Though now, in his trailer, you look like you might change your mind again.

He fills a glass at the sink and sets it on the coffee table in front of you. Your knee is nearly vibrating.

He wipes his hand on his jeans and stands back up, divot between his brows.  

“You, uh… you sure you’re ok?”

Your fingers are clenched tight over your knees, knuckles pale like you’re bracing for impact—or escape.

But then, a breath. Slow.

And when you look up, something steadier settles behind your eyes.

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“Well,” he blinks, nudging the glass toward you with two fingers, “First step is this. Hydrate. Golden rule of every good night.”

You pick it up with both hands, barely casting him a glance, and take a careful sip.

“Thanks.”

Eddie nods, flopping into the armchair across from you, letting the cushions swallow him whole.

The silence that follows isn’t heavy. Just… taut.

Like a wire pulled tight between two fence posts. 

And maybe he should’ve said no the first time you asked. Maybe he should’ve said something different earlier, back at the bench, when you kicked at the dirt and couldn’t quite look at him.

His leg bounces once. Then stills. 

That guilt—it never shouts. Just sits low in his gut, chewing at the lining.

Nope. Just can’t let it go. 

“Listen, can I uh…” He frowns, rubbing at the bridge of his nose like it might knock loose the right words. “Can I ask why you wanna do this?”

Your fingers tighten around the glass, knuckles going pale again.

“I mean,” He’s leaned forward now, elbows to knees. “You don’t exactly seem like a…”

He trails off, the rest catching in his throat.

Junkie. Loser. 

Freak. 

The words hover—ugly, too easy—and he forces them back down, eyes locking on your mouth instead. It opens, then closes, like the answer’s caught somewhere between your teeth.

You glance up, eyes unreadable but not cold. Just distant in a way that makes him desperate to know what’s underneath. Beneath the gloss of mascara and lingering scent of floral hairspray.

Still, you don’t give it up.

“I just… wanna see what it’s like.” You shrug. 

And he might’ve failed algebra twice before Ms. O’Donnell finally let him slide by with a mercy D, but—this? 

This he’s good at. 

This he’s been doing long before he ever started selling anything. Rich jocks. Burnouts. Townies.

Different stories. Same hollow-eyed ache.

He could read through them like water spots on a page. 

But with you?

He’s got nothing.

Aside from Chrissy, you’re the first girl he couldn’t pin down at a glance.

You’re quieter, even more elusive than her.

Because Chrissy had that sparkle—that first-row cheerleader, homecoming queen kind of shine. Queen of Hawkins High. Everyone knows Chrissy Cunningham.

But you—you aren’t like the schoolyard royalty and laundry-basket-shooters you hang around.

Careful. Smart. Untouchable in a whole different way.

And that’s worse. That’s harder.

He nods, slowly. Stirs in his chair and tries to convince himself that he’s convinced. 

Then: 

Churn. 

Nope. 

“Yeah, see—” He lets out a sharp sigh, twisting in his seat. Rubs hard on that scar above his brow, left over from when he’d tried to give himself a piercing: “—I just can’t in good conscience give you this stuff without like… knowing? You know, like what it’s for?”

You’re silent for a while, and then: 

“Do you ask everyone else why they want what they’re buying?” 

There's something sharp in your voice, there. In your gaze. 

And yeah. That hits. That cuts through the fog.

Eddie lets out a short breath. Finally—something. You’ve given him something.

“Well, no,” he quirks a smile, scratching the back of his neck—because, yeah, you might’ve gotten him a little with that. “But with other people, I usually don’t have to ask, so…”

You blink at him. Once. Then again.

Then you sigh—a slow, low rush of air that softens your whole posture. The mask slips a little with the sag of your shoulders.

“I just… I get in my head sometimes.” You twist the glass in your lap. “I thought it could help.”

It’s less than he hoped for. But enough.

“Okay.”

He turns, finally dipping into the space between the armrest and the cushion, where loose change and guitar picks go to die. Comes back with a small silver Altoids tin, scuffed at the corners, hinge a little crooked.

“I keep the good stuff close,” he grins, jiggling it, but you don’t smile.

He pops the lid with his thumb. Inside, a few round pills rest against the scratched metal—tiny, pale, each stamped with a heart.

“It’s called E.” He tilts the tin toward you. “MDMA, if you wanna get technical.”

He pauses, raising his brows.

“This is what you were asking about, right?”

Barely more than a rumor out here in hicktown Hawkins, but enough to make ears perk up in locker rooms and parking lots. The all-new party drug that makes you want to feel everything and touch everyone. 

Your eyes land on the pills and they flicker—not quite fear, but something adjacent.

“Yeah… I think so.”

He knows that look. It’s the same one he wears in the mirror when he’d hold something in his palm and wonder if it’d make him feel better or worse.

“Got this fresh from an old buddy up in Chicago,” he sighs, flicking a pill gently with his nail.

You nod, slow. “And it’s… safe?”

He gasps—sudden, dramatic—snapping the tin closed and clutching it tight to his chest.

“Wow. You think I’d sell you something dangerous?” He flails backward, tongue out, flopped against the back of the armchair like he’s been mortally struck. “You wound me.”

“No, I just…” You blink, startled, then almost smile. “Sorry?”

He grins, easing upright again. Looks back down at the tin and sniffles quietly. 

“Nah, it’s safe.” He murmurs, quieter. He’s only tried it twice, sure, but both times came up clean—no spiraling trips, no laced crap. Just warmth. Connection. The kind of high that softens edges instead of cutting them open.

“They call it the love drug,” he adds, picking one up to roll it between his thumb and forefinger. “I’s not like acid. Doesn’t mess with your head like that. Just… makes things feel good. Music sounds better. People, too.”

You grow still, but his level gaze finds your fingers twitching in your lap. Just once.  

And that ache in his gut returns. Low. Uncomfortable.

A long pause, then:

“There’s a party, right?” His voice dropping, because he knows he’s toeing a thin line, “…that’s why you wanted to buy tonight?”

You look up, fast. And for a second, he thinks he’s screwed it, gone too far. That flicker in your eyes, like a match trying not to catch. 

But then you nod. Press your lips together.

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” He dips his gaze, cracks the tin again with a little grin and pretends to count. “Well, I’ve only got enough for like… four, five people?”

You shake your head quickly. “No, it’s, it’s just for me.”

Figured.

The tin is strangely loud when he snaps it closed.

He slides one pill across the table between you. Halfway. 

“If you wanna try it,” he gestures, “I’d start with a half dose.”

A beat.

Then: “When’s the last time you ate?”

You blink cutely, then shake your head. 

“I don’t know—lunch, maybe?”

Eddie grins, bouncing off the armchair with a dramatic exhale. 

“Then you, my friend, have arrived just in time for the gourmet portion of the evening.”

Another twitch of a smile from you—small, but real. 

He jogs to the kitchen and comes back with a plateful of burnt pizza bagels. 

“I was nine, okay?”

Your laughter spills over the rim of the Shasta can, teeth clicking softly against the metal. You wave your hand like it’s nothing, like the story isn’t objectively ridiculous—but your eyes are bright now, and you’re actually laughing, so he’s calling it a win.

“And you faked rabies.”

You nod, completely serious. “Chewed up an Alka-Seltzer. Full commitment.”

He barks a laugh.

“You’re a menace,” he grins, biting down on the skull on his ring finger. “How’d I not know you back then?”

“I dunno,” you shrug, sly smile on your tongue. “Maybe you were too busy lighting things on fire behind the gym.”

He blinks, surprised. So you do remember him.

“Hey. Only twice.” He grins, pointing.

You roll your eyes, still smiling, and settle deeper into the couch. Shoulders dropped, legs tucked. 

He’s busy observing the way the streetlamp light flickers across your hair through the slatted blinds, when your gaze slides to the broken clock on the VCR.

Your smile falters.

“Shoot, what time is it?”

He squints at his wristwatch. “Uh, 9:30.”

Only a half hour ’til your little party. Your boyfriend, Andy Reynold’s party, to be exact. 

Well, you never actually use the word ‘boyfriend,’ but you also can’t hold eye contact when you talk about him, either.

Not like it matters, anyway. He’s pretty sure that whole group—Carver, Reynolds, the rest of Hawkins High’s Letterman mafia—are just dating each other in one endless ego-loop.

He looks over to find that you’ve gone still again. Back to perching, hands in your lap.

“Okay, so I should…” Your eyes flit to the white dot on the table. “I should take it now, right? Just so it’s… y’know. Working by then?” 

He straightens a little, blinking slow. Wonders what he should say. His head tilts just off-center, hair slipping into his face.

“I just…” you add, voice a little smaller. “I want you here when—if anything feels weird.”

That look. Wide-eyed. Bare.  

He swallows.

“Yeah, if you…” Nods once. Then again. “Sure, okay.”

A pause.

“How long?” you ask.

“Hm?”

“How long ‘til it… works?”

He scratches the back of his neck, shrugging. 

“Half an hour. Hour tops, depending on your stomach.”

You nod, steady now. Inhale. Exhale. 

Then you reach for the whole tablet.

“Whoa, hey—” He stops you gently, a smile ghosting his lips. 

Presses his nail into the heart and snaps it clean in two.

“Start with this,” Drops one into your palm, the other half still balanced in his hand. “See how it sits.”

You blink up at him one last time, then slip the pill past your lips.  

He watches, brows arched—at the way your face scrunches at the chemical taste, the way you desperately chase it with soda.

“Yeah,” he mutters, lips twitching, “they don’t exactly make ‘em in cherry.”

Then he leans back, drumming idly against the armrest. 

Thinks about the joint in his vest pocket, burning a hole through the denim.

His fingers twitch. 

“Hey,” He looks up with a loud grin, “You know how to play UNO?”

Eddie notices it long before you do.

He clocks it between turns, glancing sideways from where he’s migrated—no longer in the armchair but slouched on the other end of the couch, more than a cushion’s width and a sprawl of half-played cards between you.

You’re still in the same spot, but something’s changed.

One arm hooked loosely around a throw pillow. Sweater sleeve slipping down your shoulder. Your head tilted just so, resting against the back cushion.

Not fully surrendered, but close.

He tosses a yellow 4 onto the pile, watching the way your eyes drift around his living room, catching on the clutter—the mugs, the hats, the crooked posters, the tiny army of miniatures marching across every shelf.

“Do you live here alone?”

“With my uncle,” he mutters, scratching the side of his neck, rings glinting dull under the light. “He’s working nights lately, though, so it’s just me.”

A pause, then:

“Uno.”

“What? Aw, c’mon—again?”

You giggle, pupils dark and stretched like spilled ink. You drop a green 4 on the pile, fingers a little slower than before.

“Gotta keep up, Munson.”

He watches you—openly now. A little shameless.

Thinks about how many people must look at you all the time.

But no one watches.

“Hey, uh,” he murmurs after a beat, “If that stuff starts kicking in soon, you might feel warm. Floaty. Or, like… hyperaware of everything?” 

He crinkles the flimsy card edges in his palm. 

“That’s normal. But if anything feels bad, you tell me. Kay?”

You blink, pursing your lips, then nod. 

“Okay.”

He nods back. Pulls a new card from the deck. Doesn’t even look at it.

“I’m glad it’s you.”

He freezes, feeling something shift behind his ribs.

He blinks at the stack of cards in front of him, then glances up at you. 

“Alright,” he grins defeatedly. “Your turn. Finish me off, Ms. Rabies.”

You haven’t said anything in a while. 

But when he looks over, he notices warmth rising up your neck, blooming across your cheeks. And the sheen in your eyes—bright, glassy. 

Yep. The E had you riding high now. Soft, euphoric, buzzing gently beneath the skin.

You sigh quietly. 

“It’s kinda warm in here.”

“Yeah, that’s the stuff kicking in,” he murmurs, getting up. “One sec.”

Flicks on the small fan next to the TV and cracks the window behind the couch, letting in the early sounds of night—crickets, the whispers of dry grass, distant music from a trailer window. A dog barks. 

An easy draft slithers in, and the curtains flutter like breath.

When he turns back around, you’re watching him, pupils blown so big they almost swallow the pool of your eyes.

That open, wide-eyed look. 

“You’re really nice.”

He huffs out a smile, caught off guard. “I—uh. Thanks?”

“No, like…” You purse your lips, “You didn’t judge. Didn’t try to convince me or make it a thing. Just… let me be.”

He exhales, scratching at the back of his neck as he eases back down beside you. “Well, I think I’m like, the last person in Hawkins who gets to judge anyone else, so…”

Your head tilts—curious, genuine. 

“Why?”

He blinks slow, leaning back a touch.  

“Uhh,” Brows knit as he studies your earnest expression—not a hint of sarcasm in sight. 

A cursory glance at your surroundings would more than suffice as an answer, yet your eyes are only fixed on him.  

“I mean,” he shrugs, smiling, “I live in a glorified tin can with like, 200 mugs and a broken microwave? Been held back from graduating twice, so—” 

He laughs. 

“Not exactly in a position to judge.”

Your jaw shifts, tongue tracing the edge of your bottom lip in a slow drag.

Then you mutter, voice low and sticky:

"That’s the thing, though. You don’t pretend. Everyone else does."

You let out a soft breath, shaking your head and looking out through the half-open window. 

“You don’t… put on a show. Not like me. I’m like, ninety percent fake smiles at this point.”

A soft pause. The dog barks again somewhere outside. A voice shouts faintly in the distance.

This time, when you look back at him, your smile is different.

“Plus, I like your mugs.” You shrug, eyes flitting over to the collection on the far side of the wall. 

You lick your lips again. 

“Here.” He clears his throat, and reaches for the glass of water on the table, still nearly full.  

He swallows thickly as he watches you drink, like he’s the one with dry mouth. 

After that, you go quiet again for a while. 

The couch had you now—your spine curved, head tipped against the cushion as it swallows you whole. Eyes studying the ceiling, like the stucco texture is some kind of holy map only you can read.

And your fingers.

The way they drag along the edge of your jeans, catching and skating over seams. Trailing along the hem of your sweater, pluck at a little loose thread. 

You twirl it between your fingers like it’s a secret, like it’s talking back.

And your face—fuck. That slow-bloom softness, lips parted just slightly, a tiny crease between your brows that comes and goes like a tide.

Eddie doesn’t say anything. Just watches.

Then you let out a soft hum, the faintest sound in the back of your throat. 

He smiles, soft and unseen.

“Hey,” He whispers, cheeks pressed to his fist, blinking through the curtain of his hair. “You still with me?”

You hum again—low, distracted. Head still tipped upward. 

Then:

“Your ceiling’s moving.”

He grins, relieved.

“Yeah? What’s it saying?”

You tilt your head toward him, pupils blown wide, smile lazy and dream-slanted.

“Dunno yet. But I think it likes me.”

He laughs, leaning back, and you giggle—so easy, effortless, like you weren’t fighting it anymore. And god, he liked hearing that. Could’ve kept feeding you lines just to keep it going.

He watches you breathe in, slow and even.

“I keep thinking about the sky,” you murmur suddenly. “Is that weird?”

He blinks. “Nah. The sky’s a solid topic.”

“No, but like… I feel like I’m inside the sky.” Your head rolls back against the cushion. “Like it’s in here now.” Your finger slides over to a spot on your chest, right above your heart.

His throat tightens a little. Watches your finger for a second longer than he should. 

Then he shifts, folding his own hands over his lap, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling like he might be able to see through it too.

Then, after a long pause:

“I don’t want to go to the party tonight.”

Eddie blinks.

“Don’t think I’m ready to, you know… go there, with him.”

Him?

He doesn’t ask. Just tilts his head toward you, cheek pressing into scratchy fabric. 

You're rubbing over that spot on your chest, frowning. 

“I keep telling myself I should. Like it’s… the thing I’m supposed to do. Like it’d make me feel normal. Or good. Or something.”

You lower lip twitches.

“But I just keep feeling sick.”

You blink. Eyes glossy but steady.

“I dunno, I thought this stuff would make all that easier. Heard it was s’posed to make you… want, or whatever.”

It hits him, then, like a slow punch to the chest.

And he wants to say, That’s not what this is for. Or, You don’t need to be brave for something that isn’t right.

But you already know. 

So when your eyes meet his again—searching, unsure—he just smiles.

“Then fuck him,” he shrugs, “And I mean that in the anti-literal sense.”

And it anchors something deep in him, the way you laugh in response—sharp through your nose, soft at the edges. A real smile creeping in as you look back up at the ceiling.

A long pause. Heavy in a good way.  

Then, just barely audible:

“K.”

“C’mon, gorgeous, where are you…”

Eddie croons into a dusty stack of cassettes, shoved into a sagging cardboard box next to the TV. He’s crouched on his knees, elbows planted, brows furrowed—a man on a mission. The kind of mission that only makes sense when your skin’s still buzzing and you’ve got just enough time to chase the perfect song before the comedown sets in.

He flips through the collection, cracked plastic cases clicking under his touch, until his index finger lands on the one he’s been looking for—old, label half-peeled, probably dubbed over a dozen times.

“Yes. Found it,” he calls over his shoulder, triumphant, and jams it into his uncle’s battered boombox, pressing play. 

The soft whir of the tape rewinding. A second of static crackle.

Then it begins, the first few notes drifting out slow, warm, and low. Deep guitar, hushed vocals—something from his secret stash of ‘not metal but still fucking magical.’    

When he turns around, you’ve already slid off the couch and onto the floor, limbs flopped out, eyes fixed on the ceiling. 

He smiles, dropping down right beside you, body parallel to yours. Joins your gaze on the ceiling and lets himself drift in the same space. 

The song starts to weave around you like fog. Soft, sticky-sweet, old tape hiss woven between each note. Your arm feels close. Closer than before. The backs of your hands just shy of brushing where they lay side by side on the floor.

He lies like that for a while. 

Listening to the hush and haze of the tape—warped edges, gentle warble, every note stitched with the soft static of time—and wonders what it sounds like to you. 

If the music brushes your ribs like it does his,

If it stirs the same ache in your blood,

If it's drawing maps he’ll never get to see.

Then—he feels it.

The slightest twitch in your fingers. Just once. Barely anything. But his senses are lit up, stretched thin in that dreamy in-between state despite the fact that he’s completely sober, and somehow he knows. 

Doesn’t see it, just feels.

Like a pulse. Then still again.

He keeps his hand exactly where it is. Palm to the ceiling, not reaching. Just open.

And then—

You move again.

Slow, like you’re thinking through every inch, crawling closer and closer. 

The side of your hand brushes his, barely there, and then your pinky moves—climbing onto his thumb, curling over it tentatively, like a cat settling into a warm lap. Testing weight. Seeking stillness.

And then the rest of your fingers follow, one by one, slow as breath, until your hand settles against his—

Palm to palm, not laced together. Just touching.

His throat goes dry. Not in the holy-shit-she’s-touching-me kind of way. No, this isn’t a move.

This is you anchoring.

He shifts, just enough to clasp his fingers between yours. Fills in the gaps and settles.

You exhale.

And it sounds like relief.

He’s pretty sure he blacks out for a good minute or two.

Silence so thick it swallows the music and the steady hammer of his heart.

Then, a whisper—something like his name—floats up from beneath him.

Your fingers squeeze his, curling around the back of his hand.

“Is this okay?”

He turns his head—slow, drawn—to find you watching him. He barely nods, the rough carpet scratching his right ear, your hair tickling warmly against his cheek. 

You roll a little closer, breaths mingling—shoulders press, knees graze.

The scent of floral hairspray, cherry lip gloss—all pretty and done up for the party you missed. 

Then he realizes you’re staring at his lips.  

Not subtly. Not accidentally.

Intense enough to burn a hole through him. 

And before he can make a sound, you lean in.

And he—

He just lets you.

Doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. 

Just closes his eyes the second he feels your breath against his lips. 

The kiss is almost chaste—barely there, a whisper of a thing—yet it sears behind his eyes like the afterimage of the sun. Bright. Burning. Eternal.

And he thinks it has to be you. The way you glow. 

With your flushed cheeks and trembling hands and the ridiculous way your soul still shines through all your careful armor.

You pull back a second later, though it feels like hours, and exhale a small, stunned laugh against his lips, a happy little sigh that makes him want to die.

Or melt.

Or explode.

Or sink straight through the floor and burn alive in eternal damnation, because that’s where he’s falling—straight down.

