My father Tony was in his lab working on a new project and I headed over to the lab to go sit with him and I loved hearing the tinkering sounds when Tony worked and when I walked in I smiled at my dad and when I saw Tony walk over I hugged him and he gently guided me to a nearby chair and offered me a can of my favorite soda and I gratefully took the drink “thank you dad” I said softly as I opened it and took a sip and I noticed Tony pulling up a chair and I heard him say, “alright kid, I can tell something is on your mind and you know you can talk to me anytime right?” My dad knew me very well which I loved and hated at the same time.
(Tony’s POV)
My project could wait, being here for Y/N was my priority and I didn’t like seeing something weigh heavy on her mind, as a dad you wanna fix everything for your kid, I reached over for my own soda and I waited for her to speak her mind and I wasn’t in a rush. I finally heard Y/N speak and tell me, “dad I like this guy at school but I can’t tell if he likes me.. and I wish mom was here so she could give me advice on what to do.. I really like him” I rubbed my neck and I wasn’t always the best at relationship advice and having my daughter at the age of liking boys was hard but I took a deep breath and gave my advice. “Honey, just be honest and let him know how you feel but if he doesn’t like you back then he wasn’t worthy of my girl but you can hold your head up knowing you were brave to tell him and if he hurts you let me know and I’ll make sure this boy doesn’t mess with you again” I chuckled softly but I meant it.
(Y/N’s POV again)
I smiled as I listened to my dad and Tony always knew how to help me and his advice was pretty similar to my mother’s which was comforting and I enjoyed sitting with Tony no matter if he was tinkering or if we just talked all day and I spoke up to thank Tony.
“Thank you dad for helping me I appreciate it, I love you dad” Tony hugged me close and ruffled my hair and pulled back to look at me softly and he placed his hand where my heart was and said “I’ll always be right here kiddo, always I love you now how about you help me finish building this new iron suit huh?” I got excited and I placed my soda aside and we worked together on Tony’s new iron man suit and it felt good having a father-daughter day just us.
hi hi hi hi can you write a tony stark x ftm reader where reader is an equestrian and gets spoiled with abunch of really expensive horse stuff (and probably rare horses too..) all the time by tony?
Bite me, Love me, Nonetheless
Pronouns used: you/your
Tony Stark x FTM reader (equestrian themed)
Warnings: Tony is a bit of an ass, reader is an icon.
It’s funny how things end up, one second you’re holding on by a frayed thread, trying to balance the normal stresses of life and the issue of being so far from financially stable, and the next? You catch the eye of someone who commands life rather then let it rule him, someone who’s foundations never falter. He’s so self assured, unfazed, effortlessly confident, intelligent, and overwhelming wealthy.
For the longest of times you had this dream, mostly unattainable. The idea of being secure, to the point you could giddily buy some animals to look after and spoil. At a younger age, you were around horses, a distant neighbour with a couple of mares. Tall, strong and yet utterly affectionate. You’d ‘sneak’ some apples over the fence at any opportunity (the neighbours were always aware and amused).
They laxly offered them up to ride, it wasn’t a yes or no question, it was a flurry of excited nods and begging your family to buy you some riding gear. From then the love for horses in particular festered, climbing on them with your slightly oversized helmet, brushing their manes with the upmost care. You’d spend hours braiding tails and scratching them behind the ears, right in the spot that made them pull their lip back in toothy smiles.
You almost became engrained into their paddocks, always insistent to the neighbours that you truly didn’t mind feeding them. It certainly made their nights easier, some spritely kid who memorised the feed and did it by muscle memory.
It was a peace you couldn’t quite describe, making fuss of a gentle giant who could not speak to you, but somehow understood you. On days that were hard, gravelled with sadness and a slump that wouldn’t ease, they’d rest their giant heads on yours, or nudge into you like they were attempting to fix the slouch themselves. The best days were ones with orange skies, the sun slowly lowering and illuminating the fields. Pure warmth pouring on your skin while laying tiredly on one of the mares, they didn’t lie down too often, so these times were deeply treasured.
The contrast of moving away from the endless green and life to a forest of concrete and skyscrapers was jarring. It’s not that things were devoid of life or colour here, it was just, different, a touch lonelier. Which had a bitter taste of irony considering the population size was up by thousands in comparison.
You just needed some coffee, the morning had just begun and already it was too taxing, weighing on you so claustrophobically. It was the flimsiest way of coping, tired beyond comprehension? Line up for a buzz of caffeine and hope for a miracle that your energy would return in full force. It never did, but sometimes it took the edge off, made you feel less like a half functioning corpse.
That’s when you met him, the arrogance at first had poured off in waves. With the most entitlement you have ever seen in one body, this man walked pointedly straight past you and skipped the line. To make it worse he had the gall to be so indecisive about his order, wasting your precious, exhausted time. It took a few seconds to register to your slumped brain that whoever this was had just very rudely skipped ahead.
The fact he was in a way too expensive and lavish suit didn’t register, nor the bodyguard a few paces behind. With a slow, angry brain you stepped closer to him, “hello?”
Even the way he turned was stupidly obnoxious, notching down some sunglasses to stare at you with idle boredom. It was even more infuriating that he was attractive, deep brown eyes, tanned skin, neat facial hair that you had the odd thought of scraping your cheek against. He didn’t respond, just stared, and raised a singular eyebrow.
“You just skipped in front of me, so if you don’t mind, I’m going to say my order and you’re going to wait.” In hindsight that probably wasn’t the best approach, talking down to him like a dog. Why was he a little familiar?
A flicker of amusement crossed his face, sculpted lips barely holding in a smug smirk. “Am I now?”
You simply brushed past him, saying your order relaxed and smooth. You didn’t spare him a glance as you picked up the cup of steaming coffee.
There were distant sputters as you walked away, him obviously expecting to be acknowledged at least once more. For curiosity’s sake, you turned back, meeting his gaze. Whether it was the lack of consuming the coffee that made your brain hazy, or just pure impulsiveness, you winked.
-
Tony Stark couldn’t stop drinking coffee. He kept returning to that coffee van, copperish in colour with a minimalist look. But it had a couple plants in view on shelves, and they even had paper straws. The ‘hero’ part of him made him veer towards it, all in the name of saving the turtles. That’s when he’d seen you, fiery and tired, cutting through his bullshit, pulling a reaction out of him so foreign.
It had become routine to stop by, and for a while you were a no show. Then one day that changed, you were with a friend, laughing and smiling. You were radiant.
He doesn’t know what compelled him to go over to your and very scratchily clear his throat, and offer to pay for you and your friend’s order.
The way you paused in slight confusion, and then brightly smiled towards him in gratitude. Oh it had him be a goner.
-
You liked horses. every time they were brought up in conversation, you lit up like a live wire, passionate. Knowledgable about breeds, eager to bet in races, to watch them.
He asked you, only once. “You‘ve looked after horses right?”
After an excited yes, he filed it away for later. Not too much later though.
Within a short time span, Tony Stark had gone overboard with buying a property with a built in stable, acres of land, and of course, horses.
Like a hawk, he’d watched you. Listened when you mentioned your favourite breeds.
Then, one night after a beautiful date, stars shining in the sky, candlelight and moderately okay cooking. Tony had whisked you away, “for a drive” he had phrased it as.
You were stunned, shocked. Standing in front of an ethereal home, it felt like belonging. And the stables...
The horses. Your gaze took too long to notice them, but when you did, you breathed out a laugh. The smile that graced your face should’ve been painted for him to always remember.
“Don’t say I don’t spoil you.”
You guffawed at him, “you’re unbelievable.”
He smiled, leaning down to press a warm kiss to your forehead. “I’m glad to see my man happy.”
A/N: Hi my lovely!! So glad you sent in a request for me, I myself am not too centred in equestrian stuff, so this may be short and sweet, I hope you enjoy it nonetheless <3
TAGS . Bullying, mentions of past character death (reader's husband), mild violence (fistfight), suggestive content/humor, awkward situations, protective Tony Stark, chaotic parenting, rich man/poor woman dynamics, sarcasm & banter, emotional baggage, mild humiliation (poor Peter), inappropriate use of a water gun, bad advice from superheroes, eventual fluff, crack treated seriously, Tony Stark being Tony Stark.
FT . Peter Parker, Tobey Marshall (OC bully), Happy Hogan, Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Pepper Potts (mentioned), May Parker (mentioned).
WC . 9.9k
A/N 1 . Came back again with this fanfic, hope y'all like it, and I'm so sorry for the inactivity, I was working double shifts. Also, I wrote and edited it in my original language, then translated it directly, but I didn't read it again, so please let me know of any mistakes.
A/N 2 . While I was editing this, I saw the news that Tom Holland's Spider-Man voice actor sadly passed away. He made a lasting impression on my part of the world. Rest in peace, sweet angel, you added a lot to Tom Holland's acting, for you I forgot he's British 🙏
Avengers Tower, that colossus of glass and steel that stood atop Manhattan Island like a monument to the extravagance, ingenuity, and excessive coffee consumption of its principal owner, had unknowingly become the temporary home of a high school student.
Sixteen-year-old Peter Parker, with a backpack full of advanced chemistry textbooks, spandex suits hidden in secret compartments, and social anxiety that could be measured on the Richter scale, occupied an unassuming apartment on one of the tower's middle levels. Officially, according to documents sent to Aunt May and the Midtown School of Science and Technology, Peter was enjoying a "highly exclusive, residential summer internship in the Research and Development Department of Stark Industries." In reality, the "internship" consisted of: a) helping Tony calibrate the repulsors on the Mark II suits; b) acting as Pavlov's dog whenever FRIDAY announced an emergency; and c) prevent the mad scientist and billionaire from dying from poisoning by his own fourth-generation espresso machine.
