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Summary: When Hank Palmer returns to his hometown for the summer, you’re home from college too—no longer a kid, no longer easy to ignore. What starts as harmless teasing turns into lingering looks and late-night conversations that feel too intimate. He’s your dad’s best friend. There’s an age gap. There are lines you shouldn’t cross. But the tension keeps building, and neither of you can pretend it isn’t there.
Warning/Rating: 18+; age-gap romance, dad’s best friend trope, slow-burn tension, emotional angst, divorce themes, power imbalance, small-town setting, lingering sexual tension, future smut
Word Count: 3.1 K
The Christmas tree in the living room looked the same as it had every year - white lights, red and gold ornaments, the angel on top that your dad had to use a ladder to place. But this year, you felt like you were watching it all from behind glass. Present but not really there.
You'd been home for a week now. Finals were over. The semester was behind you. And you were fifteen weeks pregnant with a small but undeniable bump that no amount of loose sweaters could hide anymore.
Your mom found you standing in front of the tree on a Tuesday morning, your hand resting on your belly - a habit you'd developed without realizing it.
"Sweetheart," she said softly. "You've been staring at that tree for ten minutes."
"Have I?" You blinked, pulling yourself back to the present.
She came to stand beside you, her arm sliding around your shoulders. "I know this isn't the Christmas you imagined."
"No." Your voice came out flat. "It's not."
"But it's still Christmas. And you're still here. And…" She placed her hand over yours on your belly. "This baby is still coming, whether we're ready or not."
You felt your throat tighten. "I don't know if I'll ever be ready."
"No one ever is." She squeezed your shoulder. "But we can start preparing. We can make this real in a good way, not just something you're dreading."
You looked at her. "What do you mean?"
"I mean -" She smiled gently. "Let's go shopping. Let's look at baby things. Let's start building something instead of just waiting for it to happen."
An hour later, you were walking down Main Street with your mother, the December cold biting at your cheeks. The downtown was decorated for Christmas - garlands wrapped around lampposts, wreaths on every door, white lights strung across the street.
"I haven't been downtown in months," you said, pulling your coat tighter. The coat didn't quite close over your bump anymore.
"I know. You've been hiding." Your mom’s voice was gentle but firm. "And I understand why. But you can't hide forever."
You wanted to argue, but she was right. You'd been hiding since August. Hiding from your parents, from Hank, from the reality of what was happening inside your body.
"There." Your mom pointed ahead. "Baby Bliss. Let's start there."
The store was small and warm, painted in soft pastels. Through the window, you could see displays of tiny clothes, cribs, strollers, everything you'd need and hadn't let yourself think about.
"I don't know the gender yet," you said, hesitating at the door.
"Then we'll look at gender-neutral things. Yellows, greens, whites." She took your hand. "Come on. Just looking."
Inside, the store smelled like lavender and new fabric. Your mother immediately gravitated toward a display of onesies - soft cotton in pale green and butter yellow, with little animals embroidered on the front.
"Oh, look at this one." She held up a yellow onesie with a tiny elephant. "Isn't it precious?"
You touched the fabric, impossibly soft. "It's so small."
"Newborns are small." Your mom smiled. "You were barely six pounds. Fit in your father's hands."
The image made your chest ache. You tried to picture Hank holding a baby - his baby - and couldn't. He didn't even know this baby existed.
"Are you going to find out?" your mom asked, moving to a display of blankets. "The gender?"
"I don't know yet." You followed her, running your hand over a soft white blanket with yellow stars. "Does it matter?"
"Not to me. But some people like to know. Like to plan." She picked up a green sleeper with little ducks on the feet. "Your father wants to paint the nursery. He's been researching cribs."
"He has?" The thought of your father - who'd been so angry, so hurt - researching baby furniture made your throat tight.
"He's excited." Your mom’s eyes were soft. "We both are. I know this isn't how we imagined it happening, but you're our daughter. And this is our grandchild. We're going to love this baby so much."
You felt tears prick your eyes. "I'm scared."
"I know, sweetheart. But you're not alone." She pulled you into a hug. "We're going to do this together."
Twenty minutes later, you were standing outside the store with a small bag of purchases - three onesies, a soft blanket, a pair of tiny socks that made your mom tear up. The winter sun was bright, the air crisp and cold.
You stood in front of the window display, your hand on your belly again, looking at a white crib with a mobile of stars and moons hanging above it.
"That's beautiful," your mom said, following your gaze.
"It is." You could almost picture it - a nursery, a crib, a baby sleeping peacefully. For the first time in weeks, the future didn't feel quite so terrifying.
Then you heard footsteps behind you. Fast, urgent.
Hank sat in the back seat of his brother Glen's car, only half-listening to the conversation happening around him. Glen was driving, Warren in the passenger seat, both of them talking about the restaurant they were headed to for lunch.
"You even listening?" Warren turned around to look at him.
"Yeah. Restaurant. Lunch." Hank forced himself to focus. "Sounds good."
"You've been like this since you got here," Glen said, glancing at him in the rearview mirror. "Distracted. What's going on?"
"Nothing. Just work stuff."
"It's Christmas break. There is no work stuff." Warren studied him. "This about Lauren?"
"No." Lauren was doing good. "Just tired."
Glen turned onto Main Street, driving slowly through the downtown traffic. Christmas shoppers crowded the sidewalks, carrying bags, bundled in coats.
Hank looked out the window without really seeing anything.
Until he did.
His brain registered it in pieces: a woman standing outside Baby Bliss. Dark hair. Familiar profile. Hand on her belly.
His heart stopped.
"Stop the car."
"What?" Glen glanced back at him.
"Stop the fucking car." Hank was already reaching for the door handle.
"Hank, what -"
But he was out before Glen could finish, the car barely pulled over, horns honking behind them. He didn't care. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.
She was pregnant.
She was standing outside a baby store with her mother, visibly pregnant, her hand on a small but undeniable bump.
And he'd had no idea.
His feet carried him across the street before his brain caught up.
You spun around at the sound of his voice, and the world tilted.
Hank stood five feet away, his face pale, his eyes locked on your belly like he'd been struck. After four months of silence, after walking away without fighting, after leaving you alone with this - it was him.
The shopping bag slipped from your fingers.
"What are you -" You couldn't finish. Couldn't breathe. The sight of him after all this time, after everything, made your chest feel like it was caving in.
"You're pregnant." His voice was hoarse, disbelieving. His eyes hadn't left your belly - the small but undeniable curve visible even under your winter coat. "How far along?"
The question detonated something inside you.
"How far along?" Your voice came out sharp and loud enough that people nearby turned to look. "That's what you want to know? That's the first thing you say to me?"
"I -" He looked up at your face finally, and whatever he saw there made him take a step back. "I didn't know. I had no idea."
"Of course you didn't know!" You were shaking now, fury rising like a tidal wave. "Because you walked away! You left me standing on that dock and you never looked back!"
"That's not -" He ran his hand through his hair, his own voice rising. "That's not fair. Your father -"
"My father what?" You stepped toward him, your hands clenched into fists. "My father told you to leave and you just did? Without a fight? Without even trying?"
"Sweetheart…" Your mother's hand found your arm, but you shook her off.
"Don't." You kept your eyes on Hank. "Don't you dare make this about him. You made a choice. You chose his friendship over me."
"I was trying to do the right thing!" Hank's voice cracked. "I was trying to -"
"The right thing?" You laughed, and it came out bitter and broken. "The right thing would have been to fight for me! The right thing would have been to tell my dad that you loved me and you weren't going to just disappear!"
"I do love you -"
"You don't get to say that!" Your voice was loud enough now that a small crowd was forming, people stopping on the sidewalk to watch. You didn't care. "You don't get to say you love me when you walked away without a word! When you left me alone for four months!"
"I thought…" He looked desperate now, his hands reaching toward you before dropping. "I thought it was what you needed. Space. Time to -"
"What I needed?" The word came out like a scream. "I needed you! I needed you to be there when I found out I was pregnant and terrified and completely alone!"
His face went white. "When did you find out?"
"September." The admission felt like ripping open a wound. "Late September. I've known for almost three months."
"Three months." He looked like he might be sick. "You've known for three months and you didn't tell me?"
The accusation in his voice made you want to hit him.
"I tried to tell you!" Your voice broke. "I called you! Multiple times! But you blocked my number, so -"
"I didn't block you." He pulled out his phone, his hands shaking. "I never… I wouldn't do that."
"Don't you dare lie to me." You were crying now, hot angry tears streaming down your face. "I called you three times three weeks ago. It went straight to voicemail. No ringing. Nothing. You blocked me."
"I didn't!" He was scrolling frantically through his phone. "I swear to God, I didn't block you. I would never."
"Then why didn't it ring?" You were shouting now, and more people had stopped to watch. Your mother was trying to pull you away but you wouldn't move. "Why couldn't I reach you? Why have you been completely unreachable for four months?"
"I don't know!" He looked genuinely panicked. "I was in meetings - the merger meeting that week, my phone was off for six hours."
"So you're saying it was just a coincidence?" The word came out like poison. "That the one time I finally worked up the courage to tell you I'm pregnant with your child, you just happened to have your phone off?"
"Yes!" He stepped closer, his voice desperate. "Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying! I didn't know you were trying to reach me. I've been checking my phone every single day hoping you'd -"
"Well, I did reach out!" You shoved him, both hands against his chest, and he stumbled back. "I tried! And when I couldn't get through, when I thought you'd blocked me, I realized you'd made your choice! You'd chosen to erase me completely!"
"I didn't!" His voice was rough now, angry. "I didn't erase you. I've thought about you every single day. I've been -"
"Oh, you've been thinking about me?" You laughed again, harsh and broken. "How nice for you. While you've been thinking about me, I've been throwing up every morning. I've been lying to everyone. I've been going to doctor's appointments alone. I've been carrying your child and wondering if you even remember my name!"
"Of course I remember -" He reached for you and you jerked away.
"Don't touch me."
"Please." His voice cracked. "Please, just let me explain."
"Explain what?" You were shaking so hard you could barely stand. "Explain how you walked away without fighting? Explain how you chose the easy path? Explain how you've been in Chicago living your life while I've been here dealing with this alone?"
"I haven't been living my life!" He was shouting now too, his composure finally cracking. "I've been barely functioning! I've been - Christ, I've been in hell since August!"
"Good!" The word came out vicious. "Good! Now you know how I felt!"
"Sweetheart, please." Your mother was pulling at your arm now, her voice urgent. "People are staring. Let's go home and -"
"I don't care if people are staring!" You spun to face her, then back to Hank. "Let them stare! Let them see what he did!"
"What I did?" Hank's voice was rising again, defensive. "What about what your father did? What about the fact that he threatened me? That he told me to leave and never contact you again?"
"And you just listened!" You were screaming now, your voice breaking. "You just did what he said! Like I didn't matter! Like what we had didn't matter!"
"You did matter!" He was close enough now that you could see the tears in his eyes. "You mattered more than anything! That's why I left! Because I thought -"
"You thought what?" You shoved him again, harder this time. "You thought abandoning me was protecting me? You thought leaving me alone and pregnant was the right thing?"
"I didn't know you were pregnant!" His voice was raw now, desperate. "If I'd known…"
"If you'd known, what?" You were in his face now, your voice dropping to something cold and vicious. "You would have stayed? You would have fought? Or would you have just found another excuse to walk away?"
He flinched like you'd slapped him. "That's not fair."
"Fair?" You laughed, and it came out broken. "You want to talk about fair? Is it fair that I've been dealing with this alone? Is it fair that I thought you'd blocked me? Is it fair that I'm sixteen weeks pregnant and the father of my child is a coward who chose to walk away over me?"
