#there is a universe where HE is getting his hair mussed up!!!!!

[4jop]

They make fun of Aegon for being blonde 🤭

[soaps-mohawk]

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 8: The Thing About Ghost

Summary: You should have expected something bad would happen. You just didn't expect this. Perhaps something good could come of it after all.

Pairings: Poly 141 x reader, slight Gaz x Soap

Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, a/b/o typical classism and sexism, military inaccuracies, language, angst, panic, PTSD, nightmares, violence, medical stuff

A/N: I started this chapter this morning. It just came spilling forth and thus you're getting a bonus update this week. I'm honestly so glad to have this one done. Now I can finally say something more than "you'll see" when you ask about Ghost.

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You reach a hand out from under the mountain of blankets, fumbling blindly across your nightstand until you reach your vibrating phone. You pull it under the blankets, blinking blearily at the name on the screen. 

Kyle. 

“Hello?” You mumble sleepily, your eyes already drooping again. 

“Oh, so you can hear your phone vibrating but not me knocking at your door for fifteen minutes?” 

You let out a quiet groan, burrowing back under the covers. “Comfy.” 

“I’m sure you are, but it’s breakfast time, love.” 

You let out a quiet groan, still not moving. “Not hungry.” 

“You need to eat, love. You’ll be grumpy all morning if you don’t.” 

He’s right. If you skip breakfast, you’ll get snippy and hangry. Yet, the comfort of your bed is calling, threatening to lull you back to sleep again. 

“Don’t go falling asleep on me again.”

You startle back awake, groaning. “I wasn’t.” 

“Come on, love. I don’t want to have to get Soap to kick in your door.” 

You let out a loud, dramatic groan before grumbling acquiescence. You slide out from under your covers until you’re sitting on the floor, rubbing your eyes. You don’t bother hanging up as you set your phone on the nightstand before crawling over to the door, just close enough that you can reach up and unlock it. 

You sit back on the floor, hair mussed and still in your pajamas. The door slowly swings open, Gaz leaning against the doorframe. He smiles softly down at you as you yawn, blinking up at him sleepily. 

“That’s cute, but if we don’t get to breakfast, Price might send the cavalry searching.” He says. 

You grumble, pushing yourself up to stand before you grab a sweatshirt and shoes, running your fingers through your hair to make it at least semi-presentable. 

You lean against Gaz as you walk to the mess, resting your head against his shoulder. He wraps his arm around your waist, keeping you close to him. It’s quieter in the mess than normal, Gaz leading you through the line to get food, making your tray for you before you shuffle over to the table where the others are. You sit down next to Price, letting out a yawn as you stare sleepily down at your tray. 

“Was starting tae get worried about ye.” Soap grins at you. 

“Yeah, heard her phone vibrating but not me knocking for fifteen minutes.” Gaz says, taking the seat next to you. 

“I was comfy.” You shrug, picking up your fork. 

“Guess I don’t have to bother asking how you slept.” Price says, grinning fondly down at you. 

“Like a rock.” You say, before taking a bite of sausage. 

“Good.” He says, almost beaming with pride that your little shopping spree yesterday worked, and that the added comfort in your room helped. 

Your face warms under his gaze, practically able to feel him preening with pride. It makes something twist in your stomach, knowing that you made him feel that way. 

The moment is broken as Ghost sighs, standing from the table to dump his tray and leave the mess. 

Soap shakes his head as you watch him go, a frown pulling at your brows. “Don’ mind him. He could do with some soft blankets and more pillows of his own.” 

The image of Ghost curled up with fluffy blankets and a stuffed strawberry of his own has you laughing loudly, not even bothered by the looks you get from the tables around you. 

You lounge against Gaz’s chest, his arm wrapped around your chest. Your back vibrates every so often as he chuckles at something that happens on the TV. You’re focused on your book, content with a lazy Sunday afternoon. 

“Don’ you two look cozy,” Soap says entering the rec room. “Don’ mind me.” He kneels on the couch next to your feet before flattening himself out between your legs until his head lands in your lap. 

Your cheeks warm as he sighs out a breath, making himself comfortable. You set your book aside, electing to run your fingers through his mohawk. You wonder if you can put him to sleep that way like you almost achieved with Gaz. He lets out a content hum as your nails scratch at his scalp, running your fingers over the short cropped sides of his head. 

You let yourself relax further against Gaz, absentmindedly massaging Soap’s scalp. Your gaze is on the TV but you’re not really watching, too caught up in the bliss of the moment to really care. 

The moment is ruined as Soap’s phone vibrates in his pocket. He lets out a groan, shuffling around to fish it out, lifting his head to stare at the screen. 

“Have to take this.” He murmurs, pushing himself up off of your lap.

He leans down, pressing a kiss to your lips before leaning over your shoulder, kissing Gaz. Your eyes widen as he leaves the room, your heart starting to race. Of course they kiss each other. It’s probably the most natural thing in the world to them. You’ve just never seen it. 

Much less be stuck in the middle of it. 

The images begin to flood your mind, your face getting warmer and warmer. The mental imagine of being sandwiched between them while they kiss over your shoulder, hands everywhere, skin against skin. 

“Enjoyed that, did you?” Gaz’s voice is husky in your ear, his lips brushing the delicate skin. 

Of course he can smell the hike of sweetness in your scent. His hand drops from where it had been wrapped across your chest, his hand trailing down until it rests against your stomach. His lips press against the sensitive skin beneath your ear, tongue darting out to taste. 

“Soon.” He murmurs, before leaning back, resting against the couch once more. 

Your face is burning hot, heart thumping in your chest. A shiver runs down your spine at the idea, your body relaxing further back against Gaz’s, your stomach fluttering as the warmth of his hand seeps through your shirt. 

You’re ready when he knocks, standing in front of your door again. You open it before he’s finished knocking, his hand falling back to his side. He stares at you for a breath before he turns on his heel, making his way from the barracks. 

You scramble after him as usual, following him into the gym and into the private room. You follow his lead of removing your shoes and jacket, falling into what’s become a routine for the two of you. 

“We’ll work on combos again.” He says, wrapping your hands for you, before his own. 

You go back through what you had done last time, all the combos you’d learned. Well, he told you. You’ve forgotten most of them after the exhaustion and a couple days off. You can tell he’s agitated already as he walks you through the combos, correcting your punches and stance. 

“Move your feet when you punch.” He says, kicking your back leg out from under you, dropping you onto your knee. “Otherwise you’ll hurt yourself.” 

“You’re going to hurt me doing shit like that.” You murmur, fixing your stance again. 

He grabs punch mitts, moving to stand in front of you. He calls out numbers, working through combos and punches. You miss a lot, still trying to memorize which punch belongs to which number and which order to swing your fists in. Part of you wants to drive your fist straight up the middle and into his face. 

A sudden hit to your shoulder sends you sprawling to the mat. You lay there for a second before looking up at him in shock.

“What was that?” You say, getting back to your feet. 

“Dodge or block, just like I taught you.” He says, swinging at you again with the mitt, forcing you back a step. “Your opponent won’t be standing still. You have to know how to throw punches and avoid the ones coming at you.” 

You huff out a breath, trying to stay aware and throw the right punch. You don’t manage to block or dodge every one, your shoulders getting sore as he hits you. He’s not pulling his punches by much, and you can imagine the bruises you’ll sport later. You’re getting tired fast, the combination of the physical effort and the brain power growing to be too much at this intensity so soon. 

A solid hit to the center of your chest as you sprawling out on the mat on your back, the air leaving your lungs with a horrible wheezing sound. For a moment you think he might have actually injured you, fear in your eyes as he looms over you. 

“Get up.” He says, shoulders squared like he’s the one in a fight. 

“Give me a second.” You say, still trying to catch your breath. “I need a break.” 

“There are no breaks in a fight.” He says. 

“Yeah, well, I’m starting to think maybe I should just give up and die if I ever get in a fight.” You snap. 

Something flashes through his gaze, the mitts hitting the floor with a thud. He grabs the front of your tank top, lifting you to your feet. He holds you in front of him, leaning down until you’re eye to eye. 

“You think it’s that easy to die? When the time comes you can just lay down and let it happen?” He growls, emotions flickering like flames in his eyes. 

“If this is what it’s going to take to live, then yeah.” You say, not backing down despite the prickling feeling at the back of your neck. 

“You have no idea what it’s like, when death is looming over you. The fear, the regret, the overwhelming push to fight to survive.” He’s close enough that if he wasn’t wearing a mask, you could have felt his breath on your face. 

“I don’t know because I’m not like you. I’m not a fighter, I’m not trained like you. When I asked you to teach me to defend myself, this is not what I meant.” You say, shoving against his chest. 

It takes him by surprise enough that he stumbles back a step. He catches himself easily, hands closing into fists at his sides. He’s ready to fight, you can see it. You’ve unlocked the alpha, angered the beast within him. 

His scent bowls over you, sending you scrambling back out of instinct. The prickling at the back of your neck intensifies and you try to clear your head, preparing you for this fight. You don’t stand a chance, you know that. Going off instinct alone, he could overpower you easily. 

Despite everything in your brain telling you to run away, you do the opposite, racing towards him. He catches you before you can hit him, your feet leaving the ground as he slams you into the mat. You kick and claw at him, catching him in the ribs but it doesn’t even seem to phase him. 

“What was your plan?” He growls, pressing harder against your chest as he keeps you pinned. “Try to take me off my feet? I’m bigger and stronger than you. That’s never going to work.” 

“Then stop being such a dick!” You yell, landing a kick against his hip. “You’re just a bully. A big bully. You’re just like my dad!” 

Both of you freeze at your words, your eyes wide as you stare up at him. His hand closes around the neck of your tanktop and for half a moment you’re scared he might sink his hand in and pull your spine right out through your chest. Instead he releases you, pushing himself up with a growl and making for his shoes. 

You push yourself up onto your elbows, watching as he slips them on, grabbing his things before leaving out the door. 

You stare at the door wide eyed as it slams closed. You’re still laying there, chest heaving. You stare at it, half expecting it to open back up, for him to come back. He wouldn’t leave you alone, would he? He’s not supposed to. You’re supposed to have one of them with you at all times. 

You push yourself up onto shaky legs, slowly approaching the door, half expecting it to fly back open. Maybe he’s just standing right outside, maybe he’s just taking a breath and clearing his head. The handle is cold against your heated skin as you pull it open, sticking your head out. 

The hallway is empty. 

You quickly duck back inside, closing the door. He wouldn’t leave you. He wouldn’t leave you. Maybe he went to the bathroom. Maybe he just needed a moment to clear his head. Maybe he’s coming back. 

You sink onto the bench, trying to control your breathing as it starts to get heavy. You can feel that buzzing sensation in your head, your fingers and toes starting to go numb with panic. The one time you leave your phone behind, it’s the one time you need it. Maybe he’s coming back. 

You continue to sit there, waiting, fingers trembling as you put your shoes back on. Someone has to notice your absence eventually. Someone will notice you’re not in your room and you’re not answering your phone. Someone will come looking. 

Or is this a test? 

You’re panicking now, breaths coming in short gasps. You can’t just walk out of here using the front door. There’s alphas and betas crawling all over the gym and there could be a hundred between you and the barracks now. Someone will stop you. Someone will make a scene. 

You can’t reach the windows. Even then, they don’t open and it would be a straight drop to the ground on the other side. You can’t go out the front, but there’s an emergency exit just a few feet down the hallway the other direction. The medical center is the closest building to the gym. Even if Dr. Keller isn’t in her office this early, any of them would be the most likely to help you, to alert Price to your abandoned state. 

You have to get out of the gym. Your scent will reach the others in the building eventually, and someone will take notice. Someone will be bold enough to come after the lone omega. You’re panicking, your entire body trembling. Just out the door to the left and through the emergency exit. Then it’s just a few hundred yards to the medical center and then down the hall to Dr. Keller’s office. 

You can make it. You spent three months running with the CIA. Speed has always been your strength. Get out the door before anyone notices. You have to get out before someone notices and blocks your exit. 

Your mind goes blank as you throw open the door, feet slipping as you race around the corner and down to the emergency door. You don’t even feel the ache in your shoulder as you jam yourself against the door, not caring if it sets off an alarm as you shove your way out to the cool morning air. Your feet move without your brain needing to tell you as you sprint towards the medical building. There’s no one outside, no one milling in the area. No one sees you as you race through the doors, the automatic sliding doors almost catching you as you speed through them and down the hall. Your shoes squeak on the laminate floor, squealing as you slide to a stop in front of Dr. Keller’s office. 

You don’t even check if the light is on before you’re frantically knocking. Your breaths are coming in shallow gasps, black dots dancing in your vision as you fight to get air into your lungs. You need to be somewhere safe, you need somewhere safe before you pass out. You can’t pass out in the hallway. It’s not safe. 

You nearly fall as the door swings open, stumbling into the office. Dr. Keller says your name but you barely hear it, your legs giving out. She catches you before you fall, easing you into a chair. You sink into the plushness, shaking violently as you stare at her with wide, panicked eyes. 

“What is it?” She asks. “What happened?” 

“He...he left me!” You sob, your body starting to curl in on itself. “He...he just left me!” 

Dr. Keller’s voice sounds far away as she speaks, your vision starting to tunnel. You barely register the blanket being draped around your shoulders, the soft fabric tickling your cheeks. 

You don’t hear Dr. Keller on the phone, far too gone in your distress to hear the urgency in her normally calm and composed tone. 

Dr. Keller opens the door almost as soon as the knock sounds. Price is slightly out of breath, having reached the office faster than she had expected him to. 

“She’s in distress.” Dr. Keller explains as she lets Price into the office, shutting and locking the door behind him. “I need you to be clear headed.” She tells the alpha. “We can worry about why later, right now we need to get her calmed down, understood?” 

“Yes, Doctor” He nods, fighting the urge to recoil at the sharp bitter tang of omega distress heavy in the air. 

He’s angry, beyond angry but he knows he can’t let that take over right now. 

“You’ll need to hold her.” Dr. Keller says, approaching where you’re sitting on the chair. You’re hunched over, arms clutched to your chest as you gasp and wheeze, almost hyperventilating.  “It might be easiest on the floor.” 

It’s like moving a stone statue as he takes you into his arms, muscles tense and joints locked as your body attempts to protect itself. He sinks to the floor with you in his lap, wrapping his arms around you to support you.

“Slow deep breaths.” Dr. Keller pushes your head against his chest. “Get her to copy you. If her blood pressure gets too high, or she passes out we might risk losing her to her omega, and that will be dangerous for all of us.” 

“I know.” Price says as he puts a hand on your head, keeping you against his chest. “I’ve seen it happen.” He presses his cheek against the top of your head, taking slow, even breaths. “Come on, sweetheart. Alpha’s got you. Need you to breathe for me.” 

Dr. Keller slips a blood pressure monitor around your arm, fighting the stiffness of your limbs as she sticks a pulse monitor to your chest. Price continues to speak to you, trying to get you to relax.

Slowly as the minutes pass, your breathing begins to slow. Dr. Keller monitors your blood pressure and heart rate, watching it slowly begin to come down as the presence of your alpha soothes your distressing omega. 

“There we go.” Dr. Keller says, squeezing your arm gently. 

Your breathing slows, but your breaths are still heavy and shaky as you slowly begin to sink into Price’s hold, your muscles slowly relaxing from their tense state. You let out a high-pitched whine as the discomfort begins to set in, tears leaking from your eyes. 

“I know.” Dr. Keller says gently. “You’re doing so good.” 

You begin to shake uncontrollably again, Price tightening his hold around you. His hand moves to the back of your neck instinctively, gently massaging the tense muscles. 

“It’s just the adrenaline.” Dr. Keller explains, moving to the closet and pulling out a stuffed bear. She kneels back down, working your arms away from your chest just enough that she can slip the bear into your arms. “Squeeze that for me.” She says, pushing on your arms until you take over, squeezing the bear to your chest. 

You’re still crying as the shaking slowly begins to subside, another whine leaving your lips. You continue to squeeze the bear to your chest, brows pulling into a frown. 

“Don’ feel good.” You slur, taking a deep breath in. 

“I know, honey, I know.” Dr. Keller says, squeezing your leg. “You did really good, coming down from that. Just keep breathing and relaxing for me.” 

You continue to follow Price’s breathing, trying to will your muscles to relax in your exhausted state. Price continues stroking the back of your neck, his heart thumping steadily beneath your ear. 

“One more squeeze on your arm and then I can take the monitor off.” Dr. Keller says, taking your blood pressure one more time. “It’s normal if she’s a bit achy and sore for a couple days.” She explains to Price. “She might be a bit disoriented later too. The best thing she can do is rest and someone should stay with her at all times just in case.” 

Price leans his chin against your head, fighting the anger building within him. Something happened to cause this, and he has an inkling as to what it was. He tightens his hold around you as you sink into him even more, the shaking starting to subside. 

“You don’t sedate for distress?” He asks as Dr. Keller removes the heart monitor and the blood pressure cuff from you. 

Dr. Keller shakes her head. “Sedation can make distress worse in some cases. It’s jarring and disorienting and in some cases the omega might wake up and continue distressing. It’s only useful in cases of an actual medical emergency, or if there’s no alpha to provide a sense of safety and the omega starts to take over. Then they become a danger to everyone around them and themselves.” 

“I know how devastating that can be.” He says, staring down at you. “The worst people in the world like to use omegas as shields and bait. Sometimes there’s no other way...they get caught in the middle of bullets flying and explosions. The scent of blood and fear around them.” He shakes his head. “Even if they survive that, even if you save them, it’s too much and you just lose them to the omega.” 

“It makes me sick.” Dr. Keller shakes her head. “They’re human beings just like you and me and they get treated like chattel. They’re seen as nothing but property and valued only by what they can be used for. Omegas are incredible beings. In ancient cultures they were revered, worshiped. Some cultures believed they were closest to the gods, and some thought they were gods sent to earth to bless those that deserved it. How far humanity has fallen.” 

“You have a lot of respect for omegas.” Price says. 

“Respect, love, care. Someone in this world has to. That’s why I became a specialist.” Dr. Keller smiles. “Didn’t think I’d end up here, but if I can help even just one omega, that’s more than enough for me.” She pushes herself up to stand. “Let’s get her back to the barracks. She’ll be more comfortable in a familiar atmosphere.” 

Price pushes himself to stand, keeping you close to his chest. Dr. Keller locks her office behind her before following Price as he carries you from the medical center. 

“She needs to eat.” Dr. Keller says. “She won’t feel like it, but she needs the calories after that. She might be emotional and resistant for a bit, but once she’s fully awake she’ll be alright. Well...that might be a bad way to describe it. If anything happens, or she starts getting worse. Call me.” 

“I will.” Price tightens his grip for a moment, pushing down the anger. He can’t let it take over yet. He still has you to take care of. He still has his omega to look after. 

Dr. Keller opens the door to the barracks for him, watching him walk down the hallway for a moment before turning and leaving. 

Price opens your door, carrying you into your room. He lays you on your bed, making sure you’re comfortable before he steps back out the door. The scent of distress is heavy on him still, as is his building anger. 

“MacTavish! Garrick!” He shouts, both of the beta’s doors opening almost immediately. “Have either of you seen Lieutenant Riley this morning?” 

Johnny frowns, both of them approaching the obviously agitated alpha. “Naw, I havenae seen him all mornin’.” 

“I thought he was training this morning.” Kyle says, a frown pulling at his brows too. “Did something happen?” 

He steps back into your room, the two betas following. Kyle sucks in a breath as he stares at you laying there, seemingly peacefully but the quickly suffocating scent tells him otherwise. He moves to your side, sinking down on the edge of the bed next to you. 

“Wha’ happened?” Johnny asks, a subtle tremble to his voice. 

“There was an incident this morning.” Price says, digging into the very depths of his training to keep his head on straight. “Sent her into distress.” 

“That bastard.” Johnny growls. “When I find him-” 

“Easy.” Price says, putting a hand on the beta’s chest to stop him from his rampage. “You and I are going to get some food and then come back here. Garrick, you stay with our girl. If anything starts to go wrong, you call Dr. Keller first, then me. Then, I’ve got ghost hunting to do.” 

“Ye sure we’re alright, bein’ in her nest like this?” 

“It’s not much of a nest. Besides, our girl needs us.” 

“‘S cozy, that’s for sure.” 

“Could get used to it.” 

You have no control over the whine that’s pulled from your chest as you’re thrust into consciousness. You feel a bit like you’ve been hit by a truck, tossed from an airplane with no parachute, and like you just ran a marathon with no training, all at once. 

“Easy, love.” 

Hands smooth over your face, calluses rough on your burning skin. You feel hot, yet not warm enough at the same time. Your skin is prickling, needing freedom but to be held tighter than you already are. Someone is in front of you, their hand the one on your face. Someone else is behind you, wrapped around your back, arms keeping you held tightly against them. 

“Can ye open yer eyes for me, pretty girl?” 

Your eyelids feel like they’re made of lead. You don’t want to. You want to keep your eyes closed and sink back into oblivion where nothing hurts and you’re not confused. You let out another quiet whine before you force your eyes open, staring up at the blurry shape above you. 

“That’s it, lovely.” Soap says, his fingers still stroking your face. “That’s a good girl.” 

“Soap?” You whine, your voice cracking. 

He shushes you, tucking your face against his neck, letting you inhale his scent. “We've got ye, lamb.”

Another hand trails down your arm, gently squeezing. You're sore, even your breaths make your body ache. 

“You remember what happened, love?” Gaz says quietly, his hand the one gently stroking your arm. 

You inhale sharply, trying to clear the fog in your mind. “Ghost...” You breathe, the images coming to your mind but the words are lost. “Left me.” 

“Aye.” Soap says, sounding hurt and disappointed. “He was being a right bastard and left ye in the gym alone. Ye ran for the med center. Found the doctor.” 

“I...” You take a shaky breath, remembering the panic, the feeling of getting further and further from your body. “I was distressing.”

Gaz hums, wrapping his arms around you. “You distressed, love. Dr. Keller got Price in there in time, worked you through it.”

You let out a shaky breath, letting yourself go limp between them. It makes sense why you feel so awful, why your head is swimming. “What time is it?”

“Just after lunch.” Gaz says. 

“Gave us hell tryin’ tae feed ye.” Soap says. “Half fightin’ us, half out of it.” 

“Ghost?” You ask, almost afraid to find out the answer. 

“Got quite the verbal lashing from Cap'n Price.” Soap says. “Was gone for an hour yellin’ at him.”

It doesn't feel like enough, but you won't admit that out loud. You lean back against Gaz, letting both of their scents wash over you. 

“How do you feel, love?” Gaz asks. 

“Hurts.” You murmur, wrapping an arm around Soap. 

“I know. I'm sorry you had to go through this.” Gaz says pressing a kiss to the back of your head. “Just relax, love. We've got you.” 

You let your eyes slip closed again, relaxing between the two betas. You don't care that they're in your room, squished together in your bed with you. You need them and their support. 

You'd prefer having Price too, but you won’t dare say that out loud.

You fade in and out of sleep, letting them help you up a couple times as they move around, and move you around, helping you stretch to ease the ache in your joints and muscles. You wind up laying on Soap as Gaz goes to get dinner, his arms wrapped around your middle as you rest on his chest. 

“I am sorry about Simon.” He says quietly, lips brushing your forehead. 

“Don’t apologize for him.” You murmur. “It was partially my fault. I was egging him on.” 

“He shouldnae done tha’ though.” Soap says. “Leavin’ ye like that. ‘S dangerous, and not just for you.” 

“I did good. I got out without running into anyone.” You say, trying to reassure yourself before you lose it again. 

“You did perfectly.” A voice says, making you jump. 

Soap gently rubs your back as you blink up at Price. He’s standing in the doorway, holding two trays of food. You hadn’t even heard the door open. 

“Go on and eat in the mess, Johnny.” Price says, setting the trays on your desk. “I’ve got her for now.” 

Soap gently eases you off of him, pressing a kiss to your forehead before leaving you alone with Price. He carries over a tray, setting it on your nightstand before kneeling down in front of you. He turns on your lamp, illuminating the room more than it was with your nightlight and the fading light outside. 

“How do you feel?” He asks, taking your hand in his. 

“Sore.” You say, squeezing his fingers. “But less than I was earlier. Moving around helped.” You sniffle, wiping the tear that escapes. “A bit weepy too.” 

Price smiles softly at you. “That’s expected. I’d be more worried if you weren’t.” He cups your face. “You did the right thing, taking the back exit and going for Dr. Keller’s office.” 

“Was closer.” You murmur. “Less risk of running into someone.” 

Price nods. “I doubt anyone would have stopped you, but that is still a risk.” He grabs the tray from the nightstand. “Eat up. I know you don’t feel like it, but you need it.” 

It’s almost like he read your mind. He moves to your desk, sitting in the chair. The food looks less appetizing than usual, but you know he’s right. Omegas expend a lot of energy while in distress. You’ll feel better if you eat. From the sounds of it, Gaz and Soap had attempted to feed you while you were still out of it, though you’re not sure how successful they were. 

You eat mostly in silence, but you don’t mind. You don’t have the brain power to think enough for a conversation, and you’re more than happy to just bask in Price’s calming presence. 

Gaz and Soap return after dinner, Price taking his leave again. You’re sure he’s busy, especially after this incident, but you can’t help but feel the sting of it just a bit. He had helped you through your distress, calming you down. You want him to lay next to you, to hold the back of your neck and remind you that he’s here, that he’s got you. 

That he’ll never leave you like that. 

Instead you curl up between Soap and Gaz, letting the calming present of betas relax you back to sleep. 

You’re not sure what time it is when you wake up. Soap is gone, but Gaz is still pressed against your back, breathing evenly. You grab one of the phones off the nightstand, glancing at the time. It’s just past one a.m. You’re feeling thirsty again, and like you need to stretch your legs. Gaz is coiled around you, and you’re not sure how to get out without waking him up. You don’t want to disturb him, and you want a second to breathe and clear your head without the influence of his scent. 

You carefully roll away enough to grab the strawberry pillow off the floor from where it likely rolled after Soap left. You slowly ease it between your bodies until he’s wrapped around the pillow, settling with a sigh. You let out a quiet breath, rising from the bed slowly and padding quietly to the door. Your eyes are on him as you unlock it, slipping out quickly. You leave it cracked open before sneaking down the hallway towards the rec room. 

It’s quiet in the barracks, almost eerily so as you slip into the empty room, heading for the fridge. You stand there, half debating on a beer instead of water. Perhaps a little alcohol might numb at least some of the ache in your joins, or at least clear your mind a bit. You hate the taste of beer, though, and Gaz would know immediately. 

You sigh, grabbing a water, the back of your neck prickling as you stand up. You close the fridge door, whirling around, a scream caught in your throat. 

“Are you going to scream?” Ghost’s voice rumbles from behind his mask. He’s standing just inside the rec room, blocking the doorway. 

“Are you going to hurt me?” You ask, flattening yourself against the fridge. 

“Why would I do that?” He has the gaul to sound almost confused. 

“You seemed pretty eager to this morning.” You say, clutching the water bottle to your chest. “You abandoned me.” 

“I didn’t. I was right behind you the whole time, until you went into the med center.” He explains, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. 

“Well how was I supposed to know that?” You snap, getting agitated by the alpha and how he’s treated you thus far. “You just up and left me by myself in a vulnerable place. How was I supposed to know you were still there? For all I knew you were halfway back to the barracks. Was I just supposed to blindly trust that you would be there, that you would follow me if I decided to brave walking past a bunch of worked up alphas? I can’t trust that. I can’t trust you like that.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because you haven’t given me a reason to!” You almost shout it, just managing to keep control over your volume so you don’t accidentally wake the others. “You don’t like me, you keep treating me like shit. Just going off of that, I wouldn’t put it past you to just up and leave me to fend for myself.” 

“I wouldn’t.” 

“But you did! You did today! You put me in danger! I distressed because of you! I haven’t distressed since-” You cut yourself off, deflating a bit at your near slip of words. You’re not sure you want to open that can of worms, allow for that kind of vulnerability with the alpha that had nearly killed you earlier. But, maybe you do need that kind of vulnerability. Maybe he needs it. “Since I was taken to the institute.” You finish, feeling yourself deflating a bit. 

Tears prick at your eyes, his own figure visibly deflating a bit. That scent is back, the one from a couple nights ago when you had run into him in a similar situation. You want out of here, you want back to the safety of doors around you, doors that could be opened and Ghost pulled from you easily if needed. 

“Move.” You say, bravely squaring up to the alpha blocking you in. 

He says your name like a warning, not budging an inch. 

“Move!” You shout, going for his middle with your shoulder, but he’s faster, catching you before you can hit him. 

“Calm down.” He growls, trying to hold your squirming form. 

One scream. One scream and the others would be on you. How quickly could Ghost act, though? How quickly could his hand close around your throat and squeeze, or maybe even twist? 

“Calm down!” He growls again, forcing you backwards. 

Your feet slip on the tile, sending you back onto your back. You wince at the jolt to your already sore body, the air leaving your lungs in a harsh gasp. Ghost sinks down to the floor next to the couch, leaning against the side of it like he can’t bear to hold himself up anymore. 

“It was a long time ago.” He starts, the tiredness evident in his voice. His eyes are on the floor in front of you, not even looking up as you push yourself up onto your elbows. “Back when I was a newly made Sergeant. My first deployment, first mission. We were hunting a man, real scum of the earth, chasing him through the jungle.” 

You almost want to stop him, unsure if he can even be telling you this, but you can’t bring yourself to say anything. 

“Things got complicated when he swept through a village, picked up all the local omegas. He was using them as human shields. We cornered him in some run down shack. Him, his men, and the poor omegas. The commanding officer in charge of the mission started hostage negotiations, tried to get him to let the omegas go. He knew he’d lost, he’d never get out of there without being captured or killed.” Ghost shakes his head, letting out a heavy breath. “So he agreed. The commanding officer had to have known. We all should have known.” 

He goes silent, the quiet of the barracks and the world outside almost eerie. You’re sitting up now, almost holding your breath in anticipation. You’re not sure he’s ever spoken this much to you at once before, much less something that’s obviously so vulnerable, and potentially confidential. 

“He sent the omegas out in all directions, running straight at us. We were ordered to stay where we were. We couldn’t run out there, we couldn’t help them.” His hands close into fists, his scent souring. “They started firing at the omegas. There was one running straight at me. I still remember her, the look on her face. The fear in her eyes as she raced towards me.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “I remember how the blood felt splattering on my face. The bullet shot right past my ear. She fell close enough I could have reached out and touched her. Clean shot right through the back of her head.” 

He shakes his head, finally looking at you. Tears have gathered in your eyes as you stare at him. His scent is sour, tinged with the tanginess that you had smelled a couple nights ago when he ran into you coming back from the rec room.

Fear. 

That scent is fear. 

“I still think about it. What if I had disobeyed orders? What if I had just reached out to help her? Would she have made it? Could we have brought at least one omega back to that village? Would the bullet have hit me instead?” He lets out a long breath. “I still have nightmares about it. See it clear as day, that look on her face seconds before her life ended.” 

You’re moving, crawling closer to him. He doesn’t move, not even a blink or a flinch as you get closer and closer until you’re in front of him, close enough to see the light blonde color of his lashes. He still won’t look at you, his gaze on the floor as you sit in front of him. 

“You saw me.” You say softly, not needing him to explain further. “Instead of some omega, it was me in your dream. You’re afraid. That’s why you treat me the way you do. You’re scared if you get close to me, if you allow me into the pack, allow me into this life, that something like that will happen to me. That’s why you were afraid that night, when I went to the rec room to grab water. You woke up from a nightmare about me.” 

He doesn’t say anything, but you don’t need him to. You’re beginning to understand him now. One moment of vulnerability and the complex specter that is Ghost is beginning to become clearer and clearer to you. He’s beginning to take shape, forming out of the mists of confusion and aggression that have plagued you since your arrival in his life. 

“That doesn’t make what you did okay.” You say, breaking the eerie silence again. “It doesn’t make the way you treat me okay, but I guess...I guess I can understand why now. Why you’re so hard on me, why you resist my mere existence here. You don’t have to like me, I’d just like you to be nice to me a little bit. You’re never going to convince Soap not to pursue anything, so, you’re just going to have to get used to me being around.” 

The corners of his eyes crease. It’s a half a second of movement, but you manage to catch it. He finally lifts his gaze to meet yours, eyes emotionless as they usually are when they look at you. 

“I still don’t forgive you for what you did.” You say, staring up at him. “And I don’t trust you,” You pull your knees up to your chest. “But I suppose I was also a bit at fault, saying those things to you.” 

“I deserved it.” He says. “I was being a dick.” 

