Their Doll ♡

In the golden city of Asgard, Thor’s laughter echoed through the halls like thunder. He was the hero of every tale, the charming prince whose smile could melt the iciest of hearts. Women and warriors alike flocked to his side, drawn to the wild energy and confidence that seemed to radiate from him. Yet, there was a secret even the gods themselves struggled to understand: Thor, the mighty God of Thunder, was hopelessly, helplessly in love with you.

It wasn’t that Thor hadn’t tried to speak his feelings. In fact, he could talk fearlessly to anyone until you walked into the room. Then, Thor became a man of few words. His voice, usually so bold, would stumble. His hands, steady in battle, would fidget with his cape or tap nervously against Mjölnir’s hilt.

You noticed, of course. No one else saw the way Thor’s blue eyes softened when he looked at you. No one else caught the way he paused before entering a room, scanning for your presence. While others heard his boisterous jokes and clever quips, you witnessed his softer side, the way he would leave wildflowers on your windowsill, or how he always found an excuse to walk you home after feasts, rain or shine.

One evening, a festival lit Asgard with golden lanterns and music. Thor, the life of the party, was surrounded by friends. But his gaze kept drifting to where you stood, laughing with your own group. Loki, ever the mischief-maker, nudged him knowingly. “Why not just tell them, brother?”

Thor grinned sheepishly, shaking his head. “I have faced dragons with less fear,” he murmured.

Finally, unable to bear it, Thor slipped away from the crowd and found you beneath the stars, the city’s lights glimmering below. He cleared his throat, his bravado nowhere to be found.

“I—I-uh, the stars are beautiful tonight,” he said, his cheeks tinged pink.

You smiled, inviting him to sit beside you on the marble steps. For a moment, silence hung between you, gentle and peaceful.

Thor took a shaky breath. “I have been called fearless, but you… you make me nervous. Not because I doubt myself, but because I care more than I can say.”

You reached for his hand, steadying him. The tension melted from his shoulders, and he looked at you with earnest eyes. “You don’t have to be the fearless god around me, Thor. I like you just as you are.”

Relief flooded his features, and his shyness faded into a quiet joy. Asgard’s hero, the thunderous prince, finally felt at home.

From then on, Thor still dazzled crowds and spun grand tales, but he saved his most honest smiles and softest moments for you. The world saw a mighty god, but you knew the man who blushed and stammered, who loved you more than words or thunder could ever express.

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He said it with that rare softness he reserved only for you.

"I think it’s time you meet the rest of Task Force 141."

The sentence had hung in the air for a second, like a dropped wine glass just before it shattered. And then your face had bloomed into the kind of joy that made Simon’s chest feel tight, not in the way it used to when he couldn’t breathe from panic, but in the way that reminded him he was alive.

It was a big deal. Monumental. Simon Riley wasn’t the type to share his world, not the masked one, not the bloodied one, and certainly not the people in it. But he was trying. For you. “I’ll cook,” you had said with a hopeful smile, “a big dinner. Proper introduction.”

He gave you a rare, fleeting grin. “Sounds perfect.”

You spent hours moving around the kitchen, music humming low through the apartment, hands flour-dusted and heart beating with anticipation. You made everything from scratch. The stew was slow-simmered for hours, roasted potatoes, a side of fresh bread, and dessert you’d only attempted once before (and nearly cried over when it cracked a little).

The table was set for five. Simon, Price, Soap, Gaz… and you.

You even cleaned the place like you were preparing for royalty, changing out the usual dim lighting for a warmer glow. Every time you glanced at the clock, your stomach fluttered. Dinner was ready right at 6:00 PM, exactly when Simon said he'd come over with the guys.

6:30.

7:15.

You started to pace, checking your phone. Nothing.

No message. No call. No knock on the door.

7:40.

That tight flutter of excitement began to curdle in your stomach.

By 8:15, the food was cold. You finally called him, but it went straight to voicemail. 

9:03 PM

The candles had burned low. The flowers you’d placed in the middle of the table drooped like your shoulders. You sat at the edge of the couch, phone face down, hands in your lap. You didn’t cry, not really. Your eyes stung, but you were too numb for tears. Instead, your heart just… ached. Not from anger. But from the sharp twist of disappointment. He said he was ready. He said it like he meant it. 

11:52 PM

The door clicked open quietly. You didn’t look up. Just sat there, still in your dinner dress, a blanket now wrapped around your legs as your comfort show played in the background.

“Y/N?”

His voice was low. Careful. You still didn’t look.

