Heeeey

He was looking forward to nothing more than driving home, taking a scalding hot shower, and slipping into bed where he hoped you would still be sleeping peacefully, entirely unaware of the chaos he spent his nights wading through.

Keeping your relationship a secret had been your idea originally, though Jack had agreed without much resistance, knowing precisely how protective and intensely possessive your older brother could be.

Robby was a brilliant physician, but he viewed the emergency room, and everyone within it, through a lens of strict, professional compartmentalisation, and he guarded his family with a fierce, almost suffocating tenacity.

Jack knew that if Robby discovered his close friend and colleague was quietly slipping out of his younger sister’s apartment in the early hours of the morning, the fallout would destabilise the delicate balance of the entire department.

So, you had kept it hidden for four months, snatching quiet moments in empty breakrooms, lingering hand-brushes by the elevator banks, and long, warm nights wrapped up together away from the harsh, flickering fluorescent lights of the hospital.

The sudden, piercing blare of the telemetry alarms and the sharp, urgent rattle of the double doors being thrown open shattered the low hum of the morning shift change. Dana looked up instantly from her desk, her brow furrowing as the paramedics burst through the entrance, pushing a stretcher at a dead sprint.

Jack didn't think much of it at first, traumas rolled through those doors every twenty minutes, until he caught the sheer, pale panic on the lead paramedic’s face, and the distinct, sickening crimson pattern soaked into the white sheets draped over the gurney.

Jack stepped forward purely out of muscle memory, his voice raspy from a long night of shouting over sirens. "What have we got, guys?"

"Twenty-eight-year-old female, victim of a aggravated burglary at her residence forty minutes ago," the paramedic rattled off at breakneck speed, her heavy boots squeaking against the polished linoleum. "Neighbour called it in after hearing a struggle and glass breaking. Stab wound to the left upper quadrant, deep laceration to the right forearm, massive blood loss at the scene."

Jack took two paces toward the stretcher to take the chart, his eyes dropping casually to the patient’s face to assess her airway, and in that split second, the entirety of his world shattered into jagged, unyielding pieces.

The color drained from his face so rapidly that Dana actually reached out a hand, thinking he was about to faint. The woman lying pale and motionless beneath the blood-soaked trauma blanket was you.

The breath left Jack’s lungs in a harsh, strangled gasp, his professional distance evaporating so violently that he stumbled forward, his hands trembling uncontrollably as they hovered over your bloodied, chest-stained clothes. "No... no, no, Jesus Christ—"

"Jack? What the hell are you doing?" Dana barked, her eyes widening as she grabbed his elbow, shocked by the total collapse of his usually unflappable demeanor. "Get back, let us transfer her! Shen, I need a trauma team right now! Call down to blood bank, give me four units of O-negative on the rapid infuser!"

Jack didn't hear her. The sterile, controlled world of the Pitt was completely obliterated, replaced by a terrifying, primal panic that choked the throat right out of him. He grabbed the side rail of your stretcher, his knuckles turning stark white, his eyes wide and wild as he looked down at your face. You were barely conscious, your eyelids fluttering weakly, your lips parted as you sucked in shallow, wet breaths.

"Look at me, hey, look at me," Jack begged, his voice cracking, entirely devoid of his usual calm authority as he reached out and cupped your ice-cold cheek with a hand that was shaking like a leaf. "I'm right here. You're at the hospital, you're with me, you're going to be okay. Please, sweetheart, stay with me, stay open for me."

You turned your head toward his voice, your eyes unfocusing as you tried to track him through the thick, terrifying haze of shock. "Jack?" you rasped, a tiny, frail sound that nearly brought him to his knees right there on the blood-spattered floor. "Jack, it hurts so bad..."

"I know, I know, I’ve got you," he sobbed out, not caring in the slightest that half the nursing staff was staring at him in utter shock. He pushed alongside the paramedics, helping to physically lift your limp body onto the trauma bed.

The scene erupted into controlled chaos around him. Clothes were being cut away with shears, cardiac monitor leads were being slapped onto your icy skin, and the metallic thump of suction devices filled the small room.

Jack stood at the head of your bed, his gloved hands cupping your face, his head bent low so he was inches from yours, whispering desperate, broken promises against your hairline while Shen sprinted into the room, snapping on a pair of sterile gloves.

"Abbot, what is going on with you? Step back, I need space at the airway!" Shen yelled over the shrill, alarming beep of the heart monitor, which was ticking at a terrifyingly rapid rate. "Who is this?"

"It's... it's her," Jack choked out, his eyes never leaving your face. "It's Robby’s sister. Shen, please... "

Before Shen could even process the devastating weight of Jack's plea, the door to the trauma bay swung open with a bang, and Robby walked in, holding a tablet and adjusting his stethoscope around his neck, looking fresh and prepared for his morning shift.

"Hey, what's the noise down here? Dana said we had an unstable stab—" Robby stopped dead in his tracks. The tablet slipped from his fingers, clattering loudly against the hard floor. His eyes swept over the blood-soaked trauma shears, the bags of crimson red blood hanging from the IV poles, and finally landed on your pale, bruised face surrounded by monitoring wires.

"Y/N?" Robby’s voice was barely a whisper, a hollow, disbelieving sound that shattered the room. In three long strides, he shoved past a nurse, his face contorting into a mask of pure, unadulterated horror as he grabbed the edge of the bed. "What happened?! What the fuck happened?!"

"Robby, listen to me—" Shen tried to interject, stepping between him and the bed.

"Get off me!" Robby screamed, his voice cracking with a terrifying mixture of grief and rage as he looked at your open, bleeding abdomen where Shen was applying heavy, firm pressure with sterile gauze to slow the massive internal hemorrhage.

"Why was she brought in like this?!" Robby’s eyes swung wildly around the room until they landed on Jack, who was still standing at the head of the bed, his shoulders shaking with silent, ragged sobs.

Robby froze, his mind racing through the dark, frantic puzzle of the room. He looked at the way Jack was holding you, not like a doctor holding a patient, not even like a friend holding a colleague's relative, but with the terrifying, desperate agony of a man watching his entire life bleed out on a stainless-steel table.

Robby stepped forward, his eyes narrowing into slits of pure, lethal fury. "Jack... why are you holding her like that? Why are you touching her like that?"

Jack didn't look up. He couldn't take his eyes off your face, watching your oxygen saturation levels dip dangerously low on the overhead monitor. "Robby, please, not right now," Jack pleaded, his voice thick and broken. "She's bleeding badly, she needs to go straight to theatre—"

"I asked you a fucking question, Jack!" Robby roared, lunging forward and grabbing the front of Jack’s scrub top, pulling him away from the bed with such violent force that the cardiac monitor cart rattled. "Why are you looking at my sister like that?! What is she to you?!"

"Robby, stop it!" Dana yelled, stepping boldly between the two grown men, her hands slamming against Robby’s chest to keep him from shoving Jack into the wall. "She is in hemorrhagic shock! Look at the fucking monitor, Robby! Look at your sister!"

"I love her!" Jack snapped, the secret ripping out of his chest like a jagged blade, his voice echoing loudly over the frantic, rhythmically failing beeps of the cardiac machine. "We’ve been seeing each other for months, Robby! I fucking love her, and she was attacked in her home while I was sitting here doing paperwork! So hit me, tear me apart, do whatever the hell you want, but do not make this about us while she is dying on this bed!"

Robby reeled back as if he’d been physically struck, his hands dropping from Jack’s shirt. His face twisted into a complex, ugly storm of betrayal, shock, and profound, terrifying panic. He looked from Jack’s blood-stained hands to your quiet, still face.

“You... you were lying to me? Both of you?" Robby’s voice shook, a bitter, wounded sound. "You were sleeping with my sister behind my back while—"

"Robby, her blood pressure is insane!" Shen yelled, his voice cutting through the rising argument like a scalpel. "We don't have time for a surgical team to come down, we need to open her right here or she goes into cardiac arrest in minutes!"

The harsh reality of the medical emergency slammed back into the room like a tidal wave. Robby blinked, the anger in his eyes instantly drowning in a wave of sheer, unadulterated terror as he watched your heart rate spike, the waveform on the screen flattening out into dangerous, erratic rhythms.

“No," Robby breathed, his voice small, vulnerable, and completely stripped of his usual arrogance. "No, no, no, look at me. I'm right here. You stay with me, do you hear me?"

"I need a thoracotomy tray and a laparotomy kit, right now!" Shen shouted, his hands working furiously to pack more gauze into your side. "Someone get on the suction! Robby, you need to step out!"

"Like hell I'm stepping out!" Robby yelled, shoving his way back to the side of the bed, his hands trembling violently as he reached for a pair of sterile gloves. "She's my sister! I am operating!"

"You cannot touch her, Robby, you know the protocol! You’re not doing shit either, Abbot," Dana sternly intervened, putting her body directly between Robby and the instrument tray. Her face was set like granite, though her eyes were filled with deep, maternal sympathy. "You will freeze or you will make a mistake, and she will die because of it! Out! Both of you, get out of this bay right now!"

"No!" both men barked in unison.

"I am not leaving her!" Jack yelled, his knuckles white as he grabbed a pair of gloves, his eyes fixed on Shen. "Shen, let me assist! My hands are steady, I swear to God my hands are steady!"

"Jack, look at yourself, you're shaking so hard you can barely stand!" Dana snapped, taking Jack firmly by the upper arms and physically pulling him away from the head of the bed. She looked at Robby, then at Jack, her voice dropping into a fierce, commanding tone that left no room for argument. "If you two care about this girl, if you love her at all, you will get the hell out of this room and let Shen and the trauma team do their jobs! Every second you stand here fighting like children is a second she doesn't have! Move!"

She didn't wait for them to comply, she aggressively pushed both men out of the sliding glass doors and drew the blue privacy curtains shut with a sharp, definitive snap.

The waiting corridor outside the main trauma suite felt like a cold, sterile tomb. The morning sunlight was just beginning to bleed through the high frost-tinted windows, casting harsh, pale light across the linoleum floor, but inside the hallway, time had ground to a complete standstill. The only sound was the distant, muffled shouting of medical commands from behind the blue curtain, punctuated by the steady, terrifying rhythm of automated alarms.

Jack stood leaning against the far wall, his hands buried deep in his curls, his body slumping down until he was on the floor. His scrub top was ruined, smeared with bright crimson streaks of your blood that had already begun to dry into stiff, dark patches.

Every breath he pulled into his lungs felt like glass, his chest tight with a crushing, suffocating guilt. He should have been there. He should have insisted on driving you home after your shift two days ago, he should have checked your locks, he should have protected you. The image of your bruised skin and the frail, terrified sound of your voice calling his name kept repeating in a horrific, endless loop behind his eyelids.

A few yards down the hallway, Robby was pacing like a caged beast. His fists were clenched so tightly that his nails were digging drawn blood into his own palms. Every time he turned around, his furious, bloodshot eyes landed on Jack sitting against the wall, and the bitter, hot rage inside him flared back to life, offering a brief, desperate distraction from the sheer, paralyzing fear that his little sister was dying on the other side of that glass.

Robby marched over, stopping directly in front of Jack. "Get up," Robby spat, his voice trembling with venom. "Get up and look at me, you coward."

Jack slowly lifted his head. His face was ghastly, his eyes hollow, dark, and utterly deadened by grief. He didn't offer any resistance, didn't raise a hand to defend himself. He just looked up at Robby with a hollow, broken expression. "Go ahead, Robby. Say whatever you want. It won't be worse than what I'm already telling myself."

"You lied to me!" Robby shouted, his voice echoing down the empty, quiet corridor, causing a few passing nurses to flinch and walk faster. "For months! I treated you like a brother, Jack! I trusted you with my life in this department, I took shifts for you, I let you into my home, and the whole time you were sneaking behind my back with my sister! You manipulated her!"

"I didn't manipulate anyone!" Jack rasped, standing up slowly, leaning his heavy back against the cold wall to keep his legs from buckling beneath him. "I love her, Robby! I didn't plan for this to happen! It started off slow, and then... Christ, she became the only good thing in my life! She asked me not to tell you because she knew you'd react exactly like this! She was terrified you'd make her feel guilty for just wanting to be happy!"

"Don't you dare put this on her!" Robby barked, stepping directly into Jack's personal space, poking a harsh, rigid finger into Jack's chest right over a dark bloodstain. "She is my little sister! My responsibility! She was hiding things because of you! You put her in danger!"

"You think I don't know that?!" Jack suddenly roared back, his composure snapping entirely as he grabbed Robby's wrist and shoved his hand away, tears spilling freely over his blood-stained cheeks. "You think I'm not sitting here wanting to tear my own skin off because I wasn't there to protect her?! I would have taken every single one of those fucking knives for her, Robby! I would lay down on that table and let them cut my heart out right now if it meant she gets to wake up! So don't you dare stand there and pretend you're the only one who cares whether she lives or dies!"

Robby stared at Jack, his jaw working as if he wanted to scream, but the sheer, raw agony in Jack's voice hit him like a physical blow. The anger drained out of Robby just a fraction, leaving behind the hollow, terrifying reality that neither of them had any control over what was happening behind those blue curtains.

Before Robby could fire back another bitter insult, the double doors at the end of the hall swung open, and Dana walked out alongside Shen. Both of them looked thoroughly exhausted, their blue gowns splattered with blood, but their faces were calm, settled into that weary, professional relief that both Robby and Jack knew so intimately.

Jack was across the hallway in a fraction of a second, grabbing Dana's forearms with desperate, trembling hands. "Is she... is she alive? Please, Dana, tell me she's alive."

Dana looked down at his hands, then up into his terrified, bloodshot eyes, her expression softening into a gentle, reassuring smile. "She's alive, Jack. She's stabilised."

A long, ragged sob burst from Jack's chest as he slumped against the wall, covering his face with his hands as the suffocating weight lifted off his lungs. Robby let out a shaky, desperate breath of his own, running both hands over his face, his shoulders slumping in profound, overwhelming relief.

"The blade missed the important stuff by less than a centimetre," Shen explained quickly, pulling off his surgical cap and wiping his damp brow. "Park and the guys are finishing up her sutures right now. She's going to be okay, guys. She's strong."

"Can I see her?" Robby asked immediately, his voice thick with emotion, stepping toward the trauma bay doors.

"She's being moved up to a different unit in a few minutes once she comes round from the anesthetic," Dana said gently, stepping smartly into Robby's path and laying a firm hand against his chest. She gave him a stern, motherly look that made even the senior attending doctor pause. "And before you step foot into that room, Robby, you are going to take a long, deep breath and leave your ridiculous ego at the door."

Robby blinked, taken aback. "Dana, I—"

"I don't want to hear it," Dana interrupted smoothly, turning her cool, unyielding gaze between Robby and Jack. "I have watched the two of you act like absolute idiots for the last forty-five minutes while that poor girl was fighting for her life. Robby, your sister just survived a horrific, traumatic assault. She does not need to wake up to her brother screaming at the man she loves. She needs peace, she needs rest, and she needs both of you to pull yourselves together and be adults."

Robby looked at Dana, his mouth opening to argue, but the sheer authority in her posture held him silent. He glanced over at Jack, who was still standing by the wall, wiping his face with the back of his wrist, looking entirely drained, hollowed-out, and deeply ashamed.

"Go up to the fourth floor," Dana added softly, her tone loosening into something kinder. "Clean yourselves up. Change out of those ruined scrubs. By the time you look like proper doctors again, she'll be awake in her room."

Your room was quiet, illuminated only by the soft, warm glow of the bedside lamp and the gentle, rhythmic pumping of the IV drip monitor. The harsh smell of the trauma bay was replaced by the clean, faint scent of lavender soap and fresh linens. You lay propped up slightly against two large pillows. A thick white bandage was wrapped securely around your right forearm, and beneath the heavy hospital blanket, your abdominal dressing sat quiet and intact.

When the heavy wooden door pushed open, you turned your head slowly toward the sound. The heavy pain medication made your head feel light, floaty, and distant, but the moment you saw Jack and Robby walking into the room together, the fog cleared just enough for your heart to ache with sweet, overwhelming relief.

Both men had changed into clean, dark scrubs. Robby walked in first, looking hesitant, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his usual confident posture replaced by a cautious, quiet guilt. Behind him stood Jack. He looked like he hadn't slept in a week, his eyes were bruised with dark circles, his jaw tight with anxiety, hovering near the doorway as if he wasn't entirely sure he was permitted to be in the same room as you.

"Hey, kiddo," Robby whispered softly, walking over to the right side of your bed. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his face softening into a look of pure, unadulterated big-brother affection. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I got hit by a very large truck," you rasped, your voice scratchy and dry. You offered him a weak, tired smile. "Dana told me that you were making a scene down there, Robby."

Robby let out a soft, wet laugh, dropping his head for a second as a fresh wave of emotion hit him. "Yeah, well, you scared the shit out of me. I thought, God, I don't even want to say it." He took your uninjured hand, holding it tight between both of his. "The police caught the guy, by the way. He was a petty burglar who panicked when he realised the apartment was occupied. He's in custody. He won't ever come near you again."

"Good," you murmured softly, squeezing his hand weakly. Your eyes drifted past your brother's shoulder, locking onto Jack, who was still standing quietly by the door, staring down at his shoes, his posture heavy with guilt. "Jack, come here."

Jack lifted his eyes, looking at you with such a raw, desperate tenderness that it made your chest tighten. He glanced cautiously at Robby, then slowly walked around to the left side of your bed. He stopped a few inches away, looking as though he wanted to reach out and touch you, but was terrified of breaking you further.

"I'm sorry," Jack whispered, his voice cracking on the words. "I am so, so sorry. I should have been there. I should have stayed with you last night, I shouldn't have taken this shift—"

"Jack, stop," you interrupted gently, reaching your left hand out toward him. "Stop that right now. It wasn't your fault. You couldn't have known."

Jack lowered himself to the floor, wincing at the discomfort. He brought your hand to his mouth, pressing his lips against your knuckles, tears slipping quietly from his eyes and wetting your skin. "I thought I lost you," he choked out, ignoring Robby's presence entirely now as he leaned his forehead against the mattress beside your arm. "When they brought you through those doors... I've never been so terrified in my entire life. I don't care about anything else. I just need you to be okay."

You ran your fingers through his curls, feeling the heavy, frantic racing of his heart slowly begin to settle against your side. "I'm okay, Jack. I'm right here."

Across the bed, Robby watched the two of you. He saw the way Jack held your hand not with possessiveness, but with a deep, reverent care that was entirely selfless. He saw the way your face relaxed the moment Jack touched you, the way the lingering fear in your eyes melted away into complete, absolute safety.

Robby let out a long, heavy breath, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked up at the ceiling. "You two are absolute idiots, you know that?" he said softly, breaking the quiet emotional tension in the room.

Jack lifted his head from the mattress, looking over at Robby with a guarded, wary expression. You offered your brother a small, pleading look. "Robby, please don't be mad at him. It was my idea to keep it quiet. I didn't want you making things complicated at work."

"I am mad," Robby admitted honestly, though the harsh edge in his voice was completely gone, replaced by a weary, warm acceptance. "I'm fucking furious that you both lied to my face for months. I'm furious that I had to find out while my sister was bleeding out." He paused, looking directly at Jack, his dark eyes firm. "But... I saw you down there, Jack. I saw how you looked at her."

Jack stood up slowly, keeping his hand firmly wrapped around yours, meeting Robby's gaze across the bed without flinching. "I love her, Robby. I'm not going anywhere. I'm sorry for lying to you, but I am never going to apologise for loving her."

Robby stared at Jack for a long, silent moment, before a small, dry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He shook his head, leaning over to kiss the top of your head before stepping back from the bed.

"Well... at least I know if she ever gets hurt again, the attending doctor will be too terrified of failing to let her die." Robby walked toward the door, turning back with his hand on the handle. "I'm going down to the cafeteria to get some decent coffee. Real coffee, not that shit in the breakroom. Jack, you're staying right here until I get back. And then we're going to have a long talk about boundaries."

"Understood," Jack said softly, offering a quiet, respectful nod.

Robby looked between the two of you one last time, his expression softening into pure relief. "I'm glad you're alive. Don't do it again." With a final, gentle click, the door swung shut, leaving the room in a warm, peaceful quiet.

Jack immediately leaned in close, wrapping his arms around you with extraordinary gentleness, careful to avoid your bandaged abdomen as he buried his face in the warm crook of your neck. You wrapped your uninjured arm around his back, pulling him as close as you could, feeling the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest against yours.

"You really scared me, sweetheart," Jack whispered against your skin, his hands smoothing down your back with a soft, desperate rhythm.

"I know," you murmured, kissing the side of his neck, breathing in the clean scent of soap and his familiar, comforting warmth. "I'm sorry. But I'm safe now. You've got me."

"Yeah," Jack breathed, pulling back just enough to look down into your eyes, his face lit by the soft golden light of the bedside lamp. He leaned in, pressing a slow, sweet, lingering kiss to your lips that tasted of salt, relief, and quiet promises for the future. "I've got you. And I'm never letting you go."

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“That’s it, baby!”

The headboard smacks against the wall again, in rhythm with his deep, punishing thrusts as he continues pounding you- face down, ass up into the mattress.

“Fuuuuck yeah…you love it when I fuck you like this, don’t you?”

“Eddie p-please!” You whimper, fisting the bed sheets beneath you as his hips slap against your ass- forcing his hard cock to brush against your cervix with every thrust.

“Please, what? Use your words, sweetheart.” He tsks, a devilish grin spreading across his face as he looks down where both of your bodies meet- watching himself slide in and out of your drenched cunt.

“H-harder.” You sob, tears wetting the sheets as your body shook with pleasure. “Please fuck me harder!”

“Oh, you want it harder?” Eddie asks, his grip on your hips tightening hard enough to turn his knuckles white. “You sure you can handle that?”

You gasp, nodding your head helplessly as the tears keep flowing- choking on desperate sobs and moans.

“I c-can t-take it!” You cry out “Please!”

“Alright.” Eddie smirks, looking down at his slutty little plaything as you writhed and cried out beneath him. “Whatever you want, gorgeous.”

Before you have time to react, Eddie leans his body forward- putting all his body weight on you until you’re on your stomach, lying prone on the mattress as he pounds into you at a brutal, punishing pace.

“Oh my fucking god!” You cry out, another onset of hot, thick tears take over you as you sob out in pleasure.

“That feel good?” Eddie growls, snapping his hips against you as he drives his hard cock into you as deep as you could take it. “Is that what you’re fucking crying about, sweetheart? Yeah? Fucking…answer…me.”

“Yes!” You squeal “Yes, Eddie! Oh fuck yes! Thank you!”

One of his hands snake up to your neck, wrapping around it as he pulls your head back towards him- lightly squeezing your throat.

“What was that, angel?” Eddie patronizes, his voice hot against your ear “I didn’t quite hear you.”

“Thank you, Eddie. Fuck- thank you!”

“Oh baby, you’re welcome.” Eddie coos “Anything for my little cocksleeve. My cock hungry whore with such good fucking manners. Right, baby? You keep using those manners for me and I’ll keep giving you this fucking dick just how you fucking like it.”

“Thank you!” You gasp, your voice hoarse and desperate as he thrusts into you hard enough to jolt you forward. “Oh god! Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“Fuck, baby. Such good manners.” Eddie praises “You know what you get with manners like those? Hm?”

“Oh fuck, please!”

“That’s it. Atta girl!” Eddie chuckles darkly “With manners like those, you can have anything you fucking want.”

He barely lifted his head when he heard you gasp, the lens of his mask focusing on your figure standing there with wide eyes, wearing only an oversized shirt.

“Wrong window,” he choked, then tried to hold himself up but immediately collapsed again. “Dammit,” he cursed, waiting for you to freak out any second now. 

You could have, but instead you rushed to him and knelt beside him.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” Your hands hovered helplessly over his body, trying to see how bad the damage was in the dark. “You need a hospital–”

“No!” He snapped, trying to turn away but failing miserably. “I’ll be fine, I heal quickly.”

“You still need to stop the bleeding,” you countered, folding your knees under your body so you could rest on your calves. “Listen, I can help you. I took some medical courses last year and I have a kit somewhere.”

You looked at him with pleading eyes. He’d saved the city so many times, the fucking world, it was the least you could do to give something back. 

He considered his options for a second, and to be honest he didn’t have many. His body was betraying him, and he couldn’t even get up to fix it himself like usual. 

The blood loss made him nod, and you wasted no time in getting up and finding said kit. The blood loss also made him drift in and out of consciousness as you tended to the wounds on his ribs as much as you could. 

It did not make him less cautious of you though. When you noticed the rip on his mask over a nasty gash on his neck and reached for it, his hand closed around your wrist and even half conscious, his grip was strong. 

“Please,” he whispered. Pleaded. “Keep it on.” 

The fear in his voice made you promise you would. Even if you couldn’t get to that gash properly. Even when he fell asleep on your floor and didn’t wake up for six whole hours. 

The next morning, he opened his eyes and found you sitting on your bed, still staring at him. 

His hands patted his chest, and confirmed his arachnid powers had done its job and healed him mostly. But most importantly, his mask was still in place. With no warning from E.V of it being removed. He learned that you’d spent the night making sure he was still breathing without seeing his face. 

That had been one year ago. 

After thanking you profoundly for helping him, he’d repaired your window, apologized several times, and disappeared into the apartment next door. He then considered moving into another building, but the thought was brushed away very quickly when he remembered the balance in his bank account. 

So he acted more careful instead. For a while, he only turned back home when your curtains were already closed, or he only left the apartment when you had already left for your job (because yes, he absolutely researched the hell out of you after that night.)

Then he moved to the attic of the building. Bigger space, no neighbors, no risks. No you. Or at least he thought. 

Because some nights…some delirious nights he still found your window a few stories down, and the accidental visits became less accidental. When he was too badly injured to care for himself, he came to you, even after you confessed your degree had nothing to do with medicine. 

When he noticed you understood about his equipment malfunctioning, he’d bring it for you to inspect. When he became too reckless with himself you talked his ear off about how being difficult to kill did not make him immortal.

Somewhere along the way, you became spiderman’s friend. 

Spiderman was safer. With you, spiderman was the only part of him he could let you see. Because that was the thing, you only knew the masked superhero. 

He’d spent so much time blocking away his identity, making peace with the fact that there was no longer anyone in the world who would call him Peter and know exactly who that person was. That name only belonged to the people that once knew him, and no longer existed, so he never gave it to you.

Never showed you more than a sliver of skin when his mask rode up or glimpses of his abdomen when you tended to his wounds. He always kept that barrier and you respected it, even on those nights he was too weak to stop you. Even if sometimes not knowing the color of his eyes kept you up at night. 

A promise was a promise. 

Maybe that’s why he kept coming. Why he trusted you with a certainty he couldn’t understand. Why he eventually showed you his new living quarters in the attic and let you spend time with him. Why half a year ago, he added another chair next to his desk so you could work together, or help him when he was out patrolling and needed an extra set of eyes.

“I’m officially the girl in the chair, spidey,” you joked that time as you sat next to him, spinning around in your chair.

He’d gone quiet immediately, his body tensing up enough to make you frown, but then managed a small smile and said you were. You pretended you didn’t notice him being too quiet as he worked on his inhibitor after that. 

He was wearing a hoodie, sweatpants and the mask. Always the mask that didn’t quite let you see through him. After a moment of quiet, you rolled your chair closer to his and nudged his arm playfully. 

“You know I can’t keep calling you spidey forever, right?” 

He snapped out of his trance, and the chuckle that came from under the fabric was unmistakable. 

“Why not?” He nudged your arm back, but still focused on the device he was hunched over. “I like spidey.”

You put your elbow on the desk, resting your cheek on your hand so you could lean a little closer. 

“I like it too, but it feels ridiculous after having my hands all over your body almost every night.” 

The moment the words left your lips, you realized how bad that sounded. He straightened up, turning toward you.

“Wow.” Even if you couldn’t see the smile on his face, the lenses of his mask were quite expressive sometimes. He was amused. 

“That came out very wrong,” you said immediately, before he bursted into laughter. He had been laughing more since you entered his life. “You know what I meant,” you whined, laughing too with heat flooding your cheeks. 

“I think I know,” he chuckled, making you roll your eyes. 

“I’m being serious though,” you added, a little more quietly. “You don’t have to say your real name. Just give me something.”

“Mmm…” he acted like has considering it, going back to tinkering with the piece of metal between his fingers, but then his eyes drifted to the flowers he’d bought that morning, and the name came out of his lips before he could think twice about it. “You can call me Maynard.” 

“Maynard?” You repeated, suppressing a chuckle. “You don’t sound like a Maynard. That’s like an 80 year old man’s name.”

“That’s all I can give you,” he shrugged playfully. 

You had a feeling it went deeper than that, but you’d also learned not to push it with him. 

“Alright. Maynard,” you nodded, “but don’t expect me to use that name unless you’re dying. Guess I’ll stick to spidey for now,” you chuckled, going back to your own work as he hummed in agreement. 

The conversation ended there. With him trying not to think about your hands all over his body in…different conditions. 

Peter didn’t know exactly when his gratitude became longing. He could not identify the moment the friendship, the closeness, or just your smile, shifted into something he craved everyday. 

Despite the mask and the fake name, he knew that after years of being no one to everyone, he had become someone to you. And you had become everything to him. Even if it was behind walls he’d built, you were the person who knew him better than anyone alive.

Which is why, the night he lost control of himself after an unknown dust was thrown at him in a fight, he chose not to crash land into your room. 

Peter hit the floor of the dark attic with a loud thud, as his senses went overboard. His suit was sticking to his body uncomfortably due to the sweat coating his feverish skin. The fabric was intact, with no visible wounds in his body, just that burning sensation of something running through his veins. 

And that dark part of him he’d managed to lock down with the inhibitor, trying to claw its way out. 

“What the…what the fuck is going on,” he cursed, clutching his heaving chest as he panted against the worn wood floors. “I can’t–I can’t breathe…” 

The computer’s monotone voice broke through the silence. 

“You have arrived injured. I’m letting her know–”

“NO!” He cut the AI off, “EV, don’t tell her–”

“Message already sent.”  

He glanced up at the digital clock on his desk. 2:18 am. 

He groaned, grabbing his head when a wave of migraine hit him. He knew what came after that. The black eyes. The desire to break. To take. But this time something felt different. It was like a pull, looking for something or someone…for…for you? 

Oh fuck. 

You were going to come in and you were going to see him like this. No, no–

“Spidey?” You asked from behind the door, knocking exactly twice before opening it anyways.

The air changed the exact moment you walked in, and that something inside him shifted too. It became aware that the only thing it craved to survive was in the room now. 

He needed to get to you. He needed to pin you down and– 

“Don’t!” He managed to scream, holding his hand up weakly when you scrambled toward him. 

You stopped right in your tracks, eyes wide and running all over him, searching for torn fabric, blood, or anything that would explain why he looked like every breath was painful. 

“What happened?” You frowned, when you couldn’t find any source. “Did you get hurt?” 

You instinctively stepped forward, but he waved his hand in front of him again. 

“Stop, stop, stop,” he said quickly, “don’t come any closer.” 

The harshness in his voice caught you off guard, but what sealed the deal was him dragging himself further away from you. It was barely more than a clumsy, desperate crawl, but he managed to put a decent distance between you before collapsing against the side of his thrifted couch. 

He avoided looking at you. The oversized shirt covering your body, the comfy shorts you were probably wearing, the way your hair looked messy from rolling out of bed as soon as you got EV’s warning even if you had work the next morning.

You stayed right where you were, watching him. His suit had always fit him like it was painted on his skin, but every pant made his chest rise and fall beneath the fabric so violently that you wouldn’t be surprised if it ripped at the seams. 

This reminded you too much of the changes that happened in him months ago. 

It started with a sharpened temper, then the heightened sensitivity to everything, the black covering his eyes, and moments during patrol when his reactions became simply frightening for someone who had as much strength as he did. But you were supposed to have stopped it. 

“Is it the inhibitor?” You asked, crossing your arms over your chest, “is it failing?” 

“I–I don’t know…I was hit with some dust out there,” he breathed. “I think it’s tampering with it…my head is killing me. Everything is too much.”

You nodded, turning toward the workstation. 

“I will check the programming. Just hold on.” Not your best attempt at reassuring him, but he groaned in acknowledgment. 

“EV?” 

The computer woke when you touched the keyboard, illuminating the dark attic in a wash of blue light. 

“Online.”

“Please run a diagnostic on the inhibitor and any possible interference.” 

“Beginning diagnostic.” 

You waited impatiently for the results, tapping your fingers on the desk while you watched him from the corner of your eye. 

Over there, he…he was doing his best trying to breathe. 

This obviously wasn't his first time having sensory overload. When the animal tried to take over the human part of him, everything in the city became impossible to escape. Not a single movement, or sound, or simple existence within miles was unnoticed by him. 

But this time? The rest of the city had disappeared. There were no sirens in the distance, or voices coming through the walls, or every heartbeat in the building pounding in his head. 

There was only you. 

Your rapid heartbeat echoing inside him. He felt every tap of your fingers against the wood, every slight catch in your breathing each time he made another involuntary and pathetic sound from his spot on the floor. 

Your scent…God, your scent filled the entire apartment. 

The scent he found himself coming back to so often that it scared him. He didn’t want the attachment. The possibility of having someone again only to risk losing them again. 

That same scent was making every muscle in his body react in a way he didn’t understand. It made him, and the other him, wanna do things to you he had only dreamed of in his wildest fantasies. Things he wasn’t proud of, things he wouldn’t dare to say out loud, even if he looked at you through the lenses of his mask and you couldn’t see the black in his eyes. 

He pressed the back of his head against the couch harshly. 

This was wrong. So wrong. 

His senses were supposed to consume everything when the change came. Instead, they had fixed themselves entirely on you.

He could feel the heat of your body from across the room as though you were still in front of him. Could remember with sickening detail how soft your hands looked when they reached for him. Could almost feel the burn of the touch that had never landed because he stopped you. 

What if he’d let you? What if he’d felt the way your hands ran all over his body? What if you’d moved them lower, and lower, as your mouth–

“Diagnostic complete.” 

Your heads snapped toward the screen. 

“There’s no external damage affecting the integrity of the device. I detected a foreign biotoxin in the bloodstream that may be bypassing the inhibitor, activating the suppressed arachnid hormones.” 

“What biotoxin?” You frowned. 

“Unknown. No matches found in available databases.” 

Great. He thought. He had no time to take a bath with Yelena Belova to find out what the stupid dust was. 

Tiny, microscopic potato, she would say.

The screen changed, displaying a model of his nervous system. There were yellow bright lines pulsing quickly, running all the way from the base of his brain down the length of his spine. Something unknown was moving through his blood, altering the part of him he had spent months forcing into submission.

He sucked in a breath as he watched you read the screen. Your eyes were focused, and a bead of sweat made its way down the side of your forehead. 

He suddenly felt the need to lick it off. 

Wanted to run his tongue from the base of your neck to the back of your ear. Wanted to fist your hair and make your heart beat out of your chest from how good he knew he could make you feel–

“The effects remain within his enhanced tolerance. However, prolonged exposure to certain hormones can cause extreme distress without relief.” 

“What hormones?” Your voice, worried and unknowing of his thoughts only made him feel guiltier. 

It took him a second to realize what you asked, but EV threw him under the bus before he could say anything. 

“There’s a significant rise in reproductive hormones. The unknown toxin is inducing a strong mating response in him.”

Mating response. He stopped breathing. 

Your eyes slowly moved from the monitor to him, and he saw the moment your attention dropped lower to the tent of his pants. 

That suit concealed nothing on a good day. On one like this? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck–

He shifted almost immediately, but the movement only worsened the pressure, pulling a helpless groan from his throat that made your pulse jump. You looked away at once, turning back to the computer. 

“Is there a way we can…umm…stop it?” You asked hesitantly. 

“The subject is experiencing severe sexual arousal with a fixation on a nearby individual,” she explained, because fuck him if he wasn’t the unluckiest individual on earth. “Acting upon it can be a positive option to relieve sexual tension.”

He wished the floor would open beneath him, swallow him, and never ever EVER spit him back out again.  

Your pulse was absolutely hammering after that. He caught the sudden change in your scent. There was a sharp spark of surprise, nervousness, and something else beneath it that his altered senses fed on immediately.

You kept your eyes fixed on the monitor, although the data had stopped meaning anything the moment you heard fixation on a nearby individual. 

“Is that what you really feel?” You asked softly after a moment. 

His head fell forward, catching it between his gloved hands. He didn’t know how to answer without making everything worse.

Although, after what EV said, could it really be worse? 

“…Yes.” The word came out rougher than he expected. Yet still not enough for what was happening inside him. “It’s like…I can only feel you. All of you.”

Heat rose to your face once again. 

“What does that mean?” 

Don’t say anything, don’t–

“I can smell you.” Great start, idiot. He cleared his dry throat before continuing. “I can smell your shampoo…the lotion you use…the ink on your hands from your favorite pen.” 

He chose not to mention he could also smell the adrenaline on you. The heat gathering slowly beneath your skin. 

Your eyes dropped to your hands, and under the dim light of the computer, you caught the ink stains in them from your journaling session before bed. 

“I can hear your heartbeat changing every time I speak,” he added. Okay, that one slipped out.  

You swallowed. And god, he felt that in his own throat. 

The suit was suffocating him at this point. He wanted to rip it off as much as he wanted to rip off the fabric covering the goosebumps on your skin. 

“Is it only because I’m nearby?” You asked, gathering the courage to turn your chair to him.

White lenses met you across the room. He dragged in another shaky breath of oxygen made of you as he thought about his next words. He could’ve lied. He should’ve lied. But instead, chemically overwhelmed and stripped of every defense he possessed, he gave you the truth. 

“No.”

His voice was firmer this time. No hesitation in it despite the thousand red alarms pounding in his head telling him to shut up. 

“It picked you–no, I picked you for a reason,” he added. “And it’s not just me. The other…the other me wants you too.” 

His voice went lower on the last part, that told you how much it cost him to admit that. 

The silence following his confession was heavy. For a moment he wished he could read your mind. For all he could feel of you, your thoughts were unreachable. 

His own mind was a mess. The impulses didn’t feel like thoughts anymore, just his body feeding him instructions. 

Get up. Cross the room. Touch her. Breathe her in.

His palms shook with the urge to close around you. His teeth ached with the need to graze your skin. His eyes burned with the desire to see beyond fabric. 

