and immediately chokes on his coffee.
“Barton?” Natasha’s voice is sharp, her suspicious gaze snapping to him. Steve looks concerned. Clint, on the other hand, is malfunctioning. He quickly locks his phone, pressing it to his thigh like it’s burning him. “Yep. All good. Just… wrong text thread. You know how it is.”
The second he’s alone, he whistles, rubbing a hand down his face before sending a text: You are absolutely trying to kill me, aren’t you? I’m a trained marksman, babe. You know I always hit my target. Hope you’re ready.
Natasha Romanoff aka. Black Widow
Natasha Romanoff is a professional. She’s endured psychological conditioning, trained with the deadliest assassins in the world, and can lie so well that even she forgets what’s real. But when you send her something so utterly filthy, in the middle of a high-stakes poker game with some very dangerous people—she nearly loses her composure.
She’s holding a perfect poker face, one leg crossed over the other, a cigarette between her fingers (purely for effect). Then, her phone buzzes. She never checks her phone during missions, but for some reason, she does this time.
The second she sees the image, her fingers twitch. She almost fumbles her cigarette. Almost. A single slow breath is all that betrays her before she locks the screen and smirks, adjusting her sunglasses to hide the flicker of heat in her gaze.
Later, after she’s won the game (because of course she has), she finally responds: You must be very confident, sending me something like that. I hope you know what happens when I catch my prey, моя любовь (my love). Because I always catch them.
Bucky Barnes aka. Winter Soldier
Bucky is already always on edge. He spent decades being controlled, his mind fractured, his instincts constantly telling him that danger lurks around every corner. But when his phone vibrates in the middle of a mission briefing and he makes the mistake of checking it—he nearly self-destructs.
He’s sitting next to Sam Wilson, arms crossed, trying to focus on the tactical discussion. Then, out of habit, he glances at his phone. And suddenly? His enhanced heartbeat spikes. His grip on the phone tightens, metal fingers creaking.
Sam immediately notices. “Dude. You okay?” Bucky doesn’t answer. He just exhales deeply, jaw clenching, and locks his phone like it’s personally offended him. “Fine,” he mutters, but the way his throat bobs betrays him.
Later, in the privacy of his room, he leans against the wall, pressing his flesh hand over his face before looking at the image again. Then, he types—slow, deliberate, full of promise: You are playing with fire, doll. And you know I don’t burn alone.
Matthew Murdock aka. Daredevil
Matt has learned to control himself. He has to, considering his senses pick up everything. The heartbeat of a liar, the scent of blood, the whisper of fabric against skin. But when he puts in his earpiece during a stakeout with Elektra and hears you—sultry, teasing, wicked—his composure shatters.
Your voice is a purr, warm and full of amusement, as you describe, in explicit detail, exactly what you want to do to him. Every syllable slides into his ear like a sin, and for the first time in years, Matt Murdock forgets how to breathe.
“Murdock.” Elektra’s voice is unimpressed. “Are you even listening?” Matt clenches his jaw, forcing his expression into something neutral as he slowly removes the earpiece. “Yeah,” he lies, his voice way too tight. “Loud and clear.” But his fingers twitch, betraying him.
Later, alone in his apartment, he plays the message again. And again. Until his own heartbeat is thunderous in his ears. Then, with a slow smirk, he records his reply—his voice low, gravelly, barely more than a rasp: Angel, you have no idea what you’ve just done. And I promise—you won’t be able to walk tomorrow.
Frank Castle aka. The Punisher
Frank Castle does not fluster. He’s a man who’s seen the worst of the world, a soldier who has lost everything. He does not get distracted. But when he’s sitting in the middle of a grimy bar, brooding over a whiskey, and his phone vibrates—everything stops.
He checks it absently, expecting intel from Micro or maybe a warning from Daredevil. But instead, he gets you. And just like that, his grip on the glass tightens. His jaw locks. His entire body tenses, muscles coiled, because you have just sent him something so utterly indecent that he has to set his whiskey down before he crushes the glass.
The bartender notices. “You good, man?” Frank barely glances up, his fingers white-knuckled around his phone. “Fine,” he mutters, voice rough. He shoves his phone back in his pocket and downs the rest of his drink in one go.
