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They should put Thunderbolts* back on theaters so I can go and watch Superman and Thunderbolts on the same day and leave the theater full of hope and a renew will to live.

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finest shyt ☝️

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[xocellyy]

the hat rule. (e.m. x fem!reader)

the hat rule (n.): you wear the hat, you ride the cowboy.

summary: when eddie dresses up as a cowboy to a night out with friends, you decide to steal his hat.

pairings: eddie munson x fem!reader

warnings: reader is described to be wearing a dress. reader is also dressed up as a black cat. premise is everyone is wearing 'slutty' costumes. overuse of pet names. public teasing, unprotected sex, choking kink, oral (f receiving), ass slapping. 18+.

wc: 13.3k+

happy early valentine's day, babes. shout out to @hellfire--cult for beta reading, as well as @andvys for giving me this idea to begin with.

If someone had told you last week that you’d be attending a slutty costume themed night at a club tonight, you would have laughed in their face.

And yet here you were, at Steve Harrington’s apartment, donned in a black cat costume that shows more skin than you have in years.

The elaborate plan had sparked on a random day after Steve encountered a flyer for the event. It was a nightclub your group had attended before, and one look at the line free drinks for participants had Steve running down your entire group to insist that you all needed to dress up, to participate in this, for the luxury of free Tito’s. 

He’d never considered that the ad might not be targeted towards the male population. And now, you were all gathering at his apartment to pregame, ‘slutted out’ as Robin had so kindly put it – men included.

Nancy pulled out some sort of angel costume she claims she had bought but certainly not worn a few years back, Robin had conglomerated an alluring pirate attire from items you hadn’t even been aware were in her closet. Jonathan arrived in his erotic yet pensive writer’s costume (you’d hardly understood it, but he seemed confident, so you all went with it), Argyle in tow donning some sort of seductive surfer costume, in which you certainly recognized the unbuttoned shirt and cargo shorts that had had a pocket knife taken to them to disregard a few inches. Steve even stuck to his own demands, going all out – a sensual bunny costume.

And then, there was Eddie.

Eddie fuckin’ Munson. 

“Pick your jaw up off the ground, sweetheart,” he teases as he shuffles around you in the kitchen to grab a drink, “Gonna start catching flies otherwise.” 

“There’s a joke in there somewhere about how sweet I am, right?” you blandly reply, keeping your eyes on your room temp cocktail that Steve had so graciously mixed for you upon your arrival, “Something where you call me honey or sugar, yeah?” 

Eddie pauses, bottle of vodka in hand, looking at you with big eyes lined in coal, “Oh, baby, you know me so well.” 

“Cut the pet names, Munson.”

You try to scowl. You really do. But you don’t mean a damn word you say. 

Sweetheart. Baby. Hell, even honey would have done it for you when he was wearing that costume. 

Tight leather pants, flared at the ankle. Worn leather boots that certainly had to have been thrifted, clicking with each of his steps. A cow print vest, and just a vest, over what looked to be an oiled chest. 

And that fucking hat smashing down his curls, adding a shadow across his face that only built into the illusion. 

You hate him. You hate this stupid party. You hate Steve for ever suggesting this. 

“You don’t mean that,” he sing-songs as he pours his own drink into a red solo cup. The vodka mixes with cranberry juice, you think, before he’s dropping a few ice cubes out of the freezer. “Or maybe you do, and I should try saying them with a southern drawl,” Fuck, he does a good southern accent. Slow and syrupy sweet, molasses down the throat as he flutters his lashes at you, “That better, darlin’?” 

You pluck the thin black straw that had been added to your cup for flare, probably stolen from a hotel at some point by Steve and positively meant for drinks of the coffee variety, and flick it in his direction without hesitation. 

“Terrible,” you flatly lie, “Cowboys aren’t even from the south, idiot. They’re from the West.” 

You have no desire to hear Eddie’s Western accent. No desire to hear Texan twang on those lips, putting on his best John Wayne impression. In fact, the faster you can get away from him, the quicker you can get yourself under control. 

It had always been this way between you and Eddie. Push and pull. Will they, won’t they. A game of cosmic shores as the two of you toed at each other’s orbits and bantered effortlessly. Flirtatious threats, inappropriate compliments, lewd innuendos – you had done it all, specifically with Eddie.

That’s just how the friendship worked. 

The friendship. 

Friend. Nothing more, nothing less. 

Eddie won’t leave you alone, though, choosing to lean up against the counter beside you, forcing his way into your peripherals, “Damn. You’re right. Wayne would kill me if he knew I mixed that up.” 

“Oh, I think he has plenty of reasons to knock some sense into you.” 

“Yeah?” he leans forward, tauntingly, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, “Why don’t you do it for him? I think I’d like a slap more coming from you, honestly.”

He’s acting like he always does. This is normal. The fact that his entire torso is on show and you can’t stop staring at the way his tattoo on his peck is shimmering doesn’t change that. 

You play the role, knowing your part well as you lean in as well, forcing a smile right back at him, “Wanna kiss my knuckles before I do it, or am I gonna have to do all the hard work here?” 

“Oh, trust me, you’d never have to do all the work with me, ba-”

“Can you two get a fucking room?” Robin interrupts as she enters the room, clearly coming in for a refill but getting more than she bargained for. 

You’re aflame with the shame and embarrassment, feeling it lick from your ankles up to your throat, as Eddie only chuckles lowly. 

“Sorry, Robs,” Eddie chirps, not sounding apologetic at all, “I promise I’ll behave myself the rest of the night.” 

And yet, despite the words you’re hearing him say out loud, he does the exact opposite. 

There’s no real need for him to do it. There’s plenty of space amongst the kitchen for him to maneuver his way out without laying a single hand on you – and yet he still fucking does. 

His palm is shockingly warm when it curls around your hip, his other hand occupied with a drink, encouraging you to move a step forward so that he can brush behind you far too close for comfort. You nearly stumble over himself as he does it. The feeling of his barren chest barely bumping your bare shoulder blades sends your mind reeling, and his staple rings that have incorporated into his costume press right through the thin fabric of your dress.

Your breathing stops entirely as he pauses, the slightest bit of skin still brushing against yours, and leans in with a boyish grin, “We’ll both be on our best behavior tonight – right, kitty?” 

Something clicks in your mind. The way the nickname rolls off his tongue as he’s looking at you with eyes flaming with mischief, hand lingering on your hip for far too long. 

Your eyes flicker up to the hat on his head, and you smile slowly, meeting his toying gaze, “Right, cowboy.”

Best behavior, your ass. Tonight, you have decided, ends the will they, won’t they of it all. 

It’s about to either be the best night of your life, or the worst. 

—

Another shot with Nancy. Another smoke with Argyle. Another adjusting of Steve’s corset when he complains he can’t breathe (he certainly can, but you’re starting to think he just likes the attention). The pregaming continues on as more of Steve’s friends from work show up, the apartment slowly beginning to buzz with the chatter of more strangers than you can count on one hand.

You’re not even at the club yet and you’re already regretting your revealing attire.

Eddie stays mostly preoccupied with his own devices, and only gets scolded a handful of times by Nancy. You can hear every lewd joke he makes, of course. At some point, you make a private drinking game out of it; a sip for every time he makes the stereotypical joke of ‘save a horse, ride a cowboy’. 

Well, it was a sip the first time. A slightly larger gulp the second time. A chugging of half your drink the third time. 

“There’s no fucking way,” Steve laments at the table the boys as well as a few guests you don’t recognize have taken over for a game of strip poker, “Jonathan is cheating. Or counting cards.”

“I concur,” Eddie mutters around his cigarette, scowling at his losing hand. 

“You’re also cheating, asshole. This is the first round you’ve lost the entire game.”

“Or maybe I’m just really good at cards, Harrington.” 

“Oh, yeah? Well, maybe I’m really good at-”

“He’s not cheating,” Nancy interrupts with a sigh from the couch, lounging as she’s served as a referee of sorts for the group. Her entire body weight is draped against Robin, and you’re certainly not going to comment on Robin’s hands toying with her permed locks, “Stop being a sore loser and just strip.” 

You get why Steve was the most upset. He was down to his underwear and socks, corset tossed somewhere far behind him and bunny ears placed on Robin’s head in place of her pirate hat that she had claimed became too warm. 

“I think Steve should trade both socks and put back on the bunny ears,” she quips as she reaches up for the headband, flicking at one of the floppy ears, “He’d look cuter that way.” 

“Fuck off,” he snaps, throwing up a middle finger as Argyle finally loses his shirt. 

When your attention has drifted, you know he did exactly that, though. 

The game had been boring you half to death, honestly. Watching Steve strip without fail every round, hearing the loud cheers from Argyle when he managed to win a few rounds in a row and exclaimed it was a turkey (it had taken a ten minute intermission to explain to him that was bowling, not poker), watching a few of the girls that Steve had invited fawn over him as they carefully removed boots and gloves when they lost – none of it sparked your interest. The only saving grace had been every smug look Eddie offered as he’d win, time and time again. So far, he’d only lost his boots. 

He was hot when he was cocky. There was no way around it.

And now, as he carefully pondered as to which part of his precious costume to part with, you were on the edge of your seat. He was lovely and enticing when he was excited, when he was jubilant with victory, but as a sore loser? 

Dear God, Eddie Munson was a gorgeous specimen with a pout on his lips. 

“Trying to decide what to take off, Munson?” Jonathan notices the way Eddie is hesitating, even through the offset of conversations that had sparked up in the brief pause amongst the growing group.

You lean forward on the couch, almost subconsciously. 

You don’t care what Stacy from Steve’s job thinks of their manager or the latest drama ongoing there, and Steve would probably agree with you if it weren’t for Stacy’s all-red, latex Devil costume.

Eddie scoffs, waving a hand over his attire, “Obviously. You know, it’s not easy to choose when you have a costume as damn good as mine.” 

“What? Don’t think you’ll be as pretty without your hat?” you decide to contribute to the teasing, shocking yourself in the process. 

The last thing you should do when you’re staring him down in this way, is bring attention to yourself. And yet you were, like some fucking idiot with a death wish. 

“You think I’m pretty?”

It’s the fluttering of his lashes as he says it that gives you the courage. They match all that fluttering in your stomach, all that buzzing across your nerves. Because – yeah, you thought he was real fucking pretty. You’d spent the last half hour imagining how pretty he’d look in all sorts of places, too, especially between your sheets and between your thighs. 

You’re up off the couch, taking confident steps towards where he’s seated at the ground on the other side of the coffee table. It’s a little inconvenient now, but it had been a blessing in disguise for most of the game as you’d had a front row seat to the sight of him. 

“Oh, don’t get ahead of yourself,” you tease, entirely ignoring that lightheaded feeling you get anytime Eddie looks up at you this way. Half-lidded eyes, crooked grin. He’s dangerous and he doesn’t even know it, “I only meant you were pretty with the hat.” 

“You wound me,” he gasps, dropping back on his hands dramatically, his pout now for dramatics rather than genuine, “Gonna stand there and tell me I’m not pretty when I dressed up just for you?”

You have to take a deep breath to compose yourself, cross your arms to steady your guard, “Just for me?” 

He was playing that same old, tired game of yours. The same dance the two of you had memorized the steps to – and something inside of you has grown restless of it. You don’t want to keep skirting around each other with double-meaning jokes, you don’t want to keep painting humor over your flirtatious remarks. You want a damn answer to the age old question of will they, won’t they?

And you want that answer to be will they – terribly, terribly so.

His eyes trail along the room slowly, not avoiding you but trying to draw out the anticipation in you as he sucks in a breath, “Okay, and maybe for Steve. And Nancy. And Argyle. And Jonathan. And- Well, I’d say Robin, but I don’t think she’s looked twice in my direction all night.” 

“I haven’t,” the brunette chirps happily from the couch, still letting the weight of Nancy comfortably dig into her. 

You have no idea how she’s tuned into the conversation, given the way most of everyone else around the room was entirely ignoring the two of you. 

“So,” you all but purr, leaning down to be more level with Eddie. You already know where his focus wanders when his eyes don’t meet yours, “Not just for me, cowboy.” 

He’s distracted, staring at your chest as you notice him slip up in his brave facade for a second. Almost as though you’ve gone too far, pushed the limits a bit too hard. Good. You want to break this. You want to shatter whatever cage the two of you have built.

In one smooth movement, your hand reaches out and snatches the hat right off his head. 

He lets out a yelp and tries to grab it away from you, but you have the advantage as you stand up straight once more. Your free hand reaches up and tears off the cat ears you had donned, and in their place, the hat is deposited. 

It fits you a little big, and you nearly make a joke about the size of Eddie’s head. 

“Hey!” he argues, moving as though he might stand up and put up more of a fight, “I didn’t say the hat is what I wanted to take off.” 

“Took too long,” you shrug innocently. 

“Yeah, well, just carefully add it to the pile,” he jabs his thumb over his shoulder, towards his boots, as he relaxes back into his recline.

You should probably behave yourself. 

“No.”

But this is more fun. 

Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up in shot, disappearing behind the bangs that are flattened far more than usual. The entire crown of his head is absolutely crushed. No sign of his usual frizzy roots and unruly volume, “No?”

“No,” you confirm a second time. 

And you’re done with this game of back and forth. 

The hat’s staying on your head. It smells ever so faintly of his shampoo, the slightest whiff of his cologne even, and it’s staying on your head for the exact reason he believes is about to be a gotcha! moment.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he’s just tipsy enough that he’s not putting on any specific accent. Instead, his natural Appalachian accent inherited from his uncle begins to break the surface, “Surely you know about the hat rule.” 

Damn right, you know about the hat rule.

You cross your arms, huff a little, tilt the hat for effect, “The hat rule? Please, enlighten me.” 

“You wear the hat, you ride the cowboy.” 

Perfect. 

You don’t even attempt any sort of surprised act. No exaggerated gasps, no fumbling to remove the hat. You knew all about this rule, and it had been one of the first things to come to mind when you’d seen him enter this damn party with the hat on. 

“Yeah?” you question, mocking raising your eyebrows at best, “Hm. What a shame.”

And then you turn on your heel, not awaiting a single response from Eddie as you escape to the kitchen.

You almost wish you would have stayed an extra second to properly witness his reaction. There’s no doubt in your mind that he’s gone pretty and pink, a flustered mess for at least a second as low laughter sounds from the rest of your friends. A tell-tale snort from Robin, and a silent cackle from Nancy. You swear you even pick up on one of the extra guests muttering a confused what just happened? that goes entirely unanswered.

Strip poker doesn’t continue on for long after that.

You refill your drink, this time sans the alcohol, and return to find Steve has officially begun to call for cabs to the club. He busies away on his phone as everyone debates who’s riding with who, the entire party slowly coming to life as everyone stands to prepare to leave for the main attraction. 

When you meet Eddie’s gaze from across the room, the shadow of the brim of his hat cutting into your vision a little, his cheeks match the cranberry juice in your cup. 

Good. 

—

The ride to the club is a blur, and all that really stands out to you is that Eddie makes sure he does not ride in the same cab as you.

Which is fine. Really. It doesn’t cause a single spark of panic in your chest. Not one. 

You’re definitely not working yourself up over the thought that your plan is crumbling right before your eyes, that you’ve gone too far and entirely misinterpreted everything Eddie has ever done during your entire friendship. You’re not mulling over every dirty joke, not dissecting every single line that felt like he was flirting with you and attempting to look at it with fresh eyes. No, the entire ride to the club, you are definitely not beating a dead horse dead. 

Maybe you should have set off to ride the dead horse and not the cowboy. Maybe, then, Eddie would have gotten into the fucking cab with you. 

Your anxieties only worsen once you get inside the club. Pulsing beneath your skin, right in rhythm with the music. Your entire group had each been handed a drink ticket on your way in, and you had noted the fact that the girls of the group were slipped extra tickets. 

Nancy had given all her tickets to Robin, and Steve had given his singular ticket to Stacy. 

“So,” Robin runs up to your side, Nancy not far behind, “Do we waste our drink tickets on shots or real drinks?” 

