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yeyinde · 2 months ago

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caging a wolfdog

Simon Riley x Babysitter!Reader

18+ | groping. dubcon. infidelity. blue-collar Simon in a loveless marriage finds another way to entertain himself when his wife is too busy fucking her Pilates instructor to come home. victim blaming. future wife grooming. breeding. implied contraceptive tampering. spitting/spit kink. gross/mean Simon.

It's something to mend the gap between paying for college tuition, and surviving on more than air and the stale crackers they give out at the food bank. A job that takes up less space in your calendar than studying for finals or finishing up last-minute projects due before the end of the term.

And, in all honesty, the kid makes it easy.

Tommy doesn't fuss like most his age. He sits on the couch with his iPad perched on his knees, watching grown men scream in front of a camera for hours. Sometimes he stirs, asks for snacks. Something to drink. But mostly, he just scrolls YouTube Shorts, and puffs out peals of childish laughter at whatever he finds amusing.

It's the easiest job you'd ever had, really. He has no complaints about eating chicken nuggets and Kraft dinner on the nights when you stay later and have to cook something for him. Even when you try to make it healthier by chopping up celery with homemade ranch on the side, it barely makes him whine.

He eats. Scrolls. Pouts about his bath. Negotiates bedtime for ten more minutes with his iPad. And then he's sleeping by ten, hugging the device tight to his chest as a man hollers about Minecraft beneath him.

And that's the extent of it.

An easy job. An easy kid.

The problem, really, is his father.

And more specifically, the way he can't seem to stop touching you.

You're not sure why it happens, just that it does. Becomes some strange staple in this arrangement where you never leave his house without having his hands on you at some point.

But maybe the writing was always on the walls because even as he was showing you Tommy's bedroom, he folds himself over you, spine pressed against his chest, and murmurs in your ear about bedtimes and baths and all the things a babysitter is meant to hear—

But not with the hard, firm outline of their employers cock against their ass.

You should have said something then. Put your foot down. Rained hellfire and retribution over this man and his gross, foul perversions.

Should have done a lot of things, probably. But in the end, the span of his hand over your belly, so wide it threatened to swallow you up, kept you quiet. Docile as he shifted his hips—wife down the hall, flatly informing him she has a class tonight and probably won't be home, so don't bother waiting up, Simon—and rubbed his cock against you, grunting in your ear about how pretty you are. Such a sweet girl, too.

So good for his baby boy.

Keeping quiet seems to spur him on. Spreading the thick, heavy length of his body against your spine isn't enough to quench whatever sticky, awful desire brims in his chest. Insatiable now that he's had a little taste, he gorges himself on what he can get away with.

What you let him get away with.

(if you didn't want this, pretty thing, you'd have said so, wouldn't you? big, strong girl like you. you can 'andle yourself. but you ain't because you want this—)

Broad hands cupping your breasts as he leans over your shoulder and pretends to instruct you on how Tommy likes his lunches. Little more, he rasps, calloused fingers slipping under the band of your bra, and pinching your stiffening peaks between a too-big thumb and forefinger. The rough, dry graze of his scarred skin was some awful amalgamation of stinging, abrasive pain and pleasure. Likes his sandwiches cut up jus' like tha'—

Grabs a handful of your asscheek on the way out the door, pinching the flesh so hard, it aches when you sit down. Rutting into you like a beast when he comes home, and Tommy's already in bed. C'mon, he grunts, hefting you up from the couch. Gotta go an' check on 'im. But it's just an excuse to bend you over banister as you peer into Tommy's room, groaning as he shoves his clothed cock against the cleft of your ass.

Husks in your ear about how good you are for him. He and Tommy both. Such a good girl, ain't you?

It's strange. All of it. And maybe that's why you let it carry on. Continue even though you know he's married, and has a child. And—

He's odd. Intense. Weird.

Looms in the corners of the room sometimes, content to just watch you. Eyes dark, endlessly black. Fixed on every move you make. A wolf wearing a man's skin. A monster in faded blue jeans and black steel-toed boots.

Uncanny.

Scary.

Massive in a way that stole your breath the moment you laid eyes on him. A full body bloom of dread at the scale, the size, of him. Like staring at the face of a mountain, mind reeling over the incomprehensible height of it. Vertiginous. Dizzying.

Thinking about him always makes you feel a little bit sick. Lying on your back and staring up at the sky. Cosmic quasiness. Unease that trickles down from your ancestors and fills your pores with the bitter, acrid tang of fear.

But between the noxious, rolling worry—the unmistakable feeling of a starving man staring at you like you're nothing but a scrap of tender, fresh meat—is a heavy, sick sort of heat congealing in your belly.

It was easier, at first, to lie and say you stayed for the money. Broke college student with a sinkhole of debts already growing on the periphery, biding its time before it sucks you into an unfathomable, inescapable chasm. Bled dry. Used up. It'll crush you.

But this—

Simon works around your schedule. He's gone for most of the day—pulls twelve-hour shifts Monday to Saturday at the oilfield—and is fairly lenient when you have a test, sending Tommy to his uncle's instead. Staying the night is an unorthodox arrangement, you're sure, but it works itself out in the end. Being here to take Tommy to school before heading to your morning classes (the rest all available online), and then free to pick him up after and wait for Simon to come home eases the stress of a long commute to your dorm and then here, to the dorm and then back again. A small respite, sure.

And if he pushed, insistent, that you sleepover, well—

You can hide it behind a wall. Pretend he's just looking out for his son even if you have to lock the door in the spare bedroom at night, and wake up sometime to the sound of the knob rattling.

He lets you use his spare truck whenever you need it. There's always a pot of coffee waiting for you in the morning. He keeps a tidy house and a strict schedule, but money is always in your bank account or tucked into an envelope on the counter a day ahead of when you agreed he'd pay you.

But living on top of each other like this is almost unbearable.

You see more of Simon than you do your own family. Friends. Even his wife. A woman made of contradictions, it seems. Dutiful mother, but only when it matters—parent teacher conferences booked in advance, the darling starlet of his birthday party that passed—and you try to keep out of her way. Shame, maybe.

Do you know what Simon does to me when you're in the next room? Do you know what he says when you're bent into downward dog as your Pilates instructor fucks you on the matt?

Or just the knowledge that both of you, in your own way, are adulterers.

But having something in common with the woman who is more of a guest in her own home, her child's life, than you are is a sickening thought. So you squash it. Ignore it.

All of it—

His hands on you, rough and proprietary. The foul, dirty things he whispers in your ear—Tommy's been askin' for a baby brother, 'bout time we gave 'im one, don't you think? Spread your pretty pussy around my cock and keep ya nice an' plugged until it fuckin' takes—when no one is around. How these incidents keep getting progressively closer to his bedroom door, his marital bed, and one day, you think he might drag you in there and not let you out again until those promises he forced from your lips are fulfilled.

You bite your tongue. Taste blood between your teeth hours after he leaves for work, and curl into the couch as the minutes tick by until Simon's supposed to come home. Trying to distract yourself as much as you can, but there's no escape from it. From the way there was something different about him this morning. Something heady. He didn't touch you, but just quietly observed you with those strange, unfathomable eyes of his. Sinkholes wanting to swallow you down.

Hungry.

And when you asked him if he wanted breakfast, he'd just said, oh, I'll eat, birdie. You can bet on that, and then left out the door without another word.

It takes you until noon to unravel the knots in his expression, and what you find makes your heart jump like a trapped rabbit in a snare.

Possessiveness. Want. Hunger.

But most damning of all—

Anticipation.

In the room over, Tommy giggles, high and shrill, at a video. The noise jars you back into reality. A car drives down the lonely street. The timer on the oven dings. Tommy gurgles again, the sound pasted over a loud, pitchy shout that rankles down your spine. Slowly, achingly, you unfurl your body from the tense crouch you collapsed into, head thick. Underwater. In a fog. Thoughts dripping down the sides of your skull in a slow, syrupy crawl.

Your eyes dart to the clock. Three hours.

oh, I'll eat, birdie.

"Come on, Tommy," you warble out, gingerly moving towards the kitchen. Three hours. There's a buzzing inside your head that grows louder, more restless with every step. "The pizzas done."

On the fridge, a neon pink post-it note mocks you. PILATES TONIGHT AND DRINKS WITH THE GIRLS!!!! DON'T WAIT UP!!

Three hours.

You lick the blood off your teeth.

oh, I'll eat, birdie—

He doesn't bother cleaning up before he goes home.

Caked in grime, sweat, dust from the fields, crudeoil glued under his nails—a walking biohazard of filth, but he lumbers into his truck the moment he's finished, cock already thickening, straining against the harsh fabric of his jeans. Sticky on his thigh where it lays, twitching at the thought of his little birdie sucking his dirty fingers clean.

And you'll do it. He knows you will.

You've been so good for him, haven't you? Sweet little thing.

He scrapes the top of his tongue against his teeth, pulling up the taste of stale, bitter coffee. It's acrid, sour in his mouth. Swallowing around it, he grips the wheel tightly and sifts through the multitude of things he wants to do to you as he navigates the familiar path home. Muscle memory, but there's an emptiness in his belly. An itch under his skin. If fizzles, cracks; want and desire thick in his throat.

He's been thinking about this all day. You—laid out on his bed, fingers gripping the sheets tight as he folds you in half, kneecaps to your ears. Feet kicking out behind the heft of his shoulder. Bearing all his weight down on you. Crushing you.

Pumping you so full of his cock, his cum, that you whine afterwards—too empty, Mr Riley—and he has to stuff you full again just to shut you up.

Whiny little thing, he'll coo, nasty and mean as he fucks you again and again and again—

Another scrape. Tongue against teeth pulling over tastebuds. Sourness in the back of his throat. So bitter, so nauseating, he can't wait to make you swallow it down and beg for more as you try not to dry heave all over his dirty boots and onto the clean floor.

More, please, more even as you gag.

He's too hyperaware for the drive to pass in a blur—it's all startling present, each second ticking down in technicolour—but when he finally slows to crawl in front of his house, he has everything he wants to do to you laid out in a neat, concise list. Left you a defiled mess in his head, leaking cum and begging for more.

Anticipation is a maw in his gut that growls and snaps its jaws, too eager to sink inside the pretty thing that's been playing House in his mind. In his home.

He left it unfed for too long.

And now, it's time to eat.

You're not in the living room when he enters.

It's silent. The idling television paints the room in a pale, neon pink.

The clink of his keys, the thud of his boots, are the only sounds popcorning through the dim, quiet room. He casts his gaze towards the stairs to the left, sees light spilling out from Tommy's room down the hall. The nightlight burning away.

He shifts on the balls of his feet, hums something under his breath. A relic from a bygone era when the man Tommy was named after might have pulled him aside and said man, this isn't you.

Simon keeps his boots on as he trudges through the still, winter night of the house, eyes shifting past each corner, every crevasse. More muscle memory he can't shake. All filed away. Catalogued. Meticulously scoured as he shifts through the hall, pausing only to crack Tommy's door open and steal a glance of his son. Knows he won't be able to sleep without it.

He finds him tucked safe and sound in his bed. iPad on the floor connected to the charger. The screen is frozen with the image of some brightly coloured game that'll hold his interest for another day before it becomes yet another thing Simon packs away. More memories on shelves. Something to feel scraped out, hollowed, when he grows another inch and Simon starts to see more of Tommy in him than he can stomach.

The air stings his nostrils when he breathes in. The burn gives him time to shift around the potent ache of fatherly affection he never thought he'd feel back into the guarded lockbox he keeps it in whenever Tommy isn't in view. With it tucked back in, safe and sound, he lets the thrill of the pursuit fill him again.

Another hum. He peels away from the door.

"Hidin' on me, birdie?"

He knows you're here. Your boots are still drying by the front door. The air still clogged with your scent. He follows it like a bloodhound until he reaches his bedroom door where he finds you on the bed. Waiting. Uncertainty clinging to you like a second skin he can't wait to peel off, run his fingers through the bloody mess until you're raw and aching; shiny new toy stripped bare just for him.

Your mouth pops open. The inside a pretty ring of pink. He thinks about it, about sinking inside that soft little hole, making you gag around the thick of him as he feeds you his cock.

Clean it up f'me, birdie

But it's clear from the way you flit nervously on the comforter that he'll have to work you up to that.

Slow and steady. It's not his usual approach—he's in the habit of taking what he wants. Still. He slows. Glacial. Notches his shoulder against the doorframe, staring. Waiting. Waiting—

And finally:

A shift. You tense. "Mr Riley—"

"Take your clothes off."

Your throat shifts when you swallow. "Mr—"

If you didn't want it, he reasons, you wouldn't be in his bed. Waiting for him.

"Now, birdie."

There's that pause he expects. The hesitation as you stare, searchingly (pleadingly), at him, trying to take a measurement of just how serious he is about this. But he knows he gives nothing away. Just stares with streaks of dirt on his brow, washed down by thick trickles of sweat. Eyes lazy, lidded. Mouth flat. Even.

You demure after a moment. Hands falling shakily to the hem of your sweater, curling beneath the fabric. Gaze downcast, staring wide-eyed at the curve of your jean-clad knees. Bemused, maybe, that it got this far. That you let it get this far.

He doesn't give you time to think about it. Cocks his head to the side, puffs out an impatient breath. "Hurry up. Ain't got much time before my wife comes back."

It's a low blow. He feels it skim his knuckles, a sucker-punch.

You suck in a sharp breath. He wonders if you'll make things difficult now. Fight back. This isn't right. What you're doing to me isn't right. We should stop, Mr Riley—

Instead, you peel the sweater off.

It's artless. Clumsy. Each movement wracked with nerves, uncertainty. There's no coyness to the action. It's not even sexy, or coquettish; nothing about it is done to entice, to seduce. This is an action completed twice a day, every day. Routine. It's mundane, perfunctory.

And yet—

"Fuckin' hell, birdie—"

Something about the latent unwillingness of it all chokes the air from his lungs.

Cock thick in his trousers, throbbing like a wound, he steps into the bedroom, making his way towards you in nothing short of a prowl. It's been building up since you first appeared at his doorstep, eyes wide and bright and scooped Tommy up into your arms until he squealed with laughter.

"I got him," you chirped when he reached out reflexively, dancing artlessly out of the way of his snatching claws. "Don't worry. He's fine with me."

This is your fault, of course. For looking the way that you do. For burrowing under his skin like a parasite. A festering itch. Being close to you always felt like a toothache. Dry socket. Something that made his head split.

"On the bed, birdie," he grunts, hands falling to his belt with a urgency he hasn't felt since he was a clumsy, knobby-kneed teenager. "An' spread your legs f'me."

You give a startled gasp that makes his cock throb, and he groans low in his throat at the waxen look in your eye, the slight quiver to your lip. You look queasy—torn between disgust and fear, eyes slipping to the scarred hands that yank hard on his zipper, cup the bulge that splits through the spread seam, dirty fingers gripping himself tight—and he has to roll his head back to keep from snapping at you to roll over.

A noise does spill out—an impatient rumble gnashing between jagged teeth—when you sit there, bared from the waist up, and watch him with wide eyes. Making no move to show him that pretty pussy he cupped in his palm before. That soft, wet heat in his hand that felt too delicate, too sweet, to be touched with his dirty fingers. Something that rankled down his spine, buzzed in the back of his head when he pulled them free—stained, nails blackened with dirt, crude oil, and glistening in the low light of the kitchen.

He wants it again—on his cock this time. Wants to see that soft pussy get him all wet as he ruins it. As he peels back, sitting on his haunches, and takes in the awful mess he left you in. Poor cunt swollen and abused from from being forced to take the full, fat length of him as he bullies it inside over and over again; puffy lips all sticky with his cum. Sore and stretched and used. Raw after such a vicious pounding—

"Pants off, birdie," he bites out, yanking his jeans down beneath his aching balls. "Ain't gonna like what 'appens next if I 'ave to ask again—"

You give a startled gasp at the rough, callous growl hewing his words, and he wonders if anyone has ever spoken to you like this before. So demanding. With an edge of cruelty slithering out. Demeaning—

No. No one but him, he decides, stroking his cock as he watches you clumsily kick out of your pants, demurring in a faux show of bashfulness as your fingers skim the hem of your panties. The picture of coy shyness as you drop your chin to hide the wobble in your lower lip, the glistening wetness in your eyes as you grapple with indecision. Child's play of modesty.

A farce.

Just the mangled growl of your name is all it takes for those trembling fingers to inch into the hem of your panties, tugging them clumsily down your thighs.

He could come, he thinks, to just that. This. The bloom of fear etching across your brow, panties tangled against the knob of your knees. Unwilling to bend down and push them off the rest of the way. Scared to, maybe.

It buzzes in the back of his head. The idea of paralysing you with nothing more than a sharp bark and crook of his finger; your fear as delectable as that little sliver of skin he can see peaking out at him.

"ain't go' all night," he cuts in with only a quarter of the ice he uses on the field, and feels a deep thrum of satisfaction purr through his chest when you squeak, flinching at his rough, brassy tone.

Your panties fall to the floor in a rumpled pile between your feet, toes curling into the carpet as you try to close your knees as tightly together as you can get them to hide yourself from his heavy-lidded gaze. A last play at modesty. Gaze inward, nervous. A skittish little rabbit with nowhere else to run.

The way you stand before him on shaking knees, trembling like a leaf, makes him want to sink his teeth into you and shake. Little virginal offering to a rapacious god. A feast all for himself. He wants to chew you up. Eat you alive.

But he opts, instead, to bite his tongue until he tastes blood, and bark at you to get on the bed as it oozes between his teeth. Feels something animal split open inside his chest when your eyes widen as he steps into the room, a slow pursuit, a prowl, and has to bite down on the urge to give chase when you flinch, backing away from him quickly. Naked and scared. Running from him with a nervous tremor, but he doesn't miss the way you make, quietly, for his bed.

Eager. Obedient. Fleeing from him like a scared little animal unaware of just how enticing you are.

"Good girl, birdie."

It takes three fingers to open you up, but even that doesn't feel like it's enough.

Not when he knocks your knees apart, wedging his too big, too thick body between them (and then stares, and stares, and stares at your bare cunt, slick and sticky from his hand; flesh left swollen from the brutal spear of three thick, dirty fingers shoving inside—less of a stretch and more a carve: he carved you open) and spits.

You weren't expecting it. Nothing could have prepared you for the suddenness of this degrading act—the nasty, demeaning way he spits on your pussy, and huffs, amused, when the foamy mess slides down your swollen clit to pool between your folds. His finger chases it, rubbing it into your skin, pushing it into your hole.

Ain't got lube, he says, words bordering on a strange equinox of bluntly nonchalant and utterly caustic. Should be thankful m'doin' this much.

Thankful.

Your fingers curl into the sheets, and you try not look at his cock again when he grips himself tight in his big, dirty hand.

He's too big. Too fat. It makes you a little nauseous to stare at it, him—his cock. Marbled like a bruise. Thicker at the base. Veiny. The head is swollen. The tip is soaked in a thick, paste-like spill of precum, and for a horrible second, you almost thought he would make you lick it off.

(later fills the empty space in your head, and you try to mould yourself around the idea until you can decide whether or not the feeling that blooms in the pit of your belly is really dread.)

His hands were rough. Scarred. Dirty. Caked in oil. Stained. He didn't even bother to clean up before he lumbered onto the sheets behind you, one hand falling to grip his cock through his dusty pants, the other heavy on your neck, pushing you down into the mattress that reeks of fabric softener and stale cigarette smoke. Old sweat.

He doesn't need to tell you that she doesn't sleep in this bed anymore, but the idea of it prickles in the back of your head as he pushes you against the sheets and undoes his jeans with an ease that's more muscle memory than thought. Practiced.

You don't have the right to be jealous, but it hums through you like a sickness when you think of him doing this to her. His wife, you add, just to make it hurt. A knife in your gut that aches when you breathe—

"keep breathin', birdie," he grunts, spreading his fingers wide apart inside of you. "Don't get all tense on me now, or I'll have to start over."

You're not sure what that means, but you think you know better than to test his tenuous patience anymore than you have, and so you still. Go quiet. Breathe as he spears you deep, deeper still, and carves a space for that monstrous looking cock to fit—

where it belongs, he'd said, hunched over you like a nightmare in the daytime. All shadow and sinew. Stitched from broken daydreams of a brassy voice in your ear murmuring soon, birdie as his wife pretended to pack a lunch in the kitchen and he rubbed your nipple through your shirt before he slipped off to work.

But it's over too soon. His dirty, stained fingers slipping free from your aching, sopping cunt, leaving you empty—bereft—for a moment as he shuffles up the bed, splitting your knees wide apart to make room for the asburd width of him to fit.

An impossibility, really, but as Mr Riley—call me Simon—is wont to do, he makes it so. Wedges his wide thighs beneath yours until your hips tilt up in his lap, opening you wide. Obscenely so. And—

A grunt.

He stared. And stared. And stared.

Just looked at the split of your cunt sitting invitingly in his lap, wet and messy from his fingers, the cruel push of his palm against your clit. Swollen. Aching already—

"Want it, huh, birdie?"

The words I'm not so sure anymore hitch in the back of your throat, rearing up as he reaches between your legs to grip himself tight, too tight, until he turns a sickly shade of purple around the head that looks wider than anything you'd ever had inside of you before. But he doesn't give you a second to think before notching himself against you, giving a little push that forces the swollen head to sink inside of you—

Just the tip, really, and it already hurts. Stings like a papercut as he stretches your cunt around him, sharp and sudden.

"Too big—" you whimper, tossing your head to the side, breathing in the tang of fresh linen and musk as he grunts above you, pushing and pushing—

Something has to give.

It doesn't surprise you much when it ends up being you.

"Tha's it, birdie. Open up f'me."

It's not so much an opening as it is a siege. A conquest. And with him perched above you, heaving like bull and bathed in shadows that glue alone the mismatched asymmetry of his face, making him look less like a man and more like a figment, a statue—this Stygian being that swoops down and presses his palm against your throat, the other digging into the pillow beside your head, grunting—you feel ever bit of the battered receptacle he turns you into.

Forcing himself into you with a rough grunt, a brutal shove that—for one dizzying, awful moment—you swear you can feel inside your throat, taste on the back of your tongue. Choking on it. But then he's sinking in. Splitting you apart with brute force and that little bit of slick that you know must be stained pink—

"Good girl," he's grunting again, shoving another inch into a space much too small for him to fit. Savouring it. Relishing in the whimpers, the hiccups punched out of you with every flex of his hips. Eyes rolling a little, just a touch, when you feel something warm tickling your cheek and realise you're crying. Shush, birdie, he says, a quiet coo, but he looked delighted. Don't cry. Not yet—

another flex. two more inches. it feels like being speared open; flayed alive. it hurts. it hurts so much, you can't even begin to think through the pain, but he's huffing. groaning low in his throat as he adds:

"—'cause m'not even halfway in yet, pup."

The admission shocks you so much, you barely notice him spreading his knees beneath yours, squaring his stance, until it's too late.

"Wait—!"

If it weren't for his hand tightening around your throat before he speared the last several inches into you, you're sure the wail you might have let out would have woken Tommy. A good thing, you think, dazed, still soundlessly howling around the burning ache of him using his absurd weight to drive into you (balls deep, birdie, he grunts, and sounds so ridiculously proud, you nearly preen—), making you take every last inch. Selfishly carving more space for himself inside of you. Hollowing you out until his whole cock is drenched in your pink-stained slick—

"Makin' me all pretty, aren't you?" Huh, birdie? Nice and fuckin' pink.

A sob bubbles up beneath his palm, and he coos when he feels it, shushing you with a groan as he keeps an awful rhythm, flexing into you. Grinding deep. Carving and cutting and hollowing you out—

"Tha's it, pup," he grunts, eyes masting in leonine pleasure as he bucks into you without respite, taking his bliss from the burning stretch of your cunt. And stupidly, you think about preening. Smiling wide and big and lying to yourself about how bad you want this, him, even as the tears dribble down your chin.

Siphoned satisfaction, maybe. Or just the press of his fingers against that little thing inside of you that made you turn your cheek to his touches. Letting a married man shove his hands down your pants while you made breakfast for his kid and his wife called out to him from the next room about not waiting up for her too late.

Giving in.

That's what this feels like. A slow corrosion from the moment you knocked on his door and said you were here to help him with Tommy to now, buried under his bulk as he batters into your aching cunt, splitting you apart.

Sweat drips down his nape, pours off his face, and when it hits your skin, it feels like battery acid against your cheeks. But with his hand still lodged around your neck, there isn't much you can do except take it. Like his cock, his spit, his sweat. Let him ply you with all of it, every inch, until your body becomes accustomed to the ache.

"Fuckin' stranglin' me."

His cock hits something inside of you, and it isn't really pleasure that blooms in the pit of your belly, but something like a panacea. A wound that's soothed through touch.

Like a knife that hurts more coming out than it does stuffed inside.

But it' saws and it splits. Tears flesh. Rearranges your insides until you're wrapped tight around him, throbbing like bruise against the thick of his cock. A tight fuckin' fit, he says, and inches his fingers up to grab your cheeks. Squeezing until your mouth pops open, mewling at the deep, aching pain, and then he spits.

You don't need him to tell you what to do this time. You just close your mouth and swallow what he gives you, whimpering around the sudden ruck of his hips, a harsh jerk that slides his cockhead against the seal of your womb, dredging up a wave of pain that's soothed by the kiss of that fattened tip pressing against the sting once more. Soothed by touch. By the flood of endorphins.

Fitting, you suppose, since it feels a little bit like being eaten alive when he fucks you, grunting and snarling like a beast as he pounds into you, half-mad and starved, and you remember reading somewhere that people rarely experience any pain when they're bitten by a shark.

An oddly serene experience, out of body almost, as they're taken apart by razor-sharp teeth.

That's how you feel looking up at him, feeling the drip, drip, drip of his sweat splat on your cheeks. Warm, milky breath ghosting over your forehead. A barely there kiss when he bends down, growling into your hairline that he's gonna fill you up, pup; that Tommy's been begging for a little brother, 'asn't he? and ain't it time we gave 'im one?

You think no and don't. please don't, please, but your hands stayed curled into the duvet instead of reaching up to push him away. Knees dropping further apart as he bends down with a brassy grunt that you feel in your belly, between your hips, like molten lead. A pulsing flutter—sore muscles gripping tighter and tighter as he grunts again, and tells you to keep opening that pretty cunt up for him, birdie. Let him get even deeper.

The collar of his shirt dips low, unveiling a mass of moulted flesh suffused together in a pink ribbon array of crisscrossing scar tissue and burns. It's an odd time to notice that he hasn't bothered to undress, just shoved his jeans down his thighs and pulled his—monstrous, ugly—cock out, and forced it into you. But you do. And you feel it so acutely in your chest that even without his hand on your throat, you doubt you'd have been able to breathe. It just—

It says something, you think. Means something.

And maybe it hits you like a fist, too. A bludgeon to that little thing in the back of your head that keeps reminding you this isn't okay. That you're not supposed to be in this bed, with this man.

