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He stepped inside.

The air was thick. Candles flickered, some burned low, others tall and fresh. Who the hell had lit them? Who kept them alive?

He moved through the hall. The walls dressed in peeling wallpaper the color of dried blood. A crystal chandelier hung above the foyer, crusted in dust, but beneath the dust the crystals still caught the candlelight, glinting like a thousand frozen tears. Cobwebs clung to it like veils.

A golden goblet sat on a marble pedestal, so clean and pristine—it looked like it didn't belong there. He lifted it slowly, heart thudding in his chest. The liquid inside shimmered dark red. He brought it to his nose.

Not wine.

Blood.

His stomach lurched.

"Ben Mears."

The voice curled around his spine. Low. Feminine. Dark velvet soaked in sin.

He turned.

She stood at the edge of the staircase. Bare foot on old wood, gown clinging to her like a second skin. The fabric shimmered red and black, like blood and shadows. Her skin was pale, untouched by time, framed by ink-black hair cascading down her back in waves. Her eyes—a deep, gleaming crimson, unholy.

She looked like something that had been once worshipped and now feared.

Ben couldn't speak. Couldn't move.

"You found your way back I see," she said, stepping into the candlelight. It kissed her face, casting shadows that made her look carved from sin. "Curiosity? Guilt? Or maybe something darker?"

He managed a whisper. “Who are you?”

Her smile was slow. Cruel. Beautiful. Big white fangs shimmered under the light.

“They used to call me whore,” she said. “Before I even knew what it meant. Before I’d even been kissed. Just a girl with too much beauty and not enough shame for their liking.”

She circled him slowly, voice a dark song.

“They said I seduced the minister's son. That I danced naked in the woods. That I’d made a pact with the Devil.”

She laughed. A dark, low, raspy rumble on her chest that made his skin prickle.

Her eyes burned red. "I hadn't. Not then, at least."

He swallowed. "What happened?"

"I wanted this town to burn. When Barlow came, I went to him. Walked through the dark with bare feet and said, take me. I wanted to watch them all suffer. I wanted to watch them scream."

"You let him bite you."

"I begged him to." She was behind him now, breath ghosting his neck. "He thought he'd make his perfect bride. But he made something else."

Her cold fingers slid along his arm, nails scratching his skin. He flinched.

“I was too dark inside. Too much rage. Not enough soul left to lose.” She circled to face him again, eyes wide, shining blood-red. “I didn’t die. I became.”

She lifted the goblet and drank.

"Your blood smells so good," she whispered, licking her blood-stained lips slowly with a satisfying moan. "Like guilt and want and loneliness."

Ben backed away. "You're not human."

“No,” she agreed. “But not a monster either.”

She stepped closer. “You’ve been dreaming of me. Every night. You see a woman in the dark, in silk, with fangs, and you wake up hard and aching and ashamed.”

He froze.

She touched his chest. "You hate this place. Just like I did. I can feel it. I can hear your thoughts. That's why you came back. You want to be ruined."

Her lips brushed his cheek, then his ear.

"I can ruin you, Ben. I can help you. Sweetly. Slowly."

“Don’t,” he warned.

“Why?” she asked, fangs flashing. “You’re dying to be tasted.”

Her tongue flicked across his throat and he gasped. She moaned softly, intoxicated.

“Say it,” she whispered. “Say you want it.”

He did.

God help him, he did.

Ben stepped back, boots creaking against the wood. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. Wild. Desperate. But his eyes wouldn't leave her.

She stood with the goblet in hand, blood on her lips. The candlelight adored her, casting her in gold and flickering shadow. Every inch of her was hauntingly beautiful. Sacred. Profane. Unholy. Her beauty seduced him.

She stepped forward, slowly, hips swaing, her gown clinging to the curve of her thighs, the dip of her waist. She moved like sin incarnate—like something not meant for daylight. He backed up until his shoulders hit the crumbling wall. She didn't touch him. Not yet. Just stood close enough that her scent filled his lungs—blood, roses, sin.

"I can hear your thoughts, you know," she purred. "They're loud."

He shook his head. "Get out of my head."

"I'm not in it." Her voice dipped, teasing. "You invited me."

Her hand hovered near his chest.

"Your heart is begging. I can feel it," she whispered.

Ben’s mouth was dry. “You’re playing with me.”

“Yes.” Her grin curled. “Do you want me to stop?”

He didn't answer. Couldn't answer. Her scent was madenning. Her beauty enchanting. A curse. A drug. A poison. And God he would be lying if he said he wasn't addicted. His muscles coiled. His body betrayed him, leaning into her shadow.

She leaned in, lips grazing his temple. "I know what you want, Ben. I can feel it. Taste it. It's delicious," she purred. "You dream of hands like mine. Mouths like mine. You want to fall."

She reached for his hand, and he let her take it. Did nothing to push her away. Her fingers were cold and strong, pale. She brought his hand to her face and pressesed it to her cheek slowly.

"I'm not afraid of you," he said, lying.

She turned her head, pressed her lips to his palm. "Then you're a fool."

He gasped as she kissed his wrist, her fangs brushing against his skin. Against his pulse. Not biting. Not yet.

"Tell me to stop," she whispered.

He stared at her, lips parted.

"Tell me," she repeated, lower now, hungrier.

But he didn't. He couldn't. She was too close, too warm, too real. His body shook, overwhelmed by her scent, her voice, her beauty. She was everything forbidden, everything he'd never dared to admit he wanted. And she knew it.

She stepped back just enough to let him breathe—but not enough to break the spell.

“You came looking for monsters,” she said, slowly circling him again. “But what if the thing you find... is yourself?”

She stopped behind him and pressed her body against his back, mouth at his ear again.

“You ache, Ben. Let me take it.”

His eyes fluttered shut. Her hands slid under his shirt, nails trailing over his ribs, slow, almost reverent.

“Don’t—” he breathed.

“But you want me to.”

Silence.

“Yes,” he said finally. Voice hoarse, broken. “God help me, yes.”

“He won’t.” She smiled against his throat. "God's not here, Ben. Only me."

She breathed out, a moan half pleasure, half hunger let her lips. Her arms snaked around his waist, holding him like a lover—possessive, starving. Her lips brushed the shell of his ear.

"You don't know what you've given," she purred. "But I will take it. Every inch of you."

Ben turned to face her, trembling, his hands cupping her face like he might wake up from a dream and lose her. She looked up at him through dark lashes, her smile low and feral, baring just the tips of her fangs. Her pupils dilated as she watched him, drinking in the flush of his skin, the raw pulse in his throat, the smell of his blood.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, voice breaking. “God, you’re—”

She kissed him.

Not gently. Not sweetly.

Her mouth devoured his—needy, commanding, insatiable. Her tongue swept into him like fire, like blood, like everything he’d ever feared and secretly craved. He groaned into her mouth, hands diving into her hair, tangling, pulling. Her body crushed to his, soft curves pressed against muscle and desperation.

The kiss deepened—filthy, raw, and desperate. She tore his shirt open with a sound that wasn’t entirely human—a low growl of satisfaction rumbling from her throat. Buttons flew, skittering across the floor. Her hands dragged across his chest, nails leaving thin, red trails that stung and made him groan. She moaned at the sight of him.

“God, look at you,” she whispered. “So fucking beautiful. All mine to have. All mine to taste.”

Ben's breath hitched, his chest heaving under her touch. Her words made his blood burn. Her mouth followed her hands, hot kisses pressed into his pecs, his ribs, the scar above his heart. He shivered. Moaned.

“You’re not afraid,” she said again, unbuckling his belt with one hand, eyes locked to his.

“I should be,” he said, voice hoarse.

“But you’re not,” she smiled, dark and victorious. “You’re hungry.”

She shoved his pants down, and he kicked off his boots, stepping free with a raw, desperate grace. He stood before her now—bare, vulnerable, and utterly wrecked by desire and want.

Then it was his turn.

He reached for her, slowly, and took one thin strap of her gown between his fingers. Slid it down her shoulder. Then the other. His hands were trembling. Not with fear. With deisre.

The gown slipped from her, pooling at her feet. She stood bare in the candlelight, and Ben stared, stunned, unable to speak.

"God, you're..." he couldn't even finish the thought.

"Say it," she purred, licking the shell of his ear.

"I want you," he breathed. "I want all of you."

"Then take me."

He lifted her like she weighed nothing. She gasped, arms and legs wrapping around him like vines. He pushed her against the wall, candles flickering wild, shadows dancing around them.

Her back hit the wall with a loud thud, and she laughed. Dark. Breathless. Delighted.

"That's it," she moaned. "Just like that. Use me. I'm yours."

Ben's mouth was on her throat, kissing, bitting. She arched into him. Her nails dragged down his back, claiming him.

"You're mine now," she whispered, head falling back, her red eyes blazing. "Mine to take. Mine to break. Mine to rebuild. Mine to love."

His hands gripped her hips, lifting, pressing, thrusting. She gasped, her voice breaking into a cry that echoed through the ruined halls of the Marsten House.

Ben buried his face in her neck, breath ragged, teeth grazing her skin. Every inch of her burned into him—her scent, her voice, the way her body welcomed his like it had been waiting centuries.

“Please,” he gasped against her throat. “Do it. Bite me.”

She pulled back just enough to see his face—flushed, eyes blown wide with desire, lips trembling. Her grin was wicked, dripping hunger.

“You want it?” she purred. “You want me to sink my fangs into you, mark you, ruin you?”

“Yes,” he breathed. “Ruin me. I want it. I want you.”

She moaned at his desperation, rolling her hips into him as his body pressed harder against hers. “You’re such a good boy for me, Ben. So fucking perfect. Look at you. So beautiful. So wrecked. Just for me."

He groaned, her hands gripped her ass, lifting her higher, pressing harder against hers. "God, you feel like heaven and hell."

She kissed him again—biting his lower lip, drawing blood. He gasped, and she licked it away.

“You don’t belong to yourself anymore,” she whispered against his mouth. “You’re mine. My pretty little thing. My blood. My boy. Mine.”

“Yes,” he groaned. “Yours. I’m yours.”

She kissed down his throat, her voice a growl now, primal and dark. “Say it again.”

“I’m yours.”

“Beg for it.”

“Bite me. Please. Mark me. Fucking take me.”

Her fangs slid into his neck. Ben cried out, but he wasn't in pain. He let out a growl so exquisite it made her moan, deep, guttural, blood slipping into her mouth like the first taste of sin. She moaned around his blood, drunk on him, her fingers digging into his back as he thrust into her in one fluid, desperate motion.

She gasped, her head snapping back against the wall, red eyes rolling half-shut. Blood dripped from her lips, down her chin, slick and warm between their bodies.

“Fuck,” she moaned. “Ben—God—yes.”

His tongue darted out, licking the trail of blood from her chin. He groaned at the taste of his own blood—copper, sweetness, sin. His mouth moved up to hers, messy and hungry, their kiss smeared with blood and breathless devotion.

He rocked into her, harder now, his hips slamming against hers. She cried out, fingers clawing down his back, marking him.

“Yours,” he whispered against her lips. “I’m fucking yours.”

“Say it louder,” she demanded, panting.

“YOURS.”

Her laugh was ragged, breathless, head falling back again as he slammed into her again, again, and again. “That’s it. Good fucking boy. Ruin me.”

“You’re perfect,” he gasped. “You’re so perfect, fuck—so tight, so wet, so fucking mine.”

“Ben,” she moaned, clinging to him. “You’re filling me so good. You feel so good.”

He didn’t slow. Couldn’t. Every thrust was a prayer, a promise, a confession, a goddamn surrender. Harder, deeper, more desperate. Her body met his with the same hunger, the same rhythm, the same unholy need.

Her head snapped back, eyes rolling, mouth open in a helpless cry. Her moans came faster, louder, broken into pieces by his unrelenting rhythm.

“You like that?” he growled, gripping her hips, pounding into her like he could fuck her into the wall. “You like how I ruin you?”

“Yes,” she gasped. “God, yes, Ben—”

“I want you to come for me,” he snarled, voice low and vicious in her ear. “Come on me, come with me—let them hear it.”

Her nails raked his back, leaving streaks. “Fuck, Ben, don’t stop, I’m—”

He slammed into her, over and over, watching her unravel. "You're mine now. Mine."

She moaned. "You taste so fucking good. I can’t—I need—”

“Then take more,” he growled.

Her fangs sank into his neck again. He cried out, a sound of agony and release. Her body clenched, spasmed around him, her climax hitting her like a storm. She shook in his arms, drowning in him, groaning into his neck as she tasted his sweet blood.

“I want to taste you,” he gasped. “All of you. I want your blood.”

She grinned as she bit into her wrist with no hesitation, blood slowly dripping. She held it out, offering it to him.

Ben latched onto her wrist with a groan. The taste of her hitting him like lightning, smoke, sex, darkness, so fucking sweet. Her blood was thick, intoxicating, divine.

His eyes rolled back. His moan shattered in his throat. His climax tore through him like wildfire.

They came together, loud and broken.

Her back arched violently against him, a scream ripping from her throat. His grip tightened, his growls muffled against her wrist. His entire world narrowed to this—blood, sweat, sex, her.

Ben slumped against her, trembling, breathless, blood on his lips.

She held him, her own chest heaving, eyes burning with something deeper than lust.

Possesion.

He was hers now. Every heartbeat. Every breath. Entirely hers.

And she was his.

She never thought she'd crave someone like this—never thought she’d need anyone. But his blood? His scent? His voice?

She was addicted. Obsessed.

He was hers, and she wasn't letting go.

“Mine,” she whispered, voice low, dangerous. “Forever.”

Frank was always happy to try anything for you. That random show you heard about online? Sure. A new dish you've concocted? Sure thing, doll. A position you read about in one of the many books you read? Hell, sign him up!

It started out small, you slipped something into conversation about one of the books you were reading and how out there it was but you wouldn't divulge in any of the details that made it "So out there!". He decided to let it lie not wanting to push you or make you uncomfortable, youd come around eventually, you always do.

A few days later you hit him with "have you ever ate someone's ass?" Now, it takes a lot to shock Frank but this stopped him in his tracks. Taking a few moments to actually process the question that was asked he lets out a nervous laugh "Uhh rock n roll girl.." rubbing the back of his neck to try ride the redness creeping up his face and clearing his throat. "Sooooo??" You ask expectantly. "Is this a trick question, sweetheart?" His head slowly turning to now make eye contact with you. "Youre not gonna get in trouble Frank, I know you've been with other people! Its a genuine question!" You quip in a matter of frank tone with your head tilted. "I meannnn, yeah?" His hands crossing under his arms with a shrug. Your face scrunches up "Why havent you ever done it to me?" Franks head leans side to side his answer coming out strangled "its not somewhere id really explore unless, I knew you wanted me to?" Without hesitation you chime in with "Could you do it to me?" Franks eyes bug out of his head as he gulps "Shit doll, now?" Rolling your eyes in response "No not now! But like next time we y'know?" You trail off in a whisper while making a circle with your left and and putting your right index finger into it, this earns you a bark of laughter from Frank. "Sure thing, kid." His mind now going a million miles an hour at the sheer thought of the act. Hes always been an ass man but never thought twice about actually putting you in that position (well sure hes fantasised about it in many many ways, I mean, how could he not?! Your ass is the thing of dreams!) Cock growing under his pants, trying to get the image out of his head, he crosses his legs and pulls you under his arm. Happy with yourself, you draw your attention back to the old Jackass reruns playing on the tv. Frank however, spent the rest of the evening day thinking about the possibilities.

Hes been stewing on the new request trying to wrap his head around why this new thing for you was so out there. It made no sense to him in the slightest considering youre an open book the majority of the time especially, when it comes to recreating scenes from something that youve read. But again, its not an area you have explored together, yourr young and to be fair hes never tried to move further than what he felt you were able for in the bedroom.

The next afternoon you're sitting on the porch reading your book quietly to yourself as the cattle in the next field graze on the pasture, its picturesque. You're blissfully unaware of your surroundings, something he loves about you, soaking in your beauty, you sit there one knee up, the other hanging over the arm of the chair youre sitting in. Cream sundress fluttering in the breeze mimicking the baby hairs hanging loose from the claw clip that was supposed to be keeping your hair out of your face. A basket of peaches sit on a stool close to hand, your hand gracefully reaching down to pick one up. Frank leans against the door way admiring the sight before him, you bring the fruit to closer to your mouth, teeth meeting resistance against the crisp skin until theres a soft pop and its juices leak down your chin and on to your chest. You dont even bat an eyelid, so engrossed in whatever is playing out in your book; you bring the back of your finger to you lip wiping and sucking the remaining juices off it. Franks cock jumps at the sight. "Need some napkins, sweetheart?" Your face drops and your cheeks turn beet red as you snap your book shut. "Oh my god, shut upp!" You giggle. "Must be a very interesting book" Frank chuckled as he waltzes over to pick you up like you weigh nothing and put you on his lap. "Mind if I read over your shoulder? Finished mine this morning" shifting in his lap you feel the ridge in his jeans and lay your head back on his shoulder offering a small kiss to his jaw, the smell of peaches invading Franks senses causing his dick to stir more. "No thanks baby, about a cowboy and his new nanny. You wouldnt like it. Seems like you have something better in mind." Applying some pressure to his crotch as you twist a bit more to get a good look at the man behind you. "You and these goddamn cowboys, girl." He half laughs to himself catching your jaw in his hand and envoleloping you in a searing kiss, the other hand now running up your crossed legs earning him a sweet whine. "Whattya say we get outta here, cowgirl?" Franks guumbles getting up from the chair and walking you back into the house. "Giddy up!" You squeel wiggling your eyebrows.

The sound of Franks heavy boots and both of your breathless pants is all that can be heard through the house as you make your way up the stairs and towards your bedroom. With his broad shoulder, frank pushes the door open and tosses you on to the bed, your hair and dress fanning out around you. Sitting up unable to wait any longer, you grab your dress by the hem and whipping it over your head discarding it somewhere to be found later. Frank shakes his head slowly and lets out a low whistles "wheeeew" taking in the gorgeous woman front of him. Reaching your arms out and opening your legs, you signal Frank to come here with a tint of pink on your face. Undoing his belt, Frank crawls between your legs caging your head in with his two arms, planting soft kisses over your face, down you collar bone and stopping to give some extra attention to your breasts, taking one in his hand he runs his nose along your puckered nipple and flicking it with his tongue, causing a rush of goosebumps breakout across your skin before leaving a trail of wet kisses and licks down your torso stopping at the edge of your underwear. Bucking your hips toward him you whine, "please, Frankie?" Running your hands through his hair. "Thats my girl, always so polite." He hooks his index and middle finger into them on each side getting rid of the last barrier between him and his prize. You can feel his hot breath as he starts to run his fingers through your folds, youre already slick with anticipation, needy and whining just aching to feel him, his tongue, his fingers. Cock jumping at the glistening piece of art on front of him Frank dives in, tongue flat starting from your hole and slowly working towards your clit, his nose bumping every nerve ending on his way up. Your back is already arching pushing yourself closer, desperate to feel the friction of his beard against your sensitive skin. Tightening your fingers in hair as your moans grow pornographic when he adds a finger curling it before pumping it in and out of your leaking pussy causing Frank to let out a low groan as he starts rutting into the mattress. "Can feel her getting close, sweetheart. You gonna cum for me?" All you can offer up are breathless nods as he adds another finger and begining a ruthless pace. "Yeah baby. I know, I know. M'gonna make you feel real good." With that, your walls tighten around his thick fingers. "There she iiis, thats my girl. Make a mess for me sweetheart." He coos his praises at you attacking your clit with his tongue pushing you to your climax. Your thighs snap up each side of his head as your orgasm washes over you. Frank begins to slow down, dragging every last bit of pleasure from youylr body before pulling away his fingers, flipping you over and pulling your hips up to arch your back.

On full display to the man behind you, youre glistening and panting as he strokes his leaking cock, leaning forward he licks another broad punishing stripe up your twitching pussy not stopping until he reaches your tight asshole making you gasp. "Y'kay sweetheart? Tell me to t'stop and ill stop." Shaking your head you push your ass back toward him. "Words, baby. I need to hear you say it." Panting and pushing your hair from your face, you look over your shoulder through your eyelashes "please dont stop, Frankie". Happy to continue Frank places one hand on your cheek opening you up more to him, he laps at your hole moaning with every stroke of his hand on his cock. Shivers run down your body from a mixture of the new sensation and the breeze coming in the bedroom window brushing over the new slick covering your asshole. Its everything you could've imagined, now making you more eager to go ahead with what you had in mind when it came to you asking Frank about this specific request.

Pussy tingling you reach between your legs and add two fingers adding the to pleasure and eliciting shaky moans from you. Frank pulls back to admire the scene playing out on front of him palming his cock and gliding it through your soaked folds and against your ass. "Fuck, you're so beautiful." Rolling your eyes you reach back and guide his cock into your pussy, making both of you sigh and the tight squeeze. Slowly letting out a shaky breath, frank pushes further embracing the way you stretch around him. "Frankie, faster, please. I- I need to feel you." Pushing back on Franks cock as much as you can, having lost all his restraint Frank places one hand on the bottom of your back, the other holding where your hip meets your thigh and gives you his whole thick length in one fluid motion. Gripping the bedsheets you let out a yelp as he pushes his public bone to your ass. "Keep going, baby, fuck me please. Stop being so careful. M'not gonna break." Hesitating at first Frank pulls back slowly but then snaps his hips back into you, watching you for any signs of discomfort. Repeating the motion, his vision is trained carefully on what he can see of your face smashed against the mattress between the way your pussy clenches around him and the blessed out smile, he takes it as his sign to keep going. Between sharp thrusts and panting breaths, Frank talking you through it is like music to your ears ."God you're so good sweetheart, takin' me so fuckin' well." "Shes so tight, suckin' me in." "Couldn't stop if I wanted to." Hes hitting that sweet spot deep in side you repeatedly, making the coil in your stomach tighten and your toes curl. "Frank, fraaank! I-I fee-eel like m'gonna pee!" Franks head is spinning between watching his cock push through your pussy, the sweet noises youre making and how your ass is bouncing back on him with every thrust. "Let it happen sweetheart, I got you" his hand now moved up to your shoulder driving himself deeper, you feel like youre going to explode, theres electricity in your veins and you all that you can hear is your blood rushing in your ears until you hear a squelch and the coil in your stomach snaps. "OH MY GOD FRANK!" Franks movements are getting fast and sloppy as he helps you ride out your orgasm before you know it hes pulling his cock out of your leaking pussy and blowing his load all over your ass with a loud "Fuuuuuckk".

You wince at the loss of frank when he gets up and disappears to the ensuite for a few minutes. Coming back with a warm wash clot he rubs you down with it, getting rid of any evidence of what had just happened. Frank lays down beside you pulling you in against his torso, his beard tickling your shoulder when he plants a kiss to it. "Shit sweetheart, dunno what came over me." Feeling brave, you decide nows your moment. You look back at Frank through your eyelashes relishing in the way hes looking at you; blissed out, rosy cheeks, you can still hear his heart beating in his chest. In the sweetest voice you can muster "Next time, can we try it in my ass, Frankie?".

He freezes. "Thats it!" he thought. That's why the damn book was so out there.

that first groan he let out when his tip sunk into you was pure and from the deepest pits of him. the hazy look that instantly took over his puppy brown eyes as soon as he started moving in tentative thrusts was so genuine. the sweet, practically adorable croak in his voice when you began riding him was honest.

the best part: he didn't try to cover up the crack in his voice afterwards. he sat there, soft fingertips digging into the fat of your hips, and watched you through that same hazy look that hadn't escaped his gaze once since you two started this.

"you feel so good," he tells you yet again. you don't know how many times he's actually said those same words tonight, but each time he utters them he seems to mean them even more, if even possible.

with how blissed out he is, you don't know how he hasn't came at this point.

your head tilts and you plant a hand at the center of adam's chest. he's smooth and a little soft there. the force of your bounces on his cock trigger the tiniest ripples in the flesh of his stomach. every so often, you see him tense and there's definition in his abdomen. paired with the strained look on his face, you catch on.

"adam," you coo, your voice strained from effort.

"yeah?" he asks, voice just as strained but definitely from a different kind of effort.

"are you close?"

his eyebrows knit together as if the mere mention of an orgasm puts more strain on him. his lips part to speak, but just then you put your weight into your hand and glide your cunt up and down over the tip of adam's cock.

the groan he lets out comes from the top of his throat—tight and punctuated. his teeth press into his bottom lip and he nods.

"you can cum," you tell him, your voice soft and gentle. "i want you to cum."

you're so close now that your nose knocks against adam's. instinctively, you lean back just a bit. and instinctively, you assume, adam chases you.

"i know," he clarifies.

"kiss me," he says. then, "kiss me, please," he begs.

your lips connect, adam's fingers press harder into your flesh and he gets strength in his hips, strong enough to thrust up into you.

your weight shifts and you topple over, collapsing onto adam's chest. one of his hands rush to the back of your head, locking your lips together.

he doesn't moan when he cums.

he doesn't whine or groan. he just kisses you harder. he breathes through his nose harder, each breath fanning out against your skin. he thrusts harder, punctuating each drive of his hips until he's warming your insides through the latex barrier between you both.

When you’d grown tired of just twiddling your thumbs, you finally called Jaxon’s sister, Suze. The phone rang for nearly a full minute before you heard, “...Hello?” She sounded groggy.

“Hey, Suze, just making sure you made it in.”

“Wh—Huh?”

“Jax told me about coming to pick you up, so I just wanted to make sure you got home safe.”

“He told you what? Sorry, I’m still half asleep—I haven’t seen Jax today.”

You sighed. Honestly, you should’ve known. 

You muttered off apologies to Suze—Sorry, I think I got mixed up, goodnight—before hanging the phone back on the hook so aggressively it rang out in the quiet studio. 

Peeking through the glass into the booth, you watched Eddie, the frontman of the band, pick at his guitar. You couldn’t hear him, but you could tell by the papers crumpled up at his feet and the way he seemed to be singing softly to himself that the new song wasn’t coming along as smoothly as the band had been hoping for.

You heard Gareth and Jeff grumbling about the track as they left earlier. It seemed they were at a stalemate. 

You flopped back onto the sofa, snatching the Rolling Stone magazine from the coffee table. Of course, it was Corroded Coffin’s 1989 issue. You had this exact issue in your apartment, sitting on your coffee table too, actually, but you couldn’t help but drink in the cover like it was the first time you’d seen it.

Eddie stood in the middle, looking down at the camera. His chest was bare, showing the expanse of his pale skin littered with black ink. His guitar rested against his lower half, partially blocking his pants, but the shine of the leather was still noticeable. His fingers, adorned with rings, of course, gripped the neck of the guitar. One eyebrow was quirked slightly beneath his bangs; his lips were parted gently. You could see his tongue prodding the inside of his cheek.

Jax, Jeff, and Gareth were around him, posed similarly, albeit more clothed—almost every rock band of the era was going for this look—but there was something about Eddie that kept drawing your eyes back to him. He oozed charisma and sex appeal, even through the glossy pages. 

You guessed that was why he was the frontman.

You flicked through the magazine, attempting to read the stories but inevitably skimming through them. You’d just read it too many times.

Not long after, the door clicked open and Eddie emerged. 

His hair was sticking up like he’d been running his fingers through it (he probably had been). Despite it being just a studio day with no planned public appearances, he still wore a studded belt and rings on nearly every finger.

He blinked at you, stuttering out your name. “I didn’t realize anyone was still here. Jax said you had to go pick up Susan—”

“He,” you corrected, flopping the magazine back atop the table. “He went to get Suze.” You put airquotes around the latter part of your statement. Jax’s behavior wasn’t exactly a secret, so what was the point in even pretending?

Eddie’s forehead wrinkled like he was holding back a wince. “Shit, I’m sorry—and he just what? Left you here?”

“Said he was coming back to get me, but I guess he got too lost in whatever groupie’s pussy—” You sighed, scrubbing your eye with a fist as heat rushed to your face. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

He shot you a small smile. It was laced with something close to pity. “I mean you have every right to be mad, sweetheart; he—” He raised a ringed hand to scratch above his eyebrow. “Honestly, I thought you were done after the Layna incident.”

Layna was a well-known Corroded Coffin groupie. Around a year ago, she’d totally disappeared from the scene, then reappeared three months ago with a baby, claiming Jax was the father. Too bad Jax admitted to fucking her before the paternity test came back negative.

You don’t think you could ever forget the way his face fell when he heard the news—like he’d wanted to be the father. You’d left for around three weeks before coming back that time.

It wasn’t even that you still had feelings for Jax. It’d be impossible for that at this point. It was more so just routine, and sure, maybe it was selfish, but you enjoyed hanging around with the band.

Drinking and hanging out with Jeff’s girlfriend, Livie, at concerts; dinner with Gareth and his wife, Aleah, on Sundays. Sure, you could’ve still hung out with Livie and Aleah without being Jax’s girlfriend, but you wouldn’t have had an excuse to see Eddie anymore. It’d dwindle to only seeing him on paper or grainy television screens.

You couldn’t imagine he’d hang out with his bassist’s ex-girlfriend.

“Yeah. Me too, to be honest.” You sighed. “How’s the song coming? It sounded good earlier.”

Eddie sighed back, moving to plop next to you. He let his head fall back against the top of the couch, his eyes closed. “It’s, hah, I dunno.” He turned to look at you. “Missin’ something, I guess.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” You wrung your hands together in your lap, giving him a small smile.

Sitting on the couch like this, your faces were close. You forced yourself to keep your gaze on his nose and above—no glancing down any further. 

But Eddie didn’t abide by this rule. His eyes darted down to your lips. He must’ve not meant to do it because he sat up, resting his elbows on his knees and successfully hiding his face from you. He cleared his throat.

“Why’re you looking at me like that?” he asked.

You raised your eyebrows, but before you could answer, he sighed, leaning back against the couch cushions again. “Sorry—I’m sorry. I dunno why I—” He ran a hand down his face. “I don’t know why I asked you that. ‘M being unfair.”

“It’s—You’re fine.” You tried to keep your voice steady despite the confusion that was rising within you.

“Can I ask you something?” He was looking at you again.

“Sure.”

“Why are you still with him?”

You blinked. You couldn’t pretend you hadn’t been asking yourself that same question.

“Guess I just got used to it. It’s my routine…” You shook your head. “Honestly, I don’t know. He treats me like shit. Left me to go ‘pick up his sister.’ I called her, and she hadn’t even talked to him. I mean, I already knew he was lying…Well, I figured he was. Still, it–it fucking sucks that he sucks.” You laughed a little, self-pityingly. 

You sighed again. You mumbled, “Dick’s good, I guess.” An afterthought to yourself, really. You weren’t sure why you said it to Eddie Munson of all people. It wasn’t like it made you look any less pathetic—only made it worse, if anything. You dropped your head in shame the moment the words left your mouth. 

Why would you bring up your sex life with your shitty boyfriend to his very attractive bandmate—

“Yeah right.”

Your head snapped up and over to Eddie. For a moment, you thought you might’ve imagined it. “Wh—huh?”

Eddie, who any other time was the opposite of nonchalant, was suddenly cool and composed. He shook his head as one shoulder rose. “Just find that hard to believe, ‘s all.”

You couldn’t stop yourself from retorting,“You some kind of sex expert or something?” Oh God, why did you say that, why did you say that, he’s going to think you’re a total freak—

“Maybe. Never heard that one before, but I haven’t heard any complaints either.” 

Heat rose up your neck. 

Haven’t heard any complaints. 

Suddenly you were plagued with the images of the girls you’d seen leaving Corroded Coffin’s shared apartment. Girls with makeup smeared across their faces, their hair a mess—even then you’d known just sleeping didn’t make you look like that, but you’d forced the thought from your head.

“Know I’m better than your shithead boyfriend, that’s for sure.”

You couldn’t stop your brows from shooting high on your forehead. Eddie was talking about Jax like they weren’t bandmates—weren’t friends. Your thoughts must’ve been clear on your face because Eddie added, huffing out a laugh, “You ever see me get along with him?”

Your gut instinct was to say yes, but the more you mulled it over…had you?

You thought back to last week at the bar. Had you seen Jax and Eddie speak? You could only remember Eddie addressing you. Then, a few weeks earlier, at their apartment for dinner…again, only you. 

Your face flushed. You’d been so caught up in your own interactions with Eddie, you hadn’t even noticed the tension between the two.

“I could be better than him.” Eddie was so close, you could see specks of gold in his eyes. His tongue darted out to wet his lower lip.

“What are you saying?” you asked, eyes trailing from the curve of his lips up to where his eyes seemed to be boring into you.

“I think you know what I’m saying.”

“Are you really playing games right—mmph—”

A flash of brown hair was the only warning you received before his lips met your own. Your eyes were wide and you were taken with how soft his lips were. Frozen, you couldn’t get your body to react.

Eddie was kissing you. He was kissing you, and it wasn’t weird. He was kissing you, and he tasted like cherry chapstick and tobacco.

He slowly pulled away, and you realized you hadn’t kissed him back—you’d just sat there, unmoving. His eyes darted away from you. “Oh Christ, I’m sorry I–I don’t know wh—mmph—”

You rushed forward, meeting his lips again. For a moment, like you had been, he was frozen in place, but he quickly relaxed into it. His hand met your hair, and you easily let his tongue into your mouth as his grip tightened on you.

You brought your own hands up to his chest as his hand shifted from your hair to your neck, tugging you closer to him. You moved together, the only sound in the empty room the slick clicks of your mouths.

Eddie pulled back, rubbing his nose against yours. “Can I ask you something?” His thumb was running up and down the side of your throat, and you worked hard to concentrate on what he was saying.

“Ye—” You cleared your throat. “Yeah.”

His eyes left yours. “Feel free to smack the shit out of me if you want—”

“I’m not gonna do that.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” He didn’t look convinced, so you added, “I’m not gonna hit you, okay? Just ask.”

“Well,” he started. “I had this idea for the record—”

Okay. Maybe you would smack the shit out of him. “Is now really the time for that?”

“Yeah, actually.” He glanced from you to the recording booth. “The record—What it’s missing—” He sighed before starting again. “I think you can help me.”

You leaned back in his grip to laugh. “Me? I can’t sing, let alone play an instrument. I can’t even play the triangle.” 

“I think you can do the kinda singing I need.” His eyes darted down across your body, and it felt like they’d shot lasers at you.

“Wh—I’m not sure I know what you’re saying.”

“I don’t mean to make assumptions here, sweetheart, but if we, ahem, keep goin’...” He nodded his head as he spoke, clearly choosing his words carefully. “Could we move it to the booth?”

“You mean—” You blinked and gestured a finger at the both of you.

“Yes.” He quickly added, “But only if you want to.”

“But…everybody’ll hear me.”

“Nobody has to know it’s you. I won’t say anything.” A small smile peeked at his lips. “It can be our secret.”

Your secret. Your secret with Eddie. It made you giddy like a schoolgirl to think about. You could be on the song. More specifically, you and Eddie having sex could be on the song. You didn’t want to dwell on why that made your stomach flip and your neck hot. 

Everyone who bought the record would hear you and Eddie. Even before that, the band would hear you and Eddie. The band, including Jaxon, would hear you and Eddie—

“Oh my god Jaxon.” Your stomach flipped again but this time, soured. “I can’t believe I didn’t think about Jaxon—He’ll hear and–and he’ll know—”

“I thought you said you didn’t know why you were still with him?”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“This’ll show him he can’t get away with just treating you like this. He’s always blowing you off and treating you like shit. Somebody needs to show him what happens when you take a pretty girl—a good girl—who has always done right by you and you treat her like garbage.” Eddie’s chest was nearly heaving, and he looked down at himself slightly, like he wasn’t sure where all that had come from. “But—I mean—only if you want to. Of course.”

You swallowed. He had a point. I mean, where was Jaxon now? Definitely not with his sister, that was for sure. You thought back to the number of times he’d ditched you and were embarrassed to realize it was easily in the double digits just this month. 

You frowned. When had you decided you were fine with being treated like a doormat? When had you decided that this was what you were worth—

Eddie must’ve interpreted your silence as rejection. “I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t trying to bash you or–or something. I just—You deserve better.” He took a deep breath. “You don’t have to do this with me. Or–Or you can, but we don’t have to—” He shot a thumb back towards the recording booth. “You can forget I asked. I can figure something out. It’s, uh, not a big deal.”

You wondered what ‘figuring something out’ looked like. Dropping the idea all together and trying something else for the record? Or asking someone else?

Your stomach rolled at the idea of Eddie asking another woman. You knew he wouldn’t have any issues doing so either. Part of you knew it was unfair to be jealous about it, but that didn’t matter. 

You stood from the couch abruptly. You had made your mind up—honestly, you had made your mind up the moment he asked you.

“We can just forget this happened—” he started, but instead of moving towards the exit, you moved towards the door to the booth.

“Are you coming or what?” you asked, narrowly biting back a smirk. 

You’d never seen him move so fast.

You tried to maintain your confidence, but something about Eddie melted it down to mush. “B-But is it—”

“It’s recording, sweetheart; don’t worry.” 

You were both seated on a couch in the recording booth. You hadn’t ever thought of Eddie as muscular per se, but he’d pulled the couch from the studio into the booth effortlessly. 

He cradled your neck as he planted kisses along your throat.

“Oh—Okay.” You were nodding, and you knew you should’ve been embarrassed at how desperate you were from just a few kisses.

Eddie sure didn’t seem to mind. His cool rings pressed against your neck as he pulled you closer to him. You braced yourself with both hands on his shoulders, quickly moving them to caress up and down his shoulders in an attempt to mask the fact you were truly gripping him for dear life.

Getting impatient at the attention your neck was getting, you grabbed his hand from your waist, moving it to your center. You felt his teeth as he smiled against you.

He pulled the button from your pants with one deft hand, and you bit back the jealousy that was stewing. How many women had he practiced on to get that just right? Not that you had any room to talk considering you had a boyfriend, albeit a shitty one, but—

You didn’t have time to overthink when Eddie immediately tucked your panties to the side to run agile fingers up and down your folds. You instantly noticed the calloused pads of his fingertips—that of a guitarist.

“Oh, sweetheart.” He leaned back to rub his nose along your cheekbone. “You get this wet for him, or is this just for me?”

For a moment, a stab of guilt ran up your spine, making you sit up straighter, but it quickly morphed to arousal when you felt the tip of his finger dip into you.

“Eddie, I—mmph—” He trailed his finger back up to dance around your clit, never quite giving you the pressure you needed.

“Yeah? Tell me something, baby.” He was still nosing across your face.

“D-Don’t wanna talk about him.”

“Hm, that’s right. You don’t need him when I’m here, huh?”

You shook your head shamelessly—the wetness between your legs had already given your desperation away.

Eddie smiled. “Sweet girl.”

You leaned into him at the nickname, making him chuckle. 

Suddenly, he took a step back, pulling his hand from your pants, leaving you suddenly cold without the warm touch of his fingers.

Your lower lip jutted out into a pout, and he chuckled at you again. “I know. Here.” He tapped his fingers that had just been at your cunt across your lips. “Get ‘em wet for me, baby.”

You opened your mouth instinctively, wrapping your lips around the digits. Overcome with the desire to be good for him—to even remotely wreck him the way he already had you—you bobbed your head, taking his fingers down to the glittering silver along his knuckles.

He was watching you, his lips slightly parted as you gagged around his fingers. “Knew you’d have a sweet fuckin’ mouth.”

You gagged around him, the sound wet and humiliating, but you couldn’t be embarrassed—not when his mouth lolled open while he watched. You went to bob your head again, but he withdrew his fingers, leaving your mouth empty and waiting.

Without hesitation, he gripped your cheek, four digits on one side, his thumb on the other, as he pulled your mouth to his. He spread your saliva across your cheek with his fingers.

With your chest heaving, you could only peer at him through your lashes.

Eddie paused, drinking in your features. “Is–Is this okay?” He moved like he was going to retract his hand from your face.

You nodded eagerly, grabbing his hand to keep it there. You nuzzled your face towards his hand as best you could with his grip on you. “I—” Your face was warm, and you were starting to feel a little dizzy. “I like it dirty.”

For a split second, you couldn’t read his expression. But then, you noticed the sparkle in his eye. “Yeah? Sweet girl likes it dirty? I should’ve known.” He tilted your chin back. He planted a surprisingly chaste peck on your lips before murmuring, “Open your mouth.”

You blinked up at him, and God, all he could think about was painting your pretty fucking face with his load. Especially when your lips parted so obediently. 

He didn’t hesitate to spit directly into your waiting mouth, not missing the way your thighs pressed together. He watched your throat bob as you swallowed his warm spit, shamelessly removing his wet hand from your face to adjust himself in his jeans.

“You like that, baby?”

You nodded, but that wasn’t enough. “Tell me,” he insisted.

“Yeah.” Your voice came out breathy and high. “Yeah, I like it, Eddie.”

“Fuck,” he practically groaned. “I need to see you.”

You didn’t need to hear anything else, instantly moving to pull your pants down, stumbling about in your attempts to be swift. You felt your face heat, but when you looked over at Eddie, he was too busy pulling his own belt from its loops and shucking his pants down to his ankles, just as desperate.

As if he felt you staring, he suddenly looked up. His hair was unruly against his forehead, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed deeply. His eyes darted from yours, and you could’ve sworn his cheeks were dusted pink, but it was hard to tell in the dim lighting.

You lifted your hips to finish pulling your bottoms over the swell of your ass, and Eddie quickly jumped into action. His jeans rustled as he kicked them off his legs. One foot got caught at the bottom, causing him to jump and flail until it flew onto the floor with a thump.

You couldn’t help the giggle that escaped you.

Here was Eddie Munson—rock band frontman, guy you’d seen smash paparazzi cameras for getting too close—dancing around, trying to get his pants down his legs. 

Somehow, he made it not dorky, though. Okay, maybe it was dorky, but he managed to make it charming.

“Whatcha laughing at?” He approached you again.

You would’ve thought Eddie was the type of guy to wear tight black briefs. In your head, he was in a perpetual state of chains and leather. But instead, he wore a pair of loose blue checkered boxers, clearly choosing comfort over his typical garb.

He put his hands against your pants at your knees, looking up at you from beneath his bangs. He raised his eyebrows at you. “Is this okay?” He suddenly sounded worlds smaller.

You nodded incessantly, helping him tug your pants the rest of the way down your calves. He balled them up and threw them in the general direction of where his own pants were. 

You pulled at the bottom of his t-shirt, and he quickly got the hint, pulling it over his head. 

You’d seen him shirtless plenty of times. There was the Rolling Stone cover (along with countless other magazines), outdoor Corroded Coffin shows where he’d inevitably end up shirtless, even days when he’d invite the band over to his fancy rooftop apartment to lounge by the pool in the summertime. But you’d never been this close.

Close enough to see the spot on his chest beneath his collarbone where the one of the legs on his spider tattoo was a shade more faded than the rest.

Your gaze shifted down his torso to the dark trail of hair that disappeared into his boxers. Suddenly struck with the fact you’d been blatantly ogling him for the past few minutes, you looked back up to his face quickly, expecting to find him already staring at you.

He was staring at you, just not at your face like you’d expected.

You couldn’t exactly pinpoint where his gaze was, but it was without a doubt far below your neck.

You were naked, sure, but something about the way he was so openly peering at you made you feel even a step past naked. It was like he’d stripped a layer of you back, and was looking at you completely. It made your skin prick with something beyond arousal. 

For a moment, you wanted to sink in on yourself—you couldn’t name a time you’d felt more exposed. But the way his boxers were tented replaced any mortification with something hot injected straight into your veins.

He finally looked up at your face, shameless about being caught, and leaned in, closing the gap between you. Your lips met and his moved against yours like second nature.

His tongue licked into your mouth like he was trying to map it. You suckled at the warmth of his tongue as he began to pull at the hem of your shirt. You parted long enough for your shift to join the pile of the rest of your clothes. 

Eddie’s hand met your face and caressed you gently, a stark contrast for the way his tongue was ravaging your mouth. Your chest heaved as you moved impossibly closer to him, centimeters from being entirely in his lap.