"I'm not a coward."
"Yes, you are!" You were crying so hard now you could barely see. "You're a coward! You walked away without fighting! You left me alone! You -" Your voice broke completely. "You said you loved me and then you just left."
The words hung in the cold air between you, and for a moment, everything was silent except for your ragged breathing and the murmur of the crowd that had gathered.
Hank's face was pale, his eyes red. "I do love you," he said quietly. "I never stopped loving you."
"Then you should have fought for me." Your voice came out flat, empty. "You should have told my dad to go to hell. You should have called me. You should have." You stopped, wiping at your face with shaking hands. "You should have done literally anything except walk away."
"I know." His voice was barely a whisper. "I know that now. And I'm - I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."
"Sorry doesn't fix this." You looked at him, at the devastation in his eyes, and felt nothing but exhaustion. "Sorry doesn't change the fact that I've been alone for three months. Sorry doesn't change the fact that you chose the easy path."
"Please." He reached for you again and you stepped back. "Please, just - let me be here now. Let me be part of this. I want to."
"What you want doesn't matter anymore." Your voice was cold now, final. "You made your choice in August. You don't get to change your mind just because you saw me on the street."
"That's not -" He looked desperate now, his hands shaking. "That's not what this is. I've been trying to figure out how to reach out to you. I've been -"
"For four months?" You cut him off. "You've been trying for four months and you couldn't figure it out? You couldn't send a text? An email? You couldn't drive down here and knock on my door?"
"I thought you hated me." His voice broke. "I thought -"
"I did hate you." The admission felt like ripping out your own heart. "I do hate you. But I also…" You stopped, your hand moving to your belly. "I also have to think about this baby. And I don't know if I can trust you to be here. I don't know if I can trust you not to walk away again."
"I won't." He stepped closer, his voice urgent. "I swear to God, I won't walk away again. Just - please. Let me prove it."
"No." The word came out firm, final. Your mother's arm was around your shoulders now, pulling you away. "No. I can't - I can't do this right now."
"Please." He was following you now, his voice desperate. "Please, just - can I call you? Can we talk about this?"
"I don't want to talk to you." You turned to face him one last time, and the look on your face made him stop in his tracks. "I don't want to see you. I don't want to hear from you. I need - I need time to figure out what I'm going to do. And I need to do it without you."
"But the baby -" His voice cracked. "That's my child. I have a right."
"You have a right?" The words came out like a slap. "You gave up your rights when you walked away. You gave them up when you left me alone for four months."
"That's not -" He looked like he was drowning. "That's not how this works. I'm the father. I have -"
"You're a sperm donor." The words were cruel and you meant them to be. "That's all you are right now. And if you want to be anything more than that, you're going to have to prove it. And I don't know if you can."
His face crumpled. "Please. Please don't do this."
"I'm not doing anything." Your voice was empty now, all the anger burned out. "You did this. You made this choice. Now you have to live with it."
Your mom was pulling you away now, guiding you down the street toward where you'd parked. You let her, your legs moving automatically.
Behind you, you could hear Hank calling your name, his voice breaking. You didn't turn around.
"Sweetheart," your mom said quietly as you reached the car. "Are you -"
"I'm fine." You weren't fine. You were shaking so hard you could barely stand. But you got in the car anyway, your hands gripping the door handle.
Through the window, you could see Hank still standing in the middle of the sidewalk, surrounded by staring strangers, his face pale and devastated.
He looked destroyed.
Good.
Let him feel what you'd felt. Let him know what it was like to be abandoned. Let him understand what he'd done.
Your mom started the car and pulled away from the curb, and you watched Hank disappear in the rearview mirror.
And for the first time in three months, you felt something other than sadness.
You felt powerful.
You felt strong.
You felt like maybe you were going to survive this after all.
Summary: When Hank Palmer returns to his hometown for the summer, you’re home from college too—no longer a kid, no longer easy to ignore. What starts as harmless teasing turns into lingering looks and late-night conversations that feel too intimate. He’s your dad’s best friend. There’s an age gap. There are lines you shouldn’t cross. But the tension keeps building, and neither of you can pretend it isn’t there.
Warning/Rating: 18+; age-gap romance, dad’s best friend trope, slow-burn tension, emotional angst, divorce themes, power imbalance, small-town setting, lingering sexual tension, future smut
Word Count: 1.1 K
The anger carried you through finals week, through the last papers and presentations of the semester. But by mid-December, as campus emptied for winter break and your dorm room grew quiet, the fury began to crack around the edges.
You stood in front of the mirror in your room, your shirt pulled up, examining the undeniable curve of your belly. Thirteen weeks. Almost fourteen. The bump was small but present - no longer something you could attribute to bloating or too much pasta. This was real. This was a baby.
This was Hank's baby.
And he didn't know.
"You can't hide this forever," you said to your reflection. To the baby. To yourself.
Chelsea was packing for her flight home to Boston, folding sweaters into her suitcase with practiced efficiency. She glanced up at you. "You're thinking about telling him."
It wasn't a question.
"I have to." You dropped your shirt, turning away from the mirror. "I can't… I can't make this decision alone. He has a right to know."
"Do you want him to know? Or do you think you should tell him?"
"Both. Neither. I don't know." You sat on your bed, pulling your knees up carefully. "I'm so angry at him, Chels. I'm furious. But he's still the father. And I keep thinking - what if I don't tell him and the baby asks about him someday? What do I say? That I never gave him the chance?"
Chelsea set down the sweater she was holding. "Okay. So you tell him. How?"
"I don't know. Text feels wrong. Email feels worse." You picked at the edge of your comforter. "I think I need to call him. Hear his voice. Let him hear mine when I say it."
"And if he doesn't answer?"
"Then at least I tried."
Chelsea studied you for a long moment. "You're scared he won't care."
"I'm terrified he won't care." Your voice came out small. "That he'll just confirm that I was never worth fighting for. That this baby isn't either."
"Then he's an asshole and you raise this baby with people who do care. Your parents. Me. Everyone who actually shows up." She came to sit beside you. "But you won't know until you try."
You pulled out your phone, staring at Hank's contact. The last text was from August. I'm sorry. I wish things were different.
"Not today," Chelsea said gently. "You're not ready today. But soon."
Hank sat in the conference room on the forty-seventh floor of the high-rise, staring at the merger documents spread across the table without really seeing them. His phone was in his briefcase, powered off per firm policy during client meetings. The meeting had been going for two hours already, and his mind kept drifting.
December. Four months since the lake house. Four months since he'd walked away from the only good thing he'd had in years.
He wondered what she was doing. If she was home for winter break or still at school. If she was seeing someone new - someone age-appropriate, someone who wouldn't destroy her family.
If she ever thought about him.
"Hank?" His partner's voice cut through his thoughts. "Your thoughts on the liability clause?"
He forced himself to focus, to engage, to pretend he was present.
But his mind kept circling back to her. It always did.
Three days later, you were alone in your dorm room. Chelsea had left for Boston that morning. The building was nearly empty, most students already gone for break. You were leaving tomorrow, driving home to spend the holidays with your parents.
But first, you needed to do this.
You sat on your bed, phone in hand, staring at Hank's contact. Your thumb hovered over the call button.
He has a right to know.
You can't hide this forever.
Just do it.
You pressed call.
The phone didn't ring. It went straight to voicemail. His voice, recorded months ago, asking you to leave a message.
You hung up without speaking.
Network issue, maybe. You tried again.
Straight to voicemail. No ringing. Just - nothing, and then his voice.
Your heart started to pound.
You tried a third time, your hands shaking now.
Voicemail. Immediate. No rings.
The realization hit you like a physical blow.
He'd blocked you.
Not silence. Not distance. Active rejection. He'd taken steps to ensure you couldn't reach him. To erase you completely from his life.
"No," you whispered. "No, no, no."
You tried again, desperate now, knowing it was pointless but unable to stop.
Voicemail.
Again.
Voicemail.
The phone slipped from your hands onto the bed. You stared at it, at his name on the screen, and felt something inside you shatter.
This was different from the lake house. Different from him walking away. This was intentional. This was him choosing, actively and deliberately, to shut you out.
The anger that had been holding you together - the fury that had felt like armor - cracked wide open.
And underneath it was just devastation.
You curled onto your side, pulling your knees up as much as your belly would allow, and the sobs came from somewhere deep and raw. Not the quiet crying you'd done in September. This was desperate, broken, the sound of something fundamental giving way.
He'd blocked you.
He'd made sure you couldn't reach him even if you tried.
You were carrying his child and he'd blocked your number like you were a telemarketer. Like you were nothing.
The crying turned to gasping, your chest heaving, your whole body shaking with the force of it. You pressed your face into your pillow to muffle the sound, but it didn't matter. There was no one here to hear you fall apart.
The meeting finally ended at four-thirty. Hank gathered his papers, shook hands with the clients, and made his way back to his office. His paralegal had left a stack of messages on his desk - opposing counsel, a client, his ex-wife about the custody schedule.
He powered on his phone, watching it come to life.
No new messages. No missed calls.
He told himself he wasn't disappointed. Told himself he hadn't been hoping.
But late at night, alone in his apartment, he'd pull up her contact and stare at it. Wondering if he should reach out. Wondering if she'd even want to hear from him.
He never pressed call.
He'd forfeited that right when he'd walked away.
He set his phone on his desk and turned to the stack of messages, forcing himself to focus on the work in front of him.
He had no idea that three hundred miles away, she'd just tried to call him four times.
He had no idea she was pregnant.
He had no idea she was falling apart.
He just went back to work, the same as always, while the distance between them grew wider with every passing moment.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Summary: When Hank Palmer returns to his hometown for the summer, you’re home from college too—no longer a kid, no longer easy to ignore. What starts as harmless teasing turns into lingering looks and late-night conversations that feel too intimate. He’s your dad’s best friend. There’s an age gap. There are lines you shouldn’t cross. But the tension keeps building, and neither of you can pretend it isn’t there.
Warning/Rating: 18+; age-gap romance, dad’s best friend trope, slow-burn tension, emotional angst, divorce themes, power imbalance, small-town setting, lingering sexual tension, future smut
Word Count: 1.8 K
The anger came in waves.
Not the sharp, immediate rage of betrayal - that had burned through you weeks ago, leaving ash and exhaustion in its wake. This was different. Slower. Hotter. The kind of anger that built over time, fed by every replayed conversation, every remembered promise, every moment you'd believed him when he said I love you.
It was early December now. Five weeks since that late October weekend when you'd driven home, sat your parents down in the living room, and told them about the pregnancy. Five weeks since you'd watched your father's face cycle through shock and pain and finally, impossibly, acceptance. Five weeks of weekly phone calls and care packages and a concrete plan - graduate in May, move home in June, raise the baby together. Five weeks of building something solid to stand on.
Almost twelve weeks pregnant. You were entering your second trimester, though you weren't showing yet - just bloated and exhausted and nauseous every morning like clockwork.
You sat in your Criminal Justice seminar on a Tuesday afternoon, half-listening to Professor Martinez discuss restorative justice models, and felt the familiar burn of fury settle in your chest.
I love you. God help me, I love you too.
He'd said that. In the barn loft, with candles flickering and his hands in your hair. He'd said it like it was being torn out of him. Like it was the truest thing he'd ever admitted.
And then he'd walked away.
No fight. No argument. Just… okay.
Your pen pressed too hard against your notebook, the ink bleeding through the page.
"The fundamental question," Professor Martinez was saying, "is whether we believe people are capable of change. Whether accountability can coexist with compassion."
You wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or both.
