Isa Halle

𝒔𝒖𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒐𝒄𝒂𝒍 𝒄𝒂𝒕 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑟𝑒𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑠 ᨐฅ

R. C. M A S T E R L I S T | T A G L I S T F O R M

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Look, seeing Roy wasn’t really part of your agenda tonight, alright? Especially at your job.

Working as a waitress at Coyote Ugly’s definitely was not where you saw yourself ending up when you were a child, but it paid the bills. Plus, the tips were pretty decent, considering there were some absolutely nasty men hanging around most nights just to see some pretty girls dance on the bar top.

It was a fairly new job, too. Or, at least, you weren’t working there around the time that you and Roy were together.

Alright, “together” is a strong word. A very strong word, for that matter. Most of your relationship was just hanging out at your apartment (he didn’t want Lian to be around his love life), maybe smoking a bit of pot, and fucking like rabbits until the sun came up. And honestly? You both liked keeping it that way. It was simple, noncommittal, and a whole hell of a lot easier than working out both of your issues.

The night was relatively calm, only a couple of guys making crude comments as you hopped on up to the bar top. “Rollin’ (Air Raid Vehicle)” was playing, and almost every girl in the joint sang along if they knew it. At that point, the loud noises and obnoxious scents, mostly including sweat, alcohol, and marijuana, just didn’t get to you like they used to. Hell, you barely even flinched when a couple of cups smashed while you swayed your hips to the beat, doing the choreography engraved into your brain since your first day on the job.

Then came the mass number of giggles from the corner of the joint. Now that is a rare sound that you’re just not used to yet. You looked up, just out of habit, and saw the most repulsive sight imaginable.

Roy mother-fucking Harper with a bunch of women and men surrounding him like an art piece. You didn’t see his face, but you really didn’t need to; the red hair and backwards hat that you’ve stolen more times than you could count gave it away.

He didn’t know that you worked here. At least you thought he didn’t. It didn’t matter- you didn’t want to see his smug face with those giggly, tipsy girls practically licking his biceps. Even the thought grossed you out a little.

As soon as the song ended, you had your heart set on taking your break, at least to get away for the next fifteen minutes of your shift. If not forever. Maybe you could just run away to another city and never run into him again.

No, that’s too cliche… Another country would work far better; there’s less of a chance of running into him. Canada wasn’t sounding too bad at the moment.

You’re pretty sure you ran faster than a track star making your way to the back. Roy was out of sight, probably with some girl talking about how her boyfriend wouldn’t have to know if he took her home. It was actually disgusting.

Who needs a boyfriend, anyway?

You genuinely thought you escaped his stupid face once you made it into the bathroom, the door slamming shut behind you. The sound probably went unnoticed by the rest of the patrons, anyway. Smells emanated from the restroom, as well, but at least they mostly consisted of perfume and cleaning supplies (thank God for the janitors being so damn quick).

Maybe you could just hide away until the end of your shift. He'd surely be gone within the next half hour or so, right?

And, for a few minutes, you thought you were safe. Nobody came in, and not a single person even knocked on the door. You had your own little safe haven within those four walls, and you intended to keep it that way.

Until the door burst open.

Your head whipped around, half expecting it to be some drunk broad, half expecting it to be a clingy Roy who's had just a bit too much to drink.

It was both. Pawing at eachother. Practically undressing each other with their hands down eachothers pants

Was it gross? Hot? You really weren't sure. What you were sure of, though, was that you wanted nothing to do with it. Or rather, him.

The frustrated sigh that tore its way from your lungs got his attention in a flash, bright and wide eyes staring up at you like a child caught snooping where they shouldn't. His reaction was almost immediate, pulling away from the woman virtually smothering him in slobbery kisses.

"How 'bout you wait outside, gorgeous?" He suggested to the blonde, a string of saliva still connecting their mouths like some filthy string of fate. "I'll take care of this, sweet, considerate dancer so we can have some time alone, alright?"

The mock sweetness in his voice like poison, leaving a disgustingly bitter taste on your tongue. You almost roll your eyes before he shoots you a small wink, one that says 'I'm absolutely taking your sweet ass home tonight.'

The woman leaves one more lewd kiss upon his lips, practically tongue fucking him before leaving with swaying hips and smudged lipstick.

