Forced To Let My Rival Touch Me Every Day

The pain wasn't new. A dull ache, a sharp reminder—it was the constant, unwelcome companion to the arc reactor embedded in his chest. But this was different. This was a vicious, sharp agony that pulsed in time with the sickly green light flickering beneath his t-shirt. It felt like something was clawing its way out from the inside.

"Run the diagnostic again, FRIDAY," Tony ordered, his voice tight. He leaned heavily against a workbench in his lab, sweat beading on his forehead.

"I have run it seventeen times, Boss," the AI's voice replied, calm and unbothered by his panic. "The results are unchanged. The energy signature corrupting the reactor's palladium core is not based in any known science. The patterns are chaotic, yet deliberate. They are, for lack of a better term, magical."

Tony slammed a fist on the table, ignoring the way the impact jarred his entire body and sent another spike of pain through his sternum. "Magic isn't real." He said it like a mantra, a truth he had built his entire life upon.

"All available data suggests otherwise," FRIDAY countered. "There is only one consultant on Earth with the appropriate expertise to analyze and counteract this type of energy."

Tony squeezed his eyes shut. He knew who she meant. The self-important, ridiculously-named sorcerer with the sentient cape and the permanent look of condescension. "No. Absolutely not."

"The parasitic energy drain is accelerating," FRIDAY stated, her tone shifting almost imperceptibly into something more urgent. "At its current rate of decay, the reactor will fail in approximately seventy-two hours, resulting in catastrophic cardiac arrest."

The choice was no longer a choice.

An hour later, Tony stood in the grand, dusty foyer of the Sanctum Sanctorum, the air thick with the scent of old paper and sandalwood. Stephen Strange descended the grand staircase, not with a dramatic flourish, but with the measured, almost weary steps of a man burdened by knowledge. His eyes, sharp and intelligent, took in Tony’s disheveled state, the slight sheen of sweat on his skin, and the hand pressed unconsciously against his own chest.

"Stark," Strange said, his voice a low baritone that filled the cavernous space. "To what do I owe the unpleasantness?"

"Cut the crap, Strange," Tony bit out, striding forward. "My AI tells me I've got a case of the wicked witch's curse, and you're the only wizard in the phonebook. Fix it."

A flicker of something—not quite amusement, but close—crossed Strange’s face. "Demanding. As always." He gestured toward a side room filled with ancient artifacts and one surprisingly modern examination table. "Shirt off. Let's see what you've broken this time."

Reluctantly, Tony stripped off his jacket and t-shirt, the cool air of the Sanctum raising goosebumps on his skin. The arc reactor’s light was no longer a healthy blue but a fluctuating, nauseating green. Strange stepped closer, his gaze intense. He didn't touch him, not yet. He simply held his hands a few inches from Tony’s chest, fingers splayed. Tony could feel a strange warmth emanating from his palms, a subtle pressure against the frantic energy pulsing from the reactor.

Strange’s expression grew grim. "This isn't a simple curse, Stark. It's a parasitic spell. It's woven itself into the very matrix of your device. It's feeding on it. And on you. If we don't remove it, it will kill you."

"Great, so you can fix it," Tony said, relief making his voice sharp. He reached for his shirt, ready to put this whole humiliating episode behind him.

Stephen’s expression didn't soften. "It's not that simple. The spell has rooted itself deep inside the reactor's palladium casing. It’s like a magical cancer, and I’m the only surgeon who can perform the operation. Tearing it out all at once would create a power vacuum so violent it would stop your heart instantly."

The casual way he said it sent a chill down Tony’s spine that had nothing to do with being shirtless. "So what's the plan, Doc? A magical chemo regimen?" The sarcasm was a thin shield, and he knew it.

"Something like that," Stephen replied, finally dropping his hands and turning away to study a bookshelf laden with leather-bound tomes. "I'll need to siphon the energy out, bit by bit. Untangle it from your technology without disrupting the reactor’s primary function. It will require precision, concentration, and… time." He turned back, his gaze pinning Tony in place. "You'll need to come here. Every day. Until it's gone."

Every day. The words echoed in the cavernous room. Every day, he would have to come to this dusty mausoleum and put his life, the very thing that kept the shrapnel from piercing his heart, into the hands of this arrogant wizard. The loss of control was a physical sensation, a tightening in his gut.

"No," Tony said flatly. "No way. I'm not just going to lie here while you do your hocus pocus. If you're going to be tinkering with my life support, I'm going to be monitoring every single variable."