Marital vows, it says, all wrapped up in the scent of stale sweat and detergent. A whisper of Candy Kiss peppering the room when you arrive; a sweet sillage that tickles your nose whenever he leans down, cupping your breast in the palm of his hand. The flash of metal sitting snug on his thick ring finger. Cold and dry against your damp skin.

It crumbles under the sway of his big, thick body sawing away between your hips; turns to dust, dissolving into soot as the growls spilling out his chest tremble through your bones. The ring doesn't matter. It never did.

Not when he's decorating the space he hollowed out inside of you with these dizzying daydreams—weaving a damning tapestry with fingers bleeding from cuts made by the knife of his own artifice. Staining it red.

Pretty pink.

And eventually the ring warms between his hand and your heated skin until you can't tell the difference between metal and flesh.

(but in the smeared residuum of ash and rust, something stirs, asks if you ever really could at all—)

"Gonna make me a dad again, ain't you, pup?" Huh? He growls, rough and mean. Gonna have t'start callin' me daddy soon—

You're not sure when it started building, but the edge is suddenly there. Within reach. And he tells you in rasping groans that he feels it too. Gonna cum, biride, he says, and it sounds like a threat. A warning. It's a razor scraping against your nerves, pooling heat between your hips.

No, you think again, but your hips roll as much as they can with him bearing down above you, cradled between your slick, damp thighs—roughened up, chafed by the repeated scrape of denim. Eager for it. Hungry. Like you're starving.

And what did he say before? Oh, yeah—

Oh, I'll eat, birdie.

You feel that gnawing, gaping emptiness in your belly as he huffs, breath sticky and warm, glueing to your skin as he pants his desire over your flesh, inside your body. Pace stuttering on his next exhale, morphing into a choppy, clumsy grind—just the desperate, furious graze of his cockhead digging into that bruised, tender spot inside of you where pleasure and pain suture themselves together until one is almost indistinguishable from the other. Fear and desire warping around the edges until you're trembling from the urge to flee, but bearing your neck at the vicious spread of teeth gaping open above your caught jugular.

Simon presses his face against the side of yours, smearing sweat and spit over your heated, damp skin from where a cut in his upper lip leaves his teeth in a constant snarl, bared to the world in a vicious, brutal display of aggression, and the nudge of it against the softened, ripe apple of your cheek is what sends you over the edge before you're ready.

It's mean. A nasty, ugly climax that throbs more like a wound than a satisfying end; pulsing and spitting fire as you yowl into the bubble bulging along his ear, clawing at the duvet, and bringing your other hand up to twist into the wet fabric clinging to his broad back. Needing to hold on. To find purchase as he grunts into your skin with each brutal plunge of his hips, and then sinks his teeth into your pulse, drawing blood—

You're still clenching around him, throbbing like an infected wound, when he lifts his pinked up muzzle, bearing his crooked, bloodied teeth, and grunts with his release. Filling you with a burning, stinging heat. Painting the tapestry he hung on chiselled flesh. A home of his own making. The apex of your being is a crevasse for him to sink his desire inside until something grows.

Tommy wants a baby brother, he'd said, and as you knot your hand tighter around his sweaty shirt, you wonder if maybe you should have paid more attention to the pills you shoved into your mouth each morning, making sure they all looked exactly the same—

"Fuck, birdie," he snarls into your neck as he throbs inside of you, cock jerking until it lodges against the battered, bruised seal of your womb—soothing the ache, you think, giving a weak pulse, a little, desperate clench around him—grunting like this is all your fault.

And maybe it is. But he doesn't give you much of a choice when he ruts into you still in rolling, feverish humps that knock your teeth together each time you unhinge your jaw to tell him to stop.

(But you won't, of course—)

His hands are hot against your clammy skin, searing and rough as he pulls you back into his chest with a grunt, mumbling something about a cigarette as you pant into the sweat-slicked nook of his arm, trying to make sense of what happens next.

You should leave. And really—you're a little surprised he hadn't kicked you out already. Shoved you off of him, told you to pack your things. He'll call when he needs you next because with this burning desire of his sated, what else does he need you in bed for?

But he tightens his grip when you try to wiggle away from him with a salt-crusted, sleep-drenched noise of dissent.

He isn't done with you, he mumbles, pawing at the end table for the carton of cigarettes he left there this morning. Blue Zippo still tucked neatly inside.

It's something you'd noticed during the first week when you opened a drawer looking for Tommy's iPad charger and found his hidden stash—along with the rest. Little clues that piled up until the pieces fell, and you realised this was a strange, habitual thing of his where he needs to leave things lying around the house—a carton of cigarettes with a lighter; a duffle bag full of clothes for him and Tommy. Non-perishable food stuffed inside a rucksack. Cash. Knives. All within reach.

Most people live in their homes. Clothes in the drawers. Shoes on a rack or piled by the front food. Food in the cabinets. They carry their smokes with them or keep them in a convenient place for whenever they need them next. But Simon seems keen to uproot himself at a moment's notice. Bags within reach. Necessities all packed by the front door, ready to go. Each room has a satchel hidden somewhere. A carton of smokes. A lighter.

It means something, you're sure. Nestled between the layers of a restless, caged tiger circling its iron-barred domicile for the first chance at escape is a travesty written in spoiled ink. Chiselled into the bars, imprinted there like braille for you to run your fingers over until pockmarks make sense.

Like why Candy Kiss is left on the vanity, sitting atop a drawerful of untouched clothes. The smell of fresh linen. Pilates on a weekly basis. Don't wait up peppering the air; a soft echo cradled in the harsh snap of a door closing. Eyes barely blinking away from the flashing screen.

Or—why your clothes disappear each time you do the laundry. Lace panties and satin bras first—an almost banal perversion that barely made a gurn at. Then tights. Sweaters. Shirts. Jeans. All missing with a nonchalant shrug of a massive shoulder, and a stare that didn't much pin as it skewered. Flayed. A flat, even dunno, birdie. Maybe the ghost knicked it.

Tightly wound artifice you'll never make sense of beyond the bags and the cigarettes. The stares that make the hair on your neck stand on end—

"Fuckin' hell, pup," he grunts suddenly, pinching the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger as the other slides down your curved spine, grabbing a handful of your asscheek in his palm, giving a vicious, painful squeeze. "Can feel your little cunt leakin' all over my leg—"

He slips the filter between his teeth with an appreciative hum when you jerk, a mocking huff spilling out when you try to clamp your legs shut around the thick split of his hip wedged between them. You can feel it, too—the thick, sticky ooze of him leaking out of your sore cunt, smearing pink-tinged cum all over his jeans. He hadn't let you get up after rolling off of you—just barked at you to leave it. Keep it, birdie. Gotta take, don't it?

A barb you hadn't said anything to, opting to ignore that, like everything else he does. Did.

Will do because you can tell, even beneath all those hidden layers, that this isn't a one-time thing. No. This isn't just a man stuck in a bad marriage fucking the nanny because he can. It's deeper. Worse, somehow, than a gross older man with a fetish for younger women he can financially control. Another pervert slaking his lust on whatever artless little thing falls into his web.

No. No—

This is missing clothes stuffed inside bags kept around the house. Pills that leave a strange aftertaste on your tongue of something a shade too sweet—

You think about running. Slipping out of his hands, this bed that reeks of stale sweat and sex, putting on your clothes, and leaving this house. Burying yourself in debt again, schoolwork, and limping (with your tail between your aching thighs) back to your landlord. Never looking twice at an ad for a babysitter in your life.

—and maybe spend your whole life wondering why people mix wolves and dogs to create something that never truly feels at home in the patchwork skin it wears; pieces of ancestors it can't relate to;

But you don't.

(—you never do.)

You lie there and take it. Like the leers he aimed at you when you first showed up on his doorstep, reeking of financial desperation and swallowed down the litany of things he said to you under his breath with a wobbly grin and your eyes fixed on the tile, convincing yourself it would pass. That you were more than just a pretty face he couldn't wait to cover in his cum. A soft ass he wanted to sink his teeth into before getting his cock in there next. Tight little pussy he was so eager to break in. Pantin' like a bitch in heat, ain't you, pup? can hear you gaggin' for it a mile away—

Biting your lip so hard it bled. Blood between your teeth. Your hands curling into the coarse, starchy fabric of his work shirt when he leaned down, permanent snarl on his face from the manmade cleftlip, and reached down to grab a handful of it. Testin' the merchandise, he cooed, low and mean and ugly. Words wrapped up tight in barbed wire. Brassbound. Said nothing as he pinched your nipples through your shirt, or when he shoved his hand beneath the hem and groaned at how soft you were.

Dirty hands leaving stains all over your skin you couldn't see, but felt like a fresh, weeping tattoo. Pulsing with infection.

(Such a needy little thing he trusts with his son while his wife is gettin' railed by 'er Pilates instructor, huh? But that's fine, ain't it? Need another one, anyway. A better influence for Tommy. Someone who'll give him that little brother he's been buggin' for—)

And so, you slacken your jaw when he grunts, barking at you to open up. Say nothing when he drags his hand back up your body to grip your jaw tight in his palm, squeezing your cheeks until they pop open. Let him spit in your mouth, and swallow down the foul, stale tobacco taste of him on your tongue.

Nod, like an obedient little pup, when he says good, ain't it? and let him roll you onto your back again, wrenching your thighs apart so he can see for himself the mess he made. The one you let spill all over his jeans.

Good ones, too, he huffs, eyelids slicing over the jaded edge of obsidian into a derisive pantomime of a contented cat squinting to show affection. Half-mast in pleasure as he says he'll wear them again tomorrow an' let all the boys see what a mess you make of me—

His gaze drills into the wet, slick seam of your puffy, bruised cunt, grip tightening—vicious, possessive—until his blunt nails sink into your skin. Branding. Bruising. His fingers clench down until it almost feels like he'll break through muscle to touch bone, but just when it starts to really hurt, pushing past that strange equinoctial point where pleasure and pain wrap around each other on a razor's edge, he peels back with a grunt. Leans over you to spit in your mouth again, a wet, foamy glob that hits your bottom lip before it oozes into your mouth, tasting of stale smoke and bitter tobacco. A flavour that reeks of permanence, and smells of an incipient wolfpack—all animal musk and wildness brimming up against stale sweat, laundry detergent, cigarette smoke, and sex.

Cruel, almost, like the gurns etched into his face by the missing chunk of flesh on his upper lip. Snarled and deadly. Mocking in a certain light. Like a constant sneer. Derisive and dangerous.

But not nearly as terrifying when he lists forward, dropping down to catch your jaw in his hand, the other planting itself in musty pillow beside your head, caging you in, and says:

"—and now you're makin' me a daddy again, birdie."

There's a taste in the back of your throat that's much too sweet for the dirty, oil-stained fingers he slips between your slack lips, scratching over your tongue. It reminds you of a spoonful of sugar. Grape-flavoured medicine poured over the top. And you wonder how quickly the pills you have been taking would dissolve in water when you sprinkled the white granules down the drain.

Something else you won't mention even as this house he burrowed inside changes shape—clothes in drawers, bags in the closet; the lingering scent of Candy Kiss a spoiled, stale sillage hidden under the smell of newborn and warm milk. Crushed animal crackers and Nicorette. The sound of a gaping, newly formed maw yowling for attention clashing sharply against the exaggerated screams of a grown man howling about a video game on Tommy's iPad.

thanks for hiring me and don't worry, Mr Riley, I can manage him morphing into a new sound, a continual echo of welcome home, and she called again asking about custody, daddy.

Something that throbs like a fresh wound before knitting itself together again into a thin, pink line; skin all shiny and new. Pulsing with the echoes of everything you dipped your chin again, mumbling around the malformed words of please, and don't, and now,

don't stop, please don't stop

What else are you supposed to do, really, other than lettingnhim slake the remnants of his lust between your sore, slick-stained thighs until he grunts, coming inside of you again to the damning symphony of a creaking bed, heels against the floorboards, and the sizzle of a cigarette burning away in an ashtray.

"Wait—" swallowed down by a mangled mouth. A hooked, crooked nose slides along your sweaty cheek as he all but purrs in satisfaction.

All his, he says.

And you don't fight it even as the blood pools between your teeth because you knew that from the start.

#this was originally a request but tumblr ate all of my asks so :/#babysitter!reader x ghost anon this is for you #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost x reader #ghost x you #ghostfics

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zephyrchama · 2 months ago

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Mammon is highly possessive of you. It shows in all gestures big and small. From insisting you take the window seat so you're less visible from the train aisle, to wresting you away from his slimy brothers when they get too close. He takes out predatory loans to buy you a little something when you're feeling down. Usually treats and getaways. They're rumored to bring lovers closer together when shared, but you don't need to know about that. He reminds you that he's your first - that means he needs to be the priority in your life. Don't you forget it.

Mammon is also incredibly tsundere. "Whaddya think you're doing!?" he'll exclaim, pushing you away. His cheeks are as red as his savings account. "Tryin' to worm your way into my arms like that? Ain't never heard of a human as bold as you."

Except, he forgets that he's the one who grabbed you. Curled his arms protectively around you and pulled you into his chest as if shielding you from rains of hellfire. Guarded you from prying eyes of lesser beings and swept you away somewhere more secluded, all because a random salesman grabbed your shoulder. Only he's allowed to touch you like that. Only when his heart is ready.

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geminiwritten · 18 days ago

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safehouse ; joaquín torres

fandom: marvel

pairing: joaquín x reader

summary: you're an ex-assassin trained by hawkeye and black widow, and your old friend sam needs your help on a mission alongside his new protege... but things don't go exactly to plan and you end up indefinitely stuck in a safehouse with joaquín

notes: danny ramirez has me in such a chokehold, he made me write smut!!! kind of... upon reread, i feel like this might flop? and i'm a little extra nervous about it because it's my second first attempt at smut, so i hope it doesn't suck! please, please, please let me know what you think! i need feedback! and also, sorry if it's shitty, i'm so out of practice with marvel, i'm just feral for this man...

warnings: swearing, sexual tension (lots), mention of guns / weapons, very minor descriptions of violence, italics, mention of a toxic ex and toxic behaviour, very out of date marvel knowledge, super horny, and SMUT-ish? (masturbation, dirty talk, thigh riding) so 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!

word count: 15295

“I’m going to do a quick sweep,” Joaquín says. “Make sure we weren’t followed.”

You nod once, doing your best to flash the hottest man you’ve ever seen a cool, easy smile.

“Copy,” Sam says as he walks further into the house. “Echo, you’re with me. Let’s clear this place.”

You roll your eyes and follow Sam deeper into the safehouse, forcing yourself not to glance back as Joaquín slips out the front door.

“That’s not my name anymore,” you mutter, sheathing a dagger in your thigh holster. “And would you slow down?”

Just an hour ago, you were waiting at a secret meet-up spot for Sam to fill you in on this special mission he needed your expertise for. You weren’t keen on coming out of retirement, but he’d practically begged you over the phone—and you had no excuse good enough to say no.

So there you were, waiting, when all hell broke loose. You don’t know who they were, but they came at you hard and fast, raining hellfire just as Sam—and his stupidly gorgeous protege—showed up. You fought your way out and found refuge in this safehouse. Now all you need to do is make sure you’re actually safe before figuring out what the fuck just happened.

“All clear,” you tell Sam as you return to the landing just inside the front door of the old townhouse.

He nods. “Looks like we’re good.”

You tuck your gun away and start fiddling with a strap on the sleeve of your jacket, keeping your gaze locked on Sam beneath a furrowed brow. You’ve always been particularly good at death stares, and if Sam was a lesser man, he’d probably keel over by now.

But instead, he grins. “What’s that look for?”

“You know damn well what this look is for,” you mutter.

He raises his brows, waiting for you to snap.

It doesn’t take long.

“What the fuck is your problem?” you hiss, just in case Joaquín is within earshot. “Two weeks ago you just happen to be in town, we catch up for a drink, and I drunkenly confess that I think your little protege is hot. Then all of a sudden, there’s a mysterious mission that requires both of us?”

He chuckles quietly, eyes sparkling with amusement. “I’d call that a coincidence,” he says. “Oh, and I think your exact words were a walking wet dream with a stupidly perfect smile.”

You narrow your eyes. “Whatever you’re playing at, stop it. I’m here now, so I’m going to help us get out of this mess—but that’s it.”

“Would you calm down?” he sighs, leaning back against the wall—awkwardly, thanks to the shield on his back. “The kid has a thing for you too, so I just thought—”

“What?”

He rolls his eyes. “He’s like... obsessed with you. As soon as he found out I was catching up with you the other week, he wouldn’t shut up about it. Kept saying how he used to track your missions when you were working off-book with Hawkeye and Widow.”

You raise your brows, crossing your arms. “Oh, cool. So he’s a stalker obsessed with a version of me from years ago? When I was training every day and hadn’t just been dragged out of retirement.”

Sam gives you a flat look. “Would you stop calling it retirement? It was an elective hiatus—at most—and you’re still in your physical prime.”

“Yeah,” you scoff. “Tell that to my knees.”

Sam smirks. “I’m sure Joaquín won’t mind if you can’t get on your knees. Laying down would be just as—”

You cross the room in one step and punch him in the shoulder. “Dude! Seriously?”

He chuckles. “Okay, look, I wasn’t lying about the mission. I really do need your help on this. And so what if maybe you find a little love along the way? You’re both into each other and I know you both very well. You’d be great together. Plus, you’re both equally irritating, so really, this is an entirely selfless act. Why would I want to double your annoyingness?”

You sigh and lean back, propping one arm on the post at the end of the stair banister. “It just doesn’t work like that, Sam. Not for people like us. We don’t date—it’s not realistic.”

He rolls his eyes again and pushes off the wall. “Whatever you say, Echo. But I can see the way you’re looking at him. So if you want me out of the house, just say so. I’ll go for a walk or something.”

Then he winks and turns into the small living room, making the cheap furniture look ridiculously tiny compared to his broad, geared-up physique.

After a hot minute of seriously considering whether or not you could get away with ditching this mission entirely, you sigh and follow Sam—stripping off your gear as you go.

You unzip your jacket and shrug it off, tossing it over the back of the couch as you pass through the living room. There’s a narrow archway leading into the kitchen, where Sam is already cracking open the fridge like he owns the place. You stop at the island counter and reach up to slide your weapons harness off your shoulders. It drops into your hands with a familiar weight before you set it on the bench.

Next, you unclip your belt and bend down to unfasten the straps of your thigh holsters, tugging them free one at a time. You reach lower, dragging a short dagger from your boot and adding it to the pile. Then your gloves—peeled off and tossed carelessly onto the heap of weapons—before grabbing the hem of your long-sleeved tactical shirt and yanking it over your head.

You’re down to your compression shirt—tight, unforgiving, and clinging to your body like a second skin—as you lean one hip against the counter and finally let out a breath.

“Damn,” a voice says behind you—Joaquín.

He’s standing just shy of the archway, making it look comically small with the bulk of his gear. His cheeks are flushed, dark curls damp with sweat, and his lips curved into a soft, crooked smirk.

You want to say something snarky—ask if he sees something he likes, maybe point out a non-existent drop of drool on his chin. But you can’t. Because you’re giving him the exact same look—all heat, all want, no shame.

Joaquín isn’t just gorgeous, he’s fucking badass too. You nearly lost your cool when he wrapped you in his arms during the earlier ambush, just before rocketing into the sky. You weren’t scared—just absurdly, wildly horny for the hot guy with mechanical wings flying you to safety.

“Alright, you two,” Sam says, dropping a half-empty bottle of orange juice on the counter. “Save the saucy looks for later. First, we need to get in touch with the Secretary of Defence—see if we can start an investigation into whoever attacked us. Then we’ll figure out how long we’re stuck here.”

Joaquín eyes the juice suspiciously. “How do you know that’s not expired?”

Sam lifts it up. “Oh, it’s very expired.” Then takes a swig anyway, grimacing as he swallows.

“Gross,” you mutter, turning toward the sink.

You twist on the tap and squirt a half-crusted blob of soap from the sad little pump bottle on the windowsill, scrubbing the dirt and dried blood—thankfully not yours—off your hands.

“Alright,” Joaquín says, “how do we contact the Secretary?”

Two weeks. It’s been two whole weeks of living in this godforsaken townhouse in bum-fuck suburbia, with barely any information on the assholes who forced you into hiding.

All you do know is that they were after you.

Yep. Someone’s been holding a serious grudge, just waiting for you to crawl out of retirement to make a move. So Sam made the call—told you to lay low at the safehouse, use an alias in case any nosy neighbours came sniffing around, and to simply wait while he tries to dig up more information on whoever sent the thugs.

And the worst part? He assigned Joaquín as your full-time protection detail.

Which means not only are you stuck in this crusty old house, but you’re stuck with one very attractive, very tempting man who apparently has no idea just how goddamn gorgeous he is.

“You finished with this?” Joaquín asks, brows raised as he slowly reaches for the plate in front of you.

You’re standing at the kitchen island, bent forward with your elbows on the bench and your chin resting in your palms. Across from you, Joaquín is washing dishes. Shirtless. Wearing nothing but a loose pair of grey sweats, skin still damp from the shower, curls sticking to his forehead, and looking like every fantasy you’ve ever had come to life.

“Hello?” he says, waving a soapy hand in front of your face. “Anyone home?”

You blink and force your eyes away from the absurd perfection of his body, dragging them up to his equally unfair face.

“Sorry,” you mutter, cheeks warming. “Yeah, I’m done.”

He flashes that boyish grin, picks up the plate, and turns back to the sink—letting you go right back to ogling him in peace.

Your eyes drift over the muscles in his back, watching them roll and flex as he scrubs. You’re nearly tempted to dirty another dish just to keep the view going. Because this? This right here—domestic Joaquín, shirtless and glistening—is enough to keep your imagination busy for a very long time.

Not that you’ve had much opportunity to indulge those fantasies, because Joaquín is here all the damn time. He only leaves when Sam calls him out—usually for groceries, clean clothes, or a quick intel drop.

You’re almost never in the house alone.

Which means your fantasies have been... limited. Mostly to rushed moments in the shower or late at night, when you’re pretty sure—hoping—that he’s asleep.

“You know,” he says, breaking you out of your dazed—and admittedly filthy—thoughts, “if someone told me a few weeks ago that I’d be stuck in a safehouse with the Red Echo, I probably would’ve fainted.”

You frown curiously, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “Really?”

He nods. “Really.”

When he turns around, your breath catches. Yeah, okay, you saw his abs like five minutes ago, but that doesn’t make them any less ridiculously sexy.

“Why’s that?” you ask, determined not to let him fluster you any more than he already has.

His cheeks flush, eyes dropping to the dish towel he’s drying his hands with. “I was, like... obsessed with you. I’m sure Sam mentioned it. Used to track your missions with agents Barton and Romanoff. Thought you were the coolest assassin ever.”

You let out a soft laugh, straightening up and leaning a hip against the counter. “Do I live up to the legend, then?”

His eyes widen as he nods. “Oh, yeah. You’re badass.”

You feel your cheeks heat even more, quickly dropping your gaze to hide the stupid smile trying to sneak its way onto your face—just because he called you badass.

Despite living together for two weeks, you’ve mostly avoided getting too personal. Most of your time has been spent in companionable silence, watching TV or reading. When Sam’s over, you all talk and joke, but when you’re alone, you let the tension do the talking. Exchanging nothing more than heated glances and softly spoken words.

You’re not entirely sure why you’ve kept your distance—maybe because you know this is temporary, and you don’t want to get too attached. But it’s getting harder by the day. Joaquín is charming. And so painfully attractive that playing it cool is starting to feel impossible.

“It wasn’t that badass,” you say, folding your arms. “Working with Clint and Nat, I mean.”

He frowns, unconvinced. “I find that hard to believe.”

“No, really,” you insist. “It was brutal, mostly. I got beaten up, like, a lot. I wasn’t raised an assassin like they were—I had to learn. So if I wasn’t getting my ass handed to me in combat, it was one of them kicking my butt during training.”

He chuckles. “Really? Who was worse?”

You bite your lip to keep from smiling—his grin is stupidly infectious—and tilt your head in thought.

“Hm,” you hum. “I know I should say Nat, but... it was probably Clint.”

Joaquín raises a brow. “How?”

“Oh, he was like a drill sergeant. Had me learning everything, all at once. My hands were bleeding from archery, my limbs were bruised from hand-to-hand, and my head was always throbbing from getting slammed into mats. And he didn’t let up. Told me the enemy wouldn’t, so why should he— unless I was genuinely wrecked. Nat was a little more forgiving. I think her childhood made her more empathetic when it came to training. She didn’t want to push me too far. Clint, though? He needed me to be tough. It was a good dynamic—very good cop, bad cop.”

“Wow,” Joaquín murmurs, eyes a little dazed as he just stares at you.

You pause, brow furrowing. “What?”

He shrugs, tearing his gaze away as he turns to hang the dish towel over the oven handle.

“Nothing, just...” He looks up at you again, all warm eyes and stupidly perfect cheekbones—like he doesn’t realise how dangerous he is. “You’re really cool.”

“You’re pretty cool too, Falcon,” you say, letting a small smirk curl your lips. “With or without the wings—I know you’re a badass too.”

He meets your stare with dark eyes full of challenge. “I am pretty badass. Could probably give you a run for your money.”

The mood shifts, the light teasing between you pulled tighter—tension creeping in, hot and deliberate.

You arch a brow. “You think?”

He nods, arms crossing over his bare chest in a way that makes your thighs clench. “I do.”

“Bold, Torres,” you murmur, narrowing your eyes. “Care to prove it?”

He steps around the kitchen island—two strides and he’s in your space. “Name a time and place, cariño.”

“Right now,” you say, holding his heated stare. “Backyard.”

That panty-melting smile flashes across his face as he leans in. “You’re on.” Then his voice drops—lower, rougher, almost lethal. “Be lying if I said I haven’t been dying to get my hands on you.”

Your heart lurches, then takes off, sending a hot rush of blood straight to your head.

“Professionally, of course,” he adds quickly, and you might’ve believed the cool confidence if it weren’t for the blush creeping up to the tips of his ears.

“Of course,” you echo, your voice soft—breathless.

The air between you thickens, crackling with heat as your eyes lock—tension simmering, slow and dangerous.

Then his phone chimes, and you both flinch.

He moves to check it while you step back, letting out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding.

“Just Sam checking in,” he mutters, glancing up. “Should I tell him I’m about to kick your ass, or...?”

You roll your eyes. “Try it first. Before claiming victory.”

Then you turn and head into the small living room, taking a right at the front landing and making your way down the hall toward the back door.

The backyard isn’t much—patchy grass, some cracked pavers, and a chain-link fence that barely shields you from nosy neighbours. But right now, with Joaquín standing across from you, shirtless and barefoot in the glow of the setting sun, it might as well be an arena.

“You sure you’re ready for this?” he asks, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, all cocky grin and coiled muscle.

You roll your neck and stretch out your arms. “Oh, I’m ready.”

He waits a beat before making the first move—a quick step in, testing you with a light jab. You dodge easily, grabbing his wrist and twisting, using his momentum to spin him around. He grunts, surprised, but recovers fast, sweeping a leg toward yours.