Hank Palmer had chosen the easy path. Had chosen to protect himself—his friendship with your father, his reputation, his comfortable distance from anything that required actual courage. He'd dressed it up as nobility, as doing the right thing, as protecting you.
But you were twenty-two years old, not a child. You'd known exactly what you were doing. You'd chosen him, over and over, despite the risks.
And he'd chosen to leave.
The anger felt like armor. Like something solid you could wear instead of the hollow devastation that had consumed you in September. You weren't falling apart anymore. You were building something - resolve, maybe. Or just rage. Either way, it was better than drowning.
The morning sickness hit at six-thirty AM, same as always.
You made it to the bathroom before the retching started, your body purging what little you'd managed to eat the night before. Chelsea had learned to sleep through it by now, though sometimes you'd emerge to find a glass of water and saltine crackers waiting on your desk.
This morning, she was already awake, sitting cross-legged on her bed with her laptop open.
"You okay?" she asked, not looking up.
"Fine." You rinsed your mouth, splashed cold water on your face. "Just the usual."
"Dr. Patel said it should get better soon, right? Second trimester?"
"I'm basically there now." You grabbed the crackers, forcing yourself to eat one slowly. Your stomach protested but didn't revolt. Small victories.
Chelsea closed her laptop. "You have that look again."
"What look?"
"The one where you're mentally composing an angry letter you'll never send."
You almost smiled. "I'm not writing letters."
"No, you're just replaying every conversation you ever had with him and getting progressively more pissed off." She said it gently, without judgment. "Which, for the record, is totally valid."
You sat on your bed, pulling your knees up carefully. Your jeans still fit, but they were getting snug around the waist. Another few weeks and you'd definitely need to start thinking about maternity clothes.
"He told me he loved me," you said quietly. "Multiple times. He said what we had was real. That he'd never felt this way about anyone."
"I know."
"And then the second it got hard,the second we got caught he just... left. Didn't even try to fight. Just agreed to walk away like I was nothing."
Chelsea was quiet for a moment. Then: "You know what I think?"
"What?"
"I think he's a coward." She said it matter-of-factly, like she was commenting on the weather. "I think he meant it when he said he loved you. I think he probably does love you, in whatever fucked-up way he's capable of. But love without action is just words. And words don't mean shit when someone walks away."
The truth of it settled in your chest, heavy and solid.
"I'm so angry," you admitted. "All the time. I wake up angry. I go to class angry. I think about the baby and I'm angry that Hank doesn't even know, that he's just - living his life in Chicago while I'm here dealing with this alone."
"You're not alone," Chelsea said firmly. "You have me. You have your parents. You have a whole support system."
"I know. But he should be here. He should -" Your voice cracked. "He said he'd fight for us. He said we'd make it work. And then he just... didn't."
Chelsea moved to sit beside you, her shoulder pressing against yours. "You're allowed to be angry. You're allowed to be furious. He fucked up. He said all the right things and then did the exact wrong thing when it mattered."
You leaned your head on her shoulder, feeling the anger and grief twist together in your chest. "I keep thinking about what my dad said. That Hank didn't fight for me. That he chose the easy path."
"Your dad was right."
"I know." You closed your eyes. "And that's what makes me so angry. Because I would have fought. I did fight. I stood there and begged him not to leave and he just walked away. Like I wasn't worth the trouble."
"You are worth the trouble," Chelsea said fiercely. "You are worth fighting for. And if he can't see that, then fuck him."
You almost laughed. "Fuck him."
"Exactly." She squeezed your hand. "Now eat another cracker and get dressed. You have Crim Law in an hour and Professor Reeves doesn't accept 'morning sickness' as an excuse for being late."
Mom: Care package arriving today! Made sure to include the ginger tea you liked.
Mom: How are you feeling, sweetheart?
You stared at the messages, feeling the anger soften slightly around the edges. Your parents had been calling every Sunday evening like clockwork. Your mom sent care packages every other week - prenatal vitamins, healthy snacks, ginger tea for the nausea, books about pregnancy that you weren't ready to read yet.
Your dad sent articles. Research about pregnancy and childbirth and what to expect. Lists of things you'd need. A timeline he'd created showing your due date, graduation, when you'd move home.
They were trying. They were showing up. They were doing what Hank hadn't.
You: Feeling okay. Tired but managing.
You: Thank you for the package. I love you.
Mom: We love you too. So much. Call if you need anything.
You set the phone down and picked at your sandwich, forcing yourself to eat even though your stomach was still unsettled. Across the dining hall, you could see couples everywhere—holding hands, laughing, existing in their uncomplicated relationships without secrets or consequences.
The anger flared again, hot and immediate.
Hank had taken that from you. The possibility of normal. Of easy. Of a relationship that didn't end in devastation and pregnancy and having to rebuild your entire life at twenty-two.
But then, you placed your hand on your stomach, feeling nothing yet but knowing something was there. Growing. Changing. Becoming.
This baby was half yours and half his. This baby was the consequence of every choice you'd both made. And you were going to love it, even if Hank never knew it existed.
The thought should have made you sad. Instead, it just made you angrier.
He didn't get to miss this. He didn't get to walk away and pretend the summer never happened while you carried the physical evidence of it inside your body.
You pulled out your phone again, opening a new note.
Things I need to tell Hank Palmer:
1. I'm pregnant.
2. You're a coward.
3. You said you loved me but you didn't love me enough to fight.
4. Love without action is just words.
5. I'm keeping the baby.
6. I love hate you.
You stared at the list, your heart pounding. You weren't ready to send it. Weren't ready to call him or text him or force this confrontation.
But you would be. Soon.
The anger was building toward something. Toward action. Toward the moment when you'd stop being paralyzed by his abandonment and start demanding he face what he'd done.
That night, Chelsea found you standing in front of the mirror in your dorm room, your shirt pulled up, examining your stomach.
"Anything yet?" she asked.
"Maybe." You turned sideways, studying your reflection carefully. There was a subtle curve there now if you looked closely - not obvious, but present. "I think I can see a tiny bump if I'm looking for it."
"That's good, right? Gives you time."
"Time for what?"
"To figure out what you want to do. About telling people. About—" She hesitated. "About Hank."
You dropped your shirt, the anger flaring again. "I don't know what to do about Hank."
"Do you want to tell him?"
"I don't know." You sat on your bed, pulling your knees up. "Part of me wants him to know. Wants him to have to face what he did. What he walked away from."
"And the other part?"
"The other part is terrified he won't care. That he'll just - keep walking. Keep choosing the easy path." You looked at Chelsea. "What if I tell him and he doesn't want anything to do with us? What if he just... confirms that I was never worth fighting for?"
"Then you'll know," Chelsea said quietly. "And you'll raise this baby with people who do think you're worth fighting for. Your parents. Me. Everyone who actually shows up."
You pressed your hand to your stomach again, feeling the anger and fear and love all tangled together.
"He said he loved me," you whispered. "In the barn. In the lake house. He said it like it was the most important thing he'd ever said."
"I believe he did love you," Chelsea said. "I just don't think he loved you enough. Or maybe he loved himself more. Either way, that's on him. Not you."
The truth of it settled in your bones.
Hank Palmer had loved you. You believed that. But he'd loved his comfort more. His friendship with your father. His ability to walk away and pretend he'd done the noble thing.
He'd loved you, but not enough to fight.
And you were done waiting for him to prove otherwise.
The anger wasn't going away. It was building. Sharpening. Becoming something you could use.
You were almost twelve weeks pregnant with the child of a man who'd walked away. You were twenty-two years old and facing a future you'd never planned for.
But you weren't broken. You weren't falling apart.
You were furious.
And fury, you were learning, was a kind of strength.
Delicious farmer Tony coming home after another hard day, another day of carrying weight and taking care of the farm… reader will take care of her man… help him take a shower, clean his little cuts from all the hard work, massage his sore muscles… he’ll moan at se sensation and his moans will straight to her core, she’ll definitely ride him to help him relax even more and after this they’ll eat takeout “watching” a movie or a tv show… “watching” because they’ll makeout all the time and then go to their bedroom make love again and sleep together ❤️
Tender Love & Care
Pairing: Farmer Tony Stark x F!Reader
Warning/Rating: 18+; explicit, graphic sexual activity (manual/oral stimulation, penetration, orgasm described in detail), unprotected sex, language,
Parts 1/2
Author Note: Oh sweet baby jesus! Second time around was just as hot!
Word Count: 3.9 K
Three days later, you’re in the kitche preparing dinner when you hear the familiar sound of Tony’s truck pulling up the drive. You glance at the clock - it’s later than usual, nearly eight o’clock, and the sun has already set. Your stomach tightens with concern. He’s been pushing himself hard this week, trying to get everything ready before the storm system that’s supposed to roll through this weekend.
When the door opens, your heart clenches at the sight of him.
Tony looked absolutely wrecked. His flannel shirt is torn at the shoulder, streaked with dirt and what looks like blood. There’s a cut above his eyebrow that’s stopped bleeding but left a dark trail down the side of his face. His jeans are filthy, and he’s moving stiffly, like every muscle in his body is screaming. The exhaustion is written in every line of his face, in the way his shoulders slump, in the heaviness of his steps.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, his voice rough and tired. He tries to smile, but it comes out more like a grimace.
You’re across the room in an instant, your hands hovering over him, not sure where to touch without causing pain. “Tony, what happened?”
“Just a long day,” he says, trying to wave it off. “Had some trouble with the fence in the north pasture. One of the posts snapped and I had to -” He winces aas he tries to roll his shoulder. “Had to wrestle with some barbed wire. Nothing serious.”
“Nothing serious?” You gently take his hand, turning it over to reveal several angry scratches across his palm and forearm. “Baby, you’re covered in cuts.”
“I’ve had worse,” he says, but there’s no conviction in it. He’s swaying slightly on his feet, and you realize he’s not just tired - he’s completely spent.
“Come on,” you say softly, taking his hand carefully. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
“I can shower myself,” he protests weakly, but he doesn’t resist as you lead hi mtoward the bathroom.
“I know you can,” you reply, already turning on the water, adjusting the temperature. “But you don’t have to. Let me take care of you.”
Tony looks at you for a long moment, and something in his expression softens. “What did I do to deserve you?”
“You exist,” you say simply, helping him ease out of his torn flannel. He hisses when the fabric pulls away from a particularly nasty scrape on his shoulder. “That’s enough.”
You help him strip down, being careful around his injuries. His body is a roadmap of his day - bruises forming on his ribs, scratches across his chest and arms, dirt ground into every crease and crevice. But even exhausted and battered, he’s still the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. All that muscle and strength, pushed to its limit for the sake of the life you’ve built together.
The shower is large enough for both of you, and you guide him under the spray. He groans as the hot water hits his sore muscles, his head dropping forward, hands braced against the tile.
“That’s it,” you murmur, grabbing the soap and a soft washcloth. “Just relax. I’ve got you.”
You start with his back, gently washing away the grime and sweat. Your touch is tender, careful around the scrapes and forming bruises. You can feel the tension in his muscles, the knots in his shoulders and along his spine. He’s been carrying so much weight, literally and figuratively, and it shows in every tight cord of muscle.
“You work too hard,” you say softly, working the soap across his broad shoulders.
“Someone’s gotta do it,” he replies, but his voice is already losing some of its edge, the hot water and your gentle touch starting to ease him.
“I know. But you don’t have to do it all in one day.” You move to his arms, carefully cleaning the cuts on his forearms. Some of them are deeper than you’d like, and you make a mental note to properly bandage them once you’re out of the shower.
Tony turns to face you, and the look in his eyes makes your breath catch. It’s not desire - not yet - but something deeper. Trust. Love. Gratitude.