Later, in the dead of night, he finally lets himself look at the picture again. He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face, before sending a single message: You think you’re real cute, huh? Yeah. Keep that same energy when I get home. See if you’re still smirking when I’ve got my hands on you.
Marc Spector aka. Moon Knight
Marc has lived multiple lives. A mercenary. A vigilante. A fist of vengeance. But the moment his phone vibrates in the middle of a stakeout, and he sees you—he nearly blows his own cover.
He’s perched on a rooftop, watching a weapons deal go down, his mind sharp and focused. Then, out of habit, he checks his phone. His breath hitches. His grip tightens around the device, and he has to physically restrain himself from groaning. Khonshu’s voice rumbles in his mind: "Your mortal desires are distracting, Spector." Marc grits his teeth. "Yeah, no shit."
“Something wrong?” Jake’s voice purrs from inside his head, amused. “She send you something nice, hermano?” Marc rolls his eyes, exhaling sharply before locking his phone. “Mind your damn business.” But his pulse is thundering.
Later, back at his apartment, he leans against the wall, staring at the image before typing: You have no idea what you’ve just done. Hope you’re home. Hope you’re ready.
Johnny Storm aka. Human Torch
Johnny Storm is used to attention. He thrives on it. He’s a celebrity, a hero, a walking flame. But when you send him something scandalous in the middle of a live television interview, even he isn’t ready for it.
He’s laughing, flashing his signature cocky grin at the camera, when his phone buzzes. He checks it without thinking—because hey, it might be Sue yelling at him again—but instead, it’s you. In the filthiest pose imaginable.
Johnny visibly chokes. His entire body tenses. For the first time ever, he forgets what he was saying. The interviewer blinks. “Uh… Johnny?” His brain short-circuits. His face heats—literally. The tips of his ears ignite before he clenches his fists and forces himself to not spontaneously combust on live television.
The second the interview is over, he’s sprinting to his dressing room, slamming the door shut and typing frantically: Ohhh, you are in trouble. You’re really trying to set me on fire, huh? Hope you’re home, babe, ‘cause I’m flying over. Right. Now.
Reed Richards aka. Mister Fantastic
Reed Richards is a genius. His mind is constantly working at speeds beyond human comprehension. But when he’s mid-lecture at a prestigious scientific conference and his phone vibrates—his brilliant mind suddenly goes blank.
He absently checks his phone, half-expecting an alert from the Baxter Building. But instead, it’s you. Wearing almost nothing.
For a solid ten seconds, he is frozen. His eyes slightly widen. His fingers twitch. And then, very slowly, he locks his phone and clears his throat. “Ah—excuse me, esteemed colleagues, but I must—um—attend to an urgent matter.”
Later, he adjusts his glasses, staring at the image with a fascinated, almost scientific appreciation. Then, with methodical precision, he types: You are a very distracting woman. I will be conducting an… in-depth study on you as soon as I return. Expect a thorough examination.
Felicia Hardy aka. Black Cat
Felicia Hardy is a master of seduction. She flusters men for fun. But when she’s in the middle of a high-stakes casino heist, and you send her something utterly indecent, even she loses her composure.
She’s leaning against the bar, sipping an expensive martini, eyes locked on her mark. Then, her phone buzzes. She lazily checks it, expecting an update from her crew. But instead? Instead, she sees you.
Her eyelashes flutter. Her lips part just slightly. And for the first time in years, her poker face cracks. The bartender—oblivious—raises an eyebrow. “Everything okay, miss?” Felicia exhales, smirking as she locks her phone. “Oh, it’s better than okay.”
Later, she lounges on silk sheets, staring at the picture before purring into her phone: You really think you can tease me, kitten? Oh, sweetheart… you just made a very expensive bet. And I never lose.
Stephen Strange aka. Doctor Strange
Stephen Strange is not easily shaken. He’s fought cosmic horrors, bent reality, and wielded power beyond mortal comprehension. But when he’s in the middle of a magical duel with Dormammu, and you send him a sinfully explicit picture—he almost loses.