“Real drinks,” you immediately reply, eyes scanning the bouncing crowd for a certain head of curly hair, “Shots are… well, they can be cheap. We can just avoid the top-shelf shit.”

Was Eddie really going to ignore you the entire night? 

He needed his hat. He couldn’t ignore you the entire night. 

“You’re right,” Robin shuffles the drink tickets in her hands, turning to Nancy, “On a scale of one to ten, how bad would it be me to ask you to flirt with men to get me-”

“Give me ten minutes and I’ll have us a round.” 

Nancy’s smile is sweet, courteous, as she gives Robin’s shoulder a squeeze on her way past her. 

Where the fuck is Eddie? 

“Did you see where the guys ran off to?” you blurt out. Most of the guys, aside from Steve, took the same cab. 

Robin also joins you in a quick survey of the club, lifting onto her tippy toes to squint over the current light show, “Honestly? I have no idea.” 

Fuck. 

As she drops back down onto her heels, Robin looks at you knowingly, eyes flicking up between your twisted expression and the hat on your head. 

“Trying to find a certain cowboy?” 

“What?” you look at her, already defensive, even if it was stupid at this point. Who cares if everyone knows you have a crush on Eddie? Who cares if everyone finds out the very foundations of your friendship with him were built upon quite a bit of truth? “I mean- yeah, he kind of needs his hat to complete his outfit.” 

“Should have just given him your ears for an even trade,” Robin shrugs, clinging to your elbow to avoid getting separated as a few bodies push past the two of you, “I’m sure he’ll pop up soon enough, though. Besides, I don’t think anyone’s too focused on what everyone’s costumes are as long as they’re… well…”

“Slutted out,” you finish for her flatly, trying to not get jealous as your eyes look across the sweaty crowd, stomach churning as you wonder how many other sexy black cats in the crowd would be approaching your cowboy. 

You fucked up. You shouldn’t have taken his hat. 

“Exactly!” she’s excited, unaware of your crisis, already moving along from the topic as she spots Nancy somewhere near the bar top, “Look, free shots!” 

The free shots don’t do much to quell your unease, but free alcohol is always nice.

You take the liquid down, burn and all, more than willingly. And then again, not even five minutes later when Nancy has caught the attention of another random man at the end of the bar. You almost partake in a third, but you finally hear a familiar voice saying a far too familiar joke. 

“You know what they say,” he’s flirting – he’s using a tone of voice that he has never used with you, and it’s clear he’s fucking flirting, “Save a horse, ride a cowboy.” 

Instead of continuing your drinking game from Steve’s apartment, you slam the shot back down and mutter some sorry excuse of being right back to Robin and Nancy before taking off in the direction of Eddie.

He’s stood a few stools down at the bar, hands leaning against the worn wood as his arms bracket a pretty blonde. It almost looks as if the line might be working on her. 

“If you’re a cowboy,” she giggles, and you almost stop dead in your tracks, “Then where’s your hat?” 

Well, that’s as good of a queue for your arrival if any. 

“Good question,” you pipe up as you take a few brave steps towards him, “Where is your hat, cowboy?” 

You’d expected him to be angry, or startled, or possibly even immediately take off running in the opposite direction of you. He doesn’t. 

He slowly turns, and his flirtatious smile has turned into more of a salacious grin as he faces you, “Well, well, well. Nice of you to join us, Kitty.” 

The blonde looks between you two a few times before shimmying down off her stool, “I think…. I’m gonna go. Nice to meet you, cowboy.”

You expect Eddie to react, but he hardly does. A quick glance in her direction, a pathetic wave. 

You’ve just trampled over one of his chances of getting properly lucky tonight, and he isn’t even phased. 

“Been lookin’ for you,” you mumble, looking over him. His hair seems to have been unstuck from his scalp a little, at least. As though he may have been running his hands through it repeatedly, “Thought you might have gone home without your hat.” 

“Not a chance. I haven’t forgotten about the rule, you know.” 

Something twists in you, deep in your gut, between your hips. 

“No?” you hold your breath as he leans in a bit closer to you to be able to hear over the music, “Good thing I haven’t either.” 

He tilts his head, eyes glittering in the multi-colored lights, “You haven’t? Then that means you’ll be giving it back, right?” 

Over my dead body. 

You’re on a mission tonight. You’ll either be ending this night in sore disappointment, drinking away your sorrows of rejection, or you’ll be ending up in a bed with Eddie. It’s up to him. 

You lift a hand to the worn rim, tugging it a bit more securely onto your head, “Not a chance, Munson. You know where to find me once you’re done playing around.”

As soon as your fingers leave the rim, holding tense eye contact with him, his own hand is coming up. You tense, worried he’s about to steal the hat back now, but he doesn’t. Instead, his fingers pinch the same spot yours just had, slow tracing over the rim as his tongue darts out to carefully wet his bottom lip. 

From the front point, around to the side. When he reaches the bit above your ear, his touch drops to your cheek and tucks back some of the baby hairs sticking to your skin with sweat. 

“I do, don’t I?” he hums, voice dropping a bit lower, focused entirely on you. “I don’t think I’m the one playing around right now, though, Kitty.” 

Does he think you’re joking? Does he actually, genuinely think this is all a game to you? 

You nearly make the decision to grab him right there, right at this moment, and shatter all the tension. Get his lips on yours and drag him into the darkest corner just to prove to him how serious you truly were. 

Suddenly, his hand drops away from you entirely, and you almost want to whine. You miss that warmth, that feathery caress, until it aches. “It’s okay, though. Always knew cats were playful things.” 

Is there a dark corner somewhere near you two? Is there a dark hallway to drag him into? Just enough shadow to cover all the sins you’re desperate to commit, just enough light to see that blush rise across his cheeks again. 

“I’m not playing,” you whisper, eyes drifting down to his hand cradling a glass. Something deep and russet, just like his eyes. Likely whiskey. You wonder if you’d be able to taste it all over his tongue before you had him putting it to work where you need him most right now. “Whenever you get that through your big head, come find me.” 

“Big head?” he throws his head back in a laugh, and the tension mists away in seconds. “Who says I have a big head?” 

“I do, as the one wearing your hat,” you readjust it for emphasis. 

You thought the tension had misted away until he’s smirking, tsking a little, “Oh, thought you meant the other one.” 

It’s a replay of the scene in Steve’s apartment, but this time, the roles are reversed. You’re the one left in shock, mouth agape, as Eddie spins around and walks away, leaving you to sit with what he’s just said. 

“Bastard,” you breathe out as you watch him disappear in the crowd, eyes locked on his broad shoulders until one too many bodies separate the two of you. 

A bastard you want awfully, terribly, bad. 

—

You wish you could say you threw back drink, after drink, after drink. You wish you could say you danced with a hundred different beautiful strangers, and each one strayed your mind farther from Eddie. 

You wish you could say you did anything but what the reality of your night had been.

A few men had approached you, only to be turned down repeatedly. Most of your night was spent all but moping at the bar, eyes diligently scanning the bouncing crowd for a certain curly haired figure that seemed to escape you. One moment, you’d catch him pressed against a flirty stranger, hands holding onto whatever bare skin was available to him. And then, his eyes would find yours, and there would be a spark; a wink, a smile, a whisper across a bustling room daring you to come out and play with him. 

You never did. You’d look away, take a sip of your plain coke, and wait a few seconds until it was safe to look back and find him seemingly vanished. 

That in itself had started to become a game. Just like the hat, weighing heavy on your head. 

You’re starting to accept that maybe you had just been a bit too brave. You’d jumped the gun, flown feet first into cold and ragged waters you weren’t prepared to navigate. You knew you wanted a change with Eddie, but were you ready? If you had been, you would have accepted one of his various invites. Would have strode across the room, shoved away whatever man or woman he was dancing with, and slotted yourself into their place. You would have been swaying your hips in rhythm with his rather than allowing him to cycle through strangers, and you’d be reminding him that you wore his hat. 

You’d be the one bringing up the hat rule to him consistently, not him to you. 

When the night begins to wane, you’ve already talked yourself out of it all. 

“I’m heading out,” you announce to Robin when she finally returns back to where you’ve sat at the bar to babysit their drinks, hopping down from the stool before she could argue, “I’m getting way too tired.” 

“What?” your friend gasps, face pink from the heat of being in the crowd, a shimmering sheen of sweat across her forehead, “No! Stay! We can take turns watching the drinks, or just-”

“Robs,” you smile as sweetly as possible, patting yourself down to make sure you have all your belongings. A whistle sounds from a group down the way at the bar, and you ignore them, “It’s seriously okay. You’re having fun! I’m just a senior citizen who needs some sleep. My bedtime was like…. An hour ago.” 

You highly doubt you’ll be getting any rest when you return to your apartment. Maybe some confidence can be built out of fantasies, letting your hands wander and sheets catch fire with all that could have been if you hadn’t talked yourself out of your perfect plan. 

Maybe, imagining Eddie’s hot hands on you rather than getting to properly feel them will light a damn fire under your ass for the next opportunity that arises. 

“I…” she sighs, glancing over her shoulder in the general direction of Nancy, “Okay, fine. But do we want to do brunch or something tomorrow?” 

Not a chance, you think rather quickly, eyes scanning once more for the metal-head-turned-cowboy. Not if Eddie’s going to be there.

“Sure,” you lie, already knowing he will be there, “Just text me.” 

With that, you make your grand escape. 

Borrowed hat on head, phone in hand, you push your way out of the club with a newfound determination. You want to get home and take off this uncomfortable dress, finally do away with the thigh highs that have been rolling down at the most inconvenient of times, driving you insane the entire night. Trade the sexy attire for something comfy – stay true to the cat essence as you curl up beneath your blankets for the night. Hang that damn cowboy hat on your door as a cursed reminder-

“Where do you think you’re going, Kitty?” 

You stop a few feet short of the curb, a cab ordered as you turn to find that bastard leaning against the wall. Cigarette smoke is still clinging to the air around him as he looks at you curiously. 

“Home,” you shrug, trying to ignore your pounding heart. You’d figured you wouldn’t see him again tonight, that your fate had been sealed. “What are you doing out here?” 

“Smoke break,” he lifts his hand with the cigarette pinched between two fingers casually, pushing off the wall to come closer, “It’s hard work, keeping you entertained all night.” 

You scoff, falling back into what’s almost a normal rhythm for you two, “You were not the one keeping me entertained all night.” 

“I hardly saw you dance with anyone at all.” 

“I did!” you try to defend yourself, deciding this could be fine. Some casual conversation as you wait for your ride, a way to pass the time. This is fine. “Robin dragged me out into the crowd at least twice.” 

“I watched you swat a guy’s hands away not once, but three times.” 

“Unsolicited touching isn’t a compliment. He should have taken the hint the first time.” 

Eddie nods in eager agreement, taking another drag of his cigarette, “Damn right. If he had gone in for a fourth try, I was considering dragging him out here for an early smoke break.” 

“Why do I highly doubt it would just be a smoke break?” you question, glancing at him with a smile. Scandalous plans aside for the night, embarrassment swallowed down whole, it’s nice to remember that Eddie is a friend. Albeit a bit flirty, and capable of driving you fucking insane, but he’s a friend.

And maybe that isn’t the worst thing in the world. 

“Oh, no, yeah. You’d be posting my bail.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’ve got my hat, ” he reaches out and flicks the brim with his free hand, and you freeze up a little. You had hoped he wouldn’t mention it again, “Kind of makes me your problem until the end of the night. Speaking of….” 

You already know what he’s about to request as he trails off. This is it. You either give up the bit, hand the hat back over, and go home for the night – or you make one final attempt to get what you had wanted.

Eddie. You wanted Eddie, as more than a friend. 

“I’m gonna need that back, sweetheart.”

At least he’s asking politely, you consider, before it hits you why he’s asking rather than taking. 

The looks across the room. The way he’d been unbothered by the girl he’d been flirting with running off at your appearance. The way he never just took back that fucking hat when he’d been provided ample opportunity. 

He thinks it’s a game for you, and keeps bringing it up, because it isn’t for him. He’s giving you one last chance to back out, or to stand your ground. To say you really want this. 

And fuck, you really want this. 

“Nope,” you lean into his space, pressing closer, fully committed. Your phone dings with the notification of your ride approaching, and you fully ignore it. “My hat now, cowboy.” 

He quirks an eyebrow, and you hear the crunch of gravel behind you. Your ride. “Is that so?” 

“Yep.”

Another ding, another buzz of your phone.

Go ahead. Bring up the hat rule. 

“That your ride?” he asks, tilting his chin in the direction of the car. 

You glance over your shoulder, “Pretty sure it is, yeah.” 

“And you remember the hat rule?” 

Your stomach twists with excitement. Your previous pity party is long forgotten – you’re still hoping to get out of this dress, but you highly doubt you’ll be slipping anything on after it. “I do.”

“Great,” those hot hands you’d been fantasizing about the entire night suddenly reach out to you, gripping your hips tightly as he tugs you into his body. You collide with his chest as he leans down and whispers in your ear, “In that case, that’s my pussy now.” 

His lips linger against the shell of your ear an extra second, warm breath sending chills up your spine before he’s keeping an arm around your shoulders as he guides you to the car. His cologne and the scent of tobacco is suffocating, and you crave to drown in it. You want him to consume you; you want him to take over every breath you breathe, every move you make, to finally get those hot hands and lips everywhere you’ve only dreamt of. 

You barely hear him confirm with the driver that it is in fact your ride – you can only focus on that hand on your lower back, palm heavy on you as his thumb traces arcs that nearly spend you spiraling. 

“After you, kitty,” he murmurs, motioning for you to slide into the backseat first. 

In that case, that’s my pussy now.

You hope he ruins you. 

In the backseat of the ride, it’s all polite distance and hands to yourself. You can’t even make eye contact with the driver, terrified he might be able to mindread and see all the filthy thoughts racing through your head. 

Eddie between your thighs, mouthing at your hips. 

Eddie hovering over you, pulling your knees to your chest as he stretches you out. 

Eddie, proving that your pussy is in fact his for the night. That it was made for him, sculpted out to fit the curvature and every single vein of him. 

Eddie simply fucking your brains out. 

Some polite conversation is exchanged, mostly between Eddie and the driver. The classic questioning of how the night has gone, small talk that buzzes in your ears mindlessly. 

The entire time, you can see Eddie’s hand in the space between you two, fingers tapping away at dark leather incessantly. His rings shimmer like a siren calling to you. 

It’s a small movement, when your own hand drops near his. You keep your eyes trained forward once you begin your mission, inching your pinky closer and closer until it finally collides with his. You swear, you feel him fully jump out of his seat. 

Slowly warming the water, you start off simple – playing with his fingers. Gentle caresses over his knuckles, little pricks to the pads of his fingers. He tries to capture your hand in his, but you have bigger plans at play here. 

You’ve spent the entire fucking night waiting for this. You’re going to have fun with it. 

He huffs after you deter his second attempt at properly holding hands, his knees falling apart a little further. You twist at the ring on his middle finger, a clunky skull you’ve always admired. It has minimal signs of wear, probably pure silver if you had to guess, and you can only imagine how cold it’s going to feel against your skin. 

You can only imagine the imprints it’ll leave if he grabs your hips just right. 

“You know,” the driver hums mindlessly over the low volume of the radio, “You guys are my first ride of the night, surprisingly. Thought it might be busier with all the parties and clubs, but I think it’s just barely picking up now.”

“Yeah?” Eddie asks politely, nodding as he looks out his window. Perfect, “I think you’re right. It is getting pretty late-”

He’s entirely distracted, your hand out of his line of sight as it moves in on its target. 

His thigh. 

Just a few inches above his knee, your hand grips at what is clearly sensitive flesh. You watch his entire body turn to stone when you do it, and he moves his head quickly to look in your direction. 

You’re looking straight ahead. 