It was just another Thursday. Peter, with dark circles under his eyes that suggested a slightly over-enthusiastic night patrol, was trying to concentrate on disarming an arc reactor power breaker while, on a floating screen beside him, a quantum physics video explained the uncertainty principle. The irony didn't escape his overloaded brain.
"FRIDAY, can you turn down Dr. Schrödinger a bit? My cat's in a superposition of being asleep and about to purr in my ear, and it's disconcerting," he muttered.
The AI responded with its usual calm. "Sure, Peter. Mr. Stark is also asking if you've 'unblocked that fuse box' yet."
"I'm on it!" Peter replied, just as his phone vibrated with the fury of a thousand bees. It was a group message from school. Ned, asking about his history homework. MJ, sending a meme only she understood of an octopus wearing a hat. And then, like a dark cloud in a clear sky, a direct message.
Tobey Marshall: Hey, Peter. I saw your "aunt" buying soy milk at Whole Foods. Looks like even she knows you're so weak you can't handle cow's milk. Do you drink it with tears in your eyes?
Peter closed his eyes, gripping the neuralyzed screwdriver in his hand. Tobey Marshall. The walking archetype of the "movie bully." Tobey wasn't an evil genius, nor did he wear high-tech suits. His power lay in a lethal combination: broad shoulders (thanks to a gym and protein powder regimen more rigorous than Cap's training), a smile that made teachers think, "What a studious kid," and a capacity for verbal cruelty as precise as a laser, always delivered far from adult ears. He loved picking on Peter, whom he considered the perfect target: intelligent, physically non-intimidating (or so Tobey thought), and with a personal life that, from the outside, seemed straight out of a "how to be an outcast" handbook.
Peter dropped the screwdriver with a metallic click on the workbench. "FRIDAY, where's Mr. Stark?"
"In the biomechanics lab on level 72. He's currently having a philosophical discussion with himself."
Peter sighed. He couldn't upset Tony with this. Iron Man had bigger problems: terrorists, politicians, and the eternal battle to make the suits both missile-resistant and aesthetically flawless. A high school bully wasn't on his radar. And Peter, despite being able to lift a bus with one hand, felt like he was twelve again around Tobey: small, awkward, and with a knot in his stomach.
The next day at school, theory became practice. It was in the hallway between calculus and chemistry classes. Peter, carrying his backpack and absorbed in mentally rehearsing the formula for a new, fast-drying sticky webbing, didn't see Tobey and his cohort (two henchmen who looked like less defined clones of him) until it was too late.
A broad, solid shoulder slammed into him, colliding with him with a force calculated to make him drop some books, but not so much as to appear obviously intentional.
"Oops, sorry, Parker," Tobey said, his voice deceptively friendly. "You're walking around like you're in a dream world. Or are those new glasses making it hard to see?" Peter hadn't worn glasses since the bite, but the comment was part of the script.
"Relax, Tobey," Peter mumbled, bending down to pick up his notebooks. One of them, on thermodynamics, now had a Nike shoe print on it.
“Thermodynamics? Well, what a surprise,” Tobey continued, grabbing the notebook before Peter could reach it. He flipped through it with disdain. “So many numbers and letters. I wonder if they’re used to calculate how many pitying looks you get a day. You should make a graph.”
His friends laughed, a hollow, obedient sound. Peter felt the heat rising up his neck. He could hear the hallway walls creak if he clenched his fist tight. He could imagine a dozen ways to leave Tobey dangling from the ceiling in webbing, or simply immobilize him with a finger. But he couldn’t. Not there. Not as Peter Parker.
“Give it back, please,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady.
“'Please'? How polite,” Tobey smiled. Then his gaze settled on Peter’s backpack. "Hey, is that Spider-Man on your backpack? How cute. Did your aunt buy it for you so you'd feel a little less pathetic?"
It was, in fact, a cheap backpack that Peter had personalized with a Spider-Man patch. A small act of rebellion. Now, under Tobey's mocking gaze, it seemed like the most pathetic thing in the world.
"Leave my backpack alone, Tobey," Peter said, this time with a bit more firmness.
"Or what, Parker? Are you going to cry? Or are you going to run and tell your robotics friend? Or maybe your mentor at that internship thing?" Tobey pronounced the last word with an exaggerated, mocking tone, making air quotes with his fingers. "We all know it's pure fantasy. Stark Industries doesn't hire high school kids. Unless... you run errands for them? Polish their suits? Sure they would. 'Yes, Mr. Stark, I'll get the chrome polish right away.'"
His friends' laughter echoed in Peter's ears like a hammer blow. A feeling of helplessness burned within him. He had the powers of a hero, yet he was trapped in the cage of high school social rules, where his greatest power, his mind, was used against him like a weapon.
Tobey, satisfied with the damage he'd inflicted, dropped his thermodynamics notebook to the floor, where it landed with a thud in someone's coffee puddle. "There you go, Einstein. Study hard. Someone's gotta freak out for the world to run."
And they walked away, leaving Peter standing in the middle of the hallway, feeling ridiculously small, his books stained, and a rage he couldn't release.
That afternoon, back in the tower, Peter didn't go straight to the lab. He locked himself in his small room in the borrowed apartment. He didn't cry. Spider-Man didn't cry over an idiot like Tobey Marshall. But Peter Parker spent a good while sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at the Spider-Man patch on his backpack, wondering why, sometimes, being an anonymous hero was so much harder than facing a villain with a name.
Downstairs in the biomechanics lab, Tony Stark finally tormented the nut into submission. He leaned back in his chair, watching the holograms float around him.
"FRIDAY, where's the kid? Normally, by now, he'd be buzzing around here like a restless mosquito, asking about the energy efficiency of my shooters."
"Peter's in his quarters, sir. His vital signs indicate a... diminished mood."
Tony frowned. He wasn't an expert on "diminished moods" other than his own, usually related to running out of coffee or Rogers using that "I'm disappointed in you, Tony" tone. But he knew Spider-Man had a tendency to carry the weight of the world (and sometimes a space shuttle) on his shoulders.
"Hmm. Anything on the news? Some gelatinous calamity or a horned guy?"
"Negative, sir. Spider-Man's activity last night was routine. His school phone logs show an... unpleasant exchange with a classmate named Tobey Marshall."
Tony was silent for a moment. A classmate. A normal name. Not a Green Goblin, not a Vulture. It was something even more terrifying to Tony, because it was uncharted territory: ordinary school bullying. An enemy he couldn't launch missiles against or design a special suit against (well, he could, but Pepper would give him that look).
"Bullying, huh?" Tony muttered, running a hand through his beard. His eyes, behind his safety glasses, narrowed. The genius, the philanthropist, Iron Man... was facing a problem he couldn't solve with cutting-edge technology or a check. Or maybe he could, but not in the usual way.
The day after the incident in the corridor was, if possible, worse. Tobey Marshall, emboldened by his success and sensing a crack in the armor of indifference Peter was desperately trying to maintain, redoubled his efforts. It was a campaign of attrition: a "stumble" that sent Peter's books flying down the stairs, a new and especially affectionate nickname ("Parker the Wretch") that spread like wildfire among his cronies, and a steady, amusedly contemptuous gaze that followed Peter from the mess hall to the chemistry lab.
Peter returned to the Tower that afternoon feeling as if he'd been put through an emotional paper shredder. The rage had given way to a weary, sticky resignation. He couldn't tell Aunt May; it would only worry her. Ned and MJ were supportive, but what could they do? Ned suggested hatching revenge plans worthy of a low-budget spy movie, and MJ just watched Tobey with an expression that promised devastating sociological analysis in the near future. But she needed something more. She needed... an adult. Or the closest thing she had to one in her superhero life.
With the courage born of desperation, she stood at the door of Tony's main lab, where the man in question was engaged in what looked like a pitched battle against a prosthetic suit that insisted on compulsively giving the thumbs-up.
"Hey, Mr. Stark... got a minute?"
Tony swiveled in his chair, pushing his welding goggles up to his forehead. "Kid. Just in time. This thing," he said, gesturing to the prosthetic hand now flashing the peace sign, "has the sense of humor of a teenager. What's up? Did homework get the better of you? Need FRIDAY to write your essay on The Great Gatsby?"
Peter walked in, stumbling slightly. "No, it's... something more... personal."
Tony raised an eyebrow. "Personal. Hmm. Problems with the girl with the dark hair and killer stares? The friend who never stops talking? Look, my experience with healthy relationships is limited, but I'll give you some advice: be yourself. Even if 'yourself' sometimes hangs upside down from the ceiling and talks about polymers."
"It's about... well, there's this guy at school," Peter began, twisting his fingers. "Tobey Marshall. It's... complicated."
"Complicated?" Tony put down the tool he was holding. "How 'complicated'? Do you feel like you need to come out of something?"
"No, it's not that," Peter sighed. "It's just... he bullies me."
The word landed in the lab like a brick. Tony blinked. "Bullying." He repeated it like it was a technical term in a foreign language. "Does he bother you? Physically?"
"And verbally. And... well, yeah, sometimes he pushes, takes things away... the whole movie bully package, you know."
Tony leaned back, frowning. His mind, accustomed to solving global crises, was now grappling with a high school-level puzzle. His own experiences in school had been... different. Tony Stark, the boy genius, had been adored, envied, ostracized at times, but never, ever, bullied. People tended not to mess with the heir to Stark Industries, even when he was a kid. The only real bully in his life had been six foot one, had a mustache, and had been named Howard Stark, and those kinds of problems weren't solved with self-help advice.
"Hmm," Tony muttered, scratching his chin. "Okay. Situation analyzed. The problem is that this... Tobey... senses a weakness. An advantage. You have to neutralize that advantage."
Peter nodded, hopeful. Finally! Iron Man's wisdom.
"The solution is obvious," Tony declared with the certainty of someone about to reveal the theory of relativity. "Ignore him."
Peter blinked. "...Pardon?"
