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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.
Main Masterlist | Patrick Dempsey Masterlist | Dr. Derek Shepherd Masterlist | Angelo Doyle Masterlist
A/N: The monaco interviews got me going 🙈
Warnings: age gap, soft flirting, fresh-divorce emotions, mild alcohol mention, romantic tension, no explicit smut.
The first mistake you made was downloading Raya.
The second was opening it at one in the morning after two glasses of wine and a long travel day.
And the third—easily the worst—was accidentally swiping right on Patrick Dempsey.
You froze the second his profile appeared on your screen.
It was simple. Almost annoyingly normal. A black-and-white photo, another one at a racetrack in racing gear, one with a coffee mug and his dog. His bio only said: Actor. Racing. Coffee. Trying to figure life out.
You stared at the screen for a solid thirty seconds before muttering, “Absolutely not.”
Because this was Patrick Dempsey. McDreamy. Your teenage obsession. The reason fourteen-year-old you thought emotionally unavailable men with pretty eyes were romantic.
There was no universe where Patrick Dempsey would ever swipe right on you.
Sure, you were successful. You had built a solid reputation as a journalist and interviewer. You attended film festivals, sports events, fashion launches and award ceremonies for work. But Patrick Dempsey still belonged to that category of celebrity that didn’t quite feel real.
You meant to swipe left.
Instead, your thumb slipped.
The screen flashed instantly.
It’s a match.
Your entire body went still.
“Oh my God.”
You stared at your phone in genuine horror before dropping it face-first onto the bed like it had personally betrayed you. For the next ten minutes you seriously considered deleting the app entirely out of embarrassment.
Eventually, you convinced yourself to calm down. It didn’t matter. Men like Patrick Dempsey probably matched with hundreds of people. He likely wouldn’t even notice your profile among the endless stream of actresses, models and influencers flooding the app.
By morning, you had almost managed to forget about it.
Almost.
Monaco during Grand Prix weekend was complete madness. The entire city buzzed with expensive energy—luxury cars crawling through narrow streets, yachts crowding the harbor, celebrities moving in packs while photographers hovered nearby hoping for one good shot.
You were halfway through your second coffee during the media briefing when your editor handed over the updated celebrity interview schedule.
You skimmed through the names lazily until your eyes landed on one entry.
Patrick Dempsey.
Your stomach dropped so fast it was almost embarrassing.
“Oh, you’ve got him around five,” your editor said casually while checking her phone. “Apparently he’s lovely. Should be an easy interview.”
Lovely.
That somehow made things worse.
The entire afternoon became a blur after that. Back in your hotel suite, clothes were scattered everywhere while you tried to decide what counted as “professional but effortless” without looking like you had clearly overthought the outfit.
You eventually settled on an ivory satin blouse tucked into black tailored trousers with minimal jewelry and soft makeup. Clean. Elegant. Safe.
Definitely not chosen because Patrick Dempsey might look at you.
By the time you arrived at the VIP hospitality area near the paddock, the atmosphere was already electric. Music drifted through the open terraces overlooking the marina while waiters moved around carrying champagne trays. The air smelled faintly of sunscreen, expensive perfume and overheated engines.
Your earlier interviews went smoothly enough. Years in journalism had trained you to stay calm around famous people. You could interview Oscar winners and athletes without blinking.
But the second a producer leaned over and quietly said, “Patrick’s ready for you,” every ounce of composure threatened to disappear.
You turned toward the interview setup and immediately understood why the internet lost its mind over that man.
Black suit. White shirt slightly open at the collar. Sunglasses hooked loosely into one hand. The late afternoon Monaco sunlight caught the silver threaded through his hair and suddenly he looked less like an actor and more like someone designed in a laboratory to make women nervous.
As you approached him, your heel caught slightly against the flooring.
Not enough to fully stumble.
But enough.
Before you could properly recover, Patrick instinctively reached out and steadied your arm lightly. “You okay there?” he asked, smiling in a way that felt unfairly warm.
You let out a breathy laugh, immediately embarrassed. “Yeah. Totally fine. Just trying to make a memorable first impression.”
That made him laugh softly. “Well now I feel better because I was nervous too.”
You blinked at him. “You were nervous?”
“A little,” he admitted easily. “You’re the journalist. You ask the scary questions.”
Something about the way he said it instantly relaxed you.
The cameras started rolling a moment later and somehow the interview flowed naturally almost immediately. Patrick was surprisingly easy to talk to. He didn’t give polished media-trained answers or try too hard to sound charming. If anything, he seemed more comfortable discussing racing than acting.
The second the conversation shifted toward endurance driving and Le Mans, his entire face lit up. “There’s something really grounding about racing,” he explained thoughtfully. “When you’re driving, nothing else exists for a while. You can’t think about life or stress or anything outside the car because if you do, you lose focus.”
You nodded. “That actually sounds therapeutic.”
“It is,” he said with a small smile. “Probably cheaper than therapy too.”
At one point you admitted that your only fast-driving experience ended with you nearly crying in the passenger seat during a Ferrari experience in Dubai. Patrick laughed so hard he leaned forward slightly in his chair.
“That bad?”
“I genuinely saw my ancestors,” you deadpanned. “The driver kept yelling ‘isn’t this fun?’ while I was preparing to meet God.”
He laughed properly then—not the polite celebrity laugh people fake during interviews, but a real one that crinkled the corners of his eyes.
And after that, the conversation became easy.
Really easy.
You spoke about travel, Monaco, race weekends, jet lag and how strange it was constantly living out of hotel rooms. Patrick listened carefully when you spoke instead of just waiting for his turn to answer, which felt surprisingly rare.
When the interview wrapped, he thanked every crew member individually before standing up.
“That was fun,” he said sincerely while unclipping his mic.
“It was,” you admitted.
“You made it easy.”
And annoyingly enough, that small sentence stayed with you long after he walked away.
By evening, Monaco transformed completely. The sporty daytime energy melted into glamour as terraces filled with celebrities, executives and drivers dressed in black tie while music echoed through the harbor.
After finishing your final segment for the night, you escaped outside onto one of the quieter balconies attached to the hotel ballroom. You needed a moment away from people, cameras and conversations.
The sea breeze cooled your skin instantly as you leaned against the railing with a champagne flute in hand, staring out at the yachts below.
For the first time all day, you finally relaxed.
“You disappeared.”
The familiar voice behind you made your stomach flip immediately.
You turned and found Patrick standing there with his suit jacket gone and his sleeves rolled slightly to his forearms. His tie had disappeared somewhere too, leaving the top few buttons of his shirt undone in a way that should not have been attractive but unfortunately was.
“Oh,” you said intelligently.
He smiled. “Mind if I join you?”
“Not at all.”
Patrick stepped beside you at the railing, glancing briefly toward the water before looking back at you. Up close without cameras around, he seemed calmer somehow. Less polished. More real.
For a few seconds, neither of you spoke.
Then he smiled slightly and said, “You seem less nervous now.”
You let out a soft laugh. “Was it that obvious?”
“A little.”
“That’s deeply embarrassing.”
“No, it was actually kind of flattering.”
You looked at him suspiciously. “Why?"
“Because I don’t think people usually get nervous around me anymore.”
You stared at him for a second before laughing softly. “Patrick, you were literally everyone’s crush.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“It was. Grey’s Anatomy permanently damaged an entire generation of women.”
That made him grin. “And you?”
You took a sip of champagne before answering honestly. “Unfortunately, yes.”
His smile widened slowly, clearly amused by your embarrassment now. “So that’s why you almost tripped earlier.”
“Oh my God.”
“I’m putting the pieces together.”
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“A little,” he admitted.
The conversation drifted naturally after that. You talked about travel schedules, the strange loneliness of constantly being surrounded by people and how events like Monaco could feel glamorous and exhausting at the same time.
At one point Patrick leaned against the railing beside you and said quietly, “People think these events are exciting every second of the day, but honestly sometimes they feel strangely lonely.”
Something about the honesty in his voice caught your attention.