There had been a time, a few weeks ago, where you’d learned Eddie had… sensitive knees. You’d been joking around about one thing or another, and when your palms had gripped at them through the torn fabric of ripped jeans, he’d nearly launched himself across the room. He just kept insisting they were ticklish, that that skin was just delicate.

You’d seen the tent in his jeans then. You’d just been a bit more polite, a bit better behaved that day. 

“What are you doing?” he hisses in a whisper, reaching for your hand, but you’re quick to slide it even higher. 

His hips jump a little, and the driver is none the wiser. 

“Nothing,” you innocently say, still looking ahead, watching the passing streetlights with intense interest. “Absolutely nothing at all.” 

The entire ride, at every red light, your hand inches higher. 

And every time, you relish the way he squirms in your peripherals.

By the time you’re five minutes out from your place, you’ve riled him up to impossible heights. Every little noise has him on edge, constant twitching and shifting in his seat as he tries to get you to just look at him. You know he’s catching every sly smile that attempts to creep up on your lips – you’re pathetically failing at every turn to cover them up. 

You think you have him like putty in your palms as you give yet another squeeze to his thigh, fingers starting to dance up even higher. When your eyes flicker to his crotch for just a second, you see him straining against that tight leather. 

And then he flips the script. 

You’re so focused on your own goals, you never see that ringed hand creep to your own thigh. It’s not until cool metal nips at you, briefly, before you feel the warmth of his hand overtake, that you realize the predicament you’ve gotten into. 

Just as your hand was beginning to skim over his crotch, Eddie’s hand found solace between the meat of your thighs. Even as you try to clench them together, deny him the access he was seeking out, he finds his way in. Scandalous fingers dipping under the hem of your dress, fighting fire with fire when he lets his middle finger brush across the fabric of your underwear. 

Your touch from him nearly retracts entirely. 

“What?” he leans in closer to you, the driver still focused on the road, “Don’t like a taste of your own medicine?”

As he says it, his fingers dip lower. Hovering right over your protected clit, making your entire abdomen clench. 

You swallow hard, a bit of your jagged pride somewhere amongst the spit as you turn your head to look at him, “I don’t know what you mean.” 

“Still playing games I see.” 

In sync, the two of you lock eyes as you continue to test waters. You apply pressure with your palm and note the way his breathing hitches, and he draws a feather-light circle around the wet patch forming in your underwear. You can feel your bottom lip quiver as you try to refuse to give him any satisfaction, but when he’s this close, it’s a hopeless battle.

When had he gotten so near you? What happened to all that static distance from when you’d first crawled into the backseat?

You’re trying to only focus on your own hand. Eyes darting to guarantee the driver is still oblivious as you roll the heel of your hand harder against the seam of his pants, and biting your lip to hold back a successful grin when he has to cover a gasp with a cough. It’s all fun and games until the action is rewarded with his payback; his knuckle curling up against your cunt through your panties, pressing in hard before slowly sliding his way up, up, up. 

He deliberately stops when he catches on your clit, and you’re the one coughing now. 

“Had enough?” he mutters under his breath, looking at you with half-lidded eyes. He looks good in this lighting, flashes of the streetlights bathing him in soft yellow, headlights of other cars fluttering in through the windshield as they hit his brown eyes just right to bronze them. 

“Never.”

You almost think you’ve won when his knuckle pulls back. 

But suddenly, his entire hand is cupping your cunt, two fingers pressing against your fluttering hole as another drags up your slit slowly once more. This time, when he reaches your clit, he continues moving in small circles. 

You have to bite your lip to hold back any noises, eyes closing for just a second as you hear him huff out a laugh. 

The final damnation is when he brings his lips to your bare shoulder, merely grazing your skin with them as he mumbles, “You sure about that, Kitty?” 

You clench around nothing, and you know when he feels it from where his fingers remain pressed against you. His own hand twitches as the finger circling your clit stutters for a moment. 

“I-”

“We’re here!” the driver says, not having looked into the backseat yet as he finds a safe place to pull the car into. In an instant, you and Eddie remove your hands from each other. You’re both visibly flustered – you can feel how warm your cheeks have gotten, and you can see clouds of pink splattering over Eddie’s chest and neck. 

“Thanks,” Eddie is the one to speak up as the car comes to a halt, not even waiting for the driver to put the vehicle in park as he throws the door open. 

A bit rushed, but still polite as ever before he’s grabbing you by your bicep to pull you out of the cramped space right along with him. 

You can hardly muster a weak wave to the man as Eddie is dragging you towards your apartment building, knees still a bit weak and mind still blank after getting a taste of your own medicine, as Eddie had put it. 

He doesn’t let go of you until you’re at your front door, those cursed shaking hands of yours fumbling with your key ring. 

“Here, let me-” he starts to offer, reaching for the keys that continue to clank together, just as you find the one you’re looking for. 

“I’ve got it-” you try to cut him off, just as you drop the fucking keys in your haste. “Shit.” 

You quickly drop to the ground to grab them, pausing once you have the metal digging into your palms once more. There’s no real reason for you to do it, but you do – you take a second to look up at Eddie from this position, and nearly drool at the sight of it.

Him, standing over you, still a bit flushed and still visibly uncomfortable in his pants. Pretty curls a mess and lips darkening from how much he’s been biting them. 

You want him to ruin you. You want him to absolutely, entirely and utterly destroy you.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he laughs, chest heaving a bit as he watches you carefully, pupils slowly growing in the dim light of your building’s hallway. 

You can see his bare torso clenching, the twitch of his hands at his sides – the same fingers that had just been caressing you over your underwear in the backseat of a stranger’s car. 

“Like what?” you’re dragging out the moment, taking time to appreciate the sight of him. 

“Like you want me to just press you up against the wall and fuck you out here, for everyone to see.” 

That’s a new one. That’s a vision that hadn’t come to you in all your dirtiest dreams of the night. 

It sends your clit throbbing. 

You rise slowly, pushing the hat back a bit to see him better, keeping your voice quiet so your neighbors won’t hear as you ask, “Would you? If I asked nicely?” 

He doesn’t let out a laugh, but a breath of air, like you’ve just sucked all of the oxygen out of his lungs. 

No need to say it – you know he would. You probably wouldn’t even have to ask nicely. 

You’re staring at him when he finally moves, one hand snatching your keys out of your hand and the other gripping you around the waist. Back to pulling you, man-handling you to get you right where he wants you – where he needs you. 

One second, you’re pressed against his body in the hallway. The next, he’s managed to unlock your front door and throw you both into the safety of your apartment. 

Hidden from the world, and you’re still reeling as you wonder what it’d be like for the entire building to witness you calling out his name. Or him calling out your name. 

Here within these four walls, Eddie has put some space between the two of you, staring with blown out eyes and a shaking chest as he breathes out, “Sweetheart.”

A few seconds pass, the two of you just standing there, the click of the front door’s lock being the only thing echoing in the silence. If you focused over the roar of the blood pounding in your ears, you might catch every single gasp of his as he stares in awe – but your focus is elsewhere. Far away and out of grasp for the time being. You can only think of one thing, and one thing only. 

Your body isn’t your own as you move to get exactly what you want; you drop to your knees hard enough that you should cringe at the thought of the pain that will linger, possibly for days, but it doesn’t even cross your mind as your hands begin to fumble with Eddie’s pants. The oversized, gaudy belt buckle is in your way, glinting at you as if mocking the way your shaking hands can’t undo it fast enough. You’re about to give up and just start unzipping the leather pants, desperate to get your hands, and your mouth, and your eyes on him properly, when he stops you. 

“Hey,” he sounds breathless - he is breathless - as his own hands quiver a bit and grab onto yours, “Hey, hey, hey. Slow down.”

Those hands let go of your wrists and reach for the hat, and you’re quick to try and swat them away only for him to grab at you, surprisingly gentle, as he drags you back up to your feet. 

“Wear the hat, ride the cowboy – right?” you insist, chin held high, your gaze refusing to waver from his. 

His slow and buttery grin makes you lightheaded, his low chuckle sends shakes through every nerve and bone. “That’s right, but maybe the cowboy wants to take his time. Ever think of that, hm?” 

Were you moving too fast? Were you going to scare him off? 

Small, baby steps are taken by Eddie, the click of his heels shattering against your wooden floors until his hips are flush with yours. 

And - oh.

Oh. 

That surely didn’t feel like you were scaring him off. 

You could feel the outline of his cock, hard against your hip, as he gives a little roll. He catches his bottom lip between his teeth, nostrils flaring with a hard breath, and the fear leaves as quickly as it had arrived. 

He wants this. You want him. 

“I’m not a very patient person,” you murmur, eyes glued to his lips now as his head leans in closer, and his hands begin to explore your body. Taking their time as they travel down your arms from where he’d held onto your biceps, slowing as they reach your wrists. Even the press of his thumb against the sensitive inner skin there sends jolts up your spine, little gasps attempting to escape your mouth. 

His fingers tangle loosely with your own for a few moments before his palms find your hips, and he continues his journey. 

“That’s okay,” he whispers back, close enough now that his lips have begun to brush against your own. His nose bumps yours as his hands skate up over your ribcage, thumb sweeping out over the hill of your breast and intentionally avoiding your nipple, “I can teach you, baby.”

Your mouth finally collides with him at the words, nearly going limp in his arms at the words. 

You’ve thought about kissing Eddie for a while now. Every time a snarky remark fell from his lips, you’d wonder how his tongue might taste afterwards. Every time he’d pout his lips at one of your comebacks, or blow a kiss teasingly in your direction from across a room, you’d wonder how hard you might have to bite down to make him bleed. Every drag of a cigarette you’d witnessed, every hard gasp in faux offense, every breathless chuckle at a joke he didn’t want to find funny but did – you had spent a lot of time wondering what it might be like to steal all the air from his lungs, to kiss him until the two of you were both blue in the face. 

“Can’t the lesson wait until tomorrow?” you mumble against him as his mouth, your own fists now gripping onto the lapels of his vest. His hands have reached your shoulders, memorizing the outlines of the curve of your neck where it meets your collarbones, the slope of your chest as you take hot and heavy breaths. 

“Nope,” he insists, pulling back from the kiss, a little bit of spit on his pink lips, “But it’s nice to know you’re thinking about tomorrow.” 

A hand finally finds your chin and pinches it carefully between his thumb and fingers, a careful grip on you to angle you just right so he can all but devour you. Lips, tongues, teeth – it’s a messy ordeal, and you almost make a smart-ass remark that this kiss doesn’t feel very patient. 

But you can’t. Eddie’s taken away all your breaths, all your words, as he starts to guide you backwards. 

Your knees hit the cushions of your sofa, making you jump back from him with a gasp, palms going flat against his chest. 

He feels good. Tender skin soft to the touch beneath your hand, tattoos tempting to trace the outline of. Later. 

“Figured you might want a more comfortable ride,” he laughs against you, breath smelling ever so faintly of mint and whiskey washing over you, before he dips to mouth away at your neck.

You drop back onto the sofa, bite your tongue on a comment about how this cheap piece of furniture most definitely wasn’t the most comfortable option, simply eager at the fact he was letting this move along. 

You want him, you need him, and you have no time for patience. 

His exploration of touches have lit you aflame, and you’re growing a bit desperate at this point. It might be pathetic, it should be embarrassing, but you really don’t care. 

“By all means,” you break out of his hold entirely, catching the way his hand holding your chin lingers a few extra seconds, reluctant to let you go, “Take your seat, Cowboy.” 

He joins you on the couch, eyes never leaving yours even as he throws himself down. Knees spread wide, inviting lap on show, cock still straining against his pants. 

The best seat in the house, as far as you’re concerned. 

“You just gonna keep starin’,” he mocks lightly, looking you over slowly. Taking his time, you suppose, “Or you gonna get over here?” 

His words are all you need. You’re quick to climb onto his lap, swinging your legs so that each thigh brackets his hips, your cunt pressing down on crotch carelessly. You love the way it feels – the outline of him hard against you, the cooling effect of the leather, the sharp edges of the zipper catching just right. 

“There,” he huffs out, grabbing onto you when you give the slightest roll of your hips, “Now we’re both in our seats.” 

When you go to press down harder, guiding yourself over his lap, hands steadying you by gripping his shoulders, he surprises you by his hips jumping up to meet your slow rhythm.

“What happened to being patient?” you try to tease him right back as your forehead meets his, hat comically struggling to stay on between the two of you, “Thought you were gonna take your time with me-”

“Between you and me, I’m not gonna last,” he pants out, hands finding your hips. Those rings you’d been fantasizing of leaving an imprint on you are doing just that as he guides you, “Been dreaming of you too long, sweetheart. Wanted this for so long.” 

Your heart nearly stops. Your hips stutter, pausing as his words rush over you. 

“What?” 

Your head lifts away from his completely, grip on his shoulders tightening. 

He’s wanted this, too? This entire time? 

Eddie takes your pause as a bad thing, a terrible omen as his face pales, “I mean- I just-”

“Munson,” you say lowly, narrowing your eyes at him, “You’re telling me, this entire time, you’ve been flirting with me?” 

Had that tone he used with the girl at the bar been flirting as you’d thought, or simple for show? You’d so cluelessly assumed he’d never used that tone with you because he’d never genuinely flirted with you – and yet, it seems, he’d never used that tone because he’d been genuinely flirting with you. 

“I-” his cheeks are brilliant red, and the wide eyes are from something different than lust now, “Maybe?” 

“Maybe?” you almost laugh, throwing your head back. The hat falls off, but Eddie is quick to retrieve it, “My God, we’re fucking idiots.” 

“Hey, I’m not the one who stole my hat-”

“I like you, dumb ass,” you state plainly, “I wanted this for a while, too.” 

He pauses, one arm outstretched as his hand grips onto the hat, “What?” 

“Been thinking about this, too,” your voice drops a little, almost a whisper, even though you two are the only ones in the room. For all you know, you two might be the only two people left in the world with the way he’s looking at you, “Thinking about you and your lips. Thinking ‘bout your hands and the places they’d go,” as you point out every detail, his body seemingly reacts. A lick of his lips, a squeeze of his hand still on your hip, “Thought about your fingers and tongue a lot, too. How good they’d feel inside me.” 

His hips thrust up at that, and suddenly, he’s placing his hat back atop your head. 

That, it seems, was all the encouragement Eddie needed. 

He deals with that belt buckle that had given you hell, bouncing you a bit on his lap as he fumbles with yanking the entire belt off and tossing it to the side. One hand busies with undoing the button and zipper of his jeans, as the other starts to bunch your dress. 

“Nice and slow,” he insists, looking up at you, absolutely vibrant. Somewhere between the tightness between your hips, all the throbbing between your thighs and in your chest, you feel a sort of bubbly delight creeping up along your spine. “Got it, kitty?” 

You nod once. Twice. On the third nod, he cuts you off with a kiss. 

Your dress is up to your waist, and you don’t know how, but he manages to shimmy off his pants without throwing you off his lap entirely. It’s impressive, really. Probably a symptom of him having thought about this, dreamt about this. He’d probably thought up every scenario possible, and was prepared. 

“Oh, and these?” his fingers find the waistband of your panties, tsking a little as he pulls at the elastic and lets it slap back against your skin, “Those definitely have to come off.” 

“Whatever you say, cowboy.” 

You take your time sliding off his lap, making sure to grind against him before you properly lift away. He throws his head back in a groan, Adam’s apple bobbing as you stand up straight. You take that moment to just admire him, capturing the clench of his jaw to memory, the way his eyes screw shut in pleasure at your influence. 

He’s fucking perfect. You’re sure there’s others who disagree, but you’d pay them no mind. He’s perfect, and he’s all yours. 

You make a show of taking off your panties only once he’s properly looking at you once more, craving his eyes on you as you keep all your movements fluid and steady. No rush, exuding all that patience he’d prattled on about. 

You want to see his face when you gently toss the black lacey piece in his direction, watch him fumble with his own desperation to catch them. 

“Seems a bit unfair that I’m the only one undressing,” you hum as you go a step further and begin to shimmy out of the dress.