"Ignore him, kid. Completely. Act like he doesn't exist. Like he's a fly. A mosquito. An annoying, low-quality hologram. If he doesn't get a reaction, he'll get bored. It's basic behavioral science." Tony nodded, pleased with himself. "Attention is his currency. Stop paying him."
Peter stared at him, puzzled. "But... I've already tried ignoring him. It's just... he's so persistent. And when I ignore him, sometimes he gets worse, he finds other ways to..."
"Then you're not ignoring him properly," Tony interrupted, as if it were a matter of technique. "You need to take it up a notch. Wear headphones. Start singing opera. Pull out a book and start arguing out loud with the characters. Become the kind of guy so hopelessly weird that his ability to intimidate is intimidating. It's a distraction strategy. Brilliant, I know."
Peter felt his hope deflate like a punctured balloon. "Mr. Stark, I don't think belting out La Traviata in the hallway is going to..."
"Okay," he said, his tone losing some of its characteristic brightness. "Okay. Maybe... maybe I need a second opinion. On the matter of... social disadvantages."
Peter looked at him, confused. "What?"
"Relax, stay here, don't touch anything that looks like a hand grenade, even if it has glitter on it," Tony ordered, getting up. "I'm going to consult with a... specialist."
"A bullying specialist? Do we have one of those in the tower?"
"Something like that," Tony said, already heading for the door. "He's more of a specialist in having been a weakling. But shhh, don't tell him that."
Tony found his "specialist" in the tower's gym, a vast space filled with equipment that would make any Olympic athlete green with envy. There, Steve Rogers, also known as Captain America, was hitting a punching bag with a precision and force that made its reinforced steel groan in protest. The sound was methodical, powerful: THWOK, THWOK, THWOK.
Tony approached, his hands in the pockets of his designer pants. "Aren't you bored of hitting that thing? You could ask Thor to stand in front of you; it'd give you more to work with."
Steve didn't break his rhythm. "Tony. I don't have time for your 'jokes' right now. I'm in the middle of a workout."
"I can see that. Very impressive. The bag's about to call in for PTSD." Tony stood beside him, watching the muscles in Steve's back move beneath his sweatshirt. "I need your help, Boy Wonder. It's about a matter of... victims."
Steve threw one last cross that rattled the chain of the punching bag and stopped, clutching a towel. His expression was wary. "Victims? Of what? And why are you bringing this up with me?"
"Because you're, let's say, an expert at being on the weaker side of the force," Tony said bluntly.
Steve tensed. "Tony, if this is another one of your Brooklyn jokes or about my size before the serum..."
"No, no, not this time. I'm serious." Tony took a breath. He wasn't good at admitting he needed help, least of all from Rogers. "It's about Peter. Spider-Boy."
The irritation on Steve's face softened, replaced by concern. "Peter? What's wrong with him? Is he hurt?"
"Not physically. Or not yet." Tony paced. "He's being...bullied. At school."
Steve stood still, the towel dangling from his hand. "Bullied," he repeated, and the word sounded different in his mouth. Not like a strange term, but like a familiar, bitter memory. His eyes lost focus for a second, staring back at a past of damp alleyways and mocking voices. "Run, Stevie! Before they burst your other lung!"
"Yeah," Tony said, observing the change in Steve. "Some big guy named Tobey. He makes his life a living hell. I gave him some advice, but... well, it seems my parenting skills are about as good as my modesty skills."
"What advice did you give him?" Steve asked, hanging up his towel.
"To ignore him. To act weird. Distraction strategy."
Steve closed his eyes for a moment, as if in physical pain. "Tony... ignoring him doesn't always work. Sometimes it makes them more aggressive. Makes them feel like they can get away with it, that there are no consequences."
"Ah. That would explain why the kid came back today looking like he was at a funeral." Tony rubbed the back of his neck. "So, what would you have done? Before he was... this." He gestured toward Steve's imposing figure.
Steve leaned back against the punching bag. "Before he was 'this'... you suffered. You tried to avoid it. Sometimes you fought back, and usually you ended up with a black eye or out of breath." He sighed. "But that's not the advice I'd give Peter. He's stronger than I ever was, in every way. But he's also nicer. And he's bound by more rules."
"Great, so we agree he's a mess. Solutions, Cap? Other than me going to the school myself and making Tobey think his car has a sudden interest in flying?"
Steve shot him a warning look, but then focused. "First of all, he's not alone. He needs to know. He needs to talk to someone. Has he? His aunt? His friends?"
"He says he doesn't want to worry his aunt. And his friends already know, but they're kids too."
"Then he needs an adult he can trust. You, Tony."
"I already tried! Look how that went."
"You need to listen to him, Tony. Not just give him a quick fix. Let him vent. Ask him how he feels. Let him know that what he's feeling is valid, that he's not weak for feeling that way." Steve spoke with a calmness that Tony found exasperating and, in this case, necessary. "Then, we have to work on his self-esteem. Peter Parker is a genius, he's kind, he's a hero. He needs to remember who he is, outside of the suit and outside of school. Help him see that."
Tony nodded slowly. "Okay. Positive reinforcement. I could give him a PowerPoint presentation. 'Ten Reasons Why Peter Parker Is More Awesome Than Your Average American Bully.'"
Steve didn't smile. "I could also try talking to the kid. His bully."
Tony rolled his eyes. "Talk? Like, 'Hey, Mr. Bully, could you please stop emotionally torturing my protégé? I'd really appreciate it'?"
"No. Like, confront him calmly. Tell him to stop. Head-on, without aggression, but firmly. Sometimes bullies don't expect to be confronted directly, without violence. They just see the challenge and back down." Steve looked at his own hands, the same ones that had barely been able to hold a pencil. "And if that doesn't work, then you have to escalate it. Talk to a counselor, a principal. It's not being a snitch, it's asking for help to solve a problem."
Tony considered it. It all sounded very... civilized. Very Steve. Not his style. His style involved stun drones and maybe a public announcement that Stark Industries would never hire anyone named Tobey Marshall. But he looked at Steve, at the seriousness in his blue eyes, and remembered the album photos he'd seen once: a small, sickly Steve Rogers with a fierce determination in his gaze. This man knew what he was talking about.
"Okay, Rogers. Noted. Listen, reinforce, confront civilly, and if that fails, educational bureaucracy." He grimaced. "Sounds a lot less fun than my plan."
"Growing up and being responsible is rarely fun, Tony," Steve said, but a small smile touched his lips. "But it works. Peter is tough." He just needs the right tools, not a new suit.
Tony nodded, feeling strangely... grounded. "Thanks, Cap. Really." "Don't tell anyone, you'll ruin my reputation."
"Your secret's safe with me," Steve said, resuming his position in front of the punching bag. "Now go, I need to finish convincing this bag to give up."
Tony left the gym with a renewed mission. Steve's advice echoed in his head with an annoying but undeniable clarity. Listen. Validate. Confront civilly. He could do that. Well, he could try. At least the listening part. The validating part... maybe with a touch of sarcasm. The confronting civilly part... well, he'd cross that bridge when he got there, probably with a flying suit in the background.
He found Peter where he'd left him, now trying to reprogram the prosthetic hand so it would stop making the "call" gesture and start giving a thumbs-up, but only when something scientifically sound was mentioned. An absurd project for an absurd mind.
"Kid, we need to talk. And this time, I'm going to listen." Like a therapist, but without the ugly chair and with better clothes.
Peter looked at him skeptically. "What about the advice to ignore him?"
"Temporarily shelved. I've consulted with... a highly qualified source on... physical disadvantages." Tony sat down on a rolling stool and leaned closer. "Tell me everything. But unedited. What exactly did the big guy with the fake shoulders say? How did it make you feel? Use your words, don't hold back. I have a PhD in feeling like garbage; I can relate."
And Peter, surprised by the change in tone, spoke. He told Tony not just about the day, but the build-up of weeks, the jokes about Aunt May, the "accidents" in the hallways, the constant feeling of being under a microscope of contempt. Tony listened, asking pointed questions, frowning at appropriate moments, and surprising himself for not offering a tech fix or a legal threat every two minutes.
When Peter finished, Tony nodded slowly. “Okay. First: what you’re feeling is normal. It sucks, but it’s normal. He’s the one with the problem, not you. Second: you’re Peter Parker, you’re smarter than that primate in a flannel shirt, and you could literally use his sneakers as paperweights if you wanted. Third: next time, try confronting him. Calmly. Say something like, ‘Tobey, what you’re doing isn’t okay. I want you to stop.’ Simple. Direct. No crying, but no yelling. Like you’re explaining why his haircut is outdated.”
Peter looked at him, a little more animated. “What if it doesn’t work? What if he laughs?”
“Then we escalate. We talk to a counselor. The principal. Us. I’ll go with you. We’ll tell them you’re under the legal guardianship of Stark Industries and that bullying our interns is affecting our productivity. I’ll threaten to donate a new gym to the school… but only if they expel him.” Tony smiled, a mischievous grin. "You see, there are civilized ways to be a pain in the ass."
Peter chuckled, his first laugh of the day. "Thanks, Mr. Stark. Seriously. This... helps."
"Of course it helps, I'm a genius. Now go, sleep, or do homework, or whatever it is healthy teenagers do. Tomorrow will be a better day."
And Tony believed it. He'd applied Rogers' wisdom, adapted it with a Stark twist, and the kid had left feeling more cheerful. Problem solved. He felt so satisfied that he treated himself to a double espresso and spent the evening tinkering with a new repulsor design that, in theory, could make popcorn.
The next day, however, reality crashed into his tower of optimism with the force of a grumpy Mjolnir.
Peter came home from school and went straight to his room, skipping the lab altogether. When Tony, worried, sent FRIDAY to scan him, the indicators showed a pattern of elevated stress and "profoundly diminished" mood. An hour later, Tony couldn't stand it anymore and went to check on him.