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
You reach up to gently clean his face, wiping away the dried blood from the cut above his eyebrow. “You never have to thank me for taking care of you.”
You wash his chest, his abs, being extra gentle around a particularly nasty bruise on his ribs. “What happened here?”
“Kicked by a cow,” he admits sheepishly. “Wasn’t paying attention.”
“Tony,” you sigh, but there’s not anger in it. Just concern and affection.
You finish washing him, taking your time, making sure every inch of his is clean. By the time you’re done, some of the tension has left his body, and he’s looking at you with soft eyes.
“My turn,” he says, reaching for the soap.
“You don’t have to -”
“I want to,” he insists, and despite his exhaustion, there’s a firmness in his voice that makes you smile.
You let him wash you, his large hands gentle despite their roughness. It's intimate and tender, and by the time you're both clean, the bathroom is filled with steam and something else - a quiet kind of love that doesn't need words.
After the shower, you wrap Tony in a towel and make him sit on the closed toilet lid while you gather your first aid supplies. He watches you move around the bathroom, and there’s something in his gaze that makes your skin warm.
“Stop looking at me like that,” you say, but you’re smiling.
“Like what?”
“Like you want to eat me.”
“Can’t help it,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “You’re taking care of me. It’s sexy.”
You laugh, kneeling in front of him with the first aid kit. “Hold still. Let me look at these cuts.”
You start with his hands, cleaning each scratch and scrape with antiseptic. He hisses at the sting, and you blow gently on the wounds to ease the burn. His fingers are calloused and strong, and you take your time with each one, making sure they’re properly cleaned.
“You have good hands,” you murmur, bandaging a particularly deep cut on his palm. “Strong hands. I love these hands.”
Tony’s breath hitches slightly, and when you glance up, his eyes are darker. “Yeah?”
“Yah.” You move to his forearms, repeating the process. “I love watching them work. I love how gentle they can be despite all this strength.”
You work in comfortable silence, cleaning and bandaging each injury. The cut above his eyesbrow requires a butterfly bandage, and you’re extra careful as you apply it, your face close to his. You can feel his breath on your cheek, warm and steady.
“There,” you say softly, smoothing the bandage down. “All patched up.”
“Not quite,” Tony sais, gesturing to his shoulder. “Still got this one.”
The scrape on his shoulder is nasty - raw and angry looking. You clean it carefully, and Tony’s jaw clenches against the pain, but he doesn’t make a sound.
“You’re so tough,” you murmur, applying antibiotic ointment. “So strong. But you don’t always have to be, you know. Not with me.”
His hand comes up to cup your cheek. “I know.”
Once all his wounds are tended to, you stand and offer him your hand. “Come on. Let’s work on those muscles.”
You lead him to the bedroom, and he raises an eyebrow. “Should I be worried?”
"Behave," you say, swatting his arm lightly. "I'm going to give you a massage. Your muscles are so tight, you're going to hurt yourself."
"A massage, huh?" There's a hint of his usual playfulness returning to his voice, and it makes you smile.
"Yes, a massage. Now lie down on your stomach."
Tony complies, stretching out on the bed. Even exhausted, he's a sight to behold - all that muscle and strength spread out before you. You grab the massage oil from the nightstand and warm it between your palms.
"This might hurt a little at first," you warn, straddling his hips. "Your muscles are really tight."
"I can take it," he says, his voice muffled by the pillow.
You start with his shoulders, working your thumbs into the tight muscles. Tony groans, and the sound goes straight to your core. It's a deep, rumbling sound of relief and pleasure, and it makes something clench low in your belly.
"Fuck, that feels good," he mumbles, and you feel him relax slightly under your hands.
You work methodically, finding every knot and tight spot, applying pressure until you feel the muscle release. Each time you hit a particularly sore spot, Tony makes that sound - that deep, guttural groan that's making it increasingly difficult for you to focus on the task at hand.
"You're killing me with those sounds," you admit, working down his spine.
"Can't help it," he says, his voice rough. "Your hands are magic."
You move to his lower back, and when you press into a knot near his hip, Tony actually moans. The sound is obscene, full of relief and pleasure, and you feel heat pool between your legs.
"Tony," you breathe, your hands stilling for a moment.
"Don't stop," he pleads. "Please, baby, that feels so good."
You continue, but now you're hyperaware of every sound he makes, every shift of his body beneath yours. Your thighs are pressed against his hips, and you can feel the heat of him even through the towel. The oil makes your hands glide smoothly over his skin, and the intimacy of the moment is making your head spin.
When you move to his thighs, working the tight muscles there, Tony's breathing has changed. It's deeper, heavier, and when you glance at his face, his eyes are closed but his jaw is tight.
"Roll over," you say softly.
He does, and the towel has fallen away. He's half-hard, and the sight makes your mouth water. But more than that, the look in his eyes - desire mixed with exhaustion mixed with love - makes your heart race.
"Feel better?" you ask, your hands resting on his chest.
"Much better," he says, his hands coming up to grip your hips. "But I think I need a little more... relaxation."
You smile, feeling bold and tender all at once. "I think I can help with that."
You're still straddling him, and you can feel him hardening beneath you. Your own body is responding, heat and wetness building between your legs. But this isn't about urgency or desperation. This is about taking care of him, about giving him the release and relaxation he needs after such a brutal day.
"Let me take care of you," you murmur, rising up on your knees. "You just lie back and let me make you feel good."
Tony's hands tighten on your hips. "Baby, you don't have to -"
"I want to," you interrupt, reaching between your bodies to wrap your hand around him. He's fully hard now, thick and hot in your palm. "I want to make you feel good. Want to help you relax. Will you let me?"
"Fuck," he breathes, his hips jerking up into your grip. "Yes. Yeah, okay."
You stroke him slowly, watching his face. His eyes are heavy-lidded, his lips parted, and every time you twist your wrist just right, he makes that sound - that delicious groan that's been driving you crazy.
"You're so beautiful like this," you tell him, positioning yourself over him. "So strong and beautiful and mine."
You sink down slowly, taking him inch by inch. Even prepared and wet as you are, the stretch is intense. He's so big, filling you so completely, and you have to pause halfway to adjust.
"That's it," Tony encourages, his voice strained. "Take your time. Take what you need."
But this isn't about what you need. This is about him. You sink down the rest of the way, and you both groan at the sensation.
"God, Tony," you breathe, your hands braced on his chest. "You feel so good. So big and perfect inside me."
You start to move, rolling your hips in slow, deliberate circles. You're not chasing your own pleasure - not yet. You're focused entirely on him, on the way his face contorts with pleasure, on the sounds he's making, on the way his hands grip your hips like you're his anchor.
"How does that feel?" you ask, rising up and sinking back down slowly. "Does that feel good, baby?"
"So good," he groans, his head pressing back into the pillow. "So fucking good. You're perfect. This is perfect."
You establish a rhythm - slow and deep, making sure he feels every inch of you. You clench around him deliberately, and his hips buck up involuntarily.
"Fuck, baby, when you do that -" His words cut off in a moan as you do it again.
"I love watching you like this," you tell him, your hands sliding up his chest, feeling his muscles flex beneath your palms. "Love seeing you let go. You work so hard, carry so much. Let me carry you for a while."
Tony's eyes open, and the look in them is so intense it steals your breath. "I love you," he says, his voice rough with emotion and pleasure. "I love you so fucking much."
"I love you too," you reply, leaning down to kiss him. It's deep and slow, matching the rhythm of your hips. "Love taking care of you. Love making you feel good."
You sit back up and pick up the pace slightly, still slow but with more purpose. Tony's hands slide from your hips to your breasts, cupping them, thumbs brushing over your nipples. The sensation makes you gasp and clench around him.
"That's it," he encourages. "Take your pleasure too, baby. Want to feel you come on my cock."
"This is about you," you protest, but your body is betraying you, responding to his touch, to the angle of him inside you.
"It's about us," Tony corrects, one hand sliding down to where you're joined, his thumb finding your clit. "Always about us. Come on, baby. Let me feel you."
The combination of his cock inside you and his thumb on your clit is too much. Your rhythm falters as pleasure builds, and Tony takes over, thrusting up into you while his thumb works tight circles.
"Tony," you gasp, your nails digging into his chest. "Oh god, Tony!"
"That's it," he groans. "Come for me, baby. Want to feel you squeeze my cock. Want to feel you fall apart."
Your orgasm hits you suddenly, and you cry out, your body clenching and shaking around him. Tony works you through it, his movements becoming more erratic as your pleasure triggers his own.
"Fuck, baby, I'm -" He doesn't finish the sentence, just groans deeply as he comes, his cock pulsing inside you, filling you with heat.
You collapse onto his chest, both of you breathing hard. His arms come around you, holding you close, and you can feel his heart racing beneath your cheek.
"Feel better?" you ask after a moment, pressing a kiss to his chest.
"So much better," he says, his voice drowsy and satisfied. "You're incredible."
"So are you," you reply, tracing lazy patterns on his skin. "Even when you're exhausted and beat up, you're still the sexiest man I've ever seen."
He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Flattery will get you everywhere."
"Good to know," you say, grinning against his skin.
After a few minutes of comfortable silence, you reluctantly pull away. "Come on. Let's get cleaned up and get some food in you. You must be starving."
"I could eat," Tony admits, and you both laugh.
You shower together again, this time quick and playful. Tony's exhaustion has been replaced by a satisfied laziness, and he keeps pulling you against him, pressing kisses to your neck and shoulders.
"Behave," you laugh, swatting his hands away. "Food first, then you can maul me all you want."
"Promise?" he asks, his eyes gleaming with mischief.
"Promise."
Once you're both clean and dressed - you in one of his old t-shirts and sleep shorts, him in sweatpants and nothing else - you forgo cooking dinner and decide to order Chinese food while Tony flops onto the couch.
"What do you want to watch?" he asks, scrolling through Netflix.
"I don't care," you say, settling next to him. "Pick whatever."
He settles on some action movie you've both seen before, and you curl into his side, your head on his chest. His arm comes around you automatically, and you sigh contentedly.
"This is nice," you murmur.
"Yeah," he agrees, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "This is perfect."
The food arrives twenty minutes later, and you spread it out on the coffee table. You're halfway through your lo mein when Tony leans over and kisses you, tasting like sweet and sour chicken.
"What was that for?" you ask, smiling against his lips.
"Just felt like it," he says, stealing another kiss.
You try to focus on the movie, you really do. But Tony keeps touching you - his hand on your thigh, his fingers playing with your hair, his lips on your temple. And you're not much better, your hand sliding under the hem of his sweatpants to trace the V of his hips, your lips finding the curve of his neck.
"Are we even watching this?" Tony asks after you've been making out for a solid five minutes, the movie completely forgotten.
"Nope," you admit, climbing into his lap. "Don't care."
"Good," he says, his hands sliding under your shirt. "Because I can't keep my hands off you."
"Then don't," you reply, grinding down against him. You can feel him hardening beneath you, and the knowledge sends a thrill through you.
"You're insatiable," he teases, but his hands are already pulling your shirt over your head.
"Look who's talking," you counter, reaching for his sweatpants. "You're the one who can't stop touching me."
"Can you blame me?" His hands cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples. "Look at you. You're fucking gorgeous."
You kiss him deeply, your hands in his hair, and he groans into your mouth. The movie plays on, completely ignored, as you lose yourselves in each other.
"Bedroom," Tony finally says, his voice rough with need. "I need more room for what I want to do to you."
"Oh?" You raise an eyebrow, intrigued. "And what do you want to do to me?"
"Everything," he says simply, standing up with you in his arms like you weigh nothing. "Absolutely everything."
