Avengers x Reader One Shots

Together ✨ Tony Stark x Stark!Reader

CW: teen pregnancy, abusive behavior

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You sit there on your bed on the sweltering July day, crying. Your phone lay discarded a couple inches away as you held the stick that had just decided your whole future.

Two lines. Two lines that just proves how much you had fucked up. Two lines pointing to the fact that your future would never be what it was, not anymore. Two lines that thrust you into the deep end.

And that was how your dad found you, sitting there with tears running down your face. Thankfully, today was a Saturday, so you had had time alone. You usually got up at noon, but today you had woken up at six, running to the bathroom to puke. No one but your father was up when you got a Sprite and some crackers, and he was buried in his lab, so no one knew you were sick.

Unable to go back to sleep, you watched (tv show) for a while, with intervals of running to the bathroom to throw up between. The Sprite helped a little, but not a lot.

Eventually, you had figured it out. The missed period (which you had put down to stress), the increased tears and emotionalism, the throwing up, all of it pointed to one thing.
Now, your fear has been confirmed, with two little lines. Pregnant.

Even after knowing you weren't on the pill, as a result of your father's strict measures, you and your boyfriend—or rather, ex-boyfriend now—decided to use a condom.

As it turns out, the rate of success as a contraceptive is 82%, meaning that 18 women out of 100 get pregnant yearly—a figure you hadn't had the foresight to look up. Apparently, you are in the lucky 18. You pity the poor other 17. At least they probably aren't in highschool though.

Unfortunately, when you called to tell him, your now-ex was nowhere near as understanding as you hoped.

He had screamed at you, blaming you and calling you a slut. You just sat there, tears streaming silently down your face as you took his verbal abuse.

A couple times, a rebuttal did come, but it died on your lips. Maybe it is all my fault.

It takes two to tango. The conflicting thoughts ran through your head, an angel and a devil. The angel pointing out that your ex was a part of this just as much as you were, and the devil heaping blame to add to the stream you were already getting. Or maybe they were switched up, at this point you couldn't tell anymore.
So you say there, crying noiselessly, having eventually hung up at some point, cutting off your ex's tirade. You were to tired, confused, and stressed to deal with this, and if he had already broken up with you then there was no reason to keep listening.

You threw the nearest projectile—in this case, the remote for the tv—across the room, it landing on the carpet with a thud. Too tired to get it, you're thankful that you have J.A.R.V.I.S. to help you. Not that you are watching the tv at this point; you had turned it off when you called your now-ex.

Unbeknownst to you, your father was passing by when he heard the noise. Surprised that you were, up, he slowly opened the door.
You were so zoned out, lost in your own mind, you didn't even notice as he walked in and took it all in—the phone laying on the far corner of the bed from you, a trash can filled with throw-up and sprite on the nightstand, the remote by his feet, and the (y/n) sitting criss-cross-applesauce on the bed, head in one hand and the other holding something shielded by her hair.