“Here,” he mumbled against your lips before softly turning you around until you were over the back of the couch.

Your breasts pressed against the top of the couch, your nipples pebbled on the rough fabric, as your knees sunk into the cushions of the seat. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t purposefully push your ass out, presenting yourself to him.

The wet spot in your underwear was growing uncomfortable and you were painfully aware of it as you pressed your thighs together in a lame attempt to ease the incessant throbbing in your core.

You sat up on your elbows to peer over your shoulder. Eddie was running his tongue over his bottom lip, and when you noticed the slight jerk of his arm, your gaze trailed lower to watch him tug on his cock slowly. You couldn’t help the way you arched your back further.

He’d dropped his boxers just enough to free his cock and for a moment, you (embarrassingly) hated you missed the exact moment he’d pulled it out—hated you missed the way it surely had bobbed up towards his stomach from the sheer weight of it once he’d pulled his underwear down.

He paused at the base to squeeze tightly, and God, it gave you the opportunity to truly admire it.

You knew he would be big. I mean, come on. It was clear by the way he acted that he would be packing. But shit, your imagination really had nothing on the real thing.

Thick and long—you were sure your hand wouldn’t be able to fit around its girth. Against his hand it seemed even bigger. A pronounced vein ran up the side to the rosy tip.

Eddie gave it another slow stroke, a smirk on his face. “Big enough for you, sweetheart?”

Your only response was the slight shift of your shoulder and chin. 

He squeezed his cock, mumbling under his breath, “Too fuckin’ sweet.”

You didn’t have any time to react before Eddie was diving down onto his knees, his mouth latching onto your glistening pussy.

“Oh!” You jumped, and Eddie wrapped his arms beneath your thighs to keep your cunt held tightly against his hungry mouth.

He licked a stripe from your clit to the edge of your tightest hole. For a moment you thought his tongue was going to keep going right across, and you weren’t sure if you liked the way the mere idea of it made heat crawl up your neck, but he stopped to pull back.

“Sweet girl, even sweeter cunt.”

Cunt.

“Eddie,” you whined, feeling your heartbeat in your ears.

He sucked two fingers into his mouth before you felt them run along your slit.

“Yeah, baby?” He rested his cheek right below the swell of your ass. “Talk to me.”

Suddenly, you were hyperaware of the recording equipment surrounding you and picking up every word, sound, and rustle. You dropped your face to the top of the couch, rubbing your nose against it.

“Hey,” Eddie mumbled. His hand shifted and ran across the globe of your ass. “I can delete it if you don’t like it.” His other hand came up, then he was caressing the expanse of your ass broad with both his wide palms. “I’m still enjoying myself, okay? I’m not just doing this for the record, I…” You heard him swallow. “I think you’re gorgeous—fuckin’ perfect, really—and I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought about you before…like this.” 

Leave it to Eddie to make you blush when he just had his entire face in your cunt. 

You lifted your head to peer over your shoulder at him. “No, no—I, uh. I wanna keep going. And I want you to use it for the record. I just—” You sighed. “I don’t wanna sound stupid.”

He immediately bristled. “You’re not gonna sound stupid.” He brought his hand down a few times on your cheek, not quite a spank. “Here, turn this way.” He helped you maneuver until your back was against the couch cushions. “Help me out, baby.” He pressed your legs up from beneath your knees, and you tucked your arms there, holding yourself open for him.

He made a low sound in his chest, and you realized how exposed you were. You didn’t get bashful though. You managed to keep yourself the way he wanted, even with the way you felt heat rising up beneath your skin.

“Don’t think so hard about it, okay?” Eddie said as he lowered himself back down to you. “It’s just you ‘n me.

And the recording, you thought, but his words eased you nonetheless. 

You were suddenly thankful he had you holding your legs as his nose prodded your hole as he moved to suckle at your clit. 

“Oh, th–that—yeah,” was all you managed to spit out.

“Mhm?” he hummed against you, and you swore you felt it down to your toes.

“Yeah,” you sighed.

A hand reached down to swipe his thumb across your clit as his tongue finally dipped into you.

You whined. “Please.”

“Hm? Talk to me, sweet girl, d’you want it?”

“Mhm, I’wan’it.” Your words all slurred into one another.

When you felt his middle finger prod at your hole, you couldn’t help the desperate sound that left you.

“Yeah? That what you need?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Ah…c’mon. Tell me.”

“That’s what I need, Eddie,” you quickly breathed out. In that moment, you would’ve done anything he asked you.

“There we go,” he said, more to himself, as he finally sunk a finger into you. 

You couldn’t even be embarrassed anymore with the sounds that left you. You were so wet, you could hear the slick sucking sound everytime he fucked his finger into you, and he quickly added another. 

“So wet. She’s sucking me in.” He didn’t even look up as he spoke. Your pussy was drooling around his fingers and down his wrist, his rings now coated with milky white. Your clit was puffy and swollen, peeking out with every thrust of his hand.

You raised your hips as he continued, following him as he curled his fingers up into you, hitting that spot. You hadn’t even realized your mouth had been wide open, sounds falling out freely.

“Ed—oh.” You bit your lip harshly. “Your mouth.”

He raised an eyebrow at you, never one stopping his ministrations. “Huh, baby? She want a kiss?”

You nodded eagerly, hands slipping along your thighs that had become balmy with sweat. “Yeah, yeah, please.”

“I’ll give her a kiss, baby.” The last thing you saw before he lowered his head again was the flash of his smile. 

When his lips met you, you gasped. He closed them firmly around your clit and the wet sound was so loud you were certain the microphones were picking it up. You didn’t care anymore—you couldn’t care, not if it felt this good.

His tongue on your swollen bud paired with his fingers inside you—curling so perfectly you swore your vision whited out every time he did it—brought you barreling towards your release. You could barely pant out, “I’m–I’m gonna—” before you were cumming loud and unabashedly. He worked you through it, finally stopping when your whines got especially pitchy. 

The moment he raised up from your core, you dropped your legs, now boneless. Your heartbeat was still a steady pulse in your clit. You caught your breath, swiping the sweat from your face. 

“Good?” Eddie asked, looking a little too smug (though you guessed it was earned).

“Better than good,” you said, your voice already halfway ruined. 

You sat up properly on the couch as Eddie maneuvered back over to his pants, pulling something from his pocket. He turned back around and now had a condom pulled over the length of his dick, making you sit up even straighter. 

Once your legs had stopped feeling like jelly, you had had every intention of returning the favor. You started, “Y’don’t want me to—”

“No, no.” You heard the smack of his hand against his dick. “Fuck. I mean, yeah, sweetheart, ‘course I do, but I need to be inside you, like, now.”

“Next time, then,” you said, narrowly biting back a smirk.

He quirked a brow at you, not bothering to bite back his smirk. “Next time?”

“Yeah.” You spread your legs, making room for him. “If you don’t kill me first.”

He fit perfectly between your legs, crowding you against the couch. His gaze was glued to your slippery cunt as he tapped the spongy tip of his cock against your clit. He raised his eyes long enough to say, “Could say the same for you.”

He slid his length up and down your slit, coating himself in your juices. You tried to be patient, you really did, but when he tapped his head against your clit again with a wet squelch, you couldn’t help the whine that left you.

“Alright, alright,” he mumbled. He said it so gently and lovingly, you swore your pussy spit out another half gallon. “I’ll put it in, now you just gotta sing for me. You’ll do that for me, right?”

“Yeah, yeah.” You were nodding eagerly. “Please, please, please just put it in. I need it. I—oh—” 

He sunk in easily, you more than prepared after your first orgasm, but his size still made your breath catch in your throat. He groaned like he wasn’t doing much better.

“She’s choking me, baby, fuck.” He sounded pained, the veins in his arm flexing where he was holding himself up over you. 

It was a stretch, and you could feel every inch of him in you, yet you still clawed at his arms, wanting—no, needing more.

“More, come on, I need it all—” No quicker than the words left your mouth, Eddie pushed all the way in with a loud groan.

Now, it was you that sounded pained, but you’d never felt better in your life. It felt like he’d sunk completely up through your stomach and into your throat. You could feel him everywhere. Your head flew back against cushions and you gripped his bicep as you looked down where you were taking him.

He had been staring up at the ceiling, his mouth wide open, but when he saw where your gaze was locked, he lowered his own, and you watched as his neck all the way down to his chest grew red. 

“Fuck, I’m, fuck—” He pulled out maybe an inch before sinking back in, like he couldn’t bear to pull out. He couldn’t. “She’s sucking me right in.”

Finally, he began to shallowly thrust into you and the grip you had on his bicep tightened as your mouth fell open. His heavy cock was splitting you right open and felt like it was hitting every spot, if that was even possible.

Eddie raised one hand to cup your chin, running his thumb along your bottom lip. “C’mere, baby,” he said lowly.

He lowered his face to yours and spat right into your waiting mouth. As he did, he pulled all the way out, leaving his tip kissing your hole, before plunging back in completely. You didn't recognize the strangled, pornographic sound that left you.

His spit was warm in your mouth and you could feel your slick gushing from between your legs with every thrust of his fat cock. You were easily gripping him for dear life—both with your hands and your cunt. 

He shifted until his dick was kissing that spot that he’d so easily found with his fingers. The sounds—your whining, his moans, the slick sound of your bodies meeting—seemed to bounce off the walls, and the recording equipment couldn’t have been further from your mind. All you could think was Eddie, Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.

It seemed to be the same for him, the way your name left his lips in desperate puffs. “Touch yourself, please, I’m so—” He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, but never once stopped his eager pace.

You dropped your hand between your legs immediately, your fingers slippery as they scrubbed across your clit.

“Right—right there.” You had squeezed your eyes shut. You were right at the edge of your release, you just needed— “Right there, right there, right—ohmygod—”

“Yeah? Yeah, baby? I got you, I fuckin’ got you—” 

You clung to him, your vision spotty and your chest heaving, as you came with a loud whine of his name. He buried himself to the hilt with a shout of your name, the hair at the base of him borderline overstimulating your sensitive clit.

He dropped down against you, his cock softening inside you. His arms wrapped around you, and you felt he was trembling. You weren’t in much better shape.

“Are you—” He stopped to inhale shakily. “Jesus, you okay?” 

You hummed. Your bodies were both slimy with sweat and other juices, which sounded more than uncomfortable, but you found the warm weight of him comforting. 

He peered at you, petting your hair away from your face. “You sure?”

“‘M good,” you finally croaked. “You—I—” You paused to laugh, shaking your head. “I think you fucked my brains out."

He laughed, strands of his damp hair shaking with the force of it. 

“Yeah, well, if that’s the case then you sucked out my soul.” He ran a finger along the length of your face. “You know, through your puss—”

“I get it,” you cut in, laughing. You glanced over to the window to the production room. “Think we got anything good?”

Eddie looked at you like you’d grown three heads before his lip curled, a devious smile on his face. “I dunno…might better do it one more time. Just to be safe.”

Six months later.

“Eddie, you gotta tell us, man.” The interviewer leaned over his desk towards him. “Everybody’s dying to know about…that part on the new record.”

“What part, Howard?” Eddie shot a knowing glance at the audience, which got a few cheers. “I know Gareth killed the drums on the bridge.”

The crowd laughed.

“You know the part,” Howard insisted, laughing. “I think everybody knows the part.”

“I think it speaks for itself,” Eddie said. “Don’t really have much to say on that.”

“Well, your fans have had a lot to say about it,” Howard continued. 

“No denyin’ that, that’s for sure.” Eddie tugged at the collar of his shirt, making the crowd laugh.

“I think one of the biggest questions has been…well.” Howard shrugged. “I don’t know how else to ask it—but well, was it real?”

Eddie looked from Howard to the audience. Right before he opened his mouth to speak, the television flickered off.

“Hey!” you called. “I was watching that.”

Eddie sat the remote down on the coffee table before taking a seat on the couch next to you. “You’ve watched it at least ten times since it aired.” 

“Maybe I was trying to make it eleven.” 

He hummed, his arm coming around your shoulders. You melted into his side easily. 

“How’s the new guy?” you asked, rubbing your cheek against his chest.

“Good. He’s a great fit for the band.” He dropped his cheek and rested it on top of your head. “Jaxon hasn’t tried to reach out anymore. Or showed up at the studio wasted, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not worried.” It was true—you weren’t. You knew Eddie would handle everything. He always did.

“Good.” He planted a kiss on your head. 

You sat up and grabbed the remote from the table. He groaned as you turned it back on.

“You could probably recite this word-for-word by now.” He shook his head.

You pressed back against him, pushing your tongue to your teeth to prevent a smile. 

“Everyone’s dying to know who it is,” Howard was urging. “At least give us a hint.”

On the screen, Eddie shrugged, clearly trying and failing to seem nonchalant. You couldn’t stop yourself from mouthing the words along with him as he said, “Well, it’s my girl.”

it was a rainy morning, dark clouds had covered the sky, and the atmosphere was melancholic. you had just stepped out of the book cafe you usually went to study or read in, it was a hidden gem in the ever-crowded streets of new york city, usually quiet and peaceful. this time, you’d just paid a visit to buy a drink with some pastries.

today’s gloomy weather felt right to you, somehow, it spoke to your soul and fit your mood. you’d stuffed the pastries you’d bought into your bag, and you were going to walk around a little bit, holding your drink in one hand, your umbrella in the other. you thought you might sit somewhere, maybe go to a park after walking for twenty or so minutes, you enjoyed the smell of rain mixing with earth to bring life to the world.

and that’s when you saw him.

he was standing at the other side of the road, wearing a simple hoodie, getting wet from the rain. an expression on his face as gloomy as the weather. he’d grown, his face had taken a sharper shape, his hair had curled on the tips from meeting with water.

peter parker, the boy from your ap chemistry class, from days long forgotten, and much less destructive.

you froze, your gaze set on his face, which had been painted in subtle and few scars, and bent downward from either the rain getting into his eyes, or life. the regular noise of the city was reduced to background buzzing in your ears, all the pedestrians walking past you, and the people waiting to cross roads around peter had turned blurry and faceless, the cars passing by had become trails of colors. the boy, or perhaps now man, you had just noticed, was someone you’d never thought you’d see again.

peter parker had been the smartest student in the class you took together, you used to keep notes and read ahead before every lesson, and he’d come sleep-deprived, busy himself with unrelated trinkets, and answer every unexpected question coming his way correctly. later, when you learned that he was spiderman, you realised he must’ve been so tired and out-of-it every day for saving lives and fighting crime.

you had learned of his superhero activities, like everyone else in the world. you didn’t use to see him outside of your shared lecture hours, not because you were actively avoiding him, fate just hadn’t coincided a conversation between you two. after you’d passed the course and stopped seeing peter entirely, you hadn’t busied your mind with thoughts of him, until that incident with mysterio. learning that he’d been trying to help people every step of the way, back when you used to see him, had changed your view of him.

and then, suddenly, no one remembered anymore. you saw it all happen. you saw the sky shatter and shadows watch the earth through its cracks. you saw what you could only describe as hundreds of aliens preying on your planet. you knew spiderman fought to save the world from their clutches. yet when it was all over, no one remembered the hell-torn skies. or peter parker.

no one remembered he was spiderman. no one remembered he was peter parker. no one remembered peter parker was. no one from your old high school, not even his best friend, not even his girlfriend. they all looked at you as if you spoke of a ghost, he was a painted over memory, he’d escaped from the weak grasps of the growing brains of the youth and the ever-tired minds of the grown.

he’d even escaped from records and photos, like how short-lived cherry blossoms disappeared in a week, as if trees had never been pink. like how spring never lasted. you’d questioned whether you’d made him up, if something was wrong with you. but how could you make up a whole person, that you simply never had a relationship with? he wasn’t an imaginary friend, he had never been a friend.

trying to catch a glimpse of his existence had been like trying to catch smoke with bare hands. and yet, now, he was standing right in front of you, waiting to cross roads. waiting to come towards you.

the lights turned green for pedestrians, and peter snapped out of his stillness, he gained motion, he slowly came closer. people around you made noises indicating they were annoyed at your inaction, but you could barely hear any of them. you were focused completely on one person only.

he crossed the road, and started walking the opposite way from where you had been nailed to the ground, unable to take your eyes off him.

no, don’t go. i must know. i must talk.

you ran after him, forcefully making yourself a way amongst bodies covered in layers of clothing. you closed your umbrella, so it wouldn’t get tangled in others’. you caught up to peter, and grabbed his arm.

he turned instantly, gripping your arm in return, a shocked expression on his face, ready to take you down, had you posed a threat. he looked into your eyes; questioning, confused, hesitant… sorrowful? how had he grown so solemn? how had he lived forgotten?

“peter?” you asked, “peter parker? is that you?”

his eyes widened, grip loosened, lips parted. he looked completely dumbfounded, drops of water dripping down strands of his hair, and the tip of his nose. he searched for something in your eyes, just silently thinking. trying to process, you assumed.

he opened his mouth to talk, and his breath hitched.

“you…” he started, seemingly talking feeling like labor to him, “you know who i am?”

you couldn’t help giving him a sincere smile, he really was peter parker. the boy from your class who was remembered by no one. he was real.

“i was in the same ap chemistry class as you in high school,” you explained, he might not have remembered you, as you’d never interacted outside of topics regarding course materials, “if you don’t remember.”

“no, no,” said peter, his voice still laced with shock, and a tune that dropped a tiny piece of despair into your chest, “i remember. you were the smartest student in class.”

“that’s… debatable,” you said, your surprise clearly read from your face.

“it wasn’t,” he said, defensive, “everyone borrowed your notes, and you always had the correct answers.”

“so did you,” you said softly, the bitter taste of nostalgia repainted with a blue hue catching up to you, tightening your chest, placing a lump in your throat. “what happened, peter?” you asked, “why have you disappeared?”

peter closed his mouth, and his grip slightly hardened, he hadn’t let your arm go. you hadn’t let his go, either.

he lowered his head, and fixed his gaze on the grey stone ground. you couldn’t quite name the emotions you saw in his eyes, but they made you tear up. what must it have been like to suddenly cease existing? what must he have been through? what must he have thought, watching his chosen family from afar, like a vampire looking at a mirror, erased from his own reflection?

the cloudy weather truly felt fit for the day, maybe peter had been feeling it too, today. raindrops fell on earth like shattered glass pieces, you thought you might’ve been bleeding with your umbrella down, but peter wasn’t, was his skin thicker?

“would you like to sit down somewhere, peter?” the tale must have been long, how else could a person, and a rift in the atmosphere, be erased from the minds of billions? “like a bench at the park, or maybe my place?”

he looked deep into your eyes, thinking.

“okay,” he said at last, determination adorning his words now, “we can. we can,” he said while nodding.

“okay,” you repeated after him, and finally let his arm go.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

peter had been on his way to his small apartment, by himself, as always, after another long, sleepless night, that rainy morning. clouds had covered the sky, obscuring the sun, as if to match the weather inside his ribcage. the sun hadn’t shone on him since it had seen space ripped apart because of him, for his mistakes.

it was a day the same as any other; he was walking in the crowd, unseen without a mask, faceless. then, someone he hadn't sensed had touched him, must have been because no harm was intended, yet he'd felt alarmed.

a girl, he'd realized, a familiar face. that wasn't strange, he was used to seeing people he used to know, what was strange was... the look you had in your eyes, almost like you recognized him. a kind of tiny beam of light in your irises, aimed at him.

and then you called out his name.

the world tilted. he felt as if hit by a shockwave, rolling backwards, losing the tightness of his grip on reality, on you. he’d been completely dumbfounded, he could barely process what was happening. someone remembered him. you remembered him. you knew.

he looked you over again, he remembered, too. he remembered how you sat at the front seat, carefully trailing the teacher with your eyes, focus unbreakable. you didn’t use to look his way unless he was asking or answering a question related to the course, he wouldn’t think you would recognize him under normal circumstances, without happenings made foggy through magic, let alone when the whole world has left him behind. the whole multiverse.

he couldn’t get out of the shock he’d been thrown into, not even enough to wonder the why, the how, or think of the implications of the possibility that someone(s) might not have forgotten. he had been erased even from stone and paper, ink had evaporated, computers had lost their binary numbers. human memories couldn’t even be held, they must’ve been so easily broken apart and mended without wholeness again, didn’t people always forget things, anyway?

that had been hard to accept, of course. the fact that the feelings people reserved for him were fragile and unresistant, that they could be so fully erased, that they could be erased at all. but you remembered, was your mind stronger, or was it the impression he’d left on you? was it you, or him?

he hadn’t even been able to ponder if this was a good thing at all, if he should be worried, if he should accept this, how he should react. the past year had been so soul-crushing, so lonely, that after slightly getting over the initial shock that had hit him, holding back his tears had been all he could manage to do. you were wet from the rain, a drink forgotten and an umbrella folded in one of your hands, the other one holding him, looking at him expectantly, worried. you had come after him. you were holding onto him. he tightened his grip again.

you’d even wanted to talk more, to learn of his story, to listen. so he’d agreed, he suspected he would chase you on that road if you’d walked away. his chest had been closing in on his veins and heart, increasing the pressure and twisting his organs, breathing had become harder every day for the past year, he was suffocating. you’d held his arm like a tree branch offered to a drowning kid, an olive branch offered to a warring people, a willow… willows were hunched and weary, weren’t they? he was like a willow, layers of leaves covering his face, unseen.

he didn’t have anywhere to go, or anyone waiting for him. he hadn’t wanted to let you go, now that someone had finally, truly seen the shape of his face. so he had just followed you, let you draw a destination for two.

you had brought him to a small apartment, similar to his own, in an austere street lined with buildings that were short compared to the signature buildings of new york city. you’d told him you were staying there for the time being. your place, as you’d put it. the inside was much nicer than his living space, expectedly, and it contrasted with the grey view of the street from your windows and the pipe-filled outer layer of your apartment building. the floor was covered in soft carpets, the living room was filled with books, its walls covered in bookshelves, academic books left open and stationary scattered about on a table, notebooks filled with your handwriting, it was lived in.

you had taken him to the kitchen, said you’d just bought pastries and had some leftovers to reheat for him, he’d insisted it wasn’t necessary, but you’d shut him down. “how could i send my guest off on an empty stomach?” you’d asked, made him sit down at the kitchen table, and gotten to work on the countertop. the living room had smelled of a flowery incense he couldn’t name, the kitchen was now smelling of baked dough and vegetable soup, making him feel his hunger. he hadn’t eaten anything for breakfast, or during the night.

“i apologize for the mess,” you said, while putting two bowls of steamy soup on the table, “i wasn’t expecting a guest.”

“oh, no, no,” he quickly scrambled to apologize himself, “i don’t mind at all, i’m sorry for… for…” he gestured around himself, trying to find the right words. being a burden? interrupting?

“for accepting my invite? i’d say that was the polite response,” you said, finally sitting opposite to him, having brought the pastries you’d sliced and placed on plates nicely, and the fruit salad you’d quickly put together. “thank you for that, by the way.”

he didn’t know what to say, he looked down flustered, “i- of course- i mean, thank you for inviting me,” he said, gesturing towards you with his hand, a slight smile on his face. how long had it been since he last smiled? it sure didn’t feel like an every day occurrence.

you gave him back a smile that made him… feel warm. he was still on the verge of tears, he was barely holding it together, focusing on the moment, trying not to let all the overwhelming feelings leave his body.

“please, enjoy,” you said, as you slid the plates closer to him, and he nodded in gratitude. he was hungry, and looking at the warm vegetable bisque… he hadn’t eaten a homemade meal in a very, very long time, especially one that was delicious, one that was warm.

and it was delicious. it tasted like a hug, a hearthfire, a blanket. it tasted like something you would eat at your home, like something your mother would cook for you. “this is,” he started, in between spoonfuls, “this is great. you’re a good cook.”

“thank you,” you said, and then started explaining. “i roasted tomatoes, carrots, zucchini, potatoes, bell peppers, and an onion, and blended them with vegetable broth and cream, so probably the easiest way to make something like…” you trailed off as you realised peter was… crying. he was looking down on the bowl of soup in front of him, and tears were silently rolling down his cheeks, as he kept taking spoonfuls.

peter was mortified at his reaction, he quickly scrambled to wipe his face with the tissues you’d placed on the table, and apologize. you told him it was fine, and he could take however much time he needed or wanted. you let him eat and think in silence for as long as he needed, you gave him time and space as he filled his stomach with warm food and sweet fruits. he didn’t know why tears had won against his willpower this time around, considering how good he’d gotten at holding them in. he didn’t know why just eating in your kitchen, with you, had made him feel emotions overwhelming enough to rush out of him. he was embarassed, despite your reassurances. it was the first time he was meeting with you in years, the only person who still remembered him, and he had started crying over a soup. he wasn’t a teenage high schooler anymore, why was this happening?

after a silence long enough to make someone less patient uncomfortable, he finally felt he could talk, and decided to tell you everything that had happened. all of it. you were the only person who knew him now, was it wrong to want to be known fully? to be understood?

so he told you everything, from the start… from a time too early, one might’ve thought; from before he even became an avenger. there had been people in his life who knew of his journey, how he became a hero, how he became an avenger, who he fought against, who he fought with, what really happened with mysterio, and then… then aunt may’s death… then everyone else’s little deaths.

peter used to be talkative, he used to converse with even the people he was actively battling, yet telling you all he wanted made him realise it had been a long time since he’d spoken so much. so transparently, willingly. had life crushed him under a fallen bridge without him noticing? he had been feeling it, but couldn’t guess how dire his cuts and walls had been drawn.

you listened all of it, without looking away once, without looking at the time. and then, once he concluded his speech and drifted off to silence, you let it fester. it seemed as if you had a hard time proccessing everything peter had dumped on you, or maybe couldn’t find the right words to continue with. this time, peter left you in your own silence, his hands slightly shaking in nervousness. what was your reaction going to be? what were you thinking?

“i’m truly sorry,” you said at last, a rueful expression adorning your face, making you look older than you had when telling him of the soup recipe. you had grown older, peter had noticed, more beautiful. “i’m sorry about your aunt, too. i had no idea. i thought… i guess i assumed at least your family would remember you.”

“yeah,” said peter in defeat, “there is no one.”

you looked deep into his eyes, pain visible on your face, “i remember,” you said. “and now i know.”

peter sighed and put his face in between his hands, closing his eyes in despair. “there is nowhere i belong, now. i fight for this city, and… and no one cares.”

this was horrible. truly horrible. a weight had been lifted off his shoulders when you’d recognized him, listened to him, welcomed him into your home. but he also felt bothered by it, too. had being known always been so scary? he hadn’t meant to say the last bit, he hadn’t even thought that to himself before. he’d been on the verge of it, but hadn’t actually thought it. why did he say it out loud now? why did he tell you?

you took a deep breath, “a lot of people care, especially the ones you save. you’ve been making a huge difference, peter. yours can be a thankless job sometimes, but many are grateful.” you paused for a moment, “i’ve always been grateful. when i learned how you’d been fighting for people this whole time, my respect for you skyrocketed. i thought i would help you in any way i could if it ever came to that.”

peter pressed his hands harder on his eyes, he didn’t want to start crying again. he didn’t know if you realised how your words had fallen into the deepest part of his soul. it was strange, how only a few words could help people keep going, how humans could be built merely by caring, and how humans could be so worn-out that they could stop tasting without even realising.

his phone vibrated silently in his pocket, taking him out of spiraling. he sighed again, what was it now?

strong fire in a building, spreading speedily, authorities unable to protect the citizens despite doing their best. he stood up abruptly, “i should go,” he said.

“what is it? what happened?”

“fire in a tall building, i need to save those people,” he said while walking towards the door, you trailing behind him.

“okay- be careful, peter. and come back here after you’re done there, okay? even if it’s late, because i’ll wait for you, and if you don’t come back, i’ll wait until morning,” you said quickly as he was wearing his shoes, the door to your house open.

“okay,” he said, stuttering slightly, “thank you.” truly. you’ve made breathing possible for me again. thank you.

and he left you behind like that, because he never had a break. he didn’t know if he deserved a break. none of that mattered though, there were people suffering, and he couldn’t leave them behind, no matter what.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

you were leaning on the metal handrails of your small balcony, looking at the few people and cars that passed by the road in front of your apartment. it was desolate, compared to most of new york, but it was steadily never-ending, there never was a time when people stopped in this city. your view was made up of other grey apartments like yours, sharp corners and square shapes, nothing tasteful added to their designs. could this be good for the soul?

you looked up at the sky, to watch the stars, but as always, not many were visible. you counted four stars that could be clearly seen from your balcony. the same as yesterday. you sometimes wondered: if you could reach greater heights, would more of them shine on you? the city had offended the stars in an effort to be independent from them, brighten night time, they didn't show their faces anymore. even if they wanted to, they couldn't be seen.

peter had been shining since he was a kid; clever, kind, righteous, fair-faced in a way the cleanness of his heart had reflected on his features. how big of a loss was it for the world to be forsaken from his face? it was lucky that peter was good-hearted, for he kept showing up under a mask anyway, offering those who looked a glimpse into his light.

it was past midnight already, and peter was still nowhere to be seen. he'd left you a little past noon, the fire had been extinguished by now, and spiderman had left the premises after saving dozens of lives (that the firefighters would've been too late for, despite their best efforts), and yet, peter was nowhere to be seen. it worried you, you wished you had asked for his phone number; you'd considered asking, but decided against it, thinking he might be bothered by the request.

after you'd talked to michelle, his girlfriend, some time back, and she hadn't remembered the boy she’d been in love with, you'd been thinking of peter regularly. even if you had made him up in your mind, it had just flooded your chest with such profound sadness, that you had decided at least you would remember him, whether it would matter to him or not.

and, he was real, he was spiderman. and he’d been so lonely. graveyards had become his only sanctuary, teenage diaries and late night messages had been buried next to the corpses of anyone who'd ever taken care of him, and he did not know their hiding spots. he just wandered around graves, knowing they were somewhere under his feet, to stay there forever. if he tried to dig them out, he would be swallowed up by lava, dooming the rest of the world to a volcanic apocalypse.

it seemed like volcanos had already been erupting behind his eyes, in his lungs. the peter you remembered used to be a jolly kid.

your head perked up as you heard your doorbell ring, and quickly rushed to open the door. a smiling peter greeted you, clothing changed. he looked more put-together than he had in the morning; a clean shirt under a black jacket and denim pants, not the baggy sweats he had on before.

you welcomed him inside, and brought him to sit on your couch, in the living room.

“are you all right?” you asked, “does anywhere hurt? do you need anything?”

he hesitated for a moment, a little surprised. “no, no- it’s fine. i didn’t fight anyone, so didn’t really get injured… much. it’s fine. i took care of it.”

you looked at him in silence for a few seconds, thinking. “liar,” you said.

“what?” he said in low voice, sounding worried. did he think he’d messed up somehow?

“you gave me your word that you would come straight to me, instead you took your sweet time tending to your injuries and changing your outift? you showered too, didn’t you?”

“i… i-” he quickly started talking, and then stopped to think. that was fine, he didn’t need to rush a response, never with you. he would learn that you’d always wait for him patiently. with time, he’d become more comfortable. you assumed this must be… somewhat of an uncomfortable experience for him, after being alone for so long. “i thought-”

he didn’t know what to say, you supposed.

“did i sound mad? i’m sorry. i was just worried. i.. uh, i’d wanted to help you with your injuries and stuff, too,” you weren’t exactly used to these kinds of conversations either. “since you’re not alone anymore… and all.”

“oh…” was all he could say.

“i mean, i’m glad you’re okay, and you look great, and i don’t mind that you had some alone time before coming and all, but you could, uh, if you want to, just come straight to me as well. after a fight or whatever. and you can take care of… your stuff here,” you forced the words out, you had to take these kinds of initiatives, if you wanted to have a closer relationship with him. because he wouldn’t impose anything on you. “if you want to, of course,” you added.

“i… thank you, i would, uh, yeah,” he said. you supposed that was a positive answer.

“so, what happened?”

he recounted the fire and the struggles in detail, how he saved the people trapped, how he had to deal with the authorities after him, how he got injured (only a little, he emphasized), and then how he went home to wear something better to come back to you. he’d wanted to rid the smell of ash and soot off his skin.

“i got tired just listening to you,” you said.

he chuckled slightly, “ah, yeah, things like this happen sometimes.”

“would you like anything to eat or drink?”

“no, no. not necessary, thank you,” he said quickly, raising his hands.

“okay, just tell me if you need anything.”

“all right, thanks… again,” he had a beautiful smile, but it looked like guilt had mixed into his skin, stopping him from smiling fully, with his eyes, or eyebrows. you wanted to tell him that none of this was his fault, he wasn’t responsible for the cruelty of others, he wasn’t at fault for being a victim. his aunt hadn’t died because he’d shown mercy, he was just being humane, the fault lied solely with the… whichever supernatural freak had done that, it was getting harder to keep track of them now. and the spell hadn’t gone wrong because of him, couldn’t doctor strange tell that he obviously wouldn’t want his own family to forget him? why wouldn’t he automatically add that to the spell? and the second time? surely he could’ve just kept two people out of his spell. none of it was his fault.

but you couldn’t bring yourself to, you didn’t want to push too hard, or overstep your bounds. peter didn’t know you, not really. you assumed he must be happy that someone remembered him, but you wouldn’t be too surprised if he had forgotten you.

why had you remembered? you weren't magical, as far as you knew, so what had gone wrong? wasn't this... somewhat bad news? if you remembered, could it be possible that someone evil might, too? you didn't know, you supposed maybe you should try to ask doctor strange, somehow.

after a while of silence, you decided telling him how you feel, being straightforward, should be better than leaving thoughts to go back and forth in your head, bothering you. “peter,” you started, “i know what kind of a person you are for the most part. i know that you have a good heart, and you’re loyal, and honest. i… don’t doubt that you’ll be a good friend, that’s why i can be… this comfortable with you. i know, because i’ve been able observe you quite well until now.”

he was listening to you, eyes getting wider and smile dropping slowly, as you went on.

“i also know that you don’t really know me as well, so i’ll have to prove my character to you, in the way that you’ve already proven yours,” you quickly added, which was the point you’d wanted to make. “so, uh, i just wanted to say that… is the reason why i would like to be… good friends with you, even though we didn’t interact much back then. telling you just in case… you were wondering.”

he gave you a shy smile. "thank you," he said, occasionally glancing away.

then a small chuckle escaped his lip. “all i’ve been doing the whole day has been thanking you."

you giggled in return, "i thank you as well."

"for what? i haven't done anything."

"for saving this city and the world over and over again."

his expression turned serious, thoughtful. "i just do what i should. it’s my responsibility."

you leaned back on the couch, observing him. was it? did he really have to do what he did? he didn't have to, no one had to do anything. but it was right that he did. you supposed, being able to help people did mean you should, would it be wrong if he didn't interfere?

"what are you thinking?" he asked.

you hummed. "i think you are right, but then it's our responsibility to be grateful, and to help you in any way we can, even if that's just emotional support." you looked into his eyes carefully, "you've been doing your duty, but most others in the city haven't."

"that's all right," he said. "i don't expect anything. i don't do this to get anything in return."

"well," you started, "you can expect things from me, and feel free to let me know."

the shy smile returned to his face, "thank you again," he said. "you as well," he hastily added, raising his eyebrows while gesturing at you.

you were glad he seemed to be in a better mood now, compared to this morning. he was more put together, and somewhat more confident. you assumed having more time to process your situation must've helped.

the two of you talked for around another hour, peter got more talkative as you went on, and by the end, he was the only one talking. he'd started to tell you all about the various villains he'd been fighting, and you were very interested; you enjoyed listening to him.

but the time was getting closer to two in the morning, and you were having to fight your own eyelids to keep yourself from dropping to the floor right at that moment.

peter stopped abruptly mid-sentence, looking at you concerned. "oh," he started "i'm sorry, it's really late, i talked too much."

"no, no," you said, shaking your hand, "i really want to know about all of these things. let's continue tomorrow?"

"okay, sure," he said, smiling. "i'll get going now, and uh, see you tomorrow."

"get going? i could arrange my living room for you, if you'd like to stay the night? should you be alone when you're injured?"

"i don't want to bother you," he said as he stood up. “it’s fine, this isn't really all that bad, I've had much worse."

"okay, but call me if anything happens. i'll be more upset if you don't," you said as you followed him to the door.

"i will. you call me too," he said, having gotten out, wearing his shoes.

"deal."

“good night."

"good night."

and he was gone.

and you were so sleepy that you could fall asleep standing there. as you made your way to your bed, you decided to go over today's events tomorrow, when your braincells wouldn’t be forming a union to counter your abuse.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

peter opened his curtains to look outside, as soon as he managed to get out of his bed.

the sun was shining down on him, bathing his room and face in its light. he opened the window, and took a deep breath in. the air had the beautiful smell of rain, still lingering, left from yesterday.

he leaned on his window, and for the first time in forever, a smile graced his lips for the sun, for the day ahead of him.

he wanted to put on his spiderman suit and swing around in the city, not out of obligation or because he didn’t have anything else to do; he had an unfamiliar motivation in him to do something with his day.

so he did. he quickly got ready for the day, and all the steps felt less intimidating today. even brushing his teeth had become a tiring chore. he'd supposed it must've been because he was so tired all the time, but today, it had been easier, all of it. even breathing.

and it wasn't like he'd gotten more sleep than usual, either. sleeping was something out of routine for peter. sometimes he could only get a few hours at night, having to be spiderman. sometimes he would stare at the ceiling, unable to drift off to sleep. sometimes he would end up sleeping for more than ten hours, not wanting to get out of his bed, forcefully scraping his body off of it with a mental spatula, skin tearing apart from muscle, using every bit of his willpower. but, no matter which scenario happened to play out, peter would never feel rested.

he got mad at himself sometimes. for sleeping. or not sleeping. surely none of this was supposed to be this hard, everyone always did them just fine. so why was he like this? what was wrong with him?

he shook his head, getting out of his window as spiderman, and started wandering new york from the tops of buildings. not today, though. today he felt rested. and like something good could happen, strangely. and his chest could host the air he breathed in, unlike any day he could remember in months. he hadn't realised how air had been refusing to get into his lungs, until it finally did today.

he watched people walking towards their destinations without looking anywhere else. the streets of new york were always overfilled with motion and a million faces, and no one stopped to look at one another.

how had you seen him, yesterday? were you looking? were you always looking at people? were you searching for someone, something?

clouds had poured more rain on the city at night, and towards the morning. it was almost as if they had only stopped momentarily for the fire in the building to spread.

peter had gone to his apartment as soon as he was done rescuing civillians from the fire. he'd wanted to wear something nice, look cleaner for you. he was sort of embarrassed that your first meeting had been when he looked... less than ideal, let's say.

while showering, he'd spaced out, and ended up thinking for almost an hour. mostly about you.

he'd tried to remember everything about you, any kind of clue about your exceptional situation, but there was nothing. you used to mostly keep to yourself, peter hadn't even interacted with you all that much.

despite that, you'd been so accepting of him so quickly yesterday. he had wondered why, before you explained that you… knew him.

not only remembered, you knew him. not completely, but enough to trust. his heart fluttered in his chest, making a gentle movement for the first time since the last time he'd been called peter by anyone at all. thinking about your words excited him, energized him, made him move faster,

you wanted to get closer. you offered to patch up his wounds. you weren't afraid or displeased. you wanted to be close. his friend.

he would call you around noon, he'd decided. he'd kept you up quite late and didn't know when you would wake up. then maybe you could meet up this evening. outside, perhaps? he could take you to... he would come up with some ideas, by then.

he stopped and perched on top of a building, examining the back alleys. he knew the way to your house from where he was, he was really looking forward to seeing you again. was that why waking up had been easier today?

he shook his head and took a deep breath, preparing himself for the day, and the task in front of him. he needed to focus, do his job. he would get to see you when the time came for it. you would respect him more for his service, anyway... or at least he hoped so.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

the the sun had just started setting, the orange hue of dusk hadn't settled in the sky yet. you were sitting on the stairs at the entrance of your apartment building. the ground was still wet, but the upper part of the stairs had been protected from yesterday's rain thanks to the architecture of the building. you would just need to dust off its filth once you stood up.

peter was supposed to come any minute now, he'd called you around noon and asked if you'd like to meet up this evening, and he could take you to see some places. you had started preparing some hours ago. you hadn't known what to wear, or what he had in mind, and had been too nervous to feel completely good about an outfit. you didn’t want to mess this up. at last, you'd just decided to get out of your house and wait. sitting on cold stairs. you were beginning to regret your choices slowly.

“hi,” appeared a head suddenly in front of your nose, making you yelp in surprise and slide backwards on the stairs. you put your hand on your mouth, wide-eyed, and finally processed what the dangling head in red was: peter. he was hanging from your building, held by his web, upside down, in his spiderman suit. he wouldn’t be as instantly recognizable from afar, as he was wearing a jacket, pants, and sneakers on his suit. it looked good.

“sorry,” he said, landing next to you, but not moving towards you. “sorry,” he repeated quickly. “i didn’t mean to scare you.”

“my goodness, peter,” you said, exhaling a deep breath. “no, sorry, spiderman.”

he chuckled lightly. “did i make you wait too much? sorry about that, too.”

“no, no, you are…” you looked at your watch, “right on time, actually.”

“uh,” he started, then hesitated for a moment before taking out a piece of cloth… no, a mask from the pocket of his jacket. “this should be really comfortable, i brought it in case you wanted to, you know, keep your identity hidden.”

“oh, you will stay in your spiderman costume?” you asked, taking the mask, and putting your hand in it so see what it looked like.

“yeah,” he said, “i can’t do what i want to do with you without my suit.”

you looked at him questioningly, “what is it that you want to do with me, peter?” you asked with mock seriousness.

he made a low-volume laughing sound. “i was planning on carrying you in the sky with me. if that’s okay.” he raised his hands in hurry, “it’s okay if you don’t want to, of course. just… i just thought you might like it, is all.”

you looked at the mask, and swiftly wore it. fixing it on your face, you looked at peter. “how do i look?” you asked.

“wait, let me help,” he said as he came closer to you, and fixed the back of the mask.

“thank you.”

so peter took you to the skies.

you held onto him like your life depended on it (it did), arms wrapped around his shoulders. his movements in the air were fast and sharp, the wind felt like a slap to the face at points. yet, you didn’t feel an ounce of fear, if anything, excitement and joy would be descriptive of your feelings. peter had a strong grip on you, somehow, you trusted that without doubt, he would never drop you.

──────

he had taken and placed you on top of a skyscraper, with a view of busy streets and the decorated balconies of shorter buildings. having ascended on the city as rain yesterday, clouds in the sky had thinned, and the atmosphere was clear. the sun was half gone by now, and all your gaze rested upon was dusk-touched; bathed in the burning scarlett of the sun’s farewell.

you smiled, looking over at the city. the wind was caressing your face gently, and breathing had become easier since seeing peter. being where you stood now, it felt freeing.

“this is amazing.” you glanced at peter briefly, and saw he’d been looking at you.

“i’m glad you like it,” he said, then joined you in gazing towards the horizon.

──────

you’d been sitting where peter had caried you to, on top of the skyscraper, for a while now. topics chased each other with ease, built onto each other, and you ended up talking about things you’d never told anyone before. but peter listened, contributed, he seemed truly interested, and then he outclassed your yapping, so words ended up spilling out of your mouth naturally.

“my favorite tree is willow, actually. i love willows, they are so pretty, they have leaves like drapes. they look magical," you said, adding onto the conversation that you’d ended up talking about because… the city layout, then parks, then trees, then if many people have favorite kinds of trees, then his being olive trees…

he looked into your eyes carefully, like you'd said something that struck a cord, something he'd considered before.

"really?" he asked, then turned his gaze towards the city again, eyebrows laying heavier, eyes looking below. "willows look hunched," he said, "they look weary."

was he hunched? had he grown tired? was he trying to tell you that was how he saw the world now? hunched, instead of magical?

"hmm, " you thought for a moment, "do you know why willows are hunched?"

he looked at you questioningly. "no?"