Tony carries you to the bedroom, and there's something different in the air now. The tenderness from earlier is still there, but it's mixed with playfulness and heat. He's not exhausted anymore - he's energized, focused, and entirely focused on you.
He tosses you onto the bed, and you laugh, bouncing slightly. "Careful with the merchandise."
"Oh, I'll be careful," he says, crawling over you with a predatory gleam in his eyes. "Very, very careful."
He kisses you deeply, his body pressing you into the mattress, and you can feel every inch of him against you. His hands are everywhere - your breasts, your hips, between your legs - and you're already gasping and arching into his touch.
"You're so responsive," he murmurs against your neck, his fingers sliding through your wetness. "So wet for me already. Did riding me earlier not satisfy you?"
"It did," you gasp as he slides two fingers inside you. "But I want more. I always want more of you."
"Greedy," he teases, but there's affection in his voice. "I love it."
He works you with his fingers, his thumb on your clit, and you're already close. But just as you're about to tip over the edge, he pulls away.
"Tony," you whine, and he grins.
"Patience, baby. I'm not done with you yet."
He kisses his way down your body, and when his mouth finds your center, you cry out. His tongue is wicked, alternating between broad strokes and focused attention on your clit. He adds his fingers again, curling them just right, and you're falling apart within minutes.
"That's one," he says, kissing his way back up your body. "Let's see how many more I can get out of you."
"Competitive tonight?" you ask breathlessly.
"Always," he replies, positioning himself at your entrance. "Especially when the prize is hearing you scream my name."
He pushes inside in one smooth thrust, and you both groan. This angle is different from earlier - deeper, more intense - and you wrap your legs around his waist to pull him closer.
"Fuck, you feel good," Tony groans, starting to move. "So tight and wet and perfect. Like you were made for me."
"I was," you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Made for you. Only you."
The pace is faster than earlier, more urgent. Tony's exhaustion is completely gone, replaced by raw need and desire. He's fucking you hard and deep, and you're meeting him thrust for thrust.
"Love watching you like this," you manage to say between gasps. "Love seeing these muscles work. You're so strong, Tony. So perfect."
"Keep talking," he groans, his pace increasing. "Love hearing you say that shit."
"You're incredible," you tell him, your hands sliding down his back, feeling every flex and shift of muscle. "The way you work, the way you take care of everything, the way you take care of me. You're everything, Tony. Everything."
He captures your mouth in a bruising kiss, and you can feel him getting close. His thrusts are becoming erratic, and his breathing is ragged.
"Come with me," he demands, one hand sliding between your bodies to rub your clit. "Want to feel you come on my cock again. Come on, baby. Give it to me."
The combination of his cock hitting that perfect spot inside you and his fingers on your clit sends you over the edge. You scream his name as you come, your body clenching around him, and Tony follows immediately, groaning deeply as he fills you.
He collapses beside you, pulling you against his chest, and you're both breathing hard and covered in sweat.
"Holy shit," you finally say, and Tony laughs.
"Yeah," he agrees. "Holy shit."
You lie there in comfortable silence, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his chest. His hand is running up and down your spine, and the touch is soothing and intimate.
"Thank you," Tony says quietly. "For taking care of me today. For the shower and the massage and... everything."
"You never have to thank me for that," you reply, pressing a kiss to his chest. "I love taking care of you. You do so much for me, for us. It's the least I can do."
"It's not the least," he says, tilting your chin up so he can look at you. "It's everything. You're everything."
You kiss him softly, and it's different from the heated kisses earlier. This is tender and sweet and full of love.
"I love you," you whisper against his lips.
"I love you too," he replies, pulling you closer. "So fucking much."
You settle against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, and feel his breathing start to even out. He's falling asleep, finally relaxed and satisfied, and you smile against his skin.
"Sleep, baby," you murmur. "I've got you."
"Always," he mumbles, already half-asleep. "You've always got me."
And as you drift off yourself, wrapped in his arms, you think that this - this quiet moment of love and trust and contentment - is what it's all about. Not just the passion or the desire, but this. The taking care of each other. The being there for each other. The choosing each other, every single day.
BEAUTIFUL PERSON AWARD! Once you are given this award you're supposed to paste it in the asks of 8 (or more) people who deserve it. If you break the chain nothing happens, but it's sweet to know someone thinks you're beautiful inside and out <3
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BEAUTIFUL PERSON AWARD! Once you are given this award you're supposed to paste it in the asks of 8 (or more) people who deserve it. If you break the chain nothing happens, but it's sweet to know someone thinks you're beautiful inside and out <3
Helping Hands, second part, that Thursday encounter, those two idiots admitting they are not just friends, sex, cuddling, fluff...
Please 😭
The Long Game
Pairing: Tony Stark x F!Reader
Warning/Rating: 18+; explicit, graphic sexual activity (manual/oral stimulation, penetration, orgasm described in detail), protected sex, language
Parts 1/2
Word Count: 7.4 K
Two weeks later, you’re nursing a gin and tonic at Pepper’s birthday party and trying very hard not to watch Tony flirt with a leggy brunette across the room.
You’re failing spectacularly.
“You’re staring,” Natasha says, appearing at your elbow like the spy she is.
“I’m observing,” you correct, taking a long sip of your drink. “There’s a difference.”
“Uh-huh. And the death glare you’re giving that poor woman?”
“Resting bitch face. Can’t help it.”
Natasha smirks. “Right. This wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that you and Tony have been weird around each other for two weeks?”
“We’re not weird.”
“You’re so weird. At the meeting Thursday, you both showed up fifteen minutes early and then spent the entire time pretending the other person didn’t exist. It was like watching two teenagers who got caught making out at prom.”
You choke on your drink. “We did not - we’re not -”
“Relax. I don’t actually care what you two do in your spare time. But maybe pick a lane? The sexual tension is exhausting for the rest of us.”
She drifts away before you can formulate a response, leaving you alone with your drink and your thoughts and the sight of Tony laughing at something the brunette just said.
He looks good. He always looks good, but tonight he’s in a perfectly tailored suit that probably costs more than your car, and his hair is artfully disheveled in that way that makes you want to run your fingers through it, and -
Stop it.
You’re not doing this. You’re not getting jealous over Tony Stark, your best friend, the man you definitely did not have the best sex of your life with two weeks ago.
Except you are jealous. Furiously, irrationally jealous.
The brunette touches his arm, and something hot and ugly twists in your chest.
You turn away, downing the rest of your drink in one go. This is ridiculous. You and Tony agreed - just friends. What happened was a one-time thing, a moment of weakness, scratching an itch. It didn’t mean anything.
So why does watching him with someone else feel like swallowing glass?
You make it another hour before you give up and call an Uber. you’re three drinks in and feeling pleasantly fuzzy when your phone buzzes.
Tony (11:47 PM): Leaving already?
You stare at the message. He noticed. Of course he noticed.
You (11:48 PM): Tired. Long week.
Tony (11:48 PM): The brunette asked for my number.
Your fingers tighten on your phone.
You (11:49 PM): Congratulations. She seems nice.
Tony (11:49 PM): I didn’t give it to her.
You (11:50 PM): Why not?
The typing indicator appears, disappears, appears again. Finally:
Tony (11:52 PM): Wasn’t interested.
You (11:53 PM): Since I can’t stop thinking about a certain smartass who kicked me out of her bed two weeks ago.
Your heart does something complicated in your chest. You shouldn’t respond. You should put your phone away, go home, take a cold shower, and forget this ever happened.
He shows up in fourteen minutes, still in the suit, looking unfairly good and slightly out of breath like he ran from his car.
“Hi,” you say, suddenly nervous.
“Hi,” He’s looking at you like he’s starving and you’re a five-course meal. “So. this is happening again.”
“Apparently.”
“Just to be clear - this is still just -”
"Scratching an itch," you finish. "When we can't get it elsewhere. No strings. No complications."
"Right. Exactly." He steps closer, and you can smell his cologne, expensive and familiar. "Because we're friends."
“Best friends.”
“And friends help each other out.”
“Very altruistic of us.”
“Practically charitable.”
You're both talking too fast, words tumbling over each other, and you're not sure who moves first but suddenly you're kissing, desperate and hungry, and his hands are in your hair and yours are pulling at his jacket and -
"Bedroom," you gasp against his mouth.
"Good plan."
You barely make it. He's got your dress unzipped before you hit the hallway, and you're working on his belt, and by the time you reach the bed you're both half-naked and panting.
"This doesn't mean anything," you say, even as you're pulling him down on top of you.
"Absolutely nothing," he agrees, kissing down your neck. "Just friends."
"Just friends who occasionally fuck."
"Exactly."
But when he slides inside you, when he looks at you with those dark eyes and says your name like a prayer, it feels like something.
Tony texts you at 2 AM on a Wednesday. Can't sleep. You up?
You are now. Twenty minutes later, he's at your door with Thai food and that crooked smile that makes your stomach flip.
"Thought you might be hungry," he says, like showing up at your apartment in the middle of the night with pad thai is a completely normal friend thing to do.
You eat on your couch, arguing about the merits of various sci-fi franchises, and somehow you end up straddling his lap with his hands under your shirt and noodles forgotten on the coffee table.
"This is just because we're both awake," you say, grinding down against him.
"Completely circumstantial," he agrees, groaning. "Convenience."
"Exactly."
You fuck him right there on the couch, and he stays until morning, and when you wake up tangled together you both pretend it's not domestic.
You're getting ready for a date - an actual date with a guy from work who seems nice and normal and completely uncomplicated - when Tony calls.
"What are you doing?" he asks without preamble.
"Getting dressed. I have plans."
A pause. "What kind of plans?"
"The kind that are none of your business."
"Are you going on a date?"
You hesitate too long. "Maybe."
"Cancel it."
"Excuse me?"
"Cancel it. Come to the lab. I'm working on something, and I need your opinion on the interface design."
"Tony, I'm literally about to walk out the door."
"Please."
The word stops you cold. Tony Stark doesn't say please. Not like that. Not soft and almost vulnerable.
"This is just because you need my help, right?" you ask carefully. "Not because you're... I don't know, jealous or something."
"Jealous? Of some random guy? Please. I'm Tony Stark. I don't get jealous." A beat. "But I do need your help. And I'll make it worth your while."
You should say no. You should go on your date with the nice, normal guy and stop letting Tony Stark derail your life.
"I'll be there in thirty minutes," you hear yourself say.
You end up bent over his workbench with your dress hiked up around your waist and Tony's hand over your mouth to muffle your moans because JARVIS is still active and you have some dignity left.
"Still think that date was a good idea?" he pants against your ear, hips snapping against yours.
"Shut up and fuck me harder."
He does, and you come so hard you see stars, and you definitely don't think about how right this feels.
Sunday morning. You're making coffee in your kitchen, wearing one of Tony's t-shirts that he left behind, when he emerges from your bedroom looking sleep-rumpled and unfairly attractive.
"Morning," he says, wrapping his arms around you from behind and pressing a kiss to your shoulder.
It's too intimate. Too couple-y. You should step away, maintain boundaries, remind him this is just physical.
Instead, you lean back against him. "Coffee?"
"Please."
You make breakfast - actual breakfast, with eggs and toast and fresh fruit—and eat together at your small kitchen table, and he tells you about the project he's working on and you tell him about the book you're reading, and it's so painfully domestic that it makes your chest ache.
"This is nice," he says quietly, and there's something in his voice that makes you look up.
He's watching you with an expression you can't quite read.
"It's just breakfast," you say, even though you both know it's not.
"Right. Just breakfast." He reaches across the table, threading his fingers through yours. "Between friends."
"Best friends."
His thumb traces circles on your palm, and neither of you mentions that friends don't usually hold hands over breakfast.
