fanfic prospector

Look away. Look away. Look away. Look away.

Steve’s angel on his shoulder is screaming at him, begging for the man to listen but he doesn’t. He can’t.

Because less than a hundred feet away from him, you’re there. Carefree and beautiful, swimming and floating around in your pool.

Never mind that it’s almost one in the morning. Every night for the past two weeks, you’ve stepped onto your patio and swam laps around the pool while Steve watches from his window.

He can’t tell if it’s a blessing or a curse that his bedroom window has the perfect view of your backyard, and the pool you’ve occupied lately.

Steve doesn’t know you well. You moved into the house next to his only a few months ago – renting it from the Belmont’s he’s grown up living next to.

You seemed nice, kind even. On the first week, you had knocked on his door with a plate of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. You introduced yourself with a dizzying smile, and a syrupy sweet voice – he physically had to stop himself from drooling.

And once you were fully settled in, your routine began. You worked at the diner in midtown, and he only knew that because saw you wearing the uniform dress and apron while he was checking the mail – not because he was watching you (he absolutely was).

You seemed to take the mid shifts for the most part. You left for work around 2PM and came home at 9PM, four days out of the week. He wasn’t sure what you did once you were home but once midnight hit, you were in the pool – every night like clockwork.

And tonight’s no exception.

Steve is standing in front of his window, far enough to not be seen unless you’re really looking, but still close enough to see you clearly. There’s not much light outside – most of it comes from the reflection of the moon and a warmer light you’ve installed in your own backyard.

You’ve been swimming for almost thirty minutes now and not once has his eyes wandered from the sight of you. Despite the darkness, he can see you perfectly. You’re floating on your back now and your body is on full display to him.

You’re wearing a red bikini and the color is so stark, it almost glows against the water. Your arms are moving slowly under the water to keep you afloat, your knees and ankles moving carefully to help tread the water.

He can’t tell if your eyes are open or not, and it’s hard to focus on anything except your tits.

Steve inwardly cringes at himself, and tears his eyes away from you – choosing to stare at a patch of carpet on his bedroom floor instead. He’s being disgusting and disrespectful. You’re in the comfort of your own home, doing something that brings you peace and he’s invading that. Even if you don’t know it.

He should close his blinds– no, he’s going to.

Just as Steve looks back up to close the curtains, his eyes land back on where you were floating but something’s different.

You’re still floating, easily treading water but this time, without your fucking top on.

Steve’s mouth goes completely dry and his already half hard cock, hardens even more – straining against the waistband of his sweatpants.

He sees the bikini top you had on barely two minutes ago now hanging off the small stonewall ledge of the pool. For a second, he wonders if you took it off for him. But that would be ridiculous. Surely if you had even an inkling of him watching you, you would storm right up to him and smack him across his face – probably yell obscenities at him, maybe even call the police.

Right?

Steve swallows harshly and despite telling himself to shut the blinds a few moments ago, he grabs the chair from his desk and slides it to in front of the window. He settles into it without much more thought and watches as you move through the water.

He knows he shouldn’t but all common sense has left his mind and has been overtaken by hunger. Steve’s hands find the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers, swiftly tugging them down past his thighs.

The cool air hits his skin and just barely offers him some sense of relief. He can feel the bead of precum wet on his tip. Keeping his eyes on you, he raises his hand and carefully spits into his palm. He wraps his palm around his cock, slowly twisting his wrist as he jerks himself off.

“Fuck,” He breathes aloud. The relief is immediate, and even though he wishes it was your hand instead of his, he welcomes it.

His wet hand keeps working around himself, and he watches you descend under water. You stay under for a few seconds, long enough to make him miss you. Finally, you come back up, your hands raising to push your drenched hair away from your face.

Steve doesn’t even try to silence the moan that spills from his throat. His eyes follow the way the water cascades from down your face, down your throat, all the way till it falls over your tits. Your mouth is just barely hung open, very clearly so you can inhale fresh air, and water slides over your rosy pink lips.

Steve’s hand moves faster as he keeps his gaze glued to you. His room fills with the sound of his slick hand fisting his cock, his hand stroking himself up and down, up and down.

He whines into the air as you lean backwards again, your chest and torso displayed to him again and he’s so, so fucking grateful.

“Oh fuck, mhmm,” Steve groans, his hand moving faster. The lewd schlick sound of his wet palm stroking his cock surrounds him, it’s so loud he’s almost worried you’d be able to hear it.

His breathing getting heavier as he tracks the way you move. His eyes threaten to squeeze shut but he can’t bring himself to look away from you, even for a second.

You keep moving, slowly swimming from the shallow end to the deep end. Your body moves to effortlessly, so beautifully and his mind begins to wander.

He imagines how you’d look riding him. He imagines how your tits would bounce in clear view of his face, perfect for him to grab and squeeze as you fuck yourself on his cock.

His hand tightens around his shaft, a thin layer of sweat building at his temple. He keeps thinking of how you’d look as he fucked you.

He could fuck you in that same pool – push you against the stone wall, holding your hips in place as he fucks into you. He imagines every pretty sound that would slip past your lips, how you’d whine and beg for more.

“S-Shit. Yeah, just like that, baby,” Steve hisses as he moans mindlessly, his hand pumps his dick faster, rougher. He’s so close already.

He focuses back on you. You’re floating in the shallow end again, and Steve’s gaze is fixated on the way your hand rises out of the water, the tips of your fingers gently gliding across the west skin of your stomach, up the valley of your breasts, carefully circling the skin around your nipple.

His hand is frantic now, stroking himself relentlessly as he stares at you. He’s a moaning, blubbering mess as he watches the way you touch yourself. It’s a show perfectly made for him.

Steve felt that rush of adrenaline coursing in his veins, traveling through his chest and all the way down to his cock. He was right there, and as he watches you emerge from the pool – water soaking your tanned body, droplets sliding down your skin, he’s thrown over the edge.

His stomach tightens, head thrown back as he whines your name into the air. He barely has time to throw his shirt upwards, exposing his stomach as warm ropes of cum spurt from his cock, coating his skin.

His chest heaves, and he keeps his hand moving over his skin, drawing out his orgasm. It takes him a few seconds for the ringing to leave his ears and come back to reality. His hand uncurls itself from around his dick, and he lets it drop against his sticky stomach.

Steve tracks you as you step out of the water and reach for a towel. He’s sad as you cover yourself up, but as his mind catches up with his body, he realizes he should feel guilty. His face burns with shame and he moves to clean himself up.

He grabs a few napkins from his nightstand, wiping his cum off his skin, and tells himself this was a one time thing and it will never happen again.

gone were the days of steve "the hair" harrington, who never let a single soul get close to a single lock on his head, who always insisted that his car was his one true love. in recent years, steve had calmed down a considerable amount. you weren't sure if it had to do with wrangling the freshmen pre-teens he always babysat for, or finally ditching tommy and carol, but regardless, you didn't sit around wondering much.

yet, even with a personality 180, you were somewhat shocked with steve didn't even try to flirt with kacey. back in high school, she was a queen bee type; a gorgeous cheerleader with a perfect body that you knew was steve's type. instead, he ignored her very apparent attempts at getting him to come over, simply sticking to the family video script and sending her off with her newly rented movie.

and yeah, maybe you had been staring at her chest. but you're never going to admit that to steve.

he sighs, chancing a knowing glance your way. you roll your eyes but keep your face stoic, unwilling to budge even the smallest amount. this was an internal battle — a secretive one that you planned to take to your grave, because you didn't expect anyone to understand it. not even steve.

"i get it, okay?" he says, "i know. it's okay. there's nothing wrong with it."

"steve, i seriously don't know what you're talking about."

"you do," he insists, and annoyance begins to poke at your chest, "it's fine, i promise."

"i just liked her shirt. there's really nothing more to it."

he guffaws, and the anxiety building in your stomach continues to mount. "yeah, right. you were totally checking out her boobs."

"just drop it, will you?"

"it's fine!" he exclaims, momentarily taking his hands off the steering wheel to raise them excitedly, "i get it. seriously!"

you feel like you're talking to a parent trying to keep up with modern day trends and you can't tell if you feel more humiliated than you do irritated. if steve could tell, could kacey, too? was everyone in on some secret that you hadn't quite cracked the code on?

"i really don't think you do," you finally grumble, crossing your arms over your chest.

"robin's taught me everything i need to know about... ya know. girls."

you look at him with a grimace. yeah, you were definitely just embarrassed for his sake now.

"haven't you fucked half of hawkins? i didn't think you were asking robin for girl advice now."

"not— no, and robin's the last person i would go to for girl advice," he mutters, "i meant, like. girls. girls. you copy?"

"i really don't."

he huffs dramatically. "girls! girls who like other girls!"

the car goes silent. you'd never actually heard someone else say it before, much less admit it to yourself. you swallow dryly and look down at your lap.

"yeah, i mean..." you shrug and bite your lip. "i don't really know. i don't think i'm like robin, though."

steve furrows his eyebrows in confusion, looking at you. you know he's wordlessly encouraging you to continue, but it takes you a few moments to work up to it. he doesn't push you. instead, he takes his free hand off the gear shift and lightly moves his pinkie over your knee before giving it a soft, tender squeeze.

a quiet comfort. something you and steve have always excelled at.

"i think i like girls and guys," you finally murmur, looking out the passenger's side window. if steve decides to think differently of you now, you decide that you can't see his facial expression when it twists into something of disgust. "it's... confusing. i don't really get it. but i've known it for a long time, i think."

he doesn't say anything for a minute. when you force yourself to look back over at him, your eyes widen in shock.

he's grinning.

"are you serious?"

"um... yes. why would i lie about that?"

"because that's the hottest thing i've ever heard!" he exclaims, and it's not a moment longer before you're reaching over to smack his arm, "i don't even care that you just did that! that's ridiculous, i honestly think i'm getting hard right now—"

"steve!" you shriek, and he laughs, wholeheartedly. you know he's teasing you, and you can finally let out a much-needed breath of relief.

"kidding, kidding," he says, giving your leg another squeeze. you resist the urge to whack him again, even with your stomach fluttering at the small showcase of physical affection. "thank you for telling me, though. i know i kinda forced it out of you, but..."

"thank you for understanding." you say, and you mean it. truthfully. fervently.

"i don't think there's much you could tell me that i wouldn't understand, sweetheart."

you glance back out the window to hide the warmth that begins to bloom over your cheeks, pressing your lips together to resist the girlish smile that automatically appears. you hear steve chuckle beside you, but you ignore it.

for a few minutes, it's quiet, and that's okay with you. you and steve have always enjoyed comfortable lulls in your conversation, when there's no need for either of you to fill the silence with small talk.

but of course, he breaks it.

"so..." he says, "does this mean i still have a chance?"

You're awoken by a loud crack of thunder that makes your shoulders jump, followed by a bright flash of lightning nearly illuminating your entire bedroom. For a second, you see the soft pile of sheets and blankets on Gator's side of the bed — an organized mess where his body once was. You blink your puffy eyes as you adjust to the darkness, ignoring the clutter on your floor that you've yet to clean up, and instead swing your legs over the bed to get up.

When you open your bedroom door, you hear quiet musings coming from the dining room. The undeniable voice of a little girl and your boyfriend, deep in a conversation about god knows what. You rub your eye, despite hearing Gator's scolding in your head about it ("gonna hurt yourself if you keep doin' that", he always says), and pad out to see the duo sitting at the table, each with a fairy Barbie in hand.

"Mama!" June exclaims, shuffling onto her knees. Gator quickly darts his arms out, a rough sound escaping his throat.

"On your tush only," he gently chides, and you smile gently at his kind parenting methods.

"What's all this, then?" you ask, leaning your shoulder against the doorframe. "Having some sort of secret Barbie meet-up?"

"No, mama," June pouts as she sits back down in her chair. "Stormin'."

You hum. "I know, baby. Did you get scared?"

June nods bashfully. You peer over at Gator, who's suddenly extremely interested in Barbie's pastel purple fairy wings.

"Did Gator help you with being a tough girl?" you ask, slowly stepping towards your boyfriend. June nods again, this time pushing some messy hair out of her face.

"Uh-huh. Made me chocolate milk."

"Oh, did he?" you smile, wrapping an arm around Gator's shoulders, pulling him close to your stomach. "What else did he do?"

"Bowling!" June yelps, pointing to the ceiling. You raise an eyebrow and Gator sighs, glancing up at you.

"Told 'er what Dot used to tell me when I got scared of thunderstorms," he mutters, taking his hand into yours. "Just the angels bowling."

Your smile morphs into something softer, and you lean down to press a kiss to the top of his head.

You broach the subject on a Thursday evening, when you and Gator are cuddled on the couch and decompressing from each of your long work days. You're tucked into his side, his arm hung loosely around your shoulders, his hair messy, unkept, and missing its signature Stark County Police Department cap.

"'ve never been to the beach." he mumbles out through a loud, obnoxious yawn. Your head snaps up to look at him.

"What?"

Gator looks at you. "What?"

"You've never been to the beach? Not even a lake or anything?"

He shrugs, leaning his head back against his arm. "Nah, don't think so. You know Roy."

Your heart twists in your chest. The subject of Gator's childhood is a sore subject, one that you've discussed on and off over the months, but it still upsets you to think about.

"Well, I'll plan a beach trip for us on Saturday," you say softly, palm firm over his chest, "Does that sound alright?"

Gator, in typical fashion, shows neutral enthusiasm.

"Whatever y'want, baby," he murmurs as he reaches down to twine his fingers with yours. "Gonna be hot, though?"

You try not to snort.

"I'll bring an umbrella."

You hate to admit that you're a little nervous about your beach trip with Gator.

Not because you're worried about his reaction or anything like that, but because you want him to have a good time. You try not to pressure yourself into giving Gator the experiences he should've had as a child, but it's hard. Admittedly, it's hard to love someone so deeply (even when he doesn't know it yet) and want him to know what true, unadulterated happiness is.

When you arrive at the beach, you wonder if you've gone a bit overboard. You've packed fluffy towels and a cooler full of snacks and homemade sandwiches and fresh watermelon and beer (wine for you, because Gator's taste in beer might as well be piss). A large, shady umbrella as promised, a beach tent in case he gets too warm, two bottles of sunscreen, and a disposable camera to capture Gator's first-ever trip to the beach.

After setting up on towels, you each tuck yourselves underneath the welcomed shadow of the umbrella; you on your stomach and Gator criss-cross-applesauce. With his cap on backwards and his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses, you crane your neck to look at him.

"So this is the beach, huh?" he says, balancing his elbows on his knees.

"Mhm."

"Whaddya do while you're here?"

You smile gently. "Well, you usually go in the water. Swim, play around. Dry off in the sun. Hang out and relax, have fun. That kind of thing."

Gator hums. You can tell he's already antsy by the way he's drumming his fingers against his bare thigh. You flip onto your back and lean against your elbows.

"You wanna go in?" you ask. Gator juts his chin in the direction of the water. You nod with a smirk, as if to say where else?

"Yeah, sure, if y'wanna."

You nod your head again and stand to shimmy your shorts off, revealing the entirety of your bathing suit to your boyfriend. He doesn't say anything, but you can feel his gaze locked in from behind you. You turn around, and sure enough, his eyes are glued to your bottom half.

"What? Your ass looks good in that lil thing." he says, and you roll your eyes, grabbing his hand and pulling him towards the water. He looks like a nervous child, the way he approaches the lake, peering down at the rocky shore like it's gonna bite him.

"C'mon," you encourage, already ankle deep. He follows, albeit hesitantly. "I'll let you touch my ass when we're in."

That puts some hustle in his movements.

Even if he's audibly groaning about how cold the water is.

(Which, if you're being honest, he's right about.)

Finally, you make it about waist-deep, and you shove your sunglasses into your hair as you tread water, grinning at your boyfriend's grumpy expression.

"'s not so bad, is it, you big grump?"

Gator shrugs his shoulders as he wades towards you, then locks an arm around your waist. You accept it graciously since it means you no longer have to doggy-paddle your way through the water; instead, just wrapping your legs around his hips.

"Not a grump," he mumbles, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "'s a pretty naughty position for being in public, ain't it?"

"No one can see us, genius."

"Exactly." Gator smirks.

You flick his shoulder. He pinches your side.

Naturally, his palms find your ass cheeks just as easily as your arms wrap around his neck, playing with the ends of his hair.

"Are you having an alright day?" you ask.

"'Course I am. I'm with my girl."

You try not to let your entire body warm at his response. "Yeah, but you hate the summer, Gator."

He shakes his head. "I don't. 'm just a dick, and I complain a lot. We both know it. I'm tryin' to be better, though, and this whole day you planned means a lot to me. Know you did it 'cos you want me to experience shit I missed out on as a kid."

You press a small kiss to his throat as you tuck your face into the soft skin of his neck. Gator knows you're hiding the bashful expression on your face, but he doesn't see the point in forcing you to look at him.

You nibble on your bottom lip as you glance down at your folder, realizing you've barely made a dent in the papers. With a sigh, you clip them back together and stuff them neatly in the folder's pocket, then fold it closed. You suppose you'll either stay an hour late or get some work done at home tonight — whichever option proves to be less distracting by one Coach Steve.

When you look back up, it looks like a free-for-all, what with your small collective of kids running in circles and the occasional one crying out, "tag, you're it!". You watch as Steve's shoulders shake with a laugh, and you only realize then that he's walking towards where you're sitting on the bleachers. With a quirked brow, you point your pen to the lunacy in front of you.

"Is this gym class?" you ask teasingly.

"This?" he repeats with an equally playful expression, "This is how you're gonna get nap time in when you take these kiddos back in. 30 minutes of structured gym class, 15 of tag."

You hum approvingly, nodding your head as Steve plops down next to you on the bench.

"Not too shabby for a newbie."

"Psh," Steve mocks, turning his head to look at you. Your eyes stay forward, continuing to watch the batch of energetic little ones. "I asked around about you, you know. Heard you've only been here a year longer than me."

That makes you face him, your eyebrows furrowed in curiosity. "Why are you asking around about me, Harrington? Scared I'm gonna take your coaching job?"

Steve laughs, boyish and sweet, and your stomach flips.

"Nah, I feel pretty confident about keeping this gig," he replies easily. "I just wanted to know about the only other young teacher who works here."

You nod slowly. "And what'd you find out? Anything good?"

He shrugs his shoulders, "Well, like I said, you haven't been here that much longer than me. You went to Indiana State. You're not from Hawkins, though. Illinois, I heard?"

"Michigan, but close," you murmur, crossing your legs. "C'mon, Harrington, give me something good."

Steve chuckles lowly at that.

"You're single." He points at your left hand, which is notably missing an engagement ring or wedding band.

"I could be dating someone," you say. "Or maybe I don't wear my rings at school."

"You could."

But then you're staring at each other, and Steve's flashing you this giddy smirk that almost looks like he's holding in a laugh, and you can't help it when a grin crosses your own face.

"But I'm not," you finally tack on, wiggling your fingers in front of his face. "Oh!" you reach forward delicately, your pointer finger gently swooping onto the fabric of Steve's polo, and allow a ladybug to crawl onto your nail. Steve's eyebrows furrow as he watches you transfer the ladybug to the palm of your other hand.

"You had a ladybug on your shoulder." you explain, glancing up to smile at him. You wait for it to fly away, but it doesn't — it just keeps crawling over the ridges of your knuckles and then back over your fingers.

"Ladybugs are supposed to be good luck. You ever heard that before?" Steve asks, catching your eye. You nod.

"Mhm. My grandma always said that growing up."

"Do you believe it?"

You peer back up at Steve through your lashes, then motion for him to hold his hand out. He does. Slowly, carefully, you let the ladybug crawl into his own palm, and watch as it explores his skin.

"Yeah, Steve," you murmur, a small smile on your lips. You stand from the bleachers and dust the back of your skirt off. "I believe it."

Steve's... flirty. You don't know if he's flirty with all the counselors, because you honestly don't spend much time outside your tiny bubble of second grade girls. When you do socialize with the other counselors your age, it's either with Steve one-on-one, or in a group setting with Eddie and Robin, both of which are Steve's friends from home.

You don't mind the flirting. Not at all. You like it, really — you like it a lot, if you're being truthful. You just don't know what to make of it.

And you especially don't know what to make of you and Steve sitting crosslegged in the middle of his cabin, each with a can of beer perched in front of the other, while you exchange dirty stories because you're a bit too buzzed to feel embarrassed about it right now.

Steve's just finished recounting the time he lost his virginity — he was 15, it was after a high school dance, he came within 5 minutes of being inside her — and you're wiping tears away from the creases of your eyes, laughter still bubbling away at your mouth.

"Yeah, yeah," Steve rolls his eyes. He finishes off his beer and crushes the can, then leans over to grab another one. You blink as you watch his shirt ride up slightly, revealing a sliver of his stomach. Clearing your throat, you occupy yourself with your own drink. "Alright, your turn. Hit me with something good."

"I honestly think I've run out of embarrassing sex stories, Harrington. A girl can only have so many."

"Bullshit," he mocks, cracking the new can open, "Fine. Tell me a hot one then."

Your stomach flips, but you try to keep cool.

"A hot one?"

"Yeah, a hot one," Steve echos as he sets his beer down in front of him. "Or do you not have any of those, either?"

"I have hot sex stories. I just... I don't know which one to tell you."

You're not lying. Just like any other sexually active person, you've had your fair share of lackluster hookups, and you've also had some really, really good ones, too. Ones that you refer back to when you need something to get off to and your hands are helplessly wandering your body.

Steve thinks for a moment, and you suddenly feel self-conscious beneath his slightly squinted gaze. You wonder if he's analyzing you, but you don't have much more time to contemplate his actions before his lips are moving again.

"Tell me about a time you hooked up with someone and it was hot for you, not just for them."

Your throat bobs with a swallow. A memory immediately floats to mind. Steve knows instantly and he smirks, waiting for you to begin.

Shuffling onto your knees, you sit back on your ankles, and you feel Steve's eyes glued to you. You take a deep breath, finish off your beer, and toss the empty can to him.

"Atta girl." he grins.

"A few summers ago, there was this guy I hooked up with at a party. I thought it was gonna be, like... I don't know, a chill, normal thing, I wasn't really looking for anything, we just ended up talking and had a connection and we made out and he asked if I wanted to find a bedroom and— yeah, whatever, the details don't matter," you sigh, wringing your hands together nervously in your lap. You peer up at Steve, who doesn't say a word, so you continue. "Anyway... he, um. He taught me about edging. And we did that for, like... hours."

Steve's eyebrows shoot up his forehead. "Hours?"

You nod.

"Just you? Or him too?"

"I mean, he was only edging me, but he didn't come the entire time either."

"At all?"

You shake your head, "No, we both came at the end, but it had been... I don't know, I think it was maybe 3 a.m. when we finished."

Steve whistles lowly. Your face warms.

"So what'd he do?" he asks, leaning back on his elbows. "Why was it so hot for you?"

You think for a moment. You've never really considered it — you've only just regarded it as one of the sexier nights of your life.

"I think I liked that he was in control of my orgasm," you eventually reply, nibbling on your bottom lip. You tilt your head, trying to ignore the incessant throbbing at your core. "He talked to me a lot. Praised me. Told me I was good for letting him play with me for so long."

Steve swallows thickly. "And how did he?"

"Hm?" You ask, feeling your pussy pulsate beneath your sweatshorts. "How did he what?"

"How did he play with you?"

In the back of your hazy, lust drunk mind, you're aware enough to know that this is the crossing point — the one that declares you and Steve as no longer platonic, flirty friends. You're not sure where it puts you two, but you're horny and tipsy enough not to care.

"I told him what I like," you breathe, and Steve's head ducks back, revealing the long column of his throat. "I like... small, tight circles on my clit. Two fingers inside of me, pushing up and grinding against my g-spot. And when I wanna come, I like them both."

"Fuck," Steve groans. You watch as his hand comes down to slowly palm at the erection straining in his shorts, and you lick your lips. His eyes flutter shut when he squeezes himself, and he's so lost in the feeling of relieving some of his tension that he doesn't even hear you as you crawl over the creaky wooden floors.

His eyelids only part when you gently slide over top his thighs, dragging your ass against the most sensitive and desperate part of him. The groan that falls from his mouth makes you shudder.

"I want you to make me come like that," you murmur, eyes locked on his. Steve's hands find your hips, intent on keeping you in your spot, almost as if he'll die if you move. "Can you do that?"

The first time Gator laid eyes on you was in middle school. He’d been sent to the principal’s office for mouthing off to his history teacher, who’d tried to tell him that the Tillmans weren’t actually one of the historical families of the region—patently false, according to his daddy—when he saw you walking the opposite direction.

You were holding your books tight to your chest, arms crossed over them in an X, looking exactly like a dream—a pink pair of cowboy boots, a pink sweater to match, and a pair of blue jeans. He stopped dead in his tracks, so abruptly that his teacher bumped into him as she was escorting him to the main office.

“Mr. Tillman—!” she exclaimed, not quite meaning to, but it caught your attention, and you glanced over as you passed.

“Hi,” Gator said to you as you looked. You slowed for a moment, readying your hall pass to show the teacher, but she wasn’t paying you any mind.

“Mr. Tillman, let’s move,” she said, but Gator didn’t budge. He was looking at you.

You looked nervously from Gator to the teacher, then back at him. “Hi,” you replied, and from that moment on, Gator only had eyes for you.

&&

You didn’t have any classes together, but everywhere he went, Gator looked for you. He saw you occasionally in the halls between classes, waving at you, and you usually waved back if you saw him. Every single bit of attention you gave him was a victory. It took weeks for the two of you to be in the same place at the same time, but finally—finally, it happened.

He was back in the principal’s office (mouthing off, different teacher), when in you walked, pink cowboy boots and all. When you saw him, he nearly shot out of his seat to come talk to you, but he didn’t. He knew from everything his daddy had ever taught him about women—well, girls—that he had to play it cool. So he watched as you spoke to the lady at the front desk, and then, holy shit, she directed you to take a seat near him.

Cool. Just be cool.

You rounded the desk, stopping for a barely perceptible moment when you saw someone was already over there, but you moved to sit down anyway, leaving one seat between you.

Gator looked over at you when you sat. You looked back and smiled.

“Hi,” he said, right away, forgetting immediately to be cool. “I’m Gator.”

You furrowed your brow. “Is that like a nickname?”

“No,” Gator said. “It’s my real name.” He was used to this, and every time someone new laughed at his name, he wished more and more that it wasn’t.

“That’s cool,” you said. “Did you know alligators’ eyes glow in the dark?”

Gator had been ready to tell you that he did, in fact, know whatever you were about to say, because usually people just hit him with “Alligators can’t live in salt water like crocodiles” or “Alligators were around when the dinosaurs were,” which he had known for years. But he didn’t know about their eyes.

“Wait, really?” he asked.

“Yeah!” you said. “Well, kind of. They don’t glow on their own, but if you shine a light on them they shine back at you.”

“Next time I see an alligator, I’ll try it,” he said, and you laughed. “Oh, hey—what’s your name?”

As you were about to reply, the receptionist you’d spoken to when you arrived called out a name and you looked over, then back at Gator.

“That!” you chirped, giggling, and hopped up out of your seat. You took a few steps away, then turned and waved to him. “Bye, Gator.” When you smiled at him, your dimples made an appearance, and he very nearly swooned where he sat.

“Mr. Tillman,” came a voice from behind him. The principal was ready for him now. 

&&

Gator didn’t usually consider girls his friends—according to his daddy they were for wifing and making babies—but you were the exception to the rule. As the years passed, you two ended up spending more and more time together, even sharing some classes in high school. He thanked his lucky stars that he was in chemistry and later biology in senior year with you, since science was your favorite subject as a whole and he just didn’t have a head for things like that. You’d sit together in the library, him flirting and you totally oblivious while you showed him how to balance a chemical equation or show him a mnemonic device to remember the organelles in a cell.

Today, you were going over the process of mitosis.

“So, one of the biggest parts of mitosis is when the DNA replicates,” you said. “Remember what does that?”

“Yeah,” Gator said absently from across the table, doodling in the margin of his notebook. “Mitosis. Cell division.”

“Right!” you said, trying to encourage him to keep talking, since that wasn’t what you asked. He only preened for a minute before returning to his drawing.

You always cut him a lot of slack, but it did bother you when he did this. “And what replicates the DNA?” you prompted, and he shrugged.

“An enzyme, I think?”

“Gator,” you implored; even though he was right, he was so nonchalant about it. You wished that he would take school just a pinch more seriously. “How will you get a high enough grade on the midterm if you aren’t gonna actually study?”

“I don’t need to pass biology,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I’m gonna work for my dad.”

You scoffed. “Police officers still need to be educated.”

“Police officers need ta know about mitosis?” he asked. “Says who?”

You rolled your eyes. “You need at least a high school diploma. Which you won’t get if you don’t pass the midterm and the final.”

“Hey,” he said putting down his pen. “Look, I know what does it, ok?”

You scowled at him. “Tell me.”

“DNA helicase. It pulls the DNA apart so it can be copied.”

You grinned then, wide and bright. “Yes! See what happens when you apply yourself?” Spoken like the class president and valedictorian-to-be you were.

“Ya know…” Gator said, voice dropping a bit.

“Hm?” you replied, already checking your notes for the next topic to go over with him.

“If I were an enzyme, I’d wanna be DNA helicase.” He waited for you to look up at him, questioningly, so he could tell you why. “So I could unzip your genes.”

You leveled him with a stern look, but slowly, gradually as he wiggled his eyebrows, you laughed, and his mischievous smile grew.

“You’re such an ass,” you said, but he only chuckled in response.

“Someday,” he said. “Someday you’ll see what a catch I am.”

“Pass biology first, and then if we’re both not married by 40, I’m yours,” you joked back.

“I’m holding you to that,” Gator said, but you didn’t reply, instead turning your textbook around to go over a diagram with him.

&&

After graduation, Gator did exactly what he said he was going to do and started to work for his daddy in the sheriff’s department, Roy pulling strings to allow it.

You went away to college.

For the first couple weeks, you kept in touch pretty regularly, texting or chatting in Instagram DMs, because he pretty much replied to every single story post you made. He’d send you gym selfies, trying not to read too much into it when you sent him back heart-eye or sweating emojis. No matter that he’d been vying for your affections unsuccessfully since the 7th grade—you thought of him as a friend and he never crossed the line, nor did you ever tell him

to stop flirting. It just felt like your normal dynamic and had been for 6 years.

Both of you had dated other people—well, you’d dated. Gator had hooked up and would come up with myriad reasons why he never called any of those girls back, but the actual reason was they simply weren’t you. It wasn’t like he wasn’t trying, it was just that most of the girls he met from Lehigh didn’t like his family, and the girls he met from out of town laughed at his name. It was a no-go from the outset.

Your longest run had been with a guy named Cody, one of Gator’s circle in high school and now a fellow member of the police force. You’d broken up with him the summer after high school, telling him that it would be easier to do it now, rather than spend the whole summer just waiting for it to happen in August.

Because that was the whole of it, really. You were considerate, kind, funny without being mean, everything Gator wasn’t. You were soft and sweet, and it wasn’t that Gator wanted to ruin that, or whatever the cliche was in books or movies, the urge to corrupt something pure. No—he just wanted a taste of that compassion for himself. He wanted to know what it felt like to be so utterly cared for. His mama had left, Nadine had left, and his daddy wasn’t the type to show Gator any love but the tough kind.

Maybe that was fucked up of him—God knows you’d told him enough times he should see a therapist—but having a girlfriend like you could help him see his own self-worth. Of that, he was sure. You’d told him many times that he was enough, that what his father said about him wasn’t all true, but if that was the case why was it so hard to find anyone besides you who seemed to genuinely care for him? Even the girls he’d slept with—once he got them molly or even just weed from the evidence lockup, they stopped calling. Gator was of no use to anyone until they needed something from him, and once they got it, he was nothing again.

Except for you. You were the only friend he’d ever had that was unconditional. When he’d gotten too drunk at a bonfire out in the woods at 16, and you were the only one he knew with a learner’s permit, you came and got him, even though you weren’t supposed to drive alone and never at night. You hadn’t asked for anything in return, just gave him a kiss on the forehead and a bottle of water when he got into your car.

Or the time he’d failed his senior English final and, instead of notifying Roy, he asked you to do something, anything, and you used your position as the class president to talk to the teacher, secure a one-week extension for him to re-take the test, and tutor him before the grades were finalized and turned in. He’d scraped by with a C, but at least it wasn’t an F. Again, you’d done it for him in exchange for nothing, and when he asked why, you simply said “Because that’s what friends do, Gator.”

You were a cotton candy-wrapped dream in pink cowboy boots, sweet to look at and even sweeter to talk to, everything he could want.

So when you came back from your first semester at college, he’d wanted nothing more than to pick you up in his truck, take you for a night drive, and tell you everything. How much you meant to him, how long he’d felt like that, how sweet you were to him and how goddamn sweet he was on you.

But when he’d texted you, asking if you were free to grab something to eat and catch up, you replied almost an hour later. Apologizing first, of course, then explaining that your parents had surprised you with an early Christmas present—a trip to New York City to go museum hopping and see the giant tree in Rockefeller Center. You’d be gone for almost the whole break and heading right back to school after. But you’d totally catch up in the spring! And you had so much you wanted to talk to him about. He’d suggested texting, but you said no. It had to be in person.

He agreed, only because what he wanted to say to you had to be in person just the same.

&&

As soon as the weather changed, Gator was counting the days. Life in the force wasn’t nearly as glamorous as Roy made it seem, and Gator, despite being the sheriff’s son, had to learn the hard lesson that nepotism wasn’t his daddy’s way. He started from the ground up, but he worked hard as hell to prove himself—harder than the other deputies, he thought—because he had everything to prove and everything to lose.

But when spring arrived, Gator had you to look forward to. And when you’d texted him the time your flight was getting in, that you expected to be home late that evening, he made sure that he finished all his paperwork for the day and that he’d be able to take the afternoon highway patrol rather than the night one that he normally had.

Cody hadn’t wanted to switch shifts, but Roy was apparently feeling particularly generous that day, and gave Gator a rare break, letting the two of them switch.

The cruiser’s engine hummed as Gator idled in the shade of some trees off the road, waiting for someone to do something stupid in front of him. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, checking the clock on the dash for the fifth time in at least 5 minutes. 3:07.

For fuck’s sake, last time he’d looked it’d been 3:05, just switching to 3:06.

The afternoon passed slowly, but he handed out a few tickets, snagged some more contraband for the evidence locker, and was heading back to the ranch when his phone ding!ed in his pocket. He glanced at it and smiled, just a little—you’d sent a fullbody selfie from the airport, bags behind you and phone held high, angled just right so he could see you were still wearing your cowboy boots—still pink. It made him chuckle a little. Some things really never fuckin’ change.

He spent the rest of the evening hyping himself up for what he was about to do, which consisted of blasting metal music in his room, hitting his vape too many times, and a pep talk (or three) in the mirror. He was a winner. A winner.

&&

hey gate!! sorry its so late… i just walked in the door. did you still want to meet up?

Gator wouldn’t say he’d been staring at his phone, but he wouldn’t not say that either. The entire night, his body had been buzzing with anticipation for you to let him know you were home, and when you finally texted, he had responded to the affirmative in barely a minute flat. He was tromping down the stairs in his joggers and t-shirt, grabbing his Stark County Sheriff ball cap and jamming it onto his head, just because…you’d finished a whole year of college. All he’d done was arrest a couple of shoplifters, give out speeding tickets, and a whole lot of paperwork. He wanted something to show off to you, to feel proud of. You were an undergrad, pursuing a dream. He was a deputy sheriff, and that had to count for something.

The drive to your house wasn’t a short one, but with the way Gator drove, it was. He pulled into the end of your driveway after only 10 minutes, knowing full well that you probably shouldn’t have expected him for at least 25. He parked, cut the engine, stepped out of the car, and spun his keyring around his index finger a few times before pocketing it.

Your house was dark, but he could see the lights in the basement were on—that was where you’d always hung out, where you’d done homework or watched movies when you were younger, the door at the top of the stairs fully open always, because your parents didn’t trust him. (Fair enough, he’d always kind of thought, but you kept him well enough at arm’s length that he wouldn’t have tried anything. You barely ever responded to his blatant come-ons anyway.)

He hopped up onto the porch, just one step, the wood creaking a little as he did so, jingling his keys nervously in his pocket. He’d stared down a guy who’d been robbing a liquor store once, holding a gun on him, and in that moment he hadn’t even felt as nervous as he did right now. Taking a deep breath, he lifted his hand to knock, but before he did, the heavy front door opened, leaving just a screen door between you.

“Gate!” you whispered, but loud enough to basically be regular speech. “Hi! My parents are getting ready for bed, we have to be quiet.” You reached to the door handle, unlocking it from the inside and letting him step in. Before he was even through the threshold, still holding the screen door open with one arm, you had glommed on to him, hugging him tight. He laughed a little, wrapping his free arm around you and ushering you back, effortlessly lifting you off your feet and taking a step further into the house so he could let the door swing shut.

“Wow, ok,” you said, once you had your footing again. “I guess all those pictures from the gym weren’t just for show.”

“Thought I was just sendin’ ya thirst traps for no reason?”

“I’m sure you had a reason,” you said, eyes flashing with a bit of the mischief usually reflected in Gator’s own eyes. “Deputy.”

“Ah, ok, I see now. Y’like a man in uniform.”

“Yep,” you replied easily—your banter with Gator was always easy, always playful, always enjoyable. “Although, pretty sure the only official thing you’re wearing right now is that hat, and even that’s pushin’ it a bit.” You eyed his sweatpants and tennis shoes, which he toed off and left beside the door.

“Yeah, well,” Gator said. “I’m off duty right now. I can swing back around tomorrow if you wanna see it that bad.”

Your eyes crinkled as you smiled, then turned and led Gator to the kitchen, stopping at the fridge. “Thirsty?”

“You got anything good?” he asked, watching as you pulled open the refrigerator door. “Pop or water,” you said, before smirking at him over your shoulder. “Got some beer for the cookout my parents are having for Memorial Day. They won’t miss it. Unless you’re gonna bust me for underage drinking.”

“Pretty hypocritical for me ta bust ya if I’m doin’ it too,” he said, and you just laughed, closing the door and gesturing to the basement door with your chin.

“It’s in the garage, I’ll grab it. Head on down.” You opened the door opposite the one that led to the basement, and while Gator descended the steps he heard you clinking around in the other, larger refrigerator your parents kept outdoors.

He alighted the stairs, glancing around, but the basement looked exactly the same as it had the last time he’d been down here, during your high school graduation party (or really, the afterparty, which was just for your closest circle of friends: Gator, Cody, and a few other kids from your science clubs. He never really fit in with them, but you kept him around anyway).

The pile of old board games was in the exact same spot, the little story that he’d tried to create with them still mostly the same, too: Hi-Ho Cherry-O, Don’t Wake Daddy, Guess Who?, Clue, Sorry!, Trouble. He chuckled that Battleship had been added to the stack, wondering how he could incorporate that into the narrative, when the stairs behind him groaned as you started to come down, too, bumping the door closed behind you.

You’d put on a pink hoodie over your tank top, hood up, little wisps of your hair peeking out on either side of your face. He smiled at the sight, turning away so you wouldn’t see how fucking enamored of you he still was even after you hadn’t actually seen other for a year.

“Here you go!” you said, proffering him one of the four beer bottles you’d procured, stepping around him to sink into the couch, plunking two beers down onto the coffee table and trying to twist the cap off the one you still held, hissing when it didn’t budge.

“Damn it,” you said, readying yourself to stand up again. “Need a bottle opener.”

“I got one,” Gator said, stepping up and over the back of the couch, lowering himself to sit with his legs criss-crossed as he removed his keys from his pocket. He had a bottle opener on a keychain, and popped the beer he held open, trading it with you for the one you held, then opened that one too. He was halfway to taking a swig before he realized you were holding your bottle out for him

to tap his against. He did so.

“What’re we toastin’ to?” he asked.

You lifted the bottle to your mouth, letting it rest against your lower lip, thinking. He tried not to notice the way the glass bulbed your plump lip around it, and failed miserably.

“How about…new beginnings,” you suggested.

“New beginnin's?” he repeated. “Damn, I figured you’d say some shit like ‘old friends’ or ‘underage drinkin’.’”

You giggled, sipping the beer. “Nah, this one’s better.”

He took a sip too, turning to face you a bit on the couch, moving one leg so his foot was on the floor now. “So how’s college treatin’ ya?”

You shrugged, taking another sip. “It’s… fine. I was taking mostly AP classes in high school, so it doesn’t really feel that different to me. But I’m sure once I get to my higher-level classes, it’ll give me a challenge.”

Gator nodded—he’d been in the regular version of classes, and you’d helped him pass even though your own schedule was that much more packed with extracurriculars and homework. “Sounds like you’ll be teachin’ the classes soon enough.”

You laughed and shook your head. “I doubt that. Not sure if teaching is for me, really.”

“Why not?” Gator asked. “You’re pretty damn good at it. Taught me plenty.”

You gave him a small smile, humble, then shrugged. “You were just easy to teach. Hung on my every word. Still gave me a hard time though.”

“Well, when ya got a teacher that looks like

you,” he said, pressing his luck a little, just to flirt with you like old times. He hummed the melody of “Hot For Teacher,” and you rolled your eyes. “What? Van Halen may have had a point with that one.”

“Shut up, Gate,” you said, sipping your beer again, but there was no bite in it, and you settled into a comfortable silence. Eventually, you kicked your bare feet up to rest them on the edge of the low coffee table.

“So, do you like being a cop?” you asked, and he shrugged before answering.

“Not really sure what else I could do around here,” he said, taking off his hat, tossing it to the coffee table.

“That’s not true,” you said. “You’re smart, Gate, don’t…let your dad make you feel like you’re not.”

And coming from anyone else, that would have had him heated, had him seeing red—but you knew most of the details he never told anyone else, the late night texts about the fight he had with his old man, the way Roy would belittle him almost constantly.