Every part of him seemed convinced that the small distance between you was a mistake he needed to correct. That he needed to breathe you in until his lungs burned. Drag his mouth along the inside of your wrist and taste the pulse there.

He hated it.

He hated that something inside him could look at the person he cared for the most and reduce her to an answer for his pain. 

“EV, how long is this state going to last?” He asked the computer, followed by a weak cough as he clutched his side. 

“Your enhanced physiology is struggling to break down the toxin’s structure. I estimate a time between ten to twelve hours before it’s metabolized. However, neurological collapse is expected before that timeframe.”

“What?” You looked at him. “There’s no way we’re letting that happen. Maybe I can–”

“Don’t even start,” he cut you off, shaking his head profusely. 

“So what? I’m supposed to sit here betting on whether your body collapses on hour three or hour six?” 

“I’ll just pass out, big deal. I’m not putting you in danger because of this. I can handle it.”

“You’re barely handling it now. There’s no danger in trying–”

“You don’t understand what’s happening inside me right now,” he argued, raising his voice. “This other thing, the one the inhibitor controls it’s…awake. That part of me doesn’t think like I do. It doesn’t care if you're scared, or hurting–”

“You wouldn’t hurt me–”

“You don’t know that!” He snapped, his fist struck the floor next to him, hard enough to make the worn wood crack beneath his knuckles. 

The sudden noise made you flinch. He smelled the flash of fear moving through your body for only a second. 

One second enough. 

“Fuck–that is what I mean,” he cursed, covering his lenses with his hands. “I don’t…I don’t know if I’d be gentle. I can’t risk this, I can't…shit, I can’t risk you.”

The words, said with so much pain, and honesty, seemed to settle somewhere deep in your chest. 

“Okay,” you nodded, settling deeper in your chair. “But I’m not leaving you like this. I can’t risk you either.”

He shuddered a painful exhale. His head dropped to the couch again, shutting his eyes in preparation of what the next hours of torture would be. 

Except…he didn’t even last ten minutes. 

The suit was killing him, so he decided he’d be better without it. He reached desperately behind his back, clumsily undoing the zippers that tied the suit together.

He could feel your wide eyes on him as he tugged the fabric off his shoulders, peeling it off his sweaty arms. He groaned when he lifted his hips and the suit grazed his swollen crotch. In a matter of seconds that felt like eternity he managed to break free from the spandex, and threw it away somewhere in the room. He’d undressed down to his dark boxers, mask still in place, revealing the marble sculpture of his body.

You let out a shaky breath from your spot, eyes raking over a body you’d only seen partially. He was covered in wounds most of the time, but this time, he only had faint bruises from the night before decorating his chiseled abs. 

His tight muscles flexed with every rise of his chest, his bulge straining harder the more you devoured him, pressing against his pants, making him curse quietly. 

You noticed, and returned your eyes to the screen to track his vitals. 

He felt grateful that you’d given him that grace, but just you being in that room made it very hard for him to think of anything other than your existence. 

Too hard. 

Before he knew his hand drifted down the growing ache in his crotch, trying to feel some relief, but every rub he made over the fabric of his boxers sent a jolt of pain through his body instead of pleasure. 

It only made it worse when he realized you were tense at the desk, trying very hard to keep your focus on the screen and not on the whines he was letting out. 

“…I’m sorry,” he apologized instantly, breathlessly, moving his hand away. “I didn’t–”

“Don’t apologize,” you shook your head quickly, eyes still on the screen. “You…you can do whatever you need.” 

He didn’t say anything, just whined in pain again, so you took it as a chance to say it before you regretted it. 

“But my offer still stands, spidey.” 

What a polite way of saying ‘I’d let you fuck me into next week so you can control your horny arachnid hormones, spidey.’

Fucking hell. 

“I’m okay I just–God I didn’t–I didn’t think it would feel this way…” He laughed humorlessly, staring at the ceiling. “But I–I got this. Yes.”

You kept quiet, hearing him mumble to himself about a hundred times about how he had this.

“I’m okay…I’m good…it’s fine…” 

He wasn’t. 

“Fuck I don’t…I’m going to die…”

For God’s sake. 

“I think I can help.”

By the time he registered the words and looked back at you, you had already moved from your chair and shortened the distance between you, kneeling in front of him. 

His senses went from one thousand to one million. He forced his hands behind his back, trying to keep the animal from grabbing you and getting it over with. 

“What–what are you doing?” He stammered nervously, the lenses of his mask going wide. 

“Maynard,” you said quietly, ignoring the way his body tensed up at that name. “Would it make you feel better if I put my hand here?” 

You placed your hand right in the center of his chest, and your cold palm met his overheated skin. He gasped, feeling every individual fingerprint on his skin. He wanted them marked on him. Tattooed. 

His back arched from the couch, with a strangled gasp breaking from beneath the mask. The relief hit him all at once, through a simple contact that felt like salvation. 

Your hand steadied him for only a glorious second, but now that you had touched him, his body knew precisely what it had been denied.

It wanted more.

His own hand closed around yours so suddenly that you almost pulled back, but he loosened his grip the instant he realized how tightly he was holding you. 

“Sorry–”

“Don’t apologize.” You pressed harder. 

He was burning.

The heat beneath your palm scared you, but what scared you more was the violent pounding of his heart beating against your hand so so quickly. 

“Better?” You asked quietly, trying not to bite your bottom lip at the image of him crumbling under your palm. 

“So fucking better,” he said breathlessly, pressing your hand tighter against his chest. “I…dammit–”

“Breathe,” you reminded.

His head fell back against the couch. Chest rising up and down, up and down, up and down. 

Just take her, man, she’s right there–

Your free hand accidentally brushed his neck, right where the border of the mask started, snapping him right back. He grabbed your hand, not harshly, but firm enough to make your breath hitch. 

“Please.” Was all he said. 

Leave it on. 

It brought you back to that first night he’d crashed into your life. 

“I wasn’t planning on removing it,” you whispered, leaning closer. “You can keep it on. But let me help you…I really want to.”

See? She wants it. She needs it so bad. 

He hated that the other guy was right. He knew you meant what you said because he could smell the proof pooling between your thighs.

Fuck it.

In a sudden movement he reached for your waist, dragging you forward so you were straddling his lap. The bulge you landed on made you gasp, hands instinctively grabbing onto his sweaty biceps for balance when he let out a broken groan that vibrated against your core. 

His hand cupped your jaw, bringing it closer to his face, and your dilated pupils reflected on the white of his lenses. 

“I can feel that you want this,” he mumbled, tilting his head to the side. “Please, say it again…”

You shifted your hips, barely, so minimal yet he felt it travel through his whole body. He hissed, tightening the grip on your jaw. 

“I want this,” you repeated firmly, moving your head closer to his ear. “You can take whatever you need…”

You moved your hips again, more deliberate this time, pulling a broken whine from him. The toxin made every contact feel like electricity racing down his spine, straight to the heavy, aching weight of his cock under you. 

“Yes…yeah just like that…” he panted. “Just let me…”

His hands landed on your waist, moving you back and forth at a quicker pace over his bulge. You gasped at the friction, fingers digging into his shoulders, while he let out a collection of muffled words you could barely understand. 

“...M–more…” he whined, throwing his head back against the couch. “I can’t–I need…”

“What do you need? More what?” 

“More contact.”

His hands left your waist to grab the hem of your shirt. 

“Can I?” He whispered.

You nodded eagerly, gasping when his hands shifted to the collar of your shirt instead, ripping it off your body with a sharp pull. 

“Oh fuck,” he cursed when he realized there was nothing under that shirt, and saw your nipples hardening instantly under the cold air. 

He resisted the urge to bite them through the mask. 

His hands, however, wasted no time to cup your breasts with a broken whine. His thumbs played with your nipples, tugging at them as hard as he could allow himself to without hurting you. 

“Fuck you’re perfect…you’re so perfect…” he whispered, more to himself than you, pulling some soft whimpers out of you when he tugged a little harder. His hands drifted to your lower half, to the hem of the last piece keeping your body from his greedy eyes. “These too,” he said, “please, can I? I want to feel you.”

“Yes,” you nodded, already out of air. 

You didn’t even know why you tried to get off his lap to take the shorts off properly, when he just did the same as the shirt: ripped it in half where it rested on your hips, yanked it off from your body and threw the ruined pieces far away. 

You weren’t wearing anything underneath. 

“I can smell you. God, I can smell you. You’re so–oh God…”

Now he could feel your wetness drenching his boxers, dripping onto the fabric. He could almost taste it in his mouth. He wanted nothing more than to drown in it for hours. 

“Can–can I–?”

You didn’t even let him finish, you grabbed his hand and placed it right between your legs. 

Water. He found water in the middle of the dessert. 

His hand moved carefully through your wet folds once, twice, delighting in your warmth, the way you felt, the way you let out the prettiest sound he had ever heard in his miserable life. 

“Fuck…” you cursed softly, moving your hips eagerly when he kept stroking slow. Too slow. “Touch me, please.”

He obliged, fingers finding your clit in movements that had you gripping his shoulders tighter, eyes fluttering shut so beautifully he had to bite his lip to not let out a pathetic sound. 

“Been wanting this,” he mumbled. “Longer than today. Longer than tonight.”

His finger slid inside of you, making you moan when he curled it just right. 

“There were…there were nights I thought about you riding my hand,” he kept going, voice cracking as he added a second finger, stretching you more. “I’ve wanted you for so long–not just because of this shit in my blood. Because it’s you.”

Every word made you clench around his fingers. Every admission pulled another shaky moan out of your throat. You were a mess already, breathless, hips rolling down to meet the thrust of his fingers. 

“Oh my God–don’t stop, please don’t stop–”

“Not stopping, baby.” 

He kept working you open, the white lenses of the mask never leaving your face. His free hand slid up your chest, settling between your breasts. 

“I’m–I’m close,” you managed. “I’m so close–”

“Come on…you’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect like this.”

The heel of his palm lifted to press against your clit. You were right there, right on the edge, about to come on his hand and drip down his boxers–

“Please,” he begged, unable to keep it in. “Let me fuck you after this…please. I need to be inside you. I’ve needed it for so long–just let me, after you come, please, please–”

The plea undid you.

You came with a broken cry, stopping your movements as your walls pulsed around him. The sound you made against his shoulder nearly finished him right there. 

It took you a second to just breathe again, your chest synching up with his in the search of oxygen. He kept rocking his hand slowly, not just to work you through the aftershocks, but because the friction of your pussy in his hand brought the tiniest relief to him. 

You just stayed there as the last soft waves rolled through you. 

Once you were able to see clearly again, you let out a breathless chuckle and straightened back up. 

He needed you. He needed you so badly you really thought he was going to die if you didn’t help him. 

You placed one hand on his chest as the other reached under you, slipping inside the fabric of his boxers without breaking eye contact. 

The second your bare fingers brushed him, his hips jerked hard under you. 

“You said please,” you whispered breathlessly. 

You wrapped your fingers around him and pulled him free.

His cock sprang out, heavy and flushed between your bodies, so thick and hard and painful. The head was red and shiny, with precum dripping down the vein that ran along his length. The tip brushed the skin of your stomach, leaving a warm, wet patch that made the hair on your arms go up. He could smell the small flicker of intimidation sparking inside you, but the want that followed was stronger. 

You stroked him a few times, slowly just as he’d touched you at first. 

“Oh my God, your hand–your hand–”

Another thick bead of precum welled up and spilled over your fingers. Whether it was the toxin or just his enhanced physiology, he was dripping for you.  

Flustered wasn’t enough of a word when you had his leaking cock in your hand. 

His hands slid down to your hips, gripping tighter, guiding you up as if he was about to lift you then pulling you back down immediately. 

Fuck her. Fuck her right now. 

“Please, I need–I need to feel you…” he cried out. “Let me…let me…”

You nodded just as desperately, lifting yourself up as he helped, steadying you with shaking hands until the thick head of his cock nudged against your entrance. You both exhaled hard at the same time when you started to sink down, taking him inch by inch.

He was big. Almost too much. The burn of it made your breath hitch, but the way he cursed under his breath multiple times, completely at your mercy, made you keep going until he was buried balls deep.

You sat there for a moment, breathing heavily, and so full of him. 

When the initial sting faded away, you started moving. He let you set the pace as you adjusted, holding back his need of thrusting up. His fingers dug on your skin, not lifting just holding you, but the more that you moved, the more that control started to waver. 

He could feel it coming. The change. 

You kept moaning, bouncing on top of him, completely unaware of his self restraint crumbling away. 

His grip slowly tightened when his eyes began turning completely black under his mask. That careful, pathetic boy who’d been begging disappeared beneath something more…primal. 

Fuck. Whatever had been holding him back finally snapped.

The next thing he knew, his hands slid under your thighs with sudden strength. He lifted you up in one motion until only the thick head of him remained inside you, held you there for a second as the last part of him tried to remember how to be gentle–then snapped his hips up hard.

That first thrust pulled a sharp moan out of you, but there was no chance to adjust this time. He set a relentless pace almost immediately, using pure strength to bounce you on his cock while he drove up to meet every drop of your body, buried so deep it stole your breath every time he bottomed out. 

“Oh my–May…Maynard–” the name you barely used on him slipped out in the middle of the frenzy, but his hand reached behind your head to pull your hair back slightly as he kept thrusting up. 

“Don’t call me that,” he snapped, his voice so different from just minutes earlier. “It’s Peter. Call me Peter when I’m inside you.” 

He didn’t even give you time to process, still lifting and dropping you onto his cock at the exact hard rhythm he wanted. The only one that satisfied the need inside of him. Your hands instinctively reached for the edge of the arm of the couch he was leaning against, fingers digging into the worn fabric as he hit that spot inside you over and over again. 

“Of fuck…Peter–fuck…yes…”

“That’s better,” he approved. “I was right, you’re so so perfect…taking every inch like you need it as bad as I do…”

A desperate sound slipped out of you at the praise, he could feel your walls clenching tight around him as your body went for that second orgasm, your eyes were fluttering shut, almost there–

“Nuh–uh,” he denied immediately, stopping mid thrust, holding you pressed against him as you gasped, surprised and confused. 

“What–what happened? I was about to–”

“I want you to hold it for me. I know you can.”

That twisted part of him enjoyed the slow realization on your face. 

Even if you couldn’t see his eyes, you knew the same spiderman he’d been without the inhibitor, was the one with your body at his mercy now. 

Good. 

He stayed buried to the hilt for a moment, breathing hard behind the mask. When your breathing finally slowed down and accepted that the high never came, he stood up. Still inside you, he walked you to the bed in the corner of the room. 

His bed.

He pulled out with a wet sound that made both of you groan, then laid you down roughly near the edge of the mattress. He kneeled down, strong hands hooking behind your knees and dragging your legs over his shoulders, folding you open for him completely.

“Look at the ceiling,” he ordered. “Don’t look at me.”

You obeyed, staring up at the wood beams high above you while he tugged the bottom of the mask just high enough to free his mouth. 

Peter leaned down and pressed a few soft kisses to your swollen folds. He wasn’t necessarily eating you out, just giving a few loud smooches that felt good enough to make you grip the sheets. 

“M’sorry, you were so perfect there…” he mumbled condescendingly against your most sensitive spots. “But I need you to hold on a little longer. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?” 

You nodded, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. Maybe too eager. Maybe too pathetic. Just like he’d been. Had he pumped that toxin into you? 

Either way, you didn’t care. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t like this version of him. 

He laughed right over your clit when you moaned loudly, after he moved his tongue in a slow, torturous swipe over it. 

“Was back there too much?” He cooed. “Maybe I just need to stretch you more...”

Two fingers slid inside you, so easily, but the sudden stretch still dragged a whine out of your throat. He curled them immediately, finding the spot that made your hips jerk. 

“Peter…” 

“Huh?” He acted coy, pumping his fingers with a rhythm that kept you right on the edge without letting you tip over. He added a third finger, making your back arch from the mattress. “Keep holding it in.”

Every shake of your body fed the stupid toxin inside him. Having you like this…really trying to keep your body from coming apart because he said so. 

God. He was never going back. 

“You just took my cock. I think you can take three fingers with no problem.” 

He kept the same relentless pace, chuckling when your body started twitching again. 

“Shhh, you’re perfect, absolutely perfect…”

“Peter…” you called out again, hand dropping the sheet to find his shoulder instead. “I need…need…”

“Need what?”

“Need you inside me…please I won’t–I won’t hold for much longer just–fuck me.”

He stopped altogether, a smirk you couldn’t see stretching the corner of his mouth. He pulled his fingers out with a wet pop, licking them clean before tugging his mask back in place and standing up. 

“Yeah?” 

Your legs dangled off the edge of the bed for a moment before his hands gripped your hips and turned you over. He moved you higher up the bed, grabbing one of the pillows, and shoving it under your hips, tilting your lower body up for him. 

He then climbed onto the bed behind you and knelt between your spread thighs, the mattress dipping under his weight as one hand stroked down the length of your spine. 

But something made him stop. 

“This fucking mask–” he cursed under his breath. “It’s suffocating me.”

The sweat on his forehead had pooled under the mask, making it so sticky over his eyebrows that it was affecting the lenses he was trying to see you through. 

“I need you to be a good girl for me,” he added breathlessly, yet still commanding enough. “Keep your head on the mattress. Ass up. Don’t turn around.”

You nodded. Too eagerly again. Couldn’t care any less again. 

He didn’t think twice, just yanked the mask off and tossed it aside. It landed near you, making you bury half your face on the sheets as if staring at the mask alone would be disobeying his commands. 

The sound he made when the cool air hit his face was pure relief. He swiped the sweat off with his forearm, finally seeing you clearly. Face down. Eyes squeezed shut. Already clutching the sheets. 

“You look so pretty like this,” he mumbled. “All spread out for me…waiting.”

“Peter…” you whined, lifting your ass slightly from the pillow. 

“I know, I know. You’re okay.” He couldn’t keep the smirk away when he added, “you said please.”

He reached between you, guiding the thick head of his cock between your thighs until it nudged against your entrance. You were still soft and ready and perfect. 

Peter pushed in slowly, letting you feel every inch as he sank deep and deep and deeper. 

He braced one hand beside your head and kept the other on your hip, pushing you into the mattress as his thighs hit the back of yours. Slap. Slap. Slap. The position left almost no space between your bodies, with Peter pressing his chest against your back. 

“Fuck…you feel so good like this…so pretty taking me.”

He kept going, making the mattress creak and the base of the bed hit the brick wall repeatedly. Your desperate moans ran through his body like electricity, making something inside him crack open again. 

What? What is–

The moment his rhythm stuttered, he shook his head, trying to clear it. Beads of sweat flew from his hair to your back. 

“God–you…you’re making me–” The roughness of his thrusts slowed down immediately, inhaling a sharp intake of air as he felt the change again. “I can’t, I can’t…”

He lifted his gaze to the window behind the bed and noticed his eyes had turned back to its original color. 

“Oh my god,” he gasped, stopping altogether. He straightened up, still kneeling and inside you, but panicking. “I’m…I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened I–“

“Peter!” You cut him off, pushing yourself back, closer to him, without turning around. “Shut up and fuck me.”

The order left your mouth breathless, pushing back against him even more to make the point clear. His hands twitched when they gripped your hips again. 

“Okay, okay…” he panted, groaning when you dropped back on the bed and his cock almost left the warmth of your pussy. “I’m sorry–if I was too rough, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

He picked up the pace again, but the words tumbling out of him now were pure pleading Peter again. 

“Don’t turn around–don’t turn around–fuck, fuck…” slap, slap, slap. “You can come now. Please. Please, I want to feel it–you’d come apart so pretty on me, I know you would…pleasepleaseplease–”

His final permission and the desperate way he said it made you crash harder than the first time, crying out into the mattress. The second he felt you coming around him, he knew he couldn’t last much longer either.

“Can I–inside…please, can I??…let me fill you up–”

“Yes–inside, Peter, do it inside me…” 

He buried himself to the hilt with a strained groan and finally came. The orgasm tearing out of him was harder and longer than anything he’d ever felt, holding you there, filling you up. 

You gasped against the sheets, breathless, as the waves of cum seemed to go on forever, flooding you with warm and thick ropes in every spurt as he emptied himself inside you. 

“Thank you…thank you…” His forehead dropped between your shoulder blades, sending broken gasps against your skin as he kept coming. “You are so perfect–fuck…so perfect…thank you…”

The pollen wrung him dry until he could barely breathe, and even then he kept rolling his hips weakly, chasing the last of it while he slowly softened inside you. 

When it finally eased, the pain, the need, the hunger…he pulled out slowly with a whine, and half collapsed over you. His arms held most of his weight as he planked above you, but you could feel every ridge of his muscles brushing your sweaty skin. 

Peter’s eyes fluttered shut, feeling exhausted and aching in the best way, almost lulled by the sounds of your agitated breaths. 

You both felt the warm trail of liquid leaking out between your bodies and neither of you moved or said anything for a while. He could’ve stayed like that forever, really. With your naked body under him, no masks, no barriers, just your swollen pussy leaking out his seed–

“Successful ejaculation brought down the arachnid hormone levels immediately. Inhibitor working within regular parameters now. Congratulations, Peter.” 

EV’s monotone voice cut through the silence. 

It took two seconds of shock before you both broke into breathless laughter. His teeth grazed your back as your bodies vibrated in sync from the amusement and overall flustering after everything that happened. 

“Thank you, EV,” Peter muttered. 

“You’re welcome. I gathered data and the released semen volume exceeds standard parameters by two hundred and twenty six percent due to the high hormonal concentration. Hydration, clean up and rest are advised.”

“For fucks sake…” Peter cursed under his breath. 

“Oh god…” you mumbled against the sheets. 

That was your call back to reality. 

Peter felt you move under him, reaching blindly to the side until your hand found the mask. You lifted it over your shoulder, offering it to him without looking. 

“I don’t want to,” he said, too quickly, then cleared his throat. “I…I don’t want to put it back on.” 

“Then I’ll close my eyes,” you offered instead. 

“No–I mean…you don’t have to. I don’t want to wear it around you anymore. Not after…all of this,” he admitted sheepishly. 

“But you told me to not turn around,” you reminded him, dropping the mask on the mattress again. “And that was you, not the darker you.”

He chuckled, nodding even if you couldn’t see him yet. 

“Yeah, because if I saw your face while I was balls deep inside you I would’ve busted before you came.”

There it was. He said it. No turning back now. 

At least it got a chuckle from you too. 

“Listen I…I meant everything I said. Everything. The wanting, the nights I thought about you,” he confessed. “I don’t want you to feel like I just used you when…when there was always a reason why I needed you like oxygen tonight.”

Your breath hitched, and his hand found your waist, pulling you closer to him, and when you didn’t push away…he exhaled in relief behind you. 

“So maybe…you can turn around now. If–if you want to. Know the real me.”

“I would really like that,” you whispered without hesitation. 

You tried lifting yourself up to turn around, but he did most of the job, moving away the pillow he had placed under you and helping you roll onto your back. You closed your eyes, at least until you were facing him completely, and took a deep breath. Holding onto his biceps for moral support, you finally opened them again. 

Seeing his face for the first time felt so intimate, even after everything you just did. 

There he was. The same guy who just fucked you into next week, looking more shy and boyish than you could’ve ever imagined. 

Brown eyes. Dark, curly hair sticking to his forehead. A nervous smile tugging at the corner of his gorgeous mouth. 

So young. So earnest. So yours. 

Not spidey anymore. Just Peter. 

Your Peter. 

Thank you so much for reading 🤍 I used to write Peter so much back in the day (shoutout to my starktonyx era) and I’ve missed him dearly.

Feedback is always appreciated 🕷️

Divider by @andromeda-graphics

Steve rounds the corner at the same time you manage to get the front door open, stumbling in as laughter peels from your lips. Your friend, clearly sober and unhappy with being the designated driver for the night, gives him a tight smile as he catches you under the arms. 

“Fun night?” he asks lightly.

“Don’t even start,” your friend says with an aggrieved noise. “I still have two more drop offs, so I’m gonna go.”

“Fair enough,” Steve says. “Get home safe.”

She nods, and he’s left with an armful of you leaning heavily on him, smiling up like he’s the best thing you’ve seen all evening.

“My knight,” you say, sighing softly as you bring your hands up to his cheeks, squishing them as you drag him down towards your mouth. “Knight Steve, here to save the day…”

He doesn’t fight it. And though the taste of vodka on your lips isn’t the most pleasant thing, he’s pretty sure there isn’t anything in the world that could ever stop him from wanting to kiss you.

“C’mon, pretty girl,” he says. He pulls back just enough that his nose brushes against your own. “Do you think you’re up for a shower tonight, or straight to bed?”

“Bed,” you say. “Too sleepy for a shower.”

He’s gentle as he leads you down the hall, careful to make sure you don’t tip over as you lean more and more of your weight into his side, and guides you into the bathroom. You grumble something incoherent, clearly unhappy with being here and not the bedroom, but he only circles your waist and lifts you onto the counter.

“I’ll be quick, honey,” he murmurs. “Promise.”

The Pond’s cold cream is easy enough to find — you keep the small pot right next to the faucet — and you soften under his touch as he rubs it into your skin, careful as he works the mascara from your lashes. He pulls a washcloth from the drawer and wets it, and you giggle as he wipes the cream from your face until every last trace of makeup is gone.

He grabs your toothbrush and runs it under the faucet, shaking his head when you try to bury your face into his shirt. 

“Open up, baby,” he says. “You’ll thank me tomorrow.”

You tilt your face up, giving him your most petulant look, but open your mouth without argument and let him scrub the night from your teeth. 

He keeps you steady when you lean over to spit the paste out into the sink and, after a minute of searching, applies balm to your lips so they don’t dry out.

It takes a bit more time for him to locate your moisturizer (he’s watched you carry it around the apartment as you apply it to know that it never stays in one place) and you’re half asleep as he smooths it across your cheeks, paying careful attention when he uses his thumbs to rub your eye cream in under your eyes.

He combs your hair and applies your hair oil the way he’s seen you do a million times, wrapping it up once he’s done and, finally, helping ease you from the bathroom.

Across the hall, you sit on the edge of the bed as he searches through the dresser. You mumble something that he doesn’t understand, but when he turns to see you blanketed in the golden light from the lamp, he finds that he doesn’t quite mind.

I love you, every molecule in his body whispers as he makes his way back to you. I love you, his heart sings as he pulls your top over your head. I love you, I love you, I love you, his soul screams when he kneels down to drag your pajama pants up your legs.

You let out a giggle when he ties the drawstring, and it’s only then that he looks up. There’s an adoring smile on your face and you card your fingers through his hair, your voice soft when you breathe out, “You’re so handsome, Steve. I’m so lucky that you’re mine.”

He stands, his heart beating just a little bit faster, and he can’t stop himself from pressing a kiss against your temple. 

(Not that he’ll ever tell you, but every compliment that falls from your lips, every confirmation that he’s enough — that he’s enough for you—)

(It means more than he can put into words.)

You whine when he pulls away, reaching out for another kiss, and he feels guilty when he pries your hands from his face.

“Later,” he promises. “Let’s get you into bed now, yeah?”

He’s careful when he tucks the covers around you, making sure to arrange the pillows around your head the way he knows that you like them. He glances down, and there’s something about the way your lashes frame your eyes that has him leaning down to brush his lips against your forehead before saying, “I’ll be right back, okay?”

You hum, eyes slipping shut, and he slips out of the room. 

It’s second nature, really, to fill up a glass with water and rummage around for pain killers in the kitchen cabinet, the same way that arranging them on the bedside table so they’re within arms reach comes to him without thought.

(He’s spent so long trying to keep everyone around him safe and out of harm's way. He’s spent the longest nights of his life, bruised and bloodied and aching, vision blurry as he counted the heads of those he loves the most, making sure they were still there and still breathing—)

(Who knew that it would lead him here? In a warm home filled with love and laughter, one where the worst thing he has to fear is you having a hangover in the morning?)

He flicks the light off and slides into bed behind you, tugging you until your back is pressed to his front, and finally—

Something in his chest eases.

“Steve?”

Your voice is quiet, thick with sleep, and it takes a moment for him to even realize that you’d spoken. You turn in his arms, tracing your fingers down his chin as you meet his gaze

“What’s up, honey?” he asks.

“Love you,” you whisper, earnest in a way a person only is when drunk, like it’s very important for him to know this right in this moment.

He huffs out a laugh. “I love you, too.”

“You’re just…” You clumsily pat his face. “You’re so nice, and so good. Do you know how good you are? Always takin’ care of people, takin’ care of me… So nice. Even when I’m a bother.”

He can’t help the smile that spreads across his face anymore than he can stop himself from turning his head, kissing the pads of your fingers with a kind of reverence that feels sacrilegious. 

“I’ll always take care of you,” he says, resolution laced into every syllable. “And you’re never a bother, baby.”

You sigh, clearly content, and bury your face into his shirt. “Will you still love me in the morning?”

(And if he holds you to him just a bit tighter—)

(Well, he doesn’t think anyone can blame him.)

“I’ll love you in the morning too. Promise.”

Blonde, charming to the core, unfairly handsome, way smarter than he let on. Quite the hotshot. Literally. And infuriatingly interested in you the moment you stepped into the building.

Sue said he hadn’t set foot near her lab in months. Now he dropped by almost daily with flimsy excuses, snacks, oxygen checks, dumb questions about leaf colors, all paired with a flirty comment and that unfairly pretty smile.

You rolled your eyes. Every time.

You also got flustered. Every time.

And he noticed. Every time.

And as much as you tried to convince yourself not to fall for his charm, it was practically impossible when he showed up in the middle of the day with some chips and those pretty blue eyes, saying something about how your lab coat fit you particularly nicely that day. You swore you weren’t falling for it. Not for him. Because he flirted with everyone. That’s who he was.

Still, that didn’t stop your heart from skipping whenever he looked at you like you were the only person in the room.

Thankfully, he wasn’t around this time, so you could totally focus on your work with Sue.

"Okay! batch 5FA's tests are catalogued and processed, programming a check in tomorrow. Let's go with batch 5FB," Sue announced, storing the studied samples inside an isolated chamber.

"Batch 5FB is here. Thank you HERBIE," you smiled as the adorable robot placed a glass box with a metal base on the counter in front of you.

You were running a second round of tests on previously labeled specimens, checking for possible medicinal uses. You pressed the button on the base and the glass dome lifted in a soft hiss, releasing a small cloud of white fog from the chamber's interior.

Sue turned her attention to her tablet, scrolling through the database for any notes on these samples. But before she could find any, all the lights went out. All systems stopped working, including the heating.

"Not again," she groaned, setting the tablet down and standing up to head out, no doubt to scold her husband for running experiments during your lab hours.

She stormed off the room, using a soft glow of energy to guide her, leaving you alone in the dark.

Now where was Johnny Storm when you needed him?

If he weren't outside, probably absorbing flames from a burning building, you were sure he'd already be here. Flaming on with that smug smirk before Sue could even reach Reed's lab.

Maybe it was your imagination, but moments like this always felt colder when the golden sun who made it his mission to orbit you... wasn't there.

You lifted your arm to check the watch device on your wrist, one that Johnny had insisted you got 'in case of an emergency', but he just wanted you to have it to continue flirting with you when he wasn't around in the lab. This time being no exception, there was a message from him.

🔥: Will bring some snacks later, I’m sure you look delightful as always. Don’t miss me too much ;)

You rolled your eyes and shook your head amused, locking the watch before you got too caught up staring at the contact photo, set by him, obviously, when he prepared the device for you.

The lights suddenly flickered back on, and the heat kicked back in. Sue re entered the lab, looking proud of herself.

"The next time that happens, he's never hearing the end of it," she muttered, rolling her eyes with a smirk as she made her way back and you chuckled. "Now, shall we?" she asked, raising an eyebrow at the samples.

"I have a feeling this is a promising batch," you joked, eyeing the boring looking plants.

First mistake of the day.

You both got to work, moving in sync through the usual process. It was routine, nothing outside the ordinary, but for some reason ... you began feeling uneasy.

It started with your fingers, a soft, harmless tingle spreading up. You frowned, brushing the sudden sheen of sweat from your forehead with your sleeve.

Was the heating overcompensating? You could swear the room was warmer.

Before you could say anything to Sue, who was still calmly swabbing samples, a familiar scent hit you, making you freeze in place.

First, something intoxicatingly warm and smoky. Then, a devastatingly familiar cologne you knew too well who it belonged to.

Johnny?

Your head snapped around, expecting him to be standing right behind you. That would certainly explain the sudden heat increase, the scent. His scent.

But there was no one there.

"What the hell," you whispered, scanning the lab for any sign of him. Maybe it was another one of his dumb pranks?

Your heart skipped a beat, then started pounding. You turned around fully this time, eyes searching frantically across the room for a possible fire you could be missing.

The smell of smoke was too strong, so much that the air felt heavier. Johnny's crazy theory about the plants affecting the room's oxygen suddenly didn't feel so dumb anymore.

Oh, Johnny.

Those blue eyes. That stupid grin. Those hands. Those tight pants outlining his– wait.

What the actual hell was that thought?

And worse, why did it help?

You didn't get the chance to question your thoughts any further, because the door hissed open, and he walked in. Casual as ever, carrying two drinks and a bag of chips.

"Snack delivery," Johnny called out with a smile, tossing you a wink before turning his attention to HERBIE at the entrance. "Hey, little guy. Miss me?"

He placed the things on a counter next to the door, and crouched down beside the robot, scratching the top of the metal head affectionately. You heard Sue sighing annoyed beside you, but your complete focus was on him.

Because now you were watching him laugh, his eyes crinkling, his forearms flexing as he leaned casually on his knees, and you weren't just staring, you were obsessing. The way his fingers traced little circles into HERBIE's side. A deep red jacket hugging his frame. The outline of his toned chest under that fitted t-shirt. The way his jeans fit when he crouched like that.

Jesus Christ.

You blinked hard, turning away so fast you nearly knocked over a tray of samples.

What the hell was going on?

You weren't even looking at him anymore and still, you could feel him. Smell it. The smoke, and something warm and sweet and masculine. Something him. Stronger now, like it was clinging to the inside of your lungs. You inhaled slowly, carefully, biting your lips to keep a whine from coming out.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him stand stretching lazily, arms overhead, shirt riding up just a little too far. You stared at the plant in your hand like it was the most fascinating thing you'd ever seen, praying Sue wouldn't turn around and notice your soul leaving your body.

"I was right, you look absolutely delightful today," Johnny said casually, leaning over the counter by the door.

You dropped the sample.

Sue did turn around this time, raising an eyebrow as you fumbled to grab it. You knew he flirted like breathing, you got used to it. But not now. Not when this indescribable heat was pooling between your thighs.

"Thanks," you muttered, not trusting yourself to look at him. Because if you did, if you dared, you were about one compliment away from grabbing him by the collar and climbing him like a tree.

And apparently, your body agreed. You squeezed your thighs together, pulse hammering in your ears, because why did that compliment feel like he'd whispered it right against your skin?

"Here you go," his voice startled you when he appeared next to you, placing a can of soda and a bag of chips on the table.

And then he had the audacity to lean on the counter, tapping his long fingers rhythmically on some equipment as he peeked over your work.

It shouldn't be that hot. It's just fingers. It's just tapping.

But god, those hands...

"Did you–did you wear more cologne today?" you asked before you could stop yourself.

Dammit.

Johnny straightened up in his spot, eyebrows raised in surprise.

"Actually no, I forgot it today," he said, then tilted his head with a smirk. "Why? Do I smell nice?"

"No–I mean, you don't smell bad. Or good. It's just... nothing," you shut yourself up before you could continue rambling.

"Uh-huh. You okay, doc?" he asked, a smirk on his face as he innocently chewed on a chip. "You look kind of sweaty."

You turned around halfway to the opposite side, facing Sue instead. Safety zone. Sue was safe. Science. Plants.

But even she was watching you with narrowed eyes now. Like she knew. Like she sensed the shift in the air, the pheromones steaming from your body.

"You're flushed," Sue said, leaning closer with a concerned frown. "Are you feeling okay?"

"I'm fine," you blurted. "Totally fine. Just warm. The heating came back on really strong, right?"

"You can always take off that pretty lab coat, let us see that cute skirt of yours."

Fuck.

You were going to kill him. Or jump his bones. Or both. You turned your attention back to the plants, and you could feel both siblings' eyes drilling on the sides of your head.

"Don't look at me right now," you whispered, more to Johnny than Sue. "It's distracting, seriously. Don't–"

"Wait–am I making you nervous?" he teased, squinting playfully. "You usually want to kick me out, what's up with you?"

"Nothing. Leave."

"Oh, now you want me out? You're being weird today."

"You're weird every day," you snapped.

He didn't seem to be bothered by your attitude, if anything it made him want to try harder to see how much he could get on your nerves. Satisfied with your flustered reaction, he decided to walk across the lab to grab something from the spot he'd initially been in, but thankfully, got distracted by the robot again.

Sue narrowed her eyes at you the whole time, before turning back to her tablet. "I'm pulling the preliminary scans. Something feels off."

Something was definitely off. You were practically vibrating. If Johnny got any closer again you were not going to be responsible for your actions.

You forced yourself to focus on breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Ignore Johnny's stupid laugh and his stupid biceps as he played with herbie in the background.

"Oh no," Sue gasped, staring at her tablet, and your stomach dropped.

"What?" you whispered, trying to keep Johnny oblivious to it, stepping toward her. "What oh no?"

She turned the tablet just enough for you to read the highlighted results from batch 5B.

Pheromone compound found. Induces increased arousal in subjects, mental fixation on known desires, and irrational impulses toward selected partners. Triggered by sudden light and temperature changes. Potentially dangerous if not treated.

You blinked once. Then again.

"Did I just get hit with sex pollen?!" You whisper shouted. Sue just nodded, feeling sorry for you, at least her modified DNA kept her safe from it.

Suddenly it all made sense.

The heat. The way your skin was buzzing. The uncomfortable pressure building low in your stomach. And God help you, the way your brain couldn't stop fixating on Johnny Storm.

"What's with the whispering? Are you talking about me?" behind you, Johnny shouted from his spot, and you could hear the grin in his voice.

"Don't come over here!" You turned and pointed at him in panic. "We're ... working."

He raised both hands, amused and quite confused. "I was just gonna ask if you wanted the sour cream chips too–"

"Do not say cream right now!" you snapped, turning back to Sue like she was your lifeline. "Sue, get him out of here. Now."

"Why?"

