#downey

“Where is she? Where’s my assistant? Oh my God, I’m dying.”

Tony Stark is dramatically draped over his desk, one hand clutching his chest, the other extended toward the heavens like he’s in a Shakespearean tragedy. You barely have time to react before he twists his head toward the elevator, eyes locking onto yours with laser focus.

“There you are,” he groans. “Y/N, I think this is it. This is the end. You’re going to have to plan my funeral. Make it something classy, but also extravagant. Maybe fireworks? A Viking funeral? I don’t know, you decide.”

You sigh and step inside, the doors sliding shut behind you. “What is it this time, Mr. Stark?”

At the sound of his title, he frowns. “Really? We’re doing the ‘Mr. Stark’ thing today? Thought we were past that, sweetheart.”

You ignore him and set your bag down at your desk, flipping through the folders left for you overnight. Tony is still sprawled across his desk, his theatrics undeterred by your lack of concern.

“I’m serious,” he insists. “I might actually die this time.”

You finally look up at him, arms crossed. “Is it reactor-related, or are you just being dramatic?”

He gasps, placing a hand over his arc reactor. “I am never dramatic.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Okay, fine, maybe I’m a little dramatic. But you were late this morning.”

You glance at the clock. “I was not late.”

“You were late to me,” he says, pointing accusingly. “Do you know what happens when you’re not here? Bad things. Boring things. Pepper makes me do paperwork, and Happy refuses to let me take the suit out for a spin at seven in the morning.”

Your lips twitch, but you suppress the smile. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Stark. I didn’t realize my presence was so vital to your survival.”

He lifts his head, expression serious. “Y/N, I don’t think you understand. You are the glue holding my fragile existence together.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Without you, I am but a billionaire genius playboy philanthropist adrift, lost at sea, doomed to perish in the harsh, unforgiving corporate world.”

“You are so full of it,” you mutter, grabbing your tablet to check his schedule.

Tony watches you, chin propped up in one hand. He does this a lot—just looks at you like you’re the most fascinating thing in the room, even when you’re doing something as mundane as scheduling meetings and reading emails. But you don’t notice.

You never notice.

And it’s driving him insane.

Tony Stark is in love with you.

Painfully, ridiculously, stupidly in love with you. And he’s not subtle about it, either. At least, he doesn’t think he is. He finds reasons to keep you around, finds excuses to talk to you, makes up the dumbest emergencies just to get your attention—and yet, somehow, you remain oblivious.

It’s almost impressive, really.

But also aggravating.

Tony sighs, rubbing his hands down his face before dramatically throwing himself back in his chair. “Okay, what’s on the agenda today, darling?”

You scroll through your tablet. “You have a meeting with Pepper at ten—”

“Cancel it.”

“You cannot cancel on Pepper.”

“Fine,” he grumbles. “What else?”

“You have a tech demonstration at two, a conference call with the board at four—”

“Cancel that too.”

You sigh. “Tony.”

“Oh, now it’s Tony?” He smirks. “See, I knew you liked me.”

“I tolerate you,” you correct, setting your tablet down. “And you are going to that board meeting, whether you like it or not.”

“Fine, but only if you’re there,” he says, pointing at you. “I refuse to suffer alone.”

You roll your eyes but nod. “I’ll be there.”

Tony grins, far too pleased with himself. He’s made you sit in on dozens of meetings that had nothing to do with your job, just because he likes having you there. He tells himself it’s because you keep him sane. That you make the long, boring hours more bearable.

But if he’s being honest, it’s just because he likes looking at you.

He likes the way your lips press together when you’re concentrating, the way your nose scrunches up when he says something stupid. He likes the way your eyes soften when you talk to him, even when you’re exasperated. He likes you. God, he likes you.

And yet, you remain completely, utterly unaware.

Tony watches as you type something into your tablet, your brows furrowed in concentration. He wonders what would happen if he just said it. If he just leaned across the desk, took your hands in his, and said—

“Mr. Stark?”

He snaps out of it. “Huh?”

“You okay? You spaced out.”

Tony clears his throat. “Uh, yeah. Fine. Totally fine. Why wouldn’t I be fine?”

You squint at him, suspicious. “Are you sure? You look kind of—”

“Handsome? Dashing? Devastatingly attractive?”

“I was going to say pained, but sure.”

Tony groans and leans back in his chair. “This is agony,” he mutters.

You blink. “What is?”

You. You are agony. Being around you, loving you, wanting you, and you not even noticing—it’s torture.

But of course, he doesn’t say that.

“Nothing,” he sighs. “Just this board meeting. Ugh, corporate politics. You have to sit next to me, okay?”

“Okay,” you say, amused. “Anything else?”

“Yes. I need coffee. Desperately.”

You snort but stand up, grabbing your purse. “I’ll be back in ten.”

Tony watches you go, his head hitting the desk as soon as the doors shut behind you.

He is so screwed.

The days pass like they always do—fast, chaotic, and filled with Tony Stark’s unique brand of dramatics.

Between meetings, tech demos, Stark Industries board nonsense, and the occasional explosion in his lab (which he always swears is intentional), you’ve settled into an odd routine with him.

A routine that involves not just work, but him.

It starts small.

At first, it’s just casual conversation in between scheduling his appointments and making sure he actually attends them. A random question here and there.