“Yeah, I know.” He sighed and chugged the rest of his beer, grabbing for a second one; it opened with a soft hiss. “I mean—as far as the job, I like it, I guess. Ain’t really even been a year, yet, still kinda learnin’ the ropes.” His father had, of course, massaged the rules to allow Gator to be an officer right out of high school because he ran the whole county how he saw fit—but a lot of the time, Gator felt in over his head.

“Well, if you like it, you’ll get the hang of it.” You paused, sipping your beer, then put the bottle down on the coffee table. “Gator, I—” you began, at the same time he started talking too. 

“Listen, there’s—”

You laughed softly, gesturing to him to continue. “Go ahead.”

“Ladies first,” Gator insisted, and you smiled a little to yourself. Despite his upbringing, despite the way Roy taught Gator to “respect” women, he did his best most of the time.

“So…While I was at school there was this guy,” you said, and Gator’s hand squeezed so hard on his beer bottle that the condensation on it made it slip just a little in his grip.

“Uh huh,” Gator intoned, wondering if he could get away with zoning out during this conversation. Everything he had wanted to tell you was going right out the window.

“He was in like, most of my classes, cute, funny, we hit it off right away,” you continued, lowering your hood, so he could see your face clearly. “He wanted to be an archaeologist.”

“Sounds boring.”

You only smiled a little, ignoring Gator’s obvious goad and continued. “He was like…the perfect boyfriend. He called me when he said he was gonna, he brought me snacks that he knew I liked if I was studying.”

“So what, ya gonna marry him?” Gator asked, not quite managing to keep the edge from his voice.

“Well that’s the thing, right?” you said, and Gator’s actually felt his chest clench, like maybe the thing you meant was that yes, he was an ideal partner and you were in fact looking to get serious at 19 years old. “On paper he would be a great guy to marry someday.”

“I know lots’a guys who look good on paper,” Gator said. “Half’a the guys I book at the station are shitbirds and they all got degrees or office jobs. ‘N they fuckin’ suck.”

“You’re right,” you said, huffing a little sigh through your nose. “Because when I got back from New York? Wow.”

Gator frowned, his thumb working at the rim of his beer bottle. “What happened?”

“He acted like—like I blew him off the entire time I was there. Like there’s not a huge time difference? He basically told me that any time I didn’t text him back fast enough, he just kept thinking I was with another guy or—or partying in a club or something. I told him—”

“You were with your parents,” Gator said, and you held out both hands toward him like he was the only person who’d understood the point.

“Thank you! Yes! That’s what I said, I was like, ‘Dude, I was on vacation with my mom and dad.’ But he didn’t want to hear it so he dumped me.”

Gator inhaled slowly. He sipped his beer. “Want me to go kick his ass? I’ll do it.”

You looked like you were considering it, honestly, head tilted a little to one side. But then you shook your head.

“No. That’s not why I told you all that, though I do appreciate it. I, um… I should have led with something else,” you said.

“Like what?” Gator said, sipping his beer and wondering if you were going to want a second one or if he could just have all three to try and feel better about being rejected before he even told you shit.

“That as charming as he was at first, despite what he turned into, he…wasn’t really what I was looking for, you know?”

Gator stilled, staring at that third unopened bottle of beer. “Uh huh.”

“I wanted someone who like, really understood me. Who treated me the way I always wanted to be treated, just because he knew me that well.” You waited for him to turn to you, but he didn’t. “I was looking for someone a little closer to home,” you said, finally, your voice leading him just like it had in school, toward the answer he was looking for. When he finally shifted his gaze to you, you had a small smirk on your face. “You.”

“Get the fuck outta here,” Gator said, but he couldn’t help the genuine smile that rose to his lips. “You fuckin’ with me?”

You laughed out loud. “Yeah, Gator,” you said. “I invited you over as soon as I got home from the airport, lookin’ like a mess, and told you that dating an absolute asshole at school made me realize I liked you the whole time, just to screw with you.”

He looked at you for a long moment, then looked away, polishing off the second beer, settling his gaze on the Trouble box, which amusing, he had to admit. He felt like he was in deep but in the best way.

You gave him longer than he should have needed, but he still hesitated when you spoke again.

“Gate? Say something,” you said. “If you don’t feel the same way that’s…ok. I don’t expect you to, I know we joke around about it a lot.”

“Nah,” Gator said, putting his empty bottle beside the first one on the table. “Nah, it ain't been jokin'.”

You straightened up, giving him your rapt attention.

Gator opened his mouth, then closed it. He opened it again, then laughed, covering his face with both hands before looking up at you. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, I been holdin’ a candle for you for years, and you liked me too?”

“Gator,” you said, voice soft as silk. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I been saying shit for years,” he said, leaning back against the couch cushions. “And I’m supposed to be the dumb one.”

You bit your lip, scooching yourself a little closer to him on the couch. “Guess it was me the whole time.”

“Damn right it was,” he said, turning his head to look at you sideways where it rested against the back of the sofa. “Some valedictorian you were.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you said. “I’m just good at books, not boys.”

Gator just looked at you for a moment, a long one, his expression softening each second that slipped past. “C’mere,” he said, reaching out to loop his arm around your back, pulling you closer, into his side. You let yourself be swept up easily, your front against him as his other hand came up to cup your face. Without another word, he leaned up at the same moment he guided your face down toward his, and then your lips met in a soft, chaste, first kiss.

He felt you smile against his mouth and then pull away. Opening his eyes, he took in your sweet face, the half-smile gracing your lips, the way you looked at him the way you always had: With affection, care. There was something else there too, something with a little edge to it, but he couldn’t define it, didn’t care to. He was currently on cloud fuckin’ 9 after kissing you.

“Sweet,” he said, his hand still on your cheek. He swiped his thumb over your upper lip and you kissed the pad of it softly. “Sweet girl. What am I gonna do with you?” he mused.

“I have a few ideas,” you said, and the hard edge in your eyes shifted closer to the forefront.

“What’s that?” he asked, swiping his thumb back the other way. Before he could, you parted your lips and flitted your tongue out against his finger, tipping your chin up and taking his thumb into your mouth, sucking it, eyes closed.

Gator’s mouth dropped open—he had not expected that from you. Your hand moved to his wrist, holding his hand there as you sucked at him, before pulling his thumb out of your mouth and kissing down his palm to his wrist, finally opening your eyes to look at him again.

“Should I show you, or should I tell you?” you asked, and Gator had never heard you speak in that voice before, a bit of a lower register, husky and—God fuckin’ help him—hot, the weight of it going straight to his dick.

“Sh-show me,” Gator said, and you smirked, this time drawing his first two fingers into your mouth, tongue laving over them, between them, around them, bobbing your head just a little on them like you were sucking them off, and he felt so, so weak.

He’d never been in this position before—the one not taking the lead—but he didn’t think he hated it. In his imaginings, in his fantasies, you’d been that cotton candy dream girl—but here, you were sucking his goddamn fingers and, fuck, climbing onto his lap.

You straddled Gator, looking down at him. “This ok?” you asked, before moving to do anything else. 

“Fuck yeah, it’s ok,” Gator replied, meeting you halfway in a kiss that was almost the exact opposite of your first one: Tongues and a little bit of teeth—yours closing over his lower lip to bite him, tug at it, pulling a groan from his chest as you slotted your hips directly over his cock, already starting to chub up beneath you.

You kissed him hard, rolling your hips against him before straightening up and tugging off your hoodie. He stared up at you, dumbfounded—he had never felt this out of his element with a woman before, and he’d lost his virginity at the ripe age of 14 to someone way too old for him.

His hands came up to rest on your hips, his lips chasing yours now that you’d taken off the jacket, and you obliged him, kissing him rough and with abandon, tongues sliding together, first you deepening the kiss, then him, your hands clasping together at the nape of his neck. He sighed your name and you sighed his right back as you braced your knees on either side of him, grinding your still-clothed cunt against the ridge of his cock, now much, much stiffer than it had been previously.

“Do you,” Gator began, swallowing thickly before trying again. “Do you have anyth-thing?”

“Uh huh,” you replied absently, exhaling against his lips, and with one final nip at his lower lip, you pulled away, sliding backward off of him. He watched you go, shaking his head a little just to try and clear his thoughts, covering his face with both hands to ground himself, because you weren’t what he’d expected at all and he thought maybe, just maybe, he was a little bit in over his head.

When he lowered his hands, he watched you kneeling by the stack of board games. You had Trouble open and were withdrawing a handful of condoms, picking one—no, two, he saw—out of your palm and letting the others fall back into the game box. You closed the lid and shoved it back in its place.

“You keep rubbers in there?” he asked.

“In Trouble, yeah,” you said, smirking like it was clever. “In high school I had to hide them for me and Cody,” you continued, and Gator quirked an eyebrow. “Seemed like the...right place for them.” You lowered your face, half amused and half embarrassed.

“Ain’t bad,” Gator said, cutting you some slack, “Twister’s a good option too.” He lifted his face to hold eye contact with you as you walked back over, climbing back on top of him. His eyes didn’t leave yours as you put the condoms on the arm of the couch, running your hands over his hair, bouncing a little in his lap.

“Two?” he asked.

“Two. Just in case you can keep up,” you said.

He groaned into your mouth as you kissed him again and again, breaking apart from him only to tug off his t-shirt and then your tank top, diving right back in, your nose nudging his as you took his lips with yours.

Gator’s hands slid up your undulating thighs, up your waist and around to your front, cupping both of your tits through your bra, rubbing at your nipples through the flimsy fabric. You whined at the touch, and he did it again, feeling them perk up at the attention, poking against his palms as he rubbed you through the satin.

Your hands were on him, too, rubbing at his chest and then holding his shoulders as you kept grinding your hips down on him. He leaned in, mouthing at your chest before just tugging the fabric of your bra to the side, exposing your tits and licking over one of your nipples, teasing it with the tip of his tongue.

“Ah—yes,” you gasped, one hand curving around his shoulder, the other coming up to smooth over his hair again, curling around the nape of his neck as you held his mouth against your breast.

He hummed against your skin, lapping at the pebbled bud before switching, sucking the other one between his lips, worrying it just a little with his teeth. Your gasp was louder this time, followed by a buzzing moan, low in your throat, the movement of your hips faltering for the first time as he pleasured you with his mouth on your tits.

“Gate,” you sighed softly, mussing his hair as you slid your hand back up through it. “Want you—inside me, now—” The hand on his shoulder groped at the arm of the couch, grabbing one of the condoms and knocking the other too the floor, neither of you caring to retrieve it unless you needed it.

“Fuck,” Gator mumbled, the two of you hurrying to push your bottoms down, you nearly stumbling as you moved off him, tangled in your yoga pants as you pushed them off along with your panties. “Fuck.” Gator said it again without meaning to, eye level with your cunt as you stood in front of where he still sat on your couch. He could see how turned on you were, how wet, your arousal spreading onto your thighs. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”

You pushed his shoulder back against the couch and leaned over, removing his bottoms as well as you kissed him, slow, languid, lingering against his mouth as you splayed your hands out on his thighs. You pulled away when he gasped into your mouth, glancing down; his cock was red at the tip, shiny, so hard it was curved toward his stomach, leaving a little sticky spot of precome each time it pulsed from neglect.

“Ready?” you asked, and Gator nodded, his hands sliding up your thighs to rest atop your hips.

“Yeah. Yes,” he said, taking the condom when you held it out for him. He ripped the foil and rolled it on, pinching the very tip as he eased it down his length, so goddamn keyed up that he actually shivered a little just from touching his cock to do it.

You straddled him again, hands on his shoulders, looking down between your bodies as Gator held his cock steady for you. You hovered above him and he slid his hips forward just a touch, making sure the angle would work for you both—and then you were sinking down on him, slow but steady, the slide easy; your walls fluttered around him, wet and hot and fuck.

“Feel so fuckin’ good on my cock,” Gator bit out, not quite meaning to say all that, but you only rolled your hips against him.

“You like that?” you asked, squeezing down on him, before lifting yourself up just a little, thighs flexing, then dropping back down, fucking yourself on his cock.

“Yeah,” Gator half-sobbed—he couldn’t believe he was already as far gone as he was.

“Tell me,” you said, reaching down to take one of Gator’s hands in yours again, lifting it to your mouth. Gator watched you, his own lips parting in disbelief as you, yet again, angled his middle finger into your mouth, closing your lips around it, flexing your hips and your thighs, cunt rising and falling on his cock as you fucked yourself, steady like rolling waves, pleasure ebbing and flowing, closer and closer with each movement of your body into, against, around his.

“So—you’re so,” Gator said, transfixed by your lips around his finger. “So perfect—wet and—and oh my god, and, really fucking good.” His incoherence only spurred you on, sliding your lips all the way down his finger, past his second knuckle, tongue pressing against the underside.

Slowly, you let his finger slip from between your lips and, still holding his hand, cupped Gator’s cheek with the other. “Lie down for me,” you said, your thumb caressing his palm as you pushed yourself up and off his cock.

His cock slid out from between your folds, dragging against your thigh and smearing more of your own wetness there as he turned his body, staring up at you the whole time, his cock flagging to one side, the condom shiny with your arousal.

Climbing back over his legs, you gripped his side with one hand, leaning over him on your knees, and held his wet cock still for you as you found your entrance again with the tip. You sunk right back down onto him, sighing heavily as you took him to the hilt, feeling him deeper than before.

“Can I keep going?” you asked, teasing, and he took each of your thighs in his hands, squeezing them as he begged you to please keep going, please fuck me, god—

“I need your help,” you said, taking his hand again, and kissing the pad of his middle finger before lowering it down between your legs where he disappeared inside you. You pressed his fingers against your dripping pussy, and he didn’t need any other explanation—he was feeling for your clit with no hesitation, slick and slippery skin making it so easy to find the little bead, rubbing it in quick, short motions, back and forth and back and forth and—

You sighed his name, then lifted yourself up bodily to let his cock slip partially out of you, only to roll yourself back down, slapping against his front, the feeling of where you were joined and his fingers roving over your clit too good to bother trying to slow down. You fucked yourself even as Gator’s free hand skimmed up your thigh, the heel of his hand tickling your stomach as he reached to cup your breast, flicking your nipple with his thumb, then rubbing it at the same pace as your clit.

Your gut kicked when he did, a sharp cry of his name falling of from your lips, and he jerked his hips up into you in response as you tightened down around him.

“Fuck, Gator—!” you cried, slamming your cunt down onto him and rolling yourself over him back and forth, arching your chest into his hand. He rubbed at your nipple, your clit, taking the chance with your stillness over him to be the one to fuck up into you, just so he could hear you, hear your gasps and mewls, your cotton candy sweet whimpers—

“Fuck, wait, I—” he said, speaking to himself—he was the one moving. “Fuck, I’m coming, I, I—” He was saying words with no cognizance of actually saying them, bits and pieces of phrases leaving his lips as he bucked up into you once, twice, finally digging his heels into the couch and lifting his hips into you, body trembling with effort as he came, hard, deep inside you. His hand slowed on your clit—you reached down to take hold of his wrist.

“Don’t fucking stop, Gate,” you half-begged, half-demanded. “Wanna come on your big fat cock.” He felt himself twitch inside you, your heat still surrounding him. “Please, Gate.”

He took a deep breath, smelling your perfume, the scent of sex and sweat, the beer you’d been drinking—both of your hands came to rest on his shoulders as you bent over him, kissing him, loweing your front to his as best you could while he was still inside you.

Gator started circling your clit again, quickening his pace as you asked him to, lips against his mouth, your breath coming thin and short, fingernails cutting half-moons into his skin as you gripped him so tight. He licked into your mouth, swallowing each and every cry, moan, every sigh and swear and every time you whispered “Gate.”

Another few circles of your slick, swollen clit and he felt your body tensing, he thought even before you did. You tightened impossibly further on him, your cunt becoming a fucking singularity as you shattered on top of him, your pussy rippling around him, milking yet another dribble of spunk from him as your orgasm took you to the fucking edge and back. You kissed him like it was everything you’d ever wanted to do, and when you pushed yourself up and off of him, one had on the back of the couch, the other clinging to one of Gator’s as he helped you up, your legs were so shaky that you couldn’t stand, needing to collapse right back onto the couch.

Gator felt much the same—but he only brushed you hair back off your face, whispered “Jus’ wait here a minute,” and stood. He was actually able to walk, and he made his way to the bathroom in the corner of the basement, tying off the rubber and dropping it in the trash, cleaning himself with a bit of wet tissue, then grabbing a clean hand towel from the little shelf where they sat just waiting to be used.

Probably not for this, but far be it from him to leave you fucked out and dirty.

He realized, as he gently wiped your cheeks and chin, moving down to softly swipe between your legs, the towel was pink, too, just like your hoodie, your cowboy boots. Cotton candy dream girl, fuckin’ right.

He huffed a little laugh to himself, tossing the dirty towel to the floor.

“What?” you asked, sweet as spun sugar, as he handed you your yoga pants and helped you slip them back on.

Wouldn't work. You and the other firefighters were a cohesive unit. You had each other's backs in every manner, every way you possibly could, and there were no ifs, ands, or buts about it—you were going to win, again.

The lead up to the game was tense. Things were taken seriously and then taken too far. Like, spying on each other's practices, standing vigil outside the police stations to intimidate the cops, trying to infiltrate the firehouse to plant stink bombs using some turncoat EMTs—no one said you guys were mature adults, because everything was fair game and this was gravely important.

One of the newbies on the PD squad was a deputy you knew by name only, simply because his father was the sheriff in Stark County. The circulating rumor was that he was a nepo baby who couldn't find his dick in the dark, but when you and one of your fellows, a middle-aged volunteer firefighter named Pete, did some recon on the guy, you had to admit you could see why they'd asked him to play in the game.

He was young, probably around your age, and spry, and while he didn't look like a bodybuilder or overly athletic in general, a quick Google search turned up plenty of articles about him from several years ago, touting his athletic ability in high school, though his sport of choice at the time had been football.

So, nothing to worry about from him.

No, what you had to worry about was how attractive you found him, and whether helping the FD team absolutely decimate the PD team would ruin your chances of getting him to rail you.

&&

Someone above your pay grade had made the brilliant decision to do some PR for the game, even though the entire county and even some neighboring ones knew about it. But publicity helps bring in more donations, and when you show up to the field where you'll be playing the game in just a few weeks’ time, the law enforcement officers are all there showing off, laughing, rowdy, some even shirtless and showing off their physiques. Even the handful of women over there are in sports bras and bike shorts, which—have fun trying to slide into a base in those.

You suck your teeth and sidle up to Pete, who's standing with the rest of the firefighters, watching.

“They're too cocky,” you say. “Look at them.”

“They think they're showing off,” Pete says.

“They are showing off,” you say. “But that's all it is. Show.”

Pete smirks and leads you over to the rest of your group, who are pulling their jerseys out of the garment bag where they're kept over the winter and spring. You only really need them for the charity game and home run derby in the fall, after all. Yet another indication that the FD squad is taking this way more seriously than the police.

They're organized by number, and yours is 14—the letters of your last name neatly stitched over the number, the patch with the emblem of the fire department on your chest and on your right arm. You leave on your jeans, even though it's unseasonably warm for spring and you have a pair of shorts in the gym bag in the back of your car, because you're a slider and you won't make the same mistake as the cops in the other dugout. Not that you're going to be doing much more than posing for photos today.

“You guys got a girl on yer team?” one of them calls, and though he's a little too far away to make out his face, you can see he's laughing.

“You have three!” the captain of your team, and the captain of your unit, who goes exclusively by his last name, Lopez, shouts back.

The cop who called that out to you shuts up, and you laugh, shaking your head. You're used to the sexism, the slights, and the chiding comments, but your boys always have your back, and as you fit a Minnesota Twins cap onto your head, you grab a bat just as the photographer that the charity provided ambles over.

“Good morning,” he calls, waving at you all as he ducks into the little covered bench that serves as your dugout. “Are we ready for some photos?”

Yeahs and Yeses resound from you and your fellows, and the photographer nods, walking through and introducing himself as Ashton every time he shakes a hand. You pause in buttoning your jersey to take his hand and nod, introducing yourself to him as well, and then leave the fenced-in bench to feel the sun on your face again.

The PD team's players are still laughing, throwing balls to each other and catching pop flies; the one who called out to your team is practicing pitching with their catcher, winding up and landing throw after throw right into the mitt. You quirk an eyebrow—this guy seems better than last year's pitcher. He must be one of the new deputies.

“All right,” Ashton calls as he emerges from the fire department dugout. “Let's get some team shots, and then individual shots.”

“Do we really need individual shots?” one of the officers calls, and Ashton just shrugs.

“That's what I was asked to do,” he says, and then motions for the teams to line up in front of each bench.

You all do, but the police finish their lineup first, not worrying about height order or blocking anyone who might be standing behind them—so Ashton heads over there, making placement adjustments as needed and then snapping several photos. He allows them to disperse and says he'll be walking around for individual and action shots once he finishes with the other group shot. The police scatter across the field, bringing gloves and balls and bats along with them, splitting into pairs or trios to play catch or bat.

Pete and Lopez flank you, and you all stand together, smiling for the camera as Ashton takes a few shots, then asks you to move to the middle of the group.

“For what?” you ask, looking at Lopez, who just shrugs.

“You're the star,” he replies.

“I play right field,” you say, laughing. “Tommy's the pitcher.” You point. “Threw a perfect game three years ago and almost again last year.”

“You also won the home run derby for the last three years,” Ashton says to you. “Stand in the middle, please.”

You bite your lip, then move over to stand in between Tommy and Lenny. You can't help but smile a little, because he's right—you might not be the best at fielding but you're a great fucking hitter, and you help the team just as much when you're at bat even if you're weak in your actual position.

By the time he takes a few more shots, the PD team is fully on the diamond, playing a little mini game where each batter is only bunting, just to keep things in the infield. Ashton walks right up to you as the FD team disperses.

“I'd like to get some solo shots of you first,” he says, and you laugh.

“Are you like—serious?” you ask, laughing. “I'm not the best player on the team.”

“You're a triple-time winner of the home run derby, and by my count, you're best known in these charity games for runs batted in, even if your own scoring isn't notable. Isn't that right?”

You shrug. Yes, he's right, but you also aren't really the type to brag about it, even if several of the charity game wins were the result of you driving in the game-winning runs. “I mean, I guess.”

“Grab a bat, please,” Ashton says, and you do, posing for some photos and feeling spectacularly stupid as you do. Last year's photographer had taken team shots and left as quickly as possible. This guy is super into it.

After your shots are done, he releases you to join the rest of your team and makes his rounds, grabbing solo pictures of each player on the field in turn. You make your way over to the three policewomen in the outfield and join them for a round of catch. They introduce themselves as Miri, Portia, and Ebony. They're so nice, actually, that you forget about the rivalry that fuels the feud that makes the PD vs. FD game so exciting and ask if they've ever played baseball or softball before. They all shake their heads no, saying they were asked to play and joined just for fun and a little exercise . You advise them not to even think about sliding unless they want a real fucking painful scrape on their thighs in those shorts.

The four of you head back to the group, both teams now congregating near the pitcher's mound. As you approach, you realize very quickly that you, and your new friends, are the center of attention, and that the guy who yelled about you being the only girl on the FD team is none other than the deputy you'd been staking out with Pete: Gator Tillman.

All fifteen of the men present are looking at the four of you, but you feel Gator's eyes locked on you, feel his gaze the heaviest. You pointedly ignore him.

“I'd like to get some duo shots,” Ashton says, gesturing toward both teams as they mill together. “Everyone, please find your counterpart. So, pitcher and pitcher, shortstop and shortstop, et cetera.”

Gator makes a beeline for you. He jerks his chin at you and sizes you up as he approaches.

“I'm not the pitcher,” you say, pointing at Tommy, who's watching all of this—you all saw Gator pitching to his team before.

“Don't care about this guy's fuckin' pictures,” Gator says, and you almost smirk before remembering he's technically the enemy. “Just wanted ta let you know I ain't gonna take it easy on ya 'cause yer a girl.”

You hold his gaze. “Um, did someone tell you to?” you asked, laughing a little.

“Nah, I just know how you ladies tend ta get,” he says. He jerks his thumb back toward Portia and Ebony, who have found their left field and first base buddies. “Them three ain't got no grit.”

“Well, I've been on this team for years,” you say, moving to step around him and to find the other right fielder. “Excuse me.”

“Wait,” Gator says after you, but you ignore him and approach Tommy, who's standing with one of the police officers, a young man—younger than you, he looks fresh out of the academy—who's bright eyed and bushy tailed and looks thrilled to be paired with a woman, toned arms and strong legs and a face that clearly impresses upon him that you take no shit—only supported by the way you dismissed yourself from Gator's presence when probably no one else ever has or ever would do such a thing.

Ashton makes his rounds, yet again, each team thinking up a funny pose—Tommy suggests putting Gator in a headlock, but the deputy absolutely refuses and so they just end up standing side by side, Tommy smiling widely and Gator just scowling at the camera—he truly did not care about Ashton's fucking pictures, he wasn’t lying. You and the other right fielder, a rookie cop by the name of Leon, mug for the camera, your elbow leaning on Leon's shoulder with your head tipped toward his, while he has his arm wrapped around your waist, his hand (inside his glove, of course) resting around your hip. It's cute and cheesy—the way something like that should be, you thought—but as you break apart from him and see the way Gator is still glaring, you just give him a small smile and turn to Leon.

“Hey,” you say, reaching out to tug at the drawstring of his sleeveless hoodie. “Do you wanna practice catching some pop flies? On the off chance one comes to us on game day?” Your eyes flick to Gator as you ask. He absolutely seems like the type to fall for this kind of thing, you blatantly flirtng with someone else in front of him. If you're right about Gator Tillman—and you think you are—it's a good way to get under his skin and keep him thinking about you, but also to throw him off his game even weeks before the first inning.

“Oh, um,” Leon says. “Yeah, ok!” He smiles at you and you head into the outfield, which Ashton loves because it offers him more opportunity for action shots. At this point, you're wondering whether he actually needs all these photos for whatever PR the charity is doing, or if he just likes baseball that much.

Other duos join you out there, and before long it turns into an impromptu scrimmage game. You all collectively decide to just play until someone hits a home run, and the PD and FD teams flip a coin to decide who bats first. When Leon from the PD team makes the correct call, they align themselves into their batting order while Tommy steps up to the mound.

It takes three innings for a home run to happen. Tommy is a great pitcher, but Gator honestly might be better. He strikes out three of the FD players in 12 throws total, sending Lopez, who hadn't even swung at any of his three pitches, back to the bench looking.

The sides switch, and you're third up. You stand outside the dugout, leaning against the chainlink, watching Gator as he takes the mound, turning his hat around backward and nodding to the catcher once he's ready. The FD's first batter, Pete, steps up to the plate. Two pitches in, he gets a hit, but it's actually a pop fly to right field and Leon catches it.

You catch his eye when he looks for you, and you give him a small “Whoo!” and a wink, then turn back to Gator as you step up to take a few practice swings in the area your team has collectively chosen as the “on deck” spot. Gator walks the batter before you, and you're almost surprised—he seemed better than that. Five pitches, four balls—not a great look. But maybe it was just a fluke.

You step up to the plate, eyeing the PD team as they all look back at you, Portia and Ebony waving at you while Miri blows you a kiss, and you just ready your bat, staring down Gator as he looks past you to the catcher. You wait, gripping the bat, ready to swing—or not—at whatever pitch he sends your way. Gator shakes his head once, then twice. He hesitates, then shakes his head again. You're glad he doesn't have sunglasses on, because it makes his expression a little easier to read. He's nervous, or at the very least, unhappy that he walked someone, but then he nods and readies the pitch.

Bracing yourself, you swing—feel the jump of your heart in your chest when the bat connects with the ball, and then grin, so wide your face hurts a little, because it's fucking flying out of the field. You start running toward first base, but you don't really even need to hurry—by your estimation, it's already over the fence. You and Jeff, the guy Gator had walked, both step on home plate and the game is deemed over, even though it was only a few innings.

You gratefully accept the pats on the back from the other firefighters, and then let Miri, Portia, and Ebony pull you in for a group hug, just as Ashton appears again in your periphery.

He looks smug, a smirk plastered on his face, and gestures to you and the other girls.

“Can we take a picture, ladies?” he asks, and the four of you accept, arms draped over each other's hips as you stand in a line, all of you glistening with a little sweat from running and standing in the heavy afternoon sun. Leon catches your eye, but before you can step away toward him, you see Ashton gesturing, beckoning over another player.

“What,” Gator snaps as he approaches the two of you, the three other women on the diamond making themselves scarce. For the first time since you've joined this softball team, you're regretting it.

“I just think a fun little rivalry like yours should be a focus of the game,” Ashton says, and you look at Gator as he looks at you.

“What rivalry?” you ask.

Ashton looks pleased that you questioned it. “Well—how Deputy Tillman was doing perfectly fine pitching until you stepped out of your dugout. And how you were the player who managed to get the home run.”

Looking from Ashton to Gator, you can't help the way the corner of your lips quirk upward.

“I guess that's true,” you say, as Gator spoke over you.

“This was a fuckin' practice game,” he says. “And what the fuck're you tryna say, anyway?” Gator asks, stepping closer to Ashton, even as you try to move in between to block them from each other.

“What do you want, more photos?” you ask, and Ashton looks from Gator to you, then nods.

“If you don't mind,” he says.

“I fuckin' mind,” Gator protests, but you just huff a sigh.

“It's for charity,” you remind him.

“The game is for charity,” Gator corrects you. “This is all just... fluff bullshit.”

“Just a couple pictures?” you ask to Ashton, who nods. “Let's just do it. We're both already here.”

Gator rolls his eyes, grumbling to himself and then turning away, spitting onto the field before he takes a step closer to you. He makes no move to touch you or even really enter your personal space.

“However you like,” Ashton says.

You're the one to close the distance between yourself and Gator, reaching out to put your arm around his waist. You feel him stiffen up, and then he relaxes—which for Gator still feels and looks like he's constipated—and drapes his arm over your shoulders.

Ashton steps back and readies his camera.

“So what makes you so special?” Gator asks you out of the corner of his mouth. His hand moves from your shoulder to your lower back.

You keep the smile on your face. “Excuse me?” you ask, tipping your head a little to the side as Ashton takes another photo.

“First one ta get solo pictures,” Gator says. “Stuck ya right in the middle of yer team.” He lowers his hand from your back to your ass. “Sleep with him?”

You laugh, just as Ashton snaps a photo of the two of you. “Guess I'm just that good.”

Gator also chuckles. “Guess we'll see about that,” he says, giving your ass a little slap before he pulls away from you completely, even as Ashton protests that he wasn't finished yet. “After the game. We'll see.”

You give him a small smile, then turn away, spotting who you're looking for after a moment, and jogging away from Gator, leaving him there unanswered and unhappy.

“Leon!” you shout, making your way over to the rookie. You glance back at Gator as you do, seeing him chatting up Miri now, but he's looking back at you too.

He can talk to whoever he wants—you're both looking at each other, and you both understand what that means.

&&

You blow off Leon, because he served his purpose and, honestly, you don't like cops just by default.

The game is about a week and a half away now, and you spend a lot of your free time when not at work with your girlfriends at the gym and your downtime while you are at work with your team in the grassy yard out behind the firehouse, practicing hitting and fielding. It's what makes you guys the best—the way you refuse to compromise and work your hardest to be the best players that you can be.

The call comes in late one evening, long after your practice is over: A brush fire next to a house out near the outskirts of the city, not sure if it was accidental, campers, kids playing with firecrackers, or what.

There are already police there, no reports of any people nearby other than the house, so you hop into the fire engine and speed off to the address provided. By the time you arrive, it's already getting way too close to the structure, and you get to action.

Hoses, water from the tank, shouting and coordinating while the family steps out of the house to look on, the police officers there making sure that they stay a safe distance away. The trees and bushes from the field are blackened and dead, dripping with water, steam pouring off of the damaged limbs and branches as Lopez steps through the area, making sure there's no embers that will catch and reignite or sparks that might blaze up again.

Thankfully, you don't need to head inside to the house—you got there in time to prevent the fire from spreading, and despite the chill of the spring evening, you're still sweating in your gear, heavy clothing and helmet, though you do take that off once the fire is out.

One of the police officers is talking to the family with Pete, while you stand beside the engine and take a few deep breaths, humming softly at the scent of smoke and dirt permeating the air.

The flashing lights from the fire engine and the police cars nearby are turning everything red-then-blue then back again, but even in the dimness of the moonlight, you're still able to make out his face when he approaches you.

“So ya ain't just a diversity hire,” Gator says, and you sigh in response, but you're amused anyway.

“I'm good at what I do,” you reply.

“Yeah,” Gator says. “Real good at workin' a hose.”

You meet his eyes, and then laugh right in his face. “That's your line?” you ask, positively basking in his scowl. “Jesus, the girls in town always talk you up but fuck, you leave a lot to be desired, Tillman.”

He opens his mouth, looks like he's torn between telling you to fuck off or to let him show you exactly what you should be desiring, but in the end he just clamps his jaw closed.

“Aw, come on,” you say, reaching out to push at his shoulder with your gloved hand, and then you just remove them both, tossing them into the cab seat in the truck behind you. “Don't be like that.”

“Like what?” he says.

“All pissy,” you say. “If you can call me a diversity hire but can't take a little negging, I think maybe you need to grow a pair.”

He scoffs. “I said you ain't a diversity hire.”

“I'm not parsing words with you,” you say, laughing. “You said what you said.” You lean back against the engine and he steps closer, to your side, leaning up on the truck, in a posture you recognize from every guy who's ever hit on you at the bar, or grocery store, or laundromat, or... literally anywhere you go.

“Said what I said but y'ain't hearin' me.”

“No, I think I can read between the lines of your hose comment just fine, Deputy,” you say, but you're still smirking, still laughing, still entertaining this.

“So what d'ya say?” he asks, leaning closer. You're still overwhelmed with the odor of burning wood, but as he leans in you smell leather and metal.

“About what?” You bite your lip to keep from smirking even wider.

“What, that ya need me ta spell out for ya?”

You shake your head once just for good measure. “No,” you say. “I just want to hear you say it.”

Gator, finally, smirks back at you, closing the distance, his hand landing on your waist, sliding into your open uniform coat, and moving straight to your lower back just like the photoshoot last week. He leans in close, and now you catch the hair gel, the cologne, the chewing tobacco he has tucked into his lip. You tip your face up to his as he speaks.

“Yeah?” he asks, and you nod, barely perceptibly. You know that there's not much time—the fire is out, the inspection of the area will be over soon, the family will go back inside and your fellow firefighters will return to the engine to go back to the station, but you don't pull away even when Gator says the most hideously filthy things right to your face.

“Ya wanna hear me say how I'm gonna have ya soakin' my cock wetter'n anything? How I'll finger that tight little gash'a yers until yer cryin' my name?” You inhale sharply, eyes wide, but he doesn't stop, his hand pressing tighter to your back, pulling you closer. You're almost flush against him, but not yet. “Gonna nut straight down yer throat, how's that? Let ya have a taste 'fore ya ride me.”

“Maybe,” you utter, trying to save face, and he laughs, loudly, definitely drawing attention from probably everyone else who's still at the scene.

“Maybe?” he repeats. “Yeah, maybe. Maybe I'll give yer pretty little kitty”—you almost laugh; you should, and you would, if you didn't feel every press of his fingertips like a brand, if you didn't feel your thighs pressing together because you were so stupidly attracted to him you wanted to die of embarrassment—“a second t'breathe 'fore I fit this fat fuckin' dick inside ya 'nd have ya bouncin' on it real nice.”

“Gator,” you manage to scoff, gasping a little as his hand slides down, his fingertips slipping inside the waistband of your pants since he can't very well fondle you through the heavy uniform you've got on.

“You asked, sweets,” Gator says. “Wanted ta hear me say it.” He moves even closer to you, his face right beside you, his cheek practically brushing yours as he whispers, right into your ear, “Wanna hear you too, so how's about it?”

“Deputy,” you hear Lopez' voice say, and just like that he's off you, stepping away, holding up both hands like he's trying to showcase his innocence.

“Captain,” Gator says, nodding to Lopez before turning around to you. “Have a good evening, miss,” he says to you, and the duality of him in that moment makes you turn away and briefly cover your face with your hands

“You good?” Lopez asks. “He giving you a hard time?”

“No,” you squeak out.

“About the game?” Lopez pushes, and you shake your head.

“Don't worry,” you say. “I'm not fraternizing with the enemy.” Not before the game, at least.

Lopez laughs and claps a hand on your shoulder. “Good girl,” he says, squeezing you a little. “Let's head back to the station.”

You climb into the engine and watch as the police cars start to drive away as well, the deputy's leaving last.

Pete leans over. “If he was fucking with you, we'll get him back at the game.”

“I'm fine,” you say, half touched that they care so much to want to protect you, and half annoyed that they think you'd let a guy make unwelcome advances (or otherwise) without standing up for yourself.

“Just another ten days,” Lopez says from the driver's seat. “It'll pass before you know it.”

&&

And they do—well, mostly. The days pass without you seeing hide nor hair of Gator—in person, anyway. You can't speak it aloud, even to your friends, but you replay the conversation, if you can even call it that, to yourself sometimes, at night if you're bored or lonely or, you know. Horny.

You still think he talked a big game that you'd love for him to prove. But you're not about to seek him out three days before the game during which you're hoping to destroy him and his copper friends. Like you'd been hoping since you staked him out—you just hope he won't be too sore a loser to put his money where his mouth is.

The night before the game is scheduled, you head to the gym with your friend Melissa, and, surprisingly, Miri from the PD team. Both of you promised that you weren't going to let the rivalry get between you, and since she doesn't really care about the game other than that it's for charity, it seems like that will actually be the case.

Miri heads straight for the treadmill while you and Melissa head over to the weights—you go for a run on your own time, usually, and get your cardio in that way, so lifting is what you primarily use the gym for.

You're spotting her while she does a set of bench presses, when suddenly you hear a loud wolf whistle and look up, because you hate when men act like dogs at the gym. You're ready to start a fight, honestly, until you realize that Miri is the one who whistled and she was, in fact, whistling at Gator Tillman, who apparently, coincidentally, also decided to work out the night before the game.

And once your eyes fall on him, you see exactly why she whistled at him: He's wearing a muscle tank and a pair of shorts, but not the kind you'd expect to see a guy like him wearing at the gym. They leave most of his legs exposed, and with the slits down the sides of his tank top, you can also see straight into his shirt to his abdomen, his chest.

Gripping the bar Melissa's holding, you help her set it back onto the rack and she sits up, whistling herself, but lower so only you can hear.

“Fancy seeing him here,” she says, and you look down at her. She isn't even looking at Gator—she's looking at you looking at him, and smirking. “He's playing in the game tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah,” you say absently, and she just sucks her lower lip into her mouth.

“How's his form?” she asks. You give her a look. “What? I see you sizing him up! Either you want him or you already had him.”

“Neither,” you protest, but it's futile—Mel knows you better than anyone. “Ok, well—”

“Already? When?!” she nearly shouts, and you reach your hands out to cover her face, smothering her a little as she laughs and bats your wrists with her palms.

“No, not—Jesus, no. We were just flirting a little,” you say, because that's the only way you can put it without sounding like a harlot.

“Ok, and?”

“And nothing,” you say. “I can't get involved with him, the game is tomorrow. I need to focus—FD needs to win.”

Mel pushes herself up off the bench, gesturing for you to lie down so she can spot you; you do so. “What if you got involved with him to... get in his head before tomorrow?” she suggests, and you look at her upside down, quirking your eyebrow.

“You mean cheat?”

“Nooo,” she says, singsong. “I mean use the assets you have to give yourself an advantage over a disgusting man-pig.”

You both laugh, and before you finish your set, you hear footsteps approaching.

“Oh, hello, Deputy,” Mel says, and you don't let yourself get distracted from your set. You extend your arms, then retract them, three more times before Mel helps you replace the bar.

“Evenin', ladies,” Gator says, and as you sit up, you can see he's not looking at Melissa. He's not really even looking at you—his eyes are fixed on your crotch, the leggings you're wearing clinging to your thighs—and everything between them, surely—and you know it.

“Gator,” you say, figuring that since he's already got you both fantasizing about fucking each other, you're officially on a first name basis for good.

“Mind spottin' me?” he asks you, and Mel only snickers under her breath and just steps away over to the leg press machine, which is far enough away to give you some semblance of privacy but close enough to absolutely eavesdrop, which you fully expect from her and would do too if you were in her position.

“Sure,” you say, sitting up to straddle the bench. “Let me just wipe this down for you.” You stand and step over the bench, and before you can even make a move to grab something to clean the bench, Gator steps astride it and sits down.

“Don't worry ‘bout it, sweets,” he says. “Little sweat never hurt nobody.”

You glance at Melissa, who scoffed at that statement to get your attention and is now making eyes at you, but you just ignore her and round the bench.

“How much more weight d’you want?” you ask, ready to go get some plates for him, assuming he'll want more.

“How much ya got on there?” he asks, turning to look.

“Seventy-five,” you say, and he looks at the weights, then looks at you.

“Double it,” he says, watching as your muscles flex as you lift the weights to secure them on the bar. You spot him, but he lifts it easily, obviously not really needing you, and when you look down at him, you can see he's just watching you as he lifts the weights. “Ready for the game tomorrow?” he asks when you make eye contact.

“Of course,” you say, shifting your weight a little. “Are you ready to lose?”

He chuckles and you help him place the bar back in its resting place. “You talk a big talk, y'know.”

“Yeah, 'cause I can back it up. FD team always wins the charity game.”

“Not this year,” Gator says, and he lifts up to face you, still seated, the bar thankfully between you, because even though he hasn't broken a sweat the way you did, he still looks like he's glowing a little, lit up, his hair loose and half down over his forehead, his hazel eyes sparkling with mischief and the freckles on his face so goddamn lickable that you have to look away.