“Yeah, well,” he grins cheekily at you, fisting your panties, a hand trailing down to the waistband of his boxers as he eyes you, “One of us was showing a bit more skin than the other.”

“Take off the vest, Eddie.” 

Your command is velvet, and he’s quick to obey. His hand stubbornly refuses to let go of your panties as he rushes to shrug out of the thin fabric over his shoulders, tossing the vest to join his pants and your dress on the floor. 

“And the boxers.” 

You stand there, in nothing but his cowboy hat, as you wait pretty and patient for him to listen. And listen he does. 

The moment his boxers are discarded, his cock is standing at attention, leaking from the tip and deep shade of pink that matches his kiss-bitten lips. You think it might be the prettiest color you’ve ever laid eyes on as you watch a drop of  precum slip down his shaft. 

He’s pretty, even in the fucking pants. 

Girthy, thick enough you almost arch your back before you’ve even sunk down on him. All veins and soft skin, a sensitive tip that you’d trace your tongue over for hours if he let you. 

“Gonna just stand there, or are you going to ride your cowboy?” 

He surely meant to sound more cocky, but the words come out as more of a whine as you watch him twitch under your stare. 

He’s right though, and you’d rather get him inside you than spend another second gawking. There will be time to pay more attention to him and his pretty cock tomorrow. Right now, you need to finish this god-forsaken mission. 

Your thighs find his hips just as his hands find yours, choosing to grip the couch rather than his shoulders as you steady yourself. 

Nice and slow, his words echo in your mind. 

You could have prepared yourself more, but you’d already made it clear to Eddie that you are not a patient person. The fact that you even take your time as you sink down on him, going as far as to grab him by his base and guide his tip to smear precum across your clit, is impressive. 

The stretch is a bit painful. A bit much. A bit dizzying. But you refuse to stop as your jaw drops, eyes fluttering shut in ecstasy. 

“Fuck,” you breathe out softly as you feel him fill you, “Fuck, Eddie.” 

“Feel good, baby?” he questions, reaching up to grab your chin just as he had before. Forcing you closer to him, forcing you to look him in the eyes just as he bottoms out. 

You don’t answer him as you both moan out. 

You stay there for a second, unmoving as you swim in the feeling. Feeling him press into the depths of you, the overwhelming warmth and the coil in your abdomen tightening ever so slightly. 

It’s better than you had imagined it. No daydreams could compare to the feeling of Eddie’s cock finally, finally filling you. Stretching you out, making you his. 

“Go ahead,” he grits out, entire body tense, clearly holding out on you, “Ride your cowboy, kitty. Don’t make me ask twice.” 

Nice. And. Slow.

Three little words that ricochet through your mind as you start to slowly bounce on him. Lifting ever so slightly, dropping back down, aching to feel him even deeper inside of you. Feeling the quiver of his thighs to match yours as you repeat the action, gasps and whimpers falling from both your lips. You’re about to try and kiss him, try and swallow all those delicate noises from him, when he stops you. 

“No, no, no,” he’s chuckling, giving your hips a few squeezes before his palms rub down your thighs, the friction sending you on edge, “C’mon, now. We both know that’s not how you ride.” 

His hands rake over your skin, down to your knees, lighting scratching and squeezing along their entire pathway until they make their way back up to your waist and hips. 

“Do it like this, sweetheart.”

He guides you, no longer allowing you to lift up. You sink all the way down on his cock, whining out at the fullness, before he starts the pattern. 

Back and forth. Gentle circles amidst the rocking. Your clit grazes his pubes, and the coil in between your hips has never tightened more quickly. 

The motion feels familiar - like riding a bull. 

This feels right. You still press down, still clench down on him hard enough to make you both slip out obscenities, but it’s getting you there. 

At some point, Eddie’s grip on your hips slips, but it’s fine – you’ve got the rhythm down perfectly. Slow, intermittent figure eights between the rolls of your hips, his occasionally slamming upward to reward you with that deepness you need. You can feel him in your stomach, in your chest, in your throat. 

You get a bit daring, and take one hand to his shoulders, as the other reaches up for the top of the hat on your head. 

Just like a cowboy. 

“Like this?” you pant out between harsher rolls, eliciting curses that continue to grow louder from Eddie. 

“Fuck, baby, yes,” he groans out, head thrown back, mouth open in gratification, “Just like that. Keep- keep going just,” he thrusts up, “Like,” another thrust, “That.” 

You nearly lose balance, falling forward a bit, too stubborn to let go of the hat. There’s a grin glimmering at the corners of your mouth, and it fully blooms when Eddie throws up a hand to catch you .

A hand on your throat. 

He doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t cut off blood flow or breathing. He keeps that warm palm there at the base of your neck, cradling you, holding you. A reminder that he could squeeze if he wanted, that he held you in the palm of his hands currently, but he won’t. 

“You like that?” his eyes shine as he looks up at you, the sight of his rings decorating your neck. 

You nod.

“Tell me with your words,” he commands.

“I like it,” you whimper, looking up further, stretching more of your neck to be vulnerable to Eddie. “I like it so much, baby.” 

When the pet name falls from your lips, you can feel him twitch inside of you. The sudden jut of his hips, the sharp intake of breath. 

“You like that,” you laugh breathlessly, your hand atop the hat the only thing keeping it from falling as you lean your head fully back, eyes beginning to roll back into your head. “Wanna be my baby, Munson?” 

“Always have,” he grunts, the hand on your throat slipping up to cup your face to drag you towards him, “Since the fucking moment I met you, sweetheart.”

When he kisses you, it tastes like the closest to Heaven you might ever get. Soft, plump lips, and an eager tongue. All the wasted time hiding behind jokes and teasing, playing pretend like the flirting was never serious.

It was serious. And if you’d just come clean sooner, you would have had this long ago. 

Your hips are still rolling as your hands begin to roam. You’ve found your balance again, lips pressed to Eddie, and it’s your turn to explore all he has to give you. Your nails graze his stomach when your clit catches once more on that rough thatch of hair against the base of his cock. Your fingers dig into flesh wherever they can find it – his chest, his arms, his hips. At some point, you throw a hand out behind you, grasping for his knee. Learning every curve and every point of his body as he had done for you. 

You wanna memorize the roadmap of him. Take a snapshot in your mind so that next time, none of it is unfamiliar territory. 

Your touch is driving him insane; it doesn’t take a genius to pick up on the way his hips falter to meet your movements, or how he keeps breaking the kiss to gasp, letting his jaw fall slack when he hits a particular deep spot within you. 

It’s when your lips finally trail down the stubble sprouting across his jawline, mouth sucking on the soft skin below his ear, that he’s finally a goner. 

“‘M close,” he gasps out, almost sounding drunk as he slurs through his pants, “Ah, fuck, I’m gonna-”

“Cum for me, Eddie.” 

Maybe it’s the way you had been touching him, or the way your cunt had been fluttering around him, or the persistent rolling of your hips that had become so focused on his pleasure. Maybe it was the sight of you in his hat, looking at him like that. Maybe it was the way his name sounded on your tongue. 

Either way, when Eddie Munson comes undone, he’s beautiful. 

Your own movements slow involuntarily as you gaze starry eyed, watching the way his face scrunches and feeling his grip on you tighten impossibly. Leaving their mark, making you his in yet another way. Warmth fills your cunt and every curse word under the summer sun is falling from his lips. 

Your name, curses, prayers, gratitude – a jumbled mess, and it sounds fucking fantastic when it’s said in Eddie’s desperate tone. 

“Shit,” he gasps out, finally coming back down to Earth, “Shit.”

You sit still on his lap, skin sticky with sweat, lips spread thin in a cheeky grin, “Sounds like I get to keep your hat, cowboy.” 

His eyes shoot open, and for a second, you’re terrified.

Those aren’t the eyes of someone satisfied. 

“You didn’t cum.”

“What?”

“You,” he says, stressing the word as he shifts you off his lap. You don’t miss the way he winces, clearly a bit sensitive, “Did not cum.” 

You hadn’t really noticed, too wrapped up in him to notice your high slipping away from you. You’d been too focused on Eddie: on feeling him cum inside you, on watching him break apart, on tracing the outline of the blood rushing to his cheeks with your eyes and that fresh burst of violet on his neck in the shape of your lips. 

“It’s fine,” you start to argue, feeling the warmth of him leaking down your thighs. You should be a lot more worried about making a mess all over your sofa. You should be, but you aren’t. “I can-”

“You’re not keeping that fucking hat until you cum for me, sweetheart.” 

And, oh, maybe your own orgasm wasn’t racing as far away from you as you’d believed, because those words nearly push you over the edge for him. 

“Get on all fours for me, baby.” 

Yeah. You definitely could still be close. For him.

When you don’t move to follow his command immediately, he’s using those gentle hands to guide you. Encouraging a twist of your hips from how you’re reclining back across the couch, letting you press your cheek down against the cushion.

You open your mouth to argue, to insist it was fine, to say anything, but you’re cut silent when a sudden slap lands on your ass. 

A silent command this time, and you’re finally listening. 

You lift your ass up for him on shaky knees, elbows digging into the cushion now instead of your face. The hat on your head is lopsided, and you almost reach up to fix it when- 

“I’ll be taking that,” For the first time since you’d stolen his hat, Eddie takes it back. Right off your head, too fast for you to protest. When you dig your chin into your shoulder to look back at him, he’s smiling, hat back in its rightful place atop his curls, “You can have it back after you cum for me, at least once.”

“At least once?” you mean to laugh, to sound cocky, but it comes out as more of a squeak. 

He shrugs, leaning forward, his bare chest pressing against the skin of your bare ass – right where an imprint of his hand still sings, “At least. By all means, if you feel the need, don’t hesitate to give me a few. God knows you’ve earned it.” 

You don’t have time to banter back; he retracts before bring his mouth down to your cunt, and your elbows quickly give out at the first long stride of his tongue. 

“Gotta get you cleaned up,” he murmurs, a bit muffled, against your cunt. 

Another stride, and this time, his tongue spends an extra second at your clit, circling it salaciously. 

“Oh, God,” you moan out into a mouthful of couch cushion, tempted to bite down to hide all the noises creeping up your throat when his tongue draws yet another circle, tip of his nose pressed to your sensitive hole.

He brings his tongue back to that space, that hole that feels gaping without him filling you now, and you try to bury your cheek only to earn another slap on the ass.

“Don’t be shy now, kitty. Let me hear you.” 

And let him hear you, you do. 

Each lick, short and timid or long and confident, is dredging up obscene mewls from you. When he enters you with it, curling it and pressing as deep as he can, truly cleaning you up as he had said, you’re chanting his name. 

“Fuck, Eddie,” you cry softly, rocking your body back against his mouth, “Your fingers. P-Please, use your fingers.” 

Your wish is his command as he brings his hand up between your legs, breaking from having his tongue buried inside of you and using a calloused pad of his finger to trace over your clit before he begs, “Say my name again.” 

You do. Over, and over, and over as his mouth and his fingers begin to work against you. Careful focus is placed on your clit, and his mouth runs amok between your cunt and thighs. You feel what will no doubt be hickies along the curve of your ass, nips of teeth against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh as he presses two fingers into you. With every thrust of his hand, your hips are rocking back to match his rhythm, wanting more. 

More, more, more. 

There’s nothing nice and slow about this. You’re chasing after a high, and Eddie is listening to you every step of the way. 

Your thighs begin to shake terribly right around the time your vision blurs, unable to contain the whines that have grown to echoing volumes. Surely, your neighbors can hear. Probably confused as to who Eddie is, probably considering how embarrassing it would be to knock down your door and complain about the noises. 

You really, really don’t give a fuck when white speckles flood your vision, even with your eyes screwed shut, and that tension between your hips threatens to snap. 

Right before your knees give out, your entire body trembling, Eddie pulls back and grabs your hips. You cry out, so close yet so far, until he’s flipping you back over. 

You get one glimpse of him before he goes to work to bring you over that edge – lips and chin slick with you, hair frizzing beneath his hat, a determined glint in his eyes that have your thighs clenching around his ears. 

You were right. Eddie Munson looks damn good between your thighs. 

He quickly returns to his mitigations, and this time, it’s all a bit more strategic. Lips suctioned around your clit and three fingers curling deep within you, a beckoning motion as he urges you to let go for him. 

The white returns behind your eyelids. Your back arches up off the sofa. Your ankles lock as they cross behind Eddie’s back, almost effectively trapping him in place.

You cum hard for him. 

You’re entirely unaware if you scream his name in the process, but you hope you do. As that relief, that ecstasy, floods your system, you hope you make sure everyone within a five mile radius knows who’s responsible. Your entire body continues to shake for far longer than you believe it ever has before. Your hips had lifted, begging for Eddie to keep going even as it all grew painful.

He does. He keeps going, sucking you dry for every drop you have to give him, until you’re physically having to shove him away. 

Your hands are weak as you sink down into the cushion, eyes still closed as you hear him chuckle before you feel him crawl his way back up your body. 

“There,” you don’t even need to see his face to see that smug satisfaction – his voice is dripping in it. “Now you can keep the hat.” 

One of your hands blindly throws itself through the air to smack him, missing entirely as you drift through the afterglow of it all. 

“I’m not sure I’ve earned it,” you mumble as he catches your wrist, limp in the air, “Pretty sure I didn’t break you when I made you cum.”

“Oh, you did,” he notes, hand curling around your wrist. You watch as he slowly brings it to his lips, peppering a few chaste kisses on the soft skin, “Just in a different way.” 

You raise your eyebrows, smiling at the tingling feeling left behind on your skin in the wake of his mouth, “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

He tugs you to sit up despite your groan of protest, somehow smoothly maneuvering the two of you so that he’s now the one beneath you, letting the full weight of you bear down on his chest as you lay on top of him. The hand wrapped around your wrist brings it back up for more kisses, more repetitive gentle pecks of affection, as his other arm is quick to wrap around you. Holding you in place, as though he’s scared you might disappear. 

“Well,” you whisper against the bare skin of his chest, nearly shivering when his free hand starts to trail slowly up and down your spine, “Good.” 

Your cheek feels the vibrations of his chuckle, “That’s all you have to say?” 

“Give me a few minutes to recover,” you insist, all but nuzzling into him, “I’m sure I’ll have a smartass comeback for you once I’m…” you trail off, heavy eyes looking up at him, the words lost on your tongue and in the air. 

The gentle curve of his cupid’s bow. The roundness at the end of his nose, still a fading hue of pink. The freckle beneath his right eye. The way the phantom of the dimple of his left cheek never quite leaves his face.

All the things you’ve dreamt of seeing so up close, never knowing it could have been a reality. 

He lets go of your wrist, smiling softly with a shake of his head, “Can’t believe you’re gonna fall asleep on me.”

“Am not,” you nearly say under your breath, sighing in content. 

“Am too,” he mocks, a certain docility to all his teasing before he sighs as well, “It’s okay. You can. I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

You hum, eyes fluttering shut as you hear some rustling, “Promise, cowboy?” 

“Absolutely, kitty. You said something about tomorrow, remember?” 

You both laugh in sync as your couch suddenly becomes the most comfortable place in the world. 

Just before losing consciousness, right as you feel Eddie’s breathing even out along with your own, you decide to open your eyes one last time to catch sight of the cowboy hat perched carefully on your coffee table. 

Tomorrow. You hope for a thousand tomorrows as you decide that that hat is definitely yours now.

[xocellyy]

this shit had me twirling my hair and kicking my feet

fine line

john walker 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – 18+, MDNI, John Walker fucks like a champ and you can't change my mind, Dom!John Walker, breeding kink, degradation, crying during sex (pleasure-induced), Smut (oral, protected and unprotected sex, overstimulation, mutual masturbation), dirty talk, Masturbation (f solo, m implied), praise, Slow burn with strong emotional build

word count: 15k

Summary: You moved into your new apartment for peace and quiet. What you got instead was a shared wall—and a nightly soundtrack—courtesy of your ridiculously hot, insufferably smug neighbor, John Walker. He’s loud. He’s rude. He’s apparently allergic to emotional intimacy. And worst of all?