“Morning, sweetheart. How do you feel about pineapple on pizza?”

“It’s fine, I guess.”

“Wrong answer. Completely unacceptable. I might have to fire you.”

Then, it becomes a daily thing.

He asks about your coffee order, remembers the way you take it without you telling him twice. He learns your favorite snacks, stocks the office kitchen with them. He finds out you love old Hollywood movies, and suddenly, his TV has a list of black-and-white classics queued up.

You don’t think much of it.

Tony Stark is friendly. He’s nosy. He likes to know things. It makes sense that he’d ask about your life outside of work.

But to him, it’s everything.

Because these little details—the things you like, the way you laugh, the way you light up when you talk about something you’re passionate about—are what keep him grounded.

Sometimes, he even talks about himself, which is rare.

You don’t realize what a big deal it is at first. You’ve worked for him long enough to know he talks a lot, but usually, it’s about his inventions or some wild new idea he has.

But with you?

He tells you about his mom’s love for classical music, how she used to play records while she cooked. How his dad was cold but brilliant, how he spent his childhood trying to impress a man who never really saw him. How he went to MIT at fifteen and spent half his time pranking professors and the other half building things he wasn’t supposed to.

He tells you about Afghanistan one night, when it’s just the two of you in his office, the city lights glowing behind him.

About the cave, about the first arc reactor, about Yinsen and what he’d meant to him.

You listen.

You don’t pity him, don’t give him some empty platitude about how it must’ve been hard. You just listen.

And Tony—who has spent most of his life drowning out his own thoughts with distractions—thinks maybe you are the best thing that has ever happened to him.

He also thinks you might never notice how much you mean to him.

Which is why he’s completely blindsided when it happens.

It’s a normal day.

You’re at your desk, typing away, while Tony lounges on the couch with a blueprint in one hand and a screwdriver in the other, pretending to work while actually watching you.

Then Happy walks in.

“There’s a guy here to see you,” he tells Tony, looking unimpressed.

Tony doesn’t even look up. “Tell him I’m busy.”

“He says it’s urgent.”

Tony sighs, pushing himself up. “Fine, fine. Send him in.”

Happy steps aside, and the guy walks in.

You glance up, offering a polite smile before going back to your work.

The man is tall, well-dressed, and carries himself like he’s important—which immediately annoys Tony. He hates people who walk into his space acting like they own the place.

“Mr. Stark,” the man says, offering his hand. “Nathan Ellis. Big fan.”

Tony shakes his hand but looks bored already. “Uh-huh. What do you want?”

Nathan chuckles, like Tony just made a joke. “I had a business proposition I wanted to discuss with you. Something that could be mutually beneficial.”

Tony gestures lazily to you. “Talk to her. She handles all the boring stuff.”

You roll your eyes but give Nathan a professional smile. “What’s the proposition?”

But Nathan isn’t looking at you like a businessman pitching an idea. He’s looking at you like a man sizing up a woman, and Tony immediately hates him.

Nathan smirks. “You’re much prettier than I expected.”

You stiffen just a little, but you keep your composure. “That’s not really relevant,” you say, your tone still polite but firm. “What’s relevant is what you’re proposing.”

Nathan leans against your desk like he belongs there. “Can’t I compliment a beautiful woman?”

Tony sits up straight, his eyes narrowing.

You force a tight smile. “I’d prefer if we kept this professional.”

Nathan laughs, but it’s the kind of laugh that says he doesn’t really take you seriously. “Oh, come on. No need to be so serious, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

Tony sees red.

That’s his word.

His fingers tighten around the screwdriver in his hand, but he stays quiet—for now—watching you, waiting to see if you want him to step in.

You shift uncomfortably, clearly trying to remain professional, but it’s obvious you’re not enjoying this.

Tony doesn’t give a damn about professionalism.

He stands up, moving toward you in a few easy strides before leaning down and planting his hands on your desk, effectively caging you in while staring Nathan down.

“You know,” Tony says, voice deceptively light, “I really don’t like it when people make my assistant uncomfortable.”

Nathan blinks, clearly not expecting that.

You glance up at Tony, eyes wide.

Tony doesn’t look at you. His attention is solely on Nathan, his jaw tight, his expression calm but dangerous.

Nathan chuckles nervously. “I was just making conversation.”

“Yeah? Well, here’s the thing,” Tony says, tilting his head. “She doesn’t want to have a conversation with you.”

Nathan raises his hands. “Didn’t mean to step on any toes.”

Tony smiles, but it’s not friendly. “Oh, buddy, you stepped on mine, and I really don’t like that.”

Nathan shifts uncomfortably.

Tony straightens, taking a step back—but then he leans down again, close enough that only Nathan can hear when he says, “If you ever talk to her like that again, I will ruin your entire life before breakfast.”

Nathan swallows.

Tony claps him on the shoulder, grinning. “Now, I think we’re done here.”

Nathan nods quickly, then turns and practically flees the office.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Tony turns to you, concern flickering across his face. “You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. Just… guys like that make my skin crawl.”

Tony watches you for a moment, then surprises you by gently brushing his fingers over yours.

You glance down at your hands, startled.

It’s not much. Just the lightest touch. But it makes your heart stutter.