Your brows raise as you stare at him. “Are you...apologizing?” 

“Don’t rub it in.” He says, the warning clear in his tone. 

“Well, I guess it’s a start.” You say. “I should probably get back to bed before Gaz notices I’m gone.” 

Ghost lets out a huff. “I’m surprised you escaped without him noticing.” 

You shrug, pushing yourself up to stand slowly. “He’s snuggling a stuffed strawberry right now, so...that probably says a lot about one of us and I’m not sure which is worse.” 

“Come on.” Ghost motions with his head. “Last thing we need is another panic at 2 am.” 

“Another panic?” You ask, dropping your voice to a whisper as you leave the rec room. 

Ghost chuckles. “You’ll have to ask Johnny about that one.” 

You stare at him for a moment as you stand in front of your cracked door. “Goodnight, Ghost.” 

He nods to you before you slip in, closing and locking the door. He stands there, listening to the bed shift as you crawl back into Kyle’s hold. He can picture the way the beta’s limbs coil around you like a snake. Would you lie facing him and cling to him like a koala? Or would you prefer facing away from him, letting him envelop you in a feeling of security and protection? 

Ghost shakes his head, inhaling the faint whiff of your scent still in the air before he turns, staring at his door for a moment before moving back down the hall, slipping into Johnny’s room instead. 

Taglist:

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[sometimesanalice]

Give Me Your Hand {Here Is My Heart}

Summary: You and Bradley have been dating for a couple months now. You want him and he wants you. And it’s getting harder and harder to keep your hands off of him. So what is holding you back?

Pairing: Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x Female Reader

Length: 9K

Warnings: Fluff, Pining, and Smuttt

(This will be a 2-Part series for characters in the “Like I Can” Universe. It can be read without reading the original series first.)  PART 2

You’ve seen Bradley’s thick, wavy hair in various stages throughout your life. He has a little cowlick tuft in the back that would always pop up if it was cut too short. You’d seen it in high school when he used a little too much product like most boys did at that age. You’d seen it smashed and sweaty from being trapped under a baseball cap for too long.

However, for all the ways you’ve seen it over the years, his hair mussed by your own hands is easily one of your very favorite looks on him.

There is an open bottle of some random red blend you had picked up from the grocery store on the table, you had been more drawn to the label than what was inside of it. Your glasses were mostly untouched, the only clue about whose belonged to who was the imprint of your lower lip left behind on the rim from your lipstick that’s long worn off from your mouth.

And you are straddling Bradley’s denim clad lap enthusiastically making out on his probably-from-Ikea-but-still-very comfortable dark gray couch. The short skirt of your flirty little ruffled red dress sliding higher and higher up your thighs with every movement.

Your hands are undoing what minimal styling he had done to it before you had gotten to his place that evening, while his large ones are everywhere. Traveling the length of your back, squeezing your hips, running over the outsides of your calves. 

It has been almost a couple of months since you had been set up by the Daggers on those truly terrible dates. At the time it seemed like a fun idea to go on all those blind dates, until it wasn’t. 

That is, until Bradley. Being with him had made it all worthwhile. 

There have been plenty of dates since then. Nights out. Nights in. Nights spent laughing at the Hard Deck with his friends. But they all end the same. With Bradley kissing you goodnight. 

In the Bronco.

At your door. 

At his. 

You haven’t stayed the night, not once. Not even after the time where you both fell asleep tangled on his couch. You had woken up it find it was nearly 3 A.M, and even then you still made it a point not to cross the threshold into his bedroom. Even though you wanted to.

The way his mouth is moving against yours is nothing short of sinful. He is so good at making you breathless. So good at making you blush. Having him like this is more than you ever thought you’d get, its deliciously thrilling being the one to pull the low moans and satisfied sighs from him. 

It is almost too easy with Bradley. You’d never let yourself think about forever at this point in a relationship with anyone else. He made it so difficult for you to keep your head on straight when he looked at you with such dizzying adoration. 

It was getting harder and harder not let yourself think about Bradley being the one for all of your last-firsts. Even as you tried to take things with him day by day, moment by moment.

How that evening out on the outdoor terrace could have been your last-first date. That pretty green dress you’d worn, now tucked away in your closet protected in its garment bag, felt special in a way you weren’t sure you were ready to look at too closely.

How that kiss against his Bronco in the parking lot near the beach afterwards could have been your last-first kiss.

How whenever you mustered up the courage to finally give yourself to him entirely that it could be your last-first time.

But one of you had to be the practical one. One of you has to keep their feet on the ground because the other literally as his head in the clouds on a daily basis. You felt constantly at war with bullet pointed logic of your mind and the whatifwhatifwhatifs of your heart.

When Bradley dropped you off back at your car after your post-oceanside-dinner-milkshake-run, he asked you out again for the next weekend. Claimed he wanted you to have a second first date with him, even though you both already were planning on meeting your friends at the Hard Deck the very next night. 

His smile had been so sweet and his eyes so sincere there was no way you were going to turn him down. Even if you didn’t think you needed a second first date with him when the first had been one for the books. 

Bradley’s burning lips work their way down your neck. His hand at the base of your neck keeping you exactly where he wanted you. The delicious drag of his mustache along the sensitive skin of your throat makes your toes curl. His hot mouth sucking softly at your pulse point before laving it with his tongue. Can he feel how fast your heart is beating?

For your second-first date, the only feeling that had been coursing through you that day had been pure excitement knowing it would be Bradley knocking on your door. 

And when he picked you up, he arrived with a bouquet of your favorite flowers in one hand and a bottle of your favorite champagne in the other.

There was an undeniable giddiness that evening, but also a tentative shyness between the two of you as you sat across from each other at one of the many seafood restaurants that dotted the boardwalk. The table had felt almost too big, since the two of you were both a little too in your heads. 

“Why did it feel easier last time-”

“I feel like I’m on an interview-”

After a couple awkward stops and starts, you both just looked at each other and had to laugh about it. It was better when you moved your place settings and slid into the spot next to him. When his leg nervously bounced under the table, you were close enough to rest a hand on his thigh. 

“Have I told you how pretty you look?”

“Only a few times now,” you replied as you nudged his foot with yours, “But I like hearing it.”

And then slowly but surely the nerves and awkwardness melted away as you two settled into the familiarity of each other. You did call him “Rooster” a couple times on accident, and he ended up almost telling you the same story twice before he realized it halfway through the second time. But it was a comfortable kind of bumbling as you explored the newness of this part of your relationship together.  

Afterwards, he had suggested taking a walk along the beach, you’d readily agreed at the thought of the sand beneath your toes and your fingers tangled between Bradley’s.

You didn’t walk very far before a large canopy made entirely out of thousands of string lights caught your eye. The area was roped off on the beach halfway between the boardwalk and the ocean waves. People were already milling about, some brave souls already dancing away as the final rays from the sunset illuminated them in a golden red light. 

“C’mon, kid,” he’d said already tugging you along with him by the hand, “Let’s check it out.”

“Bradley, I don’t know. This looks like some kind of private event.”

It didn’t click until he was pulling out his phone with the tickets already pulled up and ready to be scanned that he had planned it all along. 

“I’ve always wanted to go to one of these,” you told him with a grin on your face as you waited in the line to exchange your shoes for a pair of light up headphones.

“Have you now?” He was looking very pleased with himself as he slid an arm around you, tucking his hand into the back pocket of your jeans.

“I thought you said you were done with surprises,” you asked teasingly, smoothing down the front of his Hawaiian shirt. Enjoying the way his stomach tensed beneath your hand. 

“Now, where the fun in that? I think I like surprising you,” he murmured into your ear.

When you made your way to the front, he slipped the headphones over your ears before pulling you to the side, bending down to roll up your jeans a bit and then doing the same to his. 

The sand was still warm for the sun under your feet, and the twinkle lights were picking up the golden strands in Bradley’s wavy hair. He was so handsome and he was all yours tonight.

The two of you had the best time as you bounced around between stations, the colors on your headphones changing from blue to red to green as you told the other one to change over whenever a familiar song came on as the inky night settled around you.

You had danced with Bradley plenty of times of the years, like at school dances and at your mom’s second wedding. However, it was always the goofy and fun kind of dancing between friends. Where he would spin you until you were doubled over in laughter or where you’d compete to see who could pull out the most ridiculous moves.  

His fancy footwork and carefree exuberance still amused you to no end, but it was also the good kind of different the way he wrapped his arms around you from behind. You’d felt a good kind of free in the way you let your hips move against him without overthinking it. It was the good kind of exciting the way he feathered kisses down the side of your neck when the music playing through the headphones slowed down.

The two of you moving in sync and touching each other in ways you haven’t indulged in before, a little sweaty and out of breath. You had never felt so truly lighthearted and uninhibited as you did as you danced the night away with Bradley, as he shimmied with you, as he twirled you about, as he held you close. 

By the end of the evening, your cheeks were hurting from the wide smile that hadn’t left your face once the whole night. 

And there was no hesitation in the way you pulled his face to yours as people danced around lost in their own moments on the beach under the twinkle lights and moonlight that night. As you got lost in him.

The rough denim of his jeans between the soft skin of your thighs has you desperate to move against him for more. His fingers are playing with the frilly chiffon fabric of the red dress you bought forever ago and completely forgot about in your closet. You wanted to be as bold as the color you were wearing, to take the lead and slide his hands up your dress to where you both really wanted them to be. Instead you trail your lips long the strong line of his jaw, reveling in the way he sighs your name.

The next date you had planned. 

And the only thing you had told him about it was what time he should expect to be picked up. 

At the time he’d grumbled something about his mom raising him as a gentleman and that meant always picking the girl up. To which, you had retorted that Carole told you not to take nonsense from any man, and that included her son. Phoenix had clicked her glass with yours at that.

Bradley was notoriously bad a keeping a secret, excluding when he had planned that first date, but he was even worse when he was the one being kept in the dark. Needless, to say you thoroughly enjoyed teasing him that whole week before your next date.

And if he ran his hands more over your body as he tried to get you to give him even the smallest of hints, you couldn’t say you minded. 

You’d stopped by his favorite deli on you way home from work and ordered a couple of those giant sandwiches that were piled high with all the cold cuts and too many toppings, along with a few containers of different sides to round out the meal. Your fridge had been stocked his favorite beer from your last grocery run, so you’d grabbed a few cans of those and some sparkling waters and put those in your cooler basket with the other sweet treats you had already bought before you’d quickly changed and left to go pick him up.

You’d barely had the car parked in his driveway of his condo before he was opening the door and throwing his large body in your car.

“It’s not too late to let me drive, kid,” he’d said in greeting, pressing a kiss to your cheek. You really liked this part, the casual physicality of his affection. You liked it a lot.

“Oh please, you just want me to tell you what we’re doing,” you countered, as you backed up and pulled on to the main road. “Plus, I don’t see what your problem is. I drive you around all the time when the Bronco is getting a tune up.”

“Yeah, but only when it’s in the shop. I am physically pained to be in a Honda Civic,” he complained, as he shifted from side to side and moved the seat back trying to get more comfortable. Ever the drama queen.

“Hey, it’s a hybrid! I’m saving the planet,” you lobbed back at him, “How much fuel does your F/A-18 go through?” 

“It’s boring.” There was no missing the derision dripping from the word.

Such a little car snob.

“I think you mean it’s practical,” you replied primly. “I’m not going to apologize for having a car from this century, Bradley.”

“Is it even safe to be this close to the ground?” he groused as he looked at you from over the top of his sunglasses. 

“Well, my lease on this is up soon and I have been thinking about getting an all-American whip,” you paused for a moment as he perked up at the idea of that, “Do you think I would look cute in a Jeep?”

The taunt landed just the way you hoped it would when he groaned and clutched his heart.

“My girl is not driving a Jeep. That’d be like sleeping with the enemy!” he dramatically bemoaned, “The Bronco would stall out of spite knowing you’re driving the competition.”

You hoped he didn’t catch the way you’d clamed up. How your hands had tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles standing out in contrast against the paper-thin skin there.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t slept with someone on the first date before. And while you knew it was a matter of when and not if, you were still having a hard time wrapping your brain around the fact that you would be having sex with Bradley Bradshaw.

But there was fucking and then there was whatever this was. 

It already felt different with him than anyone else you’ve dated before. It felt like it would mean more with him and you couldn’t pretend you weren’t anxious about it.

This was Bradley.

Bradley.

Who had always made it to your tennis matches wearing the t-shirt he had made that boldly sported your last name across his chest after you had complained that the boys’ teams always better funding and therefore got better apparel. He was always the loudest person in the stands, except for your moms when they overdid it on the Sauvignon Blanc.

Bradley.

Who had always sent you your favorite kind of flowers to be delivered on your birthday and never failed to FaceTime with you regardless of where he was in the world or what time it was where he was stationed.

Bradley who was looking so handsome next to you in your practical Honda Civic wearing a snug light blue button up shirt and smelling really good. Woodsy with the tiniest hint of citrus.

With his tousled sun-lightened curls and warm brown eyes. His strong, sturdy nose. That mustache that had no right to look so perfect on his face. You’d liked every version of him you’d know throughout your life, but this one next to you? You lo--

“Light’s green, sweet girl.” He was wearing that little half smirk of his. The one that was entirely too knowing, and that looked entirely too good on him.

You had blinked at him a few times before you had realized you’d been completely caught checking him out. And it wasn’t until the car behind you honked that you were startled out of your Bradley filled mental wanderings.

Thankfully you were saved from further jokes at you or your car’s expense as you pulled into the parking lot of the library, happy for the distraction from your earlier thoughts.

“Do you have some books you need to return?” he asked a bit perplexed, his eyebrow knitting together. 

“Nope,” you answered. Sending him a smug wink as you reached over to click the button to unbuckle his seatbelt. 

He wasn’t the only one who could plan a surprise in this relationship. 

And in the midst of your self-satisfied musings, you had somehow missed the way he had rounded the car until his big hands were on your waist. Then he was turning you around and crowding you against the side of your very practical car.

“This ok?” he rasped questioningly against your ear, stroking your side.

You nodded rapidly. All words had escaped you the second he had pressed his broad, hard body against yours.

It was a miracle you didn’t drop the basket in your hands when his mouth collided with yours, his lips leisurely gliding over yours. You were still getting use to the sensation of his rough mustache on your delicate skin, but you liked the feel of it. 

You liked everything about him.

He pulled away after a few moments, nudging your cheek with his nose, “Hey, you good?”

There was a moment when you thought that maybe he had noticed the way you’d froze in the car when he had made that joke. He knew you so well, but even that felt like a stretch.

“Just peachy,” you replied, as you leaned in for another quick peck. But just as you tried to pull away, he tugged you back in.

“’m not done kissing you yet.”

“Bradley, come on,” you laugh breathlessly, the grin on your face derailing any further plans he had for your mouth. 

“Or, hear me out,” he mused, as he trailed a finger down your arm, until he reached your hand to take the basket from you, “We can make out against your car. Seeing as we’re already very good at that.”

“Nuh-uh.” You shake your head at him. “There will be no more making out.”

“At all?” he coaxed. His thumb sneaking under your top, stroking the skin above your hip.

“For the next couple of hours,” you amended. “Are you going to be trouble?”

“Only the good kind, I promise.” He was wearing that cheeky smile that always left you feeling a little flustered. Threading your fingers together with his free hand, he gestured for you to lead the way. 

You pulled him along with you as you followed the other groups of people who were making their way the same direction around to the back of the library where the large section of grassy lawn was located. 

“Last chance, you sure you don’t want to go make out in the stacks?” he teased as you passed by the entrance, giving you a heated once over, “You always were such a good girl in school, Miss Valedictorian.”

It made your cheeks warm at both the idea of him pressing you against the shelves and from him calling you a good girl. And you were almost tempted to let him have his way. To let him pull you out of the line you were waiting in in favor of finding out what his mouth tasted like in some quiet, dusty corner of the library. 

“Behave, this is an all ages event,” you reminded him, and yourself. He held up his three fingers in Scout’s promise. But you knew better, recognized what that smirk he was wearing meant, so you met him half way, “If you’re good, maybe we can do that for our third date.”

You had felt your pulse radiate through your whole body when he leaned in close and murmured, “I can be good for you.”

A pointed cough jolted you both out of the moment, you had been so wrapped up in him that you had completely missed that the line had moved. Muttering a sheepish Sorry, you tugged a shameless Bradley along with you to catch up with everyone else. 

When you made it to the front of the line, he tried to fish out his wallet before you could reach yours to pay the suggested entry donation fee. The volunteer chuckled as you tossed the blanket you were carrying at your troublesome date’s broad chest. And then you handed over the cash you had withdrawn from the ATM earlier in the day, plus a little more.

You were a patron of the literary arts, after all. A humanitarian with a point to prove. This was your date you had planned for Bradley, you would be the one sweeping him off his feet tonight.

The big screen they had set up gave it away, but you refused to tell him what movie was playing that evening even as he made guess after guess as you wove your way around people to find an unoccupied spot in the grass.

You kept him busy by having him smooth out the blanket until there were absolutely no wrinkles, and then distracted him with all of his favorite goodies as you unpacked them out of your cooler bag. Thankfully, it wasn’t too much longer before the event’s coordinator was welcoming everyone since you had run out of PG-rated ways to keep Bradley diverted without spoiling the evening’s featured film.

When the opening credits had started rolling for Singin’ in the Rain Bradley had turned to you, his wide grin lighting up his whole face. 

“I love this movie,” he said excitedly.

You smiled back at him indulgently, as if you didn’t already know that. However, you still had felt very pleased with yourself that he was so thrilled as you passed him one of the massive, overly filled sandwiches along with a beer. 

You had forgotten to pack some extra plates to put the sides on, so you and Bradley passed the containers of creamy potato salad, tangy coleslaw, and cold tomato salad back and forth. Occasionally feeding the other bites in between watching Gene Kelly and Donald O’Connor’s antics on screen. 

A little while later, the two of you had cozied up on the blanket, the leftover food pushed off to one side. Bradley had pulled you into the space between his legs, encouraging you to rest your back against his sturdy chest. You had never felt as perfectly content as you did sitting there wrapped up in his arms sharing a bag of gummy bears and the other boxes of movie candy you had packed as the warm California breeze washed over you.

You had been surrounded by families and other couples, but the way he rested his chin against your shoulder and hummed along with Gene Kelly singing “You Were Meant For Me” was for your ears only.

There isn’t anything in this world that feels as good as Bradley’s wet lips sliding over yours. Nothing as exciting as wondering where his hands will roam to next on your body. Nothing as devastating as when he teases down the strap of your dress off of your shoulder with his nose as his mouth purposefully works along your collarbone.

Ever the gentleman, he’s never pressured you, or even brought it up. You know he is waiting for you to make the move, to let you be the one who sets the pace. To let him know when you’re ready to take that next step with him.

And you want to. You really want to. Even now, you can feel how enticingly hard he is beneath you as you moan into his mouth. 

You know that you’re the one holding you back. 

The one holding the both of you back. 

And you know exactly why.

The closest you two even got to toeing that line into something more was the night you got back home after spending a few days on the East Coast for a work trip. 

Bradley had wanted to pick you up from the airport, but you were getting in late and didn’t want him to lose out on the sleep that he needed to stay safe doing his job. He only let it go once you had promised him you would text him when you landed and got home in one piece.

You had been getting ready for bed after showering off the plane from your body, slipping on an old shirt you had recently rediscovered buried in the back of your dresser when your phone had lit up. And you really shouldn’t have been surprised to see Bradley’s name on your screen well past 2 A.M, but your heart still fluttered seeing his name pop up.

“Yes, Bradley?” you answered with a playful lilt in your tone. 

“Hi, kid,” you could hear the soft smile in his voice, “Did you make it home ok?”

“I did, but what are you still doing awake? You’ve got that new training program that starts tomorrow, and roosters aren’t known for being nocturnal creatures.”

“She’s got jokes, ladies and gentlemen,” he deadpanned flatly before tentatively continuing, “You said you were going to text me when you landed. But my phone has been suspiciously silent.”

You didn’t know if that swooping sensation in your stomach had been from feeling like you’d let him down or from the fact that he was calling you this late because he was worried about you. That he had stayed up wanting to hear from you because you mattered to him. You that you were in his 2 A.M thoughts. 

“I figured you’d be asleep, and I didn’t want to bother you,” you admitted self-consciously as you puttered around you room, putting away a few of the things from your suitcase.

And it had been the truth. You had typed out a message when you were waiting in the ride share pick up area with your carry on, but ended up deleting it not wanting to bother him or disturb his sleep. 

“Nah, you’d never bother me. I was waiting to hear from you. Wouldn’t have been able to sleep anyways, not with you being flown around by some random pseudo-captain airline pilot wearing a pair of wings with a brand logo on it.”

The men you had dated in the past had always said the same thing without really meaning it, sending halfhearted thumbs up when you’d let them known you got home after a date or landed safely after a work trip. But Bradley wasn’t like those men, he truly meant the things he said because he cared.

“Not the branded wings,” you teased, before softly saying, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all good, sweet girl. I’m just happy you’re home. You free dinner tomorrow? I want to hear all about your trip.”

“For you? Yeah, I think I can clear my schedule.”

“Good,” he said contentedly before pausing for a moment, and you heard rustling on the other end of the line, “So, what are you wearing?”

You burst out laughing, as you finally crawled into your soft bed, grinning wildly, “Bradley Bradshaw, you did not just ask me that!”

“What?” he asked innocently, his chuckle giving him away. “How about this, you tell me and I promise to never bring up the fact that you have contributed to any prematurely gray hairs that might have sprung up in the last few hours.”

“A silver fox Bradley Bradshaw?” Now that was something you were very much looking forward to seeing one day, “Be still my heart.”

“Chances are you won’t have to wait long,” he joked.

“Well, it’s funny you should ask,” you mused as you look down at the threadbare shirt you had on, “Because I am currently wearing a very old Cardinals Baseball shirt.”

He had given it to you after they had won the State Championships his junior year as a thank you for all the time you had spent helping him practice after school and on the weekends leading up to the playoff games.

“You’re messing with me.”

“I would never joke about Washington High school pride.” He laughed at that, because really, when were you not teasing him?

When you didn’t say anything more he’d pressed, “Wait, seriously?”

“Mm-hmm,” you purred smugly, playing with the frayed hem of the shirt.

“I want to see it.”

“Are you asking me to send a photo of myself in bed after 2 A.M?” you asked with faux shock, “Sir, I am a lady.”

That made him snort, “There wasn’t anything ladylike about the way you took down that burger the other week. But seriously. You’ve got sixty seconds, kid. Otherwise I’m coming over there to see it for myself.”

Your breath had caught in your throat. His demand made your heart beat faster in your chest, the two of you had never done anything like this before. 

“Ok, ok. Give me a moment.” 

Working quickly knowing Bradley wasn’t one for idle threats, you positioned yourself where his shirt is clearly visible, but also featured a glimpse of the top of your thighs and a hint of the smirk on your lips. Satisfied you sent it off to him and put the phone back up to your ear.

“Holy shit,” he breathes out incredulously. You didn’t know if he meant to say it out loud or not, but you’d felt the heat work its way in your cheeks all the same.

“Come on then, Bradshaw. You’re up. Tit for tat as it was.”

“I didn’t realize tits were on the table,” he rasped lowly.

You were thankful he hadn’t made this a FaceTime call, so that he didn’t see the way your jaw dropped.

There was a thrumming working its way through your body. There wasn’t anything explicitly dirty happening, but it felt deliciously thrilling all the same. It was exciting doing this with him.

“Nuh-uh, rules are rules. You’ve got sixty seconds,” you tell him, trying to sound more in control than you felt.

A few moments later you see the notification pop down, and you click into the text. The first thing your mind registered was his skin. 

So much golden skin. 

He was leaning against his head board, navy comforter bunched around low on his waist. His hair was a little mussed, and his mouth was pulled to one side in a half-smirk. He was just so handsome, you could even see the fine trail of hairs that led to his---

“Goddammit, Bradley!” you’d exclaimed putting him on speaker, so you could still hear him without putting your phone back up to your ears since you were too busy staring at the picture he had just sent. “Are you kidding me? This is some serious one-handed fodder!” 

You could hear his booming laughter on the other side.

“Happy now?” You could hear how pleased he was with your reaction in his voice.

“Truly, the happiest. You have no idea,” you replied, albeit a distractedly, “But, full disclosure? I am going to be gazing at this so disrespectfully after we hang up.” You’ve never been so bold before, but everything about that moment had been electrifying with him. Because of him.

“Enjoy your one-handed fodder, kid. But full disclosure?” his voice was teasing as he used your own words against you, “You’d need to use both hands. I’m glad you’re home, I’ll see you tomorrow. Sweet dreams, sweet girl.”

He hung up on you without waiting for a response as you gaped into your home screen.

As images filled your head of what it would look like to have both of your hands wrapped the length of him, you let your fingers trail down your stomach and under the waistband of your underwear.

You had already lost a lot of sleep thinking about Bradley. Dreaming about how it would feel to be naked and pressed close along his body. He runs so warm normally, would he be even hotter to the touch as you both rocked against each other? You wanted to know the sounds he made when he came.

Too desperate to come to bother reaching for your vibrator, you had propped your phone against your spare pillow looking at that photo of him cozy and warm in his bed, and with your other hand you easily slid two fingers into yourself. Circling your clit with one hand as you worked yourself with the other.

You wanted his fingers. You wanted his mouth. You wanted his cock. You wanted all of him.

Closing your eyes, you let yourself think about Bradley. His molten brown eyes. His strong forearms. The tantalizing veins of his thick neck. The way his mustache feels against your mouth when you make out in his Bronco. The powerful grace in the way his body moved during a game of dogfight football.

You imagined him unreservedly and unabashedly. 

Above you. 

Below you. 

Behind you.

You came like a flash. Back arching as you spasmed against your own fingers while thinking about his.

And a few minutes later, just as your heart rate had settled back down and you were about to turn your light off, you got a text from him.

𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗’𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚐𝚊𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝. 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍. 𝙸 𝚎𝚗𝚓𝚘𝚢𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚘𝚗𝚎-𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚘, 𝚔𝚒𝚍.

Which promptly had you tossing your phone away from you as you squealed into your pillow. 

It was so easy to lose yourself in his kiss, breathing in each other’s air. Your mouths are drawn together like magnets. His hands are high on your ribcage, his brave thumb caressing the underside of your breast. You are dizzy off of the feeling of his tongue stroking yours.

There is an earnest yearning in the way you both kiss each other. In the way you touch each other. It’s almost like you’re trying to make up for something. 

“I can feel you thinking, sweet girl,” he says a little breathlessly as he pulls away from your mouth. His lips are swollen and his hair is a wavy, brown mess. “Am I not going a good enough job over here?” 

You know he is teasing you, but you can tell that he is giving you the gentle opening to talk about what distracting thoughts are pulling you out of being in the moment with him.

“I was just thinking about when you picked me up in your old Montero for the first time. You were leaning against it like my very own Jake Ryan,” you tell him as you place kisses across his cheek.

Not exactly the truth, but you don’t want to ruin the mood by telling him what was really on your mind. Not when you wanted to make him feel just as good as he was making you feel.

“I loved that car,” he moans lightly as you kiss along his jaw, his hands sliding up your back.

“I know,” you hum against his ear, “You didn’t talk to me for like a week when I spilled my milkshake in it that one time.”

“I should have kept that car, she was a classic,” he sighs as he leans his head against the back of the couch to look up at you. His hands skimming up and down the sides of your waist, still hard beneath you.

“You know, my parents still think I was some kind of manual stick-shifting wunderkind,” you tell him grinning down at him. Your thumb tracing the long scar there under his Adam’s apple.

“Yeah, I probably shouldn’t have taught you how to how to drive when you were fourteen,” he says with fondness. The grin on his gorgeous face nothing short of sheepish, “Your mom can never know. I still want her to like me.”

You smile briefly thinking about him teaching you in the afternoons after school when neither of you had practices to attend in the abandoned parking lot across town. 

How he had patiently taught you how to shift from neutral into first even after stalling out multiple times in a row. He had done his best to hid his wincing from you when you inevitably managed to grind the gears because he didn’t want you to feel bad about it. You can still remember how loudly he whooped for you when you managed to start it and get it moving in one go. Afterwards, he had taken you to the ice cream place to celebrate, that time with him in the driver’s seat. 

When you had finally gotten your learner’s permit your parents had called you a natural. And you had immediately known that there was no way you were ever going to tell them you’d learned from Bradley. That was a secret just for the two of you.

“You know,” you muse toying with button on his shirt, “Sixteen-year-old me would probably be losing her mind knowing that I get to make out with you anytime I want.”

“Huh, that so?” he smirks, a hand coming up to play with the ends of your hair, “Did you have a crush on me, kid?”

For the most part, before getting together you had been good about keeping your feelings for Bradley purely platonic. Except for a couple of slip ups here and there over the years, like that time at the Hard Deck after seeing the team play dogfight football for the first time. But that was another secret that you were never going to give up easily. 

Your friendship with him had always meant more to you than anything else.

“Mm, I wouldn’t call it a crush. What I had was a lot of hormones, and it didn’t help that you were pretty.” 

He had always been cute, even as a gangly teen whose arms and legs never seemed to be in sync, but the man looking up at you now was in a league of his own. His warm brown eyes were slightly hooded filled with mischief and something more.

“And now?” Bradley asks teasingly, his other smoothing up your back to press you closer. He leans forward to kiss the spot where your neck met your shoulder.

“Now?” you breathe out, as his mouth moves up along your neck, “Now I still have a lot of hormones, think you’re very handsome, and definitely have a crush on you.”

“Good,” he murmurs as his teeth graze your jaw.

“What about you?” you gasp, melting into him further. You want to keep him talking, so you don’t think about how you want his mouth on other places. He is so hard, so warm, and you want him so bad. 

But for as much as you wanted to strip off your clothes and his to let him have his way with you, it was the last boundary between being just friends and this. It wasn’t something that could ever be undone. And you wanted it so bad, it scared you just how much you wanted that kind of permanence with him.

It’s been almost two months and you’ve had him for years, but you want him like this forever.

“Yeah, there’s been a few times when I’ve caught myself thinking about you in less than friendly ways. You’re gorgeous, and smart, and funny,” He squeezes your waist, before admitting, “Always felt guilty when it happened though.”

He had thought of you too. 

Why did that make your chest hurt? Could you have been doing this for years?

“Tell me,” you quietly urge, running your fingers through his hair encouragingly, “I want to know.” 

You were desperate to know.

“Do you remember that house party we went to that Spring Break you visited me during my senior year at UVA?” he asks, letting his hands lightly trail up and down the tops of your thighs. 

You could have been doing this for years.

You didn’t trust your voice not to wobble and betray you, so you nodded your head instead.

“I had gone in to get us a couple more drinks, and when I came back out there were so many more people in the backyard than there were when I left. I mean, I was probably a little drunk, but it was packed,” he told you as his thumb rubbed small circles near your inner knee, “I remember looking for you when I got distracted by a great set of legs in pair of frayed denim shorts. And as I was working out how I was going to play it as I made my way over to her, she turned around.”

It wasn’t a secret where this was going. You knew what the ending would be before he even started telling you the story. Yet, you were still hanging on his every word with bated breath.

“You turned around. Couldn’t believe I didn’t recognize you in that moment. And the way you smiled at me,” he reaches up and cups your cheek, his thumb lightly tapping on the spot where your dimples lived, “God, I still remember, it hit me like a suckerpunch. Your hair looked so pretty under the string lights they had put up.”

“They were the shitty red and green Christmas kind,” you whisper. 

You remembered that party, it was one of the last times you got to spend uninterrupted one-on-one time with him before he joined the Navy. Before your friendship turned into a long-distance game of catching up and phone tag.

“They were and probably a fire hazard too,” he confirms softly with a chuckle, reaching up to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear as you gaze at each other. “I felt so bad afterwards that I had been checking you out. Like I was taking advantage of our friendship somehow.”

This was a new kind of openness between the two of you in this little moment of transparent honesty. A reminder for how well you know each other that there are still new things to learn. 

“I remember when you picked me up from the airport, I think it was like the first time we’d seen each other in person in almost a year. And I had this moment when I saw you waiting for me that realized that the boy I had grown up with was very much a man,” you sit back a bit to better look at him, his cheeks were still flushed from earlier. “But god, Bradley, now? Now, you’re devastating.” 

You wanted him to have these parts of you, to fill him in on the things he didn’t know, the things you kept close to your heart. It was your story, but it belonged to him too.