"Because he's annoying, and I can't deal with that right now," you lied, straight in her face, because the reason you needed him gone was if he said one more thing about your skirt ...

"Right, okay." She nodded. After all, this wasn't the first time she needed to kick out Johnny for both of your sake's.

She stormed toward the other end of the lab, clapping her hands. "Johnny. Out. Now."

"What? Why?" he blinked, feigning hurt. "I was just ... HERBIE and I were having a bonding moment–"

"Out. We need to work in peace." She pointed to the door, glaring at him.

He raised his hands in surrender, but that smug grin never left his face.

"Alright, alright, I'm going, damn. Don't miss me too much." He winked as he walked backwards out the door. "But if you do, you know where to find–"

The door hissed shut on his face. You groaned, leaning against the counter.

"Sex pollen lasts around twelve hours. At least, as far as I know. But if it doesn't get solved, what happens?"

"Well..." she hesitated.

"Sue?"

"Your nervous system could crash. You're not just... horny, you're chemically overwhelmed. Your dopamine's probably through the roof. If it gets worse, you could faint. Or ...worse."

"Worse? Oh my god," you gulped. "So I just ... die?”

"It will only feel like that."

"Only? Oh my God. Oh my God."

"Don't panic!"

"Don't tell me not to panic!"

"Okay, okay, sorry," she apologized, scrolling through the information again. "Listen, the data says it gives you fixation on selected partners, so that's probably who you're being drawn to right now. You could get them to, you know ...help you."

You froze. No. It can't be happening. Not like this.

"You do have someone in mind, right?" She glanced up from her tablet, questioning.

You didn't answer. Her eyes narrowed.

"Wait ... who is it?"

No answer, again. But Sue Storm didn't need you to say it. All she had to do was study your state. Dilated pupils, the slight tremble of your hands, not being able to stay still. And the way all of that seemed to have gotten worse when her brother walked in the room.

Her jaw dropped with realization. "No," she said horrified, gaze drifting to the door.

"Yes," you whispered, mortified, hands covering your face from embarrassment. "It's not my fault! Everything he does makes me wanna–"

"Ew! Stop–stop talking!" She made a gagging motion. "Gross, that's my baby brother!"

"I know! Do you think I wanted this?" You groaned into your hands, and she sighed dramatically.

"I'm going to find Reed, he might be able to create a suppressant or something. But listen to me, this stuff can escalate fast, especially if you don't get any release. So maybe just... maybe just call him, okay?"

"What?" You stared at her in horror.

"Only if it gets worse! I'm not saying do anything, don't tell me if you do ... actually I don't want to know anything about it ever," she scowled, walking backwards to the door, making HERBIE follow her.

"Sue–"

"Bye! Good luck! Don't die!" And with a last apologetic smile, she was gone.

You were so fucked.

Not literally, unfortunately.

There was no one here to stop you from spiraling now. No one to distract you. Just the echo of Johnny's stupid laugh in your head and the phantom trace of his hand all over the lab's equipment.

You've been around him all week. He was always touching things, sometimes just to piss Sue off. Flicking paperclips while saying you looked pretty. Tapping those fingers of his on every damn surface before someone kicked him out.

Why were you so fixated on his hands?

"Known desires." Pft. As if. You groaned softly, pressing your thighs together like that was going to help.

It didn't.

"You've gotta be kidding me," you whispered to the empty lab, remembering what Sue told you about calling ... him.

Don't you dare. It's just fake heat. He's not yours. You can't call him because you're desperate.

You sat on the edge of your stool and gripped the edge of the counter, trying to stay grounded. Trying to breathe. Constantly shifting your hips against the leather in hopes of relief. It didn't help. Nothing helped.

Your body was screaming for him. Only for him.

Maybe you could relieve yourself.

First, you decided to get rid of your lab coat. Then, taking a deep breath, you slipped your free hand under the waistband of the skirt, gasping when your shaky fingers fumbled against your dripping folds. You gripped the table harder, nails hurting against the hard countertop, as the fingers inside you moved erratically.

Maybe if you just pretended it was him ...

He was all you could think about after all. The way his voice went lower when he said your name, the restraint he showed around you keeping his hands to himself, or the times he watched you from the corner of the lab, sat on a stool, legs spread wide in those unfairly tight pants waiting for you to sit on them.

Oh, Johnny.

What would you do to have him ask 'Where does it hurt?' and then kiss it better. To have him all over you. Touching you. Whispering something hot and stupid while his mouth kissed down your stomach. The way his hands would feel, how his warm grip would hold your thighs open and–

No.

Fantasies weren't enough. Your fingers weren't enough. It was getting worse, actually, the tension building up in your body made it more painful.

"Come on, this is not happening," you yanked your hand back, staring at the ceiling in utter defeat. "I'm not gonna sit here and finger myself over Johnny Storm like a lunatic."

You covered your face with both hands, groaning. You were dripping. Actually dripping. And no matter what you tried, it just made you want him more.

Twelve hours. You had twelve hours of this.

Unless ...

No.

The moment you saw him again you'd explode from shame and arousal at the same time.

You inevitably glanced over the watch on your wrist. The one Johnny himself synced to his, so you could instantly patch through no matter where he was in the world.

But right now, your salvation was probably no further than three floors down.

You knew he would come the second you called. God, he'd come running. He'd probably make a joke out of it. ‘What, you miss me that bad?’ and then he'd see it in your face.

The need. The desperation. The lack of self control.

And maybe, just maybe ... he'd understand.

"Please... I don't know what else to do, " your hesitant finger slowly reached the small screen, and hovered over Johnny Storm's name.

His contact picture made you press it instantly.

The device beeped only once, and then his voice came through.

"Miss me already?" His voice was light, amused. "Or did Sue set the lab on fire? ... see this is why I should always be there."

Your whole body twitched, relief and panic crashed over you in one brutal wave. He was joking. Of course he was. You could picture the smile in his voice, that stupid glint in his eyes.

It calmed you, only for a second. Like his voice was water in the middle of a dessert.

"Johnny... I need you here. Right now," you blurted, trying your best not to sound like you were dying.

He paused for a moment, and then his heavy footsteps echoed through the call.

"I'm coming," he said immediately, no hesitation, no further questions asked. The comm went silent.

Okay now what? There's no turning back, he's gonna be here. He's actually gonna be here.

You began pacing again. You couldn't think straight, and the heat was getting worse. Because now your brain painted images of him.

Johnny storming into the lab, hair tousled from how fast he walked there, with that smug smile and probably a damn stupid comment.

And you'll have to look him in the eye and tell him why you called. Tell him you were burning. That nothing helped. That you needed him or you would die.

How the fuck do you say that out loud?

'Hi Johnny, so I inhaled a plant's weird space pollen and now I'm gonna lose my mind if you don't rail me on this table?'

You shook your head. Forced yourself to straighten up. Smoothed your skirt, your blouse. Fingers shaking through your hair. If you could just act normal, or look normal, maybe you could buy time. Maybe Sue would come back before anything happened.

Maybe you wouldn't fall apart the second he looked at you.

But before you could control your breathing, the door slid open. And in walked Johnny, with that maddening, stupidly beautiful smirk already on his face.

"Well, well, well," he drawled, stepping inside. "Locked up alone in the lab, calling me back here in a hushed voice... you naughty thing. Couldn't even last an hour without me?"

You didn't move, taking in how much stronger his scent was now. He tilted his head at you, mischief lighting up his eyes as he strutted forward.

"So what, you finally decided I was irresistible? Wanted a private show?" He wiggled his fingers, letting small flames come to life. "Because I do take requests, you know. Fireman, sexy lab assistant–"

"Johnny," you snapped, voice cracking.

Something shifted in your posture then, like all the heat finally caught up with you. You backed away, pressing your hands flat against the cold edge of the counter like it could anchor you. Your breathing got more erratic, and your knees actually buckled before you forced yourself upright again.

Johnny's playful expression changed.

"Hey, hey–" he instantly crossed the space between you, reaching out to hold you but stopped when you flinched away from him. "What's wrong? What happened?"

You shook your head, trying to speak, but nothing came out. Just a helpless sound, a frustrated whimper. Johnny took a cautious step closer, still without touching you.

"Are you hurt, sweetheart?" His voice softened, laced with worry.

Sweetheart?

Your ovaries screamed.

"Johnny, something is wrong ... really wrong with me," you whispered, finally turning to look at him with glassy eyes.

He frowned, worried. His gaze scanned you, the way you could barely hold yourself upright but refused to let him hold you. So his eyes drifted to the table to find a possible reason, landing on the lit tablet, the screen still displaying the information.

"Johnny wait–"

Before you could stop him, he picked it up and scrolled through the content, eyes going wide. He paused, stared and read the entry again. And again. His mouth opened, trying to get a joke out of it, but the shock wouldn't let him.

"...it's pollen," he finally said, voice cracking like a boy hitting puberty again. "Sex pollen? You got hit with horny powder."

"Don't call it that," you groaned, covering your face with your hands from embarrassment.

Johnny looked down at your flushed skin, the sweat glistening on your collarbone, the way you couldn't even stand still anymore, and all of it clicked.

Holy shit. It was fucking sex pollen. He'd read about it before, but never thought he would have it in front of him.

That you would have it in front of him.

"Wait," he blurted, staring back at the tablet. "Wait wait wait–"

You peeked through your fingers, just in time to see him re reading the entry. His eyes went wide, in a mixture of surprise and something else.

"Known desires... selected partners," he mumbled the words, and then, he looked up at you with impossibly hopeful eyes and a grin on his face, “Me?"

You didn't answer him right away, you couldn't. You were sure this was the moment you fainted.

"I didn't know what to do," you whispered. "Sue left and I ... God, Johnny, I tried to fight it, I swear. But I couldn't think, and you were the only one I–"

"Hey," Johnny cut you softly, slowly closing the distance, your bodies barely grazing together. "Look at me."

You didn't.

"Come on," he coaxed, just a little softer. "You're okay. I got you."

Your eyes lifted to his, and the heat behind them made your stomach twist. He wasn't smirking anymore. No teasing, just him, very aware of what he was causing on you.

You hated that it only made things worse.

"I didn't know what to do," you whispered. "I can't think. I can't breathe."

He stared at you for a moment, hesitanting.

"What do you need me to do?" he asked, genuinely. His hands were still on his sides.

"God, I don't even know what I need," You let out a shaky laugh, half delirious, half desperate.

"Sure you do," he said quietly, like it was the easiest answer in the world. "You called me."

Your mouth parted, but no sound came out. So you nodded, because you did.

And then, just like that, his hand finally reached to your waist. Just his warm hand, barely even getting there, but your body snapped like he just sent electricity through your whole body.

You gasped, stumbling back, nearly knocking over the stool. Johnny quickly steadied you with both hands now, eyes wide.

"Okay, okay–that sensitive?" he chuckled breathlessly, still unable to wrap his head around what was happening. "Not that I'm complaining, but usually when I flirt with you, you roll your eyes and then you kick me out."

But you weren't rolling your eyes now. Not yet, at least.

"Yeah I'm just ..." you mumbled, breathless. Skin burning with the feeling of his hands on your waist, warm even through your clothes, staring up at him like he hung the stars. "I feel like I'm burning alive and you're the only one who can put it out."

For the first time in his life, Johnny didn't know what to say back.

It's not like his fantasy of having you spread over the lab counter was starting to become a reality. Only if you said it. If you wanted him to.

God, if you really asked him he would please you in any way possible.

"Johnny..." you whined to get his attention. Your pupils were blown wide, lashes fluttering, eyes glassy with unshed tears you couldn't stop at this point. "It hurts, do–do something ... anything."

"Hey, hey, it's okay. I said I got you–"

His hands cupped your face, impossibly warm even against your already overheated skin. You leaned into them like you needed it, like you've been starved of touch for hours.

His touch.

And you stared at him, he was beautiful and hot and close, and your whole body leaned forward like a magnet. And all you could see was him. The concern in his eyes. The way his thumbs traced your cheekbones so gently. The way he was so close and still not close enough.

You reached out with shaking fingers and grabbed the collar of his jacket, yanking him toward you until your chests collided, until all you could feel was his toned body on yours.

He stumbled forward, instinctively wrapping his arms around your back, pressing you tighter to him.

"...You're serious," he whispered, lost in the way you seemed to be devouring him with your eyes. "You're really not okay."

You nodded, fists clenching in his jacket.

And without even thinking about it, you rubbed against him. Your body moved slowly, needy. Instinctively.

It was just a subtle graze, your hips grinding against his body for friction, for anything. And for the first time in the day you felt some kind of relief.

"Shit, love," he cursed under his breath, almost groaning.

You made a soft, broken sound in your throat at the friction, at the way his thigh brushed yours, at the warmth of his skin through his clothes, at the scent of him everywhere.

Johnny choked on his own breath. He tightened his grip for a moment, just enough to keep you from moving further. You whined, at this point completely lost in the haze, but he kept you firmly in place.

"Sweetheart..." he started softly. "If we do this–if you really want this, I'm not walking away from you afterwards. I'm not pretending this didn't happen."

"Me neither," you answered, a little too rushed.

But you meant it. You were tired of pretending him strutting into the lab wasn't your favorite part of the day. Tired of pretending you didn't want him.

"Please Johnny," you begged, hands moving to play with his hair, "I want you. All of you, today and everyday."

He looked stunned for a second, that 'please' shattering every bit of restraint he had left . He'd been wanting you since day one.

"That's my girl," his hands cradled your face with such devastating tenderness, making you forget the chaos in your blood, the desperation clawing under your skin.

And then, in a sudden move, he spun you around, one arm wrapped around your waist as the other held the back of your head. He bent over your frame, tilting your body backwards, like being swept into a cliche movie kiss, and crashed his lips into yours. You gasped into his mouth as one of your feet left the ground, with your weight safe in his arms, and clenched your fists on his hair. He kissed you hungry, desperate, like this was the moment he'd been waiting his whole damn life for.

You clung to his body like oxygen, letting yourself get lost in the smoke, in the devastating warmth of his body, in the way his tongue dominated over yours. He groaned over your lips, like he could taste your urgency. Until none of you could breathe anymore.

"That's how you do a first kiss," he mumbled against your lips, breathless and still maddening cocky.

You pressed your forehead to his, panting, dizzy, holding on to him like he was the only thing keeping you alive.

"Now show me how you do me."

Yeah, you were going to be the death of Johnny Storm.

That was enough for him. He pulled you upright, spinning you to lift you over the counter. He kissed you again, rougher this time, and with one arm knocked over what was on the counter so you would have more space.

Metal tools clashed loudly against the floor, plant samples tilted over, dirt spilling on the ground, and something definitely shattered.

"Shit," he laughed into your lips. "Sue's gonna kill me."

"Don't care," you panted, tugging on his jacket so he could get rid of it.

"Eager, are we?" he smirked, but complied in taking it off, taking a step back to throw it across the room.

Your eyes raked through his body, biting your lip at the way that white shirt clung to this toned chest.

He placed himself between your legs again, palms laying on your skin, and started drumming his fingers absentmindedly. Like he didn't know exactly what he was doing to you. Like the casual tap of each warm fingertip against your thigh wasn't setting your whole body on fire.

Your breath shuddered watching his hands.

And he noticed. Of course he did, and his mouth curled into the softest, filthiest smile.

"Wait..." he said, mischief behind his eyes. "Hold on. Is it my hands? Is that what's doing it for you?

You swallowed hard, heart pumping in your chest. Your eyes darted to his fingers again, the ones teasing your skin a bit harder now. The ones you've thought about way too many times, in way too many ways.

His smirk grew when you didn't answer. He already knew.

Johnny's hand lifted behind your neck, coaxing your head back just enough so you were forced to meet his eyes, almost glowing golden fire with lust. The other trailed upward, knuckles brushing your chin before tracing the curve of your lips.

"Let me see that pretty mouth," he mumbled, and when your lips parted, he pushed two fingers inside, slow and steady.

You whimpered, eyes rolling back from tasting him. He just stared at you like he'd never seen anything hotter in his life.

"That's it... get them wet for you," Johnny breathed, thumb brushing your cheek as he watched you suck on them like a lifeline. "God, you're so hot."

He pulled his fingers free, glistening, and grinned like the absolute menace he was.

"Open your thighs for me."

You did, immediately, like your body belonged to ever command he made.

He slid his hand inside your skirt, the same one you just had in your mouth, reaching for your panties. You gasped when he finally touched you over the fabric, his fingers pressing between your legs, dragging slow and warm and perfect against your soaked underwear.

"Oh, fuck," he breathed. "Didn't even need it, you were already this wet for me, huh?"

You nodded, biting your lip. "I need you ... please,” the plea fell from your lips in a whisper. “Johnny … save me.”

Now he was staring at you like you hung the stars. Like having you wet, pleading, begging him to be your hero was a kink he never knew he had.

"Shit. Honey... I got you" he leaned in, like he couldn't get any closer. "I got you. I haven't even–fuck, I haven't even really started."

He slid your underwear aside and finally dipped his fingers into you, slow and gentle and so good you whimpered into his shoulder.

"There she is," he cooed. "God, you're so wet. So soft."

You clung to him, nails curling against the back of his neck. He groaned, obsessed with how desperate you were for him. You could barely breathe anymore, his slow pace was maddening, like he wanted to savor every reaction, every sound you made.

"So tight," he praised, kissing down your neck. "You feel so fucking good. You like that, baby?"

You moaned, a complete mess on top of that counter, and he grinned against your skin.

"Yeah you do. Look at you. Already a mess for me."

His other hand cradled your head again, keeping you close, anchoring you to him as he slowly pumped his fingers in and out, curling just right, his thumb starting to circle your clit, It was too much. But not enough.

"You were thinking about this, weren't you?" he teased, hot breath against your neck. "You wanted my fingers in you. Couldn't stop thinking about it."

He was right. He knows he was right.

"Don't worry," he groaned, licking a slow stripe along your throat. "They're all yours."

Every filthy sound of his wet fingers inside you, every whimper you made went straight to his bloodstream.

You were praying his name, over and over, until you fell apart on his hand, moaning, gasping, shaking, he kissed you through it, humming against your lips.

"That's it. Just like that, pretty girl. I got you."

You were breathless, clinging to him, and he didn't stop curling his fingers to feel how your walls clenched around him. He held you there, watching you come undone with pure adoration in his eyes, his free hand cupping your cheek, pressing kisses to your temple, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. Because even after wrecking you he was devastatingly tender.

"God, I could watch you fall apart all night," he cursed, watching your chest raise violently at your first release of the night.

He watched stunned, it was like he was bringing you back to life.

And it felt like that.

Your body yearned for more, but before you could speak again, he pulled his fingers out, and brought two to his mouth, slow and deliberate, sucking your wetness off them like he'd been starving for it. He groaned, like you were the best thing he'd ever tasted.

Your mouth parted, speechless, his eyes locked on yours as he licked them clean, and then slid those same fingers back inside you.

You gasped, back arching as he pumped a few more times, watching your body clench around him. Like he wanted more. Like you were his favorite experiment now.

"Here, you can have some too," he smirked, pulling them out and slipping them into your open mouth.

You moaned around his fingers, lashes fluttering, and Johnny swore nothing had ever wrecked him more than the sight of you, on top the counter, flushed and trembling, eyes wide and glassy, staring at him while you tasted yourself off his fingers.

"So good, isn't it?" He pulled his fingers from your mouth, but let his thumb drag over your bottom lip, pressing it down to see the way your pretty mouth stayed open for him, spreading some of your own cum in your chin.

Not a single sane thought left in your head at this point. You needed him now more than ever.

"Johnny."

"Yes, babe?"

"Fuck me. Fuck me right now."

Something shifted behind his eyes. The smirk stayed, but there was a new weight to it now, dark, focused, possessive.

"You want me to save you, huh?" he asked softly. His hand trailed down from your lip, past your throat, down your covered chest, your breasts, until it pressed flat against your stomach.

He slid you closer to the edge of the counter with a grunt, and you gasped when you felt his bulge, hot and heavy, pressing against your core through his pants.

"You don't know how long I've wanted you like this," he breathed against your lips, dragging his mouth down to your neck, sucking a mark just beneath your ear. "All spread out for me."

"You can have me, you can have all of me.”

"Yeah?" His lips curled into a smile against your throat. "You want it slow, baby, or do you want it how you begged for it?"

"Please, Johnny ..."

"Oh, sweetheart." He leaned back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and gleaming.. "You don't have to beg anymore."

He slid his shirt off with ease, showing off his chiseled golden body. His pants were next, hitting the floor in a quiet thud, and your shaky hands yanked his boxers down. His throbbing cock sprung up free, swollen, showing you how much your desperation had him painfully rock hard.

You had to fight every part of your being to not push him down and jump on his dick until you passed out from exhaustion. But before you could, he was already bunching up your skirt. You lifted your hips to slide it down, but he chuckled, pushing you down.

"No, no. The skirt stays on," he licked his lips. "Been dreaming about this for a while."

You gasped when he placed his tip on your entrance with one hand, giving it a few slaps like he was savoring every single second. And so were you.

He slid in slowly, inch by inch, mouth open against your shoulder, and he moaned. Johnny fucking Storm moaned. Because it was you. Because it was better than any dream he'd ever had. Better than he even imagined.

"Fuck," he groaned. "You feel so good–you're perfect, baby. You're perfect."

You cried out as he bottomed out, clinging to him, nails digging on his bare back, and he smiled, like he was trying to memorize every sound you made.

"That's it, let me hear you," he panted, slamming in so he could hear you yelp. "You sound so fucking good, baby. Look how you take me."

You buried your face in his neck, trembling as your legs lifted to wrap around his waist. To try and get him to go deeper.

"You've been driving me crazy for months," he grunted, slamming in again. "All those times you rolled your eyes at me? You have no idea what I was thinking."

It didn't take him longer to fuck into you, hard, immediately hitting that spot. You were already a moaning mess, fingers digging into his shoulders. With both hands he grabbed your blouse, and pulled to rip the fabric, snapping the buttons open. Next was your bra, like he finally decided he needed to see your boobs bouncing with every thrust.

"I've wanted you ... needed you" he breathed, diving in to get lost in your chest. "For so long..."

And he showed you how much. With the way he sucked your nipples. With the way his hips snapped forward to make you gasp. With the way his hands roamed all over your body. Or the way he groaned into your neck as he pushed himself balls deep into your soaked pussy.

"Fuck– Johnny," you panted, head dropping back, "you're so big ... feels so good."

"Yeah?" he smirked against your skin, "too much already?"

"Never," you shook your head. "Harder, Johnny. Fuck me harder."

Yeah, this was definitely better than any fantasy he's ever had.

He smiled, god he smiled. Looking devilishly sweet while wrecking your entire body. Completely undoing you.

He picked up the pace, driving into you just right, hands gripping your hips like he owned them. Every thrust knocked another moan from your lips, and every moan made him laugh softly, like he couldn't believe how lucky he was to be inside you like this.

Your breath started getting shorter, nails digging deeper into his skin, and he felt the way your body was crashing under him.

"C'mon, sweetheart, I got you. Let go for me. Let me feel you." He groaned, and that was it.

You fell apart in his arms for the second time with a cry, pulsing around him, and Johnny just lost it. He kissed you hard, hips stuttering as he came inside you with a low, broken groan. His cum filled you deep. So warm, warmer than anybody's ever was.

And it drove you insane.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, your body arching to meet his, and Johnny leaned back just enough to look at you, eyes scanning your flushed face, your swollen lips, the blissed out haze in your eyes.

"You're beautiful like this," he said, running his thumb softly over your skin. "You know that? Fucking stunning. Never letting you go."

Now it's you smiling, dazed, lost in his eyes as you tried to catch your breath.

"You're everything Johnny," you whispered, your hands cradling his face. "You're so good to me."

He smiled, then leaned forward, catching your lips in a soft kiss. Your mouths moved like they knew each other. Like they belonged. And god he was a good kisser, but the pollen in your body made you crave for more.

You didn't mean to lunge, really, but the next thing you knew was you surged forward. Caught off guard, he stumbled backwards, holding your waist, your body landing on top of him as his back touched the floor.

Johnny was still panting from his high, from the kiss, and now he was sprawled out on the floor, chest rising and falling in aftershocks when you climbed closed to his face.

He looked up at you, stunned for a second, then grinned.

"You're not done with me yet, huh?" he placed both hands behind his head, biceps flexing. "Okay, don't let me stop you."

You grinned, kissing down his jaw, over his throat, his collarbone, your hands dragging down his toned chest like you needed to feel every inch of him again. His skin hot, like always, matching the fire rolling under your skin now. Your hips rolled instinctively against his thigh and he groaned, head tipping back.

"Shit–" he hissed, eyes squeezing shut. "Baby, gimme a second to –"

"I can't," you pouted, breath hot against his skin. "It's still burning ... I need more of you, Johnny."

"Oh... well," he said, lips curling into a crooked smile, "when you put it like that–"

You kissed him before he could finish, grinding down against him with reckless need, and he groaned, his hands flying to your hips.

"Okay, okay, fuck–" he breathed, eyes fluttering shut as your body moved against his. "You're not just using me for my stamina, are you?"

"Maybe a little," you chucked against his mouth, and he laughed.

"Fair enough."

"It just ... it still hurts."

"I know," he muttered. "I know, sweetheart. Let me help, yeah?"

He propped himself up with his elbows, one hand on your back as he flipped you over and placed you gently on the floor.

"Let me take care of you, just relax for me," he whispered, pressing his hands to open your thighs again. "I wanna taste you first ... Gotta get my strength back somehow, right?"

He slid down your body slowly, kissing his way across your ribs, your hips, trailing open mouthed heat everywhere until his face was between your thighs. His hands cradled them, thumbs sweeping over your skin. He couldn't believe the way you whimpered when he was marking every inch of your skin.

"I know, sweetheart," he cooed, voice so soft, mouth ghosting over your skin. "I know you're sensitive. Just let me make it better."

He draped your legs over his shoulders like they belonged there, kissing up your inner thighs, tongue teasing so slowly you could cry. And when he finally pressed a hot, open mouthed kiss right where you needed it...

You shattered again.

"Johnny–"

You arched into him and he groaned like he was the one coming apart.

"You taste so good, baby," he praised as he began licking loudly. "So sweet ... fuck– I've wanted this for so long..."

His tongue moved swiftly, unrelenting and deliberate, while his hands pinned your hips down. You were a writhing mess, overstimulated and dripping for him, but still moaned his name over and over.

It wasn't just pleasure, every brush of his tongue was relief. Like he was cooling the fever from the inside out.

"That's what you needed, huh? All worked up and no one to help you ... what kind of man would I be if I left my girl like that?"

‘My girl.’

His girl.

"Johnny ... Please don't stop."

"I won't," he promised, smiling against your wetness. "Not until you feel safe again."

And he meant it. His lips worked you open, his tongue tracing lazy circles and long, aching strokes until you were gasping and crying out, trembling so hard your vision blurred.

He moaned against you like he was addicted. His nose brushed your clit with every pass, and it was torture, sweet, unbearable, perfect torture.

Your hands flew to his hair, tugging him closer, desperate, and he loved it, humming low as he flicked his tongue faster, coaxing another release from you, watching you fall apart all over again.

He blinked up at you, dazed and stunned and so fucking gone for you. "You're gonna kill me," he said, completely in awe. "What did I do to deserve this?"

You, spread in front of him, barely able to breathe anymore.

Body still begging for more.

He was ready for another round in no time.

You weren't sure how many rounds you ended up doing. Or how many places you begged him to fuck you on. All you remembered was begging 'one more time', "please Johnny, another one", "Johnny just one more".

It was never 'just one more'. You completely drained him after many hours, until the itch was finally gone.

Not that Johnny ever complained. If anything, he had fulfilled all of his ‘known desires on his preferred partner’ too.

Thank god for sex pollen.

You weren't sure how long you were out, your body gave in before your brain could catch up. The ache between your legs was evident but warm, the weight of Johnny's love still lingering on your skin. You woke up slowly, your cheek resting against a very toned chest, the faint scent of sweat and smoke clinging to him like a memory.

The lab was dark, save for the soft flickering light pulsing from a single, familiar source.

Johnny.

He was still beneath you, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other lazily raised. At the tip of his finger, a small flame danced, gentle, hot, nothing like the infernos he usually conjured. Just enough to light his face in amber glow.

You blinked up at him.

He wasn't looking at you, not at first. Just drawing slow circles on your back with his thumb, eyes were distant. Thoughtful.

Then he felt you stir.

"Hey," he rasped, smiling down at you.

You swallowed hard, everything flooded back. The lab. The counter. The floor. The workbench. Your hands in his hair, your name on his tongue, the way he held you like you were made for him.

And now... this.

Quiet. Intimate. Real.

"Sorry," you whispered, still sprawled half on top of him. "I didn't mean to fall asleep on you."

He chuckled softly, his chest shaking under you.

"After everything that happened that's the last thing you should be apologizing for, sweetheart," he teased, lowering the flame a little. "Besides, it's not the worst way I've ever spent a night in the lab. I love having a very satisfied hot girl passed out on my chest."

You laughed softly, feeling that familiar heat creeping up your cheeks. But something made you doubt for a second.

'After everything that happened, that's the last thing you should be apologizing for.'

Guilt washed over you. The goddamn pollen.

"Johnny... earlier... I didn't mean–"

"Wait don't," he stopped you softly, sitting up a bit so he could see your face better. "Don't say you didn't mean it."

His expression shifted, firelight dancing in his eyes, but something in him doubted too. Like maybe it was the pollen after all.

That couldn't be farther from the truth.

"No, no that's not what I meant," you immediately corrected, and sighed. "I didn't mean to make you feel used, or... like I didn't care."

His gaze softened a little.

"You didn't," he mumbled, still holding his breath in case you sent him to hell after this.

You inhaled slowly, and everything you'd been holding back just tumbled out.

"What I said earlier... that you're everything? It wasn't just the pollen talking," you confessed. "You are, Johnny. I mean it."

His whole expression cracked open, surprised, glowing, like someone just handed him his heart back.

"Damn," he said softly, lips curling into a grin. "You're really gonna say that to me while I'm naked and emotionally compromised?"

You laughed, burying your face in his neck.

"Shut up," you mumbled, but you were smiling too.

He pulled you closer, his free hand trailing over your spine.

"Nah, too late," he grinned. "You're into me. Can't take it back now."

"Ugh, why did I say anything."

"Because you love me. Or at the very least, my hands."

You groaned. He laughed again, delighted, confident, soft. He lifted the flame again and watched the orange glow reflect on your skin.

"So what now?" you whispered.

"Now?" He shrugged. "You keep laying here. I keep lighting up the room. We do this again when you're not on a heat spiral."

"Johnny–"

"What?" he smirked. "You like my fingers, admit it."

You shook your head, "I wasn't that into them."

"No, no, don't even try to downplay it now," he accused, all smug. "You weren't just into my hands. You were like ... obsessed with them."

You groaned and buried your face in his chest like that would protect you from the embarrassment clawing up your throat.

"Johnny–"

"No, seriously," he continued with mock innocence. "I've never seen someone stare at my fingers like that. You were practically drooling. I thought I was gonna have to get a towel."

"Stooop," you whined, voice muffled, your whole body heating up again, and not from the pollen this time.

He laughed, wicked and loving all at once.

"But hey," he said, turning serious in the most unserious way, "you can have them now, you know. Anytime you need them."

"Yeah?" you asked, a glint of mischief in your eyes. "What about now?"

Little extra scene

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*Just one more (Clark Kent x reader): When Clark gets poisoned with sex pollen, he tries everything in his power to stay away from you. Until he ends up crashing into your living room, and you have a god on his knees, with your name in his mouth and your body at his will.

*Supersoldiers in Paris (John Walker x reader x Bucky Barnes): Retrieving vials from an abandoned Red Room facility gets you infected with sex pollen. You may have to make a stop in Paris with John and Bucky before you can get back home.

Here’s to growing the list ✨ thanks for reading <3

The apartment's living room was shrouded in a whitish haze, filled with distorted guitar riffs and vocals indistinguishable amidst a symphony of screams and guttural growls. Eddie was currently sprawled across the vintage red velvet sofa, legs dangling over the armrest and head tilted back against the cushions; he looked like a marionette that had gotten too close to the fire — melted and then discarded.

His limbs lay heavy and loose, sprawled across the sofa almost like the exaggerated pose of a body at a crime scene, while his eyes were half-closed and his mouth twisted into a scowl that looked like disgust as he gave his head a subtle, minimal shake — it was just his own peculiar way of showing he was enjoying good music — specifically, the guitar riff that made the floorboards vibrate and would almost certainly earn him a complaint from the downstairs neighbor within minutes.

The weed had hit both of you harder than usual, turning the apartment into an almost slow-motion sanctuary where the only things that mattered were the rhythmic pulse of the bass and the way the sun filtered through the loosely closed blinds in irregular golden bands.

"Pass the lighter, please?" Eddie murmured, his voice hoarse and drawling. He didn't move his head; he simply extended a tattooed hand, the ink snaking up his forearm in sharp, geometric patterns. He had a way of moving that was always slightly dramatic, even when he was practically unconscious from a joint.

He smiled, the dimples beside his mouth deepening as he met your gaze, while dark brown curls tumbled over his shoulders in a chaotic tangle. You leaned forward, sliding the lighter across the coffee table, feeling your limbs as if they were made of hot, softened wax on the verge of turning to liquid.

You had spent the last three hours in exactly that state — talking about everything and nothing, arguing about vinyl records, and sinking deeper into the cushions until you almost merged with the furniture. There was a comfortable weight to the silence between you, the kind that exists only between two people who have seen each other at their worst and decided they still liked the view.

"Have you ever thought about how we’re basically just ghosts inhabiting flesh suits? No… aliens in a robot suit made of flesh, just like in the movie MIB," Eddie asked, his voice drifting as if he were narrating a documentary only he could hear.

He shifted his position, turning onto his side to face you in a slow, languid movement; the light caught his ear gauges, the silver rings glinting as he propped himself up on his elbow. The metal music shifted to something slower, a dense, hypnotic rhythm that seemed to sync with the pulsating heat beginning to coil in the pit of your stomach.

He didn’t pull away when you stepped closer, your shoulder brushing against his. Instead, he reached out, sliding his hand along your shoulder with a tenderness that anchored you amidst that haze of smoke and metal. His fingertips were calloused from guitar strings, yet they grazed the curve of your breast with a light, teasing precision that made your breath hitch.

"Speaking of 'meat suits'…" he murmured, his brown eyes darkening, "I’ve been thinking of a few reasons why you should finally let me put this meat inside you."

You let out a low, breathless laugh, but the sound died away when you felt movement against his jeans. Eddie wasn't just talking; he was touching himself, his other hand sliding down to stroke his length right over the fabric.

He was in no rush, moving at a slow, deliberate pace that accentuated the thick, heavy outline of his cock. He pressed lightly against you; the friction of the denim created a low, thumping in your chest that competed with the bass of the music.

"Reason number one," he whispered, dimples appearing in a predatory, playful smile, "we’re already halfway there. The vibe is perfect. Reason number two…" He paused, his hand squeezing tighter, shifting the angle so you could see exactly how much space he took up. "You know I’m huge, right? Like, pornstar big."

"Shut up," you managed to say, though the protest lacked any real conviction. Your voice came out low, swallowed by the music's heavy distortion and the rising heat of the room.

Eddie didn’t blink, his gaze was fixed on yours with an intensity that felt like a physical weight. He was no longer laughing, the playfulness had given way to something hungrier, though the warmth remained.

He shifted his weight, pressing his thigh firmly against yours, the heat of his skin radiated through his jeans. His hand continued that slow, rhythmic motion, the denim stretching taut over his thickness.

"I'm serious," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave and vibrating in the small space between you. "I'm massive. Touch it and see."

The challenge hung in the air, drifting languidly like smoke. You hesitated for a moment, your pulse pounding in your throat, before reaching out.

The instant your fingers grazed the rough denim, Eddie didn't wait for you to find your rhythm; with a fluid, practiced motion, he hooked his thumbs into his waistband and pushed his jeans — along with his underwear — down, freeing himself with a heavy, sudden thud against his navel.

You froze, the air escaping you in a sharp exhale as you looked down. It was magnificent — pulsing with a raised vein that ran along the base to the tip, the head swollen and leaking, flushed a deep reddish hue that contrasted sharply with the pale skin of the shaft. It was far larger than you had imagined; heavy, imposing, and of a length that seemed to defy the very definition of the word.

"Holy shit," you whispered, eyes wide as you darted your gaze between his impressive size and his face. "This is going to break me."

Eddie’s expression was one of pure, triumphant satisfaction; he arched his hips slightly, showing himself off with intense confidence. "God, I hope so," he groaned, the sound rumbling deep in his chest.

He reached out, his hand finding the back of your neck and pulling you just a few inches closer, close enough for the heat radiating from him to envelop your skin.

You didn't wait for him to urge you on again, your fingers closed around him, and the first thing you noticed was the searing, pulsing heat that seemed to vibrate in time with your own heart. He was solid — his skin smooth yet stretched taut over the sturdy structure of his length.

As your hand slid upward, feeling how he filled your palm — your fingers unable to fully wrap around him — Eddie let out a sharp, hissing gasp, his head hit the back of the sofa with a dull thud, and his eyes closed as he surrendered to the contact.

"Shit," he murmured, his voice strained. "You’ve got quite a grip, sweetheart."

You didn't answer, too occupied with what was right in front of you; you slid your hand down, feeling the weight of his balls and the way he pulsed against your palm. You squeezed his dick lightly with the other hand, testing his firmness, and Eddie’s hips jerked instinctively upward as a low, guttural sound escaped from deep in his throat.

"Careful," he gasped, though his eyes were open now, half-lidded and dark, revealing a mix of pride and desperation. "If you keep doing that, I won't be able to wait until the list is finished."

You let out a shaky laugh as your thumb caressed the head of his cock, noticing how he jerked at the touch. The weed had softened the outlines of the room; the velvet of the sofa felt like moss beneath your touch, and the air seemed thick, almost like liquid goo.

You moved closer, and his scent — spicy, woody vanilla, tobacco, and a faint hint of sweat — overwhelmed your senses. As you shifted, your knee brushed against his thigh; the contact sent a jolt through you that made your toes curl against the sofa.

Eddie’s hand, which had been resting at the nape of your neck, slid to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him to claim the space, his solid frame enveloping you completely. He lowered his gaze to where your small hand could barely grasp his thickness, and a slight smile appeared on his lips; his dimples appeared one last time before his expression turned serious.

