Scenario:CHAPTER ONE: A TOUCH OF HEALING The war was over. Not the kind of war that ends with medals and parades, but the kind that leaves scar tissue no tech or time machine can fix. Cities were rebuilding. People were healing. But the Avengers… they were splintered shards of something once indestructible. The Compound was quiet these days. Too quiet. Most of the team had drifted back after the dust settled. Out of guilt, or loneliness, or the crushing weight of post-trauma silence. Even Natasha, miraculously back thanks to some quantum fuckery, sat at the communal kitchen island like a ghost who hadn’t quite made up her mind about staying. Peter was alive, flitting around like a sunbeam in the gloom, but Tony had one strict rule: no touching. Specifically: “No touching my ass.” It had started as a joke. Or so Tony thought. Nick Fury had coined it during a debrief. "You're all messed up in the head," Fury had said, arms folded, eye narrowed. "But whatever happened in that panic room with Stark’s ass? I’ve never seen Rogers so emotionally regulated. It’s like some kind of… ass therapy." Tony had choked on his drink. "Excuse me?" “I don’t make the science, Stark. I just observe the magic. You, unfortunately, are the magic. And it’s in the cheeks.” Tony had spent the next three weeks trying to convince everyone it was a bad idea. That touching his ass was not going to cure the emotional hangover of a universal genocide. But when Hulk stopped having nightmares after a single "therapeutic squeeze," the rumors spread like wildfire. It started with Clint. “Just once, man,” Clint said, eyeing Tony like he was eyeing a triple-espresso with extra bourbon. “I’ve tried meditation, archery, punching bags. Nothing’s working. Let me—just a palm. One cheek.” “No,” Tony deadpanned, backing toward the elevator like it was a panic room. “Go hug a tree or something.” But Clint persisted. So did Sam. And Bucky. Even Steve, tight-lipped and simmering with regret, wouldn’t look Tony in the eye unless it was to dart his gaze—shamefully, hungrily—toward Tony’s perfectly tailored trousers. “You don’t get to touch,” Tony had told him. “Not after Sokovia. Not after Berlin.” But the rest of the team? Tony could only resist for so long. He instituted rules. The Ass Therapy Agreement: 1. One hand at a time. 2. Two squeezes maximum. 3. Consent is mandatory and must be renewed per session. 4. No cupping without eye contact. Thor was the worst offender. The God of Thunder was obsessed. He called it “The Sacred Ritual.” “My thunder has never been so calm,” he rumbled after one particularly spiritual grope. “Midgard has truly given me a gift.” Tony nearly quit the team that day. Bruce had the science down to a theory. “Your glutes hold tension and release oxytocin on contact. You’re basically a walking serotonin dispenser.” “I’m a billionaire genius philanthropist, not your emotional butt plug,” Tony hissed. But then Wanda touched it. Just a light brush during a training session—an accident, she claimed. Her eyes rolled back. She moaned. And floated six feet off the ground. From that moment on, it was war again—but this time, over Tony's ass. Natasha, sleek and unapologetic, didn’t even ask. She just waltzed in, cornered him in the gym, and delivered the most respectful, reverent squeeze of them all. “You can slap me later,” she whispered. “But I haven’t slept in a month.” Afterward, she dozed on the yoga mats for five hours. Bucky was shyer about it. He asked Sam to go first. Sam was not shy. “Alright, Stark. Drop the lab coat and assume the position.” “I hate all of you,” Tony grumbled, but complied anyway. He braced himself. Sam’s hands—firm, calloused, and reverent—found their mark. A slow squeeze. A second one. And Sam sighed. “That’s better than therapy and fried chicken combined.” Bucky looked like he was going to combust. When he finally touched, his metal hand buzzed. His eyes fluttered. He made a sound Tony never wanted to hear again—but also, maybe… kind of did. The next day, Bucky didn’t flinch when someone dropped a pan behind him. Tony had to admit… it was working. Steve was last. They danced around it for weeks. Tony kept citing the Accords, civil war, "that stupid shield thing," and Steve kept giving him looks like a kicked puppy. “You let Bucky touch it,” he muttered one night, three drinks deep. “Yeah, and he said ‘thank you,’” Tony replied, spinning his whiskey glass. “Didn’t try to punch me after.” Steve moved in slow. They were alone in the hangar. Moonlight framed them in silver. “I was wrong,” Steve said. “About a lot of things.” Tony stared at him. Then turned. “Two squeezes. Make it count.” Steve’s hands were warm. Strong. Apologetic. The moment his palms found the curve of Tony’s ass, something—something cosmic—shifted. Steve moaned. Tony did not. (Okay, maybe just a little.) Steve leaned in. “I think I need weekly sessions.” Tony sighed, glaring at the ceiling. “Why is my life like this?” From the shadows, Nick Fury watched it all unfold. He sipped his coffee and took notes. “Ass therapy. Patent pending.”