You know you don't have the rights to Roy like that anymore. You know that whatever semblance of a stable relationship you had with the ginger was long gone before you saw him tonight. You don't know what comes over you, but the utter anger and hurt that seeing Roy with another woman makes your blood boil. You don't think until after the sound of your hand striking his cheek echoes through the tile walls.

Roy didn't move, stumble, or even flinch. He stood still, eyes staring directly into your own. The blood rushing to the red spot on his cheek was almost enough to take the pressure away from his painfully hard cock. Almost.

"You done?" He asks, voice quieter than it was with the previous girl but holding just as much weight. Roy stands over you now, cheeks red while crowding you back into the cold tile wall. It's not threatening- you know Roy would never lay a finger on you like that- but it's definitely authoritative.

Some part of his gaze makes you want to fight back, make a bigger scene, and prove to yourself that you're above him. "I..." The word comes out so much more hesitant than you would have liked. So much for putting up a fight. "Yeah," you add afterwards, the sound so quiet that you're not sure if he even heard you.

"Good..." he mumbles softly, the sound of his voice echoing softly off of the bathroom walls, "that's good..." The sound is almost like a groan, like some kind of noise he's been holding in since the last time he saw you beneath him. A hand comes up to your cheek then, ostensibly soft and caring, but you know the truth behind his touch. You know exactly what kind of trouble Roy is looking for the moment that his thumb brushes against your lower lip.

Maybe you're looking for trouble, too.

You probably should have pulled away when his lips met yours in a fierce kiss. But did you? Absolutely not. His mouth is wet, hot, and sloppy against yours, his tongue pressing insistently on the seam of your lips. He tasted like whiskey and strawberry lip-gloss- from that bimbo chick, no doubt.

This entire situation would be embarrassing to you on any other night of the week, but it's Friday... Why not have a little bit of fun?

Roy was quick to press you against the wall as soon as you reciprocated, one hand cradling your head against the cold tile while the other began to knead and palm at your ass. A few sounds escaped his lips between heated kisses, mostly consisting of light moans and sighs. Any other time, you probably would have given him shit for it. But some part of you, deep down, is getting off on your ex being such a whiney whore for you.

Before you know it, Roy's grinding into you like a wild animal, letting out soft huffs and moans right into your mouth. He's hard, almost painfully so, and you know it. Maybe it was the sharp pain of your hand gliding across his cheek, or maybe it was the sight of you all dolled up to dance for some sleezebags at work. Either way, it has him going like there's no tomorrow.

"Where do you get off," he pants between kisses, lading a small smack to your rear, "slapping me like that?" He punctuates the end of his question with another smack, rubbing and kneading the spot afterwards. "You think you're just so high and mighty treating me like shit, hm?"

"Fuck you, Harper," you hiss slightly, pulling away from his feverish mouth. There is not a single person that makes your blood boil and panties wet like Roy, and you know it.

"You wish."

He knows it, too.

You waste little to no time unbuttoning your denim shorts, nearly ripping off your panties as you expose your lower half. If Roy was shocked at all, he was certainly doing one hell of a job hiding it as he pulled down the zipper on his jeans. His tip was leaky and an angry red, just begging for your attention like it always did.

Pathetic, you thought.

Roy's hand was warm as it gripped at your thigh, hitching one leg up over his hip and taking a nice, long look at your weeping cunt. "Fuck..." he murmured, letting his free thumb press a quick swipe to your achy clit. The moan you let out in response genuinely made you want to die.

And Roy? He had the audacity to laugh at you. God, he pissed you off without even trying. You would have made a snarky comment, calling him needy and a man whore, you really would have! But the sudden press of his thick tip against your entrance made your breath stutter like the air had been knocked out of your lungs.

"Look at her..." Roy all but moans, sliding his tip through your slick, coating it like some obscene porno, "she's just begging for me, ain't she?"

At this point, you've had enough of the games and mocking. Hell, you'd had enough of that far before the two of you went your separate ways. Without giving him any kind of response, you push your hips forward just enough to take his tip inside of your tight pussy.

"Fucking Christ, babe." The whine he lets into your shoulder is louder than anything you've let out yet tonight, echoing slightly throughout the bathroom. "So fucking tight... it's like you've been waiting for me."