“C’mere,” he murmurs as he wraps his hand around the back of your neck pulling you back into him. Your mouths are a whisper away from each other as you share the same air, and he is looking at you with such open want, “I didn’t realize until recently how much time I spent trying not to think about you like that when you first moved here. And now that I can, you’re the only thing that’s been on my mind. You’re so fucking distracting, sweet girl.”

If you thought you were needy before, now you felt like you’re going to vibrate out of your skin if you didn’t get your mouth back on his right that very second. 

He meets you half way for a desperate kiss. It’s hungry and open-mouthed. You come alive under his touch, his kiss energizes you in a way that no drug or stimulant ever could.

Your hasty, frantic hands landing everywhere. Never content to linger in one place for long. Not when you have so much of his body you are dying to map with your hands. With your mouth. You want to touch him everywhere. You want to taste him everywhere.

You nibble on the fullness of his lower lip, seeking entrance into his warm mouth. He opens for you without hesitation, his tongue ready and waiting to welcome yours. You can still taste the juicy, full-bodied red on him from that long-forgotten bottle of wine.

He says your name on shattered breath, pulling away only long enough to place wet, hot kisses down your neck, down your chest. Your hands are buried in his hair, clutching at his sunkissed waves.

“This damn bow,” he rasps as he roughly pulls at the little bow at the center of your flirty red dress as if it has personally offended him by its very existence. Once untied it reveals a bit more of the swell of your breasts to his eager eyes. 

Your skin feels almost a size too small for your body, and your throat is tight with want. His kisses were like champagne going straight to your head. His hands are the only thing you want touching you.

You don’t mean to let your hips rock against the firm swell of him, but his resounding groan is quite possibly the hottest thing you’ve ever heard in your life. And you know in that moment you need to hear it again, and again. So you roll your hips once more, intentionally this time.

Bradley’s low moan of pleasure makes you feel heady and reckless. You lick a stripe along the underside of his jaw. His hands fly to your ass, sliding under that frilly dress, grasping you with greedy hands when you kiss a spot behind his ear. Even in your frenzied state you file away his response to that for later.

And then you are lost in the feel of his mouth. Of his hands on you. Of your hands on him. Of the taste of the skin of his neck. Of the feeling of the zipper on his tight jeans hitting your clit just right as you writhe on top of him.

It starts as a shiver that makes your whole body erupt in goosebumps as he encourages the rolling of your hips against him. You’ve never felt as cared for, as safe as you do in his arms.

The tingling sensation begins at the base of your neck and like a flicker start it shoots down, down the entire length of your spine setting off in your cunt in spectacular electric bursts.

You spasm deliciously and devastatingly against nothing with Bradley pressed thick and hard against the center of you. The shockwaves gripping your body as you’re left gasping and panting into the hollow of his throat. 

“Did you just...?” he asks urgently. You can’t speak yet so you nod vigorously into his neck. “Fuck. That’s so hot.”

Pressing closer, you try to hide from the intensity you know you would find in his eyes. Burying your face further in his neck as you try to catch your breath. You breathe him in in hopes that his soothing cedar scent will help settle the rapid beating of your heart. 

“Sweet girl, please. C’mon, I gotta see you,” he murmurs desperately. He pulls his head back a bit trying to create more room to get a look at you, attempting to coax you out by brushing your hair back, “I need to see it. Please. Let me see your face.”

You can feel how turned on he is, can hear it in his voice. And you’re feeling truly shy around Bradley for probably the first time in your life.

“I’ve been thinking about what you’d sound like for weeks,” he tells you with such soft sincerity.

“Bradley,” you whisper finally pulling away from the sanctuary that is the crook of his neck. His heated gaze roams your face, drinking you in. He brings a hand up to cradle your cheek, this thumb skimming your lower lip. There are a thousand different emotions coursing through you and you know he can read them all. 

“God, you’re so beautiful. Talk to me, please,” he breathes, “What’s going through your mind? It’s just me.”

You have been so careful trying to skirt around this conversation. It has been the elephant in the room after every date, every heated make out session, every honeyed goodnight kiss. 

And you want him too much to keep avoiding this, even though it scares you.

“That’s just it, Bradley, it’s you!”

“It’s me?” he asks confused.

“Yes! It’s you, it’s me, it’s us. It has never been like this with anyone else. I have never felt like this with anyone else. And the way you look at me sometimes, it’s overwhelming.” You were still feeling flustered from your surprise orgasm, and you know you aren’t expressing yourself clearly. But you feel so flayed open before him.

“Hey, hey,” he says soothingly, “If this is too much for you, we can slow it down. Or if you aren’t feeling it, we figure out how to be just friends again.” He can’t hide the wince on his face as he says it, but you know he honestly means it. “It might take me a couple of decades to forget the way you sounded just now, but we would figure it out together.”

“No, I don’t want that. Don’t you get it? I feel the complete opposite, and that’s the problem!” 

“Ok, wait. You just came on my lap, sweet girl,” Bradley’s voice is unmistakably proud, even as he breathes out raggedly. “I’m trying to get my thoughts in order over here. Because that was the best thing I’ve ever heard and I’m having trouble getting my head on right to talk about this. So as much as I love having you on me, we have to readjust before we can continue.”

You make a noise of protest as maneuvers you both so that he is stretched out across the couch, while you’re nestled securely against the back of his couch and half draped over him.

“Let’s try this again,” he says rubbing small circles on your back, “I don’t want to mess this up by not knowing exactly where we stand with things, you are too important to me. Are you worried it’s going to be weird or that it’s not going to be good?”

“No.” That legitimately never even crossed your mind. But now a seed of doubt had been planted in your already anxious mind, “Are you?”

“Not even a little bit,” Bradley tells you with a shake of the head, “I know it’s going to be good.”

“That confident about your sexual prowess, huh?” It felt easier, safer to make a joke.

“Well, yeah. There’s that,” he hums with a half smirk, “But it’s you and me, kid. It’s gonna be good. How could it not be?”

There’s something about his steadfast sureness that warms your chest.

“Can I tell you what I’m worried about?” He waits for your nod of confirmation before continuing, “I’m worried about how I am supposed to function afterwards. How am I supposed to just get up and go to work in the morning after I’ve had you in my bed? Because once I get to have you like that, I’m never going to stop wanting more with you.”

And there’s the longing again, that pull in your stomach. You want him too, you want him too.

You are comforted knowing that he has things that have been on his mind too, that you’re not alone. Even if the two of you are concerned about two different things. And it was only right that you let him in, you could be unreservedly vulnerable for him. 

“Bradley, it’s been so incredibly good with us. But I’m so afraid that once we take this step, that all I am going to be thinking about is that we could have been doing this for years. That we could have had each other like this for years.” Even the idea of it hurts your heart, at the glimmer of the possibility that you could have gotten to this point with him sooner. “And I don’t want to have any regrets about the way our story has gone up until this point. But I especially don’t want to have any regrets about missing out on time with you.” 

He presses a kiss to your forehead in understanding. 

“Let me ask you this then, would you trade any of it?” he asks as he slides a hand around your neck to tilt your head up to look at him, “Any of the adventures we had when we were younger? Or the weekend visits? Or any of the late-night milkshake runs for it?”

You knew the answer immediately, “No. No, I wouldn’t trade a thing.”

“Then we’re right on time,” he promises sincerely as he skims his thumb along the line of your jaw. “We’re right on time, sweet girl.”

It’s so perfectly Bradley, the way he knows exactly what your heart needed to hear.

And all the extra pressure you had been feeling releases from your body because it’s Bradley.

It’s just Bradley. It’s just you. 

It’s just you and Bradley. 

It’s been that way since you were kids. 

You’ve had him as a friend. You still have him as a friend. But you also get to have more. 

Of course, it’s going to be good.

Of course, it’s going to be right.

Of course, there were going to be what if’s. It was inevitable.

What you weren’t going to do is let yourself dwell on what-could-have-beens or regrets because you have him here and now. And that is more than enough. 

It’s everything. 

You untangle yourself from him to stand up as he watches you apprehensively. Waiting to see what your next move will be.

Standing in front of Bradley, you hold his gaze as you find the zipper on the side your little red dress. All concern leaves his face as you draw it down slowly before him. He doesn’t blink as you let the silky fabric skim down your body, puddling at your feet. And then he is looking at you with open awe and longing. 

Stepping out of it lightly, you confidently make your way to the stairs towards his bedroom.

“Well, are you coming?”

PART 2

Not to worry, friends! There is more to come! After all, we have to find out what happens once she goes up those stairs!

To those who like to spice up their life a la the Spice Girls, I’ve got more headed your way (and by more, I mean smutttt)! I have a taglist, so let me know if you would like to be added!

I wrote this as a birthday fic for the one and only @gretagerwigsmuse​! (Surprise! See I can be sneaky, even if you already knew about it, haha!) It may be a little late, but I hope it was worth the wait!

Mood board for Part 1

(This is written for part of my ‘Like I Can’ series. You don’t need to read it first, but you might want to. It’s pretty cute! You can check it out here!)

You can check out my other fics here!

Taglist:

@gretagerwigsmuse @sehnsuchts-trunken @notroosterbradshaw @laracrofted @bradshawsbitch @starryeyedstories @top-hhun-main @itscheybaby @prettylittlelauraa @startrekfangirl2233 @marantha @callsign-viper @teacupsandtopgun @itsizzythebell @shanimallina87 @angelbabyange @boltgirl426 @oneelleandaneye @mizzzpink @cornishkat @torres-espana @uzumegui @dont-talk-me-down @fandomunite2107 @alana4610 @20th-centu-fairy-girl @pariahsparadise @pono-pura-vida @donttouchmycarrots @nina-sj @eg-dr3amer3 @whaledots-blog @a-beaverhausen @misty-inferno @angellwingsss @hangmanscoming @mandolin22 @theweekndhistorybook @lilpeekabooze @high-bi-imgonnacry @ahintofkiwistrawberry @mrsdaamneron @ruewrote @spiderman-stilinski @jayniebop @melllinaa @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @mandolin22 @imaginecrushes @soleilgrec @keyrani @chicomonks 

[beamtori]

𝐨𝐜𝐜𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐝 (𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐢𝐢)

nonidol!eric sohn x rem!reader

2.3k words, smut (minors dni), p in v sex, reader is on birth control for convenience of hitting it raw, swearing, kissing, fingering, creampie (such an interesting word...), my weird ver of aftercare cuz how tf do u do aftercare post-getting railed at a party 😭, pet names (baby, sweetheart, hon, pretty boy), he's sweet, i think i got it all skfnksndkd

a/n: this is a second part to this fic occupied on my main writing blog! reading part one is not mandatory at all !! for @mosviqu <3 i hope it's not cringy skdnksjd also special thanks to @ethereal-engene and @winterchimez (i feel like there's always a thank u section to these 💀)

You were wearing his cap—a muted red with a rip in the fabric on the side. It was nearly impossible to miss as you clinked your plastic cup against Han Jisung's and toasted to a night of whatever was to come. (Hopefully you.)

Just about an hour ago, you'd come to find your best friend at this party after departing ways with your university baseball team's shortstop, Eric Sohn. He had obligations and an emergency to attend to, so you were biding your time around the place in case he ever wanted to pick up where you two left off. Along the way, you'd found the red cap he was wearing somewhere on the floor and put it on. Maybe it could be a beacon or some shit.

"—that's crazy, man," Jisung chuckled, shaking his head from over the rim of his cup. "I know I said I didn't wanna cockblock you, but I really didn't cockblock you this time."

You rolled your eyes. The liquid in your cup was a bit of tequila watered down with orange juice for a makeshift margarita. It was a little liquid courage in case you needed it. "Yeah, yeah. It was important, so I don't blame him." Though, you could hardly hide the disappointment behind your words.

Your friend gave you a sideways grin. "Well, the night is still young, my friend. Plenty of hot people around to scratch your itch."

"Well, I hope out of all of them, you still choose me."

Startled, you swiveled on your heel and came face to face with one sheepish-looking Eric. He had his hand clasping the back of his neck, brown hair a little more mussed from whatever emergency had arisen. His white shirt was still clinging to only a couple buttons—you had both been in a bit of a rush earlier.

"Felix? What's that? You need to tell me something—?" Jisung made a very swift exit, shooting a pair of finger guns at you.

You arched your brows as Eric came closer. "I think I'm scoping out my options," you teased, lifting your cup to your lips and draining the last bit of the spiked orange juice. You placed your empty cup on the table behind you, watching his eyes trace the path your tongue took along your lower lip.

The corner of his lips curled upward and he set his hand on the table. "Any way I can sway your judgment?" He asked. "I'm getting a bit of déjà vu."

"You have previous references," you shrugged. "I think I can trust that you're the man for the job." Despite your nonchalance, your heart was throwing itself against your ribcage like it was ready for a prison break.

Eric's other hand caged you in, his low chuckle sending a zap down your spine. "Well since my previous references check out, I'll just make sure you like what you saw."

He leaned in closer to you, and you met him in the middle. Your kiss tasted like oranges now, with the slight sharpness of the alcohol. His brows creased as he cupped your jaw and massaged his tongue with yours, trying to figure it out.

You pulled away, and he lifted the brim of his red cap to see your eyes better. "This looks familiar," he grinned.

"Does it now? Well, I'm sorry to say, but finders keepers," you said, switching the cap from front-facing to backward.

His eyes gleamed in the low lighting, and there was a smug sort of curl to his smile. "You're way hotter in it anyways."

Heat rushed to your neck. "If you keep complimenting me…"

"Then what?" He asked, voice dropping. He was in your space, front pressed to yours, lips a teasing hairsbreadth away. The back of his knuckles found your cheek in a gentle caress, a lover's purr. "If I keep complimenting you, then what?"

This was the second time you both lost the hat. You couldn't remember if this was the same room or not—you didn't really care—but you were fumbling for the lock behind you with your brain turning to mush by the way Eric was kissing you. Clearly, you couldn't multitask. His hand slipped down where yours was to twist the lock and entangle his fingers with yours.

His shirt came off a lot faster this time, your fingers used to the slim buttons, but also because he literally only had two of them to undo. The shirt went missing, and Eric's hands roamed from your waist over your backside and to the backs of your thighs. Waiting for something.

"There's a bed," he said between breaths, kisses, laps of his tongue—

"Good to know," you mused.

He scooped you up, your ankles locked behind his back. Your back hit the cool sheets and you found yourself peering up at one beautiful man. Eric Sohn was a marvel in himself to look upon, but this was a nice angle.

He kissed you again, enough to drive you up toward the headboard, his body following after yours like a shadow. His arm dented the mattress beside your head to brace himself over you, the other tucking itself beneath the hem of your shirt to grab your side.

You gasped something sharp. His mouth latched onto the side of your neck, suckling the hot skin there until you were seeing stars. Your fingers tangled themselves in his hair until they were messy, messy, messy—

"Eric," you exhaled, the sound like a whimper.

He hummed against you. "Yeah baby?"

Your fingers tapped against the nape of his neck. "Let me get my shirt off."

"Good idea." He unattached himself from you for the split second it took to rip your shirt over your head.

For good measure, you reached behind yourself and unclasped your bra, tossing it over the side of the bed. Eric's eyes glued themselves to your chest, rising and falling with the breaths you were trying to regain. He licked his lips, and you found yourself smiling.

"What?" You asked, a nervous laugh bubbling up from your throat.

He swallowed and shook his head. His hand smoothed over the back of your head in a soothing manner. "You're just so pretty. Can I…?"

You might as well have gone into cardiac arrest. "Yeah," you nodded.

The last thing you saw was the glint of his grin. He ducked beneath your chin and you lost your breath at the feeling of his lips wrapping around your perked nipple. You clutched at his hair—swore something colorful when his hand came up to squeeze your other breast. It was the rough pads of his fingers against your skin, the nip of his teeth, the bite of the cold rings on his fingers.

He lifted his lips off your chest, your boobs glistening in spit. He gave them an affectionate squeeze and pressed his lips against yours. "You can say no," he murmured against you, "whenever you want. This train stops whenever you want it to."

"Okay," you said. You appreciated that from him. "I want you to keep going."

"Mmmh, atta girl." You could feel his smile against your lips.

His body pressed down against you, the weight present but comforting in a way. You moaned as his hips grinded into yours and you raised yours in a desperate attempt to gain friction. Both of your movements were frantic now as you fumbled for buttons and zippers and kicked away pants—out of the way.

You reached your hand between your bodies and cupped the outline of his cock through his boxers, drawing a sharp inhale from Eric's lips. He pressed his sweaty forehead against yours, rutting his hips into your palm. "Ugh, baby."

"I'm on the pill," you said and squeezed him.

His eyes screwed shut, and his fingers found the wet spot on the underside of your panties. "You're—you're on the pill? Fuck, you're so wet."

He pressed a hurried kiss to your lips, yanking the hem of your underwear down. Cool air hit the wetness clinging to your pussy, and you shivered. He lost the boxers, your underwear following suit.

"Spread wide for me," his voice rumbled. "There you go, baby." He swiped the pad of his finger down the middle, drawing a shuddering breath from you. "Sounds pretty, looks pretty—mmh, tastes pretty." His finger popped out from his mouth, and he used that same one to draw enchanting infinity signs over your clit.

"Fuck," you swore, your hand digging into his shoulder.

Eric ground his hardened cock into the mattress as he watched you fall apart. He bit his lip, replacing his index with his thumb and dipping a finger into your hole.

"Oh god—"

He curled his finger inside you. "C'mon, pretty girl," he drawled, lazily pumping his finger in and out of you. The ring adorning his finger bumped against your lower lips in greeting. "Say my name."

"Eric, please," you said and pushed your hips toward him, wanting and wanting and wanting more—needing more.

His kiss was softer this time. When he leaned over, you felt the heaviness of his hardened cock over your thigh, the precome beading at the tip dripping onto you. "Yeah, baby. I got you."

He pushed another finger into your weeping folds and dug his thumb down into your puffy nub. You felt the tension mounting in your stomach, the knot winding up.

Before you could reach a precipice, he withdrew his hand clean from you.

Your eyes shot open. "Eric."

"Yn," he teased. He adjusted himself slightly, then took the hand he'd been fingering you with to slicken up his cock with a couple pumps. The sight made your tongue dry. A muscle in his jaw feathered and he braced himself over you to line his cock up with your entrance.

His tip rubbed against your pussy lips and collected the juices dripping out—you held your breath, wrestling yourself onto your forearms to watch him sink into you, inch by inch.

Eric swallowed your moans with his mouth, your fingers digging into his bicep to anchor yourself. Your brain was melting and you grasped the back of his neck as his length filled you up, a muscle feathering so attractively in his jaw.

Once he was seated to the hilt, he guided you to lay flat on the bed again, his arms braced on either side of your head. "You good, baby?" He asked you, breathing shallow.

You nodded for him.

He buried his face in your neck and his sweat-matted hair tickled your chin, his hot breath against your skin. You fucking mewled when he started moving in you—at first, a gentle rocking of his hips to test the waters, his cock pulling out halfway before thrusting back in again. His breathing was heavy in your ear, the sound turning into grunts as his strokes lengthened.

"Let me hear you, sweetheart." His hand found purchase with the soft flesh of your ass, hiking your leg up and around his back. "Feel so good around me—squeezing me just right."

His knees angled his hips upward, and you swore you saw stars when his tip curved up slightly and hit a sensitive spot inside you. You cried out, "Shit—holy fuck."

"Is that the spot, baby?"

You clenched down on him and a sluice of curses engraved themselves into your skin. "Eric, that's the spot. That's the spot. Pleasepleaseplease—" Your nails dug into the muscles of his back as you held on for dear life. The headboard of the bed knocked against the wall in tandem with how he drove into you.

Pressure mounted in your lower belly like molten fire, begging to be fanned and fueled to erupt, goddamn it. You were begging to be pushed over the edge and you could taste it with the salty sweat on your tongue.

"Can you come for me, hon? You're close aren't you?" He grunted.

You nodded, head bobbing vigorously, arching further into him. "Close, Eric. So fucking close."

Eric reached down between your bodies and kneaded the pad of his thumb down over your clit. Your breath hitched as the stimuli crested over and you were crying out for him. He coaxed you through it, his strokes becoming more desperate as he fucked his way to his own high.

You squirmed from sensitivity and whimpered. "Eric, Eric, Eric—"

"Fuck, baby, where do you want me?" He rasped.

"Inside," you said while gasping for air.

His head hung until he came, swears tumbling out of his mouth as fast as his cum flooded into you. Your thighs trembled from the sensation, and he braced his forearms on either side of your head to thank you in a sloppy kiss.

Your bodies were slick and sticky with sweat and cum. His cock softened inside you, and you winced as he pulled out. Eric smoothed a hand over your hair, nose nuzzling against yours.

"You did good, baby," he murmured. He wrapped his arms around your body and rolled over onto your sides, holding you against him.

You gave a little laugh and shoved your face between his pecs. "Thanks, pretty boy," you said. "You too."

He chuckled, biting his lip. "Cute… say, Yn?"

"Hmm?"

"I know we've got it backwards, but can I take you out sometime?"

You smiled to yourself and your heart kicked up. "Sure, I'd uh—I'd like that."

Eric's expression lit up, and you got to see that beautiful smile of his. "Thank god," he said. He brushed the hair from the divot in your shoulder, ringed knuckles running down the lines on the side of your neck and over your clavicle. "Hey, you tired?"

Your eyelashes fluttered at the question. "Not super."

"Round two?"

"Round—" Your words cut off with a shriek as he yanked you back under him. And though you started off giggling, he had those sounds melting into moans again just as swiftly.

This room was going to be occupied for a while.

a/n: the amount of times i yelled while writing this... how do people write smut all the time, i need to know ur secrets 😭

tbz m.list

[jomiddlemarch]

let me lay down beside you

“Mmm, darlin’, you feel so good…”

Shit.

You’d thought the one silver lining of living through a zombie apocalypse might be that you’d never have to have another awkward, it’s-totally-me-it’s-not-you conversation with a man about why there was basically no chance he could make you come, including the I-really-don’t-want-you-to-get-carpal-tunnel-or-strain-your-TMJ-trying for those guys savvy enough not to have tried the You-just-haven’t-had-my-magic-dick argument. 

All the crunchy, New Age guys who were going to whip up an Ayurvedic smoothie with exact the right combo of herbs and ripe mango and enough turmeric to dye the sea gold had gone out in the first wave. Nearly all the herbs and certainly the mango and turmeric weren’t available in the continental US.

You were supposed to get something from the universe in exchange for surviving into this new world, a compensation that would make you not regret the choice to dump out all the Ambien your roommate had just gotten filled before she never came home instead of downing it in a nice cup of cocoa and then giving yourself a soft, slow dreaming death. 

No such luck.

“Joel, hang on,” you said, gritting the words out as he did something rather lovely to the side of your neck, one big hand cradling the back of your head. You drew in a breath, prepared to have to repeat yourself, because even if you weren’t getting there, he certainly seemed well on his way.

He stopped and pulled back. His hair, greying and not just at the temples, was mussed and there was a little bit of hazy desire left in his dark eyes, but he’d made it by paying very close attention and that included you.

“Too fast? I can slow down, slow as you like, darlin’,” he said.

“That’s not it,” you said, hating this part. Hating all of it, what was happening and what would happen, leading up to when he walked out the door. Joel was a nice man. He probably would take any cheap shots or do much beyond shrugging those broad shoulders of his. “It’s not too fast—”

“Too slow? Or is that somethin’ you don’t like?”

His lips on your throat, the roughness of his beard against the delicate skin over your carotid, yeah, you liked it. If only liking that and his hands on you was enough…

You were quiet, thinking about how you were going to tell him. Maybe there was a way where you really could stay friends. Where there’d still be nights he took out his guitar and sang Johnny Cash and Patsy Cline and you sang along, the firelight around you both, gold and shadow.

“Someone hurt you?” he asked, being careful. You both knew what he meant and understood how he was letting you be the one to decide how to say it. You both remembered what it was like early on and no one in Jackson was ever required to tell what had happened before they got there. You chose what you brought with you into the community, what parts of your past you’d leave behind.

“No, nothing like that,” you said. You could see the relief in his eyes, the way his mouth turned gentle.

“You wanna boss me around? I don’t have a problem taking instruction,” he said.

“Wouldn’t make any difference,” you remarked before you could think twice about it. He narrowed his eyes and you almost reached out to touch his jaw or his wrist, your right hand fluttering before you made a fist.

“No?”

“You can’t make me come,” you blurted out. “I don’t want you to waste your time—”

“Seems to me I decide what my time’s worth,” he said.

“I meant, you don’t have to do a whole song and dance,” you said.

“Wasn’t plannin’ on it,” he said. “Not a huge fan of musicals.”

“You know what I mean,” you said.

“Frankly, darlin’, I don’t think I do. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on? I’m not going anywhere unless you kick me out,” he said.

“You’ll go,” you said. Lying was essential to living After, but not lying to yourself. That was a death sentence.

“When you tell me to. Not before,” he said, settling back against the couch. 

“I can’t—I don’t come, fucking,” you said.

“That part I got,” he said. In some miracle, he didn’t start the usual litany, asking questions about position or skill, beginning every iteration What about…“How d’you do, y’know, flying solo?”

“Once in a blue moon,” you said. Though probably less often than that. You shrugged. “It’s whatever.”

“Before, probably could’ve tried a vibrator. One of those rabbits maybe. Still find them scavenging, but the batteries are all dead and kind of hard to ask Maria for some juice to get off,” Joel said, so practically and so without the least iota of irritation you were startled into a laugh. He took your hand in his, held it lightly.

“I don’t want to go but I don’t want you to feel bad,” he said. “Want you to feel good, that’s the whole goal.”

“You say that, but everyone wants to come. They want to get the other person off. I don’t want to fake it, to make you happy,” you said.

“I’ve had over forty years to fuck, darlin’,” he said. “I want to be close to you, that’s all. However you want it, long as it’s real. You want me to try shit that didn’t work before, I’ll try it. You have some idea you want to give a whirl, fine by me. I’ll go down on you or use my hands or pretend I’m fucking Captain Kangaroo and you’re Lady Aberlin if that’s something you’re interested in. And if you want to lie in bed or on the couch in sweats and that’s all, that all I want,” he said.

“Lady Aberlin was on Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood,” you said. This was not a conversation you could have imagined happening in any universe, with or without zombies, but Joel didn’t seem to mind. 

“Okay,” he said.

“You’ll get frustrated,” you said. You thought it would come out like a warning, but it sounded like you were floating an idea, waiting for him to tell you that you were wrong.

“There some rule I can’t jack off on my own? Or in your general vicinity?” he asked.

“No, it’s not like that,” you said. You couldn’t recall a man ever asking that or proposing anything similar. It was erotic, that was undeniable, that desire coupled with a total lack of demand—he hadn’t said anything about coming on your breasts or your belly and he would have, if that’s what he imagined. Parallel play, the old child development phrase from that college psych class you’d taken sophomore year, a thousand years ago when no one, even you, had ever thought to call you frigid bitch, the guys at college too self-absorbed to notice whether or not you climaxed.

“Doesn’t gross you out?”

“No. It’s hot. It’s not that I’m not interested in sex, making you come. Just hard for me to get all the way,” you said.

“That’s not all the way, you coming, screamin’ my name, headboard thumpin’ on the wall, wakin’ up the neighbors,” he said, bringing your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles open-mouthed. “All the way’s feelin’ safe, feelin’ like you can ask for whatever you want, say no to whatever you want. Being there in the morning, your head on my chest, hand on my heart.”

“You’re not going to try and convince me you’ve got some special move that’s going to blow my mind?” you said.

“If I had one, probably throw my back out tryin’ it now,” he chuckled. “I like the way you taste. I like the way you sing under your breath when I play ‘Annie’s Song.’ I like the way you argue and how your ass feels against my cock when you’re the little spoon and and how it looks when you drag me out dance over at Tina’s. If we figure something out one of these days, yeah, that’ll be fine. And if this is what we have, it’s plenty for me. I wanna give you anything you want, that’s all.”

“Anything I want?” you said. 

“Everything, darlin’,” he answered. “What d’you want right now?”

“I liked what you were doing before,” you said.

“What we were doing,” he corrected, but without any scolding. It was an invitation, one you had no intention of refusing.

“Let’s do that,” you said. “But with less clothes.”

“Yeah?” he said.

“Yeah,” you answered. “Maybe I do want to boss you around. Take your shirt off.”

“Yes’m,” he said and the shiver that went through you was that hint of ma’am and the revelation of his bare chest and the gleam in his dark eyes. 

Maybe it was a blue moon. 

And if it wasn’t, he’d still be here, holding you in his arms.

@goodwithcheese I took you up on your suggestion to write something for one of your anons who was hoping for a fic with an anorgasmic f!reader and a soft Pedro character...

[corroded-hellfire]

I don’t have a great idea or prompt but your As You Wish Older!Eddie absolutely stopped me in my tracks and I think about him daily 😩 idk if you’d prefer a totally different universe to write older!eddie but I got thinking about As You Wish Eddie and just wondering what like a different night with him and reader maybe Pre-AYW where they’re a lil cuddly but shouldn’t be or post-AYW date night where things actually go well and it’s happy for them both and Eddie’s efforts are appreciated (looking at u Brittany 😒)

I swear, I didn't intend for this to be so long. Yet here we are. This is Pre-As You Wish. Thank you so much for this request! I love writing this little gang so much.

Words: 11.8k

“But I want one,” Luke says with an overdramatic sigh. He flops back on the couch, arm dropping above his head, reminding you of a swooning Southern Belle. 

“You’re being silly,” you tell him, reaching down to ruffle his brown curls. “It’s not that I just said no, you can’t have one. There are literally no cupcakes in the whole house, kiddo.”

The five-year-old acts as if your words have wounded him, curling up himself and holding his chest with both hands as if he’s been stabbed. Where did he get this stuff?

“Will die without frosting!” Luke says weakly. You can’t help but laugh at his adorable antics as you kneel down near his head. There’s no doubt that he’s the most entertaining part of your job. 

“Oh no,” you say, copying his dramatics. “We’re going to lose Luke!”

Without opening his eyes, Luke gives his head a nod, letting his tongue loll out of his mouth. The front door opens and your heart soars, though there’s a brief flash of panic that it’s not the parent of the children that you want to see. When the sound of heavy boots being kicked off reaches your ears, you relax, but stay in character for your game with Luke. 

“Eddie, come quickly!” Your tone is teasing, and you throw him a smile over your shoulder to let him know that you’re only fooling around. Eddie’s smirk says he’s game to play along.

“What’s wrong with my boy?” Eddie says, faking a gasp and coming to kneel next to you at Luke’s side. 

“He says he’s dying from lack of cupcakes,” you say, placing your hand on your heart. 

“Frosting,” Luke grits out, making both you and Eddie hide snorts of laughter. 

“Right. From lack of frosting,” you amend. 

“It’s such a shame,” Eddie says, shaking his head. “If only he could hold on for two more days until his brother’s birthday.”

Luke pops open a bright blue eye, peeking at his father. “Oh yeah.”

“Oh yeah,” Eddie mimics his son’s voice, wrinkling up his nose. 

“What kind of cake?” Luke asks, abandoning his theatrical game and sitting up on the couch.

“I’ll tell you if you give me a hug,” Eddie offers, and Luke launches himself at his dad. Eddie laughs and presses a kiss to his temple. “Vanilla cake. Vanilla icing.”

“Strawberry’s better,” Luke says. 

“Then we’ll have that on your birthday,” Eddie says, mussing up the little boy’s hair before standing. “Where’s Ryan?”

“Taking a bath,” you say, standing up after him. “We finished his homework, and he said if he takes a bath now, he can read before bed instead.”

Eddie grins and shakes his head as he unzips the navy coveralls he’s wearing. Your eyes can’t help but trail his hands, rough and calloused from manual labor, pulling down the zipper so he can shrug his top half out of the garment. 

Luke gets bored now that none of the attention is on him, so he scurries to his room to find something to keep him occupied. 

“That kid,” Eddie says, his tone full of adoration for his oldest son. “I have no idea where he gets it. The brains, the books. Certainly not my genes.”

“Hey, you’re smart,” you argue with a pout. Eddie lets out a chuckle and walks to the kitchen, you hot on his heels. “I’m serious!”

“Sweetheart, I barely got out of high school. Can’t tell you the last time I read a book.”

“There are different types of intelligence, Eddie. I mean, last week! All I said to you was that my car was making a growling noise and within two minutes you knew what was wrong with it. Without even having to go outside and look at it. Jesus, I don’t even know the names for half the crap under the hood. And I guess I’ll just have to lend you a book, huh?”

Eddie smiles at you. A real, open face, full of teeth smile. You take a seat at the kitchen table, unsure if your wobbling knees would be able to hold you up after seeing that grin aimed at you. 