He found Peter sitting on the floor, leaning against the bed, staring into space. There was a stain of what looked like orange juice (or something worse) on his T-shirt.
"Kid. Report. What happened? Did the 'please stop being an idiot' speech not work?"
Peter looked up. His eyes were glassy. "I tried. After chemistry class, in the hallway. I walked up to him and said, 'Tobey, what you're doing isn't right. You should stop.'"
Tony perked up. "There! Good for him! So?"
"He stared at me like I'd grown a second head. Then he laughed. An ugly laugh. And he said, 'Should I? Who's going to make me, Parker? You?' And then…" Peter's voice cracked a little, "…one of his friends 'tripped' and spilled the whole contents of his energy drink bottle all over me. Tobey just said, 'See? You can't even avoid an accident. You're a disaster.' And they walked away laughing."
Tony felt a familiar, dangerous heat rise in his chest. Rage. Impotence. The urge to fly to that damn school and... but no. The civilized method had failed. Emotional validation had been trampled underfoot. Steve and his 1940s wisdom were useless against 21st-century bullies.
"Okay," Tony said, his voice strangely calm. "Okay. Plan A was a complete failure. Don't worry. I have a Plan B."
"Any other advice, Mr. Stark?" Peter asked, without much hope.
"Not exactly. This time I'm going to... consult with another specialist."
Peter frowned. "Another one? Who? Black Widow? Because I'm not sure teaching me an arm lock is the solution..."
"Someone with a more... straightforward approach. Stay here. Don't do anything heroic or stupid."
Tony Stark had never, in his wildest nightmares, imagined he'd deliberately seek advice from James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes. The Winter Soldier. Hydra's left fist. The man with the vibranium arm who, in the not-so-distant past, had tried to kill him on several memorable (and painful) occasions. But Steve spoke of him with fierce loyalty. He described him not as the ruthless killer, but as the kid from Brooklyn who had stood up for a frail Steve Rogers against the neighborhood bullies. And right now, Tony needed the perspective of the kid from Brooklyn who had actually fought back.
He found him in the weapons training room, methodically cleaning a deactivated sniper rifle. Bucky didn't look up when Tony entered, but his posture stiffened slightly.
"Stark. If you're here to complain that this weapon clashes with the tower's art deco decor, save your breath."
"No decor today, Terminator." Tony crossed his arms, keeping a safe distance. "I need your advice."
Bucky put down the cloth and finally looked at him, his skepticism so deep it almost had a texture. "Your advice? Are you sick? Or is this some elaborate joke that's going to end with my head in a jar?"
"It's about Peter. Spider-Man."
The skepticism in Bucky's eyes didn't lessen, but it mingled with a flicker of interest. "What's wrong with the kid?"
"He's being bullied. At school. Some big, idiotic bully is making his life miserable. I already tried the Rogers method: talk, be civil, appeal to the bully's reason. It only got him to throw a sticky drink on himself."
A barely audible grunt escaped Bucky. It wasn't surprise, but recognition. "Steve always believed a kind word could break down walls. Sometimes it works. With the right people. With bullies... rarely."
"Exactly," Tony said, taking a step closer. "Steve told me... that you used to defend him. Before. From the bullies."
Bucky was silent for a moment, his metallic eyes lost in a memory. "Steve didn't know when to shut up. He had a mouth bigger than his body. I made sure they didn't tear him in two for it."
"Like what? What did you do?"
Bucky looked him straight in the eye. "I hit them back."
Tony blinked. "Physically?"
"How else? You can't reason with a rabid dog. You show it the stick. You don't always have to hit, but they need to know you can hit. That there's a line, and if they cross it, they'll meet with resistance. With pain."
Tony waved his hands. “But Peter can’t fight back! He has superhuman strength! If Peter pushes that kid, he’ll send him flying through the brick wall of the gym! He’d kill him!”
Bucky remained unfazed. “Who said anything about using his full strength? Since when does a soldier use his full power to scare away a mouse? You control it. You measure it.” He stood up, approaching Tony. His presence was intense, charged with a contained violence that Tony found terrifying and, in this context, fascinating. “The kid has to defend himself. Not to hurt, but to set a boundary. A slap on the arm that hurts more than expected. A grip on the wrist that’s like a vise. A shove that makes him stagger backward, surprised. He has to show the bully that Peter Parker isn’t an easy target. That there’s something there, a strength, a determination, that isn’t worth challenging.”
Tony considered it. It was the complete opposite of Steve's advice. It was primitive, dangerous... but it resonated with a visceral logic that the previous day's failure made tempting. "What if the kid gets scared and reports it? What if Peter becomes the aggressor?"
"Let him report it," Bucky said with a shrug. "And what will he say? That skinny Parker knocked him over? No one will believe him. Or they will, and then everyone will know that Peter is not someone to mess with. Respect, sometimes, isn't earned with kind words. It's earned by showing you won't let yourself be walked all over."
Tony paced back and forth, his mind racing. It was a bad idea. It was a terrible idea. It went against everything Pepper would tell him, everything the school handbooks preached. But he also saw the truth in it: Tobey Marshall operated in a universe where physical strength and social dominance were the currency. Peter had the first one, but he refused to use it. Maybe... maybe he just had to show it. A demonstration. A warning.
"It has to be proportionate," Tony muttered, more to himself. "Controlled. A message, not an attack."
"Exactly," Bucky agreed. "It's not about beating him. It's about letting him know the fight isn't worth it. Most bullies are cowards. They look for easy prey. If you stop being easy, they leave you alone."
Tony stopped and looked at Bucky. There was something about the former soldier, in his cold, experienced gaze, that made him think this man knew what he was talking about, from both sides of the spectrum: both as the victim defending his friend, and as the predator he'd been turned into.
"Thanks, Barnes. I really do."
Bucky nodded, an almost imperceptible tilt of his head. "Tell the kid... don't wait until you have a metal arm to defend yourself. Use what you have. Carefully."
Tony left the armory with a new plan, one that felt more grounded in reality and less like a motivational poster. He didn't like it. It made his stomach churn. But the image of Peter, with his stained shirt and defeated eyes, was worse.
He went back to Peter's room. The boy was still standing there.
"Kid. I have an update to the plan."
Peter looked up, expecting another speech.
"Forget about being civil with that jerk. Forget about counselors, for now." Tony crouched down to Peter's level. "The next time Tobey touches you, pushes you, steals something from you... you fight back."
Peter's eyes widened. "What? Mr. Stark? Me? But...?"
"Listen to me. Not to hurt him. To stop him. Control your strength. If he pushes you, grab his hand and squeeze it, just enough so he knows you could crush it. If he gets in front of you, don't move. Stand firm. If he tries to take something from you, don't give it to him. Hold on tight. Show him, as clearly as a guy like him can understand, that Peter Parker isn't a punching bag. That he has a limit, and if he crosses it, there will be consequences."
Peter stared at him, horrified, and deep down, with a flicker of something else: a spark of the rage he'd been suppressing. "But... what if I get expelled? What if I hurt someone?"
"If you keep it under control, you won't hurt anyone. And if you do get expelled..." Tony gestured nonchalantly, though his heart was pounding, "...I'll transfer you to some super-exclusive private online school I'll invent tonight. But it's not going to happen. Because when a bully like Tobey sees that his game isn't working anymore, that you're not a victim anymore, he'll find another hobby."
Tony placed a hand on Peter's shoulder. "I'm not asking you to be violent. I'm asking you to stop being passive. There's a difference. It's putting a physical boundary on physical bullying. Do you understand?"
Peter swallowed. His fists opened and closed. For the first time in weeks, he didn't look defeated. He looked... determined. And scared. But above all, determined.
"I understand," he said, his voice firm.
"Good," Tony stood up. "Now, clean that shirt. And tomorrow... tomorrow you mark your territory. Calmly. Controlled. But firmly."
As he left the room, Tony couldn't help but feel like he'd just unleashed a lion in a sheep pen. Or rather, he'd convinced an incredibly gentle lion to bare its claws. He would pray (though he wasn't much of a prayer) that Peter would have the self-control Bucky had mentioned, and that Tobey Marshall would at least have two brain cells working to get the message.
If not, Tony would have to resort to Plan C: a personal visit from Iron Man to the Marshalls' house to "discuss the academic future" of their son. But that, he told himself, would be the last and most fun option.
The next day was a long agony for Tony. He spent hours in his lab, but instead of focusing on the energy arrays, he couldn't stop looking at the clock, imagining the scene at Midtown High. Was Peter heeding the advice? Had he misinterpreted it? Had he used too much force? The thought that the kid might accidentally hurt Tobey made his stomach churn. But the thought of him going home again, humiliated, his morale at rock bottom, was almost as bad.
Just as the sun began to set, FRIDAY announced Peter's arrival in the private lobby. His voice had an unusual tone. "Mr. Stark, Peter has returned. His vital signs show elevated stress and... signs of minor physical trauma."
"Physical trauma?" Tony snarled, dropping the tool he was holding. "But I told him to defend himself with control!"
He rushed downstairs and found him in the foyer. The sight took his breath away. Peter wasn't covered in juice this time. His lip was split, swollen, and bleeding. An ugly bruise was forming around his left eye, and he was clutching his right arm in a way that suggested pain. His clothes were disheveled, and he looked like he'd lost a fight... against a truck.
"Peter... What the hell happened?" Tony approached, surveying the damage with a mixture of anger and panic.
Peter looked up, and in his eyes there was no determination, no anger, just deep confusion and a pain that went beyond the physical. "Mr. Stark..." His voice was a thin, trembling thread. "I tried. I grabbed his wrist when he took the notebook... and squeezed, just a little, to make him give it back."
Tony nodded, hopeful for a second. "So?"