You'd be lying if you said that you didn't let out any embarrassing noises, either, but Roy's comments were able to drown out any of your own responses. Even just his tip was thicker than you remembered, stretching the sensitive muscles of your cunt far more than your own fingers ever could.

"As if," you reply snarkily, almsot like an annoyed teenager in a movie. You'd probably cringe at how cheesy that was if Roy wasn't already pressing his hips snug against yours.

His pace isn't fast, but it isn't exactly slow either. Something about the rhythm is just so uniquely Roy.

You hate it, you try to convince yourself. You hate every damn thing in this godforsaken city that even resembles Roy Harper. His hats, those stupid polarized sunglasses he loves so much, the waterbottle he left on your kitchen counter.

But you kept all of it.

And you kept running back to him.

You hate Roy Harper. But you love the way he fucks.

His fingers tug your hair back harshly, earning a startled noise from deep within your throat. "Look at this," he grunts out, hips still beating against yours in a way that makes you see stars, "not even a single mark on this pretty little throat."

Roy's lips begin sucking at your unmarked skin greedily, like whatever he takes will never be enough. He's a black hole: a gap in the universe that draws everything close to it before destroying it all. But you knew that from the moment you met.

Your nails dig into his shoulders, undoubtedly leaving crescent-shaped marks on his pale skin beneath his shirt. The ginger lets out a whiny moan, like some boytoy in a porno. He's always had a thing for marking, but your touch just really gets something in him going.

It isn't long before he's actually whining like a bitch in heat, sucking deep, purple marks into your skin as if it'll shut him up. Hips collide with yours haphazardly, pulling out with his tip just barely inside before pressing in again.

"Oh, god..." Roy moans. Actually fucking moans. As if he isn't the one in control. "This pretty pussy's gonna milk me dry..."

His face is beet red- no doubt from a combination of alcohol and physical exertion. You know the look in his eyes, the one that says he's so close to blowing that he might actually pass out. The one that tells you you're probably not going to tip over that edge before him.

It makes you angry, honestly, that he has the nerve to come to your work, get in your pants, yet you're the one that won't be satisfied in the end. Actually, it has you fuming, because there's no way you're about to let that much pleasure be stripped away from you by an absolute loser.

You're so caught up in your silent brooding that you barely even notice Roy pulling out, only looking down when you hear his high-pitched moans and feel the warmth of his semen on your thighs. You certainly don't miss the way he aims for your panties as it spews out in thick, white ropes.

"What the actual fuck, Harper!?" You whisper yell, as if it'll redeem the noises that have come out of that bathroom in the past fifteen minutes. "Really? You just had to cum in my favorite fucking panties without even getting me off?"

And Roy?

He laughs. Actually laughs.

"Don't get your panties in a twist, babe," he jokes, throwing on one of those smiles that screams 'I know you liked it.'

You stay silent, giving him the worst death glare he's seen in his life.

"Yeah, okay..." He adds in a self deprecating whisper, "didn't think that'd go over super well." The two of you are silent as you clean up, Roy handing you paper towels from the dispenser before tucking himself back into his jeans.

Note to self, those bar bathroom paper towels don't do shit to soak up cum, especially from your panties.

There's a moment, after you've both cleaned up, that you just stare at eachother. You could yell, scream, hit him again... Make him regret ever leaving you. Or you could kiss him senseless and make him finish the job.

You do neither, turning away before he has the chance to speak.

"Oh, come on, pretty girl..." He begs, almost grabbing your wrist before deciding better of it at the last moment, "What time do you get off work tonight?"

You snicker, looking back for a brief moment before opening the bathroom door to the chaos of the bar, "Wouldn't you like to know, weather boy?"

You really don’t know what to expect, following up on Wally’s recommendation. But you’re low on liquid cash and this beater of a car really just needs to survive another few months until you can move into that apartment with Kori walking distance from your work—

Which means that the car needs to survive another few months. Which means you need to go get it fixed. Which means that you need to spend money. Which means—

You sit in your car in nervous repose, taking in the sights that you’ve been brought to. Before this auto shop that seems, by the number of cars that have populated the lot, to be fairly popular.