You jump, laughing as you land and press your body into his from behind, locking an arm around his throat in a loose hold. “That all you got, Torres?”

He chuckles, low and warm. “Just getting started.”

He bucks back hard, breaking your hold, and in the scuffle, you both stumble—him catching your waist, you grabbing his shoulder—and suddenly, you're tangled, chest to chest, breathing hard.

“Careful,” he murmurs, his breath hot on your skin, “you might enjoy this a little too much.”

“Speak for yourself,” you shoot back, but your voice is ragged, traitorous.

He smirks and tries to pin you, but you twist at the last second, hooking your leg around his and taking him down—landing right on top of him.

Straddling him.

You both freeze.

Your thighs press against his hips, your palms on his bare chest, heat sparking where your skin meets. His hands hover near your waist, not quite touching, but God, you can feel the tension in his fingers, the flex of restraint.

“Not bad,” he says, voice low and uneven.

You smirk, grinding your hips just slightly—for dominance, of course. “Say it.”

He looks up at you like he’s starving. “You’re dangerous.”

“And?”

His hands finally settle on your hips. Firm. Possessive.

“And you’re really, really hot when you’re trying to beat the shit out of me.”

Your next breath shudders out of you.

And then the back door creaks open.

“Am I interrupting something?” Sam asks, arms crossed as he stands on the porch.

You jump off Joaquín like you’ve been burned, nervously brushing non-existent dust from your knees.

“Nope,” you say, way too fast. “Just sparring.”

Sam raises a brow. “Sure. Sparring. What’s that move called? Cowgirl?”

Joaquín, still on his back in the grass, just grins up at you. “Maybe we could try reverse later.”

You narrow your eyes, pursing your lips to keep from grinning. “Without an audience, preferably.”

“Promise?” he asks, his gaze shameless.

You can’t stop the quiet laugh that slips out as you shake your head, leaning forward to offer him a hand. Joaquín takes it, and you help him off the ground before turning back to Sam.

“So, Cap,” you say. “What’s up?”

“Just checking in,” he replies, eyes flicking suspiciously between the two of you. “I texted Joaquín to let him know I was dropping by.”

Joaquín scratches the back of his neck, sheepish. “Yeah... not gonna lie, I didn’t fully read the text.”

Sam raises his brows. “Distracted?”

His tone is playful, but you catch the underlying suggestion—it’s a test. Joaquín is still on duty. He’s your protection detail, and he’s supposed to be focused.

“It was my fault,” you jump in. “I bet him he couldn’t take me in hand-to-hand.”

Sam snorts. “Please. All you’d have to do is flash him a smile and he’d be on his knees.”

Joaquín’s jaw drops, his cheeks going a deep, furious red.

You turn to him, grinning. “Is that true?”

He stares at you with wide brown eyes. “I—I mean, well—no, but—”

“Save it, man,” Sam laughs. “You’re just digging yourself deeper.”

Despite the nerves fluttering in your chest, you keep your cool. You pat Joaquín’s bare chest—your palm lingering just long enough to feel the heat of his skin—before turning back to Sam and walking toward the porch.

It takes Joaquín a full minute to remember how to move, but eventually he follows. You all make your way inside and settle into the cramped little living space, listening closely as Sam delivers a brief—and rather disappointing—update.

They still don’t know much about who ordered the hit on you, but they’re not giving up. New leads might turn up in New York, and they’re even considering reaching out to the Winter Soldier and his new team.

“So what does that mean for us?” you ask, gesturing vaguely between you and Joaquín. “We’re surviving just fine, but I’d really like to get back to my life. And I’m sure Joaquín would—”

“Actually,” Joaquín cuts in, flashing that crooked grin that threatens to short-circuit your brain, “I think I’m having more fun here.”

He even throws in a wink for good measure.

You feel your cheeks warm, but Sam keeps talking, mercifully ignoring the exchange.

“I know it’s not ideal,” he says, “but it’s the safest place for you right now. And I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you. I was the one who dragged you back to work, so I’m going to be the one to find these guys and stop them.”

You take a deep breath and let it out slowly, sinking back into the couch. “Alright, fine. But if we’re stuck here indefinitely, I’ve got a list of demands.”

Sam nods. “Anything. Just say the word.”

The next afternoon, Sam returns with everything you asked for. He brings a large duffel packed with the exact clothes you requested, a trunk full of groceries—including all the pantry staples that the house has been lacking—and the box from under your bed containing... personal items.

“I had a Secret Service agent swing by your apartment,” Sam says, setting the box on the coffee table. “No one opened it, but something definitely started... buzzing on the way over.”

Your eyes go wide as you snatch the box off the table. “What the fuck, Sam?”

He chuckles. “Hey, you’re the one who needed it.”

“Yes,” you snap, cheeks burning. “Because it’s got personal shit like tampons and pads—which I’m going to need if we’re stuck here for another two weeks.”

Joaquín’s laugh carries from the kitchen, where he’s putting away the groceries. “What else is in the box?”

You shoot him a look over your shoulder, eyes narrowed and lips twitching. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Cool it, you two,” Sam says. “You might be stuck with each other for a while. Don’t make it weird.”

The next week is nothing if not weird. And tense. And so full of heat and frustration, you’re surprised the walls haven’t caught fire.

Because after that little spar in the backyard, something shifted—snapped, like a rubber band pulled too tight. Now, you and Joaquín just can’t seem to stay out of each other’s way, no matter how hard you try.

He’s everywhere. In the kitchen when you’re trying to make coffee—shirtless and smug, all lean muscle and unintentional teasing. He’s always leaning in too close, brushing your waist with his fingertips, pressing his body against yours to reach for something he absolutely does not need that badly.

And the couch. That small fucking couch that leaves no real space between the two of you. His leg against yours. His arm slung casually behind your shoulders. The whole tiny room suddenly suffocating with his heat, his scent, the sheer proximity of him turning your brain to static.

Then there’s the time you turned the corner just as he was grabbing his towel out of the dryer—both of you freezing as you came face to face with damp skin, low-slung fabric, and absolutely zero shame in his smirk.

In that moment, you decided—two could play at this game.

So, you stopped wearing pants. Not all the time—just before bed. Sometimes it’s little booty shorts, or cute boyleg underwear. But mostly, it’s just an oversized tee and nothing else.

And the way his eyes track your bare legs like he’s a man starved? Yeah. You’ve noticed.

But then there was the morning you’d opted for a bath instead of a shower—to deal with the ever-building frustration twisting low in your belly. You were already settled in the steaming tub, surrounded by bubbles, one of your favourite toys waiting on the vanity… when he fucking walked in.

You both froze. Eyes wide. Lips parted. His gaze drifted to the magenta-pink silicone on the counter. And then he grinned—slow, wicked, and impossible to look away from—before dragging his eyes back to yours.

You shouted at him to get the hell out. Which he did. Eventually. Without even pretending not to sneak one last glance at the toy.

That was the final straw.

You need boundaries. Rules. Anything to help you survive this unbearable, unrelenting tension crackling between you. Before one of you snaps and professionalism goes flying out the window.

“I think we need to set some ground rules,” you say, planting both hands on the kitchen island.

Joaquín turns away from whatever he’s stirring on the stove, brow raised and an amused smirk tugging at his lips. “Rules?”

You nod. “Yes. Boundaries. Something—anything—if we’re going to survive this.”

He chuckles under his breath. “Alright. What kind of boundaries?”

“First,” you say, narrowing your eyes at his bare chest, “you need to start wearing shirts.”

His brows lift, brown eyes sparkling with mischief. “Really?”

You nod again, firm.

“Okay,” he says, “then you have to wear pants.”

“Fine,” you mutter.

“Fine,” he echoes, turning back to the pot on the stove.

“And you need to knock,” you add. “I don’t care what room it is, or if you just saw me walk away. Knock.”

He laughs, shoulders shaking as he stirs. “Noted. Must knock.”

“Good.”

You hesitate, debating how to phrase the next rule without admitting just how badly you want it.

“And no—” you clear your throat, “no touching.”

That gets his attention. He turns back around, smirk softer now, more curious than cocky. “No touching?”

“Exactly. If you need to get past me, just say ‘excuse me.’ And we can get Sam to bring over a bean bag or something. That couch is way too fucking small.”

He watches you closely, tongue dragging slowly across his bottom lip before he catches it between his teeth. The sight alone steals your breath—but then he moves. He steps away from the stove and toward you, all heat and intention, bringing with him that warm cinnamon scent that scrambles your thoughts and short-circuits every nerve ending in your body.

“You really don’t want me to touch you?” he asks, voice low.

“There’s…” you swallow, “there’s no need for you to touch me, so…”

He tilts his head. “Nothing you need that might require a little contact?”

You freeze, like your brain just blue-screened—unsure whether to slap him, kiss him, or straight-up combust.

“No,” you manage, though your voice is breathy. Traitorous.

“Okay,” he says easily. “I won’t touch you.” Then he leans in, voice low and smooth. “Not until you’re begging me to.”

Your breath hitches, eyes narrowing. “Excuse me?”

He straightens, grin cocky. “You heard me.”

“You think I’m going to be begging you to touch me?”

He nods once. “Oh, yeah.”

You scoff. “No chance, Torres. If anything, you’re the one who’s going to crack first.”

“That so?” he says, arching a brow. “Sounds like a challenge.”

You take a step back, crossing your arms. “You’re on.”

His gaze tracks your face like he’s memorising it, heat pulsing between you. One wrong move and this whole damn place could go up in flames.

“Any other rules?” he asks.

“Not yet,” you reply, letting your eyes drop to his chest. “Now put on a shirt.”

He arches a brow, gaze dropping as he steps back just enough to get a better look. “Then you better put on some pants.”

“Fine,” you huff, turning on your heel and storming out of the kitchen.

Behind you, he lets out a low whistle, voice pitched just loud enough for you to hear. “You are fine.”

And the worst part? It still makes you blush. That smug little comment sparks something inside of you, heat curling low in your belly—warm, aching, and impossible to ignore.

You’re pretty sure you’ve just made the dumbest bet of your life.

After pulling on a pair of sweats and giving yourself a whispered—but stern—pep talk in the bathroom mirror, you head back downstairs. Joaquín’s got a shirt on now and is ladling something hot and delicious-smelling into a bowl.

“Smells good,” you say, stopping on the other side of the island counter.

He wipes the edge of the bowl with a dish towel before sliding it toward you. “It is good.”

Then he hands you a spoon before fixing his own bowl and standing across from you at the bench, just as you’re gently blowing on your first spoonful.

“Sopa de fideo,” he says. “Mexican noodle soup.”

You take a cautious taste—and nearly moan, just barely stopping the sound from crawling up your throat. But Joaquín isn’t stupid, he sees the way your eyes glaze over and your shoulders ease in quiet bliss.

“Told you it was good,” he says, wearing that infuriatingly smug look.

Your cheeks warm under his gaze—those big brown eyes locked on you as he lifts his spoon to his mouth. It shouldn’t be erotic. And yet, the way his lips close around the spoon before dragging it out again sends heat straight between your legs.

You swallow hard and prepare your next spoonful, letting it cool while praying he can’t read you as easily as you suspect he can.

“So, you cook and you fight. What’s your angle?”

He cocks an eyebrow as he swallows. “My angle?”

“You’re almost too good to be true,” you say, fighting the urge to melt at that stupidly gorgeous smirk. “So why are you single?”

He shrugs, casual as anything. “Just waiting for the right girl.”

Your brows lift. “Oh, really?”

He nods and takes another spoonful like it’s no big deal.

“What’s she like, then?” you ask, trying to match his calm confidence.

He grins—mischievous and warm, with a spark behind his eyes that makes your chest tighten.

“Oh, she’s awesome,” he says. “Total badass. Ex-assassin. Worked with the Avengers. Can definitely kick my ass—it’s super hot.”

You roll your eyes and shovel more noodles into your mouth before your smile gets out of hand.

“She’s stupid pretty too,” he adds. “But obviously doesn’t know it.”

Your face heats to an impossible degree, and you drop your gaze to your bowl, pretending to study the swirling noodles.

“And she’s smart,” he goes on, completely unperturbed. “Witty as hell. The verbal warfare? Honestly, it’s better than foreplay.”

You almost choke, barely managing to swallow without incident. When you look up, he’s just standing there, all cheeky and red-faced like he didn’t just soak your underwear with three lines of dialogue.

“Wow,” you mutter. “She sounds pretty great. Sure you’re up for the challenge, though?”

“Oh, I’m sure,” he says, leaning forward and bracing his elbows on the counter. “I know her weakness.”

You lean forward too, the corner of your mouth twitching. “Kryptonite?”

He shakes his head slowly, eyes darkening. “Me.”

It’s just one word, but it slides in sharp and smooth—curling under your skin and lighting you up from the inside.

You want to reply—say something snarky, or at least tell him he’s full of shit—but you can’t. Your voice is stuck somewhere in your chest, tangled up with the fire burning hot and bright for the man grinning at you. And goddamn, he might just be right.

You finish your dinner in mostly comfortable silence, too flustered to manage much more than the occasional hum of agreement while Joaquín talks. His smile never fades, and that infuriating sparkle doesn’t leave his eye—not for a second. He knows he’s got you breathless, rattled, right where he wants you. And if you’ve got any hope of winning this bet, you’re going to need to flip the script.

“I’ll wash up,” you say, already rounding the island toward the sink.

He steps aside, placing his empty bowl into your outstretched hand with a note of hesitation.

“You sure?”

“You cooked,” you say with a nod. “I’ll clean.”

He moves a few more steps around the bench, trading places with where you’d eaten your dinner.

You turn to the sink and start the tap, sliding the plug into place before adding a generous squirt of dish soap to the growing pool of hot water. Then you move to the stove, wiping it down with a sudsy cloth and scrubbing at a few stubborn spots where the sauce had dried.

Once the sink is full, you plunge your hands into the bubbly water and start with the cutlery. You keep your head down and your eyes on the task, refusing to give in to the weight of Joaquín’s stare burning into your back.

“So,” he says after a beat, voice laced with something devious, “you clean and you fight. Why are you single?”

You roll your eyes, grateful he can’t see the stupid smile tugging at your lips.

“That’s kind of a long story,” you reply.

He chuckles. “Baby, we’re stuck here indefinitely. No story could be that long.”

Your heart stutters at the pet name. It’s tossed out casually, with no serious intent—but it still leaves you feeling way too warm.

“I guess not,” you say with a breathy laugh. “I’m single because I choose to be—after a series of poor decisions. And I became single after my last boyfriend because... well, apparently my taste in men needs work.”

“How bad are we talking?” he asks.

You shift a handful of soapy cutlery into the empty side of the sink and rinse them under the cold tap.

“Short version? He was a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent turned HYDRA,” you say, glancing over your shoulder. “The long version involves a lot of weird behaviour, some questionable kinks, too many fights to count, and probably one of the most violent breakups in history.”

Joaquín raises his brows. “You kicked his ass, right?”

“Oh, yeah,” you reply, turning back to the sink.

“Good,” he says simply.

You reach back into the water, feeling around for any remaining cutlery when—

“Fuck,” you hiss, yanking your hand out of the sink.

Blood smears across your knuckles and trickles down your wrist in a messy streak of crimson and bubbles.

“What happened?” Joaquín is beside you in an instant, his eyes wide, hands hovering like he wants to help but isn’t sure where to start.

“It’s fine,” you say quickly. “I’m fine. It’s not that deep—it just looks worse with the water—”

“Pause the bet,” he says firmly, cutting you off as he steps in and gently wraps his hand around your wrist.

“Joaquín,” you sigh, “I’m okay. I’ve had worse.”

He doesn’t look up. His eyes stay fixed on your hand, brow furrowed. “I don’t care. I’m helping you.”

He leaves your side for only a second to grab the first aid kit from the cupboard above the stove. Then, without a word, he takes your uninjured hand and leads you to the lounge.

“Sit,” he says, voice low.

You do as you're told, sinking into the cushions as your heart thunders in your chest. He sits beside you—close. Too close. His thigh presses against yours, his warmth wrapping around you like a blanket. And his scent—ugh—like fresh-cut cedar and rain-damp leaves. But there’s heat beneath it, too. Something rougher. Like sweat, smoke, and the kind of trouble that finds you even when you hide.

“You alright?” he asks, opening the kit on the coffee table.

You straighten, quickly realising that you'd been slowly leaning into him.

“Yeah,” you mutter. “I’m good. Sorry.”

He chuckles softly, then takes your injured hand again—holding it in his lap like it’s the most important thing in the world. He works quietly, carefully, seemingly unaware of the tension crackling between you as his fingers graze yours with the utmost care.

It’s almost hypnotic, the way he moves—cleaning the blood, dabbing antiseptic, wrapping your knuckles with gauze. But even when he’s finished, he doesn’t pull away. His touch lingers, his thumb stroking softly over the delicate bone in your wrist.

His eyes flick to yours, then drop to your mouth—lingering there as he leans in.

“You know,” he murmurs, “if it weren’t for this bet…”

His hot breath brushes your lips, and your heart starts to beat so hard you wonder if you’ll survive it.

"You’d what?" you ask, trying to sound steady—but your voice betrays you.

“I’d kiss you,” he whispers.

Your breath catches. Your chest aches. Your pulse is a drumbeat in your ears—so loud you can’t hear a single thought.

You want to let him. You want to close the space between you and let him do every wicked thing he’s thinking. But you can’t. You won’t. You need to win.

Instead, you smile—slow and dangerous.

“Bet’s back on, Torres,” you say, standing as you slide your hand from his.

You head back to the kitchen, steady and deliberate, refusing to let him see just how much he’s gotten to you.

Behind you, he exhales a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters.

You don’t look back, but your grin is smug—and you just know his is cocky. He’s loving the chase just as much as you’re loving the game.

Back at the sink, you crouch down to rummage through the cupboard for the pair of rubber gloves you know you saw earlier. Once you find them, you slide them on with a snap and return to washing up, ignoring Joaquín’s protests.

Eventually, he gives up with a dramatic sigh and grabs a dish towel, falling into step beside you to dry and put things away. The air between you simmers with silence—thick and heavy, like steam clinging to your skin. You exchange the occasional quiet ‘excuse me’, the barest brush of hands, and a few glances that linger a second too long. But mostly, it’s just tension. Hot and unbearable.

The kitchen is too small. The space between counters is too narrow. And Joaquín is far too fucking attractive to focus on anything else. That soft smile. Those gentle, dark eyes. The sharp cut of his jaw, dusted with just a hint of stubble. And his curls—God, those curls. They make your fingers twitch with the urge to sink in and pull.

As soon as you finish wiping down the sink and peeling off your gloves, you open your mouth to say you’re heading to bed—but Joaquín beats you to it.

“I think I’m gonna call it a night,” he says, already edging out of the kitchen. “I know it’s early, but I’m... spent.”

You nod, heartbeat still a little too fast. “Yeah. Me too.”

“I’ll be quick in the bathroom,” he adds, flashing a soft smile. “Good night.”

“Night, Torres.”

And then he’s gone.

You wait a few minutes before following, keeping yourself busy by wiping down the benches—again—and tidying the lounge room. Once you hear the soft click of his bedroom door shutting, you quietly pad upstairs and slip into the bathroom.

You’ve each got a drawer in the vanity now, and you’ve promised not to look in the other’s... though the curiosity is killing you. Not that you really care about toothbrushes and dental picks—because of course he uses them. Have you seen those teeth? No, what you’re more interested in is whether there are any... toys. Or condoms.

Because really, why would he need condoms at a safehouse?

To fuck you, maybe?

God, you hope so.

Barely clinging to your restraint, you brush your teeth, wash your face, and tiptoe into your room.

The house is almost too quiet tonight. And oppressively warm. You’re not sure if it’s the creeping summer heat—or just the tension between you and Joaquín—but either way, you need to let off some steam.

There’s only one thin wall between your room and his, which isn’t ideal for what you’re about to do—but you’re pretty sure you’ll go insane if you don’t. So you suck in a deep breath and quietly slide the box from under your bed, picking out your quietest—you hope—vibrator before climbing up onto the mattress.

Every shift of the sheets and every sharp inhale feels too loud in the dark room. You try to stay still, to keep calm, but your body won’t listen. It’s too wound up. Too eager.

You shimmy out of your underwear and toss them toward the foot of the bed, letting your knees fall open as you move the toy to the apex of your thighs. You’re just about to press the little button when—

A groan.

Soft. Clipped short. But it definitely happened.

“Holy shit,” you whisper, scrambling onto your knees.

You know Joaquín’s room mirrors yours—bedhead pressed against the same wall—so you inch up and press your ear to it, holding your breath. Listening.

There’s the quiet rustle of sheets. Barely audible. The faint whisper of wind—your window, probably. And then—a sigh. Soft and breathy.

Your eyes widen as you lean impossibly close.

Another groan—louder this time. Not stifled.

Oh, God. Is this real?

Then you hear it. The quiet slap of skin on skin. A steady rhythm, fast and getting faster.

Holy fucking shit.

You drop back onto the mattress, toy still in hand, and resume your position. You suck in a breath as you press the cool silicone to your core, hissing it out through your teeth at the contact.

Then—a hitched breath. Sheets shifting. Silence.

Oh. He heard you.

Fighting a wicked grin, you press the button and the toy hums to life in your hand—a soft whimper escaping your lips as you melt into the pillows.

Through the wall, you hear a strangled, “Fuck.”

Your heart leaps—racing now, pounding against your ribs.

You squeeze your eyes shut and picture him. Sprawled on the bed. Eyes dark and dazed. Boxers shoved halfway down his thighs. Hand wrapped tightly around his cock.

It makes your thighs quiver.

Another groan rumbles through the wall, and you arch into the toy, pretending it’s him instead—his hand, his mouth, his breath hot on your skin.

“Oh,” you sigh, all hesitation gone. “Joaquín.” His name slips from your lips like a prayer. Barely audible—but you know he hears it.

Because his rhythm falters—then quickens. His breath is shallow and sharp now, rough and uneven.

Normally, you’d take your time—drag it out until the ache is unbearable. But not tonight. You can’t stop. You won’t. Not with the image of him burning in your mind—eyes squeezed shut, brow furrowed, lips pink and parted as he pants.

You’re already close. So close.

And by the sound of his soft whimpers—threaded with your name—he is too.

You bite your lip to hold in a moan, desperate to hear his sounds over your own, but it escapes anyway—soft and broken.

Then you hear him. A low groan. Raw and wrecked.

You writhe against the sheets, your hand shaking as it clutches the toy. Whispers. Sighs. Soft moans—some his, some yours. At this point, you can’t even tell. All of it winds tight behind your hipbones, pressure threatening to burst.

Then his breath hitches. Stutters. Breaks. And your name—your name—leaves his mouth in a low, guttural groan.

It isn’t quiet.

It isn’t hesitant.

It’s loud. And it’s enough.

You break.

His name tumbles from your lips, over and over, a reverent chant as you fall over the edge—boneless, breathless, and blushing.

You wake too hot and far too exposed, sunlight spilling through the blinds you forgot to close. It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust, your thoughts still slow and hazy—

Then you bolt upright, the memory of last night burning fresh in your mind.

Fuck.

The sound of the bathroom door closing—right across the hall—makes you jump. Your head snaps toward your own door, left ajar in your rush to get to bed. God, that was stupid.

After a solid ten minutes of berating yourself for acting like a cat in heat, you finally drag yourself out of bed and pull out some clothes. You wait until you hear Joaquín leave the bathroom before darting across the hall and practically slamming the door behind you.

You spend longer than usual in the shower, one eye on the door through the fogged glass. You’re not sure what you’re hoping for—maybe that he’ll walk in by accident again. Or on purpose. Maybe join you. Show you exactly what he’d been doing to himself last night.

The thought alone makes you ache, your thighs pressing together instinctively.

You shut off the water, dry off, get dressed, and brace yourself to face the man who starred in every hot dream you had last night.

Maybe you need a new house rule: no mutual masturbation through the wall.

“Morning,” Joaquín says the second you step into the kitchen.

He’s leaning against the counter beside the coffee machine, one hand cradling a mug and the other braced casually behind him. His eyes are dark and wicked, glinting with something that makes your heart stutter.

“Morning,” you mutter, keeping your gaze low as you head for the fridge.

“Sleep well?” he asks.

You swallow hard, willing your cheeks not to flush. The asshole knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Yeah,” you say lightly. “Great sleep. You?”

“Best I’ve had since getting here.”

You nod, lips pursed as you pretend to study the fridge’s pitiful contents. “That’s good.”

A beat of silence follows—thick and humming with everything you’re both refusing to say.

Then he breaks it with a simple, “Coffee?”

Your stomach growls in response, and when you glance over your shoulder, it feels like all the air has been knocked out of you by just how downright delicious he looks. He’s in a muscle tee, arms bare and still gleaming from the shower, curls damp and falling over his forehead. His smile is devastating—lazy and knowing—and has no business affecting the parts of your body that it is.

You snap your eyes to the machine instead, clearing your throat. “Yes, please.”

He nods, sets down his mug, and reaches into the cupboard for a clean one. You stay planted on your side of the kitchen island, knowing damn well that you might not make it out of this room with your dignity intact if you get any closer to him.

It doesn’t take long before he sets the steaming mug of fresh coffee on the bench in front of you.

“Thanks,” you murmur, wrapping your hands around it.

He nods, watching as you blow gently across the surface of the liquid.

When you glance up, he raises his brows—a silent question.

“It’s hot,” you say simply.

He chuckles, low and warm. “Like last night.”

Your eyes go wide, and you nearly drop the mug.

“The temperature,” he amends quickly. “Just couldn’t cool down. Summer is definitely on its way.”

You narrow your eyes, carefully setting the mug back on the counter as you drag your tongue along your top teeth. He just stands there—smug and unrelenting.

“What happened to boundaries?” you ask, arching a brow.

He laughs again, and the sound is somehow hotter than the coffee. “What do you mean? A wall is a boundary, isn’t it?”

Then he turns, drops his mug in the sink, and flashes you one last, infuriating wink before strolling out of the kitchen—like he didn’t just fry every nerve ending in your body.

You spend the rest of the day avoiding him.

You can’t so much as be in the same room without seeing mental images of him sprawled naked on his bed, getting himself off to the thought of you.

And God, doesn’t he know it.

The smug smile on his lips hasn’t faltered in hours. Every time you pass him—every time you glance at his stupidly handsome face—there it is. Those pretty pink lips, curled into the most delicious, insufferable smirk you’ve ever seen.

If Sam doesn’t find whoever’s trying to kill you soon, you might just die stuck in this safehouse with Joaquín.

Then it hits you.

You’re out on the back porch, a book in your lap, pretending to read when the idea flashes through your mind like a lightbulb flicking on. Your eyes go wide and you shoot up from the old porch swing, your book dropping to the ground as you sprint into the house.

“Joaquín!” you call. “Joaquín, I think I know who it is!”

You turn into the lounge room—empty.

Then duck into the kitchen—also empty.

When you spin around to double back and check the other side of the house, you run right into him. Chest-first. Firm, warm… and damp.

