#rdj masterlist

The house was too quiet.

You stepped through the front door, still shrugging off your work bag, and the silence hit you like a wall. Usually, by this hour, there was noise—the clatter of Tony tinkering in his workshop, the hum of FRIDAY’s voice, the distant laughter of your son chasing one of the bots. But today, nothing. Just the soft tick of the grandfather clock in the foyer and the faint whisper of the air conditioning.

Your heart lurched. It had been weeks—long, draining weeks—of Tony pulling away. Not just from you, but from Theo too. He’d come home late, leave early, bury himself in the lab with excuses about "Avengers stuff." You’d told yourself it would pass. It always did, didn’t it? His moods came in waves, crashing against the shores of his conscience before receding again.

But this time felt different. This time, the distance had a weight to it. A sorrow.

You dropped your bag by the stairs and moved through the ground floor quickly, checking the kitchen, the living room, the den. Empty. Even the coffee mugs in the sink were from this morning, untouched since. A cold knot tightened in your stomach.

Where are they?

You remembered Theo’s orange bathing suit draped over the towel rack this morning. He’d been begging to use the pool, but you’d told him to wait for Daddy. And Tony had just… left for work without a word.

Your feet carried you up the stairs, then down the hallway toward the master bedroom. The balcony doors were wide open, letting in the warm evening breeze. And there—finally—you saw them.

Your breath caught.

On the large beach seat you’d bought last summer, the one with the thick white cushions and the wide canopy, Tony was curled up with Theo. Your son was wrapped in that bright orange bathing suit you’d thought he’d never get to wear today, his small body tucked against Tony’s chest. Tony’s arm was wrapped around him, his hand splayed protectively over Theo’s back. They were both facing the ocean, the golden light of the setting sun painting their silhouettes in soft amber.

Tony’s head was bowed, his forehead resting against Theo’s hair. You could see his shoulders rise and fall in slow, measured breaths. He wasn’t asleep. He was holding on.

You stood frozen in the doorway, tears pricking at your eyes. This was what you’d been missing. This was the man you loved, the father you knew he could be. But you also saw the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers clutched the fabric of Theo’s suit like he was afraid to let go.

You didn’t interrupt. You just watched, your hand pressed over your mouth, until the light shifted and Tony finally stirred. He murmured something to Theo, who nodded sleepily, and then they both stood. Tony lifted your son easily, cradling him against his chest, and turned to come inside.

When he saw you, his eyes widened for a fraction of a second. Then a shadow of guilt passed over his face. He managed a thin, tired smile.

“Hey, honey,” he said softly. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

You stepped aside as he carried Theo toward his bedroom. “I just got home. I was looking for you two.”

“We were just… having some air,” Tony said, his voice rough. He laid Theo down on his bed, pulling the covers up over the little boy’s still-damp suit. Theo was already half-asleep, his fingers curling around the edge of the blanket.

Tony stood there for a long moment, staring down at your son. His hand hovered over Theo’s head, trembling slightly, before he finally pulled it back. He turned and walked past you, his steps heavy.

You followed him into the kitchen. The silence stretched like a rubber band about to snap.

You moved on autopilot—filling the kettle, pulling down two mugs, scooping coffee grounds into the French press. The familiar ritual helped steady your nerves. Tony leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching you with that same hollow look he’d worn for weeks.

When the coffee was ready, you poured two cups, set one in front of him, and wrapped your own fingers around the warmth of the mug. You didn’t drink. You just stood there, looking at him.

Then you set your mug down and reached out.

“Tony,” you said quietly. “Hold my hand. Please. I need it.”

He flinched. For a moment, you thought he’d refuse. But then his hand lifted, and his fingers intertwined with yours. They were cold, rough with calluses from years of metal and machinery. But they held yours like a lifeline.

“I’m sorry, love,” he whispered. “I know I’ve been unfair. I know you see it. You always see it.”

You squeezed his hand. “I know you’re going through something. But you can’t shut us out. Not me, not Theo. We’re your family.”

He let out a shaky exhale. “You’re right. You’re always right.”

You guided him to the living room couch, both of you sitting down with your knees touching. You kept his hand in yours, thumb stroking over his knuckles.

“Tell me,” you said. “What happened?”

He stared at your joined hands for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.

“I almost hurt him.”

Your blood ran cold. “What? When?”

“A week ago. In the lab.” He swallowed hard. “I was testing a new gauntlet prototype. I don’t even remember what I was trying to do—some impulse repulsor modification. Theo came in to show me a drawing he made. He was so proud of it. A picture of our family.” Tony’s voice cracked. “I was distracted. I didn’t see him reach for the table. The gauntlet discharged. Missed him by inches. The blast hit the wall behind him.”

You felt your own hand tremble. “Tony…”

“He didn’t even realize. He thought it was a sound effect. Laughed it off.” Tony’s jaw clenched. “But I saw it. I saw how close I came to—to hurting my own son. Because I wasn’t paying attention. Because I let my work blind me.”

He pulled his hand from yours, rubbing his face with both palms. “I’ve been over it a thousand times. What if he had been three inches to the left? What if I hadn’t pulled back in time? What if, what if, what if…”

You reached out and gently pulled his hands away from his face. “Tony, look at me.”

He did. His eyes were red-rimmed, glistening.

“You did pull back,” you said firmly. “You didn’t hurt him. You caught yourself. You’ve spent your whole life building things that could destroy, and every single time, you choose not to. You choose us.”

“But what if I don’t next time?” His voice was raw. “What if I’m not fast enough? I’m not a good man, Y/N. I’ve done terrible things. I have a list of sins longer than my bank account. And Theo—he’s so small. So innocent. He looks at me like I’m a hero. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what I really am.”