Down through the cheap floorboards, through the cracked linoleum and worn carpet of his piece-of-shit trailer, straight to the molten core. Down, down, all the way to Nessus—the ninth layer— where the fire burns clean and nothing escapes the pull of its lord. 

Fuck—he’s so far gone and he’s not even high on anything. 

That thing writhes low in his stomach again, curling in on itself, and twists.

Inviting a pretty girl over to his place, late at night, for drugs she’s never even seen before. Kissing her on the dirty floor of his trailer, like he’s some cliché with bad intentions.

But then—

You open your eyes.

Long after he’s opened his.

And your smile—that quiet, blissed-out curve of it—sends something crashing through him.

Your head tips back against the carpet, your hair spilling like light around your shoulders.

You mumble something about how much you love this song, letting your eyes slip shut as you turn your head toward the ceiling.

He stares up at the rusty-white overhead of his trailer, and thinks about the sky. 

It hits in small shifts.

Still soft, still close—but quieter. Only the low whir of the tape spinning in silence, long after the B-side’s ended.

He swallows. Scratches at his jaw.

“You feelin’ okay?” he asks, voice low, trying not to spook it.

You give him a delayed nod. 

“Yeah. Just…” You trail off. Sigh through your nose. “Feels weird now.”

He nods.

“Yeah. That’s normal. It fades out kinda slow.”

He shifts onto his side, props himself up on one elbow.

Glances at his wrist—past midnight. 

“It’s late, I could, uh…” He stands slowly, bones cracking like he’s twice his age. Offers you a hand. “If you want, I could drive you home. Or… wherever you’re going.”

“Home’s fine,” you say eventually, slipping your hand in his. “If that’s okay.”

“Sure.”

“I’ve got gum if you want it,” he calls out, moving to the clutter near the sink while you stretch out your limbs. “Helps with the jaw thing.”

The clock on the microwave’s still frozen—3:17.

You blink. “Jaw thing?”

“Some people clench while coming down. Not always, but… y’know. Just in case.”

You take the gum—spearmint, probably stale. He shrugs his jacket off the hook, and tosses you your bag.  

Neither of you talk much on the drive.

He keeps glancing over, just to make sure you’re still breathing easy.

You stare out the window as streetlights flicker past, gold stripes cutting through the dark.

When he pulls up at your curb—headlights painting lazy arcs across your front walk—neither of you move to open the door. 

Something crinkles beside him and he turns to watch you fish out a handful of bills from your sweater pocket, pushing them awkwardly across the console. 

“For the…” You trail off, unable to meet his eyes. 

He gives you a look. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, folding the bills gently back in your fist. “Consider it a… friend discount.”

A protest starts, then dies. You close your hand around the money and hold it until your knuckles grow white.

With one hand on the doorframe, you look back:

“Hey, Eddie?”

“Yeah?” He glances over, rings cutting into his fingers where he clutches the wheel. 

“Thanks for…” You step back, hand sliding down the chipped paint and returning to your side. “Y’know.”

He grins, shooting you a wink. 

“Anytime, Rabies.”

Back outside his trailer, Eddie stands in the patchy yard, head tipped back, the air thick with cut grass and trailer-park gasoline.

Above him, the sky drapes over him like velvet—deep indigo, a thousand pinhole stars clinging in wild clusters. 

He stays like that for a while, jaw tight, hands in his pockets.

He stares up at the endless stretch of night, and thinks about you.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐍𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐬 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬, 𝐂𝐀 𝐀𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐥 𝟏𝟕𝐭𝐡, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗

There’s a lot of things you do that Rooster doesn’t call attention to. 

You never make your bed. It’s always a mess of linens and comforter, pillows thrown this way and that, and your throw blanket heaped on the floor. He sometimes peers into your room and swears that he can see your exact movements throughout the night, like the bed is a language only he is fluent in. It doesn’t bother him that you don’t make your bed--he just finds it odd. He had a couple friends who grew up on farms back in Virginia; he remembers their parents running a rigid, militant house. He wonders if it wasn’t the same for you. Or if it was exactly the same for you and this is the first place you’ve never had to make your bed--so you just don’t. 

For someone who grew up on a chicken farm, you eat a lot of chicken. Rooster always thought that if he saw the inside of something--if he saw their blood and their guts and all that ugly inside of them--he wouldn’t want to put it in his mouth ever again. Chicken is your usual choice at whatever restaurant you go to, unless they have good steak. And before, when you weren’t taking bumps--when you were hungry still, when you were still eating three meals a day-- sometimes all you would eat in a day is chicken. Boiled chicken and eggs for breakfast, pan-seared chicken for lunch, cornflake-crusted chicken for dinner.

Naked is just your natural state. You’re not shameful about it, you don’t get coy, and you don’t really care who sees you. Oftentimes, you prance around the house fully nude, even if you’re just making a pot of coffee or heading outside for a swim. And because you’re always naked, he can see that your belly is beginning to cave inwards--like it’s retreating behind your ribs. You don’t hide behind anything. You are a force of nature, baring all with little regard for consequences. You once answered the door fully in the nude to greet the pizza delivery driver, who wordlessly stared at you the entire time and lingered on the front porch for longer than necessary. 

When you get recognized on the street, when someone is brave enough to approach you and tell you what they recognize you from, you’re sweet. You aren’t shy, you aren’t humble--but you’re kind. You smile very politely, you sign whatever they want you to sign, you bat your lashes at them, you kiss their cheeks. Even if the men outnumber you, which they often do, you never are afraid. Rooster’s glad he’s there with you whenever groups approach you--but he knows that even when he isn’t there, you’re unafraid. No, you’re bold and unabashed. Men don’t frighten you--they excite you. Rooster knows that. 

But then, there are other things that he does call attention to. Like he can’t help but call attention to because it’s like someone breathing down his neck. 

Like you taking bumps often now. You don’t rely on Jake anymore for his supply--you have your own. You wear a fat, gold ring on your middle finger now. It’s solid gold and features a red ruby in the shape of a heart--but it opens up, the ruby attached to hinges, and stores your stash inside. It’s something you designed and bought yourself with one of your Goldman Homevideos paychecks, something you happily showed off to Jake and Bradley. Jake kissed it, of course. And now he kisses it almost every time he sees you. Rooster pretended to like it, smiling rigidly. You have the ability to see right through him--and he knows that. So, whenever you recognized his distaste in the ring, you sulked and buried your face in his neck and kissed on him until he was putty in your hands again. That’s just the effect you have on him. 

Right now, dressed in that terrible cheerleader outfit (which covers almost nothing), you’re rubbing a bump along your gums. You’re looking at yourself in the mirror, all dolled up, dripping sex. You’ve been practicing your lines for the past hour, diligently going over the script, and now you’re rewarding yourself. 

Rooster is sitting on the little sofa in your dressing room, watching you carefully rub the coke along your pink gums as you blink those long lashes at your reflection. He’s uncomfortable right now--this football uniform smells like dust and it’s too tight around his crotch, which he knows is the point. 

You clear your throat, catching Rooster’s eyes in the mirror. He looks very serious, his brown eyes swimming with concern, his lips a flat line, his arms crossed over the silly jersey he has on. 

“Giving me the hairy eyeball, huh?” You ask softly, perching a brow at him. “Is that any way to treat the broad you’re about to go to pound town with?” 

He doesn’t smile--and he doesn’t look away from you. 

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” he tells you honestly, nodding towards your ring as you close it and slide it off your finger, dropping it in the little purse you brought with you today. “Really, Cherry. I don’t dig you getting high before filming, baby.” 

This isn’t the first time he’s told you this. It’s the first time he’s told you this in this room, sure. It doesn’t feel more or less honest in here, where the scent of sweat and sex is thick in the air, even if the cleaning ladies try to cover it with bleach and air freshener. You cast in the harsh white light of this stuffy room instead of the low, orange glow of the living room or the afternoon sunshine as you lounge by the shimmering pool.  

“Oh, what’s the harm?” You ask, spinning around to grin at him. “I’m only having a little fun, daddy! Blow’s the bomb, don’t you know?” 

Rooster shakes his head softly. He does know about blow--and he knows that it’s all fun and games for you right now, but that it won’t always be. 

Honestly, he wants to tell you this. He wants to rub your nose in his mistakes and have you cry and tell him you wanna be better. And he doesn’t know how he got here--when he became so much older than everyone, when he started feeling like he wanted to change the way you were living. 

He remembers being twenty-one, when all the glitz was enough to make him feel high. He remembers that he felt like he knew everything. He remembers that no one could tell him anything. If they tried, Rooster would be done with them. He would’ve branded them a buzzkill and left them in the dust. 

He doesn't want you to leave him in the dust. 

So, as you grin at him expectantly, a little bit of white powder dotting the top of your lip, he decides to drop it.

“C’mere,” he says to you, nodding to his lap. 

And you comply with vigor, pleased as a plum that he’s not lecturing you. You plop yourself right down on his lap, carefully minding your big hair and carefully done makeup--which is always a tad too heavy for your liking. 

Rooster lets himself grow comfortable with you straddling him: your thighs bracketing his, your arms wrapped loosely around his neck, your waist beneath his palms, your fingers toying with the hair at the nape of his neck. He inhales your scent, all that Cherry, and then reaches up and carefully wipes the coke off your lip. 

“Thanks a million,” you whisper to him, beaming. 

He nods, brows furrowed slightly. It surprises him when you catch his thumb with your lips, sucking the little bit of blow off his finger. But it doesn’t surprise him when you gently kiss the pad of his thumb. 

“You’re a sweetheart today,” he tells you like you aren’t a sweetheart everyday. “What’s the occasion?” 

You grin. 

“Just have good vibes today,” you tell him honestly. You toy with the gold chain around his throat, the one he never takes off, and bite your lip softly. “I was thinking…I wanted to go to the disco tonight.” 

Rooster stiffens. 

“I think I catch your drift,” Rooster says softly, frowning. “I don’t go to to the disco, baby.”

You pout--it’s a ridiculously childlike thing. He laughs, pinching your bottom lip, and you don’t stop yourself from whining and bouncing softly on his lap. 

“C’mon,” you whine. You hold his cheeks in both your hands, stroking his sideburns carefully. “Take me out dancing.” 

He shakes his head, not breaking his eyes from yours. Your pupils are blown now. 

“Negative,” he tells you. “Not happening.” 

“But if you don’t take me dancing, then who will?” You ask. 

Perhaps you don’t even mean to manipulate him--but that is what you’re doing. You both know the answer to that question. If he doesn’t take you, then Jake will. And as close as Rooster and Jake are, they both seem to get a bit chuffed when one has you and the other doesn’t. You’re not blind--you know it, you see it, you feel it. Usually, you’d feel bad about this kind of thing. You really love them both. But you’re high right now. And you want Rooster to take you dancing. 

Rooster’s throat is tight. 

“You’re killing me,” he tells you gently. 

He watches your face when he says that. The way your pupils are unchanging as they stare into his, the way your smile widens by a millimeter, the way heat blooms across your chest. 

You’re pleased. 

“Oh, get real,” you tell him, shaking your head. “You love it when I hurt you.” 

It’s an unnecessary amount of cruelty--one that you don’t even register when you’re this high up in the clouds, when wispy tendrils of pink and purple are clouding your brain. 

His brows knit--just for a moment. But you don’t catch it, not when someone knocks on the door. 

“Ready on set!” 

“Let’s fuck!” You exclaim, kissing Rooster long and hard on the lips before scrambling to your feet. 

As Rooster follows you out of the room, a pep in your step, he sees you before you came to California, before Dennis found you, before you moved into his life. He can see you, clear as day, wearing a prairie dress that’s faded from the sun. Your hair matted with sweat, hay strewn about your messy locks. Standing in a dank barn, grabbing a chicken by its feet, laying it down against a stump. Swinging the ax with an unanticipated amount of strength, one that can only be developed from precarious farmwork. He can see the blood, that hot and red stuff, spurting on your face and all across your throat. And he can see how calm you are, your face an endless flat sea--serene, rippling. 

You’ve killed before--legally, on a farm, just chickens. But you know what it’s like to end something’s life. You’ve been the last thing glassy eyes have seen, the blade of your ax shimmering in the sunlight as heat pours down on your pigtails. 

Rooster doesn’t feel any differently about you, even after seeing you as ruthless and unbending as you were in Nebraska. Maybe that should scare him--that he feels the exact same way. 

As he follows you down the hallways, your grin lighting up the set and everyone around it, he thinks that maybe he loves you. He’s known for a while that he loves you--the same way he loves Jake and Nat and Bob. But this feeling he has now, the one sitting so heavy in his gut, it’s different. 

He’s in love with you. 

He understands it then--how you are able to eat chicken still after seeing all that ugly inside of them. He gets it. He sees all that ugly inside of you, all that filth. And he still wants you on his tongue. He could have you for three meals a day, even after what he’s seen, and still order you at every restaurant. 

The difference is that he could never swing the ax, could never bring it down on you. And he thinks, with everything in his body and bones, that you could bring the ax down on him. 

And he’s still hideously, wretchedly in love with you. 

“Hey, kid,” he calls, holding the back of your neck, which suddenly feels very delicate in his hands. You grin at him, wrapping your arms around his waist. “Bell Bottoms or Supernova tonight?” 

☿

You’ve been at Supernova for hours now.

Supernova is much bigger than Bell Bottoms, less exclusive. It’s a big, big building with red and pink lights and a ceiling full of mirrorballs. There’s tall, sleep tables and velvet booths. The dance floor takes up most of the joint, stretching far and wide and lit with technicolor. There’s a bar, of course, where Rooster’s been sitting all night watching you. 

It isn’t hard to find you, even as big as the joint is. You’re wearing a spectacular dress: gold chain-link with thin straps and an open back, the neckline drooping and nearly dipping to the meet of your ribs, the hem just barely touching your mid-thigh. Your eyelids are painted gold and your cheeks are artificially red, as are your lips, and the light catches your dress perfectly. And even if you weren’t wearing something that shines, Rooster would know where you were simply because it’s where everyone else is. The men are ogling at you, sinking elbows into their friends ribs just for a chance to dance with you. He’s watching carefully, making sure that no one is getting too close, too comfortable. 

“Dance with me,” you’ll beg him when you come to the bar to catch your breath. He’s always ready and waiting, pressing a Harvey Wallbanger into your palms that he ordered half an hour ago. “C’mon! Boogie down, daddy!” 

And then he smiles, shaking his head. 

His days of disco are over.

“Sorry, baby,” he keeps telling you. “I’ll just sit on my perch.” 

And, of course, you’ll grumble and whine. But then you finish your drink and sink back into the crowd, moving with them as steadily and seamlessly as scissors gliding on tissue paper.  

Between the bumps you’ve steadily been taking all night, which you stopped keeping track of after four, you feel like you’re on top of the world. You love the disco--all the smells, all the sights, all the people, all the funk, all the dancing. 

It might be where you’re happiest. 

Men have been flocking to you all night, telling you which films they’ve seen you in. You’ve autographed more skin than you ever thought possible, which tickles you. It only feels natural for you to be doing this. You weren’t flabbergasted the first time you were asked to sign something. It was the same way you felt about being in California: this is what you’re meant to be doing. People should be asking for your autograph. 

“Got any new films coming out?” A man asks you, lips pressed against your ear. 

Your back is to his front, your arms raised in the air, as you grind against each other to Boogie Nights by Heatwave.

“Tons!” You answer with a grin, eyes fallen shut. 

You don’t know what this man’s name is, but you’ve been dancing with him for a few songs now. He’s alright, not the best dancer, but the kind of man who probably doesn’t get attention from women as pretty as you very often. So he touches your body like it’s a piece of art, something he’ll never get to touch again up-close. 

You don’t mind it when his hands wander across your breasts, the metal cold against his palms, your nipples pert beneath your dress. You don’t mind it when he kisses the back of your neck, his mustache tickling your hot skin. You don’t mind it that he’s hard as he grinds against you, that he’s holding your hips against him like you’re trying to run away. You don’t mind it that he keeps grazing your cunt, that he’s testing his limits. 

You aren’t even sure what your limits are.

“I think you’re really very,” he says to you, feverishly kissing your throat. 

“I know it,” you call back to him, head thrown back in ecstasy. “I’m the best!”

Rooster’s watching it all unfold.

You don’t seem bothered by this chump that’s touching your entire body like it’s his hotblooded, American birthright. He watches for a long time, watching his knuckles drag along your cunt, watches his eyes crease in frustration and pleasure as he rubs his erection against the curve of your ass. 

  His chest is burning like he’s swallowed handfuls of sand, little grains of hatred slicing his lungs. He can’t stand it almost--watching this man touching you. He’s never felt this way before--he shouldn’t feel this way. And that’s why he stays seated at the bar, nursing another Tom Collins, his knuckles whitening. 

He only stands up when he sees the man’s fingers disappear beneath your dress. It’s a steady line this chump’s been toeing and he’s finally grown brave enough to touch your cunt. Maybe it isn’t your line, but it’s Rooster’s. 

He doesn’t even feel like he’s in his body as he throws cash--far too much cash--on the bar and stomps across the dance floor. He doesn’t mind shouldering people to get to you, doesn’t mind people spilling their drinks on him. He doesn’t mind interrupting the whole disco to get to where you’re standing. 

You’re surprised when Rooster is suddenly right in front of you, wrapping his fingers around your wrist and yanking you towards him and against his chest. You’re too high to really care what’s going on around you--and you don’t even realize that the man had his hand up the skirt of your dress until it isn’t anymore. 

In the haze of the disco, you look up at Rooster. Your ears are ringing. The music is too loud. The lights are too bright, too pink. Your chest is hot, your mascara feels too heavy on your lashes, your lips feel numb. 

The man stares at Rooster with his mouth ajar, his eyes wide. 

And Rooster leans forward, that strange anger only you’ve been able to invoke in him sitting hot on his tongue like a bed of coals, and jams his finger into the man’s chest. 

“You ever fucking touch her again, I’ll kill you,” Rooster sneers. He’s being loud--louder than he should be--but he wants the man to hear him. “You catch my drift, brother?”  

The man blinks at Rooster, face twisted in dismay. 

“What, you her pimp?” The man is genuinely asking him. “She’s public property! C’mon, man! Gimme a turn!”

That breaks something inside of Rooster. That anger that’s been steadily festering, the one that was carefully stoked by this idiot’s wandering hands and invasion of space and the loud music and your lack of attention, boils over. Rooster’s fairly certain there’s steam pooling out of his ears. 

So, Rooster does something he hasn’t done since his early, early years. First, he suddenly holds you by the armpits and lifts you--easily, seamlessly--before setting you beside him and out of the danger zone. Then he unbuttons his cuffs, not removing his eyes from the man standing in front of him, the one who’s smirking at Rooster as if to say oh, you’re really gonna hit me? 

You’re looking up at Rooster, your veins throbbing. Everything is in slow motion, even your hearing. The song seems slow, so very slow, and you can feel every second of time that passes. 

Rooster twists his father’s Naval ring on his pinkie--which he only wears when he’s going out on the town--and balls his right hand in a tight fist. 

“Say it again,” Rooster demands, narrowing his eyes at the man. He straightens his shoulders, sets his jaw. “I’ve gotta hear it one more time. Just to be sure.” 

The man, who is both drunk and stupid, grins. 

“She’s public property,” the man tells Rooster, poking his chest between every word.

Something flashes across Rooster’s face--something that is almost a smile. 

“Thanks a million,” he says to the man before promptly rearing his fist back and slamming it forward, right against the man’s nose. 

He’d forgotten how bizarre it feels to punch someone, how it breaks the delicate skin between his knuckles, how bones feel when they crunch, how immediate the bleeding is. But it all comes rushing back to him like muscle memory. And as he watches the man crumble to the floor, the crowd hardly noticing the altercation and dancing over him anyway, Rooster’s chest feels lighter than it has all night. 

Your eyes are glazed over when Rooster looks at you. 

Again, he straightens his father’s ring. Then he smooths his hand over your hair and ducks down to look into your eyes. 

“You gravy, baby?” He asks seriously. 

You swallow hard. 

“Take me home,” you tell him. Your expression is unreadable. “Now.” 

He practically carries you out of Supernova, flexing his fist, which is already rapidly becoming sore. It’s cooled off outside and both of you gulp the fresh air when you step into the desolate, dark parking lot. Rooster’s car is parked in the very back of the lot, bracketed by a shrub and a VW. 