“Next time, just say the word,” Tony says softly. “I’ll handle it.”

You swallow, suddenly very aware of how close he is.

“I—uh—thank you,” you murmur.

Tony smirks, his fingers curling around yours for just a second before he lets go.

Then, just like that, he’s back to normal, plopping onto the couch and stretching like nothing happened.

But something did.

And for the first time, you wonder if you’ve been missing something this whole time.

In the days after the Nathan incident, something shifts.

You don’t know what it is exactly, but you feel it.

Maybe it’s the way Tony watches you a little too closely when he thinks you aren’t looking. Or the way you replay that moment in your head—his fingers brushing yours, his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it.

Or maybe it’s the way you feel when you look at him now.

You’ve worked for Tony long enough to know he’s magnetic. People gravitate toward him, caught in his orbit like planets around the sun. You’ve always thought he was charming in an annoying way, a flirt by nature, someone who could talk his way into—or out of—anything.

But now, for the first time, you find yourself looking at him differently.

You start noticing things you never did before.

The way his eyes soften when he looks at you. The way he always saves the last bite of his favorite snacks for you. The way he makes excuses to keep you in his office longer, even when the work is done.

And it’s terrifying.

Because if this was anyone else—anyone—maybe you’d let yourself admit it. Maybe you’d let yourself fall.

But this is Tony Stark. Your boss.

And that means it’s impossible.

So, you bury it. You convince yourself you’re imagining things, that Tony is just Tony, and you’re reading into it too much.

Then Nathan Ellis comes back.

You’re at your desk, sorting through a ridiculous amount of emails when Happy walks in, looking unimpressed as always.

“Great,” he mutters. “He’s back.”

You look up, confused. “Who’s back?”

As if on cue, Nathan Ellis strolls in, his smarmy grin already making your stomach twist.

Tony is in the corner of the room, tinkering with something, but at the sound of Nathan’s voice, his hands still.

Nathan leans against your desk. “Miss Y/N,” he says smoothly. “I feel like we got off on the wrong foot last time.”

You keep your expression polite but distant. “Did we?”

He laughs. “Look, I’m not here to talk business today.”

Tony doesn’t like that.

His fingers tighten around his wrench, his jaw clenching as he subtly shifts closer to listen.

Nathan continues, oblivious. “I was hoping to make it up to you. Dinner, maybe? There’s a great place downtown. My treat.”

You blink, caught off guard.

Your first instinct is to say no. You don’t like Nathan. He made you uncomfortable, and you have no interest in him.

But then—Tony.

You don’t look at him, but you feel his presence. You feel the weight of everything unspoken between you, the things you refuse to acknowledge.

So before you can think it through, you hear yourself say, “Sure.”

It’s a knee-jerk reaction, a way to prove—to yourself, to Tony, to whatever this thing is between you—that you can still be rational. That you don’t have feelings for Tony. That you can move on, be professional, keep your life normal.

But as soon as the word leaves your mouth, you regret it.

Nathan grins, clearly pleased. “Great. I’ll pick you up Friday at seven.”

You nod stiffly, and he finally leaves.

Silence lingers in the room.

You risk a glance at Tony.

He’s looking at his workbench, his expression unreadable. He doesn’t say a word.

And that, somehow, makes you feel worse.

—

Friday rolls around faster than you expect.

You dread it.

The moment you wake up, you regret saying yes.

You don’t want to go out with Nathan.

But backing out now would make you look ridiculous, and you refuse to admit—to yourself or to anyone else—why you really don’t want to go.

So, you tell yourself you’ll go. One date. It’s not a big deal.

Then Tony ruins it.

The day is insane.

More meetings than usual, a sudden crisis with one of Stark Industries’ overseas contracts, a last-minute tech demo that Tony insists he needs you to be there for.

By the time you finally look at the clock, it’s almost nine.

Your stomach drops.

You completely forgot about the date.

You grab your phone, wincing when you see multiple missed calls and texts from Nathan, all of them getting progressively more annoyed.

Shit.

You stand abruptly, grabbing your bag.

Tony—who is lounging on the couch, looking suspiciously satisfied—raises an eyebrow. “Going somewhere?”

You glare at him. “Did you do this on purpose?”

He blinks, all mock innocence. “Do what?”

“This.” You gesture wildly at the stack of paperwork still on your desk, the mess of your day, the way you were so busy you lost track of time. “You knew I had plans tonight.”

Tony shrugs. “Did you?”

You want to scream.

“Tony.”

Something flickers in his expression when you say his name like that—low, almost dangerous.

You step closer, jabbing a finger at his chest. “You did do this on purpose.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, but the smug look on his face tells you everything.

He did this.

He made sure you were too busy to leave, too busy to go on the date.

And for some reason, that makes your heart pound in a way you don’t want to analyze.

“Unbelievable,” you mutter.

Tony leans back, tilting his head at you. “What’s the big deal? It’s just a date.”

You gape at him. “That’s not the point!”

“Then what is the point?”

“The point is you manipulated me into missing it!”

He stands, stepping into your space, close enough that you have to crane your neck to keep looking at him.

And suddenly, the room feels too small.

“I didn’t manipulate anything,” he says, voice low. “I just gave you work. You’re the one who got so caught up in it you forgot about him.”

Your breath catches.

Because he’s right.