“You seem good at hiding it,” you admitted softly.
“That’s part of the job.”
The answer sat quietly between you for a moment.
Without cameras and interviews around him, Patrick felt unexpectedly grounded. Warm. Funny in a very natural way. There was no performance to him.
And somehow that made him even more attractive.
A breeze lifted a few strands of your hair across your face and before you could move them yourself, Patrick reached over instinctively and tucked them gently behind your ear.
The movement was small.
Careless almost.
But the second his fingers brushed your skin, the atmosphere shifted.
Neither of you moved immediately afterward.
Patrick looked at you for a second longer than necessary before suddenly exhaling a small laugh under his breath.
“What?” you asked quietly.
He rubbed the back of his neck slightly, almost sheepish now. “Okay, this is either going to sound smooth or incredibly embarrassing.”
“That’s already a bad start.”
He laughed softly. “I know you from somewhere else.”
Your stomach dropped instantly.
Patrick noticed your expression immediately and smiled. “Not in a creepy way, I swear.”
“Oh this keeps getting worse.”
“I saw you on Raya.”
Heat rushed straight to your face so fast it physically hurt.
“Oh my God.”
“There it is,” he said, laughing now. “That reaction confirms it.”
You covered your face briefly with one hand. “Can we pretend this conversation never happened?”
“No,” he said immediately. “Absolutely not.”
You groaned. “I didn’t even mean to swipe right on you.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Wow.”
“No wait—that sounds horrible.”
“It really does.”
“You were my childhood crush! I panicked.”
That made him laugh again, softer this time. “Okay, fair.”
“I almost deleted the app afterward.”
“Good,” he replied easily. “I’m glad it wasn’t just me.”
You looked at him properly then. “Wait… you noticed?”
Patrick leaned slightly against the railing beside you, smiling almost shyly now. “Pretty hard not to notice the journalist I interviewed with six hours later.”
Your stomach flipped violently.
Then after a small pause, he asked quietly, “So it wasn’t an accident?”
The teasing was still there, but softer now. More genuine.
You met his eyes for a second before admitting, “No. Not really.”
Something warm shifted across his expression.
“I’m glad,” he said simply.
The silence afterward didn’t feel awkward.
If anything, it felt comfortable.
Easy.
Hours passed without either of you noticing. The party continued loudly behind you while the two of you stayed tucked away near the balcony railing talking about everything and absolutely nothing.
And somewhere between the champagne, the Monaco lights and Patrick Dempsey smiling at you like you were the only person in the room, he stopped feeling like a celebrity entirely.
He just felt like a man you genuinely liked being around.
Eventually someone from inside called his name and Patrick glanced back reluctantly before looking at you again.
“You busy tomorrow after qualifying?”
Your heart skipped instantly. “I have interviews until four.”
“I can work with four.”
You smiled despite yourself. “Are you asking me on a date?”
“In Monaco?” he said with a grin. “Feels appropriately dramatic.”
You laughed softly before nodding.
“Okay.”
And the smile Patrick gave you afterward stayed with you long after the night ended.
Main Masterlist | Robert Downey Jr Masterlist | Tony Stark Masterlist | Hank Palmer Masterlist | Nathan Gardner Masterlist
A/N: Needed some fluff for myself
Content warnings: None. Emotional hurt/comfort, family bonding, references to anxiety and fear of harming loved ones (no graphic violence). Pure fluff and reassurance.
Taglist is open! (Tagging my favourites/regulars for now)
You stepped through the front door, still shrugging off your work bag, and the silence hit you like a wall. Usually, by this hour, there was noise—the clatter of Tony tinkering in his workshop, the hum of FRIDAY’s voice, the distant laughter of your son chasing one of the bots. But today, nothing. Just the soft tick of the grandfather clock in the foyer and the faint whisper of the air conditioning.
Your heart lurched. It had been weeks—long, draining weeks—of Tony pulling away. Not just from you, but from Theo too. He’d come home late, leave early, bury himself in the lab with excuses about "Avengers stuff." You’d told yourself it would pass. It always did, didn’t it? His moods came in waves, crashing against the shores of his conscience before receding again.
But this time felt different. This time, the distance had a weight to it. A sorrow.
You dropped your bag by the stairs and moved through the ground floor quickly, checking the kitchen, the living room, the den. Empty. Even the coffee mugs in the sink were from this morning, untouched since. A cold knot tightened in your stomach.
Where are they?
You remembered Theo’s orange bathing suit draped over the towel rack this morning. He’d been begging to use the pool, but you’d told him to wait for Daddy. And Tony had just… left for work without a word.
Your feet carried you up the stairs, then down the hallway toward the master bedroom. The balcony doors were wide open, letting in the warm evening breeze. And there—finally—you saw them.
Your breath caught.
On the large beach seat you’d bought last summer, the one with the thick white cushions and the wide canopy, Tony was curled up with Theo. Your son was wrapped in that bright orange bathing suit you’d thought he’d never get to wear today, his small body tucked against Tony’s chest. Tony’s arm was wrapped around him, his hand splayed protectively over Theo’s back. They were both facing the ocean, the golden light of the setting sun painting their silhouettes in soft amber.
Tony’s head was bowed, his forehead resting against Theo’s hair. You could see his shoulders rise and fall in slow, measured breaths. He wasn’t asleep. He was holding on.
You stood frozen in the doorway, tears pricking at your eyes. This was what you’d been missing. This was the man you loved, the father you knew he could be. But you also saw the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers clutched the fabric of Theo’s suit like he was afraid to let go.
You didn’t interrupt. You just watched, your hand pressed over your mouth, until the light shifted and Tony finally stirred. He murmured something to Theo, who nodded sleepily, and then they both stood. Tony lifted your son easily, cradling him against his chest, and turned to come inside.
When he saw you, his eyes widened for a fraction of a second. Then a shadow of guilt passed over his face. He managed a thin, tired smile.
“Hey, honey,” he said softly. “Didn’t hear you come in.”
You stepped aside as he carried Theo toward his bedroom. “I just got home. I was looking for you two.”
“We were just… having some air,” Tony said, his voice rough. He laid Theo down on his bed, pulling the covers up over the little boy’s still-damp suit. Theo was already half-asleep, his fingers curling around the edge of the blanket.
Tony stood there for a long moment, staring down at your son. His hand hovered over Theo’s head, trembling slightly, before he finally pulled it back. He turned and walked past you, his steps heavy.
You followed him into the kitchen. The silence stretched like a rubber band about to snap.
You moved on autopilot—filling the kettle, pulling down two mugs, scooping coffee grounds into the French press. The familiar ritual helped steady your nerves. Tony leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching you with that same hollow look he’d worn for weeks.
When the coffee was ready, you poured two cups, set one in front of him, and wrapped your own fingers around the warmth of the mug. You didn’t drink. You just stood there, looking at him.
Then you set your mug down and reached out.
“Tony,” you said quietly. “Hold my hand. Please. I need it.”
He flinched. For a moment, you thought he’d refuse. But then his hand lifted, and his fingers intertwined with yours. They were cold, rough with calluses from years of metal and machinery. But they held yours like a lifeline.
“I’m sorry, love,” he whispered. “I know I’ve been unfair. I know you see it. You always see it.”
You squeezed his hand. “I know you’re going through something. But you can’t shut us out. Not me, not Theo. We’re your family.”
He let out a shaky exhale. “You’re right. You’re always right.”
You guided him to the living room couch, both of you sitting down with your knees touching. You kept his hand in yours, thumb stroking over his knuckles.
“Tell me,” you said. “What happened?”
He stared at your joined hands for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.
“I almost hurt him.”
Your blood ran cold. “What? When?”
“A week ago. In the lab.” He swallowed hard. “I was testing a new gauntlet prototype. I don’t even remember what I was trying to do—some impulse repulsor modification. Theo came in to show me a drawing he made. He was so proud of it. A picture of our family.” Tony’s voice cracked. “I was distracted. I didn’t see him reach for the table. The gauntlet discharged. Missed him by inches. The blast hit the wall behind him.”