You're at a charity gala - one of those insufferable events where rich people congratulate themselves for donating money - when you see Tony across the room.
He's talking to a group of investors, all charm and charisma, but his eyes keep finding yours through the crowd.
Your date - a perfectly nice lawyer named Michael - is telling you about his recent case, but you're not really listening. You're too busy watching Tony watch you.
When Michael excuses himself to get drinks, Tony materializes at your elbow.
"Lawyer boy seems boring," he says without preamble.
"He's nice."
"Nice is code for boring."
"Not everyone can be a genius billionaire playboy philanthropist."
"True. Must be hard for them." He's standing too close, and you can feel the heat of him through your dress. "You look incredible, by the way."
"Tony -"
"Just an observation. Friends can compliment friends."
"Friends don't usually look at friends like they want to devour them."
His smile turns wicked. "Bathroom. Five minutes. Third floor, east wing. It's usually empty."
"I'm on a date."
"So? I'm not asking you to marry me. I'm asking you to let me make you come in a bathroom. Very different things."
You should say no. You're on a date with a nice, normal man who doesn't make you feel like you're constantly on the edge of something dangerous.
"Five minutes," you hear yourself say.
You end up with your back against the door and your dress around your waist and Tony on his knees with his mouth between your legs, and when you come you have to bite down on your hand to keep from screaming.
"Still think lawyer boy is more interesting?" he asks smugly, wiping his mouth as he stands.
It's not obvious at first - Tony's always been private about his personal life despite his public persona - but you start to realize you haven't seen him with anyone else in weeks. No mysterious brunettes, no models on his arm at events, no gossip blog photos of him leaving clubs with beautiful strangers.
"You've been quiet lately," you say one night, tangled in your sheets after another "just friends" session. "No hot dates to tell me about?"
He's quiet for a moment, fingers tracing patterns on your bare shoulder. "Haven't been interested."
"Since when?"
"Since about two months ago." He says it casually, but there's weight behind the words.
You turn to look at him. "Tony -"
"Don't." He cuts you off gently. "Don't read into it. I'm just... taking a break. Focusing on work. It's not - this isn't -"
You're having lunch with Pepper when she drops the bomb.
"So, you and Tony."
You nearly choke on your salad. "What about us?"
"Are you going to tell me what's going on, or do I have to guess?"
"Nothing's going on. We're friends."
"Uh-huh. Friends who text constantly, who cancel plans to see each other, who look at each other like..." She trails off, shaking her head. "Look, I don't care what you two do. But maybe stop pretending it's nothing? It's exhausting watching you both tie yourselves in knots."
"It is nothing," you insist. "It's just physical. Scratching an itch when we can't find it elsewhere."
"And how often are you finding it elsewhere these days?"
You don't answer, because you both know the truth: you haven't been with anyone else since that first night. Neither has Tony.
"That's what I thought," Pepper says gently. "Just... be careful, okay? You're both my friends, and I don't want to see either of you get hurt."
"We won't," you say, but you're not sure who you're trying to convince.
His name is David, and he's exactly the kind of guy you should be dating.
He's a software engineer - smart but not intimidatingly so. Stable. Emotionally available. He has a 401k and a reasonable bedtime and he's never once made you question your life choices.
He's perfect.
He's also not Tony Stark.
You've been on three dates over the past two weeks, and they've been... fine. Good, even. He makes you laugh. He's interested in your work. He doesn't play games or send mixed signals or show up at your apartment at 2 AM with Thai food and that crooked smile that makes your stomach flip.
He's exactly what you need.
So why do you feel nothing?
"I'd like to see you again," David says at the end of your fourth date, and he's smiling hopefully, and you should say yes. You should give this a real chance.
"I'd like that," you hear yourself say.
He kisses you goodnight - a perfectly nice, perfectly boring kiss - and you go inside feeling like you've just made a terrible mistake.
Your phone buzzes almost immediately.
Tony (10:47 PM): How was the date?
You stare at the message. You haven't told Tony about David. You've been carefully avoiding the subject, making excuses when he texts, keeping your distance.
You (10:48 PM): How did you know I was on a date?
Tony (10:48 PM): Pepper mentioned it. So? How was he?
You (10:49 PM): Fine. Nice.
Tony (10:49 PM): Nice. That word again.
You (10:50 PM): What's wrong with nice?
Tony (10:51 PM): Nothing. If you're into boring.
You (10:51 PM): Not everyone needs to be exciting 24/7.
Tony (10:52 PM): True. Some people are perfectly happy with mediocre.
You stare at your phone, anger flaring hot in your chest.
You (10:53 PM): What's your problem?
Tony (10:53 PM): No problem. Just making an observation.
You (10:54 PM): You're being an ass.
Tony (10:54 PM): I'm being honest. You're settling.
You (10:55 PM): You don't know anything about him.
Tony (10:55 PM): I know he's not right for you.
You (10:56 PM): And you are?
The typing indicator appears, disappears, appears again. Finally:
Tony (10:58 PM): Forget it. Have fun with David.
He doesn't text you for three days.
It's the longest you've gone without talking to him in months, and it feels wrong. You keep picking up your phone to message him, then putting it down. He's the one being unreasonable. He doesn't get to be jealous when you're not even together.
Except he does seem jealous. And you kind of like it.
Which is a problem.
On the fourth day, you have your fifth date with David. He takes you to a nice restaurant, and he's charming and attentive, and halfway through dinner you realize you're thinking about Tony.
Wondering what he's doing. If he's thinking about you. If he's with someone else.
"You seem distracted," David says gently.
"Sorry. Just... work stuff."
"Want to talk about it?"
"Not really."
He nods, understanding, and that's when you realize: David would never push. He'd never show up at your apartment uninvited or drag you to his lab in the middle of the night or challenge you the way Tony does.
He's safe.
And you don't want safe.
"David," you say carefully. "You're a really great guy."
His face falls. "But?"
"But I don't think this is going to work out. I'm sorry. You deserve someone who's all in, and I'm just... not."
To his credit, he takes it well. "It's someone else, isn't it?"
You hesitate. "It's complicated."
"It always is." He signals for the check. "For what it's worth, I hope you figure it out. Whatever it is."
You go home feeling lighter and heavier at the same time.
Your phone is full of messages: work emails, a text from Natasha, a reminder about a meeting tomorrow.
Nothing from Tony.
You stare at his name in your contacts for a long moment, then type: I ended it with David.
You hit send before you can second-guess yourself.
The response comes almost immediately.
Tony (9:47 PM): Why?
You (9:48 PM): Because he wasn't right for me.
Tony (9:48 PM): And what is right for you?
Your fingers hover over the keyboard. This is it. This is the moment where you can either keep lying or finally tell the truth.
You (9:50 PM): I don't know. But I know it's not him.
Tony (9:51 PM): I'm coming over.
You (9:51 PM): Tony
Tony (9:51 PM): We need to talk. Actually talk. No deflecting, no jokes, no pretending this is just scratching an itch.
His hair is a mess, like he's been running his hands through it repeatedly. He's wearing a faded MIT t-shirt and jeans, no shoes, like he just grabbed his keys and ran. There are dark circles under his eyes.
"You look terrible," you say.
"Thanks. You look beautiful. Can I come in?"
You step aside, and he walks past you into your apartment, pacing like a caged animal.
"So," he says finally, turning to face you. "David."
"There is no David. Not anymore."
"Why?"
"I told you. He wasn't right for me."
"That's not an answer." He's agitated, hands gesturing sharply. "You went on five dates with him. Five. You were giving him a real chance. So what changed?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yes, it fucking matters!" His voice rises, and you've never heard him like this—raw and angry and desperate. "It matters because I've spent the last two weeks going insane thinking about you with him. Wondering if he makes you laugh the way I do. If he knows how you take your coffee. If he -" He breaks off, jaw clenching. "If he touches you the way I do."
Your heart is pounding. "Tony…"
"No. Let me finish." He runs a hand through his hair again. "You said this was just scratching an itch. Just friends helping friends. No strings, no complications. And I agreed because I thought that's what you wanted. I thought if I could just have you in some way, it would be enough."
"And it's not?"
"No. It's not even close." He laughs, bitter and sharp. "It's torture, actually. Having you but not really having you. Pretending I don't care when you mention other guys. Acting like it doesn't kill me every time you leave. Lying to myself that this is enough when I want -"
He stops abruptly.
"When you want what?" you ask quietly.
"Everything," he says, and his voice breaks on the word. "I want everything. I want to take you on actual dates. I want to wake up next to you every morning, not just the mornings after we fuck. I want to tell people you're mine. I want -" He laughs again, shaking his head. "I want things I have no right to want because we agreed this was casual."
You're frozen, heart in your throat, unable to process what you're hearing.
"But you went on five dates with David," he continues, and now there's anger creeping back into his voice. "Five dates. You were keeping your options open. Making sure you had a backup plan in case this thing between us didn't work out. Which is smart, actually. Very practical. Because why would you want to be with me when you could have someone stable and normal and…"
"Stop," you cut him off, your own anger finally igniting. "Just stop."
"Stop what? Telling the truth?"
"Stop acting like you know what I want!" Your voice is rising now too. "You think I was keeping options open? You think I wanted to date David?"
"You went out with him five times!"
"Because I was trying to get over you!" The words explode out of you, loud and raw. "Because I was trying to convince myself that I could want someone else, someone who doesn't make me feel like I'm constantly on the edge of something terrifying. Someone safe."
Tony goes very still. "And?"
"And it didn't work!" You're shouting now, months of frustration pouring out. "It didn't work because every time he kissed me, I thought about you. Every time he made me laugh, I wished it was you. Every single moment I spent with him, I was comparing him to you, and he never measured up because he's not you!"
"Then why -"
"Because you said this was just physical!" You're crying now, angry tears streaming down your face. "You said it was just scratching an itch, just friends helping friends, no strings attached. You made it very clear that's all you wanted, so I tried to move on. I tried to find someone who could actually give me what I need instead of just -"
"What you need?" He's in your space now, eyes blazing. "What do you need? Tell me."
"More than this!" You shove at his chest. "More than sneaking around and pretending it doesn't mean anything. More than late-night texts and casual hookups and lying to everyone including ourselves about what this is!"
"Then why didn't you say something?"
"Because you didn't!" You shove him again. "You're the one who kept insisting we were just friends. You're the one who made jokes every time things got too real. You're the one who -"
He kisses you.
It's not gentle. It's desperate and angry and full of months of pent-up frustration, and you kiss him back just as hard, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer even as you're still furious with him.
When you break apart, you're both breathing hard.
"I'm an idiot," he says.
"Yes."
"I've been in love with you for months."
Your breath catches. "What?"
"Maybe longer. I don't know. I'm not good at this." He cups your face in his hands, thumbs wiping away your tears. "I'm not good at feelings or relationships or any of this. But I know that I think about you constantly. I know that nothing feels right when you're not around. I know that watching you with David made me want to put my fist through a wall. And I know that this - us - is not just scratching an itch. It never was."
"Tony…"
"I'm in love with you," he says again, firmer this time. "And I'm terrified because you're my best friend and I don't want to lose you, but I can't keep pretending anymore. I can't keep acting like this doesn't mean everything to me."
You're crying again, but this time it's different.
"You're an idiot," you say, voice shaking.
"Established."
"I'm in love with you too."
He goes very still. "What?"
"I'm in love with you. I have been for... I don't even know how long. Maybe always." You laugh wetly. "Why do you think I've been so miserable? Why do you think I tried to date David? I was trying to get over you because I thought you didn't want -"
He kisses you again, softer this time but no less intense.
"I want," he says against your lips. "I want everything. I want you. Just you. Always you."