You can’t stop fantasizing about him.

What starts as passive-aggressive note wars and 2AM arguments slowly shifts—through snowstorms, soup deliveries, shared beds, and the occasional wall sexting—into something that feels dangerously close to love.

There’s a fine line between hate and want. You’re about to find out what’s on the other side.

notes – not proofread. Lots of dialogue bc brother they would not shut up. these two were obsessed with each other. i probably could write more with this pair.

— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated

You moved into 4B for the silence.

Or at least, that was the dream. A fresh start, clean walls, a lease in your own name and a commute that didn’t require the patience of a monk. It wasn’t the most glamorous apartment in D.C., but the ceilings were high, the windows wide, and the radiator only coughed when provoked.

Most importantly, it was yours. Finally, finally yours.

You’d fallen asleep the first night with the rare kind of contentment that only came from solitude and a locked door behind you—your boxes still unpacked, the city humming beyond your curtains like a lullaby. You curled into the unfamiliar sheets, let your body sink into the springy mattress, and thought, I made it.

But by night two, your fantasy started to fracture.

It began as a distant rhythm—faint, repetitive thumps filtering in from the left wall. You thought maybe someone had dropped something. Or moved furniture. Maybe an old pipe. You didn’t investigate. You were brushing your teeth and humming to yourself, unpacking mugs and thinking about your new office. About the version of yourself you were about to become.

The sound came again. Thump-thump-thump. Rhythmic. Intentional.

You froze.

Then a low, male voice filtered through the wall.

“Yeah… just like that, baby. That’s it.”

The toothbrush paused mid-stroke.

You stared at yourself in the mirror, toothpaste foaming at the corners of your lips.

It had to be a TV. Had to be. One of those action shows with terrible sex scenes. Something unreasonably graphic.

But the voice came again. Closer this time.

“Thought you were gonna take it like a good girl. Huh?”

You dropped the toothbrush into the sink. Water kept running. You didn’t move.

Because now you could hear her. Moaning, breathy, high-pitched. Her voice climbed in volume, rising with the steady beat of a mattress pounding the shared wall between your bedrooms.

You pressed your palm to the drywall like it might give you more clarity. It did.

Thump-thump-thump.

Whine.

“Look at you. So fuckin’ needy.”

A flush spread over your neck. Down your chest. You weren’t a prude. You’d had sex. Good sex, even. You’d heard people before. But this?

This wasn’t just sex. It was theatrical.

He kept talking. That same voice—deep and low and smooth like bourbon warmed on a stovetop. That voice didn’t ask for pleasure. It gave it, demanded it, controlled it.

“C’mon. I said take it. You want it so bad, show me.”

A choked, whimpering sound from the woman answered him. Headboard striking drywall. You were going to murder someone. File a noise complaint. Or… or…

Your thighs pressed together.

God help you.

Because it was exactly your flavor of dirty talk. Filthy. Degrading. Mocking praise woven in like poison in sugar. He called her a good girl with a sneer in his voice. Laughed when she begged. Told her she didn’t “deserve to come yet” like he’d used the line before and always meant it.

You should have turned on a fan. Your white noise machine. Your phone. But instead, you stood frozen in the bathroom, listening, arousal winding like a vice in your stomach.

Eventually—mercifully—it stopped. A groan. Then silence. You didn’t know whose it was. Didn’t know if she stayed the night. Didn’t dare guess.

But when you climbed into bed later, you pulled the covers up to your chin and stared at the wall. You hated that you were still warm from his voice on the other side.

-

You didn’t see him the next day. Or the day after.

But you heard him.

Night three, it starts again—ten forty-two on the dot.

You’re halfway through brushing your hair when the first thump hits. Not furniture. Not plumbing. A beat. Predictable. Sharp.

You pause, hand frozen mid-stroke, staring at the wall.

Then comes the voice.

“Yeah, just like that.”

It’s the same tone. The same man. Lower this time, rougher—scraping the edge of restraint. The bed frame knocks into the drywall again, and your breath catches.

Another voice joins his—a woman’s. High-pitched and sweet, already breathless. He laughs under his breath. The sound makes your stomach tighten.

“Didn’t say you could start beggin’ yet.”

Your hand slides the hairbrush onto the dresser, fingers curling into a fist at your side. You don’t mean to stay still. Don’t mean to listen. But it’s like your feet sink into the carpet. Like the wall has reached out and pinned you there.

“You like that, huh?” His voice is darker now, close. Like he’s standing right beside you instead of fucking someone through a few inches of drywall. “Little slut’s already drippin’, and I haven’t even gotten started.”

A sharp moan follows. Then a rhythmic sound—skin on skin. Headboard hitting faster now.

Your legs press together.

You can’t help it.

You turn off the lamp.

You sit on the edge of the bed in the dark, hands flat on the blanket, heart pounding. You shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t stay. But you do.

Because he keeps talking.

“Make those pretty sounds for me. Don’t hold back—don’t you dare.”

The moan that answers him is helpless. Broken. She’s not shy, this one. Not at all. You can hear her, can picture her—spread out beneath him, arms trembling, legs splayed wide while he ruins her.

The mattress creaks louder.

Then that voice again—commanding, merciless.

“Gonna fuck you dumb, sweetheart. Might forget your own name.”

Your hand slips under the hem of your sweatshirt before you even realize it. You’re not proud of it. But your body’s ahead of your brain. Every word he says wraps around your spine like heat.

You slip your fingers under the waistband of your sleep shorts and hiss when they meet your own heat.

You’re wet.

Soaked, actually.

The kind of turned on you haven’t felt in months. Maybe years. The kind that makes your cheeks burn and your head drop forward because you hate that this is what does it for you. That he is what does it for you.

But then—

“Take it. You want it so bad, you better take it.”

You bite down on your bottom lip, stifling a gasp. Your fingers move faster.

The headboard slams once. Twice. Then stops.

The woman cries out, voice cracking on the end of it. His growl chases hers, low and guttural and unfiltered.

“Fuck—yeah. That’s right. That’s my girl.”

You finish just as the room goes quiet.

It takes you a long time to breathe again.

You lie back in the dark with your wrist limp across your stomach and your other hand fisted in the blanket, hating the heat crawling across your skin.

Hating the silence. The shame.

You don’t even know his name. But he’s already in your dreams. And tomorrow night?

You know you’ll listen again. 

-

By ten thirty, you were already tense.

You’d tried everything. Headphones, ocean sounds, brown noise. Meditation on the floor with your back against the radiator and your eyes squeezed shut. Anything to escape the inevitability you could feel coming—not in your body, not yet, but in the air.

He was a routine man, apparently.

Ten forty-one.

The first creak of the bed. Distant. Subtle. But you knew the pattern now. You knew the rhythm.

A minute later, it came again. Louder. And then—

“Open wider, sweetheart.”

Your entire body locked up.

You were on the couch, reading the same sentence for the seventh time, eyes tracking words you couldn’t absorb. Your phone lay face down beside you. The lamp was dim. The rest of the world had gone still.

Except for him.

“Good girl. That’s it.”

The moan that followed—soft, feminine, and choked—punched straight through your stomach.

You hadn’t even realized you were holding your breath.

The book slid from your hands to the floor, forgotten.

Because the bed was really going now. You could hear it—wood and springs slamming with every push of his hips. You could hear him adjusting his grip on her, the way her legs probably trembled around his waist, the wet slap of skin on skin—

And over all of it, his fucking voice.

“You like gettin’ split open like this? Huh? You like when I fuck you this deep?”

Your thighs clenched.

You didn’t even try to fight it tonight. Not really. You just dragged yourself off the couch, grabbed your phone, and slunk into the bedroom with heat pooling between your legs and shame already pricking at your scalp.

You didn’t turn on the light. Didn’t need to. You just dropped onto your bed, slid under the blanket, and pressed your bare thighs together as you kicked off your sleep shorts.

His voice rolled through the wall again—dark, rich, unhurried.

“You’re gonna take what I give you. That clear?”

A gasp answered him. One of those high, desperate, fuck-me sounds you wanted to hate but couldn’t.

You slipped a hand down the front of your panties and nearly whimpered.

You were soaked. Dripping wet and needy from a man you hated. From a voice you’d never seen the face behind. From a stranger who talked like sex was a goddamn punishment and a reward all at once.

Your middle finger found your clit and you stroked in slow, tight circles, biting down on your knuckles to muffle the breath that caught in your throat.

The woman on the other side of the wall sobbed his name. Not that you could make it out. But he made sure you knew what was happening.

“Greedy little cunt, suckin’ me in. I can feel how bad you wanna come.”

Your back arched. You added pressure. Your free hand gripped the sheet. You imagined his fingers curled around your throat, his mouth dragging filth against your ear.

“She makin’ a mess over there? Say thank you.”

A whisper of a thank-you came back to him, cracked and trembling.

“Didn’t hear you.”

She repeated it louder. You pressed harder.

“Good girl.”

Oh my God.

You didn’t need to be there to see it. You knew what it looked like—her on her knees, his hand in her hair, the way his hips moved when he got mean, when he got possessive. You could picture every flex of thighs, the taut stretch of his stomach, the sweat on his neck, the wild glint in his eyes.

Your legs started to tremble.

You rubbed faster.

His voice lowered to a growl—quiet, but unmistakable. Like he was talking to you through the fucking wall.

“Keep squeezin’ me like that and I’m gonna fill you up.”

A moan. Hers? Yours? You didn’t know anymore.

“You want it?” he asked, still soft. Cruel. “Want my cum?”

You shoved two fingers inside yourself, hips rocking against your palm, and the groan you let out was humiliating. You didn’t care. Couldn’t. You were so close it hurt.

“You’ll take every drop.”

The sound he made when he came was ruined—raw, broken, real. No performative groaning, no show. Just a low grunt and a series of harsh breaths, like the orgasm dragged itself out of him by force.

You came a heartbeat later, your body curling into itself, muscles locking as you clenched around your own fingers and saw white.

It didn’t feel good. It felt devastating.

-

You saw him for the first time on Day Five.

It was early evening. Late enough that the sun had begun its descent, casting long amber streaks through the high hallway windows. You had one hand hooked around a thin brown grocery bag—overstuffed and crumpling at the corners—and the other working the keys at your door. Your hair was twisted into a loose bun, hoodie sleeves rolled to your elbows, headphones dangling unused around your neck.

You were halfway through mumbling a tired string of curses at the lock when the door to 4C swung open.

And then everything slowed down.

Your body reacted before your brain did. Your spine stiffened, eyes snapped up, and the grocery bag almost slipped from your grip. Time hiccupped in place. The air changed.

Because there, in the doorway to the unit you had been secretly suffering under, stood the man behind the wall.

Tall. Broad. Post-run, judging by the sweat slicking his collarbones and the damp tank top clinging to every muscle in his chest. Veins prominent in his forearms. Tactical pants sitting low on his hips. Dog tags tucked beneath the collar. A black duffel bag slung over one shoulder like it weighed nothing.

Hair buzzed close at the sides, longer on top—just enough to be messy if he ever let it. A healing cut traced the bridge of his nose. Small scar on his left forearm. His jaw looked like it could have been carved by military-grade artillery.

But it was his face that made your stomach drop.

Because you knew it.

Not just in the casual, he’s-hot-so-I-memorized-it way. No. You knew it in the press conference, Pentagon briefing, viral Twitter debate way.

John F. Walker.

Former Captain America. Current U.S. Agent. Ex-Government poster boy. Disgraced soldier turned rehabilitated Avenger. The man who’d held the shield, lost it, and somehow ended up on the New Avengers task force with a second chance and an attitude no amount of PR could soften.

You stared.

He didn’t.

He looked you over once—quick and practiced. Not lingering. Not creepy. Just calculated. Like he was cataloging your presence, the bag in your hand, the keys between your fingers, the strain in your shoulders. Like he did it without thinking.

Then, that barely-there smile.

Closed-lipped. Confident. Smug.

“Evenin’,” he said, voice gravel-rough and so goddamn familiar it made your toes curl in your shoes. You’d heard it four nights in a row now—except this time, it wasn’t whispering filth through the wall. This time it was aimed at you.

You froze.

Your mouth parted, but all you managed was a flat, “Evening.”

The corner of his mouth ticked up just a hair. Not a grin. Just a twitch—like he knew. Knew.

Then he turned and walked past you down the hallway without looking back. No apology. No awkwardness. No explanation. Just the quiet click of the stairwell door shutting behind him.

You stood there in the hallway like an idiot.

Still gripping the paper bag. Still clutching your keys.

And suddenly, the wall between you didn’t feel like enough distance.

You finally got inside a full minute later. Dropped the groceries too hard on the counter. Kicked the door shut with more force than necessary.

Your heart was still hammering.

Because it wasn’t just that he was attractive. It wasn’t even that he was famous. It was the way he looked at you—assessing, amused, untouched by the weight of what he’d done to your sleep schedule.

It was the kind of look that said he didn’t need to wonder if you’d heard him.

He knew.

And worse?

You were ninety percent sure he knew what you’d done with the sound of his voice. With the images your brain had conjured in the dark. With the way you’d pressed your thighs together and moaned into your own hand and imagined his hand there instead.

John Walker didn’t look like a man with shame in his vocabulary. And now he had a face to pair with yours.

You hated him.

(You really, really fucking hated him.)

And he hadn’t even said your name.

-

By the end of your first week in apartment 4B, your nightly routine had warped into something grotesque.

You used to wind down with tea and a book, slippers and silence, an open window and clean sheets. You were good at solitude. You’d craved it after your last place—after the roommate from hell, the midnight door slams, the kitchen clutter, the emotional labor. Peace had been your goal. Privacy. Stillness. The chance to build your own quiet life.

But now?

Now every night around ten forty-five, you were bracing for the show in 4C.

Because John Walker was back at it again. And worse, he was consistent. Clockwork predictable. Meticulously regular, like his libido operated on a government-mandated schedule.

Same routine: the rhythmic bedframe against the wall. The desperate moans of a woman—never the same woman, never less than enthusiastic—and then him.

That voice.

Smooth like bourbon and dangerous like the edge of a knife. He wasn’t loud, not exactly. He didn’t need to be. His voice carried, thrummed low through the drywall like a dirty secret shared just between you.

You’d started anticipating it. Dreading it. Needing it.

It was ruining you.

You tried distractions. Headphones with noise-canceling tech. A podcast about philosophy. Sleep meditations narrated by a British man named Simon. You bought a white noise machine on day six and cranked it to tornado. Didn’t help. You could still hear him. You could always hear him.

“Yeah, keep that up. You’re makin’ such a fuckin’ mess for me.”

Or worse:

“That’s right. Say thank you.”

You threw your pillow at the wall once. Not to silence him—but to silence you. You couldn’t take it anymore. So you did what any passive-aggressive person on the brink of a sexual breakdown would do.

You wrote a note.

“To the gentleman in 4C —

Your nightly ‘workouts’ are impossible to ignore. Kindly remember that the walls are thin, and some of us require sleep not sponsored by PornHub. — 4B”

You printed it on your nice stationery and taped it to his door the next morning.

You felt satisfied. Smug, even. The satisfaction lasted until the next night. At exactly 9:58 PM, you heard his door open. Then the unmistakable sound of paper being peeled from wood. A pause. The slow, purposeful closing of the door.

You waited.

Ten forty-five arrived. So did the headboard. So did his voice. But this time, he was louder. As if performing.

As if for you.

“Oh yeah,” he groaned, exaggerated, amused. “She’s listenin’ now. Better make it worth her while.”

Your jaw dropped. You stood frozen beside your bed, one socked foot half-lifted, brain stalling like it had hit a patch of black ice. Your mouth opened. Closed. You blinked at the wall, like maybe it would apologize.

But it didn’t. He did not stop.

“Oh, you like this, baby? Bet she does too.”

A moan punctuated it—hers, not yours. High-pitched, eager, loud enough to bounce off the drywall and worm into your bones. You flinched.

“Nice and loud,” he drawled. “Gotta make sure our little neighbor hears every filthy sound.”