You moved closer, cupping his face in your hands. “He knows you’re his father. That’s all he needs to know. And you are a good man, Tony. Not perfect. None of us are. But you love him. You love me. That’s what matters.”

He let out a shuddering breath. “I’m scared.”

“I know.” You pressed your forehead against his. “But you don’t have to carry it alone. Let me help. Let me be your anchor.”

For a long moment, he just breathed with you, his hands coming up to rest on your waist. Then he tilted his head and kissed you—soft, slow, desperate. A kiss that tasted of salt and apology.

You kissed him back, pouring every ounce of reassurance you had into it. When you finally parted, you were both trembling.

“You’re not going to hurt him,” you whispered. “Because you’ll be careful. You’ll be present. And when you feel that fear creeping in, you’ll come to me. We’ll handle it together.”

He nodded, his thumb tracing your cheek. “I love you. I love him. I don’t know how to say it right.

“You just did.”

You stayed like that, wrapped in each other, until the coffee grew cold and the stars came out beyond the balcony. Then you stood, took his hand again, and led him back to Theo’s room.

The little boy was sprawled on his bed, still in his orange bathing suit, one arm flung over his head. His lips were parted in a peaceful sleep.

Tony knelt beside the bed, and you saw the change in his face—the tight lines softening, the fear giving way to something gentler. He pressed a kiss to Theo’s forehead, then to his tiny hand.

The trailer door clicked shut behind you, muffling the distant hum of the film set outside. The faint rumble of equipment, crew chatter, and passing carts faded into the background, leaving the small space suddenly quiet.

You leaned against the counter, pretending to scroll through your phone even though the screen had gone dark minutes ago. Your thumb kept moving anyway, mindlessly swiping as if the motion alone would keep your thoughts from spiraling.

Across the room, Robert Downey Jr. sat on the couch with his script in his hands.

Or at least, he was supposed to be reading it.

Instead, he had been watching you.

For a while.

You could feel it — that quiet, observant gaze he had when he was piecing something together. Robert had always been annoyingly good at reading you, even when you tried to hide things.

You thought you were doing a decent job.

Apparently not.

Finally, the rustle of paper stopped.

You heard the script close.

Then his voice broke the silence.

“Alright,” he said casually, though there was a clear edge of curiosity in it. “Talk to me.”

You didn’t look up.

“I am talking.”

A soft chuckle came from behind you.

“No,” Robert said, standing and walking closer. “You’re doing that thing where you pretend everything’s fine while your entire body language is screaming something is very wrong.”

You sighed quietly.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

You kept your eyes on the phone, stubbornly avoiding his gaze.

He leaned against the counter beside you, arms folding loosely as he studied your face.

“Is it work?” he asked.

“No.”

“Did I forget something important?”

“No.”

“Did someone say something to you?”

“No.”

A pause settled between you both.

Then his eyes narrowed slightly as a realization flickered across his expression.

“…Is it me?”

Your head lifted immediately.

“No—”

But he was already nodding slowly, like a detective who had just cracked the case.

“Ah,” he murmured. “So it is me.”

You groaned softly, dragging a hand down your face.

“Robert…”

“Sweetheart,” he said gently, voice lowering as he stepped a little closer, “we’ve been together long enough that I know when something’s eating at you.”

You stayed quiet.

“And right now,” he added, tilting his head as he studied you, “it’s practically waving a flag."

You debated brushing it off again. It would have been easier. Less embarrassing.

But the way he was looking at you — patient, soft, waiting — made the words slip out before you could stop them.

“…I just don’t like that you’re working with her.”

His brows lifted slightly.

“Her?"

You crossed your arms defensively.

“Your ex.”

For a second, Robert simply stared at you.

Then suddenly—

He laughed.

Not mockingly.

Just genuinely surprised.

The sound made you stiffen immediately.

“See?” you muttered, looking away. “That’s exactly why I didn’t want to say anything.”

“Hey—hey.” He stepped closer quickly, his laughter fading as he gently caught your hands before you could pull away. “I’m not laughing at you.”

“You literally are.”

“I’m laughing because it’s adorable.”

You rolled your eyes, though your cheeks warmed slightly.

“Robert.”

“Listen to me.”

His tone softened again, steady and reassuring.

“I get why you’d feel that way.”

You blinked, a little surprised.

“You… do?”

“Of course I do,” he said simply. “Jealousy happens when you care about someone.”

The tension in your shoulders loosened a little at that.

But before you could respond, Robert reached behind him and slid a hand into the back pocket of his jeans.

You frowned.

“What are you doing?”

“Proving a point.”

He pulled out his worn leather wallet and flipped it open.

You watched him, confused.

Then he turned it toward you.

Inside the clear slot was a small photograph.

Of you.

Your breath caught slightly.

It was a candid photo — one taken months ago when you were wearing the black outfit that he loves. You hadn’t even realized he had kept it.

“Robert…”

He leaned closer, his voice softer now.

“You think I’d be thinking about someone else,” he said quietly, “when I purposely put this in my wallet?”

Your eyes lifted to his.

He tapped the photo lightly with his finger.

“I put this here on purpose.”

Your chest tightened.

“And do you know something funny?” he added, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“What?” you asked softly.

“I find excuses to open this wallet all the time.”

Your brows knit together.

“What?”

“Oh yeah,” he said casually, shrugging one shoulder. “Buying coffee. Paying for lunch. Getting my badge out. Doesn’t matter.”

He looked at you again, warmth filling his expression.

“Every time I open it, I see you.”

Your heart squeezed.

“And you think,” he continued gently, “that I’d go through the effort of carrying you around in my pocket all day just so I can go cheat on you?”

Suddenly your jealousy felt incredibly small.

“…When you put it like that…”

He smirked faintly.

“Yeah,” he said. “Kinda ruins the logic.”

A quiet laugh escaped you despite the embarrassment.