You glance up. “What the fuck?”

He’s in gym clothes, sweat trailing from his cheekbone to his jaw, curls sticking adorably to his glistening skin. He must’ve been working out. Where? You have no idea. But whatever he was doing was clearly working his body, and it’s probably a good thing you hadn’t witnessed it. You might’ve dropped dead on the spot.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, slightly breathless, a hint of panic in his tone.

You step back quickly, dragging your eyes up to his face—away from the tight gym clothes that are making your mouth water.

“I—I think I know who it could be,” you say.

He frowns. “Who?”

“Whoever’s after me.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Remember last night, I told you about my ex?”

He nods.

“Well… when we broke up, it was messy. He tried to get me to join HYDRA. Told me he loved me and couldn’t live without me. Said I didn’t know the whole story, but once I did, I’d want to join them.” You hesitate. “I told him to eat a bag of dicks. Then it got physical. We fought. He almost had me—but I got lucky. I couldn’t kill him, though. So I let him go.”

You feel almost stupid admitting it, but Joaquín doesn’t look even remotely judgmental.

“The last thing he said to me,” you continue, “was that he’d never give up. That he’d find a way to get me back or—”

“Or what?” Joaquín prompts.

“Or he’d kill me.”

His brows shoot up. “Oh. Okay. Yeah, that’s probably something you should’ve told Sam earlier.”

You shrug, sheepish. “I kind of forgot. I didn’t take it seriously. He always said stupid, dramatic stuff like that.”

Joaquín blinks hard, like he’s physically stopping himself from rolling his eyes. “You really need better taste in men.”

You glance up at him through your lashes, dragging your bottom lip between your teeth. “I’ve got much better taste now.”

He inhales sharply, eyes fluttering shut like you’re dangling a drug in front of a recovering addict.

“You’re going to kill me,” he mutters, stepping back. “We need to call Sam.”

You nod, eyes shamelessly glued to his ass as he turns away. “Yeah. Call Sam.”

A few hours later, under the cover of darkness, Sam arrives, and you all gather around the small kitchen island to discuss the possibility that your ex is behind the attack.

It all seems to add up, and Sam quickly calls the contact in the Secretary’s office who’s helping him. He explains the situation, gives your ex’s name, and starts organising a team to locate and apprehend him.

You want to ask if you can come along—this is your mess, after all—but you know he won’t say yes. And a small part of you wants to stay here, in the house with Joaquín, because suddenly this little townhouse feels a lot less godforsaken than it did before. And you don’t really want to leave…

“Alright,” Sam says, sliding his phone into his pocket. “They’re looking for him now. They’ll let me know as soon as they have any leads, and then we’re going in. He’s been mostly MIA for the past few years, but when he’s popped up, it’s been suspicious.”

You nod. “So, he’s still HYDRA?”

Sam shrugs. “I’m not even sure HYDRA is still operating. But whatever he’s up to, it’s definitely nothing good.”

“Why?” Joaquín asks, his eyes locked on you, a playful smirk trying to appear but looking a little forced. “Thinking about getting back together?”

You narrow your eyes, lips pulling into a soft, amused smile. “Torres, are you irrationally jealous of my ex?”

He scoffs. “No. Absolutely not. Just—”

“Oh, man,” Sam sighs, shaking his head. “What the hell have I done leaving you two alone for this long?”

You roll your eyes. “Shut up, Sam.”

Joaquín chuckles.

Sam’s eyes narrow at you, amusement written all over his face. “Did I hit a nerve?”

You ignore him and turn to leave the kitchen.

“You know,” he calls after you, “you have my blessing. If you two want to fuck, I don’t—”

“I’m going to shower now,” you cut in, shooting a lethal glare over your shoulder before disappearing around the corner.

You hear them both giggling as you ascend the stairs, rolling your eyes again when you reach your room. You grab some clean clothes and carry them into the bathroom—only to realize your towel is still in the dryer. You start the shower, letting it heat up, then duck out and begin heading downstairs to get to the laundry.

But then you hear your name and freeze mid-step, leaning over the banister to listen closer.

“So,” Sam says, “you two haven’t… you know?”

“No,” Joaquín replies. “We haven’t slept together.”

Sam chuckles. “You sure? Because you can practically taste the sexual tension in here.”

There’s a brief pause, then a heavy breath—Joaquín’s, you assume.

“Something… kind of happened last night.”

Your eyes go wide. No way he’s about to tell Sam—

“We could hear each other,” he says, “through the wall.”

Another pause.

“Doing what?” Sam asks slowly, as if unsure he really wants the answer.

“You know,” Joaquín says. “Getting off.”

“Oh, my God!” Sam exclaims.

You drop your head into your hands, cheeks burning against your palms.

“Shut up, dude!” Joaquín hisses. “I doubt she’d want me to tell you that.”

“Then why did you?”

“You basically asked!”

Sam scoffs. “I asked if you’d slept together. Not if you’d jerked off on opposite sides of the wall. Jesus Christ, how old are you? Eighteen?”

“Shut up,” Joaquín mutters, his voice muffled like he’s covering his face.

You start quietly continuing down the stairs, deciding you’ve eavesdropped enough. Until—

“Okay,” Sam says, “so if you’re into each other, why haven’t you slept together?”

“I don’t know, really,” Joaquín replies. “She’s cautious, I think. And I don’t want to pressure her. But God, it’s so fucking hard.”

Sam chuckles. “I bet it is.”

“Dude,” Joaquín says, deadpan.

“What?”

Joaquín sighs, exasperated. “Look, I really like her. She’s so much cooler than I ever imagined. I don’t want to blow it by—”

“Blowing it?” Sam cuts in.

“How old are you?” Joaquín fires back, and you can almost picture him narrowing his eyes at his mentor.

“Sorry,” Sam mutters, though he’s still laughing softly. “I’ll stop.”

“Good,” Joaquín says, taking a deep breath. “I’m going to ask her out properly once all this shit is over. I want to try actually dating her. Like, romantic-styles.”

Your heart thuds harder in your chest, your pulse pounding in your throat.

“Romantic-styles?” Sam repeats.

“Yeah. Like flowers and dates, stolen kisses, late-night talks, anniversaries, handmade cards—”

“Making love under the moonlight?” Sam interjects, voice dramatically wistful.

“Yes,” Joaquín says firmly. “I want to make love to her under the moonlight, goddammit. I want all the dumb, romantic, cheesy shit you see in movies. Because I like her. A lot.”

Sam whistles under his breath. “Damn, son. I think you’re whipped.”

“Shut up,” Joaquín mutters.

You’re frozen halfway down the hall toward the laundry. Your cheeks are burning, your heart is racing, and you can’t remember how to breathe. Everything Joaquín said is possibly the lamest thing you’ve ever heard—in real life—but somehow, it’s making your head spin and your chest ache.

Then you hear footsteps.

Startled, you hurry down the hall, silently thanking your years of training for lightning-fast reflexes. You duck into the laundry, grab your towel from the dryer, check the hall is clear, and bolt back upstairs.

Then you lock yourself in the bathroom. Panting like you’ve just run a marathon and blushing like a fool in love.

After an intentionally cold shower, you throw on a pair of sweats and an oversized tee before making your way back downstairs. The house smells like roasted garlic with a hint of herbs—rosemary and thyme, you think—and the closer you get to the kitchen, the richer and more mouthwatering it becomes.

By the time you step into the kitchen, you’re practically drooling. And not just because of the drop-dead gorgeous man at the stove, cooking like it’s his own personal brand of foreplay.

“Damn,” you sigh. “That smells incredible.”

Joaquín grins over his shoulder, flipping something in the pan without even looking. “Garlic and herb roasted chicken, with caramelised onion and sweet potatoes.”

You lean forward and rest your elbows on the kitchen island, propping your chin in your hands. “It’s like you walked straight out of some lonely housewife’s favourite sexual fantasy.”

Sam chuckles from across the room, one shoulder braced against the wall. “You sure it’s not your fantasy?”

You roll your eyes. “Why are you even still here? Shouldn’t you be out looking for my asshole ex?”

“I’m off the clock until we’ve got a confirmed location,” he says with a smug grin. “And Joaquín invited me to stay for dinner.”

You stand upright, crossing your arms and scowling at him. “This is a safehouse, Sam. We’re supposed to be undercover, not hosting dinner parties.”

He raises a brow. “If you want to talk about the stuff you’re not supposed to be doing in this house, we can—”

“Okay!” Joaquín cuts in, just a little too loudly. “Dinner’s ready. Let’s plate up.”

You and Sam both glance at him with narrowed, knowing eyes. His cheeks are pink, brows lifted, and his mouth is pressed into a tight smile.

With a sigh, you decide to let it go and start laying out plates and cutlery while Joaquín serves. Each of you gets a full plate of the mouthwatering dinner he’s somehow whipped up, despite constantly complaining about the grocery situation Sam leaves him with. Then you all move into the dining room on the opposite side of the entrance hall from the lounge. You’ve barely used it since hiding out here. It’s small, just like the rest of the house, and wouldn’t comfortably seat more than four people around the circular table.

It’s quiet at first—the only sound the soft scrape of cutlery on plates as you all dig into what is, frankly, an obnoxiously delicious meal. You can feel Sam’s eyes flicking between you and Joaquín, that annoying little half-smirk tugging at his lips.

You can also feel the heat of Joaquín’s thigh brushing close to yours—because for some stupid reason, you decided to sit next to him instead of Sam.

“She’s all tough now,” Sam says, leaning toward Joaquín and eyeing you as you sip your wine, “but just wait until she’s had two more glasses.”

You set your glass down with a little more force than necessary. “I will bury you in the backyard, Wilson.”

Joaquín chuckles, eyes still on you even as he mutters to Sam, “Pretty sure that’s the fourth time today she’s threatened someone with murder.”

Sam raises his brows, that smirk deepening. “And you still want to date her?”

Joaquín grins—all cocky charm and perfect teeth. “Are you kidding? That’s half the appeal.”

Your wide eyes snap to his, heat rising from your chest right up to the tips of your ears.

“What?” he says with a casual shrug. “It’s true.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and pinch the bridge of your nose, silently begging the floor to swallow you whole—just to escape his stupidly perfect face… and Sam’s insufferably smug one.

After a beat of silence—far too brief for your liking—Sam starts up again, eyes locked on you and sparkling with mischief.

“So, what happens if it is this ex-boyfriend of yours?” he asks.

You raise a brow, swallowing your mouthful of food before replying, “Isn’t that your job, Captain America? Last I checked, lowly civilians like me don’t get to decide the fate of the bad guys.”

“But if you could,” he presses, propping one elbow on the table, “what would you decide?”

You bite your lip, gaze drifting to a blank spot on the wall behind him as you consider it.

“I’d probably kill him,” you say simply. “Or send him to the Raft.”

Sam’s brows lift. “Really? That harsh?”

You nod, stabbing a piece of potato like it insulted your bloodline. “He’s an asshole. And obviously a dangerous one. So if it’s between my life and his? I pick mine.”

“Wow,” Sam mutters, glancing down at his plate.

You frown. “Why is that surprising? He’s a dirtbag.”

“I mean, now he is,” Sam says with a shrug, his eyes sliding—none too subtly—toward Joaquín, “but from what I heard, the two of you were pretty serious. Like, real serious.”

“From what you heard?” you echo, incredulous.

“Yeah. Barton and Romanoff used to mention it. Apparently, you were talking marriage. Settling down. Getting out of the game.”

You drop your knife and fork like they’ve scalded you, lips parting in disbelief at the sheer nerve of the man across from you.

Joaquín shifts beside you, visibly tense. His jaw works as he stares down at his plate, knuckles white around his cutlery.

“Seriously, Sam?” you ask, leaning forward. “You’re asking me if I’m still in love with the man we think just put a hit out on me?”

Sam just nods and pops another bite of chicken into his mouth, utterly unfazed.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then—

“Are you?” Joaquín asks.

Your eyes snap to him, brow furrowed. “No, you idiot. I’m not.”

Then you turn back to Sam, who’s clearly seconds away from laughing. “And you—what the hell was that? Just because I once considered marrying someone I was in a committed relationship with doesn��t mean I’m still hung up on him. In fact, if he wasn’t actively trying to kill me, I wouldn’t even be thinking about him right now. Because you know what? The only goddamn thing on my mind lately is this—” you shoot a pointed look at Joaquín, heat blooming in your chest— “this unholy combination of soft curls and filthy intentions—which, by the way, you are one hundred percent aware of.”

Sam makes a choking noise, but you don’t stop.

“So don’t play dumb. Or coy. Or whatever little psychological warfare tactic you think you’re running to stir shit up. We don’t need your help turning up the tension in this house.” You stand abruptly, flustered and flushed. “It is already stifling in here. And I swear to God, I am this close to snapping.”

Then you pick up your plate, turn on your heel, and storm back through the house toward the kitchen—heart pounding in your ears, and face so hot you’re amazed you haven’t already burst into flames.

“What did she just call me?” you hear Joaquín ask.

Sam chuckles. “I believe it was an unholy combination of soft curls and filthy intentions.”

Joaquín laughs quietly, and you hate the way the sound alone makes you smile.

“Damn,” he mutters.

“She likes you, Falcon,” Sam teases. “The big bad assassin lady likes you.”

You roll your eyes and drop your plate on the kitchen island, deciding to finish the annoyingly delicious dinner before cleaning up.

Fifteen minutes later, once you’ve decided you’ve regained enough dignity to face them again, you move your empty plate to the sink and head back to the dining room. Without saying a word, you stack their plates in one hand and grab your wine glass with the other, downing the rest of it in two bitter gulps.

Then you return to the kitchen to start washing up, half-listening as their conversation drifts from the dining room to the lounge.

Once everything is clean, you refill everyone’s wine glasses and join them in the lounge room, dragging a chair in from the dining room since there’s no space left on the tiny couch.

Thankfully, the conversation doesn’t stray far from work. Joaquín asks Sam about the plan once they manage to locate your ex, and Sam reassures him that they—whoever he’s working with—have it covered. You can tell from Joaquín’s steady stream of questions that he’s worried. And it’s not just the standard concern for civilian safety. He’s worried about you.

And damn if that doesn’t make your heart ache a little.

Eventually, Sam flicks on the TV and picks a movie. You can tell he’s had enough of Joaquín’s interrogation, so you play along and pretend to be invested in whatever crappy comedy he’s chosen.

On your way to refill everyone’s glasses, you grab a spare blanket and lay it out on the lounge room floor. Then you steal two cushions off the couch and settle down on the blanket, wine in hand, pretending to watch the screen while trying very hard to ignore the weight of Joaquín’s gaze.

An hour and almost two bottles of wine later, the movie ends, the screen bathing the dark room in soft white light as the credits roll.

“Alright,” Sam sighs, tipping the last of his wine into his mouth. “No way I’m getting home now. I’ll crash on the couch.”

You and Joaquín snap toward him in unison—eyes wide, lips tight.

“What?” he deadpans. “I’ve had too many drinks and I don’t feel like catching a cab. You two can keep it in your pants for one more night.”

Joaquín takes a long breath through his nose, his jaw flexing with tension. You’re not sure what shifted in the last couple of hours—maybe Sam’s meddling worked—but the tension in the room is unbearable. Your heart won’t slow down, your skin feels too hot, and honestly, if you don’t feel Joaquín’s hands on you soon, you might actually go feral. Claws out, back arched, hissing kind of feral.

“Alright,” Joaquín mutters through clenched teeth. “Take the couch.”

You collect the empty glasses and take them to the kitchen while Joaquín grabs the blanket from the floor and drapes it over Sam, who’s settling into the world’s smallest couch like he owns the place. Then you move quietly back through the lounge room and meet Joaquín at the bottom of the stairs. The air between you is practically humming—so thick with tension one spark might blow the whole house sky-high.

“G’night,” Sam mumbles, entirely too smug.

“Night,” Joaquín replies, clipped.

“Night,” you echo, with a glare over your shoulder. “Hope your back hurts in the morning.”

Sam chuckles behind you, completely unbothered by the two of you stomping up the stairs like thunder.

You head straight for the bathroom, flicking on the too-bright light before stopping in front of the vanity and grabbing your toothbrush from the cup beside the sink.

Your reflection is a perfect mirror of how you're feeling—which is absolutely and completely wrecked. Your hair’s a mess, your lips wine-stained, your cheeks flushed, and your eyes wide and dark with an unrecognisable kind of hunger.

It’s almost laughable, the way your reflection exposes just how utterly undone you are by the man standing beside you.

Joaquín grabs his toothbrush and silently takes the tube of toothpaste from your outstretched hand. Then you both take turns wetting your brushes before wordlessly starting to brush your teeth.

You glance at him in the mirror, shamelessly studying the pretty features of his perfect face—soft curls, straight nose, sharp jaw, and those same wide, hungry eyes staring intently at his own reflection.

His elbow brushes yours, but he doesn’t seem to notice—not in the same way you do, at least. A sharp jolt of electricity shoots up your arm and through your shoulder, making you shiver.

He catches your eye in the mirror and pauses, quirking a brow—just the tiniest, stupidest smirk. But it still sends your heart vaulting into your throat.

The heat in your cheeks intensifies as you duck your head and focus on rinsing. The water is cold as you splash it over your mouth, but it does nothing to cool the fire simmering beneath your skin.

“This is torture,” he mutters.

You dry your mouth on a towel before straightening, frowning at him in the mirror. “What?”

He gives you a flat look. “This. You. Me. Captain fucking America sleeping on the couch.”

Your breath stutters, and you have to grip the counter to steady yourself. “It’s one night. We can do one more night.”

Joaquín blinks, then turns toward you—actually looking at you, not your reflection. “One more night,” he says quietly. “Then what?”

Your eyes drop to his lips, lingering there as his tongue flicks between them. “You know what.”

“Say it,” he mutters, stepping closer.

Your breath hitches, still locked on his mouth.

“One more night,” he repeats slowly. “Then… what?”

You let out a shaky breath and take a reluctant step back. “Then…” You swallow, lifting your gaze to meet his. “Then you fuck me so hard I forget why we waited this long.”

He stops breathing.

His eyes go wide—impossibly dark. His whole body goes still.

Your stomach flips. Your knees wobble. But somehow you keep moving, brushing past him and walking straight into your room.

You feel the heat of his gaze on your back. The phantom drag of his fingers down your spine—even though he hasn’t touched you. Not properly. Not since you made up that stupid, wildly ineffective rule.

You shut the door without looking back, not trusting yourself to survive what you’d see—him, still standing there. Mouth open, eyes black, foamy toothbrush dangling stupidly from his lips.

God, even dental hygiene is sexy when he does it.

You fall face-first onto the bed, groaning into the sheets.

It’s going to be a long fucking night.

You spend an hour trying to fall asleep. Tossing, turning, blankets on, blankets off. One pillow, two pillows, fluffed pillow, no pillow. Nothing helps.

Sleep evades you.

You’re too hot. Too wound up. The wine and the tension are thrumming through your veins like electricity. Your pulse won’t slow. Your breath won’t settle. All you can think about is Joaquín—his stupid smile, his eyes, his lips, his hands. The way all of it would feel against your burning skin. The way he’d unravel the knot sitting low and tight behind your hipbones, slow and deliberate and maddening.

It’s too much. You can barely breathe.

You need to do something.

After what feels like an eternity, you throw the blankets off and lean over the side of the bed, reaching underneath until your fingers find the box. You slide it out and fumble through its contents for your little bullet vibrator. It’s not the quietest, but it’s efficient—and at this point, you don’t care what Joaquín hears. You just need release.

You use your phone’s flashlight illuminate the box, but after a few seconds of empty searching, you remember… it’s in the bathroom drawer.

Of course it is.

With a quiet sigh, you swing your legs off the bed and pad softly to the door, careful not to let the squeaky hinges whine too loudly. You don’t bother with the lights as you tiptoe into the bathroom, stepping up to the vanity and slowly sliding open the top drawer—your drawer.

You quickly find the small vibrator and wrap your fingers around it before gently shutting the drawer. Then you turn and tiptoe out of the bathroom, your bedroom door in sight when—

Joaquín steps into your path. Shirtless. Curls a mess. Nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants slung dangerously low on his hips.

You duck your head and try—feebly—to sidestep him, but he moves with you, crowding into your space until your spine meets the bathroom doorframe.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice low and rough.

He steps in closer, slow and deliberate, and the hallway suddenly feels too small. Too warm. His face is cast in soft shadow, but you can still see every perfect line—sharp cheekbones, full lips, that frustratingly elegant nose. The kind of face sculptors dream of and sinners pray to.

But it’s his eyes that undo you.

Dark. Wild. Burning with something untamed. Hunger, yes—but barely restrained. Like he’s holding himself back with a single fraying thread, one you’re both terrified and desperate to snap.

You manage the smallest nod.

He edges even closer, his bare chest now just a breath from your peaked nipples beneath your thin cotton shirt.

“You’re not wearing a shirt,” you murmur, voice embarrassingly breathless.

His jaw ticks as he looks at you—like he’s trying not to do something reckless. Then his tongue slides slowly across his bottom lip. “You’re not wearing pants.”

“Guess we’re both breaking rules,” you whisper.

He lifts a hand to your face, knuckles grazing from your cheekbone down to your jaw. “What’s one more, then?”

Your breath hitches, heart pounding in your throat. “Which one?”

He hums softly, his eyes trained on his fingers as they ghost along your jaw and down the column of your throat.

“Guess,” he says quietly.

Then he grips your chin. Hard. Fingers digging into your jaw, forcing your mouth open.

“You have no fucking idea how hard it’s been not to touch you,” he growls.

Then he surges forward and crushes his mouth to yours, all heat and hunger and pent-up fucking agony. It’s not soft. Not sweet. It’s a collision—teeth and tongue and a groan so guttural it vibrates against your lips. You gasp into him and he swallows it whole, devouring you like he’s starving.

Your head hits the doorframe with a soft thud, but you don’t care. You’re too far gone. His hands find your hips, rough and possessive, gripping you like he wants his fingerprints embedded in your bones.

You whimper—and that’s all the encouragement he needs.

He shoves a knee between your legs, pressing his thigh up against your core. The pressure punches the air from your lungs—hot and perfectly placed—and your hips grind down on him before you can stop yourself.

He groans into your mouth, deep and wrecked, and then his teeth catch your bottom lip in a sharp, punishing bite. Not enough to break skin, but enough to make you gasp.

“Shh,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Gotta keep it down, baby. We’ve got guests.”

Then he kisses you again. Harder. Desperate and possessive. Like he’s trying to brand you with his mouth alone.

You try to lift your hands—to touch him, to feel—but he’s faster. He catches your wrists and slams them above your head, pinning them with one hand as the other slides down and cups your breast, rough and reverent all at once.

You gasp against his mouth, a shocked, breathless sound that he swallows greedily.

Then he stills.

His eyes drag up to where your hands are trapped. To the shape pressed between your fingers—small, hard, and anything but innocent.

He pulls back just enough to uncurl your grip, slow and deliberate. You try to pull away, but he’s stronger—too strong—and within seconds, he’s holding the little vibrator up between two fingers. Right in front of your face.

“This what you came out here for?” he asks, voice ragged, low, thick with disbelief and something darker.

You can’t answer. You’re too stunned. Your breath is coming in shallow gasps, your chest rising and falling like you’ve been sprinting.

He drops his gaze to your lips, then back to your eyes. And smirks.

“Nah,” he murmurs, voice like smoke. “You don’t need that.”

The vibrator drops from his hand, hitting the floor with a soft, humiliating thunk.

For a moment, neither of you move.

Then he’s on you again.

His mouth crashes into yours—devouring, claiming—like he needs you more than air. Like kissing you is the only thing keeping him alive.

You moan into him, fingers twitching with the need to touch, to claw. He releases your wrists and you drop them instantly to his shoulders, then into his curls, grabbing hard enough to make him groan.

His hands find your hips again, rough and greedy, dragging you closer until his thigh slots back between your legs. The pressure is maddening. Perfect. You grind down with a gasp, hips rolling instinctively against the solid muscle.

He pulls back just enough to smirk against your mouth, that dark, cocky glint flashing in his eyes. “Yeah,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “Just like that.”

His fingers tighten on your hips, guiding you into another slow, filthy grind. The drag of fabric against your clit electric. You whimper and drop your forehead to his, your breaths mingling in the heat between you.

Every rock of your hips sends sparks shooting up your spine, the ache between your legs growing unbearable. His thigh flexes beneath you—deliberate, teasing—and you feel his breathing start to match your own, ragged and fast.

“Gonna cum on my thigh, baby?” he asks, breathless but teasing.

You can’t form words. You just whine—a needy, broken sound that ghosts past your lips and makes him chuckle, low and dangerous.

“That’s it,” he mutters, guiding you a little higher on his thigh. “That’s my girl.”

You grind harder, chasing the friction, the pressure, the devastating edge that’s so close it hurts. His hands are locked on your hips, dragging you over him like he wants to leave bruises behind.

“You feel that?” he rasps, mouth brushing your jaw as he speaks. “How fucking wet you are for me?”

You nod—frantic, breathless—but it’s not enough. He growls low in his throat and suddenly pulls you down harder, his thigh flexing beneath you. You bite down on a cry, head tipping back against the doorframe as your body trembles.

“You’re so fucking hot like this,” he breathes, watching your face like it’s the most obscene thing he’s ever seen. “Soak my leg, baby—come on.”

One hand slips up your shirt, calloused fingers grazing the bare skin of your belly before cupping your breast—no bra, just heat and softness and a tight nipple begging for attention. He rolls it between his fingers, rough and greedy, and your hips jerk in response.

“Jesus, you’re so fucking responsive,” he mutters, leaning in to bite down on the soft skin beneath your jaw.

You gasp, nails digging into his scalp, dragging him closer.

“Please,” you whisper, not even sure what you’re begging for—release, more, everything.

He lifts his head, eyes dark and glittering with wicked intent. “You wanna cum for me, baby?” he asks, voice thick and taunting. “Wanna make a mess all over my thigh like a needy little slut?”

You whimper—pathetic and wrecked—and he smirks. “Then take it. Rub that desperate little pussy on me like you mean it.”

He moves his thigh up harder, fingers biting into your hips as he guides you, using your body like it’s his to play with. And it is.

You’re grinding shamelessly now, panting into his mouth, broken noises falling from your lips as the heat builds. You’re close—so fucking close. Muscles tightening, vision going spotty—

“Cum for me,” he growls. “Right fucking now.”

And you do.

With a strangled whimper, you break—hips jerking, thighs quaking, mouth falling open in a silent scream as pleasure tears through you like a live wire. You bury your face in his neck, biting down on a gasp, desperate to stay quiet.

A muffled moan slips out anyway, ragged and breathy against his skin. He groans, low and wrecked, one hand fisting in your hair as your body trembles against his.

“Shh,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple, even as his thigh flexes beneath you to draw out every last wave. “You’ve gotta be quiet, baby. Sam’s just downstairs.”

But you can’t stop shaking—your orgasm crashing over you in hot, relentless pulses—your nails clawing at his back, your teeth sinking into his neck to stifle another sound.