But as you pull in through the narrow driveway that is provided to you, your surveying glance of the property reveals no workers. No indication of life at Todd and Harper’s Auto Repairs. Course you’d show up just as they hit lunch, during the sweltering heat of your one day off—

Someone taps at your passenger window, and you jump. Nothing in your periphery gave away their approach, nor any indication from your rear mirror as they rounded the corner of your busted-ass hunkajunk car. You roll down the window to get a better look at the flexed bicep and taut torso framed in the window of your car. 

“Hi,” you say, watching as a face leans down, revealing a sharp pair of eyes framed by grease. A decent amount of faded scars litter the landscape of that face, the apples of those cheeks, making jagged descent down the chin. As if it does anything to diminish the idealistic archetype of beauty he portrays. 

“What’s your issue?” The man asks, paired with a gruff voice that seems to belie his appearance. He doesn’t spare the drab interior of the car any sidelong glance, which you’re somewhat grateful for. All he does is stolidly, patiently wait for your response as he props the heft of that arm on the frame of the window. Watching you. 

You remember that you owe this hunk moonlighting as a mechanic an answer. “Honestly, I’m not sure. I’ve been having issues with the brakes—and the engine—” 

You feel some terrible, humiliating heat roiling under the surface of your skin as you continue—“—Honestly, I think it’d be easier if I knew what did work on it.” 

You finally have enough dignity to look askance from those careful, watchful green eyes. The two of you sit in a silence that is neither comfortable nor awkward—but there is an odd tension that seems to creep in heady atmosphere. 

“Pull the car into the garage,” Is all the man says, and then he straightens to full height, that face disappearing beyond your sight. You catch a glimpse of the patch on his coveralls, threaded in fine red stitching. Jason. 

“Alright,” Is all that you numbly manage to make out. You follow directions to steer your crap-mobile into the one available lot of the garage, keeping a weather eye on the dwindling figure that watches you go.

It’s a clean fit into the garage, where the chords of work make themselves louder in cadence; a symphony of whirring gears, fumes and exhaust making belching issue. You park in the spot that he requested and kill the engine, letting it turn over silent. 

Before you have to wonder if you’ll get the jumpscare treatment over in the hangar—another head pops up from the underside of a Volkswagen. With alacrity that contrasts the stiff position he must have been folded up in, he starts making whistling meander over to you, hands stuffed in the confines of his coveralls pockets.

There’s something wantonly cheerful on his face as he closes in on distance to you, letting you see those blue eyes that spark with some unspoken, mellow quality. As you take in that crooked smile that grows as he takes ken of you. 

And then he pauses besides your open driver window, letting you ogle the way that he fills out the coveralls quite nicely. By the flex of his arm, the spread of those thighs: quite nicely, indeed. 

“Hey, stranger.” The redhead says—a quick glance over to his sewn-on patch informs you this is Roy. “What’s your troubles?” 

“Lots,” Comes that familiar gruff voice that seems to thrill through you—you both turn to see Jason approaching, wiping the grease from his hands with a pockmarked rag.

How the fabric seems so small in his hands as he works it over the broad ridge of his knuckles. “Gonna have to check under the hood.” 

“Don’t mind if I do,” Roy says with eager cheer—he turns down to you. “Mind if you step out of the car, uh—?” 

He holds out a hand to you as you pop open the door, offer him the keys into the rough scrape of that turned-up palm. When you share your name with him, the teeth that are in perfect, sparkling interval make display for you. 

“Nice name,” He says, “Suits you real good.” 

“I get that a lot,” you say, feeling like you can return more to form when you’re on better eye level with them. Well, somewhat—Roy scores a couple of inches on you and Jason clears a whole foot.

When Roy rewards you with a broadening smile, Jason lopes off to the car, leaning down with stolid musculature to pop the hood. 

You wonder if there’s a spot where you can go off and languish somewhere, counting the remainder of what dwindling dollars compose your bank account, while they run the diagnostic. But Roy pipes up before you can search for worthy patch of ground to curl up in the fetal position upon. 

“So, how’d you hear about us?” He asks, his eyes gleaming with interest. Like you’re a puzzle that needs to be solved before he can properly divine route to go about with you. 

You can’t help but return the smile that rises to your face. “Heard about you from Wally.” 

At this—a muted chuckle from him, shoulders that tremble with mirth he makes some effort to contain on your behalf. From the guts of your car; a groan of mild disdain that echoes from Jason. 

“Wally always sends the lost-cause cases to us.” Roy answers around the handsome curve of his smile. It seems poor assessment of him to say that the smile seems to take a degree of delight in the despair crossing yours. 