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

Robert slid the wallet back into his pocket before stepping closer, his hands settling naturally on your waist.

“You’re the one I come home to,” he said softly.

Your eyes met his.

“You’re the one whose photo I carry around.”

His thumb brushed lightly along your cheek.

“And you’re the one I’m ridiculously in love with.”

Your face warmed instantly.

“…You’re very good at this.”

“At what?”

“Winning arguments.”

Robert’s grin widened.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured as he leaned closer, his forehead resting gently against yours, “this wasn’t an argument.”

His voice dropped into something softer.

“This was reassurance.”

Then after a beat he added teasingly,

“But for the record?”

You raised an eyebrow.

The post-movie celebration party was in full swing at the swanky hotel ballroom, laughter and clinking glasses filling the air. You sat nestled against Robert Downey Jr.—your boyfriend, the charismatic heartthrob everyone adored—surrounded by his co-stars: Chris Evans with his easy grin, Sebastian Stan smirking like he knew all the secre

ts, and Anthony Mackie cracking jokes that had everyone in stitches. Robert's arm draped possessively over your shoulders, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your bare skin. You wore a red body-hugging dress that clung to every curve, the fabric shimmering under the lights, low-cut enough to tease without revealing too much. Robert looked devastating in his favorite black suit, tailored to perfection, the top buttons of his shirt undone just enough to hint at the toned chest beneath.

Sebastian leaned forward, eyes glinting with mischief. "Let's play truth or dare and keep the night interesting."

The group agreed with cheers, the game starting light. Anthony dared Chris to chug a mystery cocktail that turned out to be mostly soda, earning groans and laughs. Chris truth-ed Sebastian about his most embarrassing on-set moment, which involved a wardrobe malfunction and a lot of blushing. Then it circled to you. Anthony and Sebastian exchanged sly looks, giggling like schoolboys.

"Truth or dare?" Anthony asked, his grin widening.

"Dare," you said boldly, feeling Robert's grip tighten slightly on your shoulder.

Sebastian leaned in. "Kiss the most handsome man in the room... who's not Robert."

The room erupted in hoots. You caught Robert's eye—he arched a brow, amused but with a flicker of something darker. Playing along, you turned to Chris, who looked equal parts surprised and flattered. Leaning in, you pressed your lips to his in a quick, playful kiss—soft, lingering just a second too long for innocence. His mouth was warm, tasting faintly of whiskey, but it was all fun, no heat.

Robert cleared his throat loudly as you pulled back, his eyes locking onto yours with unmistakable possessiveness. He mouthed, You'll pay for that, the promise sending a thrill straight to your core. In his usual flair, he stood, loosening his suit jacket button with a dramatic flourish. "Excuse us, gentlemen. The soon-to-be Mrs. Downey and I have some important matters to discuss."

You winked at Sebastian and Anthony, who were stifling laughs, and let Robert pull you up by the hand. Giggling, you followed him out of the ballroom, his stride purposeful as he led you to the private elevator reserved for VIPs. The doors slid shut with a soft ding, and the moment they did, Robert spun you against the mirrored wall, his body pinning yours.

"You think you can kiss him like that and get away with it?" he growled, voice low and rough, his hands already roaming your sides, bunching the red fabric of your dress.

"It was just a dare," you teased, breath hitching as his lips crashed onto yours. The kiss was fierce, demanding—his tongue invading your mouth, claiming every inch. You moaned into him, your hands fisting his shirt, pulling him closer. The elevator hummed downward, but time stretched as he ground his hips against you, his hardening cock pressing insistently through his pants against your thigh.

Robert's fingers dug into your hips, then slid up to the thin straps of your dress. With a sharp tug, he yanked one down, exposing your shoulder and the swell of your breast. "This dress is too fucking tempting," he muttered, nipping at your neck. You arched into him, heat pooling between your legs as his hand slipped under the hem, pushing it up your thighs. No panties—your choice for the night—and his fingers found your slick pussy immediately, stroking through your folds.

"Bobby..." you gasped, rocking against his hand. He circled your clit with his thumb, dipping two fingers inside you, pumping roughly. The elevator jolted slightly as it passed floors, but he didn't stop, his mouth sucking a mark onto your collarbone. You clawed at his suit jacket, shoving it off his shoulders; it hit the floor in a heap. His belt came next—your fingers fumbling with the buckle until he took over, freeing his thick cock. It sprang out, hard and veined, pre-cum beading at the tip.

He hiked your leg around his waist, the dress tearing slightly at the seam from the force. "Gonna fuck you right here," he said, aligning himself and thrusting in deep. You cried out, the stretch delicious as he filled you, pounding into your pussy with short, brutal strokes. The mirrors reflected every angle—your breasts bouncing as the dress slipped lower, his ass flexing under his pants. His hand clamped over your mouth to muffle your moans as the elevator slowed, but he didn't stop, slamming harder until you clenched around him, orgasm ripping through you. He followed with a grunt, spilling hot cum inside you, hips jerking.

The doors dinged open to the parking garage, and he pulled out, cum dripping down your thigh. Quick as a flash, he tugged your dress back into some semblance of place—though the strap hung loose—and grabbed his discarded jacket, draping it over you both as he steered you to his sleek black car. The valet had it waiting; Robert tipped him hastily and bundled you into the passenger seat, the engine roaring to life.

Barely out of the garage, his hand was back between your legs, pushing the ruined dress higher. "Spread for me," he ordered, eyes on the road but fingers plunging into your cum-slick pussy. You obeyed, legs falling open, the leather seat cool against your heated skin. He finger-fucked you steadily, his thumb rubbing your clit in firm circles, the car's motion adding to the rhythm. Traffic lights blurred by as you whimpered, chasing the build-up.