Is this a joke? Is he… is he doing this for me? No. No, not for you. At you.

It was a performance. A fuck-you. A way to humiliate you without ever seeing your face. He knew you’d left the note. Knew you’d heard him. And now, he was responding the only way John F. Walker knew how: with pure, unfiltered, weaponized arrogance.

“I’ll give her a good show, don’t worry,” he muttered, the edge of a laugh rough in his voice. “Bet she’s touchin’ herself already.”

You slapped a hand over your mouth, breath coming too fast.

It wasn’t just the voice anymore. It was the images. The sound of his palm meeting her ass. The wet slap of skin. The way the headboard knocked with precise, punishing rhythm.

The way he moaned—low and smug, like he knew what he was doing to you. Knew you were pressed against the wall with your knees tight and your willpower shredded.

Your fingers were trembling when you snatched your sticky notes off the dresser and scribbled THIS ISN’T FUNNY in angry, red ink. You stormed out, feet bare on the hardwood, heat crawling up your neck, and slapped the note on his door with more force than was necessary.

It made a satisfying sound.

You stormed back inside. Locked the door. Flung the notebook across the couch. But when you got to your bedroom…

He was still at it.

Still talking.

“You gonna come for me again, baby? Louder this time.”

You dropped into bed like your knees had buckled. Your whole body was trembling.

You hated him.

You hated this.

You hated the fact that your hand was already under your sweatshirt, slipping past the waistband of your sleep shorts again. You couldn’t stop it. Your thighs were clenching on instinct, trying to trap some of the heat building at your core. You were already soaked. Already aching.

God, you’re pathetic.

He groaned again. Rough. Satisfied. He wasn’t faking. That was the worst part. He was actually into it. Both of you were.

The woman on the other side of the wall moaned like she was being worshipped. You buried your face in your pillow, free hand gripping the sheets.

“That’s it,” he growled. “You feel that? That’s how you get fucked.”

You dragged your fingers over your clit, slick and swollen and throbbing. Your hips arched into your hand. You bit the pillow to muffle your breath.

Don’t say his name. Don’t say his name. Don’t—

But it slipped out anyway. Quiet. Desperate. Shame-soaked.

“John…”

The name curled into the pillow like a confession.

You imagined him hearing it. Stopping mid-thrust. Smiling. You imagined him saying your name back, pinning your wrists above your head, leaning in close so only you could hear the things he never said to anyone else.

You were close. Too close.

Your fingers worked faster, slippery with your own need, and you moaned again—this time louder. If he was listening, he’d hear it. If he cared, he’d know.

You came with his name still warm on your lips, body shaking with release. The silence after was deafening. No applause. No aftercare. No warmth. Just your own heartbeat hammering in your ears and the wet between your thighs and the way your body curled in on itself like it regretted everything you’d just done.

You lay there for a long time. You didn’t cry. Not quite. But your chest ached with something sharp and sour. Because he was just a man with a voice and a wall and a body built to destroy. He didn’t care about the mess he left behind. Not on her. Not on you.

And you? You’d just let him inside without ever opening your door.

-

The next morning, your note was gone. In its place?

A yellow Post-it on your door, scrawled in black Sharpie.

“Didn’t hear you complain last night.” — 4C

You wanted to throw yourself out the window.

-

The notes didn’t stop.

He left them daily now. Never when you were around. You never caught him in the act, but you always knew. Sometimes they were sarcastic. Sometimes obscene. Once, infuriatingly poetic.

“If the walls are thin, does that make us roommates?” “Your blender’s louder than my sex.” “She came twice last night. Can’t say the same for you, can I?”

You didn’t respond to every one. You told yourself you wouldn’t fuel him. But sometimes the rage was too much to hold.

“I will call the landlord.” “Your stamina is not impressive. It’s annoying.” “Some of us have jobs.”

“You are not charming.” That one got a reply the next morning. “Tell that to your thighs, sweetheart.”

You ripped it up and flushed it.

-

But by night eight, your anger started to mutate. It wasn’t that you forgave him. You didn’t. You still resented the hell out of him—his voice, his ego, his casual cruelty. But the frustration had shifted.

You were tired.

Horny.

Lonely in a way that wasn’t just physical. The kind of lonely that echoed in your bones, kept your chest tight at night, made you want things you didn’t believe you were allowed to want.

You lay in bed that night staring at the ceiling, hands fisted in the sheets, pretending you weren’t listening even though your pulse quickened the moment his bedroom light clicked off.

Ten forty-eight. It started. Same rhythm. Same moans. New girl.

And then—

“Gonna fuck the brains outta you, baby. Hope you don’t need to speak tomorrow.”

Your breath caught. Your hand was already sliding under the covers. You didn’t stop it. Not this time. You were done pretending. You closed your eyes and pressed your thighs together, fingers sliding past your waistband with practiced ease. Your skin was already fever-hot. Every nerve felt raw.

Through the wall, he kept talking.

“You takin’ it all like a good little slut, huh? So fuckin’ wet for me…”

You whimpered into your pillow, hand working faster, your mind filling in the blanks. His hands on your hips. His breath on your neck. That voice rasping filth straight into your ear as you begged him for more.

You came with his name on your tongue again—voiceless, bitten off, shameful. The guilt hit you seconds later. You rolled to your side and stared at the wall. That stupid, paper-thin, no-soundproofing wall.

And you hated him more than ever. Not because he was arrogant. Not because he was smug. But because he really had you now. In the dark, in your own bed, in your own head—he was there.

And you didn’t know how to get him out.

-

It starts with a shriek. Not a sex shriek—thankfully—but the soul-piercing wail of a fire alarm screaming through your apartment at 2:03 a.m.

You jolt upright, heart in your throat, blanket tangled around your legs. The shrill beeping ricochets off every surface like it’s trying to kill you by sheer sound alone. Lights flicker in the hallway. Your brain, fogged with sleep and something dangerously close to arousal—you were dreaming of him again—struggles to catch up.

You grab a hoodie, yank it over your tank top, shove your feet into mismatched sneakers, and lurch for the door with keys and phone clutched in one hand. Your eyes are burning. Your pulse is still racing. The wall is quiet, for once.

Until you open your door and there he is.

John Fucking Walker.

Also half-asleep. Shirtless. Low-slung sweatpants. Barefoot.

Of course.

Of course he’s the first person you see while you’re bleary-eyed and braless and vaguely vibrating with leftover sex dreams about his voice. Your timing is so cursed you’re ready to throw yourself into the flaming hallway and call it fate.

His eyes flick over you once. Lazy. Not invasive. Just clocking you. Hoodie. No pants. Fuzzy socks. Flushed cheeks. His jaw tightens—barely—but it’s enough to make your blood fizz with something awful.

“We really gotta stop meeting like this, sunshine,” he mutters.

You blink at him. “Is that supposed to be a pickup line?”

“No,” he says, deadpan. “Just an observation.”

Another piercing beep slams through the corridor.

You groan and lean against the doorframe, rubbing your temple. “Jesus Christ. What even caused it?”

“No clue,” he says, arms crossing over his stupid, bare chest. “But if I find out someone burned microwave popcorn, I’m filing charges.”

You snort. Unfortunately. He notices.

He leans against the opposite wall, eyes narrowing slightly. There’s a dangerous glint there. Something calculating. Something that says he knows exactly how tired you are, how irritated, how unarmed at this hour.

And then he speaks. “Wasn’t too loud last night, was I?”

Your mouth falls open. “Are you serious?”

His smirk returns, faint but smug. “I mean, you keep leavin’ me love notes. I figured you missed the sound.”

You gape at him. Words momentarily fail you.  “They weren’t love notes. They were complaints.”

He shrugs. “Same difference.”

“It’s not the same—”

“You were listenin’, though,” he cuts in. “I heard you.”

You go still.

The hallway seems quieter now. Just the echo of the alarm down the stairs. The hum of exit signs. The silence between his words. He takes a step closer. Not threatening. But deliberate.

“Didn’t sound mad to me.”

Your skin prickles. Your fists clench.

“Okay, you know what?” you snap. “You wanna play that game? Fine. Let’s play. If I wanted to listen to amateur porn through drywall, I’d at least expect a plot. Or a break in the soundtrack. Or—I don’t know—a minute of silence so I can sleep in my own damn bed without your commentary crawling down my spine.”

He grins. “Crawlin’ down your spine, huh?”

“I will murder you.”

“You think about me when you touch yourself?”

“Jesus Christ!”

You slap your palm to your forehead, turning toward the stairwell to hide your full-body cringe. He laughs—low and infuriating and way too pleased with himself.

You whirl back on him. “I’m not doing this at two in the goddamn morning while I’m wearing a hoodie I stole from my ex and socks with sloths on them. We are establishing boundaries, you absolute nightmare.”

He raises a brow. “Boundaries, huh?”

“Yes. Rules. Agreements. Diplomatic accords.”

“You sure you don’t wanna negotiate a ceasefire in the bedroom instead?”

“No sex past eleven,” you bite out. That finally shuts him up. For a second.

He tilts his head. Shrugs. “Fine.”

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs again. “You want me to keep it down? I’ll keep it down. Eleven o’clock curfew. Deal.”

You narrow your eyes. “Really?”

“I’m not an asshole.”

“Debatable.”

His grin twitches again. You hate the way your stomach flips when he does that. You hate that you’ve started to recognize his smiles, like they come in types. There’s the polite one, the predatory one, and this one—the private, under-the-skin one that says he’s enjoying every second of getting to you.

“No more notes, then?” he says.

You hesitate. “Fine,” you mutter. “No more notes.”

“And no more eavesdroppin’?”

Your glare is sharp enough to draw blood. “Maybe stop narrating your sex life like it’s an audiobook and we’ll talk.”

His teeth flash. “Fair enough.”

You’re both still for a moment. The tension hovers between you—thick, electric, stupid. His eyes drop to your legs. You remember—belatedly—that you’re standing in nothing but a hoodie and underwear.

You cross your arms. “This doesn’t mean I like you.”

“Oh, I know.”

“I still hate you.”

“You’re very convincing.”

The alarm finally stops. Silence drops over the building like a shroud. He steps back toward his door, unlocking it without another word. Before he goes inside, he glances back over his shoulder.

“Night, 4B.”

You don’t answer. You wait until he’s gone, then you exhale, long and slow, and let your forehead thunk softly against the wall between your doors.

You tell yourself again: you hate him.

But you’ve started picturing him. And worse? You think he knows.

-

You knew you were sick the moment you woke up and the sunlight hurt.

Your skull throbbed behind your eyes like someone was hammering drywall into your brain from the inside out. Your throat was dry and raw, and your body refused to move with anything resembling coordination. Even the act of lifting your phone to check the time felt like a trial by fire.

No fever, but everything ached. You had enough strength to stumble to the bathroom, drink from the tap, and curse the world for spinning like a carousel. After that, you collapsed on the couch wrapped in your fluffiest blanket and resigned yourself to being horizontal for the foreseeable future.

You weren’t going anywhere.

Not to the pharmacy. Not to the grocery store. Not to the mailbox. Not even to murder your neighbor for what he’d done to your sex drive.

You managed to fire off one text to your work group chat that read simply: I’m dying. If this is COVID again I swear to God before dropping your phone on the floor and drifting into a half-conscious, fever-dizzy nap.

You woke up sometime in the early evening to a knock.

Not the fire alarm. Not the creak of a headboard. A real, actual, flesh-and-bone knock.

Three short raps against your door.

You ignored it.

Another three followed. Louder. Then a pause.

Then his voice.

“Hey. It’s Walker.”

You froze.

Another knock. “You in there?”

You opened your mouth, but your vocal cords rebelled. The only sound you managed was a hoarse, “Ughhngh.”

There was a moment of silence.

“I’m not here to harass you, I swear. You’ve been quiet all day.”

You groaned louder this time, dragging yourself upright like a wounded animal. Your legs protested. Your vision blurred. You had no idea what you looked like, but judging by the swamp taste in your mouth and the film in your eyes, it wasn’t cute.

You cracked open the door. And there he was.

John Walker, in a black hoodie and jeans, holding a brown paper bag in one hand and a plastic grocery sack in the other. His face was neutral—but his eyes scanned your face, your posture, your slouchy blanket cocoon, and his brow creased.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You look like hell.”

You blinked at him. “Thanks.”

“Not an insult. Just an observation.”

“Is that your thing?” you rasped. “Observations?”

He snorted and held up the bag. “I brought soup.”

You stared at it. Then at him. “Wait. You made me soup?”

“God, no.” He shook his head. “From the deli. You think I have time to play chef when I’m savin’ the world and tormenting you at night?”

You made a sound that might’ve been a laugh or a cough. “Charming.”

He tilted his head. “Can I come in?”

You hesitated. Your apartment was a mess. You were a mess. He was—well, him. And the idea of letting him see your disaster zone, your fever haze, your oversized hoodie and socks with tiny cartoon coffee cups, felt like exposure in a way sex never had.

But the soup smelled good. And you felt like you might pass out if you stood much longer.

You stepped back. He walked in. He didn’t comment on the clutter. Didn’t even seem fazed.

He set the bag down on your kitchen counter and began unloading like it was the most natural thing in the world. Soup containers. A box of tissues. Orange Gatorade. Cold medicine. A bottle of Tylenol. Cough drops.

You stared. “You… brought a pharmacy.”

“You sounded like you needed it.”

“How did you even know I was sick?”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Didn’t hear your blender this morning. Or your passive-aggressive music at 10 a.m. like usual. Just coughing. Non-stop. Got curious.”

You sat heavily on the couch. “And your first instinct was soup?”

He shrugged. “I’m Southern.”

You almost smiled. Almost.

He stayed. Just for a bit. Sat in the armchair opposite your couch while you sipped lukewarm soup and tried not to feel self-conscious about the way your hair stuck to your face. He didn’t ogle. Didn’t smirk. Just sat with his arms folded over his chest, thumb absently brushing the ridge of a scar on his knuckle.

“You get sick often?” he asked, breaking the silence.

“Not really.”

“Huh.”

“Why?”

“You seem the type to ignore it. Power through. Burn out.”

You blinked at him. “…That’s surprisingly insightful.”

“Observations,” he said again, eyes on yours. “It’s my thing.”

You stared at him. At the angles of his face, the tension in his jaw, the lines under his eyes that hadn’t been there the first time you saw him shirtless in the hallway. He looked tired. Not physically. Existentially. The kind of fatigue you didn’t fix with sleep.

You meant to ask something casual. Something neutral. Instead the words tumbled out before you could stop them, “You ever get tired of it?”

He looked up. “Of what?”

“The performative thing. The smirking. The sex. The…” You gestured vaguely toward the wall. “The whole ‘John Walker Show.’”

His expression didn’t change right away. But then he sighed. Rubbed a hand over his face. Sat back in the chair like it was finally safe to sink.

“I’m divorced,” he said flatly. “Got a six-year-old son. Joint custody. Weekends and some holidays.”

Your lips parted. “Oh.”

He kept going.

“I don’t do relationships. Not anymore. Don’t bring anyone around when he’s home. And most of the time, I just… keep it casual. Distractions. Keeps me from thinkin’ too hard about the rest of it.”

You said nothing. Just watched him.

“I know how I come across,” he added after a beat. “Loud. Crude. Cocky. And most of the time I don’t care. It’s easier that way. Less chance anyone expects more from me.” His voice was quieter now. Still gravel, but worn down. Less smoke. More ash.

“Do they know?” you asked. “The women you bring home?”

He looked at you. “Yeah. I’m honest. I tell ’em what it is.”

You nodded.

The soup sat warm in your hands. For the first time in days, your body felt less tense. You weren’t sure what surprised you more—that he’d told you the truth… or that it hurt a little, hearing it.

He stood up not long after. Didn’t linger. Just grabbed his hoodie from the back of the chair, looked at you like he might say something else—and then didn’t.

“You need anything,” he said instead, “just knock.”

You nodded. And then he was gone.