“Reason number three,” Eddie whispered, his voice nothing more than a breath against your ear. "Chemistry. We have plenty of that, don't we?" He didn't wait for an answer; his hips surged forward, pressing his hot, velvet-smooth length against the seam of your jeans.

The contact was electric — a sudden, intense flare of heat that made your breath hitch. You felt the tremor in his thighs, the tension of muscles coiled like a spring, holding back a surge of urgency that threatened to spill over. He wasn't trembling from the effects of the weed, but from the immense effort of staying still while you explored his impressive size.

You shifted your grip, sliding your hand to the base of his member and pulling upward in a slow, firm motion; the friction of your palm against his skin created a wet, sliding sound that seemed to amplify as the music’s volume suddenly dropped.

Eddie’s eyes flew open, his pupils dilated to the point of swallowing the brown of his irises, turning them almost black; he let out a sound that was half-moan, half-gasp as his fingers dug into the small of your back.

"You're killing me," he said in a hoarse voice, his head lolling to the side as he struggled to breathe. "You're really killing me."

You didn't let up; you slid your hand back down to the base and closed your fingers around him again, this time squeezing with slow, deliberate pressure. The sound that escaped Eddie didn't even seem human — a low, guttural rumble that started in his chest and ended in a sharp intake of breath, making his entire torso shudder.

"You're talking too much, Munson," you whispered, your voice sounding distant and hazy to your own ears. You leaned forward, your chest brushing against his arm, the lust between the two of you was now a physical force that seemed to distort the hazy air.

Eddie’s eyes locked onto yours, the hunger there was almost predatory, yet softened by the warm, familiar affection that had defined your friendship for years. He made no move to push you away, nor did he pull back.

His breath came in short, ragged gasps; he shifted his hips, his weight and girth sliding against your palm. The friction created a searing sensation that made your head spin and your senses blur — like an addictive drug you’d discovered and had no intention of giving up.

“I’ve got plenty of reasons,” he managed to say, though his voice was nothing more than a hoarse whisper. “The fourth reason… the way you’re looking at me right now, like you want to see if I really fit inside you.”

“You’re dangerous…” you whispered, but you didn’t pull your hand away. You shifted your weight, moving off the velvet cushion to kneel between his legs, which were spread wide across the sofa.

The change in perspective made him look even more irresistible: his chest rising and falling beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, his long hair fanned out against the sofa, creating a dark, wild aura. From that angle, his imposing presence was even more overwhelming; the room seemed to shrink, the walls receding until nothing remained but the distorted sound of the speakers and his scent — intense, masculine, and intoxicatingly warm.

Eddie let out a long, shaky breath, his head falling back against the sofa once more; his eyes were closed and his jaw was set, yet he remained completely attuned to the sensation of your touch. His hand, still resting on your shoulder, gave a light squeeze, his thumb grazing the line of your collarbone.

“The fifth reason…” He groaned, the words barely escaping his lips. “I… God, I thought about this every time we hung out these past few months. Every time you laughed at my jokes, every time you touched my arm… I just wanted to feel you all around me.”

The sincerity in those words hit you harder than the weed. The air in the room was heavy, thick with the mounting tension of months of pent-up desire and unfinished sentences.

You looked up at him, seeing the vulnerability beneath his tough guy act, the way his chest rose and fell in ragged, breathless movements. He was laying himself bare — raw and exposed — waiting for you to decide if the risk posed by his size was worth the reward of his touch.

You didn’t answer with words; you simply leaned forward, your lips grazing the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. Eddie let out a sharp, stifled sound — something between a gasp and a plea — and his fingers dug into the fabric of your top, pulling you closer.

You could feel the heat radiating from him in waves — a furnace of anticipation that made goosebumps rise across your skin. With a slow, deliberate movement, you slid your hand back along the length of his body; your palm molded to his imposing thickness, feeling him shudder and pulse beneath your touch.

"Six," Eddie whispered, his eyes half-lidded and heavy with dark desire. "Reason number six… because I know exactly how to take care of you. Once I’m inside, I’m not letting you go anytime soon."

You reached for the button of your jeans; as you lowered the zipper, the cool air of the apartment brushed against your skin for a split second before you felt his searing heat pressing against your thigh. He was so large he seemed like a physical barrier — a wall of heat and muscle that demanded your full attention and took up nearly all the space on the furniture.

As you pushed your jeans and panties down, the sudden absence of fabric felt like a release; you shifted, sliding back until you were stretched out on the velvet cushions, your legs parting instinctively to make room for him.

Eddie didn’t move immediately; he just watched you, his chest heaving and his eyes tracing your face as if searching for any sign of hesitation. Seeing you open to him seemed to break something loose inside him, and he let out a low, guttural sound, more of a growl than a word.

He moved with agonizing, deliberate slowness, kneeling on the couch as he settled between your thighs. It was impossible to ignore his approach; the heavy, throbbing head of his cock brushed against your entrance, and the friction made you arch your back. He let out a ragged breath, his forehead resting against yours, his dark curls forming a curtain that shut out the rest of the apartment.

“Do you still think it’s too much?” he murmured, his voice a vibration you could feel in your very bones.

“Just do it,” you whispered, your fingers digging into his biceps and pulling him closer.

Eddie didn’t rush. He couldn’t. The size and thickness of his cock demanded a patience that contrasted with the desperate hunger in his eyes; he shifted his weight, bracing himself on his forearms with his chest hovering just inches above yours. He took a deep breath — a shaky, audible intake that rumbled in his throat — and then pushed forward a little.

He was so thick that the sensation wasn't one of sliding, but rather of a slow, insistent expansion; you felt his blunt head stretching you open, breaking through the initial resistance with a heavy, relentless force.

A small, involuntary gasp escaped you as your fingers dug into his biceps, feeling the rock-hard muscle tense beneath your touch. Eddie froze and waited, his eyes locked on yours, searching for any sign that it was too much.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice hoarse, as if it had been dragged over gravel.

“I– Fuck, don’t stop…” you pleaded, arching your hips upward, unconsciously seeking that blend of pleasure, pain and being completely filled.

Eddie let out a low, distorted groan and shifted his hands; one slid from your shoulder to cup the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair to maintain eye contact as he pushed deeper.

The sensation was overwhelming, a forceful, pulsing power that made the air escape your lungs in a sharp, ragged hiss. You could feel every vein and ridge of him as he slowly navigated the tight space; his thickness left no room for anything but him; a collision of wet friction and wild desire, the feeling of being completely filled. As he drove in another inch, your hips lifted instinctively, your body trying to make room for his colossal size.

“Holy… shit,” Eddie groaned, his voice breaking. He had stopped moving, his forehead pressed against yours, his chest heaving in violent, ragged breaths.

He was trembling, muscles taut, fighting the urge to simply thrust with full force; the pleasure of that tight, snug fit was clearly pushing him to the limit.

The look on his face was one of absolute, agonizing ecstasy, a religious epiphany and a physical breakdown all at once.

He shifted his grip, his large, tattooed hands slid beneath your thighs to lift your hips higher, positioning you so he could thrust even deeper.

The change in position allowed him to go to the absolute limit, his weight pressing you into the cushions as he let out a long, shuddering breath.

He looked down at you — his brown eyes wide and glazed — and his dimples flashed briefly as a wild, hungry smile touched his lips.

"You’re really taking it all," he murmured, his voice hoarse and broken. "God, you’re so tight… it’s like you’re trying to squeeze the soul right out of me."

"Maybe I am," you managed to stammer, your voice sounding distant even to your own ears. You wrapped your legs around his waist, crossing your ankles to anchor yourself against his overwhelming force.

The sensation of being stretched to the limit was dizzying, a heavy, throbbing pressure that made the room spin faster than any high from the weed ever could. With every thrust, it felt as though he were rearranging your internal organs, opening up a space that had never existed before.

Eddie’s breathing came in a series of ragged, desperate gasps. He began to move again, but the rhythm shifted from a steady cadence to something more primal and erratic, his movements grew shorter, sharper, and more frenzied.

The friction of his thick length against the walls of your cunt was almost unbearable, making you arch your back and throw your head back against the sofa cushions. You could feel the bass vibrations from the speakers echoing through his chest and directly into yours, syncing with the heavy pounding of his heart.

"I can't—" Eddie groaned, his voice thick with emotion. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin in a way that made you shiver. "I can't believe you actually fit… God, you're so hot."

He shifted his body, placing all his weight on you and pressing you against the soft fabric of the sofa. The added pressure only drove him deeper, pushing past every limit until you felt his tip against your cervix that sent a wave of white-hot pleasure radiating through your lower belly.

"Reason seven," Eddie managed to say, his voice a hoarse, ragged sound; his eyes were squeezed shut, his head tossing from side to side as he struggled for breath. "Reason seven… is that I can't… God, I can't breathe— fuck, when I'm inside you." He let out a guttural roar, the sound vibrating deep within his chest.

"Eddie," you whispered softly, his name barely more than a breath. You weren't sure if you were asking him to stop or begging him never to let go.

"God, you're like… a vice," Eddie groaned, his voice cracking as he gripped your hips, tattooed fingers sinking into your skin to hold you steady, breathing as if he’d just run a marathon, his chest heaving against yours.

"I can feel every… every inch of you squeezing me. It’s unfair. That’s cheating."

You let out a shaky, breathless laugh, your legs locked tight around his waist, pulling him even deeper into that heat.

"Who's cheating? It's you… you practically have a whole tree trunk attached to you."

"And yet you let me plant that trunk in your soil," he shot back, a manic, dimpled grin breaking through the ecstasy.

He shifted the angle, hoisting one of your legs over his shoulder to spread you wide open, the change in position allowed him to thrust with agonizing depth, his weight pressing you into the fabric as he drove all the way in.

You let out a sharp, stifled moan, your toes curling as his thick head hit that same white-hot spot, sending a fresh jolt of electricity racing through your hips.

His movements had turned heavy and relentless, every thrust was a slow, overwhelming slide that made it feel as though your skin were fusing with his, forcing your opening wide with a searing, slick heat that made your breath come in short, ragged gasps.

An intense, vibrant pressure spread through you, turning your muscles to liquid lava, you arched your back, your hips instinctively tilting to meet him, seeking that overwhelming impact again and again.

The friction was immense, a wet, slapping sound echoing the music’s deep bass, creating a sensory loop that drove you closer and closer to the edge.

"Eddie, please," you moaned softly, though you didn't even know exactly what you were asking for, you only knew that the sensation of being completely filled by him was the only thing in the world that mattered right then.

"Please what, sweetheart? Be specific," Eddie panted, his voice a hoarse, ragged whisper.

He didn't slow down, digging his heels into the sofa for leverage and driving into you with sudden, sharp intensity, hitting the same spot over and over.

You couldn't find the words, so you simply wrapped your legs around his waist, crossing your ankles and squeezing with all your might.

He began moving in shorter, frenzied thrusts, each withdrawal was a teasing, agonizingly slow release of pressure, immediately followed by a devastatingly deep thrust that seemed to rearrange your insides.

The sensation was overwhelming, a total occupation of your body that made the rest of the world — the music, the smell of weed, the mess of his apartment — fade into a distant, irrelevant blur. Nothing existed but his heavy, sliding weight and the way he filled every available millimeter of you.

"Right there," you moaned, your voice a fragile thread of desire and pleading. "Eddie, right there."

"Almost… right there," he gasped, his voice a shattered shadow of who he used to be.

The friction was turning into an overwhelming blaze, a searing heat that dissolved the boundaries between where your body ended and his began.

His movements shifted from rhythmic to desperate, his breath escaped in ragged, guttural sounds. He drove into you with absolute, focused intensity, bracing his heavy thighs against the velvet cushions as he sought the deepest connection possible. With every full thrust, he let out a low, trembling groan that made your entire body vibrate with raw, visceral desire.

"Holy… shit," Eddie moaned, his voice wavering.

He let out a long, guttural sound — half-groan, half-cry — as he slammed his hips against yours and buried himself deep, his entire body shuddering from the force of a release that seemed to make even the floorboards vibrate. He froze, his whole body locked in a rigid line of tension, muscles taut and trembling.

You felt his sudden, hot surge pulsing deep against your cervix and moaned a long, high-pitched sound of absolute surrender as his forehead dropped onto your shoulder and you finally gave in to the overwhelming pleasure of climax, your breath coming in ragged, shaky gasps.

He didn't pull away immediately, he remained there, lost in the intense, pulsing heat of your body as your heartbeats synchronized in the sudden silence, before collapsing onto you with his forehead resting on your shoulder and his chest heaving in ragged, panting spasms.

He shifted and slid out of you, dropping onto the sofa beside you, a slow, reluctant withdrawal that seemed to last an eternity. As he slid out, a sense of emptiness took hold, his sudden absence was almost as impactful as the penetration itself, making you shiver despite the warmth of the apartment.

He let out a long, shaky breath, letting his head fall back against the velvet as he stared at the ceiling, dark curls plastered to his forehead with sweat.

"Holy… God," he breathed, his voice returning to that husky charm, though stripped of all pretense. He looked at you, a hint of a smile returning to his lips. "Did I… you know… break you? Be honest. On a scale of one to ten, how much of a wreck are you right now?"

"Eleven," you managed to say, your voice hoarse and fragile. "I think you actually shifted my organs, I can feel my liver in a different place."

Eddie let out a loud, rich laugh, the sound echoing through the room.

"You know," Eddie murmured, traces of laughter still in his voice, "the list had twelve reasons. I only managed to say seven."

You let out a low, weary laugh, turning your face to look at him. "Seven reasons seems like more than enough to me."

Eddie let out a deep, resonant laugh that vibrated through his entire body and wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you so close that there wasn't a breath of air between you.

The room was dark, the late afternoon light had taken on a purplish hue, matching the languid, lazy atmosphere that had settled over you both.

"I know how hard you all have been working. I pushed for this. Even the top aviators in the world need a week off once in a while," he had said, arms crossed against his chest.

Hangman was the first to break the silence. "You're tellin' me Uncle Sam is just lettin' me disappear for a week?"

"Within reason," Maverick answered.

"Texas, here I come!"

"Please stay there," Phoenix muttered.

The room erupted into overlapping conversations after that.

As you walked out to the parking lot, you called your mom to tell her the good news. It seemed like the rest of the squad had the same idea, phones buzzing and held up to their ears as you left the base that night.

Phoenix was talking to her sister before she even reached her car; you could tell by how much she was rolling her eyes and laughing, all at the same time. Bob was smiling at something his mom said through the speaker of his phone, the boyish smile only really appearing when someone called him Bobby, and only his mom called him that. Fanboy was surely talking to his cousins, pointing into the air and gesturing faster than the words could form on his tongue. He once told you that they knew exactly how to push his buttons.

You laughed as your mom answered on the second ring. Then you asked if the family would be at the lake this year. You could hear the excitement in her voice as you told her the good news.

Out of the corner of your eye, you watched Bradley unlock his Bronco. No phone. No call. He climbed inside, rested both hands on the steering wheel for a second, then drove away.

Bradley Bradshaw hadn't been what you expected. Of course you had heard stories about him before arriving at TOPGUN. His past, his family, the tragedy surrounding them. But you also heard about the man he had become, someone people revered and counted on. You'd expected someone larger than life.

Instead, you'd met a man who smiled easily and carried grief so quietly that most people never noticed it.

While you had worked with Bob and Coyote before, you had never had to endure the wrath of Jake Seresin. It took all of five minutes for him to sink his claws into you.

"Baby?" he asked that first night at the Hard Deck, barely letting you finish introducing yourself.

"That's right," you replied, eyes narrowed, trying to see where he was going with this.

"Huh," he scratched the back of his neck. "It's just a little odd."

"Everyone calls me Baby. I don't really mind," you shruged, almost challenging the pilot to keep speaking, to say something he might regret.

"I don't know," Jake bit back, smile on his face growing and growing.

"You can call me Lieutenant, too. Your choice."

Bradley watched the interaction from a few feet away and instantly knew two things. One, Hangman was going to get punched if he wasn't careful. And two, he liked you. Liked the way you didn't back down.

From there, Jake had barked out a laugh, but moved on to his next target. Bradley watched as your shoulders relaxed. You sent a small smile over to Bob, joining him and nudging his shoulder as the two of you began talking.

Bradley liked the way you didn't shy away from Jake's challenge. But what struck him more was when he overheard you ask Bob about his mother, a detail about a knee surgery, and a solemn look on your face. Bob blinked.

"I can't believe you remembered that. It's been months!"

"It's your family," you shrugged like it was nothing but everything at the same time, and Bob just smiled.

"I'm gonna go grab another soda, want anything?" he asked, dusting off the peanut crumbs from his slack, but you just shook your head.

Observing the group, you locked eyes with the famed aviator. Sending him a small smile, Bradley couldn't help but wander over, beer bottle at his side, completely forgotten.

"You and Bob know each other?" he opened and you nodded.

"Worked with him for a few months earlier this year. Kind guy. Great WSO," you told him honestly.

Most pilots would've led with a great WSO. You'd led with kind. It caught him a little off guard.

"You pay attention to the little things, huh?" he questioned, although the smile on your face told him he already knew the answer.

"People like being remembered," you shrugged with a small smile.

That hit Bradley harder than he expected. You could tell by the way he swallowed, like he was trying to comprehend your words.

Over the next few weeks of training, Bradley started noticing things too.

How you never let Coyote refill his own coffee if you were already headed toward the pot. How you celebrated people, bringing in homemade cupcakes for Payback's birthday despite knowing him for less than a month. How you stayed late to help the engineers and crew members fold up tarps, even after days where Maverick pushed everyone to their limits. You always seemed to have more to give.

But the moment he stopped thinking of you as simply kind came after one particularly brutal day of training.

Hangman had taken one shot too many at Maverick. Bringing up his own father was the last straw.

Bradley hadn't trusted himself to stay on base much longer after that, leaving to get in his car before anyone could stop him. He sat with the engine off, hands gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles hurt.

A knock against the driver's window startled him.

You stood outside, hands shoved into the pockets of your pants. "Can I sit with you?"

He'd almost lied. The words I'm fine on the tip of his tongue.

Instead, he'd unlocked the passenger door.

It was no wonder you noticed him spacing out right now, tapping his thigh lightly and sending a glance towards the WSO across the table.

"What about you, Rooster? Where are you going this week?" Bob asks in between bites of his sandwich.

But Bradley just shakes his head dismissively. From the corner of his eye he sees the way your head whips in his direction.

"Just gonna catch up on laundry. Have an oil change, too," he gives the excuse lamely, hoping everyone will skim over his words.

Of course, the squad erupts at this.

"Laundry?" Jake questions, brows quirked like he's trying to determine if the man is joking or not.

"You can't just stay here for the week," Phoenix voices now. "It's not even supposed to be sunny."

"I'm watching a new T.V. show. It'll give me time to do that."

"Rooster, you can't be serious," Reuben says, disbelief on his face.

"Come home with me. My parents love having guests. The rodeo's this week, too!" Bob offers, opening a whole can of worms.

Bradley wants to crawl into his own skin as his teammates offer their places for the break.

"I mean Texas might be big enough for the both of us," Jake says in an exaggerated southern accent that makes the table groan as he laughs.

"My sister and I are going to a music festival," Phoenix joins in. "It'd be nice to have a tall guy when weaving through the crowds."

"You guys, I'm perfectly fine staying home for a week. I'm serious. I've got a lot I'm going to do." Bradley put his hands up defensively, laughter in his voice.

"You could come with me to my family's lake house." Your voice is a little quieter than the squad is used to.

Ignoring the pointed look that Phoenix sends your way, you continue.

"It's like my entire family. We all get together one week during the summer; it's like a whole thing. You'll love it," you tell him.

When Bradley doesn't immediately dismiss you, Jake chimes in, "I think we have a winner, ladies and gentlemen."

As the squad goes back to discussing their travel plans, Bradley turns to you. "Are you sure? Wouldn't I be intruding?"

"No, no! Not at all," you wave your hands around frantically, making the man laugh a bit. "So many people are coming. And my family knows all about you."

"Me?" Bradley asks, hand coming up to point at his own chest.

From your other side, you hear Phoenix choke on her food.

"I mean everyone, y'know! The squad. I talk about it constantly. You guys," you try to not grimace as the words come out, and you swear Nat whispers smooth as you breathe out your explanation.

"Oh," Bradley says, almost disappointed at your clarification. "You're sure?"

You hum, "I'm sure."

જ⁀➴

Arriving back at your apartment, you all but flop onto the couch as Nat cackles from behind you.

"What am I going to do?" Your voice is muffled from its place in the smashed pillow.

"Baby, I have no idea," she laughs, sitting next to your slack form.

"I'm an idiot. An actual idiot," you lament, sitting up just so you can put your head in your hands.

"My family knows all about you!" Nat mimics as you groan loudly, slumping down onto the floor now.

"Kill me, just please, kill me now," you mutter.

Once her laughter subsides, Nat looks at your disheveled form. "Hey, maybe this is your chance."

You shoot her a look, fury and embarrassment in your eyes.

"Nat."

"I'm serious! This could be it," she tells you, grabbing the remote to pick out a movie.

"He doesn't like me like that. We're friends," you reason, hands digging further and further into your hair, creating a curtain around your face. It's optimal right now, wanting to hide from the world and all.

"Sure," Nat scoffs, kicking her feet up on the coffee table.

"Can you imagine how awkward the flight home would be? I'd have to drive back to California. I'd have to quit, too. Dishonorable discharge. Unable to keep it in my pants on my official record forever," you wonder out loud as your best friend just rolls her eyes behind you.

"Pretty sure Maverick already knows, so it might be there already."

"Not funny," you whack her thigh, making her cackle once more.

Had Maverick really seen you giving his Godson heart eyes? The thought alone is mortifying enough to have you fully lie down on the carpet.

"I wasn't trying to make a move," you explain. "He just didn't have anywhere to go. And that sad puppy look he gets was just so lethal."

"Barf," Phoenix says simply as your hands go up to your heart at the thought of Bradley's sweet, sad face.

"Like laundry? And an oil change?" you continue.

"Baby."

"It was depressing. I could tell he was just okay with it."

"Baby."

"I just couldn't let him," you whisper and the woman besides you gets quiet.

"I know."

You stew for a few minutes more, Nat kind enough to let you have some silence to collect your thoughts.

"Don't think so much," she finally says, pressing play on the movie.

"Do you know who you're talking to?" you ask, hands now covering your face.

Nat sighs, moving down onto the floor with you. "Just take it a day at a time. You'll be okay. Rooster will be okay."

"What if he doesn't like them?"

She just looks at you, lips pressed tightly together.

"What if it's too much?"

"You're not too much," she sees through you instantly, and all you can do is nod.

જ⁀➴

It's only been thirty minutes in the air, but you're already out like a light next to him. The sight of you slumped up against his shoulder almost makes him laugh. If it wouldn't disrupt your sleep, his phone would be out snapping a picture and sending it into the shared group chat.

Bradley still can't believe he's on this flight. On his way to meet your family.

Everyone else's offers seemed like they were out of pity. But when you spoke up, Bradley couldn't deny you.

It was beginning to become a sort of pattern.

From that night you knocked on his car window, Bradley was metaphorically opening up the passenger door to his life for you. You were so in tune with his emotions after that point, always looking out for him in ways that he'd never experienced

In moments that he thinks no one else is paying attention, you're there. It's blink, and you miss it, but somehow you always seem to catch on to whatever's going on in his head. They weren't big gestures, tiny even. The kind most people would've forgotten about within a few hours.

Bradley remembered every single one.

Tasked with grabbing drinks for the squad on your regularly scheduled Thursday pool night, you and Bradley were sitting up at the bar, waiting for Penny to finish the order.

Somewhere in the corner, Fanboy was already losing a game of darts despite insisting he was getting better. Jake argued with Coyote over something football-related while Phoenix rolled her eyes so hard it looked like it hurt. And Bob was documenting the whole thing, phone camera capturing pictures of the night, no doubt for a digital scrapbook he was putting together.

A group of men sat down at the bar a few stools down from you, and you really didn't think much of them at first. But then you heard it.

"So that's Maverick's kid, right?"

"Nah," another man answered. "Goose's."

"Oh."

A few seconds of silence fell over them.

"Damn."

Then there was a laugh.

"I heard his mom had a thing for aviators."

The group snickered.

One even muttered, "Didn't work out so well."

It wasn't loud. It wasn't shouted across the room. Most people probably didn't even hear it over the music.

But you watched Bradley's shoulders go perfectly still.

The smile disappeared from his face so quickly it almost looked like someone had reached over and wiped it away.

He excused himself with some mumbled comment you couldn't hear and started toward the back hallway.

You were already standing before you'd consciously decided to move.

"We'll be right back," you told Penny, eyes trailing after the man as she just hummed and sent you a knowing look.

By the time you reached the hallway, Bradley was leaning against the wall outside the restrooms, both hands pressed against his hips, staring at the floor. He looked up when he heard your footsteps.

"You okay?" you asked softly.

He was already shaking his head. "I'm fine."

You hummed like you didn't believe him. After a second, you leaned against the wall beside him, leaving a comfortable few feet between you.

Silence settled between you. Music leaked through the walls in muffled thumps. Laughter was faint in the background, so far away from you now. The air was still, settling between the two of you.

"I hate saying that," he admitted quietly.

"Saying what?" You tilted your head at this.

"'I'm fine.'"

You looked over at him fully now. "So why'd you say it?"

He laughed once through his nose. "Because it's easier."

You nodded but didn't say anything, just let him sit in whatever he was feeling.

Another minute passed before he finally spoke again.

"They didn't even know her." His voice cracked on the last word.

Your chest tightened at this. His face was twisted now, jaw clenched and hands cracking his knuckles.

Without thinking, you reached over and rested your hand lightly against his arm, rubbing small circles into the warm skin with barely any pressure.

He closed his eyes.

"I just..." he swallowed. "I don't even remember her voice anymore."

The confession came so quietly you almost missed it. You didn't know what to say. There wasn't anything to say. So you stayed.

When Bradley finally opened his eyes again, he found you exactly where you'd been a minute before.

Waiting. Not pushing. Just waiting for him.

Without making it a big deal, you opened your arms. For a moment, he was too upset to understand what was going on, but with a look down at your face, he couldn't deny you any longer.

Almost falling into your grasp, his head bent down to the crook of your neck. He felt your arms wrap tightly around his shoulders as his went to snake around your waist. He waited for you to let go, to loosen your grip. But if anything, as the moments passed by, your hands only became more planted on his broad back.

Your head slips from its place on your palm, momentarily waking you up. The movement startles Bradley out of his trance. He goes to look at you, and sure enough, you've curled up into your seat, head leaning on your other palm. Your cheek is more smooshed now, and Bradley can't help but think about how adorable you look in this moment.

It makes him remember all the late-night conversations the squad has when at sea, trying to stay awake in the early hours of the night.

Everyone's laughing, somehow the conversation drifting from embarrassing callsigns to childhood stories.

"I swear after the third stall, my dad yanked me out of the driver's seat," Fanboy recalled, almost spilling his water as he doubled over.

"My granddad taught me. Old ranch truck. Thing didn't even have doors." Jake barked out a laugh at the memory.

"Explains a lot," Nat snorted, sending a look his way.

"It builds character!" he defended, which got a loud laugh from everyone.

Bob smiled to himself before he started, "My mom wouldn't let me leave the church parking lot for like… three months."

"Church parking lot?" Coyote laughed. "Those things are always empty!"

"It was not empty," Bob defended. "Mrs. Henderson was there every Tuesday."

"So your first driving lesson was dodging eighty-year-olds?" Jake questioned, grin growing on his face.

"It was one eighty-year-old."

With that, the group is sent into another fit of laughter.

Innocently, Bob turned towards Bradley. "What about you, Rooster? Who taught you?"

His smile faltered. Just for a second. "My…" he started. The word caught in his throat.

You watched his jaw tighten. Watched him search for an answer that wouldn't invite more questions.

Before anyone could notice the pause, you leaned forward onto your elbows. "Okay, bigger debate."

Everyone looked your way.

"What's the worst car you've ever driven?"

Jake immediately pointed at Coyote, snapping his fingers. "The rust bucket."

"Oh absolutely not."

"Absolutely yes," the blonde sassed back.

Coyote looked personally offended. "It had personality."

"It had tetanus."

The conversation exploded all over again. Fanboy insisted his cousin's minivan counted. Phoenix claimed her first car's air conditioning only worked if she turned left.

Within seconds, no one remembered they'd asked Bradley a question.

Under the table, you rested your hand lightly against his thigh. Not squeezing or rubbing his leg. Just placed there enough to say, I know.

He looked over.

You were already laughing at something Bob had said, your hand gone as quickly as it had appeared.

No one else had noticed. You hadn't embarrassed him. You hadn't pitied him. You had simply given him an exit.

He wasn't sure how you always seemed to remember things either. The important things, that is. Birthdays, breakfast orders, favorite songs. Apparently not phone chargers, though.

Your phone is currently plugged into the seat with his charger. You smacked your forehead after rumaging through your backpack for a few minutes. Bradley just wordlessly handed you his as you sent him a sheepish smile.

Now his thumbs rub absentminded circles on the charging cord as he recalls a message you had sent him earlier this summer.

The squad had scattered for the weekend, each of them heading in different directions for the holiday. Bradley had spent the morning pretending it was just another Sunday, ignoring the date every time it flashed across his phone.

After a run and a shower, he'd wandered back into his apartment with a towel slung around his shoulders.

Picking up his phone, the notification center lit up as he tapped the screen to life.

1 Missed Call.

Baby.

A voicemail notification sat beneath it.

Bradley frowned. You rarely left voicemails, maybe the occasional unhinged and winded voice memo or badly typed out Siri text, but never really voicemails.

He pressed play.

"Hey!" Your voice crackled through the speaker, bright enough that he could picture the smile on your face. The mere thought made him grin. "Just calling to see how you are."

A pause came after, and he felt his face fall a bit.

"I know today can be… kind of weird."

He leaned his hip against the counter, towel forgotten. His sole focus now on your voice.

"I was just thinking about you."

Another small pause.

"And about your dad."

Bradley closed his eyes.

"I think he'd be really proud of you."

Your voice softened.

"I know I'm just stating the obvious, but… you can always talk to me about anything." A quiet laugh escaped you. "Or not talk. We can watch movies or complain about training or whatever you need."

Another beat.

"I'm proud of you too."

The message ended with a soft, "Okay… bye, Bradley."

Silence filled the apartment.

Bradley didn't move. After a long moment, he looked down at his phone. Then, without thinking, he pressed play again.

જ⁀➴

Day One

Lush green trees surrounded you both as you pulled up to the lake house. You had gotten Bradley to admit he had never been out to this part of the country before, but part of you already knew when his eyes went wide while driving down the roads of the small town.

The afternoon sun filters through the branches in scattering patches of gold. A wraparound porch overlooks the water; it glitters against the beating rays. Wind chimes sway lazily beside the front door, little potted plants scattered around the wooden planks. And somewhere farther down the shoreline, children shriek with laughter.

Bradley finds himself mesmerized. "Wow," he murmurs.

You smiled to yourself. "Told you."

Before he even gets the chance to cut the engine, the front door swings open, and a man is barreling down the driveway. You hop out of the passenger seat as Bradley puts the car in park, laughing a bit as you skip up to him.

Hesitantly, Bradley opens his own door and goes up to the pair of you.

"You must be Bradley," the man offers his hand out and Bradley smiles and grips it.

"Yes, sir."

He introduces himself as your dad. "Glad you could make it. Heard a lot about you."

"Dad." You slap his shoulder, shooting him a death glare that makes Bradley smile.

"Oh yeah?" Bradley grins, looking at you.

"Yes. Baby can't seem to shut up when it comes to you." The last few words are muddled with laughter as you push your father once more.

"Dad!" you repeat as Bradley almost chokes at the man's admission, suddenly feeling a bit nervous himself.

"What?" he says, offering you a clueless look, but Bradley can tell you don't buy it as you pinch his shoulder.

Bradley laughs as you yelp, your dad's hands going to tickle at your sides in retaliation. He had no idea you were ticklish.

"Oh, stop torturing the poor girl!" a woman, Bradley assumes your mom, calls out from the front porch.

Your head whips in her direction, and you take off to give her a bone-crushing hug.

"She's not going to want to spend her vacations with us anymore if you keep that up," your mom says, sending your dad a playful look as you nod alongside her. Bradley can't help but smile as he watches the dynamic play out in real time.

Your dad just rolls his eyes and turns to Bradley, "Come on, Brad, got some food on the stove for you two."

Bradley nods and follows your dad up the stairs to the porch. He smiles at you, raising his brows, a teasing look on his face. You smile too, but slap against his chest, turning from him quickly.

"Oh Lord, woman! What did I tell you about watching the toaster," you dad admonishes as you step into the house and the smell of smoke lingers in the air.

"My baby's here. I don't give a shit about the toaster," your mom explains as Bradley's eyes almost burst out of his head at her swearing.

"Well, you should! We're going to run out of buns," you dad shoots back, going to fan the smoke out of the house with a dish towel.

"Oh well fuck me, the buns!" she swears again, and Bradley sends you a look. It wasn't like he hadn't ever heard a curse word before, of course not. But seeing your mom swear like a sailor has him a little caught off guard. You don't blink at the interaction, telling Bradley that this must be a normal occurrence.

"Alexis, play my boat playlist!" your dad shouts out, moving on from the conversation entirely.

"Alexa, Dad," you say flatly as your dad snaps a finger at you.

"That's right. Alexa, play my boat playlist."

You and Bradley share a look that doesn't go unnoticed.

"Oh please, you two. Alexis, Alexa. Same thing," your dad sasses as Steely Dan begins to play through the small speaker.

"We didn't say anything!" you laugh, leaning into Bradley's space a bit more.

"Bradley, don't tell me she's corrupted you 5 minutes into the week ahead," your dad jokes as you scoff.

Bradley bites the inside of his cheek at the exchange, trying not to laugh.

"Of course he's corrupted, spends just about every day with Baby," your mom reasons.

"Oh great, another Baby. Just what we need," your dad tisks, throwing a grape in your direction.

You dodge the small fruit, pressing into Bradley's side now. "Really feeling the love, you guys," you tell them as they laugh.

"Oh, this is the best part." Your dad drops his phone and clips his sunglasses onto the collar of his shirt, moving across the kitchen to grab your mom's hand.

They begin to dance in front of you both, and Bradley knows he's grinning like an idiot now. He looks to his side, and you're already rolling your eyes at the sight, but a small smile tells him this must have been a regular occurrence for you growing up.

He's always wondered about your upbringing, knowing the silliness and kindness must have come from some sort of example. As he sits with you, watching your parents tease each other and you back and forth, he starts to understand.

જ⁀➴

"Alright, Bradley and Baby are in the basement. Huh, look at that triple B," your uncle says, laughing to himself a bit.

The family is gathered in the living room, little cousins sprawled out on the large couch and your aunts and uncles leaning up against the wooden walls of the cabin, all waiting to hear about room assignments for the week.

"The basement?" you question, almost everyone looking to you.

"Yes, little miss," your uncle confirms.

"But there's only one bed in the basement," you explain back, heart thumping wildly at the thought of sharing a bed with Bradley.

"It's either that or a sleeping bag on the floor," your uncle tells you as some of your family members laugh a bit at the look on your face.

"Mom," you plead, turning to the woman, but she just shrugs.

"Baby, it's okay," Bradley whispers to you, bending down close enough so you can feel the heat of his breath.

"Are you sure?" you say quietly, cringing at the thought of making him uncomfortable. But he just nods and gives your uncle a thumbs up, allowing him to move on to the next room.

Bradley catches your mom's eye as you turn back to your uncle, a small wink sent his way. He feels his ears burn as he looks away quickly.

Once the family is dismissed, Bradley gathers your bags from the car, not letting you help, and instead tells you to just lead the way to the room as he balances them in his hands.

The door squeaks open as you push it open, and it's exactly what Bradley expects. Soft blue bedding that had looked like it had been washed a hundred times, worn in the best way. A deep cherry red rug on the hardwood floor, patterned and rustic. And small little lamps and candles scattered across the room, setting a certain ambience. Framed family photos lined the dresser, the oldest sun-bleached from years spent near the window.

At the far end of the room was a sliding glass door, leading out to the lake. Bradley could see the moonbeams reflecting off the water, painting a beautiful picture.

"It's nice," he breathes out, placing the bags down.

You nod at his words, "Yeah."

Without another word, you begin to unpack, getting on your knees and unzipping your bag. Bradley joins you, a steady presence at your side.

Grabbing a pair of pajamas and your toiletry bag, you make your way into the ensuite to shower. Bradley insists you go first as he settles into the space.

As he sits on the bed, listening to the pitter-patter of the water flowing from the bathroom, he smiles to himself. He feels like he fits right into your family, from your dad's jokes this afternoon to your mom's teasing looks; Bradley's never quite felt this at home with people he's just met.

Your dad had told him about the elaborate plans for the week, handing him a beer as they walked around the property. Almost nightly barbecues, paddle boarding on the lake, the annual fishing trip. He had clapped Bradley on the back as he laid out the plans, a welcoming invitation.

After Bradley showers, he settles into the free space on the bed next to you. The only light in the room is coming through the almost see-through curtains by the glass door.

"Is it okay so far?" you whisper into the darkness of the room.

Bradley can make out the slope of your nose and the flutter of your lashes, though, staring at you as you lie side by side.

"More than okay," he speaks honestly, voice small, mimicking your softness.

"If it gets to be too much, you can tell me, and we'll leave early," you tell him, your voice a little shakier than before.

Bradley's eyebrows furrow at this, sensing a bit of insecurity in your words, something he's a bit unfamiliar with when it comes to you.

"Hey," his tone is warm, but firm, like there's no room for argument. "I'm having a really good time."

You nod, hair swishing against the pillow, but Bradley can still see how tense you are, even in minimal lighting.

"And miss out on all the embarrassing childhood stories? No way," Bradley lightens the mood as you giggle a little bit. His shoulders drop in relief at the noise.

"Okay, but you can't tell the rest of the squad. I'm swearing you to secrecy," you joke, relaxing into the bed as you talk with him.

"Okay," he laughs lightly, glad the edge in your voice is long gone.

"And don't let my uncles scare you. They'll try to tease you, but just bring up how they managed to set the grill on fire a few summers ago," you tell him, like you're giving him an expert's opinion.