You knuckle a hand to your head, make silent prayer to whatever patron saint of automobiles might be listening. Jason continues to advance through his studious inventory of your car’s ailments. 

“I hope my car isn’t a lost cause.” You worry your bottom lip in your teeth. There is audible clunk in hollow reverb in the housing of your car. You try not to wince. 

“Engine doesn’t sound good.” Is all that Jason replies with, which doesn’t particularly inspire you with optimism. 

“Oof.” You return—and then alight on a kernel of knowledge that requires acknowledgement. “Wait, so you two know Wally?” 

“High school friends.” Roy answers with cavalier quality; which, all things considered, does seem to track. Wally is a bastion of the concept ‘social butterfly;’ the circles he runs in vast and deep, admirable and exhausting all in one. 

“He never mention us before?” Roy asks as you consider how delicately to voice that very statement. He doesn’t seem particularly offended by the notion. 

“No—”—You confess with abashed embarrassment that you hope doesn’t register in front of this handsome mechanic—“—Not until he recommended you two for the services.” 

Roy sighs breezily through his nose, a gusty chord of melancholy that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s cause he can’t trust us around his good-looking friends.” 

It’s a two-fold reaction you have; one of that hot flush of appeasement that crawls under the skin, proceeds to fluster and abrade your defenses. And the other: sheer disbelief that your mechanic is trying to so openly flirt with you. 

This is, for lack of better reasoning, what motivates you to play along. 

“Why?” You ask, injecting a degree of playfulness in your voice, shucking a hand on your hip as you regard him. “You two ever get lucky with any of them?”

There’s something in him that appears deeply pleased at the fact that you’ve risen to the challenge. His grin grows conspiratorial. 

“I’ll let you know if it works.” He asserts. Because you permit yourself a giggle—it is clear this is not negation of the offer he’s made you. But you don’t have time to see how he would respond to your volley; Jason’s voice takes reverb to draw your attention. 

“How’d you even get the car over here?” He asks in rather monotone inquisition. It sounds as if it is metallically unspooling itself in your car. In follow-up chorus, there is the trickle of something dripping in arterial fashion. 

You hope it doesn’t show how humiliating this is. “Lots of prayers and candle-lighting.” 

At this, you watch as Jason stands, unfurling himself to full height, working one of those trim hips around the corner of your car. The hood, to your mild bemusement and growing horror, continues to stay open—which does not bode as though this visit will remain temporary. 

Jason pulls up sidelong to his partner-in-crime, again wiping the discharge of wading through your car from his palms. 

And then he confirms your fears, those eyes carefully observant as he watches you. “You’ll have to keep doing that ‘til tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” You repeat, in unappealing echo. You permit the uncouth quality of the word to settle on your tongue, ring sour in your head. “So—what does that mean?”

“Means we’ll have to keep it overnight.” Jason, to his credit, doesn’t mince words as he gives your car one final cursory glance of mutually held distaste. He turns back to you, letting you see the pearled bead of sweat that has traced the circumference of his jaw. God, he’s handsome. 

“Maybe another day.” He concludes, and then nods at you, putting onus of conversation upon you with his next question. “You got a way of getting home?” 

You realize that you have to reply, rather than simply eye up the eye candy that stands in tandem paid before you. It’s a slow locomotion to life as you search for your phone tucked away in your pocket, unlocking a code that you know by heart and sending quick message to necessary cavalry. 

“Uh—”—You offer eloquently—“—My friend Kori can come pick me up. I’ll let her know right now.”

Your thumbs stall on the app as you watch message sent off into the digital ether. There’s something more important burgeoning on the foreground of your mind. It’s clear from how Jason watches you that he already knows what you dread verbalizing aloud. 

“But—”—You look back to your Old Faithful on her last proverbial legs—“—How much is this gonna cost?” 

She’s not much for show. She’s not much of anything. But the delivery of your question makes it clear that she’ll clean you out of house and home without proper enterprising deal made. 

Roy is the one who picks up the torch, piping up with rather sleek quality befitting that smile that suits him so well. His hands slide down to the span of his hips that are delineated in taut definition by the coveralls. Not that you’ve devoted too long to looking. 