"And... he was surprised. He just stared at me. Then his face... changed. It turned red. And he said, 'Really, Parker?' And then..." Peter blinked, as if he couldn't believe what he was about to say, "...then he punched me. Right in the face. And when I staggered, he grabbed me and punched me again. And again. He pushed my arm against the locker and I... I didn't do anything."
"You didn't do anything? Why? Peter, you could have stopped him with one finger!"
"Because I was scared!" Peter burst out, tears welling up, mingling with the blood on his lip. "I was scared I'd hurt him! I was scared that if I used my strength, I'd break him! And when he hit me... it was like everything froze! All I could think about was that I couldn't really fight back, and if I did, I'd be a monster!" He slumped onto a nearby bench, burying his face in his hands. "Tobey beat me. He punched me. Tobey beat me up."
The words echoed in the silent lobby. Tobey beat me. To Tony Stark, they were the most unacceptable, absurd, infuriating words he had ever heard. His protégé, the kid who could hold a space shuttle, had been knocked out by a high school bully because he was too nice. The rage he felt then was nameless. It was a volcano of indignation, frustration, and an all-consuming protective fury.
"That's enough," Tony said, his voice dangerously calm, the kind of calm that precedes a city-wide explosion. "This is over. No more advice, no more psychology, no more half measures. FRIDAY, locate Tobey Marshall's address. Now."
"Tony, no, please, don't do anything, just let it go..." Peter pleaded, but Tony wasn't listening anymore.
"Happy. Get ready. We're going on a trip."
Happy Hogan, who had appeared in the doorway with a worried expression upon seeing Peter, nodded solemnly. "The Bentley, boss?"
"Something understated. But one that subliminally screams 'I've got money and I'm furious.'"
Within minutes, they were in the private elevator, descending to the underground garage. Peter, still with a bleeding lip and a swelling eye, shuffled between them.
"Tony, this is a bad idea. What are you going to do? Scare a kid?"
"Kid?" Tony scoffed, roughly opening the door of the jet-black Bentley. "That 'kid' is sixteen years old and he's punched another 'kid' in the face who is, technically, a weapon of mass destruction with social anxiety. And his parents, or whoever's in charge, are going to have some explaining to do. Now, get in."
The drive from Manhattan to Brooklyn was a continuous monologue from Tony, fueled by indignation and three double espressos.
"What kind of mother does this kid have?" he muttered, staring out the window as the buildings rolled by. "How can she let her son be such a little tyrant? Where's the supervision? The parenting? The 'don't beat up your classmates, honey'? She must be one of those absentee mothers, too busy with her own life to see the monster she's raising! Or worse, one of those who thinks their 'little man' is just 'asserting himself'!"
Peter, huddled in the backseat next to Happy, was trying to disappear. "Maybe she works a lot. Or she's lonely..."
"That's no excuse! I work a lot too! And I don't go around letting my... people... beat up teenagers!" Tony paused, considering that technically he did let his people (himself, mostly) beat up aliens and terrorists, but this was different. "Happy, what do you know about the mother?"
Happy shrugged, keeping his eyes on the road. "FRIDAY only gave the address and that the father died eight years ago. Single mother case. That's all."
Tony nodded, adding another detail to his indignation. "See. Single mom. Probably overwhelmed, tired, letting the kid do whatever he wants. It's no excuse, Happy. It's no excuse."
Peter opened his mouth to protest, but a pain in his lip stopped him.
FRIDAY gave them directions in his calm voice, guiding them to a modest but well-maintained apartment building in a residential neighborhood in Brooklyn. It was the kind of place where people worked hard to pay their mortgages. Tony looked at him disdainfully. "This is where future Wall Street thugs are raised. Or future high school bullies."
"There. Apartment 14B," Happy said, parking in front of the building.
Tony jumped out of the car. "Peter, you're staying here with Happy."
"Tony, please..."
"Here! It's not up for discussion." Tony adjusted the designer jacket that was worth more than most of the neighbors' cars and headed toward the building's entrance with determination. He was going to knock on that door and unleash a barrage of common sense (and veiled threats) that would leave that mother trembling.
He climbed the stairs (the elevator looked like it was from Steve's era) to the fourth floor. The hallway smelled clean, like freshly baked cookies and soft incense. He found apartment 14B. He took a breath, bracing himself for the confrontation. His mind had already written the script.
And what kind of mother lets her son be a high school terrorist? Where were you when your offspring was developing his thuggish physique and Neanderthal vocabulary? So busy with your Tinder dates that you don't see the monster you have at home?
He raised his fist and knocked on the door with three firm, resonant knocks, the kind that announced an unpaid bill or terrible news.
Immediately, quick footsteps sounded from inside. "I'm coming, Tobey, turn off that game and come to dinner!" A woman's voice, clear but with a hint of weariness, filtered through the door.
Tony straightened up, preparing his most stern gaze, the one that made industry magnates tremble. The door opened.
"And what kind of mother—" he began, with all the force of his pent-up indignation, but all the words, all the prepared speeches, caught in his throat with the force of a repulsor on full power.
On the threshold, there wasn't a tired, overwhelmed woman, nor a neglected single mom. There was you.
You were... a vision that completely shattered his prejudices. You looked younger than he had reckoned for the mother of a teenager, but you carried with absolute ease the authority of someone who had raised a child alone. You were wearing baggy jeans stained with what looked like dried clay and a loose '90s band t-shirt with a slightly worn collar. Your hair was pulled back in a messy bun, a few strands escaping to frame a makeup-free face with intelligent, curious eyes that now cautiously scrutinized it. In one hand you held a tea towel, and you smelled of lavender soap and the cookies I'd mentioned earlier. And you were, undeniably, attractive. In an earthy, warm, and utterly disconcerting way, given the situation.
Tony's mouth hung open, his index finger still raised in an accusatory gesture. You raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to say something, as you dried your hands on the towel.
The silence stretched for an awkward second before Tony, his brain struggling to reboot after the concept of "single milf" had taken on such a tangible and disarming form, managed to utter the words he'd been practicing all the way here.
You tilted your head, confusion giving way to mild amusement in your eyes, though caution remained. "Excuse me? Can I help you? I'm a little... in the middle of making dinner." You gestured with the towel toward the apartment, from which a delicious aroma of stew wafted.
Tony blinked, swallowing hard. This wasn't going according to plan. Not even according to Plan Z. He glanced over your shoulder, as if waiting to see the real domestic chaos that would justify his anger.
"I... uh... I'm looking for Tobey Marshall's mother," you managed to say, regaining a sliver of your composure, though your tone had lost all its initial bite.
A shadow passed across your face. The amusement vanished, replaced by immediate seriousness. "That's me. What happened? Is Tobey okay?" Your voice held an instant protective tone, but also a hint of concern, as if you were used to unexpected visitors bringing bad news.
"He... he punched my intern," Tony said, finding the right words. "Peter Parker. He split his lip, gave him a black eye, and possibly injured his arm."
The color drained from your face. Not with disbelief, but with a deep, painful acknowledgment, mixed with palpable shame. You let out a long sigh, as if the weight of the world had settled on your shoulders once more. "Oh my God... I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." You ran a hand over your face, revealing a small smear of flour on your cheek. "Come in, please. I need... I need to hear the whole thing." You stepped aside, with a resigned gesture.
Tony crossed the threshold, feeling as if the floor of reality had tilted beneath his feet. The apartment was small but cozy, filled with the soft glow of lamps and the warmth of a life lived with effort. Framed photographs showed a young boy (Tobey) smiling with a man who shared his smile, and you, younger, with sparkling eyes. More recent photos showed just the two of you, you and a growing Tobey, sometimes smiling, sometimes with the defiant look of adolescence.
"Please, have a seat," you said, gesturing to a comfortable but worn sofa covered with a knitted throw. Your voice had regained some calm, though the tension was still there, hanging in the air, mingled with the smell of stew. "Can I offer you something? Coffee, tea... I'm sorry, I don't have an espresso machine."
“I’m fine,” Tony said, sitting down awkwardly. His demeanor of a raging vigilante was rapidly crumbling. Now he was just a man on a strange sofa, facing a woman who was dismantling all his prejudices in real time. “What I need to understand is. Why does your son have… problems with Peter?”
You sat down in an armchair opposite him, curling your legs under your body with a natural gesture. The light from the floor lamp illuminated you softly. “Tobey… he’s not a bad kid, Mr. Stark. He’s a confused teenager, with a lot of anger and a lot of pain.” You bit your lip, glancing toward the closed door of Tobey’s room. “His father, my husband, died eight years ago. A car accident. Tobey was eight. It was… devastating.”
Tony nodded slowly. The death of parents was territory he knew all too well, in different ways. A part of his anger, the more superficial part, began to evaporate.
“I’ve had to raise him alone ever since,” you continued, your voice a little lower. “I work two shifts, as a paralegal during the day and sometimes I do waitress shifts on weekends. It’s not easy. I try to be here, to set boundaries, but… sometimes I lose it. And Tobey… he wears that loss like armor. Armor of anger. He thinks that to be ‘strong,’ to not feel vulnerable like when he was a little boy crying for his dad, he has to be the toughest. The one no one dares to mess with.”
“And Peter became his target,” Tony concluded, not as an accusation, but as an observation.
“Peter is smart, kind, has an aunt who adores him, and now, apparently, Tony Stark as a mentor,” you said, with a sad smile. "For Tobey, Peter represents everything he feels he's lost or never had: a present father figure, security... a kindness he finds so hard to come by. He attacks him because, in his twisted, wounded-adolescent mind, making Peter feel small makes him feel bigger. It's awful, I know. And I don't excuse him." Your eyes met Tony's, and in them was genuine pain and steely resolve. "I'm going to punish Tobey for today. Severely. No game console, no going out, community service. Whatever it takes. And I'm going to make him apologize to Peter, in person."