He’s worried as the two of you walk, his hand gripping yours, your nails digging into his palm. He keeps looking back at you and you don’t look at him, your face flaxen and unmoving. Your lipstick is smeared and your pupils aren’t as blown anymore, but you don’t reach for your ruby ring. 

He’s achingly close to feeling guilty. He’s achingly close to telling you that he’s sorry. 

And finally, when you’re in front of his car, he turns on his heel to tell you that he’s sorry. That he didn’t mean to get so angry. That he only wants to protect you. That it won’t ever happen again. 

But that’s the precise moment your desire for him outweighs your patience. You wanted to wait until you got home, maybe have him take you in the foyer. You can’t wait, though--not after watching what he just did. You need him more than you’ve ever needed anyone before, an ache between your legs so deep and so strong that you think you could catch fire by rubbing your legs together. 

“Look, I--!” 

Rooster chokes on his words when you suddenly pull his hand and guide it between your legs, when you push his fingers against your cunt. He can feel it--how slick you are, how wet you’ve grown from the short walk from the club to the car. 

He swallows hard.

You're looking deeply into his eyes, everything around you gone but him.

For a long moment, you two just stand there--his fingers against your lips, your face straight and your eyes searing as they pour into his, his lips parted, his chest tight. 

“It’s you,” you tell him, really meaning it, not just high. “Just you.” 

Only he can make you that wet, that fast.

You’re very serious right now, serious about all of this. You were too high to decide if that man was allowed to touch you. And even though Rooster doesn’t like the disco, he took you. And even though he doesn’t dance, he kept an eye on you and a cold drink in your hand. And even though he’s usually so collected, so cool, he broke some chump’s nose tonight for insulting you. And you’re fairly certain that he was just about to apologize to you for that. 

He doesn’t move his eyes away from yours, not even for a moment. But he wraps his other arm around you, careful of not getting his blood on your dress, and pulls you closer to him as he rests his back against his car. 

Without breaking his gaze from yours, he hooks his hands around your panties and tugs one time. They rip, the lace things, and he lets them fall onto the asphalt without a second glance. 

And then he starts moving his fingers. 

He knows you like the build-up of it all. You like it when he lets his fingers drift across your opening, your clit, gathering all the anticipation there. You like it when he just barely presses his fingers inside of you, just enough to feel that first stretch, before he rubs your clit in slow and monotonous circles. 

You’re already breathing heavy, his fingers urging that pleasure that only he seems to understand. He nurtures your pleasure, makes sure you’re with him every single moment, that you’re moving with him. 

“This what you need?” He asks, voice low and rocky. 

You nod, lashes fluttering--but you don’t dare take your eyes off his. His brown eyes, those sweet whiskey-colored things, are darker than you’ve ever seen them before. He wants you--bad. You can feel how hard he’s growing, pressed up against your hip. 

“Yes,” you whisper to him, locking your knees when they begin to feel weak.

It doesn’t matter that you’ve already had him today. Because when he’s fucking you with football tights at his ankles and you’re biting down on the handle of your pom-pom and Dennis is telling Rooster to pull your ponytail, it isn’t real. The sex is, sure--it’s really his cock and it’s really your cunt and you really feel pleasure. But it isn’t you and it isn’t him. 

This, this right now, is different.

“It makes you this wet when I break some youngblood’s nose, huh?” He asks you, still moving his fingers slowly along your wetness. He’s watching the breaths catch behind your teeth as you begin to succumb to the overwhelming gratification of it all. “Shit, I was gonna say sorry. Thought you hated me.” 

He isn’t teasing you. He’s being real, honest. You know that. 

“Couldn’t,” you tell him. 

This feels vulnerable. Not because you’re outside in a parking lot, not because your panties are on the concrete, not because you’re worried that someone called the cops. No, this feels vulnerable because of how intimate it is. You’ve never felt more desperate for him, never felt as protected by anyone ever in your life. 

This is different than before. This is more  than you’ve ever done. It’s him, still in his silk shirt and trousers, his knuckles busted up. It’s you, trying to breathe steadily as an orgasm begins to bubble in your belly, trembling in your platforms. 

You’re at his mercy, really. 

If he told you to fall onto your knees and lick the gravel from the bottom of his shoe, you would. You’d do anything he asked.

But he doesn’t want you to lick the gravel off the bottom of his shoe. He doesn’t want you on your knees in this parking lot. He doesn’t want you to do anything but stand here, in front of him, and cum. 

“How close are you?” Rooster asks. It’s hard to ignore his cock straining against his pants now, hard to ignore how badly he needs you. You’re whimpering, head lolling to the side. He can see that you’re trying hard to keep your eyes open and on him--and he loves that you’re trying. “Eyes up here, baby.” 

Like a call to action, your neck straightens. He continues his movements on your clit, moving in faster and tighter circles as your legs quiver. 

“Close,” you whisper. “So, so close.” 

Heat pools in your belly, wetness drips down Rooster’s wrist. Fuck, he wishes he could taste you right now. He wishes he could swallow you whole. He wishes he could bathe in your arousal--really, he does. That’s how badly he desires you. 

“You’re gonna cum for me,” he tells you, his voice tender but serious. “And then I’m gonna lay that passenger seat down and fuck you real good, okay?” 

You can only nod, squeaking out your breaths as an orgasm licks your heels. 

“Yeah,” you whimper. 

And it only takes his lips pressing against yours--finally, finally, finally--for that orgasm to suddenly seize you, tripping you up, sending you tumbling to the asphalt. It washes over you and you’re groaning against his lips, quivering, shaking, eyes squeezed shut. He holds you up, arm firmly wrapped around you. 

True to his word, he moves seamlessly after. 

He lays the passenger seat down, helps you lay back, closes the door behind him, pulls his trousers down just enough, holds onto the delicate meat of your thigh, and sinks into you with ease. 

He’s watching your every move as his cock fills you, his eyes dark and his lips parted in ecstasy. You’re warm and wet--tight, but so wanting of him. You’re laid out, expensive dress pooled at your hips, and looking up at him like you’re drunk on the scent of his skin. And you are--you really are. 

All you want--all you need, all you have--is him. 

It’s a very quiet fuck. Neither of you say much of anything. It’s a tight squeeze in the car, especially with him on top of you, but you want it bad enough to make it work. He’s pressing into that silky spot inside of you, the one that sends you over the edge quicker than you care to admit, and his eyes aren’t leaving yours. 

“You’re perfect for me,” Rooster tells you. He’s not just talking about the way your cunt fits around his cock. “Always so fucking perfect for me, Cherry-baby.”

You nos, tears gathering on your lashline. This is all you want. You want to be full all the time--full of him. 

“Tell me I’m good,” you whimper, holding firmly to his shoulders as he rocks himself inside of you. “Please, Roo.” 

He lets himself fall to his elbows, lets his face fall against yours, his forehead pressed to your temple. 

“You’re so good, baby,” he tells you. “Always been so good for me.” 

He means it, too. 

You know that. 

☿

When you open the front door, your shoes in Rooster’s hands, you’re unsurprised to see Jake sitting on the sofa with a bong settled on his lap. He gives you a grin and a low wolf-whistle as you walk into the foyer, mascara smeared.

“Howdy, cowboy,” you greet, voice soft. 

Rooster closes the front door behind him, nodding at Jake and following you to the kitchen. 

“What it is, brother Rooster? Sister Cherry?” Jake asks, leaning over as you guide Rooster to the sink. Barely, he can see that something dark red stains Rooster’s knuckles. “Uh-oh. Who’d you rough up?” 

Neither you or Rooster answers Jake. Your ears are still ringing from being fucked in the car, from riding home with Rooster’s cum spilling down your thighs and onto the upholstery. 

While he’s waiting for an answer, Jake takes a long hit from the bong and then settles it on the table before letting his chest rest against the back of the couch as he watches you start the tap. 

“What am I, chopped liver over here?” Jake asks, grinning. “C’mon, gimme the skinny!”

Rooster sighs.

“Some chump was giving Cherry a hard time,” Rooster answers. 

Jake is amused by this, his grin growing. 

“Oh, you put him in his place, brother Rooster?” Jake calls, clapping his hands together. His laugh echoes off the tiles. “Well, goddamn! Haven’t seen Rooster in action since the start of the decade!” 

Rooster rolls his eyes.  

He’s not upset about Jake being here--he’s just tired. And he doesn’t feel like sharing you tonight, doesn’t feel like competing for your attention. 

But even right now, all your attention is on him. You’re carefully taking his Naval ring off, slipping it onto your thumb for safekeeping. You’re checking the tap, making sure it’s the right temperature, before you guide his knuckles beneath it. He doesn’t hiss the way he wants to when the water hits his skin--he stays still for you, lets you gently scrub the dried blood off his knuckles. 

He’s watching it all with a softness in his chest, a tenderness beating as thick as blood all through his veins. 

“Hey, Jake?” You call without looking up. “Mind grabbing me a bandage? And some vaseline?” 

Jake has a quip ready, but he can see that you and Rooster are entirely submerged in your own little world. So, he just silently nods and starts for the medicine cabinet in Rooster’s bedroom. 

Rooster wraps his free arm around your waist, holds you close to him. He buries his nose in your hair, inhales until his lungs are full of you. And you dutifully continue blotting the blood, assessing the damage. 

“Are you okay?” He asks. 

He somehow hasn’t asked you yet. 

“Always,” you answer. 

“I shouldn’t have let him get as far as he did,” he tells you. He winces when you press into his wound, but kisses your head when you quickly apologize. “Shouldn’t have just watched for so long.” 

“Doesn’t matter,” you tell him because it doesn’t. “I’ve had worse.” 

It feels like a punch to the gut. But then you’re lying your head against his chest and he feels instantaneously okay again. 

“I said I’d take care of you,” Rooster whispers. 

You nod. It was on New Years--you remember it. 

“You do,” you tell him. 

His lungs are still burning from what happened inside Supernova. He hurt someone, busted their nose up real good and fine, for you. For you. And he doesn’t feel bad about it, even--he feels, almost, good. He feels like it snapped some cord that Rooster had wound too tightly, like a crucial muscle he can never pinpoint is finally relaxed. 

And then he thinks about what he must’ve looked like to you--angry, red-cheeked, smiling, wielding such strength. He knows it turned you on. But he wonders if, somewhere deep inside you, you saw that ugly in him. How do you feel about it? Do you still want him the way he wants you? 

“You gonna keep letting me?” It’s all he can muster to ask you. 

“You’re not getting rid of me,” you answer softly. “Don’t try.”

It’s enough for now. He kisses your temple.

☿ 𝐚/𝐧: this took a turn!! wasn't expecting to write like any of this at all but here we are!! love this for them!!

☿ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

☿ 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠

…

Rooster stares at the shelves ahead of him, brows furrowed, confused about his options. He folds his arms over his chest. The thought crosses his mind to text Javy and Jake and ask them which one to get.

He has only been in this situation once before, with his ex-girlfriend. She had forgotten a birth control pill, he had forgotten to pull out. He took her to the pharmacy, but he hadn’t really been paying attention to what she got. That was like four years ago.

Whatever brand she got had worked. He considers maybe texting her. That’s a bad idea, he’s half sure that she has his number blocked anyway.

“That’s Mommy’s friend.” Taylor tells her father as she peers around the shelf from an aisle away. Beau looks up from the dozens of different allergy medications, unimpressed and annoyed that he’s there at almost midnight because his son’s eyes are swollen from pollen.

He glances down at his daughter and then back up at the young pilot in the family planning aisle.

“We met him at the grocery store today.” Taylor explains. She’s standing there in her cartoon-dog printed pyjamas and a coat with her stuffed rabbit tucked under one arm. Really it’s too warm for the coat, but her dad isn’t sure.

“That’s nice, honey.” Beau mumbles, trying to remember which brand of allergy medication you normally give Dylan. There’s usually some at his house. One kind of medicine makes him sick, another makes him sleepy and the other works well. He can’t remember which is which.

He refuses to text you to ask. Google helps him decide. He walks to the counter, buys the little box, and turns around to leave.

“Hi!”

Bradley flinches, almost dropping the paper bag in his hands as he’s met by your daughter smiling at him. He half-wants to tuck the bag behind his back, but there’s no reason to do that.

“Oh. Hi.” He swallows, forcing himself to smile. His entire body starts to go red, he can feel it happen. He takes a deep breath.

“You’re Hangman.”

“Rooster.” He corrects softly, cheeks burning red. She nods, then squints at him dubiously.

“Do you wake people up early?” She plants her hands on her hips and looks up at him expectantly, waiting for an answer. There must be some reason that people call him that.

Rooster lifts his head and looks around, realising that if she isn’t here with you, then your technically still-husband is somewhere near by.

“Taylor, honey - come - oh,” Beau sighs, pushing his fingers through his hair. Bradley hasn’t ever seen him out of uniform before, it’s strange. He freezes on the spot as Beau heads towards them. “Bradshaw.”

“Sir.” Bradley can feel sweat beading on the back of his neck as he stands before your husband and daughter. The bag feels like it’s burning a hole in his hand, like Beau can see right through the paper.

Even if he could see what was inside, he doesn’t know about Bradley’s relationship with you. There’s nothing to worry about, and yet, Bradley’s heart is going a million miles per hour.

The overhead fluorescents make Beau squint slightly, his eyesight isn’t what it used to be— those migraines are becoming more frequent, but he’ll see an optometrist when he’s damn well ready. It’s easy to mistake his unimpressed squint for a glare.

Bradley doesn’t want your husband to hate him. He wants you, to be a part of your life. Being a part of your life means being a part of your childrens’ lives. He doesn’t want that adjustment to be any harder than it needs to be.

“Should I be expecting you to call in sick on Monday?” Beau jokes, nodding towards the paper bag in Bradley’s hand. There’s a nervousness to the way that the young pilot smiles back at him. This time, Beau squints and it’s got nothing to do with the fact he should probably be wearing glasses.

“No, sir. Just — vitamins.” Bradley deadpans. He swallows and nods, sticking with his answer. Too late to change it now. Beau’s brows furrow slightly.

Rooster doesn’t want to be talking to him. Strange. He’s normally pretty friendly. Beau remembers where he is. Ah, that’s what it is — he’s buying condoms.

“Is my Mommy a good teacher?” Taylor interrupts, looking up at him with her hands on her hips. Great, now the conversation is on you. Rooster swallows and nods sheepishly.

“Alright, honey — Lieutenant Bradshaw’s got places he needs to be. Say goodbye.” Beau taps his daughter’s shoulder. Bradley almost sighs in relief. Taylor shrugs and gives him a small smile.

“See ya.” She declares loudly. He chuckles as they both step out of his way.

“Goodnight, sir.” Bradley breathes out, stepping past them and heading towards his car. He drives back to your place, cringing practically the entire way.

Then, he tells you, and you practically double over laughing.

“Well, I’m glad you think it’s funny.” He whines, dropping down onto the couch beside you, laying his head in your lap. Instead of tensing up or brushing him off, your fingers go right to work, massaging through his curls.

“You’re the one who forgot to pull out, it’s a fair punishment, I’d say.” You reply calmly, taking a sip from your beer and absentmindedly holding it out for him to have some as you turn your attention back to your movie.

Bradley smiles as he lifts his head to sip from the bottle. He has seen dirty dancing a million times, it was his mother’s favourite movie. She loved Patrick Swayze. He watches with you in silence for a while, letting you toy with his hair.

“Y’know, I can do the lift.” Bradley announces towards the end of the movie, right as Johnny is getting fired and driving away. You look down at him. He looks up at you from your lap and lifts his brows, waiting patiently for your reaction.

You scoff, taking the bottle back from him and drinking.

“No way. Not with me. You can practice on Taylor or something, she loves this movie.” You don’t even realise what you’ve said. He just laughs and turns his head, kissing your thigh tenderly and returning to the movie. You want him to meet the kids.

Bradley stays over that night. Again on Monday, again on Thursday and Friday, whilst the kids are with Beau. It’s nice. You’re growing used to having him around. He’s growing used to you letting him stay.

Saturday is Bernie’s wedding. You’re invited to the ceremony, Bradley and his friends are just invited to the reception. After keeping him up exceptionally late the night before, you do your best to be quiet as you get up and start getting ready.

He almost makes you jump as you open your eyes from doing eyeliner and find him standing in the doorway to the bathroom, watching you. He steps forwards with a smile, pressing his chest softly into your back, kissing your neck.

“Morning.” He mumbles softly into your skin. He rests his palms on the counter at either side of you, capturing you between his arms. He tenderly kisses along your throat, up onto your jaw.

Pulling back, he watches you smile at him through the mirror and then kisses your temple.

“You look beautiful.” He tells you, resting his chin against your shoulder. You smile and playfully push him back, shaking your head.

“I’m not even ready yet.”

“Can I stay until you are?” He asks, looking at you through the mirror. Those stupid puppy-dog eyes have their answer settled before he’s even done asking the question. You roll your eyes playfully.

“You can wait in my room, and I’ll show you the finished product.” You decide. He nods, lips quirking up into a real smile. He kisses your cheek, squeezes your ass and then leaves you to it, returning to your room to wait for you.

You fix your hair up off of your shoulders and finish your make up. It’s a simple updo that allows the dress to speak for itself. It’s a deep green colour, off the shoulder with a small slit on the thigh. Just in case your ex-husband decided to bring a date.

You step out into your room and Rooster drops his phone down onto the bed, giving you his full attention instantly. He’s quiet for a moment, just looking you over. Finally, he smirks and wolf whistles.

You laugh as you step forwards, he stands up and meets you halfway, wrapping his arms around you. He kisses your hair delicately, careful not to mess it up.

“You look incredible.” He says softly, running his hands down the sides of the dress. “When do you have to leave? — Do we have time to-“

“No,” You giggle, standing upright and kissing his lips tenderly. “But I might have some free time after the reception later if you wanted to head back here.”

Rooster nods his head eagerly. “Of course I do.”

The wedding is the same as most. Beau’s standing at the front, beside Hondo. Even with as long as you’ve both been friends with him, you can’t believe he picked Beau to be his best man.

Truthfully, you just spend the day shaking hands, catching up with old friends and waiting to fall back into bed with your boyfriend at the end of the night. Not boyfriend — just… Rooster. Whatever he is.

The day becomes night fairly quickly, and you’re impressed with how close you’re getting to being able to leave.

At the reception, you lose sight of Beau and lock eyes with Bradley. You shoot him a small wink as he passes by you. He smirks and continues to his table with Jake. You continue your conversation with a friend from flight school.

“Sorry to bother you, Commander Simpson, it’s just that, um… Admiral Simpson’s kind of…” Mickey Garcia is clearly trying to say this delicately, not too sure of how to explain that he and his front seater just had to peel your husband off of the bathroom floor.

“Drunk.” Payback explains, lowering his voice.

You swallow softly and give Barbara a polite smile. You gently excuse yourself and move to stand. You motion for them to go ahead, then follow.

Beau’s propped up against the wall outside of the men’s bathroom with Lieutenant Machado trying to apparently water board him. Beau shoves at the glass and it hits the tile they’re sitting on and shatters.

You pause. He hasn’t noticed you yet. He looks half asleep already. In almost two decades of knowing him, you’ve never seen him this low. It’s your fault. The thought is squashed as quickly as it crosses your mind, but it’s still there.

“I’ve got it from here, boys. Thank you.”

Beau looks up at you from the ground. A strand of dark hair has slipped from his always neat style and is draped in front of his eyes. You’ve always told him that he looks so handsome with his hair like this.

He’s always his prettiest when he has just woken up. Stubble on his jaw, dark hair all messy and falling into his face. Beautiful. He just never lets you admire it for long.

The young pilots all nod and wander off, chatting quietly, leaving you with your husband. You sigh softly as you lower yourself down onto the floor beside him.

Outside, Jake’s plan is to get hammered. He’s sharing these plans with his friends. Phoenix groans as the second round of tequila shots shows up. Rooster is the only one of them that really pays attention to Bernie’s first dance with his wife.

A conversation with a bridesmaid who had, admittedly, tried to get into his pants earlier had revealed that the band playing was actually fronted by Bernie’s niece. Their first song was a slowed down version of I say a little prayer — an inside joke between Hondo and his new bride — backed up with slow, deep electric guitar in the background.