He’s mid-incantation, floating above the Sanctum’s rooftop, when his phone vibrates. Normally, he’d ignore it—except something in the back of his mind tells him it’s you. He flicks his fingers, glancing at the screen—and immediately regrets it.
His spell stutters. His fingers twitch. The fabric of reality briefly warps. Wong, standing below, yells, “What the hell was that?!” Stephen clenches his jaw, locking his phone immediately before snapping his wrist and repairing the timeline. “Nothing,” he mutters. “Absolutely nothing.”
The moment the battle is over, he retreats into his study, loosening his Cloak, before typing: You dare distract the Sorcerer Supreme? You have no idea what you’ve just unleashed, darling. And I do hope you’re prepared for consequences beyond mortal comprehension.
Namor aka. The Sub-Mariner
Namor is a king. He does not answer to anyone. He has waged war against the surface world, stood against the mightiest heroes, and commands the loyalty of an entire empire. But when he is seated on his throne, discussing politics with his council, and his communicator vibrates—everything else becomes irrelevant.
He glances down, expecting a diplomatic missive. Instead, he is greeted by you—a vision of temptation, captured in a way that only he has the privilege to see. His grip on the communicator tightens, his lips parting slightly. The light of the display reflects in his dark, narrowed eyes.
The council drones on, but Namor hears nothing. His golden gauntlets flex, his knuckles tightening as his jaw sets. A slow, deliberate exhale is all that betrays his reaction. But those closest to him—his most trusted generals—see the flicker of something dangerous in his expression. A storm, barely contained.
Later, as he stands upon his balcony, overlooking the endless ocean, he types a single response: You seek to tempt a king, my love? Then be prepared for the wrath of a god. When next we meet, you will drown in my devotion.
Johnny Blaze aka. Ghost Rider
Johnny Blaze has seen Hell—literally. He has ridden across the desolate highways of damnation, stared into the abyss, and laughed. But when he’s sitting in a biker bar, nursing a whiskey and half-listening to some guy ramble about the Devil, his phone vibrates. And when he checks it—he nearly sets the whole place on fire.
The image of you is burned into his mind, seared into his soul. He sucks in a slow breath through his teeth, his fingers tightening around the glass. His knuckles go white. Somewhere deep inside, the Spirit of Vengeance chuckles.
“Something wrong, Blaze?” One of the other bikers eyes him warily. Johnny forces a smirk, setting his whiskey down before he crushes the glass in his grip. “Nah,” he rasps, his voice a little too rough. “Just realized I got… unfinished business to take care of.”
Later, on his Hellfire-coated bike, he sends a text: You got a real bad habit of making me wanna sin, sweetheart. And I promise—I’ll make sure you repent. Over. And over.
Eddie Brock & Venom aka. Venom
Eddie Brock has been through hell. He’s fought monsters, been one himself, lost everything, and still kept going. But nothing—not a damn thing—could prepare him for the absolute carnage of getting that picture from you in the middle of a crowded subway.
He’s scrolling through his phone absentmindedly, Venom muttering in his head about wanting tater tots, when the image loads. For a solid five seconds, he is completely still. Then—
“Eddie.” Venom’s voice rumbles, amused. “Your mate is very… bold. We approve.” Eddie, red-faced, slams his phone against his chest like that’ll somehow erase what just happened. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, eyes darting around to make sure no one saw. A teenager across from him raises an eyebrow.
Later, when he’s alone, he finally lets himself look at the picture again. A slow, predatory grin spreads across his face as he types back: Oh, you think you’re being cute, huh? Yeah. Just wait till I get my hands on you. Hell, maybe we’ll even let Venom have a little fun, too.
T’Challa aka. Black Panther
T’Challa is a king, a warrior, a legend. His mind is a fortress, his will unshakable. But when he is seated in the royal palace of Wakanda, surrounded by dignitaries, and his Kimoyo Beads alert him to a personal message—his focus wavers.
He allows himself a discreet glance. And in that moment? His heart skips a single beat. His fingers—steady even in the heat of battle—tighten just slightly around his beads. His expression does not change. But to those who know him well—Okoye, Shuri—they notice the subtlest flicker of something dangerous in his eyes.