Your eyes land on Mel, and she just shakes her head, mouthing FUCK HIM ALREADY at you. You just barely feel Gator's fingertips graze your thigh and you turn back to him. By the time you look at him again, his hand is already gone.

“Guess we'll see,” you say, echoing his words back to him.

“Guess we will,” he says, stepping away, over the bench, and you stare at his ass and thighs once his back is turned as he walks to the free weights, hands in his pockets.

Thankfully, considering you're in public, that exchange wasn't nearly as heated and blatant as the last one you'd had. You continue with your workout, catching up with Miri as she grabs a smoothie, and it's when you're heading outside to your respective cars you realize—you don't have your phone. You usually stick it in your leggings pocket when you're at the gym, but maybe it fell out. You let Mel and Miri know and wave away their offers to wait for you—you'll just be a second.

They both look like they want to insist, but you insist first: “I'll be fine, I swear. Besides, Nate won't let anything happen to me, right, Nate?” you ask, gesturing to the attendant at the front desk who also doubles as security and the smoothie-maker.

“Right,” Nate says, giving you a thumbs up. “I'll walk you to your car if you want.”

“Fine,” Mel says. “But you text me the second you find it.”

“I swear on Nate's life,” you say, all three of you laughing as Nate pretends to grasp at his heart through his chest.

Miri and Mel head out into the parking lot, and you return to the weights area, where—oh.

Gator is there, seated on the weight bench, leaning back against the bar you’d used earlier. He's got his arms draped over it nonchalantly, and in his right hand you see—your phone.

“I'd thank you but I don't think you deserve it,” you say.

“I don't,” Gator agrees. “Lifted it right outta yer pocket, ya didn't even notice.”

“Why?” you ask.

“Wanted to talk ta ya alone,” he says. “Without yer girl and Miri around.”

You look over your shoulder; it's late. Late enough that the gym has mostly emptied out, just one solitary figure with its back to you on a stationary bike with their headphones on.

“Then talk,” you reply, and he stands up, holding out your phone. You take it and stow it away in your pocket again.

“Honestly... ain't got much t'say after all,” he admits, keeping his face angled down a little but looking straight at you.

And you feel it, again, the little spark, the electricity between you. It's purely physical, you know that, you understand that, and you remember Mel's comment about getting into his head.

Seems like you're already there though.

“So all that just to let me walk away?” you say, holding his gaze even as you smirk.

Where you're standing, you're out of sight of Nate. You know it and he knows it.

“No fuckin' way,” Gator says, and his hands are on your waist before you can register it. You almost pull away, just by virtue of having unknown hands on you, but you give in because your brain wants it and also, more importantly, almost fundamentally more importantly, your body wants it. He tugs you closer by your hips and this time, you do end up right against him, standing as close as you possibly can in the middle of the gym, his hazel eyes fixed on yours, thick lashes half-shrouding his eyes, and you're wrapped up again in him, the smell of sweat and tobacco this time, his rough fingers moving over your skin as they dip into the waistband of your leggings.

“Here?” you ask, and he just snickers.

“I'll take ya anywhere ya wanna go,” he answers, and then his lips are on yours and you give in all over again.

Gator leaves one hand on your lower back, and the other comes up to cup your face. The way he kisses you is a stark contrast to the dirty words he was saying to you the last time you were in this position, his lips soft and slow on yours, tongue barely dipping into your mouth before he pulls back.

“So?” he asks, and shoves his hand a little further down into your leggings, groping your ass before he pulls it out, the waistband riding way too low, and gives you a playful little slap on your ass cheek. The act of it—of everything he just did—leaves you way, way more exposed than you'd ever want, though his hand on you is still thrilling as he rubs the tender flesh he just spanked. The ebb and flow of it make you want to let him take you home, but the way he's playing with your body in public like this pisses you off, and so you step back, fix your leggings with one hand and slap him in the face with the other.

“What the fuck?” he half-shouts, loud enough that you know Nate will come to see what that was about.

“Tomorrow,” you say, stepping backwards, away from him, fighting to keep your expression coy and probably failing—you do want it, after all, just on your own terms. “If your team wins...” You gesture to yourself, your body. “Wherever you want.”

You hear Nate's sneakers squeaking as he rushes around the corner. He's still far enough away not to hear.

“And if your team wins?” Gator asks.

“Guess you'll find out,” you reply, turning on your heel and waving at Nate as you make your way out of the gym, Nate skidding to a stop and following you, walking you out to your car like he promised while Gator just watches, rubbing at his cheek with his palm, grimacing a little.

&&

The sky is a beautiful baby blue, cloudless and clear, sunshine beaming down on the baseball field as the stands fill with fans, donors, police officers, and your fellow firefighters. The crowd's already raucous before the game even starts, as the FD and PD teams practice before the official start time of 11:00AM.

Last you checked, it was just about a quarter to, so you head back to the little clubhouse by the parking lot for a bathroom break beforehand and to refill your water bottle from the fountain.

You pause only to take a selfie in the mirror, waiting to post it in case the unthinkable happens and you don't win the game, and as you head out of the bathroom, you almost walk right into someone.

“Oh, sor—” you start to say, before realizing it's Gator. You back up a step. Look up at him. Suppress the smirk. “Did you follow me in here?”

He looks you up and down instead of answering, and you straighten your jersey even though it isn't askew, flattening it down over the baseball pants you have on. You stand your ground, not shrinking back under his surveying look, or letting him get under your skin the way you presume you've gotten under his.

“Just wanted t'wish ya luck before the game,” Gator says, and you laugh.

“Oh, yeah?” you say, not smirking now but smiling, in a way that says you definitely don't believe him.

“Yeah,” he says, moving closer to you even though you were already pretty damn close. “How 'bout a kiss fer good luck?”

You don't move, and he takes your inaction as permission, leaning down to try and steal a kiss. Just as he's about to let his lips touch yours, you speak.

“You think you deserve one after the shit you pulled last night?”

He stops, pulls away.

“You think it wouldn't getcha another slap in the mouth?”

Gator smirks this time. “Worth the risk.”

“Oh yeah?” you counter.

Instead of saying anything, he just steps right up to you, close enough for you to feel the warmth of his body from its proximity to yours, and he kisses you. Like at the gym, it's soft and slow, but it builds quickly, and before you really think about stopping, he's licking into your mouth to deepen the kiss right in the middle of the clubhouse lobby, where anyone could see you. And anyone might, because it's got to be almost 11 by now, the game will be starting any minute, and someone’s bound to come looking for the pair of you.

You just let Gator practically fuck your mouth with his tongue as you suck at it, your tongue moving over his as he kisses you almost savagely, and you manage to get a grip on yourself, your hands on his arms, pushing him back as you step away.

“Yeah,” he answers you, finally, and you look up at him before you just lift your hand and slap him again.

This time, he seems to be ready for it, but he doesn't dodge it, he just takes it like a champ. Though even you'll admit you didn't really put too much force behind it.

Gator just chuckles quietly. “Gonna make me start assumin' that's just foreplay t'you, sweets.”

You laugh and step around him, and he lets you go. At the door, you stop and turn to look at him; he's still standing there, watching you. “You coming?” you ask, holding the door open.

“Oh, yeah,” he says, walking over to you. “Just got used t'you walkin' away from me mid-conversation.”

You roll your eyes, but together you leave the clubhouse and approach the field to thunderous applause. You made a point to avoid any of the publicity stuff that Ashton had provided the photos for, but you heard from Miri and Pete that they were very heavily pitting you and Gator against each other for some reason. Stupid, you thought, but hopefully making you two seem like you were going to antagonize each other made more people take notice of the game and donate for the winner's charity.

When you walk around the side of the stands with Gator—not that you were even that close together, and he was a couple steps behind you—the crowd notices. The cheering increases in volume, and you almost have to laugh, because these people are acting like you're a legitimate softball star with an actual rival. You'd gotten decent attention from the crowd in years past, but not like this.

You chance a look back at Gator, who looks thoroughly miserable at being the center of attention. He'd hated having his photo taken, so it stands to reason that he would hate being watched by so many people too. Part of you hopes he'll choke on the mound; the other part hopes he doesn't, because you want to win fair and square, not by using your tits (thanks Mel!) or his nerves to your advantage.

The PD team is up at bat first, and you watch as they line up back into their dugout as your team takes to the field and the first couple of batters emerge, one to home plate, and one to the on deck circle.

All of the police officers are wearing brown t-shirts which you figure are supposed to be their “uniforms”—they all say Stark County Police on the back in lieu of a name or number, like the FD jerseys you're all wearing. It seems either the deputies missed the memo or weren't given any shirts, because they're all wearing mismatched clothing. Gator in a white t-shirt, the sleeves short enough to show off the tattoo on his left forearm and the barbed-wire lettering on his right; the other two deputies have on a New York Yankees jersey (Jeter; you roll your eyes), and a camouflage shirt. They couldn't even bother to look professional, cohesive; if that's how the day is going to start, you hope it's a sign of how it will end too.

Gator and Tommy are both on one in the first few innings alone. Gator is striking out batters left and right, and Tommy only lets up one hit which ends in an out as Jeff dives to catch it.

By the 9th inning, though, both teams have scored some runs, and it's 3-2 in favor of the police department. There are three batters ahead of you: Lopez, Donnie, and Jeff. If any one of them can just get himself onto a fucking base, you know for sure you can drive in two runs. And after that, it's game over. The FD team gets last licks, and you're known for making sure the game ends in a win.

You slink out of the dugout to watch the game without a chainlink fence in your way, leaning back against it from the outside, eyeing Gator, watching as Lopez heads to the plate, taking in the scene as Gator spins the ball in his hand. He happens to glance to his left and his eyes fall on you for just a second; he turns quickly back to the catcher. He shakes his head, shakes his head, shakes his head, then nods.

Lopez catches the first pitch square on his bat and takes off like a rocket. It bounces somewhere in the outfield and then it's sailing on its way to second base, thrown there by the left fielder. Lopez stays put on first.

Donnie takes his place in the batter's box while Jeff takes a few practice swings off to the side. Gator throws two strikes, and Donnie hits two foul balls before the fifth pitch is thrown, and then he manages to hit another single.

Jeff is up now, and then you. You take Jeff's place on deck, while he squares up with Gator. In a move that you should have expected but are amused by anyway, Jeff bunts and it's clear that Gator and the other infielders are not expecting it. Jeff laughs as he sprints to first base, moving Lopez to third and Donnie to second.

Bases loaded.

You're up.

As you step up to the plate, you can already feel the adrenaline coursing through you, excitement making you half-giddy. No outs, three men on. Facing the guy who you're pretty sure is fucking up consistently because of you. You just have to hope you don't fuck up because of him, too.

You settle into your stance and wait for Gator to ready himself for the first pitch. It goes wide, you think, but they call it a strike. You straighten, look to Lopez for assistance or a second opinion, but he just waves it off. So he agrees—strike.

Fine.

You raise the bat again, and this time, at the second pitch, you swing—and miss. You hear the umpire call it a strike, and you even see Gator clench his hand into a fist and thump it against his chest like he's hyping himself up for what could very well be his final pitch to you.

This is not good, but you can't focus on that, can't do anything other than hit that goddamn fucking ball.

You watch Gator, staring straight at him, as he shakes his head at the catcher, then nods. The third pitch—the potential third strike—is coming.

Gator throws.

You swing.

It connects.

Right away, from the resounding crack and the hush that falls over the crowd, you can tell. You know. It's a home run. A grand slam. Four runs batted in in the bottom of the 9th. Game over. You won. You won.

Lopez, Donnie, Jeff, and the rest of the FD squad are waiting for you at home plate when you hop onto it with both feet, and then you're surrounded by men, all hooting and hollering and smothering you with hugs and slaps on the back. You lose your Twins hat as they hoist you up on top of them, eight firefighters holding you up to crowdsurf you along the first base line.

You're still buzzing, still thrilling from the grand slam and the win and the sheer contagious excited energy of your teammates—and then you see Gator.

He's not on the pitcher's mound anymore; he's over near the dugout with Miri, sucking on a vape and blowing the smoke up and away from her. He's watching the spectacle of you being venerated by your team, by the crowd—hell, even by his team a little—and when he catches you looking, he offers Miri the vape and she takes it, grinning up at him. But he's not paying her any attention; he's watching for your reaction.

Like you'll be jealous.

Please.

You ignore the slight pull in your stomach and just throw your arms up into the air, losing yourself to the victory and the roar from the stands.

&&

The entire crew plus countless others—both teams, along with a bunch of volunteer firefighters, off-duty cops, and family members—are supposed to meet up at the local bar later that evening after the game for food and drinks.

You're definitely going; you want to, plus you promised Miri, Ebony, and Portia you'd show face, and Mel wanted to meet you there to celebrate too. Or to watch what happens with Gator, though she denies that one up and down.

When you arrive, freshly showered and dolled up in a sleeveless dress that shows off your arms and your legs, you can see right away that it's all-around good fun, revelry of the highest order. You're not the only one who went home and got cleaned up—you can see Portia's hair is freshly straightened, Ebony is wearing an adorable technicolor romper, and Miri has on a full face of makeup. You arrive the bar, linking arms with Mel in the parking lot, who drove separately from you because, as she put it, “Either of you could meet someone” and then gave you an exaggerated wink.

You know better than to rise to the comment, and so you just ignore her, walking in to the wall of sound emanating from the sheer number of people—even if they were all speaking at normal volume, it would have still been staggeringly loud. As it is, people are yelling, laughing, singing along to the jukebox, and all of it's spurred on by alcohol, so it's at least twice as loud as it should be. The trio of your new police officer friends rush over to you right away, drinks already in hand, and you make your way over to the bar to procure your own libations. You do a round of shots, and as you swallow the mouthful of liquor, letting the glass thunk hollowly on the bar as you put it down, you turn and spot Gator leaning against the opposite wall, pint glass in his hand, eyes directly on you, ignoring whatever Leon is yapping away about at his side.

It's a little too early in the evening to entertain leaving with him just yet, but you tuck him away into the corner of your mind for later. There's no music to dance to—not that kind of bar, really—but the jukebox is stocked with classic rock hits and when you crowd around it with Miri and Mel, you flip through the records until you find a track by Heart and immediately select it, then queue up another by the Stones (Mel) and then Blondie (Miri) for good measure. Ebony and Portia are waiting for you when you return to the bar, and the five of you chat about the game and the charity and work. Portia is pulled away barely ten minutes later by Jeff (you give her a nod, because he's a good guy), and Ebony decides she's hungry and wanders away to the opposite end of the bar to order food.

Miri orders a second round of shots for the three of you, and just as you're about to knock yours back, you feel a presence at your elbow. You ignore him and just drink the liquor, smacking your lips before you turn to Gator—

Except it's not Gator, it's Leon.

“Oh,” you say, surprised. “Hi.”

“Hey,” he says, and you can tell he's trying to keep it cool. Mel snickers behind you, while Miri looks on, biting her lips together from the inside. “You killed it in the game today.”

“Ah, thanks.” You smile at him and over his shoulder, you notice someone sidle up to the jukebox, flipping through the song selections, but he's looking back at you too often to really be subtle. That, of course, is where Gator got to. He's smirking at you, like this is all his doing.

“—a drink?”

“What?” you ask, looking up at Leon, whose smile falters a little. Behind you, you hear Mel laugh quietly even with all of the other ambient noise.

“Can I buy you a drink?” Leon asks, and you open your mouth to decline.

“She's sober,” Mel says, interrupting, like he didn't just see you doing a shot. “But I'd love one.”

Leon looks from you to her and back again, questioning. You nod, then shake your head. “No—I'm not sober, but, um, Mel's a lot more fun than me.”

“You... sure?” Leon asks, but he's taking in Mel's smile, her toned arms, the way she's stepping around you to get to him.

“I'm gonna go find Ebony,” Miri says, clapping her hand onto your shoulder, and then she's gone. Leon orders two drinks.

“You really did, um,” Leon says, turning back around with a glass of some amber liquid, neat, while Mel pulls the little umbrella out of her cocktail and tucks it behind her ear, “do well in the game today.”

“Thank you,” you say, smiling, and then giving Mel a look.

“I just saved your ass,” she mutters into your ear, pulling you in for a hug, giving you a kiss on the cheek, and then a pinch on the ass. “Have fun with the deputy!”

“Shut up!” you call after her, but she's already gone, her arm curled around Leon's, and you turn back to look for Gator at the jukebox at the same moment he steps right into your personal space, startling you. You jump a little and steady yourself against the bar, muttering, “Jesus Christ.”

“Lovin' all the attention?” he drawls, and you look up at him, taking him in from close up now. He's got a toothpick tucked into the corner of his mouth, and you don't detect the scent of chewing tobacco or leather clinging to him—no, now you smell a musky, deep cologne and mint mingling with beer. His hair is loose, falling just a little over his forehead, and as your eyes move over his face, he smirks, flicking the toothpick to the other side of his mouth with his tongue.

“Oh, yeah,” you say, pulling your gaze away from him and turning to the bar, signaling to the guy tending it that you want to order something. “It's what I live for.”

“Well, when ya hit a grand slam in the bottom'a the ninth... wha'd'ya expect?” Gator asks, leaning on the bar beside you, both elbows on the wood.

You scoff. “I don't know. It feels a lot different this year,” you admit.

“Why's that?”

You look at him, opening your mouth just as the bartender approaches, and you order a vodka cranberry. You look at Gator who asks for whatever's cheapest on tap, then looks at you expectantly.

“No one made such a big deal out of it before,” you say. “Last year, or... before that. I think it's 'cause they really played up... me and you.”

Gator smirks. “Oh yeah?”

You roll your eyes. “Not 'me and you' like that,” you say. “I just mean... the photos of us, and the story of what happened at the practice game. And... what happened today.”

“Yeah...” Gator says, his voice trailing off as he takes the glass of beer from the bartender, eyeing your glass as it's plunked down in front of you. “Choked.”

Sipping your drink, you look at him out of the corner of your eyes, waiting for him to elaborate. He doesn't. “Yeah, what happened?” you ask.

Gator scoffs. “Nothin',” he says. “Just choked.”

The drink is sweet and tart on your tongue as you lean over to him. “Thinking too much about me to focus?”

“You fuckin' wish,” Gator snaps, but there's no real bite in it.

“Shouldn't've kissed me before the game, Tillman,” you say. “Probably had a boner for all nine innings.”

“Jesus Christ, are we 12? A boner?” He huffs, disgusted, at you, then lifts his hand to pluck the toothpick from his mouth, and takes a long swig of his beer.

“What would you call it?” you ask.

“I wouldn't call it nothin', 'cause I didn't have one.”

“Have what?” You snicker a little. “Wanna hear you say it. Have what?”

“I didn't have a fuckin' boner, Christ. Lay off, woman.”

“From sweets to woman,” you say, raising your eyebrows as you sip your drink. “I see how it is. That why you sent Leon over? Tired of me?”

Gator laughs. “Nah. Just thought it'd be funny.”

“Funny to ruin your own chances?”

He looks at you then, sidelong and impudent. “Please. Y'know that kid wouldn't shut the fuck up aboutcha. What the hell happened?”

You bite your lip, because you both know why he's here. You both know why you're talking to him. You just have to decide how much you want to divulge.

“My friend Mel scooped him up.”

“Why's that?” Gator asks.

You shrug, but his eyes fix on you, looking like amber in the dim lights of the bar, and you're entirely unable to keep your mouth shut. “She wants me to hook up with you.”

Gator laughs at that, a genuine belly laugh that has him grinning, eyes crinkled at the corners, greatly amused. “I think you want you to hook up with me,” he says. “Speakin' of, your team won, 'nd I'm itchin' t'find out what that means.”

“Me too,” you admit, and he pushes off the bar to face you. He takes you in, a smirk playing at his lips as he takes another drink of beer—you mimic him, sip your cocktail—and then he puts the mostly-empty glass down on the bar.

“Well,” Gator says. “We got all night, sweets. How 'bout a little fun?”

You tip your head to the side, shrugging in a way you hope reads as coy, and follow him, still clinging to your glass.

A little fun, apparently, means heading over to the heavily populated area of the bar that contains the pool table and dartboard. You notice a handful of men circled around the pool table so Gator veers toward the dartboard, mostly because it's less crowded and not currently in use.

“Know how ta play?” he asks, and you shrug. He suppresses a smirk; you absolutely catch it. “All right. I'll take it easy on ya—let's just see who can score highest after a couple rounds.” He steps over to the board, grabbing six total darts, and hands you three.

“Ladies first,” Gator says, and you shake your head again.

“Show me how it's done,” you suggest, and he takes the bait, sticking the toothpick back into his mouth—you force yourself to avoid looking at his lips—and lining up a throw. He measures it out, taking his time, and his first shot lands and he gains 20 points. The other two net him a total of 43 points which brings him to 63 total.

“Nice,” you say, taking his spot as he grabs his darts from the board and stands off to the side. His gaze weighs heavy on you as he steps to the side, watching as you attempt to copy his posture and stance, and your first dart lands in one of the triple rings. “How many is that?”

Gator sucks the inside of his cheek. “Fifty-seven,” he says.

You grin at him and make your next two throws. Carefully, carefully... you gain another 13 points.

“First shot a fluke?” he asks, an edge to his voice.

“Beginner's luck,” you chirp.

“Mm,” he hums, flicking the toothpick with his tongue.

His second round ups his score to 137, one of his darts landing in the triple ring as well, and the other two in the double ring.

This time, when you trade places with him, you feel him scrutinizing you; there are other eyes on you now, too, police and firefighters alike watching. Some of them know what's going on and it's not the police.

You toss the first dart at the board and cock your head to the side when it lands in a spot that only gets you 6 points. “Darn.”

“Uh huh,” Gator says, because now he sees your fellow firefighters behind you snickering and nudging each other—you wish that they had even a pinch of subtlety—and you use your next two throws to just give it up, because there's no way you could keep pretending after this.

Your second throw lands in the triple ring directly above the bullseye: 60 points.

And for good measure, you make sure your last throw lands in the dead center of the board. Bullseye. Only 50 points, but enough to take you to 180 total.

You feel the hands of your colleagues on your arms, razzing you, laughing and hyping you up, as you make eye contact with Gator. You open your mouth to speak as the group of firemen leave you, but he cuts you off.

“You hustlin' me?” Gator asks.

“No...” you say, not quite able to suppress the giggle. “We didn't bet anything.”

He steps closer to the board, stabbing the three darts he's holding into it, and then approaches you.

“You were hustlin' me,” he says, and this time it's not a question.

“So I know how to play darts,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Gonna arrest me, Deputy?”

“Fuckin' should,” Gator says, once again crowding you, stepping right up into your space, and maybe it was the shots and the drink, lowering your inhibitions just enough to allow it even in public, just enough to not care that there could be any number of eyes on you, your colleagues and Mel and Leon and strangers—you let Gator put his hands on your waist and pull your front against his, his lips trailing over yours as you gasp a little, because he's got you up against the now-unused pool table, your ass on the edge of it as he boxes you in.

“You wouldn't,” you say against his lips, resisting the urge to hop up onto the pool table and let him step in between your thighs, even though the heat coiling in your belly really, really wants you to.

“Don't test me, sweets,” he says, and you laugh against his lips; your amusement lingers as he does kiss you, and his hands squeeze your ass through your skirt before someone behind you wolf whistles. Gator is unfazed by it, but you turn away, starting with your face and then your body, twisting yourself out of his hold. You blearily look around to maybe see who whistled at you—your eyes fall on Lopez who's laughing, but he turns back to the bar, giving you as much privacy as you can get in a crowded room, and you rest your palm on the pool table, fingertips skimming over the felt as you round its corner, now standing on the side perpendicular to Gator.

“You play pool?” you ask.

“Yeah,” Gator says, moving a few steps forward, like he wants to follow you but knows nothing can really come of it when you're still in the bar.

“Better than you play darts?” Your hand curls around the 8-ball.

Gator scowls at you, but then snickers—he'll give you that jibe, because it's kind of funny in a catty way. “Yeah, actually.” He follows you around to your side of the table, reaching for the rack to set the balls out on the table. “You?”

“Not a clue,” you reply. “For real, I swear.”

He racks the balls, gesturing for you to roll the 8 over to him, and you do. He settles it into the center of the triangle then grabs a cue and hands it to you, placing the cue ball.

“Break 'em,” Gator says, and you study the set up on the table, then lean over it and line up the cue with the ball at the point of the triangle. You hit the cue ball and watch as they scatter over the table—and then as the cue ball rolls right into one of the side pockets, scratching right out of the gate.

You laugh, and Gator groans behind you.

“That was so bad I almost think yer fuckin' with me again,” he says.

“There's no way I could have done that on purpose,” you retort, and he just gives you a look, reaching into the pocket for the cue ball.

“Get over here,” he says, putting the ball back on the table. “C'mon, let's try to sink the 5,” he says, pointing to the solid orange ball, precariously close to one of the corner pockets. “C'mere.”

Moving over to him, Gator steps back to let you lean over the table, and as you do, his hands end up back on your hips. You turn back to look at him, but his only response is to wink at you, toothpick tucked into the corner of his mouth, curved up into a smirk, and then he leans over you, your back tucked against his front, his hands sliding down your arms to guide you.

“Everyone can see us,” you mutter, as he jerks his hips against your ass just enough for you to know he's doing it on purpose.

“And?” Gator asks. “I'm teachin’ ya how t'play pool. Perfectly normal behavior fer a bar.”

You fall silent, letting him adjust your arms, your posture. One of his hands slides off of your arm and moves beneath your front, pressing against your stomach just beneath your breasts. Your breath catches, but he doesn't move it further. He just holds it there, holding you against him.

“Take the shot,” he says, and you move your arm with his—he keeps your elbow steady as you draw back, and when you hit the cue ball, it shoots into the 5 and you sink it right into the corner like he'd called for. The cue ball spins safely away from the pocket.

“Ok,” you say, grinning, expecting him to move off of you. And he does—but not before moving his hand from your stomach to your chest, surreptitiously squeezing one of your tits before he pulls back.

Without missing a beat, you straighten up, spin around, and slap him right on the cheek.

You hear several bar patrons whoop and whistle—a few even applaud, because you know they witnessed the way he was slathering himself all over you, even if they didn't see him cop a feel—but Gator just chuckles.

Leaning in, his breath warm on your cheek, you hear the laugh lingering in his words. “Must be doin' somethin' right if that's the treatment yer givin' me.”

He takes the cue stick right out of your hand.

“Gonna sink 10 in 'at side pocket, there,” he says, using the end of the cue to indicate which one he means, and then he artfully does exactly what he said as you watch, desire clouding your mind. He's such a cocky asshole, but that doesn't change how strongly you feel about getting him on top of you. Or under you. Or next to you. Whatever works.

“Gonna trounce me?” you ask, and he meets your eye, smirking.

“At pool, or...?” he counters.

“No,” you say, stepping away from the pool table, watching as he looks you up and down. “Don't think I'm much of a billiards girl.”

“Well, I ain't much of a darts girl,” Gator says, making you snicker. “So I think we exhausted our options.”

“Well, there's food. And alcohol,” you say, gesturing to the bar. You can see Miri and Ebony seated at the far end, while Mel and Leon are off in a corner, actually still chatting. Maybe in addition to helping you out, she's actually doing something for herself too.

“You hungry?” Gator asks.

You bite your lip. “Kinda.”

“Well,” Gator says. “When yer the softball MVP and a covert darts pro, I guess ya work up an appetite.”

“Oh my god,” you say, hitting his arm. “Shut up.”

“Nah, you like it,” Gator says dismissively, tossing the cue back onto the pool table, still littered with billiard balls. It knocks some of them out of place, the sound of wood clunking against the resin as you walk away. He drapes his arm over your shoulders, leading you back to the bar. You end up right next to Miri and Ebony, who give you knowing looks.

“Well, hi,” Miri says, raising her eyebrows at you.

“Hey guys,” you greet them, as Gator tries to catch the bartender's attention.

“Is this an impromptu date?” Ebony asks.

“No,” you say, hoping he's not listening.

“No?” Miri repeats. “Looks like a date.”

“It's not a date,” you say. “We're just...messing around.”

“You slapped him,” Miri says.

Before you can respond, Gator leans into you, his front against your back again. “That was foreplay.”

Miri gasps and Ebony shrieks out a laugh, and you elbow him in the ribs as he just laughs too.

“It was not,” you try to say, but Gator is nodding at the others, and Miri is coughing, trying to compose herself, and then the bartender's there with a small, cardstock menu for you to look at and you just absently order a burger and fries without even looking at it. Wanting to fuck Gator has been a net positive (your team won the game) but it's also proving itself to be a lot more trouble than its worth (you are, indeed, on an impromptu date with him at a bar, and pretty much everyone you see on a daily basis is bearing witness to it happening).

“I'll have the same,” Gator says to the bartender, handing him back the menu, and you realize that now you have to stand here even longer with the guy you're totally on a date-not-date with and two relatively new friends who you theoretically could ghost after this. Which would be totally fine, until Mel pops up beside you with Leon in tow.

“You guys getting food?” she asks, and you nod only because you can't lie to Mel. She always knows.

Gator is the one who speaks. “Yeah,” he says. “She's been working up an appetite fuckin' with me all goddamn day.”

“Hey!” you say, hitting him on the arm again, and he just laughs, stepping out of the small throng of people and over to a clear area of the bar to order a drink. It's less crowded than it was when you first arrived—many of the firefighters and police officers have left, along with their friends and family, so now most of the people in the bar are just regular patrons or townies. He leans over the bar, and you turn to Mel.

“Bathroom,” she says to you, hooking her arm in yours and leading you away from the little bubble of people surrounding you. Once you step through the door, it's immediately cooler and brighter, the air less stuffy even though it smells like disinfectant and dirty mop water.

“What?” you ask, and she steps closer to you in case any of the stalls are occupied.

“So things seem to be going well,” she says, voice low, smirk on her lips.

“I guess so,” you say, and she grins a little, wiggling her eyebrow at you.

“You're so in.” She squeezes your arm. “First the gym, and then the game, and now whatever the hell you guys have going on right now.” She sighs wistfully. “I'm such a good matchmaker.”

“You? You did nothing!” you insist, but she speaks over you, her voice staying quiet in the stillness of the bathroom. Behind you, a toilet flushes and you hear the rattle of the paper roll.

“Excuse me,” she says, “I put the whole idea into your head at the gym.”

“No you didn't, and it's not like that,” you say, and she pauses. “I didn't—use my 'assets' or whatever you said.”

The stall door opens and you push Mel back, away from the sinks, as the woman washes her hands. Mel waits to reply until she leaves.

“Ok...” she says, nodding. “Ok. Well, you know what to text me if you need me to come get you.”

“I have my own car,” you say.

“Then I expect a full rundown tomorrow morning,” she says, reaching out to fix your hair, then wiping a stray eyelash off your cheek. “Over coffee?”

“We'll see what time I wake up,” you quip, and she squeals, squeezing your arms as the door opens behind her and Ebony walks in with Miri.

“Oh, did we miss some girl talk?” Miri asks.

“Sorry,” you say, while Ebony just winks at you as you pass the two of them on the way out.

When you return to the bar, Gator and Leon are sitting on stools, far apart—there are two empty spots between them, and you take the one beside Gator while Mel hops up beside Leon. You watch as she places her hand on his thigh as soon as she settles down.

You turn to Gator just as he sips his beer, and once you're seated, he slides you a second vodka cranberry, which he taps with his beer glass as soon as you pick it up.

“Cheers,” he mutters, and you smirk before you sip the cocktail.

“To what?” you ask.

Gator leans in closer to you, his elbow against yours on the bar, his lips brushing your ear.

“To wherever the night takes us, sweets.”

He tilts his head a little to the side, and you feel the rush in your belly as you realize that he's going to kiss you, without any antagonizing or even any playfulness, any banter—but before he can, two plates are set down before each of you with a clatter. You spring apart, and without waiting for you to even survey your meal, Mel is already picking at your fries.

“Melissa, I swear to god,” you say, grabbing her wrist, even as she artfully plucks the fry out of her left hand with her right and bites it in half.

Beside you, Gator is laughing, picking up his burger, and Leon is watching, amused.

“You know, um, Mel, I can—get you some fries,” Leon says, and she just looks at him the way someone would look at a lost puppy.

“I don't actually want fries,” she says, and you move your plate a little away from her since she's distracted. “I just like ruining my best friend's night.”

“She's really good at it,” you say, leaning forward to look at Leon around Mel, then turn your bar stool toward Gator a little more. He's eating quietly, not watching you intently but keeping an eye on you. You both work at clearing your plates in silence, and once half of your burger is gone and you've stopped barring Mel from taking your fries, you shift on your stool to face Gator. Once you do, he sips his beer and clears his throat after he swallows.

“So,” he begins, “thought any more 'bout yer prize fer winnin' the game?”

You pick up one of his fries and pop it into your mouth, shrugging a little. “Maybe.”

“Feel like' enlightenin' me?” he asks.

“No,” you reply, and he just chuckles to himself, taking another bite of food and smirking as he chews. “Yer real fuckin' funny, y'know that?”

“Why?” you ask, taking a bite of your burger and looking at him with your eyebrows raised, waiting for him to explain.

Gator lifts his hand to rub at his mouth, his chin, before his cheek, and your eyes trail over the freckles on that side of his face. “Think yer bein' real slick actin' like this ain't gonna end the way we both know it's gonna end.” He picks a fry off his plate and holds it out to you, intending to feed it to you. You hesitate, hoping that Mel isn't seeing this happen, but you open your mouth and let him feed you the French fry. You close your lips, but his hand lingers there, his index finger tracing over your lower lip. It isn't particularly sexy, but you also know that he didn't really mean for it to be. He just moves his fingertip over your lip, then his hand over your cheek to thread his hand through the hair at the side of your head, the nape of your neck, and as he leans in, you move closer to him too. He doesn't kiss you, but his breath is warm on your cheek as he speaks, just low enough that you can still hear him in the din of the bar interior.

“Wanna head outside fer a smoke?”

“I'm a firefighter,” you joke, turning toward him and letting your lips just barely move over the two prominent freckles you'd focused on earlier. “Kind of anti-smoke by default.”

Gator laughs, pulling back from you, dropping his hand from the nape of your neck down to your thigh, letting it slip between your legs and disappear under your skirt. He's letting it rest on your inner thigh, but not trying to move too high up over your bare skin. You squeeze your legs together, feeling yourself react to his touch, feeling yourself clench up but you manage to save face.

“I ain't a real smoker,” he says, using his free hand to reach into his pocket and pull out the lime green vape you'd seen him sharing with Miri at the photo shoot. “So this ain't real smoke.”

“Guess you got me,” you say.

“Guess I do,” Gator retorts, sliding his hand back down to your knee as he steps off of the bar stool, pocketing the vape again and pulling out his wallet instead, tossing a few folded bills onto the bar to cover your food and drinks. “Need ta tell yer girly we're headin' out?”

“We're—leaving?” you ask.

Gator sniffs, then huffs a laugh through his nose. “Hey, this is yer show, I guess—yer callin' the shots. I'm headin' outside real quick, though.”

“Ok, wait, I'll—I'll come.”

“Sure fuckin' will,” you think you hear Gator say, but you ignore the warmth rushing to your cheeks as you also hop off your stool, then press yourself up against Mel's back and hook your chin over her shoulder.

“Babe, I'm going outside real quick,” you say, and she just nods, reaching behind herself to squeeze your hip.

“Text me,” she says, a reminder, and when you pull back from her, when you turn back around, you see Gator's still standing there, waiting for you, a faint smile curving his lips up at the corners and despite yourself, you feel a little tightness in your chest because you wouldn't have expected that kind of thing from him. Waiting for you, watching for you, reaching out toward you when you step closer—not to take your hand, but to lay his palm on your lower back as you walk together toward the door, the gesture possessive but still charming.

When you reach the door, he pushes it open but lets you step out first, not guiding you with his hand as much as just keeping contact with you in some way, and then you're out in the cool spring evening, a complete breath of fresh air after the hot, stuffy interior of the bar.

There are a few other people smoking outside beneath the darkening blue sky, the streetlights not on just yet so the whole parking lot feels a little bit dangerous, a little bit like somewhere you shouldn't be, but you still follow as Gator leads you around the side of the building, his boots scuffing over the blacktop. He leans his back against the side of the building, removing the vape from his pocket again and lifts it to his mouth. The blue light on the end blinks on as he inhales, and you watch as he lowers it, holding his breath for a long moment before he offers the vape to you.

You take it as he exhales, the cloud obscuring his face. You suck at the vape, not drawing off of it nearly as long as he did or holding it as long. It's cherry menthol, you think, which explains where the scent of mint clinging to Gator earlier came from.

“Tastes like shit,” you say, exhaling the vapor as a little puff with each word, pursing your lips and blowing the rest out in one final stream.

“Well, I'm real sorry 'bout that, princess,” Gator says, reaching out for the vape. “When you start buyin' my shit fer me, you can pick the flavor, how's'at sound?”

You hand him the vape, knowing he's joking, but you can't help playing along. You step closer, leaning your shoulder against the wall to face him even as he's facing out into the lot, taking another pull.

“Maybe I just need another taste,” you say, reaching up as he lowers his hand from his mouth.

He attempts to pass it over, but you cup his face instead, turning it toward you. He follows with his body, shifting so he's no longer perpendicular to you and instead facing you properly, and you lean up to press your lips to his before he can exhale.

As his lips part against yours, you breathe in the cool vapor he breathes out, letting your tongue move against his as you kiss him. It's slow and lazy, one hand still clinging to his vape, the other moving to your lower back. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer to you as you press yourself flush against him, and he deepens the kiss, licking further into your mouth, as you feel his hand creep down over your skirt, and then—you should have expected this—pull the hem up and grope your ass through the flimsy panties you have on. He's got your ass fully out, just like at the gym, but this time, you're in a parking lot and you don't think you care.

He's positively pawing at it, and you feel him shove the vape back in his pocket so he can get his other hand on your waist, though it doesn't stay there long. You pull away from him just enough to bite at his lower lip, drawing it into your mouth to suck at it as he trails his tongue over the cupid's bow of your upper lip, kissing you there while his hand moves from your waist to your lower back, holding you tight against him.

You sigh softly into his mouth and then he's muttering your name, and that, for some reason, affects you more than you thought it might. You lean further into him, hands moving to his shoulders; one stays there, the other moves to his neck, cupping the underside of his jaw as you lick into his mouth again, tongues sliding together.

Gator's hand moves over your ass, giving it a sharp little slap—you startle, pressing your front even harder against his, and you feel him smirk against your mouth even as you're kissing him—and then he's yanking your skirt up even further, his hand sliding into your underwear to touch you skin-to-skin. You whine his name and lower your hand from his shoulder to his front, feeling his chest through his t-shirt, before lowering it further to try and untuck it from his jeans.

“Ah,” he breaks the kiss, pulling away and grabbing your wrist to stop you, though he doesn't pull his hand out of your panties. “Nuh-uh. Little overeager, y'think?”

“You should talk,” you counter, trying for one more kiss, licking over the seam of his lips, but he holds your wrist tightly with his hand, then retracts the other away from your ass and takes hold of your other wrist, pulling both of your hands away from him.

“Enough'a that,” he says, and he kisses you one more time, the bastard. He keeps a hold of your arms.

“Thought I was callin' the shots?” you question him.

Gator snickers. “Might be able ta get away with plenty'a shit in this town,” he says, “but I don't think even I could get away with fuckin' ya in public, sweets, sorry ta disappoint.”

You struggle a little against his hold, and he smirks down at you.

“Relax,” he says, releasing your wrists. He steps back from you and plucks his vape from his pocket again, offering it to you—you decline—and takes one last draw before putting it back. “So, tell me,” he continues, “where ya takin' me?” As he speaks, his words are clouded with cherry menthol and he tilts his head back to blow it fully out of his lungs as he waits for your answer.

“Your place?” you ask, and he just clears his throat, shakes his head.

“Nah,” he says. “Too much fuckin' goin' on over there. My old man, the twins...fuckin' horses...”

Your mouth twitches into a half-smirk, but you dial it back. “Guess your car's off limits?” you suggest.

Gator laughs. “My car ain't conducive t'all the shit I wanna do t'you,” he says, reaching out to put his hand on your waist, sliding it down to your hip. “Ain't just foldin' y'up in my backseat 'nd callin' it a day.” He lifts his hand to card his fingers through your hair then, not pulling you in for a kiss or trying to get you to press yourself against him again; it seems like he's doing it just to keep touching you. “Y'got a roommate?”

“No,” you reply, and he drops his hand to your shoulder, fidgeting with the collar of your dress.

“Solves that, then,” he says. “My truck's right over there.” He nods his chin toward a pickup; you turn to look.

“I drove myself here,” you say. “Follow me?”

Gator smirks, and you get the impression that he's trying to contain how thrilled he actually is that he's going home with you, even if it's just to get his dick wet. He nods, then asks, “Lemme guess, you drive a cute lil' two-door somethin'-’r-other? Maybe a hatchback?”

You laugh. “Not quite.”

“Volkswagen Beetle. With a lil' flower in the dash,” Gator guesses, following as you begin to wend your way through the parked cars, stopping beside a white and red classic Ford pickup.

“Close,” you say, pulling your keys out of your shoulder bag, unlocking the pickup, and hopping up into it as Gator watches you, jaw dropped.

“This is yer car?” he asks, and you close the door, roll the window down, and lean your elbow onto it to tip your head as you rest your cheek on your hand.

“Just like yours,” you say—his Ford F-150 was just a little more modern. “Got a good, what...forty years on it, though, I'd guess.”

He just watches as you start the engine, slapping your hand on the dashboard to get the radio to start playing.

“Damn thing always gives me trouble,” you mutter, as it finally starts transmitting a warbling classic rock song. “Anyway.” You look over at Gator. “You're gonna follow me?”

“Yeah,” he confirms, nodding, staring at you in the classic truck.