“You’re the best,” he says. A warmth tingles all over your body at his praise. “You wanna stay for dinner?”

The answer to that question depends on what time it is. When your eyes scan over to the clock hanging on the wall and see Brittany is due home in five minutes, that makes the decision for you. 

“Can’t,” you say, eyes sliding back to Eddie where he’s digging through the freezer. Probably in search of something to make. But you notice that he had been watching you, seeing you look over at the clock before answering. 

“Probably have a paper you need to finish,” Eddie says, giving you an out as he resumes his search. 

“Uh, yeah,” you say. But you still have those precious five minutes to be alone with Eddie and you don’t want to waste them. Your mind scrambles for something to talk to him about. “Should I bring Ryan’s present over tomorrow? Or do you want me to wait until Monday?”

Eddie’s brow pinches in a frown and he closes the freezer. “Why don’t you just bring it to the party?”

“His birthday party? Oh, I didn’t realize I was invited.”

Eddie stares at you incredulously. His jaw drops open and he lets out a laugh. “Of course you are. Britt never told you that?”

“No,” you say with a shrug.

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie groans and rubs a hand over his hair. His tongue pokes out to lick over his lips before he speaks again. “I know she told me she invited you. Because I said I’d do it, then she said she’d handle it.”

“Maybe she forgot?” You try to give her the benefit of the doubt, but Eddie knows better. He doesn’t want to get into it with you, though. Lord knows you don’t need to hear about his marriage issues.

“Well, you are invited. And don’t worry, it’s not going to just be a bunch of little kids. We’re having a barbecue out back, around the pool. Some old friends of mine, my uncle, Britt’s sister and her family, and then a handful of Ryan’s friends. You can bring someone if you want. Your sister, friend, boyfriend, whatever.” Yeah, he was fishing for information that shouldn’t affect him either way, but here he was. Is he proud of it? No. Is he going to stop? Probably not. He knows he’s too attached to you but he’s convinced it can all be a fantasy in his head and everything will be fine. At least that’s what he tells himself. 

“Yeah, I’m free Saturday,” you say. “Um, not sure if I’ll bring anyone. Probably not.” Your best friend, and roommate, knew about your feelings for Eddie, so that would just make you nervous she would accidentally spill the beans and ruin everything. There’s no way you were telling your sister about how you feel because she’d just tell you that you’re being stupid; that you’re a kid with a dumb crush. And maybe that’s true, but you didn’t need to hear it from her. 

Pushing yourself up from the table, you grab your bag from the counter and slip it on your shoulder. 

“See you tomorrow?” you ask.

“I’ll be here,” Eddie says, half of his mouth quirking up into a smile.

You shoot him one last smile over your shoulder before heading down the hallway to say goodbye to the kids.

Fridays are the days you only have one class, which means you get to sleep in a little longer than usual. Except for today, when the phone on your bedside table jars you out of your slumber, the piercing shrill going right through you.

“Who the hell,” you grumble to yourself as you push yourself up onto your elbows. Reaching over, your fingers graze the receiver and tug it to your ear. The anger at being awoken dissipates when you hear the telltale sign of machinery and tools clanging. Even before your favorite voice in the world answers your greeting. “Hello?”

“Hey! Oh shit, did I wake you up?” Eddie asks. You debate lying, but the hoarseness in your voice would call your bluff. 

“Yeah, but it’s fine. My alarm was about to go off anyway.” That was a lie, but one he couldn’t catch you in. “What’s up? Boys okay? You okay?”

Both of you notice the lack of checking in on the last member of the family, but neither of you cares either. On his end of the phone, Eddie can’t help but grin to himself, trying to hide it from the other guys in the shop. First, your early morning voice was just about the cutest thing he’s ever heard, now your worry for him and the boys has his heart kicking up its pace. 

“Yeah, everyone’s fine,” Eddie says. “Just wanted to ask a favor of you, if you don’t mind.”

“Anything.” You could slap yourself for how eagerly you said it. For all you know he’s going to ask you to spend the day with Brittany, which might actually kill you. But who are you kidding? You’d do it if he asked. 

“Well,” Eddie says with a sigh. “Britt kind of dropped the ball. Again.”

It’s not a shock by any means. Squeezing your lips together, you internalize the sigh you so desperately want to let out and pinch the bridge of your nose. 

“She, uh, was supposed to pick up Ryan’s cake from the bakery after work today, but apparently,” Eddie pauses here to huff a humorless chuckle, “she forgot to ever order it. Do you think you can swing by the grocery store and get some vanilla cake mix and vanilla frosting? Ryan didn’t know, thank God, so he won’t be disappointed that it’ll have to be homemade. The kids will want to help with it but by the time I get home there won't be enough time to bake it, let it cool, and frost it before they have to go to bed.”

“Oh, Eddie, of course,” you say. The boys loved baking; you know that from experience. Together you’d made countless cookies and brownies. “Do you need me to grab anything else from the store?”

“No, no, that’s all. And I’ll give you the money for it when I get home, I swear.”

“Eddie,” you say with a chuckle. “It’s fine, I can buy birthday cake ingredients for one of my two favorite little dudes.” 

“Nope, you’re getting that money back,” Eddie says, and you just know there’s a smile on his face as he says it. You can practically hear it. 

“I see why Luke is so stubborn,” you say as you lay back on your pillow. Maybe if you close your eyes and tug your soft purple blanket up to your chin, you can pretend you’re being a normal girl having a conversation with the guy she’s head over heels for. Not a conversation about your job with your boss, who has a wife, and is over ten years older than you. Just Eddie. 

Eddie scoffs on the other end of the line, bringing a dopey grin to your face. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says. “That kid is nothing like me.”

“Ha!” you bark out, making Eddie laugh, the sound like a shot of whiskey hitting your bloodstream. “Pretty sure Luke isn’t your son, he’s your clone.” Literally, the fact that the five-year-old has blue eyes is the only noticeable difference.

“Okay, okay,” Eddie concedes. “I guess I better get back to work before my boss charges me for half the phone bill.”

“Bosses, right? Such a pain in the ass.”

“Listen, you little smartass,” Eddie says through a laugh, a blushing smile making your own cheeks hurt. “I’ll quit my job right now and take yours.”

“Trade you,” you say, knowing he has to get back to work but not wanting to let him go. “I’ll fix the cars.”

“All right,” Eddie says. “Just tell me where the carburetor is located.” Wrinkling up your nose, you stay silent, only proving Eddie’s point. “Uh huh,” he says, voice sounding smug. “So, I’ll go replace the brakes on this Honda and you’ll go to class, hit the grocery store, and take care of two little monsters for a few hours, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say. “I’m clearly the winner here.”

“You are,” Eddie agrees. “Okay sweetheart, I’ll see you later.”

The term of endearment isn’t new. He’s called you that countless times, along with a variety of other nicknames. He’s probably even said it over the phone to you before, you’re not sure. But the part that’s currently giving you the feeling of pop rocks exploding in your stomach is that anyone who can hear him on the phone at work right now probably thinks he’s talking to his wife. Or girlfriend if they don’t know he’s married. But he said it to you. Something about it makes you feel giddy. 

“Bye, Eddie.”

“Bye,” Eddie drags out the word before the line goes dead. 

After starting your day off by talking to Eddie, you don’t feel the need for your usual cup of coffee. You’re already wide awake. The day seems to be better than a usual Friday, an extra pep in your step that you can only think of one explanation for. Class seemed more interesting, traffic didn’t seem as bad, even finding a parking spot at the notoriously crowded grocery store was easier. 

Strolling down the baking aisle to find the supplies you need, you hum along to the cheery pop tune playing over the store’s speakers. Your eyes scan over the shelves and snag on a box of vanilla cake mix. Dropping that into your basket, you search for the matching frosting. As you look at all the baking supplies in front of you, the sprinkles catch your eye. Which leads you to looking at the tubes of food gel that you can write on cakes with. Pursing your lips as you look it over, you shrug and think, what the hell? The sprinkles and food gel get added to the shopping basket. Now all you’re missing is the vanilla frosting. Which you discover was right in front of your face the whole time, making you roll your eyes at yourself as you snatch it off the shelf. Purposefully keeping the grocery bag in the backseat, and not in the trunk, your next stop is to pick up the munchkins from school. 

The pickup line at the elementary school is long, but you don’t mind. It usually moves pretty quickly, and the radio station is currently playing Billy Joel. Eddie teases you all the time about your love for the singer of Piano Man, but he does at least admit that the man is talented. 

Two bright faces come up to the windows of your gold car, Ryan grinning and waving, and Luke hooking his pointer fingers into his mouth and pulling them wide while sticking his tongue at you. Leaning across the center console as much as you can with your seatbelt still on, squishing up your face and sticking your tongue out in turn. Luke giggles and opens the backseat, climbing in and over the bag to sit behind you. 

“What’s this?” Luke asks as Ryan climbs in behind him. 

“For Ryan’s birthday,” you say, smiling at him over your shoulder. “We’re making a cake when we get home.”

They both cheer as you pull away from the curb and towards the exit off of school property.

Having baked with them before, you knew it could get crazy. Flour usually ends up all over the three of you and the floor. Eggshells seem to get in the batter no matter how much you try to avoid that. But making Ryan’s cake has them amped up to a whole new level.

“Luke, not yet!” You hold the bowl above his head so he can’t pour in the oil that’s not supposed to be added until after the eggs. Mixing a bowl that’s at eye level with you is a difficult task, you find. 

“I got the pans!” Ryan holds up the two round pans that will bake the layers of his cake.

“Perfect. Can you spray them?”

“With this?” Ryan asks, holding up the non-stick spray can.

“Yes, sir,” you tell him as you set the bowl down on the counter. “Okay, Luke. Now you can add the oil.”

Once the cake is in the oven, you clean up as best you can while the boys work on their homework at the kitchen table. You’re sweeping the powdery substance off the floor when Luke asks how you spell your name. Going slowly so he can focus and write it down, you tell him.

“Why?” you ask. “What’s it for?”

“Homework,” Luke states simply.

“What’s your homework about?” you ask.

“Gotta draw and write the names of my family.”

The broom stalls in your hands at his words. Quickly, you sweep up the debris and walk to look at Luke’s paper over his shoulder. There you are. All the way to the left of the paper, right next to Eddie. It goes, you, Eddie, Luke, Ryan, and Brittany. At the bottom there’s a brown blob. You’re not sure what it is, but your mind is a little occupied with the idea that Luke considers you part of the family. The pressure of warm tears presses behind your eyes, but you refuse to let them come any further. Not sure if he’d understand your affection through words, you bend down and press a few kisses to the top of his dark brown curls.

“What’s that?” you ask, pointing to the spot at the bottom of his paper. 

“My dog,” Luke says with a sigh.

“Is it invisible?” you ask, making a show of looking around the kitchen. 

“No,” Luke says with his boyish giggle. His little legs swing underneath the table since they’re too short to touch the ground. “The dog I want.”

“He needs a name too, you know,” you say, tapping at the blank space where the name should go. 

“She!” Luke looks up at you, frown pinching his adorable features. “I want a girl dog.”

“My apologies,” you say, bowing your head to the miniature Eddie. “She needs a name, then.” 

“Nala!”

“Like The Lion King?” you ask.

“Yes!”

Once you help Luke sound out the name so he can add it to his paper, you take a look and see how Ryan’s homework is coming along. 

“Look at you, whizzing through these math problems,” you say, ruffling his honey brown hair. “Little genius over here.”

He gives you a bashful smile and goes back to his work. The boys finish up just as the timer tells you that the cakes are done. Carefully removing them with the ugliest blue and brown checkered oven mitts you’ve ever seen, you place both round pans on top of the stove and turn off the oven. 

“Now the icing?” Luke asks.

“Not yet,” you say, slipping off the mitts. “They have to cool first. But do you wanna see what I bought to decorate them?”

Both little boys kneel on the chairs, laying the top half of their bodies on the table so they can watch you unpack the grocery bag. Luke’s eyes widen when he sees the can of frosting and you’re pretty sure there’s some drool forming in the corner of his mouth. The sprinkles make Ryan happy, his face lighting up and grabbing the jar. 

“So many colors,” he says as he turns the jar around, tilting the sprinkles so he can watch them slide from side to side. The last thing you unpack is the writing gel and neither kid seems to care.

“What is it?” Luke asks.

“You use it to write on the cake,” you say, flipping the box over and showing them the picture on the back. “We can write ‘Happy Birthday, Ryan!’ on it.”

“We can write anything?” There’s a mischievous glint in Luke’s eye that has you raising an eyebrow on him.

“What is it that you want to write?” you ask. 

“Butt,” Luke says, a throaty and immature laugh coming out of him. 

“No,” you say. “Maybe you can convince Daddy to let you write than when it’s your birthday cake.”

“That’s so far away!” Luke says, flopping back in his chair dramatically. 

“Are you coming to my party?” Ryan asks as he slides out of his seat.

“Sure am, buddy.” You pat the top of your head as he walks by you to get a drink from the fridge. “You excited?”

“Eh,” Ryan says with a shrug of his small shoulders.

“Eh? Why eh?” you ask, frowning at him.

“My cousins are gonna be there,” Ryan answers before taking a sip of water. “They’re mean.” 

“Just Sasha,” Luke says to his brother. “Nat and Dmitri are nice.”

“I guess,” Ryan says. 

“Are these Mom’s sister’s kids?” you ask, taking a seat at the table.

“Yeah,” Ryan says. He walks over and leans against you, so you wrap your arm around him and press a kiss to his forehead.

“But there’s gonna be lots of other people there,” you tell him. “It’s going to be so much fun!”

A small smile comes to Ryan’s face, and he nods his head. You’d personally keep this Sasha away from Ryan if you had to. He deserves to have fun at his birthday party, not worry about what some mean kid might say. 

“Okay,” you say, patting Ryan’s arm. “Who wants to play Hungry Hungry Hippos while we wait for the cake to cool?”

Of course they did, so that’s what you spend the next hour doing. The first time, you let them win. But after that, they were beating you just on their own pure speed. It looked like Luke was going to crack the back of the orange hippo.

Standing up once another round has finished, you walk over to the cake to see if it’s still too warm. It’s down to room temperature so you help the boys clean up the game before setting the decorating items on the kitchen table. 

There’s a stereo just on the other side of the wall of the kitchen, in the living room. Decorating calls for some music, you decide, so you open your purse and find the mixed tape that your friend made for you. Usually, mixed tapes are just that: a mixture. But this one was made up of only Billy Joel songs; your favorites all on one convenient tape. First making sure that the thin glossy material of the tape is all on the left side, showing it’s been rewound, you click the tape into place and press play. The opening notes play as you make your way back into the kitchen. 

What's the matter with the clothes I'm wearing?

Can't you tell that your tie's too wide?

Maybe I should buy some old tab collars?

Welcome back to the age of jive

Luke starts to dance in the middle of the kitchen, mostly consisting of head bobs and moving his shoulders back and forth, but it’s still cute. Keeping one eye on his theatrics, you bring the cakes over to the kitchen table and set each on a plate. The pop topped from the frosting, the gel tubes out of their box, and sprinkle jar ready to rock and roll, you put two plastic knives on the table for the boys to use. 

You're just scooping a large dollop on the top of each cake when the front doorknob jingles and all three of your heads turn in that direction. Eddie steps inside and tosses his keys down. He takes a step towards your direction but halts mid step as he sees the three of you looking at him.

“Hi?”

Luke slides down from his seat and runs to his dad, Eddie scooping him up effortlessly under his armpits and holding the little boy against his chest. 

“Daddyyyy!” he roars.

“Luuuuuke,” Eddie answers, deepening his voice to match the one Luke tried to use. Eddie’s head turns towards the stereo and then he looks at you, eyes narrowed and a smirk on his lips. “You’re subjecting my children to Billy Joel now?”

“They deserve to hear what good music sounds like,” you answer with your own smirk. Truthfully, you love the music that Eddie listens to, it’s just fun to mess with him. 

“Daddy, do you wanna help decorate?” Ryan asks, eyes wide with hope. Eddie could never say no to that face.

“Sure thing, buddy,” Eddie says as he sets Luke down. “Just let me get cleaned up and changed.”

As he heads down the hall, Luke climbs back onto his chair and starts to smooth the white icing around on the yellow cake. 

“More,” Luke says.

“I don’t think so,” you say, eyeing the cake in front of him. “That’s plenty. Just move it around more.”

He lets out a huff, sounding just like his father. 

“This good?” Ryan asks. His cake is completely covered on the top, now just the sides need to be done. 

“Good job,” you tell him. 

Eddie comes back into the kitchen, a pair of sweatpants hung low on his hips and a gray t-shirt, arm tattoos on full display for you to enjoy. There’s nothing inherently sexy about the clothes but seeing them on Eddie is making you feel hot all over. He takes a seat at the table, next to Ryan, and looks over the sprinkles and colored gel.

“You didn’t have to get all this,” Eddie says to you, but you just wave him off.

“I knew he’d like it and I was right.”

“Okay, seriously, how much do I owe you?” Eddie asks.

“Nothing,” you say with a laugh. “Keep your money and ice your son’s birthday cake.”

Eddie smirks and gives you a mocking salute before picking up a knife to help Ryan cover the sides. Once both cakes are sufficiently coated, Eddie stacks them, and you touch up any frosting that got messed up. 

The song on the stereo changes to Just the Way You Are and the slow melody has Luke closing his eyes and swaying in his seat, making you chuckle. Ryan picks up the sprinkles and makes them rain down, colored speckles brightening up the plain white dessert. 

Don't go trying some new fashion

Don't change the color of your hair, mmm

You always have my unspoken passion

Although I might not seem to care

Little fingers grab your hand and pull. Turning towards Luke, you see him trying to pull you over to the middle of the kitchen. 

“What?” you ask as you get up and go where he leads you. Once he gets you where he wants you, he keeps a hold of your hand in his and wraps his other arm around the back of your thighs, since it’s the only part of you he can really reach. He starts to sway back and forth, and it dawns on you that he’s trying to slow dance with you. The adoring grin on your face as you look down at the little boy has your cheeks hurting for the second time today. His big blue eyes return your gaze, his own smile just about the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. Luke quickly tires of the slowness, letting go of you and drifting back to the table to try his own hand at the sprinkles. 

“Hey!” you say, jutting your lower lip out at Luke for abandoning you on the dance floor. 

Ryan’s pouting next to him, where he’s still trying to get sprinkles to stick to the side of the cake.

“You can’t just leave her there!” Ryan says to his little brother. He looks down at his sticky little hands and then back to you. His mind must deduce that he can’t dance with you like this. Plus, he’s still working. “Daddy, you dance with her.”

Eddie’s eyes widen for a second as he looks at Ryan, but the look is quickly gone, replaced by that damn smile that drives you crazy. The man rises from his seat and takes a few steps over to you and you feel like your heart might actually explode. Is he really going to dance with you? This has to be a dream. 

Eddie extends his hand to you, which you don’t hesitate to take. He pulls you to him, causing you to giggle and a flush to move up your cheeks. One strong arm wraps around your waist and you think that this just might be the best moment of your life. His other hand, rough and calloused from years of manual labor, holds your smaller, softer hand. When you drape your other arm over his shoulder, hand so close yet so far from the curls at the base of his neck that you always want to play with, Eddie starts to sway back and forth with you. Feeling his body pressed against yours, arm wrapped around your body, hand holding yours, you begin to feel lightheaded. It’s because your breathing has sped up, you realize, and you have to manually take control of your lungs, telling them to inhale longer and exhale fully. 

A surprised giggle leaves your lips as Eddie lets go of your waist and twirls you around by your hand. He’s smiling when you turn back around to face him, his eyes bright and shining. 

I said I love you, that's forever

And this I promise from the heart, mmm

I couldn't love you any better

I love you just the way you are, right

The emotion of the lyrics as Eddie pulls your body back against his has you feeling like you’re underwater. Everything is in slow motion and sounds are garbled, but it’s perfect. You’re sure your skin is on fire and you’re not sure how Eddie isn’t scalding his hands on you. 

Eddie looks down at you as you dance, his dark brown eyes locked on yours, never looking away. Normally, you’d shrink from anyone looking at you this intently, but it’s Eddie. It feels flattering and warm and intimate in a way that you don’t know how to describe. There’s nothing wrong with what you’re doing. First you danced with Luke, then his dad, at Ryan’s insistence. It’s completely innocent. 

As the song comes to a close, Eddie dips you, grip tightening on you as you squeal at the surprise. He chuckles and pulls you back up to your feet. When he takes his hands off you, you feel suddenly cold. Like something is missing. Eddie bends at the waist, bowing to you, so you give him a curtsy in return.

“That’s how you dance with a lady,” Eddie says, giving a playful, barely-there smack on the back of Luke’s head. “Gonna have to teach you to be a gentleman, I see.”

Luke ignores him, finishing up his sprinkle job, but you think there are more sprinkles on Luke than the cake. Ryan hands you a red tube of writing gel, and Eddie a yellow. He has the green one gripped in his small hand.

“Okay, I want you to write ‘Happy,’” Ryan tells his dad before turning to you. “And I want you to write ‘Birthday.’ I’m gonna write my name.” 

Following his instructions, Eddie goes first. He takes his time, tongue poking out in concentration as the yellow gel slips out, curling into the letters weaved by Eddie’s hands in the air. When it’s your turn, you realize you have the longest word to write. As you’re halfway through, the song changes to Uptown Girl and a smile ticks onto your face.

“My favorite,” you say as you curl the H in birthday. It comes out looking pretty good if you do say so yourself. Ryan takes his time with his name as well. Glancing over to Eddie, you see he’s staring off into space, zoned out, mind far away. 

Uptown girl

You know I can't afford to buy her pearls

But maybe someday when my ship comes in

She'll understand what kind of guy I've been

And then I'll win

The beginnings of a smile twitch at one corner of Eddie’s mouth and you’d give anything to know what he’s thinking about so intently. 

“Done!” Ryan announces, breaking Eddie from his trance.

“It looks great, buddy,” Eddie says, patting his oldest son on the back. “Let’s put it in the fridge now.”

Ryan nods and Eddie’s careful in carrying the plate. You open the refrigerator door for him, and he slides it on the top shelf.

“There we go,” Eddie says as you close the fridge. He looks over and sees Luke covered in frosting, sprinkles, and somehow the gel, even though he didn’t touch it. “Luke, you need to go take a bath.”

The boy pouts but slides off the chair and walks down the hallway.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Luke!” you call before he can get into the bathroom.

“Okay! Bye!” he calls back. 

“Come on, Ry,” Eddie says. “Help me clean up.” Eddie grabs the sponge and groans, shooting you a playful glance. “Can't believe you made a mixtape of just Billy Joel.”

“I didn’t make it,” you say, grabbing the kitchen towel and swatting Eddie with it. “My friend Paul made it for me.”

“Oh?” Eddie asks, raising an eyebrow. Ryan takes the can of icing off the table along with the gel tubes, and Eddie runs the sponge over the green tiled table. “Paul, huh? You know, guys usually make mixtapes for girls they like.”

“Mm,” you hum, cheeks warming. “Love songs, I believe. And Paul’s majoring in music so he makes tapes for everyone.” 

Eddie’s tempted to tell you that you should have Paul introduce you to new music, but he can’t bring himself to suggest you spend time with another guy. A college guy, especially, your own age and who you probably hang out with. His grip tightens on the sponge, the water and suds squishing between his fingers. 

“Making a mess, Dad,” Ryan says with a giggle, poking at a bubble one of the suds produces. 

“Go wash up with your brother, okay?” Eddie says. Ryan stops in front of you and holds his arms out for a hug, which you eagerly return.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? I can't wait.”

Ryan grins up at you when you release him from your arms. “Me neither! Bye.”

“Bye, sweetie,” you say, giving him a wave as he heads down the hallway. Towel still in your hands, you wipe down the table with it as Eddie puts the sponge back in the sink. The next Billy Joel tune is on and you’re humming it to yourself before you start to sing along.

Who knows how much further we'll go on

Maybe I'll be sorry when you're gone

I'll take my chances

I forgot how nice romance is

I haven't been there for the longest time

There’s a smile on your face as you sing the words, the lyrics bringing Eddie to mind. Not that he isn’t always on your mind. 

“Sing those lyrics to Paul?” Eddie asks.

With a frown, you turn to face him. “No. Paul and I aren’t anything. Why?”

“You had a lovesick expression on your face,” Eddie says, his voice a little harder than usual. Did you really have your emotions playing across your face like that? 

“Oh, Eddie,” you say with an over dramatic sigh. “It’s just because I love Billy Joel so much.”

Eddie flicks a few water droplets at you, and you giggle when they hit your face. 

“God, I’m gonna puke,” Eddie says, trying, and failing, to conceal a playful smile. 

“What?” you ask, giving him wide innocent eyes. “You don’t like Billy Joel? Huh, well that’s okay, Eddie.” You walk over to your purse and start to rifle through it, Eddie’s eyes tracking your every movement. “Here, maybe this will be better.” New cassette clutched in your hand, you go over to the stereo and stop the Billy Joel tape. 

Eddie crosses his arms over his chest, raising an eyebrow as he waits for you to switch to whatever God awful – he can only assume – music you’re going to put on. The new tape snaps back into the stereo and you’re strolling back in the kitchen to drop the Billy Joel tape back in your bag as the opening notes on this particular tape start. 

“No,” Eddie says, eyes narrowing at you when he starts to recognize the song. You pay no mind to him as you zip your purse back up, singing along with the lyrics as they start.

Life is a mystery

Everyone must stand alone

I hear you call my name

And it feels like home

“You’re honestly subjecting me to Madonna?” Eddie’s eyes look like they’re going to pop out of his skull. Ignoring his words this time, you keep singing along and twirl until you’re standing right in front of Eddie. Looking up at him with a mischievous smile, you grab his hands in yours and try to get him to dance along. He refuses, but you just keep standing there in front of him, moving your hips back and forth as you keep singing.

When you call my name, it's like a little prayer

I'm down on my knees, I wanna take you there

Eddie’s breath catches in his chest. The image the lyrics evoke in his mind is not something he should be thinking about – let alone with you right in front of him. 

I'm down on my knees, I wanna take you there

The line keeps repeating in his head on a loop accompanied by the image of you on your knees in front of him. Looking up from below him, your beautiful eyes wide and your lips pouted. Fuck. Why did he decide to put sweatpants on? Shit, he needs to get out of the kitchen before you can see his boner. 

“Uh, those two have been in the bathroom a dangerously long time,” Eddie says. Mercifully, you stop moving your perfectly sculpted hips when he speaks, giving Eddie a moment to compose himself a bit more. “Better go make sure they’re all washed up before I start dinner.”

“Okay,” you say, taking a few steps back from him to go collect your tape from the stereo. You pop it back in your purse and slide the bag onto your shoulders.

“See you tomorrow?” Eddie asks, turning his body towards the hall to better hide himself. “Party’s at one.”

“I can come by early and help set up?”

Even when desperately trying to usher you out of the house, he’s anxious to get you to come back as soon as possible. “Sure. Twelve? Little after?”

“I’ll be here,” you tell him, giving him a smile that’s not doing any favors for the hard on in his pants. 

He gives you a smile in return, along with a wave before he heads down the hall to the bathroom where the critters are probably making a mess. 

As if picking out a bathing suit to wear for any other occasion wasn’t frustrating enough, now you have to pick one that Eddie would see you in. Impossible as it was, you managed to pick one. It’s a one-piece dark green suit with cut outs along the sides, exposing the sides of your ribs. It became the winning suit mostly because of how well it holds your boobs up, though. The girls are on display, but not about to fall out of your suit. A pair of denim shorts and a faded white t-shirt are your choices to throw on top of it. You scoop up Ryan’s gift and head out the door.

When you park your car in front of the Munson residence you can tell the backyard is being set up. Luke’s loud voice sounds from around the house, chattering away to who you can only assume is Eddie. The sound of patio chairs scraping against the pool deck drowns out the little boy’s voice, but you hear Eddie hum in agreement with something he said. Just that little sound from Eddie has an involuntary smile spreading on your face and you head to the side of the house where the gate to the backyard is located. 

“Luke, can you move that chair over? The one by the grill.” 

Eddie catches sight of you as you come around the corner of the house. His face lights up and it almost causes you to trip over your own sandals. When he goes to open his mouth to say hello, you hold your finger up to your lips, eyes darting towards Luke and back again. Eddie nods, a smirk playing over his lips. Slowly so as not to make a sound, you put Ryan’s gift down on the table closest to you and kick off your shoes. Luke’s back is still turned as you tiptoe closer to him. Striking, you reach out and snatch the small boy in your arms, hugging him to your chest. Squeals escape his tiny frame as he wriggles in your arms, and you press kisses to his cheek.

“Got you!” you call over his laughter. 

Eddie’s chuckling as he watches the two of you, untangling a string at the end of a “Happy Birthday” banner. 

“You scared me!” Luke says. 

“That was the point,” you say as you tickle his sides. He wiggles his way out of your grip and gives you a playful push. You pretend to stumble back, as if his strength was just too much for you. The triumphant look on his face melts your heart and you just want to snatch him up again. But before you can, Eddie’s voice calls for you.

“What’s up?” you ask, strolling over to the man.

“This ladder is kind of wobbly, can you hold it for me while I hang up the sign?” he asks.

“I can do it,” you say, holding your hand out for the banner.

“You sure?” Eddie asks, arching an eyebrow. 

“Yeah,” you say. “I trust you holding the ladder more than I do me.”

“If you insist.” He hands over the sign and you climb a few rungs up the ladder. Eddie’s hands hold the ladder on either side of your body, and he feels his cheeks flush when your ass is right at his eye level. Giving himself just a moment to enjoy the view, he decides not to be a perv and look up to where you’re securing the banner above the back door. 

“How’s it look?” you ask.

Your ass? Perfect, he thinks to himself. 

“Uh, looks good,” Eddie says. You climb down and are boxed in by the older man’s arms as he still holds on to the ladder. His lips quirk to the side as your eyes meet his. “Looks, um, really good.” 

Eddie bites his bottom lip, only breaking his trance when the back door opens, and he instinctively wraps his arm around you to tug you out of its way. The door bangs against the ladder and Ryan winces as he steps outside. He’s about to apologize when his eyes take in you standing there. The fear in Eddie screams that Ryan’s eyes went wide because his arm is around you, so he quickly drops it. But really, Ryan is just excited to see you. He runs over and throws his arms around your middle, burying his face in your stomach.

“Hey, you! Happy birthday, Ryan.”

“Thank you!” Ryan pulls back, giving you a grin. 

Eddie folds the ladder in and picks it up, your eyes immediately drawn to his muscles flexing in his Iron Maiden tee that he probably cut the sleeves off of himself. 

“Luke!” Brittany shouts from inside and it seems like all four of you in the backyard tense at the sound. Her footsteps are quickly approaching the back door and Luke groans, shuffling himself closer to you and Ryan. The door hinges squeak and Ryan’s grip tightens around you. 

“There you are,” Brittany says, eyes locking on her youngest son. Her eyes glance briefly over to you, then back to Luke. “Hi.” 

It takes a moment before you realize she was talking to you. “Uh, hi, Brittany.”

“Luke, come inside and help me. Eddie, you need to get the towels out of the linen closet.”

“Okay,” Eddie says. He ruffles Luke’s hair and prods him along to follow his mom inside.

“Need me to do anything out here?” you ask. 

“Uh…” Eddie slips his hands into the pockets of his black jeans and looks around the patio. “Not gonna light the grill til people start getting here. Chairs and tables are all set up. Oh!” He snaps his fingers and walks over to pull a box off of one of the deck chairs. “Can you put the birthday tablecloths on the tables?”

“Of course.” Bending down, you press a kiss to the top of Ryan’s head. “I put your present right over there. Wanna take it inside?”

“Yes!” 

For the next forty-five minutes you help the Munson’s around the house, setting up decorations, putting the snacks into bowls, and trying to keep Luke from shaking Ryan’s gifts around to try and figure out what’s inside. You're pulling the burgers and hotdogs out of the fridge in preparation for Eddie to grill when the man in question walks into the kitchen, Iron Maiden shirt still on, but his jeans exchanged for a pair of silver swim trunks. 

“Where are the boys?” he asks.

“Getting changed into their bathing suits,” you say as you knock the fridge closed with your hip.

The doorbell rings and Eddie heaves a sigh. “And so it begins.” He heads out to answer it and comes back in with an older man whom you recognize from photographs. Still, Eddie introduces the two of you.

“This old geezer is my Uncle Wayne,” Eddie says, playful smirk set on his pretty lips. 

“Ah, you must be the young lady the boys are always talking about.”