Tony looked at her, surprised. There were no manipulative tears, no denial, no cheap excuses. There was responsibility, weariness, and a quiet strength that he found... impressive. And incredibly attractive.
"I understand," Tony said, and this time it was true. He understood the struggle, the loneliness of responsibility, the rage that could be channeled in destructive ways. He'd seen it in himself, after all. "I... I lost my parents too. Not in the same way, but... I know what it's like to carry that emptiness."
A silent connection was established between you in that moment. Two people accustomed to carrying entire worlds on their shoulders, meeting in the most unlikely place.
"And Peter?" you asked again, with genuine concern. "Is he badly hurt?"
"He's downstairs, with a black eye and his pride shattered," Tony sighed. "But physically he'll be fine. He's... resilient." More than you know, he thought.
"I have to see him. I have to apologize too," you said, starting to get up.
"Just a moment," Tony said, almost without thinking, reaching out to gently stop you. The contact was brief, but electric. You stood still, looking at him. "We... we have to think about a longer-term solution. So this doesn't happen again."
You nodded, sitting back down, a little closer this time. "What do you suggest? Because clearly, my methods so far haven't been enough."
And so they began to talk. No longer just about Tobey and Peter. They talked about the difficulty of raising children, the pressure of being the responsible adult, how lonely it could be. Tony, to his own surprise, spoke of his own distant childhood, of Howard, of the constant expectation. You spoke of the long nights, of the fear of not being enough, of the struggle to keep the light burning in your son's eyes despite everything.
The space between you on the sofa shrank almost without you noticing. Your tone was softer, his less sarcastic, more genuine. Indignation had given way to a strange complicity, fueled by shared vulnerability and the physical attraction that had been simmering since the moment you opened the door and disrupted all his plans.
At one point, as they discussed the importance of extracurricular activities for channeling Tobey's energy, your hand brushed against his on the sofa cushion. Neither of you pulled away.
"Maybe," Tony murmured, his voice a little lower, "what Tobey needs is a mentor. Someone other than his mother, someone who... understands anger from the other side."
"Are you offering?" you asked, a hint of disbelief mixed with something else—a hint of hope.
"I'm saying Stark Industries could have a mentoring program for young people with... potential problems," he said, sliding his finger across your knuckle. "It could be a solution. We need to explore all the options."
"Explore," you repeated, your gaze locked on his. The air in the small room had grown thick, heavy. The distant murmur of the television from Tobey's room was the only sound. "Sounds... reasonable."
Tony leaned forward, and you didn't pull away. The distance between your lips was a matter of centimeters; the heat of your body, the forgotten stew, and the released tension filled the space.
Meanwhile, in a park two blocks away, Peter Parker, who had gone out to clear his head (and lick his emotional wounds) after Tony stormed up to the apartment, encountered the worst possible coincidence.
Tobey Marshall, kicked out of his own house by his mother after a brief but ferocious reprimand ("You're confined to your room! But take out the trash first!"), had gone for a walk to calm his own rage. And there, as if by a cruel twist of fate, was Peter, the reason (in his mind) that Tony Stark himself was in his living room.
"Parker," Tobey growled, approaching with the expression of a raging bull. "Did you come crying to my mother too?"
Peter, still sporting a split lip and a black eye, stood ready. "No, Tobey. I'm just leaving. I don't want any trouble."
"Too late," Tobey said, and before Peter could react (or decide whether to react at all), two of Tobey's friends, bigger and looking like they'd stepped out of a B-movie thug casting call, emerged from behind some bushes. In an instant, they had Peter pinned down. With surprisingly effective strength and technique for such hooligans, they dragged him to a large tree and, using a rope they seemed to carry for such occasions, tied him securely to the trunk.
"Let me go! This is stupid!" Peter protested, struggling, but with deadly caution about using his full strength. If he broke free, he'd hurt them. If not, this would be humiliating.
"Shut up, snitch," Tobey said, with a nasty grin. He pulled a huge water pistol, the kind that looks like an assault weapon, out of a backpack. It wasn't filled with water. "I'll show you what happens to snitches."
Peter closed his eyes, bracing himself for the worst. Tobey pulled the trigger, and an icy stream, smelling intensely of vinegar and something worse, drenched Peter from head to toe. The mixture stung his split lip and made him cough. Tobey's friends roared with laughter as they filmed it on their phones.
The air in the small entryway of apartment 14B was now a completely new mix of scents: the lingering aroma of burnt stew in the kitchen, the lavender from your skin, and the expensive, techy scent of Tony's cologne, which seemed to permeate every corner. The light of the setting sun had given way to darkness, broken only by the dim hall lamp and the neon light from a nearby bar filtering through the window.
The scene at the door was, to put it mildly, surreal.
Tony Stark was adjusting his shirt with a nonchalance that didn't quite conceal the fact that the buttons were askew, revealing a triangle of chest that, luckily (or unluckily), the light was too dim to show in detail. He ran the back of his hand along the corner of his lips, subtly rubbing away a small but obvious trace of lipstick in a shade that exactly matched yours. His hair, usually immaculate, was disheveled as if someone had repeatedly run their hands through it.
Beside him, Peter Parker was a vision of pathos worthy of a Greek melodrama. He was wrapped up to his neck in a large, fluffy towel you had lent him, since his clothes, soaked with vinegar and dirty water, smelled like a pickle in a garbage dump. His purple eye gleamed gloomily in the hallway light, and his expression was a mixture of shock, extreme discomfort, and an existential question that grew by the second. He clutched the towel like a shield.
Happy Hogan waited patiently by the black Bentley, its engine running and idling. His expression was that of a man who has seen too much, knows he isn't paid enough to witness these things, but who, deep down, finds a certain morbid satisfaction in the utter chaos surrounding his boss. He smoked a cigarette (illegally near the building's entrance) and looked away, granting the illusion of privacy.
On the first step of the entrance, you and Tobey formed a tense farewell. You, with slightly swollen lips and your hair now completely loose and disheveled in a way that bore no resemblance to the carefree bun of before, had a firm hand on your son's shoulder. Tobey, for his part, seemed to have shrunk four inches. He stared at the ground, his knuckles white from clenching his fists in the pockets of his hoodie. The bravado was gone, replaced by a mixture of shame, fear, and a confusion even greater than Peter's. He had heard enough muffled sounds from the living room to understand that the universe had rearranged itself in a terrifying way.
"Mr. Stark, again, I'm at a loss for words to apologize," you said, your voice a little hoarse. You weren't looking at Peter, which was probably a mercy to the poor kid. "Tobey's behavior has been unacceptable. We've already spoken, and the consequences will be very, very clear."
Tony smiled at you. It was a smile unlike any Peter had ever seen. Not the genius's mocking grin, not the philanthropist's forced smile, not even the fatherly (and often awkward) smile he gave him. This smile was gentle, genuinely amused, and had a twinkle in his eye that Peter only associated with Tony after solving a particularly satisfying engineering problem... or after his third martini. But it didn't smell of alcohol. It smelled of you.
"Don't worry, sweetheart," Tony said, in a nonchalant tone that made the hair on the back of Peter's neck stand on end (which was saying something, considering he was soaking wet). "I understand the kid expressing his... feelings in a different way. More primal. More Brooklyn." She gave Tobey a look that wasn't angry, but rather an almost... amused appraisal.
Peter blinked, his brain processing in slow motion. Had Tony Stark just forgiven Tobey? The same Tony who'd driven here swearing bloody revenge? The same one who'd encouraged him to fight back? His split lip throbbed with a sharp pain that seemed to say, "Seriously?"
"But, Mr. Stark..." Peter began, his voice cracking with cold and indignation. "He tied me to a tree. He doused me with... with vinegar."
"Shhh, kid," Tony said, not even turning to look at him, his smile still on Peter. "Don't hold a grudge. It was an... inappropriate artistic outlet for teenage frustration. Right, Tobey?"
Tobey mumbled something that could have been "yes" or "I want to die," staring down at his shoes.
Peter opened his mouth again, disbelief overcoming the pain. "But he PUNCHED me! I have a black eye! You saw it yourself!"
This time, Tony turned to him. The smile didn't disappear, but his eyes held a warning glint. "Peter. Shut up. Be nice to my future stepson."
The silence that fell over the small group was so profound that you could hear the faint hum of the neon sign for the bar on the corner. Peter's jaw dropped, his towel nearly slipping off. "What?" was all Peter could manage.
Tony ignored his shock, turning to you. "See you Saturday, okay? For that... tutoring session. I'll have Happy pick you up."
You nodded, still speechless, but a small, unavoidable smile played on your lips.
Tony clapped his hands together. "Excellent! Well, that's been... educational. Come on, Peter, to the car. You need a hot shower, and for God's sake, get that pickle smell off." He gave Peter, still wrapped in the towel, a little nudge toward the steps.
Peter let himself be led, walking like a zombie. As they passed Tobey, the thug's eyes met his. There was no more hatred, no more contempt. Only a shared bewilderment, the mutual recognition of two castaways in a sea of utterly incomprehensible adult madness.
Happy opened the back door of the Bentley. Peter collapsed into the leather seat, still wrapped in the towel like a traumatized chrysalis. Tony slid in beside him, straightening his shirt again with a sigh of satisfaction.
Happy climbed into the driver's seat, looking at Tony in the rearview mirror. "To the tower, boss?"
"To the tower, Happy. And turn on the heat. The kid smells like salad and defeat."
As the Bentley silently pulled away from the curb, Peter finally found his voice. It was a disbelieving whisper. "Future stepson?"
Tony leaned back in his seat, gazing out the window at the receding building, a faint, goofy grin on his face. "Plans change, kid. Sometimes the most elegant solutions are the ones you least expect." Then he looked at Peter, and for a moment, the usual mocking expression returned. "And don't think this lets you off the hook for explaining why the hell you let yourself be tied to a tree by some snot-nosed kid with a water gun. That, Spider-Man, was pathetic."