You felt your own hand tremble. “Tony…”
“He didn’t even realize. He thought it was a sound effect. Laughed it off.” Tony’s jaw clenched. “But I saw it. I saw how close I came to—to hurting my own son. Because I wasn’t paying attention. Because I let my work blind me.”
He pulled his hand from yours, rubbing his face with both palms. “I’ve been over it a thousand times. What if he had been three inches to the left? What if I hadn’t pulled back in time? What if, what if, what if…”
You reached out and gently pulled his hands away from his face. “Tony, look at me.”
He did. His eyes were red-rimmed, glistening.
“You did pull back,” you said firmly. “You didn’t hurt him. You caught yourself. You’ve spent your whole life building things that could destroy, and every single time, you choose not to. You choose us.”
“But what if I don’t next time?” His voice was raw. “What if I’m not fast enough? I’m not a good man, Y/N. I’ve done terrible things. I have a list of sins longer than my bank account. And Theo—he’s so small. So innocent. He looks at me like I’m a hero. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what I really am.”
You moved closer, cupping his face in your hands. “He knows you’re his father. That’s all he needs to know. And you are a good man, Tony. Not perfect. None of us are. But you love him. You love me. That’s what matters.”
He let out a shuddering breath. “I’m scared.”
“I know.” You pressed your forehead against his. “But you don’t have to carry it alone. Let me help. Let me be your anchor.”
For a long moment, he just breathed with you, his hands coming up to rest on your waist. Then he tilted his head and kissed you—soft, slow, desperate. A kiss that tasted of salt and apology.
You kissed him back, pouring every ounce of reassurance you had into it. When you finally parted, you were both trembling.
“You’re not going to hurt him,” you whispered. “Because you’ll be careful. You’ll be present. And when you feel that fear creeping in, you’ll come to me. We’ll handle it together.”
He nodded, his thumb tracing your cheek. “I love you. I love him. I don’t know how to say it right.
“You just did.”
You stayed like that, wrapped in each other, until the coffee grew cold and the stars came out beyond the balcony. Then you stood, took his hand again, and led him back to Theo’s room.
The little boy was sprawled on his bed, still in his orange bathing suit, one arm flung over his head. His lips were parted in a peaceful sleep.
Tony knelt beside the bed, and you saw the change in his face—the tight lines softening, the fear giving way to something gentler. He pressed a kiss to Theo’s forehead, then to his tiny hand.
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I don't know if you guys missed me or my writings but I was silently working on an idea that was brewing for a while. Was finally able to publish 4 chapters of the same. Would love it if you guys would read it and let me know your thoughts. It is much more detailed and longer than anything I have written before (I think each chapter is about 2.5k words)
The silence of the house was louder than any party could have been. For three weeks, "space" had felt less like breathing room and more like an icy void. You checked your phone—11:43 PM. The day was almost over. Your birthday. You’d spent it dodging cheerful texts from friends and eating lukewarm takeout with your parents, all while checking your lock screen for a name that never popped up. No call. No "Happy Birthday, Honey." No "I miss you." This is it, you thought, a lump forming in your throat. The silence is the answer. It’s over.
The chime of the doorbell at 11:54 PM didn't just startle you; it made your heart perform a painful somersault. You opened the door to find Robert standing on the porch, the porch light catching the sharp planes of his face. He looked… wrecked. There was a dark, jagged smear of crimson across his temple and a purplish bruise blooming along his jawline. His signature suit was rumpled, and he looked like he’d just walked out of an explosion.
"Robert? Oh my god, what happened?" The anger you’d been nursing evaporated instantly, replaced by pure, cold panic.
"I made it," he rasped, his voice sounding like it had been dragged over gravel. He checked his watch. "Six minutes to spare. Happy birthday, sweetheart."
You’re bleeding," you breathed, reaching out with a trembling hand to touch his face. He flinched slightly, then caught your wrist, giving you a weary, lopsided grin—the one that usually meant he was hiding something. "It’s nothing. Truly. Just movie magic, babe. I didn't have time to hit the makeup trailer before I bolted from set. Didn't want to miss the deadline."
"Robert, that looks way too real to be—"
"I’m fine," he insisted, though his hand squeezed yours a little too tight for support. "I was a distracted idiot today. I didn't call because I wanted to be here. I drove three hours straight because the thought of you ending this day thinking I’d forgotten… I couldn't live with that."
You pulled him inside, the scent of expensive cologne and metallic copper hitting you. As you grabbed a damp cloth to "wipe away the makeup," the truth became clear. The smudge on his forehead smeared, but the swelling underneath didn't.
"Robert John Downey Jr.," you whispered, pausing as the cloth came away pink. "This isn't just stage blood."
He sighed, his shoulders finally dropping as he slumped onto the entryway bench. He winced, clutching his side. "Okay, fine. A stunt went sideways. A piece of the rig snapped. It was a minor incident, really—the medic wanted me to go to the ER for a few stitches and a scan, but I knew if I went there, I’d be stuck all night." He looked up at you, his brown eyes vulnerable and shimmering with a mix of pain and desperation.
"I know things are broken between us right now. I know I’ve been hard to live with. But I wasn't going to let a little concussion and a 'no-driving' order keep me from showing up. I’m not giving up on us. Even if you’ve already given up on me."
The clock on the wall ticked over to 12:00 AM.
"I haven't given up," you said softly, kneeling between his knees and pressing your forehead to his. "But you’re an absolute moron for driving with a concussion."
"Maybe," he chuckled, though it ended in a small groan of pain. "But I'm your moron. If you'll still have me."
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PAIRING || Husband! Dad! Young! Tony Stark x Wife! Mom! Female! Reader
WORDCOUNT || 1.8K
SUMMARY || When you and Tony just started dating, he won you a Yoshi plushie that has been on display ever since. Over time, your daughter, Orion, fell in love with the little guy, too, showing you exactly how loved he is in your household.
RATING || General (G)
TAGS + WARNINGS || Young Tony Stark AU | Kid fic | Reader is (briefly) described as tattooed | A pure bomb of nothing but fluffy goodness.
A/N || This is my first fic after being gone for about 3/4 of a year, but it feels amazing to finally be back! I've been working on some stories, which I'm very excited to share when the time is right. This fic is completely inspired by my bestie, @cacrca, and her love for Yoshi. This fic wouldn't have existed without you and your help, so thank you from the bottom of my heart! 🤍
GIF: @cacrca & Photo: Source || All other graphics in the post are made by ✨@nicoline1998enilocin ✨
Main masterlist || Tony Stark masterlist || Young! Tony Stark masterlist
“Yoshi!” your daughter, Orion, exclaims as she’s watching the trailer for the new Mario Galaxy movie on the TV. She’s cuddled on the couch with her twin brother, Hudson, and your husband, Tony, for some winding-down time while you try to get some cleaning done. You can’t help but smile as she says it, because from the moment she could walk and talk, he has been her favorite. And yours, too.
This all started when you and Tony just started dating, and there was a fair near your college campus. The weather was beautiful that day, and he brought you to the fair for a date night, which turned into an unforgettable one. And to this day, it just might be one of the favorite dates you have shared with your husband over the years. because the prize he won that day has been sitting on a shelf in your living room ever since.
“What would you like to do first, Sunshine? Go on one of the rides, or grab something to eat? Or maybe go hide behind a tent and make out a little?” he whispered in your ear, a flush on his cheeks at the thought of getting to kiss you again. You smile before shaking your head, because as much as you’d like to do it, you have other plans.
“I was hoping we could have a go at a claw machine! They’ve always been a favorite of mine, and my mom tried to win me something every time we went to a fair. She didn’t always succeed, but I enjoyed watching her all the same,” you tell Tony excitedly, your smile widening at the thought of your mom. She has been there for you through everything, and you couldn’t have been more grateful for her to be by your side, no matter what.