Maybe Bradley’s just drunk and feeling sappy, but it is beautiful. Bernie’s wife looks so elegant out there, holding onto him, beaming. Javy’s talking about the bridesmaid that keeps winking at him — Bradley doesn’t have the energy to double check if she’s the same one that hit on him. He doesn’t care. He wants this.

He wants you, beaming at him like that, dancing to a song that’s an inside joke. Maybe something from dirty dancing, not something as mainstream as the final song.

He turns his head and watches as you walk back out of the building. Walking confidently, so beautiful in your dress. Beau draped against your side, stumbling. Rooster’s smile falters. You walk Beau to the bar and order him a big glass of water.

The two of you stand there for a couple of songs, you watching as the dance floor slowly becomes busier and busier. Him sipping on his water and hiccuping occasionally.

“I’m so sorry, baby.” Beau says quietly, his voice deep and gruff. He wants to touch you, smooth his fingers through your hair like he had in the beginning. The two of you had been so affectionate back then. He stares down at his glass. “I should’ve…”

He pauses and shakes his head. There are a thousand things he could finish that sentence with, because there are thousands of things that he just didn’t do.

Beau is devastated, it’s clear, but he’s not the only one mourning your marriage. You’ll always mourn the man he was, and what could have been. But you’re not going to stand there and be stuck in that grief. There’s so much more out there waiting for you.

Knowing that there’s no way he can possibly quantify all of the should’ve’s that there are, he just sighs softly and bows his head. He leans his shoulder against yours.

“Hey, it wasn’t all bad.” You soothe, resting your hand on his shoulder. He turns his head and his heart soars, the soft smile on your lips has always had that effect on him. He smiles and nods with you. It wasn’t. You nudge his elbow with yours. “Remember New Years’ Eve when Dylan was little?”

He chuckles. That had been a real team effort. Dylan had been born with a fear of missing out, he had wanted to be included in everything.

Every new year, the two of you had to change all of the clocks in the house and count down from ten with him before his bed time so that the two of you could hand him over to a sitter and still make it to your own events.

“I’m thinking about our wedding,” Beau admits. Your smile falters, eyes closing for a moment. He’s always going to bring it back to this. You open your mouth to shut him down. “Do you remember your grandmother falling asleep under those coats?”

You laugh, pressing a hand over your mouth. You had completely forgotten that.

“And then she hit on my brother when he was putting her in a taxi.” Beau remembers, laughing again.

Rooster lifts his glass to his lips and drinks. It’s not good for his mood, watching you over there, draped against his side and laughing. He trusts you — it’s not that he thinks you’d cheat on him. It’s just that the two of you have never called it exclusive and you’re still married to that guy. You’ve got children with him.

“Do you remember when we found out you were pregnant?” Beau breathes out, shaking his head. You hum softly and lean into him. The first time had been so scary. You were on a carrier, in the middle of the ocean, eight weeks along. He was your superior officer, you were both scared shitless.

How could you ever forget the feeling of being shut in a tiny storage closet with him, using a flashlight to examine whether or not that really was a second line?

Scared shitless, but with his arm draped around your shoulders and your home to go back to together — so excited. So happy. You’ve got plenty of happy memories with Beau.

Dating him had been a blast, those first few years of marriage had been a dream. Somewhere along the way, it had stopped being that. It’s too late to go back, but you won’t stop smiling at the thought of those memories.

“I miss you, baby.” Beau whispers just so that his voice won’t crack. He swallows softly as he turns his head to look at you. You sigh softly and lean your head against his shoulder.

“I’m not coming back, Beau.” You answer him gently, sliding your hand over the top of his and squeezing gently. Your gaze lingers on his hand. He finally stopped wearing his ring. He sniffs and then nods.

“I know.”

You turn and glance back over your shoulder, Rooster’s back is to you. Everyone at his table is chatting excitedly, laughing amongst each other. If you could see his face, you would know that he’s not.

He sits there, a couple of rum and coke’s deep, watching his girlfriend giggle away with her husband. Rooster’s usually an upbeat person, he’s fun to have around at parties. He has worked exceptionally hard to not let his past turn him into a bitter person. But he’s watching you now, and he’s bitter — it isn’t fair.

Watching you with him.

Beau had his chance with you, and he blew it. Rooster would never do the same. He knows that Beau could never make you as happy as he will.

“Alright, someone needs to go dance with Rooster because he’s bumming me out.” Jake slams the rest of his tequila soda and leans back in his chair, taking up almost twice as much space as he needs with his excessively stretched out limbs. His arm extends across the back of Bob’s chair.

Rooster looks up and rolls his eyes. He folds his arms over his chest, sitting back in the chair and huffing, “I said I’m fine.”

Hangman shoots Phoenix a serious look. Either she takes Rooster to go dance right now or Jake walks up to the open bar and starts slamming shots enough to make him puke. Last time that happened, it was on the rug in her apartment.

She has recently replaced that rug. It’s not happening again. She sighs softly and stands up from her seat.

“Come on, big guy,” She grabs Rooster’s hand and tugs. He sinks his weight further against the chair, making himself harder to move purposely. She grunts as she pulls at his arm, “Let’s go.”

Jake kicks Rooster’s chair to encourage movement, waving him off. Rooster huffs again, standing up and shooting a glare back towards his roommate. He lets Natasha lead him onto the dance floor, giving her a dull look as she wraps her arms around his middle and sways with him to the music.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or what?” Phoenix asks, frowning up at her best friend. Rooster shakes his head. He plans to ignore her question, and then he sees it. Your hand on top of Beau’s, the way he’s looking at you. Rooster looks down at Phoenix.

“I’ve been fucking Hyde since the start of summer.”

“I’ll always love you for what we had, and because of the kids,” You tell Beau gently. He turns his head, eyes searching over your features. The sincerity in your voice and your eyes carves pieces out of his already aching heart, and he lets it happen. “But I’m moving on. This is it. You get that, right?”

He stares back at you. You aren’t sure if he takes in what you said or not, but you choose to believe that he did.

The band switches onto something different and your eyes widen instantly. It takes him a few beats, almost until the lyrics begin, for him to realise. You turn your head towards the band. You don’t catch sight of Rooster on the dance floor.

He pulls Phoenix in against his chest in an attempt to quieten the ‘What?’ she had just screeched out.

“Did you do this?” You ask, brows scrunching.

Beau turns around to watch the band. They’re really playing it.

“Did you?”

He looks at you and shakes his head. He didn’t, this is just the happiest coincidence of his life. He takes a deep breath and extends his hand towards you. “One last dance, baby?”

“Beau…” You sigh, taking a step back from him. He’s never going to learn. You frown at him, shaking your head. He doesn’t withdraw his hand. Instead, he offers you a smile. It’s not happiness in his eyes, though.

“I’ll sign the papers on Monday,” He decides finally, voice quiet and serious. Your lips part, lost. He’s been holding up the divorce proceedings for months and now his mind has changed over a song? — “Just dance with me. Please.”

You glance down at his palm extended towards yours, and then take your time to look around the rest of the reception. Bernie’s wedding is nicer than yours was, it’s outside and lit up with a thousand different warm lights, creams and neutrals. You were young and stupid when you got married, but this is your song.

Beau had hated it when you had first played it for him. It was in the car when you were driving back from a date, you had told him that you wanted it to be your wedding song and he had scoffed. He’d cried when you had danced with him to this song, your first time in his arms as his wife.

As you’re looking around, you catch sight of Rooster dancing with Phoenix. He’s staring into her eyes and they’re talking softly. You slip your hand into Beau’s. One last time, you suppose it would be wrong not to give him at least that — and you do love this song.

“Are you insane? — Cyclone’s wife? — Our instructor? — What is the matter with you?” Phoenix whispers angrily. Bradley’s brows scrunch as he looks right past the top of her head and watches Beau take you into his arms.

Beau leads you onto the dance floor and pulls you into him, wrapping you in his arms like he had fifteen years ago. You settle into his arms just like you did back then. He exhales an entire summer’s worth of baited breath.

“They’re getting divorced.” Bradley rationalizes, glancing back down at Natasha. As much as Natasha loves all of her boys, she has always had a soft spot for Rooster. They’ve been there for each other through a lot.

Her best friend is a hopeless romantic. She has helped him through a good few broken hearts now. Some were his own fault, some weren’t. This will be. He’s being stupid and he knows it. She steps purposely forwards, digging her heel into his foot. “Ow!”

She glares at him, “Rooster, you can’t seriously think that this is going to end well for you.”

“I’m not asking for your advice, Nix — you don’t know what it’s like when I’m with her.” Rooster mumbles dejectedly, looking past his best friend to the girl of his dreams, dancing with another man.

It’s kind of a melancholy song. I look to you and I see nothing. If you had ever tried to tell that headstrong young girl, wild and in love, that she would be standing here now and begging him to let go — she’d never have believed you.

Beau’s fingers trail upwards along your spine, coming to graze over the nape of your neck. He always holds you like this, cradling you against him like you’re oh, so fragile. You lift your head and frown at him. He stops, looking down at you. Fifteen years of feelings don’t go away that easily.

Still, he swallows and moves his hand back to where it was. As he sways you to the music, you catch sight of Rooster staring. Your heart leaps up into your throat, lips quirking up into a soft smile. You’re pleased to see him, to catch his attention.

He looks especially handsome tonight, and he’s staring right at you. He doesn’t return your smile, instead looking down at Phoenix and muttering something angrily. Are they arguing?

He turns away from you, still swaying to the music. You watch as the two of them continue to bicker. Now that you can see her face, you can tell that she’s upset about something.

From what you’ve seen of them at work, they’re really close friends. Watching now, you wonder exactly how close they are.

Some kind of light to your darkness. Colours in your eyes with what’s not there. Strange you never knew.

He spins you away from him and brings you back in. You look up at him, drawn away from Rooster for a moment. As he tucks you back in against his body, there’s a faint smile on your lips. Really, it’s just hope. That the two of you can put this behind you and come together for the kids’ sake.

Beau’s standing here, under these lights, looking into the eyes of the woman who promised to love him forever.

The grinning girl who has called him a boring stick in the mud on their first date. The same girl who managed to keep calm through an eighteen hour labour, when Beau was out of his mind with worry. The person he sees in his children’s faces every day. The only person he’ll ever love.

Rooster still won’t look at you. He’s still bickering with you. You realise what this must look like, momentarily dropping Beau’s hands, standing still in the middle of your wedding song.

“Baby,” Beau’s hands find your hips, your brows draw together sharply as you pull back to look up at him. “Don’t hit me, but…”

You open your mouth to argue, freezing as he grabs your face in his hands and pulls you in, kissing you hard. Phoenix stops moving, her eyes on you. Proving her closest friend wrong doesn’t feel good. Not like this.

“They don’t look too divorced to me, Roos.” Phoenix says quietly. Bradley’s arms drop down to his sides as he turns to check what she’s looking at. Beau’s tongue down your throat.

The only thing going through your head is that all of your colleagues and friends are here, mutual friends — you can’t throw him off of you and embarrass him like that. You bite his lip, hard, he draws back.

Over his shoulder, you catch Rooster staring again. Fuck. Your lips part slightly. If pushing Beau off of you would have embarrassed him too much, running after your younger boyfriend would probably be too much too.

“Fuck this.” Bradley mutters, just loud enough for Phoenix to hear. She frowns slightly and reaches for his hand. She’s dealt with his broken heart before, she just hoped she wasn’t going to have to do it again.

“Bradley, wait…” She sighs. He shrugs her off and walks away without a word. You close your eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath through your nose. Then, you turn your attention back to your soon to be ex-husband.

You lean in close, curling your fingers in his jacket, making out that you’re going to smooth it out.

Beau tenses as you bring yourself in closer to him. “Don’t you ever touch me again, you asshole.”

He swallows as you pull back and walk away. He’s still drunk enough to not notice that your favourite student had walked off ahead of you.

Bradley’s already getting into a car by the time you get outside, making you groan. He’s fucking gone, and you know that with what he just saw, there’s no way that he’s going back to your place.

It occurs to you as you’re standing on the steps that you aren’t sure where he lives. It’s somewhere near the beach and it’s a shared place with Jake and Javy. There’s no way you could ask one of those idiots, they’d tell everyone.

The idea strikes you. You turn around and walk back inside, looking around the tables hurriedly. You catch sight of Beau, tearfully talking to Hondo’s mother-in-law. Telling her his life story, no doubt.

Finally, your gaze lands on who you’re looking for. You exhale and hurry over.

“Floyd, you’re good at keeping secrets, right?”

Bob looks up at you with those sparkling baby blues, perpetually a deer in headlights when you’re speaking to him. He’s frozen, trying to compute for a moment why you’re speaking with him, and about secrets too. Finally, he gives you a slow nod.

“Great. So, I am about to ask you for some information, and you are going to forget that we ever spoke about this? - Clear?”

“Yes, Ma’am.” Bob nods hesitantly.

“Okay, what’s Rooster’s address?”

His brows furrow slightly. He blinks a few times and purses his lips and then adjusts his glasses. You’ve never looked at him for this long before. You wonder if he’s always this fidgety or if it’s just because you’re speaking with him.

“Like… where he lives?” Bob asks slowly, raising his eyebrows at you. You can see him slowly piecing it together. Jake and Javy have been talking all summer about this mystery girl that Rooster’s been seeing. You watch him have his ‘surely not’ moment and sigh.

“Yes. Address.” You urge, passing Bob your phone with the notes app open. He takes it from you and clears his throat, beginning to type. Rooster and you. He should have guessed, he’s usually good at this kind of thing.

Music in your ears, whiskey in your bloodstream, your head is spinning and all that you can think about is those sad, brown eyes. How many years you spent with Beau, hurting and angry.

“Here you go.” Bob offers you a shy smile as he hands your phone back to you. His features scrunch slightly, letting you know that he’s just as aware of the tears in your eyes as you are. “Are you okay, Commander Simpson?”

You swallow and nod your head, exhaling through your nose.

“No. Thank you, Lieutenant.” You breathe out, pushing yourself up from the chair. You hesitate and quickly turn to face him again, “Um… about this...”

He smiles at you, lifting his fingers to his lips, zipping and making a twisting key motion. You soften, patting his shoulder gratefully.

…

@cherrycola27

@mak-32

@khaylin27

@stoncms

@shanimallina87

@cool-ultra-nerd

@angelmavmurdock

@gingerbreadandpaper

@mizzzpink

@whisperofsong

@throwinsauce

@perpetuelledaydreaming

@n3ssm0nique

@jostyriggslover96

@thedroneranger

@abaker74

@marantha

@puckleee

@ghxst-heart

@diamond-3

Jake pulls up to the doctor's office and your eyebrows shoot up when you see Bradley already outside, leaning against the bronco. You half expected him to forget, you certainly didn't expect him to be here early. 

Jake parks and the two of you walk up to Bradley as he stands up straight. He gives the man a short nod with his arms crossed, still unhappy with the situation. You had to have a talk with him and forced him to promise he'll be civil for your sake. 

Your belly has really popped the last week, now sticking out noticeably more. Bradley thinks it might just be the most attractive you've ever been, and that's saying something. You stop and peer up at him with a quirked eyebrow and he smiles down at you. 

"How long have you been here?" You ask and he looks at his watch. 

"I don't know, maybe twenty minutes? I didn't want to risk being late." He explains and you can't help the way your stomach does a flip. He's off to a good start, maybe this will work out. 

You nod your head toward the building and sigh. "We should get checked in." 

The three of you wait patiently for your name to be called and you can only imagine what people are thinking as you sit between the two men. You're sure it looks odd, being heavily pregnant at the doctor's office with more than one man. 

Your knee bounces rapidly as you chew on your fingers, the nerves clearly getting the best of you. You're surprised when Bradley's large hand rests on your leg, the heat radiating off his skin and the weight instantly soothing you. You give him a small smile that he returns and you swear Jake rolls his eyes in your peripheral. 

It's not much longer before a nurse calls you back, and you awkwardly try to maneuver your way out of the stiff seat. Bradleys offers you his hands and you take them graciously, allowing him to pull you up to your feet. 

"I'll wait here." Jake nods and you give him a quick kiss on the cheek before walking through the door to the back of the office. You and Bradley follow the woman to a room where she takes all your vitals and asks questions before telling you the doctor will be in shortly. 

The silence between you and Bradley isn't heavy or awkward the way you expected, and it's almost off-putting how normal this all feels. 

"How have you been feeling?" He asks suddenly and you look up at him, taken aback. 

"Um, okay mostly. Morning sickness has passed, but my back always hurts and my brain doesn't work for shit. I tried to unlock the house door with my key fob the other day." You answer and he chuckles. 

"Must mean the baby is taking all of your smarts. Maybe they'll be a genius." He jokes and you smile lightly. "Yeah maybe." 

The conversation is cut short when the door opens and the doctor walks in. She seems confused upon seeing Bradley and you take it upon yourself to explain. 

"This is the father. The man with me last time was just a good friend." You say and she smiles. 

"Well, it's nice to meet you. I'm Dr. Wright." She introduces herself while sticking a hand out and Bradley shakes it. 

"Bradley." He retorts and she nods before turning to you. 

"Any new symptoms?" She asks and you shrug. 

"Not really. Just some back pain and brain fog. Other than that I feel pretty normal." You answer and she types it into her computer. 

"Well, that's normal. Especially for this stage in pregnancy." She explains and you notice her frown slightly as she looks you over. "You've really grown since I last saw you." She observes and you grin. 

"Yeah, it really just happened this past week. One day I was barely showing and the next thing I knew it was like I stuck a balloon under my shirt." 

She nods slowly and Bradley doesn't like it. She looks concerned and it makes his heart rate speed up, but he doesn't say anything. 

"Alright, well let's take you back to the ultrasound room and take a look shall we?" She suggests and you hop down onto your feet. It's a short walk and Bradley takes in the room. It's dark and there's a TV on the wall. Suddenly, it all feels very real. 

Up until this point, even seeing you grow, it still felt like a fever dream. Being here now, it hits him like a train that you're really having his baby. He watches as you lay back on the table and lift your shirt. The doctor squeezes jelly onto your stomach and presses the fetal monitor into your skin. 

Bradley sees it pop up on the screen and feels like throwing up. Whether it's from fear or excitement, he doesn't know. Probably a combination of both. 

"Are you excited to find out what you're having?" She asks and you glance over at her with a nod. "Are you hoping for one or the other?" 

You shake your head slightly and Bradley squeezes your hand. "As long as they're healthy that's all I care about." You respond and she smiles. 

"That's a good way of looking at it." 

She moves the wand around a bit and Bradley swears the world stops turning when the baby pops up on the screen. The sound of his child's heartbeat fills his ears and against his will, his eyes start stinging with tears. They look so big, with little arms and legs that kick around and a side profile that he swears matches yours. 

The doctor takes some measurements and you watch the screen completely mesmerized. She moves the wand a bit and you and Bradley both snap your heads to look at her when she gasps lightly. 

You're just about to ask what's wrong when Bradley beats you to it, concern lacing his voice. "Is everything okay?" 

She nods just barely and starts moving around again, seemingly looking for something. "Well you two, I'm not sure how we missed this but it looks like you're having twins." She says and your ears start ringing as soon as you process the words. 

You vaguely feel Bradley go stiff next to you and everything goes fuzzy for a few minutes. Twins? You shake your head while turning to face her, thinking surely she's joking. 

"No, that can't be right. Check again." You say and she chuckles lightly. 

You and Bradley watch silently as she shows you on the screen. There are very clearly two babies and two heartbeats, there's no denying it. You feel the blood drain from your face and if you weren't laying down, you'd probably pass out.

Bradley isn't doing much better, his breathing ragged and face devoid of all color. You're brought back into your body when you hear her voice again. 

"Would you like to know the sex?" She offers and your chin dips just enough to give her a silent confirmation. She starts searching again and you can feel Bradley staring at the side of your face.

"Okay," She starts. "Baby number one is a boy!" She exclaims and you wish you could feel excited, but all you can feel is terror coursing through you. 

There's a beat before she speaks again. "And baby number two is a….girl! Looks like you get the best of both worlds." 

You try to give her a smile but it comes out more of a grimace as you try to wrap your head around having a son and a daughter. You barely register her wiping the gel off and Bradley takes the photos from her as you stare off into space. 