You were the one who didn’t check the time. The one who let yourself get wrapped up in Tony’s world.

And maybe—just maybe—it was because deep down, you didn’t want to go.

But that doesn’t change the fact that he wanted this. That he made sure it happened.

You shake your head, stepping back. “You don’t get to do this.”

“Do what?”

“Mess with my life like this. You don’t get to control who I see, Tony.”

He flinches.

For a second, you think he’s going to argue, make another joke, deflect like he always does.

But instead, he just watches you, something raw and unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

Then, he sighs. Runs a hand through his hair.

“You’re right,” he says quietly. “I don’t.”

The honesty in his voice catches you off guard.

It almost—almost—makes you soften.

But you’re still angry.

So without another word, you turn on your heel and leave.

Tony doesn’t stop you.

And the worst part?

A small, traitorous part of you wishes he had.

You don’t make it far.

You storm out of the office, heart pounding, anger bubbling in your chest so violently you can taste it. You don’t even know where you’re going—just away.

Away from Tony and his smug little I didn’t manipulate anything face. Away from the way he looked at you, like he wasn’t the least bit sorry. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Like he had every right to do it.

You make it to the elevator before you hear him behind you.

“Y/N.”

You don’t turn around.

“Y/N,” Tony repeats, voice sharp now, edged with something you don’t recognize.

You stab the elevator button. “Go away, Tony.”

“Yeah, see, that’s not gonna happen.”

You spin on your heel, glaring at him. “Oh, what now? You gonna kidnap me? Make sure I never leave this damn building?”

Tony sighs like you’re the one being difficult. “I just want to talk.”

“Oh, now you want to talk?” You laugh, crossing your arms. “Because when I was trying to talk about how you sabotaged my night, you had nothing to say.”

Tony clenches his jaw. “It wasn’t sabotage.”

“Oh, really?” You raise an eyebrow. “So it was just a coincidence that today of all days you gave me twice as much work as usual? That you suddenly needed me in meetings I normally don’t have to be in? That you—”

“I didn’t want you to go.”

The words come out quiet, almost too quiet to hear.

But you hear them.

And you freeze.

Tony exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. His gaze flickers away for a second, like he’s regretting saying it.

But then he looks back at you, and there’s something in his eyes—something real.

Something that makes your stomach flip.

You swallow hard. “Tony…”

He shakes his head. “Just—come back to the office. Please.”

You should say no. You should walk away.

But you don’t.

Because even though you’re furious, even though every rational part of your brain is screaming at you to be professional—to keep things normal—there’s a deeper, quieter part of you that wants to hear what he has to say.

So, you turn. Walk back.

And Tony follows.

—

The office feels different when you get back.

Quieter. Tense.

You lean against your desk, arms crossed, watching as Tony paces the room.

“Well?” you say finally.

Tony stops. Looks at you.

And for the first time since you’ve known him, he looks… nervous.

Not the fake, exaggerated kind he puts on for show, but real nervous.

He exhales. “I don’t want you dating him.”

You scoff. “Yeah, I noticed.”

“I don’t want you dating anyone.”

Your breath catches.

Tony swallows hard. “Because I—” He hesitates, like he’s physically fighting the words. Then, finally, he just says it.

“Because I love you.”

Everything stops.

The air in the room shifts, like the world itself is holding its breath.

You stare at him, your brain struggling to process what just happened.

Tony looks like he wants to take it back, like he wants to shove the words back into his mouth and pretend they never happened.

But they did.

And suddenly, everything makes sense.

The way he looks at you. The way he knows you—your coffee order, your favorite movies, the way you feel about things before you even say them.

The way he brushed his fingers over yours that day, like it meant something.

The way he sabotaged your date—not because he was being petty, but because the thought of you with someone else made him want to burn the world down.

And, God—maybe you do love him.

Maybe you have for longer than you realized.

You exhale sharply, your heart slamming against your ribs.

“Say something,” Tony mutters.

You don’t.

You move.

Before you can second-guess yourself, before you can let all the rules and expectations stop you, you grab him by the collar of his stupidly expensive shirt and kiss him.

Tony freezes for half a second.

Then he melts.

His hands come up, one gripping your waist, the other tangling in your hair. He kisses you like he’s starving for it, like he’s been waiting for this—for you.

And maybe he has.

Maybe you both have.

When you finally pull back, you’re breathless.

Tony stares at you, lips parted, looking so completely wrecked that you almost laugh.

Almost.

Instead, you press your forehead against his, inhaling deeply.

“I hate you,” you whisper.

Tony chuckles, breath warm against your skin. “No, you don’t.”

You sigh, closing your eyes. “You could’ve just told me.”

“Yeah,” Tony murmurs. “But where’s the fun in that?”

You do laugh this time.

Because of course he’d say that.

Because of course it was always going to be this—messy, chaotic, inevitable.

And as Tony kisses you again—slow this time, like he never wants to stop—you know one thing for certain.

You’re never making it to another date with anyone ever again.

Tony kisses you like he’s making up for lost time. Like he’s wanted this for so long he doesn’t know how to hold back anymore. His hands grip your waist, fingers pressing into your skin through the fabric of your blouse as he pulls you closer, eliminating the last bit of space between you. You feel the edge of the desk dig into the small of your back, but you don’t care. Not when Tony’s mouth is on yours, not when he tilts his head to deepen the kiss, not when his hand slides up your back, warm and firm and impossible to ignore.