“That’s so sweet! Okay, you get to pick the machine, and I’ll try to win you something. But don’t stare too hard, because then I might get nervous,” he admits shyly, his rosy cheeks burning at the thought alone. You place a small kiss on his cheek before whispering a soft ‘okay’ and letting him lead you to the claw machines.
There were multiple rows of them, machines filled with any sort of plush you can imagine. From your typical teddy bears to characters like Stitch to machines with prizes like watches and earbuds. However, your eye is pulled to a machine that is filled with Yoshi’s in all the colors of the rainbow. Luckily, someone just stepped away from it, making it the perfect time for your boyfriend to give it a go.
You look at the color selection, and you’re torn between a blue and a green one, but decide to go with green, as that’s the classic color.
“Good luck,” you say to Tony as you watch from behind him, a small smile on your lips as you intently watch his fingers put a few coins into the machine, and his hand wraps around the stick that steers the claw. The hustle and bustle of people around you fades away as he lowers the claw, its prongs closing around the small, green toy before lifting it up. Unfortunately, it slips out as soon as it’s lifted a few inches, and you let out a small gasp.
“Don’t worry, Il Mio Sole. I’ll get you one, even if I have to stay all night!” Tony says, the determination in his voice audible as he steers the claw back to the plush he grabbed moments ago. You stop breathing for a moment as it wraps around the green fabric again, afraid it’s going to drop if you dare to make even the slightest of moves.
You and Tony keep a close eye on the machine, and this time, he manages to win the plush for you. He exclaims excitedly as you finally dare to breathe again. The claw machine flashes brightly as he bends over to grab the Yoshi for you, and it looks tiny in his large hands. You take it from him before sliding your hand in his, pulling him away to give someone else a chance.
“It looks like you’re my lucky charm once again, Sunshine,” Tony says before cupping your face in his hands, his thumbs gently rubbing over your cheekbones as he gazes into your eyes.
“It looks like it indeed,” you say before closing the gap and kissing him, the heat of the kiss filling your entire body within seconds. The rest of the night, you hold onto it tightly as you go into some of the attractions, and you eat some of the most delicious fair foods you have ever had. And when you’re on top of the ferris wheel - the plush in your lap as your hand is laced with your boyfriend's - you can’t help but kiss him again as a thank you for everything. The Yoshi plush, the date, the happiness he seems to bring out of you.
“You’re right, it’s Yoshi!” Tony says excitedly, and Orion nods enthusiastically before pointing to the green toy that’s sitting above the TV.
“Can he come with us when we watch the movie? I think he would like to come with us,” she says with a stern expression on her face, reminding you once again how much she looks like her father. While Hudson is the carbon copy of you, your daughter looks exactly like Tony, and you cannot say no to that face.
“I think it’d be a shame not to bring him. He’s getting his big movie debut, so of course, we need to bring him! Also… when did we say we would go to this movie exactly?” you ask, confusion on your face as you never mentioned going there before.
“I believe she just told us we’re going, Sunshine. But I’m more than happy to go. It’ll be nice to get out of the house with the four of us,” Tony says, and you agree with a smile. Having an outing with the entire family is something you can never resist, as you want to make as many memories before they’re older and doing their own things.
“Maybe we can make it an extra special evening and go out for some dinner before the movie. As long as we leave a little room for the popcorn, of course, because that will make the movie even better!” Tony offers, and Hudson and Orion both cheer in unison. It doesn’t take long for the tickets to be bought and the dinner to be planned, and the excitement of going to the movies is palpable in every move.
“Mommy?” Orion asks as you pull the shirt of her favorite pajamas over her head.
“Is it okay if Auntie Nat comes, too? And uncle Bruce?” she asks excitedly, and you can’t help but smile. The bond that Natasha and Orion share is unlike any other, and your best friend often jokes she’s her daughter instead of yours.
“It is totally okay with me, but you should ask her if she wants to come! Who knows, maybe she doesn’t have time to see the movie with us tomorrow,” you tease her, and she squints her eyes at you as she puts her arms on her hips. She reminds you even more of your husband, and you can’t help but laugh at the sight.
“Auntie Nat will make time for me!” she says, and you nod as you smile widely.
“As soon as you have your pajamas on and you brush your teeth, you and your brother can call her, deal? I think Hudson would like to see your Auntie Nat as well,” to which your daughter agrees. After about 10 minutes, your twins are settled on your bed with Tony’s iPad in between them, the device leaning on one of their legs.
You sit at the edge of the bed as Tony is downstairs cleaning up after the tornado of excitement that went through your house from the moment you confirmed you will be seeing the movie. They click the button to call Natasha, and it barely takes two rings for her fiery red hair and large smile to appear on the screen.
“There are my two favorite babies!” she says happily, and they wave at her with equally big smiles.
“Auntie Nat! Auntie Nat! Are you going to the movie with us tomorrow?!” Orion immediately says, barely giving your best friend time to finish her sentence.
“I don’t know, am I?” she says with a teasing tone, knowing full well that you already bought tickets for her and Bruce to come along as well. You’ve already texted her beforehand, and she happily agreed, as did her boyfriend. They love spending time with all four of you, and they didn’t have any plans, making it the perfect opportunity to go.
“Yes!” Hudson chimed in, and you can’t help but burst out into laughter at his response.
“Sorry,” you say in the general direction of your friend as you hear her laugh, too.
“Okay, how about this? Bruce and I will come to the movie with you, but only if the four of you eat here first. I’m going to make your favorite food, and then we can have popcorn as a dessert,” she offers, and they happily agree. After a few more minutes of talking about how excited they are to see Yoshi and that she’ll bring your plushie along, they say goodnight to Natasha and hand the iPad back to you.
“Can we sleep here tonight, Mommy?” Hudson asks with a yawn, his eyes getting smaller by the second as sleep creeps in. Normally, you would say no, because that is something you only allow when it’s a very special occasion, but you cannot possibly say no to his little sleepy face. Soon, they’re both tucked into your bed, their heads sharing a pillow as they cuddle together.
You snap a photo and send it to the family group chat, where Maria's reply is almost instant. ‘Guardate quei dolci bambini’, she replies. Look at those sweet babies. You couldn’t agree more as you walk downstairs and find Tony standing there with tears in his eyes as he looks at the photo.
“We’re so lucky,” he whispers as you wrap your arms around him from behind, his fingers tracing the ink on your arm as he leans into your touch. His eyes close for a second as the two of you bask in the quietness of the moment. These moments are among your favorites, as you take in his warm scent, his touch soft on your arm as he takes his time to map every inch of the dark ink.
“The luckiest,” you say as you smile into the words. The two of you stand like this for a few more moments until your husband turns around, now facing you as his hands lie on your shoulders. Your fingers dig gently into his sides when he leans in, capturing your lips in a soft kiss, every single ounce of his love poured into it.
“Ti amo,” you whisper before placing a tiny kiss on his nose, his cheeks immediately set aflame by the touch and the words. He’ll never get enough of hearing you speak Italian.
You'd been looking forward to this date all week. Tony had planned something special—a quiet dinner at that little Italian place downtown, followed by a stroll under the city lights. It was the kind of night that made your heart flutter just thinking about it. But as you got ready in your apartment, a familiar cramp twisted in your stomach, and you felt the telltale warmth. Your period. And not just any period—this was the first one since you and Tony had started dating a couple of months ago.
Panic set in. You weren't prepared, and the thought of bleeding through your favorite dress mid-date was mortifying. You grabbed your phone and texted him: Hey, I'm so sorry, but I have to cancel tonight. Not feeling great.
His reply came almost instantly: Everything okay? Need me to come over?
You hesitated, fingers hovering over the screen. It felt embarrassing to explain, but Tony had been nothing but understanding so far. It's... my period. Came out of nowhere. I just want to curl up at home.
There was a pause, longer than usual, and then: Say no more. Stay put. I'll handle this.
Handle it? What did that even mean? You sank onto your couch, wrapping yourself in a blanket, a hot water bottle pressed against your abdomen. The cramps were already making you wince, and all you wanted was to hibernate until it passed.
