gena

You'd only agreed to subject yourself to it in an effort to appease your dear friend, Stefanie. Stefanie, a fellow sophomore at Indiana University and one of your closest gals on campus, had sworn to you days ago that she'd met the "love of her life" in her Interpersonal Studies course. Said love-of-her-life went by the name Craig, and he frequented the Sigma Chi house as an active brother. He'd invited her (and by extension, you) to come enjoy a good old-fashioned rager with the boys, to your 'delight.'

Needless to say, Stefanie had needed to lay it on think to get you anywhere near the place. She'd practically gotten on her hands and knees in the middle of the student union, pleading with wide eyes and promising to bake you an endless supply of cookies if you'd just stick around long enough for her to make her move. A few crocodile tears later, and you had finally caved.

Now, standing in the thick of the frat party crowd, you sort of wish with every fiber of your being that you hadn't.

Stefanie, bless her, had ditched you the literal second you both crossed the threshold into the fraternity, before you could even grab a cup of water. The next time you had seen her through the chaos, she was dragging Craig by the belt loops into a dark hall, giggling and looking very much ready to contribute her own set of maons to the house.

And listen, you are happy for her. Truly, you are. You know how desperate she'd been wanting to find love. That's the main reason you'd agreed to come, after all. Not the promised cookies. Still, standing all alone, you can't help but resent your current circumstances a little. Being completely abandoned to your own devices in a sticky, loud house where you know no one and have zero desire to stay is beyond exhausting. You kind of just want to go home, wrap yourself in a blanket, and forget it all.

Overstimulated, tired, and growing more irritated by the second, you let your feet wander through the maze of the house, desperate to find a single quiet pocket of space where you can at least pretend this isn't really your life for a while.

Your journey takes you past three separate couples in various stages of passion, plus a group playing the most serious game of spin the bottle you've ever laid witness to. To make matters worse, as you round one corner, you also are hit with a hidden speaker blasting the opening riff to a Led Zeppelin track. It immediately creates a lovely, blossoming headache behind your eyes.

Just then, right at the exact moment you're ready to commit a violent crime just to get some peace, you finally stumble upon your destination: a wooden door tucked at the end of one of the corridors, marked "Library."

The room is pitch black and blissfully quiet as you step inside. It's enough to bring an audible sigh of relief out of you as you fumble blindly for a light switch, your bones desperate to get a lay of the land and find something comfy to rest on. Once the toggle is found, you flip it and find to your pleasure a cozy, warm glow throughout the space. However, you quickly find the coziness comes with one major caveat.

Someone's already there.

He's lying sprawled out across a leather chaise lounge, one arm drapped lazily across his eyes. He's got floppy, slightly long chestnut hair and a warm, golden tan that pops against the crisp white of his loose-fitting long-sleeve shirt. In stark contrast, his jeans are tight, and your eyes are helpless to flicker over them on pure instinct as they follow the lean curve of his legs, draped casually over the edge.

Whoever this guy is, you realize rather suddenly, he's horribly attractive. And, even worse, horribly your type.

You gasp, the sound escaping before you can stop it.

"Shit, I'm so sorry," you stammer, your voice resting just above a whisper as you frantically reach for the switch again. "Really, I swear I thought no one was in here."

Before you can find it, the attractive boy shifts his arm.

Two devastating brown eyes peek out from beneath his wrist. They seem to size you up as his gaze rests heavy and deliberate. You stand completely frozen by them in the doorway, like a deer caught in headlights. He takes his sweet time just sort of watching you in this state, unaware or perhaps too aware of your plight.

And then, once he seems to have had his fill, he lazily shifts his arm back into place to break the spell.

You gulp, your pulse racing.

"'s no big deal," he grumbles your way, his voice much lower than expected, hitting deep in your chest. "You can stay here. Don't own the place."

Nodding, you let out a long, shaky breath and take a moment to actually look around. It's far tidier than the biohazards you'd seen in the hall, but there's still little question it belongs to a house full of frat guys. Above the brick fireplace is a massive, glossy Playboy Bunny poster, for one. There's also a horrible, deep-green shag carpet beneath your shoes proudly hosting a stain inches from the window.

Not wishing to know its origins, you shut the door behind you, cutting off the thrum of the bass just outside. You then navigate across the room toward the next best thing away from Mr. Attractive: an old corduroy beanbag, nestled beside a crowded bookshelf and across from his chaise lounge.

You plop down, feeling the styrogoam beads shift beneath you, and rest your head back against them for a few glorious seconds. To your joy, the attractive boy gives you those seconds in pure silence.

It's not a long-lived one, though. As soon as you raise your head, he's shifting and opening his mouth to speak, showing signs of life.

"You here alone?"

"No, I've got a friend out there somewhere," you explain, forcing your hackles to stay down at his words. "She's with one of your, uh, brothers right now. They're…busy."

The boy huffs, a wry little thing as he catches your drift. "Not my brothers."

You frown, your gaze falling back on him. "Oh. Sorry, what's the official term you guys use these days? 'Members?'"

"No, I mean they're not my brothers," he repeats, his face still shielded by the crook of his arm. "I'm, uh, just here. At the party. Attending."

"Why are you hiding at a frat party if you don't even know the guys who live here?"

He huffs again, letting his arm fall an inch. From the resulting sliver of space beneath it, a dark, heavy-eye peers out at you. The suddeness of it sends a shiver down your spine, one you really hope wasn't as obvious on the outside as it felt on the inside.

He doesn't show either way.

"It's kind of pathetic," he mutters, his voice sounding somehow rougher than before. "The why. Not sure you'd want to hear the whole sob story behind it."

"I mean, I have time," you offer gently, pulling your knees to your chest on the beanbag. "If you're willing to share, that is."

"Not sure I am," he couners, though the faintest lilt of humor sits just below his tone. "Let's just say…it's something to do. Somewhere to be. They haven't kicked me out, and I've got free booze here, too, so. Perks of an open house, I guess."

"Is that why you're in here hiding from the overhead light?"

A small, genuine chuckle breaks through him at that. "No. No, uh, that's not it. I'm unfortunately stone-cold sober right now."

"Oh."

"I'm in here because…I have a migraine. A lingering one," he adds, his voice tapering off into a quiet rasp. He shifts his weight on the chaise, rolling onto his side to directly face you. Without the dim lighting hiding him, the full weight of his attention lands squarely on you, making you feel impossibly, overwhelmingly seen in a fraction of a second. A hot flush creeps up your neck.

"I'm sorry," you say softly. "That sucks."

"'s okay," he murmurs, blinking slow at you across the room's divide. "Not the first time, won't be the last."

"Want me to shut up? Talking can't be helping the pounding in your head."

He smiles crooked at that, completely transforming his face in a way that feels positively lethal. You gulp.

"No, it's fine," he says, rough voice softening along with his features. "Just…don't get too loud, okay?"

You nod instantly, crossing your hand over your heart in a silent vow. Something about that gesture makes his smile widen by a fraction, giving you a warm, buzzing satisfaction throughout your body. You sink deeper into the beanbag, letting the feeling soothe your frayed nerves for a little while before meeting his eyes again.

"So, um. What's your name? I don't think I even asked."

"Steve," he says, having the audacity to sound a little bashful about it. It's stupidly sweet. "You?"

You tell him alongside a small, semi-sweet smile of your own, reaching up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. Steve's eyes trace every second your hand's in motion, lingering on the dip of your collarbone before firmly resting on your lips. It's a sight so intense, so unexpected, it makes the air in the room instantly feel thicker. Like soup.

Driven by the sudden adrenaline of it all, you find yourself blurting out a question that's sat on the tip of your tongue since you first walked in.

"How come I haven't seen you around campus before, Steve? I mean, I know Indiana's kind of big, but still. It's not that big. I feel like I definitely would've remembered seeing you around here."

It's honest. Embarrasingly so.

Steve's eyes snap wide open at it, his migraine apparently an afterthought. "I, um…well," he stammers, wincing a little. "You probably haven't seen me around because…I don't exactly go here."

Your brows stitch together, warm instantly evaportating into confusion. "What? What do you mean?"

"Remember that sob story I didn't want to share?" Steve raises his hand, flourishing his fingers a little dramatically in the air. "Well, congrats. You've unlocked part of it."

"I don't understand."

He sighs, running a hand over his face. "I promise, I'm not trying to be a creep. But…I don't go here, because I don't go anywhere. I'm not in college, okay? I'm just…hanging out."

You blink, processing.

"Are you…old?"

Steve looks at you for a long moment, caught somewhere between disbelief and actual offense. Then, he lets out a short, puffing laugh.

"No! Jesus, no, I'm not old. I'm…what, twenty three? I guess that puts me more along the lines of a grad student than someone like you, but that's not old. I don't think."

"So what then, you seriously don't have anything better to do at twenty three than haunt a random fraternity house on a Friday night?"

The following silence sours, shifting to being borderline suffocating. It drags, and drags, and drags, heavy and somehow drowning out the bass just outside. When it gets to the point it nearly starts suffocating you, you look back at Steve.

"You seriously don't?" You ask again, the initial bite in your voice softening into a mix of genuine concern and, admittedly, pity.

Steve flinches at it as if you'd struck him clean across the face. He looks away, squeezing his eyes shut tight against either the sting of embarrassment or another rough pang of pain behind his temples.

"Don't rub it in, 'kay?" he grits out, his jaw tight.

"Sorry," you reply quietly, leaning forward a bit. "It's just…I mean, I meant what I said before, Steve. I really would've remembered you, and I doubt I'm the only one who'd say that. You're not…well, you're not ugly."

"Thanks," he mutters bitterly, staring at the ceiling. "I'll print that on a t-shirt."

"What I'm trying to say," you urge, sitting up straighter and gesturing between you both, "is that there has to be someone else out there you could be spending tonight with. Someone better than a bunch of guys throwing keggers. You really don't strike me as someone who needs to be this desperate."

"Well, I am," he snaps, the sudden sting of his voice cutting through the room and sucking the air right out of it. He turns fully away from you, his breath hitching as he adds, even more bitterly than before, a low, "Sorry to disappoint."

It leaves you feeling gut-punched. You feel awful. Shitty, even.

"Wait no," you say, awful feeling turning desperate, "that's not- I'm sorry, that came out bad. I'm just confused. Can you help me understand? I want to understand."

"There's nothing to understand, okay? Stop trying to. I'm not about to tell some random girl at a party about it anyway, so save your breath."

Your heart pangs at how cold he sounds. Sure, you barely know the guy, but still. It doesn't seem like that is like him at all, to speak that way. There's clearly a nerve there you're hovering dangerously close to that he doesn't want you to touch.

As the sting of his voice lingers, you sit there, frozen, nestled into the beanbag and staring at the back of Steve's head and like you hadn't just spoiled whatever you had going on between you. It's a feeling tight and tense enough to choke on. You shift uncomfortably.

"Steve," you call, your voice dropping. You lean forward, your elbows resting on your knees. "I'm sorry. I'm really not trying to pry or judge. Honest. I just…I can tell you're hurting, and I don't like seeing people hurt. Hell, that's why I'm here. I freakin' hate these things. My friend though, she's been so down about not finding someone, and I really didn't want to be the reason she missed out on that. So, I came. That's just...how I am. So, I'm sorry. I really didn't want to make it worse, even though I did. I promise."

Silence stretches out between you. For a long while, all you can hear is the music outside the library and Steve's tense breathing. It soon begins to even out, though. The tension in his spine that you've become acquainted with at this closed-off angle looks to ease, sagging under the weight of whatever's actually bothering him, not you.

Eventually, he lets out a long, shuddering exhale, and rolls back over to face you. This time, there's no arm in the way.

You brace yourself.

"I know," he mumbles, voice teetering as if scared to spook you. "You didn't mean anything by it. I'm just…not in the best space tonight."

"Still, I-"

"It's not like I haven't wanted to live a normal life," he says softly, cutting you off as he brings his hand to rub at the back of his neck. "I swear. It's just…it's hard to explain. Where I'm from, my hometown…a lot of shit went down. Bad shit. I'm talking like, the type of shit that ruins a place and all the people inside it forever. Including me."

You stay quiet, letting him take the lead you know he needs.

"Everyone I know, everyone I grew up with? They got the hell out of there the second they could. Even my parents," Steve continues, a bitter tone taking him over. "They left for big colleges, bigger cities, new lives. And like, I wanted that, too. God, I wanted that so much. But every time I tried to picture leaving, I just…couldn't. I felt like I had to stay behind and keep an eye on things, you know? Like, if everyone's going to leave, someone has to make sure those who stay behind stay safe, right?"

Steve shuts his eyes tight for a moment. When he reopens them, they're glassier.

"I had to stay behind. And now, the price I've paid is this weird limbo," he admits in a near-whisper. "I'm twenty-three, I have a job at a middle school, and I'm a little-league coach. I've tried to be normal, and I've tried to make the most of it, but it's like…whenever I look around a-and see myself, I feel like a ghost just wasting away here. I don't know how to just be someone my age."

He gestures vaguely toward the door, off where the music continues to pound. "Did you know I drove an hour to be here tonight? A full freakin' hour just to sit around here and pretend for five minutes I belong in something like this when I don't. Like all that shit never happened and isn't still making my life hell. And now I'm just dumping all this on you, some girl who didn't ask for any of this, didn't ask for me. There's nothing admirable about that. Nothing. It's…it's all so pathetic."

A silent I'm pathetic goes unsaid, yet very much heard.

You shake your head, determined to prove it wrong.

"It's not pathetic Steve," you counter, your voice firm. "Not at all."

"You don't have to lie to me."

"Good, cause I'm not lying," you say softly, holding his eyes. "Steve, look. I don't know what happened, but it sounds like you stayed behind to take care of things others would rather run from. That's brave as hell. That speaks like, so many volumes about who you are."

His eyes get glassier as he blinks, caught entirely off guard by your sincerity. You press on.

"And as for not knowing how to be 'normal' now? You should give yourself some grace, man. I don't think anyone here knows how to be normal. Not really. And if they do, I highly doubt they don't have moments where it feels like the exact opposite for them."

"I don't know."

"Well until you can prove me wrong, you should at least consider the fact I could be right," you say not unkindly, leaning back into the beanbag with a shrug. "Seriously Steve, you seem like you're so close to a good life. You just need a little luck for once. A shift in scenery, too. And maybe a new friend."

A faint huff of a laugh slips out of Steve. "You think?"

"Yeah," you smile, tilting your head. "I don't think I'd recommend anyone at this party, though."

Steve stares at you for a long beat, his dark eyes softening around the edges. The tight, defensive line of his jaw relaxes into a genuine, slow-burn of a grin, and it's just charming enough to get your stomach to do a familiar, fluttery flip usually reserved for the most severe of your crushes. You mentally curse it, stuffing the feeling as far down as you can, telling yourself very sternly Steve needs a friend in this moment, not a love interest.

His eyes, though, make such restraint remarkably difficult.

"And here, I was thinking maybe you could take on the role."

"Me?" You blink, your breath catching as your face falls in disbelief. "Even after I just made you feel like shit?"

Steve huffs and swipes at the air, brushing off your concern. "It's uh, it's nothing. You made up for it with all that stuff later on. It's fine."

"Hardly! Dude, you looked like I kicked you only what, a minute ago? Two? Surely, you have to hate me for an hour or two, minimum."

"Do you wanna' be my friend or not?"

Sputtering, you give Steve another wide-eyed stare. He just looks back at you fondly, a soft and relaxed thing that you aren't entirely sure how to feel about given, well, the entire emotional roller coaster of the last ten or so minutes. The whiplash of it all is painful. Heck, you kind of wish you had actual physical whiplash instead; at least then you'd have a reason to steal his spot on the chaie and hide your face from him.

"So?" He asks, raising a brow.

"I mean, if you're offering," you reply, sounding almost disbelieving of youself. "Not sure the random, overly blunt college student you met at a frat party and trauma dumped to is your absolute best option, but I guess I can give it a shot. Just don't get pissed if I fuck it up again, okay? I'm serious. I don't really know what you've been through. Or know you, for that matter. I could make it worse again. Much worse. You might freakin' hate me by next week, actually."

"I think I can handle you, but thanks for the warning," Steve says, the faintest hint of a smile hiding in his tone.

He shifts on the leather then, drawing himself up slowly to sit and pausing for a tiny wince. The warm lighting of the ceiling catches amidst his movements on the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead, giving you a subtle reminder that he's still fighting a loosing battle with his head during all this back-and-forth nonsense. You grimace, a spike of guilt nagging you about it.

"Hey, why'd you sit up? Now you're gonna be the one making things worse."

Steve shoots you an amused glance, bringing a hand up to lightly press at his eye. "Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart. Back was killing me lying on that thing."

"Oh, so now I'm sweetheart?" You gently tease, your eyes tracking the movements of his hand with a sudden hyperfixation. "You were fast, Steve. First we're barely friends, then we're swapping pet names. What's next, want my hand in marriage?"

Steve lets out a raspy, quiet chuckle. "Let me buy you coffee or something first, at the very least. I work fast, but I'm not crazy. I barely know you too, remember."

His complete lack of a dismissal, the casuality about how he leaned into your teasing flirting rather than brushing it off, sends your mind spinning. Your heart does anther one of those evil flips, and this time, it's accompanied by that hot, crimson dusting across your cheeks.

To make matters worse, Steve reaches out in that moment, patting the leather cushion right beside him in an unspoken invitation you simply cannot pass up.

Mindless, you follow the silent call, standing up from the beanbag and settling beside him on the chaise but a few inches apart. Up close, without the shadows or his arm hiding him, he looks younger. More vulnerable, too. The kind of too real that makes your hands clammy and makes you need a drink or something to take the edge off. You can pick out just about every tiny freckle dusted across the bridge of his nose, as well as the faint, horrifying signs of a flush rosying his own cheeks.

Steve reaches out again, this time to brush his warm, calloused fingers lightly against your wrist. Just when you think your lungs might actually give out about it, he balls your hand into a loose fist and offers you a thoroughly unimpressive, half-hearted fist bump.

It's cringey. It's so silly.

It makes you fall a little bit for him on the spot.

"To being friends, or whatever," he murmurs, his eyes locking onto yours as a crooked grin spreads across his face. "And uh, maybe not a future of still hiding at frats and talking when I've got a roaring headache."

You grin and give him a little nudge, careful not to jostle him too much but still show a little lightheartedness and perhaps some openness to the idea. Judging by the way his grin spreads before you, you're convinced it worked like a charm.

"Sounds like a solid plan," you say softly, your gaze dropping down to where your hands rest side-by-side on the leather. "Speaking of, you want to ditch this place for something better? When I was driving Stef, we passed a really cute diner just off campus. I can text her and let her know I'll be just down the road, if you'd want to plan some more. You know, together."

Steve grins at you, peering at you just beneath his lashes. "Now who sounds like they're moving fast?"

"Fuck it, nevermind-"

"I'm kidding," he says with a smirk, hand instinctively still reaching and holding you down by your wrist. The heat of it is a lot for your mind to process, in the best and most devastating way. "I think that sounds a lot better than sticking around here, if you want to lead the way."

"Operation Fix Steve," you awkwardly and triumphantly state into the air between you both. Letting out a squeaky little laugh, Steve gives you a nod that seems way too easy and familiar for two strangers to share in a dim room.

"Operation Fix Steve. Let's do it."

You had been getting him comfortable moving around the house on his own. After getting past the heartbreaking truth that the familiarity of his home is foreign to him now. It was a path he’d practiced all week, even making it without his mobility stick once.

It should’ve been easy, another good day. But for the first time since you’d started this whole thing he’d lost track of where he was. Stubbornly he’d refused your help, running into the dining room table and knocking over a full glass of water that shattered hitting the ground. Deep rooted shame kept him quiet while you cleaned up his mess.

After that he’d disappeared to your bedroom, keeping to himself for hours while you watched some movie you were only half way paying attention to in the living room. It was when the sun went down that your name floated down the hallway vulnerable and sad bringing you to your feet and straight to your bed.

Gator latched himself to you once you joined him with one arm wrapped possessively around your waist, and his leg hooked over your thigh. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, still too self conscious to be around you for too long without his sunglasses. Your fingers weave themselves through his hair that hasn’t touched a single handful of gel in months. It’s soft like silk sliding between your knuckles as the deft ends of your fingers scratch lightly along his scalp. Nuzzling himself deeper into you, an appreciative groan rumbles from his chest, tickling against your skin.

You can feel his wound up body start to relax and the tightness in his shoulders beginning to sag when you begin tugging lightly at his roots. His breath on your neck comes out in steady short huffs, full lips parting on your pulse point. Gliding the ends of your nails through the slightly grown out buzzed side, the quiet hum you get encourages you to do it again.

“I-I love ya.” He whispers the three words he’s always shown you but never said out loud more than once and the weight of it hits you in your chest.

“I love you too.” You whisper back feeling the soft curve of his lips under your jaw.

“—c’mon sweet girl, I know you got one more f’me.”

Knees pressed up against your chest, folded in half like a pretzel while one of Steve’s hands holds your legs in place and the other fucks into you brutally. Thumb circling and pressing onto your abused nub, spurring you on to jerk upwards.

“There she is, there’s my good girl. Daddy makin’ you feel good hm?” He cooed breathily, all flushed cheeks and sweaty tendrils of hair sticking to his face. God he’s a vision. Fuller cheeks and heavier set than the pictures of him that scattered around the apartment indicated.