"Touch yourself," he commanded, and you did, pinching your nipples through the dress until the fabric strained. He glanced over, dark eyes hungry. At a red light, he leaned across, yanking the dress's neckline down fully, exposing your breasts. His mouth latched onto one nipple, sucking hard—teeth grazing—while his fingers curled inside you, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes. You came again, soaking his hand, the car filling with the wet sounds of your release.

The light turned green, and he withdrew, licking his fingers clean with a smirk. But he wasn't done. Unzipping himself again, he stroked his cock—still hard, glistening from before—as he drove one-handed. "Suck me," he said, voice gravelly. You leaned over the console, taking him into your mouth, tongue swirling around the head. The car swerved slightly as you bobbed, hollowing your cheeks, tasting your mixed flavors on him. He tangled a hand in your hair, guiding you deeper, fucking your throat with shallow thrusts. Horns blared from nearby cars, but the tinted windows hid the slutty scene. He groaned, holding you down as he came, flooding your mouth with thick spurts of cum. You swallowed greedily, pulling back with a pop just as he pulled into the driveway of your shared house.

He killed the engine, but neither of you moved far. Robert hauled you onto his lap in the driver's seat, the dress now a tattered mess around your waist—seams split from his earlier grips. "Look at you," he murmured, hands everywhere, ripping the remaining straps until the red fabric fell away in shreds, leaving you naked and marked from his mouth. His suit fared no better; you tore at his shirt buttons, popping them free to expose his chest, then shoved his pants down further.

The front door was mere steps away, but he carried you there anyway, your legs wrapped around him, his cock sliding back into your pussy as he walked. You bounced on him with each step, moaning loudly now that privacy beckoned. At the entrance, he pinned you against the heavy wooden door before even unlocking it, thrusting up into you with punishing force. "Mine," he growled, one hand bracing you, the other shredding the last bits of his shirt off. Your nails raked his back, drawing red lines as he fucked you senseless—deep, grinding strokes that had your ass slapping against the door.

The key finally turned in the lock behind you, but he didn't stop, kicking the door open and stumbling inside with you impaled on him. Dropping to his knees on the foyer rug, he flipped you onto all fours, the remnants of his suit pants tangling at his ankles. He mounted you from behind, cock slamming into your dripping pussy, balls slapping your clit. "Say it," he demanded, spanking your ass hard enough to sting.

You'd been running on empty for weeks, the kind of exhaustion that seeped into your bones and made every step feel like wading through mud. Between chasing after Eve and Hugh—your two little whirlwinds who turned every room into a disaster zone—and trying to keep the house from collapsing under the weight of toys, laundry, and half-eaten snacks, you were fraying at the edges. Tony noticed, of course. He always did. Those sharp eyes of his caught the way your smiles didn't reach your eyes anymore, how you'd snap at the smallest things or stare blankly at the wall during dinner. But he held back, hands itching to fix it all with his usual flair—gadgets, takeout, a weekend getaway—but he knew you. You hated help. It felt like pity to you, like admitting defeat. So he watched, concerned, waiting for the right moment that never seemed to come

The kids were pure chaos embodied. Eve, with her wild curls and endless energy, had a habit of painting murals on the walls with whatever she could find—ketchup one day, markers the next. Hugh, her younger shadow, toddled after her, knocking over stacks of books or spilling juice across the floor, his chubby hands leaving sticky prints everywhere. You loved them fiercely, but lately, that love was tangled up in frustration, the endless cycle of clean-pick up-clean again wearing you down until you could barely breathe.

One afternoon, Tony came home earlier than usual, the lab project wrapping up ahead of schedule. He stepped through the front door and froze. The living room looked like a tornado had hit it: cushions hurled from the couch, a trail of cereal leading to the kitchen, toys scattered like landmines. Dirty dishes piled in the sink, and the air smelled faintly of spilled milk gone sour. His heart clenched. This wasn't just the usual kid mess; this was overwhelm etched into every corner. "Hey, kids?" he called out, but silence answered. No giggles, no thuds of little feet. Just an eerie quiet that set his instincts on edge.

He moved quickly, checking the playroom—empty—then the kitchen, where a half-made sandwich sat abandoned on the counter. Up the stairs, his polished shoes quiet on the carpet, until he reached your shared bedroom. The door was ajar, and that's when he heard it: soft, broken sobs echoing off the tiles in the en-suite bathroom. He pushed the door open gently, and there you were—curled on the cold bathroom floor, knees drawn to your chest, face streaked with tears. Your hair was a tangled mess, clothes rumpled from what looked like a day of nonstop battles, and your shoulders shook with each ragged breath.

"Oh, honey," Tony whispered, his voice thick with worry. He dropped to his knees beside you, careful not to startle you. You looked up, eyes red and puffy, and managed a watery whisper: "I called Mom. She picked up Eve and Hugh for the weekend. I... I couldn't anymore."

He didn't hesitate. Sliding his arms under you—strong, steady despite the tremor in his hands—he scooped you up effortlessly, cradling you against his chest like you weighed nothing. You buried your face in his shirt, inhaling the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with faint traces of motor oil from the workshop. He carried you to the bed, the king-sized haven with its rumpled sheets, and eased you down onto the soft mattress. But you didn't let go; instead, you curled into him as he settled beside you, pulling you close until your head rested on his chest, his heartbeat a steady drum under your ear.

Tony's hand stroked your back in slow, soothing circles, his other arm wrapped securely around your waist. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, murmuring softly, "I've got you. Just breathe, okay? Whatever it is, we will figure it out." His voice was gentle, stripped of its usual sarcasm, all warmth and quiet strength. Minutes passed like that, your sobs easing into hiccups as the tension in your body began to uncoil under his touch.

Finally, when your breathing steadied, he tilted your chin up with a finger, searching your eyes. "Talk to me. Why are you so worked up? What's going on in that beautiful head of yours?"