The walk back to the front office feels like years and the second you step through the door, Jake is on his feet. He frowns when he notices both of you look like you just saw a ghost and takes a step closer. 

"Is everything okay?" He asks, eyes darting between the two of you. Neither of you responds, Bradley opting to just hand the sonogram to Jake. 

He takes it with confusion written on his face and his eyes scan over the image. It takes him a second, but his eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets when he sees it. Baby A and Baby B.

He looks back up, trying to figure out if you're serious, and laughs in disbelief. "You're fucking with me." He breathes and you slowly shake your head no. The three of you stand there for a second, trying to grasp the reality of the situation before walking back to the cars. 

You turn to face Bradley at the bronco and he just stares into your eyes. "Maybe I should come over tonight so we can talk." He suggests and you heave a breath. 

"Yeah, that might be a good idea." You agree and he kisses your forehead before getting into his truck. Jake leads you away and helps you up before rounding the front and climbing in next to you. 

He watches you intently, trying to get a read on your emotions before speaking. "How are you feeling?" He asks and you blink slowly before turning to him. 

"Shocked. Scared shitless." You answer and he nods in understanding. 

"Yeah, I think that's to be expected. Are you happy?" He questions and you give a half-shrug. 

"I will be. I mean no point in being upset, there's nothing I can do about it. I just need time to process the fact I have to shoot out two babies now instead of one." You respond and he laughs loudly. 

"That's what you're thinking about right now?" He grins and you throw your hands up. 

"I mean, yeah! That and the fact it's going to be twice the shitty diapers, twice the late-night feedings, not to mention twice as expensive! Don't even get me started on two proms, two cars, two coll-" Jake cuts off your rambling with a gentle hand on your shoulder and you look at him with wild eyes. 

"Don't worry about all that right now. Just worry about taking care of the three of you." He tells you gently and you take a deep breath. Your eyes go wide again and Jake's eyebrows pinch together. 

"What?" He presses and you run a hand through your hair. 

"There's going to be two more Bradshaws." You whisper and Jake fights back a laugh. 

"Let's get you home. I think you need to decompress with a bath or something." He suggests and he takes your silence as agreement. 

The ride back is quiet, you're too lost in your thoughts to have a conversation. Bradley was barely on board for one baby, what if he decides he wants out again now that there are two? The thought makes your stomach turn. Doing this alone with one was going to be hard enough, but two? You might as well check yourself into the psych ward now.

Jake pulls up to your house and you climb out slowly, turning to say goodbye before walking up to your front door. You've barely had time to change into comfier clothes when the doorbell rings and you waddle to see who it is. 

Bradley is on your porch holding a bag of Chinese food with a faint smile. "Want some company?" He asks softly and you nod before stepping aside to let him in. He splays the food out on your coffee table and the two of you sit back on the couch in awkward silence. 

"So.." He begins and you close your eyes, bracing for the inevitable. "Let's clear up one thing. This doesn't change anything. I still want to be a part of this. Maybe even more so now that we're going to have two kids." He states and you breathe a sigh of relief as tears flood your lash line. 

"Thank fucking God. I have no idea how I would do this alone." You sniffle and his features soften. "This doesn't mean you're off the hook though. You still have to earn my trust." 

You point your finger sharply and he sighs with a small nod. "I know. Whatever you need, I'm here. I promise." 

You eye him warily and try to lean forward to grab your food before huffing and flopping back on the couch. Bradley stifles a grin and reaches forward to hand it to you. 

"I'm only halfway through. I'm going to look like a beached whale by the end of this." You complain and he smirks to himself. 

"A very pretty beached whale though." He adds and you glare at him. 

"Watch it." You try to threaten but both of you can tell there's no real malice behind your words. 

It's silent for a few minutes as the two of you eat before he speaks up again. "I hope she looks like you." He murmurs and you barely catch it. When you finally understand what he said, your heart swells in your chest. 

"Me too, because I'm sure he's coming out with a stupid pornstache and aviators." You quip and Bradley feigns offense. 

"Hey! That's not nice." He teases and you shrug. 

"Blame it on the hormones." You retort and his shoulders shake with a silent laugh. 

He stays for a while before finally deciding to call it a night around 9. He can tell you're tired and he doesn't want to keep you up. 

"Do you need help getting ready for bed?" He offers and you smile softly at the sweet gesture. 

"I'm okay. Let me walk you out." He follows silently as you lead him to the front door and turn around to face him. 

He drops to his knees and you're about to ask what the hell he's doing when his large palms cover your stomach and he leans forward to give it a kiss. You feel a tear roll down your face at the way his eyes light up and curse yourself. Damn pregnancy and its uncontrollable mood swings. 

He stands slowly and his hand comes up to cup your face, his thumb gently swiping away the salty droplet. 

"Hey, we're going to be okay. We'll figure it out together." He whispers, leaning his forehead against yours. You take a shaky breath and give a small nod as your eyes flutter closed. 

"I'm scared." You whimper and his hold on you tightens. 

"I know, sweetheart. Me too, but we can be scared together." He comforts and you wrap your arms around him the best you can. 

"Please don't leave again." You cry into his chest and Bradley feels his heart shatter. He closes his eyes tightly, scolding himself for walking away in the first place. 

"Never." He assures you, and you pull back to wipe your eyes. 

He stares down at you for a few seconds before taking a step back. "Are you going to be okay?" He asks and you nod weakly. "I'll be fine. " 

He debates arguing before deciding it's probably not his best option. He looks at you once last time and gives your belly a fist bump before turning on his heels and leaving. He can't help the nagging feeling in his chest that it's the wrong decision. Every cell in his body is screaming to turn around and insist on staying, but he keeps walking forward. 

You watch through the window as Bradley climbs into the bronco before heading upstairs to go to bed. Part of you wanted him to stay, but you know it's not a good idea right now. Things are still rocky and you don't want him getting the wrong idea. 

Meanwhile, Bradley sits in his truck for several minutes running through everything in his mind. He pulls out his phone and searches for a certain contact before hitting the call button. It rings a few times before he hears a voice on the other end. 

"Hello?" There's clear concern and confusion in the voice and Bradley sighs. 

"Hey, Mav. Can I come over?"

Sun-Soaked - Rooster gets a tattoo

Baby, Now That I’ve Found You - Bradley helps you close up after a long shift and teaches you the words to one of his favourite songs.

Jake chuckles quietly. “So, a cute woman who is also good with kids? I think that’s a no-brainer situation.” He finagles with the toothpick that’s dancing around on his lips, his tongue easily flicking it around in expert circles. 

Bradley slowly cranes his head to stare at the cocky and somewhat arrogant pilot. 

“What?”

Payback came over just in time to catch the end of the conversation.

“Is this about Caroline’s teacher?” He promotes the question, earning the snap of Bradley’s eyes to land on him. “Bob talks,” 

Bradley rolls his eyes and stands to his feet.

“Hangman, I know what you’re thinking, and the answer is no,” Rooster concludes. While he knew that at some point he should open himself back up to the dating world, he couldn’t do that in light of Audrey’s death. 

“Rooster, Audrey wouldn’t want you to be alone,” Jake tells him in the most sincere fashion that he can muster. “It’s not healthy. Audrey’s been gone for how long? Four years?”

Four years still seemed like one. 

Bradley closes his eyes and shakes his head.

“I’m not making a move on Caroline’s kindergarten teacher,” Rooster announces. After all, he could already tell – a woman like you? She had someone she goes home to at night. No way was you, the outrageously beautiful kindergarten teacher, single. Bradley knew it was too good to be true, therefore he wasn’t about to waste his breath. Just because you told Penny and Maverick that you were childless, doesn’t mean you were boyfriend-less. 

“I think you’re missin’ out on a grand opportunity, Bradshaw,” Jake tells him. “She’s cute, she loves kids, she gets along well with your kid–” 

Jake finds the will to cease talking when Bradley throws him a hard set of daggers through his brown eyes. 

“Let’s just get back to work so I can pick up my daughter.” Bradley hisses. Jake lolls his head to the side to see both Fanboy and Payback staring back at him.

“Nice goin’, Seresin.” Fanboy chuckles. 

“You’ve ruffled his feathers.” Payback adds with a wink before carrying on down the walkway toward the jets. When it came time for Bradley to leave so that he could head over to the elementary school, he threw on his sunglasses and kept his head straight, eyes pinpointed on the blue Bronco. You swam around the back of his mind, and he wasn’t sure why he was thinking of you so much. 

Sure, he would admit. You were gorgeous. You had a pair of kind eyes, a sweetheart attitude, and a darling smile that could cause anyone to become starstruck. When he settled in the driver’s side of the Bronco, he gripped the steering wheel, repeating what Jake had said earlier. 

Rooster felt that he would be doing Audrey an injustice if he attempted to move on. 

And he hated that he felt that way. 

“Ms. Y/n, may I please have a juice box?” A red-haired little girl asks you with her hand behind her back. She swayed on the balls of her feet, her freckles dotting her cheeks in a beautiful fashion. You grinned and nodded your head.

“Of course, sweetheart,” You smile. You had already nicknamed some of the kiddos, with this particular little girl being Merida from Brave. She had told you that her mommy calls her that all the time at home, which made you grow far more elated. 

As the calls were being made for certain children to make their way to the walk-line or the car-rider line, you noticed that the little girl whose dark brown curls fell in front of her honey-colored eyes. She was sitting with her hands resting in her lap, her book bag still sitting in its small cubical that had her name drawn on a sheet of neon paper. The kids began to leave the room, leaving the little girl all alone.

“Caroline… Oh, Caroline, what shall I nickname you?” You smile as you make your way over and sit down on the tiny chair to become her height. 

Caroline slowly picks her head up, and you can see the evident flash of worry cross her delicate features. She was indeed a shy little girl, and she was awfully quiet. 

“Do you have any ideas?” You ask her. From her tannish skin, her dark hair complimented her perfectly. 

“No ma’am,” Caroline says, not even above a whisper. 

“Do you have a favorite Disney princess?” You ask her. “Or a superhero? Or anyone in general?” 

Caroline blinks a couple of times.

“My daddy,” She answers, and you can see the way her bottom lip trembles at the mention of Mr. Bradshaw. 

“You look a lot like him,” You whisper. “What does your daddy do for work, Caroline?” 

Caroline doesn’t look at you. 

“Flies big planes,” She answers. “Papa does too,” 

You nod your head. Papa must have been the older gentleman this morning. 

You find yourself inching closer until you’re sitting on the floor beside Caroline’s desk. She sniffles a few more times and aimlessly kicks her feet. 

“Do you want to fly big planes one day?” You ask her as you take a sheet of construction paper that was hot pink.

“Yes ma’am,” Caroline answers. She furrows her tiny brows when she sees you starting to craft something from the paper. 

Although you knew you should be getting Caroline outside and prepping for her father to pick her up, you felt obligated to try and get to know the little girl. She somewhat opened up to you earlier at drop-off, but as the day carried on, Caroline began to shut down.

“Want to grab the glitter and stickers from inside your desk, here?” You ask her.

Caroline doesn’t say anything, but she lifts the wooden lip of the desk and grabs the glitter you asked for along with the pack of stickers. 

“What are you doing?” Caroline quietly questions you, watching as you fold the construction paper in half, before creating wings. 

“Making something that I think your daddy and Papa fly…” You wink at her with a glint in your eye that causes the faintest of smiles to cross her face. As you finish up, you open the glitter and start taking a few stickers off the pack to give to Caroline. 

“And you get to take it home,” You grin. “Let’s decorate it some so you can show your daddy and Papa, yeah?”

Caroline started to smile as she realized this was a hot pink paper airplane. 

She starts to spread glitter across it, and you watch as the child’s eyes fill with happiness. She’s even asking you if she can write her name across the left wing, which you certainly help her do with a crayon. By the time you two finish up, you hear a knock on the door. You whip your head around to see that it was the principal, Mrs. Johnson.

“Ms. Y/n, Mr. Bradshaw is waiting patiently for Caroline,” She tells you with a pointed look. Suddenly, you see the familiar man step over, and while he doesn’t look annoyed, he does appear relieved when he sees Caroline smiling. 

“It’s fine,” Bradley tells the principal. He walks into the classroom and takes a look around. “What are you doing, Care?” He asks her.

“I made a paper airplane, daddy!” Caroline announces proudly as she holds her newfound creation in the air. “Ms. Y/n helped me! Can you write on it? Write Wooster!” 

For a five-year-old, she still had issues with her R’s and Ws. A grin finds your face. 

Bradley grins and takes the crayon from her and writes Rooster. 

“Rooster?” You smile. “That’s your call sign?” 

Bradley looks up at you with a grin. 

“It is,” He responds. 

“Papa is Mavwick,” Caroline informs you, and you can see the bubble of excitement surrounding her.

Maviwck. That was too cute. 

“We can take it home so Papa can sign it too,” Bradley tells her. As Caroline dissolves into her own little world, Bradley occupies his attention on you. 

“How did you do it?” He asked.

Arching your eyebrow, you shake your head.

“What? Make the airplane? It’s easy, Rooster.” You smirk.

Bradley laughs, shaking his head. “No,” He lowers his voice enough to where Caroline can’t decipher what he’s talking about. “How did you get her to open up?” 

You glance between Caroline who was infatuated with the hot pink airplane and adding more stickers, then back at Bradley. 

“I guess through a paper airplane?” You chuckle in response. “Honestly – I make it a point to ensure that a child feels they have a safe space in the classroom, no matter how old or what grade they’re in. Caroline was quiet today, but she opened up gradually… Fifteen minutes ago.” 

Bradley sinks his teeth into his lip. As he focuses his attention on you, he can see the flicker of serenity dazzle in your eyes. He saw the comfort and calming allure you gave off, and Bradley wanted nothing more than for Caroline to be surrounded by it for the rest of the evening. 

But he knew this was a mistake. He knew if he looked far too long, he’d turn into exactly what Jake was prompting him to become. 

And no way would Bradley Bradshaw be known as the guy who slept with his daughter’s kindergarten teacher. 

“Caroline, I had so much fun with you today… I can’t wait for tomorrow.” You break the silence as Caroline peers up at you. 

As she stands to her feet, she walks over and grabs her bag which Bradley takes from her.

You won’t deny it – Bradley was very attractive. Maybe too attractive for his own good. Either way, you knew he was a strong piece of eye candy, and you would be gleeful each morning he brought Caroline to school.

“Thanks again for everything,” Bradley tells you as you walk him to the front entrance of the school.

“It’s my job, Bradley,” You cross your arms over your chest.

“Caroline, what do we tell Ms. Y/n?” Bradley prompts her.

“Thank you, Ms. Y/n!” She sing-songs as Bradley scoops her up and places her on his hip. She’s got the paper airplane in her clutches, and she can’t wait for Maverick to sign it when she gets home. 

Prologue

0.1

0.2

0.3

0.4

0.5

0.6

0.7

0.8

0.9

1.0

1.1

1.2

“Eddie!” The voices carry on from their left. Eddie smiles up at the group of girls with a tiny wave. They return the gesture. “You’re still coming back out right?”

“Of course. Just give me a quick five,” Eddie bargains and continues to shield her a bit from the growing crowd. It's a ritual--when she’s on tour with the band, Eddie walks her into the venue so she’s not overwhelmed by the crowd and then he comes back out for a little bit to sign autographs. 

She’s grateful in these moments for it. Eddie walks her all the way into the dressing room and lets her get settled down into the couches. She notices now how some of the polish is chipping on his nails. “I can touch those up,” she offers, soft quiet in the large room. 

“Sure thing, sweet stuff.” Eddie kisses her forehead. He squats down, his knees popping just a little with the descent. His hands rub over her knees. “Sure you’re okay?”

A nod. It’s all he gets. But he doesn’t expect much. 

“Postive?”

Another nod. 

“Sure you’re positive?”

She giggles. “Yes, Eddie. I’m okay,” she returns. The twinge of cramps had subsided since they’d woken her on the bus thanks to Eddie. Eddie woke with her as she left his arms and when he watched her go scrummaging through her bag to unveil a tampon, he immediately knew what was going on. He dug up Tylenol he kept in his backpack for any particular loud and long sights the band sometimes managed to land themselves into you. When she stepped out of the tiny tour bus bathroom, Eddie was sat at the small table with a bottle of water and the pills in hands. 

Eddie grins at the sound of her soft laughter. His chest eases up on the vice grip it had since this morning. “I’ll try and be quick so you’ll have plenty of time to do my nails and I can give plenty of cuddles.”

“Take your time, rockstar,” she smiles. “I’m not going to go anywhere.”

“Hmm, good. I’d hate to see it.” Eddie stands, presses one more kiss to her forehand and drapes the denim vest over her. “To keep you warm.”

Underneath the vest, Eddie wears his favorite Iron Maiden t-shirt. It’s cool thanks to the climbing fall, but she has a feeling Eddie’s not wearing about the chill. She curls up under the vest, watching the sway of his hips, the chains on his belt loop softly clicking each other. It’s subtle. When he rounds back his shoulder, when he carries his arms at his side with a bit more purpose--it’s all so subtle. She’s sure if someone wasn’t paying attention they’d never actually see the transformation. 

She is always paying attention. She always sees the transformation. It makes her smile to see his confidence grow. She can almost hear the drawal of his voice when he greets the fan, Hello, ladies. Fellas. Eddie knows what he’s doing, even if he says it just happens. The small unconscious part of his brain had to know. The smell of Eddie’s cologne invades her nose and she buries deeper into the denim. A content purr leaves her throat and chest. 

“What’s that?” 

She blinks open her eyes, not even fully aware that she’d drifted off to sleep. When her vision clears, she spots Eddie turning in a circle, reaching for something in the backpocket of his jeans. He finally gets it into his grips and sees it’s multiple numbers that have been left behind--Bethany, Elizabeth, Carmen, Sage, Rey. 

“You take ‘em,” Eddie offers to Jeff. When he doesn’t take them, Eddie tosses them into the nearby bin and then starts for her. 

“You precious baby,” he coos. “Nice nap?”

She chuckles. “I didn't mean to doze off. Sort of happened.”

Eddie nods, slipping onto the couch next to her and then tries to wiggle behind her. “Cramps still at bay?”

She gives into Eddie’s wiggles and readjust herself. Eddie sits with his back up against the arm of the couch, one leg resting into the cushions to give her space to curl up into his chest. She presses her back into his front and Eddie slips his hands up and under her sweatshirt. His hands are cool, thanks to him being outside, but after the initial sting Eddie does his best to warm them up for her. 

“I’m still doing a-okay. Promise.”

Eddie winds one arm around the top of her stomach, right beneath her breasts, his other palm runs in soothing circles over her stomach. She’s still draped in the front by his vest so the rest of the room is spared the sight and keeps her nerves calm. Eddie kisses her temple. “Good. Just let me know what you need. I brought some spare pads in my bag. ”

“Thank you. But why do you have pads? Just around?”

Eddie chuckles. “I am your boyfriend. And I know that when you came to visit on this last leg that it might be around your period so I grabbed some at a gas station. It’s my duty to have spares just around.”

The warmth of Eddie pressed into her back and the soothing circles of his palm are just the right recipe for her to be lulled back to sleep. Eddies catches the way her breathing deepens. Eddie's is a soft whisper in her ear, “Rest up, darling. I’ll get you up in thirty--paint my nails, fix my hair up real pretty.”

“Bun?” she mumbles up. 

“Sure, sweet stuff.”

It’s a sweet thirty minutes and quite possibly longer too, if Eddie's being honest. She doesn't stirs, doesn’t twist or hum or make a sound as the band gets rowdy. Someone breaks out alcohol and though Eddie would take a shot or two he reframes so he can continue to sooth her even in her sleep.

Soon, a heated debate erupts--at first hushed but then as the seconds pass becomes louder. Eddie’s first inclination is to call out for the band to quiet down but him shouting wouldn’t help at all. “Five more minutes,” she murmurs. 

“I’m sorry, darling. They’re being idiots,” Eddie huffs, directly the last sentence loud and direct at the boys. The boys throw out quick apologies but throw middle fingers at each other before a fit of laughter dissolves amongst them. 

She giggles, shifting now so her ear is pressed into his chest. “Was it half an hour?”

“Truth be told, I was not keeping time,” Eddie laughs. 

“Hmm, I should get up. I’ve got a Siren to beautify.”