"i've been told a story from someone who'd been told a story; there once was a willow next to a lake. you know how willows like wetlands. and there once was a child sweet as a sugar beet, yet did not know how to swim. choose one day from the countless days the old willow had seen, the sweet child fell into the lake right next to its roots, he couldn't stay on the surface, so he asked the willow for help. the willow bowed its leaves as fast as it could, to offer a branch to hold onto, but it was too slow, and the leaves touched the water too late. after that day, the willow's leaves never rose again. word spread to every willow with time, and they lowered their branches one by one, so if a child were ever drowning, they would never be too late."

he was still looking down, but his expression had changed lightly. his brows were slightly tented, his eyes seemed watery. you studied him, it looked like the story had touched him; he was quietly in thought.

was he a willow? had he failed to save a drowning child? had he been hunched?

had he realized being hunched didn't have to be ugly?

"stories are great," you said, not to fill the silence, but because you now felt comfortable enough to share your thoughts with him. "they can verbalize things you keep in your head, and make you realize; oh, someone else thought the same thing back when who knows how many years ago, and i’m not the only one."

he nodded after another moment of silence. "that was a beautiful story," he said, looking at you, "do you know many like it?"

"short tales like these? not many. i generally read novels."

"maybe i should start too."

you perked up. "you could!" you said, voice coming out too excited for your liking, "i'll lend you some."

"okay," he said, smiling in his usual, reserved way, "thank you."

poor, innocent peter. he had no idea what he'd just signed up for, basically accepting to be subjected to a reader's propaganda of their favorite books.

"i should be thanking you," you responded, "for bringing me here."

the sun had fully gone down, no traces of orange left in the sky, although it hadn't gotten fully dark yet. the moon could be seen, finally getting out of the sun's shadow. or more so, light. too bright for anything else to stay visible near it, yet nothing on earth would be visible without its light, including the moon.

you looked down at the ant-sized citizens of new york, ever-moving, flowing like a river. the wind was caressing your face, chilly, up here was colder than down below, yet it didn't feel as hostile.

"i used to really like it," he said while nodding, a half-smile left on his face from your previous conversation, and perhaps memories of years gone.

"sitting atop buildings?"

"yeah. sitting or swinging or... just height."

"it is kind of freeing."

"and just... you know, a different kind of perspective."

"yeah, i get it," you said, looking at your ant subjects, "why don't you like it anymore?"

he seemed to search for words for a moment, looking around. and then shrugged. "i guess i just... don't really like things anymore."

you sighed, nodding. "well, it's a miracle that you liked my below-average vegetable soup, then."

"it was very much above average!"

"as i said, a miracle."

"why am i having to defend my tastes in the middle of a date right now?"

he stopped abruptly, his smile fading, eyes widening. "i mean!" he quickly scrambled to fix his mistake, "not like- not a date like a date date, you know, i was just saying... just-"

was this a time for you to interrupt? he didn't seem like he wanted to finish that sentence.

"i know," you said, chuckling, "don't worry. i'm also really glad we're doing this. take me soaring the skies more often."

"i wouldn't necessarily call it soaring."

"well, whatever it was."

and then, once again, hours chased one another, carrying your long-winded conversation back and forth, and the deep black of night had fallen on the two of you like a blanket.

peter was sweet, it was like honey dripped from his lips; you hadn't found a conversation so enjoyable in years. you were glad he'd opened up more, back in high school, you had no idea he was so talkative.

you had brought a homemade meal with yourself, considering how much he'd appreciated that yesterday. and you’d shared it over the hours you’d spent together.

peter seemed to relax more and more around you, smile actually coming naturally to his face now, dangling his feet with comfortable, quiet joy.

“ah,” he said at some point, “this is… somewhat hard.”

“what is?”

he thought on it for a moment. “no, nothing. forget i said anything.”

“nooo,” you grabbed his arm and slightly shook him, “i’m curious now!”

he chuckled, “no, it’s embarrassing.”

“peter, listen to me,” you started with mock seriousness, “whatever it is, it cannot be as embarrassing as my cringeworthy memories, so i won’t even register it as embarrassing.”

“okay,” he said after a short silence, “i guess… i guess i got used to being alone too much, now i find it kind of hard to… be known, i guess. it leaves me with a kind of anxiety.”

“it wasn’t like that before?”

“no,” he turned his gaze to the city, “i don’t remember it being like this.”

you hummed, nodding your head. you were going to tell him that you understood, that you felt similarly occasionally, that it was normal, but he kept going before you could.

“at least, the bad parts.”

“what bad parts?”

“you know, my mistakes and flaws and other such things,” he took a deep breath before continuing. “i told you everything but… i wish you didn’t know some of it, now.”

you studied his face; he definitely looked more youthful, like the weight of the world wasn’t crushing him anymore. like he could put his burden down for a moment, take a break. peter didn’t seem like a person who would have a hard time being vulnarable, or being known, but pain did change people. was it just being alone, or being alone with what he thought were his mistakes, scenes repeating over and over in his head as he stared at empty walls, with no one to talk to?

“i like you as you are,” you said, “with your mistakes and flaws; that’s being human, and you’re not lesser for any of it. not objectively, and not in my eyes.”

he was looking into your eyes now, he’d become more comfortable resting his gaze upon yours; you found it comforting, you tried to make him feel the same.

“isn’t that the part of being known that matters?” you asked. “knowing the imperfect parts, the harder to accept parts, and accepting anyway, and loving anyway. doesn’t it make you feel better that i know you fully and like you even more for it?”

peter seemed truly lost for words, for the second time since you’d met. you’d wanted to make him feel welcome into your life, so you’d done your best to tell him things you’d wish to hear yourself, and they were the truth, but you really hoped it would come across right. he wasn’t the only one to overthink conversations.

he opened his mouth to give an answer, and then, suddenly, chaos erupted.

the thunder of a bomb going off shook the ground and the buildings around you. screams mixed into a deafening whistle of the wind that carried them as people ran away from the sound collectively, pushing each other.

peter stood up instinctively, looking towards the explosion. it had happened close enough that you’d felt the shockwave.

“what was that?” you yelled, trying to be heard over the sound, clumsily standing up next to peter, as you were quite high up. he held your arm to steady you.

“i’m not sure, but i think i know who’s responsible for it,” he said with a serious expression on his face, brows furrowed, thoughtful, voice lower than yours, but you could still hear him.

“are you going to go?”

“i have to, this is… these people are dangerous, you should go home.”

he grabbed you by your waist and brought you down to the ground in a hurry, gently placing you. “i’m sorry,” he said, “i’ll come back, uh, to your house, if that’s okay?”

“of course,” you responded, “i’ll be waiting. and don’t be sorry.”

and he dissapeared into the sky, swinging.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

peter hated villains, truly. criminals who committed heinous acts of terrorism, knew nothing but cruelty, unashamedly hurt people, kidnapped, wounded… there were so many of them, too. he kept defeating those hurting new york, and new ones kept popping up.

well, he thought he hated them, but he didn’t know how exactly he felt. he remembered a time when feelings so negative and irritating hadn’t ever been inside him, it was like they added onto each other. one would think it would get easier with time, that he would get used to repeated things. like losing… but not only had losing aunt may been harder than losing uncle ben, he was now more bitter, and more mournful over the past deaths he’d thought he’d gotten over, as well. or, how instead of growing numb to seeing horrible crimes unfold, every act of abuse and cruelty made him angrier, every time he hated… he hated more, although he wasn’t sure exactly what he was hating.

when he tried to track the target his hatred was pointing at, he saw blurry pictures. villains were a part of it, surely, but he didn’t feel a burning rage while fighting them, it was more so weariness, or disgust, mostly, he just wanted all of it to be over. he didn’t want to… ponder more on it, after that point. he had tried once, and then felt an untangible pain. he couldn’t admit it to himself, but he was afraid of what else he could find in that blur. himself? tony? aunt may? mj? new york? the world?

so the picture stayed anonymous, and he couldn’t fully direct his fury at anything, and he disliked all the villains, but could hardly muster up the energy to truly hate them. and perhaps it wasn’t in his nature, either. anger and hatred, he’d never been very good at those. was that why his heart was withering? because he couldn’t feel well? because those were all there was to feel in his life now, and he failed at it?

he felt so done with everything, currently. was he not going to be able to spend time with you uninterrupted? the conversation was going well, too. or at least he thought it was. he hoped you would agree.

back in high school, he knew you were smart, and funny, and would be a good friend if anyone could approach you, but you’d prefered to stay away from him, and he hadn’t had the courage to initiate a relationship with you, he’d found you intimidating. now getting to know you better, he wished he’d just done it, back then. but maybe not. maybe then he would lose you too.

would he lose you now, as well? he’d lost everyone, hadn’t he?

or he’d break your heart, maybe. he’d left liz, he’d left mj, he’d left ned. thrice taken, something was wrong with him.

he arrived at the site of the explosion, looking from above. the thick, suffocating hotness, the pain-filled wails of the survivors, the rubbles of the building crumbled down, his eyes searched for certain signs in between the horrors. he would first save those who couldn’t save themselves, then he would stop whoever was responsible.

as he started carrying survivors out of flames and rubble, he also started scanning everything around him carefully. a sign, a clue, a mistake on the culprit’s part… he knew who it was, he was almost sure the organization he’d been tailing down for the past few months was responsible for this. they were onto him, too, they knew.

he’d found out the position of their base was last week, a site with several factories and buildings in it, towards the border of the city, in a mostly desolate area, as it used to just be an industrialized site, but had now turned into an unpreferred place for bussiness. he’d wondered if they had something to do with that as well, but he supposed that didn’t matter much, in the grand scheme of things.

he would go there, and… and confront them. fight them. end them. something. somehow. the police were rendered useless for the most part, when it came to these underground syndicates, some were bought puppets, some were too powerless, peter knew better than to give away his knowledge now. he’d been burned enough. he would have to do it himself, and do it quick, before any other disasters struck his city.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

you hadn’t gone back home, you were waiting next to a shop near the place peter had left you, looking at the exploded building from afar. you were growing more worried by the second; peter had seemed serious, and talked about a criminal organization who would bomb a whole building like it was a normal thing. was he engaged in a fight, currently? how often did things of this magnitude happen to him?

your phone buzzed, you immediately looked at the screen, it could be important in these circumstances. peter. peter was calling. he’d gone to fight, said he’d come back to you, and now was calling-

“peter?” you answered before you made any assumptions.

quick gasps cut short responded to you, and peter’s voice had taken the shape of slow, low wailing, or wheezing, or… regardless, it was obvious he was in pain.

“i…” he started, clearly having a hard time speaking, “i’m stuck. it was a trap.” he was breathless, his voice kept cracking.

“you- where?” you asked, choosing your words carefully. he was stuck. trapped. time. time was important. ask only for the information that matters right now.

“the building- that- there were people, i wanted to save them,” he was crying, it was obvious. “but i couldn’t, they are stuck too, and unconscious, some are dead. i couldn’t-” he cut his sentence short, taking quick breaths, most likely trying to keep himself awake, or too pained to continue. you understood it anyway.

“where are you, peter?”

“the building crumbled down, and it’s all rubble- but, it’s a huge- a huge, i don’t know. i’m under a heavy part, big, i can’t move it. not safely. i can’t try anything too dangerous, or the- the others might get crushed,” he managed to say in between his gasps and pained groans.

your heart sank, an awful dread dropped into the pit of your stomach. what to do now?

“i’m sorry,” he said, “i just- i didn’t know what to do, and i’d told you i’d come back, i don’t know. there is no one else i could call, i’m not- i’m sorry.”

no one else.

“don’t apologize,” you said, voice firmer, having gotten slightly angry. you weren’t angry at peter, you were angry at… at the reason why peter was hurt. it had only been two days since you’d truly gotten to know him, and you wanted to scream into a void at the top of your lungs already.

you started walking towards the road, looking for a taxi, or you would call one. the initial chaos had subsided, but now people wanting to immediately go back home around you had taken its place, taxis were working, you just didn’t know how fast you could go to wherever peter was.

“send me your location or describe where you are,” you said.

you could only hear his gasps for a moment. “no,” he said, “no, no, i don’t want you to come, that’s not why i-” his breath hitched, he started coughing.

your eyes had gotten teary, you blinked harshly a few times to get rid of the blurriness. would a bicycle be faster? a… motorcycle, perhaps? you started looking around to see any unclaimed ones, you could maybe pay someone-

“i’ll come either way, i’ll help you,” you said, as you started walking towards the site of the explosion, you thought finding an abandoned vehicle might be easier there… maybe even one that no longer had an owner. maybe even a gun. “send your location or i will go into the flames and try to find a clue.”

another pause.

“okay,” he said, exhaling in pain, “but be careful, run away the moment you see anyone dangerous. okay?”

“all right.”

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

it had been a long while since peter had been in such peril, had he underestimated his opponents? had he been too rash, reckless? it was highly unlikely that his street-level work would be as dangerous as the avengers-level threats, and he’d survived those, hadn’t he? so why was he crying now?

when he’d arrived at the site, and looked around a little, he’d found people, kidnapping victims, being sent to somewhere. he’d thought he’d needed to act fast to save them, but he’d fallen into a trap. not a trap specifically set for him; it more so looked like a last resort to cover up their traces while killing anyone at their tail, just destroying the building with evidence and their enemies in it. peter was just one person though, was that enough for them, or had they not bothered to check?

he didn’t know where exactly he was wounded under the rubble, everything was hurting. somewhere on his abdomen, he assumed, and legs, they were stinging like a thousand needles were sinking into his flesh at the same time.

he sighed, putting his forehead on the fallen stone in front of him.

he hated himself. that was it, yeah. that was the true target of his hatred. more than anything else. he realised so when he admitted it to himself; hating had suddenly gotten much easier, much deeper.

he’d just killed the last person on earth who knew him. why had he called you, anyway? he should’ve just… done as he always did before meeting you, deal with it himself. or die. the world wouldn’t lose much if he did, there was no one to mourn him. well, maybe you could get a little sad, but it wasn’t like you were particularly close to him, you’d never really been friends before. and you had a life, other people around you, you had no reason to hold onto him like he did you. so why were you even coming? why would you do this to him?

he killed everyone around himself. he would kill you. he would kill you. he would lose you.

no, no, stop. you could survive this, right? sinking into despair had never been helpful. he would need to stay sharp for you. he would… you could survive this much, right? and then he would never see you again. he would block your number, and… good thing he hadn’t brought you to his apartment.

he’d been so selfish, thinking only of himself, the happiness he felt at being remembered. what was he thinking? he should’ve never talked to you. he should’ve told you to raise your umbrella and go home without getting wet. he’d been erased from existence for a reason, hadn’t he? had he forgotten why he hadn’t gone back to mj and ned? how could he do this? how could he keep doing this? why did he never learn from his mistakes?

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

you were breathless, having ridden a bicycle (that you really had managed to find abandoned next to the explosion) until a point where traffic wasn’t jammed, then taken a taxi to the point where the driver would be willing to drive to, then ran until you could see the eerie factory site peter had told you about. you’d stopped to catch your breath briefly, your throat was hurting, sweat was coming down on your face like rain had been on the morning you’d grabbed peter’s arm. you put your hand on the right of your abdomen, you had a bad case of side stitch pain. you were holding a metal pipe in your other hand, you hadn’t been lucky enough to stumble upon a gun lying around, unfortunately. you had wanted to find a shield of some sort, but the blown off car bits were mostly too heavy, and couldn’t be carried on a bicycle.

there it was, the area of a dangerous mafia organization. how many cameras were there? you wore the mask peter had given to you, even though you really didn’t want to when you needed so much air.

you could see the remnants of a big dust storm behind a few buildings, you would need to get closer to truly figure it out, but you assumed you could go towards that direction to find peter. your heart was drumming against your chest, your fingertips had suddenly gone cold. a tiny portion of it was because of your previous marathon, mostly your nervousness and… fear were the cause.

but you had to do this. there was simply no other choice. someone needed to save peter, and the authorities wouldn’t do it, and the heroes wouldn’t do it, and you were there already. so you got a move on.

you mostly walked behind walls and next to corners, nervous about being seen and shot dead on the spot before you could even get into the mafia’s base. you reached… a chain-link fence, surrounding the complex.

“NO TRESSPASSING” the sign on the fence read, “PRIVATE PROPERTY”.

well, you’d already stolen a bicycle.

you took a shaky breath, and put your foot into one of the chains. you’d never climbed over a chain-link fence before, but everything had a first time, right? so you gripped the chains for dear life, and although you probably looked ridiculous and unnatural doing it, managed to climb to the other side. you did scratch a few places on your legs and hands, but it was mostly a success.

now you needed to sneak deeper into the complex, somehow.

you walked half-crouched down, mostly next to walls, looking around yourself nervously, yet as fast as you could. as you got closer to the collapsed building, you started hearing screams, and gunshots. there was a commotion going on somewhere close to you, was it the kidnapped people? the ones peter had been able to save, the ones who’d gotten out? you stopped where you were and pressed your back to the building next to you, where did you go from here? where were the gun noises coming from? what did you need to do to avoid that, yet still reach peter?

your hands had started shaking, would it be possible to find an abandoned gun as you walked closer? it would be so easy for them to kill you.

you'd only managed to make a few turns from that point before you were caught. by a man with a gun in his hand.

"look at that," he said, as he pointed the gun at you. “it seems a little mouse sneaked in, in this chaos."

you stopped, completely frozen. your heart was beating in your throat, your hands were trembling, you'd forgotten how to breathe. you'd never been so fear-stricken in your life.

what could you do? one shot and you would be dead, what could you do with the metal pipe in your hand? you couldn't look away from the man to see what else you could use.

he started walking towards you slowly, saying things that would only distract you and make you more nervous if you focused on them, so you blocked them out.

he was clearly enjoying cornering you like a prey animal, that must have been why he was walking closer to you; to scare you. you fought against your urge to back away, to protect a distance between you two; you had a metal pipe. a gun was a long-range weapon, being closer might make it harder to run away, but would make it easier to fight back, and running away in this situation would do you no good. if he missed the first time, he would get you in the second. so you forcefully nailed your feet to the ground, ignored the alarms setting off in your mind, and tried to prepare yourself for a confrontation. your legs were trembling; you hoped the man would just think you'd frozen in fear.

he came close enough to put the gun to your head, just an arm's length of a distance between you. “you can't run even when the gun is in your face?” he asked mockingly.

would begging work? would it keep you alive long enough to catch an opening?

you would die. you would die.

you hadn't opened your mouth to form a single sentence since this man had found you, and you didn't think you could now. one wrong word and it would be over. you needed to act.

was there anyone else around? why was he alone? had you lucked out, somehow? they weren't going to take you into custody, you were a transgresser, they were going to kill you. you assumed this man had stumbled into you coincidentally in the ruckus, and hadn't felt the need to call for reinforcements. even if there were others in places you couldn't see, you had no choice but to act now.

the gun's tip was touching your forehead. seconds. i must act in seconds. by bending your knees, you ducked your head faster than he could process what happened and pull the trigger, and while ducking, swung the pipe in your hand as fast as you could, with as much force behind it as you could muster, and hit him in the groin.

you immediately made a move to get behind him while he buckled over; there was no running away from someone with a gun.

should you hold his hand with the gun, or hit it with your pipe? he was turning his face towards you, and would shoot you the moment he got a good view.

no, you’d taken too much time to think, and he’d already directed the gun at you, pulling the trigger. you immediately hit his hand with your pipe. the shot wasn't completely wasted, however, and grazed your leg.

you screamed in pain.

he reached for you with his other hand, grabbing your hair.

no time.

you gripped your pipe with all your strength, and hit his hand again while he was yanking your hair. and then kept hitting his hand, lest he direct the gun at you again. one, two, three, four, five— he kicked your leg. you buckled over in pain as he put your head to the ground, your hair still entangled in his hand. he was saying something, eyes bulging, looking very mad, but you weren’t proccessing any of it. your ears were still ringing because of the gunshot, and the pain in your leg was so powerful that you couldn't focus on anything. it was as if endless knives were constantly stabbing you. it was unbearable.

his hands were occupied with your head and the gun, you were nowhere near strong enough to set free from his grip, but he'd forgotten you were still holding onto the pipe. or maybe he'd just thought you'd be in too much pain to use it now. or maybe he just hadn't had the time to do something about that yet, everything was happering in seconds.

you swung it again in one last, reckless effort to fight back, and hit his head. the momentum tossed him to the side while taking you with him as he hadn't let go of your hair. before he could turn to face you back, you hit his head again, with all your might. he let go of your hair while balancing himself with his other hand, and hit you across the face before you could land your third hit, but you planted yourself to the ground, and landed another hit anyway. his head was bleeding, and he was clearly distraught.

what now? a few seconds. this had given you a few seconds of decision time. what now? should you keep hitting him? take the gun, somehow? how could you get rid of him?

you tried to move reflexively, to get away. but your leg was done for, you couldn’t get up. no. no. you couldn't move.

your heart was going to burst out of your chest, your nerves were completely wrecked; you couldn’t get up.

what, then? did you have to… kill? you were going to throw up. your hands started trembling even more violently. you couldn't. you just couldn't.

you wished you could yell for help. but you were supposed to be the help. it was as it had always been before, pick yourself up and dust yourself off.

no time to think.

you hit his head again, and when he flailed, this time you put his head to the ground, climbing on top of him, twisting his gun-holding arm under his body. now… now you could... how could you stop him? if you managed to take the gun, and told him to stay put until you could run away... you couldn't move, though. you couldn't even properly restrain him because you were having to drag one leg. the concussion he had was doing most of the heavy lifting.

an idea did come up in your mind. you supposed you had no other choice.

──────

you were lying on the floor, your back towards the sky. you’d left your unconscious attacker where he was lying, and managed to drag yourself for a few centimeters before you’d stopped, and leaned your forehead against the ground. you needed to get away, you knew. at least near a wall, somewhere you wouldn’t be seen so clearly, but your leg was hurting too much to use.

you couldn’t raise your head, and just started sobbing openly. you’d already been crying, but trying to hold back, keep quiet. you needed to sit up, and look at how bad the wound was, and how much blood you’d lost. the pain was all you could think about, your head was hurting from stress and forcing yourself to think through the pain, your eyes and throat were hurting from crying (and maybe also sleep-deprivation, as time was diving deeper into the night), your face was hurting from the hit you’d taken, and yet, nothing could be compared to the pain you felt in your leg. you wanted to take off your mask, it was suffocating enough even without it, but any cameras catching your face would be more of a disaster long term.

you took a deep breath, and put your hands on the ground. you pushed yourself up while shaking, and turned around. you looked at your leg, and immediately regretted it. it was bleeding a lot, and your flesh had been ripped apart. you didn’t know what to do, there was no one you could call.

you took out your phone from your pocket, and found peter’s number. you really didn’t want to, but you had no other choice.

peter answered by calling out your name questioningly, his voice came across better than last time; it still did sound like he was in pain, but he was calmer.

“peter,” you said, failing to sound like you weren’t crying. “a guy shot me. my leg is hurt.”

“a- what? where are you?”

“i’m near the collapsed building you should be in.”

“i- i-”

you took a second to breathe. “no, no, i… i just don’t know what to do,” you said, sniffling and gasping, “i can’t get up. i, uh, should i wrap something around my leg?”

“yeah,” he said, “a piece of cloth until you can get out, how close are you to the exit? you should call an ambulance or a taxi or—” he also had to stop to take a breath in pain, “i don’t know— i’m sorry. i’m really sorry.”

“what are you sorry for? it’s the fault of this piece of— well, garbage. at least i have a gun now.”

“who was it? is he still there?”

“i don’t know, some random guy. he’s unconscious.”

“… how?”

“well, i… kind of strangled him? he was,” you huffed, “he fainted because he couldn’t breathe, he’s alive though. i did hit his head a few times, i don’t know how that bodes for him.”

“probably not well,” he said, now with a hint of surprise and amusement in his voice, “you, uh, you did well. very well.”

“huh, thank you.”

good, this was good, hearing peter’s voice had been good for you. you pushed yourself up somehow, and sat up straight.

“what happened?” he asked, “why is the pain worsening?” probably because of your increasing groans.

“i was trying to sit up. i need to find a piece of cloth.”

you looked around, and decided to take anything you could from the man who attacked you. you went through his pockets, and sure enough, found a knife. you cut a piece off of his shirt, and used it as bandage.

“how tight should it be?”

“you should be able to slide a finger under it.”

next, you needed to drag yourself away from the middle of the road, to somewhere you could hide—

no.

no, that wasn’t why you were here.

“how are you doing, peter?” you asked, but couldn’t add that you would be there soon.

“i’m…” he started, but drifted off. and then you heard silent sobbing. “i’m sorry,” he said.

“you have nothing to apologize for.”

“no, it’s all my fault. i never should’ve dragged you into this mess.”

“you didn’t drag me into anything, i stole a bike and ran a marathon to get to you,” you’d sounded firmer now, although still couldn’t stop your crying; the pain just wasn’t getting any better.

“i let you down along with everyone else,” he wasn’t listening to you, “and i don’t know what to do, i can’t come to you, i don’t know how to get you out,” his voice had gotten frantic again.

you sighed, trying to get your sobbing under control, and think of a reply. was it his fault? no, you were certain it wasn’t. had he let you down? no, the thought hadn’t even crossed your mind. should he stay away from you? were you afraid of pain or death? would you rather live a more stress-free life than stay with peter?

you closed your eyes to let the tears roll down your cheeks as the realisation that you couldn’t immediately say “no” set in, you felt betrayed by yourself. you’d thought about this, yesterday… or two days ago, you supposed, as it was past midnight. he’d told you everything, so you knew the risks, and you’d thought about it. you’d decided it would be fine; worrying for his safety or being at risk yourself. and if you got injured, then you could handle some pain. and if you died, well… there was no getting ahead of death. if you died, that would mean your time had come.

so where had your conviction gone to? had the pain been too much, after all? it was the pain, the stabbing sensation was making your brain foggy, demanding all the attention be on it. you hated it, you hated everything. you were mad at yourself; why couldn’t you just be better?

“peter,” you cut him off, “i know i can’t understand you fully, but i get it,” you’d decided to just ramble. you couldn’t come up with the perfect answer to make his worries disappear, so you would just… tell him whatever was going through your mind.

“i lay awake some nights, randomly afraid of the dark. then i curl up under my blanket, and try to comfort myself. because there is no one to lie next to me. i look out from my window and see grey walls. i look up at night and see no stars. i walk outside and hundreds of people just walk past me without even looking at my face, and i don’t remember any of theirs the next hour. all i hear all day are the honks of cars, and depressing news. abuse. crime. kid died. alone person went missing. don’t go out at night. don’t talk to anyone. there is no one anyway, who would i talk to?” you paused to sniffle again, and catch your breath.

“i come home and say ‘hello’ to emptiness and darkness, i turn on the lights myself, then think about what i’ll eat. and i don’t properly eat most days, because i just don’t want to prepare something only for myself. yesterday, i was so happy you liked the food i made, i wanted to cook something for the first time in months while waiting for you,” words were just coming out of your mouth without restraint now, was it the sleep deprivation?

“in high school, i used to watch you and your friends, and wish i could find someone who would be in sync with me too. i used to wish i had a reason or an excuse to join in when i saw you three laugh or talk. i go to university now, and i attend lectures, and i make small talk with a few people, and then i drown in my own thoughts the whole day. i tell myself that i’m fine by myself, but i feel like my soul is getting thinner by the day, looking at walls. is it just me, or is everyone just disconnected now, i don’t know.”

you finally stopped, and let silence stretch after your words. your crying had gotten worse as the suffocation of your life had built up enough to rush out of you; you didn’t cry much, not really. sure, you sometimes shed silent tears, sitting by yourself on your couch, but normally, you just kept going without thinking much about it. you had your exams, and job, and volunteer work, and projects to worry about, so pitying yourself was at the bottom of your to-do list. but now? you were crying waterfalls. was it because you’d finally found someone to tell what you were really thinking? no, it was probably because of the pain you were already in.

peter didn’t answer, for a long while, it was just silence.

“you were right,” you said, “being known with your negative sides sucks.”

“no,” he said, “you were right. i’m glad to know you as you are.”

he didn’t sound good. he didn’t sound good at all. you sighed in resignation, closing your eyes tightly shut to clear your view of tears. “i’m closing now, peter, wait for me,” you said, and closed the call before he could reply.

you looked at the ground, and furrowed your brows in concentration. you would get up. you had to. you had no choice. peter had called you for help. he had no one. no one else to call. no one else to save him from making a choice between death and killing innocent victims under rubble. no one else to save him from death.

you gritted your teeth, your leg hurt as the deep cut touched the bad guy’s shirt, and in some parts, the cold air of the night. the wound kept bleeding, and hurting more by the second. but you gritted your teeth anyway, through your tears and gasps for air that you had an abundance of, but your lungs refused to take in. you put your hands on the ground, and pushed yourself up, using all the strength you had.

you whimpered and groaned in many attempts to stifle your screams before they could come out, and alert whoever was close enough to hear, and managed to set your back straight. it was unbearable, the pain was holding you from the collar, trying to drag you down, making your vision red, exploding in your brain.

it’s just pain, you kept repeating to yourself, it was just a feeling, you could move through it. so you would walk now. towards peter. as quickly as possible. you needed to reach him, that was why you’d come this far, how could you let pain make you forget? it was simply unacceptable, the thought of peter dying under that rubble.

so you put one foot in front of the other, and made your way to peter through every force working against you.

──────

"peter?" you asked, trying to walk through the rubble, and then heard your name back.

"i'm here!"

you tried to reach him at least enough to see his face, as fast as you could, but it was still taking too long with your injured leg. too long for your impatience currently, anyway.

"i'll remove the victims so you can get out of there," you said as you stretched your head enough to see his face, not being able to get closer. he was... he'd taken off his mask, and he looked horrible; his eyes had become red from tears and most likely his injuries, his face was covered in dust and some drops of blood. looking at him stung your chest. "tell me where they are."

──────

peter was strong. he truly was. not only mentally; you were currently watching him lift what was essentially an entire ceiling with other pieces of rubble on it off himself, with most likely many crushing injuries. insane. he was insane. no wonder he couldn’t move with all with those unconscious people around.

you had somehow managed to move them out of his way, seven people in total, much more than you’d anticipated. how could you get them out of here now? you were injured, peter was probably in worse condition… although he did seem to be able to carry significant weight. maybe you could carry them until the exit and call an ambulance, for yourselves, too.

──────

peter walked towards you until he was a breath away, his face was covered in sweat on top of everything else, and he was gasping for air, as were you. he looked at your leg.

“i’ll carry you,” was all he said. he seemed so tired.

“we need to carry these people first.”

“no, i’ll carry you first. until you’re out of this complex.”

──────

you were sitting on the sidewalk, waiting for the ambulance you had called. well, ambulances, as they’d be carrying nine people. you had, also, finally taken off the mask you’d come to despise at this point, associating it with very negative feelings.

you saw peter swing down with the last one of the survivors. he landed, placed the unconscious man on the sidewalk, and sat right next to you.

you sat together in silence for a while, until you took a deep breath, and chuckled lightly. it was over. you’d done it. everyone was alive.

peter looked at you questioningly, although it was hard to read his face; he’d turned mostly expressionless. because of how much effort it must have been taking to even stay awake for him, you assumed.

“it’s over,” you said, “we did it.”

he looked away again, to the desolate road in front of you. “you did it,” he said, “i messed up.”

“how so?”

“i acted rashly. i should’ve been more careful. now they’ll find a new base, and i have to start from nothing to track them down again. and they know i’m after them. and i couldn’t change anything in the end, i just made things worse. all of this was for nothing, it could have been completely avoided. it started with the collapse of one building and then it ended with the collapse of another for no reason.”

you were watching him carefully. lines of exhaustion had formed on his face, the sorrow and… and whatever it was that dropped a boulder of burning despair into the pit of your stomach from when you first met had come back; you’d thought the youth had somehow returned to his face this evening.

“so,” you started, taking another deep breath, “you came here after they exploded a building to stop them, like, end them in general, or at least weaken them, do something. that makes sense to me. then you acted rashly here? why?”

“i saw… the kidnapped victims, and they were suffering, so i wanted to save them.”

“then you didn’t mess up, right? you saved them.”

“not all of them, and i wouldn’t have without you.”

“well, a big majority of them, you did save. all of them would die without you. and what else could you have done but to directly interfere? you did the only thing you could.”

he just stayed silent, was he not convinced?

“i don’t think this was a failure, peter. i think you did well and saved many people, and i think it was worth it.”

his eyes were teary, but he didn’t look at you again, he turned his gaze to the ground, and just stayed silent.

──────

you had decided on what to tell the authorities before the paramedics had arrived, and then you’d been separated, put into different ambulances.

then… well, the rest was as you imagined it would go. still a lot of pain, and a lot of hasty doctors as they asked questions and barked orders. it was horrible, really, with the way your head had been aching, but at least they were numbing your leg. and you would most likely be allowed to drift off to sleep at some point, right?

──────

you lied on the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling. it was almost noon, and you’d waken up not so long ago. you just kept playing what happened again and again in your head, trying to make sense of every detail.

it was a miracle you were alive. you’d faced off a gun. an actual gun.

it was good that all you could do by yourself in this hospital bed was think; you’d been asking yourself the same questions for a while now. did you still want to be involved with peter? you’d known him only for two days, and you’d ended up in a hospital already.

you’d considered every outcome and every reason, every choice you could make. in the end, it boiled down to a few core options. would you rather live a less risky life by yourself, or risk getting hurt like this to be with someone? someone who can meet you as deeply as you crave?

not just that, human bonds were too important to be disregarded because of what external threats might arise. the reality now was that you loved peter, he was a good person, he didn’t deserve to be abandoned because of what evil people did. your choice didn’t come out of loneliness; even if you had a dozen bonds like this, you would still choose to stay with peter, because you’d formed a relationship with him now. and that was that.

out of every outcome you considered, the worst one was definitely living your life without peter, and then getting news that spiderman just died somewhere, by himself. even the thought of it was nausiating. then again, the thought of just him getting hurt like this, and having no one to go to was just as horrible. so you needed to choose the opposite of what would cause that outcome to happen.

it hadn’t been that hard a decision to make; staying involved with peter. you’d already been tangled, it wasn’t much of a possibility to untangle yourself now, a part of you would be left behind.

besides, you somehow remembered him, didn’t you? that had to mean something. there had to be a reason for it.

──────

after finally being discharged, the first thing you did was look for peter, but he’d somehow gotten out before you. not because his wounds were less severe, quite the opposite, the nurses had said he’d been restless to get out, and they couldn’t keep someone against their will.

the orange of dusk had faded away, although it wasn’t fully dark yet. you were on your way to your apartment while you kept ringing peter’s phone, he was stubbornly refusing to answer.

you huffed as another attempt turned out to be in vain. you looked at the taxi driver, who did not acknowledge your existence, and then turned back to your phone.

“peter, are you okay? is everything all right?”

you messaged him. then waited for him to see. aaand waited. still waiting.

you huffed again, three minutes of staring at your screen impatiently and he wasn’t responding.

although you’d asked him if he were okay, you knew the truth. it wasn’t that he couldn’t answer, it was that he’d decided to go through with his stupid “i’ll never see you again because i’m ruining your life” nonsense. in your heart of hearts, you knew. so you sent another message.

“if you’re thinking about cutting ties with me, then do it properly. come and talk to me about it.”

and then looked out the taxi’s window for the rest of your journey.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

you were right, peter knew. after everything that happened, opening up to you and accepting you into his life, if he wanted to step away now, he needed to respect you, and tell you about it properly. so he was standing in front of your door now, trying to gather up the courage to ring your bell, and tell you he’d never see you again. this door had seemed so inviting one night ago, and it had tricked peter. he was not supposed to be invited into any house, didn’t your house know that?

he took a deep breath, and rang the bell. when you opened the door, you looked tired. not your expression, but the lines on your face and the look in your eyes gave it away. that was his fault, wasn’t it?

you stepped aside to welcome him, and he followed you into the living room, the couch he’d sat on the night he’d told you everything.

bidding you farewell was going to be hard, he didn’t know if he could be brave enough, or selfless enough. he’d been so when he had been wiped from the memories of every living being, and that was much harder a task, wasn’t it? so couldn’t he do it a second time?

but he hated waking up every day, and hated… well, he couldn’t even properly hate. getting up, putting one foot in front of the other was becoming harder every day, he didn’t want to do anything, anymore. so circumstances had changed since then, but he still kept fighting every day, and he still kept doing what he thought was right. so he could do this too.

or you would die. he’d lost enough people. to love was to lose. to love was the possibility of loss eventually.

he shouldn’t even have sat on this couch, actually, why had he done so? he should’ve just told you he was leaving, and then leave. he made a move to get up again, you grabbed his arm to stop him.

“you should stay seated,” you said, “i’ll bring something to eat for dinner.”

“please don’t, i’ll be on my way shortly anyway.”

“no,” you said as a statement, firmly, and left him alone in the living room.

peter never should’ve come. you deserved to have one last conversation, but how could peter move on from you? he supposed it would’ve been impossible even if he hadn’t come to your place today, even if he’d told you to turn back without getting wet the day you first recognized him. he would just have to live missing you forever, and that wasn’t unrealistic. it’s what he was doing now, missing everybody he’d ever known. and he was living, wasn’t he? well, he was alive.

you brought pasta with chicken, obviously freshly made, and put down two plates on the couch.

“we could eat in the kitchen,” he said.

“couch is comfier.”

he sighed, looking at his plate. he really didn’t want to eat anything made by you again, he didn’t need more things to miss. you’d said you didn’t feel like preparing a meal just for yourself, that he made you want to cook something… he remembered everything you said, of course. that you’d apparently wanted to get closer to him in high school too, why had he been so nervous? afraid?

it was for the best, though. otherwise, you might’ve died years ago. no matter what you felt, he couldn’t be selfish enough to assume he could be there for you, or good for you.

“so,” you started, “you decided to go forward with your plan of ignoring my existence for the rest of your life?”

“it’s not ignoring,” he had a defensive tone, “i was wrong to even confirm i’m peter at the start, i’ll fix my mistake.”

“it wasn’t a mistake, how can you say that? would you prefer i believed i’d lost my mind?”

you had a hard time walking now, limping although you tried to hide it, and several wounds were visible on your face. you’d beat up a man with a metal pipe, what kind of damage did that leave on your psyche? peter didn’t know, he’d been warring since he was fifteen.

“you wouldn’t be in pain, at least.”

“you’re unbelievable,” you sounded exasparated, and seemed offended, but peter didn’t know what else to say. it was the truth. “i’d rather know the bitter truth, or suffer from its consequences than believe a lie any time. besides, you couldn’t have known this would happen, it’s not on you.”

“you can’t tell me you would still get a gunshot wound yesterday if we hadn’t met two days ago.”

“maybe not, but i don’t blame you for it and i don’t care.”

“you don’t care?!” peter was getting angry, was it because you were getting angry? he was angry at himself, was it dripping out of his chest into his tongue as poison?

“no,” you backtracked, “i mean, i’m fine with it. i can live with it. and i don’t hold it against you, i don’t have any resentment for you. i don’t know how else to explain this.”

he took a deep breath to hold back his tears. he couldn’t let your words get to him, make him feel better about what had occurred. he needed to protect you, he kept reminding himself.

“i can’t put you in harm’s way,” he said.

you paused for a moment.

“do you take care of your wounds by yourself? you did so after the fire the other day, and you basically ran away from the hospital this time around.”

peter was taken aback. “uh, yeah?” he answered.

you grabbed a bag that was positioned right next to the couch on the floor, and took a… first aid kit out of it. and then a salve, and bandages, and… what was going on?

“i bought these today after being discharged, figured you might need some.”

“i’m… fine?”

your expression was very unimpressed when you looked at him.

“so you think i don’t see your arm, or the way you have a hard time eating or breathing, or even just your hands?”

ah, right. his hands were bruised, not enough to warrant bandaging though, this happened regularly. and his arm did hurt, but the pain would go away in a few days or so. his abdomen… that was taken care of, too, the dressing they did at the hospital would be enough.

“it’s all taken care of,” he said.

“we need to put salve on your hands, and then wrap-”

“we don’t, this happens all the time.”

you looked at him in surprise for a moment. “this happens all the time and we don’t need to treat it?” you repeated with your eyes wide, tone something between offended and shocked.

he didn’t know what to say, so you just started doing whatever you’d set your mind to even before he came to your house. you gently held his hand, and started applying the salve. he sighed, and closed his eyes, leaning his head to rest on the couch. he shouldn’t have, but you didn’t give him much choice.

“i’ll learn how to suture,” you said, “and anything else that’s necessary.”

peter spoke your name, “i’m sorry,” he said, “i am so, so sorry. i don’t want to leave you either, but you saw what happened. mj and ned have forgotten me, and they are happier for it. this is what i need to do.”

“peter,” you said, as you started wrapping the bandage around his hand, “i haven’t forgotten you, and if you leave now, i still won’t forget. i don’t know how mj and ned are doing, having forgotten, but you can’t compare me to them. and even if i had forgotten, i still would want to know. how else can i put this?” you searched for the words, “i care about you more than i care about happiness. i’d choose you over happiness, i’d rather be in pain with you than be painless by myself.”

peter had straightened his back, his gaze fixated on your eyes, as you spoke. a lump in his throat, tears threatening to roll down his cheeks in his eyes, his hand in your hands… a warmth in his chest, how he hadn’t felt in so long. your words did soften his edges, but he couldn’t accept it. he still held back his tears, and still wanted to escape. run away. was that why he wanted to leave you? was his true reason to protect you, or his fear? he wanted to run, he wanted to run as fast as he could and hide, from anyone who could see him.

it was too much, but he couldn’t exactly tell what was too much. he was afraid of hurting you, but that wasn’t all he was afraid of, yet he couldn’t recognize what else scared him so.

“but,” you continued, “being with you will make me happy anyway, do you understand? i’ll be happier with you than alone, even if my life is at risk, and even if guns chase my back.”

you had teared up too, peter realised, but were wiping your tears away, to keep your vision clear while working on his now other hand, he assumed.

and that was it, the last drop of water to make his glass overflow. silent tears started finding their way to his chin, his gaze lowered in embarrassment. he’d already cried a dozen times in front of you, and he wished he hadn’t, he wished he could be stronger, firmer, he wished he could aspire confidence instead of silently crying. he hadn’t been able to cry for a while, before meeting you. even when it hurt deep inside his bones, his tears had dried up. were they all spilling out now?

he wanted you to stay, too, he was tired of being alone. he was tired of imagining “what if”s. he was tired of walking directionless with his hoodie covering his face, face a blur in crowds, never known by anyone. if you could bandage his hands every time after a fight, or have your textbooks scattered around in his room, then-

he didn’t want to imagine it. he just couldn’t accept it.

you were done with his hands, even though peter didn’t want you to let go. “how about this,” you started, “why don’t we give it some more time? i mean, how many times did mj or ned get wounded while knowing you?”

“… never, really.”

“yeah, so, either i’m also cursed, or this was a rare occurrence. either way, me staying with you won’t change anything. so, instead of making a rash decision like this, why don’t we try to be friends first? and if it doesn’t work out, then you can put some distance?”

that was… peter thought on it. and then his silent tears turned into straight-up sobbing. because that could work. he could accept that, it made sense to him.

he leaned down and buried his face in his hands. you started caressing his hair, which made it impossible for his tears to stop.

when everyone had forgotten, you'd remembered him. when faced with a gun, you'd survived. when injured, you'd walked. maybe he really was cursed, considering what had happened to you after you just met, but you seemed determined to break it.

and it might not be perfect, but it would be.

it must’ve been hard for you to make such a decision, you must’ve thought about it; staying with peter. you’d chosen him anyway. he could do the same, too. despite his fears, his horrible instinct to shrink and escape, he could stand his ground, and choose to stay, as you had. and maybe with time, it could get easier.

he stopped his sobbing, calmed down enough to face you, and raised his head.

“i don’t know what tomorrow will bring,” he said with a hint of nervousness in his voice.

“right,” you smiled, “exciting, isn’t it?”

ghost towns (youtube music) by radical face... as we part ways for now.