The words tumbled out then, a floodgate opening. You told him everything—the sleepless nights piecing together Eve's puzzles only for Hugh to smash them, the endless laundry that multiplied like rabbits, the way you'd stare at the messy house and feel like a failure for not keeping it together. How the kids' laughter sometimes grated because you were so tired, how you missed the version of yourself that could handle it all with a smile. "I'm just... drowning, Tony. And I hate asking for help because it makes me feel weak. But I can't keep going like this."

He listened without interrupting, his thumb brushing away fresh tears as they fell. When you finished, he pulled you closer, his lips grazing your forehead. "You're not weak. You're the strongest person I know—raising our little terrors while I tinker away in the lab? That's superhero stuff. But even heroes need a break. Let me in, yeah? We fix this together. No judgments, no strings."

Exhaustion crashed over you like a wave, and with his arms around you, you finally let go. Sleep came swiftly, deep and dreamless, your body surrendering to the comfort of his embrace.

When you woke hours later, the room was dimmed by the setting sun filtering through half-closed blinds. Tony was still there, propped on one elbow, watching you with a soft smile. The ache in your chest had dulled, replaced by a tentative warmth. "Hey, sleeping beauty," he teased lightly, but his eyes were serious, full of care.

Your stomach growled then, loud in the quiet room, and you flushed. He chuckled, reaching for his phone on the nightstand. "Figured you'd be hungry. I called in your favorite—extra cheesy pizza from that little place downtown, with all the toppings you love. It's on the way. And I texted your mom; the kids are having a blast with her, no rush to pick them up."

He shifted, helping you sit up and tucking pillows behind your back. Then, with efficient tenderness, he fetched a warm washcloth from the bathroom, gently wiping your face clean of the day's grime. He even ran a brush through your hair, his fingers massaging your scalp in a way that made you sigh. When the doorbell rang, he vanished briefly, returning with the steaming box and a couple of sodas.

You ate cross-legged on the bed, the gooey cheese stretching as you took bites, Tony feeding you a piece with exaggerated flair that drew a genuine laugh from you—the first in days. He didn't push for more talk; instead, he kept things light, sharing silly stories from the lab to distract you. Afterward, he drew a bath in the oversized tub, adding bubbles and your favorite lavender oil, then helped you undress and slip in, his hands lingering just enough to reassure without demanding.

The rain had stopped by morning, leaving the city shrouded in a damp gray haze that seeped through the hospital windows like unspoken regrets. Tony hadn't moved from your bedside all night, his fingers intertwined with yours, thumb tracing absent patterns on your skin as if willing warmth back into it. The specialist's words echoed in his mind—permanent damage, uncertain recovery—but he shoved them down, focusing on the steady beep of the heart monitor, each pulse a fragile thread holding him together.

A soft groan shattered the quiet, so faint at first he thought it was the wind. But then your eyelids fluttered, lashes casting shadows on cheeks still hollowed by exhaustion. Tony bolted upright, chair scraping against the tile, his free hand flying to your face. 'Hey, hey—sweetheart? Can you hear me?"

Your eyes opened slowly, unfocused, the world a blur of white walls and beeping machines. Pain throbbed in your skull, a dull ache radiating from your stomach where the tubes snaked in. Disorientation hit like a wave: the bathroom floor, the bitter taste of pills, Tony's voice through the door... regret flooded in, sharp and immediate. You tried to speak, but your throat was raw, scraped from the charcoal, and all that escaped was a raspy whimper.

Tears welled in Tony's eyes, relief crashing over him like a tidal wave, but it was laced with the terror of what came next. 'Oh God, you're awake. Nurses! Someone—' He jabbed the call button repeatedly, voice cracking as he leaned closer, brushing hair from your forehead. 'Don't try to talk yet. Just... stay with me. Please.'

The room erupted into controlled chaos. Nurses swarmed, checking vitals, shining lights into your eyes, murmuring about pupil response and oxygen levels. You squeezed Tony's hand weakly, the only anchor in the storm, but guilt clawed at you—seeing his red-rimmed eyes, the stubble and shadows that aged him overnight. What had you done? The infertility news replayed in fragments: the doctor's cold finality, the empty ache in your chest, the desperation that had driven you to swallow those pills. And now, this—tubes and pity, Tony's world upended because of your weakness.

They shooed him back gently while they adjusted your IV, but he refused to leave, pacing the small space like a caged animal. 'How is she? Is she okay? Tell me something.' The head nurse, a kind-faced woman with a no-nonsense bun, glanced at you. 'She's responding, Mr. Stark. Vitals are stabilizing. We'll run more tests, but... it's a good sign.'

Good sign. The words felt hollow. As the bustle died down, Tony pulled the chair closer, reclaiming your hand. Your gaze met his, and the dam broke—tears spilling silently down your temples. 'I'm sorry,' you whispered, voice barely audible, each word scraping like sandpaper. 'I couldn't... I didn't mean to—'

He shook his head fiercely, cutting you off with a thumb to your lips. 'Shh. No apologies. Not now. You scared the hell out of me, you know that? I thought...' His voice faltered, and he swallowed hard, the arc reactor glowing faintly under his shirt like a heartbeat of its own. 'I thought I'd lost you. For good.'

The weight of it settled between you, heavier than the monitors' incessant beeps. Memories flooded back: the failed attempts, the doctor's verdict that shattered your dreams of tiny feet pattering through the tower, the way your joy had ebbed away until you were just a shell. And Tony—always trying, with his jokes and gadgets, but even he couldn't fix this broken part of you. 'We can't have a baby,' you murmured, eyes squeezing shut against the fresh wave of sorrow. 'I'm... I'm broken. You deserve better.'