Peter sank deeper into the towel, wondering if he could ask Nick Fury to recruit him for a secret six-month mission in outer space. Anything was better than facing the terrifying new reality where Tony Stark was dating his bully's mother, and where, apparently, he had to be "nice" about it.
These tips are based on what my dear brother told me when dealing with bullying:
1. Ignore it
2. Talk to someone about it
3. Ask them to stop
4. If none of that works, hit them back
Shoot out to my little brother for helping his older sister 🙏
Once you were packed, you went to find Tony. Even if you were pissed off at him, you couldn’t rush off on a hunt (where you could die) without kissing him goodbye. “Hey you.” You said softly as you entered his lab.
He glanced over at you, a soft look on his face. “I’m dumb to hope you came to say you changed your mind, aren’t I?” He asked a bit playfully.
You gave him a small smile. “Yeah, but you’re smart in other ways. So, I’ll let it pass.” You teased. “Nat will be with me, and the boys have kept me alive for all these years.” You rubbed your hand over his back. “I’ll be back after a spa day with Nat after the hunt. I promise.”
Turning, he hugged your waist. “I know this is what you’ve done, and I’ve seen how good you are- but I’m worried I’ll get a call that this is a time that’ll go sideways.” He admitted.
It wasn’t like you could fault him for worrying, as you knew you’d feel the same when he flew off in an Iron Man suit to save the world again. “I’ll call you every night, okay? Hopefully it’s a short hunt.”
“And hopefully you don’t get too banged up.” He sighed, as you’d told him all the nitty gritty about hunting. “Alright, tell your brothers I said hi.” He looked up at you.
Leaning down, you kissed him softly. “Don’t forget to get some sleep while I’m gone.” You teased, as he had a habit of not paying attention to what time it was, which caused him to just not go to bed. “I’ll call you when we get there.” You promised.
Pulling into the motel parking lot, you sighed. “I do not look forward to these beds.” You chuckled.
“Didn’t Tony give them the best credit cards available? Why would they stick to these shitty motels?” She asked as you both got out.
“Well, I think that people in the nicer places would notice if we came back in all bloody.” You shrugged. “These places kinda turn a blind eye. Or this is what they’re comfortable with.” Either was plausible. “Good thing we’re going to a spa after this. Our backs will need it.”
Nat chuckled at that. “Oh, I bet.” She grabbed her bag, honestly looking forward to this new experience. “Clint is kind of jealous, by the way. He says this sounds really cool.”
You shrugged a shoulder. “Eh, cool isn’t the word I’d use. Maybe interesting?” You mused, heading towards the motel room your brothers were in. You knocked, looking forward to catching up with them after a few months. A moment later, Sam was opening the door with a smile on his face. “Miss me?” You teased.
“Duh!” He laughed, pulling you into a hug. “Hey, Nat.” He greeted her. “Not gonna lie, was surprised when she said you’d be joining us.”
Once the two of you were in, he shut the door behind you. “Well, part of it was Tony was throwing a fit, part of it was that I’m interested.” She shrugged.
Dean rolled his eyes. “Of course he was.” He still wasn’t Tony’s biggest fan. He doubted he ever would be. “Let me guess, he didn’t want you even coming?” He asked sarcastically.
“He’s worried.” You sighed as you set your bag down on the little table. “Which, can you blame him? I’ve told him some stories over the past few months. He’s just worried this will be the time that a hunt goes sideways.” You explained, defending your boyfriend. “But, I’ll let you two start to fill Nat in. I promised him that I would call when we got here.” You pulled out your phone to step outside to do just that.
“If it helps any, they got into an actual fight over her coming. Made me lose a bet to Clint.” She rolled her eyes. “There was no way he could have kept her from coming here.”
Dean looked a bit proud at that. “Good.” He loved how determined you were, even if he also hated it at times. “It looks like we’re going after a wendigo.” He started to explain, wanting her fully prepared. This wasn’t something that she could just take down with some hand to hand. Hell, if he had his way, she wouldn’t be there at all.
“I remember her mentioning ‘wendigo’ before.” Nat mused. “I should probably start doing some research.” What could it hurt to have information? Especially if she ever helped out again. “Do you ever find yourself on a hunt and find out it’s just some sick human?” She asked, curious.
“Yeah, happened once.” Sam shook his head. “It was about a year before Y/N started hunting, and a year after I got back into it. I got kidnapped by some hillbillies that were hunting humans. Dean had to come save me.”
“I’d take monsters over humans any day of the week.” Dean muttered, remembering exactly what Sam was talking about.
“I bet that was hard for her.” Nat glanced out the window to see you talking on the phone.
Sam nodded. “All hunts before she was hunting were hard for her.” He said honestly. “She’s only been hunting about 6 years.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Since she was 15? I thought you two would have put it off as long as you could.”
“We did. We tried to keep her at bay, having her research, have her help us when we were in motels, and tried to let us do the part that was actual dangerous. She wasn’t having it.” Dean shook his head. “You say how she puts her foot down, imagine that with the hormones of a 15 year old girl.” He chuckled. “Of course, at first we mainly let her help out with super easy ones like salt and burns. Nothing too deadly.” He assured her, glad you had a friend who could know about all this. “She also stitched us up a lot.”
Tony had all but jumped up when you called him. “Oh, you’ve been gone too long.” He answered, making you giggle. “How was the ride?”
“Good. Long, but good.” You told him. “We split it. She drove for a bit, then I did.”
“I’m surprised you guys didn’t just fly out.” He had suggested it, but you’d instantly shot it down.
“Dean hates flying. I didn’t want to give him a heart attack by knowing I was up in the air.” It wasn’t like driving 13 hours was a new thing for you. “I’m used to longer car rides, so it didn’t bother me.”
“You do realize you don’t have to do everything a certain way just because of them, right?” He asked gently. “You’re an adult, and you are your own person. So, if one of these times you want to fly to a hunt? Say the word, and you can.”
You smiled softly at that. “I know.” You sighed. “But, they’re all I’ve had for what feels like forever. Sure, I had my dad for a bit, but he’s gone. They’re the only family I have left, and there’s no telling how long until I lose them, too.” There was a sadness to your voice. “Why not do something simple like driving instead of flying?” You were honestly scared you’d get a call from Sam that Dean was dead, or vice versa.
“I’m sure he appreciates that, sweetheart.” He told you lovingly. “Just don’t forget you have us now, okay? I know I haven’t been your boyfriend long, but I care about you. And the team loves you. Clearly, as Nat offered to rush off into danger with you.” He chuckled.
“Well, I care about you, too.” You grinned, biting your lip for a moment. “And I love them, too. I was hanging out with Sam the other day and it was like having another goofy big brother.” You hoped all this positive talk would keep your mood high for the hunt.
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“I don’t want you going!” Tony shot back as you stormed through the tower. “It’s dangerous.”
The others looked up from what they were doing. Clint looked to Nat. “Pony up, you owe me twenty bucks.” He told her, holding out his hand.
“Ass.” She muttered, pulling out a couple tens and putting them in his hand. When she caught you staring with a questioning look, she shrugged. “We made a bet. When the first fight would happen.”
“I gave it two months. She said six. I was closer.” Clint smirked. You and Tony were glaring at him. “What? You both have strong personalities, and a need to protect people. I knew the first time that something dangerous came up, this would happen.”
Shaking your head, you rolled your eyes. “Whatever.” You looked at Tony. “I’m. Going. I’m going to help my brothers. They are the only family I have left! And I will be damned if I lose them when I could have helped!” You teared up, turning and storming off.
Tony groaned. It wasn’t like he didn’t expect the two of you two butt heads, but he didn’t think that he was in the wrong. “Tony?” Nat snapped him from his swirling thoughts, making him look over. “Come on.” She motioned for him to follow her to the kitchen. The two of them walked out in silence, her leading the way.
“Yes, Nat?” He asked, pouring himself a cup of coffee.
She crossed her arms over her chest. “What’s wrong with you?” She asked. “One of the things that you love about her is how loyal she is to her brothers. You know that she’s capable of taking care of herself!”
Tony set his mug down and leaned his hands on the counter. “I don’t like the thought of her out there.” He sighed. “Over the past couple months, she’s told me some serious stories. Her father died giving his soul up for Dean. They’ve faced the devil. Literally. I mean, we’ve faced aliens, and the things that they go up against gives me pause.”
Moving over to him, she patted his cheek. “Telling her not to go won’t do anything besides make things harder. I can go with her.” Nat offered. “Not only because I’m interested, and if things get bad- it wouldn’t hurt to have another person on board. And besides, if I have to stick around here and see you sulk? I might have to drop kick you.” She teased with a smirk.
He chuckled. “Thanks, Nat.”
“Go away, Tony!” You snapped, tossing a pair of jeans into your bag.
Nat leaned on the doorframe. “Try again.” She smiled.
Looking over your shoulder, you sighed. “I’m going, Nat.” You told her, sitting on the side of your bed. Running your hand through your hair, you hoped that she wasn’t there to try to talk you out of it.
“I’m not here to stop you.” She moved forward. “I’m going with you.”
You let out a sad chuckle. “Great. Now I need a babysitter.” You shook your head.
She grinned, sitting next to you. “I’m not going to babysit you.” Her shoulder nudged yours. “I’m the one who offered. You can’t talk about all these things you go against and not expect a girl to be curious.” She shrugged. “That, and wouldn’t having another hunter be beneficial. Plus, if I had to watch Tony sulk, I’d have to hurt him.”
Glancing at her, you smiled. “We could use it as a girl’s trip. Spa day on the way back?”
Nat got up. “I like how you think. Finish packing, we’ve got a girl’s trip to go on.”
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Warnings⚠️: This story contains depictions of a panic attack, emotional distress, references to mission-related trauma and danger, and themes of unspoken romantic feelings. Reader discretion is advised. No explicit content, focused on emotional and romantic development.