“Hey, Tillman,” you say, snapping your fingers in front of his face to make him look up at you. “Don't be jealous that my truck's nicer than yours, ok? I got a whole squad of guys who think they know more than me about cars who love to beg me to see under the hood. Not really a fair competition on your end.”

“I ain't jealous,” Gator says.

“Your drool says otherwise,” you quip, then reach out of your truck to tug him closer to you by his collar. “If you play nice tonight, I'll let you look under the hood tomorrow too, how's that sound?” You have no idea why you're making promises to him that sound long term, when this is clearly going to be a one time thing based solely on physical attraction; you're not going to get your hopes up that he'll even be there when you wake up tomorrow morning, much less that he'll stick around long enough to even look twice at your truck.

But Gator only snickers. “Oh, I'm gonna play real nice, sweets. Promise.”

You lean out of the truck, just enough to let your lips brush his; that's all you really wanted to do, all you intended to do, but you linger and then turn it into a real kiss, and he kisses you back, not pulling away as soon as you'd expect, really, but he does after a few moments.

“All right, c'mon. Enough screwin' around,” he says, and you just move back into your truck, settling into your seat as Gator softly hits both palms against the window sill of the door then backs up a step. You roll up the window as he watches, and once it's closed, he turns to walk over to his truck.

While he's climbing in and starting his engine—you keep watch on him out of the corner of your eye—you pull out your phone to text Mel, sending her a quick message to let her know that you're heading home and you're bringing Gator with you.

Then, you put your phone on DND because you don't want to hear her thoughts or comments, even though you know she would be happy for you and undoubtedly sex positive—you just don't want her to get in your head and make you self-conscious. You weren't joking when you told Gator that the girls in town talked him up—he has a reputation, and after hearing it from more than just a few women, you know he lives up to it.

His truck's engine rumbles as he pulls out of the spot and idles just short of where you're parked. You start your truck and shift into gear, leading Gator out of the bar's lot and into town where your apartment is situated, above a laundromat which is closed currently—thankfully, because you get to have quiet nights rather than hearing people bustling around downstairs or shouting over the sound of the machines into their phones while they're switching from washer to dryer.

You park in your reserved spot—the laundry's owner Irv allowed you, as his tenant, to keep a spot to yourself, and Gator takes the one next to you. Might cause a problem in the morning if he's still there when the laundromat opens, but you also have a feeling that once Irv finds out the truck belongs to Deputy Gator Tillman, he won't have much to say about having the damn thing towed.

Hopping out of your truck, you slam the door and lock it, heading up to round the hood as Gator steps out of his too, the gravel of the parking lot crunching beneath his feet. He joins you, and without a word you lead him around the front of the building, keys jingling as you pass the plate glass window and door to the store itself, and step over to the solid wood door to the vestibule of your apartment instead, unlocking it. Gator reaches over your head to hold the door open, allowing you to step inside first; he follows you into the dark little landing, letting the door swing closed as you flick the light switch to illuminate the stairs leading up to your actual front door.

Gator locks the door behind you as you begin to ascend the stairs, stopping after a few steps up because he's still standing at the bottom.

“You good?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says, tilting his head to the side. “Just tryin'a get a bird's eye view.” He winks at you and you don't understand what he means at first, until you remember you're wearing a dress—short enough that it stops above your knees—and by heading upstairs before him, you’re indirectly allowing him to look right up your skirt.

“Pervert,” you say, flipping him off—and then just turning right around and continuing to climb the stairs, now directly giving him the view he wanted.

“Takes one t'know one,” Gator says, waiting until you're a few steps higher before following you, the staircase creaking as he takes them two at a time. He reaches you just as you arrive at the second floor landing, which is a little more spacious and even has a window to the outside, with a small collection of succulents on the sill.

Gator pokes at one as you unlock this door as well, opening it and stepping in, waiting patiently for him to join you. He does, and you kick off your flats while he crouches down to unlace his boots, leaving them beside your shoes as you close this door too.

“Cute place,” he says, and you feel yourself get a little embarrassed, because it is a cute place—spacious for what you pay for it, since it's always a little warm during the day with all the machines downstairs running and all the foot traffic coming and going—but it's not straightened up. You left it a little bit of a mess—your pajamas and baseball uniform are still on the floor outside the bathroom, and even though you haven't gotten to your bedroom yet, you know that you left your bed unmade and there are at least three outfits you'd tried on for the bar still on top of your sheets, nixing each before settling on the vintage off-white cotton minidress you're currently wearing.

“I wasn't expecting company,” you say, hurrying away from him to pick up the dirty laundry outside of the bathroom. “Make—um, make yourself at home.” You gesture at the couch, which doesn't have anything untoward on it, but the blanket is askew, there's a book on one of the cushions propped open upside-down with the spine cracking, and an unfinished mug of tea sitting on the coffee table, definitely leaving a ring. Part of you wishes you made a better impression, but when you glance back at Gator before you disappear into your bedroom, he's not even looking at your furniture or the disarray you left. He's just looking at you, a faint smile gracing his lips.

When you catch him, he looks away immediately and crosses to the couch.

You just hurry into your bedroom, bare feet skimming over the carpet as you shove the dirty clothes into your laundry basket, tucked away into the closet, then pick up the other clothes you hadn't decided to wear and, in the interest of time, shove those in with your laundry too, even though they are most definitely clean. You straighten your bedsheets as best you can without properly making it, and then return to Gator—who's gone.

Your living area is empty, but you catch movement out of your periphery, and when you turn to your left, you see that Gator's in the little kitchenette, emptying your stale tea and putting your mug into the sink.

“Thanks?” you say, and Gator glances up at you.

“Figured ya might want coffee'r somethin',” he mumbles.

“Sure... thanks,” you say, which feels weird, because this is your house, your kitchen, your coffee—you don't have coffee. “Oh wait, I just have tea.” As you speak, you look back at the couch and notice that your book has also been placed neatly on the coffee table, with the receipt you were using as a bookmark sticking out of the top, keeping your page. You turn to Gator again, who's now at your refrigerator.

“Ya got beer,” he points and you just laugh.

“You didn't have enough beer?”

He shrugs. “Ya fuckin' scampered away so goddamn fast, thought you might need t'relax.”

“I'm fine,” you say. “Like I said I just—wasn't expecting company.”

Gator closes the refrigerator and steps over to you. “I ain't here t'be company, sweets. I don't give a shit what yer place looks like.”

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you nod. “Right.”

“Right,” Gator echoes you, his hands on your waist again, leaning down to kiss you, and you put your hands on his chest, leaning up into him, to meet him half way. It's different in your apartment—behind closed doors, it feels more real, like it will lead to something because now it can. You slide your hands up over his shoulders, wrapping them around his neck again to bow his back further toward you, and then he's pushing you backward, walking you toward your couch. He lays you down easily, settling above you and you sigh at the feeling of his weight atop you, the way he fits between your thighs, his tongue in your mouth and his hands on your sides, moving slowly up and up and up.

“Fuck,” you mutter, not quite meaning to, and you feel him snicker as he pulls away from you, lowering his mouth to your neck to suck a bruise there, leaving a trail of kisses along your throat and collarbones, the neckline of the dress low enough that he can do so with no trouble.

One of his hands settles onto your chest, squeezing your breast through your dress as the other moves back down, hooking his hand around your thigh and pulling it up and over his hip, letting him grind a bit against you even with too many layers of fabric between you. But your legs are more open now, and you can feel your skirt riding up—you whine quietly as he takes your lips with his again, kissing you slow and deep as he rolls his hips down into you.

He's groping your thigh, rubbing his hand over it, sinking his fingers in, squeezing it as you reach down between your bodies and tug at his shirt, trying to untuck it from his jeans and get it off of him for real this time. And this time, he does let you, the t-shirt stretching a little as you pull at it, yanking it up and over his chest, though it gets stuck beneath his arms since his hands are a little occupied.

You don't care—you leave it there and let your hands skim over his front, fingers tracing through the thick patch of hair on his chest, over his nipples, down to his slender waist, and up over his muscular back, which you can feel stretching and flexing as he keeps his hips moving against your core. You tip your head back and he follows you, wanting to keep kissing you, and you press one of your palms against his back before moving the other once again to his chest, tweaking his nipple with two of your fingers to hear the noise he makes when you do. It ends up being a small moan, which makes you smirk against his mouth, smug—and then you just touch him everywhere you can, his pecs and his stomach and up beneath the shirt too, fingertips trailing over his throat until he's had enough and pushes up and away off of you.

Kneeling above you, he straightens up and you watch as he pulls off his shirt the rest of the way. For some reason, it thrills you a little to see that the freckles on his face extend all over his body, and that there's also a thin trail of hair down from his chest to his bellybutton and then lower. You lick your lower lip unconsciously, not even really thinking about it, but Gator clocks it and he snickers.

“Tit for tat, yeah?” he says, and you don't understand what he means—truthfully, you're still a little caught up in having him on top of you—until he reaches down to the buttons adorning the front of your dress and starts to undo them. They stop at your bellybutton, just where the skirt begins, and he pushes the front of your dress open to expose your torso to him, still covered in the satiny, nude bra you'd chosen to wear beneath the white cotton. Wasting no time, Gator just reaches to push the cups up and off your tits, not bothering to try and undo it or take either garment off of you. No, he just frees your breasts from the bra and then leans back down, taking one of your nipples between his lips before it's even perked up from the way his hands slid over them seconds ago.

“Gator—” you gasp, because he's sucking at your tit like there's nothing else he'd rather do with you, and he has the other one cupped in his hand, thumb swiping side to side over your nipple as it hardens, pebbling beneath his touch.

He hums against your chest, pulling off your nipple with a pop to just lave over the pert bud, dragging his tongue over it as you watch, breath coming thin already, his mouth barely even on you for any time at all and already destroying your resolve.

Gator pushes himself up again, bending one of his legs at the knee to tuck it beneath your leg, the one he'd hiked up onto his hip, and licks into your mouth this time, your spit-slick nipple pressing against his chest, the hair he has there tickling you a little as he kisses you, sucking at your lower lip before drawing away.

“What was it I said?” he asks you, and you meet his eyes, wild, uncertain what he's asking. “The night'a that fire,” he reaches up to brush some hair away from your face. “Said, what...I'd letcha suck me off 'fore I fuck ya real nice, was that it?”

You nod, because you remember, vividly, the way he was saying the most vile shit right to your face, the way he said it without any shame.

“Y'know what?” Gator asks. “I think I wanna hear you say it this time.” He leans down again to kiss you, languorous, lips lingering against yours before he pulls back, his thumb and forefinger pinching your nipple a little as he plays with it, tugging and rolling it back to hardness. “Go on. Lemme hear ya spoil that sweet mouth'a yers.”

You huff a sigh, almost in disbelief, wondering if he's really going to make you, but he just settles his chin down between your tits, his hand still cradling the side of your head, the other still toying with your nipple, and it feels so good that you let your eyes flutter closed to lose yourself in it, the way the pads of his fingers squeeze it, the way his fingers gently card through your hair, the way his jaw flexes when he opens his mouth.

“I'm waitin', doll,” he says, and you take a deep breath, opening your eyes to look down at him.

Flitting your tongue over your lips, you speak. “You said...you said you were gonna finger me until I was crying your name.” His lips twitch at the corners, but he keeps his stoic expression. You continue. “Gonna let me taste you before I—ride you,” you breathe out, and he licks his lips this time, nodding.

“'S right,” he says. “'Nd what else?”

“Wanted me to take your—take your fat cock and bounce on it,” you say, and he grins, which makes the warmth in your cheeks ramp up to blazing heat, and even though you're feeling bashful after saying such filthy things right back to him, he seems completely unaffected other than to be even more into it than he was before you did: He surges up over your body and crashes his lips into yours, kissing you harshly as you lift your hips into him, his body aligned with yours well enough that you can, now. He groans quietly into your mouth and drops his hand from your face down between your bodies, sticking it between your legs and rubbing at your cunt through your panties, matching the satiny feel of your bra.

You curl your hips up against his hand, and he pulls away enough to speak.

“Ya gonna make me fuck ya on yer couch?” he asks, and it's such an unexpected question that you laugh, even though he's making your entire body light up with his hands and his mouth and his solid weight on top of you.

“Get off me then,” you reply, but he doesn't move, instead just tugging your panties to the side and letting his fingers slick through your wet folds, finding your slit quickly enough but not entering you. You take a sharp breath in, and he just kisses you in response.

“I thought you”—you try to say, in between kisses—“didn't want to stay on the couch.”

“I ain't puttin' it in yet, sweets, relax,” he says, and curls two fingers into your pussy, making you draw up, tighten up, shiver a little as he pushes them deeper, the pads of his fingers pressing into your front wall. “Ahh, now thatta girl.”

“Fuck,” you say again, and Gator chuckles.

“Gon' give me a big head,” he says, pulling away from your mouth and letting his chin and lips trail over your chest, over the swell of your breast—the one he isn't still playing with—and takes your nipple back into his mouth, sucking at it while he fingers you slowly, curling both digits inside of you again and again, not to make you come, but to rile you up, you can already tell. He told you it was his plan, and not only are you not in any position to fight him on it, you don't want to either.

Just as you lift a hand to curl it into his hair, Gator pulls back from you, moving away and down between your legs. You trail your hand after him, catching up to him when he lets his lips move over your thigh—not a kiss, just a glancing movement, as he slides his fingers free from your slit and then reaches up. He streaks your wetness over your stomach, curling his hand into the elastic of your panties to pull them down, maneuvering your legs so he can slide them off you, and then he's right back where he was, between your thighs, fingers sliding between your lips to spread you open before him.

Your hand cards through his hair and you tug at him; he moves with you easily, lips curled into a smirk as he buries his face in your pussy, his fingertips still spreading you open, and his tongue delves into your dripping hole before both of his fingers join it, stretching you around himself and you curl your other hand into your skirt, pulling it up and away so you can watch as he goes down on you, pressing his fingers into you as deeply as he can, feeling you squeeze down on them.

He pulls away, not really far at all, and latches his mouth to your clit instead, sucking at it, teasing entrance to your weeping slit with a third finger now.

“Gator,” you whimper, and he flicks his eyes up to look at you, to watch you as you writhe on the couch above him.

You feel his tongue moving against your clit, not bothering to come up for air as he presses his mouth a little harder against your mound, really exploring your folds with his tongue, teasing your clit, its hood, sucking everywhere he can close his mouth around, taking your lips between them and dripping spit and your own arousal onto his chin.

He curls a third finger into you, and your hips buck up into his hand, a sharp gasp of breath sounding from your parted lips, and then, to your dismay—he does pull away.

“Wh—” you start to ask, clenching down on his fingers as he stills them, deep within your pussy. He leaves them hooked there as he moves up and over you, tugging at your walls as he slips them out just an inch and then fucks them back in.

“Now, correct me if I'm wrong,” he says, his voice low, stern; you feel yourself gush a little around him. “I said I wanted ta hear ya cryin' my name.”

You stare up at him, just watching his face as he shallowly finger fucks you.

“Ain't that right?” he pushes.

“You—hah—aren't doing it right then,” you say, and he quirks an eyebrow, lips parting as he tucks his tongue into his cheek, looking just this side of pissed—and your chest swells a little in excitement, knowing you got him with that.

“Oh, yeah?” he says, almost sounding amused as he lets his fingers slip fully out of you; you whine as he does, missing the feeling of being stuffed with three of them. “Well, why don'tcha show me how it's done, since you know better?”

A smirk plays at your lips as you tug your skirt up a little higher, your dress half twisted around your body from how much he had you squirming, how much you were rolling your hips up into his fingers. With your free hand, you stretch your arm down your body and rub your palm flat against your pussy, feeling your warm slickness, the ease with which your fingers move through your folds, and then you press your middle and ring finger against your slit and sigh as you slide them home.

Gator watches, eyes half-lidded, as you slowly work your fingers into your own cunt. You gather the fabric of your skirt up into your hand, your chest exposed, panties on the carpet next to you, thighs spread open, one leg hanging off the couch to give Gator the view he'd wanted when walking up the stairs behind you—and finger your own tight little snatch just so he can watch you do it.

“Fuckin' Christ,” Gator mumbles as the first whimper falls from your lips. He looks up at your face and when he meets your eyes, when he realizes you've been watching his face the whole time, he closes his eyes and swallows, then looks back down at your hand between your legs.

“Help me,” you whisper, and Gator doesn't try to play like he doesn't know what you're asking for—he settles himself down between your legs, one hand on your thigh, splaying out to push you open even more, your hips straining at the position you're in, but you don't even fucking care when he adds his middle finger in along with yours, stretching you out, giving it to you deeper than you can reach, and you groan, loud this time, the sound punched out of your chest as he presses into you a little harder than you're doing it to yourself.

“Gat—or—” you half-shout, biting your lip at the last moment to keep your volume in check. He glances up at you, takes in your smirk, and immediately understands what you're doing.

“You little fuckin' brat,” he says, and leans down to suck a harsh kiss to your breast, just beside your nipple, just beside where you'd want him to put his mouth, and then pulls his finger out of you just to add his own ring finger in beside it.

You stutter out a moan, head pressing back into the couch cushion beneath you, as you let go of your skirt and now you have both hands between your legs, one further down, pressing inside of yourself, and the other with two fingers erratically moving over your clit, because you're so stretched out on four fingers you can't possibly keep an even pattern, not with the way your legs are twitching and your cunt is fucking soaked, your thighs tensed.

Gator's fingers work in tandem to yours, and harder too, still; he's fucking you with them deep and fast, in contrast to the way you're gently curling yours into yourself, your clit on fire as you rub at it, not even sure what you're doing to yourself because you're so fucking worked up already.

“Go on, sweets,” Gator says, taunting you, egging you on. “Y'know ya wanna.” He stretches himself over you, his free hand bracing himself on the back of the couch as he hovers above you, watching your face even as he works his fingers with yours, hears the obscenely slick sounds from between your legs.

“Gator,” you say through clenched teeth, and he leans down closer to you, lips trailing over yours.

“Go on,” he says again, and you sob with the feeling of it all, the overwhelming pleasure, the orgasm just flitting around you, ready whenever you are.

“Gator!” you half-sob, half-shout, and he smirks because he won, but even so he gives you your prize: He kisses you, hard, licking into your mouth as your hips flex up into both of your hands and one of his, his fingers slipping out of you even as your pussy tries to suck him back in, and he gives you a small little, harsh little slap right on your cunt.

“Ah—nn—” you intone, your body tensing, wound up beyond belief, and then you're coming, hard enough that you have to pull your fingers out too because you've never felt yourself tighten up like that, never felt your entire body snap the way it had. You're crying his name and then you're moaning his name and then you're sighing his name, and the whole time he's got his lips on your lips, soaking it in, taking it all as you shift a little beneath him, and then you slap him right on the cheek with your come-drenched hand and he looks down at you in shock, drawing back.

“That's for calling me a brat,” you say, and you laugh at the disbelief written on his face, before he snickers too.

“Guess that's fair,” he says, reaching down to rub his hand between your legs, smearing your release over your quivering pussy. He teases entrance again with two fingers, smirking when you clench up. “Nah.” He shakes his head, still rubbing over your cunt before moving sideways to your thigh. “Let's getcha somewhere more comf'table for my turn.”

He pushes himself off of the couch, looking down at you, limp and pliant, and he reaches out one hand to help you up while he reaches down with the other, adjusting his package in his jeans; he has to be hard by now—you'd be shocked if he wasn't.

Once you're upright, Gator keeps his head bowed just a little, watching as you slide the straps of your dress and your bra down off your arms. You lower the dress down around your hips, stepping out of it before crouching quickly to pick up your underwear too, and then you're bare in your own living room while Gator drinks in the sight of you, fully, for the first time.

“After you,” he says, not even trying to tear his gaze away from your tits, except to let them dip down to your crotch, the patch of hair between your thighs, tufted together with the way you both spread your arousal over yourself. You're still wet and him looking right at you makes you squeeze your legs together, just a little. And of course he notices.

“Don't worry,” he says, stepping closer, one hand moving to your lower back, the other pulling your panties from your hand. “I ain't even close t'done with ya.” He holds up your underwear, like you missed him taking them from the little bundle of clothes you're holding, and sticks them into the back pocket of his jeans. “Little souvenir if ya don't mind.”

“I do, actually,” you say, even though the way he's touching you and looking at you and speaking to you is very much affecting your composure. “They're a matching set.”

He smirks as he lowers his hand and gently gives your ass a little swat to get you moving—and you go, stepping around the coffee table and leading him to your bedroom.

“Maybe ya got another pair I can swipe, then,” he says as he walks behind you.

“Should've figured you for a panty thief, Deputy,” you say, glancing back at him, and he just licks his lips, shrugging.

“I'm a simple man, sweets, don't take much t'make me happy.”

“Pervert,” you say, rounding the corner to your bedroom and flicking the light switch. As soon as you drop your clothes into the laundry basket, he's behind you, his arms wrapped around you, turning you so your front is flush with his, your tits against his chest as his belt buckle presses into your stomach, and his cock, still confined in his jeans, pressing against you even through the taut denim.

“Thought we already covered that one,” Gator practically growls, his forehead resting against yours. “Me 'nd you both, remember?” In the dimness of your bedroom—just one lamp, the low wattage of the bulb turning the light yellow and syrupy through the shade—his eyes look deep green, irises barely discernible from his pupils, and you can't even help yourself when you ignore his question and tip your chin up, meeting his lips in a soft kiss, one gentle enough that it defies the fact that you're naked, his hands are tight around your hips, and you can feel his erection, stiff against your thigh. His mouth moves over yours, not really deepening it but instead just pressing kiss after kiss to your lower lip, coaxing your lips to part, and once your mouth is open for him, he licks into you, his tongue moving against yours as you move your hands over his broad back, arms curling up to hold his shoulders from behind, your chests pressed together, his body warm and firm against yours.

He turns away, the strands of hair that fall over his forehead brushing against your nose as he does, and he steps back, moving you with him as he crosses from your closet to your bed. He sits on the edge and you sink down onto his thigh, your wet core settling onto the dark denim of his jeans, soaking them as you kiss him again, your hands on his chest now, one playing with his nipple the same way he'd done to you, and the other skimming through the hair adorning his belly, right above his waistband.

Gator sighs into your mouth as you curl your fingers around his belt, still worrying his nipple between your fingers, and since you're not showing any signs of stopping your ministrations at his chest, he reaches to help you with his belt himself, each of you using one hand to work it open. You slip the button expertly with one hand, tug the zipper down over him as you trail your lips over his tensed neck, and once his jeans have been worked fully open, you slip your hand inside them and cup him through the cotton of his briefs.

“Ahh...” you say, lascivious. “Thatta boy,” you tease, repeating what he'd said to you earlier, and Gator, bless him, tries to snicker but can't quite manage it now you've got a hand on him. You rub him with your palm, the drag of the fabric giving him the friction you can tell he's craving—he's pressing against your hand with everything he has, one hand on your ass to hold you still on his thigh, the other coming to rest gently on your forearm, not to try to force you to do more, but seemingly just to touch you, to feel you as you're feeling him.

You let your tongue flit over his Adam's apple and feel his body give a kick when you do, your nose bumping the underside of his chin, and then you're curving your hand around him, molding it to the underside of his length, as you lean up and kiss him again, pressing your hand harder into him, stroking him without actually stroking him, and he grunts against your mouth as he bucks his hips forward.

“God damn it,” he mutters, letting his head fall back away from you. “Fuckin' tease, gonna make me beg?”

“Maybe,” you say, but you don't hold to it, just slide your hand up and off his cock, palm flat against his stomach before easing it into his underwear, the elastic tight over your wrist as you finally, finally, get your fingers curled around him. Gator practically keens as you take him in hand, jerking him off for real, the skin of his cock velvet, wet and hot and so hellishly soft you know there's no way you'll stop touching him except to feel the silken weight of him on your tongue. “Let go.”

It's obvious he doesn't want to, doesn't want you anywhere but rubbing your sopping pussy on his thigh, but when you pull against his hold, he releases you and you lower yourself to your knees between his legs. Gator hurriedly lifts himself up as you begin to tug his pants down; he helps you get them to his knees, and you purposely don't look up, keeping your face angled down as you rid him of the rest of his clothes. Just as you're about to look, about to see everything he has to offer you, his index finger curls beneath your chin and he lifts your face up—to his face, not his body, and he holds your gaze as he speaks.

“Didn't ferget what I said, didja?”

You shake your head.

“Wanna hear me say it again?” Gator asks.

You inhale sharply through your nose—you remember every word, but that isn't the same as Gator saying it to you. The drawl of his accent, the words he chooses, the way he says it so matter-of-fact, like he could be talking about anything, when it's actually so depraved that it turns you on—yes. You want to hear him say it again.

“Yeah,” you manage, and he smirks, pulling his hand away from your chin and taking hold of his cock immediately, drawing your eyes to it. He's big—you could tell just by touch, it was blatantly obvious—but seeing his hand wrapped around it, your lips part at just the sight.

Gator drags his hand from the base to the tip, slowly, then lets himself go completely just to take hold of himself again right at the root. You watch as he does it twice more, precome beading at the slit as he touches himself.

“Gonna feed it to ya, sweets,” he says, and your eyes flick up to his face and back down to his cock just in time to watch him move his thumb over the head, smearing the wetness collecting in the slit over himself. “Gonna hold ya right in place and just... ease it on in, real slow. Watch ya choke on it.” Your tongue peeks out at the corner of your lips, pink and fleeting. “Oh, ya like that? Wanna feel it in yer throat?” You nod despite yourself. Gator chuckles, reaches out with his free hand, cups your face. He lets his thumb move over your cheekbone, back and forth. “Sweet thing,” he mumbles, shifting himself closer to the edge of the bed, legs spread wide to give you as much room as you could possibly want. “C'mere 'nd take it.” You shuffle closer on your knees, his hand moving to your jaw, and you open your mouth as he angles his cock down toward your parted lips. “Take it,” he says again, and you do.

His precome is the first thing you register, bright and salty on your tongue. You look up at him as best you can, eyes searching for his face above you, but the further you move onto his cock, the harder it is to see him. His palm stays cradling your jaw, and his other hand moves from his cock to your throat, feeling as it spasms a little even though he's not even that far into your mouth yet. It gives you a sick thrill that he's putting his hand there to feel himself when he enters it, and you hum quietly, feeling his cock twitch against your palate when you do.

Lifting your hands to his thighs, that's where you choose to touch him first as you keep drawing him into your mouth, keep sliding forward onto his length; he's massaging your jaw, your neck, and you swallow around the head just as he bottoms out into your mouth.

“I know that's fuckin' right,” Gator murmurs, leaning back enough that you can see him now, eyes angled up toward him, as he looks right back down at you. “Look'it you. Look'it you fuckin' takin' it, just like that.”

“Mmn,” you hum around him, and he sighs your name quietly, thumb rubbing over your throat. You swallow again so he can feel it, but even so, a thin dribble of saliva escapes from the corner of your mouth.

He snaps his hips forward just a little, and you moan around him this time, eyes slipping closed as you do almost choke on it, managing to suppress it; he doesn't seem to mind. He just holds you there for another few moments before he eases you off him, but only enough that he's still mostly in your mouth, and you take a deep breath in through your nose before you get to work, bobbing your head on his cock while you reposition your hands. You move one up his body again, reaching to push your fingers through the hair scattered across his chest, feeling him up before you pinch his nipple, playing with it as he huffs out a sigh; with your other hand, you press your palm against his bare thigh, using it to brace yourself each time you take him in a little bit deeper, letting the tip just barely graze the back of your throat before you pull off.

Above you, Gator makes a choked noise, like he's trying to hold back for your sake, or maybe his, you have no idea and you don't care. You lean back, the wet shaft sliding out from between your lips; just as you lift your hand off his thigh to stroke him into your mouth, he beats you to it and wraps his own hand around himself.

You look up at him, eyes wide, questioning, but he just moves his other hand from your jaw to the crown of your head, and you know he's not going to let you move now. Not that you even want to, really.

Precome is dripping from him as you suck at the head, your tongue teasing the slit, as he starts to jerk himself off right into your mouth. You hum weakly, eyes fluttering shut at how he's using you, using your mouth, just for his own end, and you hear his lips smack as he parts them to speak.

“Look at me,” he says, and you slowly open your eyes again, bringing your hands to his waist, holding onto him. He presses his palm a bit harder against your head, making sure you stay still. “Ya like it?”

You don't bother trying to nod, instead letting your tongue answer for you, licking slow and flat against his tip. He looses a shuddering breath as he starts moving his hand in earnest, the curl of his index finger bumping your lip each time he strokes himself. The taste of him deepens, darkens a little—you know he's close just by how quickly he's moving his hand now, and you suck at his head as he keeps going.

“Can—can I—” he stammers, and you don't know what he wants to ask but you tighten your hold on his sides, squeezing him, hoping he infers that yes, he can come in your mouth. “Lemme—lemme feel yer throat a-again, oh fuck—”

You blink, then try to drop your jaw a bit more, leaning forward, taking another inch or so of his cock into your mouth.

“Fuck yeah, fuck yeah, f-fuck—” Gator is repeating, absently; he doesn't even seem to mean to say it, and with his question as the only warning you really got, he pulls you right up against him by the back of your head, your nose pressing into the short, curled hair nestled at the base of his cock, as he enters your throat again and comes right down it, pulsing in your mouth as his hips twitch forward too, giving you everything he has, making you take it as you drool around him, lips shiny with spit as your cunt throbs between your legs, the arousal you feel for him, because of him, un-fucking-paralleled.

He pulls out of your mouth as one last weak, feeble spurt of come leaks out of his head, and you swallow that too as his wet prick leaves your lips.

You're panting and so is he, and you look up at him, legs numb from kneeling, as he looks back down at you. He cups your face with both hands, thumbs wiping away the wetness beneath your eyes, and then using the back of his hand to swipe away the residual saliva and come from your chin.

“Y'ok?” he asks, and even though your head is still swimming, you can tell he feels strange even asking it.

“Yeah,” you say, voice scratchy, and he hooks his hands beneath your arms to pull you up, back onto his lap. You don't straddle his leg this time, just sit on it as he keeps one arm around you, the other resting along the top of your knee. His fingers dip between your legs then, rubbing at your thigh, which tells you even with the check in on your well being, he's far from finished.

Good.

You're not done with him yet either.

“Do you need a minute?” you ask, turning to him, and he almost has the decency to look surprised, but just smirks.

“Do you?” he counters, and you laugh.

“No,” you reply, putting your hand on his cheek as you kiss him. He swipes his tongue into your mouth with no hesitation, a quiet groan rumbling in his chest as he tastes himself on you, and then you're standing up and pushing him backwards down onto your bed, standing above him on your knees even as you move to lean over him. You let your chest lower to press into his, but you keep your hips elevated, even as you meet his lips again, kissing him almost lazily.

“Said y'were ready t'go again,” he says, as you draw away for a moment. “What gives?”

“Nothing,” you purr. “I like kissing you, that a crime too?”

“Smartass,” he mutters, and you lower your face to his again; this time, he doesn't question you, doesn't protest, and when he moves his hands to your hips, you slide your knees down so you're laying on top of him properly now, his arms around you, squeezing your ass as you make out with him tangled together atop your sheets.

It turns into something quiet and easy, the two of you cocooned in the faint light from your bedside lamp, your hands exploring his arms and his front, one snaking down to reach for his cock again, and when you do, he gives your ass a quick slap, making you yelp.

“What is with you?” you ask, but you're not mad, you're smiling too much.

“Nothin',” Gator says, but he's amused too, and you can tell. “Just like pissin' y'off.”

“I think you like when I hit you back,” you say, hands sliding to his shoulders to push yourself up so you're sitting on his stomach. You lift a hand and Gator flinches, then realizes you're not actually moving it.

He grins. “Well, y'ain't that subtle about likin' it either, sweets. Forepl—” he says, but he's cut off as you bring your hand down against the side of his face, not hard, not nearly as fierce as he'd been when he hit your ass or—god help you—your pussy. Below you, he just chuckles. “Hey, if yer into it, I ain't gonna complain.”

“Shut up,” you say, sliding down his body, bowing your back to kiss him again even as your slick folds catch the length of his cock between them. He moans softly into your mouth, your wet heat surrounding him, and just as he's about to grab your hips to hold you there, his own body already trying to roll and grind up against you, you're off of him and pulling open your nightstand drawer.

Gator pushes himself up onto his elbows to watch you, and when you straighten up with a handful of condoms, he reaches out for one, snapping his fingers when you don't immediately hand one over.

“Patience,” you chide him, but he just snaps his fingers again.

“Ain't got none,” he answers, then rolls onto his side and crawls up the bed, settling himself down against your pillows. “That's one virtue I was born without.”

“And other virtues do you have, exactly?” you ask, turning to face him properly.

Gator scoffs. “If yer gonna be like that, yer doin' all the work.”

“I thought we already covered that,” you say, echoing him. “What was it, you were gonna give me a taste before you let me ride it?”

Gator scoffs. “Yeah, but way t'make it sound...clinical.”

“Clinical?” you ask, dropping the handful of condoms to the bed, save one, which you palm as you kneel on the mattress, moving closer to him. “How is 'ride it' clinical?”

“Listen, not everyone got the gift'a gab, sweets,” Gator says, and you roll your eyes, unimpressed. He reaches out for you, and you move into his reach, letting him caress your hip with one hand and your thigh with the other. “Why don'tcha give it another shot?”

You hum as his hands move over your bare skin, tearing the condom wrapper slowly. You tuck your chin down to your chest and look at him through your lashes. One of his hands comes up to cup your breast, thumb skimming over your pebbled nipple. “Wanna... let you fuck me,” you start, and he just nods, encouragingly, but you don't miss the hardened eyes, the quirk of his lips into a smirk because you're not good at this, just like he said. “Gonna sit on your cock. Your...” You bite your lower lip, drawing it into your mouth. “Your big, fat cock.” He exhales audibly, letting his other hand move from your thigh to your mound, trailing two fingertips through your folds. “Let you in my—my wet little pussy.”

“Uh huh...” Gator leads you, and even though you know he's just humoring you because it's really terrible dirty talk, you still appreciate him letting you try, even though you'd be certain you were ruining the mood if he wasn't still circling your clit with his index finger, eyes on where his hand is down between your legs.

“Gonna...get you soaking wet,” you try, and he flicks his eyes up at you. “Gonna come all over you.”

“Yeah?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you answer, firm and assured, and he withdraws his hand.

“Not too shabby,” he says, tugging you down into him by your wrist. “I'll give ya...an A for effort.”

“Fuck off,” you laugh, pulling the condom from the wrapper and rolling it onto him—he's hard again, or maybe still hard. He definitely didn't feel like he'd gotten soft when you were rubbing your pussy all over him—and when you look back up at his face, he's watching you closely, eyes on your hands.

You lick your lip, almost a little self-conscious, and you have no idea why, other than this has started to feel a little less like a one night stand and a little more like something substantial—which you force yourself to forget, because this is Gator Tillman, not someone like Leon who would take you for breakfast tomorrow morning. You're going to wake up, thoroughly fucked out but alone, because Gator Tillman doesn't do bitches more than once (or so is word on the street. His own word).

With one deft hand, you slide your palm up and down over his cock, then throw one leg over him, leaning forward. He reaches up to cup your tits, and you smirk to yourself as you take hold of his cock again, guiding the tip up against your slit; you both gasp at the same moment when the blunt head presses against you, and you meet his eyes as you lower yourself onto him, the stretch immediate and intense.

“Fuck,” you mumble, breath catching in your throat as he flicks your nipples with his thumbs, palming your tits as you press your hands against his shoulders, clinging to them as you spread your knees a little further apart, taking him in deeper—you're clamping down so tightly on him as your body both accepts the intrusion and rebels against it, clenching down like it could force him out, even though you want him inside.

“Tight little bird, ain't ya?” Gator asks, and you tilt your head back, rolling it to the side, the words affecting you and he knows it. He lowers one of his hands to your mound, searching for your clit again, rubbing his fingertip over it as you lift up and then push back down, his cock entering you even deeper this time. Your walls are sucking at him, and when you fit all of him in you, you exhale, chest stuttering.

“Gator...” you whine, and he presses against your clit harder.

“'S ok,” he tells you. “Yer doin' so fuckin' good, y'know that?” His finger traces figure eights over your clit, the throbbing little bead swollen where it's nestled between your quivering folds. “Perfect little pussy,” he says, and you tremble as you press the heels of your hands down against his chest. He pinches your nipple as you lift up off him, the slide eased with how wet you are, and even though most of him is still in you, you feel woefully empty. You drop back down onto him and it's like sliding right back home, putting him back where he belongs.

“Feel ya shakin' around me, sweets,” Gator says, and you sigh as you pull your pussy up over his length again, strong thighs working as you roll your hips back down, and now that you're used to his size, now that you've taken him in a few times, you fuck yourself onto his cock and he's the one who sighs this time.

“God, look at ya,” he goes on, almost like he's just talking to himself. His fingertips swirl around your clit, which you feel twitch against them. “How's—how's it feel, huh? Talk to me.”

“It's—” you begin, but smack your lips together as you swallow thickly, your arousal dripping down his shaft every time you lift up. “God, fuck, it's so good, Gator—”

“Uh huh,” he leads you, pressing his hand a little further between your legs, letting his fingers slide around where he's got you stretched around his dick, feeling the way your pussy tightens and spasms as he rubs your slit from the outside. “What else? Go on, tell me.”

“I'm so—so fucking...you make me so wet, Gat-Gator, I—” you break off to gasp, then moan as he finds your clit again. “I'm—I'm soaking it—you, just like you—like you said, r-right?”

“That's right,” Gator says, and you look at him through half-lidded eyes just in time for him to sit up and wrap his free arm around you, hold you tight to his front and roll you onto your side, and then your back; his cock slips free of you and you whine, mewl, cry for him.

“No, no—put it—put it back,” you say, reaching up to curl your hand around the nape of his neck, tugging him down to kiss you; he obliges you, but after you lick into his mouth, he ducks away and kneels between your spread legs, your gaping pussy on display for him as he props your thighs up on his. Between his legs, his cock is jutting out, shiny with your fluids as he reaches with one hand to ghost his finger over your slit, which clenches up around nothing.

“Put it back,” you say again, only realizing now how desperate that phrasing is, how filthy and uncouth.

He curls two fingers into you, ignoring his rigid cock, pink at the tip, so hard it's straining up and up, the tip nearly against his stomach.

“And you were gettin' on me for my lack'a virtue,” he teases. “Sounds like you ain't got no manners either, missy.” You can only goggle at him for a moment, because before you can really even formulate a response, he eases his fingers out of you, turns his hand over, and brings his palm down on your pussy in a hard smack, making you jump and moan simultaneously; you feel your pussy practically gush as he rubs his full hand over it, the sound of it reaching your ears and turning you on even more.

“That's one,” he says.

“Two,” you correct him, and he cocks his head to the side. “You did one before.”

He looks at you, then chuckles, smirking. “Two.” He pauses. “How many times didja hit me? Figure I oughtta make it even. You can dish it out, but let's see if ya can take it.”

You squirm a little, splayed open before him, wondering if he'd like it more or less if you made it clear you wanted it as much as he did. “Five.”

“Five,” Gator repeats. “Got three more for ya, then.” He moves his free hand to your thigh, rubbing his thumb over the folded skin where your leg meets your mound.

“Just three?” you ask, and he glances up at you. “What?” you ask, hoping you're not overstepping. “Foreplay, right?”

He laughs at that, then leans down to press a kiss to the valley between your breasts. “Yup, just s'more foreplay, sweets.” He straightens up and gives your cunt a quick swat, making you lift your hips up off the bed, your fists curled into the sheets below you.

“How bad ya want it?” he asks, taunting you, and you bite your lip.

“Want what?” you ask.

He rubs your clit with his thumb for a brief moment, then gives your pussy another slap, the sound of it hitting your ears just as sharply as his hand feels against you.

“You know what.”

“Your fat cock?” you ask, and he grins, smug.

“Yeah. My fat fuckin' cock.” He curls three fingers into you, and push your head back into the pillow behind you as he fingers you, his free hand now curled around his cock too, squeezing himself at the base as he fucks into you with his fingers, deep but not deep enough.

“Gator,” you whimper, and he pulls out of you, rubbing from side to side over your tight clit—you shy away, and he smirks.

“Answer,” he says, taking his hand away from you entirely, replacing it with the one he'd just had wrapped around his cock. He teases your clit with it, rubbing in tight little circles.

“Gator,” you try again, but he just raises his hand, palm toward you, readying the final slap, the one you know will ruin you—the one you want so, so fucking bad.

“Answer,” he directs you, and you flex your hips, parting your thighs as much as you can, giving him room for when he brings his hand down on you again.

You cup your own breasts, rolling your perked nipples between your fingers, and your voice is calm and quiet when you answer him. “Please,” you say. “I—want it. Bad.”

“You asked for it, sweets,” he says, and with one last flick of his thumb on your clit, he pulls his hand away, letting you wait in sweet, painful anticipation, and then he slaps your cunt one final time; you're so worked up and strung out and on edge that the shock of it makes you clamp down on yourself, the pressure between your legs so fucking much that it brings you to orgasm, your heels digging into the bed on either side of him as you arch up off the bed, shuddering and shaking as you come so hard you have no control over the sounds you're making or the words you're saying (or trying to say, really).

“Can I come inside ya?” Gator asks suddenly, and you nod, agreeing without even thinking, and as you feel him slide back inside you, your whole body tenses up again, another orgasm building even though you've barely come down from the previous one.

Gator hikes your leg up over his hip on one side, bracing himself on the bed with his other hand, and snaps his hips into you, so hard and fast that the sound of skin slapping skin makes you moan, would get you off even without how good he feels as he moves into you repeatedly.