Tony's grip tightened, not painful but desperate. 'Stop. You're not broken. We're not done—not by a long shot. Adoption, surrogacy, hell, I'll build a lab to clone us if I have to.' A ghost of his usual smirk flickered, but it didn't reach his eyes, shadowed by the raw fear of almost losing you. 'But none of that matters if you're not here. I need you. More than anything.'

You wanted to believe him, but the void inside lingered, a chasm widened by the overdose's aftermath. Doctors came with questions—how much did you take, any allergies— and you answered in monosyllables, exhaustion pulling at you. They warned of monitoring for organ damage, therapy sessions mandatory before discharge. Tony stayed through it all, his presence a constant, but the air hummed with unspoken fractures: the strain on your marriage, the infertility that loomed like a specter, the suicide attempt that scarred you both.

As evening fell, the room dimmed to a soft glow from the hallway lights. Tony helped you sip water, his touch gentle, but tension coiled in his shoulders. 'Pepper's outside. The team's been blowing up my phone. But I told them to wait.' He paused, searching your face. 'When you're stronger... we talk. Really talk. About everything.'

The weight of the doctor's words had settled over your home like a suffocating fog, thick and unrelenting. 'Unlikely,' he'd said, his voice clinical and detached, as if he were discussing the weather instead of shattering your deepest dream. You and Tony had been trying for months—years, really, in the quiet corners of your hearts—hoping for the patter of tiny feet, for a family to fill the vast spaces of your life together. Tony, with his endless energy and sharp wit, had always talked about legacy, about building something beyond suits and arc reactors. But for you, it was simpler, more primal: motherhood. It was the one thing that had pulsed in your veins since childhood, amplified a thousandfold when Tony Stark crashed into your world with his charm and chaos.

Since that appointment, the spark in your eyes had dimmed to a flicker, then gone out entirely. You moved through the days like a ghost, smiling faintly at Tony's attempts to pull you back—his surprise dinners, the weekend getaways, the silly gadgets he'd invent just to make you laugh. But nothing reached you. The ache was too deep, a hollow void where hope used to be.

That night, the bedroom felt colder than usual, the king-sized bed a battlefield of unspoken grief. Tony slid under the covers beside you, his arm draping over your waist in that familiar way, seeking connection. His lips brushed your shoulder, soft at first, then trailing up to your neck with a tenderness that usually melted your defenses. But tonight, as his kisses deepened, hot tears spilled down your cheeks, soaking the pillow.

'Tony,' you whispered, your voice cracking like fragile glass. You turned away, curling into yourself. 'Stop. Please.'

He paused, his hand stilling on your hip. 'Hey, what's wrong? Talk to me.' His voice was gentle, laced with worry, but you couldn't hold it in anymore. The dam broke.

'You should divorce me,' you sobbed, the words tumbling out raw and jagged. 'I can't give you what you want. A child. A family. I'm broken, Tony. Useless.'

His eyes widened in the dim light from the bedside lamp. 'What? No—sweetheart, stop that. We're in this together. I don't need—'

But you were already scrambling out of bed, your bare feet hitting the cold hardwood floor as you fled toward the bathroom. Tony lunged after you, his hand grazing your arm, but you slipped away, slamming the door shut and twisting the lock with trembling fingers. The click echoed like a finality.

'Y/N! Open the door!' Tony's voice boomed from the other side, panic threading through his usual confidence. He rattled the knob, pounded once, twice. Inside, you slid down against the cool tile, your back pressed to the door, knees drawn up to your chest. Sobs wracked your body, each one pulling you deeper into the abyss. The pill bottle from the medicine cabinet stared at you from the sink—painkillers from an old injury, half-forgotten. Your hands shook as you reached for it, the label blurring through tears.

'Tony, I'm sorry,' you choked out, your voice muffled but audible. 'I can't do this anymore. I'm so sorry.'

His banging grew frantic, the door vibrating with each hit. 'Y/N, please! Don't say that. Open up—let me in! We can fix this, I swear. I love you!'

The world narrowed to the rattle of pills in your palm, the salty burn of tears, the distant thump of your heart. You swallowed them dry, a handful that tasted like regret and release. The room spun, edges softening as darkness crept in. Your head lolled against the door, body going slack.

Silence fell, heavy and absolute.

Tony's fists paused mid-air, his breath hitching. 'Y/N? Y/N!' No response. His blood ran cold, a chill that pierced straight to his core. With a roar of desperation, he slammed his shoulder into the door, once, twice—the wood splintering under his force. It gave way with a crack, swinging open to reveal you slumped on the floor, limp and unresponsive, the empty pill box tipped over beside you like an accusation.

'No, no, no—God, no!' Tony dropped to his knees, cradling your head in his lap, his fingers fumbling for your pulse. It was there, faint and erratic, but there. Tears streamed down his face, hot and unchecked, as he yanked his phone from his pocket. '911! I need an ambulance—now! My wife, she—she took pills. Hurry, please!'

Nathan had been your supervising teacher for the past six months, ever since you joined the staff at the high school as an assistant handling administrative tasks. He was the kind of educator who blended sharp insight with a disarming warmth—always quick with a wry comment or a nod of encouragement during the endless cycle of lesson planning, grading, and faculty meetings. His classroom, tucked away in the quieter wing of the building, often doubled as a makeshift office for overflow work like the paperwork you both managed together. Emails, schedules, and the occasional parent correspondence piled up, but Nathan made the monotony bearable with his effortless charisma.

Over those months, you'd shared subtle moments of connection: a brush of hands while passing files, the faint trace of his cologne lingering after a late-afternoon review session, or the way he'd pause to ask about your day amid the stacks of documents. Nothing crossed professional lines, of course—especially not with your personal life complicating things at home. But Nathan had noticed the signs. The way you flinched at sudden noises during meetings, how you'd tug at your sleeves as if hiding something, or the constant stream of apologies for the smallest delays. He'd considered broaching the subject more than once, wondering if work stress was the culprit or something deeper. In the end, he held back, respecting the boundaries that kept your collaboration smooth and focused.