You gasp against his lips, fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt, and he groans in response. The sound sends a shiver down your spine, and suddenly you’re not thinking about where you are or what this means or how this is completely unprofessional. You’re only thinking about how much you want him. How much you’ve always wanted him, even when you didn’t want to admit it.

Tony shifts, his hands sliding down to grip your thighs, and before you can process what’s happening, he lifts you onto the desk. You barely manage to let out a startled breath before he’s between your legs, pressing into you, his lips trailing from your mouth to your jaw to the sensitive spot just below your ear.

You tilt your head back, your hands moving on their own, pushing his jacket off his shoulders, sliding over the hard planes of his chest. Tony lets out a low curse, his breath hot against your skin, and you know this is getting out of control. You know you should stop. But then his fingers graze the hem of your skirt, and your heart is pounding, and—

A knock on the door makes you both freeze.

Your eyes snap open, and Tony’s lips still against your throat. For a second, neither of you moves. Your breath is ragged, and Tony’s grip on your waist tightens like he’s physically stopping himself from ignoring the interruption.

“Tony?”

Happy’s voice is muffled through the door, but it’s enough to jolt you back to reality.

You push at Tony’s chest, and he steps back with obvious reluctance. His eyes are dark, his hair is a mess from your hands, and his lips are swollen. The sight of him like this, completely wrecked, makes something deep in your stomach tighten.

You shake yourself out of it, sliding off the desk as you smooth down your clothes. Tony watches you, chest rising and falling like he’s trying to get himself under control.

“Yeah, yeah,” he calls out, voice rough. “Give me a second.”

There’s a pause, then the sound of footsteps retreating.

You exhale, pressing your fingers to your temples.

“That was—”

Tony smirks. “Hot?”

You glare at him, but it lacks heat. “Unprofessional.”

Tony sighs dramatically. “Yeah, that too.”

You shake your head, trying to ignore the way your entire body is still buzzing. “We can’t do that at work.”

Tony’s smirk widens, and you realize what you just said a second too late.

“So you’re saying we can do it outside of work?”

You groan. “Not what I meant.”

Tony grins, stepping closer again. His fingers brush your wrist, light and teasing. “Come over after your shift.”

You bite your lip, considering.

Tony dips his head, voice dropping. “I’ll behave.”

You snort. “No, you won’t.”

Tony shrugs, completely unapologetic. “Yeah, okay, I won’t.”

You roll your eyes but don’t say no.

Tony notices.

—

You don’t talk about what this means. You don’t sit down and define your relationship, don’t have some long, serious conversation about what you are to each other now.

But you don’t need to.

Because it’s obvious in the way Tony kisses you when you show up at his penthouse after work. In the way he pulls you onto the couch, his hands sliding under your shirt, his mouth never leaving yours. In the way you spend the night tangled in his sheets, waking up to his arm draped over your waist, his breath warm against the back of your neck.

It’s obvious in the way he looks at you at work, in the way he always finds an excuse to touch you. A hand at the small of your back when he passes by, a brush of his fingers against yours when he hands you something, a teasing whisper against your ear that makes you shiver.

You try to be subtle.

You don’t want anyone thinking you’re only with him to climb the corporate ladder, and Tony—surprisingly—understands. He doesn’t push. He doesn’t announce it to the world, doesn’t make some grand declaration in the middle of a meeting.

But he also doesn’t hide it.

Not really.

Because the way he looks at you isn’t subtle. The way he finds any excuse to keep you in his office longer than necessary isn’t subtle. The way he calls you sweetheart in private and Miss Y/L/N in front of others with a smirk that says he knows exactly what he’s doing definitely isn’t subtle.

And then there are the stolen kisses.

The ones in the elevator when no one else is around. The ones in the hallway when he tugs you into a supply closet with a grin and a just real quick, I missed you. The ones at his penthouse when you show up after a long day and he greets you at the door with his hands already on your hips, pulling you inside like he’s been waiting for you all day.

Because he has.

You find yourself spending more nights at his place than your own. It starts slowly—one night, then two, then three. Then, before you know it, most of your stuff is at his penthouse, and you don’t even think about going home after work anymore.

Tony never says anything about it. He never asks you to stay.

But he doesn’t have to.

Because the way he holds you when you fall asleep says everything.

Because the way he presses a lazy kiss to your temple in the morning when he thinks you’re still asleep says everything.

Because the way he looks at you—like you’re the most important thing in the world—says everything.

Tony kisses you like he’s savoring every second. His hands rest on your waist, fingers pressing just enough to make you shiver. You’re sitting on his desk, legs wrapped loosely around his hips, completely lost in the moment. It’s a rare quiet afternoon in the office, just the two of you, and Tony has taken full advantage of it.

You hum against his lips as he trails his mouth down your jaw, then lower to your neck. His stubble grazes your skin, sending a pleasant shiver down your spine. His lips are warm, soft, teasing as he lingers just beneath your ear. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

Tony chuckles when he feels your breath hitch. You can practically hear the smirk in his voice.