Shuri smirks. “Brother,” she murmurs, leaning in. “You look… distracted.” T’Challa exhales deeply, locking the message with a casual flick of his fingers. “I am merely… anticipating a conversation.”
Later, when he is alone, he reviews the picture once more, fingers grazing his jaw before he types: You are testing my patience, beloved. And you know I am a man of great discipline. But for you? I am willing to break my own rules. Expect me soon.
Elektra Natchios aka. Elektra
Elektra Natchios does not fluster. She has slit the throats of kings, danced on the edge of oblivion, and played cat-and-mouse with death itself. But when she is sharpening her sai on the rooftop of a New York high-rise and her phone buzzes—her grip falters.
The blade nicks her glove. Barely. But it happens. Her lips part in a slow, dangerous smirk as she tilts the phone toward the moonlight, drinking in the absolute audacity of your message.
“Something amusing?” A voice—a rival assassin, lurking in the shadows. Elektra does not answer. She merely tucks her phone away, standing smoothly, her stance lethal. “Yes,” she purrs. “Something… very amusing.”
Later, as she leans against the window of her penthouse, she finally sends a reply: You are so very reckless, my love. And I do enjoy breaking reckless little things.
— Tony Stark x Daughter!reader ; The Avengers x Platonic!reader
For 14 years it’s just been you and your mom living life in San Francisco. But after a haunting diagnosis, and a call you're not so happy about, you're met face to face with your father, who's none other than Tony-fucking-Stark. Now, you have a father you didn't ask for and he's left with a teenager to raise— and he's got no fucking clue what to do.
a/n: i've had this story in my head for a long time ngl and given that the Multiverse is in full swing I thought 'why not?'. so, if you want to read some old fashioned 2010s 'Tony's Kid' story, here it is. KEEP IN MIND this story WILL be DIFFERENT than theMCU timeline (odv), i.e things that didn't happen in the movies WILL happen here (like certain people living or dying). i've also decided that this story will take place in ANOTHER UNIVERSE, so not in 616 (main timeline) or 199999 (real MCU timeline). After much consideration (google searching) I've settled on Earth-2250002404.
Summary: Being the youngest Avenger usually means you get looked over for missions, but you never thought they'd forget your birthday.
Warnings: Possible swearing, angst, tears, fluff at end.
Reader's age: 17
Being the youngest Avenger had its perks. I could outrun a speeding car, manipulate energy fields, and occasionally, snag the last slice of pizza before Tony could. But it also meant being underestimated, sidelined on the ‘easier’ missions, and treated with a gentle, almost patronising, kind of care. I knew they meant well. They were protective, especially Steve, who saw me as the kid sister he never had. But sometimes, I just wanted to be seen as an equal. A capable, contributing member of the team.
And today, on my birthday, I just wanted them to remember that I wasn't just a little kid anymore.
The day had started like any other. I woke up, expecting at least a mumbled "Happy Birthday" from whoever was awake. Nothing. I figured they were busy, caught up in some impending doom I hadn't been briefed on. I made my own breakfast, a sad, solitary affair with a bowl of cereal and a heavy dose of disappointment.
The day dragged on. Peter came over, rambling on about something that happened in school - the one place I think I was happy I never attended, Tony deciding I could learn at the tower - listened patiently as Sam complained about the lack of decent bird-watching spots in New York, and somehow sat through a lecture from Bruce talking about gamma radiation.
I paced the common room, trying to look busy, hoping someone would notice the date on their phone, the faint decorations I'd secretly put up last night (easily dismissed as late Halloween ornaments, I supposed). The clock ticked with maddening precision, each second a hammer blow to my already fragile hopes.
Finally, around late afternoon, Natasha walked in, her face etched with a familiar weariness. “Rough day,” she sighed, dropping onto the opposite end of the couch.
“You could say that,” I muttered, trying to keep my voice neutral.
She glanced at me, her eyes narrowed slightly. “Something up?”
This was my chance. “Just… a little forgotten,” I said, carefully avoiding eye contact.
She studied me for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then, she stood up. “Wait here.”
Hope flickered within me, a tiny, fragile flame. Maybe she remembered. Maybe she was going to orchestrate a surprise party, a cake with seventeen candles, a chorus of off-key "Happy Birthdays."