He never wanted to train another agent in the first place. The last thing he wanted was some wide-eyed newbie trailing behind him to make his job harder. It’s bad enough going on missions alone, fighting against whatever fucked up, biochemically-engineered, zombified monstrosities are waiting for him. He can’t risk having an egotistical trainee around for some on-the-job training.

Unfortunately for Leon, you are exactly the type of rookie he prayed he would never be stuck with. 

When Leon first met you, he was surprised by your lack of filter. After he extended his hand to you and introduced himself by name and title (as is expected of him), the first words out of your mouth were not a typical greeting. Instead, you grasped his hand with a firm shake, your lips parted in wonder.

“Wow,” you said, low and breathy. Leon almost expected the awestruck praise of a fan until you followed up with: “Your hair is exactly the same as the decades-old photos.”

Needless to say, he was not pleased. 

You haven’t been much better since then. Even though you apologized for the unintentional insult, Leon has yet to forgive you for your transgression. If it were anyone else, he probably would have gotten over it by now. But you, with your constant airheaded attitude and annoyingly bright smiles, make it hard to forgive and forget. He’s stern with you in such a way he does not display with others; he speaks down to you, as if herding a child around throughout the office and on missions. 

Despite his gruffness, you seem wholly unaffected. 

You talk constantly. You just don’t know when to stop. It’s like you’re incapable of sitting in silence, like a bomb is strapped to your chest that reads MUST SPEAK OR WILL BLOW UP. It’s the only explanation as to why you cannot for the life of you hold your tongue in any given scenario. If Leon demands for you to be quiet, you can shut your mouth for roughly twenty seconds before you say something stupid, like: “Do you think worms have feelings?”

It’s a miracle he hasn’t strangled you yet.

Although you’ve had a handful of investigative missions with Leon in the past few months of training and shadowing his work, you have yet to see any real action. So, when Leon is tasked with clearing out one of Umbrella’s abandoned testing facilities, he’s absolutely horrified to bring you along with him. 

It’s a rainy day. Leon grips the steering wheel as he drives the Porsche — his beloved, company-issued vehicle — while you drum a beat on your thigh. Much to his chagrin, you’ve pushed your seat back and kicked your feet up on the dashboard. He keeps glancing at your boots with a grimace, damn near close to popping a blood vessel when he sees your foot bobbing along to the radio (which you, of course, switched on). His only respite is that you kept it on his favorite rock station; he’s slightly less pleased when you hum along to it, interrupting his listening with the sound of your off-key singing. 

After several long minutes of driving, Leon grunts, “Can you please take this seriously?” 

Your eyes dart from a relay race of raindrops on the window to the aging agent beside you. You lift your brows curiously. “What do you mean? I am serious.”

“Get your feet off the dash.”

His jaw is clenched and his knuckles are turning white, so you reluctantly obey, dropping your feet on the floor of the car. With a slight pout, you shift in your seat. Then again. Then yet again. The leather squeaks against your uniform. Eventually, you recline the seat back a few inches. Leon’s eye twitches.

“You need to be prepared for anything,” Leon mutters, already going on a tangent. “This isn’t a joke. This isn’t a shooting range. If you don’t have your head on straight, it’s life or death. You might’ve gotten lucky getting by until now, but I can’t promise I’ll be able to save you if you get yourself into trouble. Got it?”

By the end of his rant, Leon nearly runs a red light. He slams on the breaks a little too hard; you jolt forward, but the seatbelt catches to hold you in place. Still, the force of it is surprise enough that you let out a little oof under your breath, and your hands shoot out to catch the door handle for stability.

“Damn,” you exclaim. “I think I should be more worried about your traffic violations.”

Your stupid quip is the straw that breaks Leon’s aching back.

The second the light turns green, Leon hits the gas with a heavy thud and a screech of tires. You let out a yelp, straightening up in your seat and swiveling your head around to look at the agent.

“Woah! Slow down, you’re gonna kill us before we even get there—!”

Your comment is cut short when Leon abruptly pulls over at the side of the road. The Porsche sits crookedly against the curb, nearly taking down a streetlight. When Leon shifts the gear into park and trains his gaze upon you, the rain suddenly pelts furiously against the windows. For once in your life, you’re silent. 

Leon looks like he might finally risk it all — hefty paycheck included — to commit a murder. His stare alone is withering. You shrink in the passenger seat, staring back at him with wide eyes. 

“Shut. Up.” His words are gritted out through his teeth, so fierce and venomous that your heart thuds beneath your ribcage.

Except, instead of fear, you’re instilled with something far more rageful.

Your expression shifts from shock to offense. The leather seat squeaks when you suddenly lean forward, turning as best as you can with the seatbelt still holding you in.

“Excuse you, Agent Kennedy, but you need to stop treating me like I’m a liability.”

Before Leon can even attempt to get another word in, you put your hand up to stop him. 

“No, it’s my turn,” you say, effectively shutting him up. “I know you hate me. A lot of people do. Unfortunately for you, sir, you’re stuck with me. I know I’m a good agent. Deny it all you want, but we both know it. My personality might not be your cup of tea, but I’m not being trained on personality, now, am I? I’m not an idiot, and I sure as hell didn’t land here by chance. All I’m personally waiting for is the day that I get a promotion so you can stop calling me ‘rookie.’” 

After the completion of your monologue, you huff, finally taking a breath. You look visibility relieved to get everything off your chest. Once you’ve settled down, you sigh, wiping nonexistent sweat from your brow. 

“Shit, that took a lot out of me,” you mutter, more to yourself than him.

Leon gapes at you. In all his time knowing you, you’ve never complained or fought back when he griped at you. You might make a sarcastic comment or say something insulting, sure, but even he knows your negligent responses are nothing personal. You’re exactly right — you are a good agent, a great one, even. You do your work. You’re efficient. You’re quick-thinking. You’re impressive for a rookie — a goddamn Swiss Army Knife of a human being. 

Still — despite all his nitpicking towards you, he has never, ever seen you angry. 

His hands have gone slack from the steering wheel, settling upon his thighs instead. He’s a little embarrassed to be called out so bluntly. He’s gotten used to other agents treating him like he’s tough shit; he forgot, for a moment, what it must feel like to be you. Back when he was still a rookie cop, Leon recalls being eager to prove himself. Of course, his first day was perhaps the shittiest first day in the history of all of mankind, but — if he’s being honest with himself — you’re far more skilled than he was back then. 

Suddenly, Leon laughs. Not a hearty, full-body laugh, but a breathy chuckle — it’s the most you’ve ever heard out of him, anyway. Your eyes dart back to Leon in surprise.

“Huh? What?” You wonder, eyes sparkling under the dim streetlight outside the car.

Leon stares back at you, and suddenly the tension he created has twisted into something else. It settles close to his heart, wedged just beneath his sternum — but it travels lower, too, a weight that heats up low in his stomach like a simmering pot. 

“Nothing,” he says at first. Upon seeing your unconvinced expression, Leon tries again: “I don’t hate you.”

You blink, surprised. “Really?”

“Really.” He swallows, glancing aside briefly. “I just wish you were a little more focused.”

“I’m extremely focused, Agent Kennedy.”

Although you don’t say it flirtatiously, Leon can’t help the heat in his loins when you call him Agent Kennedy with an adorable level of formality — a formality he has long put up as a divide between you and him. Now, that formality feels painfully ridiculous. 

He swallows, rubbing his thighs, still not meeting your eyes directly. “Right.”

You tilt your head, eyes darting from his hands to his face. “You shouldn’t doubt my skills.”

“I know.”

“And I am very skilled.”

“I’m sure you are.”

A beat of silence. The tension is back with a vengeance, thicker now, tinged with something that has you pressing your thighs together.

“Leon.”

He can’t help himself when his breath catches. The formality is gone in an instant, crumpled with the sound of your softened voice alone. Leon reluctantly faces you, and he has to hold his breath when your face catches the flickering yellow light of the streetlamp. The rain has made everything hazy and dim around them, but Leon sees you in full clarity.

“Yeah, rookie?” His voice cracks. 

You smile. “We’re not being timed, are we?”

Leon is so taken aback that he flinches. With a slight stammer, he manages to reply: “What? No.” He pauses, trying to reel himself in before he can start thinking about reclining that seat of yours even more. “Don’t get any ideas.”

“Ideas? Like what?” You ask innocently, batting your lashes. “I was just asking. Professional curiosity.”

“Curiosity killed the cat.”

“Well, there’s something purring in here, and it’s certainly not the Porsche.”

Leon chokes on his own spit. He rips his gaze away from you. Your stupid little innuendo shouldn’t work him up this much, and yet, his body responds. Your desire is infectious, spurring on his own, not unlike the biohazards he so often deals with.

“We have a mission,” he reminds you — though, really, he’s trying to remind himself. You’re his trainee. You’re younger than him. If anyone finds out that Leon Kennedy screwed his subordinate — on a mission, no less — he would surely be crucified. 

You roll your eyes, rubbing your thighs together. It’s cute how he tries to pretend he isn’t obviously hard in his pants right now, but you’re getting impatient. 

“This is a life or death mission, Leon,” you sigh. “It could be my final hours. I’d like to enjoy them.”

Leon tenses, forcing his eyes back to you. “Don’t joke about that,” he mutters sharply — and this time, you know you’ve truly crossed a boundary. You press your lips together, nodding slowly.

“Okay,” you murmur, “but the fact remains.”

It’s deathly quiet in the car. Aside from the rain pouring down on the roof of the Porsche, there’s not a sound to be heard. You almost think Leon might refuse you again or straight up kick you out of the vehicle, but then he scoffs, shaking his head as he glances out the front window.

“I’m getting too old for this shit,” he grumbles to himself.

Before you can probe him about whatever that means, Leon clicks his seatbelt free. He leans over, swiftly shifting his weight whilst his hands fly to you — one to cup your jaw, and the other to unfasten your seatbelt.

His mouth meets yours in a firm kiss. Despite your instigating, it’s still a shock to you when Leon actually follows through. Once the shock wears off, though, you’re closing your eyes and tugging at the front of his form-fitting black shirt. You pull him as close as the vehicle will allow without him climbing into the passenger seat with you. Leon trails his hand from your jaw to your neck to your chest, cupping your breast through your shirt. With a moan, the muscles in your thighs go tense; you press your mouth against his even harder. Your teeth nip at Leon’s lower lip. He groans, squeezing his hand around your breast harshly enough to make you gasp.

He keeps kissing you, sliding his tongue just past your lips — enough to ask permission — before you respond in kind. One of your hands dares to travel down, skirting over his stomach — he twitches from the touch — until you find his belt. With just one hand, you manage to unhook the buckle, loosening the strip of leather around his waist. The act is so impressive that Leon actually pulls away from the kiss to narrow his eyes at you.

“How did you—?”

“I’m skilled,” you remind him. “Highly skilled.”

He hums, amused. “Not bad for a rookie.”

You roll your eyes, already working at his zipper to slip your hand down the front of his boxers. His breath gets caught in his throat.

“I hate when you call me that,” you mutter, “like I’m inferior to you.”

“You— fuck— You are my subordinate,” he rasps, his hips jerking forward when you palm his length. When precum leaks from the tip, he grits his teeth. “...But I’ll stop. For you.”

You smile, kissing him on the corner of his mouth. “Oh? Just for me, huh? Good boy.”

Leon’s cock twitches in your hand. He blushes from head to toe, hardly able to restrain a full-body shudder. “I’m not a boy,” he gripes.

“Okay,” you muse, unconvinced. You abruptly pull your hand out of his pants, leaving him without the pleasurable friction you so politely offered. “Prove it. Fuck me like a man.”

Leon isn’t keen on losing this battle.

The older agent abruptly shoves your shoulder until you’re leaning back in the passenger seat. You let out a startled sound that almost makes him laugh, followed by another sound when he crawls over to the passenger side, reclining your seat all the way back. He plants his knees on either side of your hips, looking down at you.

“You make a lot of noises,” he mutters, beginning to loosen your pants. “Are you always this loud?”

With a huff, you let Leon take over, watching him with hooded eyes. “Well, you’ll just have to find out, won’t you?”

He grunts, his face hovering over yours. “Guess so.”

The second his hand slips into your underwear, you let out a shuddering breath.

You’re already wet, which is no surprise to Leon — you were begging him to fuck you, for god’s sake — but he is surprised when his fingers slip between your folds by accident the second he touches you. It’s slick enough to get lost down there if he’s not careful.

“Jesus,” he mutters, grazing his fingers over your cunt. Your hands fly up to grip his arm for stability. “Don’t think I’ve ever felt a pussy this wet. Might drown in it.”

Your hips jerk upward when his thumb briefly circles your clit. His stupid joke is willfully ignored in favor of a whimper, your nails digging into his biceps. “Please,” you beg, “I’m gonna cum.”

“Already?” Leon scoffs, barely dipping a finger inside your hole before removing it. “I’ve hardly touched you.”

“Leon—” You’re about to angrily protest when his finger teases you again, this time sinking up to his knuckle. You choke on a moan, tossing your head back and shifting your hips. With a desperation that awes him, you attempt to get off on his finger alone, trying to create enough friction with a single digit. Leon feels his cock twitch in anticipation.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he rasps. “Gotta get you ready.”

“I’m ready,” you pant, still canting your hips against his middle finger.

“No, let me—”

“Leon.” Your stern voice returns, barely sheathed by the lust overtaking you. “I’m ready. Please.”

His gray eyes meet yours, and he knows there’s no room for protest. 

Leon drops down to kiss you again whilst shoving his pants down. You assist him when he moves to yours, next; you lift your hips enough to let your jeans slide down, anchoring yourself with your arms around his neck. Leon hooks his finger — the one that was just inside you — around the elastic of your underwear, tugging those halfway down your thighs. It’s just enough for him to lower his body, guiding the head of his length to your dripping cunt. He teases your folds one more time, dragging the tip over your leaking slit, lathering his cock with your slick. 

You both watch with baited breath as Leon nudges his way into your entrance. A soft breath escapes his lips — a sound of pure, unfiltered pleasure — as he slowly buries the first inch inside you. He holds his length steady as he gently rocks his hips, easing another inch in with every slow thrust.

“Leon…” His name leaves your mouth in a low, breathless murmur.

“I know,” he murmurs, meeting your volume as if you’re whispering in a movie theater. “I’m getting there. Have a little patience.”

Much to his surprise, you withhold your protests for the time being. All he hears from you now is your soft, breathy gasps every time he sheathes himself fully within your cunt. The radio is still playing faintly, but the older agent is hardly focused on the sound. He prefers your moans and whimpers and sighs, the way you cling to his shoulders, how your chests rub against each other. He eventually slips his hand under your shirt, pushing the hem up to your collar. He fucks you slow whilst his hand goes to your back, and — in record time — he unfastens your bra, tugging one of the cups down to knead at your breast. 

With a husky laugh, you speak against his mouth. “Nice work,” you praise.

Leon manages to chuckle. “Highly skilled,” he mutters, echoing your earlier words.

You toss your head back against the seat when he tucks his head down to latch his mouth onto your breast. His tongue presses flat against your pebbled nipple; you arch into the contact, feeling his hot breath and wet muscle circle the sensitive skin. Your fingers fly to his hair, giving the silver strands a harsh tug.

“Fuck,” you moan. Your hips jerk upward to meet his; if your jeans weren’t caught at your knees, you’d lift your legs up to pull him closer. Unfortunately, your movements are restricted. 

On the bright side, Leon seems to know just what you need.

He wraps an arm around your middle, holding his weight up with just one elbow on the leather seat. He fucks you more insistently, sucking your nipple and swirling his tongue around the bud as he thrusts deeper. You can see why he wanted to get you ready on his fingers — the stretch is almost painful when he hits so deep like this. You feel dizzy with lust, though, high enough on your own hormonal needs that the pain is practically nonexistent. Your body leans into his every touch, aching for more, faster, harder — you make your wants known not through words, but with every flutter of your cunt around his cock and the steady stream of whines bursting from your throat.

Leon finally pops his mouth off your nipple, turning back to you for a heated kiss. Something snaps in you; with his thrusts, the friction between your bodies, and the heat rising within the car, you orgasm. Your walls squeeze around his cock, locking around him in a vice grip. He groans into your mouth, slowing the roll of his hips. He hasn’t come yet, but you’re sure he’s close, given his twitching cock. 

“Come inside me,” you plead, the words crashing together into a barely-coherent mumble. “Please, please—”

Leon drops his forehead against yours. With a few more harsh thrusts, he shoots his load inside you, spilling out heavily. You gasp with every spurt of his seed that fills your aching heat.

Still, even after Leon pulls out of your sensitive hole, you’re not done. You don’t let him leave completely, one hand still gripping his hair while the other catches his forearm.

“More,” you pant, nudging your nose against his. “Please. I’m not done yet.”

With a harsh swallow, Leon shakes his head, red-faced and glistening with sweat. “I’m gonna need a few minutes, sweetheart.” Realistically, he might need a week to get it up again, but that’s not something he’s about to get into explaining.

“Use your hand,” you whine, digging your nails into his skin. “I’ll make it up to you later.”

Leon pauses before ghosting his hand over your navel. “Later.” He says the word as if it’s foreign. His eyes narrow. “After the mission?”

You nod fervently. Leon’s jaw tightens. Then, he presses his fingers to your mouth, nudging your lips apart. You open up for him, sucking on the digits and swirling your tongue around them until he decides it’s enough.

“That means you have to listen to me,” he mutters, slowly letting his hand trail down to your cunt. “Don’t mess around. Ease up on the bad jokes.” He slips a single finger inside you. “You have to promise me you’ll be safe.”

You nod, staring up at your superior with fluttering lashes. “I promise. I’m a good agent, aren’t I?”

Leon hums. He lets a second digit fill you, thrusting them inside your sopping hole right up to the knuckle. When he gets a whimper out of you, he rewards you with a response.

“You are. You’re good. Good enough to keep around, if you play your cards right.”

Leon fucks you with his fingers. The rain outside is barely enough to drown out the loud, wet slap of his hand against your cunt, of the collection of cum currently nestled inside your hole. Your walls flutter again when he hooks his fingers, pressing against a sensitive, spongy spot that makes your hips jerk against his palm.

“Gonna cum again for me, agent?”

You nod, blubbering out something that sounds like a ‘yes’ before your brows knit together. You orgasm for the second time, gushing around his dexterous fingers until you have to shove his hand away to avoid overstimulation.

After a moment to collect yourself, you sigh, meeting Leon’s content expression with your own look of satisfaction. 

“You know,” you breathe, “I prefer when you call me ‘agent’ as opposed to ‘rookie.’”

Leon cracks a smile. 

“I’ll make sure you get that promotion, sweetheart.”

fancy some more?

It's past midnight when he walks through the door. You've been busy all night, but things are finally starting to wind down, the customers that frequent the small establishment slowly trickling out until only a few remain. None of them are your regulars, and given how empty the doorway has been, you're honestly considering calling it a night and going home early. The past few days have been hellish, full of people who didn't do a damn thing to turn you on, and you'd love nothing more than to sink into a warm, cozy bed and drift off to sleep. Tonight, you've been roaming the floor for the past hour without getting anything- everybody is either interested in another one of the workers or entirely fixated on the dancers.

It's not that you don't like your job- you do. Sure, being a stripper isn't the most flattering form of work, but the bills are paid. That's all that really counts these days. Your pride has long since been discarded in favor of earning hefty tips from the sleazy guys who are dumb enough to believe that you'd actually be into them. You put on a good show, of course, but if it weren't for the money? Not a fucking chance.

You like it that way. Hardly any of your clients go beyond the intimacy of a private dance, mainly because you don't let them, reserving that for your favorites. But you haven't met someone who turns you on in a long while, and without the occasional thrill of a real good time from a customer, you're starting to get bored. The days are blurring together, nothing separating the good days from the bad ones, if there even is such a thing anymore.

You're on your way to ask your boss if you can get off early when you hear the bell ring. You groan internally, realizing that you're the only one on the floor who isn't occupied, meaning if this client is interested, they're yours.

Damn it.

So much for an early night.

You're midway through praying to whatever God is out there that this client tips well when you turn and actually lay eyes on them. The moment you do, your mind goes blank, your prayers long forgotten as your thoughts become consumed by him.

He's older- much older. Pushing sixty, at least. It's not inherently a bad thing, but typically the older they are, the more entitled they become.

You're not usually into older men, finding them self-centered, greedy, unable to keep up with your desires; but you're not even ashamed to admit that this stranger could ask you to do just about anything and you'd probably agree in a heartbeat.

The man is tall, big, his muscular form obvious even underneath the suit and tie he wears. His salt and pepper hair is short, accompanied by a scruffy beard you're certain would feel like heaven against your thighs. His tie is loose, his top button undone, and he's got on a pair of dollar-store glasses that he hasn't even pulled the tag off of. There's a weight to him, an exhaustion that seems to have infiltrated the deepest parts of his soul, as if he's seen things you couldn't even begin to fathom- and yet, he's here, seeking some semblance of relief.

Lucky for him, you know exactly how to give it to him.

He looks around like he's lost, the colorful lights and sultry music overwhelming, the center stage where your coworkers get dollar bills thrown at their feet foreign to him. By the time you've made your way over, your legs moving of their own accord, he's turning to leave. "Hey." You call out, and he stops, turning back around to face you.

He's even bigger up close, and his eyes roam over your form almost shamefully before finally meeting your own. "I was just leaving." His voice is rough, a little scratchy, and while you're sure it's supposed to be intimidating, all it does is further fuel the heat pooling between your legs.

"So soon?" You look up at him with a doe-eyed gaze you're well aware makes men weak in the knees.

"I shouldn't be here." He says, but he doesn't walk away from you.

You move a little closer so your breath is fanning across his neck, your voice dripping with suggestion. "I could show you a good time."

"Listen, sweetheart, I've got-"

Sweetheart.

"Let me take care of you." You lean up to whisper in his ear. Your breath is hot against his skin, your mouth tantalizingly close, and you can feel the way he twitches slightly- an exercise of self-control.

A moment passes, two, and he lets out a long breath. "Fuck, darlin'." He reaches out, hesitant to touch, as if he's not sure how this works, doesn’t want to cross some invisible line he hasn’t learned exists. You take his hand, guiding it to your waist, reaching up to put one hand on the back of his neck. "You sure know how to get a guy wrapped around your finger."

In response, you give a coy smile, taking his tie in one hand and giving it a soft tug. He allows you to guide him, pulling him along by the tie you're sure he has a million ideas of what to do with.

You lead him into a private room, pulling the curtain closed behind you, letting his tie slip out of your grasp. His eyes dart around for a moment, but then you're in front of him again, reaching up and sliding his blazer off of his shoulders. You hang it up on the wall, then return, now slowly guiding him backwards and giving him a gentle shove into the leather chair near the wall. He raises an eyebrow as you circle him, leaning in from behind to whisper in his ear. "Just relax." You murmur, letting your lips graze his neck before pulling away. He leans back, eyes following your every move, a stare that feels like it could set you on fire.

You put on a good show for him- dancing, teasing, tantalizingly close, but never touching. Not yet. You can see the hunger in his gaze, the restraint it takes for him not to pull you down into his lap and keep you there. You give him a strip tease, taking off your bra and letting your breasts go free. His eyes roam over you, a murmured word, "Beautiful," leaving his lips, and that makes your already soaked panties drenched.

Then you give him a lap dance- and unlike most of the men you meet, he doesn't touch, doesn't paw at you. Instead he waits, lets you set the pace, doesn't do anything without your permission. Your hands go to his tie, undoing it at a speed you know is killing him, tossing it aside.

Finally, you rest yourself entirely on his lap, and whisper in his ear. "You can touch now, if you want to."

His hands immediately settle on your hips, like they belong there. You grind down against him, feeling him tense beneath you at the friction against his clothed cock. You repeat the motion, relishing in the groan it elicits from him. His grip on your hips tightens slightly, and he begins to guide your motions, pressing you down against his thigh in a way that makes you moan. It's a small, soft sound, but it still makes him smile. “Atta girl, that’s it.” He huffs approvingly. You keep going, feeling yourself almost get lost in the rhythmic movement before you come back to your senses.

Your hands move to the collar of his shirt, slowly beginning to undo the buttons, revealing his toned chest. You only get about halfway down before his hands are gripping your wrists, and your protest dies on your lips when he leans up and kisses you.

He tastes like cigar smoke and whiskey, a blend that should be uncomfortable but is somehow pleasant. His tongue slips into your mouth, tangling with yours as he pulls you closer. By the time he finally pulls away for air, you're dizzy, flushed.

A kiss- almost as personal as a name.

You've never met a man who could make you feel like this- and certainly not without getting all your clothes off first.

His words snap you out of your breathless haze. "Let me touch you, baby." His voice is both a plea and a demand, and who are you to deny him such a request?

A simple nod is all it takes before his hands are on you, roving over your breasts with an appreciative groan. You can't help the way your hips rock against him, and one of his hands goes down to your ass, encouraging you to grind against him again. His other hand rolls your nipple between his thumb and index finger, while his mouth leaves sloppy kisses along your neck, down to your breasts.

You bury your face in his neck, breathing him in. His head comes up from your chest to whisper in your ear as he keeps your hips moving back and forth, his other hand alternating between your breasts. His skin muffles your moans, but you know he won't let you hide those pretty sounds from him forever. "You're so perfect." His words don't exactly do you any favors in the 'keeping your composure' department. "Sweet, pretty thing like you..." He nips at your earlobe, making you gasp softly. "You got no idea what you do to me."

Those words snap you back a little, remind you of your promise to take care of him. You raise your head up, leaning back a little to meet his eyes. "Then show me." Your hands reach down towards his belt, and this time, he doesn't stop you. Instead, his gaze roams over you as you unbuckle it, slowly pull it out of the loops of his pants, toss it aside, letting it join the other discarded articles littering the floor. You undo the buttons, then pull his pants down.

Even through his boxers, you can clearly see the outline of his aching hardness. You gently take him in your palm, running your hand along him through the fabric, watching the way his eyes flutter. Then you adjust yourself so you're grinding on him again, thin layers of clothing the only thing separating the two of you.

You go on like that for a little while, keeping track of every little sound he makes, every hitch of his breath and shudder that goes through his body. Then you lean back, pulling his boxers down, freeing his cock from the confines of his clothing.

Immediately, your mouth waters. He's huge, the biggest you've ever seen, and you find yourself wondering if you even can take him.

You push that thought aside for now, swiping your thumb across his tip, smiling to yourself at the groan that leaves him. You repeat the motion, letting precum gather on your fingers as you begin to move your hand up and down, up and down. You start slow, stroking him gently, then gradually increase your pace. Midway through, you grab a condom with your other hand, keeping eye contact as you open the wrapper with your teeth. You roll it onto him in one smooth motion, earning a startled grunt. His head falls back, his breaths coming unevenly, and it takes him a while before he can manage a coherent sentence.

"Fuck, you treat every guy like this?" Even with all the energy he can muster, the words are still a little short.

Your smile widens, and you lean in to press a kiss against the vein of his throat. "Only the good ones."

His mouth opens, as if to argue with the notion that he's anything good, but your ever-faster movements silence any protests that could have come from him.

You can tell he's getting close, and you slow down, letting him breathe a little slower as you whisper a soft question. "Where do you want me? You want my mouth, you want-"

Your words are cut off by his hand cupping your clothed mound, a gasp escaping you. "I want this." His voice is rough, and this time, it's not a plea. He leans in, his breath hot against your ear as you unconsciously begin to move against his hand, chasing any friction he can give you. "I think it's a little unfair, seeing how I'm all out in the open and you've still got these," His thumb hooks in the waistband of your panties. "Separating me from you, hmm?

You don't even answer, just raise your hips up slightly so he can tug your lingerie down your legs until it falls and hits the floor. Immediately, his gaze lands on your exposed cunt. "Jesus, you're soaked." He murmurs, running his fingers through your slick. You whine as he brushes against your clit, and he chuckles. "Need me that bad, huh?"

"Need you." You whine. You can tell he wants to take it slow, to tease you, and by god do you want to let him- but you're impatient, your own teasing having riled you up too much to do anything but fuck him. Luckily, he picks up on your silent request, raising your hips to hover above his cock. His gaze searches yours, waiting for permission, and you nod. "Fuck me." You say softly, and it takes everything in him not to come completely fucking undone at that sweet tone of voice.

Slowly, painfully slowly, he lowers you down onto him. It burns, in a delicious way you've come to love in your years here. Even with the sheer amount of wetness coming from you, it's still a struggle to make him fit- but he does. When you've finally sank all the way down onto his cock, he lets you breathe for a moment. "You can take it, baby." He murmurs reassuringly- a support and a chance for you to back out. You close your eyes, breathing in and out, resting your face in the crook of his neck again.

Then you start to move.

It takes him by surprise, and you like the grunt that comes from him. For someone of his age, you're sure not much can catch him off guard anymore, so that makes it all the better when you lean back to see the look on his face. He catches your small smirk and returns it with one of his own, letting you move yourself up and down, over and over. Your pace slowly increases as the two of you adjust, and the room is soon filled with soft noises and the sound of flesh against flesh.

It's slow, almost sensual, but despite the circumstances that should have you turning this in another direction, you like it. You feel that familiar coil building in your stomach, your soft whimpers turning to moans now.

"You gonna come for me, baby?"

All you can do is nod, and he rocks his hips up into yours. The way he fills you up is mind-numbing, until you can't think of anything else but him and how fucking good he's making you feel, how badly you need to come undone on his cock.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck-" Your voice takes on a sharp pitch as he thrusts up into you, and your vision goes white for a moment as your orgasm hits you, unending bliss shaking your whole body. He rides out your orgasm for as long as he can, but the tight feeling of your cunt clenching around him soon sends him over the edge too. You can feel him twitching inside you, only prolonging the aftershocks of your own pleasure.

Eventually, you both come down. You're breathing heavily, trying to scramble together any semblance of thought. He stands suddenly, picking you up like you weigh nothing and setting you down on the chair. His cock slips out of you at some point during the process, leaving you feeling empty. You sit there for a moment before opening your eyes, finding him pulling his pants up and buckling his belt. He meets your gaze with a hint of a fond smile, bending over to grab his tie.

You stand up to retrieve your own clothes, pulling them back on while he shoves his arms through the sleeves of his blazer and rifles through his pockets, eventually pulling out his wallet. "Um, how much do I owe you?"

He looks almost embarrassed, and you find it kind of adorable. You flash him a smile, saying words you never thought you'd dare to let pass your lips. "Nothing. It's on me."

Immediately, his eyebrow shoots up. "No, I can't... I can't let you do that, pretty girl."

You shake your head. "I insist. Nobody's ever fucked me like that, and certainly not any of my clients." You see the way your words boost his ego- good. He deserves it. "Besides, if you hadn't showed up, I'd have gone home anyway." You say nonchalantly, taking a few steps over to him. You reach up and put a finger to his lips before he can continue to argue. "It's on the house."

Although he still looks conflicted, he reluctantly nods. "Okay. Next time, then."

Next time.

You feel a thrill run through your body as he brings up the prospect of a next time, and your smile widens. "Next time." You affirm. You step back, letting him be on his way.

He moves towards the curtain, pausing before he goes. "See you around, sweetheart."

And just like that, he's gone.

But you don't miss him- because you know he'll be back.

“Do you want to be remembered?”

You clung on to the strap of your backpack. You were looking upon a bridge, staring as the traffic lights blur and the noises from the vehicles below fill your ears. 

It was an invasive question. One that you were baffled at. Who did this man think he is? Asking you something so personal? So… straight to the point? 

You crossed your arms. “…why’re you asking?” You leaned against the railing. “Isn’t the answer obvious?”

Of course you wanted to be remembered. Who wouldn’t?

You and your friends had gone for a trip in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. The last time you’d ever be together. They were all headed to different areas in their lives which end up with them feeling fulfilled, happy, remembered. 

They were talking about their futures and you just couldn’t handle it. They went ahead and you stayed behind. Not even a single text as to asking where you were. 

Getting married, having a family, going to grad school, getting a new house and job… and where were you? Just a girl with no passion, no dreams, nothing to be remembered by. 

“You can be remembered.” You turn to him, your eyebrow raising. 

“What does that mean?”

“Have you heard of OXE?” You shake your head. The man chuckles and you feel a chill crawl up your spine. “Well, we’re investing in a program called the Sentry Project. It could make you get better, become the best version of yourself,” he whispers in your ear, his hands on your shoulders. “be remembered. Don’t you want that?” He smiled. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “We have an… experimental drug. It could help you get everything you’ve ever wanted with just a prick.

You freeze. You didn’t know what to say. A part of you didn’t want to indulge in this ‘project’. How could it get any better? “I don’t believe you.” 

“Trust me. Can’t get any worse, right? Isn’t that what you’re thinking?” The man smiled. You looked away and he let you go. He slipped a paper in your hand. An address, you realize. “You know where to find us.”

When he walked away, you turned your attention back to the street below. The same noise took over your senses, louder than before. You stare at the paper in your hand.

How worse could it get? Could be a job. God knows you need it.

You hear a sharp exhale of breath. Your head quickly turned around, thinking it was the guy again. 

No, it was another man. One with brown messy hair, a denim jacket and a black shirt. He stared at you for a bit. Did he know who you were? Did he overhear everything?

“Uh, hi… Are you okay?” He gestures to the edge of the bridge. “You looked upset. I wanted to check up. See what was wrong. And make sure you don’t…” he trails off. The implication was not lost on you.

You blinked in confusion before awkwardly smiling. “Yeah, I am. Thanks for the concern. I wasn’t planning on it.” 

The nervous man’s smile turned more authentic. “Good.” He nods. “I don’t like having people feel like they’re alone. It’s… not a good feeling.” His face flushed and he turned another way. “Good night…” 

You look at spot where he was standing. You couldn’t help but wonder what he was doing all alone at this hour near the bridge. You turned your attention to where he ran off. 

“Good night,” you mumble to the cold wind. 

Maybe you won’t be remembered. But you’ll remember him.

——

You weren’t the best when it came to doctor’s appointments so you weren’t even sure why you agreed to this in the first place. You entered OXE’s Research Facility, sitting in a chair as you were handed a consent form. 

You think about it, the pen tapping on the paper. You don’t read it but you don’t sign it either. You just stare into space, thinking about your options. There’s no way this was the only route, right? 

But if you thought there was another option, why were you even here? 

You grumble to yourself, ignoring the sound of a chair scraping the floor. Ignoring the person sitting next to you.

A familiar voice chimed in. “Robert, there you are! And… the lady from the bridge! I’m glad you came too.” 

You stared up at the man. The same man on the bridge. Robert? Who was he talking to? You turn your head to see the familiar brunette. His name was Robert. 

“Bob,” he corrected, his hands balling into fists. He handed the consent form over to the man. 

“Quick, aren’t you? I like that.” The man averts his attention from Bob to you. “What about you? You’re ready?”

You stare at the clipboard again. The nerves you had when coming to this facility didn’t go away. In fact, they got worse once you finally sat down. There was something off about this. You couldn’t put your finger on it. 

The pen touches the paper.

Then you hear a notification coming from your phone, you check it only to see your friends worrying about you, asking where you were, scolding you for being so impulsive and going out on your own.

They remembered you. They didn’t forget you. 

Maybe they were right. Your impulsivity would be the death of you one day. 

But not today. 

“Can I… opt out? I just realized I had to do something.” You asked the man, handing him back the form. “I’m not good with needles…” you scratch the back of your neck. “So I’d just be uncooperative… Might as well save you the trouble.”

The man clicks his tongue, looking disappointed before covering it with a carefree expression. “No worries. You take care!” He moves to Bob telling him all about the project. 

He was partly listening though. His attention was on you. The pit in your stomach grew. Your nerves only got worse. Your feet were glued to the floor.

Did Bob want you to say something? You think about yesterday. How he noticed your distress, how he worried for you despite being a stranger.

“You okay?” You asked him.

“I’m fine. Thanks.” Bob said it too quick to believable. You didn’t want to pry, maybe you were too much of a coward to do so. You were a stranger after all, only knowing Bob by his first name. 

“I remember you.” That was all you could say. You wonder if those words comforted him just as they would have comforted you. 

He says nothing in reply. The man ushered him deeper into the facility. Bob kept on looking back at you until he left.

What a strange guy. You hoped he’d get the answers he needed.

You quickly texted your friends, apologizing for what happened. You assured them that you’ll tell them everything once you get back. 

You didn’t need some drug to change. That’s what you hoped anyway.

You’ll be remembered. One way or another.

You hope that Bob guy knows that too.

——

You thought that’d be the last you see of OXE. Apparently not. Not when Valentina De Fontaine came knocking at your doorstep (figuratively) asking for you to report on her newest project behind the scenes.

You didn’t turn it down. You’re not an idiot. The news agency you work at wasn’t paying you much or giving you anything to work with. This could be your big break. You could finally do something on par with the rest of your friends.

You get to the old Avengers watchtower the day you’re needed and you meet up with her assistant, Mel. You fiddle with your notepad at your hand. 

“So,” you start, trying to get rid of the awkward silence. “What exactly is this project Valentina wants me to cover so bad?”

Mel avoids your eyes but she answers nonetheless, a look of surprise on her face. She leads you to the elevator. “She didn’t tell you?”

“Not exactly. But I do have a feeling.” With word going around about how she’s a part of OXE, it isn’t hard to put two and two together. “Is it about the Sentry Project?” You get inside the elevator shaft.

Mel chuckles. “I mean, how do you think we contacted you?” She clicks the level the two of you were supposed to be going to. “The Sentry Project was Val’s way to make the perfect superhero to replace the Avengers. Or be better than them.”

“So I could have been-“ 

She nods. “You could have been the Sentry.” You look down at the floor. She sensed your confusion and complicated feelings on the matter and awkwardly pat your back. “You’ll be in charge of interviewing him. You are early after all.” The elevator opens to the top floor. “But be warned, he’s a bit-“

You gasped at the sight. The superhero, the Sentry, had Valentina pinned to the wall by her throat. “You were gonna turn on me.” You hear him say. “Just like the rest of them.” 

You knew Valentina wasn’t the most popular person ever. Hell, she’s being judged by congress right now. But you didn’t expect a superhero to be at her throat. Literally. 

This Sentry figure, in his yellow and blue spandex and annoyingly blinding blonde hair, wasn’t what you usually thought when being a hero. This hero scared you. Maybe he was just tired of Valentina playing him like a fiddle. Maybe he had a good reason for it. 

But it still didn’t stop the fear you felt towards the man. The supposed hero.

Your fear grew when the strong hero that was supposed to be better than the Avengers fell to the ground like a marionette with its strings cut. You didn’t have it in you to scream. 

Valentina and Mel had ignored you, fleeing the crime scene like it never happened with you in the dust. 

You stare at Sentry, feeling bad for the hero. Was he even dead? Did heroes need someone to help them? You kneel down, nudging him softly. 

How can a normal person like you help this guy?

“You okay?” 

You got your answer as his whole body started to turn pitch black. 

That hero could be saved. But not by you. 

The new shadow figure that was once Sentry started floating in the air. He looked down at you. 

“Do you still remember?” He asks. He doesn’t give you time to answer.

It was just the void after that.

——

You gasp, jolting up from your sleep, rubbing your head. The same memories. They keep repeating. You look around and find yourself back at your apartment. Your alarm blaring just as you adjust your vision. 

You woke up the same time, late in the afternoon, everyday to go to the Avengers watchtower and interview the cast of misfits now known as the New Avengers. Valentina gave you that offer again as a way to fix the PR of the team’s past mistakes especially with lawsuit with Captain America’s Avengers on the rise.

You agreed. Not because you had any respect for Valentina but because you wanted to come face to face with Sentry. It was a secret around the team. None of them would tell you about him even when you become integrated in their small family. Yelena, Ava and John especially loved giving you conflicting facts about the blonde hero or say that he’d always leave the moment you came in the tower. 

They took joy in your frustration and you took anger in their antics. That said, even without Sentry, there was one person who you were glad to see once more.

Bob Reynolds. The same man who signed up for the Sentry Project with you. You were glad to see him again and he always made your day when you visited. When you asked him about Sentry, he didn’t like speaking on it. It’s gotten to the point where you thought he might be Sentry. 

You quickly shook away that idea from your head. Sentry was blonde. You saw pictures, videos and even scrapped merch from Valentina about Sentry and he was always blonde with golden eyes. That wasn’t Bob at all. You heard Yelena blew the facility up. You just assumed it was around the same time. You hope at least. You don’t like thinking about Bob getting hurt.

Everyday, you gather more clues, letting the New Avengers do whatever antics they need to. You wanted to talk to Sentry, pry harder, wonder why he turned into that void, how he’s still alive. 

John would always tease you about it. “You got a superhero crush or somethin’?” He’d ask with that smirk that made you want to punch him. Not like you’d do anything. He’s a super soldier, of course you wouldn’t. It’d feel good though.

You detested that idea just as you were walking to the watchtower, grumbling to yourself as you get in the elevator. “Walker always says the dumbest things. I’m just curious. I just… want to talk to him.” 

But you did wonder why you cared so much about one superhero. You weren’t much of a fan of the Avengers. You appreciated what they did for New York but you didn’t want to know them. Your interest in this didn’t even extend to other heroes like New York’s friendly neighborhood web-crawler.  

Why did you care so much?

Well, he did send New York in that void, you think to yourself as the elevator doors open. You’re greeted with John, Yelena and Ava on the couch, talking amongst themselves. No Alexei and Bucky in sight. You assume that was because of a mission. 

But what was even more worrying was the lack of Bob. Bob never went on missions since he was just a normal guy who got dragged into this mess. It was always the New Avengers and their friend, Bob. 

So where was he?

“Where’s Bob?” you ask before you could even realize it left your mouth. That caught their attention, they sat up straight, looking ready to fight until they realized it was you.

“Oh, hey.” John lazily gives you a salute before facing the other two. He freezes before whipping his head back to you. “Wait! You’re just the person he needs!”

“I’m what?” 

“Yeah!” Yelena snaps her fingers, turning to you as well. “You’re friends with Bob, right? You knew him before this whole mess?”

“Not really-“

“Well, you’re close to him now,” Ava interjects before you could finish your statement. She places her hand on your shoulder. “Look, something happened. Bob’s in a bad mood and we’re worried about him but he won’t let us in his room.” 

“He won’t come out!” John adds. “The guy’s basically been a shut in since early this morning.”

“Can you help him?” Yelena gets up from her spot on the couch, approaching you with concern in her eyes. “He’s our friend. He’s family. But he won’t talk to us. Maybe he’ll talk to you.” 

“What makes you think I could help?”

John laughs. “He likes you a lot. Like really- ow!” Ava hit the back of his head. “What? I’m just being honest…”

“You’re the one always here,” she supplied. “Naturally, he’d be closer to you than even any of us.” 

John jumps from his seat, already pushing you towards Bob’s room. “Come on, we don’t have all day!” You complain as he drags you there.

“Hey! Slow down, will you?!”

———

You knock on his door. You aren’t sure what to say. While you have seen Bob a lot, more than the other members of the team, you didn’t see him isolate himself like this. Your three companions were behind you, awaiting the reaction of the boy inside.

The door cracks open. The light in his eyes, already slightly dimmed, grew a tiny bit brighter upon seeing you. “Hey…” his voice was soft, vulnerable. “What are you-?”

“We’re worried about you,” you answer firmly, moving a bit to reveal his other friends behind him. His expression turns more unamused. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” It was rushed. Just like it was back then. A false sense of hope and reassurance. You place your foot in between his door so he doesn’t close it.

“A sleepover.” You suggest, your mouth talking over your mind. You turn back to the other three figures in the hallway. “You guys haven’t had a sleepover, right?” A beat passes. Their expressions answering your question for them. “Yeah, so we’ll just all sleep in Bob’s room!” You look back at Bob. “So you won’t be alone.” The words come out much softer. 

John shrugs his shoulders. “I’m fine with it.”

Ava lets out a breath. “Count me in. It’s a nice change of pace from usual.”

“I never had a sleepover.” Yelena chimed in. “Might be fun though. I see it in the movies.” She looks at Bob. “Will you be fine with it?” 

He looks away, contemplating something before nodding his head. “Yeah, I should be.” 