The heat rises to his cheeks again. Eddie tightens his arms around her ribs. “Shut up. Or people are going to start thinking that I’m a big softie out here.”

“Munson, anything with any amount of sentience can see how much you’re in love with that girl. You are a fucking teddy bear,” Gareth returns. 

“Fuck off. I will leave you behind in one of these cities,” Eddie retorts. 

“No he won’t,” she returns, pushing up from Eddie just a little to sit up on the couch. “I’ll make him turn the bus around himself.” Eddie pinches her side and she only giggles before slipping her arms through the sleeves of the vest. 

The lights surrounding the stage flash for only a moment. The thumb of the Gareth’s drums echo for the opening count of the first song. And like gas only needs a spark to ignite, the entire arena erupts into cheers. More lights flash. More shadows are illuminated and then the spotlight falls and Eddie stands front center, the stage lights catch onto the small lightning shaped earring dangling from from his ear. It adds length now that his hair is tied up into a bun. Some of the curly tendrils fall around his face and they cast shadows that add to the angles of his cheeks. 

He looks electric--the slightly smokey and smudged look of the eyeliner she helped get on. His nails--thankfully dry now--dazzle too in the stage lights. The tap of his foot keeps beat as his fingers work up and down the fret. She had to pin the ends of the bun in just the hopes that the style last through more than just the first song. The stage shakes--she can feel the vibrations crawling up her legs as Eddie’s vocal ring out through the speakers over the wail and whine of the guitars and bass. 

Halfway through the set, Eddie takes a quick pause to introduce the next song. “Thank you all for having us tonight!” A small crack in his voice punctuates the end of his sentiment, but it doesn’t slow him down as his voice comes back clearly to the crowded. “It’s been amazing thus far and we are so stoked to be playing here. This next song,” Eddie says, turning his head to the left to see her standing, still wrapped in his vest from earlier, bouncing on the balls of her feet. He laughs and the mic echoes it out into the crowd. “Oh, this next song is a new one. A pretty little lady called me a Siren. I thought she was hexing me by the way.”

The crowd laughs at Eddie’s surprised look. 

“Like no joke,” Eddie emphasizes with a bit of shrill entering his voice to emphasize his seriousness.  “First time she called me a Siren, I nearly ran to a priest. But a pretty little lady called me a Siren, told me I was electric and so in return, I had to write this little song about her. As a thank you, as a tribute,” Eddie steps back from the mic to blow a kiss her way. 

The crowd cheers even louder. 

“Thank you all again for having us. We are only halfway through, but I hope you enjoy the debut of Siren’s Kryptonite.” 

It starts with a clash of the symbols and hard stops to the riffs, before it melts together into an absolute joy of a song--one that anyone can easily pick up the tempo on and headbang along too. It’s slower than their usual songs, but’s heavy on the bass. It vibrates in the chest and makes the crowd feel like they’re being lifted up slowly second by second and the beat drops after the second verse and it’s like coming crashing back down. 

It is utter bliss. 

They also knew those little groupie secrets, at least some of them did— there was a small crowd waiting for you when you were done breaking down and walking back to your tour bus, thrusting pictures and pens at you with eager excitement.  Your security tried to brush them aside, but they must’ve been waiting here over an hour after the concert ended, and you wanted to give them something to show for all that effort.

“I love you so much,” one girl informed you as you were signing a picture of your own face for her; yes, all that was still a bit weird to you, but after a few years, you got used to it.

“I love you more,” you returned with a little smile.

“Can you make it out to my friend Hank?” a man asked as you moved on to his picture next.  “He loves you— he had to work tonight, but he’s like, actually obsessed with you.”

It was just a coincidence that you glanced up over his shoulder, and that was where you saw a young man leaning against the cement retaining wall, one foot propped up as he held a cigarette up to his lips.  His headbanger hair and your shirt on his chest— well, not your shirt, but one of your band’s shirts— under the leather-jacket-denim-vest combo equally gave away that he had been at your show, but he wasn’t waiting beside the tour bus like the others.  When you glanced at him, he quickly looked away, only to catch your eyes one more time a mere split second later and awkwardly drop his head down so he’d stop looking at you; you laughed quietly to yourself, focusing again on signing the picture for the fan in front of you.  He was trying so hard to look cool and aloof, which defeated the purpose entirely, but it was much more endearing.

The small gaggle of fans dissipated after you’d indulged in autographs and photos, leaving only you, your security team, and him— this guy tapping his cigarette so the glowing ashen butt would drop into the cement.

“You can go,” you told your bodyguard.

“We’re not alone,” he reminded you, frowning.  He liked to do his due diligence, but you liked your privacy, so you didn’t always get along.

“I think I can handle him,” you shrugged, and with a begrudging sigh, you were finally left alone.  

After the raucous concert, the quiet was eerie; after being surrounded by massive, sweaty, screaming masses, the solitude was sort of titillating.

He wasn’t looking at you now, but you could tell he wanted to— you were walking up to him, he was pretending not to notice.

“Hey kid,” you nodded at him, and his eyes lit up as he lifted his head.

“A-are you talking to me?” he stammered, and you grinned.  He’s cute… I like that ‘lost puppy’ look on a man.

“Yeah,” you answered.  “Got any extra cigs?”

“For you?” he realized.  “Y-yeah, definitely— hold on—”

You smirked a little to yourself as he dug around in his pockets for a box.  He pulled it out and shook a cigarette loose, holding it out for you— instead of taking it out of his hand with your own, you simply leaned your head forward and grabbed the end with your lips.  He seemed a little surprised, and you blinked up at him.  “A light?” you mumbled, jiggling the cigarette as you spoke around it, and he jumped slightly as he dug in another pocket.  

He found a black lighter and struck it for you; you leaned forward into the flame, inhaling the first drag of smoke as the end was lit.

You leaned back and exhaled through your nose, faking obliviousness to the way his eyes were glued to your lips as you smoked.

“Great show,” he finally blurted out, and you glanced at him again. 

“Yeah?”

“I mean— you were amazing,” he smiled wide.

“Thanks,” you nodded, “you guys were a great crowd.”

“Oh, yeah, we tried,” he chuckled.

“Got a name?” you prompted him.

“Uh— Eddie.  Munson.  Eddie Munson— you don’t need to know my last name… just Eddie,” he stammered and you grinned.  You held your cigarette in your mouth, your left hand stuff in your pocket and your right extended for shake— and you introduced yourself.  “I know your name, obviously…”

You shrugged.  “It’s a good habit to keep.  I’d be kind of a dick if I assumed everybody knew who I was.”

“I’m wearing your shirt,” he reminded you with a shy smile, and you tilted your head as you looked at him.  His cheeks were turning pink; you could just eat him up… and you probably would.

“So you’re a big fan?”

“O-oh, huge,” he beamed.  “I mean, I didn’t wanna be weird about it, but I’ve got everything you’ve ever made— that first album, I’ve got it on tape and vinyl.  It was such an inspiration…”

“Inspiration for what?” you asked.

“My music!” he explained with a wide grin, as you nodded and took another drag.  “I have a band, actually— I mean, we’re not any good… I guess we’re okay, but we haven’t really, uh, graduated from our garage phase…”

“Nothing wrong with that,” you promised.  "We were just a bunch of kids in Danny's garage for years, 'til his stepmom broke his drum set and we had to figure something else out."

While you were chuckling at the memory, Eddie was blushing nervously.  "W-we're not exactly kids," he defended, and you raised an eyebrow.

"How old are you?" you wondered, looking him up and down.

"I-I turn twenty in July," he beamed.

"You can just say nineteen, honey," you smirked.  "But, happy early birthday."

"You too," he offered, before wincing.  "Wait!  I mean— fuck."

You laughed heartily as he stammered and crossed his arms, shaking his head and that mane of hair with it.  "Don't be so nervous," you soothed, reaching out to touch his arm briefly.  "I'm just another freak who happened to make some records that some people listened to.  Nothin' to be scared of."

His eyes glanced to your hand on his bicep just before you pulled it away— and you saw it on his face, you could read him like a book: he knew what you were doing, and he knew that he liked it, but he had no idea what he was supposed to do.

But that wasn’t any trouble at all.  You could do enough flirting for the both of you.

“You’re not just that,” he insisted, “you’re also, like, a musical genius.”

“Oh, pff,” you dismissed with a wave of your hand which made the smoke in the air twist in on itself.  “Doesn’t take a genius to play a couple chords and sing about sex and drugs.”

“Good, ‘cause that’s what I’m tryin’ to do,” he grinned. 

“Well, aren’t you adorable,” you noticed, and he choked slightly as his cheeks started to tint.

“I guess I am,” he replied shyly.  “Any advice for a rockstar in the making?”

“Just keep playin’, kid,” you offered, “play ‘til you think your fingers are gonna fall off, then keep going.  Get so good they have to notice you.”

He nodded gratefully, sucking another lungful of smoke out of his cigarette— it was nearly done, and you decided now was the time if you were ever going to make a move.

“If you’re lucky, you make enough to eat,” you added.  “If you’re really lucky, you get to ride around on a custom bus and tour the country playing for no-good punks like yourself.”

“Sounds like fun,” he grinned.  “Is the bus really custom? 

"Yeah, wanna see it?" you asked.

"I can see it from here," he assured.  "Wait— you mean inside?"

You nodded, and he got a little flustered which just made him even more precious.

"Yeah, that would be— I'd love to."

“C’mon then,” you prompted with a tilt of your head, turning on your heel to guide him across the parking lot.  Halfway there, you dropped your cigarette on the ground and stepped on the burning end; the pavement was damp from the remnants of a light drizzle during the concert, and the butt sizzled as you twisted your boot over it.  You heard Eddie toss his cig, too, as you pried the bus doors open.

He followed you up the narrow stairs and you hoped he was staring at your ass— you knew just how good it looked in this little concert get-up, those managers kept you dolled up for these gigs even when you'd rather just be in another band's shirt and ripped jeans.

He shut the door behind himself, eyes reflecting the dim lights as you flipped them on and he admired the tour bus.  "Woah," he nodded, "this is so cool…"

"It's home, half the year," you shrugged as you turned to the mini-bar.  "The grand tour takes about two seconds— that way's the bedroom and a bathroom that's smaller than a phone booth."

But he didn't seem to be paying too much attention; you looked over your shoulder and saw him admiring your posters.  "You've played in Japan?!" he noticed as he examined the dates on the 1983 tour poster.

"Mhm, great crowd," you recalled.

"Sick," he nodded, turning and slipping his hands in his pockets as he looked around the bus more.

"What's the drinking age in Indiana again?" you wondered as you poured yourself some bourbon.

"Uh… think it's twenty-one," he mumbled sheepishly.

"More for me," you grinned.

"Aw, come on," he pouted, "I do a lot worse stuff than underage drinking."

"Oh, you're a bad boy, huh?" you chuckled as you took a sip of your drink, looking at him over the rim of the glass.

"I-I guess."

You hummed as you swallowed the bitter liquor, a sweet-ish aftertaste hitting right as your chest warmed up a bit.  "And what kind of trouble do you Indiana boys get up to?" you asked, stepping a little closer.

"Whatever trouble I'm selling for the week," he returned with a smirk.  "But, usually just cheap pot."

"I bet you made a few sales at tonight's concert," you presumed.

"Some," he admitted, "but I was really just here for the music."

"Yeah?  Me too," you winked.  "You don't have to stand— I paid a lot for that couch, might as well use it."

He nodded as he glanced at the black leather sofa before sitting on it.  "Comfy," he mumbled to himself as he felt the cushions, and you smirked.

He took a shaky breath when you stepped up to him and straddled his lap carefully; he tightened his grip on the couch as he looked you up and down.  "You can touch me, you know," you told him quietly, "I don't bite.  Except when asked very nicely."

While you took another sip of bourbon, he hesitantly reached up and laid his hands on your thighs through the tight pants, stroking with his thumbs slowly as you smiled.

Tossing your head back, you finished off the glass and leaned to the side to set the empty glass down.  When you returned to face him, he was still staring down at your lap on top of his.  You put one finger under his chin, tilting his face up to look at yours; he blinked his big puppy-dog eyes at you, and you smiled.  “If you want something from me, why don’t you just ask?” you prompted.

“Can I… can I kiss you?” he finally asked, and you laughed a bit at his sweetness before you nodded.

He grabbed the back of your head and pulled you into a needy kiss, not too rushed but certainly not wasting any time.  You kissed him back, gladly, smiling a little at the way you could almost taste his naivete and excitement.

His other hand was around your waist, pulling you down into his lap; you gasped when you felt through his jeans how hard he already was, the bulge in the black denim rubbing right up against your clit through the all-too-numerous layers of clothes.

“Fuck,” you sighed as you reached to hold onto his shoulders, bunching up balls of his vest in your fists.  “I want you, Eddie.”

“Oh my god,” he breathed, both hands suddenly grabbing your hips as he started to guide you to grind against him.  “I— I never thought I’d hear you say that.”

His lips moved to your neck instead, only gently kissing and teasing you first before you felt his teeth graze along the skin; your eyes fell shut and you grabbed on tighter to the thick denim vest.

“Say it again,” he pleaded suddenly, and you smiled through the haze of arousal clouding your mind.  

You honored the spirit of his request, but you had to up the ante, of course.  “I need you, Eddie,” you sighed instead, and he groaned loudly against where his kisses had trailed to your exposed clavicle.

“Fuck— okay,” he choked out, holding you tighter, “fuck— are we really— you wanna do it here?  O-or is there a bed?”

You laughed again; god, he’s precious.  “I think we’re gonna have time for both,” you explained, pulling your head up from where it had fallen back to look down at him again with an eyebrow raised.  “I hope we’re gonna have time for both.”

“We’re gonna have time for whatever you want,” he promised.  “I’ll be here until you kick me out, I swear.”

“Mm,” you hummed proudly, toying with a stray curl in his mess of hair.  “Maybe I’ll keep you then— take you on the rest of the tour.  You can fuck me all the way to Cinncinnati.”

“God,” he breathed, “don’t even joke about that— you know I would.  I’d follow you anywhere.”

“Fuck me right and I’ll see what I can do, mkay?” you challenged, and he nodded quickly.

You lifted yourself up off of his lap just enough to start unbuckling his belt, and he gripped your thighs tighter again, watching you work his jeans open with total dumbstruck awe.  

Smiling proudly, you reached into his fly once you’d unzipped it, finding his erection not only straining against his checkered boxers but staining them with a wet patch of precum.  “What’s got you so worked up, huh?” you teased.

“Been hard ever since you touched my arm,” he admitted.  

“You don’t get laid back home?” you prompted.

“In Hawkins?  Hell no,” he chuckled breathlessly.  

“Figured a pretty boy like you wouldn’t have any trouble,” you presumed, feeling his cock jump on the other side of the cotton.  He likes being called pretty, I’ll remember that.  “You never traded weed for some head or anything?” 

He shook his head, opening his mouth as his jaw shivered a bit.

“Well, I don’t need whatever cheap skunk you deal,” you grinned, starting to back up off of his lap and kneeling on the floor in between his spread legs, “but I kinda wanna suck you off anyways.”

“Fuck,” he whispered, lifting his hips quickly and shoving his jeans and boxers down his thighs so you had easy access; you bit your lip not just at his eagerness, but at the thick length that bounced up and left another smear of precum on his band t-shirt.  His hand reached up to touch your hair gently while you wrapped your own fingers around him, giving him a couple slow strokes first.

“You’ve got a nice cock,” you informed him.

“Oh— really?” he stammered.  “I— thanks…”

“What do you want me to do to it?” you asked him, which seemed to make him even more confused.  “I mean, I could just sign it and let you go now.”

“N-no,” he choked.  

“Then say what you want me to do,” you encouraged.

“I want you to… suck it,” he whispered.

“Suck what?” you prompted.

“Suck my cock,” he said, a little more confident— still weak and whimpery, of course, but just stern enough to make you heat up between your legs.

For his reward, you looked up at him as you licked the head— just once, and he was already looking totally wrecked.  He covered his face with his ring-decorated hands, breaths louder when they echoed off of his palms, and tilted his head back. 

“God, I— this is a dream, right?  I’m dreaming?”

You just hummed as you wrapped your lips around him, letting your bourbon mouth soak the softer, sensitive head.  Your tongue pressed against the spot right under his slit and he groaned, grabbing on tighter to your hair for a moment.

“F-fuck, sorry,” he mumbled, and you pulled off with a smirk.

“It’s okay, I’m not that delicate,” you promised.  “I’m yours for the night, Eddie, use me how you want.”

“Jesus,” he hissed, moaning louder when you put your mouth on him again— your hand held on tight to what your lips couldn’t reach, and you felt him grab onto the back of your neck.  “Baby— you do this a lot?  Take fans back here a-and suck them off?”

You sucked a little longer before pulling back to ask him, “d’ya really wanna know?”

He laughed a bit and shook his head.  “Guess not.  I’d rather feel special.”

“Oh, baby,” you purred, “you are special.  I’m gonna let you fuck me.”

You didn’t get a chance to see his reaction to that, you were too busy burying your face in his crotch as you swallowed his cock down.  He spread his thighs wider as you bobbed on his length, and you rubbed them with each hand— in part to soothe him, in part to hold him down so he wouldn’t buck up into your throat.

He whimpered as you gagged on him while you massaged his thick thighs, the muscles tensing under your hand; you even felt your forehead rubbing against his shirt, and you had to stop yourself from laughing since you knew your face was on the print— how eerie.

“Feels really good,” he blurted out suddenly, “when you choke on it like that… s’it really that big?”

You had to smile at that, so you pulled off and stroked his spit-slick cock instead as you grinned up at him.  “Nobody ever told you?” 

He shook his head.

“Well, your cock's fuckin' big,” you laughed.  “S’gonna feel so good…”

You let him figure out what you meant by that when you grabbed him by each end of his opened jeans and pulled him up with you as you walked backwards to the bedroom.  “You’re not gonna let me return the favor?” he noticed with a smile.

“I’m feeling a little impatient,” you explained with a grin.

Stumbling through the cramped doorway and toppling back onto the bed, you helped Eddie out of his jacket— but you just watched him take the shirt off, enjoying the show.  He was lean underneath, just a little dash of hair and a lot of ink, and you bit your lip.

“Nice tats,” you nodded.

“Thanks,” he sighed— and you thought he might stop to explain them or something but he just fell down on top of you again, pinning you to the bed and kissing you voraciously.

He fumbled with your clothes a bit— the shirt came off fine, the pants were tight so it took some tugging, and the challenge only increased from there; you giggled as he reached under you and struggled with the clasps of your bra.

"A little help here?" he pleaded awkwardly, and you bent your arms behind your back to help him get it off.  He groaned a little when it was tossed aside and your chest was freed for him.  "I-I read this interview one time where you said you played shows topless sometimes, before you got big."

You laughed lightly; "Yeah, that's true.  Got a lot more people in the door."

"I woulda killed to go to one of those gigs," he laughed.

"Well, I'm topless right now," you reminded him with a raised eyebrow, "what do you wanna do about it?"

"I wanna— fuck, I wanna suck on 'em," he admitted, making you smile.

"Go for it, Eddie— put your mouth on my tits."

There are a few words to describe the way he followed those instructions: eagerly, greedily, hungrily.  He almost sucked too hard in his overexcitement, but the hint of pain just made your pussy pulse with need.

"That's good," you sighed out your praise.  "You're good at that…"

He hummed against your skin, swirling his tongue around each bud as he went back and forth, even playfully biting near one and grinning up at you mischievously.

At the same time, his fingers hooked into your panties and slid them down your legs— which you opened right away, letting him get an eyeful of your soaked pussy.

"You're perfect," he blurted out, making you snort a laugh— but it wasn't quite as funny when he dragged calloused fingers up from where most of your arousal had gathered all the way to your swelling clit.

"Fuck me, baby," you begged.  "Want you so bad…"

"Want you too," he promised, "wanted this for so long— dreamed about this—"

He cut himself off by pushing into you, sighing out his moan as you hissed from the slight sting.

“Fuck,” he choked, pushing all the way to the brim, “I— shit, I always imagined what you’d feel like, I… you feel so good…”

“You imagined this, huh?” you smirked.  “Don’t tell me you jerked off to my poster.”

“Okay, I won’t tell you,” he laughed breathlessly.