He’s so manly. Gut, tits and all.

“U-uh-huum, fuck,” you whine, eyes screwing shut and back arching off the bed, “you-ah— you always make m’feel good Daddy.”

His fingers yank out of your pulsing hole, ripping another whine from you and subsequently denying you the release that was oh so close, “oh so now we like Daddy, hm? Should let you sit here all soaked and needy after the stunt you pulled earlier.”

The playful lilt of his voice brings you back to earlier at how you even ended up in this situation.

It was a slow night at The Hideout, as always was the case on Tuesdays when Trivia, Bingo or a band weren’t on. A manager always needed to be on, (lest Eddie go on a tirade about his staff getting abused again — it was one time) and since supervisors also have to be rostered on closes; the night time rotation was you, Steve and Roxy.

No one had come in for 25 minutes so you sat at the far end of the bar with a cosmopolitan magazine while the other two chatted and messed around to pass the time. It was lucky Steve was so charismatic with the other staff because it meant that the companies best kept secret would stay that way — a secret.

That most nights after a close you’re stowing away in your managers beat-up pick up to have the most mind blowing sex with said manager. The manager who was about to turn forty next month and that made him precisely 17 years your senior.

Weird, it was weird. Super weird.

Easier to keep that under wraps than to explain to anyone who cared how or why there was attraction there. Steve is an easy guy to be attracted to, great hair, great personality, great body, even now if it was covered by one of his stupid fucking slogan shirts. Today's said 'Blink if you want me' and you'd made a concerted effort to not engage lest you blow this secret out of the water by making fuck-me eyes at him all day.

You still do that but you just make them across the bar while watching him play games with coasters and bottle caps to entertain Roxy. “Oh yeah, that’s right, come to daddy.” He has that playful tone, but the word sends you into another dimension almost.

Roxy pulls a face and immediately loses interest in the game, “gross! Don’t talk about yourself in third person, yuck.”

Coolly, you lift your head and barely raise your eyes to look at either of them deadpan, “that’s what you got from that? The third person reference and not ‘Daddy’?” It was a little on the nose, really, but he started it by saying it outside of the bedroom and you were always a little too good at psychological warfare.

“Everybody loves Daddy,” he defends with a shit eating grin, eyes dropping down to so obviously check you out. He’s getting cocky.

Asshole.

You pull a face, “eugh, as if.” And returned to the magazine without incident.

That attitude, the act of pretending like you weren’t completely obsessed with this man was why you’re being folded in half, pussy squeezing around nothing while Steve slowly tortures you to complete madness.

Though he 'd stopped completely, laid your legs back down and held a hand up to cup the side of your face, “hey, sweetheart — you with me?” Just like that, he can be sweet, dirty, sour and everything in between. He’s seen the faraway look in your eyes and waits for the moment to pass where you’re present.

“Sorry,” you mumble, nudging against his hand, “I’m here. I’m okay.”

“Where’d you go?” His thumb brushes over the apple of your cheek, tracing the contours of your face before resting by your lower lip. He asks because he wants to know, but you’ve disrupted the flow of the moment enough and simply answer by parting your lips for his thumb.

Dropping his head with a groan, his salt and pepper hair flops with it, “that,” he grinds against you, “isn’t an answer, sweet girl.”

You suck his thumb harder, biting down on it gently, urgently while you paw at his pillowy gut for him. “Wan’chu Da’ddy,” against his thumb gets jumbled up and barely a proper sentence but he understands enough to groan again.

“Needy thing,” he tsks, dropping down to kiss along your cheek, pulling his thumb out of your mouth, smearing your own drool all over your lips. The sensation makes your hips buck up, desperate for attention and friction. “What do you want, sweetheart? Mouth or cock?”

His fingers ghost over your folds, the absence of his touch maddening and making you frantic for something. “Mmf—fuck, your cock — please, please I need you to feel you p-please, Steve.”

Cocking his head with that look on his face, you can guess you’ve said something wrong, mouth going dry and an indignant whine forces itself out of you.

“Princess,” he chides, parting your legs and leaning over you, arms braced either side of your head trembling to keep himself upright, “you were doing so well. Try again. Who am I?” His nose nudges up against your cheek, then his wet lips follow in messy little pecks.

Tonight he’s pushier than usual, which means that the playful jabbing at work had gotten to him. Normally you enjoy pushing back but with how desperate you were for something, you acquiesce instantly, “Daddy, I’m sorry—”

“Ah.” He nips at your jaw, a wordless direction to try again.

You gulp and buck up against him, dragging your abused hole along his chubbed up cock. Fuck, he’s always good at turning you on, but tonight was practically unbearable. Another whimper tumbles out, catching into the sob that followed, “Da-ah — Daddy.”

A groan slips out, smothering it against your temple which is the only indicator that he’s on the cusp of falling apart as much as you. “F-hmm, yeah. That’s right, pretty girl. You want Daddy’s cock, hm?”

Whole-body tingles trickle through you as he looks down with those ridiculously playful eyes and already wrecked expression. You risk another buck of your hips, eyes fluttering at the contact of him against you again “mm-hmm, please.”

“Yeah? Want me to remind you of who I am so it sinks in?” He kisses and nips along your throat, “or do you want me to fuck you stupid?”

The decision was already made before it could even form as an answer in your mouth. He sits up, the rush of cold is sobering until you’re blessed with the view of him stroking himself lazily. God he’s perfect.

“Daddy’s gonna fuck his pretty girl stupid, isn’t he?” He grits through his teeth, hungry eyes roving over you laid across his bed. He tracks down from your face, then to your tits and slowly down all the way to your cunt where you clench again under his stare. “Jesus. ‘lright, legs.”

Without a second thought, your legs lift and rest over his shoulders. His lips twitch almost giving way to a laugh, maybe a different night he’d have laughed at how eager you were being. Not tonight. “Thaaat’s my good girl. Look at this pretty pussy, cryin’ f’me.”

Steve liked taking his time, though whatever was in the air had him skipping the theatrics and cutting straight to the finale. Another whine cuts through a sharp breath when he lines himself up, “gonna make y’feel so good, Princess.”

“P-ah, fuck, please Daddy.” You knead roughly into his chest, feeling already so overwhelmed and now impatient to feel him anywhere. Mouth, ass, cunt — somewhere to alleviate the restlessness.

Hearing you, he buries himself completely inside your waiting hole with a guttural moan. The sensation is sharp, pulling a choked sob from you. As always is the case with how wide he is.

“Fuck, feels like heaven, babygirl. Always take me so well,” he groans, taking a moment to collect himself before thrusting at a rapid pace in short bursts. “Mf— y’ know the drill, honey. Touch y’self,” he pants.

Honey.

Through the complete haze of how filled he makes you feel, the surprisingly sweet endearment felt different than all the others. He’s never called you that before, not like this. Cock sheathed completely inside you, bullying your hole, he’s never called you honey.

Heeding his direction, one hand flicks and plays with your tits while the other glides down to circle your clit. God, you were so slick with want for him, picking up the pace whenever he slowed his thrusts for a few minutes.

Since the Christmas party last year and the first time this happened, Steve had an inexplicable ability to make you so beyond horny it was almost frustrating. It was laughable that at one point in your life, you had committed to the idea that sex was boring and you could live without it.

But with this man in all of his glory, has somehow managed to get you going in a way no other person had before.

A year of this; him fucking you into his bed with all the care and time in the world and you letting him, and it has yet to get old.

“Ah fuck y’squeezing Daddy so fucking tight. Mmf — Love fucking my sweet girl raw.”

His thrusts pick up again, so do your fingers around your clit to chase that feeling again. Each snap of his hips leave you feeling so filled and somehow its never enough, for either of you.

“I-hmm — Daddy I’m close,” you breathe and arch up, lifting hips up enough to change the angle enough that both of you groan in unison.

By now, he’d have you ride him, but considering how worked up you’d gotten it was barely a thought to him right now. He loves watching your tits bounce when you ride him as much as you love making his tits jiggle, but now was more about a feverish need to keep momentum and chase that release.

“Ha-I, fuck, I know.” He chuckles quietly, his vocalisations were always soft gleeful little moans. Like he was in complete disbelief that you let him defile you every time he asks for you to come over. You once told him defile was a strong word, and he had said it was hot and continued to fuck into you on his couch.

That tightness starts to strengthen, that sinking feeling in your tummy as your movements feel lighter becomes more apparent with each thrust of his cock and glide of your fingers, “God, don’t stop, please.”

“That’s my good girl. C’mon — come f’me, come for, ah — Daddy.”

Your hips half up buck up, your face scrunches and jaw loosens to let out a breathy moan from orgasmic bliss. It pulses in waves while your cunt clenches and un-clenches around him, urging him into his own release. “ohmygod,” you seize up while it rushes through your core and blooms outward to your head.

His pace picks up now, grunting and moaning quietly while effectively fucking into your now rag-dolling post orgasm body, which he pretends never to get excited over but always fails. He loves fucking you boneless and loose, only ever admitted in the way his eyes rove over your tired face and he smiles proudly about it.

Like yes, he did this to you. He fucked you so good and hard that you’re loose limbed and lethargic in a euphoric daze all from his cock. But its not just his cock, its all of him. Face, body, hair, him.

“Gonna fill up my pretty girl, yeah? You gonna let Daddy fill you up?” He asks but it was never as if you’d tell him no. Because there was something about him filling you up that was so lewd about feeling him for hours afterwards.

You nod lazily, too blissed out to say much of anything, which he knows. Bringing a hand to caress your face and slipping his thumb through plush lips, “thats my girl. So good f’me.” The tenderness stops when he hangs his head and then his hips pick up a brutal pace.

His thumb hooked into your mouth keeps your head steady while he hammers into you with such intense concentration. No one fucks like Steve Harrington. And somehow you were the lucky recipient to experience it all, the sweet talk, the tender moments, the absolute abuse on your pussy when he fucks you hard and fast.

It’s a head spin to feel already at the height of overstimulation that it was almost unbearable.

“Ah, fuck. Fuck. I’m —” his hips notch as close to yours as possible as he spills his load into you, rocking his hips slowly until he’d completely emptied himself. He languidly slides your legs off his shoulders, the position they’d been in for so long has them prickle with pins and needles.

With an exhausted boyish smile, he leans down to pepper wet kiss along your neck and face, and collapses onto the bed, dragging you on top with a tired smile. “Mmf, you are so pretty when you come on my cock, honey.” And he dives back in again for more kisses.

There it is again, honey.

You feel his spend oozing out of you, probably getting all over his meaty thigh, but he doesn’t care and neither did you. He’d clean it up after a moment to catch his breath, which was honestly, your favourite part of being with Steve. How sweet and mushy he got after sending you into an alternate reality with his cock.

“Y’know I was thinking the same about you, honey.” You murmur, drawing shapes across his soft chest, pulling gently at his hair absently.

He doesn’t say anything about the pet name, no verbal acknowledgement that indicated he had thoughts about it. But there was a self satisfied little smile on his lips and that look of content in his eyes that gave away more than words ever could.

And yeah, that checks out, but you felt the exact same way.

The summer sun bore down on the back of your neck relentlessly. You speculated that you might have heat stroke or something similar - a persistent, acute migraine having formed behind your lashes. You didn’t have far to walk now from the public library to your apartment, the home stretch clear and achingly white with the sun. You’d covered your eyes with your hand, head down, blinking against the dryness.

You felt like your shoes were made of lead, just about managing to weave through the pedestrians packed tightly together on the sidewalk despite your impaired vision. Maneuvering through your fellow New Yorkers was usually common practice, the civilians moving through the city like schools of fish through a coral reef. You wheedled past mother’s and their children, businessmen and artists and rundown looking summer school students who crowded your avenue's bodega for lunch. In a haze, you began crossing the street, eyes to the burning hot tarmac beneath you. There was a loud beeping noise, a jolting sensation, and suddenly you were being pulled off of your feet.

The air rushed out of you in a big puff. You gasped, hands coming up to grip on tightly to the solid ones that had taken hold around your waist. You were deposited on the other side of the road by familiar red and blue arms, a warm chuckle already sounding. You winced, knowing what he’d say.

“Anybody ever taught you the golden rule of looking both ways before you cross one of the busiest streets in Queens?” Spider-Man asked you, tone turning incredulous toward the end.

“Same person who taught you to keep your hands to yourself,” you murmured, pulling out of his arms.

“Don’t be like that, Y/N,” he said, voice light.

“Thank you for saving me,” you said, deflecting his flirting. You squinted up into his masked face, glad to be turned from the sun's melting rays and in the shade.

Spider-Man was emotive despite the mask, his stance telling you what you wanted to know. He was in a terrible mood, evidently - terrible for you - his gait confident, his shoulders rolled back. He was going to keep flirting with you, you realised, and then he'd insist on walking you home.

He often sought you out. When you tried to accuse him of this, he argued that the one seeking you out was actually trouble, and he was the neighbourhood’s defense against trouble. “You’re an integral part of the neighbourhood,” he’d reasoned, “so of course, I’ll be protecting you.”

That had been a long while back, when he’d first showed up in Queens. Since then he’d walked you home countless times, returned your menace of a cat just as many, and spent all together too much of his time on you. You weren't the sharpest tool in the shed but you also weren't stupid enough to miss that Spider-Man seemed to have a crush on you.

"You're always in the right place at the right time, aren't you, bug boy?"

"What are you implying?" he asked.

You let your back rest on the cool alley wall, smiling as best as you could despite your pounding headache. The movement made you wince.

His easy going demeanour melted away quicker than you could process, his arms crossing over his chest.

"Are you okay?"

“Sorry,” you said, bringing your hand back up to press against your hot forehead. “Migraine.”

“Can you walk?” he asked worriedly.

You laughed at him. “It’s not that bad.”

“Hurts?”

You were surprised at the inklings of tenderness in place of his usual bravado.

“A bit,” you mumbled, pushing your hair from your face.

His hand stretched out between you like he might try comforting you. You wondered what he'd been about to do, maybe he would've placed his gloved hand on your shoulder, rubbed it placatingly up and down your arm, worked it behind you to hug you to his side.

"Wait," you said, perplexed. "Gloves?" You reached out for his hand and he let you take it. You turned his wrist in your hands, assessing the almost invisible seam. "You have a good seamstress."

"I-" he cleared his throat, "I made the suit myself."

You almost dropped his hand. "You did?"

"Impressive, yeah?"

He couldn’t remember when he’d had the thought to move from full sleeves to gloves, which could be attached and reattached, only that he had, and as a result his life had been suddenly easier, he explained to you. Easier to clean when they got dirtied with blood, grime, and general street germs, easier to repair, and easier to replace altogether when he burned through them, whether with fire or friction.

"That's really cool," you praised him, falling into step beside him.

He took you through the shortcut to your apartment, shrugging off your compliments. "I've made a couple, now."

"I can imagine," you said, the words sounding like you were underwater.

The sun was microwaving you. You swayed on your feet, instinctively pushing your hand out to try and grab onto your superhero escort. He was already shooting sideways to grab you, his strong arm coming up under your armpit and around your shoulder blades.

"Okay," he said, grunting, "alright, you're good. You're okay."

You screwed your eyes shut, taking a shaky breath. "I don't feel okay."

"You have water in your bag?" he asked, gesturing to your tote bag on the opposite shoulder. You nodded and he pushed his hand into the bag. If he found it difficult to hold you up and search for the flask he said nothing of it, pulling the clear bottle out and unscrewing the cap to press into your hand. "Drink, doll."

You sipped. You would've rolled your eyes at the pet name if your eyes weren't already shut and hurting.

"Remember when I asked if you could walk? I love being right," he said, trying to cheer you up.

You laughed, the sound bouncing around inside your skull like a super-powered top, hitting the sides and making you cringe.

"Done?" he asked. You handed the bottle off to him and he tucked it back in your bag. "I'm gonna carry you now," he informed you politely.

He moved behind you. You gripped his arm.

"Don't-"

"Come on, you need to get home somehow."

"I'm worried I'll throw up," you confessed, squinting at his masked face.

"You won't, and if you do I know a laundry sheriff that'll fix me up afterwards," he said elusively. He gathered you in a bridal carry in his arms like you weighed nothing, mutant strength letting him walk you to your apartment building as though you were a sack of flour in his arms.

“A sheriff?” you asked him, face pressed into his chest.

“A formidable one.”

“She wears the trousers in the relationship?”

“Not my girlfriend. And not very progressive of you.”

You chortled unattractively. “Don’t worry, bug, I didn’t think you were talking about a girlfriend.”

“Schoolyard taunts are beneath you, really. If you’re going to insult me, do it properly.”

You nodded, letting your chin flop forward to touch your chest. “Is this really necessary? I’m dizzy, not dying.”

“Indulge me.”

“You’re ridiculous. I feel much better after the water, so put me down,” you told him, squirming in his iron grip.

“Relax,” he said. “We’re here. Is your window open?”

You shrieked, felt yourself being lifted into the air and then you were being carried through your bedroom window.

“Spider-Man,” you said through clenched teeth, “I’ll pretend that you knowing what window is mine isn’t creepy if you put me down.”

He dumped you on your bed. You looked at him blearily, feeling him fluff your pillow up behind your head. “It’s not creepy, I walk you home all the time. And you leave your curtains open.”

“Okay, stalker,” you mumbled, enjoying the cold sheets underneath you. “It’s so hot today,” you whispered, remembering your pounding headache.

“You have Tylenol?”

“In the medicine cabinet.”

He disappeared into your bathroom. You moaned, stretching out onto the bed so hard it made your weak legs shake, your shoulders locking up. You kicked your shoes off, pulling your cardigan free and then your skirt off. I can’t believe he put me on my bed in outside clothes, you thought to yourself, moody. I’ll have to change my sheets. Tomorrow.

Spider-Man walked back in with the Tylenol. It was so ridiculous you

couldn’t help but laugh, the sight of him standing unsurely in the doorway with half your medicine cabinet in his hands.

“My hero,” you said warmly, opening your hands. He shook two pills into your open palm and you took them, sipping at the water on your nightstand from the night before.

“I wish it would work quicker,” you confided, stretching a hand over your eyes.

You felt him sit at the end of your bed. “Do you still feel faint?”

“No, I’m fine, Spider-Man. You can go home now, if you like. Thanks for helping me.”

There was a long silence. You peeked through your fingers to watch him. He was oddly still as he spoke. “I could… help more.”

Your mouth quirked up into a disbelieving smile. “You can’t fight a migraine.”

He cleared his throat. You marvelled at his voice, soft and flirtatious, a heart-rending shyness underneath it. “I read something once…”

“You can read?”

His shoulders shook. “Let me finish! I read that sometimes, girls can experience a different kind of pain relief.”

“What kind of pain relief is that?”

“I could show you?” he said, voice lilting up at the end in question.

You could hear the busy streets outside, the car horns and the bodega bell, the people shouting and chattering and the train that rattled past like clockwork a street down. So loud outside, and yet the loudest sound was your heart in your ears and Spider-Man’s suit sliding against your bed sheets.

The barest touch of his gloved knuckles against your thigh made you snap back into reality. “Y/N?”

“Show me,” you repeated his words, letting your hand fall from your eyes. "Please."

It was like a switch - shy Spider-Man was replaced with his usual, confident self. It was all encompassing. He sidled up closer still, pulling his glove free one finger at a time.

He had lovely hands - big hands, long, nimble looking fingers and a wide palm which he lay flat on your naked thigh. "You're appropriately dressed."

"I'm sorry," you said, embarrassed, "I was warm."

"I'm not complaining," he said, palm hot against your skin. "You're killer."

"You're incorrigible," you murmured, goosebumps jumping up your skin from his touch.

He pushed his hand up and over the elastic of your underwear, pushing the edges of your thin tank top up to slide his palm over your tummy.

He inched up under your shirt. “This okay?”

You breathed out too quickly. "Yeah."

He pushed under your shirt. You bit your lip as he massaged your chest, catching your nipple between his fingers.

You were caught between arousal and surprise, unable to really take in what was happening. "Spider-Man," you started.

"What?" he asked quietly. It was as though neither of you wanted to disrupt the relative quiet of your room, should it shatter the bubble that had formed around you both.

"Can't I call you something else?"

"Handsome works," he said, rolling your nipple between his two fingertips.

"Handsome," you said, testing the word. "Doesn't sound right."

He pinched your skin spitefully. You couldn't help gasping in pleasure, chest heaving under his touch. He pushed your shirt up completely, exposing your breasts to the warm air.

"Cute," he commented, as if to himself.

He stopped his touching to hook a neat fingernail under the edge of the mask, pulling it up so the lower half of his face was exposed. You felt starstruck, startled by his sudden reveal and his soft, pretty face, barely noticing as he climbed over your legs to sit on your thighs, looking down at you with his head pushed towards his shoulder, like he was assessing you.

You felt self conscious under his gaze. “What are you looking at me for?”

“Admiring the view,” he said. He’d discarded his other glove now and was pressing both hands to your chest, paying special attention to your nipples. He leaned down to kiss the underside of your breast and then the nipple, nibbling at it in a motion that sent shudders through you. You hesitantly cupped the back of his head, feeling the softness of his hair underneath the mask.