John nudges you with his arm. “Let’s hope this doesn’t make Bob worse.”

You glare at him then sigh. I hope so too.

——

You don’t think you’ve ever been part of a sleepover this awkward in your life. You lie down on the bed, staring at how the room just been silent ever since you all sat down around Bob’s room. 

Your attention goes to Bob. He’s been quiet. Too quiet. This wasn’t helping him by any means. You aren’t solving the issue. You were merely dancing around it. There’s something on his mind. You wanted to find out what. The only time you talked to each other was when he lent you his clothes to sleep in. 

His blue sweater is really comfortable- not the time! 

You had to get him alone. Then maybe he could enjoy this and smile with the rest of his friends. You look at the feet of the bed. A singular pillow. You throw it at John who stumbles back in confusion.

“What was that for?!” 

“A pillow fight. It’s what you normally do in sleepovers.” You explain.

“That’s dumb.” Ava rolls her eyes, grabbing the pillow that hit John. “How could this be enjoyable? It’s just hitting Walker with a pillow.”

Yelena sticks out her tongue, grabbing a pillow from the mattress and whacking it at Ava’s face. “Mmph!” The force makes her move back a bit. 

The blonde smiles. “Shit. That is kind of fun.” John throws a pillow her way. The one that hit him a while ago. 

That’s when the war started. All of them using their abilities to throw pillows at each other. Ava phasing through Walker to get Yelena, Walker using his strength to launch the pillows, Yelena dodging them with her reflexes. 

You see Bob crack a smile. His defenses were down. You hit his face with a pillow before dragging him to the balcony of his room. 

“They’re distracted,” you say, leaning against the railing. You felt a strange sense of deja vu. “Mind telling me what’s wrong?” You stare into the night sky, waiting for his response.

He stares at you for a while. “I don’t deserve you.” 

You shake your head. “That’s bullshit, Bob.”

“No, it’s not! I’ve been lying to you!” He slams his hands on the railing, holding it tight, almost leaving a dent. Wait what? His eyes turn a slight shade of golden. “If you knew what I’ve been keeping, you wouldn’t look at me the same.”

You felt like the dumbest person in the world. “You’re Sentry?” He nods. Your mind goes blank. All the things you wanted to ask, everything you wanted to say, it all goes out the window as you stare at your friend who looked like the world was closing in on him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You were the only person I had before I became… me. I didn’t want to lose that.” He looks up at the sky. “But I didn’t want you to be scared of me too.” 

“I’d never be,” you assert. “That can’t be it though. Is it? I know you lied but you probably knew I’d understand.”

He chuckles woefully. “You’re too kind to me.” He wipes his teary eyes. “I have to hone my powers. Some new multiversal threat is coming and this team needs the Sentry. In order to control it, Valentina thought I had to play the part of the hero so she always told me to imagine the world, the team, you… in trouble, in pain, on the brink of death. She thinks if I’m in a situation where you’re at harm. I’ll be the Sentry again.” More tears start to come out, you wrap an arm around his shoulders. “It’s better if I were just Sentry than Bob. Maybe I’ll be useful that way. Remembered that way. That’s what she tells me.” 

“I remembered you,” you confess. “Not as Sentry, not even as that weird void that took over New York. But you. My friend, Bob. That guy who asked a stranger if she was okay. I always remembered you.”  You let him lean his head on your shoulder. “I think that’s the real hero. You.” 

“That won’t stop the world from getting destroyed.”

“No, but you don’t need to change who you are. It must be awful going through that alone. But you’re not.” You smile at him. “You have a team. Hell, you got another Avengers team in New York. Even other superheroes. Of course you can’t take a threat down on your own. You need other people. No one fights alone.” 

“Huh.” Bob starts to crack a smile. 

“You’ll be fine. You have people to remember you by.” He doesn’t respond. He simply stares. You don’t mind. The calm and quiet was good in contrast to what was going on inside his room. 

You continue to look back at the sky. Stargazing was a sleepover activity your friends did from time to time. You thought it’d only be fair to bring that tradition to your new friends too. 

“Man, never noticed how lovely the view is from up here. It’s amazing.”

Not when you brought the water to his desk, or for the rest of the day. When you got in the next morning, he was already at his desk, but didn’t do more than mumble a good morning. His shoulders had squared and rippled, when you’d walked past.

You’d gone to the bathroom, and made sure you didn’t reek of something rancid. Maybe there was a sulfur leak in your apartment and you’d just gotten used to it. Maybe you’d stepped in dog poop on the train and no one’s told you.

“Do I smell bad?” You’d asked Jimmy, and he’d looked at you like your were crazy.

“I don’t know? I don’t go around smelling people like a- A serial killer-“

“I’m not asking you to smell me like a serial killer.” You’d hissed, leaning down to block him in his chair. “I’m asking you to smell me like a friend, Lois smells me all the time-“

“Then go ask Lois!”

“Lois is in Gotham, I can’t ask Lois-“

“Then ask Clark, he’ll be happy to smell me-“

“I can’t ask Clark.” You’d whined. “Come on, please smell me-“

Jimmy had eyed you suspiciously. “If this is some weird mating dance, I’m not interested-‘

“It’s not a mating dance!”

“It seems like a mating dance-“

“It’s not-“ You’d shaken your head. “Just stop being a fucking pussy and smell me!”

Someone had cleared their throat behind you. Jimmy’s eyes had widened, fixed right over your shoulder, and you’d known who it was before you turned.

You know that low, controlled sound. You know the rush that his attention brings, and the shiver up your spine whenever he’s close. You close your eyes tight, breathing through your nose, and turn to Clark with a plastered smile.

“Hi, Clark! No one was trying to smell anyone-“

You cut yourself off when you see him. You almost forget how to speak.

He’s a wreck. Curly hair is plastered to his brow, his white button up is more sweat stains than dry spots, and there’s a vein pushing out of his neck that seems painful. His glasses keep trying to slip off his nose, and he’s shifting like even just standing is uncomfortable. He’s pale and red all at once, ruddy in his face and paper white in his fists. The flush deepens near his neck, and returns to his arms right before the cut off of his rolled up sleeves. He’s breathing through his mouth.

His eyes are black, and gleaming.

You scramble away from Jimmy, yanking yourself back from going to press a hand to Clark’s brow.

Clark takes a jagged, stumbling step back.

You look back to Jimmy, and he gives you a tight shake of his head. He doesn’t know what to do either. You’ve never seen Clark with so much as a paper cut, and now it looks like he needs a hospital.

“Hey, buddy.” Jimmy tries, voice soft. Like he’s speaking to a feral animal. “You feeling alright?”

Clark jerks his head to Jimmy, and his nostrils flare. Like he’d almost forgotten Jimmy was there.

Jimmy leans back. And you know he doesn’t mean to. It’s Clark. The softest, sweetest heart you know, shoved into a giant’s body.

But like this, Clark doesn’t look like a man. He looks like something that’s crawled out of your darkest wet dream. Like something that should be in the sky, fighting Superman. With the black eyes and sudden, jagged movements, he looks like an animal.

He looks dangerous.

And he doesn’t respond right away. Clark stares at Jimmy, breathing heavily, then squeezes his eyes shut. You and Jimmy exchange another worried look. If he’s been corrupted by something—in this world, you can’t rule anything out—and he attacks, you’re not sure you can fight him off. Emotionally or physically. Clark’s huge, he’d crush Jimmy with one fist and you’d be nothing but an annoying fly to be swatted across the room.

But whatever’s going on with Clark, he seems to drag it under control. He opens his eyes, and a thin ring of blue is back.

“I’m fine.” He rasps, staring at Jimmy. “Just- Didn’t sleep well. You know.”

Jimmy blinks. “No, uh- I don’t-“

Clark looks at you.

And you could swear the blue flickers, when your eyes meet.

“You smell good.” He mutters.

He turns like something’s dragging him, and walks away. You and Jimmy stand there for about three more minutes—in total baffled silence—before Jimmy’s mouth falls open.

“What the fuck is up with him?”

Nobody seems to be sure.

On Tuesday, he seems a little better. He eats lunch with you. Wheels his chair next to yours like usual while he’s editing, because you always catch typos he misses, and he’s a good reporter but not the best writer.

“You can’t use that word here.” You tap his laptop screen. He frowns.

“There are no other words I could use, though-“

“Corrupt?”

“But- Oh.” He sighs, hitting backspace. “See? That’s why you’re the expert.”

You laugh softly, and Clark gives you his usual small, almost shy smile.

“How’s your piece coming?” He asks kindly—always kindly—and you groan.

“Dogshit.”

“I’m sure it’s not that bad-“

“My main source backed out.” You grumble. “Like a little baby bitch. I can’t make this level of accusations again LuthorCorp without a source, it’s asking for a defamation lawsuit, and after the last one Perry would kill me-“

“But you won the last one.” Clark frowns, and you give him a pointed look.

“Yeah. Because I had a source.”

“Ah. Right.” He pauses, pushing his glasses slowly up his nose.

You watch the movement as subtly as possible. You love it when he does that. It’s a tiny, adorable quirk that makes you want to rip his hand away and push them up yourself.

“What if I said I have a source for you?” He asks softly, and you perk up.

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.” He grins. “You know, I’d think you’d have faith in me, I wouldn’t lie about that-“

“Shut up, I’m excited-“

“I can tell.” He boops your nose, and you stick your tongue out at him.

He does that all the time. He says you get a bunny nose when you’re excited about something, and then you hit him because nothing about you is bunny like.

Sometimes you say that, and he chuckles.

You have no idea. He mutters under his breath.

And sometimes he hits your nose, and your breath hitches because he touched you.

Today you keep it under control.

It’s Clark that freezes. Coughs and goes red, wheeling his chair an inch back. You frown at him, ready to ask what’s wrong, but he shakes his head like he’s already denying you an answer.

“It’s- Uh- Superman.”

You blink. “What?”

“Superman can be your source.” He grunts, shifting in his chair. “I can ask him to. For you.”

“I- You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

“I can find someone else-“

“No, I- I’ve got it.”

He stares at you. You stare back, heart swelling with something sweeter than you usually allow it to feel.

You’re used to your feelings for Clark. You try not to think about them, especially not in his presence. There’s no amount of love you’d risk your friendship for.

But he makes that rule hard to follow sometimes. When he starts being stupidly perfect.

You smile at him, wide and unrestrained. “Thank you.”

He nods—tight and jerked—stares for a long, long moment. He shoots to his feet.

“I have to go to the bathroom!” He announces to the whole bullpen.

Clark sprints away. Jimmy gives you a questioning look, and you shake your head.

He doesn’t come back for an hour. When he does, his face is wholly red again.

He’s back to not looking you in the eyes. Back to looking so sick you’re worried he might be going feral.

And you have no idea what to do.

Lois gets back on Wednesday, and the first thing she says to you is What’s up with Smallville? Perry corners you at your desk to ask if you’ve got any idea what’s Clark’s been up to that might be doing this to him. Steve loudly jokes that everyone should be placing bets on when Clark passes out. Cat keeps trying to bring him tea—a thin guise so she can suggest home remedies to whatever super hangover he has—and Clark always drinks it with shaking hands.

He listens to all her suggestions without interrupting, but whenever Jimmy suggests Urgent Care—you’ve given up on trying to get him to the ER—Clark grunts a sound like no and won’t hear another word.

You’re getting really worried. Everyone gets sick, but Clark’s always talking about his very good immune system.

And nobody gets sick like this. Legally, Perry should be making him go home, but no one can get close enough to confirm a fever, and it’s somehow not effecting his work performance.

“Clark.” You sit on the edge of his desk, keeping your voice soft. “You need to go to a doctor.”

His whole body locks up. His fingers freeze on his keyboard, and he bows his head like he’s in prayer.

“Clark-“

“Please.” He says, so quiet you almost miss it. “Back up.”

You blink. “Back up?”

He nods, and there’s a sting in your heart.

He hasn’t asked anyone else to back up.

But you slide off his desk, and take a single step back. Another, when he doesn’t relax from the first.

You clear your throat, tucking your hands behind your back. Clark lets out a heavy, ragged exhale, and looks up.

He still won’t fully meet your gaze. His darkened eyes are fixed right over your head, and you try not to let it hurt more than it already does.

“Clark.” You’ve lost a little bit of nerve. You try not to let him hear it. “The doctor-“

“I don’t need a doctor.” He tells the ceiling, and you sigh.

“You’re sick-“

“No. I’m not.”

“Dude, I- I can feel your fever from here.” The heat, rolling off his body like he’s an active star. “At least just go so they can say you’re not sick.”

He doesn’t answer. You almost take a step forward, before reeling yourself back. He doesn’t want you too close.

“Please?” You say. “It would make all of us feel better.”

That makes him look at you. For just a split second, barely a heartbeat, but long enough.

His eyes go wholly back. He wheels his chair backwards, like there’s something toxic coming off of you that he’s trying to avoid.

And it hurts. It hurts so much your face burns with shame, and your stomach does a sick clench of pain.

It’s never fun, for the man you’ve quietly been in love with for years, to look at you like you’re proximity might kill him.

The only thing that stops you from crying is worry for him.

But that’s not enough to hold back the crack in your voice.

“Clark- Please-“

He shakes his head, jaw clenching. You swallow, and take another step back.

“Oh- Okay. Sorry.”

You turn on your heels. Behind you, Clark rasps your name.

And you look back. You can’t help it.

But all he does is stare at you.

So you walk away.

Clark doesn’t come in on Thursday. Jimmy goes to check on him, but won’t report back on what he finds. When he gets back to the office, his face is bloodless and eyes wider than an owl.

“Is he-“

“He’s not sick.” Jimmy stares at you like you’re a ghost. “He’s- Um- We should- Give him space.”

You frown. “But-“

“Lots of space.” Jimmy mutters under his breath, already walking away. “And maybe me some bleach. Freakin’- Gross-“

Lois comes up next to you, watching Jimmy head into the bathroom. You’re wringing your hands, lips pressed in a painfully tight line, and Lois grabs your wrists.

“Don’t go visit him.”

You shoot her a glare. “I wasn’t going to-“

“Yes, you were.” She raises her brows. “Don’t.”

“But-“

“Don’t.”

“What if he needs something-“

“I texted his cousin. She knows what to do.”

“To…” You narrow your eyes, pulling your hands from Lois’ grip. “You know what’s going on with him, don’t you.”

Lois shrugs. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“Lois-“

“He’s going to be fine.” She says, giving you a firm look. “Don’t check on him.”

She walks away without another word.

On Friday, you go to Clark’s apartment.

You don’t go inside. Lois’ voice keeps ringing in your head, and while you’re more than willing to disobey her, it’s the way she’d said it.

Don’t.

His door is right there.

Lois’ voice fills the gaps in city noise. Pointed and direct. Almost hopeless. Like she knew you wouldn’t listen.

Don’t.

You made him soup, because you’re pathetic. He’d left his jacket at work on Wednesday, and you’d brought it home to clean up before returning it. You’d had a whole painted daydream made of pastels and watercolor, where you’d give Clark his jacket, he’d swoon with how romantic that is, and then kiss you.

But like real watercolor, the colors bleed and run. Blur together. It’s too fuzzy a picture to be reality.

You stand at his door. You don’t remember walking inside the building.

Don’t.

But you want to.

Don’t.

He could need someone, what if his cousin was busy, what if he’s been waiting for you to check on him-

Don’t.

Lois’ voice isn’t louder than your heartbeat. But it’s level. And your pulse is erratic in your throat and fingers.

And you keep seeing Clark’s face. Keep thinking of how he’d been stiffer than concrete, until you’d moved away.

He wouldn’t want to see you right now. He’d made that clear.

You put the soup and jacket on the doorstep, and ring the doorbell.

Before Clark can open it, you walk away.

On Saturday, you hole up in your apartment and work.

It’s a  distraction. Anything not to think of Clark. To think of how sick he is, how he might be in pain, how he might need help but not from you. How lately he can’t stand to be in the same room as you, and apparently everyone gets to know what’s going on with him except you-

You groan, tipping your head back against the couch.

This is exactly what you’re trying not to think about.

It’s hard, though. Impossibly hard. If only because you open your email, and see a bunch of messages from Clark. You open Teams, and his messages are pinned at the top. You send Jimmy something, and have to include Clark as a contributor. Lois sends you something, and Clark is CC’d.

He’s everywhere. You can’t stop checking your phone for a message, even if Jimmy says he’s basically out of commission. Can’t really do anything right now, he’d grumbled, making a sour face. Too… Sick.

He’d said it weird, but everything about this is weird.

Usually you’d talk to Clark about that.

You miss him.

Goddamnit.

Apparently, you’re very bad at not thinking about Clark.

You busy yourself. Clean the apartment, do the laundry, waste the day, don’t think about Clark.

He gave you this pencil. Let you borrow this  sweater, that you’ve been hoarding like a dragon with gold since. Sent you the cheesecake in the back of your fridge as a birthday present, and it had been horrible but you’d kept it anyway.

You lie flat on the floor, and fail not to think about Clark a little more. Maybe you should text him. Just so he knows you’re thinking of him. Or text Lois and ask for his cousin’s number, so you can ask her if he’s okay. Or let the anxiety fully overpower Lois’ voice in your head, and go visit him.

You’re about to go with that last option, when there’s a bang on your window. You shoot up with wide eyes, expecting a massive bird.

Instead you find Superman, standing in your fire escape. It’s hard to see him, in the shadows of dusk. His head is strangely bowed, his shoulders slumped in a way you’ve never seen on TV. Maybe he’s just more casual, when he’s doing home visits.

But why is he home visiting you.

Usually that would freak you out. This week, it’s just another fucking thing.

You open the window slowly, poking your head outside.

“Hello?”

Superman looks up at you, and your mouth goes dry.

He doesn’t look well.

Red and pale face, messed up hair, heaving chest. Clenched fists, sweat-slicken face, blown out eyes with barely a ring of blue-

Like Clark.

Just like Clark.

And it’s not just the ragged appearance. It’s something deeper. It’s the way he’s staring at you like he’s  worried you’re going to attack him. Like he’s restraining himself from moving, like you’re a repellant and he wants to fly away.

Or something else.

Without the glasses, there’s something else.

He looks desperate. The shadows on his face look longer. Maybe it’s just the sickness overtaking him, but he looks hungry. Desperate and starved. There’s an openness on his face that wasn’t there before. And he’s not looking at you like he’s afraid or skittish.

He’s looking at you like he’s a predator. Like you’re prey.

“Clark?”

“I’m here for your interview-“

You speak at the same time. Your voice is a breath. Superman—Clark? —pushes out his words like they hurt, and falters in a second.

He stumbles back like he’s been hit. You scramble forward to catch him, your body not worried about anything but Clark is going to fall.

Your hand wraps around his wrist. He makes a deep, rumbling sound from his chest. Almost a growl.

His eyes flutter. He moans out your name, trying to tug weakly away.

“Clark- Wait-“

Superman’s body goes slack, and he collapses in your arms.

At one in the morning on Sunday, too much is happening.

You put Clark—Superman? —in your bed. Took his temperature and dropped the thermometer in shock.

He’s burning at 150 degrees.

He should be dead. You’re not even sure how you touched him without burning up.

The thermometer clatters to the ground, and Clark shifts in his sleep. Groans out a garbled, pained noise that sounds like your name.

You swallow, hugging yourself tight. It’s hard not to reach out to him, but you don’t feel like you should. He hadn’t wanted you near him, and you’ve already crossed a few lines by putting him in your bed.

Then he moans, ripping the thin sheets off his body.

That time it was definitely your name.

Superman moaned your name.

You back out of the room slowly, with an embarrassing amount of effort. You can’t rip your eyes away from him.

Clark in your bed, calling for you and rolling around like a rutting beast. Whatever’s tormenting him isn’t enough to wake him up, but it’s enough to drive you out of your mind. You bite the inside of your cheek, and force yourself to close the door. It solves the looking at him problem.

It does nothing for hearing him.

And he’s loud. You’re lucky the apartments have thick walls between units, or you’d get a noise complaint. Clark is almost howling from his room, and whenever you give into temptation and go to check on him, he’s somehow managed to rip another item of clothing off in his sleep.

It starts with his top. The symbol on his chest gets torn to shreds, revealing a broad, flushed chest. He’s got a small happy trail. Muscles that you want to trace, and boobs that might be bigger than yours.

Your eyes wander to his abdomen. There’s a happy trail that leads down, down, down, and-

Oh.

That’s… Big.

You slam the door closed, and run back to the kitchen. Cold water does nothing against the heat building in your core. You splash it on your face and drink two glasses, but you might as well be downing sea salt. You’re thirstier than when you started.

The image seems to be burned behind your eyes. Clark’s bulge. Superman’s bulge.

You still haven’t really dealt with that.

Clark is Superman. Superman is Clark. You’re sure. You’ve spent the last hour on the couch, sketching out timelines and checking your work. The random disappearances in the middle of the day. How you’ve never seen him get drunk. The fact that he’s built like a Greek god but never works out, and whenever Jimmy asks him for a routine he just says grow up on a farm.  

And be a Kryptonian. That would probably also help.

To be sure—you have to be positive, before Superman wakes up and you start throwing around accusations—you cut out a pair of paper glasses and build up all your courage.

When you step into your room, it hits you like a tidal wave. The smell of sex, sweat and cum and something deeper. Clark’s ripped off his tights, and apparently the outside boxers are the only thing he’d been using for cover.

You don’t let yourself look. Your traitorous eyes try to, but you refuse to glance past his thick thighs. You won’t violate him like that. You’re here for confirmation, and nothing else.

Carefully, you wipe the sticky hair from Clark’s brow. His whole body shudders under your light touch, and he bucks up to chase your fingers when you pull away. A deep whine escapes from his lips, and you swallow.

Dear lord.

Very, very slowly, you put the paper glasses on his nose. He wrinkles it, trying to buck them off, but you plant a hand on his chest.

You don’t mean to. You move before you can think.

Clark relaxes. His body goes slack like putty, save for a single hand flying to your wrist, holding tight.

He could break you. He’s Superman. You’ve watched—albeit from afar—him pick up whole buildings. But his touch on you is light, as if you’re glass. His jaw relaxes. A purr rumbles under your hand, and his thumb starts to trace small circles.

You stare at him, every logical thought in your head evaporating in the heat of the room. The glasses confirmed exactly what you wanted them to.

Clark is Superman,

And somehow, that’s the least important thing that’s happening right now.

His brow is unfurrowed, his mouth hanging open as he pants out your name.

“Clark?” You breathe, and he moans.

This time, he calls your name. His eyes flutter in his sleep, and his hand starts to move. Dragging yours down his chest. Over his pecs, his ribs, to his abdomen and-

You yank away with a squeak, when you realize. Clark whines, immediately seizing up the second you pull away.

He looks like he’s in pain. Your touch helped, and he’d liked it, and-

No. You can’t. You won’t. You’re stronger than that, and he’s not in his right mind. Whatever’s effecting him—whatever’s strong enough to effect Superman—can’t be letting him think clearly. It would be one thing if he asked. Another to touch him in his sleep, just because he’d moved your hand there. He probably doesn’t even know it’s you.

But he’d been calling your name. He’s calling your name right now.

The steam of the room is getting to your head. You stumble away, squeezing your eyes shut when Clark keens in pain.

If you weren’t such a masochist, you’d put in earbuds to avoid hearing him. But he keeps calling your name.

And you’re not that strong at all.

Clark wakes up at four in the morning. You haven’t even managed to close your eyes.

You’re so dazed from the everything that you don’t hear him coming. You just realize the moans have stopped, and hear a quiet mumble of your name.

When you turn, Clark’s standing in the door of the living room.

He’s naked.

Fully naked.

And this time, you’re too tired stop your eyes from wandering.

He’s glorious. It’s not just the muscle and size of him, it’s all Clark. How his flexing arms are the ones that catch up when you stumble over yourself, and his legs are the ones that bring you coffee in the morning. Those fisted hands hold your hair back when you’re sick and boop your nose. His tense knees bump against yours under almost every table, and his chest keeps you tucked safely away from the world whenever you have a meltdown.

But it’s also the muscle and size of him. He looks wound up, so tight you’re worried he may snap. The coat of sweat on his skin is begging to be licked off, and his thick arms could wrap around your neck and you wouldn’t complain.

And his cock. 

You don’t know how he manages to walk around with that thing. It’s bigger than the toys you’ve seen in shops, bigger than the ones in porn that have to be fake, bigger than the lewdest drawings on the internet. Thick and veiny, hard and standing proud. His balls are heavy, and you kind of want to put them in your mouth. Every inch of him is slicked with cum, and you realize you just licked your lips far too late.

Clark clears his throat. You look up with burning cheeks and wide eyes.

“Clark, I- I’m so sorry-“

“Don’t.” He mutters, shifting on his feet. You can see his arms jerking wildly. Like he’s actively stopping them from moving. “I’m the one that should be sorry, I- I shouldn’t have come here.”

He winces at his own word choice, rubbing a stain of  release on his thigh. He’d been humping  the sheets all night. You’d heard the squeak of the mattress, and-

“I broke your bed.” He mumbles, not meeting your gaze. “I’ll fix it when- This passes.”

“Clark-“

“Stop saying it like that.”

You blink. Clark takes a deep breath, and looks up at you.

His eyes are shining. You can’t tell if it’s with frustration, or sadness, or that something else.

“Please don’t say my name. Like that, or- At all.” His throat bobs. “It makes everything very hard.”

Your lips twitch, and you glance back to his dick. He sighs.

“Yeah. I know. There are only so many words I can use, you know.”

You laugh softly, despite everything.

Clark grabs the doorframe with a groan. It cracks under his hands, and he won’t stop staring at you,.

“Don’t laugh either.”

“I- I’m sorry-“

“And don’t apologize, or- Or look at me-“

He cuts himself off with a long moan, and you fix your gaze very pointedly on the ceiling.

“Cla-“ You cut yourself off. “Should I call you Superman?”

“No- That- That’s weird-“

“Kal-El?”

“Worse.” He grunts, and you sigh.

“I need to be able to call you something.”

“It would be better if you didn’t talk, actually.”

That makes you glare at him. He winces, face scrunching in apology.

“No, not- Not like that-“

“Not like what-“

“It’s just, when you talk-“

“It’s hard?” You snap, and you don’t know why you’re so mad all of a sudden. Maybe it’s how you haven’t slept in almost two days.

It’s probably that. But also, something needs to break. If Clark just Supermans away after everything, you’re going to kill him.

“Please don’t sat that word.” Clark mumbles, and you shake your head.

“No. I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen and give me answers.”

“I- I don’t think that’s a good idea-“

“You don’t get to decide what’s a good idea right now, boner-boy.”

He wrinkles his nose. “That… Doesn’t seem fair.”

“Maybe, but you know what’s also not fair?” You cross your arms over your chest, raising your chin. “Ignoring your best friend for a week, then showing up with a fever and- And magic boner then telling her to shut up!”

“I didn’t tell you to shut up-“

“You said I shouldn’t talk.”

“I said it would be better if you didn’t talk.” He mumbles, staring at the floor. “That’s not the same-“

“Shut up.”

“Sorry.”

The wall cracks further. You wrinkle your nose.

“You better fix the wall, Kent.”

“I will. ‘M sorry-“

“Stop apologizing to me, and just- Just tell me what’s wrong!”

You take a step forward. Clark shrinks back, but doesn’t move away.

“You’re not allowed to- To be mad.” He glances up under his lashes, and lets out another labored sigh. “Be more mad.”

 That’s not  promising, but your worry outweighs your anger. You nod, watching him expectantly. He closes his eyes, like he can’t bear to see your reaction.  

“You know kryptonite?”

You blink. “Of course I know kryptonite, I don’t live under a rock.”

“Right. Well,” he coughs. “There’s, uh- This thing. Called red kryptonite. And it does… Weird things. To me. And other Kryptonians. Which is just Kara- My cousin- I think you’d like her-“

“Clark.”

“Sorry- Sorry.” He groans. You can trace a bead of sweat down his brow.

“Red kryptonite?” You prompt, softer than before.

His cock twitches. You try not think about it.

“I got exposed to some.” He mumbles. “Last weekend. And it never does the same thing twice, but usually it’s something like… Shrinking me. Flipping my personality, or giving me an extra power or curse or- Once it turned me into a fish-“

“It what-“

“I got better.” He says quickly. “But it’s usually immediate. This wasn’t. I- I even hoped I got lucky. That it wasn’t going to effect me at all. Then I got into the office on Monday, and saw you, and…”

He trails off, words hanging in the air.

Saw you.

You activated the red kryptonite in him.

There’s a very reasonable guess to what it’s doing. You still need to hear him say it, before you do something about it.

“What happened when you saw me?” You breathe, and he gives you a pleading look.

Makes a loose gesture to his erection. You bite back a smile. He’s going to need talking into this.

“Clark.” You say gently, and he groans.

“Please don’t make me say it.”

You give him a look, and he turns even redder than before. Stares down at his feet like a scolded child. It’s almost adorable, while also remaining impossibly hot.

“It’s very… Demanding.” He mumbles. “About certain things that I would like to do. And it is very particular about who I need to do it with. But- I can’t ask that of you-“

“Can’t you?”

Your question is quiet. You know he’ll hear you.

And Clark’s head snaps up, his jaw hanging open. He shakes his head.

“You- You can’t mean that-“

“Why not?”

You take a small step forward. Clark grabs the other side of the door way, tracking your every movement with that predatory focus.

“I’d like to.” You murmur. He grunts.

“You don’t have to pity me-“

“It’s not pity.”

He chuckles dryly. “Feels like it. I know you don’t- That’s not how you feel-“

“Who says it’s not how I feel?”

You fix him with a challenging glare, and Clark swallows.

“Uhh… Steve?”

You scoff. “Steve’s been trying to ask me out for three years, of course he’d tell you that.”

Clark shakes his head, his whole body trembling.

You’ve stopped a foot away. More than close enough for him to grab you. But he has to make that final step himself.

“I- I could hurt you.” He says, giving you that puppy look.

You shrug. “I like being hurt a little.”

His cock jumps. He doubles over, and you’re a little worried he’s going to break your whole apartment if he doesn’t move soon.

“Clark.” You whisper, taking a small step forward. “I trust you. And I- I want this. I want you.”

“No, you-“

“Don’t tell me what I feel.”

He shuts his mouth, still giving you that desperate look. You want to soothe him, but you just hold your ground.

“Will it hurt you?” You ask. “If you ignore it?”

He nods, tight and controlled.

You steel yourself, even as your nerves start to buzz.

Not with fear.

With excitement.

“Then use me.” You whisper, holding his darkened gaze. “Please.”

And Clark snaps.

He kisses you so hard you stumble. Knees buckle as Clark’s fevered lips overtake yours, and your startled squeal only lets him kiss you deeper. Your fingers fly out for something to hold onto, and find only the air.

Clark picks you up like you’re made of feathers, and there’s something steady about there being no ground at all.

If you were in your right mind, you’d think something about free fall and having no worry if there’s nowhere for impact. If you can only be caught.

But you’re not in your right mind. Because Clark isn’t kissing you like a kiss.

He’s inhaling you, and it’s already lighting you on fire.

There’s a thick arm wrapped around your waist, the other holding your back. A hand wrapped around your neck, angling him to kiss as deeply as  he wants. His tongue presses over yours as he walks himself backwards.

You push back, and he moans. It’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.

Clark’s back hits the wall, his legs sinking slightly as you make out. Nothing in his hold on you falters. If anything, it tightens. Like even with your open mouth moving against each other, there’s no way he can get close enough.

You respond to everything he gives you. Clark squeezes the back of your neck lightly, and you hum happily, smiling into the kiss. He grunts, when you thread your fingers through his hair.

He sinks further down, kisses turning short and desperate. He sucks on your lower lip, nipping softly and hauling you further up his body. Your nails dig into his scalp, and he drops his arm on your waist to grab your ass.

“Clark-“

“So- Sorry-“ He groans, and you can feel him rolling beneath you, trying to get himself back under control. “You’re just- So pretty, and- And soft, and-“

He drops fully to the floor, and you start slightly when he rips his mouth from yours, before burying his face in your neck.

“Smell so good.” He almost  whines. “So good.”

You take a deep breath, trying to collect yourself. You’re the sane one right now. The Clark beneath you is still your Clark, but he’s also a man who’s in a fugue state of lust. Not the mild, usually level headed, noble little dork you love.

Clark whines, when you run your nails gently against the back of his neck. He’s almost shaking, kissing and sucking on your neck like he can’t even help himself. You don’t think he can.

It makes sense why he was avoiding you. This would’ve been quite the HR violation in the copy room.

“It’s okay.” You coo, kissing the side of his head. “You can take what you need, Clark, I told you I want it-“

“You- You can’t-“

“Don’t tell me what I get to want-“

“No, you can’t.” He detaches himself from your neck, going completely still. His grip on your hips is bruising.

You don’t mind at all.

“I’ll hurt you.” He mutters, and you sigh.

“We talked about this-“

“I’ll hurt you.” He squeezes his eyes shut, over pouncing each word, and you stare at him for a moment.

You shift in his lap, trying to peer closer, and he hisses. His fingers dig into your sides, and his head slowly bows against your chest. Licking and kissing softly, as if he can’t physically stand to be that far from you.

And you feel it.

The literal alien cock pressing against your ass. You’d think was a stick if you didn’t know better.

Oh.

Right.

Clark must hear the way your heartbeat picks up, and put it together. He sighs, warm breath tickling over your breasts.

“I need to get you ready.”

You swallow. “I- I’m pretty-“ You can feel your heartbeat in your cunt, and there’s the familiar tingling ache that’s always a good sign. “I feel pretty ready-“

Clark grunts. “Not ready enough.”

“How do you know-“

“Nose.”

“Nose- Oh.” You flush. He can smell your arousal. “But that’s a good thing, right-“

“Not enough.”

He seems reduced to short worded grunts. You’re not faring much better, but there’s also a massive man below you that can’t stop sucking around your tits.

“Can you… Always smell me?” You manage to ask, and he hums.

That’s his agreement hum.

Your jaw drops.

“Are you serious-“

“I can’t help it.”

“You- You could wear nose plugs-“

“No. Like it too much.”

Your thighs squeeze, those deep words shooting straight to your cunt, and Clark groans.

“You- Can’t move-“

“You should move-“

“Won’t hurt you.” He grunts, like he’s making a vow. “Just- Need a second.”

You let out a slow breath, looking up to the ceiling. The idea comes faster than you want to admit, but you’re desperate.

“You were better when you woke up.” You say causally, stroking your fingers through his hair. “Lucid.”

Clark grunts. You smile at the air.

“You came in bed last night.”

He stiffens slightly. “Wet dream.”

“About who?”

You feel the ghost of a smile, against your chest. “You’re very… Mouthy. Like this.”

And you’ve been told that before. But something about the way Clark says it—like something he’s measuring, a note he’s jotting down for a piece—makes you feel all glowy and stupid inside.

“Wow. Mouthy.” You tease. “Not very polite, Clark.”

“There are other words I could’ve used for it.” He mumbles, and you giggle.

“Yeah? Like what?”

Clark draws slowly back, staring at you with those drunken, dark eyes.

“A brat.”

A lot of the fight leaves you, very fast. No ones ever looked at you like that. Like you’re something they want to chew on, carefully and deeply. To leave a mark while keeping every part of you both ruined and intact.

And his voice. Lower than you’ve ever heard, and hoarse with desire. You were already a lot woman. This just seals your fate.

“I should jerk you off.” You blurt.

Clark makes a sound like a wounded animal, and drops his brow against yours.

“You- You can’t just say that-“

“But it will help.” You give him your best, pouty and pleading expression. “You’ll feel better enough to- To get me ready.” You try to keep your voice level, as if you’re not thrilled just to say the words. “And then… More.”

Clark doesn’t answer. He just closes his eyes again, breathing heavily through his mouth. You wait, but you start to get a little worried he didn’t hear.

“Can you please look at me-“

“No.” He grinds out, and you frown. Reach up to cup his face.

“Clark-“

“Don’t ask me to move.” His words are tight. Pushed through his teeth.

You feel his cocks twitch, near your ass.

“Clark.” You make your voice soft. Traced the tensed line of his jaw, the bridge of his nose. He whimpers at the touch, and you smile. “It’s okay.”

“I- I need to get you-“

“I’m going to touch you, okay?”

His throat bobs, but he nods. Short and tight.

Enough.

You scoot back, and Clark lowers his legs at a painfully slow pace you accommodate you. Your ass drags over his dick, and he hisses, rutting up.

“Sorry-“

“It’s okay.” You say quickly, smiling slightly. “Good preview.”

He looks at you in befuddled exasperation. Opens his mouth like he’s going to snap something else out about you being a brat.

You settle against his knees, and don’t give him a chance.

The sound Clark makes when you wrap your hand around his cock is holy. Deep and guttural, like a man already wrecked. You let him sit in your loose grip for a second, watching his chest heave and eyes flutter.

He’s throbbing under your touch. You can barely hold him with the single hand.

You add a second, and squeeze at the base.

Clark makes another one of those beautiful noises, and grabs your wrist.

“Be- Be careful.”

You pause. “Does it not feel-“

“Feels good.” He grunts. “Too good. Gonna- Oh, fuck-“

Your mouth falls open. Clark swore.

You started to stroke his cock, and he swore.

And more. You need more. More of his swears, his sounds, his sweat running down his bare chest and the way he’s moaning your name. You need to see him fall apart, because once he’s back in control—once this massive dildo of a dick is inside you—you’re not going to be able to focus on such things.

You set a quick pace. Skin slapping and hot, unraveling him quickly.

Clark calls your name, his hands slamming back to grab at the walls. You watch in awe as his fingers sink into the wood, creating a slot for him to hold onto.

“Like- Like that- Shit.” He tosses his head back, moaning loud and lewd. “Yeah, baby, oh- Right there-“

He cuts himself off, rolling his hips up into your touch. You squeeze him again, switching your hands so one can thumb at the weeping slit on his head. Pre-cum leaks all over your fingers, and your lean further down.

You want to taste him.

When you slide off his legs—keeping your hands working—Clark says your name in a rough, garbled warning.

“What- What are you-“

You wrap your lips around the tip of him, flicking your tongue where your thumb had been. Clark makes a sound you’ve never heard from anyone before, his free hand flying to grab your neck.

The grip is tight, but painless. You’re in no danger of pain.

There’s something thrilling about how he’s gripping you so possessively. Like a life line.

You drop your hand to play with his balls. Clark bucks up into your mouth, bumping against the back of your throat.

“Sorry- Fucking Christ-“

You moan happily around him, drooling lips pushing down further. Your tongue swirls around him, and you suck, bobbing your head up and down. Trying to make him lose control again.

It doesn’t take long. Not when you reach up to his hand on your neck, and push it down.

“Are you-“

You moan, and Clark gives in.

He fucks your face like it’s a toy. Cock slipping in and out from between your lips, your spit staining with his pre-cum. Tears prick at your eyes, but you dig your nails into his thighs, refusing to be pulled off.

“Look- Look at you- Holy- Holy shit-“

Clark moans your name, and you let your hand drift back his balls. He slams up at the featherlight touch, and the tears start to flow.

“You’re so good at this sweetheart, so- So good-“ Clark moans, hips thrusting to meet every bob of your head. “Your mouth is so warm, and- And soft-“

You suckle lightly, the praise going right to your core. Your ass is sticking in the air, grinding up into nothing as he uses you.

And you can feel how close he is. His balls are tightening under your fingers, his cock twitching and pulsing, and-

Clark yanks you off suddenly, with one last cry of your name. Before you can protest or try to go back down, you see why.

He’s cumming.

And he’s not stopping.

Thick white ropes spurt from his dick, and you stare, transfixed. Every time you think he must be done, more comes. When the geyser finally stops, there’s not a place it hasn’t hit.

Clark lets out a shaky breath. You look up to him with wide eyes. He stares back, licking his lips.

“If you-“

“Do that inside me.”

You speak at the same time again. Clark blinks, leaning back slightly, and you flush.

“I- I mean- Clark-“

He starts to drag you forward, and your words turn into a squeak. Your being manhandled right into his lap, your ass still sticking up in the air and your hands just barely bracing you on the ground.

“I heard you.” He drawls, running a hand over the curve of your ass. “Pretty well, actually.”

His hand drags over your exposed core, and you whimper.

“Don’t- Don’t tease-“

“Trust me.” He mutters darkly. “I won’t.”

Two thick fingers toy at your clit, and you push yourself higher into the air. He knows exactly how to flick that little button, to drive you insane.

“Oh- Oh god-“

“If I had time.” Clark murmurs, almost to himself. “I’d keep you here for the rest of the day. Watch the sweetness drip down your legs,” his fingers trace over your sensitive inner thighs. “Let you make a mess in my lap. Wait ‘till you’re begging for it, then touch you,” one, broad finger rubs around your fluttering hole. “Nice and slow, until you feel what I’m dealin’ with right now.”

You moan, gaping at the floor. Clark gets a southern, Kanas drawl when he’s horny. It makes you clench around nothing, and he chuckles.

“Oh, you like that.” He presses the tip of his finger in, and you whine. “Yeah, I know. Know better than anyone, sweetheart.”

He pushes his hips slightly, forcing your ass higher into the air. There’s a rip, and cold air hits your core, making you shiver. His cock, still so hard, bumps against your tummy right as his finger slips into your cunt.

“Claaaark.” You moan, squeezing tight around him.

You’re rubbing backwards, trying to take him deeper. He splays one hand on your lower back, keeping you from getting what you want while still letting you chase the false hope.

He crooks his finger slightly, twisting it in a circle. You go limp, wrapping your arms around his thigh and pressing your cheek down for support.

“That’s it.” He mutters. “Just seeing what you need, it’s alright. Shit,” he lets out a sharp breath, cock twitching against you. “You’re so wet. I- I gotta-“

You hear it start to possess him, and you can’t be surprised when he pulls the finger out. Still, you twist to whine at him, maybe try to drag his hand back. He’s strong, but you’re horny, and that’s sure to help you somehow.

Instead, you trip on your own hands and collapse back down at the sight before you.

Clark cleaning your arousal off his fingers, eyes closed and face slack like he’s having a fine meal.

You can’t look away from it. It’s the hottest, most lewd thing you’ve ever seen. You whimper when he goes back into for more, dragging two fingers between your pussy lips before returning them to his mouth. He does it over, and over, and over again. Sometimes giving a little attention to your clit, like he’s milking you for more.

You’re a flushed, wiggling mess when he finally pulls his fingers away with a pop. His eyes are wholly black, gleaming with lust and fixed on yours.

There’s nothing left of you but putty, when Clark slowly starts to rub your pussy again. You’re a smeared, wrecked mess that can’t stop grinding back onto his hand, and he smiles down at you.

It’s predatory, but still soft. Exactly what you expect from him now. Pulling out the hair that got stuck in your mouth, all while slowly fingering your cunt.

“Wanted to do that for so long.” He coos, pushing two fingers deep inside of you. “You’d come into the office and start gettin’ wet right next me, I was slobbering like a dog. Thought I’d lose my mind, every single day.”

His fingers go deeper, bumping against your g-spot. You keen, making an almost unearthly sound from your chest. Clark notices it. Of course he does.

“There she is.” He mutters, starting to pump his fingers fast. Pushing against the gummy point over and over, until you’re drooling.

Your head has never been this empty during sex before. But you’ve also never been put over Clark’s lap like this. Fingered into oblivion while his dick pushes into your stomach. You start to push up—he needs attention—but Clark pushes you back down with a grunt.

“Need to be inside you.” He grunts. “Need you ready.”

Well. If he needs it.

It’s easy to relax into the feeling. Clark starting to thumb at your clit, rubbing it back and forth like a bop-it toy. Between that and his fingers, Clark is almost pulling pleasure out of you like a machine. It doesn’t take long for you to feel like you’re close. Your face his presses into his bare leg, your pussy fully pried open and well touched. You can feel the familiar tension inside you, about to burst.

“Clark- Clark-“ You don’t have the strength to twist, so you scratch at his leg. “I- I’m gonna-“

“I know.” He mutters, and fuck, you don’t doubt him. “Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart. Cum on my hand, let me feel it.”