The fluorescent lights of the SHIELD headquarters buzzed overhead like a swarm of angry bees, a sound you'd grown so accustomed to that it barely registered anymore. You'd been working here for five years now, starting as a junior analyst fresh out of college, buried in data streams and threat assessments. That's when you met Tony Stark—not the billionaire playboy philanthropist from the tabloids, but the guy who showed up in a rumpled suit, arc reactor glowing faintly under his shirt, cracking jokes about how the coffee machine was more advanced than half the tech in the building.
"You know, if Fury installed espresso machines with AI, we'd solve world hunger by lunch," he'd said on your first day, leaning against your desk with that trademark smirk. You'd fired back without missing a beat: "Only if the AI doesn't unionize first." He laughed—a real, belly-deep laugh that echoed down the hall—and just like that, a friendship was born.
Over the years, the inside jokes piled up like unread mission reports. There was the time you both got stuck in an elevator during a lockdown, and Tony pretended to hotwire it with a paperclip, only for you to point out it was the emergency button all along. Or the annual SHIELD holiday party where you two did a disastrous duet of "Jingle Bells" with modified lyrics about exploding helicopters, earning eye-rolls from everyone except each other. To the untrained eye—agents like Clint or Natasha, who knew better than most—you looked like a couple. The lingering touches on shoulders during briefings, the way he'd save you the last donut in the break room, or how you'd fix his tie before he met with the director. Whispers followed you: "When are they gonna make it official?"
But you knew the truth. Tony was your best friend, the one person who saw through your professional facade to the exhaustion underneath. Late nights poring over intel, you'd vent about the bureaucracy, and he'd listen, offering quips that lightened the load. Yet, beneath the banter, something deeper simmered. You caught yourself staring at the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, or how his voice softened when he said your name. Love, maybe. But admitting it? Terrifying. What if it ruined everything? Tony had a revolving door of relationships in the public eye, but with you, it was different—steady, real. You couldn't risk losing that.
Tony felt it too, though he'd never say it aloud. Not yet. You were the constant in his whirlwind life, the one who didn't care about the suits or the fame. When the nightmares from Afghanistan crept in, he'd text you at 3 a.m.: Can't sleep. Workshop? And you'd show up with takeout, no questions asked. He wondered what it would be like to pull you close instead of just sharing a laugh. But fear held him back—the fear of rejection, of turning your easy camaraderie into awkwardness. So he kept it light, joked about setting you up with "some boring agent who won't blow up the lab."
Today started like any other. You were in the ops center, coordinating logistics for Tony's solo recon mission in upstate New York. It was routine: scout a suspected HYDRA remnant site, gather data, get out. Tony had suited up in the Mark VII, all cocky grins and one-liners as he boarded the quinjet.
"Try not to flirt with the bad guys, Stark," you'd teased over comms, watching his vitals on the monitor.
"Jealous, Y/N? Don't worry, you're the only one who gets my best material." His voice crackled with static, warm even through the tech.
The mission went smooth at first. Tony infiltrated the abandoned warehouse, JARVIS feeding him scans of empty rooms and dusty crates. But then, in the basement, he found it—a rigged explosive device, wires snaking like veins, the timer ticking down from 00:30. It wasn't just any bomb; it was a jury-rigged IED, eerily similar to the one that had shattered his world in the cave years ago. The acrid smell of gunpowder hit him, memories flooding back unbidden: the roar of the blast, the pain, the helplessness.
His heart slammed against his ribs. The suit's HUD blurred, alerts flashing—heart rate spiking, oxygen levels dropping. "JARVIS, disarm protocol," he gasped, but his hands shook, gauntlets fumbling the tools.
"Sir, I recommend evacuation. The device is unstable."
Tony backed away, repulsors humming as he blasted through the wall for a quick exit. He rocketed into the sky, but the panic didn't lift. It clawed at him, vision tunneling, breaths coming in sharp, ragged bursts. He veered off course, landing hard on the shoulder of a deserted rural road, the suit retracting with a whine. Trees loomed like shadows, the world spinning.
Not again. Not here. His chest tightened, a vice squeezing his lungs. He clawed at his shirt, arc reactor pulsing erratically. The road stretched empty, no cars, no help. Just him and the ghosts.
Without thinking, he pulled out his phone—backup line, untraceable—and dialed the one number that grounded him. Yours.
You were mid-sip of lukewarm coffee when your phone buzzed. Tony's name on the screen sent a jolt through you. "Stark? Mission status?"
Silence, then a ragged inhale. "Y/N... I..." His voice broke, not the usual smooth baritone, but strained, vulnerable.
Your stomach dropped. You knew that tone—the hidden cracks he only let you glimpse. "Tony? Talk to me. What's happening?"
"Panic... attack. Bomb... like before. Can't... breathe." The words tumbled out, punctuated by gasps. You could hear the wind, the isolation.
"Okay, hey, listen to me," you said firmly, standing and waving off a curious agent nearby. You ducked into a side office, door clicking shut. "You're safe. You're not in that cave. You're on a road in New York, right? Feel the ground under you. Push your feet down—hard."
He groaned, but you heard the shift, gravel crunching. "Yeah... asphalt. Rough."
"Good. Now breathe with me. In for four... hold... out for four. In... one, two, three, four." You counted slowly, your own heart racing in sympathy. You'd seen him like this once before, after a close call with Loki's scepter, but never over the phone, never alone.
Minutes stretched, his breaths syncing with yours, the gasps easing into something steadier. "That's it, Tony. You're doing great. JARVIS got the bomb diffused remotely?"
"Yeah... suits handled it. I just... bolted."
"Smart move. Self-preservation isn't a weakness." You kept your voice even, soothing, like you'd practiced in your head a hundred times. "Tell me something stupid. Inside joke—now."
A weak chuckle escaped him. "The... elevator. Paperclip hero."
You smiled despite the worry. "And the button that saved the day. See? You're still the genius who can't read signs."
The line went quiet again, his breathing normalized but heavy. You waited, giving him space, the ops center's hum faint through the door.
"Y/N," he said finally, voice soft, almost hesitant. "This is the worst time ever, but... I think I love you."
The words hung there, a confession wrapped in vulnerability. Your breath caught, the world tilting. All those unspoken moments—the glances, the jokes masking deeper truths—crystallized in an instant.
"So do I, Tony," you replied, voice steady even as tears pricked your eyes. "Now get your ass home soon and in one piece."
He exhaled, a sound of pure relief. "Copy that. See you soon."
The call ended, and you leaned against the wall, pulse thundering. Love. Out loud. Real.
Tony powered down the suit fully, sitting on the roadside ditch, phone clutched like a lifeline. The panic's edges frayed, replaced by a warm rush. He'd said it—blunt, unfiltered—and you'd echoed it back. No hesitation. Friends? More than that now. Girlfriend. Partner. The thought steadied him more than any breathing exercise.
He stood, suit reassembling with a familiar whir. "JARVIS, plot course back to base. And keep it quiet—no Fury alerts."
"Understood, sir. Congratulations are in order?"
Tony smirked, launching into the air. "Yeah. They are."
Back at SHIELD, the afternoon dragged. You returned to your station, fielding updates on the mission wrap-up, but your mind was elsewhere. Agents shot you curious looks—Natasha arched a brow, mouthing Everything okay? You nodded, but inside, butterflies warred with nerves. What now? The friendship had been safe; this was uncharted.
Hours later, the quinjet touched down. You watched from the hangar window as Tony deplaned, helmet under arm, looking drained but upright. His eyes found yours across the tarmac, a small smile tugging his lips. You met him halfway, the space between charged.
"Hey," he said, stopping close—too close for just friends.
"Hey yourself. You look like hell."
"Feel like it. But better now." He reached out, hesitating before tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The touch lingered, electric.
You caught his hand, holding it. "We should talk. Properly. Not over a panic call on the side of the road."
He nodded, thumb brushing your knuckles. "Dinner? My place. No suits, no missions. Just us."
"Deal." You squeezed his hand, the inside jokes feeling like a prelude now.
As you walked back to the tower together, shoulders brushing, the whispers started anew. But this time, they weren't assumptions—they were the beginning of truth.
The evening unfolded in Tony's penthouse, the city lights twinkling below like stars brought to earth. He'd ordered in—Italian, your favorite, with extra garlic bread because he remembered your weakness for it. No grand gestures, just the two of you on the couch, plates balanced on knees, the arc reactor casting a soft blue glow.
"So," he started, setting his fork down, "that call. I meant it. Have for a while. Scared the hell out of me to say it, especially then."
You met his gaze, heart full. "Me too. Thought you saw me as the reliable friend, the one who fixes your messes. Didn't want to mess it up."
He laughed softly. "Reliable? You're the one who keeps me from imploding. And the jokes... they're my way of saying it without saying it."
"Like the paperclip?"
"Exactly." He shifted closer, hand finding yours again. "Y/N, I love you. Not as a friend. As... everything."
The words settled warm and right. "I love you too, Tony. Always have."
He leaned in, kiss tentative at first, then deepening—a promise sealed. When you pulled back, foreheads touching, he murmured, "No more hiding."
"No more," you agreed.
Days turned to weeks, the shift seamless yet profound. At SHIELD, the banter continued, but laced with new intimacy—a hand on the small of your back during meetings, stolen kisses in the supply closet. Agents noticed, of course. Clint clapped Tony on the shoulder one day: "About damn time."
Tony just grinned. "What can I say? I like to keep you guessing."
But the real change was in the quiet moments. When missions loomed, he'd pull you aside, not for jokes, but for reassurance—a quick embrace, a whispered "Come back to me." And when nightmares hit, you were there, not just as a friend, but as his anchor.
One night, after a grueling op, he called again—not in panic, but to hear your voice. "Home soon," he said.