You pull your other leg up, hand curled around the back of your knee, opening yourself up to try to feel him even deeper, and you do—he's got his knees up on either side of you, fucking into you half feral, animalistic, your fingernails dig into the back of your thigh as you grasp at his shoulder with your other hand and pull him down to kiss him. It's fierce and neither of you wants to yield control to the other, so your lips are around his tongue and his teeth meet your lower lip and you moan into him as he growls into you and then you're coming again, wrapped up in all of it, in Gator, in everything—your cunt flutters around him as he fucks into you even harder, harder, harder, one more time and then his hips still, pressing his full weight into you as he comes, fully sheathed inside of you, a sound punched from his throat that's half laugh and half gasp.

“Oh my fuckin' god,” Gator says after a moment, his lips still against yours, and he pulls out, fingers on either side of his cock to hold the condom on himself, making absolutely sure it stays where it's supposed to.

You breathe out slowly, then inhale deeply, untangling your limbs from his as he lowers himself down onto the bed beside you, limbless, flopping down to stare at the ceiling as his cock flags to one side. You roll over to face him, laying your arm over his stomach, and he turns his head toward you and kisses you back when you try for one more.

“Lemme get up,” he says, because your arm is on him and he doesn't really want to dislodge you. “'Nd you need ta get t'the bathroom.”

“Conscientious,” you quip.

“I ain't givin' no one a UTI,” he says. “See? Virtuous.”

You laugh and push yourself up, away from him, heading to the bathroom. You hear him pad into the kitchen as you close the door behind you and you wonder if he'll still be in the apartment when you finish cleaning yourself up. You do what you need to do, then wash your face and brush your teeth for good measure, and when you open the bathroom door, you see the light's off in your bedroom.

Stepping lightly across the hall, you peek into your room to find Gator back in your bed, under the sheets this time.

“Hi,” you say, and he looks up at you, smirking.

“Hi.”

“You, um. Staying?”

He looks at you like you've grown a second head. “You kickin' me out?”

“No.”

“A'right. Then what, you waitin' fer an invitation t'yer own bedroom?”

In lieu of answering, you cross the threshold, closing the door behind you as you round the foot of your bed and climb in beside him. You wonder for a moment if you should have put something on, but as you settle the sheets down, you notice—no, he's definitely still naked too.

“You always do this?” you ask.

“Do what?” Gator asks, turning toward you, his features starting to become more visible as your eyes adjust to the dark.

“Stay over. After.”

“After?” You see the apple of his cheek round up. “Sweets, we ain't finished yet.”

You have just enough time to formulate a question—the very eloquent “Wait, what?”—before he's back on you again, lips on yours in the darkness, but you can tell it's different this time. It's softer, calmer, like you earned the right to see a part of him he's never shown to anyone else.

One hand comes to rest on your waist, the other cupping your cheek as he kisses you, deepening it, his tongue against yours as he breaks the kiss but does not move away, leaning his forehead against yours.

“Think ya got one more in ya?” he asks, and as you kiss him again, tongue swiping over his lower lip, you smile to yourself at the fact that he now tastes minty just like your toothpaste.

“Do you?” you counter.

Gator laughs. “This shit again? Yeah. Scout's honor. I'm good fer it.”

You feel over the bedspread for one of the condoms you left there, but before you can move away from him to search for real, you hear the crinkle of a wrapper and know Gator already has one in hand.

“You were pretty sure I'd say yes,” you say.

“Hard pressed t’find someone that says no. And you… ain’t that hard t'read, 'f I'm bein' honest,” he ribs you, and you almost decide to slap him again, just for the bit, but instead you kiss him.

“Lie down,” he whispers against your mouth, and as you do, he joins you, pushing you onto your back and then away from him so your back is to his front.

Behind you, the sound of the wrapper tearing comes and you feel the bed jostle a little as Gator strokes his cock, fits the condom on, and then he's got his chest pressed to your back, the head of his cock poking between your thighs.

You reach back behind yourself to help him, guiding him into your slit again, and this time when he enters you, you groan at the feeling of it, a little sensitive but not too much to stop.

Gator's hips press up against your ass as he rolls them against you, his cock slipping in and sliding out, languid movements as he takes you again, slow and easy. He pulls you back against him, one arm beneath your pillow, and the other draped over your side as he rests his hand on your stomach, holding you close.

Sighing heavily, you close your eyes, pushing yourself back against him as he fucks you, unhurried, taking his time like neither of you have a care in the world, nothing to do besides this, besides each other, and as you relax into him, he stretches himself up around you, his lips tracing over your neck, the shell of your ear, giving you tentative kisses like he's shy about what they might mean, like they mean anything in the first place.

“Gator,” you sigh, and you feel his hips kick a little when you do, thrusting inside of you faster, harder, for just a moment before he eases back to the softer pace, the slower one, the one that feels like he feels something.

Shifting his arm beneath you, he cups your breast in his hand, playing with your nipple as he lowers his hand from your stomach down between your legs, feeling your whole body shiver as he rubs his middle finger over your clit. You lean into him, his cheek against the side of your head, as he makes small noises into your ear: whimpers and whines and little breathy puffs, most of which sound like your name.

“Y'gettin' there again?” Gator asks after the two of you move together, writhing beneath the bedsheets, your bodies joined as his arms encircle you, playing with your clit and your nipple in the same way, circling with his fingertip or rubbing over them both identically. It has you simpering for more, lips pursed as you turn your face toward his, and your lips meet just as the fingers between your legs skim over your clit just the right way, and you're coming on his cock again, your chest tight and your thighs squeezing together; you faintly register his hips stuttering too, behind you, as he groans your name into your mouth and then, for the second time, you two are tangled together, a sweaty, spent mess, all the desire you have to move from your bed dissolving into the sheets where you lay.

Neither of you stir for a long moment; it's only when Gator pulls his hips back from yours that you even realize you have to get up, a second time, and clean up—a second time. Gator moves to lay on his back, glancing at you as he eases off the second condom, and you wait for him to sit up before reaching out to graze his face with the back of your hand, very much a half-hearted slap. He gives you an indignant look and you giggle.

“Fuck was that for?” he asks. “Givin' you the best sex'a yer life? Twice?”

“For making me have to get up again,” you say, sticking your tongue out at him, not even sure if he can see you.

“Fuck off,” Gator says, but there's no bite to it at all. You giggle again. “Fuckin' brat.”

This time, when you pretend you're going to hit him again, he grabs your wrist and redirects the momentum to pull you into him.

“Y'don't have ta get up right now if ya let me give ya number...four, was it?” he suggests. “Might as well go fer five, that's the number'a the day.”

“Bullshit,” you say, even as he leans in to kiss you one more time. “You can't.”

“No one said shit about me, sweets,” he says. “Gonna have ya takin' that back right quick.” His lips find yours and you kiss him, letting him in. “Wanna hear ya say it.”

&&

The next morning, Irv wakes you up bright and early to complain about the truck taking up a space in the laundromat's parking lot, but Gator fixes that by 1) cursing Irv out, 2) informing Irv exactly who he (and his daddy) is, and 3) vacating the spot by pulling a Leon and taking you out for breakfast.

——

Which was laughable, considering who he was. Johnny Storm had never had “normal” a day in his life, even before the powers. 

Maybe that’s why he craved it so bad. Or…maybe it was just a quarter life crisis. 

He didn’t exactly know when it started, but suddenly he wanted to know what it felt like to walk through a lobby where no one greeted him like he was the president. To buy laundry detergent and groceries and whatever people who don’t have a Herbert to do it for them, well, have to do. To have a mailbox in a locker with a little key, and no need to go through a dozen levels of security clearance just for some fan mail.

Maybe that’s why he found himself going through rental listings at two in the morning in the darkness of his room. Half laying on his round bed, one arm raised up in flames to illuminate the newspaper in front of him. 

This is ridiculous, he thought. He told himself he was just looking. Killing time. He wasn’t going to do it, he was just thinking about it. Swear to God he was not actually going to do it. But an ad caught his eye. 

Roommate Wanted

Apartment in Brooklyn, Park Slope. Two bedrooms, one bathroom. Looking to split rent 50/50. 4th floor. Girls only, unless you’re famous, then we can talk. Call after 7pm if you’re interested. 

“Unless you’re famous,” Johnny chuckled, re-reading the ad, and the name attached to it. 

The ad was pretty vague, but Johnny recognized the location. Safe neighborhood, no rooftop pools in that area, and definitely no doorman. 

It was perfect. 

The next day he counted the hours until 7pm came. He wanted the full experience, so instead of using the fine piece of technology on his wrist to call the number he saw on the ad, he took some coins from Franklin’s piggy bank in exchange of a generous twenty dollar bill–you’re welcome buddy–and found himself a random telephone booth at Central Park, just in time. 

Big breath, here goes nothing. 

-

The landline phone hung on your kitchen wall rang exactly at 7:01pm. You cleaned your hands with a napkin, leaving a bowl of heated leftovers on the counter before picking up. 

“Hello?” You said, holding the phone between your ear and your shoulder. 

“Hey! I’m calling for the apartment ad, I’m very interested.” 

The voice on the other side of the line surprised you. So far only women have called you and unfortunately none of them had agreed with the rental fee. “Uh, sure…what’s your name?” 

“I’m Johnny Storm,” he said immediately.

Okay, pause. Is this guy being for real right now? 

“…Right,” you said after a moment, dragging your words and fiddling with the tangled cord. “And…you’re looking for an apartment?” 

The disbelief in your voice made Johnny sigh. Only when the words left his mouth he realized how ridiculous his name probably sounded. But what else was he supposed to say? He wasn’t planning on hiding who he was, even if it was just a call. That felt wrong.

“Yeah…listen I–uh…I know this may seem a little off, but I’m looking for a place for…personal reasons, and your ad caught my eye. I really like the area and I can definitely pay rent on time.”

He chose to leave out the fact that he could actually pay rent four years in advance. That seemed a little overkill. 

“I swear I don’t set couches on fire, not unless you ask,” he added with a nervous laugh, but his whole body relaxed when he heard the chuckle you left out. “And you said being famous was the exception so…can we talk about it?” 

You contemplated for a moment. To be honest? It seemed too good to be true. On the other hand, you had nothing to lose…and you wanted to go back to your dinner. So you just shrugged. 

“Alright,” you said, “I’ll tell you what, Johnny Storm. There’s a café a few blocks from the apartment, called “Geta’s”. Let's meet there, Saturday at noon. If you’re actually who you say you are, you’re paying for coffee. If you’re not, I’m calling the cops.”

“Geta’s” Johnny grinned. “Roger that. I’ll be there.”

You weren’t actually planning on calling the cops. Or well, you hoped you didn’t have to call them. 

Worst case scenario, some random guy was pretending to be Johnny Storm, and you’d have to ditch the clown and go back to answering calls. Best case? Well…you hadn’t really considered that one, because come on. Johnny Storm, Manhattan’s golden boy, Mr. Baxter Building himself, apartment hunting in Brooklyn?

Absolutely not. 

Still, you got to the café ten minutes early. Picked your favorite table by the window, with a good view of the street and a close exit in case things get weird. You ordered your usual drink, a side of mini croissants, and the wait began. 

You were mid sip when you heard the familiar ring of the bells above the cafe’s door. 

"Mr.Storm!" someone called from behind the counter, way too cheery to be greeting a conman. “Welcome to Geta’s!”

Your head snapped up, and…yup. There he was. 

Johnny Freaking Storm. Golden hair, golden everything. A pair of sunglasses perched on his head, paired with some designer jacket and perfectly fitted pants and that pearly white smile you’d only seen on billboards. 

He looked unfairly good in real life. 

He nodded to the barista, who was currently having a mini stroke behind the register, then turned his gaze toward the tables, looking for…you? 

Right, yeah. You. 

You raised your hand awkwardly, giving a tiny wave that said yep, that’s me, the girl who didn’t think you’d actually show up. He smiled wider at your stunned expression, and strutted straight to you, sliding onto the chair across from you.

“I didn’t actually think Johnny Storm was going to show up today,” you blurted out, making him chuckle. 

“I get that a lot,” he said, shrugging. 

“Do you…want a mini croissant?” 

“Only if they’re not poisoned,” he joked, narrowing his eyes playfully. 

“Right. You’re the Johnny Storm. You probably have someone test the croissants for you.”

“That would be Herbert, yes,” he nodded cockily, getting another chuckle out of you. 

This time you narrowed your eyes at him, trying to process the entire fever dream. He just tilted his head, matching your face expression in amusement. You shook your head and leaned back a little, crossing your arms. 

“Okay, I feel like I need to say this out loud so I know I’m not hallucinating. My apartment is not in Manhattan. It’s not a penthouse. I don’t live next to models or celebrities. Are you sure you replied to the right listing? Or is this just you…pulling a bit? Like a prank show? Because I really do need a roommate.”

Johnny chuckled, shaking his head. 

“No cameras, I promise,” he reassured. “I know where the listing said it was. Park Slope. Two bedrooms. 4th floor. You said girls only unless you’re famous, which, considering…”

He leaned back with a shrug, gesturing at himself.

“Yeah but that was a joke. I mean you could, I don’t know, live anywhere. Somewhere crazier like…the moon or space in general,” you gesture vaguely, because him living in another galaxy sounds more realistic than him sharing a couch with you. 

He seems to find it funny, at least, but something in his face softens before he lets out a sigh. 

“Listen, I know this is weird but…I’m not joking. I don’t want a penthouse. I’m not looking for anything “crazy” or fancy or with zero gravity. I just…want something a little quieter. A little more normal, you know?”

You raised your eyebrows, still skeptical. “Well, Johnny, life in an apartment building is not necessarily “quieter”,” you chuckle. “Normal? For sure. But you’re telling me the big Human Torch, who flies over the stadium to see the Mets, wants normal?”

He shrugged, but there’s no cockiness to it anymore. 

“I know. Shocking, right? But I do," he said. “I mean, the tower’s great and all, but it’s…a lot. And it’s all I’ve known for most of my life. Cameras, tech, Reed in general, it just…never stops. It always feels like everything needs to be perfect, you know? I kind of want a door I can lock and a couch I don’t have to share with a 500 pound rock man. Maybe just with…a normal roommate."

You stared at him in silence. If there was anything you learned from Johnny Storm in that short interaction, it was that he had the bluest of eyes, and the way they were looking at you, like he needed to be understood by some random girl he just met, made something in your heart clench. 

Still, you had questions. You weren’t going to be swooned into giving away half your apartment.

“A normal roommate…” you drawled, still waiting for the punchline of this whole situation. “So, you don’t mind the fact that I have a regular job and I don’t throw superhero parties?”

That makes him grin again. “Well, I was kind of hoping you threw superhero parties. But that’s okay, I can tell spidey to meet me somewhere else.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. Okay…maybe you’re getting a little swooned. You looked down at your drink, trying to play it cool. 

“And you know I probably won’t scream when you come out of the shower shirtless or whatever?” 

Johnny grinned wider. 

“I mean, you can. You’d have shirtless privileges as long as you don’t go around selling pictures of me.”

That makes your smile grow. Damn him. 

You really tried to stay skeptical. Tried to keep a cool head and ask more serious questions. But shit, they weren’t lying about the Storm charm. 

And the sad truth was…you liked it. The way he made you laugh. The way he was looking at you. Not just in a flirty, over the top Johnny Storm way. He seemed genuine, not necessarily trying to impress. You could tell he was truly interested…maybe even hopeful. 

And I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? You really needed a roommate like, yesterday. 

“Okay, Johnny Storm,” you shrugged. You had nothing to lose. “Wanna go see it?”

“Are you sure you don’t want to fly up the fire escape?” You tease, eyeing the four flights of stairs ahead of you as you walk into the building. 

“Please. I’m going for the full normal experience, remember?” He gives you a smug little smirk.

You snort, then pretend you don’t hear him panting by the third floor. But all the amusement goes away as you open your front door, totally not freaking out about the fact that Johnny Storm–your potential roommate–is about to come inside. 

Time for the house tour. 

The apartment is not that big, not like anything in New York is anyway, but the layout looks decent under the soft light coming through the windows. The ceilings are high, the wood floors shine when the sunlight hits them right and the open kitchen is small but cozy. 

Johnny walks in with an unreadable expression in his face. Still, you can’t help but look at it the way he must be seeing it now; the single couch in the living room with carefully picked mismatched throw pillows, the thrifted coffee table you sanded and painted yourself, the small black and white TV, the organized mess on every surface but…it’s home. It’s been home for a year now. 

He turns around in a slow circle, taking it all in, eyes landing on a small desk by the window with a typewriter on it and stacks of paper all around it. He wanders over there, leaning a hand on the window frame as he looks out over the rooftops. 

The view isn’t breathtaking, not at all like the one he’s used to back home, or the one he sees when he flies over the city, but it’s beautiful nevertheless. Lived in. Rows of shoulder to shoulder red brick facades, dozens of arched doors with molding and tall trees lining up the street. 

Standing here, he feels small. In a good way. 

“It’s actually very nice,” he says, turning to you with a smile. 

“Thanks…” you say. Relief washing your features. “Does it meet the great Johnny Storm’s expectations?”

He shrugs playfully, eyes darting across the floor like he’s looking for something. “I’m still expecting at least one cockroach cameo.”

You gasp in mock offense, but can’t fight the smile on your face. 

“Give it time.” 

You gesture for him to follow you into the mini hallway to access the rooms, separated by a bathroom in the middle. 

“This one’s my room,” you say, pointing to the one that faces the front street. “Yours would be the one on the left. It has good light in the morning.”

He hums, peeking inside the empty room. “I like that.”

“And then…there’s a smaller third one next to yours. I’m using it for storage, and I wasn’t planning to fill it but…I was actually going to talk with my new roommate about considering renting it too. But–” 

“How much more do you need to make it work?”

“What?”

“Well, if you’re gonna have to bring in a third roommate, then I assume the math doesn’t quite work yet. I can do more than 50/50,” he offers like it’s nothing. 

“Johnny…”

“60/40? 70/30? Just tell me what you need, I got it.”

“That’s not really the point,” you say softly, shaking your head. “Look–I just…I’ve loved this apartment for over a year now but rent went up and it’s been a bit tough finding someone who can help afford this place. The building is nice but people’ve been turning me down when hearing their part. So, I thought I might have to split it in three. But I’m not trying to take advantage of anyone, of you...it’s just a big deal for me, living here you know?” You shrug, suddenly feeling self conscious. 

“You’re not taking advantage of me if I want to help,” he says, just as softly. “Seriously. I like it here. This whole thing I’m trying is…kind of a big deal for me too.”

Your shoulders relax a bit, and a smile tugs at your lips. 

“So you really want to live here?”

Johnny looks at you like obviously, before that cocky grin sneaks into his face again. “I already committed to the stairs. I’m invested now.”

That gets a laugh out of you.

“Well,” you smile, stepping toward him, extending your hand, “then I guess we are roommates, Johnny Storm.”

“Roommates,” he nods, sliding his warm hand into yours. 

“Better than the moon, then?” You tease.

“Way better,” he smiles. And oh, that smile is trouble.

Four months later.

Living with a celebrity has been…surprisingly uneventful.

No paparazzi hiding behind the trees, no fans camping outside the lobby, no wild afterparties. In fact, it’s been almost too normal…if you ignore the fact that your roommate is technically flammable.

Johnny hasn't set anything on fire. Not on purpose, at least.

The kitchen had two close calls. Both were an attempted murder breakfast. He claimed the stove was not user friendly because “it has no lights like the one at home”, so you had no choice but to ban him from using it unsupervised. 

Still, he tries. On some nights when you come home dragging your feet from work, he’s already waiting by the TV with takeout bags in hand and his sweater sleeves pushed up as if he made the meal himself.

You’ve also noticed his little communicator/watch thingy beeps every Wednesday at 8 pm for family dinner back home. He flies off the fire escape, only to return a few hours later with something delicious like Ben’s lasagna or Herbert’s infamous cheesecake (you’ve learned he’s actually a droid and not a private chef.)

“Figured you could take some for lunch tomorrow,” he’d say casually, placing whatever he brought carefully in the fridge.

Oh, and the fridge! We have to talk about the refrigerator. A ridiculous piece of fine technology he barely managed to fit through the apartment door. It’s framed in shiny silver, with curved glass doors you didn’t even think was possible a fridge could have. He said he had a similar one at home, and figured your place could use something with the same aesthetic. 

His words. 

And you still remember the day he moved in like it was yesterday. He arrived with an obnoxiously big truck that had to return half full to the Baxter Building, because he overestimated the space he was moving into. 

The bed was the funniest, for sure. Or at least…the attempt to get it in. It took him forty whole minutes of directing two movers to realize his round, ridiculous, king sized bachelor bed would simply not fit through the apartment door, let alone his designated bedroom. Not by angle, not by disassembly, not even with your upstairs neighbor offering unsolicited advice from the stairwell.

Funny times. 

Your favorite part of that day, though? When Johnny took out a shiny, white sphere-shaped turntable out of a blue velvet lined case with more care than you've ever seen a man apply to anything in your life. 

He brought his entire record collection too. Countless boxes of them. He even had custom shelving made for the living room, right above the small tv stand. The wood midcentury curves contrasted perfectly against the brick wall, and were packed to the brim with all his colorful records. Johnny was very proud of it. Back then he’d even said they were for “shared enjoyment,” and you took that to heart. 

Johnny hadn’t noticed how many romantic records he owned until you started wearing them out. He doesn't mind at all, he’s caught himself smiling more than once when he hears you play one without asking for permission anymore. He even keeps your favorites on the shelf closest to the turntable. 

Cause that’s what roommates do. 

He admits it’s a little weird, sharing a space with someone who’s not family or you’re not romantically involved with, but he likes it so far. The simplicity. Sure there’s no cabinets that open with a clap of his hand or a rocketship parked in his backyard, but there’s walking out of his room for a midnight snack only to find you already there making some tea, humming in your pjs under the soft glow of the refrigerator light. That, until he lifts his hand and starts bragging about his flames heating your tea faster than a kettle. There’s watching you spend an entire Sunday hunched over your desk, giving the poor typewriter a run for its money while you play Sinatra in the background.

You also notice things about him. Cause that’s what roommates do. 

Johnny likes dancing. It’s not a rare occasion to find him swaying his hips to Marvin Gaye or Michael Jackson in the middle of the living room when you get home at night. He’s been trying to master the moonwalk, which you discovered one day you arrived early from work (he’s getting there.)

Johnny likes to be active. He gets very fiddly when he’s not saving the world, so he always has to be doing something. Whether it’s cleaning his custom golf clubs, doing push ups in the middle of the living room, or trying to figure out a rubik’s cube Franklin can solve in less than five minutes, but who’s counting?

(Not Johnny.) 

He has an unhealthy obsession with cereal, but we all have guilty pleasures, don’t we?

Johnny also pays the bills. All of them. You’ve tried to argue, even tried to pay some as soon as the receipt came, only to find out he’d already done it because it gets automatically drawn from his bank account. He even goes grocery shopping like you have a pantry the size of the entire apartment. 

“No Johnny, you can’t keep buying in bulk, we don’t have space for all that stuff!!”

And…he’s still The Human Torch. 

He disappears sometimes. You just hear the beep of his watch and he’s gone in a yellow blur. You’ve learned not to worry. Not because you’re not worried, but because he always comes back. 

It’s your new normal. It’s easy. Domestic in a way you didn’t expect after the last…person you lived with. You’re not sure how much longer you can keep deflecting the question that pounds your head every now and then. Is this–whatever this is–the best mistake you’ve ever made?

“What do you do for a living anyways?” Johnny asks, his attention going from the movie to your spot on the floor next to the couch.

It’s almost 9pm on a random Tuesday. You’re folding some laundry into baskets after Johnny convinced you into joining him watching “The Godfather.”

“You see me leave every day with a lanyard that says New York Times, Johnny,” you chuckle, still focused on the shirt you’re folding. 

“Yeah, but with the way you abuse that typewriter at night I’d think you’re running a secret gossip column about me or something.”

You finally look up, only to find him munching his popcorn in amusement. You reach for his bowl to steal some, he pretends to pull it away only for a second, only to extend it closer to you with a grin. 

“Sure Johnny, because I have nothing better to do than write fan fiction about you for the Flaming Heart’s club zines,” you snort, shaking your head, but his tilts in confusion.

“...What’s a fan fiction?” 

The question makes your wrist full of pop corn stop mid-air.

“Uhm…you’re better not knowing,” your voice comes out a little too high pitched, trying to brush it off.

“Right…” he says hesitantly, making a mental note to get the next Flaming heart’s club issue. 

“I write for the paper’s lifestyle section,” you say, trying to stir the conversation away from that topic. Fortunately, he seems to perk up at that. “But it wasn’t always like that, I actually started writing about sports.” 

“Sports?” He asks, lowering the tv’s volume and turning his body more towards you. “You never talk about that.”

“Well, I wasn’t exactly passionate about it. They hired me for whatever they needed. And they needed someone to write about the Mets.”

“The Mets…so you’ve seen me there?” He wiggles his eyebrows, making you roll your eyes playfully. 

“I covered four seasons Johnny, four. I think I saw the human torch painting the game score on the sky a few times,” you chuckle, wiping your hands on your shorts to grab another piece to fold. “Don’t think I could watch another one, though.” 

“Do you hate them?”

“I don’t hate them specifically but…I can’t really stand being in a stadium anymore. My head hurts and it makes me feel sick. It’s so loud, and the games last so long. I had no idea they were that long.”

He tries to be serious, he really does because you’re opening up, but the words leave his mouth before he can stop them. 

“That’s what she said.”

You look at him stunned for a second, before you both burst into laughter. Of course. But you don’t get mad. If anything, it helps ease some tension off your shoulders.

“Okay, okay, sorry,” he apologizes after a moment, clearing his throat when your laugh subsides. “So, lifestyle then?”

“They moved me last year. Which is better…I guess.”

It’s not just your hesitant tone that makes Johnny soften, but the way you start to fold a pair of socks like your life depends on it. His gaze goes to your desk by the window, still stacked with mountains of papers and the cup of tea you forgot to take to the sink last night. 

“That still doesn’t explain the aggressive typing at midnight,” he adds, prying a little more. “Unless you’re too passionate about throw pillows or vitamins or whatever a lifestyle column is about, but by the way you told me about it…I’m guessing that's not the dream, right?” 

You chuckle at his analysis, but there’s more sadness in it than amusement.       

“I want to write novels,” you admit quietly. “Romance, actually.”

That makes his eyebrows go up.

“Oh, now that makes sense,” he says with a teasing grin.

You whip your head toward him. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Oh come on,” he laughs, leaning back on the couch to look at the ceiling, gesturing dramatically in the air. “The girl who listens to love songs repeatedly, wants to write romance novels? Not very surprising.”

You gasp, nudging his knee so he looks at you. 

“May I remind you those are your records I’m playing?”

“Oh, please. You put them on more than I do.”

You try not to smile, but with Johnny…you’ve learned that’s impossible. 

“Yeah, well, it’s not my fault you’ve got a softie’s taste in music,” you tease, going back to your stupid pile of clothes when he finally looks at you, feigning offense.

“I will not tolerate slander in my own home.”You both fall into soft laughter again, before he decides to turn the volume back up, not really caring about what he might’ve missed. Romance novels, huh. He’s definitely using that against you later.

It’s supposed to be another random Tuesday night. 

You’ve called it a day, and intend to sit back and relax and enjoy your evening. You’re about to walk out of your room to make some tea for bed, when you hear the familiar rustle of Johnny’s keys on the front door, but it’s not just his footsteps you hear. 

No, there’s a giggle. A girl giggle. 

“Oh my god, you weren’t kidding about the stairs!” She says, followed by a breathless little laugh. “Wait…this is it?”

You’re still in your room where you can't see them, but by the sound of the girl’s voice, she’s not exactly impressed about the place Johnny Storm brought her into. But he doesn’t seem to mind, instead, you can hear his footsteps going toward the turntable, probably rummaging through his “setting the mood” shelf. 

“Yep. This is where I live.”

There’s a brief pause, where you assume the girl is looking around trying to find a camera that would explain this is just a bad prank.

“…Really? I thought you lived in a penthouse,” she says, laughing nervously again. “I don’t know, something with a view, at least?”

“Nope,” Johnny says, and you can hear the unbothered smile on his face. “This is home.”

She doesn’t say anything back, but you’re guessing she’s probably trying to smile politely like her life depends on it. After all, she’s not stupid enough to waste the opportunity of spending the night with the human torch.

You don’t know what makes you step out of your room, maybe curiosity killed the cat, but you regret it the moment you see the girl Johnny brought home. The brunette looks like her face belongs in a billboard as much as he does. She’s still standing by the door, shifting awkwardly, and her eyes widen when she sees you walk out in pj’s. 

“Oh hey!” Johnny says quickly, gesturing between you with a little laugh before she spirals. “This is my roommate. And this is, um…Paige.”

You smile, just enough to be polite, crossing your arms over your chest to try to keep at bay whatever you’re feeling.

“Hi, Paige.” That’s all you can manage to say. Johnny pretends going back to choosing a record, but he watches you from the corner of his eye. 

Paige straightens on her spot, smiling way too cheerfully for the expression of bewilderment she had just seconds ago. “Hi! I love the place. It’s so…cozy.”

You nod, ignoring the way she looks up and down at you, and decide it’s wiser to forget about that tea.

“Nice meeting you. I’ll uh…leave you both to it…” you mutter, before doing the only thing a sane person would do. 

Retreat to your room, shut the door, and pretend you don’t exist. 

You decide to go back to your plans of enjoying the evening, and curl up with a good book in bed–thinking a glass of wine wouldn't be the worst idea–when you hear music coming from the living room. And it’s not just any song. Of course it’s not.

The opening sultry sequence is unmistakable, so instantly recognizable that your eyes go wide as your head snaps toward the door. 

“I’ve been really tryyyyyyin’, baby…”

“No fucking way,” you whisper to yourself.

“Tryin’ to hold back this feeling for so looooong…”

You rush to the door, pressing your ear to the wood to confirm you’re not hallucinating. Johnny really is shooting his shot with Marvin Gaye in the background. 

Way to set the fucking mood. Literally.

“Oh my God,” you slap a hand over your mouth to stop the disbelieving laughter bubbling out of your chest. “That’s his move?”

You can’t help it. You have to see this. You crack the door open just enough to take a peek of the living room. The record spins on the turntable, as Johnny stands in front of the couch Paige is sitting on. 

“Let’s get it on…”

And girl, Johnny’s getting it on. He has his arms up in front of him, elbows bent, fists and eyes closed, completely surrendering to the groove. He rolls his shoulders seductively, and his hips are doing a slow sway that makes your jaw drop to the floor. 

He’s performing, right in the middle of your apartment, and you’re not sure if you should be horrified or turned on. 

The girl on the couch is surely eating it up. She giggles, covering her mouth like this is the most charming thing she’s ever seen. Johnny throws in a little hip circle, that feels unnecessarily dramatic in your humble opinion, but she squeals louder, clapping as she melts under his mating spell.

“Let’s get it on…let’s love, baby…”

You can’t believe him, you can not believe him…and yet, your lips twitch at the way he’s completely unaware of how stupid he looks because he’s too busy having fun doing his weird seduction ritual. 

Of course this is how he flirts. Of course he dances like that. And of course people fall for it.

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. Paige laughs again, and Johnny grins wide, clearly proud of himself. He offers his arm to her with a wink, leaning forward, and she takes his hand with a delighted gasp that seems to seal the deal. 

That also means you’ve seen enough. 

You close the door softly, pressing your back against it as the music and the giggles muffle behind it. You tell yourself that you should be annoyed. You should be rolling your eyes. But god help you, there’s this weird tender feeling blooming on your chest, and you hate it. Because even when he’s being ridiculous, even when he’s dancing to Marvin Gaye for someone else…You still find him stupidly endearing.

-

Unfortunately, Johnny’s wasn’t the only performance of the night. 

Oh no, you wish you could go back to the stupid mating dance instead of…this. 

First you just heard the creak of a bed. His bed. Followed by a sound that could only be described as a high, breathy, and absolutely overdone…moan. A performative moan. The walls are thin, not paper thin, but still enough that every exaggerated sound from his guest bleeds through. 

“Oh my goood, Johnnyyy…”

You try covering your ears with your pillow, hoping it’ll help muffle the show Paige is putting on next to your room. But no, this girl is committed. She’s moaning as if she’s trying to convince someone. Anyone. Everyone. 

God, what if your neighbors think that’s you?

Your groan is muffled by the pillow. This is torture, absolute torture. You know Johnny must be good in bed. That’s not the problem. The problem is that she sounds like she’s aware she has an audience.

You lift yourself on your elbows to glance at the clock and sigh at the time. 1:07 a.m.

Who goes on a date on a Tuesday? 

Granted, if you were fucking Johnny you probably wouldn’t mind the day, or the hour–alright STOP right there. That’s not the point! 

You plop back down, exhausted, but sleep doesn’t come easily. You just stare at the ceiling, counting the cracks you’ve never bothered to notice before, in an attempt to ignore Johnny’s muffled groans. 

You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself you’re a grown adult who can handle the fact that her roommate has a sex life. There was never a rule against Johnny bringing someone home. He lives here. He pays for almost everything for God’s sake. He’s allowed to bring anyone wants. 

It's just…you were naive enough to think he wouldn't.

Girl, whatever.

Wednesday’s morning sun hits you like a slap in the face. 

You couldn’t sleep well, not with the symphony next door. So you forced yourself up from bed and got ready for work by a miracle. Now, yawning and barely keeping your eyes open, you drag your feet toward the kitchen to find some salvation in the form of caffeine, but you don’t make it two steps outside your bedroom before you collide directly into something solid. 

And wet. And warm. Too warm. 

Johnny. 

Who was just stepping out of the bathroom with water dripping down his golden skin. A white towel hangs low on his hips. Like low low. His clenched fist barely keeps it in place. Blonde hair sticking in strands to his forehead. 

You freeze in place. 

“Morning,” he says, smirking, “You okay? You look like you just saw a very handsome man.”

You don’t really hear him. And you absolutely do not stare at his chest, his abs, or the water trickling down his happy trail. But you do notice the hickeys adorning his glistening pecs. Bright and fresh and mocking you.

“It’s okay if you want to scream.” His teasing voice makes you roll your eyes as you shove past him. 

“Put on some damn clothes, Storm.”

Johnny lets out a chuckle, leaning over the bathroom’s door frame with his arm. 

“Why? You looked like you were enjoying the view,” he adds, and just to show off more, he steams the water off his body in a matter of seconds. “You know, you can just say I’m hot. I’d be flattered, really.”

He expects you to say some witty remark, or give into him with a laugh like you always do, but you give him the cold shoulder treatment. Then you distract yourself by stabbing the buttons on the espresso machine he brought in just last week. Johnny notices not only that, but your sudden aggression toward the cereal box and the bowl you set a little too harshly onto the counter. He frowns, stepping slowly into the kitchen. 

“Hey…wait, are you–“

“I’m not mad,” you say, still not looking at him.

“I didn’t say you were,” he shrugs, lifting one hand innocently before smirking again. “…but are you not though?” 

“I’m just tired, okay? Some of us had to sleep last night instead of entertaining their very loud…guest.”

“Ohhh,” he clicks his tongue, grin only growing bigger. “So this is about last night. That’s what you’re mad about.”

“I said I’m not mad!” You snap.

There’s a few seconds of silence where Johnny debates turning around and hiding in his room before you throw a knife at him or something, but since he apparently has no survival instinct, he leans closer, tilting his head inquisitively at you. 

“…Are you sure?” 

You set your palms on the counter with a sigh. But instead of going for the knife in the drawer to your right (very tempting) you step away from him. 

“Johnny–listen I’m not mad that you brought someone over,” you start explaining, a little hesitant because wow, this is awkward. “You live here too and you can bring whoever you want. It’s not about that.”

“Okay…” he drags the word, waiting for the but.

“It’s just…it was a weeknight, alright? I have work today and I could barely sleep.”

You see the shift in Johnny’s face when he takes in your exhausted features, your slumped shoulders and the lame work outfit you didn’t seem to care much about. His brows furrow in something that looks like concern as a mild pink paints his cheeks. That’s when you straighten up, shaking your head in an attempt to take it back as sudden embarrassment takes over you.

“Sorry, that probably sounded dumb. Swear I’m not trying to police your sex life–you’re an adult! You can…you can do whatever you want, whenever you want–” you fumble through your words, but this time Johnny is the one shaking his head as he steps closer to you, so close that you can feel the warmth radiating off his bare chest.

“Shit. I didn’t even think–you’re right,” he says, scratching the back of his head as he turns redder. “I’m sorry…I should’ve thought about that. I really didn’t mean to…make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t, not in the way you think,” you reassure, lowering your eyes to the bowl on the counter with a little shrug. “Maybe I just didn’t need to hear…all of it. You know?”

He nods a little too quickly. “Yeah yeah, totally, I get it. This uh–this roommate thing’s still new to me, but I’ll be more careful next time. Promise.”

Next time. Promise. You’re not sure why that didn’t make you feel better. Next time. Next time you’ll–

“Thank you,” you mumble, feeling Johnny’s gaze fixed on you as you nod and turn away from him toward the coffee machine again. 

Johnny hums, and decides to retreat back to his room, bare feet dragging over the wood floor. The roommate thing is not necessarily new new to him, but living in a shared apartment with thin walls is. At least back at home no one complained about his night endeavours anymore after Reed installed a soundproofing system specifically for this purpose. 

He stops right outside his room, his hand resting on the doorknob when he turns to you with that charming smile he wears when he knows he’s done something wrong and he needs to fix it. 

“Lunch tomorrow?” He asks casually, almost laughing at the way your head snaps up toward him with wide eyes. “To make it up to you. It’s your day off.” 

The perplexed expression on your face doesn’t change. 

“You…know?” You tilt your head, narrowing your eyes at him. 

“You marked it on the calendar with a little face next to it.” He grins, shrugging cockily. 

“I didn’t–” Your eyes land on the calendar next to the landline phone on the wall, and sure there is a little smiley face next to your circle. “You drew that there!” you accuse with a small laugh he follows.

“Whatever. It’s still my treat, what do you say?”

“But…Paige won’t be mad?” you tease, and he bites back a chuckle as he shakes his head. 

“She was just a one time thing.” 

His expression doesn't falter, but something about the quickness of his reply makes your heart do something stupid again. 

“Then…yeah, guess I’d like that,” you say softly. 

“Good. I’m picking the place,” he nods with a smile.

You definitely don’t stare at his back as he disappears into his room.

“I got sunshineeee, on a cloudy day…”

The music coming from the jukebox is lively, and matches the bright diner Johnny brought you to. He’d tried hailing a cab to get there, but you dragged him toward the subway, where he insisted on getting his own card to cover your fare at least.

He adored the subway, though! That poor innocent soul. 

You weren’t really sure where he was taking you, but you liked the place he chose. 

“Can I get you anything else, honey?” The waitress asks Johnny after scribbling down your order. A kind middle aged woman with bright red lipstick, who has apparently known Johnny since he was a kid. 

“That’s everything for now. Thank you, Glinda,” he smiles, sending a wink her way. 

She laughs, shaking her head, used to him doing that every other day. Then her gaze travels between you two with a smile you can’t quite decipher. 

“You two are cute,” she says suddenly.

“We’re not–”

“Thanks!” Johnny cuts you off, and before you can protest, he nudges your foot under the table until Glinda leaves. He chuckles when he sees you narrowing your eyes at him. “Let her believe it. We’ll get better service.”

“Huh. Did that work with Paige too?” You tease with a tilt of your head, and Johnny raises his eyebrows in surprise. 

“Wow. So we’re doing that today?”

You shrug, a laugh escaping your lips. “I’m just saying, if I’m gonna be one of your girls of the week, I should know if you’re using the same techniques.”

“Oh don’t worry, you’ll meet the rest of my harem later and you can ask them yourself,” Johnny plays along, making your grin widen. “But if it makes you feel better, you’re the first one I’ve ever brought here.”

Something about the comment makes something flutter in your stomach. You look around, and this is definitely not the place you imagine the girls Johnny dates hanging out. No wonder he hasn’t brought them here, after all,  this is just a casual “I fucked too loud the other day and I need you to forgive me” spot. 

“How do you know this place?” You ask. 

“Sue used to bring me here when I was little,” he explains, smiling softly as he recalls the memory. “Best burgers in the city. I didn’t want to eat anywhere else." 

You smile, and shake the bad thoughts away, grateful to be the first one he decided to share this space with besides his sister. 

Your food arrives eventually, and the conversation flows easily between you, just as if you were sitting on the floor of your living room. He always shares stories about his missions that seem too good to be true, and when you share stories from your job, the craziest thing you can tell him is the absurd HR drama of the week. 

“...I guess you'd say

What can make me feel this way?...” 

The music fills the restaurant, and the food is so good, you can’t help the delight on your face.  

“Oh my god, you weren’t lying about these,” you say, a little muffled, after the last glorious bite of your burger. 

Johnny chuckles, nodding like ‘I told you so’. You’re too busy tasting heaven to notice when he leans forward on his booth, and before you know it, his hand is reaching toward your cheek, wiping some leftover sauce with a napkin. 

“There you go,” he says softly. 

The gesture is so sudden that you freeze on your spot and stop chewing, but Johnny looks unbothered as ever, leaning back again with both arms resting on the edge of the booth like that was nothing. You stare at his relaxed position, and finish swallowing what was in your mouth, trying to ignore the lingering feeling of his warm fingers grazing your skin. 

“Thank you,” you manage, clearing your throat. 

“Anytime,” he shrugs, flashing you another one of his pearly white smiles. 

“...My girl (my girl, my girl)

Talkin' 'bout my girl (my girl)...”

-

“Well, I think that should cover the noise,” Johnny says, following behind as you enter the apartment after getting back from the diner. 

“Fine. Apology accepted, Storm.” You roll your eyes, but can’t help a smile as you go straight to the living room. 

You plop down onto the couch, and Johnny throws himself beside you. There’s a comfortable silence for a few seconds, one he couldn’t wait to ruin by opening his mouth. 