It only takes a few more moments. Release hits you quickly, and lasts long. Thighs shaking and loud moans escaping your lips as Clark keeps playing with you.

You’re dazed from the orgasm. It’s the strongest you’ve ever felt, and your cunt is still pulsing when Clark’s fingers pull away.

“You’re ready.” He mutters, and you agree with a garbled sound.

He laughs, leaning down to kiss the back of your head as you quiver. He pulls you up into his lap, and you can feel his cock sliding between your folds. Both of your are so slick with everything there’s no friction. The tension in Clark tells you he’s close to going feral again, but his voice is still sweet.

“Just- Stay like that, beautiful.” He kisses the side of your head. “And if it- If anything starts to feel bad, tell me. I’ll stop.”

And you believe him. You know just how much this is affecting him, but you also know he’s Clark. And there isn’t a force on earth that could make him hurt you like that.

“Can you- Can you please say you’ll tell me-“

“I’ll tell you.” It’s barely more than an exhale.

Clark hears it.

“Good. Good girl.” He kisses your neck this time, and you whimper. “Let me- Can’t do it here. Not right.”

You’re not sure what he’s talking about until you’re airborne. Clark tosses you over his shoulder, holding you steady with one arm around your knees, and you blink at the cum and sweat stained floor. You might have to move, after this.

Maybe Clark could let you live with him.

Too fast. And not the thing to worry about right now.

Get fucked stupid, then think about your living situation and relationship status.

That’s a good plan. The best plan.

There really couldn’t be a better one, you decide. Not when Clark starts to rub your clit again, using the full pressure of his palm.

“Keeping her ready.” He rumbles, and you hum. You’re certainly not complaining.

You’re already close to another orgasm, when he lowers you down onto the bed. Your back hits the mattress, and you immediately reach between your thighs, fondling at your pussy hopelessly. Nothing feels as good as Clark’s hands. He might’ve already ruined you forever.

“Don’t do that.”

Those very hands catch your wrists. You stumble over your breath, when you look up at Clark.

He’s back into feral caveman mode. Stroking his cock with one hand, the other squeezing yours gently before setting it down at your side.

“I touch you.” He grunts, and you can’t argue with that.

You lay down, spreading your legs slowly. In offering. Clark makes that guttural sound, his dick somehow looking like it’s gotten harder. You swallow. It’s very hard not to touch yourself with a massive, hulking god standing over you and jerking himself off. For Clark, you’re going to try.

He’s been reduced back to deep noises from his chest and moans of your name, but he’s not making any attempt to move on you. He’s just… Staring.

Stroking his cock, and watching you. Looking between your wet, gaping pussy and flushed face, beating himself into his fist.

He moans, and doubles over. Pumps so fast his hand becomes a blur, and god you’d like him to do that to you later.

His face lands on your inner thigh. Soft stubble grazing the oversensitive area, cold breath pushing against your clit. You grab his hair, back arching off the bed at the taunting pleasure. Clark moans, watching you clench around nothing.

You cry, as his face fully presses into your cunt. It’s right as he finishes himself off, his cum painting the mattress and covering your ankles.

Clark rises back up, and for a second you just stare at each other.

“Didn’t mean to do that.” He rasps, and your lips twitch.

“I liked it.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Of course you did.”

Clark falls back over you, kissing you deep and slow. You call tell that the clear-headed affect of the orgasm is lasting for a shorter and shorter time.

And Clark choses to use it, just to kiss you.

He tests the head of his cock up and down your pussy, making sure to push it against your clit before going back down, and starting to slide slowly in. There’s almost no resistance, and he hums against your lips.

“Goin’ slow.” He mumbles. “While I can.”

You nod. It’s all you can manage.

He feels just as big—if not bigger—than he looked. Never has a cock stretched you so greatly, and so well. The fullness is incomparable, and you’d be worried you couldn’t take it if your pussy wasn’t greedily swallowing him whole.

“That’s it.” Clark groans, pushing in every inch so torturously and amazingly slow. Forcing you to feel every single inch. “There’s you go, just- Just take it- Fuuuck-“

He moans your name, and you kiss him. You want to feel everything he has, vibrating through your chest. Straight into your cunt.

Clark bottoms out, hiding his face in your neck. You blink up at the ceiling, trying to push off more tears. It’s good, unbelievably good, and your body doesn’t know what to do with it.

“Tight.” Clark mumbles against you, and you laugh breathily.

“Big.”

He looks up at you, and for a second, you only see Clark. Your best friend, looking out of you, always kinder than he needs to be.

“’m serious.” He says, low and rough. Like a secret. “When I call you pretty. When I- When I say I want you-“

You kiss him, and Clark melts into you in a second. You can’t stop your smile.

“I know.” You breathe, and he nods.

“Love you.” He pushes in almost an inch deeper, like the words spur him on. “So much.”

You blink, and his eyes widen.

“That’s- Um- I don’t think I meant to- You feel really good and my brain is soupy-“

Kissing to shut him up will only work so many times. You cover his mouth with your hand, every inch of you feeling alive. From his words, his body, every single inch of this glorious man that’s somehow, all yours.

“My brain is soupy too.” You whisper, clenching purposefully around his cock.

Clark grunts, rutting forward. You giggle, and he gives you a dangerous look.

“Very soupy. But,” You beam. “I love you too. And I’m very serious.”

Clark pauses. Smiles into your hand, eyes shining in the dark. You feel a little like your floating. You’d like to be rocketed right up to heaven.

“Make me dumb.” You breathe, and Clark’s shoulders square.

Your hand is knocked away in a second. His mouth attacks yours, and the moment he starts to move, an orgasm is ripped from your very core.

You scream, locking up and clenching around him. Clark moans against your lips, grabbing your knees and pushing them up to your chest. It’s a deep angle, and you can feel every inch of him, sliding in and out of your cunt. His balls slap near your ass, and his mouth hangs open as he stares down at him.

He’s fully gone to the red kryptonites effects. There’s no question, as he bends you in half and starts to fuck you like a doll. But he still doesn’t let his strength slip. You feel completely safe in his hands.

Safe and attended to.

You’ve never fucked a man who makes sure to hit your g-spot so much, and Clark’s barely even lucid right now. But he drills down into it, moaning your name and making those sinful, beautiful sounds.

It’s too much for your poor pussy. Two is a lot of orgasms. Three is your—usual—max, and that’s usually with time between. But Clark isn’t letting up. And you’re getting close again.

“Cla- Clark-“ You whine out, and he fucking growls. “Clark, I’m gonna-“

He makes a deep noise of understanding, and starts to fuck you harder. You cry out, grabbing uselessly at the sheets as the next release gushes from your pussy, flying up your spine like ecstasy.

Clark finds his own release there. With you clenching tight around him, writhing with overwhelmed pleasure and moaning his name like a hymn as you come. He throws his head back and starts to fuck like an animal, roaring your name.

He grabs your jaw, demanding your eyes on his. His thumb presses on your lower lip.

Cockdrunk and empty headed, you open your mouth and start to suck.

It feels even better than you’d thought. At first it’s nothing, just painting your walls and sticking so deep inside you, you think it knocks you into another, tiny orgasm. Then it’s more, spurting out of your pussy as he keeps fucking into you. An obscene fountain, staining your ass and thighs.

Then it’s too much. You’re not sure you can breathe, but the lights dancing on the edge of your vision only add to the euphoria.

Now, it’s everything. You’re full. So full. You never want to be empty again.

And you don’t think Clark would allow that anyway.

Because he’s still fully hard inside of you. And with how he’s staring at you, you don’t think there’s a space of sound mind anymore.

Clark just stares at you, still mindlessly sucking on his thumb and growls.

You giggle as he grabs your hips and flips you onto your stomach. Drags your ass back up into the air and pushes himself back in with a thick moan.

There’s a chance that his cum is transferring some of the sexual stamina onto you. It’s the only possible way you can last this long. Clark fucks into you from behind, kissing up and down your spine as his balls slap against your clit. Your fourth orgasm hits you, and you think you see he stars.

Clark cums again. You don’t know how there’s still possibly space for it, but nature finds a way.

You giggle into the sheets. Clark kisses your shoulder, rutting deeper and deeper into your abused pussy.

He might take your laughter as a challenge. Suddenly you’re being flipped over, and Clark’s impaling you on his dick once more, forcing you to slide down and feel every inch.

It’s a good thing you get giggly when you have good sex.

If he sees it as a challenge, you’re ready to lose, over and over and over again.

On Sunday, Clark fucks you through the afternoon and into the night.

There isn’t a spot in the apartment that doesn’t feel the aftermath. After making you ride him, he clambered over you and held you to his chest, fucking you with just your knees on the bed. After that you ended up on your back, then riding him again, then somehow on the floor. Against the wall. In the doorway, your face pressed against the window, Clark flying and holding you in his lap. By the time the sun was over your head, you were a wordless, dumb mess. Clark had you in a headlock and you were smiling like an idiot, taking his cock over and over again until you think you reshaped each other.

Now, standing in the shower to wash off the everything, you think if you reached down and touched yourself, you’d find Clark completely rearranged your guts to his shape. When you’d looked at him during the soft, quiet cleanup, his cock had certainly looked like you’d molded him to only fit in you.

It’s an oddly romantic thought.

There are lots of those to go around.

Clark’s waiting for you in the living room. He’s been trying to clean, but you don’t think there’s a point.

“I told you I’m going to have to move,” you joke, and he sighs.

“Well, I- I really tried, but-“ He wrinkles his nose. “I think it got in things. When I- Yeah.” He groans. “I can see it.”

“See it-“

“X-ray vision.”

“Oh.” That fun revelation had gotten lost in everything else. It’s going to take some getting used to.

Clark bows his head, almost in shame.

“Sorry I didn’t tell you,” he mutters.

You shake your head. “It fine-“

“I wanted to-“

“Clark.” You place a hand on his chest, smiling softly. “It’s okay. Really.”

He blinks at you, then relaxes.

“Really?” He asks anyway, and you nod.

“Really.” You nod to the floor. “I can even start apartment hunting right now.”

Clark laughs at that, and you beam.

It’s the same. Even after I love yous and the sex marathon, it’s still just Clark. And you’re more lucky to have that, than anything else.

“You could move in with me.” He suggests quiet and nervous, and your eyes widen.

“I-“

“If it’s too fast, you don’t have to, I- Geez, I haven’t even taken you out on a date yet, never mind-“

“Clark.” You raise your voice, forcing him to quiet down. “I was thinking the same thing earlier.”

He starts slightly. His lips twitch. “You were?”

You nod, and he grins like you handed him the sun.

“It’s not- Maybe too fast-“

“Maybe.” You shrug. “But I- I’ve loved you for years.” You look down to your fingers. “And we kind of lived together before. For work. And you’re my friend, first, so if you think it’s fine-“

Clark pulls your own trick. He grabs your face, and shuts you up with a deep, long kiss. You smile, rising up to meet him, and it’s barely been a day, but it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m gonna do it right, though.” Clark says against your lips. “Take you out. Woo you.”

You laugh. “Bring it on.”

✦End note: sex pollen fics are so fun i feel like im getting a secondary high✦

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✦Buy me a coffee! (and get early access!)☕️✦

. He was quite right about it being large enough. It was the nicest suite they had, with a lounge area, small kitchen, lavish soaking tub, even a fireplace. Floor to ceiling windows showed a spectacular view of the twilight and snow covered hills, quite a beautiful sight now that you weren't outside in it anymore. And dominating the center of the room was one king-size bed. Your stomach did a little twist and you bit your bottom lip nervously. Perpetua noticed your apprehension and tried to put you at ease. "You must take the bed, sister. The sofa is more than enough for me-" "No, no, Papa. I can't let you do that. Your legs are far too long for you to be all scrunched up like that-" "I am a gentleman and I am Papa and I insist-" "Stop...Pet." You pressed a gentle finger to his lips, charmed by the way his unpainted cheeks flushed and his nostrils flared. "There's enough room for both of us." You gave a subtle nod in the direction of the bed. "We're both adults, right?" He raised an eyebrow at you as if he was unsure whether he truly considered himself as such, but he shrugged his shoulders and relented, too road-weary to drag out the argument any longer. "I promise to be on my very best behavior. Satan's truth, lamb." You smiled to yourself at the sudden use of such an intimate pet name, and at his earnest promise. You'd seen his 'best behavior' before, and something told you it would be an interesting night. .

Emergencies always seemed to crop up in the dead of night on the road, so you'd learned that you had to have something sensible to wear to bed or at the very least a modest robe to throw on. Couldn't very well go off searching for replacement guitar strings or tracking down lost luggage in a lace teddy, could you? And you were never more grateful to have something warm and comfortable to wear than you were now that you found yourself sharing a bed with the notoriously handsy Papa. Wouldn't want him to get the wrong idea, after all. "It is lucky that I threw in some extra pajamas, no?" He gave a theatrical twirl to show off his purple satin set, still creased in noticeable squares as if they'd never been worn. "Ordinarily I sleep in nothing at all." Clearly an attempt to get a rise out of you and break the lingering tension, and you rolled your eyes at his obvious flirtation. "Don't you get cold?," you inquired, feigning innocence as he crawled under the covers next to you. "No, angel," he cooed with a smirk. "I assure you I am quite hot-blooded." Minutes of silence followed, interspersed with the occasional crackle from the dying flames in the fireplace and the soft hum of the falling snow as you tried to will yourself to sleep. But you realized before long that he wasn't actually exaggerating about his...heat, huffing intermittently, shifting uncomfortably and squirming within the confines of his restrictive clothes. "Satanas, Pet. If you're that hot, at least take the shirt off. I've certainly seen you in less." He let out a relieved sigh and gave you an slightly penitent grin, sitting up abruptly and wriggling out of the already-damp satin to toss it aside. You barely registered the sudden puff of cold air that seeped under the covers as you took in the sight of him backlit by moonlight, porcelain skin accentuating broad shoulders and a narrow waist with an otherworldly halo. It was enough to make your mouth water, but you burrowed more aggressively into the bedding, squeezing your eyes closed in an attempt to put the lustful thoughts threatening to overtake you out of your mind. You're an adult. You can do this. And he's just a man. A fucking gorgeous man... He at least seemed to be a lot more comfortable even if you weren't and had stopped his fidgeting.

He let out another long, contented sigh and finally relaxed into the nest of sheets and blankets. But it didn't last. In spite of the heat you felt prickling within, you were still covered in goosebumps and your shivering drew his attention. "Are you cold, angel?" He didn't give you a chance to answer, wrapping long arms around you and pulling you into his hard chest, heated skin practically scalding against your own. "Mmm hmm," you whined weakly, already too overwhelmed by the nearness of him, the surprising softness of his skin against the swell of your breasts, the faint whiffs of his natural scent through remnants of soap and cologne. Your hands rested gently against sinewy muscle and rigid bone of his sternum, consciously slowing your breathing with closed eyes. But your trembling betrayed you and when you opened your lids again you were aware of him looking at you with the unnerving thousand-mile stare you'd become so accustomed to, but with an unmistakable yearning pulsing under the surface. Neither of you spoke, neither of you could even breathe, and yet you couldn't look away. He leaned in, almost imperceptibly, close enough that you could feel his warm breath against your parted lips and tiny brushes of his long lashes against your cheek. "Pet-" But the dam broke without warning, his mouth crashing into yours, hungry and forceful enough that you whimpered quietly from the sudden intensity. When he broke the kiss and pressed his forehead against yours you were both panting and struck wordless. Your head was spinning from lack of oxygen and a growing ache between your legs that made you squirm in his embrace. He traced the outline of your figure with his fingertips, down your arm and over your hip, barely inching under the hem of your nightgown before pausing. Even in the cool, moon-drenched darkness, illuminated only by the dying embers in the hearth, you could see his white eye pulsing with desire, his expression questioning as his fingertips grazed the bare skin of your hip. You let your lids flutter closed, your lips brushing against his. "Please, Pet...Please touch me" The mood between you seemed to change all at once, from buzzing with restrained desire to clutching, clawing, peppering each other's faces with frantic kisses as he rolled you onto your back, legs falling open as he hovered over you and pressed you into the mattress with his dense weight. He parted your folds gently, tentatively, teasing your entrance until his fingertips were coated with your juices and your hips rocked in time with every stroke. Keeping a firm grip on the back of your neck with his free hand, he held you still, studying your face, taking in every reaction to his touch while he held you hypnotized with his piercing gaze. "So wet...Such a perfect dripping little pussy..." He brought his hand to his mouth, sucking his fingers into his mouth with an appreciative groan. "Mmm...And so sweet." You gasped when he pushed his fingers past your tight entrance, clutching at his shoulders in an attempt to ground yourself. Although his grip on you remained steady and his fingers slid into you with a rhythm that made you clutch at the sheets with shaking hands, his control was unravelling just as quickly as yours was, rutting against your thigh and smearing pre-cum along your flushed skin in desperation for relief from the growing throb in his cock. "You feel just how I imagined you."

Your eyes widened, the thought of him having pictured you this way before coming as a bit of a shock. "Does that surprise you, lamb?," he snickered, pumping his fingers into your harder, deeper until your vision was starting to blur. "That I would think of what I would like to do to your lovely body while I fuck into my fist at night?...Surely, I am not alone, eh? Surely, you touch yourself at night as well..." He nibbled at your earlobe with a low growl as he curled his fingers to pet the sensitive spot inside that made your body shudder. "Tell me, angel...Tell me what fantasies dance through your mind as you pleasure yourself...What delicious dreams do you have while you give your pretty cunt what it needs..." His lewd questions and punishing ministrations against your sex made the words catch in your throat, your fingers digging deeper into his flesh as the room spun around you. "You...Only you...Choking me on your cock...Fucking me with your tongue...Bending me over the nearest speaker and taking me an animal in heat...Making me cum over and over and leaving me filled with your seed...Oh, fuck...Ah...Ah...Ah, Papa!" You slapped a hand over your mouth to stifle your cries, wide-eyed as the climax made your body thrash. Your muscles contracted around his knuckles, squeezing his fingers as he rocked your through it. He held you as you came down, unflinching, buried as deep as you could take him until he felt you melt in his arms. When it passed he came back into focus slowly, an affectionate smile curling his cupid's bow. "Now, now, angel. Don't do that." He pulled your hand from your mouth, fingers still soaked with your release as they gripped your wrist gently, kissing your palm tenderly. "I want to hear every obscene word that passes those bewitching lips." He shifted between your legs, caging you with lanky limbs, nudging his pants down his hips, his swollen length bobbing against your sensitive flesh. You stared up at him with breathless anticipation, blinking slowly with glassy doe-eyes. "Pet..."

He quieted your whispers with a soft kiss. "I'm here, lamb. Let go for me. Let me in..." He slid into you in one slow, deep thrust that earned him a surprised gasp as you wrapped your arms around his strong, lean torso. He pulled back a moment to search your face for discomfort but saw only heavy-lidded desire as you wrapped your legs around his hips and clenched around his shaft. "Ah, my angel...I fear you may break me tonight..." He started to move, slow rolls of his hips that you met eagerly, every snap of his pelvis making your body jolt, the slow-burning pressure in your core rising to a full flame. The absolute sloshing sound that echoed through the room every time he slammed through your slick walls and forced your copious nectar out onto the sheets was positively depraved but it only urged you on, digging your heels into the rippling muscles of his ass to take him even deeper into your tight heat. "Fuck...Fuck...So deep...Your cock's so fucking deep inside me..." He pressed a hand into the headboard for leverage, bracing himself to thrust into you faster. "Ah, your pussy is fucking incredible...Feels so damned good...Satanas, angel...," he grunted as his movements started to become more erratic with every slam of the bed frame against the wall. "Scream for me...Fucking scream for me while I fill you up with my cum..." He felt it before you did. The tightening of your walls around him, the quivering of your muscles, inside and out. You cried out in loud sobs and dug your nails into the pale flesh of his back, clinging to him for dear life as your orgasm spasmed through you. Your bruising grip around him only grew tighter and he followed close behind, arching violently with a gravely roar as his cock emptied into your pussy in steaming hot spurts. You collapsed boneless in each other's sweat-drenched arms, still mumbling incoherent filthy nothings as you bodies continued to twitch through lingering aftershocks.

*BANG BANG BANG* "Keep it down in there! Goddamned perverts! Perpetua pounded his fist into the wall above your head right back in response. "Don't be jealous! If you have no one to fuck with you can fuck yourself, eh?" You gigged weakly, still fighting for air, particularly with his gangly body pressing yours into the soaked sheets. "Are you still cold, my angel?," he asked coyly, aimlessly kissing along your jaw and neck. "Mmm, no, Pet..." You snuggled in together under the covers, cocooned and entwined, the reflection of moonlight on the snow giving the dewed skin of your lover an almost angelic glow. "This was the perfect way to stay warm."

❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️

Charlotte and Greenville would have been my very first Ritual(s), and man was I devastated when I found out both were cancelled. It's a hell of a bummer, but we ghesties must soldier on. There's smut to write!

Check out my other fics on AO3

Your stomach dropped the second his eyes caught yours.

You looked away too fast. Heat rushed to your face as you pretended to focus very hard on folding your towel, your fingers suddenly clumsy. You could feel it though. The awareness. The shift in the air when someone realizes they’re being watched.

You heard him before you saw him again.

Water dripping onto tile. Bare feet. Unhurried.

You told yourself to keep walking. Head down. Locker room. Done. But when you glanced up, he was already there, leaning against the bleachers like he’d planned it that way.

“See something you like?”

The words landed easy. A smirk tugged at his mouth like this was all a game he was used to winning.

You stopped despite yourself, clutching your towel a little tighter. “Don’t flatter yourself,” you said, voice steadier than you felt. “I was spacing out.”

One eyebrow arched slowly, deliberately. He looked you up and down, not bothering to hide it, and it made your skin prickle beneath the T-shirt.

“You were awfully captivated for someone who was just spacing out.”

You rolled your eyes, refusing to let him see how much that look affected you. “I just didn’t think they let the swim team have… chest hair.” You gestured vaguely at his torso, sarcasm sharp enough to give you something to hold onto.

He gasped theatrically, clutching his chest like you’d mortally wounded him. “Excuse you. Girls pay good money to see this.”

He ran a hand through it just to prove his point, smug and infuriating and very aware of himself.

Then his smile shifted.

“But hey,” he added lightly, “at least I don’t hide under a giant T-shirt like some people.”

His eyes flicked pointedly to the hem of yours.

The words hit harder than you expected.

Your chest tightened, something sour and familiar twisting in your stomach. “Wow. Body insults,” you said flatly. “Real creative.”

The irritation in your voice surprised even you.

His smirk faltered. Just a fraction.

“Didn’t take you for the type to punch down without your gaggle of hyenas behind you,” you added, already turning away. “But here we are.”

You scooped up your towel and headed for the locker room, suddenly very aware of every step, every pair of eyes that might be on you. You just wanted out.

Behind you, you heard him swear under his breath.

You didn’t stop walking.

“Hey, wait up,” Steve called, jogging after you. The girls’ locker room door swung open, empty for the moment, and you barely made it inside before he slipped in after you.

“Get out of the girls’ locker room, Harrington,” you hissed, trying to shove him back toward the door before someone came in.

He resisted easily, one hand braced against the door to keep it shut. Too close. Way too close.

“Oh, come on,” he said, leaning back against it, arms crossing over his chest like he belonged there. His gaze swept over you again, slower this time. “It’s not like anyone’s here.”

Your heart hammered. “You need to leave.”

“And I’m not moving until you hear me out.”

And that was where it hung.

Steve looked over your form again as the silence hung. He'd never been with a curvier girl before, and you had really grown into your body the past year. It was a new discovery for him. His usual type was all sharp angles and delicate features—girls who looked like they might break if you held them too tight. You were… different. Softer. Fuller. There was a certain warmth to you that made him want to get closer.

Before his mind can go any further, you open your mouth and sigh. "Fine, give me your speech."

He smirked, your defensive tone stirring something in him. "Look, I was just messing around, alright? I just... wanted to tease you a little.” 

You grimace and cross your arms as he looks you up and down again. "Cool. That it?"

Steve scoffs, lightly amused by your attitude, as if it only spurs his teasing on more. "Come on, girls like it when I give them attention."

He steps closer to you, his stare shamelessly dropping to your generous chest filling out the shirt before snapping his eyes up to yours.

It made you feel things you didn't want to admit, but more than anything it made you angry.

Did he not even remember the reason you couldn't stand him?

For years, he and his friends had made your life hell. They’d whispered about you in the hallways, knocked books out of your hands “by accident,” laughed just a little too loud whenever you gave a presentation in class. All because you’d developed faster than other girls, because your body refused to be small and discreet.

But for guys like 'King Steve' those moments were probably just part of an average Tuesday. To you, they were burned into your memory.

He seemed to think your silence was permission to keep talking. To keep touching. His hand came up, thumb brushing over your arm with a familiarity he hadn't earned. You flinched away, a small, sharp movement.

His confidence flickered for the first time and you audibly scoff. "God, you are so far up your own ass, huh? Not every girl craves your attention or validation."

He only smirked, leaning back on one of the rows of lockers behind him. "Mhm, sure. So if I stopped paying attention to you right now, walked outta here..."

He pushes off the lockers and takes a slow, deliberate few steps toward the door. "...you wouldn't care?"

He pauses mid step, glancing back over his shoulder at you.

"If you recall, I just tried to shove you out of here a few minutes ago." A sarcastic, saccharine smile plays on your lips, while your eyes narrow.

A chuckle escapes Steve, intrigued by your stubborness. But he has his own stubborn streak.

When he turns back to face you, he leans against the cool metal of the lockers again, folding his arms to match your stance. "I have a feeling that despite your bitchy attitude, you want me to stay."

It's teasing, paired with the salacious looks he gives your body.

You were annoyed, but within that, you saw an opportunity. Give the King of Hawkins High a taste of his own medicine.

Leaning back against the lockers across from him, the bench seat between you, your smile turns devilish. "Yeah? What gives you that idea?"

He pushes off the lockers, stepping over the bench seat and closing the distance between you. His taller frame towers over your shorter one as he places a hand on the locker door, inches from your head. He's effectively crowding you with his body.

"Just the fact that you haven't tried the shoving method again...and that little defiant glint in your eye..."

Got him.

You look up, giving your best performance of 'fuck me' eyes, a look you've only seen in film. "God, Harrington, you really just want me out of this shirt, huh?"

You could see his confidence soaring, like he'd just won the lottery. That's what made this so fun. His arrogance was a weapon you could turn back on him.

"You caught me," he practically purred, the sound vibrating through your own chest, his fingers ghosting over the hem of you shirt. "But can you blame me?"

"Take it off me then." You whisper, hoping it was believable.

The direct request makes a jolt of desire run through Steve's body. He doesn't hesitate to follow through, grabbing the bottom of your shirt, knuckles brushing against the soft skin as he slowly lifts it upwards.

"You're a bossy thing, aren't you?" He murmurs, your shirt halfway up, revealing your thick thighs and a hint of your soft tummy through the one piece swimsuit. Not breaking eye contact, you lift your hands above your head.

If people were going to treat your body as an object, you would turn it into a weapon. If Steve Harrington wanted to look at you, you'd give him something he'd never forget. He was so used to girls being shy, flustered. You were going to be a spectacle.

As the fabric clears your head, he lets out a shaky breath, eyes wide. He's transfixed, devouring the sight of you. 

A possessive part of him hums in approval, as he leans closer, his body nearly flush with yours.

"God... you're beautiful..." He murmurs as his hands slowly trail up your thighs and over your hips.

For a split second, you feel almost...bad, for what you're about to do. The sincerity in his voice makes your breath hitch, adding to the performance. But you don’t dwell on it for long.

Steve probably said this to every girl. It was a line. A throwaway. A way to get what he wanted. That’s what you told yourself. But the way he looked at you, like he was seeing something he’d been searching for, made the line in your head waver for a moment. But you pushed the thought away, locking it down with the rest of your hurt.

His hands stopped at your waist, his thumbs drawing small circles through the fabric of your swimsuit.

"This seems unfair..." You start, trailing a finger down his bare chest, before playing with the drawstring of his swim trunks. "You got to see what you wanted, but I haven't..."

You look up at him and you continue to twirl the string in your fingers. "There's a lot of rumors about you. Big rumors."

His smirk turns sinful as he catches your meaning, hands tightening on your waist, pulling you flush against him. "You're interested in the truth, then? You can find out for yourself, baby."

You felt him now, against your fingers at the waistband, a small twitch when your eyes meet his. This was the moment. You trail that hand back up his chest, eliciting a disappointed furrow of his brow before you're on your tip toes, whispering in his ear.

"Take them off then."

His breath actually hitches as the order. You can tell he's either used to being the one in control of these situations or something like this has never happened to him. The first option was more believable, based on his reputation.

Regardless, you know now for sure he's turned on.

"Insatiable, aren't you?" He murmurs back in your own ear as his grip releases to quickly pull his shorts down, then kicking them aside. Your eyes follow them, making a mental note of where they land on the locker room floor. Then trail your eyes to your backpack. Then to the door.

It was doable.

You play off your eyes wandering as nerves before biting your lip and looking down. 

Well, shit. Rumors can be true sometimes...

You don't have time to think about it. If you want to get this right, you can't spend too much time thinking about how that thing would even fit anywhere, or how good he smells or how warm he is against you...

Focus.

"Happy now?" His voice breaks your mental turmoil and you look up in his eyes.

"Sit down." You whisper back.

It's clear he was happy with your reaction as he complied with the command, taking a seat on the bench behind him. His eyes follow you with sharp attention. 

"Bossy..." he muttered with an almost fond– no, that had to be demeaning– smile. "Now, what?"

Now came the real show.

You bend, as if going onto your knees in front of him, trying to explain away his smirk fading. His hand reaches out, like he didn't even mean it to.

Shit, he would be a head pusher, just my fucking lu-

He pushes a strand of your still damp hair behind your ear so gently, thumb brushing against your cheek in a tender way that surprises even him.

"Hey," he says, the murmur no longer laced with need, but something else. Softer. Nervous even? "You don't have to..."

That softness, that moment of unexpected gentleness, almost made you falter. The sincerity in his eyes was a weapon you hadn't accounted for. It made your chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with the performance. But then the memory of years of casual cruelty rushed back in, cold and sharp.

It had to be an act, another line he used to make girls comfortable with him.

Before sinking full down to your knees, you snatch the swim trunks from the floor in one swift movement, taking the opportunity to pivot on the ball of your foot and sprint.

You hear him curse, a sharp, indignant sound, as you make a break for your bag. You narrowly avoid slipping as you tug it over one shoulder, halfway out the door, yelling.

"Hopefully this teaches you not to be so cocky, Harrington!"

Once the door is shut behind you, you know you have some time while he figures out how to leave the girls locker room without giving everyone a full show.

What you don't account for, stupidly, is the entire boys swim team being by the pool. You catch the freckled face of one Tommy Hagan, and decide to throw the trunks at him. 

"Here, your king might be looking for these."

He catches them with a confused sputter as you continue your escape, a small, tight laugh bubbling in your chest. That'll show him.

You don't stop running until you hit the cool October air, pulling your hoodie out of your bag and over your head as you walk to your car. Your breath comes in ragged bursts, but it's not just from the run. There's a thrill there, a dangerous, electric buzz humming under your skin. You pulled it off. You turned the tables on the guy who'd made you feel small for years. But when you fish your keys from your bag, your hands are shaking. 

Meanwhile, Steve makes it out of the locker room as you're already outside, holding your forgotten shirt strategically in front of himself, face burning. The entire team is howling with laughter, Tommy H holding up the trunks like a trophy.

"Real fucking funny," Steve snarls, snatching them back and yanking them on.

"Oh, I bet it was," Tommy wheezes, clutching his stomach.

Friday came and went without any incident for you. By last period, you head to the library for your study period, wondering when the other shoe was going to drop.

You didn't have the satisfied sleep you thought you would last night. You barely slept at all, tossing and turning because of that stupid, unguarded look on Steve's face when he brushed the hair from your cheek. The gentleness that felt too real.

Shaking your head as you find a quiet table in the back, you open your history textbook, only for it to be slammed shut seconds later.

Your heart jumps to your throat as you look up. He's not angry. He's just standing there, hands braced on the table, caging you in.

"Enjoying your little victory lap?" he asks, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth even though it doesn't quite reach his eyes. He looks tired.

"Just trying to study, Harrington."

"I think you and I need to talk."

That's how he always sounds, just before he makes some snide comment or some jab about your chest or your thighs. And so you steel yourself, a familiar, bitter taste rising in your throat. "I'm pretty sure we've said everything we needed to say yesterday."

You try to push your textbook open again with one hand.

He puts his hand flat on the cover, stopping you. "No. We haven't."

His voice is low, quiet enough not to carry. "You played me. Good for you. Hilarious. But you left your shirt."

He pulls it out of his own backpack and onto the table. You hadn't even realized. "And I've had to spend the last twenty-four hours listening to Tommy Hagan call me 'Commando' every five seconds, and let me tell you, it's not as funny as it sounds."

"Can't imagine," you say, your own voice a flat, unimpressed line. "Must be so hard to be you."

The words come out automatically, a well-worn defense.

He flinches.

It’s almost imperceptible, a tightening of the muscle in his jaw, but you see it. The smirk vanishes, replaced by something raw and unguarded for half a second before he gets it back under control.

"Right," he says, pulling back a little, straightening up. "Because your life is so fucking hard, getting all this attention from me."

The old Steve is back. The one you know how to hate. He leans against the bookshelf behind him, casual, like he doesn't have a care in the world. The easy posture doesn't quite meet the tension in his shoulders.

"Attention?" You repeat, incredulous. "Is that what you call it?"

"It's what it is," he says, shrugging. "You don't exactly try to blend in."

And there it is.

The casual cruelty disguised as a joke. The backhanded compliment that's really an insult. The thing he and his friends have been doing to you for years.

The laugh that escapes you is anything but amused. It's sharp and humorless. "God, you really don't get it, do you?"

"What's there to get?" he asks, genuinely confused. "You make a scene, you get attention. It's how the world works."

"A scene," you repeat, your voice dangerously quiet now. You push your chair back and stand, grabbing your backpack. "Is that what you called it when you and your court jesters used to trip me in the hallway? Was I 'making a scene' when your little friends made mooing sounds behind my back in eighth grade?"

His face blanks. All trace of the cocky smirk is gone, replaced by something that looks uncomfortably like guilt.

"Or was it a scene when Carol Perkins told everyone I stuffed my bra, right before the spring dance last year?" The words leave your lips, laced with a venom you usually keep locked away. "Is that what this is? Me finally getting the attention I've been 'asking for' all along?"

You expect him to laugh it off. To roll his eyes and call you crazy or dramatic. That's what he always does.

But he doesn't.

He just stands there, silent. The silence is worse than any retort could be. It hangs heavy between you, thick with the ghosts of moments you've tried to forget. You realize he actually remembers. He was there for all of it. He probably laughed.

"Or..." you begin, quieter, more hurt. "Did my foray into the spotlight start with the seventh grade Snow Ball?"

You feel sick even bringing it up. Your voice cracks on the last few words, betraying the cool front you've desperately tried to maintain.

His shoulders slump. Just a little. He looks down, away from your face, focusing on a scuff mark on the linoleum floor. The King of Hawkins High suddenly looks like a lost kid.

"I... that was..." He starts, then stops, clearing his throat. He can't even form a defense.

You steel yourself against the wave of nausea that threatens to rise. You shouldn't have said it. You shouldn't have given him that piece of you, that raw, tender memory he didn't deserve to know still hurt.

"I didn't..." he tries again, and the sound is so unfamiliar you almost don't recognize it.

You didn't want his apology, half assed and flimsy, the same kind you'd given your mom when you broke a vase. A weak 'I didn't mean to'. 

It's the worst kind of excuse, the kind that absolves the giver of all guilt while placing the burden of acceptance on the wounded party.

"Save it," you say, and your voice is flat again, but this time it's an achievement. "I think we're even, Harrington. You got your cheap thrills for years, I got my revenge. Now leave me alone."

You turn your back on him before he can say anything else, before he can try and fail to make it right, before your own stupid, treacherous eyes can betray you by welling up.

You don't look back as you shove past the library doors and out into the empty hallway, before heading out to your car. You want to run, to slam the car door, to peel out of the parking lot. But you force yourself to walk at a steady pace, to find your keys with hands that only tremble a little. You sit in the driver's seat for a long moment before you can make yourself turn the key in the ignition.

That moment in the library was the last time you really spoke to Steve Harrington for while.

He started dating Nancy Wheeler not long after, focused all his bullying on to Jonathan Byers, much to his new girlfriend's distaste.

Then the younger Byers kid went missing. Then Barbara Holland went missing.

Nancy and Jonathan started spending time together. Rumors spread.

It was only when your job got vandalized that you pieced together the truth.

Because outside the Hawk Theater, was one Steve Harrington, on a ladder cleaning off the red spraypaint he had painted the marquee with earlier.

'Nancy 'The Slut' Wheeler'

Yeah, no change on his part.

Your boss sent you outside to check on him, make sure he was actually cleaning it. You practically begged him not to make you, but it was a losing effort.

You wrapped your sweater tighter around yourself as you walked into the familiar chill of November.

"My boss wants to know if the 'pretty boy has given up yet'," you said, your voice flat.

He nearly fell off the ladder at the sound of your voice, wobbling before catching himself. When he turned, the casual cool he usually wore like a second skin was gone. In its place was a weary, ragged exhaustion.

He had a black eye and split lip. 

Right, the fight with Byers. Some kids came in earlier talking about it. Steve was lucky the cops showed up when they did.

He just stared at you for a long second, processing. "Oh. Hey."

Not a smirk. Not a joke. Just a quiet greeting that was more of a breath than a word.

"His words, not mine," you amended, hugging your arms around yourself. "Clearly."

His gaze flickered to the red paint smeared across the letters, then back to you. For the first time ever, you felt like he was actually seeing you, not just a target for a lazy joke. It was unsettling.

He looked away, scrubbing hard at a particularly stubborn streak of paint. The rag made a rough, scraping sound against the metal. "I'm not giving up."

"Good. My boss is a stickler for restitution."

Another silence stretched, filled only by the scrape of the rag and the distant hum of traffic. You should have gone back inside. You should have left him to it.

"Heard she slapped you. Nancy." You said it to the marquee, not to him.

He stopped scrubbing. "Yeah. She did."

"Good."

He actually laughed, a short, harsh sound that was closer to a cough. "Figured you'd think so."

"She deserved that? The spray paint?" The words came out sharper than you intended, a remnant of the library conversation still festering under your skin.

His sigh was heavy, weighing him down where he stood on the ladder. "No. It was stupid. I was… stupid."

It wasn't the world-changing apology you might have once dreamed of, but it was something. A crack in the facade.

"She was my whole world, you know?" The words were quiet, barely audible.

You didn't mean to let the snort escape you, but it did. "You dated for, like, five minutes."

The look he gave you then was devoid of any of its usual arrogance. It was just… tired. "Doesn't matter."

He went back to scrubbing, a frantic, desperate energy in the movement. You watched him, this boy who had tormented you for years, this boy who was now scrubbing the evidence of his own broken heart off a marquee in the cold.

"Nancy... she's different. She's serious about her studies and she can be bossy, sure. But I kind of like that in a girl. Plus, she's kind. She actually cares about people. Not just what people think of her." He paused, and you realized he wasn't really talking to you anymore. He was talking to himself, working it all out loud. "She's not just... she's not like the others."

You couldn't help but remember the way he called you 'bossy' in that locker room a month ago.

"Didn't think bossy girls were your thing." Your voice is softer when you say it, like maybe you're realizing his genuine gaze that day wasn't for show. Maybe he realized something that day. About himself, or maybe about you.

Steve stopped scrubbing again, the rag hanging limp in his hand. He turned, really looking at you, and for a second you thought he might remember that day in the locker room. Remember the game you played, the lines you blurred. But the exhaustion in his face was too deep, the pain too fresh for him to dig into that particular memory.

He just shook his head, a small, sad motion. "It's not about the bossiness," he said, his voice rough. "It's about... caring."

He went back to the marquee with renewed vigor, the scrape of the rag against the metal sounding like he was trying to scrape something off himself.

"I'm sorry, for what it's worth," you said quietly. "About her, and Jonathan, and all of it."

You weren't sure why you said it. Maybe it was the split lip, or the way the sadness settled in his brow.

He didn't turn around. "She's not coming back," he said, as if stating a fact he was still trying to convince himself of.

"Maybe you have to go to her." You shrug. "Byers too. If you mean it."

His shoulders went rigid. He didn't answer, and you knew you'd crossed an invisible line. That was enough advice for one lifetime.

"I've got to get back inside," you said, turning before he could see the complicated knot of feelings tightening in your chest. You were not a person who gave Steve Harrington advice. You were not a person who felt anything for Steve Harrington but annoyance and, on rare occasions, pity.

But as you pushed open the heavy glass door to the lobby, the warmth of the theater a welcome relief against the cold, you couldn't shake the image of him on the ladder, a solitary figure against the dark.

By senior year, Steve Harrington became a distant figure in your life. 

In the Hawkins social circle as well.

He ditched Tommy and Carol after the spraypaint incident. He won Nancy back, and then lost her again. He was quieter, different in a way that you couldn't understand, like he was wrestling with something deeper than the 'senior year scaries'.

And by December of '84, you had your own demons to battle.

Your sister was in 6th grade, and it was going to be her first real Hawkins Middle School dance. 

The Snow Ball.

Volunteering was something you usually did to pad your college applications, but this particular event felt personal. You wanted to make sure no little girl had the same experience you did, felt that same, specific ache of being a target before they even knew what they'd done wrong.

So you found yourself at the front entrance, paired with no other than Nancy Wheeler, giving out tickets.

A curly haired kid you recognized walked in, hair styled in a way that looked eerily familiar. Your gaze followed out the double doors of the school, to the equally familiar maroon BMW the kid had just walked out of.

Nancy took the kid's ticket and he headed into the dance smiling.

Outside you saw Steve Harrington in his driver's seat, just watching the kid go inside, then looking at Nancy. Your eyes met his from across the distance, and you could see the faintest, ghost of a smile from him.

Even now, even with everything that had happened, your first instinct was to retreat. To make yourself small. But your sister needed you here, needed someone to make sure this dance was magic, not misery.

An hour or so in, you watched the mini-Steve (whose name was Dustin, according to Nancy) approaching a group of girls. You couldn't hear the conversation, but it clearly didn't go well. Your heart sunk and before you could walk over and check in, you saw Nancy offer to dance with him.

It healed something in you to see it. The way Nancy just saw a kid who was hurting and stepped in, no questions asked. It was the kindness you'd always admired in her from afar, a kindness that seemed so effortless, so natural.

It was the kindness Steve had seen in her, too. You understood, suddenly, with a clarity that felt like a punch to the gut.

He had changed. Or maybe Nancy had just given him the vocabulary to name the change that was already happening inside him.

The thought was disorienting. You spent years carefully building a wall around the Steve Harrington you thought you knew, and now you were seeing cracks in the foundation. Cracks that let in a different kind of light.

You went out to the parking lot to get air, after checking on you sister with a little thumbs up.

In the corner of the lot sat that same familiar car.

You don't know what prompted you to walk towards it, but you did, wrapping your jacket around you a little tighter. You knocked twice on the passenger side window, startling a very zoned out Steve. When he saw you he rolled the window down. The sounds of some sad soft rock came from the radio of his car.

"Hey," he says. It’s quiet. Almost shy.

"Hey," you reply back, mirroring his tone. "Nice kid. That Dustin."

He gives a small, genuine smile. "Yeah. He is. A little weird, but... he's good people."

"Better than the company you used to keep," you say before you can stop yourself, the old bitterness leaking out like poison from an old wound.

He didn't seem angry or annoyed, just let out a soft huff of a laugh, running his hand through his hair. "Yeah. No contest."

You stood there for a moment in silence, an awkward truce settled between you, fragile as a sheet of ice. You looked up at the full moon, a perfect, indifferent disc in the dark sky.

"Nancy's dancing with him. Some girls laughed when he asked them and she just... swooped in," you said, filling the space. "She's just... good."