Meanwhile, across town, Tony Stark stared at his phone in the middle of his penthouse workshop. JARVIS's holographic displays flickered around him, but his mind was elsewhere. Period. Right. He knew the basics—biology class had covered it back in MIT—but details? Supplies? He was a genius billionaire playboy philanthropist, not a period expert. But he wasn't about to let his girlfriend suffer alone.
"JARVIS, pull up... uh, everything I need to know about periods. Quickly."
The AI's voice was calm. "Certainly, sir. Menstrual cycles involve..."
Tony waved a hand. "Basics, JARVIS. What does she need? Pads? Tampons? Chocolate?"
As JARVIS rattled off a list, Tony grabbed his keys and headed for the elevator. The nearest pharmacy was a twenty-minute drive, but traffic in New York meant it could be longer. He slid into his Audi and punched the address into the GPS, his mind racing. He wanted to get this right—for you.
The pharmacy was brightly lit and overwhelming when he arrived. Aisles upon aisles of colorful boxes, all with cryptic labels. Tony stood in the feminine hygiene section, scanning the shelves like he was analyzing arc reactor schematics. "Okay, pads... heavy flow? Ultra? Wings? What the hell are wings?"
He grabbed a box at random—something that said "overnight protection"—and added a pack of tampons for good measure. Then, pain relievers: ibuprofen, right? He tossed in a bottle. Chocolate—everyone said chocolate helped. And tea? Herbal, maybe? He wandered to the next aisle, piling his basket with chamomile tea bags, a heating pad (did they sell those here? Yes, in the back), and a fluffy blanket because why not?
But doubt crept in. Was this enough? The right brands? He pulled out his phone and dialed Natasha Romanoff. She picked up on the second ring.
"Stark? This better be good. I'm in the middle of a briefing."
"Nat, I need your expertise. Girlfriend emergency. Periods. What do I buy? I'm in a pharmacy and it's like a minefield."
There was a chuckle on the other end. "You're shopping for supplies? That's adorable. Okay, listen up. Ditch the random pads—get Always or Kotex, something absorbent with wings for security. Tampons if she uses them, but ask next time. Midol for cramps, not just ibuprofen. Dark chocolate, not milk. And ginger tea for nausea if it hits."
Tony scrambled to follow, swapping boxes and adding Midol. "Wings for security—got it. Anything else?"
"A hot water bottle or heating pad. And be gentle when you get there—no hovering, but show you care. Listen to what she needs."
"You're a lifesaver, Romanoff. Thanks."
Natasha's voice softened. "Tony... you love her, don't you? I mean, really love her. Dropping everything for this?"
He paused, basket in hand, a warmth spreading in his chest that had nothing to do with the store's fluorescent lights. "Maybe I do," he said quietly, then hung up before she could tease him further.
Bag in hand, Tony sped back to your apartment, his usual cocky grin replaced by a determined focus. He buzzed up, and you let him in with a weak smile. When the door opened, there he was—hair slightly tousled, arms full of bags, looking equal parts triumphant and nervous.
"Hey, gorgeous. I come bearing gifts." He stepped inside, kicking the door shut behind him, and set the bags on your coffee table. You were still curled on the couch, looking pale and uncomfortable, but his presence made the ache a little less sharp.
"Tony, you didn't have to—"
"Shh. I wanted to." He knelt beside you, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "How bad is it? Cramps?"
You nodded, wincing as another twinge hit. "Yeah. And I'm just... bleh."
He unpacked the bags methodically, like it was a mission briefing. "Midol—Nat says this is the good stuff. Take two?" You swallowed the pills with a glass of water he fetched from the kitchen. Next, the heating pad—he plugged it in and draped it over your lap, adjusting it until you sighed in relief. "Better?"
"Much. You called Nat?"
"Had to. She's the expert on all things covert... including this." He grinned, pulling out the pads and tampons. "I got options. And chocolate—dark, because apparently that's the magic one." He unwrapped a bar and broke off a piece, handing it to you with a wink.
You took a bite, the rich flavor melting on your tongue, and felt a giggle bubble up despite everything. "You're ridiculous. Sweet, but ridiculous. We were supposed to be on a date."
"Dates can wait. This is more important." He settled beside you on the couch, pulling you into his side gently. His arm wrapped around your shoulders, and he pressed a soft kiss to your temple. "Tell me what you need. Movie? Soup? Me to rub your back?"
"Just... stay?"
"Wouldn't dream of leaving." He grabbed the remote and queued up your favorite rom-com, dimming the lights. As the opening credits rolled, he fetched a mug of ginger tea—Nat's suggestion again—and held it for you while you sipped.
The evening unfolded in quiet comfort. Tony didn't fuss too much, but he was there for every little thing: refilling your water, adjusting the blanket when you shivered, even humming along off-key to the movie's soundtrack to make you laugh. When the cramps eased a bit, he coaxed you into eating some crackers and cheese he'd grabbed from your fridge.
"You're too good to me," you murmured, leaning your head on his chest. His heartbeat was steady under your ear, a soothing rhythm.
He tilted your chin up with a finger, eyes soft. "Nah. You deserve it. All of it." His thumb brushed your cheek, and for a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of you, wrapped in warmth and care.
By the time the movie ended, you were dozing against him, the pain dulled to a background hum. Tony didn't move, content to hold you as the city lights twinkled outside.
Hey hey hey, loves! You can call me Nini, and I'm an Oxford undergrad who is currently obsessed with one (1) fictional man. Reading and writing are how I breathe. I'm fairly new to writing here, so a few of them might be rough, but they get better, I swear. All of my pieces are fluff/angst. So this masterlist is 16+.
Thanks for the tag @juniebjonesin - @mydarlingdooolll
1. Not as good as it used to be
2. I don't have anyone like that
3. All kinds of lilies
4. No
5. No
6. without
7. Nail polish
8. No, but I was in hospital 3 times
9. innie
10. both
11. It's cold
12. Unfortunately no, but I want to learn the violin
13. Right now Goth - Sidewalks and Skeletons
14. blueberry mousse
15. Libra
16. Salami, hot peppers and… garlic sauce
17. I was once in… 2012 for a month and now it will be in year in May
18. My job
19. Right handed
20. No...
21. Yes... It allows me to concentrate better...
22. No
23. Chill
24. Sometimes
25. None of them, because sometimes (3 times a month) I eat meat
26. Green
27. Never, but I have been to other capitals
28. Bookshelf
29. 2
30. No
31. Yes
32. idk
33. For the most part
34. I mean… I'm on one
35. Books
36. Papryka
37. 27
38. Yes
39. White chocolate blueberry ice cream, lemon cookies, chocolate cake, toffee bars and apple lollipops
40. No
41. No, but I want to do it
42. 1
43. No
44. Yes
45. none, because I just woke up
46. Yes, when I was a child there was so much snow that it would allow me to go up to the roof
47. I don't have any movies, but I do have one series that I watched when everything was going wrong Friends
48. I only leave the house for my job
49. Yes
50. Dog
I want to know a little bit more about you guys @satlun @castielscaplan @buckybarnesfic @stanmarvelous @imnotjustreadingg-volume-two @juniebjonesin @itzzkaylaaa 🫣
Thank you @imnotjustreadingg-volume-two for tagging me!!