“Well, it’s not like you brought a Rolls in here.” Roy comments in idle bearings. “Why don’t we hose it down and see if we can identify the year by carbon dating first—before we give a price?” 

It’s jaunty enough to reassure you, though you don’t let the tension leach out of your shoulders until Jason decides to make conclusion of the vague statement. 

“Whatever repairs are gonna cost won’t be much,” Jason says, putting careful proprietary hand on it—almost as though he’s worried it’ll collapse should he breathe upon it the wrong way—“—The car’s too old to be worth much even for scrap.” 

You’ll take the insult. Better to be somewhat offended than eating bread for the conceivable future. The grin that you offer back feels a hair more genuine than the one you forced in rictus before. 

“Oh, okay. That—”—You make a shaky sigh that communicates non-verbal volumes—“—That’s a relief.” 

Brass tacks laid down means that Roy senses opportune moment to jump into the fray once more. “And besides, we can work out a payment plan.” 

That smile so wicked and disarming in bearings: you think that you could get used to seeing a sight like that. Especially as he takes cavalier lean upon his cohort, who appears nonplussed at being used as scenery for the occasion. 

“Does a payment plan include giving you my number?” You ask wryly, feeling the instinctive tick of an eyebrow inch up your forehead. 

“Only if you want it to.” Comes easily practiced, charismatic reply. Oh, a Lothario at that as well. You make briefest of looks exchanged with Jason, who appears to bear long-suffering patience paid penitence for some sin in a past life. 

“Does this work on everyone you try it on, Roy?” You ask, feeling the need to cross your arms over the plateau of your chest. Roy plays the innocent, though the way he replies is with glib surety. 

“How’s it working on you?” He asks. An errant lock of red hair darts over those blue eyes seeking supplication from you. 

Jason finally speaks up on your defense, a bastion against horndog flirts that can’t resist a good bite when they see one. 

“You don’t have to humor him.” Jason rumbles against the necessity of your reply. “He can’t help it when he sees a pretty face.”

You’re still reeling from processing the ‘when he sees a pretty face’ that Jason has surrendered for you to pick apart at later interpretation—though you manage well-enough to reply. 

“Maybe I just want to know if he’s genuine or not.” You say, taking aim with your eyes at Roy, who offers his most winning look of virtue your way. Damn if it doesn’t suit him so well. 

Jason makes a noise that you register as a laugh; you exchange viewpoint from his compatriot to him instead, and are regaled with the sight of a smile on his own face. A slow, subtle one that perks up a corner rather than dominates the whole of his expression. But how it adds so much that is missing in the unspoken space of his demeanor. 

“Better luck with me,” Jason offers across the meridian between your both, “If you want honesty.” 

And at this: you can’t contain your laughter. Two for two, with this interesting pair who seems to be both propping up and shooting down their respective shots. 

Especially as Roy finally throws in to better supplement the killing stroke: “Can’t beat an offer like that.” 

“Hmmm.” You say as you size up the two main courses on the menu so eager for you to take a bite. Let it be said that you were not thorough with your choices. “I’ll let you know.” 

There is a ding from your phone that notifies you your friend has arrived in nick of time; you turn to see Kori waving bright-eyed and bushy-tailed from the window of her own functional car. 

And it is this appearance of third party that shifts the weight of atmosphere: the tension dissipates, though the aftertaste that it leaves on the palate of your tongue is something that you want to savor. That you need to consider aroma and bouquet of before you proceed. 

You turn back to them with a look that you hope indicates that this conversation is not over. “Hope I get some good news from you two tomorrow.” 

“Sure thing.” Roy says on behalf of both of them—Jason makes courteous nod before he departs back to his work. “Lookin’ forward to seein’ you.” 

You’re halfway to Kori’s car with a smirk that you can’t resist when Roy calls you back; you turn at the sound of your name. 

“We need your number to make sure to let you know when it’s fixed up,” Roy offers in sheepish manner, as though he hasn’t valiantly fought upon it for other purposes. You pause, slowing your tracks. 

“It’s on the car,” You call back—prompting a look of abject bewilderment from him. “You won’t be able to miss it.” 

You decide to give him a wave that he returns in stymied confusion before retreating back to meet Jason, and you make quick escape into the car.

Hopefully they’ll be able to make out the number that you’ve written into the dust embedded on your rear window. And you also sincerely hope that they’ll be able to make out the message you scribbled underneath it. 