Your head fell back against the pillow, tracing the familiar lines of your bedroom ceiling whilst your friendly neighbourhood superhero traced the lines of your body. He smoothed the skin of your trembling abdomen flat as his unoccupied hand travelled lower, teasing the waistband of your panties. He lifted the elastic to let it snap against your skin, grinning into your skin when your breath caught.

His hand found its way under the fabric. He broke away from your chest to watch his own hand move against your cunt, fingertips pressing into the button of your clit, curiously dipping into the pool of wetness just below.

He pushed your panties to the side and pulled back from hovering over you to sit on his haunches atop your thighs, running the pad of his thumb from the growing slick at your centre to your clit, spreading the mess your body was making carefully, in gentle strokes. Each time he crested your clit it made your core burn, twisting at the sensation.

He moved from straddling you to in between your legs, pushing them up slightly, your heels digging into the mattress springs. You felt much more provocative this way, bared to him. It was odd not to see his eyes as he touched you so intimately,

"I think you're toying with me, handsome," you murmured.

"Do you really?" he asked, trailing the tip of his finger down the crease of your cunt, stopping just above your entrance. "Why would you think that?"

He pushed the tip of his finger into your heat. You both groaned. "You seem like a tease," you told him, voice high.

He laughed, settling into a rhythm and soon joining his first finger with his second. "I'm the tease? You threw yourself at me 20 minutes ago."

"I fell over!"

"Fainted from my presence," he corrected gently, curling his fingers inside you.

You balled the sheets up in your hand. "You're right."

"Knew you'd see it my way."

"The fact that you can run your mouth while- while messing with me is ridiculous."

"I'm not messing with you, bub, I'm playing with you."

This was obvious. He flicked his wrist, reminiscent of the motion he made to shoot webs, pushing incrementally deeper inside you. You keened, covering your hand with his, trying to force his fingers in deeper. "So eager…" he muttered, though he didn't pull away. He stayed with his fingers deep inside you, fucking and curling til you were panting, stomach tensing up.

"Relax," he said, laughing. You'd pushed up onto your elbow to watch his ministrations, open mouthed.

He spread his fingers open inside you, slowly pulling out, the stretch a pleasurable ache. Your panting slowly edged into whining territory, your hand like iron around his. He used his free hand to poke at your clit carefully, the barest touch of his fingertip against the bead of it. He bit his lip at your moans, his hips jutting forward where he sat.

You let yourself fall flat again and groaned. Spider-Man was spreading you open with his fingers, dick straining against the spandex of his suit.

"Han- handsome," you stuttered, disrupted by his speeding up. His index and pinky finger hit the soft flesh of your cunt with every thrust, each collision wet and fast.

"What, baby?" he said, so softly, distracted with his actions.

"Can you- can we-" you struggled to find the words, struggled worse to say them without feeling embarrassed.

"You want," his fingers left you, the tip of his index finger now joining the first two at your entrance, "this?"

"Please…"

He pushed the beginnings of his three fingers inside you, pushing up on your clit to spread your pussy open. "You don't ever have to say please to me," he told you, eyes heady, voice warm. "Tell me if it hurts."

He buried his fingers in your cunt to the first knuckles, then the second. The further he pushed in the more overwhelming it became, your legs beginning to shake. He leaned down to kiss one of your thighs, amused if his smirk was anything to go by. He pushed against the soft barrier he'd found. You positively mewled, alarmed that he'd found your sweet spot and was now seeking it out with abandon, his thrusts sharp and fast. You were still so tight that each one was a lovely agony, tears welling in your eyes.

"Too much?" he asked, retreating.

You shook your head vehemently. "Feels nice," you wobbled.

"Yeah?" He grinned, three fingers deep inside you as they could go, thumb on your clit. His other hand fell away, moving to palm his cock through the material of his suit.

You swallowed hard. His coordination must be fantastic, you thought, because he didn't miss a beat; he stroked the length of himself, touch down soft as he ruined you, manipulating the button of your clit with his fingers curled against your soft spot. You squirmed, rolling your hips, almost begging.

"Please, please," you mumbled uselessly, over and over.

Spider-Man stopped touching himself to wrap his strong hand around the underside of your knee, pushing your leg back into your chest to spread you wide open, before leaning down to catch the most sensitive part of your cunt with his mouth.

You gasped, quickly threading your fingers into the down-soft hair at the nape of his neck. He suckled the bead of your clit and forgot any pretense of gentleness, the lewd sound of his debasement of your cunt echoing in your ears. He surfaced to plant kisses on the skin between your centre and your thighs, breathing hard. He licked a stripe from his hand to your clit and then, in what was your undoing, nibbled ever so lightly.

You froze, leg tensing up in his grip, the climax so sudden you couldn't help the sound you made, loud and clear. He groaned as your walls clamped down around his fingers.

He pulled his fingers out finally, leaning back to continue his own touching with your slick still on his hand, hips jutting up. You held your hands out and he crawled forward to meet you, letting you pull his lips down to press against yours.

He tasted like you. Your hand went to his back, pressing him close to your body without thinking. You could feel the shape of his cock against you, rutting up against you as you kissed, lips firm. He made a sound like a hiccup that made you want to propose marriage, pressing his hips down into yours hard. You were so sensitive from cumming the sensation made you cry out.

He moaned, his lips pressed against the corner of your mouth, hands digging into your neck so hard it was almost painful.

"Gonna cum for me, Spider-Man?" you asked hurriedly.

He might have laughed, you weren't sure, the sound covered up by a groan that sent sparks to your already oversimulated cunt. He jerked into you, movements choppy, before he collapsed, his forehead digging into your neck.

“You’re crushing me,” you said into his head, the top of the mask cold on your mouth.

“You’re whining,” he said, though he pressed a kiss to your shoulder and climbed off of you anyways. “How’s the headache?”

You clamped your thighs closed and covered your eyes bashfully. “Gone,” you admitted.

His hands climbed down the length of your thigh, drawing your knees apart again.

“Just to be sure,” he said coquettishly.

<3 thanks for reading

On your fifth ever date with Peter Parker he took you out for Chinese food. He walked the 20 minutes to meet you at your apartment and then another 20 minutes to the restaurant and didn't complain once.

"All this walking," you said shyly, looking down at your place setting, "you must be so tired."

There was something mischievous in his eyes when he said, "I get around quick, bub."

"I still feel bad. You could've just met me here."

"And have my best girl walking alone at night? I don't think so."

You felt you face heat further and averted from his playful look. When he asked what you wanted you said, "I'll have what you're having."

"You don't like what I'm having."

You tried not to smile at the fact that he'd remembered. "Anything else, then."

He pestered you for something specific. You ignored him, stretching your hand out between you both to stroke the skin of his knuckles with your fingertips. You could've sworn they looked very red and a little bruised beforehand, but now they seemed perfectly fine. Must've been the lighting.

He stopped his suggestions to quirk a smile at your small actions, turning his hand upside down to offer it to you. You accepted. He twined your fingers together and squeezed them tightly, as if in confirmation.

The very tops of his ears were turning pink. He cleared his throat and turned back to the laminated menu in his hands, peppy as he listed things he thought you'd like.

"I'll have anything," you said again.

He looked at your face, at your joined hands and then quickly at your face again. "Fine, but if you don't like it you know who to blame."

"You?"

When the food came out it looked amazing. It smelled even better, and you were only marginally disappointed when Peter let go of your hand to start eating because you wanted two hands for your own meal too.

Why dates happened in restaurants, you had no idea. It had always felt so awkward to eat in front of other people, especially when you were trying to make that other person like you romantically. Peter didn't get this memo, as he ate like the food was going to run away. You wished you had it in yourself to be disgusted, but he was still polite enough and so earnest that you were pretty sure everything he did at this point would endear you to him.

He shoved prawn crackers on the edge of your plate pointedly and smiled to himself when you ate them. You weren't sure he even knew himself that he was smiling.

When you finished he would hear about going halfsies. You grinned like a maniac behind your hand when he said, "Pretty girls don't pay."

"That's not very feminist of you," you told him, brushing yourself down for crumbs. He'd already shrugged his jacket on and leaped up to help you into your own.

"I'm super feminist. How about you pay for the next one?"

You rolled your eyes: that's what he'd said last time.

"You can call me pretty without paying for dinner," you told him bravely, letting him lead you by the hand out of the warm, fragrant restaurant and into the cold clutches of the New York streets.

It wasn't raining now, though the streets evidenced a wet spell through the day, shining black from the headlights and streetlamps.

"Okay, pretty girl. I'll hold you to it," he said. He pulled you into his side as closely as you could get and you began down the sidewalk to your home.

Ever the gentleman, Peter made small talk whilst somehow finding ways to throw you little compliments and flirts throughout. By the time you reached your apartment you were warm in the chest and believed yourself half in love with him if you hadn't already been before.

The final straw had been when you came to a pause outside your apartment building. He'd taken both your hands, rubbed his thumb carefully over your knuckles and seemed so intently dedicated to them you'd felt butterflies in every part of your body.

"I love spending time with you…" he said, voice unusually shy. "Thank you for coming out with me tonight."

It was the way he kissed you, chaste and sweet, bringing his hand up to the side of your face - specifically that, was the final straw.

You pressed your hand over his and tried to catch his gaze. He was looking distractedly at your mouth.

"Peter," you said, voice lilting, his name like lyric in your mouth. "Do you want to come upstairs?"

He beamed and kissed the corner of your mouth. "Whatever you want."

"I'm trying to tell you- I want you."

You held your breath, almost afraid of his reaction to your blatant flirting. It was more outgoing than you usually were, and in your right mind you never would've said it. You were content and full-bellied, love drunk and feeling it in your veins. Peter was so nice and pretty and magnetic, and he liked you. So you forgave yourself for the vulnerability and invited him in and only felt mildly sick in the elevator after he said yes with a quirked up smile.

Peter seemed like the kind of guy to ruin you passionately where you stood, whereas you were so shy you couldn't order yourself a coffee without stuttering. You knew he took this into account and was softer, more careful with his pursuits, and figured he would never have made this move, so you'd made it for him.

In your apartment he was calm. He looked around at your things curiously as you fought with the zipper on your coat. He glanced over his shoulder from the living room at you still in the doorway, expression softening, drifting back to you to help you out of your coat. He hung it up on the hook next to his, visibly perturbed at your shaky hands.

He rubbed his hands down your arms. "Don't be nervous. We won't do anything you don't want to do. We can sit on the couch all night."

You nodded and kissed the line of his jaw. "I asked you up here, Parker."

His hands found the skin under your ears. He held you in place, head turned up, to gaze into your eyes. "You're beautiful, you know?"

You broke out of his hold, fleeing to the living room to escape his seduction for a moment. "You're such a womaniser."

"The insults are coming out of you on scooters tonight," he remarked, settling down on the couch next to you, though he faced you where you faced the small TV. His fingers found your skin again, flesh of his palm on your cheek. He pressed the very tips of his index and middle finger to the corner of your eye and stroked gentle semi circles. "You have nice eyes."

You closed them in response.

"Hey,"  he said, laughing through the word, "open up."

"No," you denied him, scrunching your eyes even further shut.

"That's too bad," he said, lips at your ear now, words quiet.

He shifted your head to bare your neck, and you stilled in anticipation of his mouth. Then, open mouthed, he scandalised your neck, hot featherlight things that ended at the collar of your shirt.

"Peter," you said, giggling madly as his free hand fiddled with the button at your neck.

"What, baby?" he asked, distracted.

"Will you kiss me?"

He happily fulfilled your request, catching your lips with his own. You grinned into his kiss, ticklish as his hand found your thigh and held it like you were something precious.

Your stomach slowly dissolved from butterflies into a dull ache. You couldn't help it as your eyebrows pulled together.

Peter retracted his hands immediately. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." You pushed in for another kiss.

He reciprocated, startled. His hands were tentative to return to your skin, so you took his hand and pressed it to your leg where it had been before.

Another roll of sickness. You grimaced, breaking the kiss to lean your head on Peter's shoulder. You looked down at his lap with your eyes wide.

"What’s the matter?"

You felt an overwhelming sense of nausea and knew at that moment you would throw up. You clambered out of his grips and barreled for the bathroom doorway, almost slamming the door shut. You locked it without thinking and then you were emptying your stomach, a horror on white porcelain.

"Hey, Y/N. Y/N! Are you alright?"

"Yeah!" you said, and then heaved again. You could hear him fiddling with the door. When it didn't open he knocked against the wood.

"What's wrong?"

"I- threw up."

"I could hear as much. Are you okay? Was it…"

"I think it was the food," you said miserably, blinking stressed tears from your eyes. You sat roughly on the ground, hands on the toilet seat, swallowing in attempts to ease your nausea.

It didn't work. You chucked up again.

The door handle rattled more. "Let me in," Peter said, his usual easygoing drawl tinged with worry.

Was he crazy? He wasn't even officially your boyfriend and he thought you'd let him see you in this state? No way.

"Maybe," you swallowed, pressed your forehead to your hand, "you should go home."

"Babe, be serious. Let me in!" his pleading was half serious. You smiled despite yourself at his antics. "Let me hold your hair back. It'll be romantic!"

"Nothing about this is romantic," you said unhappily, though you could've used his hands. You spit bile into the dirty water and felt another bout of sickness. You struggled to your feet to flush the toilet.

"You're being very obtuse right now," Peter said.

"Obtuse!"

"Unkind," he amended.

"Go home, Peter."

"No, I don't think I will. Let me in though?"

You heaved again. Not much came up besides spit.

The door handle wiggled again. "Peter, go home, please. I'll call you when I'm not disgusting."

"You're not disgusting! You're literally sick!"

Of course that was the bit he would focus on. "Please, I'm begging you to go home."

"Can't I just wait out here? I'm not going until I know you're alright."

You heaved. He took this as an answer, and you heard his footsteps retreat into the kitchen. You were too focused on the toilet bowl to listen in on what he was getting upto.

You felt deservedly depressed. This was the opposite of sexy. You'd been looking forward to intimacy with Peter tonight. Now the thing getting ruined was your relationship instead of your underwear.

You pushed the hair out of your sweaty forehead and thanked God that at least you were only chucking up. It could've been worse, you realised, laughing under your breath.

A sound from the doorway, Peter had forced a post it note through the gap. You peered at it wearily. A second joined the first.

What's funny? :0 said the first.

i miss u open the door pls :3 said the second.

You laughed wetly. "Pete, you can just talk to me."

u wont listen to me :(

"What? Peter-" you were interrupted by the sound of him ripping a post it note off.

let me in!!!

"No, I don't want you to see me."

Angry scribbling ensued.

have u considered i don't care what u want?? i am selfish let me in the bathroom

"Peter… if you see me like this you won't like me anymore, I promise you."

I promise you I will! unlock the door pretty girl

You felt so sick and miserable and he was so nice and he liked you and it was a lot. You felt tears come to your eyes, pressing your hand over your mouth to sob. It wasn't a completely unhappy sob, more an overwhelmed keen.

"Please go home," you said.

You heard sighing from the other side of the door, and then Peter getting to his feet. You sighed in relief that he was finally leaving and you could be grim in piece when the door handle was rattling again, a quick snapping sound and then the door was opening.

"Was that always broken?" Peter asked, the copper door handle in his hand.

You looked at him with unbridled horror. He held his hands up in surrender.

"I'm sorry! It was loose, I swear!"

You covered your face with both hands.

Peter walked toward you, leaning down to put both of his hands on your head. He pressed your hair down gently. "Hey, why are you so upset, huh? You want some water?"

"I really don't want you to see me like this," you whispered, your traitorous body relaxing under his touch. You knew the room smelled of sick.

"Unlucky for you, I want to see you all the time. Told you I was selfish."

You moaned and pressed your face into his legs, wrapping your arms around him. "This isn't how I imagined tonight going."

"Yeah? And what did you imagine?" he asked. You knew he was smirking.

"Have you ever seen Silence of the Lambs?"

except... in the first month of your relationship, max has been hurling insults his way tenfold. to the point where even lucas has noticed and has encouraged her to "chill out on harrington", which resulted in her breaking up with him for an entire week.

(it was the longest week of your life, because lucas sinclair wouldn't stop calling your landline phone. when his efforts there weren't sufficient enough for max to take him back, he started showing up to your doorstep every morning, biking over with a bouquet of flowers in one hand.

eventually, max ended his misery when he promised to never tell her she's doing something wrong, ever again.)

that friday night, steve whisks you away from the wheelers' basement, driving you over to lovers lake so you can finally get some privacy in the back of his car. it's not ideal, but max is still calling your space a "no harrington zone", and you'll take whatever alone time you can get with your boyfriend.

"have you figured out why max hates me more than usual?" steve asks as his hand works the bra clasp behind your back. you furrow your brows and disconnect your lips from his, a confused look on your face.

"are you really thinking about my sister while we're making out?"

"ew, no," steve says before ducking down to press a series of kisses along your neck. you hum, feeling the confines of your bra loosen, and he pushes the straps down your shoulders, "i was thinking about how she looked like she wanted to murder me when we left mike's just now, though."

"does max intimidate you?" you ask, combing your fingers through his messy hair. steve shrugs, burying his face into the junction between your shoulder and neck.

you notice the very distinct lack of kisses being seared into your skin, and you exhale lowly, scratching gently at his scalp. he nuzzles closer into your touch.

"i don't think she's ever liked me too much, but now that you're my girl, her opinion really matters to me." steve finally admits.

a gentle smile crooks at the corners of your lips.

"i can talk to her," you murmur, thumbs finding his warm cheeks, brushing over his skin. "d'you wanna see my tits now?"

steve looks up and presses his chin against your chest.

"yes, please. i think that'll make everything better."

that night, steve drops you off at the trailer you and max live in.

it used to house billy and his dad, too, but the latter split after his son died. your mom also technically lives there, though she hasn't been all too present since everything with billy happened.

if it weren't for max and now steve, you think you would've left hawkins a long time ago.

you're not surprised when you walk through the front door to find all the lights still on, max eating cereal and watching some late night television in your makeshift living room. you send her a small smile as you dump your bag on the counter, then plop down next to her.

"hey, killer," you greet, bumping her knee. "how was the rest of your night?"

max shrugs, jaw working through a mouthful of soggy cheerios.

"fine," she eventually answers. "the usual."

she turns to you, shifting her position slightly so she's angled closer to your body, blue eyes sweeping over you. you wrinkle your nose as she juts her chin at your neck, fingernails covered in chipped green polish suddenly yanking at the collar of your worn tee-shirt.

"what are you—"

"god, why do you let that leech leave marks on you like a vampire?" max asks, poking hard at the fresh hickey steve left at the top of your breast.

"oh my god, max, haven't you ever heard of a little personal space?!" you exclaim, shoving her away. she rolls her eyes and gets up to dump her empty bowl in the sink. "what's your deal with steve, anyway? i thought you liked him."

max laughs bitterly at that. in her sad excuse for pajamas — an oversized hawkins high tee-shirt that used to be yours, now passed down to her — she reminds you so much of the little girl she used to be.

it scares you a tiny bit, how much she still looks like her — the same bruised knees and freckles and frizzy red hair, except this version of max seems to hate you a little bit, and you can't figure out why.

"night." max mutters, and it's the last you see of her that night.

"can i take you out tonight?"

it's the first thing steve asks when you call him the next morning. you smile to yourself, all loved up and thoroughly charmed by steve harrington, who is already experiencing severe withdrawals after being away from you for less than 10 hours.

"i don't think so," you murmur into the receiver, twirling the phone cord around your fingers, "max was seriously peeved when you dropped me off last night."

steve groans on the other end. "we have to figure this out, mayfield. i'm not letting a teenager dictate my love life."

"you rescheduled a date once so you could take dustin to the arcade."

"that was different."

you roll your eyes, "regardless, i feel like i should be spending more time with her. maybe she's still reeling from the whole billy thing. i don't know."

"i could come over. bring some ice cream and steal a tape from family video."

"you're sweet. thievery and all," you tease, biting your lip, "lemme just try to handle this one, though. we can catch up tomorrow after your shift."

"promise?"

"pinky promise."

"holding you to it, mayfield."

you giggle as you each hang up the phone, just as max walks into the living room. she already has that look on her face — the one that's half a pout, half an evil eye — and you smile at her, playing dumb.

"hey, do you wanna have some sister time tonight? i got paid yesterday, i could order us a pizza and paint your nails or something. watch a movie, too, maybe?"

the hopeful tone in your voice is impossible not to pick up on, and it kills you a little bit when max's frown only burrows deeper into her face.

"don't you have plans with your little airhead boyfriend?" she asks.

"no, and he's not an airhead, max. i told him i was busy hanging out with you tonight."

"so what, you ditch him for one night and think you're sister of the year?" she rolls her eyes. "i already have plans with lucas anyway. you're off the hook."

"max," you sigh, blocking her from walking any further as she goes to leave. "come on, we have to talk about this. what's your deal with steve? why don't you like us dating?"

max crosses her arms over her chest. she's as stubborn as the day she was born, when she refused to fall asleep anywhere but your mother's arms.

"you're gonna think it's stupid."

"nothing you think is stupid."

she hesitantly twirls a braid in her hand.

"i just... look, mom's always brought him these absolute losers, so who's to say steve isn't one of them?"

you blink. the anger in your throat immediately subsides.