That night, for the first time in nearly a week, you didn’t hear a sound through the wall. Not even him.

You slept like a rock. And when you woke up—warm, fed, and quiet—you told yourself it was nothing.

Just soup. Just kindness. Just a man with scars and baggage and a voice that still made you wet when you let your guard down.

And maybe—just maybe—not the villain you’d painted him to be.

-

The city fell silent the night it snowed.

Not the usual D.C. hush—the muffled quiet of politics on pause—but a real silence. Thick, white, blanketed. The kind that wrapped the city like a sleeping child, smothered every horn, every bootstep, every late-night argument under inches of frozen sky.

By five p.m. on Christmas Eve, the roads were closed. Flights grounded. Deliveries stalled. You stood barefoot by your window in flannel pajama pants and an old college hoodie, watching the snow pile high on the railing of the fire escape. Everything had been canceled—your friend’s dinner, your attempt at making mulled wine, even your Amazon package with the tiny pre-lit tree.

It was just you.

You didn’t bother turning on the lights. You let the gray-blue of dusk spill through the window and onto the floor. You heated a can of soup. Ate it with a spoon you didn’t wash. Curled up in the blanket that still faintly smelled like lavender dryer sheets.

You told yourself you were fine.

And then came the knock.

You frowned. Padded barefoot to the door and peered through the peephole.

John.

His hair was damp. His coat dusted with snow. He held a half-empty bottle of bourbon in one hand and a sad-looking plastic bag in the other. No smirk. No performance. Just him.

You cracked the door open. “Is this a hostile takeover or are you making the rounds with charity liquor?”

His mouth twitched. “You alone?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Obviously.”

He held up the bottle. “Thought you might wanna split this. Snow’s not stopping. Figured bourbon and bad company’s better than no company.”

You stared at him a moment too long. Then opened the door wider.

“Come in, then.”

You sat on the floor by the heater, backs to the couch, bottle between you. No music. Just the low hum of the radiator and the wind testing the windows like it was searching for a crack to get through.

He passed you the bottle. You took a sip—too much—and winced as it burned its way down your throat.

He let out a soft laugh. “That delicate, huh?”

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. “No. That was a… tactical miscalculation.”

“Mm. Not sure I’ve seen you make a tactical decision yet.”

You glared at him sideways. “Are you always like this?”

“Like what?”

“Annoying. Smug. Built like you should come with a warning label.”

He raised the bottle to his lips. “Says the woman who leaves hate mail in Sharpie.”

“It wasn’t hate mail,” you muttered.

“You called me ‘Wallfucker.’ In caps.”

“Descriptive accuracy.”

He smiled into the rim of the bottle. Didn’t argue. Outside, the snow kept falling—silent and steady, coating everything in sight with a soft kind of hush the world didn’t usually offer.

You sighed and tucked your knees to your chest, hoodie sleeves pulled over your fingers. “I haven’t had a real Christmas in three years.”

He looked over.

You stared at the bottle. “Family stuff. Long story.”

He nodded like he got it. “Yeah. Mine’s scattered. My ex has our kid this week. Feels… empty without him.”

You risked a glance at him. He wasn’t smiling anymore. Just looking out at the snow, jaw set but not clenched. Still. Sad in a quiet, unannounced way.

You passed him the bottle. He took it without a word. Drank slower than you did. You could’ve left it there—let the silence reclaim the space, let the wind do all the talking—but your voice came anyway, quiet and warmer than you meant it to be.

“I’m glad you knocked.”

His eyes flicked to you. Something softened in them. Something small.

“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

It took twenty minutes for the conversation to shift. Maybe it was the bourbon. Maybe the late hour. Maybe just the weight of the day. But at some point, the silence started feeling more like a question than a comfort.

He spoke first.

“Last Christmas, I took my son to a hockey game.”

You glanced over at him.

“He was five. Didn’t care about the game. Just wanted the foam finger. I bought him three.” He smiled, soft. “He wore ’em all. Wouldn’t even eat with ’em on.”

You laughed. Quietly. “How old is he now?”

“Six and a half. Talks like he’s twenty. Thinks he’s smarter than me.”

“He probably is.”

“Definitely is,” John said, and took another sip.

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his phone. Unlocked it. Flipped through the screen and then handed it over to you.

You weren’t sure what you expected—maybe the generic kind of dad photos, stiff smiles and forced poses.

But they were real.

A boy with big eyes and gap teeth, wearing a Captain America hoodie three sizes too big. Another of him asleep on John’s chest, small fingers curled into his T-shirt. One where John held him upside down by the ankles while the kid screamed with laughter.

You blinked down at the screen.

“He looks like you.”

“Poor kid.”

You handed the phone back. “He’s beautiful.”

He didn’t say thank you. Just looked at the screen for a long time before letting it go black again.

“I miss him,” he said, voice softer now. “Even when I see him, I miss him.”

You swallowed.

“I didn’t think it’d be like this,” he continued. “The… after. After everything. The job, the press, the title. You start with good intentions, and then—”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. You sat there with him, both of you staring into the quiet. And when he reached for the bourbon again, his hand brushed yours.

Neither of you moved away.

Eventually, the bottle ran dry. The radiator clicked and hissed, the way it always did before it calmed.

He glanced at the clock. “Didn’t mean to stay this long.”

“Storm’s still going,” you said. “No point in walking into it.”

He didn’t argue. You got up first. Pulled the blanket off the couch and dropped it over both of you. Collapsed into the cushions. He followed—less cautious than you, bigger, heavier, letting out a sigh that seemed to drag months off his shoulders.

You didn’t talk. Didn’t kiss. Didn’t touch. Just… existed in the same space, warm and worn-out and suspended in something that felt like an almost.

His breath evened out before yours. But you didn’t sleep. Not for a long time. You lay with your back to his chest, his presence radiating heat, his arm almost brushing yours. And you thought—just for a second—about what it would be like if this weren’t temporary.

If he stayed. If you asked him to.

-

You exchanged numbers on a Thursday after the New Year.

Not with fanfare. Not even with eye contact. He had come to borrow a socket wrench—an excuse so flimsy you almost asked if he wanted to borrow your attention instead—and as he lingered in your doorway, hair damp from the gym and wearing a T-shirt that should be illegal, he tilted his head and said, “You ever need anything… like, actually need something—text me.”

He held out his phone. You took it. Entered your number. That was it.

No smirk. No wink. Just a faint look that you couldn’t decipher. Something unspoken. He didn’t text right away. Neither did you.

But that night, at 11:47 p.m., your phone buzzed.

JOHN WALKER So which cabinet do you hide your Advil in? My shoulder’s staging a rebellion.

You stared at it. Smiled—actually smiled—then replied.

YOU Top shelf. Just behind the cereal I’m pretending to eat for health reasons.

JOHN WALKER Granola? Or the colorful kind with marshmallows and lies?

YOU I’m offended you think I’d eat granola.

JOHN WALKER Didn’t want to assume. You have big “I meal prep on Sundays” energy.

YOU That is the rudest thing you’ve ever said to me.

From there, it started. Slow. Casual. A comment here, a one-liner there. Short threads during the day when something dumb happened in the lobby. Quick updates when a package arrived at the wrong door. 

The conversations drifted into nights. That was the dangerous part. Because there was something about late texts that felt… different.

Warmer. Closer. Like the act of hitting send at 1:12 a.m. implied something more. Like you were being let into a version of him you weren’t supposed to see. And you weren’t innocent either.

You started looking for him in the ordinary things—half-finished thoughts, shared memes, stupid GIFs. You never expected him to respond. But he always did. Quick. Clever. Engaged.

You weren’t sure when the banter started to feel flirtier. But one night, it slipped.

YOU If I ever catch you singing Bon Jovi in the gym again I will file a noise complaint.

JOHN WALKER You say that like it didn’t turn you on.

Your breath caught.

YOU …You sang Bon Jovi while doing push-ups. Shirtless. In boots. What do you want from me?

JOHN WALKER A little appreciation for my range.

You didn’t reply. You couldn’t. Because your body was too busy replaying the image.

-

Sometimes he sent voice notes.

Not often. Not on purpose, at least.

Once, you got one that sounded like it was meant for someone else—thirty seconds of rustling, the clink of a glass, and then his voice. 

“—yeah, well, not everyone can be a fuckin’ saint. You either do the job or you fall apart.”

He never explained it. You never asked.  But you listened to it three times before you deleted it. And you didn’t tell anyone about the way your chest ached afterward.

By the second week, your nights felt wrong without him.

You kept checking your phone during movies. Kept catching yourself smiling when your screen lit up. Kept thinking about his hands—big, scarred, capable—and wondering how they looked without gloves. Or how they’d look on your hips. On your throat.

It was bad. Worse, maybe, because nothing was happening. Not really. No kisses. No plans. Just texting. Just banter. But it felt like something. It felt like almost.

And almost was starting to kill you.

-

It started with a sound. A sharp, wet pop that came from somewhere behind your bathroom wall—followed by a high-pitched hiss, then a rushing noise like a toilet flushing on a loop.

And then? Water.

Cold, furious, and absolutely endless.

You stood there in your socks watching a pipe you couldn’t see unleash itself into your bathroom like it was seeking vengeance. Within minutes, the floor was flooded. By the time the building’s maintenance hotline picked up, the water had started creeping under the door.

“Tomorrow morning,” they told you.

You hung up and sat on the kitchen counter with your socks dripping and your hair clinging to your cheeks, wondering what circle of hell this qualified as. You had no friends in walking distance, no family in the city, and even if you did, the snow hadn’t fully melted from the storm.

That left… one option.

You stared at the wall. You hated the wall. You also knew who was on the other side of it.

He answered after the first knock. T-shirt. Sweatpants. Barefoot again. You’d never seen him in shoes inside his apartment, like the floor itself was an extension of his comfort zone. He blinked at you, taking in your wet socks, your hoodie, your frown.

“Pipe burst,” you said, not bothering to pretend this wasn’t humiliating.

His eyebrows lifted. “Bad?”

“Bathroom’s under a few inches. Maintenance won’t fix it until tomorrow.”

He stared for a beat. Then opened the door wider.

'“C’mon in.”

His place smelled like soap and cedar. Not overwhelming—just lived-in. Warm. A lamp in the corner cast a soft yellow pool over the hardwood floor. There was a throw blanket folded over the couch. A half-empty coffee mug on the table. A copy of The Art of War tucked under a pile of unopened mail.

It was weird, seeing the inside of him. You’d lived next door for over two months now, had been up close to the sound of his moans and the grit of his voice, had imagined the way his sheets would feel. But this was the first time you stepped inside his quiet.

And it was quiet. No music. No moaning. No echoes of anyone else.

“Couch is yours,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sheets are clean though. Pretty sure. If not, lie to me.”

You smiled weakly. “Thanks.”

He hesitated, then turned toward the hallway. “I’ll be in the bedroom. Holler if you need anything.”

You nodded and he walked away. You stood in the middle of his living room for a long minute, your body damp and tired and tense in the wrong ways. And you realized—only after hearing the way the apartment settled in his absence—that you didn’t want to sleep in his living room. You didn’t want distance tonight. You wanted to feel the tension you’d been pretending didn’t exist.

“Is it weird if I ask to crash in your room instead?” You asked him from the door way to the bathroom.

He looked up from brushing his teeth like you’d just said something dangerous. He didn’t say no. He didn’t say anything for a second. “You sure?” He asked quietly. 

You nodded. “I won’t snore.”

He rinsed, wiped his mouth on a towel, and flicked the light off behind him. “Alright then,” he said quietly. “Let’s do it.”

The bed was big. You stayed on your side. So did he. There was a canyon of space between your bodies—two pillows, minimum—but somehow that didn’t matter. His presence was overwhelming. The heat coming off him was unreal. Not metaphorical, not subtle. Actual, measurable warmth, like lying next to a living radiator.

Super serum side effect, you guessed. Not that you were in the habit of Googling him anymore. (You were. You weren’t ready to stop pretending you didn’t.)

Every time he shifted beneath the covers, your entire nervous system went haywire. The mattress dipped in response to the subtle motion of his hips turning or his shoulder flexing. You tried to lie still, facing the wall, your hands curled under your pillow like a chastity spell.

His breathing was slow. Measured. Fake.

He was awake. So were you. You could feel it. The tension in the mattress. The awareness between you. You shifted your leg, just slightly, and accidentally brushed his calf. 

“You gonna keep twitchin’ all night?” John’s voice asked, low and amused. 

You froze. “Sorry.”

“You cold?”

“No.”

“You sure? You’ve moved like six times in three minutes.”

“I’m just… adjusting.”

You could hear the smile in his voice. “Adjusting, huh.”

You rolled your eyes in the dark. “If you’re gonna be smug about it, I’ll go sleep on the floor.”

“Didn’t say I minded,” he said, voice raspier now, quieter. “Just didn’t want to wake up with a knee in my ribs.”

You huffed. “You’re not exactly helping. You’re like… a space heater with nice biceps.”

He chuckled softly. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s distracting.”

A beat.

“You could always scoot closer,” he said, and this time it was almost a whisper. “If you wanted.”

Your heart thudded hard enough to shake your ribs.

You didn’t move. But you wanted to. God, you wanted to. The heat of him pulled at you like a tide. You could practically feel the invitation written in the space between you. The promise that if you reached—just a little—he wouldn’t stop you. He might even pull you the rest of the way in.

You turned your face into your pillow. “I’m fine.”

“Alright.” His voice dropped low again. Back to that steady hum. But something in it had changed. Softer. Like maybe he’d been holding his breath too.

Minutes passed. Maybe hours.

You weren’t sure when your eyes finally closed. But at some point, your breathing matched his. And in the early hours of the morning, before the sun had fully returned to your side of the wall—

You shifted once more. And this time, when your knee brushed his thigh—

He didn’t move away.

-

For a second, he thought he was dreaming. Your hair was against his jaw, soft and tickling. Your leg—bare, warm, absurdly smooth—was thrown over his hips like it belonged there. And your fingers. Christ. One of them had slipped just under the hem of his t-shirt, brushing the bare skin of his stomach with casual, unconscious trust.

He didn’t dare move.

He lay there—back flat, eyes wide in the dark, heart drumming stupidly against his ribs—trying to decide if this was the worst idea of his life or the best thing that had ever happened to him.

You were asleep. Fully gone. Soft and heavy with it, your lips slightly parted, breath shallow but steady. Innocent. Vulnerable.

He could feel the shape of you against him. All soft limbs and warmth and need. It was ridiculous, how fast the ache in his chest started to bloom. Not lust. Not even want.

Need.

The part of him that had forgotten what this kind of closeness felt like—the part that remembered too well—reacted first. Ached. Fought the urge to curl his arm around you. To press his mouth to your hair. To pretend this was his life for more than a single night.

But he didn’t move. He didn’t take. He just stayed there, staring at the ceiling, barely breathing, feeling your breath on his throat and your thigh brushing his hip. And for the first time in a long time, he fell asleep smiling.

-

You woke to the smell of bacon.

It was jarring, actually. Domestic. Wrong in a way that felt too right. The comfort of it made you blink, disoriented, the memory of the night before sliding in slow—cold feet, his bed, too-warm body heat…

You sat up fast. The bed was empty. The dip of his weight on the other side was gone. But your pillow still smelled like cedar and something clean—something distinctly him. You pushed the covers back and padded out into the apartment.

He was in the kitchen. Barefoot again, of course. Same gray sweatpants. Shirtless this time, which was… something. Back turned, he was focused on the skillet. There was coffee already poured into two mugs on the counter, steam curling like breath.

You opened your mouth to speak, but he beat you to it.

“Morning,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “Didn’t mean to let you sleep that late.”

You blinked. “You made breakfast?”

He shrugged, flipping a piece of bacon. “You looked like you needed it.”

You hesitated near the island, unsure where to stand. “I can leave,” you said quickly. “I mean, now. Before the plumber comes.”

He looked at you again—fully, this time. Not just with his eyes.

“You’re fine,” he said, voice low and steady. “You can stay as long as you need. Seriously.”