Wayne offers his hand which you shake with a polite smile on your face. Eddie hopes neither of you notice the pink tinge over his cheekbones because he knows he’s guilty of talking about you more than he probably should. 

“I guess that’s me,” you say. 

“Grandpa!” Luke runs in and launches himself at the older man. Wayne laughs and catches the young boy, swinging him up into his arms.

“There’s my troublemaker,” Wayne says.

“Fitting nickname,” you say with a giggle and Luke sticks his tongue out at you.

“Tongue to yourself,” Eddie says, tugging on one of Luke’s curls.

Over the next hour you’re introduced to so many people that you sincerely hope no one expects you to remember them all. There’s Brittany’s sister Sandy and her three children (that you can already tell are a handful), Eddie’s friend Dustin that you’ve heard so much about, and you definitely remember Steve Harrington—because he’s so handsome.

“Hi,” you say, offering Steve your hand to shake. His wife Nancy and their four kids have already come in and gone out to the backyard, but Steve was lagging behind since he was getting the presents out of the car. 

“It’s nice to meet you,” Steve says, shooting you a smile. Maybe it’s his old high school insecurities kicking in, but Eddie quickly claps Steve on the back and sends him out by the pool. 

But your favorite people you think you’ve today are also old friends of Eddie’s from high school. They came into the house bickering, but somehow it was in an adoring way that let you know it was them showing affection for one another. The man was tall, taller than both Eddie and Steve, and had an infectious smile. His wife had her fiery red hair up in a high ponytail and their baby in her arms.

“This is Lucas, Max, and little baby Tiffany,” Eddie tells you. Tiffany looks up at you with wide dark eyes, a gleeful expression on her chubby little face. 

“Oh, she’s precious,” you coo, smiling at the happy little girl. “How old is she?”

“Eight months,” Lucas says, looking adoringly at his daughter.

You end up sitting with the little family outside by the pool, on a deck chair next to Max while she holds the giggling baby in her lap. Ryan is happy, splashing away in the pool with his friends. It warms your heart to see the normally quiet boy laughing so loudly and having the time of his life. Eddie’s at the grill, flipping hamburgers and surrounded by Dustin, Steve, and Lucas. You’ve never seen Eddie with his friends before. He’s relaxed, spatula in his hand, and an easy smile on his face. They’re all laughing at something Dustin said and it brings joy to your face.

“Oh, shit,” Max says from next to you, drawing your attention away from Eddie.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, turning to face her. 

“I left her favorite pacifier in the car,” she answers with a sigh.

“Do you want me to go get it?” you offer.

“I’m not sure where it is in there.” Max stands, holding Tiffany on her hip. “Would you mind holding her while I go check?”

“Not at all,” you say, a smile on your face as the little girl beams at you. Max hands her over and her tiny fingers go right up to your mouth, making you giggle.

“I should be back in five minutes. But Lucas is over there if you need him.”

“Oh, we’ll be fine,” you assure her, shrugging your shoulders. “It’s my job.”

Max gives you a smile before heading back into the house.

“Well, hello, Miss Tiffany,” you say, holding her on your hip. She babbles in the language of babies, and you tilt your head. “I know. I agree.”

Eddie looks up from the grill to say something to Steve, but over his friend’s shoulder he catches sight of you holding Tiffany. It feels like his heart is going to liquify and melt right out of his chest. He’s always wanted a baby girl. But he also did not want to have any more children with Brittany. But seeing you, the girl he has a completely inappropriate crush on, holding a baby girl? Smoke is going to start coming out of his ears, joining that from the grill. 

“Uh, Steve, watch the grill for me? Just gotta ask what some people want to eat.” Eddie’s not even really looking at Steve as he shoves the spatula in his hand, moving past his group of friends and walking over to you. As he gets closer, he can hear you talking to Tiffany in that squeaky voice all adults seem to talk to young children in. The baby is giggling and waving her little hands around and it makes Eddie smile.

“Well, seems like you made a new friend,” Eddie says, coming to stand beside you so he can admire the girl as well. 

“And she’s just the sweetest little thing,” you say, still in the baby talk voice. Tiffany starts to fuss a little in your arms, but you’re quick to readjust her position and hike her up a little higher on your hip. It seems to have done the trick because she rests her head on your chest and looks up at Eddie with her large dark eyes. 

“Hey there, Tiffany,” Eddie says. She blinks at him, dark eyelashes kissing her cheek. 

“Isn’t she beautiful?” you ask.

“Absolutely,” Eddie says, eyes glancing at you. 

“I want one,” you say, only half joking. As if Eddie couldn’t want you any more than he already did, you had to go and say that. He can’t help it, he leans in and brushes a soft touch over Tiffany’s thin brown hair on the top of her head, Eddie’s head practically resting on your shoulder as he does it. He wants this so bad it hurts. His heart is in a vice grip and every day the handle seems to turn it even tighter. 

It’s affecting you as well. You’ve always wanted kids and loved being around them. It’s why you became a babysitter to begin with. But holding this sweet little girl with Eddie standing so close to you? You can’t help it, you close your eyes and let the fantasy take hold that this is your and Eddie’s baby in your arms. The warmth of his body is radiating over to you and the baby lays gently against your breast. The boys are having fun in the pool, and this is your little family. 

“Got it.” Max’s voice breaks you out of your illusion. She’s brandishing a green pacifier in the air as if it’s a trophy, the prize she’s been searching for. As soon as Tiffany catches sight of the pacifier, it gains all of her attention. She makes grabby hands for it and Max is quick to pop it into her mouth.

“Thank you so much,” Max says as she takes the baby from your arms.

“Not a problem. She was a little angel,” you tell her.

“She gets that from me.” Max smirks at Eddie, as if she’s expecting his bark of laughter even before he does it. 

“Uh huh,” Eddie says. “Check that red hair again, I’m sure you’ll find some horns growing beneath it.”

“I’d flip you off if my child wasn’t in my arms,” Max says.

“Then thank you, Tiffany,” Eddie says, leaning in towards the baby. She reaches out and tugs on one of Eddie’s curls.

“See? She said that’s what you get for talking like that about her mom,” Max says. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Eddie says. “What do you want to eat?” He then asks you and pats your shoulder before walking back over to the grill.

The kids aren’t thrilled when they have to come out of the water to eat, because they know they’ll have to wait for a half hour afterwards before they can go back in. But Eddie had been prepared for that level of boredom from these rambunctious rugrats and had a few games set up for them on the back lawn. It wasn’t much, but the kids seemed to enjoy playing with the bean bag toss and the horseshoes. 

Once the half hour is up, you’re ambushed by Ryan who insists you come in the pool. Trying to tell him that you don’t want to seems futile since he has the double advantage of having those adorable puppy dog eyes and the fact that it’s his birthday on his side. He cheers when you agree, and the sound draws the attention of his father who had been talking with Wayne. But his gaze has been captured elsewhere when he sees you strip your white shirt over your head, revealing the green swimsuit beneath. When you bend over to take off your denim shorts, Eddie loses all coherent thought in his head. You turn to face Ryan fully, which also has you facing Eddie head on. His eyes take in every inch of you. From the way the bathing suit lifts your already impressive breasts, how the cutouts on the side of the suit tease him with glimpses of your soft, smooth skin, to the way the material hugs your hips just right and your long legs are left bare. They look so inviting and the only thought that goes through Eddie’s mind is that he wants to mark them up. Make that soft skin turn purple and red under his adoring mouth. 

You follow Ryan into the pool, taking one step at a time. The deeper you get, the colder it gets, so your muscles tense as you wade into your waist. Eddie chuckles as he sees you gritting your teeth, your shoulders pulled up to your ears, and your arms held just above the water, but not touching. 

Luke swims over and throws himself at you, making you squeal as the water from his body and the splash send goosebumps down your skin. 

“S’cold,” you say to Luke who only giggles in return. You wrap your arms around his small waist as he clings to you, arms coming up to encircle your neck. 

“Throw me?” Luke asks. 

“Yeah?” you ask, and he nods his head wildly, wet curls bouncing and shaking water everywhere. 

Moving your hands to the sides of his tummy, you bend your knees to coil your energy up before tossing the five-year-old into the deep end of the pool. He makes a splash, showering some of the other kids in the pool–who you were careful to avoid when throwing him. Luke pops back up, laughing as he shakes the water from his head like a dog coming out of the bath. 

“Not far enough!” he shouts as he swims back over to you. 

“Well, sor-ry,” you say, wrinkling up your nose at him. 

“Daddy throws me farther,” Luke says. 

“Well, your daddy is stronger than I am.”

“Daaaaaaddy!”

You wince at Luke’s volume, him taking full advantage of not having to use his inside voice.

“Luuuuke,” Eddie replies, strolling over to the edge of the pool, hands on his hips.

“Can you come throw me?” Luke asks, treading water. He has to squint his blue eyes in the sunlight to see his father semi clearly.

“Didn’t I just see you flying in the air?” Eddie asks, gesturing towards the deep end of the pool. 

“Apparently, I’m not strong enough to throw him as far as he wants to go,” you say, tilting your head as you look up at Eddie, attempting not to ogle him. 

“This kid and his high standards,” Eddie says with a sigh. He reaches down, whips his shirt off, and all attempts not to blatantly stare become futile. The muscles rippling in his lithe frame as he tosses the shirt back onto an empty chair have you biting your lip to keep in an inappropriate noise. 

Eddie steps forward, letting himself just drop into the pool with an effortless grace. It causes a large splash that smacks both you and Luke in the face but judging by the smirk on his face when he resurfaces, Eddie did it on purpose. “All right, come here you little hobbit.”

You watch Eddie grab his son and place his hands under Luke’s armpits. The excitement is clear on Luke’s face and it’s contagious, bringing an adoring smile to your lips as you watch the father and son. Eddie double checks to make sure there’s a clear path to throw Luke, then tosses him towards the deep end, the little boy grinning the whole time he’s in the air. Luke was right–his dad throws him farther. Ryan swims over, wanting a turn as well, which leads to most of the kids in the pool wanting to be thrown in the air. Eddie obliges, but you can tell that his muscles are getting tired as the children start to fly less and less farther into the deep end. 

“Okay, okay,” Eddie eventually says, his breath labored from all the activity. “That’s enough for now.” He dips under the water to cool down and when he comes back up, you swear he moves in slow motion like some cheesy movie moment; the beads of water dropping down his skin, his hair shaking out around him, curls weighed down from the water. It’s enough to make you go feral. 

“Hmm,” Eddie hums, eyes narrowing as he looks at you. There’s a mischievous look on his face and it makes you raise your eyebrows at him.

“Yes?” you ask.

“I think I have enough strength to throw one more person,” he says, sly smirk painting his features. 

“No,” you say with a laugh, shaking your head as you try to swim away from him. But he’s too fast. Too fast and too strong as he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls your body back against his. The bare back of your shoulders is pressed up against his naked chest and the goosebumps that dot your skin are certainly from that and not the cool temperature of the air now that you’ve been in the water so long. Eddie spins you around so you’re face to face with him, and the ferocity of the turn has you reaching out to place your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself. You’re practically nose to nose with him, so you decide to take advantage of the moment and take him in. The darkness of his beautiful eyes. The smattering of freckles that dust the bridge of his hose and up his cheekbones. How plush and pink his lips are, even if they’re slightly chapped. Your eyes follow a droplet of water as it runs over his pretty mouth, down his strong chin, then plops back into the pool.  

“Ready?” he asks, voice low. Closing your eyes for a brief moment, you silently thank God you’re in a pool that will keep anyone from seeing how your thighs clench together. If he kept talking to you like that, you’d do anything he asked of you. 

“Yes,” you breathe out, as if it’s the only answer you could give him. His grip around your waist tightens, fingers against your bare skin showing through the suit’s cutouts, and you can feel his muscles flexing under your hands that still rest on his shoulders. There’s a small twitch of Eddie’s lips before he’s throwing you, sending you backwards into the water. Holding your breath as you go under, your skin still tingling where his hands had been on you. Body floating back up to the surface, you let out a huff of air once you break the surface. Laughter bubbles out of you as you wipe your eyes, whipping your hair out of your face. 

Ryan’s cake is next, and the expression of pure joy on his face has you feeling the pressure of tears behind your eyes. All of the little dancing flames extinguish with just one breath from the newly crowned seven-year-old. Luke is eager for a slice of the cake, not only because he was dying from lack of frosting earlier in the week, but because he was part of the labor that put this confection together. 

As the party winds to an end, you’re thoroughly tired, but it’s only fair that you help clean up since you helped set up. In your mind, anyway. Eddie disagrees, practically trying to take empty plates and dirty forks out of your hands when you try to clear the tables. Most of the guests are gone when Sandy, Brittany’s sister, grabs her keys and rounds up her three kids.

“Oh,” Brittany says, coming into the kitchen where you and Eddie are. She grabs her purse off the counter and slides it onto her shoulder. You’re not sure when she changed from the small string bikini she had on before, but she’s now wearing jeans and a nice blouse. “Sandy and I are heading to the store. I’ll be back.” Then she’s out the door. No further explanation. No asking if he needed her to pick up anything. Just leaving him with the remnants of a child’s birthday party, all the burdens falling on him. Or they would have, had you not been there. You would never leave him on his own like this. Your nails dig into your palms, and you drop your hands behind your back so Eddie can’t see. He doesn’t seem all that surprised, though. His eyes stay on the door for a few moments before he sighs and brings his attention back to wrapping up the leftover burgers. 

“You okay?” you ask in a small voice. Anger and empathy battle each other in your head, one for the bitch who walked out the door, one for the beautiful man standing in front of you. 

“Yeah,” Eddie says, putting the burgers in the fridge. “Surprised she didn’t dip out earlier, to be honest.”

Unsure of what to say, your hands twitch by your sides for a moment before you’re striding forward and wrapping your arms around his middle, laying your head against his shoulder. Eddie hesitates for half a second before his arms come up to encircle your waist, his head resting on top of yours. Neither of you says anything, just stand there in the quiet kitchen, holding onto one another. In both of your heads there’s a little voice telling you that this hug has gone on for too long for it to be considered appropriate between boss and employee, but neither of you care. You’re only jostled apart as you hear the backdoor open on its squeaky hinges. Reluctantly, you let go of one another and don’t meet each other’s eyes as Wayne comes into the kitchen with Luke, both of them bringing in trash from the backyard. As Luke steps towards the sink with the half-filled cup of fruit punch he’s holding, he trips over his own feet and the red liquid goes flying, landing right on the front of your white shirt. The cold drink makes you gasp as it soaks through the chest and stomach. Luke’s eyes immediately widen, tears welling up in them and you forget all about the bite of the wetness. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” you say, crouching down and rubbing up and down his arms. “Aw, don’t cry, sweetie. It was an accident.”

“I’m sorry,” Luke says, a few tears spilling over the brim. You wipe them away and shake your head.

“It’s okay,” you say. “I promise.” Luke nods and you help him throw away the rest of the garbage he brought in. 

“Luke, why don’t you clean up the floor while I get her a shirt to change into?” Eddie asks. Luke nods his head, letting out one more sniffle before he stands on his tiptoes to get the paper towels off of the counter. 

Wayne pats your shoulder, and you give him a smile. “You’re real good with them.”

“Thanks,” you say. “They’re the best.”

“I have to agree,” he says with a gruff chuckle before ushering Luke back outside so they can bring in anything that was left out there.

“Here,” Eddie says as he comes back into the kitchen. He offers you a white raglan shirt with black sleeves. You hold it up in front of you and see the emblem of a red devil’s head, fire and other accessories surrounding the face. 

“What’s Hellfire?” you ask. 

“Name of the D&D club in high school.”

“Oh right,” you say. “I remember you telling me about that. It’s where you met Dustin, right?”

“Yeah, he was–.” Eddie trips over his own words as you slip your soiled shirt over your head. Yes, you’re wearing your bathing suit underneath still, so you thought nothing of it. But Eddie wasn’t expecting it and all activity moves from his brain down to his crotch. How is supposed to keep composed when you just whipped your shirt off like it was nothing right in front of him, the support of your bathing suit basically forcing your breasts into his view? He feels himself twitch in his swim shorts and clears his throat before continuing. “Dustin, uh, was a freshman, yeah.” He originally had more to say, but nothing else comes out. 

As hot as it was when you took your shirt off, Eddie seeing you in a Hellfire shirt, his Hellfire shirt, it makes his brain short-circuit even further. He’s saved from embarrassing himself by stuttering in front of you by Wayne coming back in, throwing out another handful of trash. 

“I’m gonna go see if the boys need help,” you say, shooting both men a smile before heading out to the backyard.

As soon as they hear the door close behind you, Wayne rests a heavy hand on Eddie’s shoulder. His uncle sighs and Eddie turns his head to look at him.

“She’s a real sweetheart, that babysitter of yours,” Wayne says.

“She is,” Eddie agrees. 

“Pretty, too.” 

There’s the slightest arch of Wayne’s eyebrow and Eddie opens his mouth, no sound coming out. He stumbles under the knowing gaze of the man who knows him better than anyone else in the world. Eddie finally manages to nod his head. His tongue pokes out to lick over his lips before he speaks. 

“Yeah, she is.” 

Once the house is back in order and the boys are tucked into their beds, both you and Eddie crash on the couch. Brittany still hasn’t come back yet to the surprise of neither of you. But if Eddie was completely honest with himself, he’d rather his wife stay out and have you stay here with him. 

“Today was fun,” you say, letting your head drop to the back of the couch.

“It was,” he agrees. “More than I thought it would be. But also, way more exhausting.”

“You should get some sleep,” you murmur, shifting yourself so you can head out. But Eddie has other plans, nodding and resting his head on your shoulder. There��s a spike in your heartrate as his hair tickles the side of your neck. Your stomach is full of butterflies and they’re bumping into one another as they fly around. Eddie stays that way until you hear Brittany’s car in the driveway and jostle him awake. 

“Eddie,” you say softly, not wanting to scare him.

“Hmm?”

“Brittany’s home.”

If he wasn’t half asleep, he probably wouldn’t have let out the irritated groan like he did, but it’s too late now. Not like you don’t know the two of them are having issues, anyway.

“I’m gonna head out. “I’ll see you on Monday, yeah?”

“See you on Monday. Oh.” He catches your wrist as you stand up from the couch. “Thank you for helping today. Setting up and cleaning. I really appreciate it.”

“Of course,” you tell him with a smile. “Anything for my favorite boys.”

On Monday, Eddie’s bent under the hood of a car, trying like hell to unscrew a stubborn cap. The voice of his friend startles him and he almost bangs his head on the hood as he jumps.

“Hey,” Steve says.

“What are you doing here?” Eddie asks, wiping grease on the rag hanging over his shoulder. “It acting up again?”

“Yep,” Steve says, sliding his hands in his pocket. Eddie lets out a sigh and nods his head.

“Okay, I’ll try and work it in today.” He makes to go back under the hood, but Steve’s question has him freezing his movements.

“So, uh, question for you. Are you fucking the babysitter? Because between you and me? You should be.”

[gatorbites-imagines]

Kinktober day 2

Stu Macher + lingerie

Reader has replaced Billy in this universe, so hes ghostface with Stu. I forgot how much I love writing ghostface stuff.

 Kinktober list

 Tw for slasher stuff, blood, mentions of murder, the usual. Don’t actually use blood as lube, it doesn’t work.

The metallic stench of blood was thick in the air, the body of Sidney crumpled at your feet. Her chest stabbed full of holes with the very knife you were holding in your blood-soaked hand, the leather of your gloves squelching at the wetness of the blood.

Stu stood near you, panting, and moving from foot to foot, as if he was uncomfortable where he was standing. Glancing at him from the corner of the eyehole in your mask, you could subtly see him rubbing his thighs together through the fabric of his ghostface suit. He was fisting the loose hanging fabric, and just by looking at him you knew his pupils were blown wide and watching you, specifically your hands.

Sidney had been chased all the way up into a guestroom at Stu’s house. She had fought the best she could, but in the end, she stood no chance. Maybe it was because you had rubbed Stu down earlier, pulling the delicate fabric of the lingerie up his legs and chest, muttering about rewarding him if tonight went well. Stu had gotten Sidney from behind, holding her arms behind her as you stabbed her over and over. At some point he had let go of her, and she had dropped to the ground. You had straddled her and kept stabbing, smirking to yourself as Stu moaned audibly.

Stu seemed lost in his own little world, still clenching his thighs, and fisting his hands. You held onto your knife and stomped towards him, forcing him backwards until the back of his knees met the bed, where he tumbled onto his back. He moaned as he scooted up the bed, undoing some of the blankets in the process. He spread his thighs, excitement clear in his posture as you crawled towards him, like a predator stalking its prey.

Your blood covered hands left prints on the bed, your knife dragging cuts along the fabric. As you came face to face with your lover, you could hear Stu panting as he thrust his hips upwards, hoping to find friction. You tsked, reaching your free hand up to rip the mask off his face, smirking to yourself at his expression. He already looked like you had been fucking him for hours, hair mussed, and pupils blown wide, almost swallowing the blue of his eyes completely.

“Fuck, baby” he moaned, reaching up to pull your mask off as well. When you leaned back, not letting him take it off, he just moaned again and placed his own gloved hand against it, leaving a bloody handprint against the white plastic. Grinding downwards you felt his hard cock against your own, a groan leaving you as Stu whined, forcing his hips upwards into your own.

“Hold still” you growl, sitting back on your knees to get a good look at him. He lay spread open beneath you, thighs wide open and inviting, hands having fallen from your face onto the mattress, clutching the blanket beneath him. You thumbed at the bottom of the Ghostface costume, before pulling it tight to watch it press close to his body and show off his curves, his erection leaving an obvious shape against the taught fabric.

Stu’s hips thrust upwards at the contact, the killer biting his bottom lip to choke down the noise that wanted to escape. You stared at him in silence, a thick feeling filling the room. He looked at you, his eyes meeting your own through the shadows of the mask, you knew he was thinking the same thing as you. You clutched the still bloody knife tightly, and faster than lightning you struck, using the blade to cut through the black fabric that had been covering your boyfriend’s body. You cut it from the bottom all the way to the top, throwing it open to reveal Stu’s barely dressed body.

Stu had only worn the lingerie you had put on him during your entire murdering spree. Just thinking about how some might have seen, maybe when he had stood over them or chased them. Maybe they had seen his ankles, or up the robes and seen his body in the outfit you had chosen for him. It made heat gather inside you, making your cock throb in its own confinements.

Stu whimpered, spreading his thighs even more if possible. It drew your attention to his crotch, where his length was a dark red that told you he had been hard for a long time. The sight made you groan, knowing he had most likely been hard the entire time as you both gutted those around you, maybe he had been hard the entire evening ever since you pulled the lingerie on him and stretched him, before pushing a plug inside to keep him open.

You threw the knife to the side, little care in where it landed. You were about to pull the gloves off when Stu whined, letting go of his lip to ask you to keep them on. More heat flashed through your body as you kept them on, slithering your way up the bed again to crowd him against the mattress.

Looking down you stared at his body, the fabric in your favorite color making his already desirable body even more attractive. You couldn’t help but reach down to run your gloved hands up and down his front, the half dry blood leaving streaks against his skin and the fabric. You both knew that blood would never be washed out, and it send a line of arousal through you. You could already imagine fucking him in it later, knowing how it had been dirtied the first time.

Stu moaned as you fondled him, arching his back to press his chest into your hands. He cried out as you pinched his nipples, his hips jolting up to rub against your own. You chuckled darkly at him, you would have sounded mocking to the outside world, but Stu knew you were just as turned on as he was.

When you had finally gotten enough of teasing him, you drew back and grabbed his hips, roughly flipping him onto his front. Whilst doing so, you pulled the shreds of the Ghostface costume off him, making sure to take in the sight that was his ass and thighs covered in lace. You could see the plug through the sheer fabric, making you bite your lip hard enough to taste blood.

Dropping forward, you placed your knees on either side of Stu, and caged him in with your arms. He whimpered, looking over his shoulder at you. He met the dark eyes of your mask, the bloody handprint standing out starkly against the plastic. He licked his lip, your eyes immediately zeroing on the movement. You adjusted your position somewhat and reached down and pressed against the plug with your fingers, causing it to go deeper and tearing a moan out of your boyfriends’ lips.

You pressed against the plug, pushing against the fabric of the lingerie. You felt Stu jolt beneath you as it must have brushed against his prostate. You didn’t dare blink as you watched him grind his hips downwards, humping the mattress with little finesse, not seeming to care little that he was dragging his cock against the blood stain you had left earlier.

Growling, you grabbed the fabric covering his hole and pulled. It took very little effort to rip the thin and soft fabric. Stu whined, pushing his hips up towards you, almost like he was presenting to you. You moaned roughly, pushing yourself to your knees to pull up the robes you were wearing. Unlike Stu, you had worn normal clothes under it. The jingle of your belt only seemed to excite Stu more, who wagged his hips at you like an impatient animal.

When you had wrestled the belt off and forced your pants and boxers down enough to free your cock, you couldn’t help but hiss at the sudden temperature change. You cared little for now dry blood on your gloves as you fisted your cock, pulling at it to relieve the ache. A beed of precum gathered at the tip and dripped down onto Stu’s lower back, making him jolt and whimper.

You let go of your length to shove your hand under Stu’s mouth, “Spit” you ordered. But instead of just spitting, he leant down and ran his tongue over the leather. Stu moaned at the metallic taste, the dry blood becoming wet again and staining his face and tongue. Once you knew your palm was wet enough, you pulled it back to yourself and wrapped it back around your own hardness, a shaky breath leaving you as you watched the mixture of blood and spit cover you.

Stu moaned loudly in front of you. He must have looked over his shoulder to see for himself, and seen the sheen and color of your cock. He pressed his face into the sheets, canting his hips even more back at you. When you were satisfied with your makeshift lubejob, you knee scooted over to Stu again. When you thumbed at the plug with your spit and blood covered hand, Stu almost sobbed.

You couldn’t hold yourself back anymore, you didn’t even have it in you to tease Stu any longer. Removing the plug, you placed it off to the side and pressed against his hole. Stu fisted the sheets, his grip almost shaking as he pushed back against you. Gloved hands held his hips in place, splattering more blood against the lingerie he was wearing.

Noises left you both as you pressed inside. Stu almost sobbed at the feeling, his eyes rolling back at the knowledge that you were covered in blood and rubbing it all over him, both inside and outside. You panted as you pushed fully inside, your hips meeting his ass, where you stopped to let Stu adjust.

When Stu finally nodded against the sheets, and told you to move in a wobbly voice, you started out slow. Slowly dragging your hips back and pushing back in, eyes locked on where you were connected. A faint wet noise could be heard as you pressed inside, the blood and spit mixture easing the way.

“H-harder” Stu moaned, trying in vain to force his hips backwards against yours. You gripped onto him harder, making him stay in place as you adjusted your position to make it easier for you to move. Stu was about to beg again when you shoved into him, a loud cry leaving him as your hips met his roughly.

You placed your booted foot against the bed, not caring about the footprint you left as you started moving harder into your boyfriend, his hands scrambling against the sheets. Stu could do nothing but moan and sob as you went rougher at his request, his head being wrenched back as you fisted his hair and pulled on it. It made him think of his favorite slasher movies, of a fantasy of his. Of you breaking into his room, decked out in your Ghostface gear, covered in blood, and having your way with him.

He almost screamed as you hit his prostate, his thighs quivering where they were supporting his weight. He tried to speak, but it all came out as warbled moans and sobs, his cock drooling inside the fabric wrapped around it. The fabric was wet with precum, and he could feel his end nearing. He wanted to warn you, but he couldn’t find the words, all he could do was hold on for dear life as you thrust inside him.

You groaned as he tightened around you, shoving his head forwards until he was facedown into the bed. Using this position, you moved even harder, Stu crying in pleasure into the sheets, as his tears wetted the fabric. You knew he was cumming when he choked out the loudest scream of the evening, his hole becoming iron tight around your cock.

You shoved into Stu a few more times, his hole twitching but tight as it forced your own orgasm out of you, your cum flooding his hole. Thrusting a few lazy thrusts, the white mixing into a faintly pinkish tint as it mixed with the blood and spit mixture. You ran your hands up and down your lover’s sides and back, muttering praise and reassurance as he panted into the sheets.

Pulling out, you moaned softly to yourself as you watched Stu clench around nothing, the faintly pink liquid dripping out after you. You pressed your gloved thumb against his hole and slowly pushed it inside, Stu whimpering at the overstimulation as you forced it deeper inside, pushing more of the substance out.

When you were finally done teasing your boyfriend, you withdrew your hand and pulled you both down onto your sides, chest to chest. Stu shakily reached up and removed your mask, staring up at you with a drool and tear covered face. You grinned down at him, which he attempted to return as he leant in for a kiss, the very faint taste of blood still in his mouth as your lips met.

[roosterbruiser]

I would love a Bradley x reader blurb where she surprises him in lingerie - something smutty and fun?

𝐇𝐞𝐲, 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲

𝐚 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐫𝐛

You've been planning it for a while, really--ever since he told you how much he liked lingerie, which was really just a comment he made in passing. But it sparked something in you when you thought about what his face would look like when he saw you waiting for him.

You selected the color and the cut very carefully: pink--which is his favorite color on you even though he won't outright say it--lace that lays over your body like a second skin. Of course it's translucent and low-cut, giving him a peek at your supple breasts without outright giving everything he wants all at once.

He's due home any second and you would be lying if you said you were nervous. You look good--you know you look good--but even all dolled up as you are, you know it isn't necessary to get your boyfriend's engine running. There was a reason you woke up each morning to something hard pressing into your backside and it had very little to do with lace and mascara and a lot to do with just you and how much he fucking loved you.

So when the door knob on the front door finally turns, you're shaking with anticipation--excitement. You take your place in the middle of the entryway, heels firmly planted on the tiles, hair mussed with just a touch of hairspray and teasing, body melded against the pink lace teddy, lips puckered, eyes half-lidded.

"Oh, we're halfway there! Oh-oh livin' on a prayer!" Rooster is crooning as he enters the house, eyes downcast while he steps over the threshold.

That's how you know he's in a good mood--he's singing. He always comes into your shared home crooning when he's happy.

He doesn't notice your presence immediately--he had a long day at work and he's happy to be home, happy enough that he's in his own little universe, singing Bon Jovi, wondering what you're gonna want for dinner.

It's the candles that get his attention first; they're lining the entryway, a bunch of them, little red tea-lights. The entryway is cast in a sultry orange light, one you spent a fair amount of time curating. And then he sees the rose petals over the runner (you thought it was cheesy, but Bradley loves cheesy--you knew it would please him) that lead his gaze straight to you.

And suddenly, Bon Jovi dies on his lips. His lips that are wide open as he gazes at you, drenched in the romantic candlelight, looking at him with your eyes half-shut and painted with the most perfect shade of baby pink.

You're certain that if this were a cartoon, his eyes would pop out of his head as a resounding aaaooga! echoed off the tile.

But he's at a loss for words. You look fucking perfect--you're already perfect to him in any state you're in, but right now, he thinks he might fucking melt. He's not even sure he's going to make it another step into the house.

He drops all of his stuff--phone, keys, wallet, bag--right there in the entryway and gapes at you. You're grinning now, endlessly pleased, giddy to no end.

"Hey, baby," you whisper sweetly, angling your jaw so he can get a good look at the supple skin on your neck that he likes to mark up so much. "Welcome home."

His whiskey-colored eyes drag up and down your body. Fuck, that lace is covering just enough to make tears well in his eyes. Your legs look never-ending with that high-cut and even higher heels. He swallows hard when he imagines kissing a hot trail up those beautiful legs, inching towards your aching heat.

You aadjust slightly, crossing one leg in front of the other, narrowing your eyes slightly.

"Cat got your tongue, baby?"

That seems to launch him into action. He practically flies across the rose petals, his heavy boots echoing off the tiles. He has you in his arms at once, pressing chaste kisses to your lips as his hands wander the flat of your back.

"Enough small talk," he says, already panting as he peppers kisses across your jaw and neck. "Fuck, baby. You're so fuckin' perfect."

He's going to pace himself--he won't take it all at once. He's very slowly working his way down to the valley of your breasts and the feel of his mustache tickling your skin is enough to make your knees feel like jelly--if it weren't for his other arm securing you, you might have fallen already.

"Good surprise?" You ask, breathless. Heat is already rushing to your core.

He laughs against the skin of your breasts, kissing your taut nipples over that sweet lace, his hot breath fanning over your skin.

"Oh, baby," he mumbles, nipping softly at your nipple and shivering when you release a delicious little whimper. "The best."

here is my tag list!!