"you're scared i'm gonna end up like her," you say, and max, though looking off to the side, still looking uninterested, nods her head. "i get it, maxie. letting steve in was a risk for me, too. it took me some time to decide he was worth it."

she chances a glance at you. you reach out to brush over her knuckles.

"he's not like the bad guys mom dates, and he's not like billy, either. he's good. he... he takes care of me, and he takes care of all of you, right? just because we're dating now doesn't mean that's gonna change. a label isn't gonna change that."

max shrugs. "but what if he wants you to, like, leave hawkins before i graduate? won't you go with him?"

you smile gently.

"never in a million years," you say. "he knows better than to ask me to ever do anything like that. and he knows that you'll always be my number one priority."

max, looking slightly less uncomfortable now, nods her head. her arms are at her sides, and her lack of response tells you that she's processing, if not at least pacified by your explanation.

"okay, well," max swallows, then clears her throat. "you can tell... steve that he can come over whenever he would like, then. and he can come to the next sister night we have."

you grin.

"thank you, maxie," you step forward to wrap her arms around her shorter frame, to which she reluctantly accepts. you laugh into her messily parted hair before pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "steve is a good guy, okay? i promise."

"if he's so good, he can cool it on the hickies," she bites, grabbing her skateboard as she wiggles out of your embrace, "seriously. you look like you're in a bad halloween movie half the time."

you stick her tongue out at her and wave her off, following as she jogs down the short flight of stairs at the entrance of your trailer.

“Holy–”

“Fuck!” you say, throwing yourself backward with a shout. You bring your hand to your chest, pressing your heart back behind your ribs as the blur of colour comes to a stop on the edge of the roof. 

“Sorry!” Spider-Man says. “Jesus, you didn’t see me? I’m kind of, you know, brightly coloured?”

“You came out of nowhere! You’re going sixty miles an hour!”

Spider-Man rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “I got places to be. Well, most of the time.”

You feel your heart jumping under your palm. Spider-Man shifts, his head tilting down as though he’s squinting at you assessingly. 

“Hey, are you okay? I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You swallow your nerves. “Yeah. Yes, I’m fine. You scared me, s’all. Sorry for cussing. And yelling.”

He giggles brightly, plonking down on a creaky lawn chair, unperturbed by its green moss. “Yeah, you should be sorry, potty-mouth. Kiss your ma with that mouth?”

You laugh without thinking. “Sometimes.”

Spider-Man lays back in the chair and folds his arms over his stomach. It strikes you that you wouldn’t know if his eyes were open or closed, he looks relaxed, like he could doze. He looks tired, actually. He gives a long sigh and sits up some. Eyes open, decidedly. 

“What are you doing up here?” he asks. 

“Oh, I’m reading.”

“Reading what?” 

You refuse to tell him that it’s a silky sweet romance with a besotted leading man and a beautiful girl, but struggle to think of a lie. The silence lingers until it’s awkward.

Finally, Spider-Man waves a hand at you, his voice genial as he says, “Keep your secrets.”

“Are you okay?” you ask. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

It might be more apt to ask him what it is that he’s doing up here. Surely Spider-Man has more important things to get too than sitting in a rinky-dink chair waiting to snap beneath any weight at all on your dreary rooftop in the cold weather. And more that he doesn’t know you, hasn’t ever spoken to you, no matter how many times you’ve seen him around the city. 

“You look tired,” you say softly. 

“I’m okay. But, hey, thanks for asking.”

“Sure.”

Awkward silence lingers again. Your blatant confusion as to his presence becomes obvious, and Spider-Man looks away, rubbing at his neck again with that same nervous hand. 

“You looked lonely,” he says. “I guess I wondered if you wanted company, or– or a shoulder to cry on, or something. Anything.”

“Is that something you do often?” 

“What good is looking after the neighbourhood if everybody in it goes home sad?” Spider-Man shrugs. “You don’t have to tell me anything, I’ll only sit here if that’s cool.” 

“Don’t let me stop you.”

You’re thinking about Peter again. It’s ridiculous, there’s a superhero on your roof and you’re thinking about Pete, but you can’t help it. Spider-Man reminds you of him, his height and build, even his voice, though Spider-Man is all bravado and gruffness where Peter’s a tiny bit shy. It’s what made becoming his friend possible—he’s shy and you’re worse, you’re immovable, you struggle to talk half the time. If Spider-Man hadn’t scared the fuck out of you scaling up the building, you wouldn’t have been able to open your mouth. 

“I have a friend,” you say, buckling under the pressure of the quiet. “And I like him. And I don’t know what to do, so. That’s why I’m all messed up.”

“You don’t look messed up,” he says, bringing a hand to his chin to hold like he’s pondering something deeply. “You like someone? That’s a good thing.”

“I don’t think he likes me back.”

“That sucks, but– okay, sorry if this is weird, but you’re beautiful.” Spider-Man straightens in his chair. “Like, you’re really beautiful. And your voice is so nice, I’ve barely heard it and I already know it’s addictive.”

You laugh again without meaning to, a sputter of sound. 

“You’re really pretty. If he doesn’t like you back, I’m sure you can find somebody else.”

“Thank you, Spider-Man, but I don’t want anybody else,” you say softly. “He’s really perfect. Have you ever–” You clear your throat, picking at a scagged thread on your pajama bottoms and avoiding his gaze. “It’s stupid.”

“I bet it’s not.”

Nobody’s ever called you beautiful before. Nobody’s ever… 

Peter makes you feel beautiful. Tips your chin up with his pinky finger to get your eyes, takes a good look at you when he’s seeing you for the first time in a while, but he never says anything about it. He smiles and he's sweet, but he doesn’t call you beautiful. 

“He makes me feel like the only person in the world,” you confess. “He’s not perfect, like I said. He lashes out, and he forgets all the time, he’s late constantly, but he always says sorry, and you know he really means it? He’s the most genuine person. And he’s–” pretty, you want to say, but you look sideways at Spider-Man and can’t bring yourself to say it. “I want more of him than he wants to give me, is all, but I don’t mind. I like being his friend.”

“You want more,” he says, as though turning the words over in his mouth. 

“That’s the hard part.”

“That’s a nice love story.” He exhales slowly. “Lucky guy.”

“It’s not a love story,” you say, trying for happy acceptance and sounding weak. 

“It could be. Have you told him how you feel? I don’t see how a guy could hear all that from a girl like you and not at least try to make it work?”

You bring your knee up and rest your nose on the fabric there. “I don’t usually talk to people like this. I find it really hard.”

“Oh, so I’m special?”

“You’re an exception.”

“You don’t talk to this guy?”

You press your face fully to your knee, thighs aching. 

“Peter doesn’t answer the phone,” you mumble, hoping Spider-Man won’t hear you. “Can’t talk to him about anything. And what would I even say? I know we’ve been friends for years and all but I like you now, and I’m prepared to make things awkward between us forever?” You whine quietly. “Everything’s so hard.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

Spider-Man sounds flustered. Sounds like he took a long plunge from a tall skyscraper. You look up, perplexed, and he’s facing you completely still. It’s like he’s been turned to stone. 

“You–” He swallows. “This Peter guy, you really like him?”

“I’ve had a crush on him since forever! And he never notices me, ever!” You scrub at your face. “I know it’s stupid and childish and high school, I know I should tell him how I feel even if there’s not the slightest chance that he’d ever want me back–”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

You squint at him. “You don’t know Peter.”

He laughs, still sounding all flustered and weak. “Okay.”

“Sorry. I guess I’m being really corny, huh?” 

“No.” His voice is higher, too, almost like he’s holding his breath. “It’s not corny, it’s nice.”

“He’s really pretty,” you say, lamenting your sad lonely life without him. And now you’ve made a mess all over Spider-Man’s generous listening. If there was a chance he’d come to see you again, you have surely ruined it. 

Spider-Man squeaks. 

You stare at him. He’s pulling at the edge of his mask, fanning himself, giving you rare glimpses of his pale skin. 

“Are you okay?” you ask.

“I’m sorry, I’m– super warm.”

“Oh. Is the suit hot?”

“It can be, yeah.”

“I guess I don’t know how to move on,” you say, breaking your gaze to stare at the gravelly rooftop instead. “He’s a great friend, and I didn't always want it so badly. I don’t know why… why it got so much worse lately. I see him and I wish he’d grab me and– and kiss me–” You bite your tongue. “Sorry, Spider-Man. That’s too much information."

“Kiss you how?” he asks. 

You jolt a little. “Uh, you know. Just kiss me. A real kiss. He’s kind of affectionate, like, sometimes he tries to hold my hand before we cross the street, and one time he did kiss my cheek, but it was, like, a bit. I want a real kiss.” 

“Huh.”

“It’s lame.”

“Love is kinda lame. Corny and cheesy,” Spider-Man sounds oddly pleased. “But maybe he’s got all these lame feelings too, and didn’t want to push you. You seem kinda shy. Maybe he’s worried he’s not reading things right. If you’re the kind of girl who’s easily flustered, how can he know if it’s because of him or not?” 

“But what do I do?”

“I don’t know.”

You laugh. “Thanks.”

“I’m sorry, but whatever you do, if he gets the signal, he’ll reciprocate.”

“How do you know?”

“Girl as pretty as you?” Spider-Man’s voice goes soft as butter. “He’d be an idiot not to.”

—

By the time you’d made it back inside that night, Peter had replied to your message. 

In fact, Peter had spammed you. Answered everything you said with detail and then launched into an apology for not responding, cos he had a bunch of stuff to do and Aunt May had the car and his phone died on the subway home, yada yada. 

He then asked you out. 

Alright, he didn’t. He asked if you wanted to come over and watch a movie the next day, which is pretty standard Peter friendship activity, but has you smiling like a loser at your phone. 

Yes, you’d texted him, would love to, I’ll bring dinner?

Do not!!!! I will order in for us when you get here :D 

You’re standing in your nicest skirt, a pretty pink thing that ends at the knees and, and your newest converse, which aren’t all that new. Your cardigan is charcoal wool and buttoned all the way up to fight the sudden chill. It’s later than you realised; you spent an hour panic-changing your clothes and lamenting your response Spider-Man’s advice. You have to give Peter a signal, right? 

You are dressed very cute for a movie at his place, and you smell delicious. You’re gonna give him a wide-eyed flirty stare and who knows, maybe he’ll finally get the message. 

Or he’ll wonder why you’re so overdressed. 

The door finally opens, and Peter’s already smiling. His cheeks are red like spring cherries with a flush that crawls down his neck and probably stains his broad chest, too, his hair in order for once, his usual hoodie and jacket traded in for a plain white t-shirt that’s a little tight. Shows the indents of his chest, the lines of firm muscle there. 

“Hey, beautiful,” he says. 

You want him to call you beautiful forever. “Don’t,” you say instead. He should know better. You fluster at anything. 

Peter stands aside to let you in. You’ve been to the Parker house a ton of times, but it’s noticeably clean, and dimly lit. There are a couple of candles lit in the living room and a bowl of popcorn stands on the coffee table, filling the room with the smells of toffee and butter. 

“Was it cold?” he asks. 

You nod hurriedly. “So cold. I thought it was supposed to be summer.”

“We’re not that lucky. Make yourself comfy, okay? I gotta grab your drink.”

You unlace your shoes and leave them by the doorway, padding into the living room in your socks. The couch is fitted with enough throw pillows to turn a three-seater into a two-seater. You’re forced to plop yourself somewhat in the middle, but you’re too tempted by the popcorn to worry. You sneak a piece while Peter’s gone, humming as the sweetness breaks out across your tongue. 

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” he calls. 

“For what?”

“For not answering you!” His voice echoes nearer, and he grimaces his way through the hall into the living room, two glasses of your favourite in his hands. “I’m awful. I’m an idiot, and I never check my phone. I’m sorry.”

“Peter, it’s fine.”

“You sure?”

Your eyes widen of their own accord as he sits down next to you, thigh to thigh, so close you can see the little bits of amber that swim in his irises, all that brown fragmented by shards of sunlight.

“I–” You nod oddly. “Am sure. Of course. I don’t expect you to drop everything–”

“I know you don’t, but still. I have my phone with me. I can answer you more, and you’re important to me. I get distracted.”

“Did you get all your errands done?” 

“Sure.” He hands you your glass and puts his own on the coffee table. “Thanks. You’re an angel.”

“You’re not so bad,” you say. 

You relax. Peter lets you choose the movie, and you feel warm sitting there pointing his remote at the TV, flicking unsurely through everything, but he’s Peter. You put on Cado Lake and hand him the remote, sure he’ll enjoy a sc-fi flick, and are instantly gratified when the movie hooks his attention. Not too much, though. He’s clear of mind enough to put the popcorn bowl in your lap and nip you with little questions. Who’s that again? Hey, she looks like May. Wow, you smell good, what is that? 

You’re about an hour into the movie when Peter’s hand sews itself behind your back. 

It’s warm, and big. His fingertips skate over the mall of your back until he’s found your side, where it curls, and he pulls you gently toward him. Your head drops into the space between his shoulder and head, the TV a colourful blur in front of you, your hand paused dead in the nearly empty popcorn like you’ve been frozen. 

“Okay?” he murmurs. 

“Yeah,” you say. You’re fine. 

He’s warm. He’s solid beside you. 

“You’re letting me eat all the popcorn…”

His laugh is a huff against your head. “I’ll make some more.”

“No.” You rest your cheek on his arm. Bliss flits through your entire body like a wave. “It’s okay. I won’t eat your share.”

“You do what you want,” he says, and you wonder if he’s relaxing beneath you, too, heat of his body seeping through his clothes and into your skin as his fingers rub gently into your side. “Get you a sack of popcorn, if you want me to.”

“This is nice.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. This is good.”

You struggle to pay attention to the movie for the next few minutes, wondering if this is really what you think. It’s not exactly friendship-level affection to wrap your arm around someone, is it? But Peter’s so lovely, it could be nothing. Why would it mean anything? What could Peter want with you? Of course you have a crush on him, he’s gorgeous, but Peter has no such motivations about you. Does he? 

He’s quiet for a while. You think the movie might’ve really snagged him, but then he turns to you with a shy smile that brightens exponentially when you sneak a glance at him and end up smiling back. 

He doesn’t look away. 

It gets so hot you wish you could peel out of your cardigan, but you don’t wanna move and displace the moment. 

“You’re missing the movie,” you whisper. 

“I’ve missed so much of it,” he says. 

“What?”

“Look.” He swallows. “Look, I don’t know if I’m– maybe I’m way off base here, and all, but,” —his hand climbs your side, folding over your, pulling you even closer— “maybe I’m not? I don’t know.”

“Off base about what?”

“You know.”

“Do I?” you ask. You can hardly speak above a breath, but Peter hears it. 

Peter’s gaze darts down. 

You lift your chin. Spider-Man, you think, watching as Peter’s brows knit like he’s in pain and his pupils turn to dimes, sunshot brown melding dark, this better work. 

Peter inches his face down until your noses are touching, your eyelashes forced shut in a flutter at his proximity. 

He lingers there, in the quiet, breathing the air your exhale and holding his tongue as he raises his hand to cup your cheek tenderly. His fingers slip beneath your ear and his thumb drags over your cheek, distending your lips, and his lips brush against yours so softly you aren’t sure if he really has kissed you, or if you want it bad enough to conjure the sensation. But then he presses in for a proper kiss, and the quiet in the room gets replaced by the pounding of your heart in your own ears. 

He tips your head a little and kisses upward, parting his lips to encourage you to let him in. You suck in a breath as he wades in for a real kiss, the heat of tongue and the soft plush give of his lips on yours. He encourages your head back quick, your eyes squinting ever so slightly, but he’s only moving you to wade in for the same kissing at a new angle. His nose tip scrunches into yours. 

Your thoughts are electric. Your hand vies for a place to anchor, grasping tightly at his shirt, screwing the fabric over his chest into a ball. 

“Holy crap,” he says, pulling back a touch. 

His eyes are shining. His mouth is damp with spit, but you aren’t certain if it’s yours or his.

“I can’t believe I had the willpower to wait this long for that,” he says, running his thumb over your bottom lip. “Shit, you're just as perfect as I thought.”

You laugh in a tangle. “What?” you ask breathlessly. 

“I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long. Wow, you taste like toffee.”

“I’m sorry–”

Peter gets his thumb under your chin to tip your face up. “For what? For being perfect?” 

“For tasting like popcorn.”

“That is the least of my worries.” He does a one-eyed squint at you, stroking your chin and cheek with his thumb, a caress that makes your stomach ache as much as the kisses had. “Sorry it took me so long to kiss you. You’re a hard girl to read.”

“I know,” you mumble. 

He kisses your cheek and ducks his face into the side of your head, gathering you in for a hug that’s strong but careful, too, your thigh curving into his lap. He doesn’t seem to notice the way he’s dragging you onto him as he breathes in your hair. 

“Pete?”

“Yeah?” 

You struggle out of his arms. “Can you kiss me again?” you ask. 

“Yes. Yeah. Oh my god, absolutely.”

Your laugh as he bends your backwards into the mountain of throw cushions is ecstatic. Then smushed, quickly, but it’s fine. The kiss is worth getting cut off. 

—

(One month later.) 

“I was going to tell you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Seriously, I was! But I didn’t want you to be embarrassed."

“Right.”

“And I didn’t want you to be mad.”

You stare at Spider-Man in your boyfriend’s bedroom, unmasked, Peter Parker with hair like a dandelion and eyes so sorry he’s almost winning you over, the mask clasped in hand. 

“You knew who I was talking about,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest, “and you still made me give you a signal? Do you know how hard that was for me?”

“You can do hard things!”

“Peter.”

“I wanted to be sure. I have a huge crush on you, you know that? It was just as scary for me as it was for you.”

You sniff indignantly. Spider-Man drags himself from his window to take your hands, pouting like a loser for your forgiveness. 

“Can you please forgive me?” he asks. “Don’t you think it would’ve given my secret away if I turned up at your door and planted one on you? You do not understand the strength it took to wait.”

“Peter, it wasn’t even twenty four hours.”

“You’re really pretty,” he mumbles. 

You forgive him already, not that he needs to know that. You have more important questions to ask. 

“So, what’s with the webs?”

“D’you like ‘em?”

“I didn’t say that.”

He whines. 

You plant a little kiss on his jaw and make for the bed you’d been planning on napping in before his impromptu return through the open window. “Come hold me while I nap,” you say, moving back his sheets, “please. And maybe I’ll think about forgiving you.” You’re too tired to think about this in depth. 

Peter throws himself into the mattress. You crawl into his arms. 

“You kinda smell like street,” you mumble, nuzzling his neck, a hint of forgiveness to settle his bad nerves. 

His head falls back as he lets out a relieved sigh. “You smell perfect,” he says. 

“Holy–”

“Fuck!” you say, throwing yourself backward with a shout. You bring your hand to your chest, pressing your heart back behind your ribs as the blur of colour comes to a stop on the edge of the roof. 

“Sorry!” Spider-Man says. “Jesus, you didn’t see me? I’m kind of, you know, brightly coloured?”

“You came out of nowhere! You’re going sixty miles an hour!”

Spider-Man rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “I got places to be. Well, most of the time.”

You feel your heart jumping under your palm. Spider-Man shifts, his head tilting down as though he’s squinting at you assessingly. 

“Hey, are you okay? I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You swallow your nerves. “Yeah. Yes, I’m fine. You scared me, s’all. Sorry for cussing. And yelling.”

He giggles brightly, plonking down on a creaky lawn chair, unperturbed by its green moss. “Yeah, you should be sorry, potty-mouth. Kiss your ma with that mouth?”

You laugh without thinking. “Sometimes.”

Spider-Man lays back in the chair and folds his arms over his stomach. It strikes you that you wouldn’t know if his eyes were open or closed, he looks relaxed, like he could doze. He looks tired, actually. He gives a long sigh and sits up some. Eyes open, decidedly. 

“What are you doing up here?” he asks. 

“Oh, I’m reading.”

“Reading what?” 

You refuse to tell him that it’s a silky sweet romance with a besotted leading man and a beautiful girl, but struggle to think of a lie. The silence lingers until it’s awkward.

Finally, Spider-Man waves a hand at you, his voice genial as he says, “Keep your secrets.”

“Are you okay?” you ask. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

It might be more apt to ask him what it is that he’s doing up here. Surely Spider-Man has more important things to get too than sitting in a rinky-dink chair waiting to snap beneath any weight at all on your dreary rooftop in the cold weather. And more that he doesn’t know you, hasn’t ever spoken to you, no matter how many times you’ve seen him around the city. 

“You look tired,” you say softly. 

“I’m okay. But, hey, thanks for asking.”

“Sure.”

Awkward silence lingers again. Your blatant confusion as to his presence becomes obvious, and Spider-Man looks away, rubbing at his neck again with that same nervous hand. 

“You looked lonely,” he says. “I guess I wondered if you wanted company, or– or a shoulder to cry on, or something. Anything.”

“Is that something you do often?” 

“What good is looking after the neighbourhood if everybody in it goes home sad?” Spider-Man shrugs. “You don’t have to tell me anything, I’ll only sit here if that’s cool.” 

“Don’t let me stop you.”