"They what?" he laughs as you giggle once more, starting to tell the story.

Bradley looks at you as you speak, face flush against the pillow, making your cheeks look soft and round. Your eyes blink longer and longer as the minutes pass. And finally, your voice begins to trail off into mumbles as your body relaxes into the mattress.

"Goodnight, Baby," he whispers to himself, knowing you're too deep in your sleep to hear him.

The combination of your breath and the small waves outside the glass door let him follow you quickly.

જ⁀➴

Day Two

Bradley didn't know that breakfast could be so chaotic. More so than the lunch or dinner they had last night. He stands near the kitchen island, two plates in his hands, as your cousins weave through the adults to stuff as much bacon as they can onto their plates. The coffee pot that had just beeped two minutes ago was now empty, people grumbling about not getting their cup filled.

Still, he moves with intention, making sure to grab some strawberries before they all disappear, putting them on top of your pancakes.

Walking out to the deck, he sets the plate down in front of you.

Looking up at him, he just smiles as you nurse your full mug.

Before you can even say anything, voices cut through the silence.

"Oooh," your younger cousins tease, some of them making kissy faces in your direction. You promptly snatch a piece of bacon off one of their plates, turning the teasing calls into whines of protest.

The scene makes Bradley laugh as he sits down next to you.

"Is Baby really a good pilot?" one of the young boys asks, eyes starring right at Bradley who hadn't even taken a bite of his food yet.

"Yeah cause she always has those badges, but I think they're fake," another says, starting a chorus of laughter from the kids.

"I'm gonna take another piece," you threaten, hand already outstretched to grab more bacon, but the boy shields his plate defensively.

"She's the best pilot I know," Bradley speaks, commanding the attention of the boys.

One of them shoots him a look. "Really?"

"Really," he confirms, missing the way you watch him, all his attention on the kids across from you. "She's smart, fast too. She always looks out for her team, which is the most important thing."

"Baby smart?" another teases as you scoff, making them all laugh.

"The smartest," Bradley confirms. "She's saved my butt one too many times. Like the time we were flying in the Swiss mountains, I almost crashed because a flock of birds came my way, but she sped up ahead of me and scared them off with a flare."

"Really?" The question is more honest now, genuine curiosity at his words.

"Yep. Has she ever told you about the time we were flying over the Red Sea?" he asks as they all shake their heads. You watch with fondness as Bradley recalls the event, your cousins jaws dropping as they look at him.

Seeing him interact with them like this makes something in you ache. You'd never seen Bradley with kids before, but it seems like second nature to him. All of them hang off his every word; his storytelling is a little exaggerated, but still mostly true.

When he looks to you for confirmation of the account, you blink. Not sure what you're really supposed to say; his words drowned out a few minutes ago as you honed in on the easy smile he wore as he spoke and the veins across his arms as he moved them during the story.

Shooting up, you grab your still full cup. "Um, gonna get more coffee."

He sends you a look, but you've already booked it into the house.

The sound of laughter draws him back to the table, eyes tearing away from your frame, still clad in the sweet pajamas from last night that admittedly drove him a little crazy when he first saw them.

"She has the biggest crush on you," one of them tells him through laughter, a few of the girls shushing him.

"What?" Bradley asks, his heart leaping at the words. Sure, he had suspected something; you weren't the most subtle person, but hearing it out loud was entirely different.

He had confided in Jake before the trip about his suspicions.

"Baby?" the blonde questions, beer sweating in his hand.

"I don't know, man. I just shake the feeling," Bradley says in between sips.

"Took you long enough," Jake mutters as Bradley's eyes go wide.

He sits upright in the barstool, no relaxation in his posture at the revelation. "What do you mean? She likes me?"

Jake laughs at this. "You sound like a middle schooler," he says, wiping away the tears in his eyes.

"So you think, or you know?" Bradley asks for confirmation.

Jake puts the beer down, still laughing a bit. "Look, man, it's no secret Baby's got feelings for you. Just like everyone else can tell you like her, too."

"What?" Bradley almost stumbles from his seat at this.

"Oh, come on," Jake sighs. "Don't try lying to me now. I see the way you look at her during movie nights. That shoulder move last week was nice."

"Shoulder move?"

Jake just looks at him with a blank expression. But as the silence stretches between them, the blonde's face contorts into one of mischief.

"Wait, you seriously didn't realize you like her?"

Bradley feels like he's handcuffed to the table now at the turn of this conversation. "I mean, of course I care about her."

"But not how you care about Phoenix," Jake offers, helping him along.

"I guess not, no. I just thought," he takes another swig of his beer, wishing it was something stronger now. "I thought it was just her, y'know? Like she makes everyone feel like that?"

"Like what?" Jake asks now, genuinely curious.

"Like," he tenses, trying to find the words. "Like, they're going a little crazy at how sweet she is."

"Just a little crazy?" Jake teases, with a knowing smirk on his lips.

"C'mon, man, you know what I mean."

"Sorry, Rooster. I really don't."

Before he can become too absorbed in the memory, one of the girls chimes in.

"Whatever, he knows her breakfast order." The similar chorus of ooohs returns, and Bradley laughs, thinking of Jake's words now.

"Oh gosh, he likes her too!" one of the boys exclaims, throwing them all into a fit of kissing noises again.

By now, some of your aunts and uncles have made their way out onto the porch. He looks to them for help, but they all laugh at each other as he tries to get the kids to quiet down before you come back out.

જ⁀➴

The sun is at its peak, meaning it's finally time to swim.

Bradley walks out of the house in swim trunks, sandals on his feet as he tracks along the shoreline. His eyes search the family and immediately land on you.

Bent over, you're helping one of your baby cousins into her floaties. First, the giggles you share capture his attention. Next is your bikini.

Gingham - he recalls the pattern's name from a craft night you hosted a few months back - white and dark green. The strings tied against your shoulders have Bradley licking his lips slightly, suddenly parched.

Sure, he'd seen you in a sports bra and shorts before, your uniform for beach football. But this was something else.

Your baby cousin spots him, pointing a chubby finger in his direction. Turning your head, you beckon him over, and he quickly rids his mind of lewd thoughts.

"Bradley, can you paddle board with me?" she asks, voice shy and eyes not quite meeting his.

You hold a hand up to your chest in mock hurt. "Wow. Bradley shows up, and suddenly I'm chopped liver?"

She hides her face in her hands as you tickle her sides.

"Come on, before she gets me too," Bradley tells the young girl, stretching out a hand.

You shake your head as they walk off, Bradley looking over his shoulder at you, mouthing 'sorry' with an insincere expression.

With a paddle in hand, Bradley makes sure your baby cousin is situated on the board. Following your dad as he paddles down a part of the lake, he takes in his surroundings.

It's hot, the sun beating down on him, but the rays feel like a kiss on his skin, searing in the best way. He can't remember the last time he did something like this.

The water is cool when it splashes on his skin. Droplets run down his hands and arms as he paddles.

Birds chirp, creating a peaceful feeling. He swears he can hear the buzz of cicadas too, but isn't quite sure if they'd be out now.

"Sit down!" your voice rings out, getting his and many other family members' attention.

Paired up with one of your pre-teen cousins, the look on your face makes Bradley laugh. He hadn't gotten the chance to talk to the kid yet, as the young boy was throwing around a football on the lake line almost all of yesterday.

"What's going on?" the little girl speaks up, looking to Bradley as he watches the scene unfold.

"Looks like he's giving Baby a hard time," Bradley answers, pointing towards your paddle board. The boy is now rocking the board slightly as you grip the sides.

The rest of the family pauses as the two of you bicker back and forth, smiles on their faces at the antics.

"What are you going to do about it?" he asks smugly, rocking the board harder.

The look on your face is familiar to Bradley. He tries to remember where he's seen it before, recalling memory after memory of you.

But the tick in your jaw sparks in his mind; you'd only gotten this way when Jake had challenged you to a drinking game, saying you were probably one of those girls who couldn't hold their alcohol.

You had outdrank him and then some, victoriously singing karaoke at the Hard Deck while Jake vomited in the bathroom down the hall. While it had been a win, you were giggly and floppy for the rest of the night, hanging off Bradley and laughing at just about anything he said.

Suddenly, you handed your paddle to your uncle before bounding up and making your way to tackle the boy into the water.

Bradley could see your hands wrapped protectively behind the boy's head and back as you launched into the blue water. Laughter was ringing out from the family as you emerged, the boy gasping for air, not quite believing what had just happened.

Not letting you off the hook so easily, the boy splashed you viciously as you shrieked.

Soon, your other cousins were jumping in the water and joining in, the girl immediately going to your side and the boys teaming up with each other.

Sneaking off to the board, your cousin gets back on and begins splashing you with the paddle, sending waves of water to your face.

Bradley watches as you duck into the water. He can barely make out your figure in the deep blue, but spots you as you swim closer to him.

Whipping your hair out of your face, you place your hands on the edge of his board, looking up at him. His breath stops at the sight of the water droplets that have collected on your collarbones and the way your eyes plead from this position.

"Help me," you urge, pointing to his paddle.

Water drips from your eyelashes as you stare at the man. Something constricts in his chest at the sight.

Bradley looks to the young girl next to him. "What do you think?"

She takes a minute, looking at you as you send her a pout.

"Okay," she speaks, making you cheer and turn back to Bradley, who has already begun to paddle towards the pre-teen.

Making grabbing hands at her, your cousin plops into the water next to you, not wanting to get caught in the splashing war.

Soon he's splashing your cousin back, leading to protests from the young boys.

"Bradley, you're supposed to be on our team!"

"Traitor!"

"Baby's got him wrapped around her finger!"

Bradley opens his mouth to defend himself before giving up with a laugh.

You smile as the boys make their way over to the board, shaking it and sending Bradley off balance. A second later, he's slipping and toppling into the water as the boys cheer.

As he comes up, he shakes the water from his hair and looks in your direction.

You're a few feet away now, finally safe from the splashing. Your head is tipped back toward the sun, laughter spilling from you without restraint.

Bradley had seen beautiful women before, but he'd never seen anyone who looked so completely alive, like they loved everything around them.

That love seemed to spill out of you, catching on everyone nearby. Your cousins laughed because you laughed. Your uncles grinned as they watched the chaos unfold. Even your dad had abandoned his paddle just to shake his head with a smile.

He'd seen pieces of that warmth before, with the squad, at the Hard Deck, during long days at base, but here, surrounded by the people who had raised you, he finally understood where it came from.

જ⁀➴

Chopping up carrot sticks and celery, you try not to be distracted by the situation playing out in front of you.

Bradley, all 6'1 of him, is hunched over beads and strings on the living room carpet, surrounded by your cousins. His fingers move carefully as he threads the friendship bracelet.

He's talking softly with them, answering their odd questions and silly inquiries with a smile on his face. The sight makes your heart ache.

One of the girls taps him lightly on the shoulder, and he faces her immediately. She holds out her finished product and wrist, urging Bradley to tie it.

He fumbles a bit at first, big fingers and thin string not mixing too well. But after a few seconds, the knot slips on, and the little girl is clutching her wrist to her chest in admiration.

You can see how he leans in as she says thank you, nodding his head. And when she catapults into his lap for a hug, you see the hesitation as he wraps an arm around her. But eventually, he settles, tucking her into his side.

Ruckus in the form of little boys comes bumbling down the stairs, already throwing around a football despite the many protests from adults in the house.

The ball flys over the heads of some of the girls, nearly missing one. Just as you're about to tell them to take it outside, Bradley is hopping up from his spot, your baby cousin still attached to his side.

He grabs the ball from one of the boys and leads them out the front door, all of them bouncing with excitement at the thought of him playing with them.

Sure enough, Bradley maneuvers your cousin to sit up on top of his shoulders, like a little princess, as he throws a spiral down the driveway. Even though only one of the boys catches the ball, they all sprint back to his side, begging him to throw it again.

"Are you going to chop the rest of those carrots or stare longingly and make me do all the work?" your mother asks, cutting through your intense focus.

With a sheepish smile, you raise the knife and bring your gaze back to the cutting board. The sight of light green celery sticks and bright orange carrots is much better for your heart anyway.

જ⁀➴

Day Three

The smell of bacon still lingers through the house when your uncle claps his hands together. "Alright!" he calls. "Fishing crew, let's load up."

Excited cheers echoed through the living room as your younger cousins scrambled for shoes and tackle boxes they'd been pestering their parents to pack since sunrise.

Your aunt stretches from her spot on the couch. "Thank God," she sighs. "A whole morning of peace."

"Peace?" your uncle scoffs.

"They're your children today." Laughter rolls through the room at this, Bradley looking at you as they banter.

Your dad points toward the front door. "Boys only this year." A chorus of gasps and whines follows immediately.

One of the smallest girls crosses her arms so hard that Bradley thinks she might tip over. "I wanted to catch a fish." Her bottom lip begins to wobble.

But before anyone can intervene, you sigh dramatically. "Wow."

Every little face turns toward you.

"So," you say, looking around the room. "Nobody wants to play mermaids with me?"

Fishing was forgotten almost instantly.

"I do!"

"So do I!"

"I want to have a pink tail!"

You throw Bradley an almost imperceptible shrug, like problem solved.

He stares at you for a beat before shaking his head with a laugh. "I don't know how you do that."

You dust your hands together dramatically. "It's a gift."

The man smiles at you brightly, almost unable to contain himself.

જ⁀➴

Slinging his backpack over one shoulder, Bradley prepares to walk out of the bedroom when the door opens. Looking up instinctively, he spots you.

You step into the room in a teal bikini beneath an oversized button-down that does absolutely nothing to hide the color or your figure underneath.

His thoughts derail for one dangerously long second.

"Have fun," you smile, grabbing your sunglasses from the nightstand. bending over slightly, and Bradley's eyes catch for one dangerous second before he forces them somewhere, anywhere, else.

"You too," he says, glued to his spot by the door as you make your way around his body. You disappear up the stairs before he thinks of anything else to say.

જ⁀➴

Outside, aluminum boats rock gently against the dock. A pile of coolers, fishing poles, and tackle boxes lay out haphazardley. The young boys are practically vibrating with excitement at the next few hours to come, all of them making bets on who will catch the biggest fish.

Bradley lingers near the edge of the dock, unsure where exactly he was supposed to be standing. Everywhere he looks, fathers are kneeling beside sons, tightening life jackets or showing them how to bait hooks.

One little boy proudly held up a worm nearly as long as his forearm.

"Too much," your uncle laughs.

"Nuh-uh," he says with a toothless grin.

"Buddy, the fish isn't eating another fish."

Fathers automatically reach over to zip jackets or ruffle hair or wipe dirt off little noses without thinking about it.

It all looks so easy, but he feels his chest tighten before he can do anything stop it. Usually you're by his side in these moments. Soothing hand on his back or bumping knees with him under the table to knock him out of his trance. But your down the shore, he can see your figure clapping as one of the little girls dunks her head under the water.

A shoulder bumps lightly against his. "You ever gone fishing before?" Your dad stands beside him, coffee mug balancing in one hand.

Bradley looks toward the boats, rubbing the back of his neck. "Actually, no, sir."

Instead of surprise, or worse, teasing, your dad only nods once. Taking a sip of coffee, Bradley sees him start to reel up. "My old man started taking me every Saturday once I turned six. Rain, shine, didn't matter." Your dad chuckles at the memory. "Half the time we didn't catch a damn thing."

Bradley laughs at this too, some of the ache soothing away now.

"Did the same with Baby as soon as she turned eight. Took a few years of convincing."

"Really?" Bradley asks, not knowing that about you.

"Oh she hated it at first. Always too antsy to stay on a boat for more than thirty minutes."

They laugh at this. Bradley sure has experienced your more energetic side before. Boring movie nights always had you rocking on the couch and nudging him on accident. He remembers slinging an arm around your shoulder during the half way mark for Inception. You went frighteningly still for a few minutes before settling into the space.

Your dad looks out over the water for another moment before nudging him again. "Well," he gestures toward the boats. "We'll fix that today."

Bradley blinks, too caught up in the memory. "What?"

"Never fishing." A grin spreads across your dad's face. "Figure by lunch you'll know enough to outfish my brothers."

Loud protests immediately erupt from nearby. Your dad ignores them completely, keeping his attention on Bradley.

"Oh, and before I forget." He rests a hand briefly on Bradley's shoulder. "You don't need an invitation anymore."

Bradley frowns slightly, not quite sure what he means.

"We'll save the basement for you and Baby again next summer."

Bradley swallows at this, the extension making his throat feel sore and strangely tight. Your dad squeezes his shoulder once before walking off to argue with his brothers about bait.

Bradley stays where he is. Looking back out across the shoreline back to you. You're waist-deep in the water now, pretending to be some sort of sea monster while six little girls shriek and splash away from you.

One of them throws herself into your arms, and you catch her, laughing like it's the easiest thing in the world.

Bradley has spent years wondering what home is supposed to feel like. Standing on that dock, he thinks it might look a lot like this.

જ⁀➴

The guys are gone all day, even through lunch. The house is quiet and tidy, and you've had time to take a nice long shower and catch up on some reading.

Lying in bed, your head rests on the pillow as you flip to the next page. The book is interesting, but your thoughts wander when a whiff of Bradley's shampoo hits you as you shift in the bed.

The past few days have been great, especially last night at dinner. You could tell Bradley was finally settling into the chaos of your family.

During the day, it seems like you're always looking for each other, either to share a smile during the sweeter moments or a stunned look when your cousins say something outrageous. It's a pastime at this point, not much different from when you were in California.

But instead of heading home to your own bed, alone with your thoughts, you instead lie across from Bradley.

The first night you had been too exhausted to really care, but that second night you were up for hours. It was hard trying to fall asleep when your longtime crush was inches away from you, close enough that you could hear his breath and the little hums he let out every so often.

The creak of the door has you looking up from your book. Sure enough, Bradley comes into the room, a little sunburnt, but you think you see a tiny smile on his lips.

"Hey," he says, setting his bag down on the floor and sitting on the bed, body facing yours.

"Hi." You shut your book and move to get up, but his hands find your shoulders and push you back down lightly.

"You look comfy," he teases, lying next to you.

"What can I say, a whole afternoon without any boys bothering me has been nice," you joke, bringing your hands under your cheek as you press against the pillow.

"Do I bother you?" His eyes find yours, and you can feel your cheeks heat up a bit at the attention.

"Only a little," you speak, voice softer now, and Bradley just hums with a small smile on his face as you roll your eyes.

The only sound in the room seems to be the crinkling of the sheets as Bradley moves closer to you. His eyes still haven't left yours, and you're beginning to feel the effects in full swing, tummy fluttering and thighs smushing together.

"D'you have fun?" you ask, trying to alleviate some of his focus.

He nods, bringing his hands up behind his head. His biceps are on full display now, and you urge yourself to look down instead. But when your eyes trail to his stomach, you see a tiny sliver of skin poking out from under his shirt. Did he always wear his shorts that low on his waist?

"It was really good," he finally tells you. "Your dad, he's really sweet. I can see where you get it from."

"Oh," you say without thinking, it's more of a noise that escapes you than an actual word.

Bradley smiles at this. His eyes track yours, spotting them looking all the way down at the edge of the bed near his socked feet. It almost makes him laugh.

"Are you going to stay in for the night? Want me to grab dinner and bring it down here?" he says, referencing the loud footsteps above that have just started.

You shake your head. "No, no. I was just waiting for you," you confess, heart beating a bit faster than normal.

"Oh." It's Bradley's turn to let a soft sigh escape him at your words.

He wants you to look back at him, but knows you won't. Instead, he shifts closer.

"Tired?" he questions, just trying to get you talking again.

You hum. "Yeah, I don't think I've played mermaids in years."

Bradley laughs at this, and finally your eyes find his again. You start to laugh, too. It's always like this. One of you starts, and the other joins.

"I missed you today," he confesses, and you feel your breath catch. "Didn't really realize until your dad started telling stories about you growing up."

You don't really know what to say to this so you just keep watching him, wondering if he'll continue.

It feels like he's getting closer, like his nose might bump yours if you move even an inch. You see his eyes jump down to your lips, and you try not to react.

"Baby," he says, voice softer than you've ever heard it before.

A shout of your name rings out from upstairs, drawing your eyes up towards the ceiling and away from the man in front of you.

"We should probably," you start, rolling out of bed.

You swear he groans, but maybe it's just the age of the house. Settling, or whatever they call it.

જ⁀➴

Day Four

Bradley's gotten used to waking up with you by his side. The first morning was a little jarring; he'd found you on his chest, wrapped around him tightly. But the second morning, he expected it. By the third, he had started to brush your features and lightly stroke your hair to wake you up.

But today, he doesn't awaken to the sound of your soft snores or to a kick to his shin.

Instead, the sheets are cold, only a little warm spot near the middle of them indicating your presence. He looks to the bathroom, but the light is off, and the door is open.

A yelp and the sound of glass from upstairs have him jumping out of bed in just his boxers.

Rounding the staircase, he spots you bent over with a grimace on your face.

"Hey," he says, and sees that it startles you a bit as you nearly fall forward.

"Did I wake you?" you ask, hands picking up pieces of glass.

He ignores the question completely, taking in the little details. Your feet are bare, and he sees shimmers too close to your toes. The coffee machine is whirling on the counter, not loud enough to wake anyone yet. And there are goosebumps on your skin; he wants to run his hands up and down your arms until they disappear.

"Are you okay?" His hand sweeps to find the small of your back, warm and solid against the bit of skin.

"Yeah," you answer, still picking up little shards.

"Stop picking it up," he tells you as his other hand goes to wrap lightly around your wrist.

"I got it." You shrug him off, twisting your arm out of his grasp.

He huffs from behind you. "You're going to cut yourself."

"I'm fine," you insist, almost having all the pieces off the ground now. But you don't get to finish, as you feel his hand snake around to your hips as he lifts you off the floor.

The hold is awkward, but you can't help but lean into it as you feel Bradley's bare chest up against you.

Setting you down on a countertop, he goes to grab the trash can and signals for you to dump all the glass you've collected into it.

When you try to hop off the smooth surface, his hands are on your thighs. "I just wanted to make some coffee," you mumble and Bradley can see clearly just how sleepy you still are.

Sure, you're not burrowing into his chest or grabbing at his waist like you have been the past few days, but your eyes are still a little puffy, and your hair is tangled. He can't help but rub a hand up and down your back soothingly. And when he feels you melt into the feeling, he brings himself closer between your legs, his other hand coming up to help your head drop onto his shoulder.

From the top of the staircase, your dad snaps a picture on his phone as your mom whispers into his ear, both smiling.

જ⁀➴

Sitting at the dinner table, your knees knock into Bradley's every few minutes. And each time it happens, you look to him but get no reaction. Instead, he just sifts through the puzzle pieces like he isn't driving you up the wall.

"Baby! Brad! Can you go into town? We're out of buns," your mom calls from the kitchen, your dad piping in from a distance, saying 'I told you so' as she throws a dish towel at him.

"Already?" you ask, looking in her direction as she tosses a pair of keys at you.

Pushing up from the table, Bradley is hot on your heels as you slip on a pair of sandals and lead him down the driveway to the old truck. Sticking his hand out, you plop the keys in his palm without a word. He's mildly surprised at your actions, but doesn't say anything to burst the bubble.

Driving on the windy roads, Bradley looks to you occasionally. Your feet are out the window, and you have sunnies pushing your hair back. It's hard for him to pull his eyes away from you.

You hum along to the radio, knowing almost every classic rock song that comes on. He smiles when you exaggeratedly sing along to the Eagles, hands going up to your heart and feet swinging in the breeze as the 70s guitar strums.

"What?" you say, looking at him as he grins.

"Nothing," he says back, not even trying to hide the amusement on his face.

"Whatever," you roll your eyes, "This is my Great Balls of Fire."

He laughs at this. "Oh, is it now?"

"Yes," you say with certainty, hand moving to turn up the volume in the old truck.

Bradley watches as your hips move in the seat, shoulders bouncing with the beat.

"Let's hear it then," he says, holding out an invisible microphone, and you send him a glare.

Still, you grab the object and sing along with the man on the radio. You've pulled your feet in by now, only to really bounce around in your seat.

After a few seconds, Bradley joins in, and you send him a smile. The wind whips through the car, and he can't help but laugh at the freedom of the moment.

Pulling into a parking spot outside a small pharmacy, he takes the keys out of the ignition, but you both continue to sing as you walk down the main strip of town.

You're dancing a little bit still, and Bradley holds his hand out to twirl you down the sidewalk, sending you into a fit of giggles.

"Baby! You're home!" A voice calls out from behind you, and you wave at the group of teenage girls.

Further down the strip, another voice calls out, this time belonging to an older woman. "Look at you! All grown up."

You smile and call out a greeting at her as she continues along her way.

Bradley realizes, somewhere between the pharmacy and the bakery, that everyone knows your name. And you know theirs too.

As you pass the bar, a few men call for you from the patio. "Tell your dad he still owes me twenty bucks!"

You laugh and nod, promising them you will.

Bradley takes this all in; everyone vying for a bit of your attention makes him want to wrap an arm around your side, fingers twitching at the thought.

The bell on the door of the general store rings, and you, of course, say hi to the people in almost every aisle. Finally finding the buns and picking up a pack of candy for yourself, you make your way to the register.

"15.89, Baby," Mrs. Ruth, the cashier and owner, tells you. But before you can swipe your card out of your wallet, Bradley is handing her a twenty-dollar bill.

"Bradley," you admonish, but he just shrugs, taking the change back and slipping it into his back pocket.

While he's distracted, you grab the bag, and he nearly lunges at you.

"Let your husband carry the bag, Baby," Mrs. Ruth says, making your neck snap in her direction.

"He's not my—"

"Great idea," Bradley cuts in, taking the bag from your grasp in the moment of weakness.

"Hey!" you say as Bradley waves to the older woman and holds the door open for you. She's already chuckling under her breath as you jump up to grab the bag from him, and he dodges you once again.

"Come on, Baby. We might be missing some Fleetwood Mac," he tells you and suddenly the bag doesn't seem as interesting as you rush him back to the car.

જ⁀➴

Day Five

Storm clouds roll across the sky early in the morning, grey skies and booming thunder canceling wakeboarding plans. Bradley expects whines and complaints from your cousins; instead, they're all heading down to the basement game room.

The older kids are crowded around a game of Monopoly, assigning roles via a raise of hand.

The pre-teens are split into two groups. The more hyper of the bunch is playing Twister while the quieter group sets up Clue in the corner.

The littles are coloring with markers and crayons all over the floor. Surely it's a tripping hazard, but they all seem to have a system, handing each color off seamlessly.

The adults are upstairs, some of them taking the time to pack up before they all leave tomorrow. Others are on the couch, playing cards in their hands and poker chips out like a challenge.

Bradley sees you curled up next to your mom, both of you sharing a hand and sending a glare your dad's way. It's almost scary how similar your expressions are.

"Come here, Bradley," your dad says, making room for him on the couch.

"Go Fish!" one of your uncles yells down the basement staircase, causing a horde of children to come running up, two steps at a time.

Bradley looks to you, and you just smile.

"Annual game," your dad offers, and he hums.

"Bradley's playing?" one of the pre-teen boys asks as your aunt doles out cards.

"Sure am," he says, not catching the look the boy sends you as you wink.

"Alright, it's just like simple Go Fish, but we've got a few family rules. You'll catch on, though, honey," your aunt says as she hands him his cards.

Not wanting to ask too many questions, especially not after seeing how serious everyone got, he just nods.

"I'll go first," you say, starting the game and sending subtle looks to the people closest to you.

A few minutes pass, and Bradley feels like he's getting the hang of things. Every so often, someone calls out a rule, and he has to adjust, but still, his hand isn't too big, and maybe he's a little distracted by the grin on your face every time he meets your eyes.

"I don't think I'm doing this right," he confides in your dad as his hand grows bigger by the minute. You have to shoot your dad a glare as you see sympathy overtake his features at Bradley's confused voice.

More and more rounds pass like this, something weird with the sevens, and then an odd stacking rule that never seems to work in his favor.

He catches your cousin, the same one you pushed into the lake earlier this week, looking at you expectantly. Furrowing his brows, he watches as you mouth something at him.

"Hey," he says, putting his stack of cards down on the table. "What was that?"

You look at him innocently, but your poker face has never been too great. "What?" you ask, biting your cheek harshly to contain your smile.

Some of your aunts begin to laugh lightly, trying to hide it with coughs. Your uncles are all looking at the ceiling. All of them.

"Family rules?" he questions, jaw ticking with amusement.

"What about them?" you reply, not cracking quite yet, but Bradley can tell you're close to laughing, eyes crinkling familiarly.

He scoffs, looking around for support. Finally, he looks to your dad. He sees you shake your head and whips a finger at you, making half the room laugh.

"Sir," he pleads, blocking you from your dad's line of vision.

The older man sighs, defeated. "It was Baby's idea. Told us all this morning."

"I knew it!" Bradley jumps up from his seat and barrels towards you.

You shriek as his hands grasp at your sides, tickling you mercilessly. "Bradley!"

"Family rules?" he asks again as you continue to laugh and writhe around. Soon your cousins are up and joining him, little hands coming to tickle the bottoms of your feet and underneath your arms.

Your laughter increases tenfold and is joined by many other little laughs.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" you beg, eyes squinting shut and chest heaving.

Your laughter finally dissolves into breathless little hiccups as Bradley relents, holding both hands up in surrender. "Alright, alright," he laughs. "Mercy."

"I said I was sorry," you wheeze from where you'd ended up sprawled across the rug, hair sticking to your cheeks.

"You lied to me."

"But it was pretty funny, right?" you ask. His hands come back to your sides, and you back track immediately. "Not funny. Not funny."

Bradley looks around and notices everyone is laughing and smiling. A few of the little ones are still lying down on top of you, one on your stomach as you stroke her hair and another curled up into your shoulder. The sight tugs at Bradley's heart.

One of your aunts calls for help with dinner, and a few of the older kids are hopping up to meet her in the kitchen. A few of the other kids go back to their games, saying something about having a drawing contest.

Bradley offers you a hand, pulling you to your feet, and steadying you with a hand at your waist when you stumble slightly over one of the discarded pillows.

"Thanks," you murmur.

"Anytime."

Only then do you realize how close you've ended up. His hand is still resting lightly against your side. You're close enough to see the tiny flecks of hazel hidden in his brown eyes. Close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him.

Your breath catches.

"Will you come help us with a pillow fort?" one of the little girls asks, tugging on your sleeve, giving you the perfect opportunity to scoop her up and use her as a human shield.

"Let's go," you say quickly, not sparing another glance his way.

He watches you disappear down the stairs, the little girl balanced on your hip like she'd always belonged there.

Only when you're out of sight does he let out the slow breath he'd been holding. "Jesus," he mutters under his breath.

જ⁀➴

Piling into the living room, everyone settles down after dinner and stove-top s'mores. Your dad controls the remote, scrolling slower than anyone wants him to. "I don't want to miss anything!" he defends when one of his brothers reaches for it.

Somehow, you and Bradley end up in the middle of the couch. You catch the teasing look in your mom's eyes when you look around the room and shake your head.

You send him a shy smile as you settle down, thigh to thigh. But you only get a few minutes to feel awkward as you feel his arm wrap around your shoulders, pulling you into his hold as the movie starts up.

Your fingers trace the denim on his shorts, then move to play with the hem of his shirt, anything to distract you from the large hand that's running up and down your shoulder.

The movie is funny, but something you've seen a million times. You're unable to distract yourself for more than 5 minutes, almost knowing the dialogue by heart.

Your knees curl up to your chest, and one of Bradley's hands goes to bring them over his lap. The position is more comfortable than you want to admit.

The sound of his heartbeat begins to lull you, eyes becoming heavier with each blink.

Bradley can feel you finally sink into his hold, hand skimming the skin between the waistband of his shorts and the bottom of his shirt, completely innocent in sleep. Your head is tucked into his chest, and he can feel your soft hair tickling him every so often.

When a small snore comes from you, he finds himself looking down at your peaceful figure. A few of your younger cousins laugh at this, but he can't seem to tear his eyes away from you.

"Are you in love with Baby?" one of them asks, and the whole room freezes.

"You look at her the way mom and dad look at each other," another adds on, not helping the thumping of his chest. He's sure the fast beats are going to wake you up any moment.

The room is quiet, and he doesn't quite know what to say.

"Watch the movie," your dad tells them, snapping a finger in their direction, effectively rescuing him.

But when he looks at the man, he's already sending Bradley a knowing look.

જ⁀➴

The movie had ended hours ago, and you were back to sleeping at his side in your room, but Bradley can't help the flow of thoughts that run through him.

Pushing away the covers, he pads over to the sliding glass door, carefully opening it and heading out to the shoreline, leaving you behind as you doze off peacefully.

Flopping over to the other side of the bed, your hand goes to grab Bradley, but you are met with empty sheets. Unable to find him in your unconscious state, you groan lightly as you lift your head from the pillow.

The curtains are slightly open, giving away where the man is. Grabbing the first thing on the floor you can reach, you pull the fabric over your head and go outside.

You find Bradley standing with his hands in his pockets, looking out into the distance of the lake. The clacking of rocks under your slippers alerts him to your presence.

"Can't sleep?" you ask, bringing up a sweater paw when you yawn.

Bradley looks down at you, in his old college hoodie, and sighs. "No," he says breathlessly, not taking his eyes off you.

You turn to look up at him with a confused face. "Everything okay?" you ask, and you swear he huffs as he looks back out to the lake, making you increasingly anxious.

"I shouldn't have come out here."

You freeze at the words, already feeling your throat constricting.

"I knew this was a bad idea, and I did it anyway," he continues, voice heavy.

You knew it would end up like this. Your family was a lot; you were a lot. He'd gotten a front-row seat to it all this weekend, and it had driven him away.

God, you were so stupid. Maybe if you had been better about your boundaries, he wouldn't have felt like this. Or maybe if you had told your family to chill out a little more when he was around, he wouldn't have felt so regretful.

You thought it was going well. You thought he liked them. That he was having a good time.

Especially the past few days, you hadn't been able to turn a corner without him being right there next to you. But maybe that was his way of telling you it was too much.

He had offered to bring you dinner that one night in your room. God, you should've known then that he was tired of it all. Or maybe it was the constant push and pull from your younger cousins, always on top of him like a new plaything.

But maybe it really had been you. He'd seemed frustrated yesterday morning, now that you think of it. Done with your clumsiness and idiocy.

And he had seemed pretty annoyed at you earlier when you played that prank on him. Face heating up with embarrassment. Why hadn't you noticed that sooner?

You feel a tear roll down your cheek as you recall the events of this week. "Oh, Bradley, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to push you. I just didn't want you to be alone this week."

Your voice is meek, and Bradley whirls around to face you. He sees the tears forming, a few already slipping, and curses internally.

"Hey, hey, no. That's not what I meant," he tells you, hands going to cup your cheeks and push away the wetness.

"No?" you ask, not able to look at him just yet as you feel the tears well up.

"No, no, Baby. I just, I should've known that this week would make me fall even more in love with you."

You pause at that, blinking away your tears. Your hands come up to his bare chest to steady yourself at his confession.

"What?"

"I'm such an idiot. I mean, I didn't believe Jake when he told me." Bradley sees your brows knit in confusion and shakes his head. "Never mind, I just mean, I've been in love with you for a long time. Since the voicemail. No one's ever cared about me like that before."

The silence between you grows as you try to process his words.

"But I get it," he says finally, reading your face with a grimace as you stay quiet. "I know that's just how you were raised now. I don't expect anything to change."

Your neck snaps up at him at that, hands tightening around his torso. "What? No."

"No?" he asks, confusion on his face.

"I'm not like that with everyone. Only with you. It's different with you," you confess.

Bradley feels his heart leap at this. Only you playing on repeat in his brain- well, that is until your next few words.

"I love you too, Bradley."

At your confession, he moves to kiss you, hands cupping your jaw. Your face is cold compared to his warm hands, thumbs stroking your cheeks as his lips press against yours.

He pulls away slightly, the sight of your breathlessness from the kiss making him want to dive right back in. But before he does, his lips hover near yours. "Just for me?" he asks, confirming your feelings.

You nod, chasing his lips and giving them a soft kiss. "Yes. Only you."

He pressed harder against you at this, one hand coming down to hold steady at your hip and bring your body flush to his. The kisses become sloppy, tongue and teeth melding together as you stand on the shoreline.

His hands skim your lower back, and itching to be under the familiar sweatshirt. You nod, hoping he'll pick up on your signal. Quickly, his hands find your bare back, running up and down the smooth skin.

The feeling has you moaning into his mouth, and Bradley takes full advantage of it, sucking your tongue firmly as your eyes flutter.

His hands come down to your ass, picking you up and settling you around his waist. "This okay?" he asks, already walking back towards the sliding glass door to your room.

When you kiss him again, he laughs into your mouth.

"I need words, Baby."

When you look at him, his stare is intense, making you swallow.

"Yes, it's okay."

He smiles at this, giving you a chaste kiss. "Good job, Baby." The praise has you squirming in his hold as he opens the door.

Gently, he places you down in the middle of the bed. He thinks you look angelic like this, hair all fanned out against the pillow and body soft against the blue quilt.

He doesn't realize he's staring until you reach for him.

"Bradley?" Your face is twisted, a crease in your brows that he wants to smooth over and a pout on your lips that he wants to kiss.

"I'm good, Baby. Just been thinking about this for a long time," he admits, feeling his ears go a little red at the thought of all the times he's imagined you like this.

"Oh," you say, nodding, and Bradley thinks it's the sweetest thing. Words have escaped you a few times on this trip, and he loves the little face you make when you can't think of anything to say.

He climbs over your body, making you lie back once more. His fingers come to the bottom of the sweatshirt, playing with the light fabric as his mouth comes down to kiss your neck.

The tickle of his moustache is unfamiliar, but not unwelcome. Especially when it's accompanied by searing kisses and little nips to the sensitive skin.

His hands are glued to the pinch in your waist, thigh slotting between yours, pressing up against your heat. Your hands find his hair, tugging lightly once as his teeth scrape up against your jaw. The movement seems to affect him greatly as he groans into your skin and grinds down onto your thigh.

He's hard against you, and with him being only in his boxers, you can feel almost everything.

Bradley continues like this for a bit, kissing and grabbing at your soft skin as long as you let him. When his kisses begin to trail down your neck to your chest, he looks up at you.

Before he has the chance to detach himself from your skin, you speak, "Yes, please. It's okay."