𝐬𝐮𝐛𝐦𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐬𝐤 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐫𝐛, 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧, 𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐬! 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲, 𝐉𝐚𝐤𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐁𝐨𝐛!

[queerregulusablack]

James rolled across the bed and onto his stomach, abandoning the campus map he’d been annotating in favour of reaching for the other boy sat with him in his bed; and he smoothed the sticker balanced on his thumb onto the apple of his cheek with an efficient little sweep of the digit, smiling when he’d achieved his goal.

Regulus Black held himself very still for a moment, eyes still on the book open in his lap, before they finally flicked up to meet James’.

He arched an eyebrow at him incredulously.

“What have you done to me, Potter?”

James’ grin widened, and he shuffled closer on his stomach; and for a moment, just took in the sight of his lovely boyfriend, cross legged on his bed while he read through one of James’ University textbooks, devouring pages on Cultural Theory for no reason but that the book had been out when he’d come over.

Even longsuffering and watching James with that dry, amused smirk pulling at a corner of his mouth, he was all kinds of breathtaking, long hair mussed around his face from the enthusiastic snog James had initially greeted him with, his most recent stolen-jumper gaping around his collarbones, knees peeking through the tears in the knees of his jeans.

James loved him all the time, but this was always special. When he was dressed how he wanted, wrapped up in Sirius’ hand-me-downs and the secret things he’d purchased with years-worth of scraped together pocket money - the lilac converse abandoned beside James’ bedroom door, his favourite floral-printed sunglasses - instead of primped and polished to his mother’s standards.

He was hot when he was dressed up like that too, of course, but James felt too full when he was like this.

When he was James’ Regulus. Not Walburga’s, or Orion’s, but James’, loose and comfortable and smiling with his eyes.

On the apple of his cheek, where his blush always stained darkest, the little purple star James had stuck there cheerfully read ‘good job!’ and, well, yeah. Accurate.

“Just a reminder of how good you are, Reg,” he informed him airly; and predictably, Regulus went bright pink across both cheeks before he reached to carefully peel the sticker from his face, and look at it himself, the star stuck to the tip of his pointer fingers while he peered down at it.

He scrunched up his nose - but didn’t stop blushing, in fact turning an even darker pink once he’d read the words - and looked back at James, before he reached out and stuck it to James’ forehead instead, right above his eyebrow over an old chickenpox scar Regulus liked to trace his fingertips over when he was granted the opportunity.

The smile that pulled at his lips was the briefest flicker of upturned lips, tiny and soft and so thoroughly pleased, and James stared at him and thought I love you, I love you, I love you.

“Stop that,” Regulus murmured, poking him between the eyes; and James grinned back at him, before tackling him to the bed, and ducking in to swallow his giggles.

Several minutes later - when Regulus had been kissed to James’ satisfaction for the time being, because while he would never have kissed him enough he understood that sometimes the other boy needed to breathe - James pressed his lips to Regulus’ cheek, directly over the spot he’d previously placed the sticker; and Regulus huffed back at him, both hands braced against his chest, before he murmured into the space between them.

“You’ll come back to visit sometimes, right? After you’ve moved on campus, you’ll still come back and visit. Not just on holidays to see your parents.”

He wouldn’t meet his eyes, instead staring resolutely at James’ collarbones; and James sighed, and reached to take hold of the hand resting over his heart, holding it tight against his chest.

“I told you at the start, when you were still trying to pretend you didn’t like me back. There’s no getting rid of me, Reg. I’ll visit so often it’ll be like I never went away at all. Hell, you’ll be sick of the sight of me before Christmas even rolls around.”

Regulus scoffed softly, but he’d relaxed again, and he turned his hand in James’ grip so he could interlock their fingers instead; and James hummed happily, and scattered more kisses over his face, lips brushing his cheeks and his eyelids and the tip of his nose.

“I’m not ever going to be sick of you, Jamie,” Regulus whispered, in the millimetres of space between their lips before James could kiss him properly; and he froze, chest suddenly so full he felt like he could burst, breathing out shakily.

God. God, I love you.

James used his free hand to cup Regulus’ jaw in his hand, and led him up into the next kiss; and when they met, he felt him sink into it.

I love you, he thought, and I’ll never leave you, not ever, not for anything, not long enough for you to miss me.

And for a perfect, sun-kissed moment, it was the absolute truth.

(for @siriuslythatbitch)

[honeyynymphh]

La Principessa Addormentata Papa IV x FemReader Rating: T tags: mostly sfw, cuddles, daddy dom papa, established relationship, fluff, google translated italiano 800 words

summary: Copia returns to his papal chambers late one night to find his principessa asleep on the lounge after trying to wait up all night for him

I wrote this last night at midight and it's mostly unedited, sorry. I was feeling a type of way. I might expand it later and turn it into a proper fic another day. This is the same universe as this fic and this one

“Principessa?”

You open your eyes slowly to see Copia standing above you, the low light of the room made his painted face look eerie—but it doesn't frighten you, instead, it's a welcome sight. You’d been waiting up for him for hours. At first, it had been easy; a little studying before you had put the demonic textbooks aside and swapped them for much more enjoyable books. After showering and getting comfortable in your nightgown, you had sat on the lounge reading. When your eyes had become heavy, you had told yourself you would just shut them for a moment, your novel still held in one hand as it rested against your chest.

But you must have fallen asleep—and how could you not? It was so cosy in his papal suite with the warm fire and the comfortable lounge. The flames had tickled your cheeks and the crackling of the burning logs had lulled you into a hazy place of dreamless rest.

“Papa?” you say, voice heavy with sleep as you gaze up at him.

He smiles down at you, a gloved hand reaching out and brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. The firelight flickers over his jewelled vestments and you note how his hair is a little mussed from wearing the mitre.

“It’s very late, I am sorry,” he says, slowly shrugging out his vestments and placing them on a nearby armchair, revealing the black suit underneath. “You should have gone to bed.”

You shake your head lazily, unable to stifle a yawn. “But I was waiting for you."

The sound of his low chuckle makes you smile, you eyes closing when he leans over you and places a kiss on your temple. Your smile spreads into a giddy grin and he places another kiss on your forehead before his fingers wipe at where he has kissed you—clearly trying to remove the black marks he has left behind.

“Sei troppo dolce, mia piccola principessa,” he says, his arms sliding under you so he can pick you up, cradling your head against his chest. “Time for bed.”

You try to protest, surely you are too heavy for him but he clearly doesn’t seem to struggle as he moves you with ease towards his bedroom. While the smell of the fire and the incense you had been burning earlier had been delightful, nothing could compare to the smell of your Papa and you nuzzle closer, deeply breathing him in. His suit jacket is smooth against your skin and you can hear, and feel, the steady beat of his heart. Ever so gently he places you on the bed, helping to lift the covers up so you can slide in.

The sheets are far too cool and you curl up instantly on your side, your head burying into the soft pillow. You can hear him moving about—the sound of him undressing, and then the shower turning on. His little hums as he sings to himself merely aid you in feeling sleepy again. It was always so comforting having him near, and the domestic sound of him getting ready for bed always made you smile. How quickly you had learned his little routines. He didn’t like hot showers, though they were always so long, and he insisted on using two towels—one around his waist and another to go over his shoulders, he always said he got cold after getting out. You must drift back to sleep as you jolt when you feel the mattress dip and open your eyes to find the room completely dark. Warm arms wrap around you, pulling you close against his bare chest—the hair there still a little damp.

“You use two towels yet you don’t dry yourself properly,” you mumble, though you make no effort to move away from him. 

He doesn’t say anything, instead, he just pulls you closer so your back is completely pressed against his chest—you can feel that he’s dampened your nightgown. When he presses his face against your neck you feel water dropping onto your skin from his wet hair. 

“Copia, you’re making me wet,” you whine half-heartedly, wiping at the droplets he has dripped on your neck.

“I hope so, principessa,” he says, pressing himself against you—you can feel his cock hardening against your ass.

You shake your head, though you can’t help but smile in the darkness. “You said bedtime.”

His mouth presses a kiss against your neck and you shiver. He does it again, his mouth hot and hitting that sensitive patch of skin behind your ear. You can't help but sigh in pleasure at the feel of it, feeling less sleepy with each touch of his lips on your skin.

“Si,” he murmurs in between another kiss, “I said bedtime.” The arm he has over you shifts, his hand moving down your side and skating over your hip. “But not time to sleep, principessa.”

La Principessa Addormentata - The Sleeping Princess Sei troppo dolce, mia piccola principessa - You are too sweet, my little princess

[kryptonitejelly]

A Drunk Confession - A Flyboy Blurb | Jake Seresin x Reader Top Gun: Maverick - Jake Seresin x Reader  Genre: romance; fluff Warnings:  general hangman being hangman; sexual inneundo; fem!reader; general naval / flying inaccuracies; alcohol consumption; drunk making out; reader being drunk. Length: Blurb set in the Flyboy universe - college Flyboy.

Inspired by this and this ask; set during your 21st birthday, with a flash forward to present day (Flyboy era)

Summary: The very first kiss you remember having with Jake was at Annie’s wedding. The very first kiss Jake remembers having with you was on your 21st birthday.

Flyboy | Mini-Series Masterlist (not fully updated as of today (22 September 2022), but if you follow / search the tag “flyboy universe”, you’ll find recent asks / headcannons / blurbs!)

A/N: Wrote this really fast / hastily and really late - so, read at your own risk!

Your 21st birthday

Your head is spinning, the flashing strobe lights in the club doing nothing to help you maintain your balance. You gingerly take a step forward, teetering on your heels, music pounding in your ears, and gasp as your ankle bends slightly. You think you are going to fall, and shut your eyes immediately, your alcohol addled brain telling you to brace for impact, when you feel a hand grasp your around your waist, pulling you sideways into a broad, chest. You press your palms against hard muscle, looking up through your lashes to find yourself staring at a very familiar face.

“Jakey,” you gasp, half shouting, half giggling over the deep base of the music, and you feel his palm press itself firmly against your waist, fingers brushing the bare skin of where your top doesn’t really meet the waistband of your jeans, as he pulls you securely against his body.

“Sweetheart,” Jake says, his lips brushing against the lobe of your ear. Jake is talking loudly, but without the need to shout because of your proximity, “you are drunk.”

His observation of your influenced state makes you pull your head back slightly, while shifting your body so you are pressed up against him chest to chest. Your hands slide onto his shoulders, around his neck, and Jake easily shifts his palm to the small of your back. He watches as you observe him, the flush of his cheeks, the slight muss of his hair, the tiny smirk on his lips, and the slightly gazed pair of green eyes which you are staring right into.

“So are you,” you yell back, fingers curling into his hair which meets the nape of his neck.

“Maybe a little bit,” his smirk grows slightly, as his fingers dip down your lower back just that one inch, because you are pressed right up against him, and god he shouldn’t, but Jake loves that feeling “but not as drunk as you.”

You giggle again, pulling your hands forward to smush your palms against each side of his cheeks.

“Get me out of here Jakey, it’s noisy,” you whine, the alcohol making you inhibited, a pout gracing your lips.

“Your wish is my command my lady,” he says, a mock tip of an imaginary cowboy hat. You pull away, and Jake threads his fingers through yours, football calloused hands holding your palm tight against his as he navigates his way through the throng of people.

You had come out to the club with your friends, your roommates, and the football team - all in a bid to celebrate your 21st birthday, and in usual fashion, you, the birthday girl of the moment had been plied generously with a host of different alcoholic beverages. You had lost the rest of the group a while ago, determined in your drunken state to make your way through the crowd and out of the door because everything was getting so loud, and the alcohol coursing through your veins was making you flustered, your skin hot to the touch. You had assumed that no one had noticed that you had begun to flit off, that no one had followed - but Jake, who been keeping an eye on you the entire night, had.

-

He pulls you out of the club, and the sudden change in noise level makes you stop in your tracks for a moment, the sudden quiet of the night deafening in the moment. It makes you shake your head furiously from side to side. Jake stops to look back at you, catching you in the tail end of a furious head shake.

“Too quiet?” He asks with a laugh on his lips.

“Waaaaaay too quiet,” you agree, head now bobbing down earnestly.

“Can you walk?” Jake asks, and you nod again - yes.

He doesn’t let go of your hand, instead, choosing to tug you closer to him, as he leads you down the street towards your apartment. You follow along in a dreamy daze, your lips beginning to hum the refrain of the last song - something pop you did not remember the name to in the moment - as you take Jake in.

He had chosen a simple ensemble tonight, khaki slacks, and a black t-shirts, his hair with a dash of product, and his beard kept scruffy - you stare, as you feel your heart flip in your chest, your long suppressed feelings for Jake, your best friend, your best friend that was holding your hand, looking after you, leading you back to your apartment, bubbling to the surface, because fuck - did he look good.

“Why’d you stop humming?” Jake’s voice breaks through your thoughts.

“Nothing,” you say, each syllable coming out in a rush, as you feel heating creeping up your cheeks. You had been so entranced with Jake that you hadn’t actually noticed your had given pause to the tune.

“Are you more drunk than I thought?” He teases, not slowing or stopping in his guiding you back, but turning to wave his other free hand in front of your face.

“M’ not!” It makes you protest loudly, as you clumsily swat his hand away.

-

“Key?” Jake asks, his hand still in yours as you both come to a stop in the hallway of your apartment.

“Back pocket,” you say, your hand about to reach into the back of your jeans, but Jake’s hand beats you there. It makes you freeze, as his fingers slide into your pocket, along the curve of your ass, running down towards the bottom of the pocket, before they pull out the key. The gesture almost makes you mewl, his fingers feeling like hot coals burning through the fabric of your jeans.

He unlocks the door with ease, letting you step in first, finally letting go of your hand. Jake turns to lock the door behind you both, and you find yourself slipping a hand into your back pocket, the same back pocket Jake had reached into, your eyes focused on the shape which his figure casts from the back.

Jake turns, to find you staring, your lips slightly parted, eyes glossy from alcohol and he raises a brow, cocking his head to aside as he easily tosses your keys into the bowl by the door without so much as a glance.

“You feeling ok?” He asks.

You aren’t sure just what it is, but all you can focus on in that moment are the way his brows knit together slightly in concern for you, the way his lips are slightly parted, and deliciously pink, the way a tendril of hair has escaped the confines of the product he had smoothed into it to droop just that much over his forehead. It makes your heart flip again, the pit of your stomach contract - not from alcohol, but with a thousand tiny butterflies. You blame the alcohol, curse your inebriated state, but you find yourself taking a step forward, and then a second. Your hand raise themselves, coming to cradle each side of Jake’s face. You see the look in his eyes, curious, and unsure of just what you are going to do - but his hands, you feel his hands which have come to rest lightly on either side of your waist. His fingers squeeze gently against your skin, and it is all you need to push your face forward to press your lips against his.

Jake tastes like alcohol, but so do you.

He doesn’t ask, and neither do you explain; but as drunk as you both are, your bodies and lips move in perfect sync with one another - you carding your hands through the back of his hair, your teeth clinking as your lips move desperately, frantically against each other. Jake’s fingers are squeezing your waist now, and it is all the motivation you need to jump up - he catches you, easily, his hands sliding below your ass, and your legs twine tight around his waist.

You can feel him walking, drunk but maintaining a steady walk as he navigates both of you back to your room. You pull your lips away from his and find yourself staring into his eyes - dark, hooded with lust, a reflection of your own. He doesn’t give you time to think, and you feel it, his head ducking, lips pressing themselves against the skin of your neck, mouth sucking gently at sensitive flesh. It makes your breathe catch, and you let out a soft, strangled moan, as you tilt your head upward to allow him access.

You feel Jake’s tongue slide against up against the column of your neck, and it makes you mewl. You feel soft mattress against your back as Jake drops you onto the bed. You untangle your legs from his waist, but your hands, which drop from his hair, to loop themselves around his neck tugs him back down to you. Jake’s lips are on yours again, his hands pressed palms down on the mattress of your bed.

“What are we doing?” He asks, words against your lips.

“Kissing,” you manage to breathe out, both of your clearly intent on having this conversation without stopping your bodies moving with the flow of nature; the flow they were meant to bow to.

It takes a herculean effort, but Jake forces himself to pull away. It allows you a view of Jake, lips swollen, hair a mess, face hovering over yours, his body caging yours in from the top. Jake searches your eyes, your face - you can see the alcohol in his system from the way his eyes are still glazed, but even so, and despite the fog in your brain, you just know what Jake is searching for, for what he is asking.

“I like, like you,” you confess, absently running a hand down the side of his face. It was the first time you had said it out loud.

“I like you too,” Jake says quietly, and you see his face lean into your touch, his eyes fluttering close for a second.

“Then keep kissing me,” you whine softly, and it makes Jake’s eyes snap open again, the sound going straight down south of his core.

“I want nothing more,” he exhales, his voice now deep, guttural, “but you’re drunk.”

He cups the bottom of your chin with a hand, thumb brushing across your bottom lip, only to inhale sharply as you part your lips, taking his thumb in your mouth.

“But not too drunk to know this is a good idea,” you say, releasing his thumb with a soft pop.

You see the struggle on his face, the fight between his urges, emotions he had been suppressing for years, and the revere he has for you fanning out on his features.

“When you’re not drunk,” he says, voice soft, as he rubs the side of your jaw, “if you remember,” he adds, somewhat darkly.

Jake lowers his face, and you feel lips, soft and brushing against your forehead.

“Now sleep,” he says, and you close your eyes, body obeying his words, as if on command.

-

You awake the next day to a splitting headache, a combination of a pounding and squeezing around your skull causing you to groan loudly as you gather your consciousness.

The other side of your bed, Jake’s side, is empty, but the wrinkles in the sheet, and dip in the pillow tells you that he had slept here - something you would have been sure happened, just because it was commonplace, but which you have no recollection about form the night before.

You struggle slowly to a sit, hands reaching up to clutch your head, as you slip yourself gingerly out of bed - noting that you were still in your jeans and top from last night. You pad slowly across the floor of your room, and out into your apartment.

“Jake?” You croak, as you enter living room, to find him seated on the couch, a glass of orange juice out in front of him. His hair is damp, his outfit from last night, something you do remember, swapped out for a pair of dark sweats and a grey t-shirt, “my head hurts.”

You stop, standing in front of him, still clutching your head.

“You drank alot,” he says simply, and you sigh, slowly turning your body to face the mirror hanging on the side wall a few steps away.

“I bet I look like shit,” you mutter, forcing your eyes fully open, to observe your reaction. It makes your jaw drop, your eyes catching side of the patches of darker, bruised skin, blooming across your neck, “are those hickeys?”

“You don’t remember?” Jake asks, keeping his voice measured.

“The last thing I remember was having those three shots of tequila someone put in front of me.”

You walk towards the mirror, fingers frantically pressing at the skin of your neck; you miss the slight fall in Jake’s expression.

-

Flyboy Era

You are both in a club, at the insistence of Fanboy, Payback and Phoenix who had dragged you all - dagger squad plus you - out. The music is hammering away, lights flashing. Jake’s hand is on your waist, his body pressed up tight against yours as you grind back against him; something he lets you know he appreciates from the way his hand slips to the front of your body, fingers splaying across your stomach, while pressing you closer to him.

“Do you remember your 21st birthday?” You hear his voice, low, quiet, in your ear, but loud enough for you to hear.

“We went out, I got really drunk,” you turn your head to say into his ear.

“We went out, you got really drunk, we made out, and would have probably had sex if I didn’t put a stop to it,” Jake says again, into your ear, and it makes your jaw drop. You are turning in his arms in a flash, face looking into his which has a growing, smug, lazy smirk across his features now.

“The hickeys were from you?” Jake had cooked up a ridiculous story, telling you that you had joined a bunch of girls in a make out dare, which you had believed - because with Jake watching you, you had known, even way back then, that nothing would go wrong, that you would never be unsafe.

“Guilty as charged,” he pauses, hands now on your lower back, “you kissed me first, you know.”

“I did not,” you gasp incredulously, but knowing deep down inside that it was all plausible, given that recent revelations had revealed you both had spent years pining for each other, missing each other.

“Oh baby,” Jake laughs, as he brings a hand to tip your chin up, tugging your face to him gently, “if only you remember how you were begging me to kiss you,” is all he says, before he tangles his lips with yours.

[purplefox00]

So imagine nico and will have been together for a few years, nicos around 18 and wills like 19 or something and he's been at university for a year or so and recently nico been noticing some strange behaviour when they talk over IM/Phone at first he brushes it off as the stress of studying and a long distance relationship but after awhile he starts to get suspicious so next time will gets cagey and end their call early because he's "tired" and needs to get some "studying" in before he goes to bed. nico waits 10 minutes before shadow traveling into wills dorm and surprise surprise what does he see? Will fucking someone else.

The guy wills with spots him first and freaks out like "Who the fuck are you? You creep!"

"Me?" nico points at himself eyebrow raised "until just this second I was his boyfriend of 4 years. Who the fuck are you?"

Of course will starts panicking

"it's not what it looks like, it's not what it looks like, I can explain"

The side piece is pissed "YOU HAVE A BOYFRIEND?"

Nico is not amused "not anymore he doesn't" he drawl deadpan with a hint of something dangerous

Anyway it's a big mess and nico dumps his ass and goes back to camp of course the seven and reyna want to kill will. percy and jason are especially angry and ready to destroy him but nico, nico is calm and collected weirdly so.... Suspiciously so,

Now nico is a son of Hades of course he hasn't forgiven will and of course he's not gonna let him get away with this but he's got a plan he knows exactly how to get back at will

So when nico looks at his friends sat around him discussing their rather imaginative plans to... Dispose of will and says "no. you're not going to do anything to will I know exactly what I'm gonna do" when multiple whats? Are chorused back at him he smirks sharp and dangerous a glint in his eyes a little to similar to his fathers "I'm gonna fuck his dad" he drawl slow and confident "well I guess it'd be his dad fucking me but you get what I mean" he flicks his wrist nonchalantly.

Now the last few years have been good to nico having a somewhat safe place to live, eating regularly, sleeping properly and not spending as much time in the underworld have done wonders, he's healthy and to put it simply he's hot! He's grown some he's still skinny but in a toned healthy way he's still pale but his natural olive undertones are back he's a real Italian beauty and in the last year or so people have been more jealous of will than they have of nico

So none of them doudt he could when he says he's going to sleep with apollo but it is a shock to hear, percy bless him chokes on his drink and nearly dies, annabeth seems like she already knew what he was going to say and is to busy patting percy back to give much more of a reaction, jason falls backwards like he was hit, piper and leo are just fucking cackling, Hazel looks horrified but reyna looks vaguely proud a little smirk pulling at the side of her mouth.

And that's that he's decided he's going to have sex with apollo.

Months later when wills arrives back at camp for summer brake he spends hours looking around camp for nico before he plucks up the courage to approach the seven (reyna, Hazel and Frank came to visit just to witness the figurative murder about to happen) and asks if they knew where nico was he almost pisses his pants from the looks alone and fears they might have killed him if a yellow Maserati hadn't chose that exact moment to barrel out of the sky an park outside of the dining pavilion

"dad? What's he doing here?" will mutters as apollo steps out and round the car before opening the passenger door and no no no this can't be happening will thinks to himself almost hysterically staring wide eyed as none other than Nico Di Angelo steps out looking deliciously sex mussed, hair ruffled, lips kiss swollen and so so red and pretty, hickeys lining his neck there's no mistaking what he's been up to especially when after closing the door apollo has nico pressed between the car and his body leaning down to pull him into an absolutely sinful kiss that goes on way longer than is appropriate for such a puplic setting not that nico or anyone other than will really seems to care

Then apollos pulling back and making his way to the drivers side calling out "see you later angel" with a wink before getting in and driving off leaving nico to make his way towards will no no not will... nico bushes past him without even sparing him a single glance will turns to watch as nico situats himself at the table between percy and jason and jump right into a conversation like nothing happend and will is starting to realise as he glances around that no one seems to be reacting to what just happened other and some campers sending him some sneering smirks that is, which... Which means... This.. This isn't the first time something like this has happened is it?

He must look like an idiot standing there gaping at nico but he can't help it he had assumed those moths ago when no pissed off member of the seven turned up on his door step ready to kill him that nico had asked them to leave him alone that he must have still loved him and that there was a chance he'd take him back if he apologised enough obviously he was wrong

When nico finally looks at him says "can we help you?" .. "actually never mind I don't care, go" flicking his wrist in a shooing motion casually with an air of disinterest

Will thinks this may be worse than if nico had just let his friends have their way with him which thinking about it was probably the point......

[chierafied]

Get A Room

Read on AO3.

For the Jily Gift Exchange 2024 by @jilymicrofics Gift for EllieMarchetti, fic request: "An alternative Universe, rom-com vibe fic where Jily are on a school trip and in order to let Sirius and Marlene sleep together they have to share a room despite the fact they can't stand each other."

Let the record show that Lily Evans was no cock-blocker. But Marlene McKinnon really owed her a big one for this, Lily thought glumly as she glowered at her paperback, pointedly ignoring the man at the opposite side of the small hotel room. How was she supposed to enjoy Carrie Soto absolutely owning it in Wimbledon, when this one pillock kept pacing at the other end of the room like a tireless toddler who’d plundered the sweets drawer? Just watching him was exhausting.   

Not that she was watching him! Nuh-uh! She didn’t want to abuse her poor eyes and brain by taking in his sorry appearance. That thick dark hair he kept mussing up or the glasses that never seemed to sit quite straight on his nose. The way he grinned, much too often and just a little crooked. The graceful way he moved in that baffled her. The forearms that always seemed to be on display because he kept rolling up his sleeves. The jawline that was hard not to stare at.  

Ugh. He was an infuriating man. No wonder Lily had so very little tolerance for him. She’d been meticulously avoiding him, ever since the welcoming party for freshers at the start of the school year. She’d overheard him bragging about his rich parents and football team captaincy and his grandfather being an alumnus of their university. Lily had decided then and there that she wanted nothing to do with rich legacy prick like him.  

Only that wasn’t so easy now that her best friend had decided to date his best friend. And of course, this development had sprung to life shortly before the three-day trip to London.   

She’d really been looking forward to the trip, too. As well as getting to share a hotel room with Marlene. In her mind, it would have been a great time reminiscent of the sleepovers of old. But of course, Marlene had chosen a boy over a grand girls’ pyjama party.   

Lily frowned down at her book and wondered if Marlene was planning to stay in Sirius’ room all night. Lily’s plan had been to read her book and ignore James Potter. But she couldn’t concentrate on Carrie Soto’s comeback. And James Potter was, annoyingly enough, the kind of bloke you couldn’t easily ignore. She was all too aware of his maddening presence in the room. The tension brimming in the gulf of silence between them hardly helped.   

Lily sighed. If she was stuck here with Potter, potentially for hours, she’d crack under the pressure of the awkward silence. She snapped her paperback shut and looked up, meeting his stare with resentful resignation.  

*

James wanted to kill Sirius. Or maybe give him a good long kiss. He was undecided, because his emotions were currently swinging a wild, unhinged pendulum between elation and misery.  

The cause of elation was the fact that he was finally, at long last, alone with Lily Evans. It was the kind of an opportunity he hadn’t dared to even wish for. She’d caught his eye way back in the welcoming party at the start of the school year, but he had never managed to gather up his courage to go chat her up.  

Because, and this was one reason why at the other end of the spectrum misery swirled at the ready: James was pretty sure that Lily Evans hated his guts. Even now, when she wasn’t busy completely ignoring him, the glances she sent his way were sharp and frowny. He wasn’t quite sure what he had done to earn her ire, as they’d never exchanged more than twenty words in the course of their light acquaintance.    

Which was something James was very much hoping to correct now. But how could he find the right words?   

He stopped pacing the small room and stared helplessly at the gorgeous redhead, just as she heaved a heavy sigh. James jumped a little at the thump as Evans suddenly closed her book. She looked up, finally meeting his gaze. James’ heart skipped a beat, even as the look in those green eyes turned his stomach.  

Shame flooded him, drowning out any joy he might have harboured before.  

“I’m sorry,” he said, breaking the heavy silence between them. He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “I can leave, if you’re feeling uncomfortable about sharing a room with me.”  

He could always go out for a walk. Have a sit at a Costa or something. Or stay down at the lobby bar of the hotel.   

Evans’ shoulders slumped and she gave an irritated shake of her head. “No. I don’t want to put you out. There’s no telling how long Sirius and Marlene are going to be at it.”  

James grimaced. “I’m trying very hard not to think about that.”  

“Me too,” Evans said, rolling her eyes. “I’m just glad your room isn’t next to ours because it would get super awkward if we had to listen in on them, too.”  

“Oh, god,” James managed, snorting a surprised laugh. “That would be the worst.”  

Their eyes met and they shared a long, wry stare – one brief moment where they finally were in perfect agreement. James risked flashing a hesitant smile her way. The captivating green eyes softened a fraction.   

James cleared his throat and desperate to make conversation, voiced the very first words that popped up in his head. “What are you reading?”  

Lily’s eyebrows rose in surprise, and she glanced down at her book. “ Carrie Soto is Back , by Taylor Jenkins Reid. It’s about a tennis player making her comeback.”  

James blinked. “You’re reading a book about... tennis?”  

And then, the miraculous thing happened. Lily Evans let out a brief laugh; a bubbling sound that James felt all the way in his heart. “I know, right? I’m just as surprised as you are. But it’s really good. And it’s not just about tennis. It’s about family, and grief, and ambition... It’s about fear of failure. It’s about finding joy again.”  

James was entranced by the softness of her tone, the smile playing on her lips. He was staring, helpless and half-way smitten, even as that smile turned rueful.  

“Sorry. If you get me started on the topic of books, I could probably go on forever.”  

“I don’t mind,” James hastily reassured her. “I always like listening to people talking about their interests. And books are great. I really need to start reading something other than textbooks, but the lessons have been keeping me so busy.”  

“The schedule’s really been insane, hasn’t it? I mean I didn’t think uni would be a breeze, but one of these days my brain is going to call it quits on me, I swear.”  

James laughed in delight. Beautiful, smart and funny. Lily Evans was absolute perfection. “I doubt that. You work too hard and are far too brilliant for that to happen.”  

Lily hummed, her gaze turning assessing. “Thank you. Though I’m a bit surprised you have such a high opinion of me, especially when this is already the longest conversation we’ve ever had.”  

James shrugged, helpless to stop the blush heating up his cheeks. “I pay attention.”  

Lily’s lips quirked and curled. “I see,” she said softly.  

There was a spark in her eyes that James hadn’t seen before. And he was afraid that she actually could see right through him. He moved over to the window, turning to look out so he could avoid her knowing gaze as his face flushed redder.  

“So, what are your interests, then?” Lily asked, her tone casual.  

Relief rolled down James' back, the tension in his body melting away. He was grateful for this olive branch, this opportunity to ignore the feelings he was not ready to admit out loud. He let out a breath and turned away from the window.  

James faced Lily, with a smile on his lips, elation in his heart, butterflies in the pit of his stomach, and an answer ready on his tongue.  

[lemon-jellybelly]

he's so pretty when he goes down on me (gold-skinned eager baby, blue shirt out the laundry)

Waking up early is only good for one thing: Conrad's undivided attention in all of the best ways.

Title from the song "Touch Tank" by Quinnie / crossposted to ao3

Early morning, misty-grey summer light filtered through the window curtains, brightening the space just enough for you to make out the details of the furniture across the room. You weren't sure what had woken you up, but the atmosphere was peaceful, and you were perfectly comfortable in your current position.

Conrad was curled against your back, fitting you neatly into his chest, hips, the bend of his knees. An arm was draped loosely across your waist and there was a dual tickle at the back of your neck, strands of his hair and open lips both brushing lightly against your skin. A single sheet laid over you; in addition to the warm night, Conrad's body acted as your own personal space heather. Silence and still air cocooned you both, encapsulating you in your own bubble. Moments like these were your favorite, when you could almost believe that the entire world was just for you two.

You fought the urge to stretch, not wanting to disturb Conrad. He was so ethereal when sleeping; you had to twist your neck to an uncomfortable degree, but it was worth it to catch a glimpse of his mussed-up hair and barely parted lips. Smiling, you resituated your head onto the pillow, content to luxuriate in being held by him. But despite your efforts, the shuffling broke through Conrad's light sleep. You could feel him stir awake behind you, hear the way his breathing shifted ever so slightly, a particularly intimate knowledge that plucked at your heart strings.

"Morning," He murmured into your ear. His voice was gravelly with sleep, and the rasp resonated with a twinge in your pelvis. You hummed, covering his hand with your own and using an index finger to draw light abstract shapes on his skin.

"Morning." You echoed quietly, reaching for your phone to check the time. "It's still so early."