"Too good," he said, the words barely audible, the soft rock on the radio suddenly sounding too loud. He wasn't looking at you, just staring at the steering wheel like it held all the answers he was looking for. "For me, for anybody."

You shivered a little before speaking. "You can be good, too. Bringing him here. Doing all that." Your voice is softer. More genuine. "That hair must have taken a lot of product."

His eyes met yours then, and for a second you saw it again, that flicker of something unguarded. He smiled, a real smile, not a smirk. "Get in the car, you're cold."

The invitation hung in the cold night air. Part of you wanted to say no. To preserve the careful distance you had built brick by painful brick. But he was right. The cold was seeping into your bones, and the offer itself, so simple and devoid of any ulterior motive, was unexpected.

"Damn, no comment about the extra layer of blubber keeping me warm?" you mumbled, the old habit of self-deprecation a comfortable armor. "You really have changed, Harrington."

The smile vanished from his face, replaced by a look you couldn't quite read. It wasn't pity, which you would have hated. It was closer to… disappointment. In you, or maybe in himself.

"Get in the car," he repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Just for a minute."

You hesitated, then opened the passenger door and slid in, the worn leather of the seat cool against your thighs. The soft rock from the radio wrapped around you, a blanket of melancholy. You closed the door, and the world outside the car seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you in the small, quiet space.

"Better?" he asked, not looking at you.

"Yeah. Thanks."

Silence settled, thick with unspoken history. You could feel the warmth from the car's heater starting to seep in, chasing away the chill, but doing nothing for the knot of anxiety tightening in your stomach.

He fiddled with the radio dial, searching for another station, and then gave up, letting the sad song play out.

"About that thing you said..." he began, then stopped, the sentence hanging in the air unfinished.

You braced yourself, waiting for a joke, a deflection, something to break this fragile moment.

"I was an asshole. In the library," he said finally, the words coming out in a rush, like he'd been holding them in for a long time. "What I said about... you know. Making a scene. And before that. All of it."

The apology was so unexpected, so direct, that it caught you completely off guard. You didn't speak yet, just let him keep going.

"I didn't really have a reason to care for much outside of myself and my own bullshit. For a while, I just... existed. Then I had to start cleaning up my own messes. Spray paint, fights, losing a girl I loved." He paused. "Turns out, being a dick all the time doesn't make for great company when you're all alone."

You watched him as he spoke.

"I probably said shit about a ton of different people at school and didn't think twice on how it made them feel. I mean, that's what we did. Tommy, Carol, me. It was... easy." He finally turned to face you, and the exhaustion in his eyes was matched by something you hadn't seen before in him. Humility. "I'm sorry for that. For making you the butt of some stupid joke more than once."

You didn’t really know what to say. A real apology. Not some backhanded 'I didn't mean to', but an actual, ownership of the words he spoke. For the past.

His words settled in the space between you, heavy and strange. You’d imagined this moment before, but differently—him cornering you, you delivering a withering comeback, winning some invisible war.

"For the record? Your little stunt in the locker room junior year?" He let out a small, breathy laugh, shaking his head like he couldn't quite believe it. "I deserved that. Kind of a dick move, but you..." 

He paused, a flicker of something almost like admiration in his eyes. "You've got more nerve than I gave you credit for."

You managed a weak smile, the kind that doesn't reach your eyes. "It's either that or let it eat you alive."

Another stretch of silence. The song on the radio ended, and the DJ's voice came on, too cheerful for the mood in the car.

"I think that's when I realized how much I like that in a girl," he said, so softly you almost didn't catch it.

He was looking at you again, not with the old, assessing gaze that made you want to hide, but with a quiet, searching look. Like he was trying to fit the girl who left him naked in a locker room with the girl sitting in his car now.

"Yeah well," you said with sigh. "Nancy has that in spades. And she's pretty and kind to boot. So I can see why you're still pining."

It was a defense mechanism, a way to steer the conversation back to safer territory. To the girl he was supposed to be thinking about, not you.

His smile returned, but this one was tinged with sadness. "You two are more similar than you think."

"Yeah, I find that hard to believe."

"You're both stubborn." He counts on his finger. "You both care almost too much about people." He ticks another one off. "And you both have a hard time letting people in."

The accusation hung in the air, sharp and uncomfortably close to the truth. It felt like he was peeling back layers you hadn't given him permission to touch.

You opened your mouth, a retort ready, but nothing came out. What could you say? That he was right?

"Well excuse me for not being eager to let in the first person to make me feel ugly."

And there it was, the vulnerable truth. The reason you had played that game, the reason you built those walls, said out loud in the warm quiet of his car. You hadn't meant to say it. It just spilled out, raw and unvarnished.

His face crumpled. Not in a dramatic way, but a subtle shift, mostly behind his eyes.

You could just leave, or let it hang, change the subject. But something made you want to be honest. To get it out, a few feet away from the scene of the original crime.

"I was confused when you asked me to the dance. Like, we were friendly. You always came to all my birthday parties, even when boys thought it was weird to go to girls parties. But I never thought of you in that way. I don’t really think I thought much about boys in that way at all yet."

You tucked a piece of hair that tried to escape your updo before continuing.

"My mom bought me that pretty blue dress. And she did my hair. And when I went up to you and your friends..." You didn't want the tremble to show in your voice, but you couldn't stop it. "You made that cow sound. Like an animal. And they all laughed, telling me they couldn't believe I actually thought you wanted to go with me. And I just remember thinking...'Oh. I'm the joke.'"

The words hung in the quiet car, each one a memory you'd packed away so tightly it had left bruises on the inside. You didn't look at him, just stared at your own hands in your lap, knuckles white.

"I had to run back to my mom, who was luckily still in the parking lot. She asked what was wrong and I couldn't even talk. I told her I felt sick, and we left."

The tears that fell were silent, a single, hot trail down your cheek. You wiped it away quickly, angry at yourself for this. For letting him see.

"I don't even think little me knew there was something wrong with her until then."

You finally chanced a look at him.

His face was chalk white. The easy, exhausted slouch was gone, replaced by a rigid stillness. His eyes were fixed on the dashboard, but he wasn't seeing it. He was seeing you. A smaller version of you, in a blue dress, hope dying on your face.

"I..." he started, and the sound was so hollow it was almost a gasp.

"It's fine. It was like, forever ago." You tried to brush it off, pulling down the overhead mirror to check your reflection, to make sure your makeup hadn't run. You were trying to rebuild the wall he'd just seen crumble.

"It's not fine," he said, the words barely audible. He finally looked at you, and the guilt in his eyes was just another thing you had never seen on him before. "I don't even remember why I did it. I remember telling Tommy H I had asked you to the dance and he just... lost it. And it was easier to go along with it than to be the one on the receiving end. I was a coward. I wanted people to like me. I wanted to be...popular."

He said the word like it felt embarssing on his tongue. He wasn't making excuses. He was dissecting a wound, and you were forced to watch.

"So I fixed it by telling them I only asked you as a joke. So I was the funny guy. The cool guy." He looked away from you, staring out the windshield at the dark, empty parking lot. "I didn't think about you. Not once. And that's... that's worse, isn't it? That I made you feel...that way... and I didn't even think about it."

The quiet confession was heavier than any apology he could have made. You could feel the weight of it pressing down on the worn upholstery of the BMW, on the fragile silence between you.

You straightened up in the seat, dabbing under your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket. "Well, now you know," you said, your voice tight.

His hand came to your shoulder tentatively, like he was afraid you might bolt.

"You were never ugly."

His touch was light, barely there, but it sent a jolt through you.

"I was a scared little shit who said something cruel because I was a coward. That's all that was." His thumb brushed a small circle on your shoulder. A hesitant, seeking gesture. "I'm sorry. For that. And for everything else I did that made you feel like you weren't... like you weren't good enough."

The dam you'd built around that memory for all those years finally broke. A choked sob escaped you, messy and undignified.

Before you could process it, he was unbuckling his seatbelt, shuffling awkwardly in the driver's seat to get closer. He hesitated for a second, then wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into a clumsy, one-sided hug.

It was stiff and awkward, the angle all wrong in the small car.

"I meant it... in the locker room." His voice was a whisper, muffled a little by your hair as he settled against you. "When I said you were beautiful. It wasn't a line. I was an ass, but that part... that was true."

The words washed over you, a confusing mix of balm and salt. He was apologizing for the ugliest thing he'd ever done to you while simultaneously resurrecting the memory of the most confusing, empowering, and mortifying moment you two had ever shared.

"I almost didn't go through with it. Taking your shorts." You said through the tears, the confession feeling like a surrender. "You were just... so gentle. For a second. When you pushed my hair back. I thought maybe..."

You didn't finish. You didn't know what you'd thought. Maybe you thought he wasn't the monster you'd built him up to be.

"I mean I definitely wasn't going to go down on you either." You say with a watery laugh that sounds more like a hiccup.

He let out a breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. "Figured as much." He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you. His thumb came up to wipe a stray tear from your cheek. "I was fucking terrified, if that means anything."

"When you were left there naked?"

"No," he said, shaking his head slowly, the words coming out almost like he was embarassed to say them. "When you got on your knees." 

That admission hung in the air, a strange, surprising reversal of the power dynamic you thought you understood. You'd been so focused on your own performance, your own revenge, you hadn't stopped to consider what was happening behind his cocky facade.

"Oh," you managed, the word small.

"Yeah," he said, a faint, self-deprecating smile touching his lips. "I mean I had, you know, had sex before. But uh, not like... in such a public place, and definitely not... you were just... you were so confident. And I guess, so was I, in a different way. But I didn't know what the hell I was doing."

You raised an eyebrow at him. "Lisa P gave you a blowjob in the janitor's closet sophomore year."

He actully let out a laugh at that. "You believe everything you hear?" He shook his head. "God, no. That was all Tommy. I just let him say it because it was easier. Easier than admitting she changed her mind as soon as she, uh...saw it." He mumbled the last part.

You had a sudden flashback to your thought in the locker room: 

'Well, shit. Rumors can be true sometimes...'

A small, watery laugh escaped you, surprising you both. The absurdity of the situation, of years of misunderstanding and fabricated bravado, crashed over you. You two were just kids, fumbling in the dark, pretending to know what you were doing. You weren't some mastermind of revenge that day. You were a scared girl with a clever idea, and he was a scared boy whose armor had dents in it.

"Oh, that's funny to you? The one time I'm being honest about my penis?" He was teasing, but it was gentle. A new kind of teasing, one that included you in the joke instead of making you the punchline.

"Don't say penis," you managed, wiping your damp cheeks. "It's a terrible word."

"What should I say then? My manhood? My johnson?" He was grinning now, a grin that made your stomach do a slow flip.

"Just don't say it at all," you said, pushing lightly at his shoulder.

"Okay, okay," he conceded, still smiling. "No more talk about my... well, you know."

The comfortable silence that followed was a revelation. You weren't hiding. You weren't performing. You were just sitting in a car with Steve Harrington, a strange, new kind of normal settling over you.

"In Lisa P's defense, it is intimidating." You said suddenly, not looking at him.

"What is?"

"You know. The thing we're not talking about."

You felt the shift in him, the quick intake of breath. He was surprised. It was a dangerous admission, one that could give him a sliver of power back.

But he didn't take it. In fact, when you looked at him he almost seemed embarassed. "Thanks, I guess?"

It was your turn to grin. "Don't get a big head, Harrington. It's just an objective observation. Like noticing a building is tall."

He just laughed, a real, easy laugh that filled the car. "A building. Right."

"Yep. A very... architectural... building."

"Isn't every building 'architectural'?"

You were letting out the kind of laughter that felt like years of tension finally dissolving into the frosty air. The song on the radio changed, a slightly more upbeat track than before.

"You know," he said when the laughter subsided, "I'm glad you got in the car."

"Yeah, well. Don't get used to it."

"I won't," he said, but the way he was smiling made you think he might be hoping otherwise.

You heard the doors to the school burst open then, a flood of younger kids spilling out into the parking lot, their high-pitched chatter and laughter cutting through the quiet night.

You saw your sister looking for you. "I should go meet her so we can walk home."

He nodded, but he didn't look away. "Hey," he said, just as your hand touched the door handle.

You turned back to him.

"Can I..." He started, then stopped, searching for the words. "I can bring you guys home. Henderson's house is actually right near yours."

You didn't know which was more surprising, him offering a ride or him remembering where you live.

"Yeah...sure." You answer quietly, before buckling your seatbelt.

Steve pulls up to the doors and you wave your sister over. 

After an explanation of your ride, Dustin Henderson runs over to the car and gets in the back after giving you a very confused look for being in the passenger seat.

"I'm at a dance for a few hours and you already got a girl in here? Jesus, Steve." Dustin says with an over dramatic sigh, and you fight a smile.

"Shut it, Henderson," Steve mutters, but without any real heat. "We're giving them a ride home."

The drive was short, filled with Dustin's chatter about how dancing with Nancy was apparently was "so cool" and some weird thing that happened with a compass. You didn't really follow, but you watched the way Steve listened, the way he nodded and asked real questions, the way he didn't talk down to the kid. 

Steve pulled up to Dustin's house first. The kid unbuckled, then turned to you, his eyes wide with a sudden, fierce intensity. "Hey, you're the girl from the theater, right? The one who let us in to see 'Christine' without a parent?"

You blinked, surprised. "Uh, yeah. That's me." Steve gave you an eyebrow raise and you shrugged sheepishly. "I can't deny a horror fan."

"She's too cool for you." Dustin points to Steve as he opens his door to leave. Your sister giggles in the back seat. "See ya, Steve."

"Get outta here, Henderson," Steve grumbled, but he was smiling. The kid slammed the door, and you and your sister watched him run up to his front porch, a weird little flurry of curls and excitement.

Then it was just the three of you, the car feeling quiet without Dustin's energy.

Steve drove down the street and pulled into your driveway, your sister thanked him and ran inside, excited to tell your parents about the dance.

You sat there, not moving, the engine still rumbling a low, steady thrum beneath you. The porch light was on, a warm, inviting glow against the dark of the evening.

"She looks a lot like you. When you were little, I mean," he said quietly.

You didn't answer, just stared at the house, at the life you were about to walk back into.

He turned in his seat, looking at you fully. The streetlight caught the profile of his face, highlighting the new lines of exhaustion and a depth that hadn't been there a year ago. "I know this was weird."

"A little," you admitted, finally turning to look at him. The distance between the two front seats felt both vast and infinitely small.

"Henderson is right though. You are way too cool for me. He's got good taste," he says with a smile.

You couldn't help but mirror it, a small, tentative curve of your lips. "Like I said, don't get a big head about it. I've been told my taste is questionable."

"I'll risk it." He kept looking at you, and the air in the car grew thicker, charged with something that felt dangerously close to friendship.

"Goodnight, Steve." You say as you head out of the car.

You can see a small smile form, just at you saying his name. It was 'Harrington' ever since seventh grade. This was different.

"Night."

You shut the door and walked up your driveway, not looking back. You could feel the weight of his gaze on you until you disappeared inside.

1985 comes slow, then all at once.

Winter melts into a muddy spring, which blooms into a humid, unforgiving Hawkins summer.

You moved to working at the cineplex in the mall, unable to deny how much a raise would help you out.

Ever since that Snow Ball, you and Steve were friendly. Slowly but surely becoming more comfortable. You'd visit him at work, make fun of his uniform and his pathetic attempts at wooing the female race.

It wasn't until the beginning of July that you finally understood the weight Steve Harrington had been carrying all these years.

The mall fire cover up the late night news already started to spread and made you want to throw up. The fact that nobody but a few of you really understood the horrors that lurked under Hawkins. Monsters, other dimensions, the way loss followed these people around like ghosts.

You were in the Harrington's upstairs bathroom, cleaning up a very battered Steve. He almost looked like a cartoon, bloody and beaten in his stupid sailor outfit.

"I'm sorry." he mumbed as you cleaned his split lip.

You shook your head. "Don't. You don't have anything to apologize for."

"You shouldn't have had to learn about all this. You or Robin. Just gets you involved in all the bullshit."

"Hey," you say, tilting his chin up gently with your thumb. "None of that."

His brown eyes were so close to yours, you could see that they were more hazel. Even through the swelling and bruises, they held a universe of fear. Not just for himself, but everyone.

"You are... a mess." You say, and he cracks a weak smile.

"The ladies love a man in uniform."

"Not when it's covered in blood and spit." You quip back, putting the last bit of antiseptic on the cut above his eyebrow. "There. All done. Now get in the shower."

He raises an eyebrow and immediatley regrets it from the pain. "Trying to see my intimidating penis again?"

You move back so he can get up from the toilet he was sitting on. "I thought we agreed to never use that word."

"Penis? Or intimidating?" He says with a full grin now, leaning against the sink now.

"Ugh, just get in the shower. You reek."

He didn't say anything else, just smiled before shutting the door. You went downstairs, grabbing a bottle of water from the Harrington's impressively stocked refrigerator before going to the living room.

After you heard the shower stop you heard your name.

"Where are you?" A concerned Steve yelled from upstairs.

You went to the foot of the stairs to see him in just a towel at the top of the stairs.

"I'm down here, why?" You said, trying to keep your gaze from dipping. "Did you fall?"

"No...I just...thought you'd be in my room."

"Well, that's presumptuous. I'm a proper lady, Steven." You reply, and you can't hide the small smirk on your face.

"You're wearing a 'The Thing' t-shirt with ketchup on it," he says with a pointed look from the top of the stairs. "I think we've moved past proper."

"I actually think that's your blood… Whatever," you say, taking a swig of your water.

"Can you just... come up?" His voice is smaller now. "Please."

You sigh, capping the bottle. "Just be decent by the time I get in there."

He gives a small smile and pads to his room. You walk up the stairs slowly, giving him enough time to change.

When you reach his door and knock a little he tells you to come in.

It's very... plaid. And you say as much.

"Yeah, well, I promise I didn't pick it out. My dad did. So what does that say about him?"

You decide to not unpack that, instead sitting on the edge of his bed. You knew enough about Steve's parents to have a reasonable amount of distaste.

He's standing by his closet, in a pair of sweats and no shirt, pulling on a clean Hawkins High t-shirt. You've seen him shirtless before. In the locker room, obviously. But this is different. There's no posturing, no performance. He's just a guy. A guy who almost died.

"You want something to sleep in?" He asks, turning to you.

You feel your eyes widen before you even realize it at the assumption. "What?" The word comes out sharper than you mean it to. "I'm not sleeping over."

His expression falters, the casual confidence draining from his face. "Oh. Right. I just... it's late. And it's dark. I just figured you wouldn't want to..."

"Walk home by myself after I just spent the last hour cleaning your blood off my hands?" You finish for him, a familiar acid starting to burn in your stomach.

He says your name low and gentle. "Just... go take a shower. And then I can, fill in all the gaps from the past couple years, okay? God knows I'm not gonna sleep tonight."

"Yeah well, you probably have a concussion so you really shouldn't fall asleep anyway." 

"Wouldn't be my first." He grimaces and you frown. "Really, just go shower. I'll grab you some clothes."

You sigh but eventually nod, retreating to the bathroom.

The steam fills the small room, clouding the mirror and beading on the tile. You stand under the hot spray, letting it wash over you, trying to scrub away the image of him so broken and bloodied. You wash the smell of antiseptic and fear from your skin, the phantom sensation of his split lip and black eye under your fingertips. The image of Billy Hargrove getting pierced through the torso over and over. That look on that little girl's face when she found out the chief was dead.

You let the tears fall as the water rushes over you, silent and hidden.

When you get out, you wrap yourself in a towel, feeling oddly exposed as you walk down the hallway to Steve's room.

You knock before speaking. "Hey, can you turn around? The towel is... small."

It was another reminder of your body, of the way it had been a target long before tonight.

He turns to face his closet without a word. You can see the tension in his shoulders, the rigid line of his spine. "Got you some stuff," he says, his voice muffled by the hangers. "It's just some sweats and a shirt. Should be comfortable."

You walk over to the bed, and snort. "These sweats aren't going to fit over my ass." You hold them up.

He shrugs, still not turning. "Guess you'll have to go commando."

The teasing lands all wrong. It's an echo of the old Steve, the one who reduced you to a body part, a punchline. The air in the room suddenly feels heavy, suffocating.

It's like he can tell and the flinch of his head reveals that.

"Hey, sorry, no... I didn't mean it like..." 

"I know." You snap. You know he didn't, not really. But it's hard to remember that when the old wounds are still so fresh. "Just... turn back around."

He does, his back to you a silent apology. You dress quickly, the soft fabric of the Hawkins High shirt a strange comfort against your skin. Its stretched tight around your ample chest and you thank whoever is out there that it isn't white like his.

When you go to try on the sweats, you were correct, they don't go over your hips.

"It's a no go on the pants, sailor." You throw them and they land at his feet.

You go to your pile of clothes and just tug your underwear back on with a silent thank you to past you for not picking a thong this morning.

"I'm just gonna... sleep in my underwear, so... don't be weird when I walk out of here."

"Walk out?" He says, finally turning around. He looks genuinely confused.

"To go in the guest room?"

"The guest room?" He repeats, as if the words are in a foreign language. He's just standing there, in the middle of his perfectly plaid room, looking at you like you've suggested you go sleep on the roof. "The guest room is downstairs. On the other side of the house."

"So?"

"So... it's like one in the morning. There's been... you know. There's been monsters. And you're gonna sleep all the way over there by yourself?"

It occurs to you that this isn't about you.

He doesn't want to be alone. And he's too scared, or too proud, or too emotionally constipated to just say so. So he's framing it as a chivalrous offer, a way to protect you.

The realization is so startling that for a second you just stare at him. His eyes, still a little wild with the events of the night, flicker from your face to the door and back again.

"You want me to stay in here?" Its tentative, soft. Like you're trying to talk to a spooked animal.

He shrugs, a casual gesture that is anything but. "It's a big bed. And I'll... I'll sleep on the floor."

The offer is so ridiculous, so transparently false, that a strangled laugh escapes you. "You're not sleeping on your floor, Steve. You have a concussion. And like, more injuries than I can count."

"I'm fine," he insists, but the way he sways slightly on his feet betrays him.

"Right. 'Fine' is your middle name." You walk over to the window, needing a moment to just breathe, to look at something other than his face, which is a confusing canvas of bruises, exhaustion, and something else you can't quite name.

Its this moment where Steve lets his gaze drag down the form of your back to the curve of your ass as it's hugged by your underwear. He's grateful your back is turned as he realizes the shirt barely goes to you hips, probably pulled up by your huge–

Nope. Stop, Steve.

Unfortunately for him, that's when you turn around and he can see exactly what he was trying not to think about. The shape of your nipples are hard and pressed against the thin, worn cotton of the Hawkins High Tigers shirt.

He's a healthy (generally) red blooded American male. It's not his fault.

He looks away, cheeks flushing, as you cover your chest by crossing your arms, probably realizing at the same moment he did that you were on display.

"Just... get in the bed." You grumble, getting in on the side by his window, under the covers before he can see anymore of you.

He nods, shutting off the light and climbing in on the other side.

For the next hour or so, you both keep a safe distance as he tells you everything. About Will Byers. A girl with magic powers. The Upside Down. All of it.

"And that brings us to... tonight." He finishes, the silence in the room heavy.

"Jesus Christ, Steve." You say into the dark, processing it all. "I think I'd rather deal with you being an asshole again."

He lets out a weak chuckle. "Yeah, well. The asshole was the easier monster to deal with." He shifts in the bed, and the sheet rustles. "Are you scared?"

"Terrified," you admit, your voice barely a whisper. "But I'm also just... tired. It's a lot of weirdness to take in."

"Yeah."

You lay in the dark, the only light from a streetlamp filtering through the blinds, painting stripes across the ceiling. You're acutely aware of the space between you, of the sound of his breathing, of the strange intimacy of it all.

"Let's just... talk about anything else."

It was quiet for a moment before he came up with a topic.

"You remember sophomore year?" He says softly. "When Carol spread that rumor that you stuffed your bra?"

"This isn't a better topic..." You pull the covers around yourself more.

"No, just....hear me out." He says, sighing. "She did that cause I was dating her friend, Stacey, at the time. And Stacey wasn't as... endowed as you. And I stupidly said something about not every girl being as... 'naturally blessed' as you." He said the words as if they tasted bad. "And I was so used to Tommy and Carol laughing at my dumbass comments about girls, I didn't even think about how they would take it. And it ended up with Carol being a bitch."

"So let me get this straight," you say, your voice dangerously calm. "You made a comment that compared my body to your then-girlfriend's, your girlfriend got insecure, and Carol, in her infinite wisdom, spread a rumor that I stuffed my bra. To make your girlfriend feel better?"

When you put it like that, it sounded even more stupid.

"Yeah?"

You laughed and it was not what he expected. "Oh my god, that is so stupid. They literally saw me in the locker room for0 years. And they still had to make that up to make themselves feel better?"

"You're not mad?" He turned his head to look at you, a little bewildered.

You lay there, staring up at the ceiling still. "I learned from a very reliable source that everyone is insecure about their body in some way. I just... never thought anyone would be envious about what I have going on." You gesture vaguely to your chest.

It wasn't that you weren't mad. But it was so absurdly, ridiculously high school that it felt almost funny now. After monsters and alternate dimensions, a mean girl rumor from three years ago felt quaint.

He's quiet for a long moment, just the sound of his steady breathing next to you.

"Steve?" You whisper into the dark.

"Yeah?"

"Why did you... you know. Look."

You feel the bed shift as he turns onto his side, facing you. The stripes of light from the window cut across his face.

"At your boobs?"

"Don't say boobs."

"Alright, at your... chest?"

"Just answer the question."

He sighs, a long, slow exhalation. "I don't know. Cause I'm a guy? And you're a hot girl. And I have a pulse."

"I am not a 'hot girl'." You snort. "I'm the girl who got made fun of for her body for years."

"That wasn't because you weren't hot," he says, and the words are so serious it catches you off guard. "It was because you were. It's easier to make fun of something you're intimidated by. I'd know."

"My boobs intimidate you?" You finally turn, glaring at him a little.

"My penis intimidated Lisa P." He shrugs. "And you."

You were about to say something about that word again, but you let it go. "Yeah, well. That's different."

"How is it different?"

"Because," you start, your patience wearing thin. "You can hide your... thing. And most guys get praised for that anyway. I can't exactly stuff myself into another shape. It's always going to obvious I have a tummy, and thighs that touch, and huge boobs. And I can promise you, its not something I get praised for." 

You hadn't realized how much you'd needed to say that until the words were out. You felt naked, more exposed than you had been standing in your underwear.

"Okay," he says quietly.

"Just... okay?"

"What do you want me to say?" he asks, and he sounds genuinely lost. "I don't know how many more different ways I can tell you you're attractive without just... saying it again. I'm not good at this stuff."

You sigh into the dark, the frustration ebbing away into a familiar exhaustion. "I don't know what I want you to say."

He shifts again, and this time the sheet rustles as he moves a fraction closer. You can feel the warmth radiating from him, a stark contrast to the cool air in the room.

"My mom... she's obsessed with being thin," he says, the admission coming out of nowhere, sudden and raw in the quiet space. "Always has been. We have these, like, weird calorie-counting scales in the kitchen. She's always on a new diet. For a while I just thought that was something all women cared about. That it was the most important thing."

He paused. "You never seemed to care. At least, not openly. And I think that... bugged people. Girls like Carol. And Stacey. Because they were all so busy caring. And guys were probably afraid of being attracted to anything that wasn't the 'norm'. So people tried to knock you down a peg. "

You didn't know what to say to that. You'd spent years feeling like the odd one out, the girl who didn't fit into the neat, slender boxes of Hawkins High. The idea that your lack of obsession was the very thing that made you a target was a bitter, twisted irony.

"I was always bigger than the other girls. Even in elementary school," you admitted into the dark. "By the time I was in sixth grade, I was already wearing a bra. And the boys noticed. And they'd snap the straps. Or make jokes. Or moo."

"Yeah well, they were simultaneously popping awkward boners about it too." He offered, and you laughed.

"I guess so. I don't think we ever really see our own bodies in a vacuum, do we?" You say, trailing off. "I just always saw myself through the eyes of others. As a joke, or a spectacle."

He was quiet again, mouth twisted like he was trying to decide whether to say something.

"The first time I had sex... I wasn't even sure if it counted."

You turn your head quickly, confused. "Uh, what?"

He runs a hand over his face, a gesture of pure exhaustion. "It was a party. At that one house, out by the quarry. Beginning of junior year? I was really drunk. And so was she. And it was over in like, two minutes. In the back of my car. And she... we couldn't... it didn't fully fit."

It was your turn to be quiet, processing. "Fit?" You ask carefully.

He let out a shaky breath. "I got like...halfway in before she said it was too much and we kinda just did it that way? And I just thought... that's it then. This is my life. I have this... reputation to uphold. And I can't even do the one thing I'm supposed to be good at."

You'd never thought about it like that. The pressure on him, the invisible script he was forced to follow. You'd only ever seen the glossy exterior, the effortless performance of King Steve.

"So that's actually how the rumors started. And then more girls wanted to find out if they could... you know." He says with a huff. "Which just made it feel more like a chore after a while. They didn't want me, they just wanted Steve Harrington and whatever came with that."

The confession was a gift. A fragile, broken thing laid bare in the dark between you. He wasn't talking about sex anymore. He was talking about being a product, a brand, a trophy to be won. 

"So..." you start, your own voice barely a whisper. "I guess we have more in common than I thought."

He turns to look at you, trying to hide behind humor. "You have a comically large penis too?"

You let out a genuine laugh. "No, you idiot. The part where people see us as... things. As objects. As punchlines or trophies. I'm the 'chubby girl with the huge rack' and you're the 'stud with the... intimidating building.'"

The callback makes him smile. "Curvy. Voluptuous. A knockout," he says, the words coming softly. "There are a lot better words than ‘chubby’ to describe you."

You just look at him, watching the way the moonlight catches in his bruised eye. "And there are better words for you too."

The bed feels impossibly small and large all at once. There's miles of unspoken history between you, but the space where your shoulders are almost touching feels like it's buzzing with electricity.

He turns on his side, bracing himself up on an elbow, wincing slightly at the movement, before tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. His face is just as genuine as the first time he did it years ago.

"You're also smart, you know," he whispers. "You're way smarter than me. And you have better taste in movies. You're a good sister. You're kind of funny."

"Kind of?" you raise an eyebrow.

"You made fun of my uniform. That's a cheap shot, puts you down a few points," he teases gently. "But you're also brave. I mean, tonight... you didn't even hesitate. You just jumped in. You took care of me."

The compliment is so unexpected, so sincere, that it renders you speechless. His hand is still there, thumb brushing your cheek. You lean into the touch before you can stop yourself, a small, unconscious movement that feels both terrifying and right.

"And you're... so damn pretty," he says, the words barely audible, a confession meant for the dark. "I know I said it before. But it's not just a thing I say. It's the first thing I ever noticed about you, in third grade."

"Third grade?" you breathe, your heart hammering against your ribs.

"Your mom always put your hair in these two little braids," he says, a small smile touching his lips. "And you had this bright red coat. And you always had a book in your hands. You never played with the other kids at recess. You'd just sit by the wall and read. And I thought... I thought that was the coolest thing I'd ever seen. That someone could just be in their own little world like that."

You're staring at him, completely captivated. You don't remember being that girl, but he does. He remembers a version of you that existed long before you learned to be self-conscious, long before you learned to build walls around yourself.

"I guess, as you get older, and the social food chain comes into play... somewhere along the line admiration just turns to resentment. Jealousy." He sighs, the sound heavy in the room. "I wanted to be like you. I wanted to not care what people thought. But it was easier to make fun of you for it. To make fun of the parts of you that made you different."

Tears prick at your eyes again, hot and unexpected. 

"Hey, no, don't..." he murmurs, wiping a stray tear away with his thumb. He doesn't move his hand.

"I'm fine," you choke out, trying to pull it together. But it's too much. The honesty, the years of misunderstanding, the sheer, overwhelming closeness of him.

He looks at you like he doesn't deserve what he's about to do, but can't help but try. His hand on your face tightens, a barely-there pressure that holds you in place.

He leans in and gives you a moment to stop him. You don't. You can't.

Your lips met in the dark, a soft, tentative press that tasted a little like copper and antiseptic.

It didn't feel like the thrill of the locker room stunt. It wasn't frantic or performative. It was slow and a little clumsy, a gentle exploration. His lips were soft, and he kept his angle shallow, careful of his split lip. His thumb stroked your cheek, a steady, rhythmic motion that was more grounding than any kiss had a right to be.

He pulled back first, but only by an inch, just to search you eyes for more tears, for regret.

It wasn't like how you'd seen him kiss other girls before. Not in the hallways, not at parties. There was no showmanship, no possessive grab, no loud statement for an audience. This was just for you. A quiet apology, a fragile hope, all wrapped up in the gentle press of his mouth.

"So pretty," he whispered again, the words a warm puff of air against your lips.

You kissed him back then, deepening it slightly. A silent answer. An acknowledgment of the fragile truce being built in the space between you. He made a small, broken sound in the back of his throat, a mix of surprise and relief. His hands moved from your face to thread into your hair, careful not to pull. Your own hands found their way to his shoulders, feeling the solid warmth of him through the thin fabric of the t-shirt. You could feel the tension coiled there, the remnants of the night's terror still thrumming beneath his skin.

The kiss was a slow burn, a careful mapping of old hurts and new understandings. You could feel the slight give of his bottom lip where it was split, and you instinctively tilted your head to avoid it. He seemed to notice, pulling back with a wince.

"Sorry..." you whisper.

"No, it's fine," he said, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. "I'm not made of glass."

You didn't know if that was true. You'd just spent an hour patching up the evidence that he was, in fact, very breakable.

"I'm not sure about that. You've just made a very strong case for having a very soft heart. And it seems your face took a pretty big hit protecting it." Your reply is soft, but it's more teasing than anything.

You can see the way that makes him smile. And then he's leaning in again, and this time the kiss is less careful, more certain. He's not asking anymore. He's telling you.

"I'm sorry." He murmurs between kisses. "That you get this version of me. The beat up one. The one who's seen too much."

You pull back, your hands still on his shoulders. You look at him, really look at him. At the purpling bruise around his eye, the scab on his lip, the way he holds himself like he's expecting another blow.

"I don't know," you say, your voice quiet but sure. "I think I prefer this one."

He searches your face, and now he's the one looking for the joke, the punchline. He doesn't find it. What he finds must be genuine, because the last of the tension seems to drain out of him. He lets out a long, shuddering breath and collapses back against the pillows, pulling you with him.

One of his hands migrates to your hip, as the other stays tangle in your hair. He kisses you again, and again, soft and sweet. One of your hands is on his chest, the other still gripping his shoulder. He's warm. So warm.

He shifts, deepening the kiss slightly, and the move brings his body flush against yours. You can feel the hard lines of him, the solid muscle of his chest and stomach. It's such a contrast to you own soft tummy and curves.

"I'm not squishing you right?" You manage to get out between kisses. Your old insecurities bubbled to the surface, desperate to ruin this.

The hand that was on your hip moves, sliding up your side, his thumb brushing against the underside of your breast through the thin fabric of your shirt. He doesn't answer verbally. He just kisses you, a slow, deliberate kiss that seems to say, I like the way you feel.

His touch is a question, not a demand. He waits, giving you space to pull away, to say no. You don't.

Instead, you arch into him, a small, silent invitation. He takes it, his hand closing over your breast, a perfect, warm weight that makes you gasp into his mouth.

"God, you're so soft," he murmurs, the words a raw confession.

It's not a line. It's not a backhanded compliment disguised as a critique. He says it like it's the most wonderful thing he's ever felt. He says it like you are a secret oasis he's stumbled upon in a desert of sharp edges and hard planes.

"Feel so good against me..." His other hand moves from your hair to your thigh, squeezing the flesh there, a possessive, appreciative grip. He pulls your leg over his hip, and the new angle presses you against him in a way that makes your breath hitch.

He's half-hard against your stomach, a solid proof of his desire. You feel a surge of power, a dizzying, heady rush. It was so much better than the confidence you felt years ago in the locker room. This feels real and right. You adjust so your thighs are straddling him and his hands waste no time moving straight to your ass, with his smirk against your lips.

"Yeah, really glad this didn't fit in my pants..." He grabs a handful and you let out a small laugh, smacking him in the shoulder.

"You're an idiot." You say, but there's no heat behind it.

"But you like it." He's grinning as he squeezes again.

"I'm re-evaluating." You tease back, and then his hands are moving up your back, under the shirt as you sit up.

"Yeah?" He looks up at you, big doe eyes despite the swelling, messy sunkissed hair, split lip. Even battered and bruised, he looks beautiful. "Can I see you?"

Its a soft whisper, this moment a distant cousin of his hands skimming your shirt by the pool. And even though the thought makes your stomach clench with a familiar, old anxiety, you nod.

Slowly, you pull the worn Hawkins Tigers shirt over your head. The air in the room is cool against your bare skin, and for a heart-stopping second, you are sixteen again, back against the lockers.

But this version of Steve looks at you like he's seeing art.

He's smiling. A small, genuine smile. He sits up, careful, his hands on your waist. He doesn't stare at your chest. His eyes are locked on yours as he leans in and kisses your stomach.

"Steve..." You squirm a little, your body used to hiding itself in initimate moments.

"Shhh," he murmurs against your skin, pressing another soft kiss just above your belly button. "Just... let me look."

You do. You let him look. You let him trace the stretch marks on your hips with a gentle thumb, let him map the constellations of your freckles with a fingertip. His big hands make a slow journey up to cup your breasts, his expression one of pure, unadulterated reverence.

"Perfect," he whispers. "They're so... perfect."

He leans forward, pressing a kiss to the valley between them, then to each nipple, which pebble in the cool air. You gasp, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

"Love the way you feel in my hands," he says, his voice a low rumble against your skin.

Every word is a direct assault on the arsenal of insecurities you've built over the years. Every touch is a demolition. He's not trying to fix you; he's trying to tell you you were never broken.

"I think they're too big... make my back hurt..." you manage to get out in gasps as he teases one nipple with his thumb, the other with his mouth. "And clothes don't fit right..."

His response is to pull back, to look you in the eye, a fire in his that you've never seen before. "Then I'll buy you clothes that fit." He says it like it's the simplest thing in the world. "And I'll give you back rubs for the rest of your life if it means I get to touch you like this."

He switches, giving the other breast the same attention, his tongue swirling a pattern that makes your toes curl. You can feel the heat building in your stomach, a slow, steady fire.

"Steve..." You whisper, your hips starting to move against him of their own accord. "I need..."

"I know," he says, one of his hands moving down to grip your hip again, stilling your movements. "Lemme take care of you."

He maneuvers you gently, laying you back against the pillows. He hovers over you for a second, just looking, a look so intense it feels like a physical touch. Then he's kissing you again, a thorough kiss that seems to go on forever.

His hands start a slow, lazy exploration, tracing the curve of your waist, the swell of your hips. He teases the waistband of your panties with a feather-light touch that makes you shiver. You trail your hand down to pull at his shirt, needing to feel more of him.

"Off," you demand, your voice husky.

He grins against your lips, pulling back just enough to grab the hem of the shirt and pull it over his head in one smooth motion. And there he is. All lean muscle and skin. More freckles than usual from the summer sun. Too your surprise, more chest hair than junior year too.

"God...," you breathe, your hands moving to trace the lines of his stomach.

His body is a new map of the night's violence. A large, mottled bruise spreads across one side of his ribs, another darkening on the point of his hip where he must have landed. You can see the faint scars of older injuries, a memory of a past fight, a past monster.

"It's not pretty," he says, insecurity in his voice. He tries to cover himself, a reflexive move, but you stop him, your hands pressing gently against his chest.

"I'm not looking for pretty," you say, your thumb tracing the line of a fading scar above his eyebrow. "I'm looking for you. And you're... alive. That's what's pretty."

"Right now, I can definitely agree with that."

You lean up, pressing a soft kiss to the worst of the bruises on his ribs. A gentle apology for the pain he's endured.

"You've gotta let me touch you, baby," he whispers against your hair, the pet name feeling surprisingly natural and unforced.

The word hangs in the air between you, a simple statement that changes everything. He's not asking for your body. He's asking for your trust. Your surrender. The thing he stole from you, he's now handing back to you, wrapped like a gift in a gentle plea.

"Okay," you whisper back. "Okay."

His hands resume their journey, but now there's a new purpose to them. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties, the worn cotton stretching against his knuckles. He looks at you, a silent question in his eyes. You answer by lifting your hips, a small, decisive movement that allows him to pull them down and away.

He doesn't toss them aside. He folds them, almost absently, and places them on the nightstand, a small, domestic gesture that feels more intimate than anything that has happened so far.

Then he's looking at you. All of you. The light from outside cuts a diagonal across the bed, illuminating the soft curve of your stomach, the way your thighs press together, what lies between them. He doesn't stare. He looks, and you allow yourself to be looked at.

You've spent so many years feeling like an exhibit in a freak show. But here, in his stupid plaid bedroom, in the quiet dark of the night, you feel like a masterpiece finally being appreciated.

He softly taps your thigh, leaning over you to whisper in you ear. "Open up for me, baby."

His tone isn't demanding. He's not asking you to perform; he's asking you to share.

With a deep breath that feels like the first you've taken all night, you let your thighs fall open more.

His groan is soft, a sound that goes straight to your core as he looks at the most vulnerable part of you.

"Jesus Christ, look what you've been hiding."

It's crass and blunt and so undeniably him that it makes a real, bright laugh bubble up from your chest. His head snaps up, a sheepish grin spreading across his bruised face.

"What? Was that the wrong thing to say?"

"It was a terrible thing to say," you confirm, still laughing.

"But it made you laugh," he points out, looking proud of himself.

"It was a laugh of pity, Harrington." You tease, running your fingers through his already messy hair.

"So what's the right thing to say?" he asks, genuinely curious, his fingers tracing patterns on the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, making you shiver. "Am I not allowed to tell you your pussy is pretty?"

"Pretty?" You repeat, almost suprised by the word he chose. You expected something else. Something cruder or more generic.

"Yeah, pretty. Its... soft. And you're so wet." He leans down and runs a single finger through your folds, gathering your arousal. He brings it to his lips, tasting you, and you watch, mesmerized as you feel your cheeks heat. "And sweet. So yeah. Pretty is a good word."

He's looking at you like you're a revelation, a secret he's just uncovered and wants to keep all to himself. He leans down, not to kiss your lips, but to press a soft, open-mouthed kiss right where you need him most.

His hazel eyes meet yours. His breath is warm on your clit when he speaks. "Can I taste you?" You just nod, unable to form words. He gives you one final smirk before he leans in to lap at you.

You've never had anyone do this before. He starts with soft kitten licks, exploring your folds, tasting you. His hands hold your soft thighs open, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin there, a grounding touch. He takes his time, learning what makes you gasp, what makes you arch your back.

"Steve..." you breathe, your hands tangling in the sheets.

He hums against you, the vibration sending sparks of pleasure through your entire body. He moves one of your thighs over his shoulder, the new angle allowing him to go deeper. His tongue finds your clit and begins to circle it, slow and steady.

"Fuck," you gasp, your hips bucking against his face.

He chuckles, a low, smug sound that would be annoying if it didn't feel so good. His hands are all over you now, one holding your hip, the other wandering up to toy with a nipple. The dual stimulation is overwhelming in the best way.

You're close, so close, the tension coiling in your stomach, your breath coming in short, sharp pants. He must feel it, because he doubles down, sucking your clit into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue. That's all it takes. The world whites out, your back arching off the bed as you finish with a cry of his name.

He works you through it, his tongue gentling as you ride out the waves of pleasure. When you finally come back to yourself, he's pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs, looking up at you with those plush lips covered in you.

He crawls up your body, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. You can taste yourself on him, a sweet, musky taste that makes you dizzy.

"You okay?" he asks, his voice soft.

You nod, still a little dazed. "No one's ever... done that for me before." The admission feels huge in the quiet room.