He smiles at this; you can feel it against your sternum. Still, his fingers move to push up your sleep shirt and his sweatshirt, taking it off you completely.

For a second time, he just stares at you. Your nipples peak underneath the cool air and Bradley groans when your tits bounce as you move slightly against his thigh.

"Fuck, Baby. So beautiful, y'know that?" he says, but doesn't really give you any time to answer as he dives in to kiss your lips.

You moan against his lips when you feel his hands play with your nipples, rolling the sensitive skin in between his fingers.

Running a thumb over the peak of your left tit, he pinches tightly at your right. The difference has your hips canting up against him.

His lips travel down your body again, this time quicker and more sloppy. When he reaches your breasts, he presses them together in his hands, bringing your nipples as close together as possible. The push isn't uncomfortable; rather, it has you whining, waiting to see what he'll do.

He brings his face near the cleavage, kissing and sucking marks into the soft skin. Then his palms press against the flesh again, harsher. Opening his mouth, he sucks down on your left nipple, his nose rubbing up against the right one.

At first, his mouth is firm against you, like he's trying to take as much of you into his mouth as he can. But as he moves to your other breast, his tongue teases the sensitive skin, rubbing little circles and only coming down to suck for a second or two at a time.

"Bradley, stop teasing," you whine, pulling his hair again as a drop of spit lands in between your breasts.

"Sorry, Baby. Sorry," he tells you, capturing your lips in a kiss and letting your tits bounce back to their natural position. "Just so pretty."

He's maneuvered himself over you fully now, his length pressing up against your heat. Only a few layers of fabric separate you.

His kisses are sloppy, teeth tugging on your lips every time you press into him or pull his hair. Your legs have wrapped around his waist, wanting to feel him against your most sensitive parts.

When you go to pull at his boxers, he puts some distance between your bodies. Not too much, but enough so that he can look at you.

"Baby, I want to, of course. I just don't have a condom." His face looks pained as he explains this to you.

You capture your lip between your teeth before speaking, even the words seem dirty, and you haven't said anything out loud.

Sensing your internal turmoil, Bradley kisses you softly. "What's wrong?"

You open your mouth and then snap it shut promptly, making him tilt his head at you.

"I'm on birth control, so I'm okay if we..." you trail off, eyes on the ceiling, not wanting to look at the man above you as you tell him this.

His hand comes to your jaw, bringing your focus back to him. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure," you squeak out, and Bradley laughs.

"Baby, you don't need to be embarrassed. You want this, right?" he asks, needing your express approval.

You nod. "I know, it's just," you sigh, wanting to hide from his piercing gaze. "It's you. I've thought about this, too."

He grins at your words, leaning down to kiss your cheek softly.

"So cute, God. So fucking cute," he murmurs into your skin as you blush.

His hands push down your shorts and underwear in one swoop, tossing them off the bed and leaving you completely bare. He doesn't kiss your cheeks for long; instead, dragging you to the edge of the bed and drops to his knees.

"Oh, Bradley," you say, breath knocked out of you a bit. "You don't have to do that."

"I want to," he tells you without missing a beat, kissing softly at your inner thighs, making you jump. "Is that okay?"

You nod, lashes fluttering quickly. "Yeah, yes."

"Good." He noses at your thighs again. "Been wanting to taste you this whole week."

With that, he kisses your heart softly. One big hand goes to push your thighs up and away, putting you on full display to him. The same arm pushes against your thighs, keeping you open while he kisses and licks you.

His other hand caresses the skin around your ass, palming and squeezing the muscle there.

Bradley's tongue draws little circles around your opening, leaking more and more the closer he gets.

Your hands find purchase on his shoulders, fingers digging into the firm skin there.

Finally, he presses fully into you, nose bumping your clit while his tongue fucks into your slit. You moan at the feeling, bringing a hand up to your mouth after hearing the loud sound, but Bradley grabs your wrist away and places your hand on the back of his head, urging you to push into him.

"Fuck, Bradley," you whine as your hand tangles in his hair, using it as leverage as you rub against his face. When you do, he moans, and the vibrations send a tingling sensation through your body.

His arm presses even harder against your thighs, bending you open as he licks into you fully. Abandoning your opening, his lips trail up to your clit and begin soft sucks as you whine underneath him.

Pulling away slightly, he speaks, "Yeah, Baby, feel good?" The timbre of his voice hums against you, and you can't do anything but nod and whine out for him.

Again, he returns but sucks harder and in rhythm now, making you push your hips against his face. His free hand grabs your ass, pulling you back against him, making a sloppy wet noise resound in the otherwise quiet room.

You feel a familiar coil wind up in your deep tummy. Tugging his hair, you try to warn Bradley to come up, but he keeps close against you.

"Bradley, please," you try again, but he just keeps helping you cant your heat against his face.

With a whine, you cum against his face, and it's only then that he stops his assault on your clit and goes back to licking at your opening.

Kissing up your body, you can feel the sticky trail he leaves on your skin. Finally, his lips find your again, and you moan at the taste of yourself against his tongue.

"Taste perfect like I knew you would," he says, kissing all over your face.

You tug him back down and go to push down his boxers.

"Yeah? Ready, Baby?" he questions with a smile, helping you back to the middle of the bed as he lies back against you.

"Yes, need you," you confess, and the smile on his face drops and is replaced by something much more intense. He nods, taking his length in his hand, rubbing against your sensitive opening.

Pushing the head in has your eyes blown wide. Bradley's watching your every move, every slight change in your expression. When your lips part as he pushes further in, he has to will himself to not spill into you right away.

"Good? Feeling good, Baby?" he checks in before pushing further.

You wrap your legs around him, helping him slip in even more. The movement has you both moaning into each other.

"Can I?" he asks, voice a little whiny. You nod vigorously, and he kisses your lips as he pushes up against you. Your heat now full, and your brain mushy.

He takes a minute to adjust to the feeling, warm and pulsing around him. Bradley kisses up and down your neck as you whine against him. It isn't until you rock into him that he pulls out slightly before pushing back in.

"Oh, God," you gasp at the feeling, and Bradley can't help but agree.

"I know, I know. I'll go slow," he assures you, kissing your hairline as he pulls out once again.

After a few strokes like this, he finds a good rhythm. Hips now chasing into you with a mission.

Your hands claw at his back as he fucks into you, wanting to bring him even closer if it's possible. Your tits are already rubbing against his hard muscles, giving you a satisfying feeling as your nipples press harder and harder as Bradley moves above you.

"Yeah, Baby, yeah. Feels so good, you feel so perfect," he breaths into you, head ducking into your neck to suck marks and lick against you.

"Bradley, don't stop. Please," you beg, feeling him shift and hit the deepest spot.

"Right there? Yeah?" he asks, hips moving faster now as you moan openly.

His hand snakes near your tummy, going to find your clit. Once his thumb reaches the bud, your back arches off the bed, trying to push off.

"It's okay, it's okay. I got you," Bradley tells you, voice strained but still steady and there for you.

He doesn't let up on any front, even as you squirm below him. His thumb works steady circles into your clit. His mouth kisses your neck and jaw. His hips snap against yours in a way that makes your head spin.

All the while, Bradley watches you. Watches your breathing pick up with every thrust. Watches how you grab for anything to ground you: sheets, his hair, and his favorite, his back. Your nails digging into him more and more as the seconds pass. Bradley watches as your tits rub against him, squishing up against his broad chest. Everything he sees is ten times better than his imagination.

When your mouth opens in a soundless cry, he knows you're close. Dipping down, he captures your lips in a kiss, humming against you. With this last gesture, he feels you clench against him before releasing.

He's quick to follow. "Inside? Is that okay?"

"Yes, yes," you say breathlessly, a little too fucked out to say anything else.

Feeling a warmth in your tummy and seeing Bradley shudder above you makes you gasp. It's your turn to take his face in your palms, placing a searing kiss on his lips.

Both of you are still, trying to regain your breath as you come down from the high.

Bradley pulls out slowly, kissing your cheek as he does so, and lies next to you. His arm goes to wrap around you, bringing your body into his.

"You okay, Baby?" he asks as you hum against his chest. He chuckles at this, bringing a hand to brush through your hair softly.

"Did you mean it?" He almost misses your question, a little dazed himself.

Sitting up a little, he takes a look at you. "What?"

You bite your lip, something Bradley knows you only do when you're deep in thought or embarrassed about something.

"You really love me?"

He almost breaks at this; your voice is so small and scared.

"Of course. Of course I do. I love you so much, sweet girl," he says, lying back down and pressing kisses to the crown of your head.

You finally settle beside him, your hand coming to wrap around his waist. "Thought I was dreaming," you admit, and Bradley laughs at the sleepiness of your voice.

"No, not a dream," he says, but he feels your deep breaths against him and knows you're about to sleep. "Come on, got to clean you up before bed."

You groan, but are lifted from the bed and into the ensuite, where Bradley begins to kiss all over your body as he drags a warm washcloth against your most sensitive parts. The attention and softness has you slumping into his figure as he laughs.

"It's okay. Goodnight, Baby."

જ⁀➴

The cars are all lined up in the driveway, trunks open and stuffed to the brim with suitcases and duffle bags.

Your baby cousins are all crying into their parents' shoulders, saying they don't want to go home yet. Bradley can't help but feel the same way.

This week, Bradley learned more about you than he even hoped for. Every memory he was taking away would be touched golden, not just from the summer sun, but from your kindness.

A hand claps on his back, and Bradley turns to face your dad. With a hand outstretched, your dad scoffs, instead bringing him into a hug.

"See you next summer, Brad," he says simply, giving the younger man a smile while Bradley's jaw clenches.

You watch from a few feet away, but don't say anything. Instead, you turn to your mom, giving her a hug as she gets teary eyed.

"Mom," you say, laughing a bit at her big feeling.

"Oh, what? I'm going to miss you, Baby. Come visit us more often," she tells you, smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkles on your shirt. "Bradley can come, too."

She whispers the last part and you can't help but smile.

"Mom," you chastise, voice having no weight to it.

"He was looking at you differently this morning. You better call me when you get home and tell me what happened last night," she says, knowing only what a mom could.

"Oh my, God," you laugh as she brings you into one more hug.

"Ready?" Bradley asks as you walk over to him, his hand finding the small of your back easily now, like it's second nature.

————————————————————————

Nicholas "Goose" Bradshaw was killed in a F-14 crash on July 29th, 1986. He was 24 years old. He died exactly how he wanted, tearing through the sky in the backseat of an F-14 Tomcat with his best friend. The man Nick Bradshaw called his baby brother would hold together the pieces of Nick's skull until search and rescue found them.

He was already dead.

The wreckage of Goose's death didn't stop burning when the flames of the crash site were finally swallowed by the icy Pacific. The Bradshaw home smoldered black with grief for months after. Maverick, his ribs still purple from the straps of his ejection harness, delivered the news. Carole did her best, running on stubborn love and her own fading health, but the grief swallowed that fiery attitude of hers faster than Bradley could grow up. She passed in St. John's Hospital, held by the same man who held her husband when he passed.

Bradley was six years old.

They raised Bradley, him and Ice. And when the time comes, Maverick does what any good wingman would do: he pulls Bradley's papers.

He sets Bradley's career back by four long years, feeding the still-warm embers of the wreckage of Goose's death.

Bradley's rage is like a coke can, fallen out of the fridge and awkwardly jammed into the same compartment of the fridge over and over again. Perfectly fine on the outside until someone cracks the tab and unsuspectingly finds themselves the victim of an explosion that's been waiting to happen. And boy does he explode.

Goose had been so mild mannered and easygoing that everyone just assumed Bradley inherited his relaxed demeanor. Carol too, had been peaceful and easygoing. So it was startling to find that Bradley, despite all of his usual timidness, had a fuse. It wasn't nearly as short as Maverick's—whose Ice would argue was nonexistent—but it was there, buried beneath all that quiet.

And when Bradley finally stands before him after eight long years, his broad chest heaving, his voice shaking with a fury that has been simmering since he was four years old, Maverick can practially feel the blood of Nick Bradshaw staining his hands all over again

"What? You thought you were gonna pull my papers and that would be it!? Problem solved??"

Maverick stands his ground. He feels forty-two years young again, staring at his kid's application and death sentence all in one. "It gave you time to grow up."

"I didn't need to grow up," Bradley snaps, his light hazel eyes darker than any storm cloud Maverick has ever faced. "I needed my dad. But you took that away from me too."

The radius of Bradley's fury is staggering. Maverick is left standing in the quiet hum of the hangar, Bradley's words echoing off the metal walls like a sonic boom, even louder than the slam of the door as the young pilot storms out.

"I needed my dad. But you took that away from me too."

It takes Maverick a long time to move. And it takes him even longer to stop hearing those words. They ring even after the roaring engine of the vintage Bronco engine peels out of his driveway, leaving nothing but a cloud of dust to fade into the already bleeding orange sky.

———

The Miramar sunset has quickly become your favorite part of this training assignment. Sure, the beach was nice, and the smell of the coast cleared your mind quicker than any liquor that you've tried. But the sunset, there's nothing quite like it, impossibly golden and incredibly vibrant.

You've only been a part of the Dagger detachment for a few months now, reassigned to this highly decorated squadron of the Navy's elite after their miraculously successful Uranium mission. You've been informed of their reputations before you arrived. You knew Hangman was egotistical and arrogant. You knew Coyote was his right-hand man. You knew Phoenix was sharper than glass, and that her WSO was quiet but deadly. You knew Payback and Fanboy were inseparable.

And you knew Rooster was slow. Deliberate. The safe bet.

You hadn't expected to fall for him. You hadn't expected that a couple of weeks of the toughest training of your life would sit you down in a booth at the Hard Deck. That those hazel eyes would sit down across from you and order two margaritas. That a couple of hours later, you would end up half-naked on the beach, sprawled out lazily in the sand beneath him. That the taste of those margaritas and the salt of the ocean would linger on his lips when he kissed you, where you realized that beneath that easygoing, mustache-sporting exterior was a man of immense, steady depth.

That night has turned into six months. It's fresh, it's new, it's exciting.

And right now, it's about to get incredibly complicated.

You sigh, looking out at the fading sunset one last time before you climb down the ladder of your jet. The feeling of your feet on the ground makes your stomach dip in a way that makes it feel like you're pulling Gs. Your breakfast from this morning threatens to make an appearance. You press your hand to your flipping stomach, a chill running through you despite the warmth of the evening.

"Hey."

You jump slightly, turning to find Bradley walking towards you from the hangar. He looks exactly like the man the Navy thinks he is—relaxed, and broad-shouldered, his flight suit tied around his waist, hands tucked into his pockets. He's got that easy, slow stride that makes it seem like he's got all the time in the world.

But as he gets closer, and you can see the caramel colored highlights in his hair, you notice the tightness around his eyes. That soda can like fury has been shaken. The tab is cracked, and he's doing everything in his power to keep the pressure from blowing.

"Hey yourself," you say, forcing a smile as you finish tying your hair up into a ponytail. "You look like you're miles away."

Bradley stops a foot away from you, blocking the last of the sunset with his large frame. He towers over you, but the Navy must overlook the extra few inches thanks to his prowess as a pilot. His dark eyes soften just a bit, but the shadow still lingers. The shadow of a four-year holding pattern that he can't seem to fly out of.

"Just thinking," he murmurs, and then squints before reaching out to brush his knuckles against your cheek. "You feel okay? You look pale."

Your heart hitches. He doesn't know. No one knows, besides maybe the high schooler at the superstore checkout counter. You don't know what's worse, knowing that you're both active-duty pilots under the most intense scrutiny of your careers, or not knowing how Bradley's going to react when he finds out. Tradition says you should have been careful. Protocol says you should have a ring.

"Bradley," you begin softly, catching his hand before it can fall from your cheek. "Let's go back to your place."

He blinks, sensing the timidness in your usually confident tone. His cautious instincts are flicking on, lighting up like the control board in his F-18. "Yeah. Okay. Let's go."

The drive back to Bradley's place is unusually quiet. Usually he had the Bronco windows down and the radio on, and he sang along as tapped out the tune on his steering wheel. Today is different. He's tense, his hands gripped tightly to the wheel even as he pulls up to the house.

It's off base, a little one bedroom house right on the beach with a front porch and white fence around the front yard. It was his parent's first house, left to him after Carole died, and he couldn't bear to part with it. 

You remain in the passenger seat even after he parks the car. Bradley does too. He cuts the engine and just sits there for a moment, his forehead dropping to rest against the top of the steering wheel.

The silence wasn't hostile—it never was with Bradley—but it was dense and heavy. You could hear the storm brewing in this head, the fizz of the soda can waiting to explode.

You stare down at your hands folded in your lap. You feel nauseous again, your palms clammy as you pick at the edge of your fingernail.

"Bradley," you say softly, reaching out to touch his forearm.

He lets out a long, ragged breath and then straightens in his seat, his head twisting to look over at you. "Yeah?" He asks softly, doing his best to put on that easygoing, slow and steady Bradley Bradshaw smile for you.

"I'm pregnant."

Almost immediately, the smile drops from his face. For a long moment, he just stares at you, his face unreadable.

"Bradley—"

The sound of the Bronco door slamming shut echos like a gunshot in the quiet beach neighborhood. Through the faded windshield, you watch him go—a blur of green flight shirt and raw, kinetic energy tearing through the pristine white gate of his front yard.

He paces a tight, jagged line across the grass without a word, finally stopping in front of the porch with his hands on his hips. You can see his chest heaving, his massive shoulders shaking.

He mutters something under his breath that looks like 'Fuck'.

You push your door open, your boots moving across the gravel driveway with a soft crunch. Bradley doesn't turn around, even when you stop behind him.

He's not angry, you remind yourself. He's scared. He's processing.

"Bradley..." you say again, your voice barely carrying out over the distant roar of the surf.

When he finally does turn around, his eyes are still cast down towards the ground, hands braced on his hips. "Six months," he breathes out, shaking his head. "We've been together six months."

You swallow. "I know," you admit quietly.

"I've spent my entire life being careful," he continues. His chest is still heaving, his breathing harsh and frantic. "I check the weather. I check the maintenance logs. I fly safe because I known exactly what happens when you don't."

He lets out a short, bitter laugh, and shakes his head. "And then Mav had the nerve to look at me and tell me I needed to grow up. Fucking asshole."

Bradley sucks at his teeth. "Everyone thinks I'm just like my dad. Easygoing. Mild. Patient. But I am so damn tired of waiting for permission to live my life."

You reach out, taking one of his large hands in yours. The same hands that are steady and strong enough to pull up a thousand pound plane engine are shaking.

"Bradley look at me," you command him gently, your voice at least sounding steadier than his shaking hands.

Slowly, his hazel eyes come to rest on your face. They're wet, glimmering with anger and the fear of uncertainty.

"Then, baby, stop waiting."

Bradley stares at you, his jaw tight, his chest still rising and falling in heavy inhales and exhales.

For a man who flies at Mach 2, Bradley processes life in agonizingly slow motion. You can see the calculations running behind his wet hazel eyes. He's thinking about the risks, the career fallout, the Daggers, Maverick.

And then you see when it happens. His shoulders drop, and his wet eyes crinkle, and something that resembles a choked laugh escapes him.

"A baby," he breathes out, the reality finally piercing him through the panic. "We're gonna have a baby."

Then it all comes crashing over you. Relief. Joy. Fear.

"Yeah," you smile through a sudden blur of tears. "We are."

Bradley's palm slides up to cradle the back of your head and he presses his lips to your forehead in a tender kiss. "I was supposed to marry you first," he huffs, sounding just a little regretful. "Maverick is going to blame me for being reckless. Hangman is going to have a field day."

You let out a wet, breathless laugh against his chest. He was right. You would both probably catch some hell for this. The Daggers were some of your closest friends, but Navy gossip was brutal.

"Let Seresin talk," you murmur, burying you face into the crook of his neck. "That's about all he's good for anyway. As for Maverick..." You pause, pulling back just enough to look up into his hazel eyes. "That man is just going to be happy you made him a grandpa."

Bradley lets out another breathy, genuine laugh, the kind that finally rids his broad shoulders of the tension he's been carrying since he stepped off of the tarmac. He closes the distance between you and wraps his strong arms around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He buries his face into your hair and breathes you in.

"One thing's for sure," Bradley murmurs. "He is absolutely going to lose his mind."

———

A couple of weeks later, the drive the down the coast to the Kazansky-Mitchell residence is the longest twenty minutes of your life.

Bradley's hand hasn't left your since you got into the Bronco, or really since you broke the news to him. His grip is firm, steady, and grounded. He doesn't look like the same man whose world fell apart in his front lawn a few weeks ago. The hesitation that usually governs his every move has evaporated, replaced a steady, protective focus.

"You ready for this?" Bradley asks softly, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. The blinker clicks ever so tediously as he turns down the drive.

"No," you admit honestly, squeezing his hand. "But when has that ever stopped us."

His sparkling hazel eyes catch yours in the rearview mirror and he offers you a small, sharp smile. "That's my girl."

Despite the fact that Bradley has had an on and off turbulent relationship with Pete Mitchell since before you started dating, the Kazansky-Mitchell home has always been somewhere that you've felt welcome at. The house is lavish, grand and sprawling along the water, beyond suitable for a near retired admiral who has nothing but time on his hands to enjoy it after beating an aggressive round of cancer. While Bradley tends to make himself scarce when he and Captain Mitchell are fighting, they still always extend the invitation for dinner.

When Bradley parks the Bronco in the driveway and walks around to open your door, Tom is sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch as he usually is, his reading glasses on his nose and a book in his hands. From his aging appearance, it was clear that his health had seen better days, but his mere presence is as commanding as ever.

The former COMPFLT stands when the two of you begin to walk up the front porch and his posture is still every bit the four-star admiral he used to be. A part of you still always wants to salute him before approaching him. But based upon his soft, warm expression as Bradley guides you up the porch steps, it's clear that his days of commanding are past.

"Bradley, it's good to see you kids. We were beginning to think you two weren't going to stop by."

Regardless of whatever the state his and Maverick's relationship was at the time, Bradley's fury hardly ever extends to his surrogate father. Your boyfriend shakes Ice's hand when he offers it and pulls the older man into a firm hug.

"You know how it is Pops. Mav and I have our days. I missed too much to stay away for long now."

Ice just smiles at his son warmly, a smile that conveys missed birthdays, holidays, a cancer diagnosis, graduations, promotions. "I think your dad is inside." And then he adds, "He'll be glad to see you."

Bradley squeezes your hand and nods toward the door with a sigh. "Right, guess I'd better go make amends."

You squeeze his hand back and watch him go, leaving just you and Ice on the porch. The retired admiral turns to you. Again, his smile is warm, looking nothing like the man who used to eat junior grade sailors for breakfast.

"It's good to see you're keeping him grounded. He's a good man. He just needs a push sometimes."

"He's wonderful, Admiral," you say, and you mean the statement will all of your heart. "He really is."

Not long after you and Ice settle on the rockers on the porch, Bradley reappears through the front door with Maverick right behind him. He offers you an easy, relaxed smile as he settles on the porch swing beside you. The tension usually crackles between Bradley and Maverick seems to have dissipated, at least for the moment. As if to reassure you, a tentative but relieved grin breaks through the captain's weathered features.

"[Y/N]! Good to see you. Glad someone can convince this kid to drive south."

It's a jab at Bradley, however unintentional, but to your relief, the younger pilot doesn't bite at the comment. Instead you just hear him let out a heavy sigh, one that says he's going to let it go for the sake of peace.

Conversation flows smoothly for most of the evening. Talk shifts from workplace gossip, to Mav's latest project in the garage, to plans for the upcoming weekend. To much of yours and Bradley's enjoyment, the two old men still bicker between themselves like lovesick teenagers. Even when Ice's voice rasps and his words fail him, they still manage to taunt each other. The retired admiral will raise his empty hands, moving his fingers in a way that you aren't privy to yet, and Maverick will scoff, firing back with his own verbal insult. It makes you breathe easier to see the kind of people that raised Bradley during the hardest times of his life.

At some point, when the sun had begun to dip below the horizon, Bradley clears his throat, and he starts, his voice clear and steady. "We need to tell you guys something. And I need you to just listen for a second before you say anything."

Across from you, the looks on the two men's grown concerned, uncertain of what Bradley is about to say. Eventually, Ice nods softly. "Okay. Talk to us, kid."

Bradley clears his throat again, this time sounding a bit less confident than the first time. "Well, um.. [Y/N] and I just found out some news... We're expecting. We're going to have a baby."

For a moment, even Ice's rocking chair stops creaking.

Maverick sputters. "You're... what?"

From beside him, Admiral Kazansky is living up to his callsign. He's straight faced, his icy blue eyes unreadable. He just rubs a gruff hand over his face, rubbing his fingers at his temple. And then a slow, rare smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth as he looks across his shoulder at his husband.

"Well, Mitchell. Payback's a bitch, isn't it?"

Glancing over at you with so much adoration in his eyes, Bradley interlocks your fingers with his and then looks back at the two men who are still processing the information across from you. "Look, we know it's sudden. Probably a little sooner than you were expecting—"

"Sooner?!" Maverick blurts. "Bradley, you're not even married!!"

You can't help but wince a little at the statement. Bradley squeezes your hand as if to say, 'it's okay, we knew this was coming'.

"Mav—" Bradley begins, ready to defend himself. But before Bradley can finish, Ice interjects.

"Pete, leave them be." He reaches over and grabs his husband's hand as if to settle him. "Accident or not, what's done is done."

Ice turns his sharp, steady gaze back onto you and Bradley, his expression shifting from mild amusement to that of a cautious parent. "Congratulations you two, really, we're thrilled. But Mav does have a point. You've only been together a few months... In the Navy, there's a protocol to these kinds of things. A checklist. You completely bypassed the flight plan, kid."

Bradley shifts uncomfortably on the porch swing, his broad shoulders tensing as he prepares to defend himself once again. It's your turn to squeeze his hand.

"Pops, c'mon," Bradley basically groans, the petulant teenager that he used to be showing just a little. "I'm a grown man. I'm twenty-six years old. I know we fucked up the timeline."

He looks over at you, his big hazel eyes softening as his mouth twists into a dreamy, wistful smile. "But screw it. We're so damn excited. Because I'm tired of waiting for permission to live my life."

You can't help but smile back at him, leaning into his side on the porch swing. In that moment, all of your worries disappear, and you know that everything is going to be just fine.

Ice and Maverick watch the two of you for a long moment. They look at Bradley's fierce, protective grip on your hand and the warm smiles on your faces. And then they look at each other knowingly. Finally, Maverick lets out a long, slow breath, which then turns into a watery laugh.

"Twenty-six," Maverick mutters, shaking his head. "Gosh, Bradley, when did you get so old?" He finally relaxes back into his chair, the rocker rolling backwards slowly with the movement. "Your dad would be absolutely losing his mind right now. Your mom too. They'd be so damn proud."

You see Bradley's throat bob at the mention of his parents. You hadn't thought about the fact that they're missing this.

"I sure hope so," Bradley says softly, and for the first time, his voice sounds weak.

"They would be," Ice reassures him, his sharp features soft and genuine. And then a sharp, mischievous glint returns to his eyes. "But don't think that Nick wouldn't have something to say about this whole not being married thing. He'd have your hide."

Bradley's face flashes an embarrassed crimson and he rolls his eyes. "Okay, okay, I hear you guys. I promise I'm gonna take care of it."

And then it's your turn to flush red. Not that it hasn't been implied, but the two of you really haven't talked about getting married before now. Hearing him say it out loud to his dads makes it all the more real.

Maverick catches the flushed look on your face and looks over knowingly at Ice.

"Alright, you two," Maverick says, patting Ice's knee affectionately. "I'm sure you've got other people to spill the news to. Go on. Get out of here and get some fresh air. It'll be good for the baby,"he adds with a wink.

You can't help but laugh at his words. You can already tell he's going to be a very attentive grandpa—for better or for worse.

———

As you and Bradley walk down from the house to the beach, a comfortable quiet settles between the two of you. Your interlocked hands swing and you walk beside each other, your feet sinking into the soft ground as it gives way from soft grass to sand.

Eventually, Bradley looks over at you. He's got a mischievous gleam in his hazel eyes, his mustache lifting with the twist of his mouth. "You ready to tell the Daggers?"

You laughs a little breathlessly, admittedly a bit nervous. "No—"

"But when has that ever stopped us," Bradley quotes, repeating your words from earlier.

On the beach, now that the new is at least partially out, Bradley can hardly keep his hands off of you. On your waist, in your hair, sliding past your baggy pair of jeans that are becoming tighter and tighter by the day. All the possessive touching that he wasn't allowed to do is finally coming out. The weeks of careful glances in the briefing room, him stealing glances at your waistline to see if anyone else could notice, the agonizing weight to the secret seems to lift.

You laugh between kisses like two college kids in love and allow him to undo the button of your jeans. He drops to his knees when you step out of them, his heavy frame shifting easily into the soft sand, and he presses a few soft, deliberate kisses to your belly. The rough skin of his hands smooths firmly over your hips, grounding you as the cool ocean air sweeps over your skin.

"I still can't believe it, baby," he murmurs, his mouth pressed to your belly as he speaks. Bradley's voice is a low, gravelly vibration that makes your chest ache with a blooming warmth. He pulls back just enough to look up at you, his hazel eyes green in the sunset. "You're gonna make me a daddy."

The pride in his voice is enough to make your throat swell.

"You're gonna be such a good daddy, Bradley," you whisper, your palm cradling his cheek. He leans into it like a cat, his face hot and flushed.

It takes him a lot of convincing to get you in the water—the Pacific is notoriously biting this time of evening—but eventually he does. He hooks his large hands under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as he wades into the surf. He laughs when you yelp as the first wave breaks against his waist, misting you with an icy spray.

His slick, salt sprayed body never leaves yours. The water swirls just below your waist, cool enough to make your skin prickle, but everywhere Bradley touches is pure heat. Something about you in bikini bottoms and your pregnant belly just barely showing out the bottom of the white tank you're wearing over your swim top has made him absolutely feral.

He presses his palm against the small of your back, holding you close against the gentle resistance of the tide. His damp hands find the barely showing curve of your waist, pushing up against the wet fabric of your tank top so that your belly is more exposed. When he does kiss you, it's deep and consuming, tasting like salt and the lingering warmth of the sun, his bare chest solid against yours.

The cautious pilot that you once knew has been replaced by a man who was deeply unafraid to show how committed he was to this new role as a father.

"Bradley," you giggle breathlessly as his hands wander down to your butt, his large palm encompassing almost the entirety of your rear. "Someone is going to see us."

"Let them," he growls softly, his mouth moving down your jaw as his fingers find the tie of your bikini bottoms. At the discovery that these things can be untied, he tugs mischievously at the strings. "Let the whole damn Navy see. I don't care."

You let out a breathless, giddy laugh. You burry your fingers into the damp, caramel-highlighted curls at the nape of his neck and tug, forcing his eyes to meet yours. "Your dads and my soon-to-be in-laws are a hundred yards up that boardwalk. If they glance out their back window, I will never be able to look Ice in the eyes again."

And that's how you find out Bradley Bradshaw has a hair pulling kink.

His fingers freeze against the wet strings of your bikini bottoms, his entire posture going rigid against yours. Something like a pleased groan rumbles in his chest. Looking down at you, Bradley's pupils are blown so wide his eyes look almost black.

A teasing, mischievous smile breaks out onto your face. "You like that, big guy?" You tighten your grip on his thick locks of hair and tug again, firmer this time.

You see his throat contract as he swallows. Bradley looks down at you, his hazel eyes dark and heavy, entirely consumed by the sight of you. "You have no idea," he growls, his voice dropping into a tone so thick and low that it sends heat pooling to your stomach.

Bradley swallows again. "You look incredible," he whispers, and the combination of the compliment and his blissful register makes your heart skip a beat. His large hands find the swell of your stomach under your tank top again. "I mean it. I don't think I've ever seen anything more gorgeous."

The teasing smile on your face melts into rueful frown as you fight the sudden rush of watery emotions threatening to bubble up from your chest. "You can't do that," you protest, your fingers loosening their grip on his hair to rest on the back of his neck. "You and these hormones are going to make me cry, Bradley."

He chuckles, light and airily, like he didn't just create the most tender moment in the world. "Well we can't have that, baby. We've still got to take that picture."

"Right, the picture," you breathe out, grateful for the opportunity to pull yourself together before the tears do start falling.

Bradley doesn't let go of you even when you begin to wade out of the water. His hands linger protectively on your hips  until you feel your feet sink to the warm, dry sand of the shore. You make your way over to the pile of your clothes lying in the sand and rustle through them until you find your phone buried in the pocket of your discarded jeans.

"Okay, so how do we do this," you ask him, suddenly feeling the pressure of deciding how you should drop this news to the Daggers.

Bradley shrugs, coming to stand behind you with his hands on your waist as you stare down at your phone, dusting sand from the screen. "Up to you, momma. They're going to flip no matter what."

He's right. With such profoundly unexpected news, the world really is your oyster.

A wicked thought suddenly flashes through your mind, and the teasing smile from earlier reappears on your face.

"I have an idea," you murmur, looking at his reflection in the dark phone screen. "You think you can follow orders?" you ask, turning to face him.

It's Bradley's turn to smirk. "Baby, following orders is literally my job."

You reach up and place a firm hand on his shoulder, forcing him downward. "Alright then. Get on your knees, big guy."

Bradley lets out a low, ragged laugh, but he doesn't hesitate for even a second. His massive frame sinks immediately into the sand as he drops to his knees right in front of you.

"Good boy," you hum, and his face flushes red.

"This good?" he asks as you look down at him.

His board, bare shoulders are squared, shining freckled and golden in the evening light. In front of him, your white tank is ridden up just enough to make your soft bump less of a suggestion and more of a statement. You reach down with your free hand and bring his hands up to hold either side of your stomach. His huge palms cover almost the entirety of it, but on the screen, it's perfect.

Before you can snap the picture, Bradley leans in and presses a warm kiss to your belly. His mustache brushes the sensitive skin and you laugh, reaching down to wrap your fingers in his hair and tug his head back just enough so that his dark, lust blown eyes look straight into the camera.

Click.

The picture that you catch is striking. Dare you say, almost scandalous. The Daggers are going to have a stroke.

"Let me see," Bradley asks as he lifts himself to his feet. He looks over your shoulder at the screen, and a dangerous, wicked smirk appears on his face. "Oh yeah. That'll do it."

You open the Dagger group chat and select the photo from your camera roll, typing out a caption before you send it.

[You]: Copilot arriving in December 🍼✈️

You hit the arrow and the message send with a sharp whoosh.

For a grand total of ten seconds, the chat goes dead silent. And then the server breaks into utter nuclear chaos. The notification feed turns into a blur of frantic text bubble that shoot up the screen to make way for then new incoming messages at lightning speed.

[Phoenix]: OHMYGOD OHMYGOD OHMYGOD. WHAT!?!?!  BRADSHAW. [Y/N]. IM SCREAMING.

[Hangman]: Holy Fuck! Bradshaw, you fucking animal. I didn't think you had it in you

[Phoenix]: GUYS IM CRYING!! CONGRATS!!!!

[Coyote]: Bro bypassed the entire flight plan, skipped the checklist, and went in straight for the kill. Well played my man. Congrats!

[Payback]: There's no way. Bradshaw?!?? Mr. Cautious himself??? The man who takes three business days to decide on a lane change? That's who just dropped a scandalous pregnancy announcement in the group chat??

[Hangman]: {replied to Payback} There better be a ring on that finger

[Phoenix]: {replied to Hangman} Shut up asshole

[Fanboy]: Has anyone checked on Maverick??!!? That old man is going to have a literal heart attack

[Bob]: Congrats guys!!!!

[Hangman]: {replied to Phoenix} Just pointing out the obvious

[Payback]: But seriously, congrats you two. Really happy for you guys

Bradley, who had been watching the nuclear explosion unfold from over your shoulder,  removed himself from your back to take out his phone.

[Rooster]: Ring is being handled, Seresin. Don't worry your pretty little head about it

Instantly, the group chat explodes again.

[Phoenix]: ARE WE HAVING A WEDDING?!??!!

[Phoenix]: PLEASE LET ME PLAN IT

[Hangman]: I'll believe it when I see the rock, birdman

[Payback]: {replied to Rooster} Bro really said "handled". Respect

[Coyote]: There's no way Bradley Bradshaw is getting married before any of us

[Fanboy]: {replied to Coyote} Don't rush it. I can't handle becoming a godfather twice in one day

Before you can read anymore replies, Bradley reaches over and takes the phone from your hand, tossing it onto the blanket on the ground. He wraps both arms around your waist, pulling you tightly against his broad chest and sighs, h

the heavy weight of his body sinking into you. Now that the world officially knows, the last bit of tension has completely drained from his massive frame.

You hum quietly, leaning back into him as his large hands slide under waistband of your jeans.  His warm palms finding the bare skin of your waist, his thumbs tracing the small, growing curve of your stomach with a newfound reverence.

He holds you there for a long moment, just breathing you in, his chest rising and falling in heavy, steady rhythms against your back. The weeks of stolen glances in the hangar, the agonizing weight of the secret, the fear of what his dads would say—it all washes away with the tide.

Bradley turns you around in his arms so you're facing him, his hazel eyes dark, focused, and entirely consumed by you in the moonlight. He reaches up, his large fingers gently tangling into the hair at the base of your neck, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze.

This was your second year returning as a camp counsellor. You were a Pineridge attendee from when you were seven right up until you were sixteen, never ever missing a year. Some of your fondest memories and friendships were formed in the rustic wooden cabins and around the bustling campfires, still keeping in contact with some today.

Last summer, just after you’d graduated from high school, your Mom had told you that she’d seen in the newspaper that Pineridge were looking for counsellors that summer. You practically leapt over the table to grab the nearest paper, desperate for one last summer to relive some of the best of your life. 

And you were off but a few weeks later, packing bathing suits, your walkman, extra sunscreen and your old Converse into the back of your car and ready to jump right back into camp life. 

Your cabin last summer was off near the lake, a perfect view of the glistening water out of the wooden window. In your bunk, you had six girls in there and another counsellor, Sarah. All of the girls were sweet as sugar, excited to get stuck into all the activities. 

“Do you think Steve is coming back this year?” One of the girls whispered to the group as they gathered on one of the beds, a few of them fanning themselves at the mention of Steve’s name. 