You’re thinking about Peter again. It’s ridiculous, there’s a superhero on your roof and you’re thinking about Pete, but you can’t help it. Spider-Man reminds you of him, his height and build, even his voice, though Spider-Man is all bravado and gruffness where Peter’s a tiny bit shy. It’s what made becoming his friend possible—he’s shy and you’re worse, you’re immovable, you struggle to talk half the time. If Spider-Man hadn’t scared the fuck out of you scaling up the building, you wouldn’t have been able to open your mouth. 

“I have a friend,” you say, buckling under the pressure of the quiet. “And I like him. And I don’t know what to do, so. That’s why I’m all messed up.”

“You don’t look messed up,” he says, bringing a hand to his chin to hold like he’s pondering something deeply. “You like someone? That’s a good thing.”

“I don’t think he likes me back.”

“That sucks, but– okay, sorry if this is weird, but you’re beautiful.” Spider-Man straightens in his chair. “Like, you’re really beautiful. And your voice is so nice, I’ve barely heard it and I already know it’s addictive.”

You laugh again without meaning to, a sputter of sound. 

“You’re really pretty. If he doesn’t like you back, I’m sure you can find somebody else.”

“Thank you, Spider-Man, but I don’t want anybody else,” you say softly. “He’s really perfect. Have you ever–” You clear your throat, picking at a scagged thread on your pajama bottoms and avoiding his gaze. “It’s stupid.”

“I bet it’s not.”

Nobody’s ever called you beautiful before. Nobody’s ever… 

Peter makes you feel beautiful. Tips your chin up with his pinky finger to get your eyes, takes a good look at you when he’s seeing you for the first time in a while, but he never says anything about it. He smiles and he's sweet, but he doesn’t call you beautiful. 

“He makes me feel like the only person in the world,” you confess. “He’s not perfect, like I said. He lashes out, and he forgets all the time, he’s late constantly, but he always says sorry, and you know he really means it? He’s the most genuine person. And he’s–” pretty, you want to say, but you look sideways at Spider-Man and can’t bring yourself to say it. “I want more of him than he wants to give me, is all, but I don’t mind. I like being his friend.”

“You want more,” he says, as though turning the words over in his mouth. 

“That’s the hard part.”

“That’s a nice love story.” He exhales slowly. “Lucky guy.”

“It’s not a love story,” you say, trying for happy acceptance and sounding weak. 

“It could be. Have you told him how you feel? I don’t see how a guy could hear all that from a girl like you and not at least try to make it work?”

You bring your knee up and rest your nose on the fabric there. “I don’t usually talk to people like this. I find it really hard.”

“Oh, so I’m special?”

“You’re an exception.”

“You don’t talk to this guy?”

You press your face fully to your knee, thighs aching. 

“Peter doesn’t answer the phone,” you mumble, hoping Spider-Man won’t hear you. “Can’t talk to him about anything. And what would I even say? I know we’ve been friends for years and all but I like you now, and I’m prepared to make things awkward between us forever?” You whine quietly. “Everything’s so hard.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

Spider-Man sounds flustered. Sounds like he took a long plunge from a tall skyscraper. You look up, perplexed, and he’s facing you completely still. It’s like he’s been turned to stone. 

“You–” He swallows. “This Peter guy, you really like him?”

“I’ve had a crush on him since forever! And he never notices me, ever!” You scrub at your face. “I know it’s stupid and childish and high school, I know I should tell him how I feel even if there’s not the slightest chance that he’d ever want me back–”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

You squint at him. “You don’t know Peter.”

He laughs, still sounding all flustered and weak. “Okay.”

“Sorry. I guess I’m being really corny, huh?” 

“No.” His voice is higher, too, almost like he’s holding his breath. “It’s not corny, it’s nice.”

“He’s really pretty,” you say, lamenting your sad lonely life without him. And now you’ve made a mess all over Spider-Man’s generous listening. If there was a chance he’d come to see you again, you have surely ruined it. 

Spider-Man squeaks. 

You stare at him. He’s pulling at the edge of his mask, fanning himself, giving you rare glimpses of his pale skin. 

“Are you okay?” you ask.

“I’m sorry, I’m– super warm.”

“Oh. Is the suit hot?”

“It can be, yeah.”

“I guess I don’t know how to move on,” you say, breaking your gaze to stare at the gravelly rooftop instead. “He’s a great friend, and I didn't always want it so badly. I don’t know why… why it got so much worse lately. I see him and I wish he’d grab me and– and kiss me–” You bite your tongue. “Sorry, Spider-Man. That’s too much information."

“Kiss you how?” he asks. 

You jolt a little. “Uh, you know. Just kiss me. A real kiss. He’s kind of affectionate, like, sometimes he tries to hold my hand before we cross the street, and one time he did kiss my cheek, but it was, like, a bit. I want a real kiss.” 

“Huh.”

“It’s lame.”

“Love is kinda lame. Corny and cheesy,” Spider-Man sounds oddly pleased. “But maybe he’s got all these lame feelings too, and didn’t want to push you. You seem kinda shy. Maybe he’s worried he’s not reading things right. If you’re the kind of girl who’s easily flustered, how can he know if it’s because of him or not?” 

“But what do I do?”

“I don’t know.”

You laugh. “Thanks.”

“I’m sorry, but whatever you do, if he gets the signal, he’ll reciprocate.”

“How do you know?”

“Girl as pretty as you?” Spider-Man’s voice goes soft as butter. “He’d be an idiot not to.”

—

By the time you’d made it back inside that night, Peter had replied to your message. 

In fact, Peter had spammed you. Answered everything you said with detail and then launched into an apology for not responding, cos he had a bunch of stuff to do and Aunt May had the car and his phone died on the subway home, yada yada. 

He then asked you out. 

Alright, he didn’t. He asked if you wanted to come over and watch a movie the next day, which is pretty standard Peter friendship activity, but has you smiling like a loser at your phone. 

Yes, you’d texted him, would love to, I’ll bring dinner?

Do not!!!! I will order in for us when you get here :D 

You’re standing in your nicest skirt, a pretty pink thing that ends at the knees and, and your newest converse, which aren’t all that new. Your cardigan is charcoal wool and buttoned all the way up to fight the sudden chill. It’s later than you realised; you spent an hour panic-changing your clothes and lamenting your response Spider-Man’s advice. You have to give Peter a signal, right? 

You are dressed very cute for a movie at his place, and you smell delicious. You’re gonna give him a wide-eyed flirty stare and who knows, maybe he’ll finally get the message. 

Or he’ll wonder why you’re so overdressed. 

The door finally opens, and Peter’s already smiling. His cheeks are red like spring cherries with a flush that crawls down his neck and probably stains his broad chest, too, his hair in order for once, his usual hoodie and jacket traded in for a plain white t-shirt that’s a little tight. Shows the indents of his chest, the lines of firm muscle there. 

“Hey, beautiful,” he says. 

You want him to call you beautiful forever. “Don’t,” you say instead. He should know better. You fluster at anything. 

Peter stands aside to let you in. You’ve been to the Parker house a ton of times, but it’s noticeably clean, and dimly lit. There are a couple of candles lit in the living room and a bowl of popcorn stands on the coffee table, filling the room with the smells of toffee and butter. 

“Was it cold?” he asks. 

You nod hurriedly. “So cold. I thought it was supposed to be summer.”

“We’re not that lucky. Make yourself comfy, okay? I gotta grab your drink.”

You unlace your shoes and leave them by the doorway, padding into the living room in your socks. The couch is fitted with enough throw pillows to turn a three-seater into a two-seater. You’re forced to plop yourself somewhat in the middle, but you’re too tempted by the popcorn to worry. You sneak a piece while Peter’s gone, humming as the sweetness breaks out across your tongue. 

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” he calls. 

“For what?”

“For not answering you!” His voice echoes nearer, and he grimaces his way through the hall into the living room, two glasses of your favourite in his hands. “I’m awful. I’m an idiot, and I never check my phone. I’m sorry.”

“Peter, it’s fine.”

“You sure?”

Your eyes widen of their own accord as he sits down next to you, thigh to thigh, so close you can see the little bits of amber that swim in his irises, all that brown fragmented by shards of sunlight.

“I–” You nod oddly. “Am sure. Of course. I don’t expect you to drop everything–”

“I know you don’t, but still. I have my phone with me. I can answer you more, and you’re important to me. I get distracted.”

“Did you get all your errands done?” 

“Sure.” He hands you your glass and puts his own on the coffee table. “Thanks. You’re an angel.”

“You’re not so bad,” you say. 

You relax. Peter lets you choose the movie, and you feel warm sitting there pointing his remote at the TV, flicking unsurely through everything, but he’s Peter. You put on Cado Lake and hand him the remote, sure he’ll enjoy a sc-fi flick, and are instantly gratified when the movie hooks his attention. Not too much, though. He’s clear of mind enough to put the popcorn bowl in your lap and nip you with little questions. Who’s that again? Hey, she looks like May. Wow, you smell good, what is that? 

You’re about an hour into the movie when Peter’s hand sews itself behind your back. 

It’s warm, and big. His fingertips skate over the mall of your back until he’s found your side, where it curls, and he pulls you gently toward him. Your head drops into the space between his shoulder and head, the TV a colourful blur in front of you, your hand paused dead in the nearly empty popcorn like you’ve been frozen. 

“Okay?” he murmurs. 

“Yeah,” you say. You’re fine. 

He’s warm. He’s solid beside you. 

“You’re letting me eat all the popcorn…”

His laugh is a huff against your head. “I’ll make some more.”

“No.” You rest your cheek on his arm. Bliss flits through your entire body like a wave. “It’s okay. I won’t eat your share.”

“You do what you want,” he says, and you wonder if he’s relaxing beneath you, too, heat of his body seeping through his clothes and into your skin as his fingers rub gently into your side. “Get you a sack of popcorn, if you want me to.”

“This is nice.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. This is good.”

You struggle to pay attention to the movie for the next few minutes, wondering if this is really what you think. It’s not exactly friendship-level affection to wrap your arm around someone, is it? But Peter’s so lovely, it could be nothing. Why would it mean anything? What could Peter want with you? Of course you have a crush on him, he’s gorgeous, but Peter has no such motivations about you. Does he? 

He’s quiet for a while. You think the movie might’ve really snagged him, but then he turns to you with a shy smile that brightens exponentially when you sneak a glance at him and end up smiling back. 

He doesn’t look away. 

It gets so hot you wish you could peel out of your cardigan, but you don’t wanna move and displace the moment. 

“You’re missing the movie,” you whisper. 

“I’ve missed so much of it,” he says. 

“What?”

“Look.” He swallows. “Look, I don’t know if I’m– maybe I’m way off base here, and all, but,” —his hand climbs your side, folding over your, pulling you even closer— “maybe I’m not? I don’t know.”

“Off base about what?”

“You know.”

“Do I?” you ask. You can hardly speak above a breath, but Peter hears it. 

Peter’s gaze darts down. 

You lift your chin. Spider-Man, you think, watching as Peter’s brows knit like he’s in pain and his pupils turn to dimes, sunshot brown melding dark, this better work. 

Peter inches his face down until your noses are touching, your eyelashes forced shut in a flutter at his proximity. 

He lingers there, in the quiet, breathing the air your exhale and holding his tongue as he raises his hand to cup your cheek tenderly. His fingers slip beneath your ear and his thumb drags over your cheek, distending your lips, and his lips brush against yours so softly you aren’t sure if he really has kissed you, or if you want it bad enough to conjure the sensation. But then he presses in for a proper kiss, and the quiet in the room gets replaced by the pounding of your heart in your own ears. 

He tips your head a little and kisses upward, parting his lips to encourage you to let him in. You suck in a breath as he wades in for a real kiss, the heat of tongue and the soft plush give of his lips on yours. He encourages your head back quick, your eyes squinting ever so slightly, but he’s only moving you to wade in for the same kissing at a new angle. His nose tip scrunches into yours. 

Your thoughts are electric. Your hand vies for a place to anchor, grasping tightly at his shirt, screwing the fabric over his chest into a ball. 

“Holy crap,” he says, pulling back a touch. 

His eyes are shining. His mouth is damp with spit, but you aren’t certain if it’s yours or his.

“I can’t believe I had the willpower to wait this long for that,” he says, running his thumb over your bottom lip. “Shit, you're just as perfect as I thought.”

You laugh in a tangle. “What?” you ask breathlessly. 

“I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long. Wow, you taste like toffee.”

“I’m sorry–”

Peter gets his thumb under your chin to tip your face up. “For what? For being perfect?” 

“For tasting like popcorn.”

“That is the least of my worries.” He does a one-eyed squint at you, stroking your chin and cheek with his thumb, a caress that makes your stomach ache as much as the kisses had. “Sorry it took me so long to kiss you. You’re a hard girl to read.”

“I know,” you mumble. 

He kisses your cheek and ducks his face into the side of your head, gathering you in for a hug that’s strong but careful, too, your thigh curving into his lap. He doesn’t seem to notice the way he’s dragging you onto him as he breathes in your hair. 

“Pete?”

“Yeah?” 

You struggle out of his arms. “Can you kiss me again?” you ask. 

“Yes. Yeah. Oh my god, absolutely.”

Your laugh as he bends your backwards into the mountain of throw cushions is ecstatic. Then smushed, quickly, but it’s fine. The kiss is worth getting cut off. 

—

(One month later.) 

“I was going to tell you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Seriously, I was! But I didn’t want you to be embarrassed."

“Right.”

“And I didn’t want you to be mad.”

You stare at Spider-Man in your boyfriend’s bedroom, unmasked, Peter Parker with hair like a dandelion and eyes so sorry he’s almost winning you over, the mask clasped in hand. 

“You knew who I was talking about,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest, “and you still made me give you a signal? Do you know how hard that was for me?”

“You can do hard things!”

“Peter.”

“I wanted to be sure. I have a huge crush on you, you know that? It was just as scary for me as it was for you.”

You sniff indignantly. Spider-Man drags himself from his window to take your hands, pouting like a loser for your forgiveness. 

“Can you please forgive me?” he asks. “Don’t you think it would’ve given my secret away if I turned up at your door and planted one on you? You do not understand the strength it took to wait.”

“Peter, it wasn’t even twenty four hours.”

“You’re really pretty,” he mumbles. 

You forgive him already, not that he needs to know that. You have more important questions to ask. 

“So, what’s with the webs?”

“D’you like ‘em?”

“I didn’t say that.”

He whines. 

You plant a little kiss on his jaw and make for the bed you’d been planning on napping in before his impromptu return through the open window. “Come hold me while I nap,” you say, moving back his sheets, “please. And maybe I’ll think about forgiving you.” You’re too tired to think about this in depth. 

Peter throws himself into the mattress. You crawl into his arms. 

“You kinda smell like street,” you mumble, nuzzling his neck, a hint of forgiveness to settle his bad nerves. 

His head falls back as he lets out a relieved sigh. “You smell perfect,” he says. 

⋆⊱༻𖥸༺⊰⋆

The first time he hears it, he’s in the back of Family Video, restocking the shelves. The chime of the front door as a new customer steps in seems to echo across the room, but he brushes it off as a boredom-induced hallucination. Except, as he goes back to work, he keeps hearing it. It’s light and airy, like wind chimes that tinkle from a distance. His heart drops a little, wondering if that ringing in his ears is coming back again. And little by little, the sound gets closer. 

“Excuse me?” He jumps at the voice, turning around to see you. And suddenly it clicks. 

Your arms are lined with bangles of every color and size — some big, some small, some shiny and some with gemstones. “That sound was you?” He blurts out, relieved that it’s not his mind playing tricks again, but also forgetting he’s meant to be serving a customer. 

Your face breaks out into an awkward smile. “Uh...” “Sorry, that came off ruder than I meant it to.” He blubbers, a little shy and no idea why. “I…I think I like it.” 

You chuckle again. “Um, thank you?” 

“Sorry.” He repeats, feeling the blush creep up his neck. The cramped aisle doesn’t leave too much space between you, and he’s noticing your pretty eyes, and the curve of your nose and-

“I was wondering if you were hiring by any chance?” 

Steve pounces on the opportunity shamelessly. “Yes! Absolutely we are!” Keith’s going to kick his ass for that, but he can deal with it later. Especially when he sees a genuine smile break out on your face. 

“Awesome, well…” You turn to your bag, digging through it to fish out what he assumes to be your resume. The entire time, he hears the jingle of your bangles hitting against one another especially when you excitedly pull it out and hand it over to him. The light brush of your fingers as the paper exchanges hands makes his blush grow tenfold. “Hopefully I’ll see you around…” You glance at his badge. “Steve.” And as you turn on your heel and exit the store, Steve isn’t sure what sounds better — your jewellery or his name coming out of your mouth. 

⋆⊱༻𖥸༺⊰⋆

The answer is that it’s the sound of your jewellery. 

That’s what he determines once you start working at Family Video. When the doors open at the start of an egregiously early morning shift, and you wave at him with the most heavenly sound in the world, he thinks he can deal with the next few hours. No matter what he’s doing, or where in the store he is, he can hear the airy chimes of your hands as you float around the store, serving customers at the counter, laughing at Steve’s jokes in the break room .

He starts noticing — the ones you wear everyday (which you tell him are your grandmother’s) and how you always match the others to your outfits. He loves how such a small thing lets yourself be loud and unapologetically you.

Especially, when you’re angry. Maybe that’s an awful thing to say, but when you’re angry, that’s when you talk with your hands. He watches the flurry of colors flying this way and that as you rant about how Keith’s got you on a new schedule that you hate. He’s like a cat with a lazer pointer, following the dancing light. That ringing sound used to be his worst nightmare. But you, singlehandedly made it his dream. 

“Steve.” You snap your fingers in front of his face. “Are you even listening to me?” You laugh.

“Hm?” He blinks himself out of his trance. “Yeah, totally.”

 Your eyes drop away from his when you whisper. “I thought you’d be more upset.” 

“Upset?” He furrows his brows.

“We’re barely going to have shifts together anymore.” 

Steve’s heart sinks at the thought. 

But maybe, there’s a solution. Something he’s been putting off for far too long. “You think I only wanna see you at work?" He shakes his head. "We can hang out. Say...this Friday? Dinner?” He bites his tongue.

You straighten, a smile growing on your face. “Yeah, that’d be amazing.” 

And now, even if he doesn’t hear those bangles around the store, the beautiful sound fills his house. His heart still when he hears it, knowing his girl is there. 

Because soon enough, that’s exactly what you become. Well, he calls you his girl, but if he’s honest, he belongs to you — completely and totally. 

When he hears that familiar jingle, he’s basically running to it like the world is going to end. It never does. You just greet him, with a sweet smile and soft peck to his lips. And then he slips his hand in yours, and the twinkling sound becomes both of yours. His own little slice of heaven.

⋆⊱༻𖥸༺⊰⋆

"Hi," you breathed back.

The lamp on his nightstand cast everything in low gold light. His hands were warm where they slid under the hem of your shirt, careful, like he was memorizing the shape of you even though he'd done this a hundred times before. You helped him get your shirt over your head, and he paused for a second just to look at you, the way he always did, like he still couldn't quite believe you were there.

"You okay?" he asked, voice low.

"More than okay." You pulled him back down by the collar of his own shirt, and he laughed against your lips, easy and warm.

Clothes came off slowly, unhurried, punctuated by soft laughter when his elbow caught the lamp and nearly sent it toppling, by the way he apologized into your skin like it mattered, by the little noises you couldn't help when his mouth found your throat. Everything about it felt safe. Familiar in the best way. Like coming home.

When he finally settled over you, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes found yours in the dim light and held there. There was something almost reverent in the way he looked at you, like you were something he still hadn't gotten used to having.

"You good?" he whispered.

"Yeah," you said, and you meant it, the word coming out breathless. "Steve-"

He moved slow at first, like always, watching your face for every shift, every catch of breath, adjusting like he had some kind of internal compass permanently tuned to you. Your hands found his shoulders, his back, the dip of his spine, and he groaned low against your ear, murmuring your name like it was something precious.

It built the way it always did between you two, unhurried and then suddenly not, his breath ragged against your neck, your fingers curling into his hair, the two of you finding some rhythm that felt less like choreography and more like conversation, like you were saying things to each other that didn't need words.

Except then you did use words. It slipped out before you'd even fully processed the thought forming, carried on a breath, soft and unguarded in a way that stripped away any filter you might've had.

"I love you."

You felt him go still.

Not still like he was savoring it. Still like something had short-circuited. His whole body seemed to lock up above you, his breath catching in his throat and staying there, his hips stopping mid-motion. For a second you thought maybe you'd imagined it, but no, his eyes had gone distant, fixed on some point just past your shoulder, like he was looking through you instead of at you.

"Steve?"

He didn't answer right away. His jaw was tight, his eyes doing that thing where they were open but not really seeing what was in front of him. You reached up, touched his cheek, and he blinked like you'd startled him out of somewhere far away.

"Hey," you said quietly. "Where'd you go?"

"Sorry- sorry, I'm-" He pulled back, sitting up slightly, putting a few inches of space between your bodies that felt like a canyon. His chest was still rising and falling too fast, but not from anything good anymore. "I'm here. Sorry."

You sat up too, pulling the sheet up around yourself, some instinct telling you the mood had shifted into something you didn't have the shape of yet. "Steve, what's going on?"

"Nothing, I just-" He raked a hand through his hair, and you watched him try to find his footing, watched him come up short. "I got in my head for a sec. It's fine."