He holds you through it, breath thick and uneven, a dark smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he feels you unravel.

“So fucking good for me,” he whispers. “So sweet when you try to behave.”

He kisses you again—slow, filthy, coaxing you through the aftershocks with soft praise and a hot tongue. His lips drag along yours like he can’t get enough, like he’s trying to taste every noise you made.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he breathes, eyes half-lidded and burning. “So fucking sexy.”

Then, without warning, he lifts you—strong arms locking under your thighs, making you gasp as your legs wrap instinctively around his waist. You cling to him, giggling breathlessly against his shoulder as he starts walking down the hall.

His mouth finds your throat again, biting softly as he mutters, “You know I’m not stopping ‘til you’re ruined for anyone else, right?”

You let out a wrecked little laugh, and he grins—dark and dangerous.

“Gonna fuck you so good, baby,” he murmurs against your skin, voice wrecked and wicked. “Gonna make that pretty little mouth scream my name ‘til it’s the only word you know.”

You shudder—helpless, breathless—and he chuckles low in his chest, kissing the hinge of your jaw as he kicks open his bedroom door.

The door clicks softly shut behind you as you both step out into the hall, but neither of you move.

Joaquín’s back hits it a second later, pulling you with him—your chest flush to his, breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a moan.

“Joaquín,” you sigh, warning in your voice but no real conviction behind it.

“Mmh?” He leans in, mouth already dragging along the curve of your jaw, his hands low on your hips. “Just one more.”

You bite back a grin, threading your fingers through his messy curls as his lips brush yours—soft, slow, intoxicating. His tongue teases your bottom lip, coaxing it open, and before you can stop yourself, you’re kissing him again.

Deeper this time. Greedy. Sweet. A little wrecked.

His hands wander. Squeezing. Grabbing. Remembering every filthy, delicious way they unravelled you last night.

He trails kisses along your jaw, down the column of your throat, sucking a bruise into the dip of your collarbone as he lowers himself slowly.

Dropping to his knees.

You tip your head back, lips parted and panting softly.

“We—We have to go downstairs,” you murmur, though you don’t try to move.

“I am downstairs,” he mumbles, lifting the hem of his shirt to kiss your stomach.

You let out a shaky little laugh, your breath hitching as his tongue slides over your hipbone.

His hands slip up beneath the shirt, fingertips dancing over your hot skin like he’s thinking about dragging you back to bed. Again.

You’ve been trying to get downstairs for over an hour now. This is the furthest you’ve gotten.

“You’re not helping,” you hiss, voice catching as his knuckles graze the underside of your breast.

“I’m not trying to.”

You thread your fingers through his curls and tug, reluctantly pulling his mouth away from you. He looks up at you through thick lashes, eyes dark and hungry, grinning like a man thoroughly satisfied with his own choices.

“Come on,” you sigh softly, wanting nothing more than to have his head between your legs again like it was twenty minutes ago.

He rises to his full height with a playful eyeroll, slipping one hand into yours and lacing your fingers. Then he uses his free hand to cup your head and pull you toward him, pressing a tender kiss to your temple before turning down the hall.

“Let’s get this over with,” he says with a soft chuckle.

You giggle quietly, biting your lip to stop yourself from begging him back to bed.

Halfway down the stairs, he leans in, lips brushing your ear. “You realise I’m gonna spend all day thinking about what you sound like when you cum.”

You nearly trip, but he catches you easily—smug and warm behind you, his laughter a hot puff of air against your neck.

You elbow him, but you’re smiling, flushed and glowing and absolutely ruined.

You let him lead you into the kitchen, fingers still laced together, cheeks flushed and lips swollen. You try not to look like someone who’s just had every bone in her body melted and rearranged—but the limp in your step and the heat in your cheeks aren’t exactly subtle.

Sam’s already there, leaning casually against the counter beside the coffee machine, mug in hand. His eyes sparkle with that familiar, knowing mischief the moment you enter.

“Well, well, look who finally decided to join the land of the living.”

You pause at the edge of the kitchen, but Joaquín doesn’t.

“Morning,” he says easily, strolling over to the coffee machine like he hadn’t just threatened to make you scream his name five minutes ago. “Coffee?”

Sam takes a long, deliberate sip from his mug. “It’s probably cold by now. Didn’t think you two were ever coming down.”

You press your lips together, fighting back the embarrassed smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. Joaquín just shrugs.

“We got distracted,” he says, opening a cupboard and pulling out a mug. “Important business.”

Sam snorts, shaking his head. “Yeah, I heard. Whole neighbourhood did.”

You choke on your breath. “Oh my god.”

Joaquín turns to you, mug in hand, a smirk spreading across his face—smug and utterly unrepentant. “She’s loud when she’s happy.”

Your eyes go wide, and you’re surprised you don’t implode on the spot.

Sam groans, setting his mug down with a thud. “Jesus Christ. I take it back. You’re officially banned from happiness.”

Joaquín just grins wider. “Too late.”

You drop your face into your hands with a soft groan.

“At least one of you has the decency to blush,” Sam mutters as he walks past you.

You drag your hands down your face and shuffle further into the kitchen, stopping at the island across from where Joaquín is pouring two cups of coffee.

He nudges the mugs toward you, but neither of you makes a move to grab one. Instead, he steps around the island, slips his arms around your waist, and pulls you in—pressing you flush against him as he buries his face in the curve of your neck, breathing you in like he’s trying to memorise every trace of you.

All of it completely shameless, even with Sam just a few feet away on the lounge, sipping his coffee and looking vaguely traumatised.

Honestly, though? You can’t bring yourself to care either.

Your hands drift up Joaquín’s arms to link behind his neck.

“You hungry?” you ask.

His head snaps up, eyes dark with immediate interest. “Yes.”

You roll your eyes, thighs clenching despite yourself. “Not like that. I meant actual food. You know—sustenance.”

“The other thing is sustenance,” he mutters, mouth finding your neck again.

“I’m still here,” Sam calls. “And you’re still not quiet. Do either of you know how to whisper?”

Joaquín lifts his head and glances toward the lounge. “We didn’t invite you to stay. Feel free to leave anytime.”

Sam shakes his head, laughing in disbelief. “You two should be thanking me.”

You frown. “For what?”

“Introducing you,” he says, pausing like he expects applause. Then he sighs and adds, “And tracking down your shady ex.”

That gets your attention. Both you and Joaquín straighten, turning toward him.

“You have a location?” you ask.

Sam nods. “We’re organising a strike team. Intel says he’s been renting this place under an alias. Plan is to hit him when he’s not expecting it.”

“Tonight?”

“Tonight,” he confirms, pushing off the lounge. “Which means I’ve got a team to prep.”

He moves into the kitchen, drops his empty mug in the sink, and glances back at you.

“If your hunch is right and he’s behind everything… you’ll be able to go home soon.”

You nod, trying to ignore the tight knot forming in your stomach. “Great.”

Joaquín slowly releases your waist and lifts his coffee, taking a sip to hide what you know is a frown.

You wait for Sam to gather his things and bid you both goodbye, stepping out the front door with a knowing smirk and muttering something about ‘getting the house fumigated’ after you two finally move out.

When the door clicks shut behind him, you turn to Joaquín, who’s settled on the tiny lounge, elbows resting on his knees and fingers steepled beneath his chin.

“Hey,” you say softly, stepping in front of him.

His hands immediately find your hips, like that’s where they’re meant to be.

“Hey,” he murmurs, tugging you onto his lap.

You straddle his thighs, hands pressed to his chest. “You know,” you say, resting your forehead against his, “if you wanted to stay here a while longer… I wouldn’t be opposed.”

He huffs out a soft laugh, breath ghosting over your lips. “Yeah? You want to stay in this tiny house with paper-thin walls?”

“I’d stay anywhere with you,” you whisper, so quiet it barely registers—as if saying it aloud makes whatever this is feel real. Too real.

His breath stutters. His fingers tighten at your waist.

“Really?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“What about my apartment in D.C.?” he asks, leaning back to study your face with wide, hopeful eyes. “It’s not much bigger than this, but—”

“Okay,” you interrupt, pressing your lips together to keep from grinning like an idiot.

His eyes go even wider. “Really?”

You nod again, giggling. “Let’s call it an indefinite sleepover. Just in case you get sick of me and want to send me back to my own place.”

He laughs too, the sound rumbling deep in his chest beneath your palms. “I’m never gonna get sick of you.”

“You sure about that?” you tease, shifting your hips to grind down against him.

His breath catches, lips parting in a soft sigh.

“Baby,” he whispers, “we’re just getting started.”

Then, before you can blink, he lifts you, flipping you onto your back and pressing you into the couch cushions. He hovers over you, lips finding yours like they belong there—sliding against yours and stoking that slow-burning flame deep in your belly. The same flame he lit the first day you met. The flame that now blazes so bright, your whole body glows—burning beneath his touch.

He pauses, forehead resting against yours, breath warm and uneven.

“You know,” he murmurs, voice thick with promise, “I plan on making you forget your own name by the end of today.”

You grin, tugging him down for one last kiss—soft, slow, but packed with everything you feel.

“Good,” you whisper against his lips, “because I don’t want to remember anyone else’s.”

END.

#joaquin torres #joaquin torres x reader #danny ramirez x reader #captain america: brave new world #joaquin x reader #falcon x reader #marvel #marvel x reader #captain america #danny ramirez #falcon #fanfic #fanfiction #one shot #oneshot #imagine

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icantgobacktoprison-blog · 2 months ago

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I don't think they will, I think it was just a throw away comment Steven Ogg made.

GTA 6 PLEASE DON'T KILL TREVOR, YOU'LL TAKE A PART OF MY SOUL WITH HIM 😭😭😭

#I'm just trying to reassure myself because if Trevor dies I'm going to rain hellfire upon rockstar my fury will know no bounds #I will crash down upon them like the hammer of Thor #Like the gust of 1000 winds!

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blondwhxrewrites · 8 days ago

Text

This is the longest thing I've written in years

Bob jumped as the door to his room was slammed open by John, who seemed more or less agitated, but that was nothing new. The man held up a tablet towards Bob, as if he expected Bob to be able to see the screen from across the room.

Well he could, but he was lazy.

"Okay, what am I supposed to be looking at exactly?" Bob leaned forward and squinted as he tried to decipher what was on the screen. Was that a live feed of the lobby?

"There's a woman in the lobby claiming to be your fiancée," John stated, and threw the tablet on Bob's lap.

Bob's eyes grew wide, and he perked up. Without a second thought, he scrambled out of bed and passed John. The tablet clattered to the ground, and John sighed. Well, there went that tablet. It didn't even last a day; at least it wasn't Alexei who'd broken it this time.

"I knew she would come for me!" Bob's voice rang through the hall as he scurried towards the elevator, almost tripping in the process.

He slammed his finger against the first-floor button, impatiently waiting for the door to close. Wait, he looked down. Yep, he'd forgotten to put on socks. He shrugged to himself. That wasn't important, at least not now.

Finally, the elevator door slid open, and Bob's shoulders slumped as he was met with the sight of you calmly talking to Yelena. In fact, you seemed to be in the middle of showing her your engagement ring.

Oh, how he missed you.

"Babe!"

You turned to Bob, and your eyes narrowed as your once calm expression turned dark.

"Sunshine you are so fucking dead—"

Bob launched out of the elevator, and in the blink of an eye, he was right in front of you. You opened your mouth fully prepared to rain hellfire down upon him, but he shushed you and cupped your face with his hands. "I'm sober." He breathed out, staring down at you as if you were the most precious thing in the world—you were.

You stilled. "You're sober?"

He nodded. "I'm sober."

Slowly, the anger melted away from your being, replaced by a happiness that could light up a thousand rooms. "Oh my god, Bob!" You lunged forward and hugged him, laughing as you tried to contain the tears that now threatened to spill.

"I knew you could do it." You whispered, your voice muffled by the fact that you'd practically smashed your face into Bob's chest.

Bob didn't hesitate to wrap his arms around you, pulling you even closer to him—if that was even possible.

Wordlessly, Yelena backed away. This was clearly a heartfelt moment that she didn't need to be a part of. She could take the hint.

Bon pulled back from the hug after a few moments, his eyes obviously misty with tears. "We can finally get married now!"

"Woah, Sunshine, one step at a time. You still have a lot of explaining to do, like how a so-called 'spiritual retreat' ended up as a six-month-long stay in Malaysia. Oh, and don't forget how you just disappeared, and the next thing I know, you're on the news being announced as part of the new Avengers."

Bob's expression fell. Seemed like the heartfelt moment was officially over. "I'm in trouble aren't I?" Honestly, he should've seen this this coming.

You rested your hands on your hips and nodded. "You're screwed, Robert—whatever your middle name is—Reynolds."

"Oh shit, he got the full name," Yelena mumbled, and for the sake of her being, she slipped into the elevator. Yeah, she was not dealing with whatever situation that was.

"Good luck!" She called out, waving goodbye to Bob as the doors of the elevators slid closed. "Yeah, he's dead."

This wasn't edited so sorry for any mistakes

#robert reynolds x reader #bob reynolds x reader #bob reynolds #robert reynolds #yelena belova #marvel #thunderbolts #reader insert

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hexedevolution · 5 months ago

Note

"All that matters to me is the work. Without that, my brain rots."

Workaholic Sentences

"It would be incredibly hypocritical of someone like me to say otherwise, Miss Kiramman." Viktor nodded with a sigh. It seemed they were both as bad as each other. Maybe this was why Caitlyn hid here in the public library rather than at her home or any form of office with the Enforcers - she would be pressured into leaving the case alone and sent to rest instead.

"Instead, can I offer you a coffee? I'll be grabbing one myself. I feel like my night will be just as long as yours." Viktor smiled in understanding as he patted the short pile of hefty books in front of him.

#v; ~ambitious mind~#~rain down like hellfire~

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andvys · 3 months ago

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The edges of your soul (I haven't seen yet) ⭐︎ chapter eight

⭐︎ Dead-eyed. Dead weight.

Warnings: angst, angst, angst. hurt/comfort. sickness. mentions of death. post apocalypse au. grumpy x sunshine

Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Summary: Something happens that had none of you prepared and the fear of loss creeps up on your group... once again.

Word count: 8.5k

Author's note: Please read !! @hellfire--cult helps with allllll my chapters, we planned this story together, from start to finish. A lot of the things that happen here, are her ideas and I just write them. She not only brainstormed with me, she also writes with me and by that I mean, she writes a lot of scenes, like in the last chapter for example, there is a huge portion that was written by Roe, not by me. So please keep in mind that she is behind this story as well, don't forget her! Give her the love and the credit she deserves ♡

series masterlist ⭐︎ previous chapter

☀︎

It started off with a sneeze the night before and a scratchy feeling in your throat before the nausea took over. It then progressed into a painful cough accompanied by a headache. You knew it would happen the moment uncomfortable shivers started running down your body but you tried to blame it on the cold weather, at first at least. You knew it wasn’t the cold. It was the rain you and Steve got caught in two nights ago.

Anxiety took over the second it dawned on you that a fever was rising up. You took some of the vitamin pills you found, hoping that they would help. They didn’t, of course.

You are freezing, shaking terribly even after putting on a thicker sweater under your leather jacket. Your nose is starting to feel stuffy causing your head to hurt even more. Your hands are cold and shivering. Your head pounds a little harder each time Nancy hits a bump on the road. So far, you were good at hiding the state you were in until now – until it really started kicking in and you put your hand to your head after a particular big bump on the road. A wince falls from your lips and Steve, who sits across from you with a book in his hand, instantly looks up at you, alarmed and worried when he notices the pained look on your face.

He lowers the book he is holding and places it on the bench he is sitting on. He furrows his eyebrows when he notices sweat coating your forehead and the trembling in your hand… the trembling in your whole body as his eyes scan you from head to toe.

“Sunshine?”

You don’t react. You place your palm against your forehead and lean back, clearing your throat before you break into a fit of coughs. Dry Coughs.

Oh no.

Steve gets up and nearly crashes to his knees as he crouches down before you. He places a comforting hand on your calf as he speaks your name softly, not noticing how the RV has slowed down and how Nancy and Eddie share worried looks.

“Are you okay?”

You sniffle quietly and push yourself up so you can straighten your back. You clear your sore throat and lick your lips that feel dryer than usual. You look down at him, noting the worry in his hazel eyes.

You open your mouth but don’t even manage to utter a word before he cuts you off.

“Don’t lie to me,” he warns as he glares into your eyes, making you cower back slightly.

Nancy rushes into the back the moment she parks the RV on the side of the road. There is a deep line between her eyebrows and a frown sinking into her features as she halts beside Steve. She reaches her hand out to you and touches your forehead with the back of her hand.

Steve looks up at her and sees the way her eyes widen.

“You are burning up!”

She already knew you weren’t feeling good, but she hoped that it was just a little cold and that it would pass in a few days after some rest, but instead, it got progressively worse over the past couple of hours.

“Oh shit,” Eddie mumbles, bringing his hand up to his face.

Steve and Nancy share a look, one filled with anxiety. And you don’t want that, you don’t want them to worry. You will be alright. You just need to rest.

“I’m–” cut off by another painful cough. You shut your eyes as you cover your mouth and turn in the other direction, not wanting to get them sick as well. You blink back the tears that make their way into your eyes and take a few deep breaths before you look back at them. “I-I’ll be okay, just feeling a little under the weather.”

“You’re not feeling under the weather, you are sick! Which isn’t a surprise at all considering you were running around in the cold fucking rain!” Nancy raises her voice as she glares at both you and Steve. “And we don’t have anything to treat you–”

“It’s just a cold, Nancy…” You reply weakly as you tug your jacket tighter around you. Sharing a look with Steve, you instantly look down again, not bearing to look into his eyes. “It’s gonna pass in a few days…”

It didn’t.

It didn’t pass.

It kept getting worse.

Worse and worse.

Two days later, your whole body was aching. Your muscles were sore and your throat was dry. Coughing hurt, and your head was pounding. You tried to hold yourself together, to keep your head high and your back straight, to pretend to be okay so they didn’t have to worry but when the weakness hit, your eyes turned glassy and your lips blue, they could see that you were getting worse and there was no hiding that anymore. You couldn’t even if you tried, not after this morning, not after you nearly collapsed trying to get a glass of water. Luckily, Eddie was there to catch you.

Eddie and Nancy were worried, that was obvious. You were unaware of the fear in Steve’s eyes though, even now as he crouches down before you, touching your forehead with the back of his hand.

He frowns deeply as he stares at you. Your blue lips are trembling, your eyes keep falling shut even when you try to keep them open. You are burning up and he knows that your fever is getting higher and higher. There is a light whistle in your throat as you keep taking deep breaths, struggling to do so.

The feeling in his chest is sickening. He feels the bile rising up in his throat, nausea sinking in more and more after coming back empty-handed from his run into the nearest town. The pharmacy was empty, completely wiped clean. He couldn’t even find painkillers.

It was the second pharmacy he tried his luck in.

He was gone for two hours, and your state got worse in the meantime.

Eddie is sitting on the bench, biting his fingernails as he stares at you. He’s not moving, he is just sitting there, watching you wide-eyed… like you had already left.

Nancy is pacing back and forth with the map in her hand. Her eyebrows are furrowed strongly, her blue eyes showing nothing but stress.

“Sunshine?” Steve whispers, brushing away the hair in your face. He winces at the hotness of your skin, he can’t imagine how bad you must be feeling right now. He moves his hands down to your blanket and brings it up higher, rubbing your arm over it.

“Hmm?” You open your eyes and squint them when your vision blurs, and he appears twice before you.

He places his hand on your forehead, cupping it.

“How bad are you feeling right now?”

You’re not in control of your body, it’s too weak. You can’t push yourself up and convince him that you are feeling fine, not even if you tried. You can imagine what you look like right now.

You clear your throat only to wince in pain at the soreness in you.

“I’m… still hanging on.” Your voice is hoarse. Barely. You are barely holding on. You’re in and out of sleep, your body is feeling weaker as the hours go by, and you are not sure how much longer you can go without medicine. “Still hanging on, Stevie.”

Your hand falls to his wrist, and he nearly flinches at the coldness of it. The sickness is spreading, claiming you entirely. It all happened too quickly. It happened in the blink of an eye.

Your touch is usually so warm, now it’s icy cold. The look in your eyes is always filled with happiness; now it’s… it’s pained yet empty. Your energy, usually so contagious, is now barely there, gone… dead.

The sickening realization begins to sink in the longer he looks at you.

You came into his life so suddenly. You came out of nowhere. You stepped into it and shone a bright light into his greying life. He was wilting, like all the flowers in this world, until you came along and gave him what he needed; the sun. Only recently did he begin to see the good in things, even out here in this wasteland. He was trying to see the good. He was trying to look forward to things. He was trying to live.

But now with you falling sick, he is already beginning to lose that part of himself once again.

Will he lose you suddenly too?

This is why he didn’t want to let you in.

He let you in just to lose you again.

He can’t let that happen, not again.

“Keep hanging on for me, okay?” He whispers, shaking you a little. There is desperation in his voice and also in his eyes.

Your mouth twitches, lips curling into a smile. You squeeze his wrist, even if weakly.

“Always.” You whisper.

Steve tries to smile, but it barely comes out as such.

“Promise?” He leans closer, missing the warmth of you.

You nod and hum softly.

“Promise, Stevie.”

He blinks a few times. The beating of his heart changes, becoming intense the longer he thinks about what will happen if he doesn’t find medicine in time. His chest starts to ache more and more.

He won’t bear it. He won’t.

“You will be okay,” he assures you, taking your hand into his own, he gives it a tight squeeze. “You hear me? I’m gonna get you some antibiotics and you will be okay again, sunshine.”

Your eyelashes flutter as you look into his hazel eyes. Even through your haze, you can now see the worry in them, the fear. The fear of having to bury someone else.

You take a deep breath and lick your lips. You rub your thumb against his knuckles, admiring the softness in his features.

“Is that… worry I see on your face, Cowboy?” You manage to ask, chuckling softly.

Eddie smiles behind Steve, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. He is worried, just as worried as Steve is.

“Get some more sleep, okay?” Steve whispers as he adjusts the pillow beneath your head.

Nancy takes another look at you. Not a single word falls from her lips, but her eyes say it all. She doesn’t want to lose another friend. She turns away and walks back to the driver's seat. She sits down and stares at the road with a blank look on her face. She takes a few deep breaths, trying to mend the fear that is building up in her.

She looks into the rearview mirror, watching how Steve refuses to leave your side, even after tucking you in already. His body is tense, she can see it in his back and his shoulders.

He cares about you. He is afraid to lose you – even if he won’t admit it out loud.

She looks down at the map in the passenger seat, she grabs it and unfolds it. She goes over the areas you have marked up as safe. Steve had already gone through two of those towns and he came back empty handed. There is another that hasn’t been checked out yet, about ten miles down the road.

She doubts that the pharmacy will be any different there.

What worries her is the areas that have been marked as unsafe – the red areas. The big towns and the cities that are crawling with infected. She has a hunch that that is where they can find the medicine that you need, that is where they will have some sort of luck but it’s dangerous. Very dangerous.

Even with her hunch, there is no guarantee that there will be any antibiotics or painkillers and even if, the chance to come back alive from a place crawling with the dead is zero to one.

She looks back at Steve once more, she knows that he will want to try, she knows that he will try.

But how will she let him, knowing that he will walk right into his death.

She can’t lose you. She can’t lose him either.

She can’t lose the both of you.

So she hopes, she really hopes that the next safest town is where luck will be on your side.

Eddie plops down in the passenger seat with a sigh. He turns to look at her, sharing the worry that is painted into her eyes. Nothing has to be said. They both feel the same thing. They both feel fear. They don’t want to experience another loss. They don’t want to feel the loss of you.

Eddie takes the map from Nancy’s hands. He squints his eyes as he looks down at it, at the next destination. Another small town.

Nancy can see the doubtful look on his face and the uncertainty in his eyes. She feels the same.

“It’s worth a try.” She whispers, shrugging as she starts the RV.

“Yeah,” Eddie murmurs as he sinks into his seat. “What if it turns out to be just like all the towns before though?”

She shrugs but she knows the answer to that. She knows where to look. But she isn’t ready for that. She looks into the rearview mirror one more time, watching as Steve settles into the seat closest to you. There is worry in his features but there is also something else now. Determination.

She breathes out shakily and holds the steering wheel tightly as she presses her foot onto the gas pedal.

“I don’t know.”

Just like Nancy had suspected, Steve and Eddie came back empty handed after yet another unsuccessful run into a town. Two days have passed since then and your condition only worsened.

She had tried her best to treat you with herbs, making you soup and tea. Keeping you warm with blankets and making sure that the RV wasn’t cold at any time. Though nothing was helping.

Steve’s state wasn’t great either. He slept less than usual, ate less and was mostly on his feet when not in the RV. He was searching and searching. But the longer he went without finding you the things that you need, the more he grew sick with worry but also with anger.

And it is showing now especially.

The anger has taken hold of him completely. Disbelief and pure rage lingers in his usual hazel eyes, now they are dark with fury.

Eddie stands beside Nancy, though he isn’t looking at the map spread on the hood of the RV or between them. He is busy looking down at the city before them. Red lightning curses over it, thunder rumbles in the sky and the earth beneath his feet shakes every few minutes. Chills run down his back. Red lightning is never a good sign. It means the affected city or town is infested with something, crawling with the dead.

It’s unsafe.

“We can’t go out there.” Nancy states, keeping her arms crossed. And it makes sense, it is stupid to go out there, dangerous.

She knows there is no point in arguing with him. But she can’t let him do this.

“This place is crawling with infected, with monsters and whatnot!” She snaps at him after a long moment of staring into his glaring eyes. “Look at it, Steve! Open your goddamn eyes!”

With his hands on his hips and a scowl on his face, he glares at her.

“My eyes are open, Nance. Are yours?” He snaps back, feeling the anger rush through his veins. “I don’t care what this place is crawling with, I don’t care what’s out there. I care about what’s in there!” He almost yells as he points at the closed door of the RV. “She’s sick and she is not getting any better. She won’t get better. She is barely hanging on!”

Nancy clenches her jaw, faltering a little.

He is right.

You won’t get better, not without antibiotics. She is not a doctor and she doesn’t know for sure but given the fact that you got caught in the rain and spent all night stuck in a cold car, it has to be pneumonia. Your symptoms align with the sickness. And she remembers what Mike looked like when he had it a few years back, at least until he got the medicine that he needed.

“How much longer does she have, huh?” Steve throws his hands up. He feels grateful that it’s anger leading his emotions now and not something else.

Nancy turns away from him, closing her eyes, she pinches the bridge of her nose. Frustration bubbles up inside of her but also fear of what will happen in the next few days or even in the next few hours if you don’t get the help that you need.

“Whoa, whoa,” Eddie mumbles, putting his hands up. He shakes his head at Steve. “Don’t.”