"This is terrifying."
"Absolutely terrifying."
"We could ruin everything."
"Or we could have everything." He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his eyes are soft and vulnerable in a way you've never seen. "I know I'm a mess. I know I'm difficult and complicated and I have more issues than Vogue. But I love you. And I want to try this - really try, not just pretend it's casual. If you'll have me."
You should be scared. This is Tony Stark, your best friend, and you're about to cross a line you can never uncross.
But you're tired of being scared.
"I'll have you," you whisper. "All of you. The genius and the mess and everything in between."
His smile is blinding. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"So we're doing this? For real?"
"For real."
"No more pretending it's just physical?"
"No more pretending."
"No more terrible dates with boring guys named David?"
You laugh. "No more terrible dates."
"Good." He kisses you again, slow and deep. "Because you're mine now. And I don't share."
"Possessive much?"
"You have no idea." His hands slide down to your waist, pulling you flush against him. "I've wanted to say that for months. You're mine. Finally."
"And you're mine."
"Always have been."
You kiss him again, and this time it's different. There's no desperation, no anger, no fear. Just love and relief and the promise of something real.
Every other time Tony's been here, there's been an urgency - a desperate need to touch and take and lose yourselves in each other before reality could intrude. It's always been fast and hungry and just a little bit frantic, like you were both trying to get your fill before the spell broke.
This time, Tony closes the door behind you and just... looks at you.
"What?" you ask, suddenly self-conscious.
"Just memorizing this." He steps closer, hands coming up to frame your face. "The moment everything changed."
"It changed months ago."
"No. Months ago we started lying to ourselves." He kisses you softly. "This is when we stop."
He kisses you again, deeper this time, and it's slow and thorough and makes your toes curl. His hands slide into your hair, tilting your head to deepen the angle, and you melt against him.
"I love you," he murmurs against your lips.
"Say it again."
"I love you." He kisses your jaw. "I love you." Your neck. "I love you." Your collarbone. "I'm going to keep saying it until you believe me."
"I believe you." Your hands find the hem of his shirt, tugging it up. "But you can keep saying it anyway."
He grins against your skin. "Demanding."
"You love it."
"I really do."
You pull his shirt over his head, and he does the same with yours, and then you're skin to skin and it feels like coming home. You've touched him like this dozens of times, but this time you let yourself really feel it - the warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his heart, the way he shivers when you trace the arc reactor's edge.
"Still sensitive there?" you ask softly.
"Always." He catches your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. "But I trust you."
The words hit harder than they should. Tony Stark doesn't trust easily, doesn't let people close, doesn't show vulnerability. But he's showing you, and it makes your chest tight with emotion.
"I love you," you say, and watch his eyes go soft.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He walks you backward toward the bed, hands gentle on your waist. When the backs of your knees hit the mattress, you sit, and he follows you down, covering your body with his.
"Hi," he says, smiling down at you.
"Hi."
"This okay?"
"More than okay."
He kisses you again, and this time there's heat behind it. His hands map your body like he's learning it for the first time - sliding up your ribs, cupping your breasts through your bra, thumbs brushing over your nipples until you arch into his touch.
"Tony," you breathe.
"I've got you." He reaches behind you, unhooking your bra with practiced ease. "I've always got you."
He pulls the fabric away and just looks at you for a moment, eyes dark with want.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he says, voice rough. "I've thought that from the first moment I met you, but I never let myself really appreciate it. Never let myself want you the way I wanted to."
"And now?"
"Now I'm going to worship every inch of you." He lowers his head, pressing kisses across your collarbone. "Going to make you feel so good you forget your own name."
"Big talk, Stark."
"Just wait."
He makes good on his promise. His mouth finds your breast, tongue circling your nipple before sucking it into his mouth, and you gasp, fingers threading through his hair. He lavishes attention on one breast and then the other, teeth grazing sensitive skin, and by the time he pulls back you're panting.
"Still think it's big talk?" he asks smugly.
"Shut up and take off your pants."
He laughs but complies, standing to strip off his jeans and boxer briefs. You take the opportunity to shimmy out of your own pants and underwear, and then you're both naked and the air feels charged with possibility.
Tony crawls back onto the bed, settling between your thighs, and the weight of him is perfect and right.
"I want to take my time with you," he says, kissing your jaw. "Want to make this last."
"We have all night."
"We have forever." He says it simply, like it's a fact, and your heart squeezes.
"Forever?"
"If you'll have me that long." He kisses down your neck, your chest, your stomach. "Fair warning: I'm very high maintenance."
"I'm aware."
"And I have a tendency to blow things up."
"Also aware."
"And I'm told I'm insufferable when I'm working on a project."
"Tony." You tug on his hair until he looks up at you. "I know exactly who you are. I've known you for years. And I love you anyway."
His expression goes soft and vulnerable. "How did I get this lucky?"
"Clean living and good choices?"
He laughs, pressing a kiss to your hip bone. "Pretty sure it's the opposite of that."
He continues his path downward, kissing and nipping at your inner thighs, and you spread your legs wider in invitation. He settles between them, breath hot against your core, and looks up at you with dark eyes.
"Tell me what you want," he says.
"You know what I want."
"I want to hear you say it." His fingers trace your inner thigh, so close to where you need him. "Want to hear you ask for it."
"Tony…"
"Come on, baby. Use your words."
The endearment makes your stomach flip. He's never called you that before—never called you anything but your name or the occasional smartass.
"I want your mouth," you say, cheeks heating. "Want you to make me come."
"Good girl." He leans in, tongue dragging through your folds in one long, slow lick. "Fuck, you taste good."
He doesn't tease this time. He goes straight for your clit, tongue circling and flicking in a rhythm that has you gasping. His hands grip your thighs, holding you open, and he eats you out like a man starving.
"Oh god," you moan, hips rolling against his face. "Tony, fuck!"
He hums against you, the vibration making you shudder. One hand releases your thigh, and then his fingers are sliding inside you, curling to hit that perfect spot while his tongue works your clit.
"That's it," he murmurs against you. "Let me hear you. Want to know how good I'm making you feel."
You're not quiet. You can't be, not when he's touching you like this, not when every nerve ending is on fire. Your fingers tangle in his hair, holding him against you, and he groans like he loves it.
"Close," you gasp. "I'm so close -"
"Come for me." He sucks your clit into his mouth, fingers pumping faster. "Come on, baby. Let go."
You do, crying out his name as pleasure crashes through you. He works you through it, tongue gentling but not stopping until you're shaking and oversensitive.
When he finally pulls back, his lips are wet and his eyes are dark with satisfaction.
"Still with me?" he asks, crawling back up your body.
"Barely." You pull him down for a kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue. "Your turn."
"Not yet." He settles between your thighs again, and you can feel how hard he is against you. "Want to be inside you when I come. Want to feel you around me."
"Then what are you waiting for?"
"Condom -"
"I'm on birth control," you interrupt. "And I'm clean. Got tested after... well. After we started this."
His eyes darken further. "Me too. Clean, I mean. Haven't been with anyone else since that first night."
"Neither have I."
"So we could…"
"Yes." You reach between you, wrapping your hand around his cock and guiding him to your entrance. "I want to feel you. All of you. No barriers."
He groans, forehead dropping to yours. "You're going to kill me."
"Hopefully not before you fuck me."
He laughs breathlessly and then he's pushing inside, slow and steady, and the feeling of him bare is overwhelming. You've used condoms every other time, but this - this is different. This is intimate and raw and perfect.
"Fuck," he breathes when he's fully seated. "You feel incredible."
"So do you." You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. "Move. Please move."
He does, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in, and the drag of him against your sensitive walls makes you moan. He sets a slow, deep rhythm, each thrust deliberate and measured.
"I love you," he says, and his voice is wrecked. "I love you so fucking much."
"I love you too." You cup his face, making him look at you. "I love you, Tony."
He kisses you, deep and sweet, and picks up the pace. The slow, tender lovemaking shifts into something more urgent, more desperate. His hips snap against yours, the sound of skin on skin filling the room, and you meet him thrust for thrust.
"Touch yourself," he commands, voice rough. "Want to feel you come around my cock."
You slide a hand between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, and the added stimulation makes you gasp. He watches you with hooded eyes, and there's something incredibly erotic about touching yourself while he fucks you.
"That's it," he encourages. "Fuck, you look so good like this. Taking my cock, touching yourself, so fucking perfect -"
"Tony," you moan, pleasure building again. "I'm going to…"
"Do it. Come for me. Want to feel it."
Your orgasm hits like a tidal wave, and you cry out, back arching off the bed. Your inner walls clench around him, and he groans, hips stuttering.
"Where?" he grits out. "Where do you want me to -"
"Inside," you gasp. "Come inside me. Want to feel it."
That's all it takes. He thrusts deep one more time and comes with a shout, and you can feel the pulse of him as he fills you. It's intimate and messy and absolutely perfect.
He collapses on top of you, both of you breathing hard, and you hold him close. His weight is comforting, grounding, and you never want to move.
"That was -" he starts.
"Yeah."
"Different."
"Better."
"So much better." He lifts his head to look at you, and his expression is soft and open. "I love you."
"I love you too."
He kisses you gently, then carefully pulls out. You both wince at the loss, and he immediately pulls you against his side, tucking you into the curve of his body.
"Stay," you murmur.
"I'm not going anywhere." He presses a kiss to your forehead. "I'm exactly where I want to be."
You wake up to sunlight and the feeling of Tony's fingers tracing lazy patterns on your bare shoulder.
"Morning," he says softly.
"Morning." You stretch, feeling pleasantly sore. "How long have you been awake?"
"A while. You really do snore, by the way."
"I do not."
"You absolutely do. It's adorable."
You turn to face him, and he's smiling at you with such open affection that it makes your chest tight.
"This is real, right?" you ask quietly. "Last night actually happened?"
"Very real." He leans in to kiss you. "I told you I love you approximately forty-seven times, you told me you love me back, and then we had incredible sex. Twice."
"Three times. You're forgetting the shower."
"Oh right. Three times." His smile turns wicked. "Want to make it four?"
"Later. I need coffee first."
"I'll make it."
You blink. "You'll make coffee?"
"I'm a genius. I think I can handle a coffee maker."
"You once tried to make toast and set off the fire alarm."
"That was one time, and the toaster was clearly defective."
You laugh, and he grins, clearly pleased with himself. He gets up - completely unselfconscious in his nudity - and pulls on his boxer briefs before heading to your kitchen.
You take a moment to just appreciate the sight of Tony Stark, rumpled and half-naked, making coffee in your kitchen like it's the most natural thing in the world.
This is your life now.
You pull on one of his t-shirts and follow him out. He's studying your coffee maker with the same intensity he usually reserves for complex engineering problems.
"It's not that complicated," you say, coming up behind him.
"I'm analyzing the optimal water-to-coffee ratio."
"Or you could just use the scoop that came with it."
"Where's the fun in that?"
You wrap your arms around his waist, pressing a kiss between his shoulder blades. He covers your hands with his, and for a moment you just stand there, breathing together.
"I could get used to this," he says quietly.
"Mediocre coffee?"
"You. Here. Us." He turns in your arms to face you. "Waking up together. Making breakfast. All the boring domestic stuff I never thought I wanted."
"And now?"
"Now I want it all." He cups your face, thumbs stroking your cheekbones. "I want lazy Sunday mornings and arguing about whose turn it is to do dishes and falling asleep watching movies. I want the boring stuff and the exciting stuff and everything in between."
"That's a lot of wanting."
"I'm a man of large appetites." He waggles his eyebrows, and you laugh.
"You're ridiculous."
"You love it."
"I really do."