But no, she returned empty handed, “Tony needs help re-calibrating the repulsors. He’s about to blow up the lab. You're closest. Go.”
My heart sank. The flicker of hope extinguished. I forced a smile. “Sure thing, Nat.”
The lab was, indeed, a controlled chaos. Tony was covered in grease, his usually impeccable hair a mess. He barked orders at a bewildered-looking Peter, who was struggling to hold a wrench twice his size.
“Ah, Y/n! Perfect timing,” Tony exclaimed, without even looking at me. “Hold this. Tight. And don't breathe on it.”
I spent the next hour balancing carefully on a stool, holding a delicate piece of Stark tech, trying not to sneeze, and feeling utterly invisible.
Finally, Tony declared the repulsors “minimally functional,” and Peter, bless his heart, after being dismissed as a “potential explosion hazard,” whispered a quick, “Happy birthday, Y/n!” before scurrying off.
It was enough to make me want to cry.
I mumbled a thank you and slumped back into the common room, defeated. I couldn't even muster the energy to be angry. Just… sad.
The others slowly trickled back in, one by one. Steve, Bucky, Sam, and Bruce, all looking exhausted and preoccupied. Each of them passed me with a cursory nod, completely oblivious.
I decided to retreat to my room, to wallow in self-pity and watch bad reality TV. As I reached the door, Steve’s voice stopped me.
“Y/n, could you…” he trailed off, looking slightly sheepish. "You look a little down. Everything okay?"
"Fine," I lied, my voice barely a whisper.
He frowned. "You sure? You know you can talk to me."
I wanted to scream, to tell him that no, everything was not fine, that it was my birthday, and they had all completely forgotten. But the words caught in my throat, choked by disappointment.
"Yeah, Steve. I'm fine. Just tired." I turned and walked into my room, closing the door softly behind me. I leaned against it, tears welling in my eyes.
A moment later, there was a knock. I ignored it.
The door opened.
It wasn’t Steve. It was Bucky, looking uncharacteristically awkward.
“Hey, kid,” he said, his voice rough around the edges. “Heard you weren’t having such a great day.”
I glared at him, tears threatening to spill over. “What do you want, Bucky?”
He shuffled his feet. “Just… figured you might want this.” He held out a small, rectangular box.
I took it, my fingers trembling. Inside, nestled on a bed of velvet, was a silver bracelet. It was simple, elegant, and perfectly me.
"Natasha picked it out," Bucky said, avoiding my gaze. "Said it was…appropriate."
My breath hitched. “But… they forgot.”
Bucky shook his head. “We didn’t forget, kid. We just… we wanted it to be a surprise.”
He stepped aside, and I saw them. Standing in the hallway, all of them, looking sheepish and slightly apologetic. Tony held a half-eaten cake (chocolate, my favourite). Natasha had a stack of presents wrapped in brightly coloured paper. Steve was grinning, a genuine, warm smile that reached his eyes. Sam was holding a boombox, which he promptly turned on, blasting a slightly off-key version of "Happy Birthday."
“Surprise!” they all yelled, their voices blending together in a cacophony of sound.
Tears streamed down my face, but this time, they were tears of relief and joy. I laughed, a shaky, emotional sound.
"You guys…" I choked out, unable to find the right words.
"We may not always show it, Y/n," Steve said, stepping forward and giving me a hug, "but you're an important part of this team. And you're important to us."
Tony clapped me on the shoulder. “Alright, enough with the mushy stuff. Cake time! And presents! And then, maybe, if you’re lucky, I’ll let you drive one of my cars.”
The rest of the evening was a blur of laughter, cake, terrible presents (thanks, Tony), and surprisingly heartfelt speeches. I learned that Natasha had been planning the surprise for weeks and that Bucky had spent hours agonising over the perfect gift.
As I sat there, surrounded by my dysfunctional, chaotic, but ultimately loving family, I realised that being the youngest Avenger wasn’t so bad after all. They might forget things sometimes, they might underestimate me, but they would always, eventually, come through. And sometimes, that's all that really matters. Especially on a birthday.