Steve scoffs as he turns to face him now. “Don’t what? Don’t speak the truth? You know I’m right, Munson. You know we have no other choice but to make that run. You don’t wanna go with me? Fine. I get it. But I am going–”

“No, you are not!” Nancy points her finger at him as she turns back around. “You are not making that run! It’s a death sentence! What good will it do to go in there?” She asks, pointing into the direction of the city. “You are not coming back. How is that gonna change anything?”

Steve can’t believe what he is hearing, what he is seeing when he takes a look at Eddie. He looks uncertain, like he is agreeing with her.

Disappointment fills his heart as he looks at his friends.

“I survived Starcourt, I survived the upside down, I survived this world. What makes you think that I’m not capable of coming back alive from this?”

He doesn’t care how he will do it, if he will have to fight his way through monsters or a hoard of infected. He doesn’t care if he will have to look all day if it means saving you.

He feels responsible for what happened. He keeps telling himself that this could have been prevented. If he just set up camp like he planned to do, none of this would have happened.

Seeing you like this now pains him and it reminds him of why he didn’t want to let you in, in the first place. He didn’t want to care. He didn’t want to like you. He didn’t want to have to worry again. The moment he started doing so, you were already tainted by his bad luck. You were already just another loss in his life. You were another temporary thing.

But he can’t let that happen. He can’t lose you. Not now.

They stay quiet. Both of them. It only fills him with an even deeper disappointment.

“I can’t believe you… You cared so much back in Hawkins. What happened to that?”

Eddie lifts his head, his eyebrows furrow in anger, his eyes flash with it too while Nancy looks down with a guilt ridden look on her face.

“I care, alright? I care but Nancy is right, this out there… is a death sentence! We are walking straight into it and we might not come back!”

“We can fucking try!” Steve yells, not caring about keeping his volume down any longer. “I will try, I don’t give a damn about what you will do but I’m trying–”

“Don’t fight…” Your weak voice cuts in and Steve’s head instantly snaps towards you. You’re standing leaned against the doorway to the RV. A thin blanket is wrapped around your shoulders. Your hair is hanging loosely down your shoulders, no sign of a braid there like usual. You look worse than before. Your skin is losing its color. Your eyes look dull. Your face looks thinner. You look even sicker out here in the daylight. And it makes his chest ache terribly. “Don’t fight because of me.”

You make your way down the steps on shaky and weak legs.

Eddie holds his hand up towards you and Nancy uncrosses her arms as she eyes you worriedly. Steve instantly takes a step forward, already holding his hands up just in case.

A cough breaks out of your mouth, causing your entire body to jolt in pain. You hold your hand up to your lips and clutch your stomach. Before you can even try to catch yourself, your knees buckle and you lose balance, nearing the ground as you fall.

“Whoa!” Steve mumbles loudly as he reaches his arms out to you, sweeping them under your armpits and catching you before the fall. He lifts you up and hugs you to his chest. “You’re supposed to be in bed.” He grumbles into your ear.

You sniffle, blinking away the tears that build up in your sensitive eyes. You can’t find it in yourself to fight him, to step away and stand on your own feet. You are weak. You hate it.

“I don’t want you to fight because of me.” You repeat in desperation, lifting your head and looking up at him with your glassy eyes.

This is why he didn’t want to care again.

This hurts.

The worry. The fear. The pain that takes over his heart from seeing you suffer.

Your body feels weak against him. Your eyes are so… lifeless. He can’t bear it. He can’t.

“Come on,” he whispers as he begins to lead you back into the RV. He wraps his arm around your waist and holds you tightly, helping you up the stairs. “Let’s get you back inside.”

You comply but not without looking back at Nancy and Eddie one more time. You part your lips, wanting to say something but no words come from your mouth when you see the way they look at you. Like they are worried, like they are sick with fear, like they are already grieving.

You blink.

Even through the haze in your mind, you realize the look on their faces. They care. They care because you mean something to them. Because you are not only their companion now but also a friend.

The tears that welled up in your eyes before were from physical pain, the ones now are emotional. For the first time in your life, you found people who see you as a friend. An actual friend. Not someone to use and toss away when you are no longer needed. They see you as their friend just like you see them too.

And of course you had to find them during the end of the world, getting closer and closer to them in the process, only to fall sick. It’s only a matter of time until you close your eyes for the last time. You can feel it. You can feel the sickness claiming you whole. You can feel death creeping up on you. This is just your luck.

Steve leads you back to your bed and helps you back down. He grabs your legs gently and puts them on the mattress carefully before he tucks you in, making sure the pillow is comfortable and soft beneath your head.

Even he started caring. Even he became your friend.

You look at his face, at his features that were always so covered in anger and defensiveness when you first met him. Now they are soft. His hazel eyes are filled with sadness and it doesn’t help your case at all.

A tear slips from your eyes and down your cheek. You try to lift your hand to wipe it away before he sees it but you are too slow.

His eyebrows knit together and he places his hand on your shoulder.

“What’s wrong? Did it get worse…? Are you–”

“I’m weighing you guys down,” you whisper, shakily. Your lips curl downwards as tears start falling freely. “Y-You were right. I am a nuisance. Now I am one.”

Anger bubbles up inside of him but also guilt for ever saying something like that about you.

He shakes his head, squeezing your shoulder softly as he brings his other hand up to your cheek, wiping away the tears.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he glares at you.

Your bottom lip wobbles and your chest heaves as you try to breathe. You clutch your blanket tightly.

“It’s the truth… You already slowed down because of me and made unnecessary runs–”

“Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have done it too.”

You would. Of course you would. You would do anything for them. For him.

You swallow and the scratchiness, the dryness in your throat makes you wince and causing more tears to build up in your eyes. You close them and try to take deep breaths.

Whatever he is saying, you know that you are right. You are weighing them down and they – he is taking unnecessary risks just to help you. You will never forgive yourself if something happens to him while he is trying to save you.

“Leave–” You pause when your voice cracks. You try to keep your composure, to keep breathing, to stop crying. You open your eyes again and look at him. “Leave me in the nearest house, I’ll be okay…”

Steve looks at you as though you had gone crazy. His eyes flash with disbelief as anger rushes through him. How dare you make him care only to give up so easily now?

“We are not doing that.” It’s not his voice that sounds through the RV, it’s Eddie’s. He is looking at you just like Steve is, though with less anger and with more sadness.

Steve is starting to breathe heavily as the seriousness of this whole situation sinks in more and more. His heart beats a little faster. Desperation clings to him.

“You have to… You are going off the main road for me,” you say with a heavy voice, looking between Eddie and Nancy, who now stands in the doorway too, shaking her head in disapproval.

Steve pushes himself up, getting back on his feet. He runs his fingers through his hair and he pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to think, to think of a solution.

Nancy pushes past him and kneels down before you. Her blue eyes are troubled, filled with emotions you can’t all read. She brings her hand up to your forehead, cupping it gently.

“It doesn’t matter,” she whispers.

Steve looks down at you as he paces around. He can read you so well. You, you are usually so hopeful. Filled with life and the will to live and fight your way through this world. You are now ready to give up, to find a place to die.

This is not what you want. This was never something that you wanted. This had always been something you were afraid of, you told him that before. You were afraid to die alone. You were afraid to lose your life before finding your way back home and seeing your family.

Now you are right where you never wanted to be.

“It does– My house, my address, it’s on my ID… so if you head there, tell my parents–”

“Shut up!” He yells, exploding. He can’t do this. He can’t listen to you talk like this. He can’t watch you giving up.

You flinch a little, staring wide eyed at him but with eyes still glassy like before. Nancy looks down while Eddie eyes him, scanning his face and the look in his eyes.

Steve clenches his jaw, pointing his finger at you as he breathes heavily.

“I– We are not leaving you!” He snaps at you, holding back his own tears. “Get that through that thick head of yours. We are not leaving you.”

He gives you another pointed look before he snatches the map out of Eddie’s hand and makes his way over to the driver’s seat, where neither Eddie nor Nancy can see him. He plops down and opens the map but his breathing is so heavy and his eyes burn so hotly that he can’t focus on it.

He leans back and closes his eyes, he swallows the lump in his throat. This moment reminds him of what he lost. This reminds him of what could have been if he just handled in time. This feels like he is living through it all once again and it kills him.

He made mistakes before. He won’t do them again. He won’t experience another loss. He won’t let anything take away from him again.

Never again.

It’s silent and peaceful. The RV has never been quieter than this. It’s dark inside, except for the small candle burning on the table he is sitting at. The fire outside where Nancy and Eddie sit around, isn’t large enough to shine through the windows. They had to keep it low to avoid unwanted attention from the city nearby. Monsters and infected probably don’t come out this far, but it’s always better to be safe.

He is staring at his backpack, at the nailed bat that has accompanied him for years now. He is tapping his finger against the counter, fighting an inner battle as his eyes flicker back and forth between you, his backpack and the red lightning in the distance.

He knows what he has to do.

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

He leans his body in your direction, squinting his eyes as he looks at you, trying to see better in the darkness.

His heart leaps a little the longer he watches you. You aren’t moving. At all. Your chest isn’t rising up and down anymore. It looks like you stopped… breathing.

“No…” He whispers as he gets back on his feet, swallowing the growing nausea as he looks at your pale face. He feels like throwing up already, his heart is racing in his chest as he crouches down before you. He whispers your name, once… twice…

“Sunshine?” Steve whispers shakily as he brings his hand up to your face.

“Still here…” You manage to croak out. Your lashes flutter when you open your eyes as best as you can.

His head hangs low for a moment as his eyes close and he takes a deep breath. His hand moves down to your wrist and then to your hand, he holds it softly.

Thank god.

“I’m still here, Cowboy.” You whisper before your eyes fall shut again and sleep begins to lull you back in again.

Still. You are still here.

He knows what he has to do. He knows what he will do.

He tilts his head up again, watching how you take slow and weak breaths. But you are still here.

He is determined, desperate. He moves closer to you, running his fingers through your hair, he tucks it away and out of your face. He caresses your cheek, feeling his heart long, feeling it ache for something else entirely – though he pushes it aside… for now… or for always.

“You’re gonna be okay, Sunshine. I promise. You hear me?”

You only hum in response.

“Just hang on for me, okay? Hang on.” Steve whispers as he brings your hand up to his lips, kissing the back of it. A kiss you barely feel. A kiss you will forget.

He gets back up and puts his jacket on, no longer caring about Eddie’s and Nancy’s plans. Time is running out. Time that you don’t have. He won’t sit here and watch you wilt. He won’t sit here while you die. He won’t let that happen. Never again. So he grabs his backpack and Nancy’s rifle that she left inside the RV after swapping it for your gun.

He looks through the blinds on the window, making sure that neither of them will come in when he slips out but they seem to be in a deep conversation. They won’t notice.

Steve turns around to face you one more time. His soft eyes stay on you for a second. His heart pounds in his chest, his body fills with adrenaline at what he is about to do.

You will be okay. He will make sure of that.

He will fix this again.

“I’ll be back soon, Sunshine.” He promises and he prays to whatever is above to protect you, to make you hold on a little longer. He wishes he had something to keep you safe with.

Steve falters in his step when he remembers the hair tie around his wrist. He looks down at it, at the lilac colored hair tie that belonged to his best friend. It’s old. Back from the Family Video days. Robin always forgot to grab extra hair ties or clips and would then complain about her hair getting into her face and being unable to tie it back. At one point he bought a package of hair ties and would put one around his wrist until it needed to be used. The lilac one was her favorite.

He traces it before he takes it off his wrist. He tiptoes back to you and he picks up your wrist gently, placing the hair tie around it. He holds your wrist for a moment, tapping it softly.

He never believed in things like this, but maybe it’s a good idea to start now.

“Keep her safe for me,” he whispers to her.

Steve squeezes your hand reassuringly before he turns around and slips away from you and out of the RV.

The wood in the fire crackles, the wind blows through the trees around the place they set up camp in. The red lightning in the distance isn’t close enough to illuminate the sky above them but it keeps flashing in their peripheral vision.

Eddie is staring into the fire. He is quiet unlike usual.

Nancy doesn’t mind the silence but it feels odd not to hear his voice. She feels the tension radiating off him. She feels it herself.

A stack of books lies on the grass beside her feet. Books about herbs, about natural remedies for sicknesses. But everything she tried helping you with was to no avail. Not the eucalyptus teas nor the peppermint. You need antibiotics and fever reducers. Steve is right.

“I was thinking…” Eddie finally speaks up after hours of silence between them. Since they sat down to do night watch, they haven’t talked at all. Nancy was too immersed in reading the books beside her while Eddie had scanned the map over and over, and tried to come up with a plan.

Nancy looks up from the book, cocking her eyebrow in question.

He straightens in his seat, pressing his hands together as he leans forward, not looking away from the fire yet.

“I’m making the run into the city come morning,” he states, determined. “Those books won’t help,” he points at the ones she has read through already. “And we can’t rely on the smaller towns ahead of us.”

She opens her mouth to speak but Eddie holds his hand up at her and finally looks into her eyes.

“Small towns are usually safe, they’re not crawling with infected or monsters as much as big cities are. People like us, survivors go for places like these. They avoid that,” he mumbles, pointing his thumb into the direction where the city lies. “It’s crawling with fucking everything, so people won’t even try to get in there, which means we have the best chance at finding stuff there. Everything that she needs, antibiotics, pain killers, fever reducers.”

Nancy’s shoulders slump. Her eyebrows knit together as she looks at the RV.

He is right, just like Steve is.

He is right and she knows it's what needs to be done.

She nods slowly, closing the book in her hand, she throws it on the ground. Leaning back into her camping chair, she looks into the fire.

“Okay,” Nancy whispers, accepting the danger he is about to face. She is about to face. She won’t let you die.

“Yeah?” Eddie asks, tilting his head down a little as his brown eyes scan her face.

She nods again and looks up at him.

“Yeah, but I’m going with you.”

He doesn’t protest. He works best with her.

“In and out, easy… right?” Eddie chuckles, though his heart skips a nervous beat.

Her lip twitches, curling into a small smile as she looks at the guy who became her closest friend. Her best friend.

“Easy.”

He takes a deep breath and nods to himself. He looks up at the sky.

“Sun is gonna rise soon,” he comments as he looks at the faint light behind the clouds.

“Yeah.”

He gets up with a sigh, “I’m gonna go tell Steve.”

“Alright.” Nancy gives him a tight lipped smile.

He turns around and starts making his way towards the stairs of the RV. He reaches his hand out to grab the handle. One step closer and he halts in his tracks when the sound of rustling makes him freeze.

A cold shudder runs down his spine when he turns back around. His eyes instantly lock with Nancy’s. Her blue eyes are troubled and she instantly pushes herself up, grabbing your gun from her belt.

“Whoa,” Eddie whispers, making his way back to her side after he grabs the axe he left on the ground.

“Could be an animal,” Nancy murmurs as she scans the area. She ignores the beating of her heart.

She parked the RV right next to a big forest, making sure that it was hidden behind trees and bushes, now it doesn’t seem to be the best idea as she looks around trying to spot the culprit who caused the noises.

Eddie squints his eyes, grabbing the handle of the axe tighter as he steps in front of her.

“It better be.” He mumbles nervously. He doesn’t want to get caught by an infected or a demo– something.

He feels his heart in his throat when he sees the figure descending out from behind the bushes, pushing its way out onto the field and in his and Nancy’s direction.

“Fuck…”

Nancy swallows. She clicks the safety off on the gun and brings it up a little, not aiming yet.

“Infected or Human?”

Eddie shrugs as he scans the way the figure carries themselves, the steps and the posture.

“What’s worse?” He asks, narrowing his eyes at her.

Nancy lifts one shoulder as she straightens her back, ready to take the shot if needed.

“You do know that if we shoot, everything that might be around will get drawn in by the noise…”

“I know,” Nancy sighs, cursing inwardly for not looking for silencers before. “It’s not an infected… it’s–”

“Put the gun down, Nance.”

“Steve!?” Eddie and Nancy gasp in unison.

He speeds up his movements once Nancy holsters her gun again and Eddie drops the axe. They don’t even manage to take in the sight of him, to take in the state he is in. He brushes past them so quickly, heading into the RV like he can’t waste a single second to get to you. His backpack is clinking loudly. He throws open the door and rushes in.

Eddie’s confused face meets Nancy’s, they share a look before they follow him inside.

They both notice how fast and loudly he is breathing as he sets the rifle down, leaning it against the wall. He hurries into the back of the RV, throwing off his backpack carefully as he sets it down on the ground beside the bed you are lying in.

Steve drops to his knees before you, not even giving that moment to himself to breathe, to calm down. He spent hours feeling on edge, worrying about you, worrying about making it out alive. And he ran, he ran all the way from the city to here, not stopping for a second, not stopping to catch his breath or look back to make sure that nothing was following. He just needed to get to you. That’s all that mattered to him, he didn’t care about anything else.

He places his hand on your shoulder, shaking you softly.

“Sunshine?” He whispers as he brings his other hand up to your cheek, tapping it gently. “You with me?”

A grumble falls from your mouth. You shift on the bed as you wake up slowly. Your eyelashes flutter as you blink, opening your eyes after a few seconds.

Steve’s shoulders slump in relief, and he breathes out a loud sigh. He closes his eyes for a moment. He takes a deep breath before he opens his eyes again and gets into action. He grabs his backpack and zips it open, taking out the medicine he found inside of a hospital.

Nancy stares at him, watching as he takes out one bottle after another.

“What–”

“You went out there by yourself?” Eddie snaps at him.

And if you weren’t so weak and delirious, you would have been surprised at the anger in his tone and in his eyes.

Steve ignores them both. He ignores everything, even the injuries he came back with. He clenches his jaw. Taking out the antibiotics and the tylenol, he drops them on the bedside table before he gets up and makes his way into the kitchen to grab a glass of water and wash his hands before giving you the medicine.

He doesn’t even spare them a look.

“Are you crazy, Steve?” Nancy asks, crossing her arms over her chest as she inspects the dirt on his face, the blood dripping from the fresh wound on his cheek and one over his eyebrow.

“You could have died, man!” Eddie throws his hands up, glaring at his friend who glares back at him.

“She could have fucking died!” Steve yells, throwing his finger into your direction. He blinks in anger as he makes his way back to you. A huff falls from his lips, angry at his friends still.

He is tired and exhausted from hiding and running all night, from having to crawl on the ground to stay hidden from monsters and infected. A few infected still managed to creep up on him, and two or three demobats caused the wounds on his face. But he is fine. He is fine now.

They both fall quiet behind him, watching how he tends to you.

He places the glass on the table and leans down, scooping his arm under your back, “c’mon, you need to get up for a second.”

You don’t protest, but you are weak, and you would not be able to get back up by yourself. You squint your eyes as you look at him. Your mind is still in a haze and everything is confusing to you at this moment but you see the dirt and the blood on his face. The messy hair and the exhausted look in his features.

“What happened?”

“Don’t worry about it now,” he whispers.

Steve grabs the antibiotics, taking out a pill. He places it into the palm of your hand, “here, take it.” He mumbles and reaches for the glass of water.

He helps you bring your hand up to your lips, you put the pill in your mouth and take a sip of the water he holds out to you, swallowing it. You repeat the motion when he hands you one of the painkillers.

He watches you carefully. Wiping away the drop of water that runs down your chin and tucking your hair behind your ear.

“Thank you,” you whisper softly when you pull away from him, eyes dropping from the tiredness again.

Steve’s eyes soften when you try to smile at him, even now, even when you feel like absolute shit.

“Anytime, honey.” He promises. The nickname falling from his lips so naturally.

He helps you back down and tucks you in again, just like he did before, just like he did all the days leading up to this moment. His eyes fall on the hair tie. He leaves it there.

Nancy and Eddie look at each other, their anger fleeting away more and more. Relief filling them instead but also still fear… for him now too.

“There’s… I got a bunch of stuff,” Steve explains as he runs his fingers through his hair. “Nance, can you place an IV for her? I got one of those bags but I don’t know how–”

She nods, “yeah… yeah, of course. But your wounds need–”

“I’m fine. Just a cut…” He murmurs tiredly as he gets up, walking away and towards the couch.

Eddie huffs at his friend when he brushes past him. He can’t help but slap him over his head.

Steve flinches, squinting his eyes at him.

“For being a moron,” Eddie glares. “I would have gone with you, man.”

Steve shakes his head, scoffing softly as he plops down on the couch. He grunts in pain when he takes off his jacket, throwing it on the ground. His eyes start dropping suddenly as the tiredness hits fully.

“I was sneaky… stealthy like a ninja.”

Eddie raises his eyebrows at the comment that reminds him of who he once used to be.

“Didn’t even have to kill a thing… and now… I will sit here and I will see if she…” he slurs, eyes falling shut slowly. He mumbles your name before he passes out completely.

Eddie stares at him for a moment, noticing the cut on his arm and the blood dripping down from the wound.

“Stealthy like a ninja my ass,” Eddie snorts. He takes his own jacket off and pushes the sleeves of his sweater up to his elbows, ready to tend to his wounds.

His muscles are sore, aching in every spot in his body but his arms and legs especially. The cut on his arm strains against his skin, making him wince in pain when he stretches both arms out. A grunt leaves his lips as he peaks his eyes open when the sunlight hits his face.

He draws back in confusion when he looks down at the sheets covering his body, at the big window next to the bed. There isn’t one behind the couch. This isn’t where he fell asleep last night.

Steve presses his palms against the sheets beneath him, he pushes himself up and turns his head. His eyes widen in surprise when he finds you next to him, sitting up and looking right at him. A weak smile gracing your lips.

It takes him a moment to move. The words get caught in his throat when his heart skips a beat. The golden light of the sun kisses your face so softly, bringing out all the specks of colors in your eyes and the undertone in your hair that frames your face so prettily right now. You rarely wear it open, it’s always in one or two braids. He likes it like this. A lot.

You look so much better than the night before. The circles under your eyes are still there but your face has taken on a little color again and you can sit up straight once more.

“Hey…” Your whisper pulls him out of his stupor. He blinks a few times before he finally pushes himself up, reaching his arm out to you, he notices the bandage around his bicep and he realizes that Eddie must have taken care of his wounds before he carried him over to the bed to sleep next to you.

Heat creeps up to his cheeks and he blushes a little.

“A-Are you okay?” He whispers, placing his hand on your back. “Shit… what time is it?” He looks down at his watch, needing to make sure that you get your dose of medicine every eight hours.

You take his hand, filling him with even more relief when he feels the warmth in it again.

“I’m better.”

Steve looks away from his wrist and back up at you. Hazel eyes shining with hope.

“Yeah?” He leans closer, keeping his hand on you.

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip and nod, blinking as your eyes grow sensitive.

“Mhmm.”

You woke up confused this morning. Your body felt sore, and your throat still ached but you felt better, so much better. You didn’t understand why at first, not until you noticed him lying next to you, facing you. You remembered then what had happened the night before. How he gave you the medicine, how dirty he was, how wounded he was.

He went out there for you. He went into the city to get you medicine, to save you.

Steve risked his life for you.

Steve who seemed so cold at first. Steve who didn’t want you around at first. Steve who you thought didn’t care about you.

No one ever did that for you. No one ever cared enough to even do the littlest thing for you.

But he went out there, knowing that he could have died trying to save you.

It tugs at your heartstrings to know that he cares about you enough to do this. It warms your chest. It makes you feel safe. He makes you feel safe.

Steve creeps into your heart more and more every day and you can no longer lie to yourself or deny the feelings that grow for him.

You eye the mess on his head, the wild hair. The tiredness in his eyes. The wound he caught for you. You lift your hand up to his cheek, tracing his skin with your finger.

His lips curl upwards, his eyes flicker with something you can’t read.

You lean closer to him and close your eyes. You press your lips against his shoulder, giving it a soft peck.

“Thank you,” you whisper and look up at him.

Steve can see what flashes in your eyes. He knows what you are thinking, what you are feeling and it makes his heart ache.

He would do it again. Again and again.

No words leave his mouth but his actions speak louder. He wraps his arms around you and he pulls you into his embrace, hugging you softly.

You accept the hug instantly, grabbing his shirt, you press your cheek against his chest and let yourself fall into him and it doesn’t take you a minute, not even a second to understand why it feels so warm, why it feels so right.

This is more than just attraction.

This is more than what you thought it was.

And it scares you.

But you are not the only one scared, he is too. When he wraps his arms around you tighter and he presses his lips to the top of your head, he feels his heart warming in his chest when you curl into him.

Steve feels the urge to not let go, to keep you in his embrace, to keep you safe, to protect you.

But not like his other friends, no, he wants to protect you in a different way.

And that scares him too. Especially because he had never felt anything like this before. Never.

☀︎

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#steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x reader #stranger things angst #steve harrington x you #steve harrington angst #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington smut #steve harrington fluff #stranger things

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sakebytheriver · 4 months ago

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Nathan Ford, my favorite Greek tragedy on cable TV, an Icarus with wax wings made of righteous anger and a moral code that he'll break any rule for, burned up in the hellfire of his own rage, a modern day Prometheus stealing fire from the gods and giving their power to the people so that they can burn down the thrones their oppressor sits upon sealing his own fate and dooming himself to eternal suffering while knowing if he was given the choice a thousand times over he'd still do it every single time

Nathan Ford, my favorite blorbo packed with every type of Catholic imagery you could give to one man, joined the seminary to atone for the sins of his father, left to serve a different master playing detective for an insurance agency before the loss of a son crumbled his whole world down around him like the walls of Jericho, and in his grief he was handed a burning sword by fate and told to Avenge. The archangel Nate Ford, given a flame of anger so hot it rained hellfire down upon those that would never fit between the eye of a needle, a violent saint on a righteous crusade soaking the world in blood and that will only end one way, he'll leave a graveyard behind him, but he will still have to dig one last grave when he's done

Nathan Ford, my favorite folk song hero, a Boston Irish drunk, the moral son of an immoral mobster, an utter bastard with anger management issues, and a control freak with a sadistic streak, who took all the pain and all the anger in his heart and used it for Good, the ballad of Nate Ford echoes through the world like a call to action, an inspiration for the future, the sacrifices he made to be the catalyst for a movement he'd make over and over again even if the nature of being the spark means you'll never see the fire

Nathan Ford, my favorite terrible horrible broken man content to drink himself into an early grave if it mean he'd get to see his son again until he was given a chance to ruin the lives of men infinitely worse than he could ever be and save even just one person the same pain he suffered and so he postponed his death until his rage burned his own heart into ash

Nathan Ford, a tragedy with only one ending, but by God if he wasn't going to cause some hell on his way down

#ignore me #nathan ford #nate ford #leverage #its waxing poetic about nathan ford hours again #i want to write poetry about him

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wroteclassicaly · 7 months ago

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Eddie Munson loves the way that you pick at the chipping polish on your nails until it’s dangling from the cuticle. Enjoys how you only shave the bottom half of your legs but let the top grow out. Oh god, and when you chew and bite your straw to an unusable puncture, leaving lipgloss all over. The times at lunch where you’ll find him to ask, “Can I play with your hair?” You aren’t in Hellfire Club, but the group has taken to adopting you as a seat mate.