“I’m sorry.” Simon stepped further inside. “I completely forgot. There was a mission briefing. Something came up, and I—fuck. I didn’t check the time. Didn’t even think—”

“You said you were ready,” You said softly. That stopped him. Dead in his tracks. You finally looked up, eyes rimmed red but dry. Your voice didn’t crack, didn’t yell. And somehow, that made it worse. “I cooked for hours,” you continued, “I was… I was excited. I set the table. I wanted to meet your team. The people who mean so much to you. I wanted them to like me.”

“They would like you,” Simon said quickly, almost desperate.

“But they weren’t here,” you whispered. “You weren’t here.” His heart sank.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care. God, he cared too much. That was the problem. He’d gotten so used to shutting things out. Dates, birthdays, holidays, because it hurt less that way. But you had become the exception. The one light he allowed himself. And he dimmed it.

“I know, sorry doesn’t cut it,” he said, voice rough with guilt. “But I am sorry. More than I can say.” You looked down at your lap. “I just needed you to show up.”

“I should’ve.” He dropped to a knee in front of you, mask pulled up just enough so you could see his eyes. Raw. Unshielded. “I’ll fix it. I swear.”

You didn’t move, but you didn’t pull away either. That was something.

“I ruined it, didn’t I?” he asked, quieter. There was a pause.

“You forgot me, Simon,” You said. “That’s what hurts.”

You hadn’t seen much of him. He sent a message the morning after, asking if you needed space. You hadn’t responded. Not out of spite, but you were just tired. Emotionally drained. So when there was a knock on your door two days later, you weren’t sure what to expect.

You opened it to find Simon standing there, not in tactical gear, not in his usual black, but in something normal. Casual. Real.And behind him… three strangers. Well, not strangers exactly.

Captain Price, wearing a polite, neutral expression. Gaz, offering a gentle wave. Soap, grinning like he was trying to ease the tension.

Simon cleared his throat. “I, uh… told them everything. About what happened.” Soap spoke first. “He’s been a miserable bastard about it.”

Gaz added, “Honestly, we wanted to meet you anyway.”

“I know this doesn’t fix what I did,” Simon said, eyes never leaving yours. “But I want to make it up to you. Starting now.” You looked past him at the three members of Task Force 141, each carrying a dish. “Did you… cook?”

“No,” Simon muttered. “We tried. Price confiscated the oven.”

“I saved the bread,” Soap said proudly.

“It’s burnt,” Gaz whispered.

You laughed in a soft, genuine sound. The first in days.

Simon’s shoulders relaxed. Just a little.

“May we come in?” Price asked. You stepped aside.

The five of them sat around the same table you had set two nights ago. Different food. Same chairs. Different feeling. There was laughter. Awkward jokes. Soap asked if you were a saint for putting up with Ghost. Price complimented you for “not stabbing him in his sleep.” Gaz was sharing a story about a botched recon that made Simon glare daggers.

And through it all, Simon kept looking at you like he couldn’t believe you were still here. Like he didn’t deserve it. Maybe he didn’t. But you reached under the table and touched his hand. He laced his fingers with yours. 

After dinner, you said your goodbyes to the guys. Promising to have dinner again soon. The apartment was quiet again. But not empty.

“I’m sorry again,” Simon said as he helped you clear the table.

You turned to him, this time without the weight in your eyes. “You showed up this time.” He leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’ll keep showing up.” “You better,” you whispered. He kissed you, soft, reverent, the kind that made you believe maybe, just maybe, he was ready now.

The two of you married quietly on a clifftop in Malibu, the sun setting behind you, with Rhodey, Happy, and Pepper watching proudly. You stood in a custom gown, radiant, refusing to let anyone convince you that you needed to “slim down” for your big day. Tony, for once in his life, was speechless.

But marriage isn’t a fairytale. Especially when you're married to Tony Stark. Tonight, you were both arguing again. “You promised you’d be back by ten, Tony! It’s three in the morning!”

“I was working!” he shot back, peeling out of the Iron Man suit with a frustrated groan. “You always say that. You don’t even tell me what’s going on anymore.”

“Because it’s easier than hearing you tell me how much I disappoint you!” he barked, louder than he intended. Your jaw tightened. “You disappoint me because you shut me out, not because you're busy saving the world.”

Silence swelled between them, thick and sharp.

Tony turned away, trying to breathe through his anger. Then he muttered it, half under his breath, half to hurt you, a poison born from frustration.

“Maybe Pepper was right to leave. She knew how to be a better partner than you.” The words hit like a slap. He didn’t even realize what he’d said until he turned back around and saw your face.

You stood there frozen, lips parted, pain blooming in your eyes like a wound. He took a step forward. “Wait. Y/N—”

“No,” you whispered, voice breaking. “You said it. You meant it.”