A condescending smile touched Stephen’s lips. "You want to run diagnostics on the fabric of reality, Stark?"

"I want to make sure you don't accidentally turn my sternum into a toad," Tony shot back, his voice rising. "I'm bringing my equipment. A portable workshop. You do your thing, I'll have FRIDAY running real-time analysis on every energy fluctuation. My tech, your magic. That's the deal. Take it or leave it."

For a long moment, Stephen just stared at him, his eyes seeming to weigh Tony's soul. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken challenges. Tony refused to look away, refused to show the fear that was coiling in his stomach. Finally, Stephen gave a slow, deliberate nod. "Fine. If your toys will keep you from panicking and making my job harder, bring them. We'll start tomorrow. Be here at nine."

The next morning, a corner of the Sanctum's main library was transformed. Gleaming Stark-tech cases sat open on a thousand-year-old table, their contents spilling out in a mess of wires, micro-sensors, and portable power cells. A holographic display of the arc reactor’s schematics shimmered in the air, its cool blue light casting strange shadows on the ancient, gilded spines of spellbooks. Stephen watched, arms crossed, as Tony meticulously set up his diagnostic array, the quiet clicks of his tools an alien sound in the hallowed silence of the library. They didn't speak. They didn't need to. A tense, unwilling partnership had been forged, a fragile bridge between two worlds that both men were now forced to cross.

"Alright, Merlin, let's get this over with," Tony said, his voice echoing slightly in the vast room. He lay flat on the examination table, arms stiff at his sides, the cold leather a stark contrast to the nervous heat building under his skin. He stared up at the vaulted ceiling, at anything but the man standing over him.

Stephen ignored the jab, his expression one of pure, unnerving focus. He raised his hands, positioning them a few inches above Tony’s chest, directly over the sickly green glow of the arc reactor. "Try to remain still," he instructed, his tone clipped and professional. "And quiet, if at all possible."

"Quiet's not really my brand," Tony shot back, but his words were undercut by the sharp intake of breath he couldn't suppress. A strange warmth, like putting your hand near a hot stove, began to radiate from Stephen's palms. It wasn't unpleasant, but it was deeply unsettling. "So, what's the magic word? Abracadabra? Please tell me it's not something lame."

Golden light, intricate and complex as a circuit board, began to weave between Stephen's fingers. The air grew heavy, charged with an energy that made the hairs on Tony's arms stand up. The warmth intensified, sinking past his skin, past muscle and bone, until it felt like it was touching the reactor itself. Tony’s heart hammered against his ribs. He could feel a gentle, insistent pulling sensation deep in his chest, like a hook carefully trying to snag something.

"FRIDAY, you getting this?" he asked, his voice a little strained.

"I am tracking a significant energy transfer, Boss. The foreign signature is being isolated and… drawn out. Dr. Strange’s energy output is stable but highly complex."

Stephen’s eyes were narrowed in concentration, a fine sheen of sweat on his brow. He was utterly silent, his entire being poured into the delicate task. He could see the parasitic spell, a writhing knot of green-black energy clinging to the palladium core like a leech. He was impressed, despite himself, at the reactor's design. It was a masterpiece of engineering, a perfect fusion of power and life support. To see it so corrupted felt like a personal offense.

The pulling sensation intensified, and a sharp pain lanced through Tony’s chest. He grunted, his fingers clenching into fists at his sides. "Little warning next time, Strange."

"I told you to be quiet," Stephen murmured, his voice tight with strain. He shifted his hands slightly, the golden light flaring brighter, and the pain subsided into a dull throb. He maintained the energy flow for several more minutes, the silence in the room broken only by the hum of Tony’s equipment and their shared breathing.

Finally, with a slow exhale, Stephen dropped his hands. The golden light vanished, and the intense pressure on Tony’s chest lifted. He sat up slowly, feeling drained and strangely hollow. The sharp, clawing agony was gone, replaced by a familiar, manageable ache. He looked at the holographic display. The green contamination had receded, but only by a fraction. It was still there, a toxic stain on his lifeline.

Stephen wiped his brow with the back of his hand, looking exhausted but steady. "That's all for today. Any more would risk destabilizing the core."

Tony looked from the grim data on his screen to the sorcerer standing a few feet away. The relief was temporary. The problem remained. They both knew it. This awkward, invasive, and terrifyingly intimate procedure was just the beginning.

"Same time tomorrow?" Tony asked, his attempt at a casual tone falling flat.

Stephen simply nodded, his gaze unwavering. "Same time tomorrow."