Whichever one of you wants to take me on a date: it’s fair game. Be seein’ you. <3

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“This is where the magic happens,” he’d told you upon entering, cluttered boxes lining the walls with complicated equipment your gaze lingered on, Boards of equations with written compounds, half of Pete's handwriting, the other half his older lab counterpart. “I just have to make some more web fluid—easier to get it done while the docs out. Should be pretty quick.”

It was meant to be quick. Peter was not accustomed to working under your watchful gaze, perched up on the seat only a foot away from him, smooth legs crossed, tiny belt of a skirt inching further and further up your thighs. Your ankle bounced, voice in a soft lilt as you asked questions, unperturbed by the stutter of Peter's explanations, trying with a great amount of effort to focus on the task at hand and not the way your top sunk into a low cut and the sliver of your hip that peeked out whenever you shifted for a closer look. 

“How’d you learn how to do this?” you’d asked innocently, Peter’s eyes flitting over, swallowing under your pretty fluttering gaze. 

“Lot’s of trial and error,” he tried to laugh, the sound coming out choked and gasp-like. “The compounds only work together in very precise amounts, a little bit over or under the exact measurement I’m making web-soup. Or cement. It’s a pretty temperamental process.”

You hummed thoughtfully, scooting closer an inch, staring at the vial of milky white fluid, “So what’s it made out of?”

“It’s top secret. Can’t go spreading my secret weapon—it’s sort of my whole thing,” his lips curled into a grin when your fingers pinched his side. “But since you asked so nicely and pinched me relatively hard,” your teeth sunk into your lip as he began listing chemicals. The light of the lab desk shone off the soft arch of his throat which bobbed with each word, tongue peeking out to swipe across his lips, glasses perched at the edge of his nose. Your hand snuck across the space between you, settling on his knee, a sharp intake of breath halting his words before you urged him to continue.

“Uh, yeah, okay, well, there's salicylic acid, carbon tetrachloride, traces of potassium carbonate, and—uh,” a low groan revereberates into a sharp laugh as your hand sneaks up the thick ridgid muscle of his thigh, “Ethyl acetate and—something else I can’t think about—okay,” a exciteable shriek leaves your lips when Peter's hand grabs hold of your chair leg, metal screeching across the ground as he yanks you to him with ease, hand coming to close against the back of your neck to slot his lips against yours with a relieved sigh. 

“Oh my god, Peter!” you moan, fingers clutching tight to the wide expanse of his shoulders hunched over your arching body. Materials clatter over the desk as Peter yanks your hips to the edge, hands cupping your backside to sink his cock deeper into you, nose pressed to the arch of your throat as you gasp, pants only tugged halfway down his thigh, the band of your panties pressing a line into the inside of your thigh. The ridged taut muscles of his abdomen clench tight when every sheathe of his cock, glasses fogging at the bridge of his nose, barely staring over the edge to watch your tits bounce with every jolt of his hips, spurring him on, white lab light dancing across your sweat sheening skin. 

The thing is, what he says rarely matches what he means. He's so used to proving his place in your life by being useful that being cared for is still a foreign concept to him.

He won't pull back when you rub the vapour balm on his back, or dab the cool cloth against his heated skin, or gently massage his pounding head.

What he will do is try to do push-ups to prove that he's "not sick," which never ends well. More often than not, you'll have to help him back to bed or maybe just to the couch because he's too heavy when he goes limp from exhaustion.

"I'm not a baby. I don't need you to feed me." He'll turn his head away like a pouting puppy as you bring the spoonful of hot soup to his mouth.

When you ignore the attitude and keep the spoon steady, he'll reluctantly take a bite, though not before sniffing and judging the color of the broth as if his nose isn't completely blocked and his eyes aren't glassy with fever.

He'll grumble through the first few bites. But once the soup starts working its magic, the complaints usually stop, and he'll just open his mouth for the next bite without being asked.

So much for not being a baby.

After he's finished, he'll stubbornly tug you down under the sheets with him. He'll lock his arms and legs around you like an octopus and bury his face deep into your chest.

"Thank you." He'll exhale slowly as you scratch his scalp, his breath hot against your skin. It's a quiet tell of the lingering fever, but he already feels so much better now that you're here.