“Oh, I hope so! Do you remember last summer when he won that canoe race? Oh my god!” Their giggles were filling up the room, loud enough for you to be pulled from your backpack that you were unpacking to turn around to Sarah. 

“Who’s Steve?” Your voice was a whisper as you pulled out one of your books, placing it in your designated drawer next to your bed. 

Sarah’s head turned to glance back at the twelve year olds still giggling and sharing their favourite stories about this mystery man before looking back at you. “Steve’s kind of a legend around here. He’s been a counsellor for the last two or three years, I think? He is super hot, so not surprised they’re still talking about him.” 

You laughed softly at her words, nodding as you moved onto unpacking the clothes from your duffle bag. 

But, there was no Steve last summer. Not that you were waiting, but you’d be lying to yourself if you weren’t a little bit interested about the guy that had all of the girls at Pineridge wanting him, and all of the boys wanting to be him. 

This summer was no different. The drive up to camp felt the same, you still recognised every droopy tree and road sign from the back seat of your Dad’s truck when you were seven, anticipating the feeling of your car bumping beneath the stones toward the entrance of the camp. 

You were assigned to the same cabin with Sarah and quite a few of the same girls. You drove up a day early to be prepared for when all of the kids arrived, excited to catch up with each of the girls and hear about the last year of their lives. To find out if they’d ended up joining the theatre club, or if they got that bike for their birthday they really wanted.

Awaiting their arrival, you were laying on your bed reading one of the books your friend from college had given you to read over the summer, when Sarah came tumbling through the cabin door. 

“Hey, c’mere, look,” Sarah practically hissed at you as she shut the door behind her, pressing her body into it to look through the screen of the door. When you stayed put, she turned over her shoulder to beckon you over desperately. “Come on, look!”

With a small sigh, you pushed yourself up from the creaky bed. Your Converse padded against the wooden boards until you were close behind Sarah, looking out through the screen at all the counsellors arriving. “What am I looking at?”

Sarah groaned exasperatedly, grabbing onto your arm and pulling you back slightly to pull the door open. The two of you stepped out onto the porch of your cabin, your eyes squinting as they adjusted to the sun, desperate to find what you were meant to be looking for. 

“Steve Harrington.” Was all Sarah said with a dreamy sigh. 

Your eyes landed on him then, and God, was everybody right. He was gorgeous. His skin was sunkissed and freckly, practically glowing under the summer sun. The heather grey Pineridge t-shirt he was wearing looked slightly too small, fabric pulling around his bicep. 

But you dismissed it when Steve raised his hand to high-five another counsellor, the hem of it rising to reveal a small pudge of his stomach, the shadow of a trail of darkening hair and even more freckles. 

“He’s alright.” You lied through your teeth as your arms snaked across your chest. You found it hard to tear your eyes away from him, especially when he turned his hands dropped to his hips and his body turned toward you, his eyes scanning the rest of the cabins. 

Sarah scoffed from beside you with a small shake of her head, “Alright? Do you have eyes? Look at him, he’s– Oh my God, he’s coming over here. Shit, act cool, okay?” Her voice lowering a few octaves as her sentence ended, causing you to huff a laugh through your nose. 

“Sarah,” Steve grinned as he crossed the pathway toward your cabin, he stood on the first step as he lifted his hand from his hip to push through his hair. “Thought you’d be off in Europe or something this summer.” 

“Oh, no, can’t stay away from Pineridge.” Sarah laughed gently, shifting her weight onto the other foot as her arms snaked across her chest. You watched the interaction, not able to help the small smile from appearing on your lips at the flush of her cheeks. 

“This your first summer with us then, new girl?” You heard Steve say, your brows furrowed gently as your eyes pulled from Sarah to look down at him. His eyes were dark hazel, the sunlight shining directly into them flashing a green at you which made the lump in your throat thicken. 

You shook your head gently, pursing your lips at him before speaking. “No, I was here last summer. And actually stayed in that bunk over there for nine summers of my life when I was a kid.” Your head dropped forward to motion to a cabin across from you, but Steve didn’t turn around, he just kept his eyes on you. 

“So, you don’t need anyone to show you around then?” His voice was almost teasing as he tilted his head, one of his eyes squinting shut to shield him from the sun. 

A small laugh escaped you as you shook your head gently, lifting a hand to push your sunglasses further into your hair as you flashed Steve a small smile. “No, I’m good. Thank you.” 

You could hear Sarah scoff from beside you, but you didn’t look over. Didn’t bear to look away from Steve, whose gaze was practically burning a hole through you. He just nodded gently, lifting a hand goodbye before making his way over to the next group of people he needed to greet. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Sarah whispered through her teeth as she watched Steve wander over to the next cabin, before turning herself to look at you. “He was totally flirting with you! He wanted to show you around!” 

“Mm, I think he was just being nice.” You returned with another laugh, taking a few steps to hold the door open for you both to go back inside. Sarah sauntered in first, rehashing the conversation that had just happened twenty seconds ago. 

You stepped in after her, stealing a quick glance over your left shoulder to see Steve talking to another counsellor. But his eyes caught yours, and you watched as a small smirk crept to the corner of his mouth and he raised his hand in another wave. 

The rest of the day passed in a blur, you and Sarah preparing the cabin for the arrival of the girls, getting situated with the rest of the counsellors who had arrived throughout the rest of the day. 

But you didn’t see much of Steve after the kids came barrelling in over the next few days, you were looking after the girls and he was looking after the boys, your days were quickly filled with friendship bracelets and watersports that had you feeling like you were twelve again. 

And by the time five weeks had passed, you still only saw Steve in pieces. 

You’d see him briefly in the dining hall. You’d feel his hand hold onto your waist as he’d brush past you, leaving a tingle on your skin from where his palm had just laid. You’d see him on the lake when you’d take your girls out for the afternoon to canoe. He’d make sure to give you a bright wave and an even brighter smile, one that you’d be thinking about for the rest of the day. 

One night, after a particularly long day of listening to the girls fawning over Patrick Swayze, you snuck out of your cabin in the late hours of the night to walk to your favourite spot on the lake that you’d discovered on your third summer as a kid. 

Through some woodlands that the camp didn’t really use anymore, there was a small trail that led to a small dock onto the lake. It was serene and silent, exactly what you were craving after a day of listening to twelve year olds screaming. 

You found your spot with ease, like your body still remembered the exact steps it would take to get there. You wandered down the dock, pushing off your converse and tugging off your socks so you could dangle your feet in the water as you perched on the edge of it. 

“Thought this was my spot.” You heard a familiar voice from the bay of water to your left behind you, a voice that sent a single shiver straight down your spine. 

You turned your head over your shoulder to see Steve now making his way down the dock with a teasing smile against his lips. 

A small laugh passed through your own as you leant back on one of your hands, angling your body to face him as he made his way closer to you. “I’ve had this one for years, you’re gonna have to try harder.” 

“Mm,” He hummed in return before kicking off his own shoes and sat himself beside you. His gaze was fixed out on the water, watching it ripple under the moonlight before turning his head to look at you. “I’m thinking this one isn’t so bad.”

You couldn’t help the small smirk that was tugging on your lips, shaking your head gently as you tried with all your might to pull your eyes from his, feeling yourself weaken beneath his gaze. “Well, we’ve only got a couple days left, so won’t have to share much longer. Maybe you can find a new spot by next summer.” 

“Ah, next summer. You’re gonna come back?” His voice was gentle, and you could see out of the corner of your eye that he was still looking at you. 

“Maybe, depends. Are you?” Your eyes watched the water glide around your feet as you kicked them back and forth gently, finally pulling your eyes to look back at Steve. 

“Maybe. Depends.” His answer caused a small laugh to push through your nose, using your other hand to lean back on as your head lulled back toward the water. “You’re different, you know.” 

His words made your legs pause in motion, swallowing down your words gently before tilting your chin to look back up at him. “I’m different, what do you mean?”

Steve shrugged his shoulders gently, his focus pulling from you back out to the lake. You felt him inhale gently before speaking, “I don’t know, can’t put my finger on it exactly. You’re just.. You. Not trying to be anybody else.” 

You felt your stomach tighten at his words. “Do you use that line on all your other girls?” You’d heard the stories from Sarah, the summer romances that Steve would have each year. 

Obviously, you’d spent a few nights falling asleep thinking about what that would be like, but you’d only had a handful of conversations with him. But the way that he was looking at you now, you were fighting every urge within you not to grab that stupidly tight t-shirt and pull him straight into you. 

“Oh, no. You’d know if I was using a line on you, trust me.” You could hear the smirk in Steve’s voice, and when he turned to look at you, it took the air from your lungs. 

“So, are you ready for the tournament this weekend?” You asked gently, mostly to distract yourself, you could feel the hairs on your arms prickling at the prospect of Steve using a line on you. 

“Oh, absolutely, born ready. My boys are ready to kick your girls’ butts.” He retorted with a slight tease to his voice, earning a playful eye roll from you.  

You scoffed sarcastically, trying your best to hide your smirk as you replied. “That I can’t wait to see.” 

The next few days were strict, each counsellor preparing their team for battle. Even though it was just a friendly tournament for the kids to come together for the end of camp, it always felt like the most important event in the world. It felt more significant than the Olympics. 

The tournament spanned over Friday and Saturday, and on the Sunday all of the kids would go home. The counsellors would have Sunday night to say goodbye. It usually consisted of a lot of beer, a bonfire, some card games, a chance to let loose before everyone went back to their own reality. 

Your cabin was up bright and early on Friday morning. Taking part in the famous canoe relay across Cedar Lake. Two campers from each team would paddle out, round the buoy and race back. Your cabin was representing the Red Hawks, all of you kitted out in your best red outfits and face paint. 

For this race, you were against the Blue Bears, which was the team that Steve’s boys were competing on. And by a miracle, your team beat out Steve’s by an inch of a second. You, Sarah and your team were too busy celebrating you didn’t have a chance to gloat about it to Steve. 

The next race was an obstacle course. Fitted with rope climbing, balancing beams, a tire run and a sprint finish. You were on the edge of your seat the entire game, your voice crackling from cheering on all of the kids, even the teams that weren’t your own. 

The Evergreens completed the obstacle course in record time, and you were one of the first to run over to congratulate them all, cheering with all the green children at their win. You saw Steve watching you out of the corner of your eye, giving you a small wink when you nodded your red baseball cap to him. 

After lunch, the next activity was tug of war. This was always your favourite when you were a kid as the counsellors could compete, which you always saw as an advantage. But you were slightly distracted from tugging on the rope when your eyes landed across the field, watching Steve. 

His blue t-shirt was slick to his body with sweat, quickly lifting his wrist to push the hair out of his face before landing back on the rope. Your eyes were glued to his biceps, watching the way that they flexed with each mighty tug. 

You were snapped out of your thoughts when the rope dropped from your grip, a blur of red jumping and cheering around you. You were so swept up in the win, you didn’t see Steve’s team win too. 

Since your team had won two games, you were automatically through to the big race tomorrow. It was now against the Blue Bears, The Evergreens and Golden Foxes to compete in the relay race to find out who you’d be up against. 

The entirety of the Red Hawks were waiting at the finish line at the other side of the lake. Different kids from each of the other times were paced out around the course, having to pass the baton to the next until the first person crossed the finish line. 

As the whistle blue, the tension was high. Kids were screaming and cheering their friends on whilst the counsellors were running alongside them, shouting encouragement into their ears as they passed on each baton. 

And as fate would have it, the Blue Bears won the race. Tomorrow, you’d be facing Steve in the race for the Golden Pine. 

Tradition on the first night of the tournament was a big bonfire in the middle of camp. All of the kids coming together after a day of competing to chatter over smores and soda, something that was only allowed on very special occasions. 

You were making rounds on your girls, checking they were all okay and had all the supplies for their smores when you saw Steve standing at the table pouring the soda into paper cups. 

“Hey,” You called out as you made your way over, pulling the cap off of your head and holding it behind you as you stood beside him. “Looking forward to tomorrow?”

Steve’s smile was undeniable as your shoulder knocked against his, he held out the cup for you which you accepted with a small nod. “Looking forward to beating your ass.” The two of you laughed gently, the corner of your cups hitting in a cheers before you took a small sip from it. 

“You guys were great today,” You spoke as you turned yourself around to look out at the kids sitting around the fire. “We’re gonna have to bring our A-game.”

Steve nodded as he turned around beside you, hiding his grin behind his cup before he tilted down to your ear slightly, his voice at a whisper. “I saw you with the other team earlier, celebrating with them.” 

Your brow furrowed gently as you glanced up at him, your lips parting slightly once you noticed how close to you he was. You played it off with a small shrug, before looking back out to the bonfire. “Well we are all one big team, really. Everyone deserves to be celebrated.” 

“So, you’ll find a way to congratulate me tomorrow then? When we win.” His voice was quiet, like it was reserved only for you. 

“Yeah, if you win.” You said with a small laugh, tipping the rest of the soda down your throat before placing the empty cup in his spare hand and returning back to your group before you said anything you might come to regret. 

The night ended soon after that, ushering all of the kids back to their cabins to get themselves ready for bed in preparation for the big day tomorrow. 

Once the girls were all in bed, you grabbed your towel from the hook next to your bunk and told Sarah you were heading off to use the showers. 

There was a small building behind the counsellors lodge where the staff showers were. You’d always get up extra early to go, but night showers were your favourite. When everyone else in the camp was in bed and you’d have the whole outhouse to yourself. 

The building had four showers on either side, the walls were quite short but there was enough privacy with the curtain pulled to, there were two mirrors and large sinks at the end near the toilets. 

It was around eleven o’clock. Every time you’d come and shower at this hour, it would be empty. But you could hear the hiss of the water getting louder as you approached, silently cursing to yourself you should’ve waited five more minutes. 

But as you pushed the door open, the water had stopped. And when you’d made your way in, Steve Harrington was coming out of the cubicle. His towel was wrapped low around his waist, his body wet and hair stuck to his forehead as his eyes met yours down the length of the small corridor between the stalls. 

“Thought this was my spot.” You parroted him from that night at the dock quietly as you forced your eyes to stay locked on his. Telling yourself not to look at the damp hair on his chest, and how it travelled lower, and lower –

“Sure this place is big enough for the both of us.” Steve spoke with a small smirk, reaching into the shower to grab a hand towel he’d brought to dry off his hair. 

For some completely unexplainable reason, maybe it was the high of winning the tournament today, or maybe it was the breathtakingly handsome half naked man standing only a few metres in front of you, all of your inhibitions seemed to drain from your body.

You swallowed down every thought telling you not to as you walked toward him, keeping your eyes on his as you turned into the shower stall that was opposite his own. You pulled open the curtain, dropping your toiletries on the ground beside you. 

“I guess it is.” You kicked off your flip flops, letting them land just outside the shower. Your fingers found your shorts, untying the bow holding them up and you let them pool around your ankles, you stepped out of them and kicked them toward your flip flops. 

Steve’s eyes widened at your actions, you watched his throat bob as you began to prepare yourself to shower – with your curtain pulled back, completely on display for him. 

“Wh–” Steve started as he watched your fingers wrap around the hem of your red t-shirt, you were slow to pull it up your body. Slow enough to let him stop you, to pull the curtain back to maintain your dignity and walk away like this never happened. 

But he didn’t. He dropped the smaller towel from his hand and stepped into your cubical, his hand lifting behind him to pull it shut quickly. 

Before you could register what was happening, his large palms were splayed at your waist, pulling you against him as his mouth met yours with hunger. You sighed against him as you threw your arms around his neck, the feeling of his wet torso against your stomach was enough for you to. 

His hands worked quickly, slipping up your back to wrap his fingers around the hem of your shirt to pull it over your head. He was hesitant in pulling his lips off of you, finding them almost instantly as the red fabric hit the floor. 

As your bare chest met his own, you could feel his tongue pressing against the seam of your lips. They parted with ease, a moan falling against him as you felt his tongue meeting with your own, like he was trying to coax something out of you. 

His hands slipped down your back, landing on the plush of your ass, gripping it between his fingers. He pulled his lips from your own, taking a moment to look down at you as your chests heaved against each other. “What do you want, baby? Tell me what you want from me, I’ll give it to you.” 

“You, Steve– I need you.” Your head rolled backward as his wet mouth began attacking your neck, messily sucking on any inch of skin he could find. 

His grip tightened on you as he walked the two of you a step backward so your back was against the cold tile of the shower, his hands slipping from your ass to your hips as his fingers wrapped around the band of your underwear. 

“Wanted this since the moment I saw you standing outside that damn cabin.” He spoke against your throat before tugging your underwear down with haste, his lips moving further down your body as he leant down to manoeuvre them down your legs. 

Your hands gripped his shoulders for stability as you stepped out of your underwear, a clipped moan passing your lips as Steve’s lips wrapped around your nipple. He groaned against your breast as one of his hands held himself steady at your waist, whilst the other softly dragged back and forth against the side of your thigh. 

“God, you’re a fucking dream,” Steve mumbled against you, his eyelashes fluttering as his gaze met your own. Your fingers pushed through his hair, your fingers curling around the damp strands as your teeth sank into your lower lip. “Let me hear you, baby. Wanna hear you moan.” 

Steve’s tongue toyed with your peaked nipple, leaving a trail of his spit as he was quick to move across your chest to take the other between his lips. You groaned at the feeling, your back arching off the tile to press further against him as his hand slipped to the back of your thigh. 

Before you knew it was happening, Steve had left your chest to drop to his knees. His hot breath was teasing against your stomach as his wet kisses inched lower, along with his palms. They were rubbing your thighs gently, grounding you as his lips brushed through the hair against your mound. 

As his lips were pressing closer to where you needed him most, his grip tightened on your thigh to lift up one of your legs to wrap over his shoulder. Your hands found his hair again, breathless as your chin tucked into your chest to look down at him. 

“You’re so wet, baby,” His voice was hoarse as he whispered, his nose pressing against you before his other hand holding your thigh rounded, his thumb pushing through your slit teasingly slow. “Need me to take care of you before your big day tomorrow, huh?”

“Please.” Was all you could manage. You felt him huff a small laugh from beneath you, his hot breath hitting your core as he pulled his head back slightly to watch his thumb disappear through your folds. 

A moan fell past his lips as your grip tightened on his hair, tugging on it slightly as his thumb notched against your clit. “You like that, baby?” He whispered as his lips found against your inner thigh, pressing wet kisses to your skin as his middle finger pressed against your entrance.

You could only nod as your head fell back against the tile, your hand pushing his head further toward where you needed him. “Steve, please.”

Before you could ask again, his tongue parted through his lips to finally lap through your folds. He was working his way through them like he was savouring every second, taking his time to explore every inch of you before his lips wrapped around your swollen clit. 

Just as you were about to beg him for more, two of his fingers sank inside of you, his thick digits filling you up and curling against you. Your back arched off the tile, a string of loud moans falling past your hips began rocking into his touch. 

Steve’s spare hand slipped to your hip, guiding your movements to work in tandem with his fingers. Each rock of your hips timing perfectly with the curl of his fingers, his tongue delving through your folds to taste every inch of you.

“Fuck– Steve,” You whined with pleasure, your head lifting from the tile to watch him ravish you. His eyes were shut, his grip pulling you further into him as his fingers curled against the spot inside of you that was already making you see stars. “I–I’m gonna come. Please fuck me, please.” 

His eyebrows raised at your words, pulling his lips from you to lean back to gage a better look at you. Your chest was heaving, your stomach tightening as his fingers continued to thrust in and out of you. You just nodded, your hand pushing from the back of his head to the back of his neck as you moved your leg off his shoulder. 

“A–are you sure? I don’t have anything.” His voice was tight as he lifted from his knees, his eyes boring into your own as he looked down at you, his fingers slipping in and out of you at an agonisingly slow pace. 

You sighed with each slow thrust of his fingers, your hand holding the back of his neck to capture his lips with your own. “I’m sure, I’m on the pill.” You whispered against him, a moan falling against your lips as he was careful to coax his fingers out of you. 

One of his hands pressed into the tile above your head as the other held your hip, his grip tightening on you as the two of you panted into each other’s mouths. The kiss was messy, his head tilting in an attempt to taste more of you, explore more of you with his tongue. 

Your hand pressed against his chest, your fingertips coursing through the hair that laid there before inching down his body. Your fingers untucked the towel that was wrapped around his waist, pulling your lips from his to watch it drop to the floor. 

“Fuck.” You mumbled at the sight of Steve’s cock as his lips pressed against your forehead, desperate to be touching you at any capacity. 

As your hand slipped around the base of his cock, your head tipped backward to capture his lips against yours. Steve’s hand slipped from your hip to hold the side of your neck, keeping you steady as he kissed you. 

You could feel his breath hitching against you as your wrist circled, jerking the silky skin of his cock with your hand. Steve released his grip on you, both of his hands gripping the backs of your thighs as he hauled you up. 

A small moan passed from your lips against his as your arm snaked around his neck, holding yourself close to him for stability. He was holding your legs in place around him, pulling his lips away from your own to watch his heavy cock in your hand. 

“Fuck, you look so fucking hot, baby.” He mumbled softly, words clipping as your thumb swiped across his tip, your gaze shifting to watch his face as you manoeuvred his cock between your folds. 

His hips shifted, taking over from you as your hand slipped to his shoulder for support. Steve’s eyes found yours as the tip of his cock brushed over your clit, his smirk growing at the small gasp that escaped you. 

“Just fuck me, Steve, I need you now,” Your voice was breathless, your body arching against his as the slow thrust of his hips rutted his head against your swollen clit. “Please.”

Steve nodded gently, lifting his chin to brush his lips against yours as one of his hands slipped to your ass, to hold you steady as his tip found your entrance. 

The first thrust of his hips was shallow, the air sucking from your lungs at the stretch of him entering you. Your hands grasped at his neck and his shoulders, using any part of his strong body to ground yourself as he inched in further. 

Your lips fell slack against his own, whimpering his name as he finally bottomed out inside of you. His kiss turned tender, gently brushing his lips against yours as he spoke against you, “Are you okay, baby?” 

You were quick to nod, desperate for him to move, to feel more of him inside of you. He nodded with you, quick to chase your lips with his own. His lips took your upper hostage as he pulled his hips back, thrusting into you with a tight gasp. 

“Fuck–” You managed against him, your nails digging crescents into his skin as his hips found a steady pace, stretching you further with each inch that he bullied into you. 

“So tight, baby,” He pulled his lips from your own, his brows furrowed in concentration as his hands held onto the backs of your thighs, moving your hips in time with each of his thrusts as his eyes watched you intently. “Such a tight little cunt, all for me. Tell me I’m yours.” 

Your back arched off the tile, your torso pressing against his own as his hips picked up their pace. Loud cries falling past your lips each time Steve’s cock bottomed out inside you, “I’m yours, Steve. Fuck– So good–” 

“Good girl,” He practically growled as his head dipped to your neck. His teeth scratching at your skin before soothing it with wet kisses, eager to mark you for everyone to see. “Are you gonna come for me, baby? Such a good girl, gonna come all over my cock?” 

Your cries only grew louder as you nodded, craning your neck aside to give him more access to your skin. The cold tile behind you was soothing against the temperature your body was running now, burning hot to the touch. Your hand shakily dropped from his neck to dip between your bodies, finding your clit with ease. 

Steve groaned against you as you began circling your swollen clit, your finger slipping slightly from a mixture of Steve’s spit and your own arousal. He could feel your pussy fluttering around his cock, spurring him on to fuck you even deeper as you preened under his pleasure. 

“Go on, baby. Use my fucking cock,” His voice was tight, nosing his way up to your jaw before lifting his head to look down at you. His eyes were dark, glassed over with lust as you whined beneath him. “Wanna see you come, feel your pussy coming for me.”

Just as you were about to let yourself go, you heard the door of the outhouse open and close, and footsteps rounding to one of the stalls beside you. 

You gasped, your hand between your legs stalling but Steve shook his head gently. He lifted one of his hands from your thighs and turned the shower on, the sounds of his cock filling you up now muffled by the water falling over you both. 

It was freezing cold, causing you to jolt under his touch. He looked down at you, his grip holding you steady as he slowed his hips down, silently asking you if you wanted him to stop. When you heard the other shower turn on, you decided it was fine. 

Your fingers resumed to toy with your clit as the other pushed over his shoulder to hold the back of his neck, your nose brushing against his as you panted beneath him. “I’m so close, Steve, please.”

Steve shifted your body gently, angling your lower half closer to him as he began fucking into you with fever. His broad shoulders tightening as his hands steadied on your ass, his eyes boring into you as he spoke with a tight whisper. “You have to be quiet, baby. Can you do that for me?” 

You parted your lips to speak, but were silenced when Steve’s hips drilled harder into you. With each thrust, he was hitting a spot inside of you that you didn’t realise possible. You were in ecstasy, not knowing whether to lean down to watch his cock disappear inside of you or to watch his face as he ruined you. 

“Such a good girl,” His voice was a hoarse whisper, cursing under his breath as he felt you tightening around him. His eyes found your own, his tongue parting his lips to wet his bottom lip as your thighs began to shake around him. “That’s it, baby. Come for me, please.”

Your orgasm hit you like a truck after his plea, and Steve could tell. His upper body fell into your own, his lips crashing against yours to muffle your moans as you came undone on his cock. Your cunt spasmed around him, your shaky hand working in time with his thrusts to work you through your high. 

Steve’s hips stuttered slightly, his thrusts pausing as he bottomed out inside of you. You could feel the thick ropes of his come leaking into you, his hips resuming shallowly, as if he was making sure it was in there well and good. 

His lips pulled from your own, taking a moment to look down at you before pressing another soft kiss against your lips. Steve slowly lifted you off of him, your hand bracing on the wall as you leant back against it to find your footing. 

“You good?” His voice was still a whisper, his chest heaving in front of you as his hand found your hip. He leant down to brush his lips beneath your ear, giving you a small squeeze as you nodded. 

Your hand found his chest, as your head lulled back against the tile with a small laugh. “Holy shit, Steve.” You whispered back, looking up at him to be greeted with a small smirk. 

Steve turned around to look at the toiletries that you’d dropped to the floor when you entered the stall, he leant down to grab the bag and retrieve your body wash that was in there. He squirted some into his hand, disregarding the bottle as he lathered up the soap in his hands. 

“Turn around, baby.” He whispered down to you, his head tilting forward to urge you to turn. A small smile tugged at the corner of your lips, your hand bracing on the wall as your legs shakily moved below you to turn your back to him. 

He used his pinky finger to gather your hair and push it over your shoulder, his palms splaying across your shoulders as he began working the soap into your skin. His large hands massaging your shoulders, down your back until they splayed at your waist. His lips lowered to your neck, tenderly pressing a kiss against you before whispering. “Please come back next summer.”

At the tournament the next day, the Red Hawks played an amazing game, all of the girls working so well together in their teams which was all that you could ask for. But unfortunately, the Blue Bears came out victorious. Their names would be in the Pine Cup hall of fame for years to come. 

After the celebrations, you manoeuvred your way through the crowds to find Steve who was already making his way over to you when he’d noticed. 

“Congratulations.” You beamed as you lifted your hand above your brow to shield you from the sun, a bright smile widening across your lips as he smiled down at you. 

“Thanks. I had some great motivation last night so, think that helped.” His hands dropped to his hips, his gaze looking out to all the kids celebrating as he spoke before landing back down on you. 

You couldn’t help but laugh softly at his words, recalling your rendezvous from last night. Your heart warms at the intimate memory of Steve washing you, before pinning you up against the wall and making you come for a second time. Then a third. 

“Well, I just came to say congratulations. And, considering the Red Hawks lost this year, I think it’s only fair I come back next summer. You know, bring them to victory.” Your hand dropped from your brow, dangling beside you as you tilted your head up to smile at him. 

“Next summer? Guess I’ll see you then.” Steve was trying his hardest to play it cool, to fight the smile that was tugging at the corner of his lips. Just as you were about to walk away, readying yourself to see him next summer, you paused. 

You lifted your hand to his shoulder, lifting yourself up to press a gentle kiss to his cheek. Your lips lowering to whisper in his ear gently, “If I don’t see you before we leave. You can call me, I’m in the book.” 

Safe to say, the next night when it was the counsellors night to spend together, the two of you made the most of it. You may not have won the tournament, but you definitely left camp with the biggest victory of all. 

Your attention snaps back forward after his head turns, eyes meeting yours. You pick up the pace and swiftly hop in your car, throwing everything in the back seat. Your hands shake as the key connects to the ignition switch, but the car doesn’t start. You pull the keys out and huff in frustration. Slamming them back in again the car jingle comes on, but it still doesn’t start. 

Eddie, on the other side of the lot, has now been watching you for a lot longer than socially acceptable. His fingers tap rhythmically on the driver’s wheel, deciding what to do next. But he knows the only thing he can do is sit in this van and pretend he’s not watching you. The glare of your windshield blocks most of your face, but he can still make out the silhouette he once knew. 

You haven’t talked to him in almost 3 years. He knew it’d be a miracle if you even acknowledged his existence now. Butterflies fill his stomach at the thought, but he kills them immediately by taking a drag from the cigarette. It’s the third one he’s smoked within the last 30 minutes as he’s waited for you to leave the building. His eyes shut and smoke settles in his lungs until a familiar voice haunts his mind. 

“You know you shouldn’t smoke Eds. It’s bad for you, or something.”

His eyes flutter open, looking back at you and then the cigarette in front of him. 

Your fingers meet his, grabbing the cigarette, just to bring it to your own lips. 

He chuckles at the memory before taking another drag, eyes closing again. 

The sunlight highlights the smoke around you, creating an aura. Words leave your lips, nearly incoherent, “...are you gonna keep looking at me like that? Or can you just kiss me already?”  

He coughs violently, snapping back to reality. His head falls back meeting the seat, chest heavy. A shadow crosses his vision and the sound of feet underneath gravels becomes louder. Before he can turn his head your voice pips up a soft but awkward ‘hey.’

Silence crosses between you two. You bite your lip, foot kicking the gravel side to side.

“Um,” you sigh. “My car won’t start and I uh-” you accidentally swallow your words.

His eyes flicker between yours, voice coming out hoarse and shaky. “Oh, damn. D-do you need a- a ride home? Or I- I mean, uh, I can give you some quarters for the phone-”

“Can I get a ride home, if you don’t mind. I don’t want to-” 

“No no. Hop in,” he grins, head motioning to the passenger seat. 

You smile softly and walk around, grabbing the door as he pops it open from the inside. The fabric of the seats and the smell brings back more memories than you realized you’d forgotten. You inhale deeply and shift to buckle. 

His eyes observe you, “It’s broken,” His eyes flicker, “remember?”

You go to speak but nothing comes out. You can only nod, lips pursing. 

The gears click next to you as he puts the car into drive and pulls away. He glances over every once in a while, but you don’t move. Soon enough, the town turns into fields and the cassette whirs an all too familiar song. You can’t help but hum along and glance over, only to catch a smile peeking through his lips. 

A chuckle escapes your lips before turning to face him, feet coming up to rest on the seat. “Why are you smiling like that?”

“Just nice how some things never change.” He admits. 

You hum a confused noise, eyebrows furrowing.

“You humming this song, it’s like-” He cuts himself off, smile slowly dropping.

“It’s like what E-” Your lips stop before your brain registers that you can’t even say his name anymore. Chest falling short of breath, you stare back out the window.

“Nothing.” His voice quivers. 

The car grows painfully quiet, thoughts racing through both of your minds. As you approach the turn for your house, he doesn’t bother to slow, or stop at the stop sign, or actually turn. 

“Where are you-” 

“You- you can’t even say my name anymore.” He croaks.

His hands fidget around the wheel as if he can’t figure out where to put them. And you find yourself at a loss for words, mouth drier than a desert. The pit in your stomach grows and you wish it would just swallow you whole at this moment. 

You’re not even sure how many songs have played before gravel hits the tires outside as he turns off the road. The path feels all too familiar, trees swaying in the distance, sun beaming through them and highlighting the path. As soon as he came to a stop you leaped out the van, walking as far as possible, as fast as possible. You know these woods like the back of your hand, you introduced them to him. He shouts your name relentlessly but they hit you like daggers in your back. The creek runs in the distance and birds warn each other of your arrival. Before you know it, the walk has turned into a run and you find yourself in front of a picnic bench. It's grown a lot of moss over the last 3 years. The metal now red and worn, but untouched on the side lie your initials beside E.M.. 

Heavy breathing grows behind you and he stops calling your name. He follows your gaze to see what you're looking at, his hands run through his hair as it clicks that you found the initials. You turn fast but he stands more still than a statue. 

“Eddie?” Your lip trembles.

His breathing resumes but it’s ragged. 

“Eds.” You sigh, a tear falling down your cheek. You reach out to him but he steps back.

His body shakes, “Don’t.” He closes his eyes as another tear streams down your cheek. “Not unless you mean it. I-I can’t take-”

A sob falls from your lips and you wrap your arms around him. His arms wrap around you and tighten as much as possible. You can hear his heart pounding and the smell of cigarettes lingering on his shirt– the familiarity ignites a fire inside of you. Your tears fade slowly as he caresses your hair, raking through it with his fingers. 

“I told you, you need to stop smoking.” You murmur and a giggle escapes the two of you. 

“I missed you so much.” He whispers into your hair. The wind flows around you, like a breath of fresh air.

You relied on Eddie in many ways. Guy problems? He was the first one you'd call if a date went sour. Work drama? The second you got off, you'd pace around his trailer, explaining the usual bullshit as he sat on the couch, chiming in when necessary.

Somewhere along the way, the line between "best friends" and... whatever this was had gotten a little blurry. You couldn't remember exactly when it happened. Maybe it was the fact that you had a drawer at Eddie's trailer for spare clothes, or that he never knocked before walking into your apartment. 

Hell, even the rest of your friends had long since given up trying to figure it out. Robin had stopped correcting strangers when they assumed you two were dating, Dustin had started referring to you as "Eddie's girl" just to watch the two of you sputter, and Steve swore you were both "the dumbest almost-couple" he'd ever met.

The funny part was, neither of you ever denied liking the other. You just... never actually admitted it, either.

So life carried on in that weird in-between, where lingering touches lasted a little too long, late-night drives felt suspiciously like dates, and neither of you was brave enough to ask what any of it meant.

In many ways, Eddie was the best friend you could ask for. But the one thing you hated? He was a cocky bastard when it came to anything competitive. 

Any game night, whether that's something as simple as Uno or arcade games, he thought he was the best. Though, to be fair, he was. Which is why, after one fateful 1v1 of pool at the Hideout, when he conned your ass like a fool and beat you out of a hundred bucks, you needed revenge.

So, naturally, your pride wouldn't let him teach you how to play, oh no. Instead, you decided to ask Steve. Steve wasn't someone in the group you were particularly close to.

But, beyond him, your options to teach you how to win at stupid bar games were Robin, who was as agile as a baby deer, or Nancy, who could care less about you and Eddie's billiard feud.

Steve looked up from where he was wiping down the windshield of his BMW in his driveway, rag slung over one shoulder. "You want me to do what?"

"Teach me pool."

He blinked. "...Pool."

"Yes, Steve. The game. With the sticks."

"I know what pool is."

"Good. Then we're making progress."

He laughed, tossing the rag over the hood. "Since when have you been interested in pool?"

You crossed your arms. "I'm interested in beating Eddie."

"Oh."

"Exactly."

A grin slowly spread across his face. "...I'm in."

The Hideout wasn't open yet, save for a handful of regulars nursing beers before the evening crowd rolled in.

Music crackled quietly through the speakers while Eddie hauled cases of liquor behind the bar, already halfway through complaining to Gareth about a distributor screwing up another order.

"You know what they gave us?" Eddie scoffed. "Light beer. We don't even sell the shit."

Gareth shrugged. "People drink it."

"No, they most certainly do not."

Then the front door opened, so Eddie glanced over automatically. You walked in first with Steve following close behind.

His eyebrows pinched together. "...What the hell?"

Steve waved toward the bar. "Yo."

Eddie nodded slowly. "Harrington."

Then his eyes landed back on you. "What're you doing here? Thought you worked today."

"I did."

"And now?"

You smiled sweetly. "I'm learning."

"...Learning what?"

Steve answered before you could. "Pool."

Eddie glanced between the two of you, raising one finger accusingly. "...From you?"

Steve looked genuinely confused by the question. "...Yeah?"

"You know how to play?"

Steve frowned. "Dude."

"What?"

"I've been playing forever."

Eddie stared for another second before scoffing to himself.

"...Whatever." Then, he disappeared into the back, huffing something under his breath.

For the next forty-five minutes, Steve proved to be a surprisingly patient teacher.

"No, loosen your grip."

"I'm trying."

"I know, but you're choking the cue."

"I'm not choking it."

"You absolutely are."

He stepped behind you. "Here."

His hands lightly adjusted yours on the cue. "Relax your shoulders."

You exhaled.

"There."

You lined up another shot and missed. "Oh, come on!"

"You looked better."

"I looked better?"

"That's half the battle."

Across the room, Eddie slammed a rack of glasses onto the shelf harder than necessary, causing Gareth to look over.

"...Everything alright?"

"Fantastic."

"You sure?"

"Mhm."

He dared another glance; Steve had crouched beside you now, pointing toward one of the corner pockets.

"If you bank it off this rail—"

Eddie shook his head and continued polishing the same glass he'd already finished.

"He's practically climbing inside her personal bubble."

Gareth followed his gaze to Steve's arm, which reached across yours to point toward the angle.

"...Looks like he's just showing her."

"Mhm."

"You jealous?"

Eddie barked out a laugh. "Of Steve? ...No."

"Exactly."

Gareth watched him continue scrubbing the spotless glass.

"...You're polishing air."

"I know."

"...You wanna go interrupt them?"

"No."

"...Looks like she's laughing."

"I can see."

Steve said something that made you laugh again, a little louder than the last time.

Eddie's jaw ticked. "He's not even that funny."

Gareth snorted. "You realize you've been watching them for like twenty minutes?"

"I have not."

"You absolutely have."

"I've been working."

"Eddie."

"What?"

"...You've poured the same guy three refills without him asking."

Eddie froze and slowly looked toward the older regular sitting at the bar. The man raised his fourth full beer.

"Thanks, Munson!"

"...Shit."

By the end of the lesson, you actually sank three balls in a row.

Steve pointed at the table dramatically. "There it is!"

"I did that."

"You did."

"I actually did that."

"Told you."

You grinned. "You are officially my favorite Harrington."