“Don’t worry, next time I’ll keep it down,” he says nonchalantly. “I can be considerate.”

Maybe he meant it as a joke, you tell yourself. Next time. It really shouldn’t bother you, but it’s the second time he says it like the idea of having another woman on his bed is as casual as eating a burger. 

Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t–

“Well, hopefully the next one doesn’t fake it so loudly.” 

The words left your mouth before you could think about their impact. Johnny turns fully toward you, straightening up on the couch. 

“I’m sorry, what? Did you just say Paige was faking it?” 

You consider getting up and ignoring the conversation altogether, but that would make you look worse than you already do. 

“I didn’t say any names,” you try to brush it off. 

“You absolutely meant Paige,” he retorts. “And she wasn’t faking it.”

“…Okay,” is all you say, pursing your lips together. Johnny narrows his eyes. 

“You don’t believe me,” he says defensively, and it’s a little hard not to laugh at Johnny's genuine offense.

“Well, did you believe her?” You ask, raising your eyebrows.

He looks at you like you’ve gone mad. “Yes, of course I did! I’m very attentive with those things. I would know.”

“Okay then,” you shrug, leaning forward to take the tv remote from the coffee table, but he beats you to it, and hides it behind him. “Johnny!”

“No! Don’t patronize me,” he points at you with his finger, “I pay attention, okay? I’m not saying I’m Casanova–”

“You kind of are.”

“Well not the point,” he glares at you, but you just bite back a smile and wave your hand for him to continue. “What I mean is, women don’t fake it with me.”

He says it with such conviction, that all you can do is bite the inside of your cheek to not burst out laughing. I mean, of course certified hot stuff™ Johnny Storm would believe that. 

“Okay–”

“Stop saying okay!” He groans dramatically, running his hands through his hair like this is physically wearing him out, and then holds them in front of you. “You wanna hear the details? Fine. She said she came ten times.”

“Ten times?”

“Yeah.”

“Johnny.”

“What?”

“Ten??”

“Yes. Ten,” he says proudly, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Did you also come ten times?” 

He goes quiet for a moment, his mouth opening and closing in offense. You raise your eyebrows and nod with your head, prompting him to talk. 

“No that’s…that’s impossible,” he huffs. All you have to do is give him a look. See? “Okay–stop. It’s different for women.”

“Yeah, I know it is. That’s why you don’t understand,” you sigh, trying to sound nicer now because despite everything, you’re not trying to humiliate him. “Listen, I’m sure you’re good in bed, but sometimes it just doesn’t happen for us. And sometimes girls don’t want to stop everything and explain that in the middle of it, so they fake it to be…polite.” 

He looks flabbergasted to say the least. 

“Polite? So you’re saying faking orgasms is what, being generous with us?”

“I think she was very generous, making you believe it was twelve times.”

“I said ten,” he snaps.

“Right, ten. God forbid I say an unrealistic number.”

Johnny narrows his eyes at you, but your amused smile doesn’t falter. That’s the moment when the devil on his shoulder whispers something to him, and a glint appears in his eye. 

“Well, what about you, then?” He asks casually.

“What about me?” You narrow your eyes. 

“Do you have to fake it a lot with the guys you are with?”

“Johnny…” you laugh, rolling your eyes at how he turned it around.

“I’m just saying,” he smirks. “You seem to know a lot about it. Did you have to do it a lot?” He’s teasing, you know it, but there's a bit of genuine curiosity under all that. 

“Like I said, sometimes it just doesn’t happen for us,” you shrug, chuckling again but it doesn’t reach your eyes this time, “my last partner was…attentive. So I didn’t have to. At least…not at first.”

“Your last partner?"

You hesitate for a second, then nod.

“We were together for five years.” 

“Five years?” Johnny straightens up, unconsciously sliding himself closer to you on the couch. “You were with someone for five years?”

“Yeah. I actually thought I was gonna spend the rest of my life with him,” you smile sadly. “His name is James.”

Johnny hates James. 

He’s not sure what to say besides that. You’ve never told him this before, and God, that look on your face…makes him watch you more carefully now. No more teasing, no smirk. 

“Did it end badly?” He asks softly. You shake your head.

“It wasn’t ugly per se, just…sad. We didn’t want the same things anymore,” you sigh, he just listens. “We had dreams, you know? Big ones. Penthouse in Manhattan, fancy dinners, skiing holidays. He wanted to go into politics, make it to congress, I wanted to become a New York Times best seller. So, we’d agreed we didn’t want kids or the whole marriage thing. Just success,” you chuckle, because it sounds so foreign to you now. “But after so many years together I changed my mind. I wanted a family. I wanted…more. I wanted to live the love I was writing about.”

“And he didn’t,” Johnny adds quietly. 

“No. He didn't. Didn't think we could have both.” You meet his gaze, and you see true concern there, so you smile. “It’s been about a year since we called it off. I’ve healed a lot since then. Found this place and made it home.” you say, as if he’s the one who needs reassurance. 

Johnny’s heart burns under his chest. He’d never stopped to think about the life you had before him. There was a whole imagined future that someone destroyed, and he had no idea.

“I heard he made it to congress last month,” you add, toying with the hem of your shirt. “Guess that leaves me here, still writing in my pjs thinking I can make it big one day,” you chuckle, but Johnny doesn't find it so amusing. 

“Hey. Don’t say it like that,” he says softly, shaking his head. “You’re doing it. You’re writing, maybe not in some fancy tower office or bestselling list yet, but you’re on your way. I’ve seen you type for hours on that thing,” he points at the typewriter by the window. “And you’re going to find someone who wishes the same things as you. You deserve someone who wants to give you all that, and more.”

“Yeah…maybe,” you nod. He huffs, nudging your leg playfully with his support.

“Definitely.”

This time you let yourself smile genuinely. You’re not sure why you let yourself share all of that with Johnny. Surely, he’s never had to worry about success, and there’s a line of girls who would gladly marry him anyday. But the way he’d looked at you, so…earnest. You deserve someone who wants to give you all that, and more. His words echo in your head, but maybe you shouldn't dwell on it. He was just being nice–

“It’s a little quiet in here, isn’t it?” His voice snaps you out of your thoughts, and when you turn to look at him, he’s got his devilish smile back on.

You narrow your eyes, but he just raises from the couch and walks toward the turntable. 

“I say, we need some music to lighten up,” he half turns to you without stopping, winking. 

You snort, shifting on the couch to peek at what vinyl he wants to play, but he purposefully covers it with his body. You don’t have to guess for long, because a familiar groove fills the apartment when he drops the needle.

“Johnny, you can’t be serious right now,” you chuckle when you recognize the tune. 

He turns away from the turntable, and he already has that mischievous glint in his eye, making a “come here” motion with two fingers. His hips start moving to the rhythm as he walks toward you, and you have to bite back a smile. 

“Come on, I already heard your sad story. Let’s dance now.” 

“My sad story?” You gasp in exaggerated offense. “Oh you're dead, Storm.”

“Yeah?” He grins, stopping right in front of you but never halting his moves. “Why don’t you stand up and show me you can move, then?”

“I won’t–” 

“Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk, I'm a woman's man no time to talk…” he cuts you off, singing and pointing at himself. His voice comes out so high it matches the record, and you cover your mouth to hide your smile. He keeps dancing to the groove, “And now it's all right, it's okay. And you may look the other way…” you do just that, but Johnny slides to stay in your line of sight. 

“…Whether you're a brother or whether you're a mother

You're stayin' alive, stayin' alive…”

You cover your face, peeking through your fingers. He keeps moving so easily, so unashamed, and for a moment it feels too familiar. It’s just like the other night, except today, you are the girl he’s dancing to. 

“Ah ah ah ah, staying alive…” Johnny channels his inner Travolta, and busts out the signature disco move: left hand on his hip, the other moving up and down in the air as the chorus hits. You can’t hide the delight on your face anymore. A giggle escapes out, and he just smiles brighter, stopping his move only to offer his hand. “Come on, dance with me.”

You want to say no.

“Scared of a little fun?” He teases.

It’s a trap. It’s a trap. But he’s standing right there with his hand outstretched, hips swaying to the beat, and those impossible blue eyes daring you to stop thinking about fake orgasms and failed relationships and just join the moment. He looks so ridiculous, yet you’re rising up from the couch before you can really think about it. 

Johnny cheers approvingly, stepping back to give you space, and you let yourself go. Your own moves are looser, less practiced than his, but still good enough to raise to the challenge. You shake your hair playfully, spinning around so Johnny is standing behind you as you join the rhythm. You sway from side to side in opposite directions, catching brief glances of each other’s faces. He lets out a low whistle.

“Ohhhh she dances,” he praises, eyes shamelessly trailing your movements.

“Shut it,” you shoot back. 

And you both dance. 

“…Well now, I get low and I get high

And if I can't get either, I really try…”

The apartment fills with music and laughter, and you get lost in your own Saturday Night Fever extravaganza. At some point he reaches for your hand again and twirls you, making you stumble into him, and you collide chest to chest. The song keeps playing, but it fades out when his bright blue eyes set on you. 

You’re breathless, and you try to play it cool, but it’s impossible when he’s right there.

“You’re smiling,” he says teasingly, but you don’t try to hide this time. 

“Only because you’re ridiculous,” you manage. 

Johnny shrugs smugly, making you yelp when he steps back and spins you around faster than before, then prompting you to dance again. “Then be ridiculous with me.”

As you both laugh and surrender to the rhythm, you come to the realization that you could learn to love this.

The dancing. 

It’s Friday night, and you decide to give dating a chance again. It’s about time after all.

You smooth down your outfit, fix your hair one last time, and give yourself a final look in the mirror of your room. It’s been a while since you actually dressed up for something that wasn’t work, and god, it feels good to remember you still have it in you.

You step out of your room hoping to leave without making too much of a fuss, when you come across a shirtless Johnny leaning on the breakfast counter, wearing his human torch pj pants– way too low to be considered PG– and eating from the cereal box in his hand. Only the glow from the refrigerator bathes the kitchen in a pale golden hue. 

Not an unfamiliar sight at all, yet…you always find yourself staring longer than you should. For Johnny, however, watching you come out of your room looking like that as you leave a trail of expensive perfume he’s sure you’ve never worn before, is unfamiliar. 

“Wow,” he says, straightening up against the counter, a teasing smile on his face. “She actually cleans up nicely.”

You snort, looking around for your coat and pretending you don’t feel Johnny’s burning gaze on you when you put it on. 

“Date night?” he asks. His voice definitely didn’t come out higher than normal.

“...Yeah,” you mumble, fixing the collar of your coat. “Guy from work. He’s um…we’re going dancing.”

“Dancing? People still do that?” He teases. Hypocrite.

“Ha. Ha. Very funny Storm,” you retort, walking to the door to grab your keys on the little hook next to it. “Please don’t burn the place while I’m out.” 

“I can’t promise anything,” he shrugs unapologetically, rounding the counter as if to walk toward the couch in the living room, but he really just wants to get a better look at you before you leave. “You look very beautiful.” 

His words make your hand freeze over the doorknob. There’s something about the softness in his voice that knocks the breath out of your chest. You turn around to look at him with a small smile.

“Thank you, Johnny,” you say, but before you can reach the knob again he perks up.

“Wait–he’s not coming up to get you?”

“No…he said he’d be outside at 8,” you shrug, but Johnny doesn't seem to take it as lightly as you do. If anything, you’d say he looks scandalized to say the least. 

“Yeah–no. That’s not happening,” he shakes his head, dropping the cereal box on the counter as he walks towards you. 

“Johnny–”

“No way I’m letting you wait outside alone in the cold while some guy honks his car like he’s doing you a favor,” he says, walking ahead to open the door. “I’ll wait with you.”

“...You’re only wearing pants.”

“Yeah, and they’re my favorite pair,” he deadpans. “Let’s go.”

“Okay…” you shrug, but can’t fight the smile tugging at your lips as he guides you outside the apartment. “Thank you,” you whisper, when he offers his arm to help you down the multiple flights of stairs. 

Date night hasn’t even started and you’re already flustering. 

Once you’re in the lobby, Johnny doesn’t seem to mind the fact that he’s standing shirtless and barefoot next to the glass doors. If anything, he’s more interested in seeing who this mystery man is, if he even has the decency of at least walking inside to get you. For a moment he just stares at you from the corner of his eye, resisting the urge to send another compliment your way. 

The clock ticks, minutes go by, and you’re still smiling but the slight waver of your stance doesn’t go unnoticed by Johnny. 

He glances at you, then at his watch. 8:15. Shit.

"Are you sure he said eight?" Johnny asks carefully. 

“Yeah. Eight. Michael called me yesterday to confirm it,” you nod, eyes still glued to the street outside. 

Johnny hates Michael. He hates him so much and he doesn’t even know him. But he forces a reassuring smile for you.

“Maybe traffic?”

“Yeah,” you agree too quickly. “You know how it is on a Friday.”

He just nods, and turns back to the street. He doesn’t feel the bite of the cold, but he notices the way you wrap your arms around you. He silently steps closer to you, increasing his body temperature so can share some with you. You don’t say anything, or even move, but time does. 

8:25.

You shift your weight from side to side, trying to come up with something to at least make the silence a little less awkward, but nothing comes out. 

8:30.

Johnny’s gaze turns to you again, and you fear he sees the moment of cruel acceptance in your face. Why did he have to wait with you? This would be less embarrassing if he’d just stayed upstairs so you had time to come up with an excuse less pathetic than “I was stood up.” 

At 8:40 you decide it’s been enough of this humiliation, so you exhale, turning back to the stairs while avoiding Johnny’s eyes. 

“Well, he probably got caught up in something,” you shrug, trying to sound casual. A shaky laugh escapes your lips. “Maybe an emergency. Or maybe he just didn’t want to come...”

“I don’t think–”

“I’m gonna go back,” you cut him off, clearing your throat. “I’ll just change and order something. It’s no big deal.”

Johnny doesn't have time to offer his arm this time, because you’re already halfway up the stairs ahead of him. So he follows behind, no questions asked.

The hurt is not even about the guy who didn’t show up, because you haven’t known him long enough for this to be a proper “heartbreak”, but you hate that you got all dressed up and hopeful. How you let yourself believe someone might want to see you that badly. Oh he’s gonna hear it from you on Monday. 

And now you’re walking back upstairs with your roommate in the front row of the whole shitshow.

Your roommate who held the door open and helped you down the stairs.The one who hasn't made a single joke about the situation even when you’re sure he’s never had to worry about being stood up in his entire life. The one who said you looked beautiful with such softness in his voice that your stomach still flips thinking about it. 

Your roommate who also happens to be Johnny Storm. 

And the worst part? 

Part of you wishes he was the one who stood you up. Because at least then, it would’ve meant he wanted to take you out in the first place.

God, you’re being ridiculous. 

You don’t really want to talk when you approach the apartment. Johnny closes the door behind you with a soft click, and you don’t even bother turning the lights back on since the idea of ordering something doesn’t seem that appealing anymore, instead, you bend down to take your shoes off. Your night ended before it could even begin anyways. 

“Goodnight, Johnny.” 

You don’t wait for a reply as you straighten up and make a beeline for your bedroom, but you stop when you feel his warm fingers wrap gently around your wrist, the same one holding your shoes.

“Wait,” he says softly. “Just…wait.”

He lets go almost as quickly, his brief touch a mere ghost feeling on your wrist as you watch him walk with determination toward the turntable in the living room, flipping through the basket of records on rotation you keep next to it. You’re about to open your mouth to tell him you’re really not in the mood for this, but he beats you to it. 

“Ah ha!” He celebrates when he finds the one he was looking for, but from your spot it’s hard to recognize the cover in the darkness. He places the record on the player, and turns to you a little bit shyer. “This isn’t, you know…a fancy dance floor. But I figured you deserved your dance anyway.” 

His dashing smile is soft and lopsided and even a little sheepish as he waits for your response. Your heart thumps so loud and quickly you struggle to process everything you feel in that moment, and the sting in your eyes doesn't help either. 

You stay speechless, but Johnny doesn't mind, he only turns again to drop the needle on the vinyl before walking to your spot.

You expect the melody to come out of the turntable to be lively, something ridiculously sexy or extravagant like the other day, but when you recognize the soft chords of a guitar, you have to stop yourself from gasping. 

“I know I stand in line until you think you have the time to spend an evening with me…”

Frank Sinatra's voice dances across the apartment, just as Johnny stops in front of you and extends his hand with a soft smile. 

“What do you say? Wanna dance under the glow of our ridiculous fridge?”

A chuckle escapes your lips. To think that you would’ve expected him to mock you for what happened, but no, he’s offering you a dance instead. Again. Words are foreign to you still, but you drop your shoes to the floor and take his hand.

“And if we go some place to dance I know that there's a chance you won't be leaving with me…”

His hand finds your waist, and yours land over his bare shoulders almost instinctively. You start to sway to the melody, glassy eyes meeting his piercing blue ones. His face is washed by the faint glow coming from the kitchen, enough to look ethereal as he guides your hips from side to side. His body is hot beneath your touch, and you find it hard to coordinate your moves with the unsteadiness of your breathing. 

“And afterwards we drop into a quiet little place and have a drink or two…”

The record choice doesn’t help your state either. That song. That damn song. The one you’ve been playing every Sunday morning. The one you sing along to in the middle of typing as you try to recreate that love with your words. The one you reach for when the apartment’s too quiet and you don’t want to be alone with your thoughts. 

This is not like the other day. This…this is everything. 

“And then I go and spoil it all, by saying something stupid like ‘I love you’...”

Johnny breaks eye contact to spin you around softly, almost letting out a tiny huff when your chests collide back together. That’s familiar. His grip on your waist tightens ever so slightly, and your fingers find their way to play with his hair. 

You don’t want the moment to end. And neither does he. So you keep going, careful not to let your face bury into his bare chest, as you sway barefoot under the refrigerator light. 

“The time is right, your perfume fills my head

The stars get red and, oh, the night's so blue…”

Maybe getting stood up wasn't so bad.

“And then I go and spoil it all, by saying something stupid like ‘I love you’...”

Maybe this is exactly where you’re supposed to be.

The next time you decide to try dating, it’s with a better man. A totally normal, grounded, emotionally available man who shows up at your doorstep when he says he will.

Joseph has brown eyes and brown hair. A warm voice with an accent that had you internally giggling and kicking your feet when you were introduced at a work event. He’s sweet and listens and laughs at your jokes and doesn't have a superhero suit in his closet. 

Nope, he just works in finance. 

That’s good. That’s smart. Joseph’s normal. He doesn’t light on fire at will. And he's oh, so handsome. Which is why, after many successful dates, you knew you wanted more with him. 

Johnny hasn't been home on a Saturday night since he moved in. You don’t know exactly where he goes; missions, friends, clubs, space? Who cares, Saturday is his disappearing act, so you were counting on having the apartment to yourself.

So when Joseph said I’d love to come inside after kissing you against the front door, you said sure with a little grin and the warmth of two glasses of wine running through your veins. You fumbled with your keys a little, giggling when Joseph’s hands roamed down your waist when you opened the door…only to find him on the couch. 

Johnny.

Wearing sweatpants and a white t-shirt with a 4 logo. Bowl of popcorn in his lap and a movie glowing on the screen. His head whips in your direction when he hears your little messy entrance, and smiles a little too wide for someone who just ruined your plans entirely.

“Heeey,” he beams, leaning back on the couch as his eyes narrow at the man standing behind you.

“Hi,” you say, clearly taken aback. “...You’re home.” 

“Yep.”

Ugh. Can’t a girl get laid in peace? 

“Everything alright?” Joseph asks hesitantly, clearly not expecting to find Johnny Storm on your couch.

“Yeah–yeah, sorry. Come in,” you step aside, gesturing awkwardly between them. “This is uh–Johnny. My roommate.”

“That’d be me,” Johnny throws a salute in his direction. “And you are?”

“Joseph,” he flashes a confident grin, tightening his grip around your waist. “Nice to meet you, torch.”

Johnny nods at him, eyes traveling to his hand placement, and you swear you catch his posture faltering for a second, the thousand alarms going off behind that perfect smile. So she doesn’t like blonds…

“Don’t you uh…have somewhere to be?” You ask, gesturing with your eyes toward the door in a silent plea, but he just shakes his head, smiling wider and leaning back onto the couch. He even has the audacity to laugh when you glare at him.

“Oh please, don’t mind me here! I’ll just finish my movie.”

Your eye twitches. So he wants to stay? Fine. You’re not leaving either. 

“Well!” you say a little too enthusiastically, one hand reaching for Joseph’s to pull him toward your bedroom.  “Don’t mind us either, then.”

He shrugs, pretending to turn to the TV again but you feel him watching as you walk away. 

“Don’t forget the walls are thin!”

You don’t turn around or answer to him, just tug Joseph inside your room and shut the door. You twist the lock and try the knob a few times, just in case. 

It doesn’t take long before Joseph is all over you. You’d already been worked up on the way there and the drinks fogging your mind helped you ease the nerves. This is what you wanted after all, a normal night with a normal man. A very sexy one at that. 

His roaming hands are warm and his mouth finds places that have you leaning on the wall behind you so you don’t fall apart completely. 

You really try to be quiet. Respectful. Because unlike him, you’re not trying to put on a show. Seriously, what was he thinking? He’s gone every single Saturday and today he chooses to “watch a movie”. I swear to God, he can be a pain in the ass when he wants to–

Okay, maybe let’s not think about Johnny Storm when another man is on top of you. 

But your bed creaks, just like his that night. You tell yourself to relax, to let go, yet you bite your lip and keep your sounds low. Careful little breaths barely muffled by Joseph’s neck. That is, until it starts to feel too good, and the moans slipping out stop being something you can control. 

Outside, the movie is still playing. Johnny, however, doesn’t even know what’s going on in that screen anymore. He turns the volume up and tells himself that whatever is happening inside your room is none of his business. 

You brought a guy home, big deal. 

It explains why you’ve been giggling on the phone late at night and disappearing every now and then all dolled up. Not that he has noticed, really. You have every right to do whatever you want, with whoever you want. Really. He’s even glad this guy didn’t stand you up like the last one. You deserve to be happy.

Even if he’s not happy right now. Because he really shouldn’t be listening to you like that. 

She’s faking, he thinks immediately, when the sounds start to slip past the walls of your room. You have to. There’s no way that guy is that good. 

Something in his stomach twists when the sounds you’re letting out just prove your theory from the other day: he’s an idiot who can’t tell. 

But he would know with you, he would–no. 

He stands up so abruptly the plastic bowl of popcorn goes flying from his lap, making a mess all over the woodfloors. Whatever, he’ll deal with that later. Right now, he has to leave, or he’s gonna die in this house. And in a whoosh of raging fire, he’s gone.

Weeks went by, and Johnny never brought up that night. Just like you never brought up finding the TV still on and the popcorn all over the floor next morning. 

You both went back to normal. You kept seeing Joseph and Johnny went back to disappearing on Saturdays. You even had a feeling Johnny was seeing someone too, and confirmed it the day you found a pink bra peeking out of his laundry pile. 

So you were both dating…other people. Big deal. 

Despite that, things didn’t really change between you. Because at night? You still came home to each other. You still ate takeout together on the floor, still watched movies, still bickered over who jammed the garbage disposal. 

Normal, normal, normal. Just like tonight.

“So, when are you moving in with your boyfriend?” Johnny asks playfully, setting down an empty noodles box on the coffee table. 

For a second you choke on your last bite of noodles, and cover it up with a cough that has him looking at you amusingly. 

“It’s a little early for that,” you shrug casually, fiddling with your chopsticks on the empty box.

He nods, serious for only a second before he sighs dramatically, putting one hand over his heart and the other over his eyes. “And here I was, thinking it was because you liked living with me too much.”

This time you snort, shaking your head. The worst part is that he might not be wrong about that, but don’t tell him that I said that!

“Don’t flatter yourself, Storm,” you scoff instead. 

“Oh, come on,” he whines, pushing your thigh with his foot. “I’m great to live with. I know you’d miss me if I left.”

I might wither and die.

“I would not,” you say firmly. “What is there to miss, the burnt toast and the bra’s in the laundry?” You tease. 

“Those aren’t mine,” he says seriously. 

“Well thank you for clarifying that, Johnny. I was really having doubts if you were a C cup or not,” you shake your head, and this time you can’t fight the laughter that flows so easily between you. “And for the record, if there’s anything I’d miss, it's the refrigerator, or your vinyls.”

He snorts and rolls his eyes, standing up to take the empty box from you and walk toward the kitchen to throw it away. You can’t help but glance in his direction, and heat warms your cheeks when he turns around and catches you staring. But the teasing never comes, no, only a sweet smile, softly illuminated by the fridge in question. 

You look away before you say something you're not supposed to. 

Wow, look at that! Another Saturday Johnny didn’t disappear. Why? Because this morning Johnny decided to casually announce that the Fantastic Fucking Four were dying to see your shared apartment and finally meet you, the roommate, tonight.  

So yeah, he had you running like a headless chicken all day from store to store–dragging him along, of course–to have everything decent for them. He even bought a dining table with express delivery and ever faster assembly service, since your thrifted coffee table wasn’t gonna fit his fantastic family. 

Perfectly normal Saturday. 

“Johnny, does your sister have a preference for napkins?” You ask, holding up as many brands as you can, the fancy ones, but when you turn to him, he’s in deep conversation with that watch thingy he has.

“No, it’s a family thing…” he says to the person on the call. “...I know, baby. But I’ll make it up to you tomorrow, alright?...Come on, don’t be like that…” 

You move farther away when you realize who he’s talking to, but when you watch him from the corner of your eye, he looks like he’s trying to bargain something with a toddler. A few minutes later, he sighs and hangs up, and you pretend to read the back of two napkin brands like your life depends on it. A casual whistle was the only thing missing.

“So…” he says nonchalantly when he reaches you, or at least that’s how he thinks he’s coming off like, “…Vicky is coming tonight too.” 

He smiles, even if he’s ready for you to snap at him since it was just supposed to be his family. But you just purse your lips together. 

Of course she’s gonna come. The bra girl. 

“Great!” you say, maybe a little too fast, then clear your throat because you have bigger things to focus on. “Now help me with the napkins, I don’t want your family to silently judge us for having the wrong ones.”

Johnny’s shoulders sag in relief and amusement. “My family doesn't have a preference, it’s just napkins,” he says, but then he eyes the multiple brands on your hands and feels as lost as you are. “You know what, let me ask Herbert to be sure.”

You should get extra points for not passing out when he introduced you to his family. Especially when Sue Storm hugged you like you’d known each other your whole lives. Johnny had then decided to give them a full tour of the small place, and you’d made yourself scarce with the excuse of putting away the dessert Ben brought. The truth is, you just needed a moment to process the fact that four superheroes were in your apartment right now. 

You tried not to think about how crammed it looked right now, since the sitting area had been reduced due to the space the new table took. If they noticed, it never showed in their kind faces. 

Just as expected, his family was as golden as him. 

You’re sliding the dessert tray into the fridge when you hear the soft click of heels behind you. Turning around, you find Sue standing there with crossed arms and a curious smile. She’s dressed in cashmere and a pair of boots that probably cost more than your rent. You look over where Johnny is, proudly showing them the view, completely unaware that his sister had left the audience. 

“So, this is the girl my brother hasn’t stopped talking about,” she says, drawing your attention back from Johnny. 

“Oh…me?” You ask a little confused, closing the fridge and wiping your hands on your legs. 

“Unless there’s another roommate with a fondness for love songs and typewriters, I think I’ve got the right one,” she says teasingly, and you notice she has the same spark in her eye Johnny does. 

Wait, she…she knows those things? 

You resist the urge to glance at Johnny again, and nod. “Oh yeah, I just..thought maybe you meant Vicky,” you chuckle nervously.

“Vicky…?” She tilts her head with a frown, trying to place the name, but then she shakes her head. “No, he’s only ever mentioned one girl. His roommate…and that’s you. He says he likes the–” she cuts herself off, finding the right word. “...Balance, this place gives him.”

“He said that?” This time you can’t keep from looking at him, demonstrating to Reed how comfy our worn couch is. Our. Sue nods. 

“He didn’t really have that growing up, you know. The world’s always been loud for Johnny, and it felt like he was always chasing something. But now…” she looks around the apartment with a big sister smile, “he’s still chasing things, but he has somewhere stable to come back to. And I’m glad it’s here.”

You let the words sink it for a moment, as you swallow the lump in your throat. Sue’s eyes soften, and she reaches to squeeze your hand reassuringly. The brief moment breaks when the bell rings, making you both jump and then laugh at each other’s reactions. You clear your throat, and walk toward the little intercom by the wall. 

“Yes?” you ask.

“Hi! It’s Vicky!” a bright voice rings louder than the bell itself.

“Come on up,” is all you say, pushing the button to open the lobby door. 

A good glass of wine doesn’t sound like a bad idea right now. 

Sue lifts a brow curiously from her spot when she sees you pour yourself a cup and then one for her, but you just flash a smile and excuse yourself, smoothing your clothes and fixing your hair before opening the door. 

And there she is…Vicky. Golden hair, golden everything. Just like Johnny. Just like…his world. 

“Hi! Oh my god, the stairs always get me,” she exhales with a little giggle, and yet not a single bead of sweat on her forehead or a piece of hair out of place. “I brought appetizers!” she beams, holding up a tray.

“That’s so nice of you,” you smile politely, but narrow your eyes when you realize they look a little suspicious. “Are those–”

“Oh, shrimp bites! They’re to die for.”

You barely manage to keep your polite expression in place, ready to explain that Johnny hates shrimp and would rather die than be in the presence of it, but the king of Rome itself materializes next to you before you can. 

“V!” His voice comes out way more affectionate than it did at the store earlier, as he approaches her. “You made it, baby.”

You step aside just in time to witness him plant a loud smooch to Vicky’s cheek, and that’s the perfect moment to take a big sip of your drink. Or maybe not, because the second you get distracted, Johnny reaches for the tray.

“Well, don’t mind me,” Johnny says, popping one of the little shrimp abominations into his mouth before you even bring your glass down. But you look just in time to see the exact moment his eyes go wide when he chews, and his entire soul leaves his body. 

Vicky, absolutely oblivious to the horrors Johnny is going through, has already set her gaze on something behind you. 

“Oh J, this must be your sister!” she squeals. She barely gives you time to balance your glass as you catch the tray she tosses to you, shouldering past you to wrap Sue in a big hug.

Johnny has never been more grateful to throw his sister under the bus, using the distraction to discreetly spit the whole bite into a napkin, wiping his tongue dramatically and trying very hard not to gag. You bite back your amusement as you walk up to him, placing the tray gently on his hands. He immediately scowls at it, looking up at you in betrayal.

“Here you go,” you grin, taking a sip of your wine as you walk away toward the couch where the rest of his family is.

Sue looks past Vicky, who keeps yapping away about how much she’s heard about Johnny’s big sister and can’t believe they haven’t met yet so she had to come tonight, and finds Johnny looking in the direction you took off. 

Interesting.

–

After brushing his teeth twice, Johnny had survived the shrimp fiasco, and everything was going well so far. Vicky had sat on his lap as you all got to know each other, chatting away in the living room. Honestly, he’d actually planned this to be just his family and…you. But then things happened, and well, seems like he wasn’t the only one with surprise guests. 

His gaze followed you as you excused yourself from the conversation, to open the door to Joseph (🙄) with a bright smile on your face. Of course. It’s only fair you invited him too. Not that Johnny cares anyways. 

Joseph walks in wearing a loose black suit, with his stupid wavy brown curls tousled by the stairs trials, and holding a stupid bouquet of flowers in his hand. 

“Hi, darling,” he says with a warm smile, meant only for you. “You look beautiful.”

Your soft laugh dances through the room as he steals a kiss from you. Johnny turns back to the conversation. He doesn't notice how he sits up straighter on the couch or how he sets his drink down a little too hard on the coffee table. He doesn't even notice when Vicky leaves his lap to go to the bathroom. But what he definitely notices is the moment your smile turns from genuine to polite, when you get handed flowers he knows you don’t like.

He knows that, because you scowl at them every time you pass them by the supermarket, so why doesn’t your boyfriend know?

Joseph leans in to kiss your cheek now as he steps inside, and you lead him toward the kitchen. Johnny notices how you set the flowers down on the breakfast counter instead of looking for a vase to display them. 

“So…” Ben, who’s sitting to his right, nudges his arm. “Are we not gonna talk about it?” He mumbles.

“About what?” Johnny whispers back, still looking at you.

“About how her boyfriend looks exactly like you.”

“What?” Johnny’s head jerks toward him, looking baffled as Ben just shrugs with a knowing smile.

“Just saying, man. It’s like seeing you with brown hair…and lawyer shoes.”

“No it’s not. We do not look alike.” Johnny scoffs.

“You do.”

“We don’t.”

“Do too.”

“Do not.”

Ben leans back with a grin. He enjoys rage baiting Johnny whenever he can, but there’s truth in his words. Johnny looks back to his alleged doppelgänger and shakes his head. 

“Seriously?” He says. Ben chuckles, and shrugs. Johnny rolls his eyes, and leans toward the armchair his sister is sitting at, “Hey Sue, psst.”

Sue looks away from her conversation with Reed, and lifts her eyebrow at Johnny. 

“C’mere,” Johnny says, patting the spot on his left side. Luckily, she excuses herself from her husband and takes the spot. Ben and Johnny turn to her expectantly, whispering, “Okay, do not say yes just to annoy me, but…do you think I look like him?”

“Who?” 

“Joseph,” Johnny deadpans. “Do I look like Joseph?”

Sue tilts her head, pretending to be analyzing the British man making you laugh in the kitchen, but there’s a knowing smile creeping on her face. 

“Oh…a little,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. 

“A little??”

“Well, yeah. He’s like you, if you had brown eyes…and less of a tan…or a cute accent…” she says, watching her brother grow more scandalized by the second. 

“A cute accent?” Johnny mocks. “Please. He sounds like a knockoff Beatle.”

Sue and Ben share an amused look. 

“I don’t think he’d be a singer. He has more…actor vibes,” Sue taunts, adding fuel to the fire inside Johnny’s veins. 

He almost choked in offense. 

“Okay, so he’s an actor now? He doesn’t even have that kind of face,” Johnny huffs, reaching for his drink again because what kind of fuckery is this. 

“So you’re saying you don’t have that kind of face either,” Ben adds, this time Sue snorts, shaking her head. 

“I do have that kind of face. The face. He doesn't because we don't look alike.” 

“Sure, Johnny.”

Sue stands up before he can protest like a toddler again. “I’m gonna help her with the food,” she announces, winking mischievously at them and walking away. 

“Oh I love these napkins!” 

He hears her say when she reaches the new shiny table setup. 

That makes you perk up from the kitchen. Right in that moment, your gaze moves from Joseph to Johnny, and you smile proudly at him like “told you so.” Johnny smiles back, but before he can get up and say anything about how much influence he actually had on the napkin choice, a pair of long legs trap him on his seat. 

“What did I miss, babyboy?” Vicky asks as she plops down on his lap again, wrapping her arms around his neck to play with his hair. 

Reed and Ben pretend to look everywhere else. Johnny just smiles, taking another sip from his drink. 

–

Vicky had left earlier than anticipated, claiming a friend called her to get her out of a shitty date, or something like that. Johnny didn’t really ask. 

He has to admit he was a little nervous about this whole get together. Afraid that they would be too much. But he wanted nothing more but to brag about his apartment and his roommate, and the little life he’d managed to build for himself. Even if their world had always been filled with big things. This could’ve gone wrong in many ways, but all things considered, he finds himself smiling when his eyes land on you. 

He's standing close to the front door, and seeing you confidently showing Sue, whose kitchen had been designed by Reed–the king of gadgets himself–the tiny spice rack you installed last week, made something inside him flutter. 

“Hey, man. Have you been to a lot of Mets games?” A familiar British accent startles him. 

The fluttering dies immediately. 

Joseph has stepped beside him, glass in hand and that stupid smile plastered on his face. He forces himself to look away from you. You’re close to them, but not enough to hear the conversation. 

“I mean, yeah. It’s kind of hard not to, I can fly,” Johnny replies drily, but Joseph just laughs easily. 

“Right, right, of course,” he says, glancing toward the kitchen, mirroring the way Johnny was just looking at you seconds ago. “Sometimes I forget she lives with a superhero...” 

Johnny chuckles, shrugging nonchalantly (he’s actually trying very hard not to puff his chest right now.) “Why do you ask?” 

“Ehh…just wanted to know if you got any recommendations for seats? I’m still new to the city, but I’ve been told not to miss the games,” he shrugs. “I’d like somewhere not too close to the cameras, if possible. I’m not…really into all that.”

“The cameras?” Johnny frowns. 

“Yeah, the whole crowd cams, people watching you all the time, that whole thing.”

Johnny listens and tries not to judge. But see? This guy could never be an actor. Or a Beatle. Johnny could, shame there’s not a blonde Beatle. Ohhh, but there’s always wigs though! He’s sure he could rock one, with his bone structure and all–

“Mate?” 

Johnny snaps back to reality, and just flashes a golden smile. 

“There’s cameras everywhere, mate,” Johnny replies, “but I can hook you up with the good tickets, if you’d like. How many do you need?”

“Oh wow that–that’d be perfect, yeah, thank you,” he says, not really expecting that. “Just two, man.”

“…Are you going with a friend?” Johnny narrows his eyes, but Joseph chuckles, shaking his head. 

“I’m taking her,” he says, gesturing at you with his glass. 

Fuck. 

“You…are taking her to a game?” 

“Yeah. It’ll be fun on her day off.”

Johnny knows when your next day off is. He painted another happy face next to your mark on the calendar just to make you smile. He also knows that you like to spend those free days curled up at home, certainly not at a freaking stadium. 

He knows because it mattered to you when you told him. He remembers because you matter to him. 

“Did you…ask her if she likes baseball?” Johnny pries carefully. 

“Not really. I mean, I figured she’d be fine,” he says, a little defensively. 

There’s a few seconds of silence where Johnny debates to keep quiet, but that has never been one of his strengths, so he ends up blurting, “She doesn’t like going to the stadium.”

“Really?” Joseph frowns, eyeing him. 

“She told me once that all the noise makes her sick. And I get it…it’s not the most comfortable place to be,” Johnny chuckles, trying his best to sound casual about it. 

“Oh,” Joseph says. For a moment it looks like he’s contemplating, but after thinking about it for exactly three seconds, he shrugs. “Well… she can bring earplugs or something. It’s just one game.”

Johnny’s not sure if his eye twitching was only a product of his imagination, but given the lack of acknowledgement on Joseph’s face, he figures he managed to keep his emotions at bay. This is not what you deserve. This is not what he wants for you.

Don’t flame on right now. Do not flame on right now. Do not–

“You know what? I can get you access to the VIP suite, so you two can be more comfortable,” he offers instead, plastering on his best plastic Ken smile. 

He’ll get you the best suite, with shade, AC and all the unlimited appetizers you could ever need. If that makes the experience a little more bearable for you. 

“Yeah I guess that would work, thanks, mate!” Joseph says, patting Johnny’s shoulder, but regretting it immediately. He retracts his hand with a hiss, switching the glass to that one to help cool it as he laughs nervously. “Jeez. You’re burning up, man.”

He’s boiling up, actually. But he manages to tone down his temperature, patting Joseph’s cold shoulder firmly before walking toward the kitchen where you’re laughing at something Sue just said.

 Just the sight of you manages his temperature to calm down. 

“Everything alright?” You ask curiously when he steps beside you with a suspicious smile, noticing the way Joseph kept opening and closing his hand as he headed toward the bathroom. 

“Peachy,” Johnny smiles innocently.

“Mhm,” you hum, narrowing your eyes at him. Even his sister eyes him suspiciously, but Johnny ignores her. 

“Is there anything I can help you here with?” He asks casually, gesturing to the pots simmering on the stove. 

“Nope! But maybe you can pour some more wine for our guests," you say quickly, stirring him away from the stove for everyone’s safety. Sue bites her lip. 

“Roger that,” he says, diligently opening a new bottle on the breakfast counter.

Johnny notices Sue leans in to whisper something in your ear that makes you throw your head back and laugh, before whispering something back to her. 

He can’t fight the smile on his face when he realizes you’re talking about him, but it dies down when his eyes land on the flowers Joseph brought you on the counter. The conversation with him is still making fire run through his veins, and this just added more to it. 

Safe to say, Johnny now hates Joseph too. 

To be continued…

Thank you so much for reading! Feedback is always appreciated 💗

“Baby,” he called softly, not quite whispering but keeping his voice down enough that it didn’t echo, “they got the standard ones, the ultra-thins that say ‘feels like nothing,’ and these ribbed ones that promise ‘heightened sensation.’ I’m thinkin’ heightened is the move tonight, but I also don’t wanna be that guy who picks wrong and then we’re both disappointed.”

You walked over, cheeks already warming, and bumped his hip with yours. “Travis, you don’t have to give a full TED Talk about it. Just grab a box.”

He turned, flashing that crooked, boyish smile that always made your stomach flip. His gray hoodie was half-zipped over a faded black tee, jeans slung low on his hips, and he had that post-shift looseness, shoulders relaxed, but still carrying a bit of the restless energy from hours of walking the storage facility floors. “What? I’m being thoughtful. Responsible boyfriend shit. We’ve been together eight months now feels like we should have this down to a science, but variety keeps it fun, right?”

You snatched the ultra-thin box from his hand and swapped it for the ribbed one he seemed to be leaning toward. “These. And stop narrating before the cashier hears and I melt into the floor.”

Travis chuckled, low and warm, the sound rumbling through his chest as he dropped the box into the red plastic basket you were holding. He added a small bottle of lube without missing a beat. “For comfort. And science. I read the back: non-sticky formula. We’re basically doing research here.”