He found his pace: deliberate and slightly impatient, like he was barely resisting the urge to just go fast and rough like any restlessly horny teenage boy would want to.  You wanted him to give in and go wild soon enough, but for now, you enjoyed his commitment to going slow, moaning lowly and savoring the lovely friction of his cock dragging inside your channel.

"You're so… you're amazing," he sighed, eyes glued to the sight of his cock sliding in and out of you— until he looked up at your face with so many emotions in his expression.  "You're beautiful."

You smiled a bit, reaching up to grab onto his shoulder and squeeze it.  "You're sweet," you returned.  "And pretty."

You twirled a strand of his hair around your finger, watching him stutter and blink quickly.  You wouldn't tease him so much if he wasn't so cute when you did it.

"You don't need to be so romantic about it, honey," you purred, "fuck me like you really mean it."

For a moment, you worried that he didn't have it in him to really give it to him— but then he grabbed under your knees and pushed them up to your chest.  When he thrusted into you again, it forced you to gasp and throw your head back.

"Fuck," you groaned, "good boy."

He gasped and sped up, the curve of his cock pushing right into the deepest places that made your eyes roll back.

"So good," you praised as you clutched the expensive silk sheets beneath you.

"Yeah?" he panted.  "You like this—" he choked on his own throat for a half second— "big cock?"

It was obvious that he wasn't the best at dirty talk— maybe he was usually more comfortable but he was just too nervous now— and you smiled proudly as you nodded.  "Mhm," you answered while you bit down on your lip.

He held onto your legs a little tighter so he could thrust faster, and you were starting to feel this numbness overtake you from the inside out.  It was pleasant, and subtle; part of it was the glass of bourbon, certainly, but the swirling inside your mind was way better than any drunkenness.  You couldn’t decide between letting your eyes fall shut like your body longed to, and keeping them open to watch Eddie’s face as he focused all his energy into fucking you.  

You moaned louder and gripped the sheets tighter as pleasure started to gather, building more and more each time his movements stroked over your spot.  “Is this how you imagined it?” you asked with a soft laugh, making him look up at your face again.  “When you were… looking at my poster?”

He smiled a bit.  “Not exactly.”

“Why don’t you show me what you thought about?” you suggested.

Quickly, he let go of the backs of your legs and instead guided them to wrap around his waist, leaning down over you and holding your hip steady so you had to take him as deep as he could go; you moaned lowly as he sped up, significantly.  Finally, he wasn’t holding back so much.  “Like this,” he breathed.  “I mean, there were other ways— a lot of other ways— I thought about fucking you but… I want it like this.”

You purred and held onto his back, feeling his muscles move under his skin as he rocked his hips.  “However you want it,” you reminded him with a sultry whisper— not because it was true, but because it made him shudder and twitch inside you; it was a reminder to you both that you were still completely in charge.

“Y-you said something before about… biting?  When you’re asked nicely?” he recalled, and you smiled.

“Yeah?  I meant it.  Just gotta ask, baby,” you assured.

He whimpered a little, seeming to be gathering some courage before he did it.  “Could you please, um… bite me?  Right here…”

He pointed to the side of his neck and you pulled him down by his hair to latch your lips and teeth onto him.

“Fuck,” he moaned, fucking you deeper in response.  You groaned against his skin and bit down just a bit harder, sucking on the delicate skin as he gasped and panted from the pain.

You moved up a little higher and nipped at him again, even catching the hard line of his jaw between his teeth and feeling the slight roughness of incoming stubble against your lips.  “There,” you announced proudly as you fell back onto the bed.  “Aw, it’s already coming in…”

He sighed as you traced the shape of the little bruise developing in the shape of your teeth.

“Should leave a nice mark,” you cooed, “but your friends still aren’t gonna believe you.”

“I know,” he laughed, “I still can’t believe this is happening, and I’m here.”

You yanked him down to kiss you again, sloppy and needy— just like the way he drove his hips forward, sliding his cock against your soaked and sticky walls.

Your gasp pulled the air out of his mouth when he shifted just right and slammed his thick head into your spot; your legs wrapped around him tightly in a moment, keeping him where you wanted him.

"Fuck, that's good," you grunted, "harder, pretty boy— fuck me just like that, god!"

He whined but did as he was told, holding onto your hips and fucking you even more roughly.

“Yeah, right there,” you panted as your back arched, “fuck, Eddie, you’re doing so good for me…”

A panting whine of your name right by your ear made you smile even as you were starting to lose your focus on everything— the pleasure was building even faster than you expected, probably because he was just so damn cute.

“I’m so close, baby,” you groaned, “don’t stop—”

“Won’t stop,” he shook his head as he assured you, “never gonna stop, I swear— I want you to come.”

“I will just— ah, Eddie, baby— just keep fucking me like this.”

He whimpered slightly and kissed your neck, searching for the most sensitive place so he could drive you even more wild… but he only really did that when he reached down between the two of you to rub his thumb on your clit.

“Oh!” you yelped, giggling slightly though you struggled to catch your breath enough for it.  You started to clench down on him harder and harder, and just a few seconds of his calloused fingertip gyrating your bud around was enough to push you over the edge.  “Fuck!” you shouted as your eyes shut tight, legs shaking as they clamped down on his, back arching deeper as everything seemed to seize up and relax in your body all at once.

It was sharp and sudden, but it faded in a few moments into that perfect after-feeling, a smile crossing your face lazily as that numbness finally won; your pussy was still gripping him tight as you came down from it, literally quivering as he kept thrusting right over the same spot (that was now more sensitive and swollen than ever).  "Shit," he grunted, "I can feel it when you— fuck…"

“Does it feel good?” you pressed, voice a bit hoarse.  “When I come all over your cock?”

“Y-yes, fuck, yes,” he sighed in agreement, jackhammering his hips into yours at record speed and recklessness.

“God, m’gonna— fuck, g’na come,” he choked out, and you smiled up at him.

“Go ahead, baby,” you encouraged, “wanna see it— I wanna see you come for me, baby—”

“Fuck!” he yelped, giving you a few more erratic thrusts before he hissed and pulled out— his mouth was open wide for each moan to pass through as he spilled onto you, still rocking his hips and rubbing his cock on your swollen clit.  The first few pumps shot up to your chest and you smiled; after that, it just dribbled down into a warm, sticky puddle.

His shoulders sunk and he fluttered his eyes shut when he finished.  “Aw, look, you made a mess,” you purred.  “Why don’t you be a good boy and clean that up?”

“Uh—” he panted, starting to reach for his discarded shirt.

“No,” you stopped him, and he met your gaze with wide, wet eyes; poor baby.  “Not like that.  Lick it up.”

“O-oh…” he sighed, cheeks flushing brighter as he bent down and closed his eyes at the same time he stuck his tongue out; you sighed happily as you watched him lap up his own orgasm off your stomach.

“How is it?” you asked teasingly, petting his head as he gulped it down and looked up at you; each lick tickled your skin and you bit your lip.

“S’good,” he blurted out, licking one long stripe up from your belly button and between your tits to gather the last few drops that had made it that far.

“Then gimme a taste,” you cooed as you sat up slightly, pulling him into a messy kiss as you held onto his shoulders.  He hummed into it, holding onto your hips again— and when you finally let him go, he broke away and pulled out with a wince.

“Jesus,” he breathed as he laid on his back beside you; he blinked up at the ceiling dreamily before he glanced at you again.

He surprised you by leaning onto his side and pulling you into a kiss— much more soft and sweet than you expected in a time like this, but not unappreciated.  Reaching up, you gently brushed his hair back out of his face, feeling him smile against you a bit.

For a second, he leaned further towards you when you pulled away, and you raised an eyebrow at him as he blushed.  “I like kissing you,” he admitted quietly.

“I need another drink,” you replied— but when you tried to get up, he held you by your wrist and pulled you back down into him, pulling your head to his chest and kissing the top of it.

“Don’t go yet,” he cooed, and you laughed as you gave in and wrapped your arms around him.

“Cuddling isn’t usually a big part of the groupie experience,” you informed him, but he just held you tighter.

“Am I your groupie?” he wondered.

“Is there another word for it?” you raised an eyebrow.

“Hmm,” he considered that as he leaned down further to kiss your cheek, then your neck, “how about… boyfriend?”

You laughed.  “That’s funny— you’re funny.”

“Why not?” he cooed.  “I could take you to a movie, show you for myself all that trouble us Indiana boys get up to.”

You purred as he licked and sucked on your neck a bit harder, tightening your grip on his arms.  “That does sound nice.  Nobody’s taken me out on a proper, normal date in years— it’s all private jets and VIP tours and imported wine—”

“Don’t have to worry about that with me, babe,” he grinned, pulling back up to look down at you as he cradled your cheek in his hand.  “With me you’ll get to experience all those trailer park joys: beer in cans, a rusty van that needs new brake pads, fooling around under the stars on a blanket by the lake…”

“Sounds like a good way to get some unfortunate paparazzi pictures in the magazines tomorrow,” you noticed.

“Even better,” he decided, “that’s the only way anyone’s ever gonna buy my story.”

“Yeah?  And what story is that?” you asked.  “What do you plan on telling your friends?”

“That I met this… amazing woman,” he breathed, looking at your face carefully, “who’s beautiful and talented and sexy— and, for some unknowable reason, she took pity on me and let me make love to her.”

You smirked.

“And hopefully I’ll tell them all this over the phone from some hotel by your next stop,” he winked.  “I’m still hoping I impressed you enough to hop a ride with you for the rest of the tour.”

“Mm, you were good, but I don’t know about kidnap-some-farm-boy-and-take-him-everywhere good,” you teased.

He didn’t seem too hurt, but you knew it wasn’t what he wanted to hear.  “Then I guess you’ll have to give me another chance to try.”

“Oh, I will: I want you to fuck me again,” you decided.

“When?” he smiled.

“Right now.”

You pushed him down by his shoulders, pinning him to the bed.  “Oh— fuck,” he choked.

“You can, right?  You’re young.”

“Y-yeah, but—”

He stopped and gasped as you hopped up to straddle his lap, leaning one hand against the wall by the head of the bed while the other grabbed his cock— which, yes, was still hard— and guided it to your opening again.

“Christ, I—” he began, but he gave up and dropped his head back when you sank down onto him.  “Fuck, you’re— oh my god…”

“Should be nice and easy, right?” you smiled as you started to ride him.  “Your cock stretched me out s’good, am I all loose for you now?”

“N-no,” he shook his head, “no, you’re still… really tight…”

You fought against the urge to smirk and just gave him a condescending pout.  “Oh, it’s not too much, is it?  You want me to stop?”

“No,” he repeated, more desperate than ever, “don’t stop— please?  Please…”

The poor boy was so drunk on pussy he seemed actually concerned that you would stop— as if you weren’t riding him fast and desperate already.

"S-so wet," he grunted, holding your hips and looking down at where your pussy was sliding up and down along his length.  "So fuckin' wet, you're drippin' on me…"

There was this delicious, filthy noise every time your hips met his, and strings of arousal pulled between his skin and yours for a moment; he couldn't stop watching it, he couldn't tear his eyes away from the perfectly depraved sight.  "How's it look?" you asked with a taunting laugh.  "You like watching my pussy take all that dick, Eddie?"

He whimpered as he bit his lip and nodded.

"It's so deep," you purred, "s'gotta be at least to here."

You moved one of his hands from your hips and pressed his fingers right near your belly button— and then his eyes were on that, you could almost see him picturing his cock filling you that far inside.  “God,” he moaned loudly, head falling backward, and you smiled down at him.

Riding him gave you a better view of his tattoos, which you traced lazily with one finger while you bounced.  Your legs were especially weak after your first orgasm, making them start to shake as you lifted yourself repeatedly; but you were also still extra sensitive inside, and you knew you were going to come even faster the second time around.  It didn’t help that he was so deep your throat had to catch each time— it also didn’t help that he looked like that, wrecked and helpless under you, clearly overwhelmed but too desperate to try to make you stop.

“Baby, baby, baby,” he chanted quietly as you moved faster.  “Fuck!”

You just laughed, though you had to hiss in your next breath through your teeth when you rocked your hips back and it felt just right— you kept doing it over and over, feeling your gut seize up as the sensation mounted.

“Ohh my god, you’re so good, so good,” he rambled mindlessly, grabbing hold of your hips tighter than ever and guiding you just how he wanted.  It was best when he just stopped trying to impress you and gave in to his natural neediness; when he bit his lip and thrusted up off the bed and just used you.

“Harder,” you panted, and he grunted from the physical exertion required to do what you’d asked him to.  The tip of his cock slammed so deep that your moans turned into high-pitched cries, just as sharp and reverberating as the pleasure you were feeling.  “Fuck me, Eddie, oh my god!”

He sighed loudly and bit down on his lip, glaring at you with flared nostrils and dark eyes as he fucked you; before your eyes fell shut from the overwhelming feeling, you caught him watching the way your tits bounced quickly with each rapid thrust.

You were teetering on the edge, adoring every pathetic sound he made, when he managed to string a few words together for you.

"Sh-shit, get off," he pleaded, "I can't— I'll come."

"I'm close too," you sighed, "just a little more— just need a little more, Eddie, m'not gonna stop yet."

"Fuck," he sobbed, "please— just get up before I come, fuckfuckfuck—"

You smiled proudly, looking down at his face all twisted up as he tried to hold himself back.  "It's okay, Eddie," you cooed, "you can come in me.  If you want."

He grabbed you at your waist and flipped you onto your back in an instant, fucking into you so fast and desperate that your eyes rolled back.  "Shoulda told me," he explained breathlessly against your ear, hair tickling your face.  "I didn't know I could— fuck, m'gonna come so deep inside you— you're sure it's okay?"

"Yeah, I want you to," you promised, barely able to speak as your own peak hit you, and that was all he needed to let out a noise that was somehow halfway between a roar and a sob; you felt it a second later, his cock pulsing against your walls, his hips still shakily and shallowly thrusting as he dropped his head on your shoulder.

"Ohhh— oh my god," he gasped.  "Fuck.  Fuck!"

You laughed as you watched him try to compose himself, panting like he'd just run miles.  He lifted his whole upper body up and dropped his head back with another sigh— and damn, with that dim yellow light hitting the side of his face, with that thin sheen of sweat making hair stick to his forehead and cheeks and making his chest glisten as he took more deep, quick breaths?  He looked too fucking perfect.

"That— fuck.  That was intense," he finally got out with a tired smile, collapsing beside you.

"Yeah," you agreed, reaching up to pat his chest.  "Good job, kid."

You were about to pull your hand away but he grabbed it first, holding it tightly.  You waited a while for him to say something, but he didn't.

Eventually, he let you get up and pour yourself your drink; you slipped on a robe, too, and came back to find him smoking another cigarette as he laid on the bed.  

You sat down next to him, watching him take each drag as you sipped from your glass.  For some reason, you sat there and watched him smoke through the whole thing, until he put it out in your ashtray and interlaced his fingers under the back of his head.

“Getting late, do you need to head home soon?” you wondered; you weren’t necessarily trying to kick him out with that question, but he was certainly free to go now that your fun had been had.

He shook his head as he sat up on the bed.  “No one’s gonna care if I miss first period tomorrow,” he promised.

You’d never felt an emotion quite like the one that hit your chest then— you figured he just had some mediocre job he could ditch, but realizing he was still in high school changed your perception completely.  You didn’t even notice how much you were really considering taking him with you until you knew, in that exact moment, that you couldn’t; though no one would accuse you of being any sort of role model, you drew the line at stealing this kid away before he could graduate.

“No one’s gonna care at all if I never come back,” he added with a soft, hollow laugh.

"Oh, baby," you sighed, reaching forward to pat him on the leg.  "Stay in school."

"You're not gonna take me with you, are you?" he realized.

"Not that I don't want to.  I'd just feel too bad."

"Don't feel bad about it!  There's nothing here for me anyways!  You're, like, my perfect chance to escape."

You leaned forward and gave him a kiss on the cheek, and he sighed.

“I should’ve known you weren’t serious,” he laughed, looking down with sad eyes.  “All of this was too good to be true anyways.”

You pet his head gently and rested your head on his shoulder.  “I’ll be back, you know,” you offered quietly, running your fingers over his cheek before brushing your thumb softly over his lip.  “We make another album, we do another tour— and we’ll stop somewhere in Indiana.  Maybe I can see you again?”

He looked at you again, nearly breaking your heart with the look in his eyes.  The lost puppy gaze had been what attracted you to him at first, now it was killing you.  “Yeah, maybe.  How long do you think it’ll be ‘til then?”

“Year and a half, two years?” you shrugged.

He snorted; “That’s about how long it took me to save up for this ticket,” he recalled.

“Next ticket’s on me,” you offered.  “Front row, with backstage passes.  Like a true groupie.”

“Can I have your number?” he asked instead— not really what you expected him to say.  

“I don’t stay in one place long enough to have one of those,” you shrugged.  “Gimme yours.”

He hesitated.  “Are you gonna call?” he pressed.

Instead of answering his question, you set your glass down and held his face with both hands so you could kiss him, properly.  Honestly, you couldn’t think of the last time you’d kissed somebody like that.  And you knew you wouldn’t again for a long time, if at all.

“Promise you’re gonna remember me,” he whispered against your lips.  You smiled back.  “I know you have a million fans like me, a million guys who would do anything for you— and I’m just one stupid kid from Indiana—”

“I couldn’t forget you, Eddie,” you insisted, and he made you giggle by wrapping his arms around you tightly.

“I’ll let you go soon,” he assured, as he pulled you back into bed with him, “just not yet.  Need to hold you a little longer.”

They’re not usually so greedy… they’re just grateful, you thought, but he was both.  “You don’t need to let me go soon,” you offered as you shut your eyes and rested your head on his chest.  “You just need to get home in time for school tomorrow.”

"I have a good feeling about this one.”

He used to say that every time.  He stopped after a while— it was getting embarrassing, how inaccurate his good feelings were.

Six months.  Six excruciating months since you got off the pill.  If you’d known it would be this hard, you wouldn’t have been so anal-retentive about taking that pill every day for the last god-knows-how-many years.  You’d always thought one slip up and you’d be stuck figuring what to do with an unwanted pregnancy— that was how it seemed to go for everyone you knew you got pregnant on accident.  But, nope, as soon as you wanted to get pregnant, it was an incredible undertaking.

Turns out, there’s only one time of the month that you can really get pregnant, and the rest of the month is long when you’re waiting for that one window.

The sex wasn’t even fun anymore… okay, that’s kind of untrue.  Joe was being really sweet and trying not to make it feel like a chore, but it wasn’t always enough.  Both of you were tired, emotionally exhausted from the effort, the letdown, the ‘getting your hopes back up’, the endless cycle of it.

So, when he said “I have a good feeling about this one,” suddenly, while you waited on the edge of the bed together, you weren't particularly amused.

“Don’t say that,” you sighed, not breaking your stare away from the shut bathroom door.

“I’m serious!” he insisted.

“So am I,” you returned flatly.  “It’s gonna hurt us both more when you’re wrong.”

“Maybe you’re wrong,” he countered.  He’d gotten this idea in his head that if you were pessimistic about it— which you usually were— that your uterus could ‘sense the bad vibes’ and, like, keep his sperm out or something.  You doubted the science of that, but even if it was true, you couldn’t let go of your pessimism yet.  It was your armor, it protected you from the pain every time— well, it was supposed to.  Every armor has its cracks.

“It’s been long enough,” you announced.

“Do you want to get it or should I?” he asked.

“You do it,” you nodded, and he got up and opened the bathroom door.  He came back a split second later with the test in his hand.  “Have you looked at it yet?”

He shook his head.  “I wanted us to look together.”

Sitting down next to you again, he let out a long breath and you looked at the piece of plastic in his hand.  His fingers still covered the window, and you rested your chin in your hand as you looked away.  “I’m sorry, I can’t do it,” you breathed, “I can’t… I don’t want to see another negative, I’m sorry.”

“Maybe you’re wrong,” he reminded you.

“Maybe,” you admitted.  “Just tell me?”

There was silence for a few seconds, and then a few seconds more, and you tried to only think about how it felt to take a deep, long breath— in, and out again.

Joseph’s head came to rest on your shoulder, turning to give you a kiss on your arm.

“Is it…?” you whispered.  He shook his head.

You closed your eyes, afraid they would water if you left them open.  You felt his hand on your cheek, his thumb stroking the highest point, and you relented and opened your eyes again to meet his— big and wet and sympathetic, like always.  “Not this time, love, m’sorry,” he mumbled.