"There aren't exactly many of us."

Still smiling, you turned toward the bar. "Eddie!"

He looked up immediately. "What?"

Your grin somehow got even bigger. "Rematch."

The entire bar seemed to perk up. Eddie leaned against the counter, folding his arms.

"...You sure?"

"Oh, I'm positive."

"You just spent an hour getting coached."

"So?"

"I don't know..." A slow smirk tugged at his mouth. "Sounds a little desperate."

"It sounds like I got tired of losing to someone whose entire personality revolves around a pool table."

A chorus of quiet "oohs" erupted from the regulars. Eddie placed a hand dramatically over his chest.

"That's hurtful."

"You'll survive."

He pushed off the bar, grabbing a cue from behind the counter. "Same bet?"

You scoffed. "I'm not giving you another hundred dollars."

"Coward."

"I'm being financially responsible."

"Chicken."

"I'm smarter than you."

"Doubtful."

Steve quietly stepped backward. "Yeah…I'm gonna head out."

"You probably should," Gareth agreed.

"You created this monster."

"I absolutely did."

Eddie twirled the cue once in his hand before pointing it at you. "You've got one shot, sweetheart."

You stepped closer until only the pool table separated the two of you. "I only need one."

His grin faltered for just a second. Not because of the challenge, lord knows he loves a challenging woman. But because you'd wandered close enough that he could smell your perfume.

You caught the slight pause in his usual bravado, eyes quickly darting across his face. Then Eddie recovered first, spinning the cue between his fingers with that infuriatingly cocky grin.

"Ladies first."

"Oh," you smiled, taking the cue from his hand just slowly enough for your fingers to brush against his, "I'm gonna enjoy wiping that smug look off your face."

His eyebrow quirked up then. "...We'll see."

The first break went to you.

You leaned over the table, tongue poking against the inside of your cheek the way Steve had told you not to do because it apparently made you overthink your shot. The cue cracked against the rack, sending the balls scattering across the felt.

One dropped, then another, causing a grin to spread across your face.

"Oh, that's gotta sting."

Eddie clicked his tongue. "Beginner's luck."

"You've been saying that for the last three games."

"And eventually I'll be right."

"I've won one."

"You've won almost one."

"I was one ball away."

"You still lost."

You rolled your eyes, circling the table as you looked for your next shot. "God, you're insufferable."

"And yet, here you are."

"Only because watching you lose is going to heal something in me."

Eddie laughed under his breath, leaning his hip against the edge of the table while you lined up your cue.

"Careful," he mused. "Harrington tell you to keep your elbow up?"

You didn't look at him. "He did, actually."

"Hm."

"And to follow through."

"Mhm."

"And to stop gripping the cue like I was trying to strangle it."

Eddie made a face. "...That sounds like something he'd say."

"It worked."

"So did cheating."

You looked up. "I wasn't aware lessons counted as cheating."

"They do when they're from the enemy."

"The enemy?" You snorted. "Steve?"

"He knows what he is."

"Oh, does he?"

"Mhm."

You laughed quietly, taking your shot. The cue ball kissed the side of yours just enough to send it into the corner pocket, causing it to disappear with a satisfying clack.

Your jaw dropped. "I meant to do that."

"No, you didn't."

"I absolutely did."

"You looked surprised."

"I was surprised by how well I did it."

"Sure."

You pointed the cue at him. "Don't ruin this for me."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

The game continued like that, each shot somehow accompanied by another jab, another smug remark, another excuse for the two of you to drift closer as you circled opposite ends of the table.

"You scratched."

"I was distracted."

"By what?"

"You talking."

"I wasn't talking."

"You exist loudly."

"I do not."

"You absolutely do."

You nudged him lightly with your shoulder as you squeezed past him. He didn't move, not even an inch.

"You know," you muttered, looking up at him, "most people would step out of the way."

"I'm not most people."

"So I've noticed."

Instead, he leaned down just enough that his shoulder bumped yours back.

"Figure it out."

"Oh, you're the worst."

"Sure I am.”

You huffed dramatically before ducking around him, though not without your arm brushing against his on the way by.

A few turns later, you found yourself stuck behind him as he leaned over the table, studying an angle that frankly looked impossible.

You waited, but he simply didn't move. "Eddie."

"Mhm?"

"I can't see."

"I'm thinking."

"You've been thinking for like two minutes."

"It's called strategy."

"It's called stalling."

He looked over his shoulder. "I don't stall."

"You absolutely stall."

"I am visualizing."

"You are making shit up."

Finally, he straightened, only to find you standing much closer than he'd expected. For a second, neither of you stepped back.

Then you smiled. "My turn."

He cleared his throat and took a step aside. "Be my guest."

You bent over the table, carefully lining up your shot. The cue slid forward, clack, and another ball dropped.

Behind you, Eddie let out an exaggerated sigh. "I knew Harrington was a bad influence."

You glanced over your shoulder. "Oh my God."

"What?"

"You are unbelievable."

"I'm serious."

"No, you're not."

"He spent one afternoon with you and suddenly you're running tables."

"I'm hardly running the table."

"You're certainly trying."

You rested both hands on the cue, smiling to yourself. "You know..."

"What?"

"...If I didn't know any better..."

Eddie lifted an eyebrow.

"...I'd say you're jealous of Steve."

Eddie's smile stayed exactly where it was. Only this time, it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Jealous?"

"Mhm."

"Of Steve."

"You've mentioned him..." You pretended to think for a moment. "...What? Eight times since we started?"

"I have not."

"You've called him the enemy."

"He is."

"You accused him of cheating."

"He was."

"You've insulted his teaching."

"It wasn't that good."

"I've made more shots tonight than I have in the last six months."

He clicked his tongue. "Coincidence."

You laughed. "You're jealous."

He held your gaze for a long moment, twirling the cue lazily between his fingers before shrugging one shoulder. "...Maybe I was."

Eddie looked almost as surprised by his own answer as you were. He scratched the back of his neck, looking away with a quiet scoff.

"I mean..." he muttered, trying and failing to sound casual, "guy's got his hands all over you. Kinda weird."

Your heart did a slow, traitorous little flip. "So that's what this is about?"

He looked back at you. "I don't like people assuming they can get all cozy with you."

"Steve was teaching me."

"I know."

"You've practically climbed all over me trying to fix my stance before."

"That's different."

"How?"

"'Cause..." He gestured vaguely between the two of you. "...It's me."

You couldn't help it when a grin spread across your face. "Oh, wow."

"What?"

"You really don't hear yourself, do you?"

"Oh, shut up."

You laughed outright this time, and Eddie couldn't stop himself from smiling back, shaking his head as he pointed the cue toward the table.

"Take your shot before I remember why I like beating you so much."

You stepped up beside him, your shoulder brushing his as you passed.

"I'm starting to think you don't like beating me nearly as much as you pretend you do."

For the first time all night, Eddie didn't have a smartass comeback. He just watched you lean over the table, trying very hard not to notice how unfairly pretty you looked when you were concentrating.

The game stretched on longer than it should have, every shot laced with your growing confidence and Eddie's sharpening edges.

But in the end, you sank the eight-ball clean, right into the corner pocket with a decisive thunk that echoed through the bar like a victory bell.

The regulars let out a low chorus of approval. Eddie stared at the table for a moment too long, cue still gripped tight in one hand, before his gaze lifted to yours.

That cocky smirk was still plastered on his face, but it had gone tight at the corners.

You leaned on your cue, flushed with triumph and just enough adrenaline to push. "Hmph. Steve must be a good teacher after all," you said sweetly, tilting your head. 

Something dark flickered in Eddie's eyes. He set the cue down with deliberate calm, then crossed the space between you in two strides. His fingers wrapped around your wrist, lifting it with a gentle yet firm grip. 

"Alright," he said, voice low, "that's enough."

He tugged you toward the back hallway, past the storage room and out the rear door into the narrow alley behind the Hideout. The door slammed shut behind you, cutting off the muffled sounds of the bar. 

"Eddie—" you started, but he spun you around, pressing your back to the rough brick before you could finish. His body crowded yours instantly, one thigh slotting between your legs as his free hand braced beside your head.

"You think this is funny?" he growled, mouth hovering inches from yours. His breath was ragged. "Parading Harrington in here, letting him put his hands all over you while I watch?"

"He was teaching me," you breathed, even as heat pooled low in your belly. God, he was jealous. Really jealous. It shouldn't turn you on this much, but the way his grip tightened on your wrist sent a shiver straight through you.

"Sure, doll. Teaching." Eddie's other hand slid down your side, bunching your shirt up roughly until his palm met bare skin. "Laughed at his shitty jokes. Let him stand that close." He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. "You know exactly what you're doing to me, sweetheart."

You arched into him. "Maybe I do."

That was all it took. His mouth crashed into yours, all teeth and tongue and pent-up frustration. You kissed him back just as fiercely, fingers threading into his curls and tugging hard enough to make him groan against your lips. 

He tasted like cheap beer and that stupid cinnamon gum he always chewed, and underneath it all, that unmistakable Eddie scent that always made your head spin.

His hand shoved under your waistband without preamble, fingers dipping between your thighs to find you already slick. A low, satisfied rumble vibrated in his chest.

"Fuck. This wet for me, or were you thinking about his hands the whole time?"

"Yours," you gasped as he circled your clit with two rough fingertips, pressing just right. "Always yours, you idiot."

"Good answer." He nipped at your bottom lip, then spun you again; face toward the wall this time.

Your palms braced against the cool brick as he yanked your jeans and underwear down in one impatient motion, just enough to bare you to the night air. The sound of his belt buckle and zipper was obscenely loud in the quiet alley.

He pressed against your back, hard and hot, one hand sliding up to wrap loosely around your throat.

"You don't get to tease me like that and walk away," he murmured, lips against the shell of your ear. His cock nudged at your entrance, thick and insistent. "Gonna fuck the thought of him right out of you."

Then he thrusted in deep, one smooth stroke that punched the air from your lungs. You moaned, the sound echoing off the bricks as he filled you completely. He didn't give you time to adjust. Just pulled back and drove in again, setting a punishing rhythm that had your toes curling in your shoes.

" Eddie—fuck—"

"Yeah, say my name." His grip on your hip tightened, rings digging in as he angled deeper, hitting that spot that made sparks explode behind your eyes. "Louder. Let the whole damn alley hear who you belong to."

You did. Gasping it out between thrusts, voice breaking as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter. He reached around, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing in tight, relentless circles while his hips snapped against your ass.

"Such a brat," he panted, teeth grazing your shoulder through your shirt. "You were so cocky before. What happened, huh baby?" He punctuated each word with a thrust, grinding deep on the last one until you were trembling.

The orgasm hit you like a freight train. You clenched around him, crying out as waves of heat crashed through you. Eddie followed right behind with a choked groan, burying himself to the hilt and spilling hot inside you, hips stuttering as he rode it out.

For a long moment, the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the distant hum of traffic. Then he eased out slowly, careful despite the raw edge still humming between you. He tucked himself away, then turned you gently, pulling your clothes back into place with surprisingly tender hands.

Eddie rested his forehead against yours, thumbs brushing your flushed cheeks. "You okay?" he asked. 

You smiled, still catching your breath, and tugged lightly at one of his curls. "I'm okay."

"You sure?"

"Mhm."

He searched your face for another second anyway, like he wasn't entirely convinced until he saw the smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. Only then did his shoulders finally loosen.

"There you are," he murmured.

"There I am?"

"You disappeared for a minute."

"I think I had a good reason."

He snorted, ducking his head with an embarrassed grin. It was strange seeing him like this.

Five minutes ago, he'd been all confidence and smart remarks, and now he suddenly looked like the same guy who got flustered whenever Wayne asked if the two of you were dating.

You brushed an imaginary speck of dust from the shoulder of his jacket. "So..."

"So?"

"...Does this mean I finally get to stop pretending we're just friends?"

His eyes met yours again. "I'd really appreciate that."

You laughed quietly. "I've gotta admit, Munson. I was starting to think you were hopeless."

"Oh, I was."

"You were."

"I mean it." He leaned back against the brick wall, slipping one hand into yours.

"I don't think I realized just how bad I had it until today."

"The pool lessons pissed you off that bad?"

He nodded. "When I saw Harrington behind you..." He let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head at himself. "God, I was so irrationally pissed."

You raised an eyebrow. "Really? I couldn’t tell."

“Shut up.”

"He was just teaching me pool so I could beat you and get on your nerves." You bumped his shoulder. "Which, by the way, worked beautifully."

"Yeah, yeah."

"You were glaring at him like he keyed your van."

"He was standing way too close."

"He was showing me how to bank a shot."

"Didn't need to be all..." Eddie gestured vaguely with his free hand. "...Harrington about it."

You laughed. "What does that even mean?"

"You know."

"No, I actually don't."

"All..." He sighed dramatically. "Perfect hair. Nice smile. Hands everywhere."

"His hands were on the cue."

Eddie gave you a look. "Mostly."

You couldn't help laughing. "You're unbelievable."

"I know that now."

"You knew it then."

"...I did."

"So why were you so grumpy?"

He was quiet for a second, rubbing the back of your hand with his thumb.

"Because I kept thinking..." He shrugged, almost embarrassed by himself. "'What if she realizes she likes him better?'"

You blinked. "...Steve?"

"Sounds stupid out loud, doesn't it?"

"A little."

"Thanks."

"Eddie." You laughed, giving his hand a squeeze. "You really thought I was gonna fall for Steve Harrington because he showed me how to hold a pool cue?"

"I wasn't exactly thinking rationally."

"Clearly."

He groaned, dropping his head against your shoulder. "Can we pretend I never admitted any of this?"

"Absolutely not."

"Figured."

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You laugh, shaking your head as you turn back around to look once again at your reflection. “You’re so full of shit, Stevie.” You tell him affectionately, your cheeks warming and stomach fluttering as you hear the creak of the bed as Steve gets to his feet. You watch in the mirror as he walks toward you with that look on his face that made heat flare in your gut.

“I can measure them for you, baby,” Steve insists, his arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you flush against him. You try not to react as he presses himself against you, the evidence of his growing arousal now pressing against your ass.

“How would you—”

But you get your answer in the form of one of Steve’s large hands cupping your breasts and squeezing.

“Steve!” you scold him but make absolutely no attempt to swat his hand away as he kneads the flesh with reverence.

“Just being thorough,” he tells you, leaning in to press a wet kiss to your neck, his tongue stroking the flesh gently just to watch you squirm in his arms. “Stand still, sweetheart. M’trying to concentrate here.”

“You’re not—”

But words fail you as soon as Steve’s free hand reaches behind your back to unhook your bra.

The moment that your breasts spill free, Steve lets out a low groan that shoots through your body like lightning. he wastes absolutely no time in throwing it unceremoniously across the room while his free hand turns you around to face him. His eyes drag over your body—over every curve, every dip that he had been obsessed over the past few months of being together.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, causing your face to warm as both of his hands squeeze and knead your breasts. You have to bite back a moan as his thumb brushes over one of your nipples, the feeling sending heat straight to your core.

“Stevie,” you whine, arching your back and pressing your breasts even more into his palms and causing a smile to break out across his face as he catches the all too familiar signs of arousal dancing across your face.

“Yeah, baby?” he asks you gently, dipping his head down to run his tongue between the valley of your breasts. Your head tilts back and you let out of a soft whimper as his lips meander their way towards one of your pebbled peaks, his hot breath leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

“You wanna know what I think?” Steve murmurs, his lips hovering a breath away from your sensitive skin—the act making every nerve in your body buzz, makes the blood running through your veins hum. His other hand still kneads your other breast while the wet heat of his tongue darts out to play with your nipple like he had all the time in the world, like you didn’t have a dinner reservation in twenty minutes.

“I asked you a question,” Steve murmurs through a mouthful of your tit, his eyes on your face as he swirls his tongue around your stiff peak. “I said—y’wanna know what I think?”

“Yes,” you gasp breathlessly, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt as you try to pull him even closer, as though trying to fuse your bodies together.

Steve pulls his lips away from you, your nipple now coated in his saliva and you whine at the loss of contact. Steve tuts at the sound and gives your other breast a final squeeze before he pulls away from that one too.

“I think they’re the perfect size,” he tells you with a toothy grin—one that plainly told you he was seeing the want in your eyes but wasn’t going to do a damn thing about it. Yet.

“Steve—”

“Later,” he promises with a smug grin before he presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth as though his hardening cock wasn’t pressing against your hip. “We’ve got a dinner to go to.”

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"Oooo girls, they wanna have fu-u-un..."

You sang (screamed)–dressed in mismatched socks, an old Hawkins High T-shirt and pyjama shorts, your hair tied up and hanging together by sheer determination, sliding across the kitchen tiles with a whisk doubling as your microphone.

You weren't exactly giving Cyndi Lauper a run for her money, but the half-empty bottle of red wine sitting on the counter was doing a fairly decent job of convincing you otherwise.

You swung open the oven door, immediately being hit by a wave of warm, sugary goodness. Tilting your head, you squinted at the tray of cookies. Misshaped and definitely not done.

You hummed, and with a decisive nod that suggested you had far more baking expertise than you actually possessed, you pulled the rack out slightly and turned the tray around. "There," you informed the cookies. "That'll fix you."

Whether it actually would remained to be seen.

You shut the door and immediately reached for your wine glass, taking a long sip as the next song drifted through the radio. The red wine was pleasantly cool against your tongue, and you leaned back against the counter, swaying slightly to the music.

For a moment, a thought slipped through the haze of music and sugar and warm cookie-scented air. An unwanted thought that maybe, just maybe this wasn’t what a twenty-something-year old should be doing when she got the house to herself. Rather than say, have friends over; you knew the older members of the gang were free tonight bar Robin who had a late shift at the squawk. 

Maybe you should, instead, be throwing some crazy party that people would talk about for years or, maybe—maybe you should have invited a boy over. 

You immediately shook your head, as if you could physically dislodge the thought from your head. If only it was that easy; because yes, there was a boy… but he didn't want you. Not the way you wanted him.

An annoyingly familiar ache settled itself into your chest, yet again. Unwelcome. Persistent. Stupid, really, considering you'd spent months (years, if you’re honest) trying to convince yourself you were over it. Over him. And his stupidly, beautiful face and stupidly soft hair and stupidly sweet smile and–

The shrill ding-ding-ding-ding-ding of the egg timer nearly sent you through the ceiling.

"Jesus Christ!" You slapped a hand against your chest, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the glass as your heart launched into your throat. You might have definitely, completely and utterly forgotten that you’d set that. 

You flicked the timer off and immediately opened the oven door, a wave of warm air washing over you. The cookies had finally reached that perfect golden colour around the edges, chocolate chips melted into glossy puddles across the tops.

Far better company than Steve Harrington.

The thought slipped in uninvited.

You groaned. Apparently your brain wasn't finished torturing you. Or lying to you. 

Because as much as you wanted to deny it—and would, repeatedly. As much as you wanted to roll your eyes and pretend otherwise, given the choice between a tray of fresh cookies and Steve Harrington?

Well.

It wasn't exactly the cookies you were thinking about at night now, was it? 

Curled beneath your blankets, a plate of still vaguely warm cookies balanced beside you and your wine glass perched precariously on your nightstand, you watched Ronald Miller grin at Cindy Mancini like she was the only woman in the world through the glow of your television screen.

You hadn’t stopped glaring at it. "Oh, please." As if any man was actually like this, well– 

The cookie paused halfway to your mouth. 

On screen, Ronald was pulling that awkwardly charming routine that was clearly supposed to make audiences swoon. It made you scoff. Actually scoff. He wasn’t that charming. Okay , maybe a little… but he tried way too hard. Steve never even had to try. Steve could walk into a room wearing a ridiculous sweater, carrying six video tapes and complaining loudly (maybe a little obnoxiously), and somehow every eye would still end up on him anyway.

Not based on true events obviously but who cares. The wine certainly didn't. Because suddenly Ronald Miller wasn't even on the screen anymore.

Instead, your mind wandered to broad shoulders, to hands constantly pushing through impossibly soft hair, to warm brown eyes that crinkled at the corners. It was deeply unfair.

The man couldn't even complain properly.

Somehow, even when he was whining about Dustin dragging him across town for some ridiculous emergency or being roped into babysitting duties for the kids yet again, he still managed to be annoyingly endearing.

Ronald Miller might have looked good in a varsity jacket, but Steve had spent years making one look utterly unfair.

You could still picture him leaning against his BMW outside Hawkins High, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, letterman jacket hanging open, sunlight catching in his hair while half the female population of Hawkins suddenly found excuses to walk past. 

The truly irritating part?

Time hadn't fixed the problem. If anything, it had somehow made it ten times worse.

Because somehow Steve Harrington had traded a varsity jacket for a stupid lime-green Family Video vest and had still come out winning.

You could picture him again outside waiting at the end of the day, one arm hanging out the driver's side window, sunglasses shoved into his hair; though this time he was here for you… and Dustin but that’s beside the current point.  

On those rare, glorious days you made it to the car alone, his face would immediately light up. "Hey, Henderson."

Then he'd be out of the car, arms wrapped around you before you could even blink, squeezing you in a quick hug that always lasted just long enough to leave you smiling afterwards. Who are you kidding? Just seeing him made you smile for days afterwards. 

If Dustin got there first, however, it was a completely different story. 

Steve would immediately become trapped in one of your brother's endless monologues while you trailed behind, rolling your eyes as Dustin launched into a detailed explanation of whatever "disaster" had occurred that day. You'd get a quick smile thrown your way as Steve somehow managed to keep up with the conversation, and then you'd open the back door yourself, sliding into your usual seat while the two of them continued talking/bickering.

But then there were summers. 

Summers were the worst. 

Long afternoons at the lake with the entire gang sprawled across towels and blankets. Robin and Eddie stretched out in the sun. Dustin arguing with Steve about music. Nancy pretending she wasn't people-watching while reading a book. Or days at the local public pool. Dustin loudly insisting he could swim despite never having taken a single lesson because he'd skipped them in favour of science classes. You and Steve watching his every move. 

Steve always so close, yet never really there. Sun-bleached hair falling into his eyes, swim shorts hanging low on his hips, and a permanent tan that appeared every summer without fail. The sunlight always seemed to cling to him somehow, turning his skin golden after mere minutes outside.

It was annoying. It was all very, very annoying.

Especially when he laughed and tipped his head back, exposing the line of his throat, or stretched his arms above his head after a swim like he had absolutely no idea what he was doing to the people around him.

Not that you were paying attention. Obviously.

However, more than once you had caught Max and El whispering to each other, looking in Steve's direction. The second you'd followed their gaze, both girls would immediately start grinning.

Which was rich.

Because at least they had the excuse of being teenagers.

You were a grown woman.

A grown woman who should have been perfectly capable of sitting beside Steve Harrington without becoming acutely aware of every accidental brush of shoulders, every lazy smile, every moment he turned toward you and gave you his full attention.

He was the sun.

And you, despite knowing better, had spent years turning your face towards him anyway.

God, you needed a stronger drink–you were turning poetic. 

Or, as Eddie constantly insisted, you needed to get laid. Preferably by Steve, but at this point, you'd probably settle for anyone willing to knock some sense into you. ‘Cause god did you need some. 

The man was lucky he was your best friend otherwise you would have hit him. It also helped that he was.. maybe not entirely wrong but whatever. 

With a sigh, you reached for your wine glass and took another long sip, determined to focus on the next movie instead of your increasingly embarrassing train of thought.

Let's be honest, if any man was capable of making you stop thinking about Steve Harrington, it should have been Westley.

The man literally crossed countries, fought pirates, survived torture and came back from the dead for the woman he loved.

Objectively speaking, that was insanely romantic.

Steve would do that. Your mind immediately countered. 

You groaned. "No, he wouldn't."`like saying it aloud might make that true but, hadn't he already kind of done that. 

Not the pirate part. Obviously.

But the rest?

The man had been beaten up, battered, dragged through a nightmare dimension and survived being tortured by Russians, all because somebody he knew needed help.

Because that's who Steve was. 

You stared at the television, but your mind had already wandered. To a day you’d recalled more times than you can remember. Back to Steve leaning against a tree, chest rising and falling in sharp breaths as everyone caught their bearings. Dirt streaked across his skin. Dried blood along his cheekbone. His hair shoved back from his forehead with trembling hands.

You remembered the fear first.

Then maybe, a little jealousy. The way Nancy had stood so close to him afterwards. The way Steve had looked at her like she was the only thing keeping him upright. Like seeing her there had made everything worth it.

You weren't necessarily proud of those feelings.

But you did have a pretty good defence, if you say so yourself. You'd been in love with the boy for years and had just survived being attacked by a swarm of murderous bats in an alternate dimension. Emotions were running a little high. Okay?

You definitely hadn't found any of it attractive at the time. You'd been too busy being terrified. Too busy trying not to imagine what would happen if Steve–if any of you—didn't make it home.

But afterwards?

Now, a few years later, safe in your room with a glass of wine and absolutely no sense of self-preservation?

Well. Now your mind could wonder. And god, did it like to. 

Steve had looked wrecked that day—hair matted with sweat, jaw tight, his usual charm stripped away—but strong. Too strong for someone bleeding in another dimension. 

You remembered the split skin across his chest. The way he'd dragged himself upright despite every reason not to. The way his first concern had been everyone else. Nancy. Robin. Any of you. All of you.

Fuck. Your breath hitched.

Yes, he was hot. Broad shoulders, strong arms, sun-kissed skin and a smile capable of causing minor structural damage to your common sense. Yes, he was handsome. Sharp jaw, warm brown eyes, impossibly good hair and the sort of face that made complete strangers trust him immediately.

But beautiful?

Beautiful was different.

Beautiful was the way kindness seemed woven into him. The way he always made room for one more passenger in his car, one more problem to carry that was never his to begin with.

Beautiful was the way he laughed with his whole chest. The way he looked at the people he loved like they hung the damn moon but never expected it in return. The way he threw himself in front of danger without a second thought if it meant somebody else got to go home. 

Beautiful was Steve Harrington, entirely unaware that he was.

God, you needed to get over Steve. Or at the very least get your mind off him. And while you couldn't exactly follow Eddie's advice to a tee, you did have something better than another man.

Something pink, buzzing, and stashed in the bottom drawer of your nightstand—purchased on a whim after one too many late-night fantasies involving a certain ex-jock-turned-bat-wilding-hero. Your fingers twitched toward the drawer before you hesitated, glancing at the still-open bedroom door. A reckless laugh bubbled up—since when did you care about locking doors? 

The house was empty. It was only slightly ajar; enough that you’d surely hear if your mom came home early. Though she never did on book club nights; her and Belinda always cracking open a few too many bottles and turning what was supposed to be a two-hour book discussion into an all-night event she needed picking up from no earlier than midday the next day.

Your fingers fumbled against the drawer handle—once, twice—before finally yanking it open with a little more force than absolutely necessary. The vibrator was cool against your palm, its smooth surface already warming as your thumb flicked on the lowest setting then the next. 

The first press between your thighs was electric, blunt and insistent through the thin fabric of your shorts. 

Your breath stuttered out as you arched into it, your free hand gripping the sheets beneath you. The movie’s dialogue blurred into static, replaced by the low, persistent hum vibrating against your skin. 

Fuck, you’d forgotten how good it felt—or maybe you’d just never let yourself just be in the moment, too wrapped up in the fantasy of someone else’s hands, someone else’s mouth. 

But this? 

This was all you. 

Your fingers curled tighter around the toy as you slipped it beneath your waistband to drag it against your already damp panties; shorts discarded halfway down your thighs.

Adjusting the angle of the toy until your hips jerked up on their own accord—until the pressure was perfect, relentless, too much and not enough all at once. 

The sound that escaped you was embarrassingly loud—half-moan, half-sigh—but you couldn’t bring yourself to care, not when you were home alone, not when the pleasure coiled tighter and tighter and–

You bit your lip, hard, but it did nothing to stifle the next noise, high and breathless as your hips stuttered against the mattress. 

God, you were close—so close you could already feel the tension building, tightening like a spring in the pit of your stomach—but you didn’t want it to end just yet.

Your fingers fumbled for the dial, twisting it down—just enough to take the edge off, to draw it out—and you groaned at the loss.

Your free hand drifted up, fingers skimming over your stomach, sliding beneath the hem of your shirt—your touch hesitant, almost unfamiliar–God, it really had been far too long. 

Your breath hitched when your fingertips brushed over your nipples—already peaked beneath the fabric—and you rolled one between your fingers, testing the pressure. 

Fuck. 

Fuck, you were— 

“Henderson?” 

Steve knocked twice before trying the handle.

Nothing.

He frowned, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The lights were on. Dustin knew they had plans tonight. Dustin had already forgotten they had plans last week, leaving Steve sitting outside the arcade for nearly forty minutes before he realised the little asshole had completely forgotten–he better not have stood him up, again. 

"Dustin?" he called through the door.

Silence. With an exasperated sigh, he pushed the door open. It moved without any fight. "Mrs. Henderson?"

Still nothing.

The house wasn't empty. It couldn't be. Door unlocked. The television was playing somewhere upstairs, faint enough to be distant but loud enough to carry down the hallway.

Knowing exactly how much your mom hated shoes in the house, Steve carefully shut the door behind him before toeing off his sneakers beside the mat.

"Dustin?" he called again as he wandered further inside, reaching the kitchen—which quite frankly looked like a war zone. 

Flour dusted the countertops. Mixing bowls sat abandoned beside the sink. A cooling rack crowded with freshly baked cookies occupied most of the available space, and an almost-empty bottle of wine stood proudly amongst the chaos.

Immediately, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

You.

This had you written all over it.

He could practically picture you here. Music blaring. Dancing around the kitchen. Leaving a trail of destruction in your wake while baking something sweet. Without thinking, he reached over and stole a cookie. For investigative purposes. Of course. 

"Henderson?" he called again, louder this time. 

The smile slowly faded.

Normally he'd have gotten some sarcastic response from upstairs by now. A yell telling him to help himself. A complaint about Dustin. Something.

Instead, the house remained strangely silent.

Then he heard it.

The sound was faint. Barely audible over the television upstairs. Soft. Unfamiliar. His brows immediately pulled together. "Henderson?"

Still no response, but then it happened again. His stomach dropped–you sounded distressed or hurt. And then suddenly every possible worst-case scenario flashed through his mind.

Had you fallen? Burned yourself? Passed out? Those were some of the tamer possibilities.

Steve's mind had spent entirely too much time fighting monsters and interdimensional horrors to jump to reasonable conclusions anymore. "Henderson!"

The next time it happened he was moving–fast–crossing the living room and heading for the stairs.The television continued playing somewhere above him. Another similar sound drifted down.

Softer this time. Weaker. Definitely coming from your room. Concern tightened violently in his chest. 

Steve Harrington had never been particularly good at ignoring people he cared about when they might need help. And he was even worse at ignoring you. 

By the time he reached the top of the stairs, his heart was hammering against his ribs. The hallway stretched out before him, your bedroom door sitting slightly ajar at the end.

You'd never been particularly good at shutting doors. Still, Steve slowed as he approached, his stomach twisting tighter with every step.

"Henderson?" he called again, voice softer now.

Nothing.

Then another sound came from inside the room, and Steve's concern sharpened instantly because that had definitely not sounded right.

Without thinking, he pushed the door open and nearly passed out at the sight in front of him.

“Henderson?”

The word left his mouth before he could stop. He stood frozen in your doorway like he’d just walked into yet another alternate dimension. Because this—this—was not happening. Couldn’t be happening. Not with you. Not with him. Not you with your back arched off the bed, pajama shorts rucked down around your thighs, one hand shoved beneath your shirt and the other disappearing past the waistband of your—Jesus Christ—underwear. 

His brain short-circuited. 

So did yours. Evidently. As your hands stayed in the same place for another half a second. 

Steve's knuckles went white around the doorframe. His pupils dilated—dark and drowning—before snapping up to your face. Trying and failing to look like he hadn't seen anything.  

Your body locked up, legs snapping shut with a mortified squeak, yanking your hand out from under your waistband so fast you nearly elbowed yourself in the ribs. Pulling your shorts up to recover some form of modesty. The vibrator clattering to the floor—still buzzing—but neither of you moved to grab it. 

A sharp inhale. Then—silence. Well silence bar the buzzing. The kind that makes your ears ring. The kind that makes you wish a Demogorgon would burst through the ceiling and swallow you whole. 

The wine haze evaporated in an instant, replaced by the kind of embarrassment that makes your skin feel two sizes too small. 

Steve cleared his throat. Twice. "So." His voice cracked. "Uh." His gaze skittered away—past your shoulder, over your bed-frame, to the wall—anywhere but down. "Cookies were good." 

You wanted to disappear, to fall through the floor all the way to the upside down to–your eyes involuntarily moved down. 

Oh. God. 

Did your mind make this up? Did your fantasies catch up to you? 

But the grey sweatpants. The thick outline pressing against the fabric. The way his fingers twitched slightly—subtle, reflexive. 

You needed him to leave. Now. Not so you could finish—Christ, no—but so you could plan your escape from Hawkins immediately. No way were you ever facing anyone again—let alone him. You were going to live the rest of your days at a convent somewhere far, far away until the sheer level of embarrassment overwhelms you and you die.  

But your traitorous body didn’t get the memo. 

Heat pooled low in your belly, your thighs pressing together instinctively—like you could trap the ache between them and suffocate it. Spoiler: it didn’t help. Not in the slightest.

Not when Steve’s nostrils flared slightly, his grip tightening on the doorframe like he was physically restraining himself from—from what? Entering? Leaving? Dropping to his knees and finishing what you’d started? 

No. Your brain screeched. No no no. This is reality. Earth-shattering. Life-ending reality. 

Then—movement. Steve exhaled sharply through his nose before stepping forward—not out—into the room, the door clicking shut behind him with finality. 

He took another step, then another until his knees bumped against the edge of your mattress, his chest rising and falling unevenly. 

“So,” he said again, voice rougher than you’d ever heard it and his fingers brushed against the hem of your shirt, tentative, questioning—shaking.

Your pulse hammered against your ribs as his thumb traced the dip of your hipbone through the fabric. Testing the waters. Giving you time to push him away—to laugh it off—to pretend this wasn’t happening—but your body betrayed you (or, more accurately, did you a favour) by arching into his touch instead. 

Hey, maybe you could pretend this was just another fantasy. That the wine had gone to your head. But you knew the wine had left your system the second you heard your name in that breathless, low voice of his. 

“Fuck,” Steve breathed before his hand slid down then slipped beneath the hem of your shirt. Warm. Calloused. Familiar in a way that shouldn’t have been possible—not when he’d never touched you like this before. Or really at all.

The TV flickered—Westley’s face melting into static—casting shadows across Steve’s expression. His lips parted slightly as his fingers brushed over your stomach, tracing a line upwards.  “Is this okay?” he murmured, and you nodded (a little too quickly).

Steve chuckled lowly, completely not believing that this was really happening and in the glow of the television, you could truly see how red his cheeks were. His hair—always perfect, always soft—was mussed from nervous fingers running through it. 

You wondered if he could hear your heartbeat—if he knew how loud it was—how fast—how yours matched the frantic rhythm of his own pulse beneath your fingertips when you finally reached for him.

His breath hitched when your hand curled into the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer until his knee pressed between your thighs and the heat of him seared through the barrier of your shorts. 

You weren’t sure who moved first—maybe it was him, maybe it was you–it probably was—but suddenly his lips were on yours, hungry and insistent, swallowing every gasp, every moan, every desperate noise you didn’t have the sense to be embarrassed about anymore. He’d seen worse just moments ago. 

His knee pressed harder between your thighs—an accident, perhaps, but one that made your hips jerk forward, chasing the friction, chasing the relief you’d had to put on pause.

Steve groaned against your mouth, his fingers tightening on your waist as your hips rolled against him—slow at first, then faster—each grind drawing another ragged sound from him, another whimper from you.

"Jesus—" His breath hitched when you arched up again—his praise coming out in rough whispers between kisses—"fuck, Henderson, knew you’d be like this” His fingers tangled in your hair, gentle but firm, tugging just enough to make your breath catch. "Knew you’d be a good girl—god, knew you'd be perfect—"

The words sent a shiver down your spine—how long had he thought about this? How long had he imagined you like this?—but the thought shattered when his thumb brushed over your nipple, sending sparks skittering across your skin.

You gasped and Steve grinned against your lips, chasing the sound with his tongue before pulling back just enough to murmur, "Yeah? That good?" His knee pressed harder between your thighs—without a doubt not an accident—and your fingers curled into his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt as pleasure coiled tight in your stomach. "C'mon, baby—let go for me."

And you do. So hard and so sudden you didn’t even realise you were that close. 

He gently eases his knee back, but his mouth doesn’t leave yours. His thumb traces idle circles against your hipbone as you come down, as your breathing slows. “Sound better than I ever imagined,” he murmurs, voice rough with something like wonder, like he can’t quite believe you’re really here with him, like this—after so many years being so close yet so far. 

He’s not the only one. 

You blink up at him—dazed, boneless—and Steve’s grin turns crooked, smug in a way that should be infuriating but just makes your stomach flutter instead. His free hand drifts up, brushing a loose strand of hair from your forehead, “You good?” 

You nod and his thumb traces the curve of your cheekbone before he leans in, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. Then your nose. Then your forehead. 

Then he pulls back, just enough to meet your eyes, and you both smile. Then laugh. Quiet at first, huffed against each other’s lips, before it bubbles up properly—giddy and disbelieving—until you’re both breathless again for entirely different reasons. 

Your fingers tighten in his shirt, wrinkling the fabric further as he shifts slightly but his grin falters when his gaze drifts lower. A slow blink. Then—"Oh." His throat works. "That’s—uh." His fingers twitch against your hip. "Still going."

Your brain catches up a beat too late—the buzzing still faint but unmistakable—and your mortified squeak cuts off abruptly when Steve abruptly slides off the bed. Not to leave, but to scoop the vibrator off the floor with a curious tilt of his head. Like he’s inspecting some alien artefact.

“Huh," he murmurs, thumb brushing over the controls before glancing back at you—your breathing still too fast, your thighs still trembling—and his grin turns certifiably wicked. "Ever used the highest setting?” 

Your breath hitches—sharp and punched-out—before you’re lunging for it, but Steve twists away effortlessly, holding it just out of reach.

"Steve—" His name comes out embarrassingly close to a whine, but he just laughs, warm and breathless, before leaning back in. His lips brushing your ear as his free hand skims up your thigh.