"Good." He said, lips pressing against the soft spot below your ear. "I don't want to get up yet."

"Me neither. I'd stay in bed all day with you if I could."

"That sounds," he interrupted his sentence with another kiss at the back of your neck, "like a perfect day." In reaction to the shiver he sent down your spine, you dug your nails lightly into the skin just below his knuckles. Conrad's own response to the unspoken conversation was to bury his face further into the side of your neck, finding the seam where throat met clavicle and peppering the skin with kisses of varied pressure.

You were certainly more awake now and beginning to give in to your body's reaction to Conrad. He was still on his side facing you when you finally shifted onto your back to be able to see him. His eyes were beguiling, flickering over your face, and you felt almost compelled to touch him, raising a hand to smooth his hair back and trailing it down to cup his jaw.

"Hi," You whispered, stroking your fingers under his chin. You felt the muscles move in his face as he grinned lazily at you. His own hand came up to circle your wrist, thumb tracing over your pulse point. He simply had to feel the way your heart sped up every time he touched you.

"Hi," He echoed softly. You soaked in the silence for a moment, lost in each other’s eyes, before he began to dip his head down towards you. He was unhurried to the point that he rested his forehead against yours and simply let his hot breath hit your lips, but you were aching for it, tilting your head back in attempt to bring your mouth even closer to his. The tinge of desperation in your uneven exhales finally swayed him and you were rewarded as Conrad deliberately caught your lower lip between his.

He kissed you with fervor, his open mouth hot against yours, an arm on either side of your head caging you in. Your senses were on fire and all you could see, hear, smell, touch, taste, was Conrad, the absolute center of your universe.

You whimpered audibly at the loss when he pulled away to sit up and kneel between your legs. Conrad looked angelic backlit by the blaze of the rising sun, his golden hair illuminated and a hazy glow cast around his body. His frame was still hidden beneath his navy Cousins Beach t-shirt, but you were so familiar with the shape of him that your eyes could trace his contours even through the fabric. Based on the trajectory of his gaze, Conrad was imagining you the same way, fantasizing about your curves underneath the shirt you wore - which was also his, this one a faded remnant from a long-ago surf competition.

As his eyes moved farther down your body, you fiddled with the hem of the shirt, pulling it up slowly to expose your thighs, your panties, lower abdomen. You heard Conrad's breath hitch and saw the corresponding tick in his throat, but when you went to remove the shirt fully, he stopped you.

"Leave it on." He instructed huskily. "You look so sexy in my clothes." You looked down at him through your eyelashes, reveling in the way his expression had darkened with lust.

"I'll have to wear them more often, then." You teased sweetly, letting your arms fall to your sides.

He groaned. "If you do, you’re going to get sick of me touching you."

You arched an eyebrow. "I could never.”

"Promise?"

“Absolutely.” You whispered.

“Good. Because I’ll never get sick of it, either,” he admitted, shuffling to the edge of the bed so that he could lean forward and rest on his elbows. “Touching you is my favorite thing to do." Without waiting for a response, he settled between your legs and directed his attention to your body.

You could only gasp quietly as he made contact. His jaw was lax as he nuzzled into your inner thigh, pressing feathery kisses there. The tips of his nose and eyelashes fluttered against the sensitive skin as well, making warmth reverberate in your stomach. His mouth trailed up to the apex of your thigh, ghosting over your panties to continue down the other leg.

"Con," You whimpered quietly, combing your fingers through his silky hair.

"I know," he murmured, continuing on just as painfully slowly. "It's okay, just let me make you feel good." You mewled appreciatively, dropping a hand to knead his shoulder gently. The muscle contracted beneath your fingers, tensing then almost instantly relaxing into your touch.

His own hands skimmed up the backs of your thighs, propping them up to ensure he had the best angle possible to tease you. His palms warmed your skin from behind and his mouth from the front, culminating in a heat between your legs that bordered on comforting and overwhelming. Your body was beginning to react in earnest, hips inching off the bed to meet Conrad's mouth, thighs clenching only to be gently peeled apart once again.

"Keep 'em open for me," he instructed.

You pressed the palms of your hands into your eyes, trying to tune out the flutters of your stomach enough to speak. "I'm trying," you promised. But the careful avoidance of the most sensitive parts of your body was truly becoming unbearable.

You weren't even aware of the near-constant whimpers falling from your lips until Conrad heard and took pity on you, resting his chin atop your thigh. "Poor baby," he said, pouting in a mostly sincere but partly sardonic display. "Don't worry, I'll take care of you."

There was a moment of intense relief when his tongue finally swept over your hot skin and made contact with your throbbing clit. But the feeling of bliss was short lived: Conrad was content to continue at the same leisurely pace as before, taking his sweet time to kiss, lick, suck you. His touch was intentional and determined yet soft and gentle, like he knew the limits of your delicate body.

"Oh my God, Con," you moaned, fighting the urge to clamp your thighs around his head. Instead, you rested a foot on his shoulder blade, unwittingly nudging him deeper into you as you curled your toes into the fabric of his shirt. You smoothed his hair behind his ear with your opposite hand, letting your fingers linger at the crown of his head. "Oh, please, baby," you whined. "You're so good, feels so good."

Emboldened by the encouragement, he spread your legs just a bit further and used his thumbs to do the same to your pussy. He moved at the same speed, but now he was able to nudge his tongue deeper inside you, making you squeak and tremble below him.

The entire act was relaxed, the room around you tranquil, the bond between you easy and loving and without expectation. You felt comfortable in your skin and your contact with Conrad in a way that transcended sexuality. Which is why you were so surprised when your body suddenly tipped into orgasm, your muscles tensing and breath quickening.

Conrad pulled back slightly to rest his face on your thigh again, pressing his wet lips to the skin as he watched you climax. "That's it," he cooed. "Good girl, let it go." One hand stroked your inner thigh soothingly, the other moving to rest palm-up on your stomach. Almost immediately, you slipped your hand over his, intertwining your fingers together.

As your heart rate slowed to normal and your limbs relaxed, you lolled your head to the side. Letting out a low exhale, you made eye contact with Conrad.

"You okay?" He asked softly.

You smirked ever-so slightly and reached out a thumb to trace his swollen lips and down the curve of his still-slick chin. "I'm fantastic." He grinned, kissing the tip of your thumb. "Come here," you said.

He was eye-level with you in seconds and you kissed him needily, sucking the remnants of your own taste off his tongue until he felt you stifle a yawn. Conrad flopped onto his back and hugged you into his chest once again. "Falling back asleep on me already?"

"Sorry," you said through another yawn, your body feeling weightless as you settled in. “That took a lot out of me.”

He let out a soft snort of laughter. “Me, too, baby. But it’s still early. Let's just lay here a little while longer." If you weren't so exhausted, you would've sprawled beside him imagining yourselves waking up to each other for the rest of your lives. But that could wait. Right now, with Conrad's nimble fingers skimming down your back and his heartbeat drumming in your ear, you fell right back asleep.

[blainesebastian]

sick day (ccg universe)

words: 3,188 ship: austin butler x reader summary: (anon request) “Ccg universe request where they deal with an extremely sick toddler. Nausea, crying, grumpiness, refusing to sleep, us parents go through to then end up in turn getting sick too”  notes: thanks for the request! appreciate all of you :) i really enjoyed writing this one. requests i’m working on continue to be linked here.  warnings: none tag list: @killerqueenfan, @karamelcoveredolicity, @elizabethrosecresswell, @gigisworldsstuff, @stylespresleyhearted

You could sense this coming a mile away, especially because of last night. You’ve been joking with Austin that you’ve been developing ‘parent ESP’ and are becoming increasingly aware of how Luci’s doing and when certain things are going to happen. It usually applies to when she needs a nap or is about to have some sort of meltdown but in this case? You knew she was going to wake up sick.

Austin’s been on a shoot about two hours away and that definitely hasn’t been easy. You and Luci are used to it by now but that doesn’t mean that Austin’s little family doesn’t miss him. They’ve been fortunate enough that you really haven’t had to work around him being out of state or out of the country, that’s a whole new can of worms to plan for. Luci’s just now handling what it’s like for Austin to be gone longer periods of time, with two hours away sometimes he comes back for a night or morning depending on what the schedule is like. You assure him he doesn’t have to because that’s a lot to put on his shoulders when he’s already got enough to worry about.

But one of the many things you love about him is that he wants to, he wants to come back home for you and for Luci and…that makes a big difference.

Last night after a Facetime call with Austin, Luci was being a bit more ornery than usual. She refused to get out of your and Austin’s bed to take a bath before sleeping. She was curled up on Austin’s pillows in one of her oversized sweatshirts and giving a big pout fest. You hadn’t thought too much of it because she starts getting like this when Austin’s been gone for a decent stretch of time, she has to acclimate.

A trip to the park tomorrow will erase some of those negative feelings.

There was something in the back of your mind though that was triggering spidey-senses for your ‘parent ESP’—she looked a bit flush and was slightly grumpier than usual. You can understand the whole ‘no thank you’ thing when Luci dives into it, but she wasn’t even doing that. Just huffing and curling against Austin’s pillow and giving you the cold shoulder.

You let her sleep there for the night and upon waking up the next morning, your assumptions had been right on the money.

The minute you get her up and out of bed, you know she’s sick. Her face is flushed, her skin is warm to the touch, her hair is a bit of a mussed mess from sweating, and she’s whining. You hum lightly, carrying her to the kitchen. Sitting her on the counter, you pull her hair back away from her face, tying it into two space buns. You give her a soft smile, touching her cheek,

“Struggling, huh babe?”

Luci huffs lightly, pulling at her sweater, “Wan juice.”

“Okay,” You nod, “We can get you some juice. Mama has to take your temperature too, okay?”

She does not seem thrilled about that, squiggling when you reach to get a washcloth and fill it with warm water. Squeezing out the excess, you drag it along Luci’s face and neck, pushing some of her hair back and to get the night’s sweat off of her. Might make her feel a bit better.

“Need to get a bath too.”

And apparently that’s the wrong thing to say because she starts crying. Big sobs and fat tears rolling down her cheeks and barely breathing enough to speak other than wailing. You try not to take it too personally, you know that she doesn’t feel well and isn’t sure how to communicate that other than crying. It’s got to be frustrating, being so small and trying to figure out the world day by day and then waking up and everything you’ve known is turned completely on its head.

You set the washcloth down and gather her into your arms, picking her up from the counter, “I know, I know.” You soothe, running a hand down her back. You reach for your phone in your PJ pocket, clicking on Austin’s name,

Y/N: you laugh at my parent ESP but I knew something was off with Luci last night and she’s sick this morning Y/N: she’s okay other than throwing a big tantrum over a bath, so. I think she just has a fever

You know that Austin’s on set and you’re not sure when he’s going to be able to read that but the last thing you want to do is worry him.

While Luci works through her crying Olympics, you manage to take her temp (101—definitely a fever but nothing too concerning), wash off a bit more sweat with a washcloth and change her shirt and fill up her juice cup (which she doesn’t want anymore, shocking). You carry her to the couch and sit down, holding her against your chest as she vents out all her negative feelings, which should definitely help.

Once she’s settled down you’ll get her to eat something, give her a bath—that should make her feel better overall.

“I wan daddy.” She wails, these tiny little hiccups following from crying so hard.

You shake your head, keeping her close, threading your fingers through her hair and trying to get her to calm down, “I know,” You press a few kisses to her cheeks and forehead, removing as many tear tracks as you can with your hands, “Me too.”

Definitely can understand wanting Austin when you don’t feel well, you just wish it was as simple as that.

Luci manages to tire herself out with crying, pressed against your chest after a few sips of juice, her face tucked between your neck and shoulder. Smoothing your hand through her hair, you stand from the couch and make up the cushions so she can sleep there. You don’t want her in her bed away from you—you begin to make a mental checklist of some things you need to do, like cancel dinner with your agent and double check to see if you have Children’s Tylenol in your medicine cabinet.

You put a blanket down and a pillow, lying her down and grabbing this divider which sticks underneath the couch cushions and creates a mesh wall along the outside of the couch—like turning the couch into a crib. Basically she can’t roll off this way, one of the best things Jillian bought you and Austin when you were pregnant.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket as you cover Luci with a blanket and a soft smile tugs the corner of your mouth as you answer,

“Hi,” You whisper in relief, moving towards the kitchen to talk a bit louder.

“How’s it going in the hot zone?” Austin asks, his voice fond but definitely a little concerned, “Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner, just saw your message.”

He doesn’t have to apologize; you know he’s busy. The fact that he’s making time to call you on a break is more than enough. You let out a soft sigh and tug open a few cabinet doors to see if you can make Luci some soup—you’re not sure what she even likes when she’s sick. This is one of the first times she’s had something more than a few sniffles and…you’re taking it hour by hour, trying not to freak out or anything when it’s not warranted. This is a fact of life, kids get sick and you, as a parent, have to figure it out.

At the barest minimum, you have to be strong for Luci so she has someone to lean and depend on.

“Well she’s doing alright I think, I got some juice in her and she’s cried herself to sleep,” You shake your head, “She wanted you, of course.”

Austin hums, “Didn’t you say I was the best kind of medicine the last time you were sick?”

And he’s teasing you, you know that, but you kinda crinkle your nose because, “I’m pretty sure…I did not say that.”

He laughs lightly, “Sure, no. You would never.”

You can’t help but laugh too, rolling your eyes as you pull a can of soup down from the cabinet that has star shaped noodles. This will do. “As far as I can tell she’s just got a fever, it’s pretty low-grade but…I’ll let you know if it spikes.”

“M’sorry I’m not there.”

You shake your head, turning to put the kettle on for tea for yourself, glancing into the living room as you watch Luci’s chest rise and fall, “Austin, don’t be. We both know we’ve got busy work lives—I can handle this alone, okay?”

It’s not like either of them are gone all the time—this just so happens to be the one instance where it would be better if you were home together but, it’s not like you’re expecting him to come all the way home. He’s got a job to do.

“I know,” You can tell by the tone of Austin’s voice that he’s either chewing on the inside of his cheek or running a hand through his hair, a signature nervous habit, “But you shouldn’t have to.”

You smile gently, leaning your head against the doorframe of the kitchen, “You can make it up to me.”

Austin hums lightly, “I’m gonna leave my phone with the director, alright, you call me if you need anythin’.”

You’re touched at the sentiment but the last thing you want to do is bother him on set when he’s trying to get a job done. “Alright, I love you.”

“Love you both,” Austin replies before the call ends.

You hold the phone to your ear for a few moments longer to maintain the illusion that he’s here before moving back into the kitchen to tackle a cup of tea and soup.

--

You assume it’s going to get a bit worse before it gets better but you don’t realize it’s going to be downright terrible. The nap brings Luci a ton of energy which you assumed would be a good thing? and yet she’s restless, cranky and now she’s nauseous? She hasn’t thrown up the soup she’s eaten, which is good, but she doesn’t want to eat dinner either, crying about only wanting one thing and it’s apple juice…and guess what you’re out of.

You’ve barely taken care of yourself today either, only eating breakfast and drinking that tea after the phone call with Austin. You’re close to calling Jillian to come over because you’ve been texting her with updates throughout the day of what’s been going on. You feel like there’s this…sense of weakness pulling at the bottom of your ribcage preventing you from doing that though.

Is it so terrible that you feel like you can’t handle a sick toddler on your own? You thought you could but it’s…

You want to call Austin but that that’s just out of the question. You can handle this, right? You repeat that like a mantra in your head as Luci starts crying, again, over the fact that she doesn’t have another cup of juice. Just got to take one crisis at a time, slow breaths, think.

“I texted Aunt Jillian, okay?” You try to soothe her, feeling a lump in your own throat because you’re starting to feel exhausted. “She should be here soon, she’s gonna have your juice.”

Almost as if your words are an invited promise, you hear a key slide into the front door and the knob jiggle. Turning around and letting out a breath of relief, you’re about to tell Jillian she owes her big time…when Austin comes through with grocery bags on his arms and…

You’re so confused and yet overwhelmed and relieved and so many other emotions at the same time that you just kind of blink at him with a slightly open mouth. It takes two seconds to connect the dots in your head, obviously Jillian called Austin (because you refused to) and now he’s here, he’s home with apple juice and a bunch of other things given how heavy the bags look as he sets them down on the floor in the living room to walk towards you.

“God,” You mumble, shaking your head, Luci’s crying coming to a slight pause as she realizes daddy’s home. “You did not have to come all the way home.” Not that you’re not grateful, of course you are but—

“Don’t,” Austin says gently, moving to press a kiss to your forehead before taking Luci into his arms. You feel so thankful that your knees almost give out from under you. You let out a slow breath and hold onto the back of the couch, watching him.

“Alright, hey,” Austin soothes, picking up one of the grocery bags while you grab the other one and take it into the kitchen with him. Luci has her arms wrapped tightly around her dad’s neck, his hand moving up and down her back as he maneuvers the juice out to set on the kitchen counter.

You reach for the apple juice, grabbing her cup from the living room and filling it up. Austin gives you a gentle smile, his fingers brushing yours after the lid is secured and hands it over to Luci. The crying stops when she begins sipping on it.

“Easy baby,” Austin croons, “Nice and slow.” He smooths some of her hair out of her face before looking over at you. He mimics the same motion, curling some of your hair around your ear, thumb tracing along your jawline. “You alright?”

A soft laugh leaves your lips before you shake your head—you hate how much you feel like a failure even though you know that’s not the case. Austin would have been in the same boat if he would have been left alone with Luci while she was sick. You two work so much on a partnership, on co-parenting, on depending on one another, a team. There’s no weakness in accepting that you needed help? That you couldn’t do it on your own.

“Just exhausted,” You sniffle, running a hand over your face.

Austin takes a step forward and wraps an arm around you, tucking you into the other side of his chest. You close your eyes, swallowing over a lump in your throat as you breathe in the scent of his cologne and skin sticking to his clothes.

Pulling back after a moment, you put your hair up into a high bun, giving Luci a small smile because she seems to be a twinge better in Austin’s arms with her juice,

“Took her temp again an hour ago, it was still high but not as high as this morning. She needs a bath, didn’t get to it yet.”

Austin nods, rubbing his hand along your shoulder blades, massaging in small circles. “Alright, let me take over, you can get yourself somethin’ to eat, lay down.”

There’s a small sound of protest but Austin’s determined to take care of both of you…and besides, it’s probably best that he taps in, Luci’s been wanting him all day, she might be more pliable under his insistence. You give a soft nod and Austin leans in to press a kiss to your cheek, carrying Luci down the hall towards the bathroom.

Running your hands over your face, you make yourself a quick bowl of soup and take yourself to the bedroom to lie down. A few hours later, you barely feel the bed shift as Austin crawls in, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you closer.

--

You know how lucky you are that Austin’s working with a director that gives him a bit of flex time—a few hours in the morning or evening that he can be away from set while other scenes are shot that he’s not in so he can take care of his family. Luci bounces back quick and within a day or so, she’s back to her usual antics and silly personality. Only downside is…

“I am not sick.” You insist, pushing away the thermometer as Austin tries to take your temperature.

A soft, amused laugh leaves his lips because right. He’s sitting next to you in bed as you’re propped against some pillows along the headboard. You have a bit of a scratchy throat but…what’s the big deal? It’s only because you’ve been yelling over Luci’s crying over the past few days.

“If you’re not sick,” He brushes his hand through your hair, getting it out of your face, “What’s the harm in lettin’ me take your temp?”

Rolling your eyes and definitely grumbling about it, you allow Austin to put the thermometer in your ear. Meanwhile, Luci rushes into the room, wearing a pair of black leggings and her favorite seafoam green knitted sweater that you found at a thrift store. It’s got buttons in the shape of fish and needless to say, she’s named them all. She climbs the steps that are at the bottom of the bed so she can come onto the mattress any time she wants, throwing herself onto your torso.

You let out a soft oof noise at the weight of her, running your hand through her staticky hair.

“I give mama a hug.” She declares.

“That’s nice,” Austin agrees, looking at the thermometer after it beeps, “Because mama definitely has a fever.”

You groan lightly and gently tap Austin’s cheek when he leans in to give you a soft kiss—the last thing you want is for him to get sick too.

“Can cross this off our parent bingo.” He teases and regardless that you don’t feel very well? He always manages to make you smile.

Standing from the bed, he scoops Luci into his arms, setting her on the floor. “Can you go get mom another blanket from the couch?”

Thrilled at having a task, Luci scoots out of the bedroom, her pattering footsteps echoing in the hallway. Austin adjusts one pillow behind you, checking the time on his phone,

“I can stay for another hour and then I’ll call Jillian, have her come over to take care of Luci.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, hating to put that burden on your best friend but you know there’s nothing else you can do. You’re definitely not the best version of yourself right now. Austin moves to sit down closer to you, near your waist, reaching up to gently take your hand away from your face.

“You’re gonna get wrinkles if you worry so much.” Austin teases.

“Will you still think I’m pretty?” You pout, jutting your lower lip out.

Your husband laughs warmly, cupping both sides of your face to lean down and kiss you. Once Luci brings you a blanket, she crawls back up onto the bed as Austin covers you with it, everyone becoming a solid snuggling pile until Austin has to leave for work.

You’re convinced that there’s not a better medicine out there.

[whatsnewalycat]

Designated Person | Chapter 5

Pairing: Francisco "Catfish" Morales x F!Reader

Chapter 5: Fever

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Series Summary: When posting bail for Frankie Morales, your former employer and former lover, you unwittingly designate yourself as his third party custodian during his pre-trial release. Your often tumultuous relationship with him is given a new set of rules and put to the test. Can the two of you co-exist peacefully, or will you crash and burn?

Word Count: 8.7k+

Content / Warnings: Reader POV, infidelity, past romantic & sexual relationship and related flashbacks, food, viral infection (influenza), respiratory infection, hospitalization, asthma, inhaler, bb girl gets sick, frankie gets to mother hen a little, fever dream, alcohol, bar, heavy angst, not a universe where covid-19 existed, manipulation

Notes: Hey, buddy. If there are any inaccuracies in the realm of medical science and hospitals and all that jazz, let's collectively ignore that, ok? Perfect. Thank you for reading!!!

[ Tag List ] [ AO3 ] [ Spotify Playlist ] [ Series Masterlist ]

Yesterday afternoon, after Emmaleigh returned from school, she complained that her whole body hurt. Alarm bells went off in your head. You studied her face and noticed that her cheeks were rosy and she looked dazed. 

“Are you feeling ok?” you asked, pressing the back of your hand to her hot, sweaty forehead. A grimace rolled across your face, “You’re burning up, Em.”

She barely mumbled a response, then trudged over to the couch and laid down. 

The boys were soon to join her, getting lethargic as their temperatures skyrocketed. All three Howard children took turns coughing their sickness into the air. You did your best to stay away from their germs while you accommodated them, but should have known that the future was already percolating in your immune system. 

“I’ll work from home tomorrow,” Marla told you when she got home, “I just hope they didn’t get you sick.”

Well, guess what?

They got you fucking sick. 

It started with small things: a tight soreness in your throat, aches shooting from deep within your muscles like you did a full body workout the day before. 

When Frankie walked through the front door, he took one look at you in your blanket cocoon on the couch, then at the TV playing King of the Hill, and asked, “What’s wrong?” 

“I think my kids got me sick,” you informed him. The words tickled. A coughing fit erupted in from your chest. 

His boots clunked to the floor, one at a time, as he probed, “You ok?”

“I’m fine,” you shook your head, then swallowed the thickness in your throat. 

“Are you sure?” he took a few steps towards you, narrowing his gaze, “You look like shit.”

“Aww, you’re so sweet,” you deadpanned. 

He approached the couch, brought the back of his hand to your forehead, and grumbled, “You feel warm.” 

“Oh my god. I’m fine,” you groaned, pulling the blanket over your head, “Go away before I get you sick.” 

Frankie sighed and retreated into his bedroom. 

When you woke up this morning, the sky outside was still dark. You were still on the couch, wrapped up in your blanket. A layer of sweat lined your skin, but you shivered from the perceived cold. 

It felt like a fucking Mack truck hit you. 

The first deep morning breath to stretch your lungs caused them to seize. A fit of coughs ripped your body in half. You sat up, struggling to draw breath between each new wave of coughing. 

Frankie wobbled into the living room, wearing just a pair of navy blue boxers, his hair all sleep-mussed, as he sat down beside you and smoothed his palm against your back. His groggy morning voice rumbled from his throat, “You ok?” 

Your entire respiratory tract felt constricted. The tempo of your heart hastened. You shook your head back and forth, shoulders jumping with each cough, and put one hand up in the shape of an L, curling your pointer finger down repeatedly. 

“Do you need your inhaler?” he asked. 

You nodded and managed to gasp out, “Purse—room—”

He jumped to his feet and rushed out of the room and returned a few moments later, elbow deep in your ratty canvas tote bag, muttering under his breath, “How the fuck do you find anything in here?”

Finally, he pulled the inhaler out and you snatched it from him, shaking it for a moment before popping the cap off and sealing your lips around the mouth piece. You inhaled a few puffs of albuterol and felt it start to take effect, lungs calming, shifting their violent spasms into smaller, more manageable hiccups. 

Frankie sat down next to you and rubbed your back in slow, soothing motions. It should have felt good, but the gentle touch sent ripples of pain across your skin. You whimpered, “Everything hurts.”

“You’re not going to work today,” he declared.

“No,” you confirmed, “Marla is with them. Don’t have to go.” 

“I’m staying with you,” he said then.

You pouted, shoulders slumping as you looked over at him, “Don’t—”

Sternness creased his forehead, “It’s not a question.” 

“I can take care of myself,” you protested weakly. 

He raised his eyebrows and blinked at you, as if to reaffirm that this was non-negotiable. 

“Fine,” you murmured in defeat. 

A small, victorious smile crossed his face, “Atta girl.”

> MARLA: > We all tested positive for Influenza B, FYI. How are you feeling? 

< ME: < I think I caught it :( 

“It’s the flu,” you inform Frankie in a croaky murmur. 

His eyes don’t part from the TV when he says, “Told ya.”

You want to shoot a glare at him, but find your energy reserves depleted. The bones in your wrist cry out when you tuck the phone beneath your pillow. A whine squeaks from your raw, tight throat. 

“Do you wanna lay down in your room? Might be comfier there,” he suggests. 

“No TV,” you grumble. 

His mouth folds into a thoughtful frown. He taps his fingers against his lips, then looks over at you, “I can set it up in there.” 

You study his face, “Really?”

“Sure,” he shrugs, then rises to his feet, “Need help getting up?”

“No,” you insist, but when you sit upright, your head starts to spin and throb. With a pathetic whimper, you pinch the bridge of your nose. 

Frankie stares down at you expectantly, but a spin cycle tumbles your brain in its centrifuge. You can’t stop it. He holds his hand out, a wordless offer of assistance. 

You swat it away. 

Frustration boils your blood. A wave of wet coughs bubbles up your throat. 

I don’t want your fucking help. I can do this myself. I don’t fucking need you. 

You try to stand, but your legs are wobbly and collapse under pressure. Your hands ball into fists and you hit the couch cushion on either side of you as hard as you can, which isn’t very hard, then choke out between coughs, “I—fucking—hate this—”

Frankie’s face sags with pity, “Do you need—”

“No!” you try to yell with authority, but it comes out this pitiable, gurgling, wheezy word that crushes your spirit. 

Your shoulders shake from the force of your coughing. You slump over into yourself and bury your face in your hands. 

Frankie returns to his seat beside you and hands you the inhaler from the coffee table. You grab it and take a few puffs, then try to calm down as the albuterol works at your inflamed airway. 

“We should go see the doctor,” he says quietly. 

You manage to meet his gaze and pout. His eyes are pleading, but you shake your head, “I’m fine.”

“You can barely breathe—”

“I’m fine,” you repeat. 

His jaw cocks to the side and he grumbles, “You’re so fucking stubborn, you know that?” 

“Never heard that before—” you take a gulp of air, “in my life.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he chuckles, then stands again, “Ready?”

You nod and get to your feet, the sweat-drenched throw blanket draped over your shoulders like a cape as you tiptoe through the house, to your bedroom, where you collapse on top of your covers. 

Frankie talks to you while he gets everything set up, muttering things about fevers and breathing. Your eyes follow him as he does this, but you ignore his reminders to drink from the water bottle on your side table and take the Tylenol he set next to it, because you’re pretty sure he’s not even real. 

After getting the TV set up, he turns it on and resumes your King of the Hill marathon. He makes you sit up to take the Tylenol and chase it with a half a bottle of water, then leaves for a few minutes. He returns holding your phone in one hand and a bowl of soup in the other. 

You grimace at both items, but take your phone. Frankie sets the steaming bowl of soup on your nightstand and asks, “Do you want me to leave?”

“Aren’t you—” you yawn, cough, then finish your sentence, “worried you’ll get sick?” 

He frowns and shakes his head, shoving his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, “I got a flu shot.” 

Your skepticism must be etched into your face, because shifts his weight to one leg and explains further, “Angie makes us get them every year.”

“She’s so responsible,” you admire. 

He shifts his weight to the other leg and runs a hand through his messy hair. Your head swims, and again, you’re struck by the sense that this isn’t real. You’re flattened into 2D. A flipbook cartoon. Everything seems to be moving in slow motion and far away.

“I get it. Why you chose her,” you mumble breathlessly, snuggling in closer to your pillow and blanket, letting your eyelids flutter closed, “So pretty, and fun, and has her shit together,” a cough interrupts you, and when you regain your stamina, you hum, “She’s awesome. I get it.” 

Frankie doesn’t say anything, but as you’re drifting to sleep, you feel him tug your covers out from underneath you and tuck you into bed. 

When your eyes open again, the room is much darker. You sit upright and look around. Everything seems familiar, yet completely foreign. Your bedroom, but veiled. Hazy, almost. 

And quiet. 

So fucking quiet that your pulse echoes in your head. 

“Frankie?” you call out into the darkness of your open doorway. 

He doesn’t respond. 

Unease settles in your gut, heavy and hard. A boulder lodged in your intestines. You swing your feet over the side of your bed and press the soles of your feet against the hardwood floor. The floorboards creak when you tiptoe across the dimly-lit room to the doorway. 

Then you pause and study it. 

It looks ominous for some reason. Bigger than it should be. 

As you step through it, you move through a slick, shiny membrane, which gives way to your entry with little resistance. It leaves a gummy residue on your skin. You try to wipe the remnants from your arms, grimacing at how viscous the clear fluid feels against your hands. 

This is when you notice your surroundings are no longer dark. You squint up and look around.

Sunlight pours in through a windowed dome that stretches high above you. Beyond it lies a long, glass tunnel. Moisture from the humid air settles on your skin atop the layer of doorway residue. 

Trees and bushes of all shapes and sizes fill the space. Some with thick, waxy leaves. Some adorned with colorful, blooming flowers. Crowds of faceless people mull about on a terracotta path that winds through the enclosure. None of them seem to notice you standing there in your pajamas. 

The butterflies notice you, though. 

Monarchs, tiger-like stripes sectioning off orange, their wings tipped with a thick black outline and dots of white. Paper Kites, their chalky white wings appearing luminous in the sunshine, black spots and stripes contrasting the bright glow. Owl butterflies, huge by comparison, their wings decorated with circular patterns in many shades of brown. 

Dozens of others flutter around you, a wide variety of species, each one breathtaking in their own right. A few land on your arm when you hold it up.

You smile, then the familiarity of this place dawns on you. The butterfly house. 

Frankie took you here occasionally when you were still together. Sometimes with Sarah, sometimes without. Far enough away from Kissimmee and Orlando that he wouldn’t run into anyone he knew. 

When the two of you were here, it felt like you were a normal couple. He held your hand while you walked the paths. Murmured sweet nothings into your ear as you marveled at the foliage and butterflies. 

Your attention snags on something in the path ahead of you, yanking you from your bittersweet nostalgia.

A white t-shirt stretched across his broad, hunched-up shoulders. Dark curls poking out from beneath his ragged hat. His slightly off-kilter, halting gait as he pushes a stroller in the opposite direction. 

“Frankie!” you call. 

He doesn’t react. Nobody reacts. 

You start after him, calling his name over and over again, but he doesn’t turn towards your voice. Your stomach starts to churn. Swollen, gray clouds roll across the sky and tone the conservatory a dim, moody gray. 

“Frankie, what the fuck?!” you pant when you catch up to him, vocal chords wavering, giving away the state of your frayed nerves. You grab his arm and spin him around, then take a step back. 

It’s not Frankie.

The older man before you has a thick white mustache brimming his frail, wrinkled lips. His shortly-trimmed white hair stands straight up from his scalp. You have to crane your neck up to meet his cold, gray eyes. 