It was a typical afternoon after the final bell, the school halls emptying out into a hushed calm. You were in Nathan's classroom, sorting through a fresh batch of report cards while he reviewed lesson notes at his desk. The air felt lighter than usual, conversation flowing easily from the day's events to lighter topics.

"You holding up okay with all this?" Nathan asked, glancing up from his papers with a half-smile. "Feels like we're drowning in forms again."

You nodded, forcing a smile despite the knot of tension in your chest. "It's manageable. Just another Tuesday."

He chuckled softly, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose—a habit you'd come to find endearing. "Tell me about it. Hey, you know what might help? Coffee. The lounge has that decent brew left over from lunch. Want me to grab us some?"

The offer caught you off guard, a small gesture that eased the weight on your shoulders. "Sure, that sounds great. Thanks."

"My pleasure," he replied, standing with a stretch. "I'll be right back—don't let the paperwork win while I'm gone."

He slipped out the door, his footsteps fading down the corridor. Alone in the room, you exhaled slowly, trying to shake off the unease that had been building all day. Your phone buzzed on the desk—a message from your boyfriend, laced with the usual edge of frustration. You ignored it, focusing instead on the task at hand.

Minutes ticked by in the quiet. Then, the door burst open with a force that made you jump. Your boyfriend stormed in, his face twisted in anger, eyes scanning the room until they locked on you. He was tall, broad-shouldered, the kind of presence that filled a space and demanded attention—usually the wrong kind.

"What the hell is this?" he snarled, slamming the door behind him. "You think you can just ignore me? We're talking now."

Your heart raced as you stood, backing toward the desk. "Not here. Please, this is work—"

He advanced, voice rising. "Work? That's your excuse? Always hiding behind this crap." Papers scattered from the desk as he swept an arm across it in frustration, a chair toppling with a clatter. The room, once orderly, descended into chaos—folders spilling open, pens rolling across the floor.

You pressed against the wall, pulse thundering in your ears. "Stop. You're scaring me."

His laugh was bitter, devoid of humor. "Scaring you? You bring this on yourself." He stepped closer, towering over you, his hand reaching out as if to grab your arm.

That's when the door opened again. Nathan returned, two steaming mugs in hand, his expression shifting from casual to alert in an instant. The disarray hit him first—the overturned chair, the strewn documents—then the scene unfolding: you cornered, your boyfriend looming with barely contained fury.

He set the coffees down on the nearest stable surface, his voice cutting through the tension like a steady anchor. "What's happening here?"

Your boyfriend whirled toward him, eyes narrowing. "None of your business, man. This is between me and her. Get lost."

Nathan's gaze flicked to you, taking in your wide eyes and rigid stance. In that split second, pieces clicked: the nervous habits, the apologies, the shadows you'd carried into work. This was the source, invading the one place where you'd sought some semblance of normalcy. He moved forward deliberately, positioning his body between you and the threat, his tone even but firm.

"This is my classroom," he said, meeting the man's glare without flinching. "School grounds. And you're upsetting one of my colleagues. That makes it very much my business."

The boyfriend scoffed, stepping forward as if to challenge Nathan's space. "Colleague? Don't play hero. She's mine to deal with."

You shrank back, breath coming in shallow bursts. Nathan didn't retreat; instead, he held his ground, his presence a quiet wall of resolve. He'd faced rowdy students and heated parent conferences before, but this felt personal—a line crossed into something uglier.

"I won't ask again," Nathan said, his voice dropping to a low, authoritative timbre. "Leave. Now."

The man hesitated, then lunged—not at Nathan, but toward you, his hand shooting out to seize your wrist. Panic surged through you; you twisted away, stumbling toward Nathan in a desperate bid for safety.

Nathan reacted without hesitation. He caught your arm gently, steadying you behind him as he faced the aggressor head-on. "Hey! Back off."

The command echoed in the room, sharp and unyielding. Your boyfriend froze mid-motion, surprise flickering across his features at the interruption. Nathan's usual affable demeanor had hardened into something protective, his eyes locked on the intruder with unwavering intensity.

"You don't touch her," Nathan continued, his words measured but laced with steel. "Not here. Not ever, if you know what's good for you. This is during school hours—on property where rules apply. Get out, or I'll make sure security handles it."

The boyfriend's face reddened, fists clenching at his sides. He sized Nathan up, searching for weakness, but found none. The teacher stood firm, shoulders squared, exuding a calm authority that brooked no argument. The standoff stretched, the air thick with unspoken threats, the only sounds your ragged breathing and the distant hum of the school.

Finally, the man spat a curse under his breath, his bravado cracking under the weight of Nathan's resolve. "This isn't over," he muttered, shooting you a final venomous look before yanking the door open. He stormed out, the slam reverberating like a punctuation mark on the chaos.

The room fell silent, save for the echo of his footsteps retreating down the hall. Nathan waited a beat, listening to ensure the danger had truly passed, before turning to you. You were trembling, tears welling up as the adrenaline crashed, your hands clutching the edge of his shirt for stability.

"Hey," he said softly, his voice gentling as he assessed your shaken state. "It's okay. He's gone. You're safe now."

You nodded, but the sobs broke free, raw and unfiltered. Nathan didn't hesitate; he pulled you into a steady embrace, one arm wrapping around your shoulders while the other rested reassuringly at your back. His hold was firm yet comforting, a shield against the storm that had just raged through.

"Breathe," he murmured, his chin lightly resting atop your head. "I've got you. None of this is your fault—do you hear me? You don't deserve that kind of treatment, not from anyone."