You grab a fistful of his shirt. Tony responds with a slow, deliberate kiss to the side of your neck. His tongue flicks against your skin, followed by a light nip that makes you gasp. His mouth lingers there, sucking just hard enough to leave his mark.

A sharp knock on the door shatters the moment.

You both freeze. Tony exhales against your skin, shoulders tensing.

Another knock, this one louder.

Tony groans. "They have the worst timing, I swear—"

Then the door swings open, and your stomach drops.

Nathan Ellis stands in the doorway, his expression dark and furious.

The sight of him immediately kills any lingering warmth from your moment with Tony. He looks different from the smooth, arrogant man who asked you out—his jaw is clenched, his eyes cold, his posture rigid with anger.

You stiffen, already knowing this won’t be good.

Nathan steps inside without waiting for permission, eyes locked onto you. "You stood me up."

Tony straightens, immediately stepping in front of you in a way that makes it clear he has no intention of letting Nathan get any closer. "Big deal," he says flatly. "She didn’t want to go. Move on."

Nathan ignores him, eyes still burning into you. "You didn’t even have the decency to text me? Let me know instead of wasting my time?"

Your throat tightens. You don’t want to deal with this. "I got caught up at work. It wasn’t intentional."

Nathan scoffs. "Bullshit. You’re just another woman who likes to play games. You say yes to a date and then don’t even bother showing up? You think that makes you look good?"

Something shifts in Tony. His entire body goes tense, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. "Watch how you talk to her."

Nathan finally looks at Tony, his upper lip curling in disgust. "Oh, I get it now. This is why you didn’t show up, huh?" His gaze flickers back to you, sharp and accusing. Then his eyes catch something on your neck, and his entire expression twists into something uglier.

Your stomach sinks.

You don’t even need to look in a mirror to know what he’s staring at. You feel the lingering warmth where Tony’s mouth was just moments ago.

Nathan lets out a short, bitter laugh. "Wow. That’s just perfect." He turns back to Tony. "Guess I should’ve figured. Why go out with someone like me when you can just screw your boss instead?"

Your eyes widen in shock.

Tony moves before you can react.

His fist collides with Nathan’s jaw, the impact loud in the silence of the office. Nathan stumbles back, his hand flying up to his face, a stunned expression flashing across his features before fury takes over.

"Tony!" You grab his arm before he can swing again, your heart pounding.

Nathan straightens, eyes blazing with pure hatred. "You’re insane."

Tony glares at him. "Get out."

Nathan sneers, wiping his mouth. "Oh, trust me, I’m leaving. But you’re gonna regret this. Both of you."

Tony doesn’t even let him turn fully before pulling out his phone and pressing a button. "Happy. Come get this asshole out of my office."

Nathan’s jaw tightens, but before he can say anything else, heavy footsteps echo down the hall. Happy Hogan appears in the doorway, expression unreadable but posture firm.

"Let’s go," Happy says.

Nathan glares at you one last time, then at Tony, before reluctantly stepping back. Happy follows him out, and just like that, he’s gone.

The office is silent again, but the tension lingers.

Your pulse is still racing. You take a deep breath, willing yourself to calm down. Then you look at Tony.

He’s standing there, still tense, his hand flexing like he’s barely holding himself back from going after Nathan again.

"You punched him," you say, still a little in shock.

Tony shrugs. "He deserved it."

You let out a breath, rubbing your hands over your face. "I can’t believe this happened."

Tony frowns. "You okay?"

You hesitate. "I just—" You groan. "Tony, you gave me a hickey."

Tony blinks, then smirks. "Just now realizing that?"

You glare at him. "I have to work in this office. People are gonna see."

Tony tilts his head, completely unbothered. "So? Let ‘em see."

You stare at him. "I don’t want them to see."

He sighs dramatically. "Alright, alright. I guess I can be more strategic about my placement next time."

You groan again, turning toward your desk. "I need concealer."

Tony snickers. "You could just wear a scarf. It’d be very elegant. Very old-Hollywood."

You shoot him a look over your shoulder. "You think this is funny."

Tony steps closer, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. His chin rests on your shoulder as he murmurs against your ear, "I know this is funny."

You shove at him, but you’re smiling despite yourself. "You’re the worst."

"Yeah, yeah," Tony murmurs, pressing a quick kiss to your jaw before finally letting you go. "Now hurry up and cover it. I have a meeting in ten minutes, and I need my very professional assistant to not look like she just had a makeout session with her boss."

You roll your eyes, reaching into your bag for your concealer. Tony watches you with a stupidly smug expression.

You shake your head, but your heart is still racing for a completely different reason now.

Because even after everything, even after the chaos Nathan caused, one thing is crystal clear.

You and Tony? You’re solid. And no one—not Nathan, not anyone—can change that.

The Oscars: a night of prestige, golden statues, and carefully curated public images. But behind the glitz of the Dolby Theatre, Robert was playing a much more dangerous game. You were his "dirty little secret," though the term felt far too small for the reality of your situation.

After Susan had granted him a hall pass, you had become a permanent, electric fixture in his life. As the world’s reigning "It Girl" and rising pop sensation, the public saw you as "Sweet Little Y/N." Nobody suspected that behind closed doors, you were entwined with one of Hollywood’s most legendary leading men.