It very clearly wasn't fine. You could see it in the way his eyes kept sliding away from yours, in the tightness around his mouth, in how his hands had gone still in his lap instead of reaching for you the way they usually did.

Somewhere in your chest, something sank. He hadn't said it back.

You'd said the truest thing you knew how to say, in the middle of the most unguarded moment two people can share, and he'd gone quiet and far away instead. Whatever ease had filled the room ten minutes ago had drained out of it completely, replaced by something awkward and cold, and neither of you seemed to know what to do with it now that it was there.

"We don't have to, I mean, we can stop," you said, hating how small your voice had gotten. "If you want."

"Yeah," Steve said, too fast, and something in you flinched at how quickly he agreed. "Yeah, maybe that's- let's just. Let's go to bed."

So that's what you did. You dressed again in silence, the kind of silence that felt loud, and slid under the covers a careful few inches apart from each other instead of tangled together the way you usually fell asleep. He turned off the lamp. The rain was still going outside, softer now, and it should have been peaceful, but it just underscored how much space had opened up between you in the dark.

You lay there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, replaying it. The way he'd frozen. The way his eyes had gone somewhere you couldn't follow. You thought about the words again, I love you, turning them over, wondering if you'd misjudged something, wondered too soon, wanted too much.

"I'm sorry," you finally whispered into the dark.

You felt him shift beside you. "For what?"

"I don't know. For, however I made you feel back there. I didn't mean to make things weird." Your throat felt tight. "I just felt it, and it came out. I wasn't trying to put you on the spot."

"You didn't do anything wrong." His voice was quiet, careful, like he was picking each word up and checking it before he set it down. "It's not you."

"It kind of feels like it's me," you admitted.

"It's not." He said it firmly this time, but he still didn't reach for you, didn't pull you against his chest the way he usually did when you were upset. He just lay there, close but not touching, and you felt the absence of his arms around you like a physical thing.

"Okay," you said, because you didn't know what else to say, and because pushing felt like it would only make whatever this was worse.

Neither of you said anything else. Eventually his breathing evened out into something that might have been real sleep or might have been a good impression of it, and you lay awake a long time before you finally drifted off too, the space between your bodies feeling wider than it had any right to.

Steve didn't sleep. Not really.

He lay there long after your breathing had slowed, staring at the same crack in the ceiling he'd been staring at for two years, and let himself finally feel the thing he'd been holding at arm's length since the second those three words left your mouth.

I love you.

He hadn't heard those words directed at him, meant, not performed for anyone else's benefit, genuinely meant, since Nancy said them to him in his kitchen a lifetime ago, right before everything with them had come apart at the seams. He'd loved her so hard and so completely that when it ended, it hadn't just hurt, it had rearranged something fundamental in him. He remembered exactly what it felt like to hand someone everything he had and watch them decide it wasn't enough. He remembered the specific quality of silence in his house afterward. He remembered thinking he wasn't built for this, for being loved back the way he needed to be, for being someone's whole answer instead of someone's almost.

He'd told himself he was over it. Mostly, he was. He didn't lie awake missing Nancy anymore, didn't compare you to her, didn't feel the phantom ache of her absence the way he used to. That part of it, he'd genuinely healed from.

But apparently some doors didn't close all the way. Apparently there was still a version of him, nineteen years old, freshly gutted, standing in a kitchen that used to feel like his future, who came roaring back the second someone he loved said those words to him in a moment that mattered. His body had just locked up before his brain could catch up, some old alarm going off that had nothing to do with you and everything to do with a version of him that hadn't trusted this feeling in a long time.

And now you were lying next to him thinking you'd done something wrong.

He wanted to fix it. He wanted to turn over and pull you against his chest and tell you the truth, that he loved you too, that he'd probably loved you for months, that what happened had nothing to do with you and everything to do with a scar he thought had healed better than it had. But every time he opened his mouth in his head to rehearse it, his throat closed up the same way it had earlier, and he was left just lying there, wide awake, saying nothing.

He told himself he'd say it in the morning. That felt easier, somehow. Everything felt easier in daylight.

But morning came and he still couldn't find the words, and instead of reaching for you the way he usually did, instead of pulling you close over coffee or pressing a kiss to your temple on his way out the door, he found himself keeping a careful, cowardly distance. Not because he didn't want you. Because he didn't trust himself yet to open his mouth without either saying too little or completely falling apart.

He hated himself a little for it. But he did it anyway.

The distance didn't go away over the next two days. If anything, it settled in deeper, quiet and persistent, the kind of thing that didn't announce itself so much as accumulate.

Steve wasn't cold to you, exactly, he still called the house phone most evenings, still asked how your day was, still showed up when he said he would. But something had gone careful in the way he held himself around you. He didn't linger in doorways to steal one more kiss before leaving. He didn't reach for your hand without thinking about it first. When you sat next to him on the couch the second night, he didn't automatically pull you into his side the way he usually did, and you noticed, God, you noticed everything now, hyperaware in the way you only get when you're afraid you've broken something you can't see the size of yet.

You replayed the moment on a loop. The way he'd frozen. The look on his face, somewhere between panic and grief, like you'd said something that hurt him instead of something that was supposed to feel good. You started to build a story around it without meaning to, that you'd moved too fast, felt too much too soon, put a weight on him he wasn't ready to carry. That maybe what he felt for you didn't match what you felt for him, and you'd just embarrassed yourself by saying it out loud in the middle of sex like some kind of confession he hadn't asked for.

By the second evening, the ache of not knowing had turned into something closer to certainty, and certainty made you brave in a sad kind of way.

You found him in the Harringtons' kitchen, leaning against the counter with a glass of water he wasn't really drinking, the fridge humming behind him, staring at nothing in particular. He looked up when you came in, and something crossed his face, guilt, maybe, or something adjacent to it.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey." You wrapped your arms around yourself, even though the kitchen wasn't cold. "Can we talk?"

Something flickered in his expression, but he nodded, setting the glass down. "Yeah. Of course."

You took a breath, and the words came out in a rush before you could second-guess them into something gentler. "I think I crossed a line the other night. Saying that, in the middle of, I mean, that's not really fair, is it? To just drop something like that on you when you can't exactly process it or respond how you'd want to." Your voice wavered, and you pushed through it anyway. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you feel cornered into anything. If you're not there yet, that's okay, I just- I don't want this to be weird between us. I'd rather take it back than lose you being weird about it forever."

"Take it back?" Something sharpened in his voice, an edge you didn't often hear from him.

"I don't mean I didn't mean it," you said quickly. "I just mean- I don't want you to feel like you have to say it back before you're ready, or like I'm keeping score, or-"

"Stop." He said it quietly, but it landed like a full stop anyway. He scrubbed a hand down his face, and when he looked at you again, something in his expression had cracked open, something he'd clearly been holding together for two days finally giving way. "God, you think this is about you crossing some line?"

"Isn't it?"

"No." He said it so firmly it surprised you. He came around the counter, closing some of the distance that had been sitting between you for two days, though he stopped short of actually reaching for you, like he wasn't sure yet if he'd earned that. "It's not about you at all. I've been an idiot about this, I just, I didn't know how to explain it without it sounding..." He trailed off, jaw working like he was trying to physically push the words out. "It's not that I don't feel the same. That's not what happened."

"Then what did happen, Steve? Because you froze up and then barely touched me for two days, so forgive me for filling in some blanks."

He flinched, but he didn't look away. "Nancy," he said finally, quiet, like the name cost him something to say. "The last time- the last time I really meant it, with someone, the last time I let myself go all in like that, it ended, and it ended bad. And I know that's not- I know you're not her, I know this isn't that, but when you said it, some part of my brain just went straight back to standing in my kitchen while she-" He stopped himself, breathing out hard through his nose. "It wasn't a rational thing. It was just old, and it was loud, and it happened before I could stop it."

Something in your chest loosened, just slightly, understanding starting to bleed into the hurt. "Why didn't you just tell me that?"

"Because saying it out loud makes it real, and because I felt like garbage that my brain did that to you when all you did was tell me something good." He rubbed the back of his neck, and for the first time in two days, he looked like himself again instead of someone performing an okay version of himself. "You told me you loved me and I acted like you'd said something that scared me, and that's- that's not what I wanted you to walk away thinking. I've just been trying to figure out how to fix it without making it worse."

"So fix it," you said, and it came out softer than you meant it to, more plea than challenge.

He finally closed the last of the distance between you, hands coming up to frame your face the way they used to before all of this, forehead dropping to rest against yours. He was quiet for a second, like he wanted to make sure the words came out exactly right this time.

"I love you," he said, low and unsteady, like it had been sitting in his chest for two days waiting for permission. "I love you so much, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry I let two-year-old baggage make you think for one second that I didn't. You didn't do anything wrong. You said something brave and I fumbled it, and I've hated myself for it every second since."

Your eyes stung, relief crashing into you all at once. "You could've just told me you were freaking out. I would've understood."

"I know. I know that now." He huffed a small, self-deprecating laugh, thumb brushing along your cheekbone. "I panicked twice, basically. Once when you said it, and then again trying to figure out how to explain the first panic without sounding like a complete disaster."

"You are a bit of a disaster," you said, but you were smiling now, something easing loose in your chest for the first time in two days.

"Yeah, well." He pressed his lips to your forehead, lingering there in a way that felt like an apology and a promise both. "I'm your disaster. If you'll still have me."

"I already told you I loved you, Steve. I think that ship's sailed."

He laughed, actually laughed, the sound rough with something like relief, and pulled you into him properly for the first time in two days, arms wrapping all the way around you, chin dropping to rest on top of your head, like he was trying to make up for forty-eight hours of distance in one long overdue hold. You let yourself sink into it, into him, feeling the tightness that had lived in your chest since that night finally start to unwind.

"For what it's worth," he murmured into your hair, "I've loved you for a while. Longer than I probably should've kept it to myself."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." His arms tightened slightly. "Wasn't planning on you finding out like that, though. Figured I'd do something less humiliating. Flowers, maybe. Not going catatonic mid-"

"Okay, we don't need to relive it," you said, laughing despite yourself, and felt him smile against your hair.

"Fair," he said. "I love you. That's the part that matters."

"I love you too," you said again, easier this time, no hesitation in it at all, and this time, when the words settled between you, nothing froze. Nothing went quiet or far away. He just held you tighter, like he was finally letting himself believe he got to keep this.

Outside, it had started raining again, soft against the windows, the same steady sound from two nights before. But this time it didn't feel like the backdrop to something breaking. It just felt like home, finally settling back into place.

Hah, he thinks, the shock of having eaten something too hot, too suddenly. This is why he keeps asking you to have his babies, like, not kidding around. You’re remarkably endearing, and you make the prettiest of faces when he ducks down to get your lips under his, and he ushers you deeper into the couch to press his weight into you like a man starved. Your laugh rumbles from your chest to his, as does your happy sigh, your arm going round the back of his head to hook him against you.

“Wanna make a baby?” you mumble into his mouth. 

Steve resists the urge to flick your forehead. “Don’t start.”

“Sorry.” You laugh, and kiss him again with your lips parting and your tongue there and hot and he lets you do it for a couple of blissful seconds before he kisses your cheek twice and climbs off of you to lie down at your side instead. 

The girls’ll be back any time now with best aunt to ever do it, Robin Buckley. It won’t do either of you any good to start what you can’t finish, but he admires you all the same for it. Beautiful woman wants his babies, can you believe it? But beautiful woman has to stop teasing him. You curl into his armpit with a sorry sort of affection and wrap your arm around his stomach, hand at his side, your fingers worming under his shirt to feel his skin. 

“Do you though?” you ask. 

“Huh?”

“Want another one?” 

“Honey, I could have ten of your kids and it wouldn’t be enough.” Steve nudges at your nose with his own and kisses your mouth all wonky, lop-sided, and he’s too slovenly to move so he just kinda lets his mouth drag down the side of your face to drop into your shoulder. “But, like, did you mean soon?” Dove just turned six months. Kinda too soon for another pregnancy, but if you wanted it, Steve could help you make it work, he knows he could. “We could–”

“Yeah, I guess not soon. I’ll have another one with you. Just not, like, now. I think my organs are still in the wrong place. Gimme a year.”

“Of course,” he says, kissing the hill of your shoulder. You laugh at the scratch of his moustache stubble, he knows that’s what it is, and he resents it but can’t resent you. “We don’t have to rush. I’m 24, you know, got my whole life ahead of me.”

“You’re 24?” you ask with another laugh, this one all giggle and snort in the face of his lie. “Practically a child.”

“It’s kinda crazy, right? Me and you, we get so much more than this. We’re gonna be together until we’re in our nineties. This is a third of our life.” He grins into your neck. “Let’s just keep making kids and–”

“They can raise each other,” you finish, rolling your eyes. 

Max was sitting next to her in the back and she gave you a pointed look. “Relax, we got this. You know we have elite movie taste. But she’s right, you should totally come in with us.”

“You really want me coming in and cramping your style?” You asked them. “No one wants their lame older sister hanging around.”

“You’re not lame.” Jane told you, and she really meant it. Being her sister meant that you’d been with her through everything in the last couple of years, helping her understand her powers, supporting her when she was figuring herself out and being there to kick anyone’s ass if they ever gave her aa hard time. She thought the absolute world of you and you loved her to pieces. The two of you and Hopper were like the three musketeers.

And with Max being her best friend, you’d taken the red head under your wing as well, taking on the older sibling role. Max loved you just as much, which is why you were driving them to the video store on your day off, planning a movie night with them. Hanging out with them was your favourite thing to do, you loved them to pieces. However, right now they were both giving you looks that suggested they were not happy with you.

“What?” You asked them both.

Max groaned. “Just come with us, we can’t deal with the sad puppy dog eyes.” She informed you. You frowned.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the fact that Steve literally looks wounded whenever we go in there without you, and then we have to hear him whine about it.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re being dramatic, he doesn’t do that.”

“Last time he asked what you were up to five times.” Jane told you. Max sputtered out with laugher. Your sister was still wrapping her head around social cues, she didn’t quite understand it yet. But Max could see it clear as day, and she absolutely revelled in it. You were completely oblivious to the fact and it baffled her how that could still be. The guy had never been Mr Smooth when it came to feelings.

“Just come in with us.” She pleaded. “We like hanging out with you anyway.”

“Fine.” You conceded, never able to resist them for very long anyway. “Come on, let’s go.”

You jumped out the car and followed them inside, lingering a little as they ran straight up to the counter. Steve was standing behind it and his face brightened when he saw them, not noticing you by the door at first. “Hey, ladies. What can I do for you?”

“Hey, Harrington.” Max leaned against the counter like she owned the place, that girl was a force of nature. “We need some recommendations for movie night.”

Steve raised his eyebrows, holding his hands to his chest. “And you’re asking me? I’m honoured.”

Max gave him a pointed look. “No, we love you but we need Robin.” Jane giggled as Steve gave her an offended look.

“You’re kinda mean, you know that?” He told her.

“I like to think I’m just honest.” She responded,, giving him her best smile. He rolled his eyes.

“Hey, Steve.” You greeted as you made it up to the counter, smiling at him. And just like that, Max and Jane blurred into his peripheral vision as he turned, attention fixed solely on you. In fact, every single other person in the store may as well not have been there because the second you walked into the room, nothing else mattered to Steve. He gave you a wide smile, moving to the other side of the counter.

“Hey, you came in today?” He said. “It’s great to see you.”

“Yeah, you too.” You nodded. “These two roped me into driving them, how could I say no?”

Steve chuckled, just as Robin emerged from the back, noticing the girls waiting by the counter. She rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry, Harrington. I’ll serve.” She shook her head as she reached them, noting how Steve barely even heard them. “Honestly, he’s going to be the death of me.”

“Don’t be too hard on him, you know how down bad he is.” Max reminded her. Robin gave her a knowing smile.

“Yeah, if only he could flirt and work at the same time. I swear he short-circuits whenever she comes in here.”

Jane was watching the scene unfold, noting how Steve’s eyes were practically heart-shaped as the two of you laughed over something the others couldn’t hear. She could tell how happy you were and it warmed her heart. Turning back to her best friend, she smiled. “She’s laughing a lot, what do you think they’re talking about?”

“Hopefully Steve’s finally asking her out.” Robin said.

“Ask her out? Like on a date?” Jane asked. “Are they in love?”

Max grinned, leaning in so you couldn’t hear them. “Harrington’s been in love with your sister for months now. And she has no idea. We don’t know how, he’s so obvious about it.”

She was right. Steve was totally smitten, he had been since that night last June. The two of you were the resident babysitters of the group, both looking out for the kids during the whole Upside-Down business. When he’d tried to protect Dustin and Max from getting taken out by the Mind Flayer at the mall, he’d narrowly avoided getting killed himself. If it hadn’t been for you jumping in, remembering all the stuff your father had taught you and shooting that fucker before it could hurt him. Steve still had the scars from that night but he was still standing thanks to you.

Before the two of you had been steady friends. But seeing you jump in without even thinking to keep him safe, it had shifted something in him. He’d never had anyone do something like that for him before. He’d fallen hard and fast, and had been ever since.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Steve said as the two of you chatted. He turned to the pile of videos next to him and grabbed one, handing it to you. “I put that new horror movie aside for you. The one you were talking about last week.”

Your eyes lit up. “You remembered that?”

“Of course I did.” He smiled. “I know how excited you were to see it, I just grabbed it when it came in. No big deal.”

“You’re the best, Steve.” You flipped it over to check out the back. “I know what I’m watching tonight after those two conk out.” You glanced up at him. “Hey, you want to join us tonight?”

“Really?” Steve asked. “I don’t want to crash your girls night?”

“Don’t be silly, you’re always welcome.” You told him. “Unless you have other plans?”

“I don’t think so.” He shook his head. Of course even if he did it wouldn’t matter. If you were inviting him somewhere, his schedule just cleared straight out. You beamed.

“Then come, please. I could do with the company watching this.” You waved the video.

“You need my arm to hide behind when it gets too scary?” He teased you.

You rolled your eyes. “Please, we both know you’ll be the one who’s terrified.” The playful banter went on, and Robin watched on with her face scrunched up in disbelief.

“Unbelievable.”

As if you’d heard her, you turned in her direction and she immediately directed her attention back to the kids, pretending they hadn’t all been eavesdropping on your interaction. “Hey, Robin, you’re more than welcome as well. We’ll make it a group thing.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” She called out. Max couldn’t help but laugh at the look Steve gave her, mortally offended. He was completely hopeless. You smiled.

“Great. I’ll just check this out and meet you girls outside.” You turned back to Steve, placing a hand on his arm. He practically melted. “Thank you so much for this, Steve. Look forward to seeing you later.”

“You know, we can have the movie night at my place if you like? I have the space and you guys can crash if you like?”

“Really? That would be awesome, actually!” You exclaimed. “I can meet you there.”

He waved a hand, “Don’t be silly, I’ll come pick you up. You know I love driving you.”

Your heart skipped a little but you ignored it. “You’d do that, you don’t mind?”

“You know I’d do anything for you.” He said it like it was nothing but it was anything but. You grinned.

“Thanks, Steve. You’re a good friend.”

Steve watched you leave, deflating a little as he felt your absence seep it. It wasn’t so much that you seemed to only see him as a friend, he’d long since acknowledged that even though he was head over heels for you, it was purely platonic your end. Sure, it stung a little but what could he do? He just hated that there never seemed to be any time when he had you to himself. He loved Robin and the kids, but sometimes he just wanted to talk to you without anyone else around. He sighed,

Max, who was still observing him as Jane and Robin watched you go, felt a little pang of sympathy for the guy. Steve had always looked out for her, he was basically like the older brother she’d always wished for at this point, and despite how much she didn’t want to admit it, she thought he was cool. Definitely someone she regarded as important and she didn’t like seeing him so sad.

Robin finished up with their transaction and as they walked out, she took Jane’s arm and pulled her into a huddle. “Those two are hopeless. They need our help.”

“What are we going to do?” Jane asked, eyes lighting up.

“Don’t worry, I’ll come up with a plan.” Max told her.

**

“Harrington, what are you doing at my house again?” Hopper asked as he opened the door to find Steve standing there, looking slightly terrified. He hadn’t anticipated your father answering the door and despite the fact that they’d literally fought monsters together, being faced with the Chief of Police was still enough to have him quaking in his boots.

“Evening, sir.” Steve tipped his head respectfully. “I’m just swinging by to pick the girls up, we’re having a movie night.”

Hopper of course knew this all along, he was just screwing with the poor guy. Fixing him with a steely glare, Steve looked like a bug under a microscope. The only thing that set his nerves at ease was your airy voice floating down the stairs. “Dad, please don’t scare him off. We kind of like having him around.”

You appeared in the hallway with Jane in tow, smiling at Steve who looked like he was suddenly on another planet. You were wearing jeans and a simple lacy blouse but he was still convinced you looked fucking gorgeous. Hopper caught him staring and cleared his throat loudly. Steve broke from his trance just in time to see your father folding his arms and raising an eyebrow at him. He shuffled nervously.

“We’ll see you later, Dad.” You gave him a quick hug goodbye, Jane doing the same.

“You guys need a ride home?” He asked you both.

“That’s OK, we’re just going to crash at Steve’s.” You told him.

Hopper groaned. “You’re sleeping over at his place? Fantastic.”