Can you whistle?
yes
2. How long have you known your best friend?
Short answer? 5 years. Long answer, i have really good friends that ive known for about 16 years and some of them I've know for as long as I'been alive
3. Favourite flower?
Peonies
4. Have you seen the last person you texted naked?
yes hehe
5. Can you speak piglatin?
mm no
6. Banana bread, with or without walnuts?
without walnuts
7. Are you currently wearing anything blue?
no, is all black, white and pink today
8. Have you ever been in an ambulance?
nope
9. Is your belly button an innie; outie or inbetweenie?
innie
10. Green grapes or red grapes?
green
11. How's the weather where you are?
cloudy, a lil sunny and it keeps raining here and there
12. Can you play an instrument?
yes, the lyra
13. Guilty pleasure song?
Cumbia Kings - Mi Dulce Niña
14. What was the last thing you ate?
A chicken sandwich
15. What is your zodiac sign?
Taurus babyyyy
16. Top 3 pizza toppings. Cheese doesn't count.
Tomatoes, spinach and mushrooms
17. How long have you been on Tumblr.com?
about 15 years
18. What's something you've only ever done once and hated every minute of it?
went to a rhodeo for bestie's 30th birthday, I cant stand watching animals being mistreated for entertainment purposes
19. Are you right-handed, left-handed, or ambidextrous?
right handed
20. Have you been outside yet today?
yes, currently tucked at a game shop corner with a bunch of nerds
21. Do you talk to yourself?
all the time bro
22. Are your nails painted right now?
one thing about me, I ALWAYS have my nails done lol
23. Favourite condiment?
garlic aioli
24. Do you have vivid dreams?
yes!!
25. Are you vegetarian or vegan?
I've been both
26. Favourite colour of the rainbow?
RED
27. Have you been to your nation's capital?
Yes
28. What was the last thing you looked for online?
Tony Stark Hell Fire Gala
29. How many languages do you speak fluently?
2
30. Have you ever been hypnotized?
nope
31. Do you have a job?
yes and very likely to be unemployed soon lmao
32. Are you blocked by anyone to your knowledge?
YES my ex who I thought we were in good terms blocked me and I found out cause my borther asked me if I saw that he got engaged, when I went to see for myself, his profile was nowhere to be found lol
33. Have you had a post break containment?
I dont think so?
34. How many continents have you been to?
2
35. What was the last thing you bought online?
An alcohol marker sketch book
36. Favourite potato chip flavour?
lemon lime
37. Do you have a lucky number?
19
38. Have you drank water today?
YES
39. Top 5 desserts.
Dark forest cake, churchill ice cream, cheesecake, alfajores, torta chilean
40. Have you been a part of a bridal party?
once when I was like 7 I was the flower girl for my cousin
41. Do you have tattoos?
yes 9 and counting babyyyyy
42. How many pillows do you sleep with?
one, my neck hurts
43. Are you superstitious?
VERY
44. Do you like yogurt?
yup
45. How many meals have you had today?
only one
46. Have you ever seen snow?
yes
47. Top 5 comfort movies?
Iron Man, Only You, Hercules, Devil Wears Prada and Princess Diaries
48. Have you ever met any celebrities?
I saw Jack Black at the Rose Parade in Pasadena like 10 years ago.
49. Are you wearing socks right now?
Yes
50. What was the last animal you touched?
My dog <3
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organizing all my fic recs :P
all credits go to the writers/blogs!! <333
༊*·˚Marvel⋰˚☆
Loki Laufeyson
Mint Confetti (one shot) @theleavesofwesteros
Bucky Barnes
Foundations (series) @vunblr
Booked Solid (one shot) @blowingbarnes
His and Only His (one shot) @salem-s
Wanted (series) @vunblr
After Hours (one shot) @danysdaughter
Sweet Relief (one shot) @mcrdvcks
The Weight of Choices (one shot) @vunblr
Oh, Ashen One (one shot) @superbassbuck
Man on Your Mind (series) @goldiwrites
Tony Stark
An Evening that Undid Him (one shot) @ninihunt
Love & Lattes (series) @rdjesus4ever
Burnt Out (one shot) @dilfsbaby
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, smut, protected sex
Parts 1/2/3/4/5/6/7/8/9
Word Count: 4.4 K
Sunday morning dawned bright and clear, the kind of perfect summer day that felt almost cruel given the tension coiled tight in your chest.
You had barely slept. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw Hank’s face on the porch - the raw anguish, the hunger he couldn’t quite hide. The way his voice had cracked when he said I can’t.
But you had also seen the way he looked at you at dinner. The mask slipping. The walls crumbling.
Something was going to break today. You could feel it.
Your mom announced her plans over breakfast. “The Newman’s invited your father and I over for lunch - you remember them, sweetheart? They have that beautiful garden. Your father and I haven't seen them in ages.”
Your dad nodded, already reaching for his coffee. “Should be a nice afternoon. They’re about thirty minutes down the road.”
“You two don’t mind holding down the fort again, do you?” your mom looked between you and Hank with that innocent smile that made your stomach drop. “We’ll probably be gone most of the afternoon. You know how Jean Newman likes to talk.”
“We’ll be fine,” Hank said, his voice neutral.
But when his eyes met yours across the table, you saw it - the same awareness, the same inevitability.
Your parents left at eleven-thirty, your mom reminding you there were sandwich fixings in the fridge, your dad telling Hank to help himself to the beer in the cooler. The sound of their car fading down the gravel drive felt like a countdown.
And then you were alone.
The house was silent except for the distant sound of the lake lapping against the dock. You stood in the kitchen, hands gripping the counter, trying to steady your breathing.
You heard him before you saw him - footsteps on the hardwood, then stopping in the doorway.
“They’ll be gone for hours,” you said without turning around.
“I know.”
“We’re alone.”
“I know that too.” His voice was rough, strained.
You turned to face him. He was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, but the posture was defensive rather than casual. His jaw was tight, his eyes dark.
“Hank- “
“Don’t.” The word came out sharp. “Don’t say whatever you’re about to say.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m barely holding on here, and if you -” He stopped, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve been awake all night trying to convince myself I can get through today without -” He gestured helplessly. “Without this.”
"Without what?"
"You know what." His eyes met yours, and the heat in them made your breath catch. "Don't pretend you don't know exactly what I'm talking about."
You stepped toward him. He didn't move, but every muscle in his body tensed.
"Maybe I'm tired of pretending," you said quietly.
“You shouldn’t be.” But his voice lacked conviction. “You should - we should both keep pretending. It’s safer.”
"I don't want safe."
"Well, I do." He pushed off the doorframe, pacing like a caged animal. "I want to be the kind of man who can spend a weekend in close quarters with his best friend's daughter and not -" He stopped, jaw clenching. "I want to have more self-control than this."
"You've had plenty of self-control. Weeks of it."
“And it’s killing me.” The admission came out raw, unfiltered. He turned to face you, and the look in his eyes was desperate. “Every day, every moment I’m near you, it gets harder. And now we’re here, alone, and I -” He shook his head. “I should leave. I should go for another walk, I should -”
“Stay.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.” You moved closer, and this time he didn’t step back. “You can stop running. You can stop pretending this isn’t happening.”
“It can’t happen.” But he was breathing hard, his hands clenched at his sides. “Your father -”
“Isn’t here.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
"Maybe not." You were close enough now to see his chest rising and falling, to see the pulse jumping in his throat. "But it doesn't make it any less real."
He closed his eyes, and you watched him wage war with himself. Watched the moment his resolve started to crumble.
"This is a mistake," he said, but his voice was barely a whisper.
"Probably."
"I'm too old for you."
"I don't care."
“You should.” His eyes opened, and the anguish in them was palpable. “You should care. You should tell me to leave, you should -”
“I want you to stay.”
He made a sound that was half laugh, half groan. “You’re going to destory me.”
“Good.”
That broke something in him. You saw it happen - the last piece of the wall crumbling, the control he had been clinging to finally shattering.
“Fuck,” he breathed, and then his hands were on your face and his mouth was on yours.
The kiss was nothing like the almost-kiss on the porch. That had been tentative, questioning. This was desperate, hungry, weeks of tension releasing all at once. His hands tangled in your hair, tilting your head back, and you gasped against his mouth.
He took advantage, deepening the kiss, and you felt your knees go weak. Your hands found his shirt, fisting in the fabric, pulling him closer. He made a sound low in his throat - need and surrender mixed together - and backed you against the counter.
“We shouldn’t -” he said against your mouth, even as his hands slid down your sides.
“Don’t care.”
“Your father -”
“Isn’t here.” You pulled back just enough to look at him. His pupils were blown, his breathing ragged. “Hank. Shut up and stop thinking.”