The afternoon had started with a quiet domesticity that felt almost surreal. Because it was a school night, Susan had opted to stay home with the kids, kissing Robert goodbye with a supportive, "Have fun with Y/N."

The moment Robert settled into the back of the SUV, his phone chimed. It was a photo of you draped in nothing but emerald green silk robe, the fabric barely clinging to your curves.

“Do you think Dr. Doom would approve of this?” — Y/N

Robert chuckled, a slow, appreciative heat spreading through him. He truly was the luckiest man in the industry, married to his soulmate, yet possessing the most coveted woman in music. He was thanking his lucky stars for a life that allowed him to have his cake and eat it, too.

Fifteen minutes later, the SUV pulled up to your Los Angeles estate. Robert stepped out to greet you, and for a moment, the veteran actor forgot how to breathe. You were a vision in Schiaparelli, a masterpiece of avant-garde couture he’d helped you select during a private fitting.

“Is this the one?” you asked, holding out a pair of shimmering, sequined bottoms. They were a relic from a previous performance, a pair he had quite literally torn off you in a fit of passion weeks prior. He and Chris Evans had a "bit" planned for their presentation, and these were the final prop.

Robert took them, his gaze darkening as he brought the fabric to his nose, inhaling your scent before tucking them into his slacks.

“They’re perfect,” he murmured, his hand sliding around your waist to pull you flush against the sharp lines of his tuxedo. “And since you’ve been so helpful, I have something for you in return.”

He produced a small, sleek purple device. You raised an eyebrow, the confusion evident on your face.

“I thought we’d spice up the ceremony,” he whispered, opening the car door for you. “It’s app-controlled. I have the remote.”

You looked from the toy to those familiar, mischievous brown eyes. With Robert, there was never a dull moment, and you really should have seen this coming.

“So, you want me to wear this... while the entire world is watching?”

He gave you that boyish, sheepish grin, the one that made him look twenty years younger and twice as charming. There was no saying no to him.

The Dolby Theatre was a sensory overload of perfume, flashbulbs, and hushed ego. You sat several rows behind the nominees, the hum of the small device nestled inside you a constant, pulsing reminder of the man sitting just a few feet ahead.

Robert looked impeccable in his green suit, radiating a refined Tony Stark energy that felt both effortless and intimidating. When he finally took the stage with Chris Evans to present Best Original Script, the theater fell silent, hanging on their every word.

The bit began. Robert pulled your sequined bottoms from his pocket. To the millions watching at home, it was a hilarious, high-energy gag about a "lost wardrobe item." To you, it was a blatant display of ownership.

As the monologue continued, you saw Robert’s hand slip casually into his pocket. To anyone else, he was just adjusting his stance. But then, it started.

A sharp, rhythmic vibration bloomed within you.

Robert had engaged the remote. You gripped the armrests of your seat, your breath hitching. The California heat was hovering in the mid-80s; it was the perfect alibi for the flush creeping up your neck and the slight sheen of perspiration on your brow. You played the part of the "supportive peer," smiling for the roaming cameras while Robert navigated the remote’s settings from the stage.

He glanced into the crowd, his eyes finding yours for a split second. It was a look of pure, wicked intent. He was making you suffer in the most exquisite way possible, surrounded by the elite of the industry, all while he cracked jokes and maintained his status as a Hollywood legend.

You fought to keep your composure, knowing that every shift in your seat was being tracked by a lens. But the knowledge of what was coming later, the privacy of your home, the removal of the couture, and the reward for your “performance" made the public torment worth every second.

The drive back to your estate was a blur of neon lights and the low, rhythmic hum of the SUV. Robert hadn’t turned the device off; he’d simply set it to a low, consistent thrum that kept you on the verge of unraveling. By the time the gates swung shut behind you, the air in the vehicle was thick enough to choke on.

The moment the front door clicked shut, the "Hollywood Legend" persona vanished. He didn't even wait to reach the bedroom.

He pinned you against the cold marble of the foyer, his weight pressing the Schiaparelli masterpiece into your skin. His hands, still smelling faintly of the stage lights and expensive cologne, moved with a frantic sort of precision. One hand went straight for his pocket, sliding the remote to its highest, most chaotic setting.

Your knees buckled, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as you clung to his shoulders.

"Still so sensitive," he chuckled, his voice dropping into that gravelly, self-assured register that made the world melt away. He leaned in, his nose grazing yours, his brown eyes blown wide with a mix of adoration and pure, unadulterated heat.

“I’m going to fuck you so good tonight, sweetheart, you will be thinking of me until next month.” He reached down to your entrance, where his fingers found the edge of the purple device and expertly replaced it with his hard cock. The transition was seamless, a physical relief that made you cry out into the quiet of the house. He moved with a slow, agonizing deliberateness, watching your face as you tried to catch your breath.

“Fuck Bobby” was all you managed to say as he moved inside you slowly.

He stopped for a second, his hands framing your face, a wicked, billionaire-playboy smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He looked every bit the man who owned the sky, the emerald suit still crisp despite the chaos of the night.

“You’ve been such a good girl tonight, keeping a straight face while I played with you in front of the Academy,” he whispered, his thumb catching a stray tear of pleasure on your cheek. “Maybe I should fuck you as Tony tonight. Give you that billionaire treatment you’ve been dreaming of.”