Well… you had simply settled down there before Eddie’s group approached. He’d leaned in to inform you that this was a private table. To which, you shrugged and asked who usually sat where, following suit with finding your own space - which just happened to be right beside the dungeon master himself. You’d put on your headphones, took out your spiral, and began writing, everyone free to converse as you let yourself get lost amongst new company.

Soon… things changed. It went from, “What’s she doing here?” To “What are you listening to today?”

Eddie often lets his thoughts scatter from campaigns conversations, the band’s music — all because he ends up watching you get lost to yours. Ink pen tapping, eyes fluttered closed. Every single bit of cafeteria commotion ceases to exist, footsteps echoing, Eddie’s heart thrumming in his ears (fucking tinnitus).

Vibrating your way into everyone’s affections, Eddie remains awe struck & jaw slacked that you can’t see how easy it is to connect with you, to feel like everything is okay when you’re around, how there’s not one single person on planet earth and beyond that is like you. You wear what you want, model a personal style that belongs to you, have prepared more comebacks than he’s seen in his twenty years of life (that would shrivel any man’s ballsack and make all the other girls envious). It’s how you tried to make red, white, and black knit scarves to match their shirts for Christmas, and it ended with balls of fabric, your bloody thumbs, and Eddie helping you fix each one with a gentle hand (because everyone has to have something, Eddie). How can he forget that you’re not a baker, but your boxed brownies are Eddie’s favorite, especially when you wrap them in Christmas paper, serving hot chocolate to go along, making your way around the table to plop marshmallows in each styrofoam cup, that way no one is forgotten.

“Something for you and the group to have during tonight’s campaign. Oh! And my mom actually taught me how to make the hot chocolate in a crockpot, so…”

Eddie Munson has tried convincing himself that you’re just another sheep to protect. His stomach isn’t fluttering like a hoard of bats are shredding his insides, his knees aren’t growing weak everytime you smile, his breath isn’t getting caught on the wall of his chest on days that your full figure wears a skirt or a dress to accentuate features you love to possess, but can’t see their beauty with your eyes. He’s seen you in the morning, in the sun, in the rain, in the dark, and now, as it’s snowing outside the walls of this school. You’ll get up to retrieve something in the lunch line and Eddie will peer into your notebook, ringed finger scanning the lined page of your latest short story.

A guy and a girl, one small town, looking at the simplicity of various Christmas lights. It’s traditional, differing from what you usually let him read. You’re a sheep, lost from your flock in the manger. An angel so soft that feathers have nothing on you. A fucking Christmas star, shining so bright it burns the entire town to the ground.

By the time you’re carrying a bowl of cheese fries back to the table with two forks, Eddie has already picked you up in his van, a thermos full of his mom’s famous hot cocoa recipe. Eddie loves the way that you - oh… fuck… he loves you.

Merry Christmas…

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keeryhours · 2 months ago

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“I don’t know if I can drive home in this.”

Eddie walked up behind you, peering over your head at the torrential downpour occurring outside. It was raining like crazy, so hard you could barely see right in front of you.

“Shit,” Eddie cursed. “I don’t know how the hell we didn’t hear that-“

“Couldn’t hear over the sound of you shaking in your boots over The Exorcist,” you teased.

“Hey, I was not scared,” Eddie said, looking at you seriously. “I was just…cold.”

“Sure,” you grinned, walking around him and back into the trailer. It was late, Wayne had long ago left for work. You were supposed to be having a movie night with Steve and Robin, but they bailed at the last second, leaving you and Eddie alone.

“I wasn’t scared!” he called back. He shut the front door, locking it, and followed you back into the living room. “So, uh…I guess you’re spending the night here?”

“I guess so,” you agreed. “Because I can’t drive in all that.”

Eddie nodded. “Okay. Uh…”

“What?” you raised an eyebrow at him.

“Well I don’t, exactly…have somewhere for you to sleep?”

“You have a bed, don’t you?”

“Well yeah, but-“

“But what, you don’t want to share with me?”

Eddie blushed. “No- I mean, I do- wait, fuck-“

You beamed. “Perfect, then. We can just share. I don’t mind.”

Eddie minded. The ache in his jeans certainly minded, the thought of you in his bed only making it worse. What did you sleep in? He pictured you in nothing but your underwear, cuddling up to him for warmth-

You happily bounded into his bedroom, making yourself at home on the bed. It wasn’t the biggest, enough for the two of you but you’d be close. You looked up at Eddie, standing frozen at the bottom of the bed.

Eddie’s mouth went dry at the sight of you laying on his bed. You were leaning back on your elbows, looking up at him with this innocent expression that made his cock twitch. If he wasn’t so scared of ruining the friendship he would just say that - well, not about his cock, but that he found you beautiful. That he wanted to kiss you really, really badly right now.

“I don’t have any clothes with me,” you said. “Do you, uh, have anything I could borrow?”

Eddie snapped out of his thoughts. “Oh, yeah. I have some t-shirts you can use. I have pajama pants, if they’ll fit?”

“I’m good in just a t-shirt,” you smiled. You went to his dresser and opened a drawer, pulling out an old Hellfire shirt. “Perfect!”

Eddie was frozen as you took off to the bathroom with his shirt. You were going to sleep in just the shirt? In his bed? With him? He half expected you to kick him out and make him sleep on the couch, but when you came back dressed in nothing but his oversized shirt and your panties, dropping down into his bed and looking at him expectantly - he realized this was really happening.

Eddie stripped down to his boxers and flipped the light switch, climbing into the bed next to you. He could feel the warmth of your body against his. He’d never been so close to a girl before, and it was setting his body alight, every nerve ending on fire.

He closed his eyes and tried to go to sleep. But then you turned over, eyes closed, and threw your leg over his. Your knee brushed against his cock and despite his best efforts it came stirring to life again, right against your leg.

He tried to adjust you, to move your leg away from his growing problem, but every time he’d try you’d grumble in your sleep and move it back. The brushing against his dick was exacerbating the problem quickly, and he was terrified by the very real possibility that you were going to wake up to find him rock hard right next to you.

He thought of everything to bring his boner down - all kinds of non-sexy thoughts running through his mind. But you were still there, right on top of him, and oh god-

“Eddie?” you said sleepily. “Oh shit, I’m sorry.”

You moved your leg to remove it from his waist, but you hit something hard instead. Eddie involuntarily groaned at the sudden sensation, then quickly covered his face with his hands.

“Fuck, I’m sorry. I don’t know why that’s happening, I just- you’re so-“ Eddie stopped himself before he could put his foot in his mouth any more than it already was.

“I’m just so what?” you asked, a teasing lilt to your voice that almost made him think you were enjoying this.

“Please forget I said anything,” Eddie begged, utterly humiliated. “Seriously, I don’t want this to ruin our friendship.”

“Why would it ruin our friendship?” you asked, running your fingernails up his bare chest. He shivered beneath your touch.

“Because- because you don’t like me back like that?” he said, suddenly unsure with the way you were touching him, maybe even…flirting?

“Says who?”

Eddie swallowed. “I- I don’t know.”

Your hand drifted lower until it was brushing over his erection, and Eddie was in the palm of your hand, literally and figuratively. He groaned, covering his eyes with his arm. “What are you doing t’me?”

“Making you feel good, it looks like,” you said. He could hear the smirk in your voice, and it only made him ache even more. You wrapped your hand around his clothed cock and squeezed it, making him whine.

“You like that?” you whispered. Eddie nodded quickly, don’t stop, please don’t ever stop-

You removed your hand. Eddie uncovered his eyes to look at you, to ask why you’d stopped, when he saw you reach for the waistband of his boxers and pull them down enough to release his cock.

“Hah-“ Eddie breathed a strangled moan as you touched his bare cock for the first time, twitching hard in your hand, like it was begging you to do more. “Fuck-!”

“It’s so pretty,” you mused, watching your hand work him up. He was growing even harder from your touch, his tip flushed red and leaking. Eddie whined again, canting his hips up into your hand. “Use your words, Eddie.”

“Please,” he gasped. “Don’t stop, please, keep going. Feels so good.”

You couldn’t help but smirk when he was begging you like that, so desperate for more of you. “Have you ever done this before?”

“No,” he admitted easily, his mind already gone to the feeling of your hand between his legs. “Never.”

“Do you want to kiss me?”

His eyes popped open. “W-What?”

“Do you want to kiss me?” you asked again, the soft smile on your lips all he could stare at.

“So bad,” he groaned. You leaned in and pressed your lips against his and his hand immediately tangled in your hair, holding your face close to his. He kissed you like he’d seen people kiss in the movies, all tongue and lips and passion. It surprised you, and you found yourself moaning into it, speeding up your hand on his cock.

“Can I have you?” he asked, looking up at you with those big innocent yet hungry eyes. “Please. Need you so bad. I can’t take it anymore.”

“You can have me,” you promised him, sinking back into his kiss. “You can have all of me.”

Eddie’s hand slid up your oversized t-shirt, feeling the soft skin of your sides and stomach, the smooth roundness of your breasts. His thumb brushed over the hardened peak of your nipple, making you let out the most delicious little moan into his mouth. He took the opportunity to lick against your tongue, tasting you.

“Your body is incredible,” Eddie muttered against your lips. “So fucking hot.” His large hands trailed to your back, feeling the skin there before dropping down to grip your ass, hardly covered by your panties at all. It was all too much for Eddie, he was worried he was going to bust right then and there.

“Need you now,” he growled, rolling you over so he was between your legs. His boxers were pushed down just enough to reveal his aching cock, your t-shirt pushed up over your tits. He slipped his hands beneath your panties and pulled them down, tossing them onto his floor.

“I don’t have a condom,” he said just as he lined himself up at your entrance. “Shit.”

“It’s okay,” you assured him. “I still want it.”

His resolve was so weakened by that point, he didn’t care about the potential consequences. He dragged his cock through your folds, feeling your wetness. His tip pressed against your hole, and you drew in a sharp breath.

“S’big,” you mumbled, which just made Eddie’s chest swell with pride.

“Yeah, baby?” He kissed your neck, biting down and sucking hard, leaving a mark. He wanted everyone at school tomorrow to know who had fucked you.

“Yeah,” you said softly, the word turning to a whine as Eddie pushed inside of you. The stretch was more than you imagined, more full than you’d ever felt.

“Oh, christ,” Eddie moaned, feeling his cock fully enveloped by your pussy for the first time. It was like heaven. Eddie had never felt anything so incredible in his life, the perfect, tight heat of your cunt surrounding him sending his mind reeling.

“Eddie,” you whimpered. “Please fuck me.”

You didn’t have to tell him twice. He pulled his hips back, leaving only his tip inside. He rolled his hips into you, sinking all the way back inside, and he moaned like he never wanted to feel anything else for the rest of his life.

Eddie set a comfortable pace, nothing too fast yet because he wanted to enjoy it and not cum in 2 seconds. A nice, steady, slow pace, pressing so deeply into you every time he thrusted in that it felt like you could feel him everywhere.

“Jesus, baby,” he moaned as he fucked you slow and deep, his face buried in your neck. “You’re so tight. I can’t believe how fuckin’ tight you are. I never knew it would feel this fuckin’ good.”

“Want more, Eddie,” you begged. “Please.”

Eddie increased the speed of his hips, the slap slap slapping sound getting louder in the small trailer as he fucked himself into you deeper and faster. His hips were pounding into you at a desperate pace, his old bed creaking, headboard thudding into the wall, leaving chips in the paint.

Liquid heat spread throughout his body, from his core through every limb. His thighs trembled as he neared his orgasm, your pussy tightening around him in a way that had him seeing stars.

“‘m close, Eddie,” you moaned. “Gonna cum all over your cock.”

“Yeah baby, that’s it. Show me. Show me how good my cock makes you feel.”

You guided one of his hands down between your bodies to press against your clit. He got the message quickly, rubbing circles on it, building you higher and higher. You felt yourself climbing, nearly there-

You came around him hard, pussy throbbing around him as you drained his cock for every drop. Your orgasm set his own off, and he was pumping his load into you, your greedy pussy begging him for more, wanting everything he had to give.

Eddie pumped his hips into you until there was nothing left, until you were both too sensitive to do anything more. He pulled out of you and laid on the bed, an arm out for you to cuddle into. You took the invitation, cuddling against his sweaty body.

“You know how you were worried it would change things between us?” you asked quietly, only over the sound of both of your breathing.

“Yeah?” Eddie said. “What about it?”

“Maybe it should change things between us. I don’t know if I want to be your friend anymore.”

Eddie furrowed his brows. “What?”

“Maybe,” you said, “I want to be more.”

“What? Like…you wanna be my girlfriend?”

“Is that what you want?” You felt anxiety for the first time that night, realizing that Eddie might not feel the same. That this might have really been just a casual fuck for him.

“Fuck yeah, that’s what I want,” Eddie said, laughing. “Will you? Be my girlfriend?”

“Yes, Eddie Munson,” you giggled. “I will be your girlfriend.”

tag list

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joequiinn · 8 months ago

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The Dos & Don'ts of Fake Dating | E.M. x reader | pt. 16

[chap fifteen] | [all chapters here] | [chap seventeen]

Summary | You propose a crazy idea to the resident freak of Hawkins, Eddie Munson. But maybe he was even crazier for agreeing to it…

Warnings & Notes | fem reader, slooow burn, faking dating, opposites attract, bratty rich bitch reader, super minor revenge plot, dysfunctional family dynamics, idiots-to-lovers, smut & nsfw themes

Author's Note | THIS chapter, yall! I created a super rough draft of this chapter waaay back in the first month of this fic's development and I'm so stoked that I finally got to come back to it after all this time!

WC | 9.1k

Chapter Sixteen

This year, Halloween fell on a Thursday, not that that was stopping any of Hawkins’ teenage population from going absolutely all-out like they did every year. You suspected half of the student body was probably going to skip school tomorrow, considering that everyone seemed to be talking about Chance’s party all damn week - clearly, Halloween was going to take precedence over classes and extracurriculars.

Although you had told Eddie you’d join the Hellfire Club again that night, you became anxious about it, which felt ridiculous - the more and more you replayed last week’s session in your head, the more unsure you were, the more nervous you became. You had practically spilled to Eddie all the pent up shit you’d been feeling via the safety of the princess character, and just recalling it made your ears hot with embarrassment; you weren’t about to let that happen again.

So, you called in a rain-check, making the excuse that you needed extra time to get ready for the party; Eddie teased you about his disappointment, although you could tell in his eyes that he was at least a little let down, even as he tried to play it cool. But, really, it also worked out that you gave yourself a couple extra hours, because you still hadn’t figured out a costume despite spending all week trying to think of ideas. It was as if the mere act of trying to find inspiration garnered you with none at all, your mind constantly drawing a blank whenever asked what or who you’d dress up as.

Having waited till the absolute last minute to even try to find a costume, you sped to the nearest department store after school and tried to search for something amidst whatever remnants were left of the costume section. Despite your moaning and groaning as you dug through vampire capes and witches’ hats, you managed to piece together an idea that, although not thrilling by your standards, was better than nothing at all.

You had also asked Eddie to dress up with you, to which he jokingly suggested a couple’s costume just to watch you squirm at the thought. That idea was quickly shot down, as it was too cheesy even for your own liking. But Eddie assured you he’d come up with something, and thus both your costumes were going to be a surprise to one another.

Not wanting to be those assholes that were punctual to an event, you told Eddie to pick you up at eight - you wouldn’t be the first people there, and that would, hopefully, give him enough time to wrap up with the Hellfire Club and get ready. So, once you returned home from the department store, you were still left with more time than you had expected, breezing past a couple of kids as they approached your house while trick-or-treating.

You worked at a leisurely pace as you fixed your make-up and fussed with your hair, making sure that your outfit looked just right, going so far as to smear fake blood on the front of your shirt. As you got ready, the ringing of the doorbell became more frequent, the trick-or-treaters coming in larger droves once the sun had finally set in the sky.

You were thankful that your mother enjoyed answering the door dozens of times to the sight of excited kids, because it meant you never got roped into the job. You were certain, though, that the children became a little less eager once they were presented with juice boxes instead of candy - despite your efforts to convince her to hand out sweets, she couldn’t be swayed, insisting juice was a better alternative.

Once your costume was finally complete and you assessed yourself in the mirror, you had to admit that you were more satisfied with it than you had anticipated. Despite its simplicity, you figured it was still a recognizable character, so it didn’t look completely half-assed and sloppily thrown together.

It also helped that the tight little shorts you were wearing made your legs look great - not that you were trying to draw someone’s attention to them or anything.

Deciding you weren’t interested in any kind of conversation (or rather, confrontation) with your parents, you lingered up in your room until Eddie finally arrived - considering all the trouble you’d gotten into over the past few weeks, you weren’t all too interested in starting Halloween on a negative note. So, the moment that you spotted his van pulling up along the curb, careful to avoid trick-or-treaters, you practically ran out of the house; trailing behind you, you could hear the sound of your father’s voice, but you bounded out the front door before he could get a word in.

You dashed down the driveway, breezing past a couple of kids bemoaning the juice boxes your mother gave them; you rolled your eyes, knowing she would never change her Halloween habits. Feeling giddy, you and Eddie smiled simultaneously at one another as you climbed into the van. Once you were settled into your seat, Eddie looked you up and down in appraisal of your outfit, and you did the same.

“A pirate?” You questioned, taking in the flowy shirt, dark striped pants, and skull-and-crossbones bandana Eddie wore.

He was still trying to figure out what the hell your costume was - admittedly, the ripped shorts, tight blue flannel, and chunky boots weren’t quite enough of a hint without your spooky accessories.

“And you’re, what, dead Daisy Duke?” He teased with a gleam in his eyes, chuckling as you shook your head as if on the defensive. You grabbed the bag you brought along with you, pulling out a hockey mask and faux machete, holding them out towards Eddie as if to make a point. He rolled his eyes in realization, his smile making you giddy, “Jason Vorhees? You don’t even like Friday the 13th.”

It took you by surprise that Eddie recalled that little bit of information about you, since it only came up once before during one of your horror movie rants; despite yourself, it made your heart flutter eagerly that he remembered something so trivial.

Pulling the mask on - but pushing it up so that it sat atop your head, exposing your face - you grinned triumphantly, pleased with your outfit and the way that Eddie may or may not have been staring at your legs, “Vorhees is better than Daisy Duke.”

Eddie gave you an amused look before his gaze slowly roved over your body again - sure, he’d seen a lot of your body before, whether he meant to or not, but something about this outfit in particular caught his attention. Maybe it was the fact that it was unlike anything you usually wore, maybe it was the way this shirt drew attention to your cleavage, or maybe it was how damn good your legs looked. His eyes were making you antsy, but soon enough he shook his head with a grin.

“Oh yeah, because adding a mask to the costume makes it totally different.”

“What, don’t tell me you’d prefer Daisy Duke.” You teased flirtatiously back, even taking yourself aback with your bluntness. Eddie gave you some unidentifiable look in response before smirking to himself and pulling away from the curb. As he drove along, gleefully head banging to the metal album blasting through the speakers, you couldn’t help but smile contently, taking the opportunity to assess his outfit more closely.

You had to admit, Eddie looked… kind of hot in this cheesy pirate get-up. Sure, you had already begrudgingly accepted that you always found him hot (and just the thought of it right now made your cheeks warm), but there was something absolutely charming about his costume of choice. His shirt exposed a long expanse of his chest, the bandana was far too attractive tied over his messy hair, and his customary jewelry only seemed to compliment the whole get-up. Eddie was frustratingly hot right now - but he didn’t need to know that.

Arriving at the party took a bit of work, as the entire street in front of the Hunter house was packed full of cars, one after another along the expanse of the entire block. You could hear Eddie grumbling to himself as he slowed the van to a crawl in search of a place to park, trying not to hit your peers as they carelessly crossed the street. A smile teased across your lips, and as if he could tell, Eddie shot you a look from the corner of his eye, which only served to make you laugh.

“Geez, has no one heard of carpooling?” Eddie muttered, finally spotting an open space along the curb just a moment later.

“What, first high school party?” You teased as he struggled to parallel park, getting one more sharp look from him.

Eventually, Eddie figured it out, and the two of you climbed out of the van, the evening breeze causing goosebumps to break out across your skin; you tried to hide your shiver, knowing that complaining would be a moot point once you were inside amidst the cramped gathering of warm bodies. Whether he knew you were cold or not, Eddie nonetheless threw his arm around you, gaze wandering across the faces of other teens as well as the few remaining trick-or-treaters running about.

Appreciating the body warmth, you pressed a little closer into his side; feeling brave, you carefully, experimentally snaked your arm around his middle. The feel of your delicate fingers pressing into the fabric of his shirt drew Eddie’s gaze down to you, but you refrained from meeting his eyes, feeling stupidly nervous over such a small, simple gesture.

The music and noise from the party was seeping outside, the sound greeting you even before you set foot on the Hunters’ front walkway. A scattering of people had spilled out onto the lawn, you and Eddie drawing a couple of eyes, only for them to look away with disinterest a moment later.

And once you’d stepped over the threshold of the front door, the smell of weed hit you like a ton of bricks, the house hazy with smoke, pop music bumping loud enough that you could feel it vibrating in your chest. You had to pull yourself out from under Eddie’s arm just so you could lead him through the packed throngs of people, lightly grabbing his hand as you began to weave and maneuvering with a practiced ease; by now, you’d been to enough parties at the Hunter house that you knew exactly where you were going.

You made a beeline for the kitchen, knowing that the only appropriate way to start your evening was with a round of drinks. Both familiar and unfamiliar faces looked in your direction, some furrowing at Eddie, but most far too focused on having a good time to worry about who was attending the party. You glanced over your shoulder at Eddie, who was looking around the house with a wide-eyed intrigue, as if taken aback by just how big and wild this party already was; it made you smile fondly.

Finally entering the kitchen, it seemed as if the crowd occupying it was already well intoxicated, keeping realm over the drinks and meager party snacks. You had to shove someone aside a little just so you get to the island that was jammed with bottles and cans and red cups, finally taking your hand from Eddie’s so you could pick through your variety of options.

Although you kept picking up bottles and cans, you already knew the punch bowl full of jungle juice was calling your name; sure, that was the most stereotypical thing you could’ve picked at a damn high school party, but it always did a wonderful job of getting you absolutely plastered. You just wanted to see if anything else would possibly catch your attention.

Feeling Eddie lingering just behind you, you took a small step back into his torso so that he could hear you over the cacophonous noise; he dipped his head down, too, just for good measure, “You looking to get trashed, or you taking it slow?”

You studied his features with a faint smile, enjoying the sight of him up close like this. Eddie looked between you and the kitchen island, eyes searching slowly; eventually, he leaned in closer, practically wrapping around you as he reached for a beer sitting in a bowl of half-melted ice. You delighted in the warmth of his body, trying not to shiver as you took a breath of his familiar, enticing scent. Trying to distract yourself, you quickly grabbed a cup and made for the punch bowl.

As you dunked your cup into the mixture of alcohol and juice, Eddie dutifully followed you, cracking open his can of beer as he teased, “So, we have a couple of drinks and then we head out, right?”

Knowing he was still just a step behind, you nudged your shoulder back to bump Eddie in the chest, giving him a taunting look, “Oh, you’re not getting out of this that easily.”

Spinning around to face him, you realized you were trapped between Eddie and the countertop; to hide any trepidation, you took a large swig from your cup, cringing at the diabetic amount of sugar and strange combination of flavors. Eddie laughed with a large smile at the clearly comical look on your face, and was it your imagination, or did he lean in just a little bit closer?

Eddie took a sip of his beer, gaze locked on yours even as he pressed the can to his lips, his eyes alight, “Just don’t leave me alone with anyone boring, alright?”

You smiled back easily, brushing up against him as you squeezed past, “No promises…”

And so began your evening, the both of you finishing off your first round of drinks quickly, leading into you convincing Eddie to take a couple of shots with you. Awaiting the buzz that would come soon enough, you dragged Eddie around the party, teasing that you’d make him dance eventually, which he quickly shot down, insisting that even you couldn’t convince him to dance to the likes of Madonna or Prince.

Despite assuming you’d become totally ostracized from your previous social circles, people were always so much more open once they’d gotten a few drinks in them, and so throughout the night you and Eddie would get caught in conversations - some people, you’d once been close to, others you were barely acquainted with. And the utter confusion on Eddie’s face only encouraged you, as he was fully unprepared for people to actually talk to him like a human being and not the freak they all acted like he was.

Somewhere along the way, Eddie disappeared and quickly reappeared with another round of drinks for you two, this time with a cup of his own rather than a lousy beer - you couldn’t help but smile mischievously, eager to see that he was looking to get drunk alongside you. At another point in the night, someone tried to rope the two of you into trying some heavy drugs, and you aggressively told them to fuck off before dragging Eddie away.

Following much socializing and the drinking, you and Eddie eventually escaped into the backyard to get some air; you nearly tripped into the swimming pool, but luckily he was able to pull you back before you both went in, sharing a laugh at the near-miss. Somehow, you became engaged in a conversation with a bunch of band kids who seemed to feel a little out of place at the party - evidently, one of them had dragged the others along, but they weren’t all that interested in being here. Eddie seemed drawn to this crowd now that he knew they felt just as odd as he did, quickly settling into one of the free chairs in the circle. You settled for sitting on the arm of it rather than dragging another chair over, Eddie having to steady you more than once now that the alcohol was making you sway a little.

As Eddie became absorbed in a conversation about instruments that completely went over your head, you took that opportunity to wander back inside for more drinks upon realizing both you and Eddie were carrying around empty cups. And although you swayed a little once you were back on your feet, you insisted that you didn’t need any help, that Eddie stayed put and continued enjoying the company of the band kids.

Pushing through your peers with your senses dulled, you wondered if Eddie thought you were more drunk than you were, and in turn you wondered if he was drunk, too, and just doing a damn good job of hiding it. And then you realized that you had the same line of thought at the last party the two of you attended together, your neck growing hot at the memory.

Back in the kitchen and making your way towards the punch bowl, someone came up alongside you while saying your name tentatively, prompting you to look over with a furrow of your brow. It was only Janet, dressed in a cute little Wonder Woman costume, but considering that you’d barely spoken a word to each other in recent weeks, you couldn’t help but feel hesitation at her presence.

Nonetheless, you were just drunk enough that you tried to shove that worry aside, giving Janet something of a kind look as you greeted her. The music seemed even louder than it was before, so you two had to duck your heads close together just to hear one another; as if presenting a peace offering, Janet held up a couple shots for the two of you to share.

“You here with Amelia?” You sneered your ex-best friend’s name, but Janet promptly shook her head; you downed your shots in unison.

“She and Duncan left a while ago - I imagine to go egg some houses.” Janet responded with disapproval; she’d never been one for pranks, and so it was always a surprise that she hung out with the likes of you, Amelia, and the rest of your crowd.

“How much do you wanna bet my house is one of their targets?” You asked rhetorically, finding some ease in the presence of your old friend; or maybe it was your inebriation making you less guarded than you’d usually be.