You swatted his arm, biting back a laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously prepared,” he corrected, slinging an arm around your shoulders and pulling you close as you wandered toward the snacks. He smelled like his usual cheap cedarwood spray mixed with the faint coffee he’d grabbed from the break room earlier. “After that time we had to improvise with the emergency kit in my truck… never again. Lesson learned. Teacake learns from his mistakes.”

You grabbed a bag of sour gummies and tossed them in the basket, shaking your head. Travis had that way of turning even the most mundane errand into something light and shared. He talked a lot, chatty in that endearing, stream of consciousness way. Whether he was recounting a weird customer at the storage facility (someone trying to store a collection of garden gnomes) or teasing you about how cute you looked when you got flustered. Eight months in, and he still made ordinary nights feel special. He’d left behind some old trouble, worked the night shift to keep things steady, and treated your relationship like the best decision he’d ever made.

At the counter, the cashier scanned everything with the enthusiasm of someone who’d seen it all: condoms, lube, gummies, and a pack of mint gum Travis added last-second. She didn’t blink. Travis paid in cash, peeling off a twenty with a polite “Thanks, have a good night,” delivered with that genuine, slightly awkward warmth that made strangers soften instantly.

Outside, the parking lot was quiet under the yellow streetlights. Travis’s beat-up truck waited, the one with the slightly crooked bumper from an old fender bender he blamed on “bad luck and worse reflexes.” He opened the passenger door for you out of habit, then slid into the driver’s seat, the plastic bag crinkling between you.

He didn’t start the engine right away. Instead, he turned toward you, one hand resting on the wheel, the other reaching over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. His hazel eyes caught the dashboard light, soft and earnest now that the teasing had dialed back.

“You really get embarrassed about this stuff?” he asked, voice gentler. “I know I get carried away sometimes. Don’t wanna make you uncomfortable.”

You laced your fingers with his, feeling the calluses from years of odd jobs and the steady warmth of his palm. “It’s not bad embarrassed. It’s just… intimate. Doing normal couple things together, you know?”

Travis’s smile softened into something warmer. He leaned across the console and kissed you, slow at first, then deeper, his hand sliding to the back of your neck. He tasted like the mint gum he’d started chewing in the store, and there was that familiar spark: playful but grounded, chaotic energy wrapped around real affection. When he pulled back, forehead resting against yours, he murmured, “That’s ‘cause we are in it. All the little things. The boring errands, the late-night runs, the way you laugh at my dumb jokes even when they’re bad. I’m all in with you.”

Your heart did its usual melt. You cupped his face, thumbs brushing over the light stubble on his jaw. “I’m all in too, Teacake. Even when you turn the condom aisle into a comedy routine.”

He grinned, pressing one more quick kiss to your lips before starting the truck. “Good. ‘Cause I got more routines where that came from.”

The drive back to your shared apartment was easy, windows cracked to let in the cool night air, radio playing low. Travis kept one hand on the wheel, the other on your thigh, thumb tracing lazy circles as he rambled about his shift: the guy who showed up at 10 p.m. to retrieve a single box of old vinyl records, the flickering light in unit 47 that he swore was haunted (but was probably just wiring), and how he’d spent half the night thinking about getting home to you.

You told him about your day, the annoying meeting that ran long, and he listened like it was the most interesting thing he’d heard all week, chiming in with sarcastic commentary that had you laughing until your sides hurt.

Inside the apartment, Travis kicked off his shoes by the door and immediately wrapped his arms around you from behind, chin resting on your shoulder. The bag landed on the kitchen counter with a soft thud.

“Shower first?” he suggested, lips brushing your neck. “I still smell like industrial cleaner and stale coffee.”

“Together?” you asked, already smiling.

“Obviously. Water conservation. I’m a responsible citizen now.”

The shower was warm and steamy, filled with wandering hands and quiet laughter. Travis washed your back with surprising gentleness, fingers tracing your skin while he told a half-whispered story about nearly tripping over a rogue shopping cart in the parking lot earlier. You soaped his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart, the way his breath hitched when your touch lingered.

By the time you reached the bedroom, towels abandoned on the floor, the condom box was open on the nightstand. Travis hovered over you on the bed, propped on his elbows, messy hair falling into his eyes. The bedside lamp painted soft shadows across his face highlighting the faint freckles across his nose and the way his expression shifted from playful to focused and tender.

“You’re so damn pretty,” he said quietly, like he needed to say it out loud. “Still can’t believe you put up with my rambling ass every day.”

You pulled him down, legs wrapping around his waist. “I like your rambling. Keeps things interesting.”

He kissed you deeply, hands roaming with that mix of urgency and care. When he reached for the condom, he tore the wrapper with his teeth still a touch theatrical eyes locked on yours the whole time. Rolling it on was quick and practiced, but he took his time after, easing into you with a low groan that vibrated through both of you.

“Fuck… always so good, baby.”

The pace started slow and deep, building as you moved together, his hips rolling in that steady rhythm he knew drove you crazy, your nails pressing into his shoulders. Travis murmured against your skin the whole time: half-teasing praises, half-breathless curses, checking in with soft “You okay?” and “Tell me if it’s too much.” He was chatty even here, but it only made everything feel more connected, more real.

When you came, it rolled through you in warm waves, your moan muffled against his neck. He followed soon after, hips stuttering as he held you close, whispering your name like it anchored him.

Afterward, tangled in the sheets with the room quiet except for your slowing breaths, Travis pulled you against his chest, arm draped heavy over your waist. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your hip.

“Best midnight CVS run in history,” he said, voice sleepy and content. “Love doin’ normal shit with you. Makes everything better.”

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “Love you too, Teacake. Even when you narrate the condom selection like a game show host.”

He laughed softly, the sound rumbling under your ear. “Hey, somebody’s gotta keep things entertaining. Can’t have us turning into one of those boring couples who just buy the same brand every time and never talk about it.”

You swatted his side lightly, both of you settling into comfortable silence. Outside, the city hummed faintly. Inside, it was just the two of you warm, safe, and perfectly ordinary in the best way. Travis’s breathing evened out first, but his hold on you never loosened.

. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁

It had felt like fate when he’d seen your ad in the shop window. Female, twenties, seeking new roommate. Clean and tidy applicants preferred. Rent negotiated on meeting. The photo provided showed a gorgeous and spacious two-bed apartment with a balcony view over the park. Despite his current situation, Travis couldn’t shake the feeling that this ad had been put there for him to find. Maybe it was stupid of him to believe in fate after everything he’d been through but he tried to remain optimistic that you would like him. Hence the nerve-stricken cab ride he was currently on.

“This is you.” The cab driver told him, jolting him back to reality as the car slowed to a stop. “Nice neighbourhood here.” He glanced at Travis in the rear-view mirror, not being subtle with the look he gave him. Travis suddenly felt very self-conscious, running a hand through his hair nervously.

“Thanks, man.” He threw down the little money he had on him, which included an acceptable tip in an attempt to show that he meant well. “Have a great day.”

He climbed out the cab and checked the directions he’d scribbled down on a piece of paper. Having only spoken to you briefly on the phone to arrange a meeting, you’d given him very specific directions which had warmed his heart a little, clearly you were a conscientious person and it only made him want even more for this to go well. After some searching, he located the building and made his way up, butterflies fluttering around his stomach.

Travis knocked on the door five times and immediately cringed at himself. Was three times too many, was it too insistent? Were you going to think badly of him already? Damn it, he should have stuck with three, that was always a safe bet. His inner monologue was spiralling when you opened the door, beaming out at him with a smile that for some reason made his insides turn to jelly. He straightened up, trying to look presentable.

“Hey.” You held out a hand for him to shake, which he accepted graciously. “You must be Teacake?” You questioned, and he didn’t miss the way your eyes sparkled when he said it.

“Uh, yeah. Hi.” He nodded. “That’s me. I hope I’m not late, I had to take a cab over here and there was a shit-ton of traffic, and then I had to find the place. That actually didn’t take too long, not with the directions you gave me, they were awesome, I found it right away. This is a great building by the way.” He stopped himself when he saw you nodding along, obviously waiting for a break in conversation. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” You waved him off. “I’m glad you appreciated the directions, I’ve been told before that sometimes I worry too much. But you’re here now, so why don’t you come in and we can hash out the details.”

Travis followed you inside, taking in the place. It was so much nicer in person and it was obvious you cared about making the place homely. You led him into the living room and signalled for him to sit on the couch, taking the armchair across from him. He sat on the edge of the couch, hands clasped together as you rifled through the application he’d submitted.

“So, you work at Atchinson?” You queried. “You must meet some interesting people there. You know, my uncle has a storage unit over there, maybe you know him?”

Travis ran another hand through his hair. “Yeah, I actually only just started working there. But I’ll get my first pay-check soon, so I’ll be able to cover whatever my half of the rent is. You know, if you offer me the room, that is.”

“What were you doing beforehand?” You asked, not to be nosy but just out of pure curiosity. Travis felt like a bug under a microscope.. He knew at some point he’d have to tell you and he knew once he did, he could most likely kiss the apartment goodbye. He cleared his throat nervously.

“You know, I was sort of between jobs.” He stared down at the floor.

You studied him for a moment, the way he hadn’t quite made it through the door, like he was getting ready to leave at any minute. He was visibly stressed and you could tell there was more to him than he was letting on. “So, uh, Teacake? Is that your real name?”

“Uh, it’s a nickname. Long story.” He told you.

“Right, it’s just I’ll need your name to add to the tenancy if you’re accepted.”

“Oh, yeah.” He grinned. “Sorry, I didn’t think of that. Uh, it’s Travis. Everyone calls me Teacake, though.”

“Alright, Travis.” You nodded, and the way you used his real name made him feel a sense of contentment, the first sense of belonging he’d felt since going to prison. You looked over his application one more time before putting it down and sitting forward, meeting his gaze. “Listen, you seem like a great applicant but I can’t help but feel there’s something you’re not telling me here.”

He sighed, knowing that he’d been caught out. There was no way to side-step this one. “OK, yeah. The truth is, I was just released from prison.”

“Oh.” You blinked in surprise.

“I’m on probation at the moment, I was put up in temporary housing at first but the truth is I wanted someplace new to start over. I saw your ad and it seemed kind of perfect.” He was rambling again. “I know I probably should have said something sooner, but the truth is I’m just tryin’ to make a new start. I swear, no bad intentions. I just want to put the whole thing behind me.”

“Hmm.” You took in everything he was saying. “OK, that’s a lot to process.”

“I’m sorry for wastin’ your time.” Travis said. “I can let myself out.” He made to get up but you held a hand out, stopping him.

“Travis, hang on a second.” You told him. “Look, the truth is I’m kind of eager to rent out that room as soon as possible, not a lot of great memories attached to it.” There was something underlying there but Travis could unpack all of that later. “To be honest, I’ve had a lot of crazy applicants reach out to me and you’re easily the best one.”

He blinked a few times, trying to catch up. “What are you saying?”

“I’m assuming you’re not some kind of dangerous felon.” You joked. “The room’s yours if you want it.”

“Oh, seriously?” He was practically buzzing as he stood up, face beaming. “That’s…wow, that’s amazing, thank you.”

“I will need you to fill out some paperwork first, but why don’t I show you the room, just in case you change your mind.”

“That’s not gonna happen.” He assured you as you got up. “Is it weird if I hug you, this is just the best news I’ve had all week.”

“A hug might break the ice, who knows.” You said, just as he surged forward and swept you up, spinning you around the room. You laughed as he put you down gently, scratching the back of his head.

“Sorry, got a little over-excited.”

“Don’t be sorry, ice well and truly broken.” You told him. “Alright, roomie. Let’s show you this room.

***

The next morning Travis crept into the apartment after having finished a night shift at work, only to find you already awake and bustling about in the kitchen. The smell of coffee and pancakes drifted through, making his stomach growl. There was only so much surviving he could do on a bag of chips during his shift. As he came into the kitchen, you smiled at him and handed him a mug.

“Here you go. I made you some coffee, thought you could probably use one.”

“Thank you.” Travis took it from you, reeling a little at the simple gesture. No one ever really did acts of service for him, but to you it seemed like second nature.

“You’ll have to tell me how you like it made best for future.” You informed him. “I know how important morning coffee is. How was your shift at work?”

“It was long and boring.” Travis responded, taking a sip of coffee and sitting at the kitchen table. “Not too much excitement happening at a self-storage unit, you’d be surprised to hear.”

“You gotta start finding things to do to liven it up.” You told him as you rifled through the cupboards, trying to find the maple syrup for the pancakes. “You know, podcasts, make a playlist. Something like that.”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Never really been much for making things. By the way, I found a box under the bed last night labelled Emily. Should I do something about that?”

“Oh, yeah. That was my old roommate. You can just leave that there.” You didn’t elaborate any further and Travis figured it was best not to push it. Instead he watched as you continued your struggle to reach the top shelf. He stood up and made his way over to you, stopping when he was just behind you. You didn’t hear him at first until you took a step back and collided into him. He instinctively reached out and steadied you with both of his hands.

“Shit, sorry, didn’t mean to scare ya. Can I help you, looks like you’re struggling a little.”

“Yeah, I just…” You stood up on your tiptoes, trying to reach the back of the cabinet. “I can’t reach the syrup.”

Travis could swear that his heart grew three sizes watching you, but he decided to put you out of your misery as he reached up with ease and grabbed the syrup, handing it down to you. Your feet sunk back to the floor, sighing as you took if from him.

“I totally could have gotten it if you’d given me another second.”

“Oh, sure you could.” He teased you a little.

“Are you doubting me?” You asked him.

“I wouldn’t ever dream of it.” Travis held his hands up in surrender. You gave him a fake glare before relenting. “Does this mean I’ve lost out on pancakes?”

You grinned. “I would never do that to you. Unless you’re still too tired from work, don’t feel like you have to eat with me if you don’t want to.”

“Are you kidding? After all that time eating the prison food, I need my fill of pancakes.” He spun around the kitchen. “Where are the plates, let me help by laying the table.”

For a moment, you felt light as air as you took him in, watching as he set the table for breakfast. Recent events had led to doubts bouncing in your brain, that your acts of service were overbearing and you were too much. However, Travis seemed genuinely touched that you’d made him coffee and was excited to eat breakfast with you. You had to remind yourself that it was only day one and the honeymoon period would likely wear off soon. Still, as he sat at the table, rambling about one of the customers he’d met last night, you couldn’t help but feel optimistic.

That you’d struck gold in the roommate department.

***

You were absolutely right. It had been a few weeks now since Travis had moved in and so far everything was going fantastically. Despite the fact that you worked opposing shifts most of the time, you were still able to sit down at least once a day and catch up on each other’s lives, whether it was in the mornings before you darted off to work, or when you were making dinner and boxing some up for Travis to eat on his shifts. The two of you just seemed to fit like two jigsaw pieces. And it wasn’t just the daily catchups. It was the little things as well.

Travis would write silly notes on the mirror after he got out the shower for you to read when you went in after him, knowing it would make you smile and set you up for the day. You would leave your favourite books on the coffee table for him to find after he told you reading was one of his favourite hobbies. The pair of you learnt the others favourite snacks and alternated between doing snack runs. Travis began to seep into every crack and crevice of your life, something that you found you actually quite liked it. You weren't just existing in the same apartment, you were living together.

It didn’t take long for you to realise that you were falling for him.

Which was bad on so many levels. Travis was the best roommate, you couldn’t mess that up by involving mixed up feelings. The two of you had become such good friends and it was best it stayed that way.

Although he did make it exceptionally hard at times.

“Hey, you want a movie night tonight?” He asked as he strolled into the living room, eating a bowl of cereal. Apparently that was his go-to meal no matter how much you tried to get him to eat a real dinner. It was one of the rare evenings that you both had off and had to do something to make the most of it.

“Yeah, sure.” You nodded. “That sounds like fun.”

“Great,” he responded cheerfully. "What are you thinkin'? Action movie?"

"I could go for horror." You said. "Unless you're going to spend the whole time hiding behind a cushion again?"

"I don't do that." His face wrinkled in the most endearing way. "Last time I was just keeping the cushion close in case you needed it."

"Mmm, sure." You nodded, completely unconvinced.

"I totally wasn't scared." He insisted. “Want me to make the popcorn?”

“Oh, fuck.” You cursed loudly.

“I mean, I don’t have to if it’s that bad.” He joked, to which you rolled your eyes with a grin.

“No it’s not that, idiot. I forgot to run to the store yesterday, we don’t have any.”

Travis held a hand to his chest. “What? No popcorn? Who even are you anymore?”

“Shut up.” You chucked a cushion at him, which only made him laugh more. “I guess I can run out quickly now and grab some.”

“Hey, why don’t I come with you?” He offered. “Late night grocery runs are always more fun with company.”

“Is that scientifically proven?” You asked.

“Uh, yeah. Can’t believe you didn’t know that.” He shook his head at you. “I’m actually pretty sure there is some genuine science-y shit that could back that up if you really looked into it. Nothing beats company, trust me. Especially yours.” He finished with a devilish grin.

“Alright, Teacake. You got me.” You stood up. “Let me just grab my jacket and we can get out of here.”

Twenty minutes later the two of you were wandering around the grocery store, searching for movie night supplies. Travis had insisted upon pushing the cart, which had worked for you as it meant you were able to fill it up.

“Alright.” You said as you reached the popcorn aisle. “Sweet or salted?”

“Sweet, obviously.” Travis responded, leaning against the cart.

“Obviously?”

“Come on.” He argued. “You’re telling me that you’d rather have salted over sweet, there’s no way.”

“I can’t believe this is even up for debate.” You shot back. “Salted is the classic choice for movie night, why are we even discussing this?”

“Wow.” Travis shook his head at you. “Can’t believe you could be so wrong about something so crucial. You know how awesome I think you are, but this might just be a dealbreaker for me.”

“Oh.” Now it was your turn to hold a hand to your chest, pretending to be offended. “Are you saying our roommate bond is at risk over popcorn.”

“I’m sensin’ some sarcasm coming from you right now and I need to tell you, it is not a good colour on you.” Travis told you. You rolled your eyes.

“Alright, compromise.” You grabbed both packets. “We’ll get them both, that way we’re both happy.”

“I like your thinkin’.” He pointed at you. “You really are the best.”

“Shut up.” You told him.

“I’m serious.” He said.

“Teacake?” A voice interrupted your conversation and you both spun around, seeing a young guy walking towards you, smile on his face that was directed at Travis. He seemed to reciprocate as he straightened up and held a hand out, shaking with this other guy.

“Hey, Pete.” He said brightly. “Man, how long’s it been?”

“Couple of months, right?” Pete mused. “When did you get out?”

“Bout’ a month ago.” Travis answered. “Been strange.”

“Right? No one prepares you for that, huh? What it’s like after you get released. Did you get a good set-up?”

Travis nodded. “Yeah, man. Got some work at the self-storage company, managed to get back on my feet.” It was then he glanced over at you and immediately beamed. “Sorry, this is my roommate.”

“Hey, nice to meet you.” Pete shook your hand. “How’d you guys meet, then?”

“Oh, total coincidence actually.” You replied. “I needed a roommate, Travis needed a place to live. It was sort of like fate.”

“Yeah, it kinda was.” Travis smiled at you.

Pete glanced between the two of you with a grin. “Wow, man. Looks like you really landed on your feet here. I’m happy for you.”

“Thanks, man. Hey, it was great seeing you.”

“You too. If you’re ever free we should definitely catch up sometime.” Pete told him.

“Yeah, maybe.” Travis nodded.

“Well, I’ll see you around.” Pete waved to you both before wandering away, leaving you to continue your shopping.

“He seems nice.” You said to Travis.

“Oh yeah, Pete was great. He was one of my only friends when I was in the slammer. Got out just a few months before I did.”

“You gonna go out with him? Might be nice to catch up with him?”

“Ah, no.” He waved the idea off. “I don’t think I should.”

“How come?” You asked, hoping you weren’t being too pushy by asking.

“I just…I don’t want to fall back into that mess again. Pete’s great but he knows a lot of shady guys and it’s a slippery slope, you know.” He shrugged. “Don’t want to mess up what I got now. I got my job, I got a roof over my head. I got you.” He added, tilting his head towards you and giving you that smile that made your stomach flip. “I got all I need.”

You nodded on understanding. “I hope you don’t mind me asking about it.” You said.

“Are you kidding? Feels like you know me better now, it’s kinda nice.” He said. “Now, back to the popcorn?”

“Back to the popcorn.”

***

A few days later you were in the apartment alone, waiting for Travis to get back from work when there was a knock on the door. Checking your phone, you frowned as you realised it couldn’t be him, it was still too early. Making your way to the front door, you opened it to find the last person you wanted to see. Or rather, people.

“Emily. Josh. What a nice surprise.” You plastered on a fake smile.

Your former roommate rolled her eyes as her boyfriend leaned against the door-frame, looking bored by you already. “We really don’t have time for small talk. I just came by to grab the rest of my stuff. Do you have it?”

“You know where it is. Be my guest.” You stepped aside. “I’m not getting it for you.”

“Wow? You’re not bending over backwards and invading my privacy? You’re really mixing things up, huh?”

“I thought you didn’t have time for small talk?”

Emily sighed and waltzed into the apartment, making her way into her old room to grab the box of belongings she’d left behind. You turned back to Josh, who was looking you up and down with judgement. “So, are you finally going to find the nerve to say it to my face?”

“Say what?”

“You know what? The crazy lies you were spreading about me, trying to turn Emily against me.” He leaned in slightly. “It was never going to work, you know?”

You refused to be intimidated by him. “I didn’t tell any lies. You know exactly what you did and so do I. Maybe Emily doesn’t see it, but I do.”

He smirked at you. “Don’t waste your time. She already chose me, let’s not embarrass ourselves further, yeah?”

“Go to hell, Josh.”

“Don’t talk to my boyfriend like that.” Emily warned you as stepped back out with the box. “I see you already replaced me?”

“Oh, yeah.” You nodded. “In fact I did. And let me tell you, he’s a hell of a lot  more pleasant than you are.”

“Oh, ‘he’?” Emily raised an eyebrow. “So, what’s his name?”

It was at that exact moment that Travis decided to make an appearance, stepping into the door frame and taking Josh and Emily in. As he glanced at you and saw the disdainful look you were giving them both, his hackles immediately went up. Whoever these strangers were, he was pretty sure he had grounds to hate them.

“Is this him?” Emily asked. “Hey, pretty boy. What’s your name?”

“Uh, hey? I’m Travis.” He didn’t offer a hand to shake, feeling the sudden urge not to be friendly which wasn’t like him at all. “Who are you?”

“I’m Emily.” She told him and when she was met with a blank stare, she scoffed. “Oh, so she hasn’t told you about me. Nice.”

Travis’ face suddenly registered recognition. “Oh, Emily? You’re the one who had my room before me, right?”

“Yeah, that’s right.” Her voice was dripping with malice. “Was honestly such a shame when I had to move out.” She flashed a sarcastic grin your way, making you squirm a little. What was it about her that made you feel so bad? You hated it.

Travis folded his arms and came to stand beside you, a silent signal of loyalty. “I’m not sure what you mean, moving in here was the best decision I ever made.”

Emily giggled. “Give it some time.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so.” He shot back.

Emily glared at him, just as Josh’s gaze flickered down to the tattoo on Travis’ arm and devious grin crept across his face. “Nice ink, man. Where’d you get it?”

You suddenly felt defensive. It was bad enough that they’d barged in here on your morning off, but now they were interrogating Travis and that didn’t sit right with you. “Alright, I think it’s time for you both to leave.” You began to usher them both out the door. “Always a pleasure, though.”

“Right, of course. Throwing us out so you can make coffee for your new roommate, right?” Emily turned around and leaned in, voice low so only you could hear her. “You know, it’s only a matter of time before he decides you’re too much.”

“It was great seeing you, Emily.” With that you shut the door on her face, blocking out her harsh words. Though they were already swirling around in your head. Too much. Too much. Too much.

“Well they seemed like a god-damn delight.” Travis weighed in sarcastically from behind you. “What the hell did I just walk into?”

“It’s nothing.” You brushed him off. “I didn’t even know they were coming round, otherwise I would have just left the box outside the door. I don’t love talking to her.” You turned your back to him, making sure he couldn’t see the pained expression on your face. There was the familiar sinking feeling in your stomach and you couldn’t seem to shake it.

“Are you OK?” Travis asked, immediately noticing that you were a little off. “Did she say somethin’ to you?”

“Honestly, don’t worry about it.” You told him, not wanting to burden him with your innermost worries. He surely didn’t care that much anyway. “You must be tired from work, you probably want to go to take a nap, right?”

Travis shook his head. “Actually, what I really wanna do is go shower and grab some coffee. You want to join me?”

You sighed. “Travis, come on. You don’t need to try and cheer me up right now.”

The look of sadness on your face told him otherwise. It wasn’t often thus far that he’d seen you upset but on the rare occasion that he did, Travis wanted to do everything he could to take that feeling away. He’d learnt pretty quickly that going for coffee and a walk was the perfect remedy and despite your protests, he knew how much you needed this. Plus, it meant he got to hang out with you and that was always a bonus to him.

“Too late. I’m already dreamin’ about espresso. We have to go.”

Slowly but surely, a smile crept across your face. “Fine. But only if we can get cookies too.”

“Oh, like you even have to ask.” He said. “Give me ten minutes to wash the storage place off me.”

You grinned after him as he dashed towards the bathroom, wondering what you did to deserve him. Even though he was being so sweet, it still wasn’t quite enough to shake off what Emily had said to you. Sometimes you felt like you were too much, and your biggest fear was that Travis would start to think so as well. The doubt had planted itself in your brain and it was hard to get rid of it.

He wouldn’t think so, right?

***

The thing about Travis was that he was the human equivalent of a golden retriever. The next couple of days, you’d been wrestling with your own self-doubt and he instantly picked up on it, only wanting to try and cheer you up. No matter how much you insisted you were fine, he still went out of his way for you. He brought flowers home, offered to cook you dinner and even surprised you by cleaning the apartment. After a few days, you felt that doubt start to lift like magic. Travis had done that for you and you loved him for it.

It was doing nothing for the feelings you were catching.

That evening, you were searching your freshly cleaned apartment for your house keys, having been called into work for a late shift. Most of the time your keys were thrown on the side in the kitchen but he’d obviously tidied them away somewhere without thinking. You made your way to his bedroom, knocking gently.

“Hey, Travis?” You called through the door.

“Hey, come in.” You heard him shout from the other side. Immediately opening the door, you casually wandered in. “Do you know where-?” You stopped suddenly as you took him in. He was standing in front of the mirror with just a towel around him, having just come out of the shower. His blonde hair was hanging loosely around his face, still a little damp and you could totally appreciate his form. You’d always known he was in good shape but damn, now you could really see it.

You didn’t realise you were staring until he tilted his head, a smirk on his face. “You alright?”

“What?” Your brain was completely crashing out and you needed to recover quickly. “Oh, yeah. Sorry.” What had you come in for again?

“You sure, you’re blushin’ a little.” His voice was cocky. “See somethin’ you like?”

There was absolutely no way you could let him know this was having such an effect on you. Even if your mind was currently drifting elsewhere, wondering what he was hiding under the towel, what might happen if he came a little closer. Your heart was starting to beat faster. Shaking your head quickly, you cleared your throat. “Have you seen my keys?”

“Oh, yeah, They’re in the bowl by the door.”

“Right, thank you.” You tore your gaze away from him. He frowned suddenly.

“You goin’ out?”

“Oh, yeah.” You nodded. “I got called into a late shift at work. I’ll be home later, I’ll try not to wake you up when I come back in.

Travis’ heart sank a little, one of the rare nights he didn’t have to work and you weren’t going to be in? “That kinda sucks, we can’t hang out tonight.”

You smiled. “You can still have a good night off. Don’t miss me too much.”

“I always miss you when you’re gone.” He muttered softly and you tried to ignore the way your stomach flipped when he said it. Did he have any idea the effect he had on you? Was it ever possible to think he might feel the same. It felt scary to cling onto any hope.

“Anyway, I have to shoot off. Have a good night.” You him as you walked out of his bedroom. “Don’t wait up for me.”

As you went off to work, you knew you wouldn’t be able to get the image of Travis out of your head, particularly the one where he was half-dressed with a sad puppy-dog look on his face because you were leaving him.

“Screw you, Travis.” You said to yourself as you walked out the door. Why did he have to be so perfect?

***

The shift at work seemed to drag on for an eternity until eventually you were climbing the stairs back up to the apartment and sneaking back in through the door. The place was quiet and you assumed Travis had turned in for the night, so you tiptoed into the living room to take off your shoes.

And almost jumped out of your skin when you saw him lying on the floor, head resting against the couch with his headphones in, eyes shut as he gently nodded his head along to whatever he was listening to. As soon as the initial shock had worn off, you couldn’t help but grin at how adorable he looked right now, slightly sleepy and a little disheveled. You slowly made your way over to him and crouched down, gently placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, Travis.” You spoke softly.

His eyes drifted open and when he saw you next to him, his entire face lit up. “Hey, you’re home.”

“Yeah, I told you not to wait up for me, what are you doing in here?” You weren’t mad, if anything you were really happy to see him.

“Well I had to make sure you got home safe.” He told you, sitting up. “Besides, I was listening to this new playlist I made for work. Remember you told me to do that? I actually read that it was a good way to boost motivation when you’re working so I figured it was worth a shot.” He shrugged.

“Alright, I like it. What are you listening to?” You reached out and took one of the headphones out his ear, placing it in your own. “NSync?” You smirked.

“What, they’re classic?” Travis defended himself.

“I had no idea you were so cheesy.” You picked his phone up, scrolling through the rest of the playlist. You stopped on one particular song. “Hanson?”

“Yeah, I love this song.”

“Of course you do.” You chuckled, pressing play. “I actually don’t hate it either, weirdly enough.”

You settled down next to him, resting your head on the couch cushions and staring up at the ceiling as the music washed over you. You felt Travis relax next to you, shifting slightly so his arm was pressed up against yours, fingers brushing gently, Butterflies fluttered in your stomach as you realised how close the two of you were all of a sudden. After a while, the initial shock wore off and you unclenched, tiredness suddenly hitting you after your long shift. Your eyes started to droop a little and without even really thinking, you moved in and let your head rest on Travis’ shoulder, a contended sigh escaping you.

You felt Travis laugh softly. “Someone’s sleepy.” His own voice had dropped now from fatigue, a little husky. You groaned in indignation.

“I am not.” You lightly hit his arm which only made him laugh more. He reached out and stroked a hand through your hair and your breath hitched in your throat. Eyes fluttering open, you looked up and saw him gazing down at you with pure adoration. You smiled back at him, eyes subconsciously dropping down to his lips.

And then it happened.

Travis’ hand came to rest on your jaw and before you knew it, he was leaning in and pressing his lips to yours. Your brain completely scrambled as his thumb stroked your jaw softly and you felt his tongue swipe across your bottom lip. Without hesitation, you granted him access and he groaned into your mouth, sitting up and pulling you gently into his lap. The kiss quickly turned into something more as you instantly rocked your hips into him, a moan escaping the both of you as he gripped your hips, encouraging you to move against him again.

“Fuck.” You heard him mutter against your lips, and you felt like you were on fire as his hardness pressed against you.

“Travis.” You breathed softly, reaching down to pull up the shirt he was wearing.

He pulled away from you suddenly, eyes searching yours and suddenly that familiar sinking feeling snuck up on you again. The moment was quickly shattered as you worst fears overtook you again. Maybe he didn’t really want you after all

“Shit, I’m sorry.” You stuttered. “If you don’t want to-“

“No, it’s not that.” Travis assured you, but you didn’t wait to hear more. You were going to give him an easy out.

“It’s alright. You don’t have to explain. We live together, maybe this was a mistake.”

His face fell at your words. “Is that how you feel?”

Of course it wasn’t. But it was easier to pull back now rather than get your heart completely broken. “Let’s just forget it, yeah?” You jumped up and hurried towards your bedroom, leaving Travis sitting there completely alone. He felt your absence immediately.

Looking at his phone, he quickly opened up the other playlist he’d been working on, the one full of songs that reminded him of you. He’d been planning to show it to you tonight, hoping it might make you smile.

“Steve, can you stand like this?”

You lift your arms out to the sides. He blinks. “Like… this?”

“Yeah. Just copy me.”

He does it immediately, a little unsure, arms going up like he’s trying not to mess it up. You step closer while he’s still adjusting.

“Hold still.”

He laughs under his breath. “You’re being weird right now.”

“Just trust me.”

That makes him stop talking. You’re close enough now that he forgets what his arms are supposed to be doing.

“Okay,” he says softer.

And when you lean in and kiss him, he doesn’t hold the pose for more than a second.

His arms drop almost instantly, like his body gave up pretending that was ever the point. When you pull back, he is smiling like he is trying to act normal again.

“Gator, can you stand like this?”

He looks at you like he’s deciding whether this is worth humoring. “…Why.”

“Just do it.” A beat. Then he does. Not awkwardly. Not playfully. Like he is committing to it properly, even if he thinks it is dumb.

Arms up. Still. Controlled.

“This better have a point,” he mutters.

You step closer. His jaw tightens immediately. He notices the shift before anything even happens, and that’s where the attitude starts to slip.

“Don’t start something you’re not gonna finish,” he says quietly. But he doesn’t move away. You don’t answer. That’s what gets him. He steps in first.

The kiss is immediate, not hesitant, not soft at the edges, but decisive, like he do rather take control of the moment than sit in it and think about it too long.

His arms drop as soon as it happens, like the pose was never part of the real situation.

When you pull back, he’s still close. Still watching you like he is annoyed that it worked… and more annoyed that he didn’t stop it.

“Kurt, can you stand like this?”

He looks at you. Immediately suspicious. “…Why?”

“Just do it.”

You lift your arms out to the sides. He copies you, but slower, like he is testing whether this is going to embarrass him.

“This is weird,” he mutters.

“You’re still doing it.”

“Yeah, I know.”

He keeps his arms up… for a while. But it starts getting awkward. He shifts his weight. Adjusts his hands. Doesn’t know what to do with himself anymore. “So what now?” he asks.

But you’re already closer. And that’s where he stops talking. The kiss happens and he goes still for half a second like his system lagged.

When you pull away, his arms are still kind of up there. Then he drops them too fast like he just remembered he has a body. “…Okay,” he says quietly, like he is trying to recover.

But he doesn’t say anything more about it. Just looks at you with that awkward grin on his face.

“Keys, can you stand like this?”

He pauses. “…Is this a test?”

“No.”

You lift your arms out to the sides. He nods once. Then mirrors you exactly. Precise. Correct. No improvisation. “Like this?”

“Perfect.” He stays like that. Completely committed to it. Even when you step closer. Even when the distance stops making sense. His expression shifts slightly, but his arms stay where they are.

“This feels… intentional,” he says quietly.

“It is.”

That earns the smallest reaction from him. But he doesn’t move. You kiss him. He freezes for half a second. Then responds, carefully at first, like he is still technically following instructions.

And even after, when you pull away, his arms are still up. Like he is waiting for the next step. “…Do I lower them now?” he asks.

“Teacake, can you stand like this?”

He is already smiling before you finish the sentence. “Like… a test? Because I feel like I’m going to fail this in a really embarrassing way.”

You lift your arms out to the sides. He mirrors you instantly.

“Oh, this is easy,” he says. “Okay, I thought it was going to be something complicated like emotional vulnerability or trust falls or..”

You cut him off “Just stay like that.”

“Right, right, I am staying like this.”

He drops his arms almost immediately without realizing it, because he is already too focused on you stepping closer. “Wait, am I supposed to keep my arms up? I feel like I was supposed to keep my arms up.”

“You were.”

“That feels like important information you should have led with.” You’re closer now. He notices mid-sentence.

And still doesn’t stop talking. “Okay, I think I understand what this is now, I think this is one of those...”

You kiss him.

He pauses for half a second against your mouth. Then, very softly, like he forgot he was supposed to stop:

“Oh okay, yeah, that makes sense actually.” His words blur into the kiss instead of stopping it. Not quiet. Just distracted.

Like he is still trying to finish a thought he already abandoned. When you pull back, he’s smiling immediately.

“Oh wow,” he says, still too close, still clearly not done talking. “I was not emotionally prepared for that, but also I think I might’ve been slightly right about what was happening there.” He laughs under his breath.

Then adds, like it’s unrelated but definitely isn’t: “Your timing is kind of insane, by the way.” And he is already leaning in again while he’s still talking.

Ben, who was reading a book on one of the large couches, watched Johnny stroll to the kitchen island to snatch a fresh Maisie’s cookie from the batch H.E.R.B.I.E was putting on a tray, giving him a little pet in the process. 

“Hey, J,” Ben called, just as Johnny reached the balcony and burst into flames. “If you find anything weird down there, try not to flirt with it,” he teased without looking up, and a robotic giggle was heard from the kitchen.  

Traitor, Johnny thought, narrowing his eyes at Herbert. 

Ben thought he was so smug ever since the whole Herald fiasco. But Johnny, ever the sweet summer boy, just gave him a pearly white condescending smile before finally taking off into the night. 

A few minutes later, Johnny lands in the middle of a street in Times Square, where traffic has stopped and a crowd has gathered around a rattling sewer lid. There’s indeed thick white clouds coming out of it, and Johnny can feel the high temperature as he lands next to them.

People gasp when they see him, then cheer and whistle because salvation has arrived. 

‘Human torch!’ ‘What’s happening?’ ‘I told the mayor he needed to check on the system ages ago!’

“Alright everyone, back up,” he puts on a smile, shooing people away with his arms. “I got it covered–”

A loud metal sound makes him turn around, and the manhole cover blasts upward landing on top of a car nearby with a loud crash. People scream and scatter away, and Johnny flames on instantly, absorbing all the heat that pours out of it.

The white steam subsides, replaced by some lilac, glittering particles that make Johnny cough a few times, swatting at it with his gloved hands. Once Johnny can see clearly again–or maybe not–he notices there’s something peeking out. 

Is that…a hand? 

A hand comes out to grab the edge of the sewer, but he sees no claws or scales or weirdly colored skin, no…it’s a woman’s hand wrapped in delicate lace gloves. Then the other hand comes out, clearly trying to prop themselves up. 

Johnny’s fire dies when he sees no imminent danger, and he frowns at the small coughs coming from inside, stepping closer to see when something finally emerges from the sewer. 

You emerge. 

“Oof,” you say, using all your strength to climb out of…whatever you were in. 

The puffy white gown you’re wearing spreads around you as your heels finally touch the ground, layers upon layers of sparkling fabric drag through the glittery pavement when you straighten yourself up. You brush away dust from your giant skirt, too lost in your own world to notice that the crowd around you has gone dead silent, and Johnny looks flat out bewildered. 

That is, until a car blasts its horn, making you jump so hard you almost fall back into the sewer.  

Strong, warm arms wrap around your waist, catching you immediately. You yelp, clinging to your savior, and that’s when your eyes finally meet. Your breath hitches, but all you needed was one look to that perfect blonde hair and those bright blue eyes to exhale in relief. 

“Oh, thank goodness!” you say giddily, “Is this the Barbie Kingdom?”

Johnny doesn’t answer because quite frankly, what the fuck? 

You don’t seem to mind, your melodic voice keeps spilling out excitedly. “My bad, Ken. I know it’s not a kingdom anymore! That democracy thing you have going on is spectacular, I really admire–” your enthusiasm dies out a little when your eyes dart around, realizing there’s zero pink in this place, only strangers,  a bunch of weird colored lights, and the guy you’re holding onto for dear life is looking at you like you’re insane. “But this…doesn’t look like Barbieland,” you add with a nervous laugh. “Are you…a prince?” 

Barbieland. A prince? 

(I mean, he’ll take the compliment, but ????) 

Johnny’s confused gaze darts all over your face, then down to your dress. A wedding dress. There are actual sparkles woven into it, and he’s sure your skirt alone weighs more than him. The white fabric is pristine and you smell like flowers, not like you just crawled out of a sewer. 

And you just called him Ken. Thank God Ben is not here. 

“Umm, kind sir?” You snap him out of his trance, still gripping his forearms. “Can you please tell me what kingdom is this?” 

He looks at you, then at the crowd that’s just as confused as him, before replying hesitantly. 

“...Manhattan?” He says, and it does very little to calm you down. He clears his throat, finally releasing you from his grip so you feel more comfortable. “You can call me Johnny, by the way,” he says, giving you his best trademark smile. 

You smile back at him, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. 

“Well, Johnny of Manhattan,” you say, wrapping your arms around yourself and trying to avoid making eye contact with the people whispering around you, and the noise of those weird metal boxes with wheels. “Do you know Andalasia?” 

Even with all the extensive space knowledge Johnny possesses, he can’t really point out a place in the universe named like that. 

“Is that your planet?” He asks, making you chuckle softly. Johnny delights in the sound, he feels like any moment now birds will wake up to surround you and start chirping. 

“It’s my world,” you say, your voice turning more nostalgic now. “I was meant to marry The Bat Prince Edward today, my Eddie, and now I’ve fallen into this terrible place...” 

“…Right.”

Johnny tries to consider all options.

Maybe you hit your head? Or you were some junkie? A very dedicated theater kid? Method actor? Or maybe, crazy idea, you were telling the truth. He doesn’t get much time to dwell on it because your laced gloved hand suddenly reaches for his.

“Please, can you help me go back?” You ask desperately. 

Johnny looks where your hands meet, and decides to ignore the creeping blush on his face and the intrusive thoughts. She’s engaged. She’s probably crazy. But she’s so beautiful–no! Stop it, Johnny. 

The last time he had a crush on a woman that showed up unannounced on his planet, things had not ended well. 

“I know someone who might,” is all he says, avoiding your eyes. Since when does Johnny Storm get shy? 

You squeal immediately, practically leaping into his chest to give him a hug he certainly wasn’t expecting. Johnny laughs surprised, trying not to get lost in your sweet perfume. A white flash suddenly blinds you, and your eyes widen in panic at the crowd closing in. 