You brushed past him, heading for the bedroom, your hand shaking as you touched the doorframe. “All this time, I tried to be enough for you. I never needed to be Pepper. I only ever wanted to be your wife. But I guess I was just the placeholder.”

Tony’s heart dropped into his stomach. “Don’t say that,” he begged, reaching for you. “You are my wife. You’re the best thing I’ve ever had. I just— I lost my temper. That wasn’t fair. That wasn’t true.”

“You said it because it is true,” you said softly, not facing him. “I’m not her. I’ll never be the graceful CEO or look perfect in those designer dresses. And maybe that’s always been a problem for you.”

He stepped closer, gently touching your shoulder. “No. Y/N, look at me.”

You did, reluctantly and the pain in your eyes nearly broke him.

“I love you,” he said, eyes glassy. “I love the way you challenge me, the way you make me laugh when I forget how. I love your mind, your body—all of it. Not despite your size, not because you're different from Pepper—but because you're you. And what I said... was cruel. I was wrong.” Your eyes welled, but you said nothing. Tony sank to his knees in front of you, placing his hands over yours.

“I’ve built a hundred suits. I’ve faced gods, aliens, time travel hell, I even fought myself. But nothing scares me like the thought of losing you. Please, don’t walk away because I was too stupid to shut my mouth before it hurt you.”

A long beat passed.

Then slowly, you knelt too, resting your forehead against his.

“I’m not walking away,” you whispered. “But next time you even think of comparing me to someone else, I swear to God, Tony—”

“I’ll build you a suit to punch me with,” he finished, half laughing, half crying. “Deal.”

The silence after the fight lingered for a few days.

You didn’t leave but also didn’t sleep in your bed, either. You took the guest room. And Tony, for once in his genius-level life, didn’t know how to fix it. He tried flowers. You sent them back.

He tried handwritten notes. You left them on the kitchen counter.

And yet you still stayed.

Which told him you were still… hurt. And Tony Stark knew hurt. Knew what it looked like when someone started to believe they weren’t enough.

So he built something. Three days later, he knocked on the door to the guest room. “Hey. You got a second?”

You opened the door slowly. You looked tired and guarded but you didn’t close it in his face, which he counted as a win.

“Just give me five minutes,” he said. “If I mess this up, I’ll stop trying. I promise.” You hesitated. Then gave a small nod. He led you to the garage no suit, no helmet, no fancy HUD projections. Just a chair in the middle of the room, and something under a silver tarp.

“Sit,” he said gently. You crossed your arms but sat. Tony took a breath. “You know how I said Pepper was the better wife?” You flinched a little.

“Yeah, that was the worst thing I’ve ever said. And believe me, I’ve said some awful things.” He stepped toward the tarp.

“But here’s the thing. Pepper was never the better wife. She was just the person I needed then. When I was a disaster. When I needed structure and strategy and someone to remind me to file taxes.” He pulled the tarp off. Underneath was a sculpture. Not armor. Not a weapon. Just art.

It was you.

Not slimmed down. Not idealized. Not comic-book perfect.

It was you, standing tall in a flight suit he’d custom-designed in your proportions. Your strong legs, your full figure, the curve of your arms, the softness of your face. It was cast in brushed titanium, but around the chest was a glowing heart-shaped arc reactor that pulsed warm light.

“I made this,” he said, voice tight, “because I realized I’ve been so damn proud to have you in my life, but I never showed you what that pride looks like. You are not Pepper. Thank God. Because Pepper never challenged me to grow past my ego. You did.” You walked up slowly and touched the reactor. “It’s beautiful,” you said quietly. “You got the stretch marks on my arms right.” He smiled, hopeful. “They’re part of you. And I love all of you.”

You turned to him, expression softening. “Why now, Tony?”

“Because I needed you to see what I see. Every day. A woman who carries fire in her belly and kindness in her eyes. And who, despite all the reasons not to, still chooses me.” A long silence passed.

Then you stepped forward, arms open. He walked into them without hesitation, pulling you into his chest like you were the only gravity he had left. “I’m still hurt,” you murmured into his shoulder.

“I know,” he whispered. “But I’m here. And I’ll keep showing up, every day, until that pain’s just a scar, and even then, I’ll stay. You looked up at him, lips curving. “Good. Because I’m still gonna need that punching suit you promised.” He grinned. “Already halfway built. And it comes in black with red accents your favorite.” You kissed him then. Fierce. Forgiving.

And in that kiss, Tony Stark didn’t feel like a hero, or a billionaire, or a genius.

He felt like a man who finally, finally got it right.

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