Janet gave you an unsure look, not wanting to say one way or another if she suspected that they’d do that. You refilled both your cup and Eddie’s, which prompted Janet to get a drink of her own; it made you wonder if Janet was hoping to catch you drunk, knowing that you were so much easier to talk to with a bit of alcohol in you.

Biting her lip, Janet looked at you tentatively, “Can we… hang out for a few minutes? Just you and me?”

You wanted to agree, but nonetheless made a suspicious face, “This isn’t a trick, is it?”

Janet’s eyes widened, and she quickly shook her head, growing nervous, “No no no, not a trick, I promise.”

You looked between her eyes for a moment, seeking out a lie; after a moment, you held your pinky out to her with a faint smile on your lips. Janet quickly hooked her pinky with yours, holding your gaze just to ensure that you knew she wasn’t messing with you.

With a decided nod, the two of you settled into the breakfast nook, forced to sit close shoulder-to-shoulder thanks to the table’s other occupants. Once more, you ducked your heads together to hear one another over all the noise.

“I miss you.” Janet admitted as if it would somehow upset you, “Things are different without you; Amelia and Duncan are becoming unbearable.”

“Then ditch them.” You slurred as if the idea was the simplest thing in the world - and for you, it had been. But Janet huffed indecisively.

“I can’t,” You were about to argue, but she continued before you got the chance, “ we graduate in May, I really don’t want to find a new crowd to spend time with till then.”

Your brow furrowed as if the answer was obvious, “If you’re looking for someone to sit with at lunch or whatever, just hang with us.”

The face Janet pulled seemed on the verge of condescending, “No offense, but I’m not going to put myself in that position.”

“None taken.” You took a long swig of your drink, getting a little grumpy over the fact that this seemingly serious conversation was happening now; was a Halloween party really the only time that Janet could make this happen?

Seeing the way your face turned down, Janet quickly added, “You know I won’t fit in with your new friends.”

You shrugged, taking another sip of juice, “I didn’t think so either, but it’s not so bad; Eddie certainly helps.”

Janet’s expression softened, “Yeah, but I don’t have an Eddie.”

‘I don’t either,’ you thought ironically, staring into the contents of your cup for a moment. You could feel Janet’s eyes attempting to read you, studying your features thoughtfully and empathetically.

“You actually really like him, don’t you?” She asked, the question taking you by surprise - did she know that the two of you were lying? You forced yourself to focus, meeting her eyes as if silently asking her to elaborate, “I mean, we all thought maybe you were messing with us at some point, but you’re really into him.”

“Well… yeah.” You answered dumbly, unable to contain a drunken giggle - that was the first time you had actually said so out loud without the guise of D&D to hide behind. If you hadn’t been drinking, you probably would’ve held your tongue. Under Janet’s thoughtful eyes, your cheeks grew hot, and as you considered your ever increasing crush on Eddie, you nearly sighed as you longed to wonder what he actually thought of you, too.

After what felt like an eternity - although that was probably just the alcohol talking - Janet smiled, amused by your evident longing, “You seem… different with him. In a good way, I mean.”

You downed more of your drink with something of a sad smile, but you couldn’t let her know that this relationship wasn’t real, so you hoped she hadn't noticed it. You put on your best look of confidence, “I guess, yeah. Less bitchy, that’s for sure.”

The two of you shared a small laugh, Janet looking away from your eyes, “Well, I didn’t want to put it that way…”

You studied her for a moment, feeling yourself growing a little more dizzy as the alcohol continued to slowly seep in, “Jan… can we do this another time?”

She appeared hurt, and you could’ve kicked yourself for it.

“No, I mean,” you took a breath through your nose, trying to figure out a better way of saying it, “Let’s catch up sober, you know?”

That was something you never would have suggested with a clear head, but admittedly this conversation made you realize that it was nice to have someone outside of Eddie to talk to sometimes. Sure, a couple months ago you thought that Janet was a part of the problem, that she was one of the many factors causing you to want to rip your hair out, and yet, this couple of minutes alone together was refreshing.

Janet’s smile was large and dazzling in response, and she nodded excitedly, “Maybe I’ll call you this weekend?”

You nodded back, and after a short round of farewells, Janet took off to join whoever she may have been here with. You returned to the drinks, refilling your cups before heading back out to find Eddie, hoping he hadn’t been worried over where you were.

Although the party had died down just a little, the place was still loud and the house was still just as crowded as ever. While pushing your way past people, you could feel your drunkenness throughout your body, but compared to previous parties, it seemed manageable enough, though that could change at the drop of a hat.

When you finally stepped back outside again, you were relieved to see Eddie sitting exactly where you left him, still intently focusing on the group of band kids; now, however, they were all passing around a joint, everyone’s energy a little more relaxed than when you left them. All the seats were now occupied as more people joined in on the smoke session, but you were too focused on Eddie to really notice; careful not to trip over yourself and topple into the pool, you went to join them again.

Once Eddie’s eyes found yours, the two of you smiled fondly at one another, your expression probably far too eager compared to his relaxed, stoned face. You couldn’t help but find amusement in it, eager to see how different he may act now that he was crossfaded, although he seemed to be keeping it together.

“Took you long enough.” He teased keenly once you within earshot; you shot him a chaff look before setting the drinks on the table in the middle of everyone, managing to spill one of them a little. As you cursed to yourself, Eddie laughed while studying you for a brief moment, “Did you get drunker?”

Catching the way his words slurred ever so slightly, you gave him a taunting grin with narrowed eyes, “Did you?”

You giggled as if you found your question oh-so amusing, looking around for a moment only to finally realize all the seats were taken. Your lips turned down briefly as your attention fell back towards Eddie, who raised a challenging brow at you; was that expression in regards to your observation, or was he just being goofy? And why was he challenging you, if that’s in fact what his brow was conveying?

With your own decided look, you settled into Eddie’s lap without any warning, feeling the way he tensed in surprise; you were situated so that you could continue to look at his face, drinking in his features slowly as if the others around you were all but forgotten. He stared back at you, eyes a little wide, clearly still taken aback that you made the move to get this close to him. Again, you were struck with the thought that this wouldn’t have happened if you were just a little more sober.

You must have swayed some, because Eddie settled his hand gently on your back to steady you, his eyes locked with yours as if unable to look away; you grinned at him fondly. After a few moments of deep thought and some confusion, he smiled back with a hint of nerves, before allowing his attention to drift back to the conversation that had been going on around you. In the next moment, the joint had made its way back to Eddie, and you both took quick puffs before passing it on.

You tried to follow whatever discussion was happening, but there were enough overlapping voices that after a while you could no longer tell what the subject even was; rather, it seemed that half a dozen conversations were happening all at once, everyone else seamlessly gliding between them. And somewhere amidst it all, you managed to finish both your drink and half of Eddie’s, which he didn’t seem all that interested in finishing now that he was getting high as a kite.

Once the joint had made it back to you a second time and you took a deeper drag, you dropped your head to rest atop Eddie’s shoulder, feeling emboldened by the drinks, the drugs, and the desire for him. You didn’t notice that he was watching you from the corner of his hooded, red eyes, inhaling your scent while simultaneously wondering why you were being so soft and tender with him.

Eddie’s cheek pressed a little to the crown of your head as he teased in a whisper, “Don’t tell me you’re already tired.”

“No.” You insisted, wanting to lift your head so you could look him in the eye, but enjoying the position you were in far too much for that. A thought crossed your mind, and you furrowed your brow at it, “Are you just trying to get out of here?”

Eddie lifted his head, allowing you to meet his dark eyes and become practically hypnotized by them. He shook his head at you simply, to which you grinned, “No… This is nice, actually.”

You leaned in close towards his face with a triumphant look, “I told you this would be fun.”

He smiled back fondly, even as he rolled his eyes at you, “Don’t let it go to your head, princess; you can’t be right all the time.”

“Just most of the time.” You taunted, realizing with confusion that one of your hands was delicately fussing with the fabric of his shirt. When did you start doing that?

Your eyes trailed down the open collar of his shirt, enjoying the sight of his skin; thoughtlessly, your hand traveled up his torso to tease at the hem of the collar, which made Eddie tense yet again. A smirk ghosted across your lips as you met his gaze again flirtatiously.

“What, afraid of touching me?” Your boldness made Eddie blanch in surprise, and from the corner of your eye you spotted the way his free hand clenched into a fist. As if to make a point, you reached for it and set it comfortably atop your thigh before returning your attentive stare to his face.

Finding his voice, Eddie licked his dry lips and responded simply, “You don’t like when people touch you.”

You didn’t miss a beat as you said, “I like when you do.”

Eddie’s heart drummed wildly in his chest; god, he wished you two weren’t crossfaded right now. He knew coming to this party meant repeating shit that happened at the last one, that it would make things even more confusing and overly complicated. Even since homecoming night he’d been nervously wondering what the hell was going on between you two; so many interactions had felt charged with things unsaid, had felt tense with something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

And now this? The way you looked at him as if he were the sun, the way you touched his chest as if you didn’t want to break him? Suddenly, Eddie realized that maybe this shit wasn’t pretend anymore. If he hadn’t been quite so inebriated, he could have kept you at arm's length, could have made sure that nothing was going to happen tonight.

But Eddie wasn’t sober, and neither were you, and he was damn near ready to let just about anything happen between you two.

“Hey, Munson,” Someone urged with a nudge to Eddie’s shoulder, pulling the both of you out of your shared reverie. Eddie blinked a few times to reorient himself before looking at the kid next to him, who held out the nearly finished joint. As if in a slight daze, Eddie took it, eyes drifting back to yours while slowly bringing the joint to his mouth.

You couldn’t help but bite your lip as you watched Eddie through hooded eyes. It was as if everything was in slow motion; the way the joint glowed a beautiful orange as he deeply inhaled, chest rising as he held the smoke in and blindly offered the joint to the person next to him, too wrapped up in the way you were ogling him to pull his eyes away.

The intensity in the way Eddie held your gaze was like a magnet, and really you weren’t sure which of you leaned in first, or if you two had done so in-sync. Your hands trailed up Eddie’s torso, cupping his cheeks tenderly as his fingers squeezed hungrily into your thigh; your noses brushed, still gazing at one another before, finally, no distance was left between you.

Your lips locked in an aching, open-mouthed kiss, Eddie sighing as the smoke slowly rolled from his lungs into yours. Your grip on his face tightened as you became wrapped up in the taste of weed and booze and the smell of his skin, his hands possessively clinging to you as if afraid to let go now that he had you.

As smoke began to trail from your nose, your lips became firm and insistent against Eddie’s, a desperate little sound humming in your throat. A rush of warmth flooded through you and pooled at your center as Eddie held you even tighter, kissing you as if you were the goddamn air he breathed, with a sloppy fervor that made your head spin. His lips were intoxicating, more so than anything you’d consumed all night, and your fingers began to tangle in his hair with a near lustful aggression, to which he moaned lowly into the kiss.

“Jesus, will you two get a room,” Someone in the group commented in a tone that was both disgusted and amused, causing laughter to peel out amongst your peers. You were almost too consumed by Eddie to even notice, but luckily he had enough sense about him to pull his lips from yours with a slight pop, his eyes shooting in the direction of whoever interrupted you.

Catching your breath, you stared at Eddie’s face as if to steady yourself, practically dizzy. Slowly, you looked around the group; some of them were trying to ignore your disgusting display of affection, some were too high to even notice in the first place, though a couple of people stared back at you with varying degrees of interest. The boy that you assumed interrupted you had a bit of a twist to his brow, and so you made a defiant face back at him; Eddie huffed out a slight laugh at it, which drew your lusty eyes back to him.

His stare was so damn dark and intense that it nearly took you aback, eyes practically black with desire; aside from that, you couldn’t quite guess what thoughts and feelings were swirling about his head. You studied his face for a moment, fingers delicately tracing their way back down his cheeks and neck to rest comfortably atop his shoulders; on the small of your back, his hand twitched a little.

Eddie continued to eye you closely, gaze carving a path of complicated desire from your head to your toe as if determined to see each and every bit of you. You were shockingly speechless, unable to even find your words thanks to the nerves in your stomach, mind swirling with weed and alcohol and a conflict of want. When Eddie’s eyes returned to yours yet again, bloodshot and hooded, there was a decided look about them.

“Come on.” He said in a husky voice; you gave a faint nod in response before rising to your feet, swaying a little upon standing. Eddie’s hands quickly grabbed yours to keep you steady, concern flashing across his eyes at how you nearly toppled over; his thumbs brushed the back of your hands in small circles, something so tender that it surprised you.

You tugged on Eddie’s hands, a silent indicator that you were fine and it was his turn to stand. As he rose to his feet, a hint of a devilish smile flashed across his lips, and he spared a quick look around the group; you could see that, even inebriated, he was about to act the showman that he usually was.

“Till next time, ladies and gents.” He said in lieu of a farewell, his tone both suggestive and teasing, as he let you pull him away from the crowd with a giggle.

Making your way back into the house, you barely noticed that the party was slowly beginning to dwindle, barely noticed that the music had gotten a little quieter and the smoky haze wasn’t nearly as thick; your mind was far too preoccupied with Eddie, wanting to drag his lips back to yours as soon as possible.

As Eddie took the lead and began to guide you past other partygoers, you realized you didn’t know what his plan was or where he was taking you; considering that he’d never been to the Hunter house before, you figured he didn’t have a clue either. You held firm to his arm as Eddie led you down a hall, a drunken smirk crossing your lips as he looked back at you with a dark glint in his eyes.

He pushed open an ajar door, pulling you into what must have been an office considering the heavy, rich wooden desk and bookshelves. Closing the door behind you, Eddie didn’t bother with the lights, guiding you blindly until your rear bumped the edge of the desk; he braced his palms on either side of you, pinning you there. His head dipped down close to yours, foreheads practically brushing as he looked between your eyes despite the darkness, once more trying to make sense of something.

From this close, you could make out the curve of Eddie’s lips and the shadowed panes of his face; you bit the inside of your cheek, nervous yet eager, waiting to see what he planned to do or say now that he had you alone. Suddenly, you were feeling a hint more sober, as if the crowd was your safety blanket that had been abruptly taken from you, leaving you to fend for yourself under Eddie's intense stare.

“Why do you keep kissing me?” He asked in a low, almost needy voice that made you shiver, drawing your eyes back to his.

You licked your lips, torn now that you were confronted with the question so blatantly. The moments ticked by slowly as you ran through the endless ways of answering that; as if you could feel Eddie raising an impatient brow at you, you took a deep breath in preparation.

“Because I like to.” You answered oh-so simply, and yet the weight of the words felt heavy as ever between you two. You could hear the sharp breath Eddie took in response, knowing his eyes still bore into yours despite you struggling to make out his face in the dark.

“Why?” It was asked as if he were at odds with himself, as if there was so much more he wanted to say but chose not you.

You dropped your gaze, staring at what you could see of Eddie's chest in the darkness, swallowing nervously; you were so ill-prepared to be having this discussion. Was there something in the air, because this was the second time you were cornered for a serious talk despite it being Halloween night.

Feeling your apprehension, Eddie sighed as if he understood exactly what was going on in your head. He leaned in even closer, his breath hot on your face, and you took a deep inhale at just how close to his lips were to yours; was he taunting you, antagonizing you so that you'd finally explain yourself to him? You sighed at the sensation of his lips needily ghosting against yours, feeling the way he smiled at the sound. Suddenly, you wished that you’d made one more stop in the kitchen - a shot would do wonders for your nerves right about now.

God, the temptation to reach up and kiss him again was insane, despite another part of you wanting to retreat from this entire conversation, far too nervous and worked up. It was as if Eddie could tell you were growing antsy, because he moved in even closer, pinning you against the desk; your breath hitched at the feel of his body practically on top of yours.

“Gonna leave me hanging, princess?” He asked in a low voice. You leaned back a little as if that could somehow create distance between the two of you, but you already knew it was a moot point. Eddie’s arms moved in even closer on either side of you, his knuckles grazing against your hips as he kept you trapped. In a meager effort to bolster yourself, you crossed your arms and tried to raise your chin confidently, despite the wild beating of your heart in your chest; you could just see the glint of light off Eddie’s teeth as he smiled at your nerves.

You finally found your voice, trying to sound brave, “Why do you kiss me back?”

A laugh sounded in Eddie’s throat, as if the answer was blatantly obvious and he didn’t have to say it. He shook his head, eyes shining in the sliver of moonlight as he looked at you; his expression was deathly serious, and yet, you could see a pleased look as he responded, “Because I like to.”

The repeating of your own words made you shiver, warmth pooling in your center as you sharply inhaled. Your arms slacked, falling to your sides, fingertips brushing against Eddie’s forearms. You tried to swallow the nervous lump in your throat as his answer began to feel heavier and heavier the more you thought about it.

Did he just… admit that he felt the same way as you? And did he understand all the implications in your own confession? Or had you not made yourself clear enough, did Eddie misunderstand this as purely a physical thing going on between you two? The overthinking was already driving you mad.

You opened your mouth, but no words came out - you weren’t even sure what you wanted to say, really, because you had about a hundred things already swirling around in your head. Eddie was still so close, his body heat practically enveloping you, his mouth mere inches away, taunting you and enticing you.

Licking your lips, you finally managed to ask in a tone that was both wanting and uneasy, “Then… this isn’t fake?”

You could hear the smile in Eddie’s voice as he whispered, “You tell me, princess.”

You practically shivered again, tempted to drag his lips back to yours hungrily, but your head was still spinning. Every interaction with Eddie up to this point suddenly came under your scrutiny - each and every glance and laugh and brush of your hands, all the time you spent together, all the things said between you.

Suddenly, you wondered if this had ever truthfully been fake, considering that, in a way, you and Eddie had gone through the exact motions anyone would when they started dating. The time spent alone, getting to know one another, sharing secrets with each other, having in-jokes and things only the two of you could laugh at - was that not dating? Hell, even the times you kissed - whether drunken or for show - were never truly false, at least not on your part.

Eddie could feel all your nerves and anxieties spilling out of you, a tension building the longer you considered everything, the longer you hesitated to answer; it was making him apprehensive, too, wondering if maybe he fucked up just now, wondering if this wasn’t the right time or way to admit his feelings. He tried so hard to be confident about it, to make things a little more clear, but why was he starting to feel like he fumbled that?

You laughed smally, unexpectedly, causing Eddie to furrow his brow despite knowing you couldn’t see his face in the dark. Although you were edgy and tense, you tipped your head back a little, knowing that you were but a breath away from Eddie as you laughed airily again as if amused by something. Feeling the question in his energy, you bit the inside of your cheek before speaking again.

“Should’ve known that D&D game was suspicious…” You whispered with good humor, shaking your head as you recalled the way you two had used the safety of your characters to communicate with one another. Eddie, too, chuckled smally, his forehead unintentionally brushing against yours as he looked down.

“I figured you were just playing along.”

“No.” You murmured, faintly shaking your head again. Now that you were already being vulnerable, you plucked up a little more courage, taking a deep breath before asking, “What was that song?”

Eddie’s curls tickled against your skin, “Song?”

You smiled tensely, “The, uh… song from that night in the van.”

Eddie straightened up with surprise, though you instantly assumed you fucked up somehow by asking. Your eyes grew wide, half expecting him to back away from you, hands about ready to reach out and grab him before he could make a retreat. But instead, he chuckled devilishly, turning his face up towards the ceiling as a deep exhale passed between his lips.

“Oh, I knew it.” Eddie seemed to be muttering to himself before trying to find your eyes again in the dark; there was a sudden jittery quality to his energy, a sudden electricity sparking off of him, “I knew you remembered.”

And before you had the chance to answer him, Eddie swooped in, hungrily capturing your lips with his own in a fierce kiss as his body pinned you against the desk. Your heart stuttered wildly, momentarily frozen in surprise before your senses came back to you.

Feverish and needy, you flung your arms tightly around Eddie’s neck, kissing him with all the pent up desire that you’d been harboring for weeks. Your nails scratched at the base of his skull, causing him to moan while tightly winding his arms around your middle, hands firm and greedy against the small of your back. His touch was fucking intoxicating, body warm against yours, lips desperate and zealous; it put your mind in a frenzy, your senses on high as a coil began to tighten in your stomach.

You broke away for a split second, hopping up onto the desk before dragging Eddie’s lips back to yours as if you needed him to breathe, spreading your knees so that he could slot himself between them. He sighed achingly at the way your thighs tightened on either side of him, your ankles hooking around the back of his legs as if to lock him there.

Eddie’s kisses were fierce and full of yearning, fingers digging into your skin as he slipped his tongue past your lips; with an eager moan, you rolled your body against his, hands winding tightly in his hair. You could feel the way his breath hitched, which only encouraged you to grind your hips again, nice and deep and slow; a groan rumbled in his throat at your taunting, hands flexing as if he wanted to touch you everywhere all at once.

God, you wished that you’d pulled your head out of your ass sooner so you could've been kissing Eddie unabashed all this time; you fit together so damn perfectly, bodies melding together and lips locked with matched intensity as if you were made for each other. Your center felt tight and your toes curled, your knees weak and mouth needy as you clung to Eddie as if you planned on never letting go.

Is this how it was supposed to feel - passionate and untamed and ardent, as if you were fucking burning for him? You’d never wanted anything the way that you craved Eddie right now, and this mad desire was making your head spin.

Eddie tried to pull his lips from yours, but you hungrily gave chase, continuing to kiss him even as he smiled and laughed at your desperation; he cupped your cheeks tenderly in his hands just so he could hold you back, gaze attempting to find yours in the dark of the room. You caught your breath together, chests heaving deeply, the sound of the party just on the other side of the door bringing you back to yourself.

Sliding his hands down your neck and arms, Eddie grabbed your wrists and tugged you off the desk, blindly guiding you through the dark. He captured your lips in a sloppy kiss, causing you to laugh as the two of you fumbled about the room until he evidently found what he was searching for - Eddie fell back into a chair and dragged you along with him. You nearly gasped in surprise as you plopped into his lap, readjusting until you were straddling him, all the while refraining from breaking out of the kiss.

Eddie’s hungry moans and wandering hands made you shiver, pressing desperately against his body and kissing him deeply. You rolled your hips rousingly, the twitch of his cock causing a delighted sound to hum in your throat; Eddie’s fingers dug into your waist, holding you tight as he pressed up against you with a hint of trepidation, as if he wasn’t quite sure of himself. You laughed faintly at his uncertainty, swiping your tongue along his lower lip encouragingly as you clung a little tighter to him.

You rutted your hips again, slower and more assertive, practically sighing at the feel of Eddie growing harder beneath you. The desire for him stirred memories of your wet dream, moaning as you felt that coil winding tight again, pressing yourself more firmly against Eddie; he muttered longingly into your lips, words incoherent and broken up by the severity of your kiss.

You pulled away from Eddie’s lips, pressing your forehead to his as you caught your breath and twisted your fingers in his hair. Slowly, you grinded your body against his, each roll of your hips deep and wanton, feeling your desire already growing slick between your legs. The moan that left your mouth was vulgar when Eddie pressed himself up against you, your head tipping back at your body’s eager response.

Eddie’s lips forged a hot trail down your neck, one hand sliding up the back of your shirt while the other squeezed your thigh; it was as if electricity was shooting through you, faintly gasping as his teeth nipped uncertainly against your skin. Emboldened, you began rutting your hips against Eddie’s cock at a tantalizing pace, the friction so damn good even between all these layers of fabric. When he moaned against your neck, it only made you grind a little harder, toes curling as you tugged eagerly at his hair.

Had the weeks of build up really made you this sensitive? You were fully clothed and dry humping, yet already your pussy was clenching, your arousal growing with each breath and kiss and grind as if you were a goddamn virgin. And the way Eddie clung to you, the way he moaned and sighed with such yearning, was making it that much harder to keep it together - his hitched breaths and grabbing hands only encouraged you to chase that insatiable desire of yours.

You impatiently untangled your fingers from Eddie’s hair, fussing with the buttons down the front of your shirt, grumbling a little when you struggled with some of them; you could feel the way he smiled into your kiss with amusement. Once the shirt had been discarded, you excitedly cupped Eddie’s cheeks, kissing him deeply and earnestly, body pressed against his with such pining that one might think you were afraid he’d disappear. His hands were hot against your back, sliding from your shoulder blades down to your waist, his fingertips seemingly memorizing the feel of your skin; when they grazed the sensitive spot on your lower back, you arched into him with a sharp inhale, and so he held you even tighter.

You broke away from Eddie’s lips again, gazing down at him through hooded eyes, finally able to make out his features a little better thanks to the moonlight; he looked back up at you with such awe that your grinding stuttered, taken aback by the way he drank you in. His parted lips were inviting you back in for a kiss, but you were far too enthralled in the sight of him, enjoying the lustful look on his face as you tried to find a deeper rhythm for your hips.

The whispering of your name in Eddie’s mouth made you gasp amorously, his tone low and doting like it was a goddamn prayer. Your hands held firmer on either side of his neck as you tried not to come undone right then and there, so damn easily that it was near maddening. Eddie’s head dropped back against the chair cushion when your grinding became a little more feverish, hands gripping your hips so tight that you thought it may bruise. You pressed your hot center even more salaciously against the thick outline of his cock, the both of you moaning even more shamelessly in unison.

Your eyes rolled into the back of your head once you found that perfect angle of your hips, the stimulation against your clit making you gasp more wildly and cling to Eddie more desperately. Your toes began to curl as your back arched, keeping at your erotic rhythm now that you could feel yourself getting closer and closer at near whiplash speed. Eddie, too, tried to match the grinding of his hips to yours, chasing after the mounting pleasure with deep moans and clinging hands, incoherent words of rapture falling past his lips.

“Fuck, wait-- wait--” Eddie abruptly dug his fingers into your skin, holding firm in an attempt to stop the rutting of your hips, to push you away from his cock. You whined indecently at the loss of friction, searching Eddie’s face in the dark with a confused - even a little galled - furrow of your brow. He panted heavily, head still resting back and hands still holding you desperately as he tried to compose himself.

A breathy laugh passed Eddie’s lips before he finally lifted his head to meet your eyes, a hooded look of contentment across his face. The corner of his mouth pulled into a smile as one of his hands trailed up your side, fingers gentle against your neck and jaw as he studied you; your expression was still a little confused and selfish as you took him in.

“You got me way too close,” He said airily, tone amused yet still lustful; he took another deep, grounding breath, “really didn’t want to make a mess of myself at a damn party.”

Eddie laughed again almost as if he was in disbelief, and you couldn’t help but giggle as well, grabbing either side of his face and holding him tenderly. The way he looked up at you with some kind of amazement made you squirm, his unabashed look of awe feeling nearly unwarranted. You licked your lips and swallowed, finding your voice again.

“Let’s go, then.” You answered simply, tone husky with desire; you leaned in a little closer, lips hovering just an inch away from his. Eddie’s fingers flexed against you, his sigh brushing across your cheeks. You pulled him in for one more eager, firm kiss, as if you needed it to hold you over till the two of you were long gone from this Halloween party.

addt. Author's Note | chapter 16, my beloved 😭🖤 We've only got another chapter and epilogue after this, so I can't wait to hear everyone's thoughts~

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#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x you #stranger things #dos and donts #a fics*

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