Lip quivering, you bit it to keep it still— but that was what made your first tear fall, and you swiped it away angrily.  “I’m so sick of your good fucking feelings,” you spat.

“Don’t get angry with me,” he pleaded.  

“I’m not angry with you, Joey,” you whimpered, “I’m not even angry, I’m just fucking sad.”

He pulled you into his arms, shushing you gently as you sobbed into his chest.  You didn’t let yourself cry about it much— at first, it was easy not to, because there’s always next month.  But next month was your fucking birthday.  And you never thought, when this all started, that you were going to be a year older before you were pregnant.

Now you had to worry about making it through your own party without crying.  But at least you could still drink, right?

~

You knew that he knew you were ovulating today, he kept a calendar same as you, but you hadn’t talked about it.  You didn’t think there was much to talk about.

When you came home, he was waiting on the couch, giving you a tilted smile as you nodded in return.  “C’mere,” he requested quietly, reaching out for you.  You sighed, stepping up to where he was sitting, and he took hold of your hands to pull you into his lap.  “Missed you, love.”

“Missed you, too,” you agreed as he ran his hands up to your shoulders, and you draped your arms around his neck.

He leaned in to give you a kiss right where your shirt’s neckline dipped down, then guided you to lean into him so he could dot a trail up over your collarbones, eventually following it up over the crook of your neck and just under your ear.

Suddenly, he flipped you down onto the couch, hovering above you as you laid beneath him; it was the sort of move that would normally make you giggle in delight, but now it just felt… hollow.  You felt hollow.  He looked concerned, for a second, but you grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him down into a kiss to distract him.  He reciprocated quickly, before trailing it down across your jaw, under your ear, going further down as he groaned softly.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed against your neck, and you shut your eyes tight.  Now you were angry, though you couldn’t explain exactly why.

“Stop,” you mumbled.

“Huh?”

“Just stop,” you demanded, shoving him away.  He looked terrified and heartbroken as he looked down at you, and you had to look somewhere else.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.  “Darling, what’s going on?”

You didn’t say anything, biting your lip instead.  “Y-you don’t have to do all that,” you finally sighed.  “It’s just a means to an end, anyway.  Just get it over with.”

He breathed slowly as he looked down at you.  “Look at me, love,” he requested, and you swallowed your pride enough to do as he asked.  “I know it hurts,” he whispered, “but I really need you to believe that it’s going to happen this time.  If you don’t, then it won’t.”

“That’s not how it wor—”

“Shh,” he hushed— and you could tell, by the way his eyes shut tightly and his jaw tightened, that he was begging you to stop talking.  You shut your mouth instantly.  “I know,” he promised, “I know, I fucking know, alright?  But what else can I do?  I don’t have anything but hope.  I can’t help you, I can’t fix this, and it fucking kills me.  And I know you blame yourself.”

You swallowed, blinking quickly but forcing yourself not to look away as he started to get choked up.

“And I hate that,” he continued, one of his tears falling on collarbones.  “I hate that you think it’s your fault, or that there’s something wrong with you.  And I want you to know that I was wrong before, okay?  We’re already a family.  We don’t need the—” he stopped to try to collect himself, but he was already crying, and so were you.  “We don’t need a baby.  I’m sorry that I ever made you feel like we did.”

“Joe,” you whispered, pulling him down on top of you again so you could press your forehead to his, “I’m so sorry— I know how badly you want this, I’m so fucking sorry—”

He just wrapped his arms around you tightly, so tight you could barely breathe, and buried his face in your neck as he cried.  “Don’t say you’re sorry,” he demanded between sobs, “please, please…”

You wrapped your arms around him, too, holding him close and crying with him.  It hurt, yes, but it hurt less than trying to keep it down— this was the love of your life, the man you were so desperate to have a child with… you should be able to share your biggest fears and insecurities with him.  And you knew that you could, it was just that that required admitting them to yourself.

When you’d both settled down a bit, letting the catharsis run its course, he asked you for one last try.  He asked you to let yourself really believe, as much as you had the very first time, that this was going to happen for you.  He asked you to open your heart up the way you would for your child, not just thinking but knowing that they would exist someday, even though you were so scared to be hurt again.  After that, you could go back to being cynical and negative again, if that was what you needed to do— you could even give up, if that was easier, go back on the pill and get back into researching adoption or surrogacy like you had once before.

You agreed before you really knew if you could do it, to be honest.  It was those damn eyes, you could never say no to him; so you said yes, and you promised to try your best to believe.  At first, it was just your best attempt, and you thought it wouldn’t ever really feel real— just going through the motions for his sake.  By the end, he had you more sure than ever that it was going to happen.  He held his head to yours and made you promise to keep believing, long enough for it to take, to keep that hope with you until you could take a test.

“Maybe you’re wrong,” you whispered to him.

He nodded.  “But maybe I’m right,” he whispered back.  “Keep holding out hope for me, love, please.  I think it’s all we’ve got.”

eight months later

You were laying longways on the couch, rereading your favorite book instead of one of the many new, untouched ones on the shelf— but you tossed it aside instantly when you heard the key in the door.  Joseph still gave you butterflies when he came home sometimes, and this was one of those times, even though he was just in a t-shirt and hoodie with his earbuds still in from walking home.  He pulled them out by the wire and smiled at you once you’d popped your head up from behind the back of the couch, and it was like seeing him for the first time all over again.

“Hi, Daddy,” you greeted with a smile.

“Hi, Mummy,” he returned, leaning over the couch’s back to dip down and kiss your bump.  “Hi, Baby,” he added.  “Have you been nice to Mummy while I was gone?”

“Mostly,” you answered for them, “but they’re kicking a lot now.”

“Aw, I think they’re just excited to see me,” he cooed.

“They’re excited because they know you brought home the goods,” you smirked.

“Yeah I did,” he agreed, setting down his bag to give you bedroom eyes and an exaggerated lip bite, gesturing to his body pridefully; you laughed and held your belly with a groan.

“Oh, don’t make me laugh, it makes me have to pee,” you complained.

“Or maybe that’s just your body overwhelmed with desire for all this,” he suggested, baring his teeth as he slid his jacket off and thrusted his hips like he was about to begin some horrible half-rate strip show.

As you laughed again, he plopped himself down on the couch by your feet.  “I meant the actual goods,” you reminded him, pointing to the grocery bag.

“You know, your words— they’re hurtful,” he said flatly, just to make you laugh again, before he reached into the bag and pulled out the carton, finally.  “Your Ben & Jerry’s, my love,” he offered it to you, summoning a plastic spoon from the bag as well.

“Thank you, babe,” you sighed, uncapping the dessert with a happy sigh.  “Oh, I’ve been waiting for this all day.”

“You know, in England we call it ‘Benjamin and Gerald’s,” he informed you, making you kick him lightly since you couldn’t say anything about how stupid he was being with your mouth full of Chocolate Cherry Garcia.

You only got one bite, one small little bite, before you stopped.  You froze, and looked at Joseph, who seemed to notice your stillness and looked back at you.  And then he looked at the patch of fluid under you on the couch.

“Er,” he choked, “I was just joking about you being overwhelmed with desire, but—”

“I-I think it’s…” you began.  “No, it can’t be…”

“Did your water break?” he suggested, and you almost wished he hadn’t said it— because maybe if he didn’t say it, it wouldn’t be true, and you wouldn’t be minutes from going into labor.

“It— no, it’s too early, the due date’s not until—” you stammered.

“I-it’s not too early,” he corrected, “it’s early, but— but it’ll be fine, we just need to go to hospital.”

“Oh god,” you sighed, “I— oh god—”

He stood up, looking around the flat quickly.  “It’s alright, I just need to get, erm— we didn’t finish packing the hospital bag,” he realized, “I need to get— the clothes are still in the nursery and I’ll get the bottles from the pantry—”

He was so caught up in listing everything needed, that he didn’t quite notice you hyperventilating yet.  When he did, he rushed to your side, clutching your hands in his.

“Darling, everything’s going to be fine,” he promised, but you shook your head.

“No, Joe, I’m not ready,” you breathed, “I’m not— I can’t—”

“Darling, you are,” he promised, “you’ve read all the books, the nursery’s all put together— we’re ready!”

“No,” you insisted, “no, I really can’t do it—”

He started to interrupt you again, but you squeezed his hand a little too hard and bit your lip, choking up.

“Joe, really— I swear,” you whimpered, “I can’t do this.  I’m not ready for this baby.”

“Well…” he sighed, “frankly, love, doesn’t matter much, does it?  ‘Cause the baby’s ready for us.  And we have to go.”

Oddly enough, that finally comforted you— it didn’t make the pounding in your chest go away or anything, but it made you soothe enough to take a deep breath and nod, and let him help you up off the couch and guide you out the door.

~

“Congratulations,” the doctor beamed, barely audible past the screaming— not your own, for the first time in an hour.  “A healthy baby girl!”

“Oh,” you sighed, head falling back onto the sweat-soaked pillow, “oh, a girl—”

Joe pushed some sweaty hair away from your forehead, beaming as he stared down at you.  “You did so well— you did it, darling.”

You tried to find the energy to prop your head up again as you heard her cries getting more distant, seeing the nurses shuffling her away.  “Wh-where are they taking her?” you whimpered.

“Shh, shh,” Joe soothed, squeezing your hand.  “They’re just cleaning her up, love, it’s alright.”

Going limp again, you couldn’t even hold his hand properly, but he knelt down and gave you a kiss on the head.  “Is she okay?” you breathed.

“Yes, she’s fine,” he promised, “they have to get her ready and all, they’re going to bring her back in a second.”

“But I wanna see her,” you panted.

“I know, sweetheart,” he whispered, “I know, you’ll see her soon, okay?”

They brought her back only a few moments later, swaddled in the hospital blanket, still crying but starting to calm down.  You were crying, too, though much quieter as you reached for her and held her to your chest.  "Oh," you said again, because there wasn't much else you could think to say.

"She's so little," Joe said softly.

"I've heard that about babies," you laughed, leaning against him as he sat beside you on the bed.  He wrapped you in his arms, and you finally knew what he meant when he said that you were going to be a family.

“What’s her name?” the nurse asked you.

“Penelope,” you answered quickly.  “Penelope Quinn.”

“N-no,” Joe interjected suddenly, just as she was about to fill out the paperwork.  You gave him a confused look, and he looked back at you— and then down at his daughter— before he nodded at the nurse confidently.  “Hope.”

You smiled at him, and looked at her face— you could see it, actually.  She looked like Hope— she felt like hope, too.  “Hope Quinn,” you agreed.

many, many more months later

Hope was staring at the last thing left on her plate, and you were staring at her.  “Can’t have dessert if your dinner isn’t finished,” you reminded her.

“But— but what if I had dessert anyways?” she suggested.

“Clean plate first,” you insisted.

“Noooo,” she whined quietly, wiggling in her chair.  You sighed, taking a seat near her at the dinner table.

"Daddy's going to be home soon and he won't like to hear that you weren't eating your string beans," you warned her.

A classic strategy: the appeal to Daddy.  Hope was a Daddy’s girl through and through, and he was often the only one who could get her to do the things she didn’t want to— which, some days, were most things.

Just in time, Joseph came through the door.  You loved watching her face light up— that was when their resemblance was most obvious, when they had the same look in their eyes (they had the same eyes anyways, big brown puppy dog eyes that you were helpless to).

“Daddy!” she squealed, and he rushed inside to greet you both— you first, with a hug and kiss on the lips, and then Hope with a kiss on the head.

“How are my girls?” he asked as he sat across from you at the table, still petting Hope’s head as she swung her legs off of the chair and looked at her plate again.  “Looks like you’re still working on your dinner, huh?”

“Yeah…” she mumbled sheepishly, clearly a little embarrassed about the string bean debacle.

“You haven’t finished your veggies yet, hm?” he noticed, and she nodded.  “Well, why not?  They’re so delicious!”

He plucked a bean from her plate with a finger and thumb and popped it in his mouth, giving an exaggeratedly positive reaction.

“Yum,” he hummed through a mouthful before swallowing.

“I don’t like them,” she frowned.

“Oh, that’s a shame,” Joe sighed, “I was just about to ask you what you wanted for your fourth birthday since it’s only two weeks away, but, now that you’re not eating your string beans—”

“No!” she gasped.  “I’ll eat them, Daddy.”

“And then you’ll tell me what you want?”

“Mhm,” she nodded.

“Deal,” he nodded back, extending his hand for a shake— she accepted, though she had to lift with her whole arm to really give him a handshake.

The beans were gone in an instant, though Joe did help her out by eating one more for her, mumbling something about how good of a cook Mummy is.  You didn’t stick around for all of it— you had lots to get done, and Joe was keeping her more than entertained at the table.  The three of you got back together in time for bed, of course, where Hope demanded lots of bedtime stories with Daddy’s silly voices for all the different characters.  She never made it to the end, though, out like a light before everyone could live happily ever after.

You couldn’t blame her, though, you were pretty exhausted after a long day, too.  You were sitting up in bed, your back leaning on Joe’s chest, reading a novel.  He started leaving gentle kisses all over your ear, neck, and shoulder, and you hummed as you shifted slowly in his embrace.  “Good day at work?” you asked.

“Long, but good,” he nodded.  “Good day at home?”

“Yeah,” you smiled.  “It’ll be nice to have you back for a while, though.”

“And then you’re gone a week later,” he pouted, resting his chin on your shoulder.  “She’s gonna miss you loads.”

“Oh, please,” you rolled your eyes, “she’ll be too busy loving all that alone time with Daddy.”

He laughed a little, one of his hands reaching under the covers to rub your thigh.  “And what about you, hm?  You want some alone time with Daddy?”

You laughed, too, and laid your head back on his shoulder.  “Mm, maybe,” you sighed.

“Maybe?” he encouraged, kissing your exposed neck.

“I mean, I could be talked into it,” you feigned nonchalance, even though he already had your heart racing just a bit.

“Good,” he mumbled, “‘cause Hope told me what she wants for her birthday…”

“Mhm?” you prompted, eyes falling shut, not thinking much of it.

“She wants to be a big sister.”

That certainly made your eyes shoot open, and you turned your head to look at him.  Oh, he had that look in his eyes already… you knew you were going to give in.  “Really?” you asked anyway.

He nodded.  “She told me she wants a baby brother or sister— I think she wants a sister more,” he explained.

“And… when does she want this?” 

“By her birthday,” he laughed.  “She said we could go to the baby store and buy one.”

“What did you say?”

“I said we’d have to make one, and that it takes a long time,” he replied.  “She was less than pleased about that.”

“Yeah, well, I was less than pleased with how long she took,” you scoffed.  

“I remember,” he sighed, “but it might be easier this time.  I mean, you don’t know until you try, right?”

At least you knew it was possible now… but you also knew how painful it could be— you were going to have to have this thing, after all.  Hope’s birth was shockingly routine, in spite of how premature she was, and you couldn’t imagine how terrible that process would be if something actually went somewhat wrong.

“So?” he prompted.  “Are we gonna try?”

You smiled.  “I mean, maybe…”

“Aw, don’t tease me,” he groaned, kissing your shoulder again.

“I seem to recall you getting on your knees and begging last time.”

“Yeah, is that what did it?” he smirked.  “I can make that happen.”

“Okay, on the floor, Joe,” you demanded as he started to get out of bed for you, “I wanna see some groveling.  Really make it count.”

He grinned up at you as he knelt at the side of the bed, and you crossed your arms as you waited expectantly.  “Please, please,” he offered, clasping his hands together, “let me get you pregnant again?”

“How bad do you want it?” you pressed.

“It’s not for me,” he deflected, “it’s for Hope—”

You rolled your eyes, and he laughed.

“Okay, okay!  It’s for me, too,” he admitted, “I want another baby.  You’ll give me one, right?  I just can’t stop thinking about it, darling… you remember what it was like, don’t you?  When you were pregnant and I couldn’t keep my hands off of you?”

“That wasn’t too much of a departure from the usual, Joe—”

He interrupted you by jumping up onto the bed again, hugging you tight and knocking you back as you laughed.  “C’mon, haven’t I begged enough yet?”

“No!” you laughed.  “Not even close!”

“Aww,” he whined, grabbing hold of your hips, “but I’m so ready, I can’t wait anymore, please?”

You didn’t give a verbal answer, instead wearing your fingers into his curls and guiding him into a deep, needy kiss.  He hummed into it and started to pull your pyjama shorts down, relieving you of the tank top next as you held your arms up for him.

“So pretty,” he purred, running his hands over you.  You bit your lip as his thumb traced the stretch marks from where the bump used to be— apparently, they would fade more over time, but never be gone completely.  “I like these,” he announced.

“Really?” you raised an eyebrow.

“Of course,” he breathed, “my daughter left those there.”

You shivered, and he smiled before he kissed you again, holding your face gently.

His hands settled on your hips eventually, pulling them down and closer to his own.  He pushed his pants down quickly and you were surprised when you felt how hard he was considering you hadn’t made him wait too long.  Still, it made you whine and arch your back, which made him smile against your lips.  “Needy, are we?”

You nodded, and he didn’t mock you any further; he just gave you what you needed, filling you slowly but completely.  Holding onto his shoulders tightly, you took in a gasping breath and wrapped your legs around him.  “I love you,” you whispered, constricting your embrace in an attempt to pull him closer.  

“Love you too, darling,” he promised, “love you so much… it’s so hard to be away from you— both of you.”

“Then stay a while,” you cooed, “stay home and say it’s a family matter— your wife’s pregnant again and she needs you at home.”

“Mm,” he hummed proudly, ducking down to kiss your neck as he moved a little faster inside you.  “You want your little boy this time, don’t you?”

“I wouldn’t mind it,” you grinned.  “James Quinn sounds nice, don’t you think?”

“I’m still dreaming of another girl,” he admitted.

“Yeah?  Dream on,” you scoffed, and he popped his head back up to give you a little pout.

“I’m not getting my little Agatha?”

You laughed and shoved his shoulders, but he just pressed his weight harder onto you and held you a little closer.

“I bet you’ll give me whatever I want, if I ask nice,” he suggested, the playfulness gone from his tone and replaced with a growl that was somehow sweet— you couldn’t describe how, it just warmed your heart at the same time that it made your channel tense.  “Yeah?”

You nodded in agreement.  “Yeah…”

“I want three more,” he decided.

“Okay.”

“Five more.”

“Sure.”

He laughed.  “I was joking the second time,” he relented.

“Fuck, I thought you were joking both times,” you sighed.

He kissed you harder, he fucked you harder; you held each other tighter.  It was sort of embarrassing how little time it seemed to take for you burgeon on your peak, thankfully he didn’t make you feel self-conscious about it— he just encouraged you, not with words but with the way he kissed you and kept his steady pace… even the breathing in your ear seemed to be a way to soothe you, to remind you that he thought you were beautiful when you fell apart for him.

Neither of you said anything until you came— at which point you breathed his name— and then he told you that he loved you again, right at the end.

You stayed tangled in each other’s arms, not moving much, for quite some time; eventually the breath-catching turned into some light pillow talk, which devolved back into regular conversations about unfun adult things like logistics and bills and such. 

Just when you were thinking it might be time for Joseph to stop smothering you under his weight, there was a light rap at your bedroom door.  “Daddy?” you heard Hope’s meek voice through it, and you smiled.  

“Huh?” Joe groaned, sitting up a bit under the covers; the door handle started to rattle, since she was just tall enough to reach it if she stood on her tip-toes, and suddenly he had a second wind as he scrambled in search of his pants.  “D-don’t come in, love, I’ll open the door in a second.”

Finally, he found something to throw on, and you tucked yourself in deeper under the sheets as he climbed out of the bed and opened the door, kneeling down to where she was standing shyly in her pyjamas.

“What are you doing out of bed, lovebug?” he wondered, reaching up to muss with her hair again.

“I was just wondering if you were going to go to the baby store before it closed,” she explained, making you both chuckle a bit.  

“I thought I didn’t have to get it tonight, since your birthday’s still a few weeks away,” he replied.

“W-well…” she mumbled, trailing off.  “Just in case.”

“Don’t worry, sweetie,” he sighed as he kissed her on the forehead, “baby store’s always open.  Twenty-four-seven.”

“Really?” she smiled.