"Yeah?" He looks genuinely surprised, a flicker of something dark in his eyes. "Did you like it?"

You let out a breathy laugh. "What do you think?"

An unguarded grin that transforms his face. "Good." He settles next to you, props his head up on his hand, looking down at you as his other hand traces the curves of your body. "We don't have to do anything else you know. It's not like... its okay."

You become very aware of how hard he is through his sweats against your thigh. "Did you tell him that?"

"He has been known to be an idiot." He confirms with a small chuckle. "I don't wanna... rush this. Or fuck this up." He looks so earnest you feel your heart clench. "And also you called him intimidating, so..."

That coaxes another laugh out of you. "It was a joke, Steve."

"No, I know." He kisses your shoulder. "But I also want to be careful with you."

You're silent for a long moment, your hand resting on the warm, solid plane of his chest. "I want to," you say, the words quiet but sure. "I want to with you."

"Are you sure?" he asks, searching your face. "Wait... have you done this before?"

"Yeah...just..." you let out a deep breath before the emotional vulnerability. "Not like this. Where it...means something?"

His eyes soften at that. "Then we'll go slow."

He leans in, kissing you again, a slow, deep kiss that tastes of promise and everything you've been working toward. He tenses, then looks at you like he forgot a step. "This isn't just a one-time thing right? Because I can't go back to pretending like I don't want you. Haven't been able to for a while now."

Your breath hitches. "I don't want this to be a one-time thing."

"Okay." He lets out a breath he'd clearly been holding. "Okay." He kisses you again, deeper this time as your hands hook into his sweats. He lifts his hips, helping you pull them down. He wasn't wearing anything underneath.

You look at him, fully, and he's beautiful in the low light. He's long and thick, and the sight of him makes your own arousal spike again, a fresh wave of slick heat.

"Remember what you said about my pussy being pretty?" You whisper, a little awestruck.

He flushes, a deep pink that spreads down his chest. "Don't say stuff like that."

"Why not?" You reach out, wrapping your hand around him. He's velvety and hot, impossibly hard. "Not fair when it's turned around on you?"

"Something like that," he groans as you slowly stroke him.

"God, the way you look at me, Steve," you whisper. "No one's ever looked at me like that."

"How do they look at you?" he asks, his voice strained as you thumb the head of him, spreading the bead of pre-come.

"They don't," you say simply. "They look at my body. They don't look at me."

"Then they're all fucking idiots," he says, his breath hitching as your movements become a little more confident. "Every last one of them."

His hips jerk, pushing himself into your hand. One of his hands pushes your thigh over, fingers teasing your entrance, gathering the mess there.

"Gonna get you ready f'me," he groans, leaning in to press a kiss against the side of your breast. "Get you so wet."

You already are. He could slide into you right now and you wouldn't feel any pain, only a delicious stretch. But you let him play, let him explore. He pushes one finger inside, then another. He finds that spot inside you, the one that makes you see stars, and he rubs it, slow and deliberate.

"Gonna feel so good around me," he whispers against your skin. "You're gonna take me so well, aren't you?"

You can only nod, your hand still stroking him, your movements matching the rhythm of his fingers inside you. The room is filled with the sounds of your breathing, the slick sounds of your arousal, the quiet rustle of the sheets.

"Okay, okay..." He breathes out, gently moving your hand off of him. "Not gonna last if we keep this up."

He pulls his fingers out, and the sudden emptiness feels almost evil of him. Your pout catches his eye and he kisses you quickly before reaching over to grab a condom from his nightstand. "Gonna fix that pout real soon, baby."

You don't think you'll every get sick of how pet name word sounds coming from his lips. He fumbles with the wrapper, his hands shaking slightly. You take it from him, your own hands steady, and rip it open. You roll it down his length, your touch firm and sure, and he watches you, his eyes dark with a mix of awe and desire.

He positions himself over you, settling between your thighs. The head of him nudges against your entrance, and you gasp, your hands flying to his shoulders.

"I've got you, I've got you," he murmurs, lowering himself to press a soft kiss to your forehead. "Tell me if it's too much."

He pushes in, so slow it's almost torturous. He's a perfect, steady pressure, a delicious stretch that fills you up inch by inch. He's watching your face, his gaze intense, searching for any sign of discomfort.

You wonder if the faces you make are weird or unnattractive, but he only looks at you with reverence. "God, look at you..." he says, and you flush, the compliment both thrilling and mortifying. "So beautiful when you're all stretched out on my cock."

You can't help the laugh that bubbles out, a breathy, sound of surprise. He's bold, you'll give him that. But it's so authentic that you don't want him to be anyone else.

"You're almost there, pretty girl. You're doing so good." He's kissing the laugh from your lips. "Almost all the way in."

He bottoms out with a soft groan, and you both still for a moment, just breathing. The feeling is overwhelming, a fullness that is both a comfort and a challenge. He's a solid, heavy weight on top of you, his body a welcome anchor in the sea of strange events.

"Feel good? Am I hurting you?" he asks, pulling back just enough to look at you, his brows furrowed with concern.

"It feels... really good," you manage to say. "Just...gimme a minute..."

He moves a hand underneath you, resting it on the small of your back, a steadying presence. "All the time you need."

You take a deep breath, focusing on the feeling of him inside you, the way he's looking at you, the safe, quiet reality of his room. You experimentally roll your hips, a small, tentative movement that makes him gasp.

"Mmm, those hips of yours are dangerous..." He says, eyes closing as he pushes a stray piece of hair from your face. "Knew I liked them for a reason."

He was telling you something he wanted you to know. So you did it again. And again, establishing a rhythm that was slow and lazy. He starts to move with you, a counterpoint to your movements, and soon you're both lost in it, a slow, deliberate dance in the dark.

"My bossy girl, setting the pace. I like it." He pants a bit, sweat starting to form on his brow. "C'mon, baby, tell me what you need."

You can't find the words. You just tighten your legs around him, pulling him deeper, a silent plea for more. He seems to understand, because he pulls one of your thighs over his hip, changing the angle, and you both groan at the new, deeper contact.

"Fuck," he breathes, his forehead resting against yours. "You feel like... heaven. Softest thighs I've ever felt. Wettest pussy I've ever been in."

The crude praise is so raw, so unfiltered, that it makes you clench around him. He hisses, his hips stuttering.

"You like that, don't you?" he asks, a smug grin spreading across his face. "You like hearing how good you feel. Y'deserve to know, baby."

It's an offhand comment, a bit of dirty talk that in any other context might have made you cringe. But now, in the quiet dark of his room, it feels like a revelation. He's not just tolerating your body; he's celebrating it.

The coil in your stomach tightens, the pleasure building to an almost unbearable peak, as he picks up the pace. The angle and the speed makes your breasts bounce in a way that makes you want to cover up. You move your hands from his shoulders, but he doesn't let you hide from him.

The hand not holding your thigh is quick to move your arms above your head, pinning them to the pillow. "No. Need to see you."

You whine, a mix of pleasure and the old, familiar shame. You can't help the way your body moves. "I don't... they move too much."

He leans down, pressing a soft, messy kiss to the corner of your mouth. "Please, baby. Your tits look so good when they bounce for me."

It's a struggle. A battle between the years of conditioning that tells you to hide and the overwhelming pleasure of the present, of the way he's looking at you, like you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. The pleasure wins.

"Steve..." you gasp, your back arching, pushing your breasts closer to him.

"That's it..." he leans down, thrusting harder as his lips and tongue shower your chest with messy attention. "Prettiest tits I've ever seen. All for me." 

You believe him. In this room, in this bed, you believe him.

He's close, you can feel it in the way his movements become more erratic, in the desperate, breathy sounds he's making against your skin. It all feels so good you don't even register his release on your arms until his thumb is circling your clit with purpose.

"You can give me another one, can't you baby?" His husky voice makes you clench. "Just one more for me? You look so pretty when you come for me."

You're already teetering on the edge, and the added stimulation is enough to send you over.

"That's it, honey. Drench me." He groans, kissing you through the aftershocks of your second orgasm of the night.

No one has every made you come this much in one night. Hell, in one lifetime. You can hear how wet you are as he chases his own release, never stopping the rhythm that got you there.

"Hear that baby? That's all for me, huh? God, I'm so lucky..." He grunts, the sounds he makes getting more desperate as he starts to lose the steady thrusts he had.

"Steve..." you moan as he presses as deep as he can, filling you completely as he comes with a choked groan of your name.

The room is filled with the sounds of your heavy breathing. He's still inside you, a weight that anchors you to the earth. His face is buried in the crook of your neck, and you can feel the frantic flutter of his pulse against your skin. The way his lips move to give the softest, sleepiest kisses to your neck, like he can't even help it.

For a long moment, you just lay there, two bodies tangled together in the dark, the world outside this room ceasing to exist. You can feel the gentle, slowing beat of his heart against your chest, the steady rhythm that lulls you into a state of drowsy contentment.

He shifts, pulling out of you slowly, the loss of him an unexpected ache. He deals with the condom, his movements a little clumsy, before collapsing back onto the bed, pulling you into the circle of his arms.

When  you look up at him, he's already looking at you, a small, soft smile playing on his lips. He brushes a stray strand of hair away from your face, almost a signature move just for you at this point, his touch impossibly gentle. The fight, the fear, the years of misunderstandings— all of it seems to have melted away, leaving only this quiet, tender moment.

"You're... wow," he whispers, the word a puff of air against your forehead. "I do not deserve you."

"I'm too cool for you. Dustin said so." You give a weak tease.

"Don't bring up the kids," he groans dramatically. "I can't be vulnerable if I'm thinking about Henderson's smug face."

You let out a small laugh, burying your face in his chest. He gives a squeeze before pulling back a lttle.

"Gotta get you cleaned up." The words are punctuated by a kiss to your hair as he gets up to get a wash cloth from the bathroom down the hall. You sit up a little to watch him leave. He didn't bother with any clothes, and your eyes catch the way the bruise on his hip is deep purple. He moves with a slight limp. He said he was fine, but he isn't. Not really. But when he comes back, he's smiling that familiar Harrington grin.

He's gentle as he cleans you up, his movements slow, deliberate.

"I know you were looking at my ass when I left the room, perv." He smirks as he finishes up.

"I was looking at the bruise on your hip, actually." You respond, trying to pull the sheet over your naked form. "The ass is just a bonus."

The smile on Steve's face softens at that, before he comes back to lay down, pulling the both of you under the covers. He's facing you, but you can feel him still. It's a lot of feeling.

"I'll be okay." He says, as if reading your mind.

"That's not what I'm worried about." You admit. "I'm worried about what happens tomorrow."

"Tomorrow, we wake up and I take you home all sneaky so your parents don't have a collective aneurysm. And then I pick you up later and we go check on some people." He says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Because now you're my girlfriend. And you're part of this. As much as I didn't ever want you to have to deal with it."

"What?"

"I mean, yeah that... human flesh monster is dead or whatever, but that doesn't mean its over. Theres the emotional part too, I mean Max saw–" 

"No, that part I get, Steve." You cut him off, not wanting to think about the horrors a thirteen year old girl saw tonight. "The other part."

"The part about your parents? I mean they've always liked me, so I really don't want to get on their bad side now--"

"The 'girlfriend' part, Steve!" You raise your voice just a bit, which is enough to make him stop and look down at you. "You don't just... declare that. You're supposed to ask."

"Oh." He blinks. "Right. Well. Can I... be your boyfriend?"

The question is so stilted, so formal and awkward coming from him, a boy who has probably never had to ask for anything in his life, that it makes a smile twitch at your lips.

"Is that really your pitch?"

"Were the orgasms not enough? Because I can give you a third. I'm a giver." He wiggles his eyebrows, a caricature of suave confidence that feels so much more like the Steve Harrington you know. It's a shield, you realize. A way to deflect from the terrifying vulnerability of what he just asked.

Your laugh is bright and clear this time. "No. The orgasms were... a significant contributing factor. But I want to hear you ask me for real."

He looks at you a little confused, so you clarify despite the embarassment. "I've never been someone's girlfriend before. I want it to be... special."

The words hang in the air, and you're suddenly sure you've said too much. Too much honesty, too much want. He's going to laugh. He's going to make a joke and this fragile thing between you will shatter.

But he doesn't. His expression softens, the cocky smirk falling away.

He gets out of the bed, fully nude still, hands on his hips. "Okay, you're right." He paces to the end of the bed and back, a nervous energy thrumming through him. "Right. A pitch."

He's thinking. You can see the gears turning in that pretty head of his. He looks down at you, and you've pulled the sheet up to your chin. "Alright. Can you... not do that? Makes me feel like you're hiding from me again."

So you let the sheet fall a little, to just above your breasts. The blush on your face is a permanent fixture now.

"Okay," he starts, running a hand through his messy hair. "Okay. We're going to do it right."

He goes down on one knee by the bed, the move surprisingly graceful for a boy so battered. He takes your hand, his grip firm and warm.

"I want to take you on dates. To the movies, and to the diner, and to the fucking moon if you'll let me." He looks up at you, his hazel eyes impossibly earnest. "I want to hold your hand when we walk downtown and listen to all my shitty old friends make fun of me for being 'pussy-whipped'. I want to drive you to work every single day. You know, once we find new jobs."

He pauses, taking a breath, and you can see the nerves in the way his thumb strokes your knuckles. "I've... I've been kind of an asshole to you for a long, long time. And I know I can't just take that back. But I want to spend the rest of my life trying to make up for it. I want to protect you from monsters, and from mean girls, and from any old version of myself. Not that you need it, you're very headstrong." He gives a small smile. "I want to know what your favorite book is, and what you're afraid of. I want to know what makes you cry and what makes you laugh so hard you snort."

He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to the back of your hand. "So... will you... let me be your boyfriend?"

"You did all this while naked," is the first thing out of your mouth, a little breathless. The sincerity of his speech was overwhelming, and your brain latched onto the one detail it could process without short-circuiting.

He looks down at himself, a flicker of surprise on his face as if he'd forgotten he wasn't wearing any clothes. "Well, it's... symbolic. Of my vulnerability."

"It's symbolic of your exhibitionism."

"Let's call it both," he says with a grin, but then he sobers, his gaze fixed on yours. He's waiting. He's really, truly waiting for an answer.

You can feel the ghost of the old you, telling you to retreat. To push down all the vulnerability. To put the walls back up.

But, stronger, is the lingering presence of another old you.

The little girl with two braids and a red jacket. The little girl who remembers the doe eyed boy who gave her a Valentine every year. The boy who came to every birthday party. Who listened to her talk about books just to hear her voice.

It's clear to you in that moment, that she knew more than she realized.

She knew that vulnerability was far more powerful than closing yourself off.

"Okay," you say, the word a quiet whisper in the dim room. "Yes."

His whole body seems to relax, a wave of relief washing over him so palpable you can feel it. He leans up, bracing a hand on the mattress beside you, and kisses you. It's not a kiss of passion or desire, but one of profound, overwhelming gratitude.

"I'm going to be so good to you," he whispers against your lips. "I promise."

You believe him.

He climbs back into bed, pulling the covers over both of you. He wraps himself around you, his body a warm, solid presence that chases away the last of the lingering fear from the night. You rest your head on his chest, listening to the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart.

And from then on, you're just that. A boy and a girl, tangled together in a small town, trying to navigate the messy, complicated business of growing up. And sometimes interdimensional warfare.

He doesn't take you to the moon. But he does take you to the movies. He pays for your ticket and buys you a tub of popcorn so large you can barely wrap your hands around it. He doesn't try to put his arm around you in the theater. Instead, he holds your hand, his thumb stroking the back of it in a slow, steady rhythm that is more intimate than any public display of affection.

He takes you to the diner, and you sit in a sticky vinyl booth, sharing a chocolate milkshake with two straws without caring who sees.

He doesn't just listen when you talk; he asks questions. He wants to know why you like the books you like, what you think about the ending of the last one you read. He remembers the little things, like how you like extra pickles on your burger and how you hate when your ice cream gets too melted.

He's Steve Harrington, and he's your boyfriend. It feels like a dream.

But you no longer wait for the alarm to go off or the other shoe to drop. The nightmare is over. The one you had of being back in that decorated gymnasium is gone, because you know that the boy in that room is not the same boy holding your hand. He's not. He's grown, just like you have.

"You're thinking too loud," Steve murmurs one afternoon, pulling you from your thoughts. You're laying on his bedroom floor in the apartment he shares with Robin, a tangled mess of limbs on a worn-out blanket. The radio is playing low, some song you don't recognize but that has a good beat. His fingers are tracing lazy patterns on your stomach, just beneath the hem of your shirt.

"Sorry," you say, your voice a little breathless.

"What's the dial in there turned to?" He pokes your temple.

"The future."

He props himself up on an elbow, looking down at you, a strand of his hair falling into his eyes. "That's a big one. Any conclusions?"

"Just one," you say, reaching up to brush the hair from his face. "I think I'd like to see what mine looks like with you in it."

A slow, beautiful smile spreads across his face. He leans down and kisses you, a soft, lingering kiss that tastes of sunshine and the cherry cola you were both drinking.

"Yeah," he says, his forehead resting against yours. "We have that in common."

i really hope you guys like this, it was vulnerable for me to post too.

But despite your low opinion of the Emperor, you couldn't deny he was extremely handsome. The way he looked at you set a fire ablaze in your belly and your thighs clenched together. Something about this seemingly vile man made you wish he would tear off your dress and ravish you on the cold marble floor so your screams of pleasure could echo around the palace.

Once the plans had been finalized, it was decided that you and Geta would be married within the month, and before the wedding you, future Empress of Rome, would reside in the palace in separate chambers to your future husband to adjust to the royal life.

And to the Emperor himself.

Within two weeks or so, you'd learnt more about Geta than you'd expected, and you were almost pleasantly surprised to learn he wasn't all vile and cantankerous. In fact, this rang more true of Caracalla than Geta, the latter still sharing a temper with his brother but he also had his own adoration of literature, sending you books or hand written letters as small tokens of his affection. His letters were beautifully worded, carefully thought out and oddly romantic. As much as you didn't want to admit it, you felt your disdain towards him beginning to melt away. You would reply, and he would write back to you within a day. The tone of his letters varied from romantic to flirtatious and others were downright filthy.

One evening you were reading one of the more…suggestive letters from Geta, that feeling stirring in your belly once more. Your fingers danced over your pebbled nipple, arousal spreading through your body. Your thighs clenched together, your clothed cunt throbbing as you read the Emperor's letter, detailing his less than appropriate thoughts about you. Regardless of how you may have perceived him in the beginning, now you craved him in every which way.

A sudden knock causes you to quickly fold up the letter, and you sigh.

“Enter.” You snap, unaware of just how frustrated you were. Your servants had been ordered to ready you for dinner with your husband to be, and they entered your chambers carrying one of the most beautiful and lavish dresses you had ever laid eyes on.

“What is this?” You asked, laying down the letter and rising from your chair on the balcony, doing your best to ignore the damp feeling between your legs.

“A gift from the Emperor, my lady,” one of the girls explained with a deep bow. “He has ordered you to dine with him tonight.”

“Oh, has he?” You mumbled under your breath, your fingers skimming the delicate material of the dress and relishing in just how soft and beautiful it really was. “Then I suppose I must get ready.”

The servants helped you into the dress, tying the additional gold belt snug around your waist. You had to admit, the dress looked wonderful on you, the material clinging to your curves to give you a shape even Venus would be envious of. The servants then styled your hair, slipping in a small crown of golden leaves that matched something you had seen Geta wearing a few times in public. They slipped on your sandals, and led you to the Emperor's chambers.

The doors opened and you were announced, the servants leaving you at the door.

“Enter.” His sharp voice cut through the silence, and you obeyed.

“Your majesty,” you curtsied to a seemingly empty room. “You requested my presence for dinner?”

“Yes, my little dove.” Geta's voice carried through the room, sounding as if it was getting closer. You turned in the direction of his voice and gasped, immediately averting your eyes.

And then darting them back up again.

There he was, fresh from a bath, with only a towel wrapped around his waist. His golden curls lay flat and damp against his head, droplets of water running down his broad and defined chest and stomach. One particular bead of water caught your attention, running down the side of his stomach, into the fine dusting of hair that dipped into the towel-

Geta smirked.

A click of his fingers broke you from your trance, and two servants appeared carrying clothes. Geta disappeared behind a screen after they handed him the garments and they stood with their heads bowed.

“Don't be afraid to command them, dove. They're your servants as well.” Geta spoke and you could hear the grin on his face. You fought the urge to roll your eyes; in your household, your servants were treated with a little more respect. You spotted the table laden with food and wine and gave them a kind smile.

“You're excused.” You said to the two women. “Leave us.”

“Your Majesty.” They both curtsied and left the chambers.

Once Geta had dressed, he emerged from behind the screen, scowling.

“I said command them, not dismiss them!” He snapped.

“Why?” You challenged. “Dinner is prepared and served, we have no need for them now. Do you not wish to be alone with me?”

Geta chuckled, walking over to you and brushing some hair away from your eyes.

“My pretty dove, that is all I have wished for since I first laid eyes on you.”

“Then why have you not visited me?” You asked, your eyebrow cocked. Geta looks momentarily surprised, not used to being challenged.

“I can tell you're going to be a fiery one.” His eyes glint with something you can't quite decipher. Not anger, perhaps…lust? “I've had important matters to deal with.”

“More important than your wife?”

“You are not yet my wife. You think you are more important than Rome?” He bit back, his temper beginning to flare.

“Yes.” You said, sharply. “You wanted me, now you have me, and yet you do not see me. It makes me feel as if I am not wanted by you.” As you speak, you wander over to the dining table, picking up a chalice and sipping the wine it held. Geta moves closer to you, and you hold out the chalice to him, tipping it to allow him to drink from it, his dark eyes fixed on yours.

He swallows the rich red liquid.

“I sent you letters telling you exactly how I want you, dove.”

“Sometimes, your majesty, a lady requires more than letters to be satisfied.” You quip, unable to hold back the suggestive smirk that spread across your face as you place the chalice back on the table.

“Is that right?” Geta hums, his eyes dancing over your exposed collarbone, then flicking back up. He does it again, this time his eyes on your lips, then back up to yours. “Then, what does my lady require to be satisfied?”

His hand moves to cup your jaw, his thumb dragging over your bottom lip. Without breaking eye contact, you envelop the tip of his thumb in your mouth, suckling at it. He lets out a low growl, his eyes flashing again. This time you know it's with lust.

“Your cock, your majesty.” You whisper after releasing his thumb from your mouth. Geta's smirk returns.

“Then on your knees, dove. Worship your Emperor.”

You drop to your knees as if you were a servant being commanded, swiftly and without hesitation. Geta moves his robes, allowing you access to his bare cock, bobbing thick and heavy between his muscly thighs. You wrap one hand around him, giving him a quick pump before taking the leaking head into your mouth, moaning appreciatively at the taste of him. He leans back against the table and moans, the sound echoing in the regal chamber.

“Such a devout and loyal subject,” he purrs, curling a fist in your hair. “I wonder, will you let me fuck you tonight, my pretty dove? Split you apart on my cock and fill your belly with my sons? Before we are married?”

The delicious pull on your hair and his filthy mouth have you moaning like a whore below him, saliva dripping down your chin and onto his balls as you hold his cock in your throat.

“Or maybe, I should make you wait? Make you swallow my seed and leave you aching for me? Punishment for challenging me, hm?”

He pulls you off his cock, and you gasp for breath, your makeup running down your cheeks. His grip gets tighter in your hair. “Answer me.”

“Wh-whatever your majesty sees fit.” You manage to utter out. “You wanted me, and you have me.”

“Hm, I do, don't I? Then you better convince me not to change my mind, pretty dove. Make your Emperor cum, thank him for his seed.”

He pushes you back onto his cock, making you gag a little as he fucks your mouth. Your thighs squeeze together, doing nothing to ease the intense throb between them. Geta holds your head firm in his hands as his hips snap back and forth, using your mouth for his own pleasure, his head thrown back and the muscles in his neck flexing. He looked beautiful, and all you wanted now was to prove your worth to him, to make him yours as you were his.

You dig your nails into his thighs, making him hiss in pleasure. He slams you down on his cock one final time, a loud, broken moan leaving him as he empties himself into your mouth. He pulls his cock from your mouth, looking down at you with a lazy smirk. “Show me.”

You open your mouth, showing him his seed pooled on your tongue before swallowing it and grinning.

“Thank you, your majesty.”

Geta pulls you up from the floor, and kisses you fiercely, all teeth and tongue.

Not a normal laugh either. Not the kind that came from a joke or something stupid on TV. This was louder, sharper—meaner. The kind of laugh that meant Johnny was about to be the punchline.

He didn’t even look up from his watch at first, leaning back in his chair at the kitchen island like he hadn’t just woken up ten minutes ago, hair still a mess, sweater crooked. “If this is about that toaster,” he said, voice rough with sleep, “it wasn’t my fault.”

“It’s not about the toaster,” Ben managed between laughs, which somehow made it worse. He slapped the newspaper down onto the counter in front of Johnny with enough force to make the coffee in his mug ripple. “It’s about you, genius.”

Johnny frowned, finally glancing up. The New York Times sat folded in front of him, the front page already creased from Ben absolutely manhandling it. Nothing unusual there—Reed got featured all the time, Sue even more—but the way Ben was still grinning like he’d just witnessed something life-changing made Johnny suspicious.

Slowly, he reached for it. He didn’t even have to unfold it all the way. His own name was right there.

Of course it was.

Johnny Storm stared at the headline for a long, silent moment, his expression going completely blank as his brain caught up with what he was reading.

Human Torch Adds ‘Public Nuisance’ to Expanding Résumé Following Midtown Incident

There was a beat before Johnny realised what he was looking at. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

Across the counter, Ben lost it completely, doubling over as laughter echoed through the kitchen. “Public nuisance,” he repeated, shaking his head. “She got you again.”

Johnny dragged a hand down his face, already scanning the first paragraph with growing disbelief. “This is—this is slander. This is actual slander.”

“Is it?” Ben shot back immediately. “Because it says here you ‘diverted traffic for nearly forty minutes while attempting to land on a moving taxi.’”

Johnny pointed at the paper. “That is not what happened.”

“That’s exactly what happened.”

“I was trying to stop a robbery.”

“By landing on a taxi?”

“It was a strategic decision.”

Ben didn’t even try to hide his grin. “Uh-huh.”

Johnny groaned, slumping back in his chair as he kept reading, each sentence somehow worse than the last. It wasn’t just that the article was critical— it was that it was detailed. Painfully detailed. There were timestamps. Witness quotes. A photo— he stopped there, squinting at the image printed halfway down the page. “Is that me mid-air?”

Ben leaned over. “Yeah. That’s the one where you almost hit the billboard.”

“I didn’t almost hit it.”

“You’re literally inches away.”

“That’s called precision.”

Ben laughed again, louder this time, and Johnny seriously considered setting the paper on fire out of principle.

But the worst part wasn’t the headline.

It wasn’t the photo.

It wasn’t even the fact that this was the third article about him this week.

It was the byline, it was always the byline.

Your name sat neatly beneath the title, professional and unbothered, like you hadn’t just spent two years making Johnny Storm the most consistent target in New York media.

Johnny exhaled slowly, dropping the paper back onto the counter like it had personally offended him. “She’s got a problem with me.”

Ben raised a brow. “Or—hear me out—you give her a lot to work with.”

“I do not.”

“Johnny.”

“I don’t.”

“Johnny.”

Johnny pointed at him, already defensive. “She never writes like this about you.”

“Because I don’t try to race subway trains for fun.”

“That was one time.”

“Three times.”

“That’s not the point.”

From the doorway, Sue’s voice cut in, calm and far too amused. “She wrote a piece about me last week.”

Johnny turned immediately. “Yeah, and what did it say?”

Sue crossed her arms, leaning against the frame. “That I ‘demonstrated exceptional leadership under pressure and prevented further structural damage to Midtown.’”

Johnny stared. Then looked back at the paper. Then back at Sue.

“You see what I mean?” he demanded. “That’s what I’m talking about. That’s a nice article.”

Sue shrugged, clearly enjoying this. “Maybe you should try demonstrating exceptional leadership.”

“I do demonstrate—” Johnny stopped himself, then gestured vaguely at the newspaper. “This is targeted.”

Ben snorted. “You think the New York Times has a personal vendetta against you?”

“I think she does.”

And that was the problem.

Because Johnny didn’t even know you.

Not really.

Not beyond your name, your articles, and the very specific, very consistent way you seemed to single him out every chance you got.

You wrote about Reed like he was a genius— which, okay fine, he was. You wrote about Sue like she was a hero—which, again, fair. You wrote about Ben like he was the heart of the team—which, annoyingly, also true.

And then there was him.

Johnny Storm.

Reduced, week after week, to headlines that somehow managed to be both brutally honest and embarrassingly accurate.

It wasn’t that you lied, that would’ve been much easier on Johnny’s ego. If anything, the problem was that you didn’t. You noticed everything. Every mistake, every impulsive decision, every moment where he chose flair over logic.

And you wrote it down in clean, sharp sentences that the entire city apparently loved.

Johnny leaned back in his chair again, staring up at the ceiling as Ben’s laughter finally started to die down. “This is unbelievable,” he muttered.

Sue hummed. “It’s actually one of her better ones.”

Johnny shot upright. “You read it?”

“Of course I read it. Everyone reads them.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“It’s not supposed to be.”

He dragged his hands through his hair, already annoyed again. “I’m serious. She’s got something against me.”

Sue tilted her head slightly, considering that. “Or,” she said slowly, “maybe you just haven’t given her a reason to write anything else.”

Johnny opened his mouth, paused and then immediately shook his head. “No. Nope. Not happening. I’m not changing how I do things because of some journalist.”

Ben grinned. “Sure you’re not.”

“I’m not.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m not.”

Sue just smiled, pushing off the doorway. “Whatever you say, Johnny.”

He watched her walk away, then glanced back down at the newspaper still sitting on the counter.

Your name stared back at him, professional and incredibly annoying.

And for reasons he couldn’t quite explain—

Johnny reached for the paper again just to reread it, to make sure it was as ridiculous as he thought it was.

Which, unfortunately, it was.

And somehow, that only made him more determined to prove you wrong.

The newsroom never really slept.

Even in the early hours of the morning— when most of Manhattan was still dragging itself through coffee and unfinished dreams— the New York Times office hummed with a quiet, relentless energy. Phones rang somewhere in the distance, keyboards clicked in uneven rhythm, and conversations rose and fell in low, constant waves that never quite settled into silence.

You preferred it that way.

Noise meant movement. Movement meant stories. And stories—good ones, the kind that stuck—were the only reason you had fought your way into this building in the first place.

By the time you stepped off the elevator and into the main floor, someone was already calling your name.

“Hey—hey, you’re trending again.”

You didn’t slow down.

“Good morning to you too,” you replied dryly, sliding your bag onto your desk as you set your coffee down beside your laptop.

Your coworker—Daniel, features editor, chronically too enthusiastic before nine a.m.—leaned over the partition with a grin that suggested he had been waiting for you specifically. “No, seriously. It’s everywhere. Someone clipped the taxi photo and now it’s all over.”

You paused mid-motion, one brow lifting slightly. “The Midtown piece?”

“Yeah,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “People are calling it ‘the most accurate thing anyone’s ever written about a superhero.’”

A quiet snort came from the desk behind you. “That’s because it is.”

You glanced over your shoulder just in time to catch Maria—senior columnist, terrifyingly perceptive—lifting her coffee in your direction. “You’re ruthless,” she added, not unkindly.

“I’m correct,” you countered, settling into your chair and opening your laptop. “There’s a difference.”

Daniel laughed. “No, seriously, you’ve got people arguing all over the city now. Some are defending him, well specifically speaking, the Flaming Hearts Fanclub.”

You hummed, already skimming through your emails. “That’s fine. Obviously his fangirls would defend everything he does”

“That’s fine?” he echoed. “You’re not worried you’re, I don’t know, building a public enemy out of a guy who can literally set himself on fire?”

You finally looked up, because wow, the audacity

“Daniel,” you said patiently, “if he didn’t want to be written about, he could stop doing things worth writing about.”

Maria laughed under her breath.

Daniel, however, seemed unconvinced. “Yeah, but—you don’t go that hard on the others.”

That, at least, made you pause.

Not visibly. Not enough for anyone else to notice, but just long enough that you became aware of it.

You leaned back slightly in your chair, folding your arms. “Because the others don’t give me a reason to.”

“Reed literally opened a wormhole over Queens last month.”

“And immediately stabilized it before it caused damage,” you replied.

“Sue leveled half a building during that same incident.”

“And evacuated it first.”

“Ben punched through a subway tunnel.”

“Saving twenty-three people.”

Daniel stared at you and then pointed, accusatory. “And Johnny—”

“—landed on a moving taxi in the middle of rush hour traffic and called it ‘precision,’” you finished.

Maria snorted into her coffee.

Daniel threw his hands up. “Okay, fine. When you put it like that—”

“Because that’s what happened.”

He shook his head, still smiling. “You’ve got something against him.”

“I have standards.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

You didn’t respond to that.

Because, technically, he wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t that you hated Johnny Storm, not really. You didn’t know him.

Not beyond the patterns you’d observed, the behavior you’d documented, the consistent, frustrating tendency he had to turn every situation into something just slightly more chaotic than it needed to be.

Cocky.

Reckless.

Careless with the kind of attention most people would kill for.

He made for good headlines.

Very good headlines.

And apparently, very popular ones.

Your inbox proved that within seconds. You clicked open a new email, scanning it quickly, then paused.

Read it again.

“…Huh.”

Maria noticed immediately. “What?”

You didn’t answer right away, eyes still on the screen. Then, slowly, you turned your laptop toward her.

Her brows lifted as she read.

Then lifted higher.

“Well,” she said after a moment, clearly impressed. “That’s new.”

Daniel leaned over, trying to catch a glimpse. “What is it?”

Maria glanced at him. “Promotion.”

That got his attention, rolling his chair closer to take a better look at your laptop screen “What?”

You leaned back in your chair again, exhaling softly as the reality of it settled.

It wasn’t entirely unexpected.

You’d been building toward this for a while—long hours, bigger stories, more responsibility—but still.

Seeing it in writing made it real.

“Senior feature writer,” you said, almost casually.

Daniel blinked. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

Maria handed the laptop back with a small, approving nod. “That Reed Richards piece did it.”

You knew immediately which one she meant.

The profile. The one you’d spent weeks on, late nights, endless research, interviews, cross-references, digging past the public persona to find something real underneath, hell, you’re probably an astrophysicist at this point from how much you’ve researched.

Apparently, Reed had quoted it during a speech. Apparently, that mattered.

And being an employed person with a life you did not know about that. Until now.

“Well,” Daniel said, shaking his head again, “guess dragging the Human Torch pays off.”

You rolled your eyes, though there was the faintest hint of a smile tugging at your mouth. “That’s not what—”

“Hey.”

A voice cut through the conversation, too firm and professional to consider it one of the normal journalists.

You turned.

Your editor stood a few desks away, watching you with a look that immediately told you this wasn’t casual.

“Can I see you in my office?”

The newsroom didn’t quiet, exactly, but you felt the shift anyway. The way a few heads turned. The way Daniel’s expression immediately turned curious. Maria just raised a brow.

You stood, smoothing down the sleeve of your blazer. “Of course.”

The walk to his office was short.

Long enough for your brain to start working through possibilities. Promotion follow-up, a new assignment, or you’re probably getting told off for not mentioning his name in an article he had nothing to do with, but of course it would’ve looked great for him.

Before you could fire and cuss yourself out mentally, he closed the door behind you once you stepped inside.

A good sign.

Or a very bad one.

“Have a seat.” He said, pointing at the wooden chair in front of his desk

You did, mentally clocking the tone of his voice and already mentally waving bye-bye to that designer bag you were saving up for.

He didn’t waste time.

“You’ve been doing strong work,” he said, leaning back against his desk, arms crossed. “Consistent. Clean. Engaging. Your Fantastic Four coverage in particular—”

“Performs well,” you finished.

“It does more than perform well,” he corrected. “It pulls numbers most of our senior staff would kill for.”

You held his gaze, waiting for the catch that never came.

He smiled slightly. “That’s why I’m giving you something bigger.”

There it was.

You leaned forward, interest sharpening. “What kind of bigger?”

“A week-long feature.”

You frowned faintly. “On?”

“The Fantastic Four.”

You didn’t really react. At least, not outwardly, because internally, what the fuck?

That was new.

He continued, clearly enjoying this. “We’ve secured exclusive access. Full cooperation. Interviews, observation, day-to-day operations—the works.”

That got your attention. You sat up slightly in your chair, “You’re sending me to the Baxter Building?”

“For a week,” he confirmed. “Starting Monday.”

You stared at him processing whatever you just heard. Because this wasn’t just another article. This was access. Actual, real access. Not secondhand accounts, not witness statements, not public appearances and filtered interviews. This was inside, up close, unfiltered. And you would rather get thrown into the Hudson than turn this down.

“What’s the angle?” you asked.

“Human,” he said simply. “We’ve done the headlines. Now I want the people behind them.”

Your mind was already moving.

“You’re good at reading them,” he added. “Especially Storm.”

You didn’t react to that, but he noticed anyway, “Don’t worry,” he said, almost amused. “I’m not asking you to go easy on him.”

“I wasn’t planning to.” You almost laughed.

He spun in his chair slightly, picking up a paper, “I figured. Just make it honest.”

You stood, already nodding. “I always do.”

He smiled. “I know.”

And as you stepped out of the office, back into the noise of the newsroom, one thought settled in clearly.

you were getting that promotion and for sure getting that bag.

The message arrived just before noon.

Reed saw it first.

Of course he did—because Reed saw everything that even remotely resembled information, opportunity, or the possibility of a new intellectual pursuit. He was halfway through rewriting a set of equations on the glass wall in his lab when H.E.R.B.I.E. rolled in, chirping insistently until Reed finally glanced down at the notification hovering in the corner of the robot’s screen face.

He read it once.

Then twice.

Then, without another word, he erased half the equation with the side of his hand and said, “We should have a meeting.”

Which was how, twenty minutes later, all four of them ended up in one of the Baxter Building’s conference rooms.

Sue sat at the head of the table, tablet in hand, already skimming through the email again. Ben leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed, looking vaguely suspicious but not entirely opposed. Reed stood near the screen, pacing slightly as he reread specific lines out loud under his breath.

Johnny was late.

Naturally.

He strolled in a full minute after everyone else, sunglasses still on despite being inside, and a handful of Lucky Charms. “If this is about the toaster,” he started, dropping into a chair and kicking his feet up onto the table, “I already said I’d replace it.”

Sue didn’t even look up. “It’s not about the toaster.”

“Good,” Johnny muttered, taking another bite. “Because that thing was a fire hazard anyway.”

Ben snorted.

Sue finally glanced up, her expression somewhere between amused and mildly exasperated. “We got an offer.”

Johnny raised a brow. “For what?”

Reed answered without turning around. “An exclusive feature. Week-long coverage. Direct observation, interviews, daily operations.”

Johnny blinked. “In English?”

Sue sighed. “The New York Times wants to do a piece on us.”

That got his attention. He lowered the protein bar slightly. “Us as in… all of us?”

“Yes,” Sue said. “Full team coverage.”

Johnny leaned back in his chair, considering that. “Okay,” he said slowly. “That’s actually kinda cool.”

Ben nodded. “Yeah, not bad.”

Reed turned, finally facing them. “It’s a significant opportunity. Their reach is—”

“Massive,” Johnny finished. “Yeah, I know. I’ve been in it. A lot.”

Sue shot him a look but he chose to ignore it.

“So what’s the catch?” Ben asked, ever the skeptic.

Sue tapped her tablet. “A journalist would be on-site for a week. Interviews, observation, day-to-day access. They want something more… personal.”

Reed nodded. “A human perspective.”

Johnny shrugged. “Fine by me. As long as they don’t follow me into the kitchen again. That one guy wrote an entire paragraph about how I ‘hover aimlessly near the fridge.’”

“You do hover aimlessly near the fridge,” Ben said.

“That’s not the point.”

Sue suppressed a smile. “So we’re all good with it?”

There was a brief pause.

Reed nodded immediately. “Yes.”

Ben shrugged. “Sure.”

Johnny leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head. “Yeah, why not. Free publicity.”

Sue nodded once. “Alright, then—”

“Who is it?”

Ben’s voice cut in, casual but curious.

Sue glanced back down at the tablet. “The journalist?”

“Yeah.”

Another tap of the screen. And then she said your name.

The reaction was immediate.

Johnny’s chair screeched violently against the floor as he shot to his feet. “Nope.”

Silence filled the room.

Sue blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I said no,” Johnny repeated, already shaking his head as he pointed toward the tablet like it had personally offended him. “Absolutely not. Not happening. Hard pass.”

Ben frowned. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Sue straightened slightly. “Johnny—”

“No. No, I’m serious. You can all do it, that’s fine, I support you, love that for you—but I’m out.”

Reed looked genuinely confused. “You can’t be ‘out.’ It’s a team feature.”

“Then consider me… spiritually unavailable.”

Ben stared. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Johnny threw his hands up. “I’m talking about her,” he said, like that explained everything.

Sue narrowed her eyes. “Johnny.”

“That’s the article woman.”

Recognition clicked immediately.

“Oh,” Ben said, slow and understanding dawning all at once. “Oh, that one.”

“That one?” Johnny repeated, incredulous. “She’s not just ‘that one,’ she’s the one. The one who’s been dragging me through the mud for two years.”

Sue crossed her arms. “She’s a respected journalist.”

“She’s a menace.”

“She’s accurate.”

“That’s not the point.”

Ben leaned back in his chair, clearly entertained now. “She did call you a ‘public nuisance’ this morning.”

Johnny pointed at him. “Thank you. Exhibit A.”

“You did land on a moving taxi.”

“It was strategic.”

“Sure it was.”

Sue stepped in before it could spiral further. “Johnny, this is a major opportunity. We can’t just turn it down because—”

“Because she hates me?”

“She doesn’t hate you.”

“She absolutely hates me.”

“She criticizes you.”

“Consistently.”

“Because you give her material.”

Johnny stared at her deeply offended.

“Wow,” he said. “Okay. So we’re victim-blaming now.”

Ben choked on a laugh.

Sue pinched the bridge of her nose. “That is not what—”

“She’s going to be here for a week, Sue. A week. Do you have any idea what she’s going to write?”

Reed, ever unhelpful in these situations, spoke up thoughtfully. “If her previous work is any indication, it will likely be thorough, well-researched, and—”

“Devastating,” Johnny cut in.

“—insightful,” Reed finished.

Johnny turned to him. “She once compared me to a golden retriever with superpowers.”

Ben lost it again.

“That was funny,” he managed between laughs.

“It was not funny.”

“It was a little funny.”

“It was character assassination.”

Sue was trying not to smile now. “Johnny—”

“No. I’m serious. I refuse. I am formally refusing to participate in my own public humiliation.” “You don’t have that authority.”

“I absolutely do.”

“You really don’t.”

Johnny ran a hand through his hair, pacing now. “This is a terrible idea. A terrible idea. You’re basically inviting her in here to watch me mess up in real time.”

Ben raised a brow. “So… nothing changes?”

Johnny stopped.

Glared at him.

Then pointed again. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m not trying to.”

Sue stepped forward, voice softening slightly. “Johnny. Look at me.”

He didn’t want to.

That was obvious.

But he did anyway.

“You’re overreacting,” she said.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“She’s been targeting me for years.”

“She’s been writing about what you do.”

“There’s a difference.”

Sue tilted her head. “Then prove her wrong.”

That made him pause.

Just for a second.

Then he scoffed, shaking his head. “I don’t need to prove anything.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

He opened his mouth. Then closed it. And then opened it again.

Because the problem wasn’t that you were wrong, that would’ve been easy.The problem was that you weren’t and that made it a hundred times worse for poor Johnny’s ego and public image.

Johnny exhaled sharply, dragging his hands down his face. “This is a bad idea,” he muttered again, quieter this time.

Ben grinned. “This is the best idea we’ve had all week.”

Reed nodded absentmindedly. “Statistically, the engagement metrics alone—”