The suggestion sent a fresh jolt through you. You wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, pulling him back into the rhythm. "I think Dr. Doom would definitely disapprove of that," you managed to choke out, a playful challenge in your eyes.

"Then it's a good thing he isn't invited," he growled, his composure finally breaking as he lost himself in the private celebration he'd been planning since the first red carpet flashbulb went off.

His movements started becoming sloppier, and given that he felt you getting tighter at the mention of his Tony Stark persona, he decided to keep going with the bit. 

He saw the way your breath hitched at the name, the way your pupils dilated as you looked at the man who had built an empire on screen, now completely dismantling yours in private. Robert leaned into the role, his voice dropping into that familiar, clipped cadence of a man who was used to getting exactly what he wanted, exactly when he wanted it.

"Is that right?" he murmured, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a calculated, billionaire swagger. "You like the suit, the ego... the genius who thinks he can control everything in the room?"

He didn't wait for an answer. His movements shifted from the frantic energy of the foyer to a slow, methodical rhythm that felt agonizingly deliberate. He was a "consultant" now, and he was analyzing every reaction you had with a smirk that was pure, unfiltered Stark.

"I think we need to run some diagnostics on that heart rate," he whispered against the shell of your ear, his breath hot and steady. "It’s spiking. Highly inefficient for someone trying to keep their cool."

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, his hands gripping your hips with a possessive strength that grounded you. The "bit" was working too well; the line between the Hollywood legend and the cinematic icon was blurring in the dimly lit hallway.

"Don't look at me like that, sweetheart,” he teased, his movements becoming deeper, more authoritative. "I've got a world to save tomorrow, but tonight... I think I’ll just focus on my most successful acquisition."

The sloppiness from earlier was gone, replaced by a focused intensity that made you feel like you were the only thing in his line of sight. He was playing the part to perfection, right down to the arrogant tilt of his head as he watched you unravel.

"Tell me," he challenged, his voice a low vibration that matched the pulse still humming through your body. "Does the 'It Girl' prefer the man... or the hero?”

“You feel that, dear?” he whispered, his voice vibrating with that signature Stark arrogance as he felt the walls of your body start to flutter and constrict around him. "We’re reaching peak capacity. I’d say we’re at about 200% power, wouldn't you?"

He didn't slow down. If anything, he leaned into the intensity, his hands shifting from your hips to pinning your wrists above your head against the wall. He was towering over you, the sharp lapels of his suit grazing your collarbones, a man completely in command of the physics of the moment. He watched you with a clinical, heated focus, his eyes tracking every flicker of your eyelashes and every desperate gasp for air.

"That's it," he urged, his rhythm becoming a relentless, steady drive. "Give it all to me. I don't do anything halfway, and I expect the same from my best assets."

As that familiar, overwhelming tension coiled at the base of your spine, you felt the inevitable break. Your body buckled, your back arching off the wall as a sudden, violent wave of release crashed through you. You didn't just come; you came apart completely, a heavy, hot spray of moisture hitting him, soaking into the expensive fabric of his trousers and the silk of your Schiaparelli gown.

Robert let out a low, guttural sound, a half-laugh, half-growl that was pure, unscripted reaction. The "Tony" mask slipped just for a second as he felt the heat of you against his skin.

"Look at that," he panted, his forehead resting against yours as he stayed buried deep inside you, riding out the aftershocks of your climax. “Now that’s a total system overload. Babygirl, I think you just short-circuited the whole building.”

He pulled back just an inch, looking down at the beautiful, soaked mess he’d made of you in the foyer of your home. A slow, triumphant smirk returned to his face. Even though tonight he had only presented an award, he had the look of a man who had just won the biggest prize in the room and knew exactly how to celebrate it.

"I’ll have to send a bill for the dry cleaning," he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction as he began to move again, seeking his own finish. "But I think the performance was worth the premium."

The arrogance of the Stark persona finally buckled under the weight of pure, human friction. He could feel the desperate pulses of your release still tightening around him; it was the final catalyst he needed.

"I’m feeling you up nicely tonight,” he rasped, the witty banter dying in his throat as his composure shattered.

He gripped your thighs with white-knuckled intensity, lifting you slightly higher against the wall to find the deepest possible angle. His head fell back, a sharp, guttural groan echoing through the empty foyer as he surrendered to the sensation. He hammered your tight cunt one last time, pinning you firmly against the marble as he finished deep inside you, his entire body shuddering with the force of it.

For a long minute, the only sound in the house was the heavy, synchronized thud of two hearts trying to find their rhythm again. Robert stayed buried within you, his forehead leaning against yours, his breath coming in ragged, hot hitches. The "Iron Man" had left the building, leaving behind a man who was clearly, hopelessly addicted to the secret life he shared with you.

"Well," he finally whispered, his voice a gravelly wreck as he pressed a tender, lingering kiss to your temple. "I’d say that was a much better ending than any of the scripts that were awarded tonight."

He slowly pulled back, his hands lingering on your waist to make sure your legs wouldn't give out. He looked down at the ruin of his suit and the luxury fabric of your dress on the floor, a slow, boyish grin spreading across his face.

"Stay right there," he murmured, his thumb grazing your bottom lip. "I'm going to carry you to the master bath. I think we’ve done enough damage to the foyer for one night.”