You buried your face against his shoulder, the warmth of his presence grounding you amid the whirlwind of emotions. The scent of coffee mingled with the faint trace of his cologne, a reminder of the normalcy he'd tried to offer just moments ago.

"I'm here," Nathan continued, his tone a quiet promise. "Whatever you need—talking it out, time off, resources. You're not alone in this. We can figure it out together."

As the minutes passed, the tension in your body began to ease, replaced by a fragile sense of security. Nathan didn't rush you; he simply held on, his support unspoken but profound. In the aftermath of the intrusion, his actions spoke volumes: a teacher who saw more than the surface, who stepped up when it mattered most, turning his classroom into a sanctuary amid the school's quiet halls.

Eventually, you pulled back slightly, wiping at your eyes. "Thank you, Nathan. I... I don't know what I would have done."

He offered a small, reassuring smile, squeezing your shoulder before stepping away to give you space. "You don't have to thank me. That's what colleagues are for—or supervisors, I guess. Now, those coffees are probably still warm. Let's sit down, and we can sort through this mess whenever you're ready. One step at a time."

Three years had woven themselves into the fabric of your life with Tony and the twins, transforming the once-fragile threads of hope into a tapestry of chaotic joy. Elena and Marcus, now spirited three-year-olds with boundless energy, filled the penthouse with laughter that echoed off the high ceilings and the occasional crash of overturned toys. Tony, ever the devoted father, had traded his Iron Man suits for playtime armor, his genius bent toward building forts from couch cushions and inventing bedtime stories laced with arc reactor glows.

One lazy Saturday afternoon, the living room devolved into a battlefield of giggles and mock battles. Tony had been tinkering with a new gadget when Marcus, with his mischievous grin mirroring his father's, declared, 'Daddy's old! He can't even run fast anymore!' Elena chimed in, her pigtails bouncing as she pointed accusingly. 'Yeah, Grandpa Tony!'

Tony's eyes narrowed in playful offense, a smirk tugging at his lips despite the twinge in his lower back from an earlier sparring session gone wrong. 'Old? I'll show you old,' he growled, rising from the floor with exaggerated stiffness. The twins squealed in delight and bolted, their tiny feet pattering across the hardwood as they darted behind the kitchen island. Tony lumbered after them, one hand pressed subtly to his side, but his determination won out. He scooped Elena up first, her shrieks turning to breathless laughter as he tickled her ribs mercilessly. 'Who's old now, huh?'

Marcus peeked out, only to be caught in the next lunge, Tony collapsing onto the rug with both kids in a pile of wriggling limbs. He blew raspberries on their bellies, their protests dissolving into peals of joy. But as the play wound down, Tony winced, rolling onto his back with a theatrical groan. 'Alright, you little monsters win this round. Truce?'

The twins piled onto his chest, planting sloppy kisses on his cheeks. 'Love you, Daddy!' they chorused, and Tony's face softened, the pain forgotten in the warmth of their hugs. You watched from the doorway, heart swelling at the sight—Tony Stark, billionaire, hero, reduced to a puddle by two tiny humans.

That night, after tucking the exhausted twins into bed, Tony eased onto the couch with a hiss, rubbing his back. You appeared with a heating pad, fresh from the microwave, and knelt beside him. 'You idiot,' you murmured, pressing it gently against the sore spot. 'Chasing them like that when you're hurting? What if you threw it out completely?'

He caught your hand, pulling you closer until you settled against his side. 'Worth it,' he said, voice low and earnest. 'They were teasing me, calling me old. I'd pull every muscle in my body a hundred times over just to hear them laugh like that. For them? Anything. Why don't you try calling me old?' He winked and his free hand traced lazy circles on your arm, the simple act grounding you both in the quiet intimacy of the moment.

Days blurred into weeks, the rhythm of family life a comforting constant. But one crisp evening, as Tony stepped through the door after a long day at the lab, the air felt heavier than usual. The penthouse was dim, the twins already down for the night with Pepper babysitting in the guest room. He found you on the sofa, curled into yourself, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

'Babe?' Tony's voice cracked with worry as he dropped his jacket and crossed the room in three strides. Before he could reach you, you launched up, wrapping your arms around him in a vise-like embrace. It wasn't a gentle hug—this was desperate, your face buried in his chest, tears soaking his shirt as you clung like he might vanish.

'Hey, hey, what's wrong?' He held you tight, one hand stroking your hair, the other rubbing soothing patterns on your back. Concern etched deep lines around his eyes. 'Talk to me.'

You pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes red and streaming. 'I'm so sorry,' you whispered, the words tumbling out in a rush. 'I'm so sorry, Tony. I'm so sorry.'

'Sorry for what?' He cupped your face, thumbs brushing away tears, his touch feather-light as if you might shatter. 'You're scaring me here. Whatever it is, we'll fix it. Just breathe.'

The sobs eased under his steady gaze, your grip loosening but not letting go. 'I don't know what got into me three years ago,' you finally choked out. 'To give up on us like that. To think you deserved better, that I was broken and you'd be happier without me dragging you down. God, I was so lost, so stupid. How could I ever doubt this? Us?'

Tony's expression softened into something achingly tender. He guided you back to the sofa, pulling you into his lap as he rocked you gently, murmuring reassurances against your temple. 'Shh, it's okay. We're past that now. You didn't give up—we fought through it together. You're my everything, you know that.' He kissed your forehead, your eyelids, letting the silence wrap around you until your breathing evened out.

Once the storm had passed, he tilted your chin up, searching your face. 'But why now? We agreed not to dredge it up again, to let it stay in the past where it belongs. What brought this on?'

You reached for the side table, fingers trembling as you picked up the small white stick you'd been clutching earlier. Handing it to him, you watched his eyes widen at the two pink lines staring back. 'This,' you said softly. 'It's positive. We're... we're having another baby.'