“I can’t stop thinking. That’s the problem.” but his hands were still on you, thumbs tracing patterns on your hips through your sundress. “I’ve been thinking about this for weeks. Trying not to think about it. Failing spectacularly.”
“Then stop trying.”
He kissed you again, slower this time but no less intense. His tongue traced your lower lip and you opened for him, tasting coffee and desperation. One of his hands slid up your back, the other gripping your hip, holding you against him.
You could feel him getting hard against your stomach, and the knowledge that he wanted you this much made heat pool low in your belly.
“Upstairs,” you breathed against his mouth.
He pulled back, eyes searching yours. “Are you sure?”
“Are you really asking me that right now?”
“I need -” he swallowed hard. “I need you to be sure. Because if we do this, I don't - I won't be able to pretend it didn’t happen. I won’t be able to go back.”
“I don’t want to go back.”
He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, the last of his resistance was gone. “Upstairs,” he agreed, his voice rough.
You took his hand and led him up the narrow staircase. Your room was at the end of the hall, sunlight streaming through the windows, the bed you had slept in since you were a teenager suddenly feeling significant in a way that made your heart race.
Hank closed the door behind you, and for a moment you just stood there, looking at each other. The weight of what you were about to do hung between you.
“Last chance,” he said quietly. “Last chance to change your mind.”
Instead of answering, you reached for the hem of your sundress and pulled it over your head.
His breath caught. You were wearing a simple white bra and underwear, nothing fancy, but the way he looked at you made you feel like the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
“Jesus,” he breathed. His hands flexed at his sides like he was physically restraining himself. “You’re -”
“Your turn.”
He pulled his t-shirt over his head in one smooth motion, and you had to bite back a sound. You had seen him shirtless yesterday in the hallways, but this was different. This was intentional. This was for you.
He was lean and toned, a few scars scattered across his chest and abdomen, a trail of dark hair disappearing into his jeans. He looked like a man, not a boy - all hard edges and controlled strength.
You stepped forward, placing your hand on his chest. His heart was racing under your palm.
“You’re shaking,” you said softly.
“I know.” His hand covered yours. “I’m terrified.”
“Of what?”
"Of hurting you. Of this being a mistake. Of not being able to stop." He pulled you closer, his other hand sliding into your hair. "Of how much I want this. How much I want you."
“Then stop being terrified and just -”
He kissed you again, and this time there was no hesitation, no holding back. His mouth was hot and demanding, and his hands were everywhere - sliding up your back, tracing your spine, making you arch into him. You could feel the heat of his skin through the thin fabric of your bra, could feel how hard he was already, pressed against your hip.
Your fingers found his belt buckle, fumbling with the leather. He made a sound low in his throat - half groan, half laugh - and helped you, his hands covering yours as you worked the buckle free. The rasp of the zipper was loud in the quiet room, and then his jeans were sliding down his hips and he was kicking them off, standing before you in just his boxers.
You could see the outline of his cock clearly now, thick and straining against the dark fabric, and heat flooded through you so intensely you felt dizzy. This was real. This was happening.
“Bed,” he said, his voice rough and low, and the command in it sent a shive down your spine.
He guided you backward, his hands on your hips, until your legs hit the mattress. You sat, then layed back, and he followed you down, settling his weight between your legs. The press of him - solid and warm and real - made something in your chest crack open. This was Hank Palmer, the man you had been wanting for weeks, finally touching you the way you had dreamed about.
He braced himself on his forearms, looking down at you, and the intensity in his eyes made you feel exposed in the best way. Like he was seeing all of you, not just your body.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, and then his mouth was on yours again, slower this time, deeper. He kissed you like he had all the time in the world, like he wanted to memorize the taste of you. His mouth moved to your jaw, trailing kisses along the line of it, then down to your neck. You tilted your head back, giving him access, and felt his teeth graze your pulse point. The sensation made you gasp, your hips lifting involuntarily against him.
“Sensitive there?” he asked against your skin, and you could hear the smile in his voice.
“Yes,” you breathed.
He did it again, this time sucking gently, and you knew he was marking you. The thought should have worried you - how would you hide it? - but instead it sent another wave of heat through you. You wanted to be marked by him. Wanted evidence that this was real.
His hand slid behind your back, and you felt the clasp of your bra give way with ease. He pulled the straps down your arms slowly, deliberately, and then you were bare from the waist up. He sat back slightly, just looking at you, and you fought the urge to cover yourself. You had never felt so exposed, so vulnerable. But the way he was looking at you - like there were something precious, something he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to touch - made the vulnerability feel like power.
“God,” he said, almost reverently. His hand came up, hovering just above your breast, and you could see it trembling slightly. “Can i -”
“Yes. Please.”
His palm cupped your breast, warm and slightly rough, and you both made sounds at the contact. His thumb brushed over your nipple and you arched into the touch, wanting more. “So responsive,” he murmured, almost to himself. “So perfect.” then his mouth was on you, hot and wet, tongue circling your nipple before he sucked it into his mouth. The sensation shot straight through you, and you gasped, your hands flying to his hair, holding him to you.
He took his time, lavishing attention on one breast then the other, using his tongue and teeth and lips until you were a squirming mess beneath him, your thighs clenched around his hips, desperate for direction.
“Hank,” you gasped. “Please -”
“I know.” His voice was rough, strained. “I know what you need.”
His hand slid down your stomach, fingers tracing patterns on your skin, and you felt every muscle tense in anticipation. When his fingers hooked in the waistband of your underwear, you lifted your hips automatically. He pulled them down slowly, his eyes locked on yours, watching your face. The slide of fabric against your skin felt electric. And then you were completely bare beneath him.
He sat back on his heels, just looking at you, and you saw his throat work as he swallowed hard. His hands were on your thighs, thumbs tracing small circles on your skin, and the simple touch made you tremble.
“You’re sure,” he said again, and this time it wasn’t really a question. It was a plea. A last chance for both of you to back away from this.
“I’m sure,” you said, and you had never been more certain of anything.
He hooked his thumbs in his boxers and pushed them down, and then he was naked too, and you couldn’t help but stare. He was hard and thich, the head of his cock flushed dark, and the sight of him made your core clench with want.
He noticed your expression and something like self-consciousness flickered across his face - vulnerability you had never seen from him before. “It’s been a while for me,” he admitted quietly. “I might not - I might not last as long as I’d like.”
“I don’t care.” You reached for him, pulling him back down to you. “I just want you.”
He kissed you again, deep and thorough, and you felt him hard and hot against your thigh. The reality of it - that this was actually happening - made your head spin. His hand slid between your legs, fingers tentatively exploring your pussy, and he groaned when he felt how wet you were. “God,” he breathed against your mouth. “You’re so -”
His fingers found your clit, circling gently, and you gasped, your hips bucking into his hand. The sensation was overwhelming - you had touched yourself thinking about him, but having him actually touch you was so much more intense than you had imagined.
“That’s it,” he murmured, watching your face. “Tell me what feels good.”
“That -” You could barely form words. “Just like that. Don’t stop.”
He worked you slowly, carefully, his eyes never leaving your face, learning what made you gasp and moan and arch into his touch. His other hand was in your hair, holding you steady, and the combination of the gentle touch and the intense pleasure was almost too much.
“I want -” You were panting now, so close already. “I want you inside me.”
“Not yet.” His fingers slid lower through your lips, one pressing inside you slowly, and you cried out at the intrusion. “I need to make sure you’re ready. I don’t want to hurt you.”
The care in his voice, the tenderness, made your chest ache even as your body burned. He worked you open with his fingers, moving slowly, adding a second when you were ready, stretching you. His thumb stayed on your clit, circling in steady rhythm, and the dual sensation was overwhelming.
You could feel yourself getting wetter, could hear the obscene sounds his fingers were making as he worked you, and instead of being embarrassed you felt powerful. This was what he did to you. This was how much you wanted him.
“You feel so good,” he said, his voice strained. “So tight. So perfect.”