“Relax, Dad. The whole group is going to be there, it’s not a big deal.” As it turned out, your small movie night with the girls had turned into an entire party thing, and half the kids were already piled into Steve’s car, much to his slight annoyance. Jane ran out the house to go and meet them whilst Steve held back, waiting for you.

“I’ll get them back safe tomorrow, sir. Promise.”

Hopper didn’t seem entirely convinced but he trusted you so relented. Steve nodded to you. “You ready to go?”

“Yeah. Wait, actually I just need to grab my jacket.”

“You can borrow mine.” Steve offered, earning himself another glare from your father. “Or not.”

“I won’t be a second.” You told him. “I’ll meet you in the car.”

Steve said goodbye to Hopper and made his way back to the Beamer, not much wanting to be interrogated any further. As he got back into the drivers seat, he turned to Dustin who had commandeered the passenger side, and jerked his thumb to the back. “Come on, Henderson. Shift it.”

“What?!” Dustin asked, outraged. “That’s not fair, I called shotgun.”

“Shotgun’s reserved.” Max and Jane said in unison, simultaneously taking on the role of Steve's wingwomen. Dustin turned to glare at them.

“For who?” He demanded.

As if on cue, you appeared and opened the passenger door. Seeing that Dustin was already there, you stepped back. “Oh, sorry Henderson. I’ll take the back.”

“No!” Steve said far too quickly. “He was just moving, weren’t you man?” When Dustin looked at him, he gave the kid a warning look, jerking his head to the backseat. Dustin sighed, taking the hint.

“Fine, I’m moving.” He sighed, “Totally unfair, though.”

“Thanks, Dustin.” You smiled as you slid into the passenger seat. Steve glanced over, fully convinced that the seat had never looked so good. You caught him staring and frowned.

“What, do I have something on my face?” You checked yourself in the mirror. Steve just chuckled to himself.

“No, you’re good. Don’t worry.”

In the backseat, Max whispered to Jane. “See, what did I tell you? Absolutely hopeless.”

**

“Jesus Christ!” Steve jumped out of his skin as one of the on-screen killers jumped back up. “I thought they killed that son of a bitch!”

You poked him in the arm. “Are you scared, Harrington?”

“No, of course not.” He protested.

“You sure? I’ve got a cushion over here if you need something to hide behind?” He threw some popcorn in your direction and you snorted, which only made him laugh as well.

“Shh,” he held a hand to your mouth despite his own grin. “You’ll wake them up.”

As he took his hand away, you glanced over the room. The kids were all fast asleep on the floor of Steve’s sitting room, tired out from watching back-to-back movies. Even Robin was curled up on the couch beside you, eyes shut as she slept peacefully. You leaned into Steve, voice dropping an octave.

“They’re so much nicer when they’re like this, huh?”

“You read my mind.” He whispered back. “God, I love them but half the time I can’t keep up.”

“I think you’re a damn good babysitter.” You assured him. As you sat there, your gaze drifted across the room to where Jane was lying, head resting on Dustin’s shoulder as she slept. A smile played on your lips. Steve followed your gaze and gently nudged your leg with his.

“You’re doing great with her, you know.” He told you. “She’s awesome.”

You nodded slowly. “I just want her to have a normal life, you know? God, she deserves it after everything she’s been through it. I just hope all this fighting monsters and shit is over soon.”

Steve knew, of course he did, and he reached out to take one of your hands, rubbing soothing circles into the back. “She’s good as long as she’s got you to take care of her. Guess that’s why you’re not scared of horror movies, you literally survived one and came out swinging.”

His words made you feel ten times better. “Come on, I’m not exactly a superhero.”

“You are too me.” He confessed. “You saved my life, remember?”

“And I’d do it again in a heartbeat.” You told him. “Couldn’t imagine my life without Steve Harrington in it.”

“You never have to, I promise.”

You glanced up at him and there was nothing but pure adoration in his eyes. It made you heart flutter a little. The moment lasted for a few seconds before there was another loud noise on the TV and you both jumped suddenly. The two of you laughed it off.

Jane, who was pretending to still be asleep, had heard the entire conversation and she finally understood what Max was saying. Steve was totally in love with you, and she knew there was no one who deserved happiness more than her big sister. Max had been absolutely right, and she knew it truly now.

**

The problem with fighting monsters on the regular was the emotional scars that came along with it. And for Steve, those scars were a lot worse than he ever let on to anyone. Ever since the day he and Robin had been tortured by the Russians, he’d been plagued by bad nightmares, constantly reliving how bad it had been. He still heard Robin’s screams when he’d been thrown back into the room, only semi-conscious, still felt the pain he’d been subjected to. Most nights he woke up in a cold sweat, having to remind himself that he was safe. It didn’t help that his parents were never there, so he was alone most of the time. The silence was what scared him more than anything.

Of course it was even harder when he felt the need to shoulder all of the kids fear as well, acting as a confidante for them meant having to downplay his own trauma for their sake. The only two people he ever let his guard down around were Robin, his partner in crime who had been through everything with him, and of course you.

He had been trying to take a nap early that evening, exhausted from back-to-back shifts and in need of some rest. However, he didn’t sink into sleep the way he had hoped for, not when the monsters started to creep in again. As soon as he heard the screaming, he sat bolt upright on the couch, hair sticking to his face and breathing uneven. Fear had overtaken him and he wished more than anything that someone could be there to console him in this moment. Right now he wasn’t feeling strong, he just wanted a hug.

Slowly getting up, he made his way over to the phone and dialled the number of the only person he really wanted to speak to in that moment.

**

You were in the kitchen making some smoothies for you and the girls. Jane had recently gotten invested in making friendship bracelets and with your father out at work, the three of you were having a crafting session. As you were grabbing the glasses out of the cupboard, the phone rang. You crossed over and answered it, wondering who might calling at such a later hour.

“Hello?” You answered after a few rings.

“Hey, sweetheart.” The familiar voice came through. You instantly brightened up.

“Hey, Steve. What’s up? How was work today, Saturday’s always a killer.” You expected him to fill you in on his entire shift, telling you all about any annoying customers he’d had or some funny story that Robin had told him. Only tonight there was nothing, he was suspiciously quiet.

“It was good.” Was all he said. You frowned.

“Steve, what’s wrong?” You asked.

“Nothing, I’m fine.” He insisted.

“Don’t do that.” You told him gently but firmly. “Not with me, you never have to do that with me.”

He knew you were right and a sigh escaped him as he relented. “I’m sorry, I just…I didn’t know who else to call.”

You turned around and leaned against the counter, giving him your full attention. “Was it the nightmares again?” He didn’t respond right away, and you could hear his shaky breathing down the phone. “Oh, Steve. You’re there on your own?”

“I’m OK, honestly.” He tried to ignore his racing heart. “Talking to you is helping.”

You smiled, incredibly grateful that you were the one he’d called. But you knew Steve, and you knew that he was lying about being fine. He didn’t need to be alone right now. “Hey, why don’t you come over and hang out here for a while?”

Steve felt immediately relieved, glad that you’d asked instead of making him say it out loud. “Are you sure, I don’t want your dad to get mad.”

“Dad’s working tonight, it’s just me and the girls. We’re making friendship bracelets.”

Steve hesitated. “I don’t want to intrude.”

“Steve Harrington, get your ass over here and craft with us. We’d love to have you.”

“Ok.” You could practically hear his smile down the phone. “I’m on my way.”

“Drive safe, I’ll see you soon.” You told him as you hung up. For a moment you stood there, letting the conversation wash over you. It would be a lie to say that you didn’t like being Steve’s person, the one he came to when things got hard. It meant more to you than you’d ever admit.

“Is Steve your boyfriend?” A voice broke you out of your thoughts. Glancing over, you saw Jane standing in the doorway, giving you an inquisitive look. You laughed her comment off.

“What do you mean? Steve and I are just friends?”

Jane didn’t look convinced. “Me and Max read a lot of magazines, they talk about what a good boyfriend is.” She told you. “It says a good boyfriend is always happy to see you, remembers things you say, and puts you first when it matters.” She listed off the attributes from memory. “That’s basically you and Steve. Max and Robin say all the time that he loves you and I think they’re right.”

You stared at her, completely dumbfounded. No one had ever really put it that way before and the way she said it made sense. But Steve was your best friend, you’d never really considered him as anything else before. Now your sister had you questioning things. You often ignored how he made your stomach flip when he smiled, or made your heart flutter when he complimented you. Maybe you needed to start paying attention.

“Come on, guys.” Max appeared in the kitchen. “I’m getting bored up there by myself.”

Jane turned to her with an excited grin. “Steve’s coming over.”

Max sent a smirk your way. “He is?”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t you start as well.”

The girls ran upstairs, giggling to each other as they left you standing there by yourself and contemplating everything.

**

Steve arrived half an hour later to find the three of you sprawled out on your bed. You grinned when you saw him, jumping up and pulling him into a tight hug. He melted into you, feeling the stress of the day wash off of him just from being around you. “I’m glad you’re here.” You whispered in his ear, quiet enough so only he could hear.

“Me too.” He replied, holding you for a fraction longer than normal. Jane and Max exchanged a glance, feeling as though they were intruding on something, When Steve finally let you go, you led him over to sit down next to you on the bed, silently asking the girls to make some space. They did so, and Jane immediately handed Steve some string. He smiled. “What do I do with this?”

She pushed the crafting set towards him. “You do whatever makes you happy.” She told him. “There’s no rules.”

You’d never get over just how big your sister’s heart was despite everything she’d been through. Steve listened to her, focusing intently on the task at hand as he began assembling his own bracelet. For a while a peaceful silence washed over the group as were all concentrating hard. You could still feel Steve’s nervous energy emanating from him, and as you stole a glance you noticed his hands were shaking a little.

Without even thinking, you reached over and took one of his hands. It was your turn to comfort him. No words exchanged, the two of you simply continued with your bracelets one-handed, which was not an easy task but neither one of you wanted to let go. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see him smiling lightly to himself. You did the same.

Max looked up from her own bracelet and noticed the two of you. Silently she nudged Jane and tilted her head in your direction. Jane followed her gaze and grinned widely.

“Hey, guys. We’re just going to get some snacks from downstairs.” She said loudly, grabbing Jane’s arm and pulling her up off the bed. You and Steve watched them go, shutting the door behind them as they left you two alone. Steve was still trying to thread some beads on his string with one hand, refusing to let yours go. You watched on as you laughed.

“What?” He asked in amusement. “This is harder than it looks you know?”

“It’s a lot easier with two hands.” You pointed out. Steve chuckled.

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” He nodded. Still he didn’t let go. You stared down at your joined hands, feeling something shift inside. You put your bracelet down and sat up.

“Steve, can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” He nodded. “Anything, you know that.”

You took a deep breath, trying to build yourself up to it. Steve frowned, moving his free hand up to tap your forehead gently. “What are you thinking so hard about, sweetheart?”

Here goes nothing, you thought to yourself. “How would you feel if I told you I was reconsidering the way I felt about you?”

He stilled for a second, taking your words in. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, I’m just…for a really long time I’ve only ever seen you as a friend. But what if I said that recently I’d been feeling different?”

Steve’s brain was short-circuiting again. “Different…how?”

“Steve, I think I like you as more than a friend. I think I have for a while but I was too scared to admit to it and-“

“Wait, you’re saying you have feelings for me?” He said, completely dumbfounded. “I didn’t think you felt that way?”

You shook your head with a smile. “Yeah, well I think I just got a much-needed thump on the head.” You glanced back in the direction the girls had disappeared in. “With everything we’ve been through, it’s scary admitting those feelings. But, fuck it. Steve, I really like you.”

You turned around just in time for Steve to pull you into him, pressing your lips to his. His hand snaked to the back of your neck to bring you impossibly closer to him, tongue swiping across your bottom lip. A small gasp escaped you and he took the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth, pulling you onto his lap as his hands settled on your waist. Your own hands found a home in his hair, tugging gently and earning a groan from him. A smirk appeared on your lips as Steve broke away, forehead resting against yours as he paused for breath.

“Shit.” He breathed gently.

“That was…” You were lost for words.

Steve hummed in agreement. “You know, I imagined this moment so many times. That was way better than anything I cooked up.”

You laughed, leaning in to steal another quick kiss. Steve gripped your hips, not wanting to let you go too soon. He gazed at you in adoration as he brushed some hair from your face. “This whole time I thought I was friendzoned. Was I wrong?”

“I was just an oblivious idiot.” You told him, carding your fingers through your hair and pulling a contented sigh out of him. “But it was something Jane said. She was describing the perfect boyfriend, and she was right. That’s me and you, Steve.”

He grinned like an idiot. “Are you asking me to be your boyfriend?”

“Maybe.”

“Fuck, I love that sound of that.” He told you.

“You’re an idiot, Harrington.”

“I’m you’re idiot now.” And finally the two of you were on the same page. Everything finally felt right. Steve had completely forgotten about his panic from earlier, too caught up in you now to care.

“Hey, you know, my dad’s not back until tomorrow.” You whispered softly. “You could stay over tonight if you wanted?”

“Yeah, I’d like that.” He nodded. “I hate waking up alone after a nightmare.”

You pressed a kiss to his forehead. “You don’t have to do that anymore, you’ve got me now.”

The two of you suddenly heard hushed cheering from the other side of the door, and Max’s voice. “About damn time.” She said, far too loudly.

“We can hear you guys.” You called out to them. “You’re not subtle.”

“Oops.” You heard her say, making you both laugh. “But you owe us big time.”

"Tea," you scold him gently, though making absolutely no attempt to pull away from him. "Dinner is almost—"

But you're cut off by your own gasp as Travis presses his hips forward, letting you feel the undeniable evidence of his arousal against your ass.

"Dinner can wait," he hums, his large hands moving to the swell of your hips and giving them a squeeze before he spins you around to face him.

You should scold him again, you should tell him that dinner was nearly ready and that he could until after but one look at your boyfriend's face and you couldn't find it in yourself to resist him.

Travis seems to know it too, judging by the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Want somethin' a little sweeter for starters," he murmurs, lifting a hand to cup one side of your face before he leans in to capture your lips in a kiss that makes your core ache. Your lips part on instinct, all thoughts about the sauce shimmering away behind you replaced by only ones about the man who was currently kissing you as though he was starving.

You feel one of Travis' hands lift from hips, feel him reach behind you to switch off the stove but you find yourself no longer caring about dinner as the wet heat of his tongue licks into your mouth and causes a syrupy warmth to spread right down to your gut.

Travis' hands settle back on the swell of your hips, unable to stop himself from groaning against your mouth as he feels your curves beneath his palms. He couldn’t help himself because, to put it lightly, Travis Meacham was fucking obsessed with your body. He loved your curves, loved the softness of your stomach, the thickness of your thighs and the feeling of your breasts pressed against him. And so, it was no wonder that you soon felt your boyfriend’s large, rough hands smooth over your hips before he reached the fat globes of your ass, squeezing them over your skirt and coaxing a soft moan from your mouth.

“Fuck,” Travis murmurs against your mouth before he pulls away to press wet kisses over the skin of your neck, his tongue gliding across the flesh and causing heat to surge through your body, making your pussy throb in anticipation. “You feel fuckin’ incredible, baby. Like a damn fuckin’ dream with these curves. So perfect.”

Your response came in the form of another breathless moan, the sound making Travis grin against you as he began to walk you backwards, towards the table that he had set for dinner only a few minutes prior. You let him, tilting your head back and letting him explore the expanse of your throat with his mouth as the backs of your thighs hit the wooden table.

“Tea—” you begin, your lips parted and wet with spit as you look back at Travis. Your fingers curl into the front of his shirt as you try to control yourself, despite the fact that you could feel wetness already pooling between your legs.

Travis hums by way of a reply, his lips still moving over the skin of your neck and leaving goosebumps in their wake. Heat surges through your body, burning in your veins and leaving your gut feeling as though it was made of goo. 

“What about din—”

You don’t get to finish your sentence, not when Travis’ large hands wrap themselves around the backs of your thighs and he lifts you up onto the dinner table.

“—what about dinner?” Travis finishes for you with a smile that was anything but innocent, one of his hands beginning to lift the skirt of your dress over your hips, the material bunching up around your waist and exposing your dampened panties to Travis as his other hand runs along the skin of your inner thigh. “Got my dinner right here.”

Heat swoops low in your stomach at his words and you couldn’t find it within yourself to be even remotely annoyed at him as his fingers dance along the skin of your thighs. You watch, your chest heaving as he drops down to his knees between your legs, his large hands coaxing your thighs further apart on the table, his big brown eyes fixed on the damp patch in your panties, unable to stop the low groan from leaving his lips at the evidence of your arousal.

“This,” he murmurs, his breath hot and hitting the skin of your inner thigh, causing you to shudder beneath him, “is my favourite place in the whole fucking world.”

You let out a breathless sort of laugh, one that has Travis looking up at you with a dopey smile on his face. His fingers dig into the meaty flesh of your thighs, his cock feeling painfully hard as he gently massages the skin with his fingers because fuck, he loved your thighs. He loved how thick they were, how strong they were, loved the feeling of them wrapped around his waist as he pounded into you, loved the feeling of them squeezing his head between them as his tongue laps needily at your soaked cunt.

Travis leans in, breathing your heady scent through your panties and making your body thrum with want as his nose briefly nudges against your clothed clit.

“You smell delicious, baby,” he tells you, turning his head to press a wet, open mouthed kiss over one of your stretch marks, causing fresh heat to coil deep in your gut. You feel his fingers brush over the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh, feel them move over your skin until they find the material of your panties and hooking them into the waistband.

“But Tea, the pasta—”

“—fuck the pasta,” Travis breathes against you as he begins to tug the lace down your thighs, exposing your glistening folds to him and making his mouth water at the sight of you practically dripping onto the wooden table beneath you. “I’m hungry for something else.”

You don’t get to breathe, you barely even get to catch your breath before Travis’ mouth seals itself over your aching cunt with a sound that was so desperate, so loud and so obscene that you felt it in every damn nerve in your body, pleasure blooming through you, burning like molten lava.

“Tea!” you gasp out, your hands flying to grab onto his bleach blonde wavy locks, needing something to hold onto as his tongue went straight to your swollen, puffy clit, circling your sensitive bud with the very tip of his tongue.

“Shhh, baby,” He murmurs against you, the slight vibration from his lips sending waves of pleasure through your body, “just lay back and lemme eat, yeah?”

All you could do was nod, your body falling back against the wooden table as your boyfriend’s mouth was back on you—his tongue broad and flat as it licked a stripe through your folds, parting them as he slurped up your slick messily before pressing his tongue into your needy hole.

You let out a sound that you couldn’t hold back even if you tried. A wanton moan mixed  with words of utter nonsense fall from your lips as you tug at his hair—the feeling of him fucking you with his tongue causing your back to bow off the table, hips burying his face further into your pussy. Travis moans against you, one of his hands sliding beneath your ass, lifting you slightly off the table to get a better angle, his tongue thrusting deeper into you and making stars burst behind your eyes.

“Trav,” you gasp out, the nickname—the one that only you were allowed to call him—slips from your lips and makes Travis moan against you a second time.

Fuck, he loved it when you called him that. It made his cock twitch beneath his jeans, so fucking hard the it was almost painful. Seeing your body writhe beneath him, being between those delicious thick thighs of yours and the sweet taste of your pussy on his tongue—it had him aching and leaking beneath his jeans.

But he was too focused on you right now to even care about that.

“You close, honey?” Travis asks, pulls away for a moment to look up at you, his mouth glistening with with, saliva and your slick driving down to his chin.

You open your mouth to answer but the moment that you do, you feel two of Travis’ fingers suddenly gliding between your folds. 

“I asked you a question, baby,” he hums, a teasing lilt to his voice as he begins to smear the mix of your slick and his saliva over your folds before pressing both of his thick fingers deep inside of you, your wetness allowing him to glide right in. “C’mon, be a good girl and answer me.”

You let out a whimper, one that you couldn’t control as Travis curls his fingers inside of you, pressing firmly against your front wall and making you mewl beneath him.

“Y-yes,” you gasp out, back arching off the table as you feel the coil deep in your gut tighten, feel your fingers tug at his hair again without your say so. “S-so close. Pl-please don’t stop, Trav.”

“Wouldn’t fucking dream of it,” Travis murmurs before his head dips back down to press kisses over the skin of your inner thigh, lips brushing over the stretch marks as he begins to pump his thick fingers in and out of you, dragging through your gummy walls as the schlick, schlick, schlick sounds from your soaked pussy fill the room. “Now, wrap those perfect fuckin’ thighs around me and squeeze. C’mon, baby. Need to feel you.”

You don’t need telling twice, not when he was diving right back in, his fingers still fucking into you as his tongue found your clit that was begging for his attention. You lift your hips, bringing your thighs up to press against the sides of his face, creating a pressure that had him moaning against your clit.

Travis presses his fingers deeper into you, his mouth now sucking at your clit messily and in absolute ecstasy at your thighs pressing against the sides of his head, the pressure making him feel dizzy with want because Travis was happy to admit that he was more than happy to be trapped between there for all eternity.