The coffee maker beeps, and Tony pours two cups, somehow remembering exactly how you take yours without asking. You migrate to the couch, curling up against his side.
"So," you say after a moment. "What now?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean... what does this look like? Us. Are we telling people? Are we keeping it quiet? Are you going to introduce me as your girlfriend or -"
"Girlfriend." He says it firmly, like there's no question. "Definitely girlfriend. Partner. Significant other. Love of my life. Whatever you want to be called, as long as everyone knows you're mine."
"Possessive."
"Extremely." He kisses your temple. "And yes, we're telling people. I'm not hiding this. I'm not hiding you. I want everyone to know that I'm stupidly in love with the smartest, most beautiful, most infuriating woman I've ever met."
"Infuriating?"
"You drive me crazy. It's one of your best qualities."
You laugh, snuggling closer. "What about the press? The gossip blogs? You know they're going to have a field day."
"Let them. I don't care what they say as long as I have you." He pauses. "Unless you want to keep it quiet? If you're not ready for that kind of attention…"
"I'm not afraid of attention." You look up at him. "I just want to make sure you're ready for this. For us. For a real relationship with all the complications that come with it."
"I've never been more ready for anything." He sets his coffee down and pulls you into his lap, and you go willingly. "I know I'm not easy. I know I work too much and I'm terrible at expressing emotions and I have a tendency to self-destruct when things get hard. But I want to try. For you. With you."
"I'm not easy either."
"I know. You're stubborn and competitive and you never back down from an argument."
"Are those complaints?"
"Those are compliments." He kisses you softly. "You challenge me. You make me better. You don't let me get away with my bullshit. You're exactly what I need."
"We're going to fight."
"Probably constantly."
"And you're going to drive me crazy."
"Absolutely."
"And this might not work."
"Or," he says, tilting your chin up to look at him, "it might be the best thing that ever happened to either of us."
You kiss him, slow and sweet, and when you pull back you're both smiling.
"So we're really doing this," you say.
"We're really doing this."
"Tony Stark's girlfriend. That's going to take some getting used to."
"You've been my best friend for years. This is just... an upgrade."
You laugh. "An upgrade?"
"A significant upgrade. Now I get to kiss you whenever I want. And hold your hand. And tell people you're mine. And -" He grins wickedly. "Have sex with you on every surface of my house."
"Every surface?"
"I have a very large house. It's going to take a while."
"You're insatiable."
"Only for you." He kisses you again, deeper this time. "So? What do you say? Want to be my girlfriend? Want to deal with my crazy life and my even crazier friends and the constant media attention?"
"I've been dealing with all of that for years."
"True. But now you get the boyfriend perks."
"Which are?"
"Unlimited access to my lab. First look at all my new tech. A key to my house. My undying love and devotion. Also, I'm very good with my hands."
"I'm aware."
"And my tongue."
"Also aware."
"And I'm a generous lover who prioritizes your pleasure above my own."
"You're also incredibly humble."
He grins. "It's one of my best qualities."
You laugh, and he joins in, and it feels easy and right and perfect.
"Yes," you say finally.
"Yes?"
"Yes, I'll be your girlfriend. Yes, I want to try this. Yes to all of it."
His smile is blinding. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He kisses you again, and this time it's full of promise and hope and the beginning of something real.
"I love you," he murmurs against your lips.
"I love you too."
"Say it again."
"I love you, Tony Stark."
"One more time."
"I love you."
"I'm never going to get tired of hearing that."
"Good. Because I'm planning on saying it a lot."
"How much is a lot?"
"Every day. Multiple times a day. Possibly every hour."
"That's a lot of love."
"You're a lot of person. You require a lot of love."
He laughs, pulling you closer. "Lucky for me, you have a lot to give."
"Lucky for both of us."
You spend the rest of the morning on the couch, talking and laughing and making plans. Tony tells you about the project he's working on, and you tell him about the book you're reading, and it's so perfectly normal and domestic that it makes your heart ache in the best way.
This is what you've been missing. This is what you've wanted all along.
Not just the physical connection, but this - the intimacy, the comfort, the easy companionship of being with someone who knows you inside and out.
"What are you thinking?" Tony asks, noticing your expression.
"Just that I'm happy."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." You kiss him softly. "Really, really happy."
"Good." He stands, pulling you up with him. "Come on."
"Where are we going?"
"Back to bed. I believe I promised you a fourth round."
"It's ten in the morning."
"Your point?"
You laugh, letting him pull you toward the bedroom. "No point. Just observing."
"Observe this," he says, and kisses you until you forget what you were going to say.
Later, you're tangled together in bed again, sweaty and satisfied, and Tony is tracing patterns on your bare back.
"Hey," he says softly.
"Hmm?"
"Thank you."
You lift your head to look at him. "For what?"
"For giving me a chance. For not giving up on me when I was being an idiot. For loving me even though I'm a mess."
"You're my mess," you say, and mean it. "And I wouldn't have you any other way."
He pulls you down for a kiss, and it's soft and sweet and full of promise.
"Forever?" he asks quietly.
"Forever," you agree.
And for the first time in months, you're not scared.
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Your Toxic! Ex! Tony called you at 3am and made you drive all the way to Stark Tower
TW: | P IN V | Tomy being an asshole |
A/N: @starfishstark had such a valid question regarding this and here's my highly detailed answer:
Word count: 1.3K
By the time your car pulls into the private garage, the adrenaline has started to fade, replaced by a bitter wave of reality. You walk out of the elevator and into the lab, the cold air hitting your bare ankles under your sweatpants. You look like a mess, but the moment you step inside, Tony is already watching you. He’s leaning against a table, a glass of scotch in one hand, looking entirely too put-together for someone who claimed to be having a crisis.
"Look who made it," he says, his eyes traveling down your casual clothes with a look that makes your skin hot.
"Where's the tech, Tony?" you demand, crossing your arms. "You said you needed help. I thought something was wrong."
He sets his glass down, walking toward you with that effortless, arrogant stride. "Something was wrong. The lab was empty. You weren't in my bed. Highly problematic."
"You're an asshole," you snap, stepping back, but he closes the distance anyway. He catches your waist, his fingers digging into your hip through the fabric of your pants, pulling you flush against him.
"I am," he murmurs against your jaw, his breath smelling faintly of liquor and mint. "But you're here. You always come back."
He kisses you then—rough, possessive, and entirely unapologetic. It’s the same toxic cycle you swear you're going to break every single week, but as his hands move under your shirt and he lifts you onto the nearest glass desk, scattering tablets and tools to the floor, you realize you've already lost the argument.
“I definitely’d rather see you on my workbench than my bed,” Tony murmurs, his kisses tracing a burning line down your neck. His hands are already playing with the elastic band of your sweats, tugging impatiently. “Up, up. These are in my way.”
You hate that you obediently lift your hips, doing exactly what he says without a second thought.
The most insufferably smug smile appears on his face the second he realizes you aren't wearing any panties. You roll your eyes, trying to hide how fast your heart is beating. You’ve always hated sleeping with underwear, and the bastard knew that when he called you.
“Look at that. You’re so ready for me,” he says, his voice dropping an octave as his hands wander up your thighs, effortlessly finding the heat between them. His fingers press right against your aching clit, and it’s embarrassingly obvious just how badly you want him.
You gasp, your fingers instantly digging into the fabric of his dark shirt to keep your balance on the edge of the desk. You want to bite back, to say something to ruin that confident look on his face, but he knows exactly how to touch you to keep you quiet.
"Shut up, Tony," you breathe out, but it comes out entirely too breathless to be intimidating.
"Make me," he whispers, leaning in to catch your bottom lip between his teeth. He applies just enough pressure with his thumb, a slow, agonizingly perfect stroke that makes your toes curl. He’s completely sober now, entirely focused on the reaction he’s pulling out of you. He loves the control, loves knowing that no matter how much you fight him outside of this room, in here, he owns your body’s responses.
He slides two fingers inside you, testing how slick you are, and you let out a low moan that echoes in the quiet, high-tech lab.
"See? This is what I was thinking about at three in the morning," Tony murmurs against your skin, his pace quickening just enough to drive you crazy. He looks up, his dark eyes heavy and dark with satisfaction as he watches your expression undo itself. "Tell me who you drove all the way here for."
“You,” you breathe out, followed by a wrecked moan as he curls his fingers inside you, hitting that sweet spot he knows so damn well.
“Exactly. Only me,” he says. You didn’t even notice when he unbuckled his pants, but suddenly the hot tip of his dick is resting right against your slick entrance. “You want me, sweetheart?” he asks teasingly, slowly smearing your wetness all over yourself, mocking you with the proximity.
“Please, Tony,” is all you say, completely defeated by the ache.
He lets out a low, mocking laugh. “I didn’t even have to tell you to beg. That’s my good girl,” he murmurs, and slowly pushes all the way into you.
The sudden fullness makes your eyes roll back, your hands tightly gripping his shoulders as he stretches you out. He doesn't move right away; he just stays buried deep inside you, letting you take all of him while he watches the praise work its way through your system. He loves how easily that title—his good girl—makes you fall apart, even when you both know you shouldn't be here.
"Look at you," Tony whispers, his voice thick and rough as he leans down, pressing his forehead against yours. "Fitting me perfectly. Like you never left."
Before you can even process the sting of his words, he pulls back and drives back in, setting a hard, demanding pace. The metal edge of the workbench digs into your back, but you barely feel it over the overwhelming sensation of him filling you up over and over. Every thrust is heavy, possessive, and deliberately designed to remind you of exactly what you’ve been missing.
You throw your head back, a loud, uninhibited moan leaving your lips as he hits that same perfect spot with every single stroke. Tony leans over you, his hands pinning your wrists to the cold glass of the desk, locking you in place so you have no choice but to take everything he's giving you.
"Tony—" you gasp out, the friction building so fast it's making your head spin.
"I've got you," he growls, his own composure finally cracking as he feels how tight you're clamping down around him. He releases your wrists, his arms wrapping under your thighs to pull you even closer, driving into you with a desperate, toxic urgency until you both completely lose control.
The sounds of skin slapping against skin, the wet friction of your juices, and the ragged, desperate breaths from the both of you are the only things echoing through the silent lab.
“Come for me, sweetheart. Make a mess just how I like it,” he growls, his voice completely raw as he feels his own orgasm about to rip through his body.
That’s the exact breaking point.
The praise ruins you completely, and your walls collapse. You clamp down around him incredibly tight, your hips stuttering against his as a violent, toe-curling climax hits you. You scream his name into the empty lab, your fingers clawing at his back, dragging him under with you.
Hearing you break completely shatters whatever restraint Tony had left. He lets out a low, guttural groan, driving into you three more times—hard, deep, and utterly possessive—before he completely unloads inside you. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his chest heaving heavily against yours as he pumps his release into you, filling you up until he’s completely spent.
For a long minute, the only sound is the two of you trying to catch your breath. Tony stays buried deep inside you, his heavy body keeping you pinned to the workbench as his heart beats wildly against your ribs.
Slowly, the fog of the orgasm begins to clear, and that familiar, toxic reality starts creeping back into the room. He pulls out of you with a soft sigh, leaving you feeling instantly cold and exposed on the glass desk.
Tony grabs a stray rag from the workbench, wiping himself down before tossing it aside with that casual, effortless detachment that always makes your stomach drop. He looks down at you, a slow, satisfied smirk returning to his lips as he buttons his pants. The vulnerable, desperate man who called you at 3:00 AM is gone, replaced entirely by the billionaire who just got exactly what he wanted.
"See?" Tony murmurs, reaching down to playfully tap your chin, completely ignoring the absolute mess he left you in. "I told you that you were missing me"
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