His words pushed you higher, the tension coiling tighter and tighter in your core. You were close, so close, and he seemed to sense it because his movements became more focused, more deliberate. “That’s it,” he encouraged, his eyes dark and intense on your face. “Let go. I want to feel you come on my fingers. I want to watch you fall apart.”
The words were your undoing. You came with a cry, your whole body tensing, clenching around his fingers as waves of pleasure crashed through you. He worked you through it, murmuring praise against your neck - “so beautiful,” “so perfect,” “that’s my girl” - until you were trembling and oversensitive.
When you came down, gasping and boneless, he withdrew his hand carefully. You watched through heavy-lidded eyes as he rached for his jeans on the floor, fumbling in the pocket.
“Please tell me you have -” you started, your voice hoarse.
“Wallet,” he confirmed, pulling out a condom. His hands were shaking as he tore it open, and the sight of his loss of control made something warm bloom in your chest. “I wasn’t - I didn’t plan this, but I -”
“It’s okay.” You reached up, touching his face. “I’m glad you have it.”
He rolled it on slowly, and you watched, fascinated by the sight of him touching himself, by the way his jaw clenched and his breath hitched. Then he was settling between your legs again, the head of his cock pressing against you,hot and hard and real. He braced himself on his forearms, looking down at you, and the vulnerability in his eyes took your breath away. This powerful, controlled man was shaking above you, looking at you like you were something precious.
“Last chance,” he said, his voice rough. “Once we do this -”
“Hank.” You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. “Please.”
He pushed inside slowly, so slowly, and you both gasped at the sensation. He was thich, thicker than his fingers, and the stretch burned slightly even though he had prepared you. But it was a good burn, a fullness that made you feel complete in a way you had never experienced.
“Okay?” he asked, his whole body tense with the effort of holding still. Sweat was beading on his forehead, and you could see the strain in his jaw. “Am I hurting you?”
“No. It’s -” you shifted your hips, taking him deeper, and you both groaned. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”
He pushed deeper, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust to each new sensation. You could feel every ridge, every vein, could feel yourself stretching to accommodate him. It was almost too much, almost overwhelming, but you wanted more.
“More,” you gasped. “All of you.”
He pushed the rest of the way in with one final thrust, and you cried out at the sensation of being completely filled. He dropped his forehead to yours, breathing hard, his whole body trembling.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “You feel - I can’t -” he couldn’t seem to finish sentences, his legendary control completely shattered. “So tight. So perfect. So - god -”
“Move,” you urged, your hands sliding down his back, feeling the muscles tense under your palms. “Please move.”
He pulled back slowly, almost all the way, and you whimpered at the loss. Then he thrust back in, deep and sure, and you both moaned at the sensation. He set a rhythm, slow and deep. You could feel him everywhere - inside you, above you, surrounding you. The weight of him, the heat of him, the smell of his skin and sweat and arousal - it was overwhelming in the best way.
You wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, changing the angle, and he hit something inside you that made you see stars. You cried out, and he did it again, and again, each thrust hitting that perfect spot.
“There?” he asked, watching your face. “Right there?”
“Yes - god - yes!”
He adjusted his hips slightly, making sure to continuously hit that spot with every thrust, and you felt the tension building again, different this time, deeper and more intense. Your nails dug into his back and he growned, his hips snapping harder.
“You feel so good,” he said roughly. “So perfect around me. Like you were made for this. Made for me.”
His words sent another wave of heat through you. You had never been with someone who talked during sex, but hearing Hank - controlled, careful Hank - losing himself enough to say these things made it so much hotter.
“Touch yourself,” he said suddenly. “I want to watch you touch yourself while I’m inside you.”
The command in his voice made you clench around him, and he groaned. You slid your hand between your bodies, finding your clit, and the feeling of touching yourself while he was inside you was almost too much.
“That’s it,” he said, his eyes dark and intense on your face. “God, you’re so beautiful like this.”
He shifted his weight to one arm, and his free hand came up to cup your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple. The combination of sensations - his cock inside you, your fingers on your clit, his hand on your breast - was too much. Too overwhelming.
You could feel your climax climbing again, higher and higher. Your movements became more frantic, and he matched your rhythm, thrusting harder, deeper.
“I need you to come,” he said, his voice strained. “I need to feel you come around me. I’m not going to last much longer and I need - I need to feel you -”
His words, the desperation in them, pushed you closer to the edge. You could feel him getting harder inside you, could feel his rhythm starting to falter, and knowing he was close made everything more intense.
“Hank -” your voice was high and desperate. “I’m - I’m so close -”
“I know. I can feel it. I can feel you getting tighter.” His hand left your breast, slding down to cover yours, his fingers joining yours on your clit. “Let go. Come for me. I want to feel you.”
The added pressure of his fingers was what you needed. You shattered, clenching around him, your whole body going rigid as pleasure crashed through you in waves. You cried out his name, and distantly you heard him groan, felt his thrusting falter. “Fuck -” he thrust into you twice more, hard and deep, then stilled, his whole body going rigid as he came. You felt him pulse inside you, felt the tremors that ran through him, and the intimacy of it - of feeling him lose control, of being the one to make him lose control - made your chest ache.
He collapsed on top of you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, both of you breathing hard and trembling. His face was buried in your neck, and you could feel his heart racing against your chest, could feel the dampness of sweat between your bodies. For a long moment, neither of you moved. You just lay there, tangled together, trying to catch your breath, trying to process what had just happened.
Finally, he shifted, lifting his head to look at you. His hair was messed up, his face flushed, his eyes soft in a way you had never seen. He almost looked younger like this, more vulnerable.
“Hi,” you said softly.
“Hi.” He kissed you, gentle and tender, so different from the desperate kisses of moments ago. “You okay?”
“More than okay.”
He smiled slightly, the carefully pulled out. You both winced at the sensitivity, at the sudden emptiness. He dealt with the condom, typing it off and dropping it in the small trash can by the bed, then lay back down bside you, immediately pulling you against his chest. His heart was still racing under your ear. His skin was warm and slightly damp with sweat. You could smell him - cologne and sweat and sec - and it made you feel drunk.
“We just -” he started, then stopped, his hand tracing idle patterns on your back.
“Yeah.”
“We can’t take that back.”
“No.” you tilted your head up to look at him. “Do you want to?”
He was quiet for a moment, his eyes searching yours. “I should,” he said finally. “I should want to. I should be panicking right now. I should be thinking about all the reasons that it was a terrible idea.”
“But?”
“But all I can think about is how much I want to do it again.” His arms tightened around, pulling you closer. “How much I’ve wanted this. How right it felt.”
You felt something warm bloom in your chest. “It did feel right,” you agreed quietly.
“That doesn’t make it right.”
“Maybe not, but it doesn’t make it wrong either.”
He kissed your forehead, and the tenderness of the gesture made your eyes sting. “What are we doing?” he asked, almost to himself.
“I don’t know, but I don’t want to stop.”
“Neither do I.” He sounded almost surprised by the admission. “God help me, neither do I.”
You lay there together, tangled in sheets and each other, the afternoon sun streaming through the windows. Outside, you could hear the lake, the birds, and the distant sound of a boat motor.
Inside, everything had changed.
You had crossed a line you couldn't uncross. Done something you couldn't undo.
And neither of you wanted to.
"Your parents will be back in a few hours," Hank said eventually.
"I know."
“We should - we should probably get up. Shower. Make it look like -”
“Like we didn’t have sex?”
He laughed, the sound rough but genuine. “Yeah. that.”
But neither of you moved. Not yet. Because once you got up, once you faced reality again, you would have to figure out what this meant. What happened next. How to navigat this thing between you that was no longer theoretical or resistible.
For now, you just lay there, his arms around you, both of you knowing that everything had changed and nothing would ever be the same.
The walls hadn't just cracked.
They'd shattered completely.
And there was no going back.
That evening, as the sun set over the lake and your father grilled steaks and your mother made her famous potato salad, you caught Hank watching you. Just for a moment, when he thought no one was looking.
The expression on his face was hunger and longing and desperation all mixed together.
Then your father called his name, and the mask slipped back into place.