And you? You were writhing on the table beneath him, your fingers tugging at the dark roots of his hair as you tried to hold back. You were a mess. A complete and utter mess of moans and whimpers at the dual sensation of his mouth on your clit and his fingers that were pumping in and out of you. All you could hear was Travis moaning between your legs and the wet sounds coming from him sucking at your clit while fucking you with his fingers. 

It was too much. It was too—

You came with a cry that was sure to make your neighbours complain, your thighs clamping around Travis’ head as you gush around his fingers.

Travis lets out a muffled moan of your name, his mouth still on you as he fingers continue to move gently in and out of you, riding out your orgasm while your thighs continue to tremble around him.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, pulling away only to catch his breath as you let your thighs rest over his shoulders. “You taste fuckin’ delicious baby.”

You were still trembling, still feeling pleasure coursing through your body from the intensity of your orgasm. Travis’ face swims into view above you as he smiles down at you, his face glistening with your arousal and looking so fucking gorgeous you felt your pussy clench around nothing.

“You good?” He asks you, lifting a hand to brush your hair away from your face and looking at you with such reverence that you can't help but smile up at him.

“M’great,” you murmur back quietly. “You distracted me from making dinner though.”

Travis laughs, a loud laugh that warms your insides and makes you feel lighter. He then slowly withdraws his fingers from you, his eyes flickering down to marvel at your slick that coats the digits before he lifts his hand to his mouth to lick them clean. Your pussy throbs at the sight of his tongue licking up your slick from his long fingers, at the way he was looking at you as he did so.

“Sorry,” he hums, not looking the slightest bit apologetic he withdraws his fingers from his mouth with a wet pop before he takes your hand to pull you into an upright position on the table. “Couldn’t resist. You were looking all sexy, y’know dancing around the kitchen like that. You know that I can’t resist you when you move your hips like that, baby.”

You roll your eyes but you can’t help but smile as you look back at him. 

“You’re terrible.”

“Terribly in love with you.”

The corner of your mouth twitches as Travis leans in to press a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“You can finish dinner now, baby, “ he murmurs against your skin before pulling away. “I might have to warn you though, I’m pretty full of you so I can’t promise that I’ll eat it all.”

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Gator’s mouth was all over any inch of skin you had to offer him. You giggled, pushing him away slightly to attempt to pull off your top. His big hands ran up your body to feel your curves through the soft billowy material of your peasant top before dragging back down to hold onto your thighs. You used the brief pause to yank the fabric up and off, carelessly throwing it towards your dresser. Your boyfriend quickly latched onto your newly exposed chest, groaning at how warm your flushed skin felt against his. Deft fingers kneaded the soft fat of your upper thighs as his tongue lathed against a sensitive nipple, coaxing it into a stiff peak.

You sighed, resting back on a hand as your other came up to card through Gator’s cropped hair. He’d tried mixing the last of his gel with water, but the days’ humidity had made quick work of undoing his slick back. Your fingers twisted into the soft strands as your deputy sloppily slid his tongue across your chest to give your other nipple some attention. At the same time, Gator’s fingers were venturing further up along the (quite frankly) immodest hemline of your tiny shorts (not that he really cared when you looked that hot in them). Pulling off of you with a loud ‘smack,’ he grabbed your hips to reposition you onto your knees in front of him.

“Fuckin’ drivin’ me crazy here,” Gator gruffly muttered, letting you feel just how hard you’d made him through the thick layers of his cargos and your daisy dukes.

His hands went around your hips to undo your button and fly before he was impatiently dragging the rough denim down your legs. You faced the headboard, smugly grinning as you heard no, felt the whine that left Gator at the reveal that you’d gone the whole day without panties. He could kick himself for not realizing it sooner. Not wanting to waste a second longer, he dove forward to put his mouth on your asshole.

It wasn’t a new experience for you, far from it actually, but you still jumped with a gasp as your boyfriend’s pointed tongue traced shapes against the tight rim. Shaking your head to compose yourself, you pushed your bottom back against his face with a low moan. Your upper half slowly came down to rest against the bed, and you moved your hands underneath you to play with yourself. Somehow, Gator knew exactly what you were doing, even with his current “preoccupation,” and without stopping he grabbed you by the wrists. Your hands were brought back up to rest against your ass.

“God,” you scoffed, blushing as you realized what he wanted to do, but obeying nonetheless.

Once your cheeks were spread apart for him to have more room to play with, he leaned back to spit on your hole. Gator’s tongue slid the glob around, massaging it into the wrinkles of the muscle in an effort to loosen it up. Your eyes slid shut, breathy sighs and moans freely leaving you. The inherent naughtiness of the act, of just how much of a pervert your boyfriend could really be, was doing insane things to your head.

Giving one last swirl against the rim, Gator moved his mouth down to your needy pussy. One of the first things you’d learned in your relationship with the daddy’s boy deputy was that he was unfairly talented at taking care of you with just his mouth. He took your tender lips in his mouth to suckle the sensitive skin. His tongue traced pointedly slow figure-8’s against your slit, dipping in for a taste when you’d least expect it. Your poor clit was bullied with fast flicks and broad strokes till you were jerking away in fear of cumming too fast. Any other day, he’d take hold of your hips to keep you in place as you rode out your orgasm on his tongue, but tonight he let you be. He was ready for the main course anyways.

As you tried to catch your breath and will yourself to rest for a moment, Gator got up on his knees to take off his t-shirt. He pulled his cargos down under his ass, just enough for his leaking prick to spring up against his stomach. Looking over your shoulder, you immediately caught sight of the “battering ram” (a nickname he sometimes used when he wanted to get on your nerves). Truly, though, you figured that he had to be at least 7 inches.

Why else would you feel like the luckiest girl in the world whenever he fucked you?

You were like a bitch in heat raring to be fucked with the way your back was already arched. Your tongue darted out to lick your glossy lips, an action Gator’s hazel eyes snapped onto right a-fucking-way. You’d barely managed out a “please” before he was buried to the hilt in your throbbing pussy. His chest laid flat against your back, its coarse hair sticking to you damply. One of his toned forearms went in front of you for you to rest your head against, and his other flexed as he held onto one of your hips.

“Shit, babe!” He grunted against your ear, smoothly pumping into you. “Fuck, how are ya so fuckin’, ngh, tight every damn time?”

You couldn’t answer; Your mouth was letting out a string of moans that neither of you could call out the start or end of. The sounds that rapidly filled the room could almost be described as music. If you were the singer, the repeatedly slick ‘slaps’ were your metronome. The increasingly loud thump of the headboard against the wall, accompanied by the squeaks of the mattress were the percussions. The clap of his strong body against your butt was the bass.

Sweat beaded on your bodies as your boyfriend fucked his cock in and out of your heat. The drag was delicious—there really was no other way to describe it. Your pulsing walls, although stretched to their absolute limits, were happy to take him in any way he’d give it to you.

You could feel Gator’s wispy long eyelashes fluttering against your temple every time he snapped back into your dripping wet pussy. Two thick fingers managed to find their way into your open mouth, and you wasted no time lazily lulling your tongue against his mildly salty skin. The familiar comforting scent of his Irish Spring body wash with his natural musk peeking through crowded your senses. You wondered if, as a man, he ever noticed the same sort of things about you during sex, and if he did, did they get him just as worked up.

“Yeah, take it, just like that, fuck,” Gator chanted against you, brows furrowed in concentration as he eased you further down into the bed. “Oh fuck! That fuckin’ sweet little ‘tang of yers, ah, can never get enough.”

You laid prone, legs spread behind you as your wonderful boyfriend pounded you. It was like nothing else existed in the world except for you, Gator, and the humble little home the two of you had built for each other. His breath hitched as your tongue continued to lick against his fingers. You were vaguely aware of the deputy’s hand (the one not occupying your mouth) taking hold of one of your cheeks to open you up to him further.

Suddenly, Gator slipped his big cock out of your hungry little cunt, slid it up your drool-covered crack, then shoved the whole length into your tight asshole.

Your hands fisted the bedsheets as a high wail left your mouth. Gator’s harsh pace didn’t let up one bit. As he groaned out his praises, you tried to recall the lines you came up with earlier in the day for this exact moment.

“O-oh! You’re, you just, ah, in my…f-fuck, Gates, I can’t…”

Words were failing you. You couldn’t think about anything other than how fucking good it felt to have your less explored hole stuffed with your boyfriend’s dick. His cock made you feel full, so incredibly full.

With a breathy chuckle, Gator picked up the slack where you couldn’t.

“I know, I know,” he said, pressing an open-mouth kiss against your dewy hairline. You looked up at him with a whimper. “Couldn’t help it. Yer just too damn pretty, baby doll. Gotta have all of ya.”

Your eyes shut as your moans evened out into pants, sounding as steady as the slaps his balls were heavily making against your flushed plump pussy. Ever the attentive lover (a label that he would never acclimate to), Gator slid a hand down to give your other hole something to clench around.

“O-oh!” Your boyfriend exclaimed, his thrusts faltering momentarily. “Fuck, babe! I can, I can feel it, feel—Here, you gotta see this!”

You whined in frustration as he just as quickly pulled out his fingers to instead grab your wrist, pressing your hand against yourself. You pushed two fingers into your slightly gaped cunt, eyes blinking wide when you found what he was talking about. You could actually feel his thick cock pumping in and out of your ass through the thin skin separating the two holes. Your thighs shook against the bed as you experimentally pressed your fingers against your upper wall, making Gator shout in excitement.

“Y-yeah, fuck, ugh,” he groaned, bracing a palm on the mattress next to your head. “Keep doin’ that, pretty girl. Ngh, k-keep fingerin’ that fuckin’ li'l snatch fer me.”

You cried out in response, complying with his order. It was all so much, so much, but not too much, you thought, as you managed to move your other hand down to rub your clit at the same time. The side of your face was pressed somewhat uncomfortably against your pillow as your weight now rested on your shoulders. But who could care about that when you were getting fucked within an inch of your life by your man and your own fingers?

“God,” Gator drawled out, leaning down to mouth along your neck and shoulder. “’S fuckin’ hot, baby. Yer so fuckin’ hot, fuck.”

“Gator,” you softly cried, trying to put into words just how fucking good he was making you feel. “It’s, it’s…oh my God.”

“Yeah? Ya like it? Like takin’ my big fuckin’ dick up yer back like that?”

“Y-yeah,” you stuttered, biting your lower lip to stifle an embarrassingly throaty groan. Gator chuckled, always amused when you tried to act all “ladylike” despite getting railed.

“Ya like fuckin’ your li’l twat fer me like I told ya to?”

“Mm-hm!”

You squealed when you felt his tongue playfully flick against the back of your neck.

It didn’t take much longer to feel the familiar tells of an orgasm on its way to ruin you. Your toes curled tightly into each other. Your thighs were clenching along with your abdomen. Your moans got louder while Gator’s groans got lighter. Your eyes screwed shut as you felt both of your holes tightening up, making it harder to move in and out of them. God, you were close, you were so close, the thread was about the snap, you were right fucking there, you—

“Fuck! Fuck, yeah, take it, take it!”

Gator beat you to the punch.

You gasped as a sudden overwhelming heat spread inside your asshole, his thick cock pulsing and twitching against the stretched ring of muscle. The uncontrollable snaps and jerks of his hips against you as he rode out his orgasm pushed you over the edge. You cried out, gasping for air as your body thrashed underneath your boyfriend. As best as he could, he tried to help you through it by pressing kisses to your sweaty skin, and rubbing a warm palm against your upper arm. Your heart felt like it was ready to leap right out of you as you dropped your hands limply onto the mattress. Your wrecked pussy squeezed and softened in its satisfied aftershocks, coating your lower lips in clear, sticky arousal.

Gator rested his face against your back as he forced himself to sober up for your sake. With a grunt, he pulled out of you (but not without joining in on your lewd moan at the sensation of his spongy dickhead wetly plopping out of your new gape). The deputy rested back on his knees as he took inventory of the mess he made of you.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” Gator whined, spreading your cheeks apart to get a better look. With a shaky sigh, you looked over your shoulder at him through your post-orgasm haze.

“What?”

“’S all pink...and open. All of it. Fuck.”

You dropped your head back on the bed, closing your eyes as you felt your heartrate finally calming down. The sudden stream of warm liquid down your crack made you blush, and you covered your face in embarrassment as you heard Gator’s pleased reaction.

“Hot. That's real fuckin’ hot, goddamn."

He gave you a playful smack on your ass before finally letting go, moving to lay by your side on the messy bedsheets that were definitely in need of a wash. Wrapping a comforting arm around you, he quietly asked,

"Was it everythin’ ya wanted, baby doll?”

Humming, you opened your eyes back up to look over your boyfriend’s face. He was just as sweaty and red as you, although there was a vulnerable shine to his features. You brought a hand up to brush some dark strands off of his forehead.

“Mm-hm. Was everything and more,” you admitted with a small smile. “Knew I could trust you with this, Gates.”

Gator gave his own smile back, but it was very short lived, as instead he took your hand away from his forehead to press a thoughtful kiss to your fingertips.

"Can ya move? Didn't wreck ya too bad, did I?”

“F-fuck, fuckin’, oh my, you’re really, ah,” he’d incoherently babble, hand thrown over his pink face, hazel eyes helplessly watching the way you were effortlessly working him through his fingers. It hadn’t taken much for him to get going that night (or any night, really), but something about how comfy you looked in your new pajama set had him bricked up the second he stepped foot in your apartment. You’d grinned when he’d laid his head down on your shoulder, weakly pressing his bulge against your front to let you know he needed you in any way you’d have him.

It was an ego rush for sure, but also so, so incredibly pathetic on Kurt’s part.

“Wow, all this because of my PJ’s?” You teased, meeting his naturally tired glance with a bit of a leer. “I didn’t even do anything to you!”

“I can’t, can’t fuck, ah, you looked so cute! It’s not my fault,” Kurt whined, jerking his hips up into your hand.

“No, no, of course not. I’m not blaming you, baby,” you cooed, very much enjoying the way his misty eyes looked up at you over the casual pet name. “It’s actually pretty hot.”

“Y-yeah?”

You let out a breathless chuckle, climbing on top of Kurt. He moved his hand away from his face to stare at you incredulously, eyes darting down for a second to make sure you were still wrapped around his penis. Tucking some hair behind your ear, you leaned closer down to his red face, lips wet as you whispered,

“Yeah. You’re pretty hot, Kurt.”

His plush lips were suddenly all over you, overwhelming you with their infatuated fervor. You jumped in surprise, your hand briefly tightening its hold around his cock. With a thick swallow, you found your control again and resumed your steady caresses on the sensitive, throbbing organ.

Kurt dragged his kisses down your neck as you quipped, lightheadedly, “Jeez, someone’s got a praise kink, huh?”

“N-no, I just,” the inexperienced young man stuttered. “J-just wanna be good, make you feel good, I mean, because, ah, y-you make me feel, like, that, y’know?”

“Yeah, I know, I know,” you reassured him, trailing your fingers up around the head of his dick. You watched curiously as Kurt pulled his mouth off of your warm skin to lift your loose shirt up to his chin. With a nervous glance up at you with his blown pupils, he pulled the material over his head and dove down to take one of your nipples into his mouth.

“O-oh, fuck!” You swore, your thumb carelessly slipping against the pre-cum leaking from his tip. “Yeah, that’s it, you’ve got it.”

For a while, you didn’t speak, instead settling comfortably against Kurt’s soft body to relish the feeling of him attentively appreciating your chest with his mouth. His tongue curled around one stiff bud, lapping against the tender skin, pulling it into his mouth for some harsh sucks. He’d let it pop out with one more broad lick before turning his attention to the other nipple. And then he’d repeat. Then he’d repeat. Then he’d repeat.

At some point, you gently let go of his dick in favor of slowly grinding your clothed pussy against him through the rough denim of his jeans. Kurt seemed to react to that more than he did the handjob, which brought an amused quirk to your lips. You didn’t mean to be so teasing to Kurt, but you just couldn’t help it! The mostly inexperienced Spree driver just made it WAY too easy for you to fuck with him.

So that’s what you did.

“I think we should try to get off just like this Kurt. Agreed?” You asked, pulling your shirt up and over your head to free Kurt. With a small whimper, he looked up and spoke against your skin.

“W-whatever you want! I’m, mmf, ‘m down, just, ah, p-please keep going.”

“Good! That’s what I like to hear, sweetie.”

His mouth dropped open into a weak cry, kneading his hands down your soft sides into your hips.

“Aht, aht. Bring those big strong hands back up here.”

“S-shit, sorry!”

“It’s okay, just—there you go, right up on my tits, yeah,” you murmured, watching as Kurt pressed his palms against your boobs to gently squeeze on them. “Good boy!”

You braced your hands against his chest and worked your hips slowly, deliciously against him. He groaned, throwing his head back as he tried to fight off the orgasm that was quickly building up in him. It was far too soon for his liking, and he got the sense that you weren’t anywhere near as close as he was. You moaned as he moved his thumbs to rub at your nipples.

“Fucking hell, Kurt, you sure know how to treat a lady.”

 “I do?”

“Mm-hm!” You hummed, brushing some sweaty hair off his forehead. Kurt looked like he was going to melt into a puddle right there in your sheets, stars and hearts practically dancing around his eyes. You loved it. Your hips moved faster now, drawing a hitch from his breath.

“Have I ever told you how cute you are like this?”

“Like, uh, l-like what?”

“This!” You repeated with a smile, emphasizing your point with a bounce in his lap.“When you’re lying there for me, taking anything I give you, mm, when you’re looking at me like—Ah!”

Kurt had bucked his hips up against you with a whine. You moved your hand down to hold his chin, your lips softening into a purse. Trying to keep your voice even, you continued.

“L-like that, yeah. Like you’re addicted and can’t get enough.”

“Ngh, I can’t, not enough, no,” he shyly admitted. “I…I really like you.”

“Oh yeah?” You asked, biting your lip as you looked over his flushed face and eyes that refused to meet yours. “What a coincidence.”

“W-what?” Kurt asked, wide hazel eyes flicking back to you. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” you sighed, rolling your hips to a near stop as you brought your lips down to flutter against his. “I like you too, Kurt.”

Faster than you could anticipate, Kurt had you on your back, needily humping his clothed cock against you. You gasped, though that also got quickly swallowed by the lovestruck boy as he pressed his lips to yours in a sloppy kiss. Your arms and legs wrapped around him as you kissed back, moaning at the pressure being thrusted against your damp bottoms.

“Can’t, can’t believe it,” Kurt cried into the kiss, his hands fisting into your bedsheets as he rutted like a horny rabbit against you. “This is like, ah, mmf, so fucking unreal, oh!”

“You’d better, ngh, f-fuckin’ believe it,” you ribbed, mewling when he laid the rest of body weight onto you. “Wasn’t, ngh, wasn’t talkin’ out my ass when I called you a, ah, a good b-boy!”

“Fuck! K-keep calling me that, uhh, p-please!”

You moved your hands to Kurt’s face to force him to look at you. He was thirsting for, craving to, DYING to hear you say it from your sweet lips. And who were you to deny his request when he was looking at you so desperately with those big puppy eyes of his.

“Good boy,” you said, swallowing heavily as Kurt shuddered, rolling his hips into you for a moment before going back to jackhammering. “Fuck, good boy, you’re my good boy. You like that Kurt? You like the sound of that?”

“Yes, yes! F-fuck, oh my God, I’m not gonna, gonna—“

“Yeah? Got you cumming already? I did that?”

“Y-yeah, you,” Kurt groaned, pulling his face away to the crook of your neck. “You did, you did that, yes!”

You breathlessly chuckled, which quickly turned into moaning as Kurt yanked a large palm off the bed to grope your boobs. He panted against your dewy skin, babbling unintelligibly about how you were perfect, how he always thought you were cooler than him, that he hoped he wasn’t dreaming, that he was close, he was close, he was close, he was—

Your mouth fell open in stunned silence as Kurt shouted into your neck, giving his telltale orgasmic thrusts against your pajamas. The hand on your chest moved down between your tightly knit bodies to slide under your waistbands. He’d barely even managed to slip a finger through your sticky folds before you were cumming, gripping onto his back as you arched up against him.

“Oh my God,” Kurt whined into your neck. “Feel you, feel you cumming on my hand, fuck, that’s so hot.”

Your eyes slide shut as you tried to catch your breath. Sweetly, and a bit impressive considering he just came, Kurt gently kissed his way up to your lips. He pulled his hands out of your bottoms, glancing over at the damp sheen on his index finger. You blushed when he pulled away for a second to flick his tongue against the digit.

“Jesus, you’re something,” you mumbled, bringing one of your own hands up to your forehead. Kurt just hummed, looking back down at you with a bashful smile.

“A good ‘something’, a-at least?” He awkwardly asked, holding his breath even though he still needed to catch some air. You nodded, bringing your other hand up to his cheek. Kurt nuzzled into your touch, his big hazel eyes never once leaving yours.

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re my good boy, remember?”

Kurt whined from his throat, shakily pressing a kiss into your palm.

“You’re gonna make me hard again, don’t say it like that,” he softly complained. You laughed, genuinely, sitting up from under him. He looked up at you expectantly.

“Alright, loverboy. Why don’t we go actually watch a movie then, that sound good to you?”

“What, for real? You really mean, like, for real this time?” Kurt asked, quickly getting up in excitement. “Because, because I’m always a little disappointed when we don’t—I mean! Not that I don’t like doing, uh, this, but, um…”