The smile that stretches across his face churns your stomach. Goosebumps prick your skin. 

Your eyes flick from his to the stroller. 

It’s empty. 

You shake your head, taking another step back. Hot tears pool in your eyes and turn the world around you blurry. 

When you look back to the man, he seems even taller. Your heart hammers in your chest. One message broadcasts through your brain: GET THE FUCK OUT. 

You retreat backwards. Only a few slow steps at first, but your feet pick up the pace quickly when you see his arms. 

His fucking arms. 

They stretch after you, but his body doesn’t move. 

Panic spikes your bloodstream. 

You sprint in the opposite direction, away from him, your feet pounding against the empty pathway. Everything is dark now. Like the sun burnt out. 

His slender fingers dig into your arms. He clenches down, pulling you back towards him, dragging you over the terracotta pathway as you struggle to escape, screaming, “No no no, No! NO! N—”

Your body starts to shake, then your eyes snap open and meet Frankie’s, all wide and glazed with distress. He’s hovering above you, hands on your shoulders, his voice hoarse as he whispers, “Hey, are you ok?”

When you meet his gaze and understand that he’s real, your face crumbles, and you try to sob with relief, but your breath catches in your throat. Your hands fly to your neck. The gasps that are able to pass through the constricted airway are shallow. 

It feels like you’re a fish out of water. 

He grabs your inhaler from the nightstand and shakes it, flinging the cap off with one hand as the other guides you to sit up. You take a few puffs, and it makes it easier, but your throat is still tight. Lungs still feel three times too small. 

“We’re going to the hospital.” 

It’s not a plea, or a question, or a request like it was earlier. He’s making a statement of fact.

He marches from the room and comes back with the straps of your purse held up in a stranglehold, “Is your insurance card in here?” 

You nod and swallow hard. It hurts like your throat is an open wound. Tears burn behind your eyes and roll down your cheeks. Your breaths come in short little wheezes that unleash a flood of adrenaline into your heart. 

“Ok,” he says, strides to the nightstand, throws your inhaler and cell phone inside, slings the cross-body strap over his shoulder, and looks at you. 

His face droops momentarily and his eyes get all watery and red, then he hardens his features and tells you, “It’s gonna be ok, sweetheart, ok?”

You shake your head and open your mouth to let your worries spill from your lips, but nothing comes out except a gasp for oxygen. 

“Right now I just need you to try and stay calm. I know it’s hard but you have to try, alright?” 

His voice is low and quivering. You search his face and understand that he’s worried, too, so you nod.

“Ok, let’s go, mamacita,” he rumbles.

You want to tell him that he can’t drive. That he can’t risk going to fucking jail because of you. But you don’t. You can’t. 

Frankie pulls the blankets back and the air feels like ice against your skin. Shivers shoot across your body, making your teeth chatter. He lifts you from the bed with a groan. You hook your arms around his neck and try your hardest to hold on.  

When you get to the Emergency Room, you’re barely coherent, so Frankie fills out the intake paperwork for you. He talks to the triage nurse, who brings you back to be checked out.  

Everything sort of blurs from there.

The nurses check your vitals, take some swabs, and ask a bunch of questions that, between your foggy mind and Frankie, are mostly answered. A doctor comes in and talks to the two of you, returning shortly thereafter to advise that you’re being admitted to the hospital for overnight treatment and observation. 

You’re wheeled to another department and hooked up to an IV, an oxygen tank, and all kinds of different monitors. Your hospital room is like a revolving-door of medical personnel, but Frankie holds steadfast by your side throughout the chaos. 

During a moment of quiet, when just the two of you remain in the room, you look at him. 

He sits in a squeaky armchair he pulled up next to your bed, elbows resting on his knees, chin propped up in his palm, staring up at the TV as he flips through the limited channels on hospital cable. 

You swallow, then clear your throat and croak out, “Frankie?”

His eyebrows shoot up and he turns to meet your eyes in question. 

“Can you—hand me—my phone?” 

“Yeah,” he leans over to grab your purse off the couch, sifting through it for a moment before fishing out your cell phone and handing it to you. 

When you grab it from him, your hand drops to your side. You blink slowly at the sight, unable to comprehend why you can’t lift it. Your brow furrows and you frown at Frankie, whose features are all creased with concern. 

“Do—do you need help?” he asks. 

It’s like your bones are both weightless and infinitely dense. Your head is swimming but a deep fatigue keeps you pinned to the bed. You manage to nod. 

He plucks the phone from your tenuous grasp and probes further, “Do you… want me to text people to let them know?”

You nod. 

“Sisters, brother, Mom, Dad, all them?” 

You nod. 

“Marla?”

You nod. 

“Rory?”

You scrunch up your nose and shrug. 

“Anyone else? Friends?” 

You pause to think about this, but mostly you’re just thinking about how sad it is that your only friends that aren’t family are him and Marla. You shake your head, then furrow your brow and rasp, “Ralph?” 

“I told him what’s going on already,” he informs you, then inquires, “What’s—uh, what’s your passcode?” 

Your shoulders slump and your guts twist when you realize you have to tell him this embarrassing information. Something you never thought he’d have an opportunity to discover. You swallow hard, wincing at the pain from your tight throat muscles, then admit, “07–25–19”

He searches your face as his brow creases, eyes softening into a pained expression, “Sarah’s birthday?”

All you can do is shrug. A testament to how pathetic you feel. 

He holds your gaze for another beat, then drops it to your phone and starts tapping away. You let fatigue curl around your consciousness and drift off into sleep. 

Occasionally you wake and hear him talking to someone, either to a person on the phone or to hospital staff in the room. Once, you wake and think he’s talking to himself, his forehead pressed against his clasped hands. 

Later, you swear you hear a doctor tell Frankie, “Your wife seems to be stable, but we will have to keep her for a few days to continue treatment.”

Your eyes blink open and you see Frankie nod in acknowledgment, then ask, “Is she gonna be ok?”

“She’ll be just fine,” comes the response, and you watch tension melt from his shoulders. 

You want to stay awake, to ask him questions like: A few days? and Did the doctor just call me your fucking wife?

More so, you desperately want to reach out and hold his hand. You want to tell him you’ll be ok, to thank him for taking care of you. To thank him for caring at all. 

But your body holds you hostage. Your joints are all super glued in place. Muscles disconnected from your brain. A weight bears down on you, tugging at your eyelids, lulling you back to sleep. 

The next time you wake, the room is dark and quiet. 

First, you hear the equipment hooked up to your body. The faint beeping of monitors. Gears whizzing and turning, the buzz of machines at work. 

Then, you hear a snore. You turn and see Frankie still sitting in the armchair at your bedside. Your heart jumps in your chest and your throat lets out a little yelp of surprise.

Frankie starts awake at the noise, his legs jerking upwards in reaction, falling from their place propped up on your hospital bed. A stiff beige blanket falls from his chest as he sits up straight. He takes a deep breath, which you envy, and looks around the room, then blinks sleepily at you. 

“Hi,” you whisper. It comes out scratchy and dry. The tickle in your throat makes you start coughing. Every heaving, choked breath shoots a wave of pain across your body. 

He grabs a hard plastic water bottle with the hospital’s logo printed across the center and holds it in front of you. You lean forward to seal your lips around the straw, take half a dozen big swallows of ice cold water, then lay back. 

“That was fucking awesome,” you gasp. For the first time since you’ve been admitted, it doesn’t feel like something is actively squeezing the air from your lungs. 

Frankie chuckles at this, then brings himself closer to meet your eyes in the darkness, asking you in a low, quiet voice, “How’re you feeling?” 

“Like I could run a mile,” you joke. 

He smiles wide and genuine, dimples pricking his cheeks, and shakes his head, “There she is.” 

Warmth spreads across your chest and you hum, reaching out to him with your non-intubated hand. He takes it in his own, grazing his thumb across your knuckles as he sighs, “You scared the shit out of me today.”

“Sorry,” you murmur. Your eyes meet his and hold steady. There’s a spark of something in the space between you. It’s sweet and meaningful and makes your bones buzz. Like a battery clicks into place and completes the circuit. 

He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, then shuts it when a nurse toddles into the room. Your heart jumps like she caught you in the middle of doing something you weren’t supposed to be doing. On instinct, you drop Frankie’s hand and look at her with wide eyes. 

The plump, middle-aged woman just gives you a cheery smile and says, “Oh, you’re up! Do you mind if I turn the lights on and check you out?” 

You shrug, “Sure.”

Frankie excuses himself to go to the bathroom. The nurse takes your blood pressure and presses a stethoscope to your bare back through the parted hospital gown, humming and noting her findings in your chart. She checks all the readings on the machines you’re hooked up to and jots those down as well. 

She leaves for a moment to get a new bag of IV fluid. You glance around the sterile, sad looking room. It holds an air of faux comfort. Mass-produced landscape artwork framed on the wall, furniture all upholstered in a shiny, pastel green fabric, countertops and floors as white and spotless as porcelain. 

You squint at something on a tabletop in the corner. A vase of yellow roses. The nurse re-enters the room and hangs the bag of clear fluid on your IV pole. 

You blink at the flowers a few times, just to make sure you’re not imagining them, then ask her, “Are those for me?”

The nurse’s face twists up in amusement at your question, and she snorts, “No, they’re for the other sick girl.” 

Her sarcasm is justified. 

Frankie walks back into the room then, and you ask, “Who sent those?” 

“Rory,” he tells you, crossing paths with the nurse as she leaves. 

Your lip curls, “Oh.”

“Christ, do you even like him?” he chuckles, but studies your face in a serious way that makes you think he genuinely wants to know. 

The answer would require more breath than you’re able to give at the moment. 

Rory. 

You should like him. Hell, you should be falling head over heels for him. He’s dedicated, confident, loyal, respectful, and attractive. His dick is big and he knows how to use it. He takes you out on dates and performs chivalrous gestures, like holding doors open, pulling your chair out, and bringing you flowers.

He checks off so many boxes. But you don’t feel that spark, that thing, that Diane Barrows talked about in It Takes Two: 

That can't eat, can't sleep, reach for the stars over the fence, world series kind of love.

That’s what you want. 

And every time you see Rory, you think maybe it’ll change, that he’ll grow on you, but your discomfort in his presence only seems to get worse. You think you should probably dump him, but you’re not sure if it’s the right call or not. 

Because what if you’re just so used to the exhilaration of your toxic relationship with Frankie, that you don’t yet understand how it feels to be treated right? What if you’re just in need of repair? What if you just need to learn to be in a normal relationship? 

Because what if Rory is the last chance you have for someone to love you? 

So, instead of answering Frankie’s question, you observe, “That chair looks uncomfortable.” 

“Correct, it’s really fucking uncomfortable,” he nods and lets out a little chuckle. 

Your teeth catch on your tongue and you clamp down on it a few times as you consider this, then release it and tell him quietly, “You don’t have to stay.”

“I know,” he leans forward, pressing his fingers to his lips, and shrugs, “I—I want to, though.”

Your heart skips a beat. Heat bubbles up the middle of you, creeping up your neck, onto your cheeks. 

You reach out and take his hand in yours, then pull it closer. He lets you do this, and his brows knit together as he stares down at your interlaced fingers. Neither of you say anything. You wriggle onto your side and yawn. Fatigue sinks into your muscles and tugs at your eyelids.

“I don’t think I’d trust myself to be there while you're here,” he admits after a while. 

You blink your eyes all the way open and study his face, “Why not?”

Frankie shrugs, “You’d be here alone. I’d have no idea what the hell is going on with you,” he scoffs and shakes his head, “Fuck that.” 

A sleepy smile stretches across your face, “You’re sweet.”

He doesn’t say anything, just grins and holds your gaze. Your stomach flips and you ask, “Wanna sleep up here?”

“I’m good here,” he responds with a yawn, pulling the scratchy looking blanket up to his chin as he kicks his feet up onto your hospital bed, “Thanks, though.” 

It sort of makes you sad, but your eyes flutter closed and you murmur, “You’d get tangled up anyway.” 

“What?” he laughs. 

“The tubes,” you explain, “Fuckin’ everywhere.” 

He snorts and squeezes your hand. Silence settles over the room. Your mind wanders to the fragments of conversations you overheard between intervals of sleep. 

“Frankie,” you murmur. 

He grunts in response. 

“Did you tell them—that we’re married?” 

It’s quiet for a moment, and you’re not sure he’s still awake, until he says, “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t want them to make me leave,” he says. 

You hum in acknowledgment. Ignore your heart’s stuttering beat. 

“Wha’d my family say?”

“Everyone said they hope you feel better soon. Asked us to keep them posted. Leah’s gonna call to see how you’re doing tomorrow.” 

You yawn and nod, then ask, “Are you leaving tomorrow?” 

“You tryin’ to get rid of me?” he chuckles softly. 

“Mmm no,” you tug at your clasped hands and tuck them under your cheek, “But, Sarah—”

“It’s fine, mariposa. Just get some rest.” 

The nickname twists your stomach like a dishrag. You haven’t heard it cross his lips in ages. The one he used in those tender moments where you felt him let you into his heart. Only to be shoved away at the next given opportunity.

Fuck, it was like clockwork. 

There was one day you were laying next to him in his bed, in the spot his wife slept each night. He traced your naked body with his fingertips and rumbled, “You’re the only one who understands me, mariposa.” 

His eyes were warm and glowing in the sunlight streaming through the window. When he met your gaze, you saw something there. Adoration etched into his features, radiating through his touch as it skated across your skin. 

“Really?” you breathed. 

He searched your face and nodded solemnly. Drew you closer and kissed your lips. Your chest ached deep and wide with love. 

Not a crush. Not lust. Not infatuation. 

Real, true, pure fucking love. 

So you told him. 

“I love you.”

His touch ceased. He pulled back, furrowing his brow. You watched his face shift from confusion, to surprise, to worry. 

Then he shook his head and whispered, “I… can’t.”

It felt like you were dropped from a 10-story building and pancaked onto the sidewalk. Your nerves started to buzz and twist. You didn’t know what to do, how to convey the panic building in your chest. So you stared at him. 

“You—you know we can’t be together like that,” he said, his tone warm and reassuring like the words he was saying weren’t ripping you apart, his wide eyes frantically scanning your face, “Right? I mean, I’m—I’m married, and Angie—I love her—”

The knife in your gut twisted. 

“I know,” you nodded, flashing a reassuring smile, but rolled out of bed and started to get dressed, facing away from him so he couldn’t see the tears brimming your eyelids. 

“Come on, you knew what you were getting into when this started.” 

Salt in your wounds. 

Obviously you knew he was married, and he never made you promises of running away together. But you really thought that this was more to him than sex. 

You swore you felt it. 

When it was just the two of you, he would joke with you, and cuddle with you, and kiss your forehead, and hold your hand, and tell you things… intimate things.

Things about his upbringing. About his absent, alcoholic father, and his mother who did her best but struggled desperately. How he was an only child split between households when his mom finally had enough and divorced his dad. 

He told you about his time in the service, time he spent overseas fighting a war for his country, then for the highest bidder. How he took lives, destroyed communities, and sold years of his life to make the rich even richer. 

He told you about how, just a year prior to that afternoon in his bed, he went on an independent mission to South America with his brothers in arms. It went tits up. He watched one of his best friends get shot in the fucking head. They had to drag his body through the Andes, along with millions of dollars seized from a drug kingpin. Most of the money was lost, and the residual earnings of this expedition were given to the deceased’s family. 

He told you about how, he realized afterwards, the cost wasn’t worth it. The value of his friend’s life exceeded that of anything they would have brought home. 

He told you this in a matter-of-fact way. His voice was calm, shoulders level, back straight. And his eyes… they were so far away. Like he was there again. 

You recognized yourself in his detached gaze. In the subtle tensing of his body. 

You thought his telling you these things meant he trusted you with them. You thought him telling you these things meant he was placing his heart in your hands. 

And there were other things. 

He held you like he was abandoned at sea and you were a life-preserver buoying him to the surface of choppy waves. He kissed you like he was starved for affection. Fucked you like it was his last day on Earth. 

You thought it meant something to him. 

This is it, you thought, this is love. 

That can't eat, can't sleep, reach for the stars over the fence, world series kind of love.

You were astounded that you could have read him so wrong. Of all the things you’ve been uncertain of in life, you genuinely didn’t think this was one of them. It flipped your worldview upside down. 

You felt naïve. Foolish. 

Of course he can’t love you.

Of course he doesn’t love you. 

“I know,” you managed to choke out while pulling your shirt over your head. 

“Hey,” he said softly, trying to get you to look at him. 

“It’s ok, Frankie, really,“ you shook your head and tucked your hair behind your ear, then tiptoed into the bathroom, where you allowed yourself to cry silently for five minutes. 

When you emerged, he was sitting on the couch drinking whiskey. Sarah was still napping. You sequestered yourself in the kitchen, painfully aware of Frankie’s presence in the next room. 

When Angie got home, he kissed her hello right in front of you. Made a big show of it. 

And you hated her. 

Envy is probably more accurate than hate, you think, in retrospect. At the time, all you knew was it seared your insides like hellfire when he touched her. You wanted to dig your fingernails into her cheeks and rip her pretty face right off of her skull.

You picked up your purse and plastered on a mask of neutrality, “Well, I’m off. Have a good weekend, guys.” 

It almost slipped when your gaze caught on Frankie’s. He wore this pained expression like this hurt for him, too. 

You broke eye contact and rushed out the door to your car. Once inside, you screamed at the top of your lungs into the steering wheel. Your throat burned raw with territorial rage, and rejection, and heartbreak. 

You kept thinking of that fucking look on his face. That fucking nickname. His faux intimacy. Your stupidity in thinking he felt the same as you. 

On your way home, you went to your favorite spot, Bubba’s. 

The establishment’s owner and namesake, Bubba, was working, as he often was on Friday nights. You selected one of the many empty barstools and sat down, running your hands over your face, releasing a deep sigh. 

Bubba nodded in your direction, “Whiskey coke?”

His voice was gravelly and carried bass from deep in his chest. 

“Yeah,” you muttered and dug your phone from your purse, then sent a text to Leah, and another to Marlene, telling them about the recent turn of events in your pathetic life. 

Bubba kept his sharp blue eyes on you as he made your drink, burning a hole into your profile. You noticed, and bunched your fist against your face, trying to conceal your puffy eyelids, your wet cheeks, your shaky breath. 

“Do I needta kick someone’s ass, er what?” he asked as he placed your whiskey coke on a coaster in front of you. Bubba laced his wiry gray eyebrows together and leaned against the bar, beer belly pressing into the counter. 

You snorted at him and shook your head, avoiding his gaze by looking up at the sports news show on the TV, “I’m fine.”

“Ok,” he shrugged in a disbelieving manner, “You just let me know if you need anythin’, darlin’.” 

“Sure thing,” you murmured, raising the straw to your lips. 

When your phone started ringing, you were three drinks deep. Your mind was starting to bend and blur, the booze supplying a much needed reprieve from reality. 

Your heart stuttered when you saw his name populate your phone screen. Then your face flushed with indignation. 

“What?” you answered in an icy tone. 

“Where are you?” he asked. His words were all huddled together. Spoken too close to the speaker. He was drunk. 

“Why do you care?” you scoffed. 

“Needta talkta you about somethin’,” he mumbled, “Where are you?”

“You sound shitfaced, Frankie,” you frowned at your empty drink, stabbed the ice with your straw, then looked around and locked eyes with Bubba. He nodded in acknowledgement and started to make you a new drink. 

“Jus—jus—jus, shut the fuck up and tell me where you are—”

“Hey, fuck you,” you yelled in return, unable to stop the rage from bubbling up inside you. 

A big sigh crackled over the speaker, then he adjusted his tone to something less severe, “Sorry—soooo sorry, sweetheart. But I needta talk to you, please.”

“You’re talking to me now, Francisco.”

There was a long pause, then he mumbled, “I wanna see you.”

“You’re not driving.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I miss you.”

Tightness radiated across your chest. Heat tingled up your throat, into your sinuses. You swallowed hard. 

“Please, baby,” he croaked, “Please.”

“Bubba’s,” you sighed, then hung up. 

Frankie strode through the door ten minutes later. His movements were overly fluid, spilling over the edges of his body’s limits when he came to sit next to you, “Hey.”

Bubba eyed Frankie from afar, but didn’t approach him to ask if he wanted a drink.

“Please tell me you didn’t drive here,” you hissed, searching his face. 

“I didn’t drive here,” he grinned, crossing his arms, leaning forward onto the bar. 

“Frankie—” you protested. 

“No, wait—wait, listen,” he grabbed your hand and kissed your palm. 

You winced at the sharp pain that twisted your heart. He didn’t notice, just pressed your unresponsive hand against his cheek, against the grain of his patchy beard, and drew his eyebrows together, “I’m sorry.”

“You already said that,” you blinked. 

“Don’t be mad at me, sweetheart,” his voice was raspy and low as he searched your face with those puppy dog eyes that tugged at your heart strings, “Please, I don’t want you to be mad at me.”

You released a heavy sigh, “I’m not mad at you, Frankie. I just—I don’t know, I thought…” 

Your shoulders slumped as you dropped your gaze to your drink. 

“Hey,” he squeezed your hand, kissed your palm, and pressed it against his cheek again, “What we have’s really special to me. But I—”

“Can’t, I know,” you mumbled and pulled your hand away. 

He cocked his jaw back and forth, then leaned closer and asked, “So is this it then? Are you done with me?” 

You knew that if you said yes and he’d accept it. This would be over and you could walk away with your dignity still intact. You could find a new job and gracefully bow out of the Morales household. 

You knew that if you said yes you’d never have him again. Never again would you feel the heat of his desire, or hear the joy of his laughter, or taste the sweetness of his affection. You knew that you’d be forfeiting any chance to make him fall in love with you. 

It was so desperate and raw, the way you wanted him to love you. 

“I should be the one asking you that,” you rolled your head on your shoulders to look at him. 

He held your gaze and furrowed his brow, “Why would I be done with you?” 

You scoffed, “Because I’m apparently a fucking idiot.”

“Jesus Christ, you’re not an idiot,” he groaned, then draped his arm around the back of your barstool, leaning close, “You are clever, and—and beautiful, and—”

His compliments flipped your stomach upside down. You raised your eyebrows, “Ok—”

“Shhh,” he pressed a finger to your lips, “Let me finish.”

You swatted his hand away playfully, while he just grinned and leaned closer, “And sweet, and generous, and funny, and kind of a fucking brat, honestly—”

“Excuse me?!” you gasped. 

“—But I like that about you! I do. You’re fucking amazing,” he told you, and by now his breath was hot against your cheek, and he murmured, “I don’t want you to go anywhere, sweetheart. I mean that.”

You met his gaze and held it. A palpable energy flowed between his body and yours. His eyes flicked down to your lips and a rumble sounded from the back of his throat. 

Then he kissed you. It was this slow, lingering kind of kiss that only made you want more. You balled his shirt in your fist and tugged at it, kissing him deeper, harder, more urgent.

Kissing was like that with him. Hungry. Passionate. Thrilling. 

He stood from the barstool to get closer to you, to get a better angle against your lips. His fingertips dug into your waist and filled you with a hot, gooey ache. 

“Stay with me tonight,” you breathed against his mouth, “Please.”

He nodded, “I can do that.”

It would happen almost every time. You would misread his affection and lust for love, get too deep, pry yourself open. Only for him to remind you of your place in his life: a mistress. 

That’s all you were. 

And now… you’re friends. 

These heated sparks of something more you think you feel from him, it’s wishful thinking. 

You let go of his hand and roll over to face the opposite direction. 

When you’re sure you hear his breathing slow to a pattern indicative of sleep, you release the hurt held hostage in your body. The way you allow yourself to cry is cautious and guarded. Quiet, metered sniffles as tears roll hot down your cheeks. Only once do you lose yourself, choking out an audible sob that thankfully doesn’t seem to wake him. 

You’re not sure exactly when, but eventually, exhaustion wins over your agitated body and you drift into unconsciousness. 

Leah calls you sometime after breakfast and your AM antiviral infusion, but before lunch. When she calls, the room is vacant. Frankie is out with Benny, who’s giving him a ride to your house so he can grab some things.

“Hey,” you answer. 

“Hey, how are you?” Her voice is honeyed and sympathetic. It makes you crinkle your nose. 

“Good,” you answer reflexively, then backtrack, “Well, not good. Y’know.” You laugh nervously and it catches in your throat, making you cough. 

When it ceases, Leah asks, “Do you know when you’ll get discharged?”

“Probably tomorrow. If I keep getting better,” you tell her, looking up at the old game show playing on TV, then admit, “It was spooky.”

“It sounds like it. Frankie was freaking out when I talked to him.”

You frown, “He was?”

“Yeah,” she chuckles, then stops and says, “Sorry, it’s not funny.”

“No, it’s hilarious that I–couldn’t breathe,” you scoff and roll your eyes, then inquire further, “How was he freaking out?”

“Well, I told him I’m a nurse, right? And he just starts asking me all these questions about asthma, and the flu, and asking if he waited too long to take you, all that,” she stops and takes a sip of, what you’re assuming is, coffee, then continues, “It was kind of sweet.”

You hum and nod, even though she can’t see you.

“I was expecting him to be a total dick from what you’ve told me about him. He’s the married guy, right?” 

“Yeah,” you confirm, glancing over to the armchair he slept in last night, “Since he stopped drinking, it’s… been different. I think. I don’t know,” you shake your head, then bring your attention back to the TV screen, “I can’t trust my judgment with him.” 

“Are you guys—”

“No,” you interject. 

“Did you tell him about the—”

“Nope,” you cut her off again. 

She grumbles in frustration on her end, then sighs, “Are you bringing him to Rachel’s wedding?” 

“Maybe. If he wants to,” you frown as you consider this, “I might have to, actually. With the… parole thing.”

“Since she wants us all there for the whole stinkin’ week, yeah, probably,” Leah scoffs, then adds, “I’m so ready for it to be over with. She’s being a total bridezilla. You know how she gets.”

“Do I ever,” you mutter. 

The door opens, and your eyes flick towards it. Frankie walks in with a backpack slung around his shoulder and nods at you in greeting. His dark curls look damp under his hat, and his gray t-shirt clings to his body in a way that makes heat creep up onto your cheeks. 

Then you notice a brown paper bag crinkled up in one of his hands. The scent of deep-fried food fills the room.  

“Is that Leah?” he asks.

“Is that Frankie?” Leah asks.

“Yeah,” you respond to both of them, then ask Frankie, “Did you bring me food?”

“Yeah,” he grins, holding the bag up like a trophy. Your mouth starts to salivate. 

“I can let you go,” Leah says, “Just wanted to check in with you and see how you’re holding up.”

“Thanks,” you look down at the IV implanted in your hand, “I’ll keep you posted, ok?” 

“Tell Frankie I said hi.”

“I will. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

You hang up and toss the phone aside, “She says hi.”

“I like her, she’s nice,” he drops the backpack to the ground and hands you the bag of greasy food. 

“Fuck yes,” you groan as you pull out flimsy containers of french fries and chicken strips.

“You did not look happy to have oatmeal for breakfast,” he chuckles, then sits in the armchair next to your bed and unzips the backpack, “I brought your book, your notebook, and, um…”

He pulls out a stuffed panda bear. You momentarily forget the fragile state of your lungs and gasp, which pulls a cluster of coughs up through your respiratory system. Through the fit, you reach out and snatch it from his hands. 

It’s plush and squishy and fills you with joy when you hug it to your chest. 

Frankie’s face simultaneously lights up and creases with concern. He leans forward and rubs your back, “Ok, ok, settle down.”

“It’s,” cough, “so,” cough, “cute—”

“I’m under strict orders to tell you Benny helped me pick it out,” Frankie reclines in the chair and crosses his arms over his chest. 

Once you catch your breath, you smirk and waggle your eyebrows at him, teasing, “Oh, really? Benny did that—for me?”

“You’re hilarious,” he rolls his eyes and grabs the TV remote, then kicks his feet up onto the hospital bed. While you eat chicken strips and snuggle your new stuffed animal, he flips through channels, eventually settling on NASCAR, which lulls you back to sleep. 

Tonight, family dinner is taking place in your bed. 

Which sounds sexual, but it’s not. 

You’re freshly discharged from the hospital, and Frankie spent the last two nights sleeping in an armchair, so you agreed that some intensive comfort time was needed. The TV has been playing movies back to back all day, and now the two of you lay under the covers, in your pajamas, with a big pizza box between your bodies. 

When the credits for Fantastic Mr. Fox start, Frankie pauses it and rolls on his side to face you, “We’re still doing this part, right?”

“Yeah,” you yawn and follow his lead, wriggling onto your side, nuzzling against the stuffed panda bear. Your nose crinkles at the greasy pizza box and its remaining 3 slices.

“Hang on,” he mumbles, then sits up and moves the box onto the floor beside him. 

When he returns, he settles closer to you. His dark irises flick about your features, then anchor onto your eyes with intensity. Your stomach flutters and heart swells. 

His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat like he’s preparing it for the words he’s about to say. He takes a deep breath, then confesses, “I really thought I was gonna lose you,” he shakes his head, “And I was… so fucking terrified.” 

The proof is in his voice, low and trembling and unsure. It occurs to you then that this man has faced critical situations, of which the overwhelming majority of people never dream of facing, with the kind of certainty and bravery that got him out alive. He’s not easily shaken. 

But he was scared of losing you. 

“You’re not gonna lose me,” you search his face and reach out to him.

He takes this offering, interweaving his fingers with yours, laying your clasped hands in space between you, “I know that now, but… fuck, I keep thinking about what would have happened if I wasn’t here. If I had gone to work, or—or if I didn’t live here, and things were still...”

His jaw clamps shut and gnashes from side to side as he averts his gaze, “I don’t know. If things were still… bad between us,” his eyes flick to yours and he shakes his head, “I don’t think I could live with that.”

Desperately, you want him to say more. You want him to deconstruct his carefully curated statement and lay it out for you. You want to ask: And what the fuck does that mean exactly? What are you trying to tell me without telling me? 

But you’re still weighed down by the pull of fatigue’s gravity. Your throat is raw and lungs are cramped. Every muscle in your body still holds residual aches and pains. 

Your lips part to speak, but you recant the words in your throat. Instead, you whisper, “Thank you for taking care of me, Frankie.”

“No problem,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting in a sad kind of smirk, before folding down into a frown. His gaze is far away. Thoughtful. He runs his free hand through his mop of dark curls and releases a heavy sigh, “I guess what I’m trying to say is that I care about you a lot. And… these past few weeks, they’ve been really hard,” he furrows his brow, then meets your eyes, “But they’ve also been really good, because I’ve been able to spend them with you.” 

All the air is sucked from your lungs. A cough surfaces from deep in your chest and you smother it in your stuffed panda bear. He watches you and waits patiently for you to recover. 

When you do, you admit quietly, “Did you know that you’re like… my only friend?” 

“I am, really?” he raises his eyebrows. 

A self-deprecating smile stretches across your face as you nod, then shrug, “I mean, Marla and my siblings don’t really count. They pretty much have to tolerate me.”

“And I don’t?” he teases, flashing you a playful grin. 

His comment pokes at a tender spot in your brain. Your lip sticks out in a very real pout and you whimper, “Ouch.”

“Oh, come on,” he chuckles and scoots closer, beckoning you into his arms. You take this olive branch and wriggle into his embrace, letting your forehead rest on his chest as he hugs you and murmurs into your hair, “You know I love you, right?”

Both of your bodies go rigid the second it leaves his mouth. You feel his heart start pounding rapidly against your skin and he stammers, “I—I mean—like a friend—”

You wince at the pang that shoots through your damaged heart. The words you’ve always wanted to hear him say. With a caveat. 

So typical.

Maybe it’s because the flu still has you in its clutches and you’re fucking exhausted, or maybe you’re just becoming numb to it all, but you let out a little snort and say, “I know what you mean.” 

He seems to relax at this. 

Neither of you move from the comfort of this embrace. In fact, you nuzzle in closer to him, letting your heavy eyelids drift closed as you yawn, “I love you, too, Franklin.”

His tongue clicks against his teeth and you feel him shake his head in feigned annoyance. You just know he’s rolling his eyes, too. His irritation makes you grin with satisfaction. 

A heavy fog settles over your bodies. When you start to succumb to it, and you’re right on the edge of sleep, Frankie presses a kiss into the top of your head, then mumbles something unintelligible. 

But before you can respond, dreamland has consumed you.

[ Next Chapter ]

MORE NOTES: Big inspiration for this chapter from the songs "SEVEN" by Rainbow Kitten Surprise and "Nobody Gets Me" by SZA.