‘Johnny, who is she?’ ‘Another Herald?’ ‘Is this for a movie?” 

Without thinking you cling tighter to Johnny, who you’ve decided is the only person you can trust in this weird place, and that does something alarming to his stupid little heart. Red flag, red flag–whatever, he decides to step up to the role, shielding you from the photographers. 

“Alright, show’s over everybody!” He announces with a smile, never losing that golden boy persona, before turning back to you. “Okay, princess, you’re coming with me,” he says, pointing upward.

“...How?” You ask, staring up at the sky with a frown. 

“You just hold on, and try not to scream,” he winks at you, and before you can react he’s picking you up bridal style, bunching the skirt of your dress so it’s not on the way. “I’ll try not to scorch it, but no promises.”

“Scorch it? What do you mea–oh my god…” 

The night sky glows with fire coming out of this man’s body, as he flies you across the Manhattan realm. Truth to be told, coming from a world of magic and curses, this may not be the craziest thing that has ever happened to you. 

You land on the balcony of a tower that looks absolutely nowhere near the ones made of stone back home. And thank the universe you’re too busy gawking at the view, because Johnny is able to sneakily pat the ends of your dress that caught on a few flames without you noticing. 

“Oh wow…” you whisper, placing your gloved hands on the railing, overwhelmed by all the movement and lights and floating things. “Your world is strange, Johnny of Manhattan,” you laugh softly. 

Johnny chuckles, and wow, this is not what he thought his night would be like. But then you gasp, pointing at the sky.

“We have the same moon!” You exclaim, placing your elbow on the railing and your cheek on your palm as you stare longingly at the sky. “Don’t you like it, Johnny? Knowing she’s always there?”

Johnny smiles, but he’s not sure it’s because of the celestial body he’s admired since he was a little boy, or the way you seem completely mesmerized by it.

“I’ve always loved her,” Johnny says fondly, stepping next to you with both hands on the railing, but he doesn’t look up. His eyes stay on you. He watches you sigh dreamily, and it makes him smirk. “Is this the part where we start singing about our heart’s wishes?” 

“What? Noo,” you chuckle, without taking your eyes off the moon. “It just means home must be close if we can see the same stars…” 

Right, home. Johnny forces himself to take his eyes off you, and as he peeks inside the empty living room, he notices Ben is no longer there. Perfect. 

“Come on, let’s go inside, princess,” he says, and you turn to him with a smile. 

He bows to let you go first, and you do a little bow in return. Your enormous skirt barely manages to cross the threshold with a few tugs. The black fabric at the ends, courtesy of the human torch, drags across the carpeted floors as you slowly take in every detail. He guides you into a big metal box, and presses a panel. You extend your arms for balance as the thing begins going up all of a sudden. 

“Fascinating,” you whisper.

Johnny watches you with a smile and pride blooming in his chest. The Baxter Building is a marvel even for normal people, to you? It must be mind blowing. The innocent awe in your face makes Johnny feel that familiar flutter of butterflies in his stomach he hasn’t felt in a long time. 

Bad Johnny. 

“Okay, number one rule,” he clears his throat, compensating by the thing he does best: joking. “We’re going into the ogre’s swamp, so you’re better off not touching anything.”

He feels proud of it, at least until you look at him horrified and recoil in fear. 

“An ogre? Oh no no no no…” you shake your head, reaching for the panel and pressing it frantically until the thing stops moving. “I don’t like those, absolutely not.”

“No, wait, sorry,” Johnny apologizes. “It was just a joke. We’re going to my brother in law’s lab, and he’s a bit…particular,” he explains, and only presses the button to keep going up when you nod. “Just uh…follow my lead, and you’ll be fine,” he says, when the elevator comes to a stop.

He stretches his neck, bouncing slightly on his feet and giving himself a small pep talk you can’t really understand. Then the doors open to another colorful, open place that makes your eyes go wide. Johnny strolls in first, and you follow behind like an anxious lost puppy. 

“Reed!” he calls out dramatically, to a figure leaning over a counter. “I bring gifts from my mission!”

The man–not ogre, thank the stars–Reed, doesn’t even look up from what he’s doing. His intention to ignore Johnny doesn't last long though, because he hears a pair of heels clicking on the floor that definitely don’t belong to his brother in law. He lifts his gaze, and his eyes immediately land on you.

“Why is there a bride in my lab?” He deadpans, looking at you up and down. “For the love of God, Jonathan, don’t tell me you–”

“Uh-uh,” Johnny cuts him off, holding a finger in the air before spreading his arms in a flourish to gesture at you. “I present to you: the steaming sewer.”

“Hiii!” You smile politely, waving at Reed. “Are you the ruler of this realm?”

Reed now looks at Johnny, exasperation written all over his face. “Explain yourself.”

“She came out of the sewer,” Johnny shrugs, looking too smug for his own good. “Dress and all.”

“I did,” you nod enthusiastically, not really helping at all.

Reed sighs, rubbing his eyes with the tips of his fingers, but by the time he opens them again, you’ve already wandered to one of his old models with a curiosity that reminds him of his own son. 

“Oooh, what’s this?” You ask, reaching for a red lever.

“No, don’t touch–“

You gasp in delight as the lights flicker when you pull on it, but Johnny catches your hand just in time before you pull the whole thing and cut the power of the entire building. He gently guides you away from the counters, smiling apologetically at Reed’s resting bitch face. 

Ogre, indeed. 

The doors of the metal box you arrived in open again, and a woman storms in carrying a child in her arms. He doesn’t even look a year old. 

“Not only are you working late, but you’re messing with the power while I’m trying to put Franklin to bed and I–” The woman stops in his tracks when she sees you standing in the middle of the lab. Her eyes go to Johnny, and she only has to raise her eyebrows for him to look like a scolded child.

“Sue, I can explain. Don’t panic, she’s just a–”

“Pwincess!” The baby in her arm babbles, clapping his little hands together.

You coo at the baby, but stay put where you are, not wanting to crowd the woman narrowing her eyes at you. You gather the fabric of your dress and give them a little curtsy.

“Thank you, little bean. But I’m not a princess yet,” you say, pressing one hand to your chest. 

Sue notices the way you clutch the fabric of your dress nervously, and curiosity gets the best of her. 

“Did you escape from your wedding?” She asks, but there’s no real malice behind it. 

“I didn’t escape,” you shake your head, looking down to the floor. “I believe someone may have tried to kill me and I ended up here instead.”

“Oh honey,” her expression softens, not entirely sure why she believes you’re harmless to her family. At least at this moment. 

Johnny does, and he sighs, because now you’ve activated Sue’s mom instincts. How is he supposed to not get attached?

At least she won’t be telling him to kill you.

“Where exactly did Johnny find you, sweetheart?” She asks, bouncing little Franklin on her hip.

“Johnny says it’s called a sewer!” 

Sue just nods, looking between Reed and Johnny but the latter just smiles with a shrug. A sudden blue light washes over you, but before you can panic Johnny shows you it’s coming from a little device Reed is hunching over. 

“He’s just scanning you to see how we can help,” Johnny explains reassuringly, and you nod as the light keeps going all over you. 

“Fascinating,” Reed says after a few minutes, walking away from the thingy to circle you. “No traces of chemical intoxication. Her body has adapted to survive in our environment, but her clothing fibers are unlike anything I’ve seen on this planet.” 

“Oh! My dress was hand sewn with the help of my friends. Mouses and rabbits are very talented when it comes to special fabrics,” you say matter of factly. 

“Mouses and rabbits.” Reed repeats and you nod happily. Jesus Christ. 

“H.E.R.B.I.E told me you were all here. What’s going on?” A new voice echoes across the lab as the doors open again. ”Uhh, is Johnny getting married and didn’t tell us?” 

You turn around to see a tall man made out of orange rocks and your shoulders sag in relief. Finally, someone normal around here. But before you can ask him if he knows how to get to your kingdom, Reed is already gesturing for him.

“Perfect timing, Ben. Team gathering. Now.” 

Ben obeys, following him without taking his eyes off you. Sue walks past you, and Franklin giggles when he tries to grab one of your puffy sleeves and fails. Reed motions them deeper into the lab, and Johnny walks backwards to look at you. 

“Don’t touch anything,” he mouths, and your eyes drift immediately towards another lever device on the counter. “Especially that!” He whisper-shouts, and you nod innocently, clasping your hands behind your back.  

He flashes you a grin before jogging to meet the others, who are already explaining the situation to Ben. You can hear the whispering, but you can’t really make out what they’re saying, so you distract yourself with your own dress. 

On the far corner of the lab…

“She came out of a sewer, and you believe she’s a princess?” Ben asks, biting back a smile as he watches Johnny roll his eyes.

“She could be delusional. Experimenting a psychological episode perhaps.” Reed says.

“Then why didn’t your scans show anything?” Johnny crosses his arms. 

Reed hesitates, because the machine may not show physical abnormalities, but your mental state is a different thing. 

“My love?” Reed asks the person he trusts the most in the room.

“She looks harmless,” Sue shrugs, shifting Franklin who’s starting to fall asleep on her shoulder. 

“She is harmless,” Johnny says immediately.

“You've known her for like twenty minutes,” Ben teases. 

“Yeah, and in those twenty minutes she’s been overwhelmed, yet polite enough to ask for our help. After all we’ve seen lately, I think we’re safe–just…look at her.”

They all glance back. 

You’re standing exactly where Johnny left you, carefully lifting the edge of your gown and gasping in visible distress when you notice it has turned black.

“Oh no…my dress…”

Johnny mentally slaps himself when you look at the singed fabric with a sad face. Okay, maybe flying in flames while carrying a hundred pounds of magical tulle had been a bad idea.

“So who’s the lucky fella?” Ben whispers, nudging his arm to get his attention.

Johnny takes a second too long to take his eyes away from you, before turning back to the group with the answer. 

“She said she was marrying some prince named Eddie,” Johnny explains, trying to sound as casual as possible. “But I don’t trust him, what if he’s the one who sent her away?”

“Or…maybe you just want to steal his bride,” Ben says without hesitation, making Sue snort. Even Reed’s mouth twitches. 

Johnny groans, stepping back to point between them defensively. 

“No, no, no. I know what you’re thinking, and you’re wrong! Absolutely wrong,” he defends himself, but his family has the audacity to laugh in his face. 

“Johnny–”

“No! This isn’t another Shalla-bal situation,” he insists, crossing his arms. “That was months ago. Besides, can you really blame me? She was gorgeous.”

“And do you think the princess is gorgeous?” Sue asks with a knowing smile. 

He glances at you once again, and it’s a bad idea, because Herbert has rolled into the room too and now you are bending slightly so you can pet his weird head. You were actually petting him. The droid is complimenting your dress, and you thank him giddily because you somehow understand what he’s saying. 

“I fear the gown may be ruined, though,” you add with a small laugh.

“It still looks pretty on you,” Johnny blurts out loudly from his spot. 

You straighten up to look at him, and your flustered face makes it difficult for him to not smile like a lovesick puppy. What the hell is happening to him? 

When he turns back around, everyone is staring at him. Johnny closes his eyes with a grimace, sighing. 

“I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

“I say you’re toast already,” Ben says, amused, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Good thing you can handle some heat–“

“I’m not handling any heat–“

“Alright!” Reed shuts them up. “Until we understand what happened, we can’t exactly send her anywhere,” Reed says, exhaling in defeat.

That makes Johnny perk up immediately with a smile that’s nothing but trouble.

“So we’re keeping her?” He says. 

“We are letting her stay temporarily because she clearly needs help,” Sue corrects, giving him a warning look. “And you are going to behave.”

“Yes, absolutely!” Johnny nods, way too fast and completely unconvincing. Sue narrows her eyes at him. “Your mistrust wounds me, sister. I’m always on my best behavior.”

She glares at him one last time, before gesturing with her head at the group to walk back to you. She notices H.E.R.B.I.E has stuck to your side, and seems to be charmed by you as much as Johnny is. Which is another positive point in your favor.

“You can stay with us until we figure things out,” Sue says with a reassuring smile. “We’ll do our best to find your home.”

Your eyes go wide, the relief washing your face makes you look even brighter. Johnny has to keep himself from clutching his chest dramatically. 

“Oh, I’m eternally grateful to all of you,” you say, lifting the fabric once again to do a full curtsy. “But especially to you, Johnny of Manhattan, because you were the one to trust me enough to bring me to your castle,” you add with a smile, straightening up and walking toward him to pressing a soft kiss on his warm cheek. 

Johnny stills on his spot as your lips delicately graze his skin, before you pull apart a walk alway like nothing happened. His hand lifts instinctively to touch the spot you kissed, and this time his family’s snickers are inevitable.

Maybe Ben was right. Maybe he’s toast. Burned toast. 

As he watches you obliviously hum a little tune for Franklin, who’s drooling away on Sue’s shoulder, acceptance hits him like a train. 

He was absolutely doomed the second you climbed out of that sewer. 

Thank you for reading this small fairytale! Feedback is always appreciated 💗🦇

You give him a soft smile, happy for the familiar face. Truthfully, you liked seeing him here. He was always willing to. chat about anything and everything. And it didn't hurt that he was attractive, despite his shitty prison tattoos.

"Theres another couple boxes in the trunk if you don't mind grabbing a dolly for me. I can grab them once I get these inside."

He's already on his feet. "Nonsense, lady. You look like you could use a break. I'll grab 'em all for ya. One trip."

He grabs the dolly from the corner of the office and heads for the door, taking your keys from you. 

You watch as he loads up the three boxes and heads back inside with them.

He buzzes you both in with his badge and he walks with you to your unit, chatting away. You both reach your unit and he lifts the heavy rolling door, revealing a space packed to the brim with boxes of books.

"You weren't kidding about stocking up, lady, jeez. You ever think of a name for your shop yet?"

He sets the boxes down with a soft thud and turns to you, wiping sweat from his brow.

You couldn't help but stare. He had a certain... scrappy charm. A well-worn white t-shirt stretched tight across his chest under his orange work button up, black work pants clinging to muscular thighs.

"Yeah, it's called The Book Nook. I'm hoping to open by fall."

"The Book Nook," he repeats. "Cute. I like it. Very... you." He gives a little grin that makes your stomach flip. "So what's in these new boxes? Any good stuff? Find any old treasures today?"

He leans against the doorframe, making no move to leave as you begin to finagle the new boxes in. 

"Went to the flea market a town iver, met up with a seller who had a ton of old sci-fi stuff. Got a decent deal on them."

"Last week it was horror, you're gonna have quite the selection, aren't ya?"

You laugh. "Yeah, my goal is to have something for everyone." You pause, looking at him. "So, what do you like to read, Teacake?"

He's quiet for a second, like he wasn't expecting that question. "Uh... I've been reading some self improvement type books lately? Really trying to stop my 'people pleasing mentality' or somethin'? Court appointed psychiatrist said I have that. I'm, uh, impressionable? Can't remember the words she used. But you probably don't wanna hear about all that."

You caught on to his rambling habit early on in meeting him, but it made you smile nonetheless. You loved hearing him talk.

"Hey, nothing wrong with that. I think it's great you're working on yourself."

He just shrugs, a bit embarrassed now. "Yeah, well. Someone's gotta do it, right? No one's gonna do it for me. Couldn't really. Self work an' all." 

He rocks a little on his heels. "Well, I should probably get back to the desk before my boss realizes I'm slacking off. Or, you know, that I even exist."

He gives you a little half smile and turns to leave, but stops.

"Hey, you know, if you ever need an extra set of hands for the shop? I'm... I'm pretty good with a hammer. And I lift heavy things. That's my whole job, basically. Besides, buzzin' people in."

You give him a soft smile that he mistakes as sympathetic. 

"I mean..." he clears his throat. "I know you probably wouldn't want to hire an ex-con for your pretty little shop, but I figured I'd offer an'all--" 

You cut him off immediately as he misunderstood you. "You're not some violent criminal, Teacake. I've known you long enough to know that. I would love the help. The landlord is dragging their feet on some repairs at the storefront and I could use a strong pair of arms."

You watch a real, genuine smile spread across his face. "Yeah? You'd... you'd really let me help? After... well, after me telling you all that?"

"You've told me what got you in prison plenty of times." You gift a gentle laugh, as he did tend to overshare. "Just don't, sit passenger for anyone who plans to rob my books. We're good."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he says, a little breathless. "So... when do you want me? I mean, when do you need me? At the shop. Not need me, need me. Unless you did, which would be—"

"Are you doing the overnight tonight?" You cut him off again after looking at your watch. 

8 PM.

"Uh, no actually. Not tonight. On till 10, then home. Why?" He replies, a little sheepish.

"If you're up for it, we could meet for a drink, discuss my plan of attack? I'm buying. To thank you for the help, both now and later."

His face lights up like you'd just offered him the world. "Yeah? You'd— You'd wanna go for a drink? With me?" He seems genuinely surprised, and it makes your heart ache a little.

"Is that weird?" It was your turn to feel nervous, wondering if you crossed some weird boundary. You were, technically, still a customer.

"No! Not at all! I just... I'm not used to people wanting to, you know. Hang out with me. I'd love to." He's nodding enthusiastically now. "Love to. Yeah. Where at? There's that new place down on Church? Heard they've got some good craft beer stuff. Not that I drink beer much anymore. But I could try it. If you liked it. Or we could go somewhere else. I don't care where we go, as long as—"

You put a gentle hand on his arm, and he stops mid-ramble. The contact sends a jolt through both of you. "Church Street is perfect. 10:30 work for you?"

He fidgets in the booth, picking at the peeling vinyl. The bar is dim, lit mostly by neon beer signs and the glow of a jukebox in the corner. He ordered a water. He wanted to be clear-headed for this. For you.

You show up right at 10:30, sliding into the booth across from him.

"Interesting drink of choice." You smile at him softly. 

He shrugs, a little self-conscious. "Yeah, well. Figured I should probably, you know. Keep a clear head. For... shop talk." He gives you a lopsided grin.

It was only a half truth. Part of him hoped that maybe this wasn't just a work call. He was gullible sometimes, but he wasn't stupid. He caught you looking at him a little longer every so often, even if he didn't see why you would.

And a guy can hope for a kiss at the end of the night. Even on the cheek. And he wanted to be sober for that. 

"So, shop talk," he says, leaning forward on his elbows. "What's the plan, boss?"

The conversation flows easier than he expected. You lay out your vision for The Book Nook: mismatched armchairs, shelves that go all the way to the ceiling, a little nook in the back with an old record player.

You both talk about anything and everything, his side tangents leading to very interesting, albeit random, conversations about things he saw in jail, or a story about his childhood. You hung onto every word.

He doesn't even notice the bartender clearing his throat at the end of the bar.

"Last call, folks."

The words jolt Teacake back to reality.

"We didn't even get actual drinks." You whisper, a little smile on your face. "Think he really wants us out." 

Once outside, you take out your phone to get an Uber. 

"What, you didn't drive here?" Teacake raises an eyebrow. 

"I didn't want to rush it if we had a couple drinks. Figured I'd be responsible."

"I can drive you home. Car's right over there." He points to a beat-up car in the lot. "Safer than she looks, promise. 

"Alright."

He pulls up to your place, the engine of his car rumbling in the quiet street. The silence that's fallen between you is different now.

"Well," he starts, his voice a little too loud in the small space. "That was... That was good. The plan. It's a good plan. Very... architectural. And stuff. I can definitely do the things. The hammering. And the lifting. I'm good at that."

"Do you want to come inside?" 

You blurt it out like you've been waiting to the whole ride. Teacake freezes, his hand still on the gear shift.

"You... You mean... Right now? Inside your... house?" He glances from your face to the darkened window of your building and back again, like he's trying to solve a puzzle.

"Yes. In my house." You glance over at the small house you rent, dark except for one lamp in the window. "For some coffee. Or water. Or nothing at all. Just to come inside."

His brain feels like it's buffering. He's so used to things being one way, and this feels like a glitch in the matrix. You, with your bookstore dreams and your kind eyes, asking him inside.

"I uh... don't drink coffee. Makes me all... jumpy. But water's good. Water is... hydrating." He shuts the car off. "Yeah. Okay. I'll come in. For water."

He follows you up the path to your front door, a respectful distance behind you, like he's afraid to touch you by accident. Inside, your house is cozy, filled with books in precarious stacks and the scent of old paper and something warm, like vanilla.

You take him into the kitchen and he leans against the counter, watching you grab two glasses from the cupboard. His eyes follow your every move, taking in the small details of your life: the used novelty mug by the sink, the reminder note on the fridge, the way your hair falls over your shoulder.

When you turn, you catch him looking at you. 

You put the two glasses down with a sigh. 

"I didn't ask you in here for... water." You whisper, your gaze never leaving his. The unspoken truth of the night hangs heavy in the air.

"Oh." He breathes, a shaky, vulnerable sound.

"It's okay if you aren't—" you begin, but he cuts you off.

"No," he says, taking a step closer. "No, I... I am. I am. I was just... I didn't think... You'd want to... I mean, you know about... and you still...?"

You laugh and he smiles sheepishly. 

"Those were like... half sentences. See? That's what I'm talking about. I'm a mess." He's still coming closer, like he's being pulled by an invisible string. "I'm just... I'm not very smooth."

"I like that you're not smooth." You say, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Well, shit, lady. That's good to know."

He's right in front of you now, so close you can feel the warmth radiating off him. You reach up and cup his jaw in your hand, your thumb stroking the stubble there.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, leaning into your touch. "I've never... I don't know what to do here. Not with someone like you. You're so... put together. And I'm just..."

He let's out a deep sigh before continuing. 

"I've never done this... sober. I don't know how to be with someone like this when I'm not all... fuzzed up."

"Like sex?" 

He laughs at that.

"I've never even kissed a girl sober." He admits. "Sober me is awkward. It's the me that got my ass kicked in the schoolyard and the me that didn't know how to say the right thing to a girl and the me that—" You cut him off by pulling him down by his collar and pressing your lips to his. 

He's still for a moment, like a startled animal, then he responds with a soft, almost desperate groan. It's not a kiss of practiced finesse; it's all clumsy eagerness and raw honesty. One of his hands finds your hip, gripping it like a lifeline, while the other cups the back of your head, tangling in your hair.

"You're damn soft," he mumbles against your lips, pulling back just enough to speak. "And you smell good. Like... books and vanilla. And I'm probably gonna say a whole bunch of dumb stuff. 'Cause my brain is... it's not working right now."

"Good." You murmur, pulling him back in. "I like when you talk."

You're kissing him again and he's already getting more confident, his tongue tracing your bottom lip, asking for entrance. You grant it, and the kiss deepens, becomes wetter, hungrier.

"Okay," he says, breaking away, his breathing ragged. "Okay. So... this is happening. This is... yeah." He looks down at your body, then back up to your eyes. "Jesus christ. I can't believe this is happening."

He lifts you onto the counter effortlessly, your thighs bracketing his hips. The position puts you eye-to-eye, and the intensity of his gaze is almost too much.

"God, your eyes," he whispers, mesmerized. "It's like... looking at something I'm not supposed to. Something holy. Which is a weird thing to say to someone you're about to, you know... but it's true."

You run an hand along his jaw and smile. 

"What's your real name?" You ask softly. It was a sudden question, but it felt right.

He blinks, surprised by the question.

"My real name?" He repeats, as if you've spoken in another language. "It's... uh... it's Travis. Everyone just calls me Teacake. On account of... well, it's a stupid story."

"Travis..." You say, lips hovering over his. "I like it."

"Shit," he breathes, and then he's kissing you again, harder this time, like your acceptance of his real name was the final key to unlock him. His hands roam from your hips up your back, pulling you flush against him.

You quickly shimmy off his orange button up work shirt off his shoulders, leaving him in just the white tee. You can feel the heat of him through your clothes, the solid muscle of his chest.

"I've thought about this," he confesses, his hands slipping under your shirt to splay across your back. "So many times. Since I met you. I'd see you come in all tired with your books and I'd just... think about what it would be like to... to touch you. I felt like such a creep. But I couldn't help it. You're just... you're nice. You're the nicest person I've met in... ever."

He's kissing down your neck, his lips and tongue exploring the sensitive skin there, making you gasp.

"And you're smart," he continues, his words muffled against your skin. "Way smarter than me, not like thats hard... But you've got plans, you know? You're doing something. You're not just... existing. You're building a life. And I think that's the sexiest thing I've ever seen."

He pulls back, his hands still on you, his eyes dark with desire and something else, something deeper.

"I'm gonna say all the wrong things," he warns you.

You take his hand and travel it under your skirt, between your legs to feel how damp your panties are. 

"I told you I like when you talk." You whisper in his ear.

"Okay," he breathes, a shudder running through him as he feels the heat of you through the thin fabric. "Okay. Right. So... okay."

He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear. "You're so wet already. God. That's for me? That's... wow. I did that."

You go to lift your shirt off exposing a black lace bra, nipples already hard against the lace. He just stares, transfixed.

"Those are... Jesus, lady." He sounds genuinely awestruck, like he's looking at a masterpiece in a museum. "They're perfect. They're like... like something out of a magazine. A really... really classy magazine. Not one of the ones they had in the joint."

He reaches out, his fingers trembling slightly as they trace the edge of the lace. "Can I...? I just wanna... feel."

You nod, and his thumb brushes over your hardened nipple through the fabric, making you arch into him.

"You liked that," he murmurs, a smidgeon of confidence creeping into his voice. "Okay. Good. That's... that's good to know."

He hooks a finger in the cup of your bra, pulling it down to bare you to his gaze. "Oh," he says again, a reverent whisper. "Oh, wow."

And then he's leaning down, taking the sensitive peak into his mouth, his tongue swirling around it in a way that makes your toes curl. He's not practiced, but he's enthusiastic, and the raw, honest pleasure he's taking in this is intoxicating.

"Your mouth is the sexiest thing about you..." you gsap at the feeling, hands running through his messy bleached waves. He moans around your nipple, the vibration sending a jolt straight to your core.

"Fuck," he pulls back, looking up at you. "I love it when you talk dirty to me. I really, really do. I just... I've gotta tell you, I'm so hard right now it's almost painful. And I'm gonna... I'm gonna probably bust in my pants if we keep going like this. And that's embarrassing. I'm too old for that. But you're just... you're doing things to me."

He's panting, his chest heaving. "But I want to make you feel good. I want to... I want to make you cum. Can I? Please? Let me make you cum."

He doesn't wait for an answer, sliding off the counter onto his knees before you. His hands are on your thighs, pushing your skirt up to your hips.

"You're killing me with these panties," he says, hooking a finger in the black lace. "They're... they're evil. But in the best way."

He pulls them down slowly, his eyes fixed on the place he's uncovering.

"God," he breathes, looking up at you from the floor. "You're perfect. All of you. Just... perfect."

He leans forward, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, then another, higher up.

"Tell me what to do," he says, his voice husky. "Tell me how you like it. I'm a fast learner, I swear. I just... I wanna do this right. For you."

"If it's anything like how you kiss I'm sure you'll do it right." You tell him breathlessly.

"Yeah? Okay. Yeah, I can do that."

He takes a deep breath and dives in, his tongue exploring your folds with a curious, hungry intensity. He's not trying to mimic anything he's seen in porn; he's just exploring, listening to the sounds you make, the way your body shifts under his touch.

His nose bumps against your clit, and you gasp, your hands tangling in his hair, holding him to you.

"Tastes even better than you smell," he mumbles against you, the words muffled but clear. "Like... heaven. Or something."

He's getting bolder now, his movements more confident. He's found your clit and is focusing on it, his tongue working in circles, then flicking, then sucking gently. You're writhing on the counter, the cool tile a stark contrast to the heat building inside you.

"Travis," you moan, your hips bucking against his face.

He groans when you use his real name like that, the sound vibrating through you. He doubles his efforts, one of his hands coming up to slide a finger inside you, then another.

"I'm gonna cum," you pant, your head thrown back.

"Yeah," he encourages, his voice rough with desire. "Come on. Cum for me. Let me taste it. S'gonna taste so good."

His fingers curl inside you, hitting that spot that makes you see stars. You cry out as your orgasm crashes over you, waves of pleasure washing through you.

He doesn't stop, working you through it, lapping up your release like a man dying of thirst.

When you finally come back to earth, he's looking up at you, his face slick with you, a look of pure, unadulterated awe on his face.

"Good news is I didn't cum in my pants yet." He says with a half grin. "But if you keep looking at me like that I might still."

He climbs to his feet, a smug, boyish grin on his face.

"So..." he says, a little out of breath as he's wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Did you still wanna... do the rest? The, uh, the main event?" He gestures vaguely at his crotch.

You can't help but laugh.

"Yes, Travis. I still want to. Very much so."

"Good," he says, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Like I said though, I might not last. I've thought about... you know... being inside you. A lot. More than is probably healthy. I've got it all worked out--" 

You cut him off by hopping off the counter and hooking a finger through his belt loop.

"Bedroom. Now."

He doesn't need to be told twice. He follows you down the hall, his eyes glued to the sway of your hips.

Your room is just as cozy as the rest of your house, with a big, unmade bed piled high with pillows and a duvet.

You strip your clothes off fully and he stands there, a little wide eyes and slack jawed, before rushing to take off his t-shirt and unbuckling his belt.

"Jesus H. Christ," he whispers when you're naked before him.

He walks towards you, grabbing your face in both his hands, kissing you deeply. You can taste yourself on his tongue. He's pushing you gently towards the bed, and you fall back on it, him following you down, hovering over you.

Your hands waste no time getting his work pants off, pushing them and his boxers down with a little difficulty. He kicks them the rest of the way off.

"Shit," he breathes. "I'm naked. In your bed. This is actually happening."

You can't help but trails your eyes from his dark chest hair tapering down to one of the prettiest cocks you've ever seen. 

"Holy shit." You say in the softest whisper. 

He immediately seems nervous, never having had a woman look at him this way, in such a sober setting.

"What? What is it?" He asks, a knot in his stomach, assuming the worst.

"Nothing... I just... Travis, you're beautiful."

The word beautiful seems to short-circuit him. His jaw goes a little slack. No one's ever called him beautiful before.

"Can dicks be beautiful?" He manages to huff out with a laugh. "Is that a thing? 'Cause if they can, you must be looking at someone else's. I think this is pretty standard issue."

He pushes himself up on his elbows, a frown creasing his brow.

"I'm serious," he insists, misreading your awe for something else. "If you don't want to do this, it's okay. You don't have to... lie to make me feel better. I'm a big boy. I can take it."

"Yeah... definitely big boy." You mumble, licking your lips.

The corners of his lips twitch, fighting a smile before he catches it.

"Lady, you just talking about it like that is gonna..." He trails off as you reach down and wrap your hands around him, feeling the velvety weight of him. He lets out a strangled moan, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. "Okay. Okay. That's... yeah. Good. Very good."

You begin to stroke him and he thrusts gently into your fist.

"I have... a condom in my wallet. In my pants. I... fuck... didn't assume or anythin'... I just like to be prepared. You know, for... for... yeah." He's stammering, lost in the pleasure of your touch. "And I was hoping. God, I was hoping so much."

You let go of him reluctantly and he scrambles off the bed, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to get to his discarded pants. He fumbles for his wallet, pulling out the small foil packet with a triumphant, slightly shaky "Aha!"

He's back on the bed in a second, tearing it open with his teeth. He starts to roll it on, his movements a little clumsy.

"I can do it," you offer, sitting up and taking it from him. Your touch is sure and confident, and he watches, mesmerized, as you smooth the latex down his length.

"Fuck," he breathes, his eyes closed. "Okay. Okay, I'm ready. I think. No, I know I'm ready. But I'm still probably gonna... you know... be quick. It's not you, it's me. I swear. It's the... you. And the... sober thing. And the--"

"Please just shut up and fuck me, Travis."

Your words hit him like a physical jolt. He opens his eyes, and the raw, unadulterated hunger in them takes your breath away.

"Yeah," he says, his voice a low growl. "Yeah. I can do that."

He settles between your legs, the head of him nudging at your entrance. He pauses, looking down at you, a question in his eyes.

"I've never... I've never done this without... like, a bunch of noise, you know?" he confesses, his voice soft.

"I'm sure you're about to hear plenty of it." You say with a smirk.

He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that you feel more than you hear. "Yeah. Probably."

He pushes into you, slowly, giving you time to adjust to his size. You both gasp at the sensation, the perfect, aching stretch of it.

"Jesus," he chokes out, his head dropping to your shoulder again. "You feel... so good. So fucking good. And I'm not even all the way in yet."

He's taking his time, savoring it, committing every sensation to memory.

"Okay," he says, after what feels like an eternity. "Okay. I think... I think I can move now."

He starts to move, his thrusts slow and deep at first, then a little faster as he finds a rhythm. It's not the practiced, athletic sex you've had before; it's something else, something more earnest, more vulnerable.

And God, it feels amazing. His hands are everywhere, his lips are on yours, and he's whispering a constant stream of praises and observations against your skin as you cry out with each roll of him inside you. 

"You're so tight," he's murmuring, his hips pistoning into you. "And so wet. And you're making these little noises. God, those noises. They're gonna... yeah... they're gonna do it."

"Travis... you're so fucking good at this." You whine, wrapping your legs tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper.

The praise seems to unlock something in him. He growls, grabbing your hips and pulling you onto him with each thrust, hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur.

"I'm think," he pants, his movements becoming more erratic. "Think I'm just really... motivated."

He's close, you can feel it in the tension coiling in his body, in the way his breath hitches. "I'm trying to hold on. I really am. I want to... I want to feel you come again. But... around my... fuck... around my cock. But you... you're just..."

You feel the tension in you snap, your second orgasm washing over you, even more intense than the first. You cry out his name, your body clenching around him as you pulse with pleasure.

"Shit, yeah," he growls, his rhythm faltering as he follows you over the edge, burying himself deep inside you as he cums with a loud whimper of your name. "Oh, fuck... fuck...fuck. "

He collapses on top of you and you're both panting, your bodies slick with sweat and satisfaction. 

After a long moment, he pushes himself up on his elbows, looking down at you with a dazed, happy expression.

"Wow," he says, that slow boyish grin spreading across his face again. "Just... wow."

He's still inside you, and you can feel him start to soften. He carefully pulls out, disposing of the condom in the small trash can by your bed before flopping down beside you.

"I didn't know it could be like that," he says, turning onto his side to face you, propping his head up on his hand. "I mean. It's never been... like that."

"What was it like before?" you ask, tracing the lines of one of his tattoos, a poorly-done snake that looks blown out on the edges. 

"Uh..." he thinks about how to phrase it, his eyebrows creasing together. "It's always been... transactional, I guess? Even when it wasn't... you know... a transaction. It was always about getting off. A means to an end. There was never any... this. The talking. And the... looking." He gestures to your face.

"I like looking at you," you say simply.

"Yeah, well," he flushes, looking away for a second. "Nobody's ever said that to me before. And meant it. People look at me, but it's not... it's not like that. It's usually a 'what's this guy up to' kind of look. Not a 'I wanna take him home and have my way with him' look."

You giggle a little and he does too, just happy he  can make you smile.

"It's weird, though, right?" he says, suddenly serious. "That we... that I'm your storage guy. And now I'm... naked in your bed." He shakes his head in disbelief. "I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. For you to realize I'm just... a guy with a record and has some questionable ink and can't stop talking."

"Mmm, you're also a guy who's sweet and considerate and always willing to help. You listen to my ramblings about books and have a great plan for The Book Nook. You also made me see stars twice in one night." You say, moving closer to him.

You lean in and kiss him, a soft, lingering kiss that has nothing to do with lust and everything to do with affection.

"So you wanna... continue doing this? Like on the regular?" He asks, a knot of anxiety forming in his stomach.

He doesn't know what he'll do if you say no.

"Yes. And not just doing... this." You gesture to the bed. "All of it. If that's something you want."

The relief that washes over him is so profound it's almost painful.

"Are you kidding me? Lady, I... I'd be an idiot to say no to that. I'd be the biggest idiot in the history of idiots." He's practically vibrating with excitement. He kisses you again, still smiling through it. When he pulls back, he's just... looking at you. He's looking at your face and your hair and your body. He's memorizing you.

"You know," he says, his voice a soft murmur. "I've been thinking about what you'd look like in my bed too. Not just... in general, but... in my actual bed. The one at my place. It's got this ugly green comforter my cousin gave me. But the mattress is pretty new. And it's... quiet. You can hear the trains at night, if it's not raining. And I was just... thinking about what it would be like to have you there. To wake up with you."

You're quiet for a moment, just looking at him, at the vulnerable hope in his eyes.

"Well, I guess that's the plan for after our next date." You say, a little smirk playing on your lips.

His face lights up, and it's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. 

In a previous, pre-prison life, he may have already let some dipshit talk him into accidentally committing another crime, but Teacake's been keeping busy. There's not a ton of stuff to do when you're broke and saving every penny you've got to move off of your cousin's couch, but his parole officer suggested taking a stroll through the local library and... well, to Teacake's surprise, the library is actually pretty cool.

Besides all the free stuff you can just get with a library card, he may or may not have taken a liking to a certain librarian. You, who work the afternoon shifts during the week, and always smiles brightly and greets him by name — his real name. You offer commentary on the books he takes out and even ask if he wants recommendations, and you recently started setting aside specific books for him to take out.

Teacake never thought he'd have a hard-on over someone because they're kind and soft and intelligent and have a beautiful smile and look like they give great hugs, but... these days, it's really all he can think about.

"Hey, Travis," you greet sweetly that Wednesday afternoon. He grins at you, feeling his stomach flip as he approaches the front desk you do most of your work behind. "How're you doing?"

"Good. I, uh, finished that one book you recommended for me. The Hobbit? It was really good, you were right. What'd you say you liked the best about it? The, um, the building?"

"The world-building?" you ask, mirroring the excited smile on his face. Teacake nods enthusiastically. "I'm so glad you liked it! I feel like you finished that one super fast. Here, lemme return it for you so I can give you something else."

Teacake nods and pulls it out of his backpack, then places it on the desk. Your fingers brush against his as you take it from his grasp, and Teacake tries not to be a total loser over something as small as touching.

"What kind of books do you like?" he asks, drumming his fingers against the table's worn mahogany. "You don't feel like a fantasy, sci-fi kinda person to me, but... I dunno, I could always be wrong. I feel like I don't always read people right, but that's very much a me problem, ya know?"

You giggle as you listen to him, typing away on the computer to locate where the next book is.

"I mean, I'm around books all day so I tend to know my way around most genres," you explain with a shrug. "But in my free time, I mainly like to read romances."

Teacake raises his eyebrows, then lowers his voice to a sharp whisper. "Like... like those sexy books with shirtless dudes on 'em?"

"No!" you exclaim, laughing loudly, and you're grateful this is a relatively dead hour for the library, "Like... I dunno, some of them have that kind of stuff in it, but they don't look like that!"

"Oh, shit, you do read sex books!" Teacake gasps teasingly. "Who woulda thought? The sweet, cute librarian reading porn in their free time?"

"Shut up!" you round the desk to gently bat at his chest, then nod in the direction of the science fiction section. "C'mon, let's go find your book."

"Is it a sexy one?"

"I'm gonna ban you from the library, Travis."

He snickers as he follows you into an empty aisle, watching you bend down to the O section. You quickly find the spine of the book, then pull it out with diligent fingers.

"1984," you announce. "It's another classic. A little darker, a little more thought-provoking, but still very good. I'll be curious to hear what you think about it when you're done."

You press the book into his grasp, swallowing as Teacake's tongue darts out to wet his lips.

"Why romances?" he asks. This time, his voice is soft, gentle — not looking to tease.

"You're really stuck on this, hm?"

"I'm just curious," he replies with a shrug of his shoulders. "You don't have to answer if you don't want to. There's things people have asked me that I don't want them to know."

You shake your head. "No, it's... I just like the idealism of it, I think. I like that everything gets wrapped up in this perfect bow at the end. I know what to expect. Sure, there's drama, but..."

Teacake's eyes soften. "But what?"

"But I never get disappointed."

You watch as his Adam's apple bobs with a swallow. Shaking your head, you place your hand on your hip and go to brush past him, back to the front desk.

"I'm sorry, that was too much—"

"No, it wasn't." Teacake says, but for once, he's stumped for words. His brain his screaming at him to say it — I'll never disappoint you, I promise, I'll do whatever I can to make you happy, I'd move mountains for you and visit you every day and bring you lunch and show you off to the world and buy you flowers — but he doesn't know why he can't get it out.

You wish he would say it, too.

The next afternoon, when you clock into work, Ella is straightening up the front desk as you're getting started.

"Oh! Before I forget, these came for you." she says, pulling something huge and wrapped in paper out from beneath the table. Your eyebrows furrow, glancing between her and the monstrosity in front of you.

"Um... are you sure?" you ask, confusion apparent in your expression.

Ella shrugs, "Some guy came by looking for you, I said you weren't in yet but he asked me to make sure they get to you. Said it's very important."

"Some random stranger came by looking for me?"

She sighs. "Well, no. I've seen him here before. Talking to you."

That only piques your curiosity even more, so you gently pull the paper wrapping off, only to reveal a beautiful bouquet of flowers. Your eyes widen when you see them — tulips, peonies, hydrangeas, azaleas, snapdragons, all in a smattering of pastel pinks, purples, yellows, and reds. You blink, then see the note stapled to the bottom. You don't think twice before grabbing it, desperately hoping it's the person you think it is.

i should've said this yesterday, but i pussied out. sorry, "pussied out" isn't a really romantic thing to say. anyway, i can't promise that i'll never ever disappoint you, but i can promise i'll always fucking try not to. for the past few months, seeing you has been the highlight of my days. sorry if that's really pathetic. if it is, then call me pathetic i guess.

anyway...again... if you aren't too weirded out by this, and maybe by the grace of god or whoever or whatever exists out there, you like me too, would you wanna go out with me? here's my number. text or call me when you get these. if you want.

travis

ps - if you don't like me and this is really weird for you, can we just pretend it never happened? please dont ban me from the library. i actually really like it here. thank you