You nodded, blinking too fast.

He passed you the coffee, and as you brought it to your lips, your eyes drifted past him—to the fridge. And stopped. Crayon drawings. Bright, chaotic. One showed a stick-figure man in red with a giant shield. Another was of a lopsided Christmas tree and a kid-sized hand traced in green beside it, with DAD scrawled next to a smiley face in the corner.

Your breath caught. He followed your gaze and went still.

“Those’re from my kid,” he said quietly. “I forgot they were still up.”

You didn’t answer. You just looked at them a second longer—then back at him. There was a softness in his expression now, one that made your heart twist and your stomach dip. He looked real. Grounded. Exhausted. Open. And suddenly, you weren’t sure if the warmth in your chest was from the coffee… or him.

-

It had been quiet for weeks. Ever since the night you fell asleep in his bed—ever since the morning after, when he made you coffee and let you stay without comment—it had been… still. Safe. Nothing had happened. Not really. The tension was always there, but he hadn’t touched you. Hadn’t flirted, hadn’t teased, hadn’t brought anyone home.

You started to believe maybe it meant something. Maybe he was thinking about you too. And then it happened. Friday night. Late. Almost 1 a.m.

You were half-asleep on the couch, wrapped in your throw blanket with some movie playing too quiet to hear, when the noise started. Muffled, but familiar. A moan. Feminine. Breathless. Followed by the sound of a body shifting against the wall. You sat up. Another moan. Higher-pitched this time. Your stomach twisted.

No. No, no, no.

You grabbed the remote. Muted the TV. And there it was: the sound you hadn’t heard in weeks. That precise rhythm. The creak of the mattress. The cadence of his breath. Deep. Slow. Deliberate.

You stood in the middle of your apartment, staring at the wall like it had betrayed you. He was with someone. Again. After all this time.

After the way he held you. After the soup. The couch. The late-night texts and the way he watched you laugh and let you sleep in his bed. After everything.

You hadn’t said anything. Hadn’t drawn a line. But you’d started believing. And now? Now, he was fucking someone who wasn’t you—and you could hear it.

You stood frozen for a minute, throat tight, hands clenched in your sleeves. Your whole body burned with rage and shame and need and something deeper—something awful.

Because underneath all of it, your thighs ached. You wanted it to be you. You always had. You backed up. The wall was cold against your spine. Your breathing quickened. You let your hand drift under the waistband of your sleep shorts. You hated yourself for it. But not enough to stop.

His voice came low through the drywall, ragged and guttural. “Yeah… just like that. Fuck—”

You closed your eyes and pressed your forehead to the wall. Your fingers circled your clit slowly. Furiously. The heat in your core had already started to build, fierce and undeniable. You moved your hips against your own hand, lips parted, breath shallow.

The girl made another sound. He grunted something filthy—too quiet to catch—but it didn’t matter. Your imagination filled in the blanks.

You pictured his hands. His chest. The way he smelled when you buried your face in his shoulder. The low scrape of his voice when he asked if you were cold. You weren’t cold now. You were drenched.

Let him hear you.

Your breath hitched, and you moaned—soft at first. Then louder. Deliberate. You didn’t hold back. You let it out, gasping, breathless, high with shame and fury and lust. The rhythm of your fingers sped up. You tipped your head back against the wall and gave him everything.

And then he stopped. The rhythm. The sound. The girl. You didn’t hear her anymore. Just him. Breathing hard. Close. Too close. And then—clear as a match struck in the dark. 

“…fuck—”

Your whole body seized. You froze, legs trembling, fingers stuttering at your core. Then—his groan. Long. Rough. Wrecked. Followed by silence. He finished. He finished while saying your name.

Not hers.

Yours.

-

You slid down the wall, breath still catching, fingers wet and twitching.

He knew. He had to know.

You heard her leave five minutes later—no words, no kiss, just the quiet click of his door and footsteps fading down the hall. You slept on the floor, curled in a blanket, body humming with something too big to name.

And the next morning?

Nothing. He didn’t knock. Didn’t text. Didn’t look at you when you crossed paths in the stairwell. But everything had changed. The silence wasn’t quiet anymore.

It was waiting.

-

It started with a bottle of wine.

A stupid one. Something pink and fizzy and six dollars from the corner store. You drank it too fast while watching an old rom-com that didn’t even pretend to be funny. Your feet were up on the coffee table, your sweatshirt was oversized and wine-stained, and your head was full of the sound of his voice. His moans. Your name—your name—falling out of his mouth like a mistake he couldn’t take back.

And you? You were unraveling. Somewhere around glass three, you grabbed your phone and scrolled to his contact. You didn’t mean to hit call. You really didn’t mean to leave a message. But you did.

“You’ve destroyed me,” you slurred into the receiver. “My sex drive is dead. It’s dead, John. I need therapy. Are you happy? Are you proud of what you’ve done? I hope you’re proud. Because I’m unwell. Like, biblically.”

There was a pause. “…Also, your voice should be illegal.” The message ended. The wine hit harder. You passed out facedown on the couch, phone still on your chest.

-

John found the voicemail at 1:03 a.m.

He’d been sitting on the edge of his bed, scrolling aimlessly, trying not to call you himself. The night still echoed in his skull—your moans, your name on his tongue, the way his hands had trembled after she left.

He didn’t expect the voicemail. But he played it. Once. Then again. And again. By the third time, he’d memorized the curve of your voice slurring unwell like it was a punchline. He didn’t laugh. He just leaned back against the headboard, pressed the phone to his chest, and closed his eyes. And he didn’t delete it. Not even in the morning.

-

The awkwardness didn’t last. You thought it might—the kind of weird, suffocating silence that settles in after something too big to name slips through—but instead, it unraveled slowly. Naturally.

It started with something stupid. The mailroom printer jammed. Again. You were halfway through cursing it out when you heard his voice behind you.

“Try kicking it.”

You turned. He leaned in the doorway with his arms crossed, boots unlaced, sleeves shoved up to his elbows. That damn smirk barely there. Watching you like he hadn’t groaned your name into the drywall last week.

You raised a brow. “Very technical advice.”

“I’m a hands-on problem solver.”

“Not surprising.”

A beat. A smile. Yours this time. Something in the air eased.  After that, it got easier. A return to form. Texts trickled back in, casual at first. A meme here, a one-liner there. He sent you a photo of a broken cabinet knob with the caption:

JOHN WALKER: How strong do you think I gotta be to break this just getting a granola bar?

YOU: Strength of ten. Brain of none.

JOHN WALKER: Ouch.

That night, you couldn’t sleep. The apartment was too warm. Your thoughts were worse. You lay flat on your back, staring at the ceiling fan, phone in hand. Lit only by the blue glow of the screen.

You typed. Erased. Typed again. And sent it.

YOU: Is it weird that I kinda miss hearing you through the wall?

No response. Thirty seconds. A minute.

JOHN WALKER: Miss hearing what exactly?

Your breath caught.

YOU: You know what.

JOHN WALKER: Say it.

You swallowed hard. Thumb hovering.

YOU: I liked hearing your voice.

JOHN WALKER: Liked hearing me fuck?

You clenched your thighs.

YOU: I liked what you said. The way you said it.

JOHN WALKER: Touch yourself.

You blinked. Breath hitched.

YOU: What?

JOHN WALKER: Right now. Don’t make me ask again.

Your hand was shaking. You reached under the blanket, sliding your sleep shorts down just enough. Your fingers found yourself already wet. Through the wall came the sound of his bed creaking. A low exhale. You closed your eyes, heart thudding, fingers brushing your clit in slow circles.

YOU: Are you touching yourself too?

JOHN WALKER: Yeah. Thinking about you. That voice.

A pause. Then, softer:

JOHN WALKER: Wish you’d moan like that for me.

Your free hand covered your mouth as your hips arched. You let a breathy gasp escape, trying to keep it quiet—trying. 

You whispered his name. And through the wall? You heard him groan. Loud. Broken.

You kept going. You imagined his hand. His mouth. His weight pinning you down. You pressed your forehead to the wall. Whispered, “John…”

He whispered back, “Say it again.”

You did. Twice. You came like that—legs shaking, back arched, fingers soaked and lips parted against painted drywall. And just as you started to come down, you heard him. A low, throttled moan.

Your name.

Then silence. You didn’t say anything after. No goodnight. No jokes. Just your screen going dark and the sound of your own breathing in a room that didn’t feel empty anymore.

You fell asleep like that. Close. And still so far away.

-

You stared at the text for five full minutes before hitting send.

YOU: Can we talk?

Simple. Clean. No emotion. No punctuation that might give too much away.

You didn’t expect a response. You also didn’t expect the knock thirty seconds later. Not even time to pace.

You opened the door. He was barefoot again. Sweatpants. A dark, long-sleeved shirt, sleeves pushed up. Hair still damp from the shower. His jaw tense, unreadable. He didn’t say anything. You stepped aside and he walked in. You shut the door behind him. The silence between you crackled—like if one of you moved too fast, the whole apartment might catch fire.

You opened your mouth. “I just—”

He kissed you. No hesitation. No warning. He reached for your jaw with one hand, the back of your neck with the other, and pulled you in like he’d been starving for it. His mouth crashed against yours, hot and rough and so much need behind it that your knees nearly gave out.

You gasped.

He groaned into it, deep and ruined. He lifted you with one arm, carrying you through your apartment. Your back hit the wall a second later. That wall. His body pressed flush to yours—solid, burning, real. You fisted your hands in the hem of his shirt, desperate to get skin. He was already lifting yours, hand sliding underneath. Your belly arched into him.

“John—”

“I know,” he whispered. “Fuck, I know.”

Another kiss. Slower. More fragile. You let yourself sink into it. Into him. His mouth moved to your neck. You whimpered. Your hips rocked forward, pressing against the thick line of him already hard in his sweats.

“You want this?” he rasped.

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

He growled softly. His hand moved lower, grazing the band of your underwear. Then he stopped. Froze. Pulled back.

You blinked, panting. “What—”

He stepped back, hands fisting at his sides. His chest rose and fell like he’d just been sucker-punched. “I can’t,” he said, voice rough. “Not like this.”

Your stomach dropped. “Why not?”

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing back once like he needed the space. Like he couldn’t breathe this close to you. “Because I don’t want you to be one of my mistakes.”

You stared.

His eyes found yours. “You’re not just some girl on the other side of the wall. Not anymore.”

Silence. You tried to speak. Couldn’t. He took one last look at you—hair messy, lips kissed, shirt askew—and opened the door.

“Goodnight,” he murmured.

The door shut quietly behind him. You stood there alone in your bedroom, aching everywhere. And somehow? You’d never wanted him more.

-

He wasn’t bringing anyone home anymore. You noticed it first in the silence. Nights passed and the wall stayed quiet. No footsteps. No laughter. No creaking mattress or rhythmic moans followed by muffled groans and the low, sinful drag of his voice in someone else’s ear.

You tried to tell yourself it didn’t matter. But it did. It mattered so much you couldn’t sleep sometimes.

You stared at the ceiling, listening to nothing. Wanting to press your ear to the wall and beg the quiet to tell you what it meant.

It was a Tuesday when you asked. You were both in the mailroom, his arm braced casually on the counter, your phone balanced in your palm, trying not to look too closely at the vein in his forearm.

You said it before you could chicken out. “You haven’t had anyone over lately.”

He looked at you. Steady. Unreadable. “No.”

You licked your lips. “Why?”

A beat. Then another.

He tilted his head slightly, voice low and honest and without hesitation. “Don’t want anyone else hearin’ me but you.”

Your breath caught. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t follow it up with a wink or a joke. Just said it like it was the only truth that mattered. You left without speaking. Without looking back.

-

You didn’t knock. You didn’t have to because he opened the door like he’d been waiting. Like he’d heard your footsteps the whole way down the hall.

His shirt was already gone.

Your hands found his chest before your voice could find words. His mouth crashed into yours with the force of every silent night, every unspoken message, every inch of restraint he’d gritted his teeth through. The door slammed shut behind you. The two of you made it to his room in a flurry of kisses and movement. And then you were pressed into the wall. 

That wall.

The one that had heard everything. The one that had kept you apart. He turned you toward it slow, one palm flat beside your head, the other wrapping around your waist and dragging your hips into his. His lips were at your neck, teeth dragging along your skin, voice hoarse in your ear.

“Tell me you want it.”

“I want it.”

“Say it louder.”

You moaned, already grinding back against him. “I want it, John—fuck—please—”

That broke him.  His hands were under your shirt, your shorts, lifting, tugging, baring you in seconds. You heard the rip of something—your panties? Maybe. You didn’t care. Your palms slapped the wall to keep yourself steady. He dropped to his knees behind you like a soldier kneeling to pray. The warmth of his breath hit the back of your thighs.

You didn’t have time to gasp before his hands gripped the backs of your legs—firm, unshakable—and spread you open.

He was silent for a beat. And then his voice—low, reverent, just shy of wrecked—broke the stillness like a vow.

“Been thinkin’ about this pussy since the day I heard you moan.”

Your whole body clenched.

One thumb slid along the crease of your thigh. His other hand wrapped around your hip, steadying you.

He exhaled. “Could smell you through the wall some nights, you know that? Got me hard before I even touched myself. Before any other woman touched me. Just you, baby.”

You whimpered, legs starting to tremble.

Then his tongue met your cunt—and you forgot how to breathe.

He started slow, deliberate, like he meant to memorize you. Tongue flattening between your folds, dragging up with maddening precision, then dipping low to suck on your clit with the kind of hunger that made you sob against the drywall.

Your hands clawed at the paint. You bucked your hips, thrusting them forward into the wall, trying to pry them away from his mouth. It was too much all at once. 

His grip tightened on your hips as he firmly tugged your ass back towards his face.

“Don’t run,” he growled against your cunt. “Take it like a good girl.”

You took it.

You gasped and shook and pressed your chest to the wall, hips rocking back into his mouth as he devoured you from behind. It wasn’t just sex—it was starvation. He ate you like he hadn’t been fed in years. No teasing. No mercy. Just tongue and lips and the scrape of his beard until you were dripping down your thighs and chanting his name like a prayer.

“John—fuck—John—”

He groaned like your voice cracked something in him.

Pulled back only long enough to say, voice hoarse and guttural, “You taste better than anything I’ve ever had.” Then he dove back in, faster, filthier.

His nose bumped your ass, his tongue curled against your clit, and your vision blurred. You came on his mouth, legs shaking, walls closing in. You didn’t realize you were crying until he kissed the back of your thigh.

He stood and you felt it. The heat of him behind you, flushed against your ass. The press of his cock, thick and so fucking hard, nudging the slick seam of your cunt like a promise. One hand splayed flat against the wall beside yours. The other wrapped around your waist, dragging you back into him.

His voice at your ear, cracked open and trembling, “You ready to feel it for real, sweetheart?”

You nodded.

“Need to hear it.”

“Please,” you whispered. “Fuck me.”

“Say it again.”

“Fuck me, John—I need it—”

That was all he needed. He lined himself up and slid in deep—one slow, brutal push that filled you to the hilt and punched the air from your lungs. You weren’t ready. You’d never be ready. Not for this. Not for how thick his cock was as it split you open. 

“Jesus,” he hissed. “Tight as fuck. So warm. Fuckin’ made for me.”

You keened, cheek still against the wall, fingers spread wide like you were bracing for an earthquake. He started to move. And when he did, he didn’t hold back. He fucked you like he meant it. Like he owned it.

Every thrust sent you up on your toes, breasts bouncing against the wall. His hand slid under your shirt to grope one, thumb brushing your nipple. He cursed—hard—and slammed into you deeper.

“Look at you,” he growled. “Pressed up like a good girl… takin’ every inch I give you.”

You moaned, wrecked and needy, the filthy praise soaking through your skin like ink. He leaned in close, chest slick against your back. “You like hearin’ me now, huh? All those nights—moanin’ into your pillow, pretendin’ you weren’t fuckin’ yourself to the sound of me.”

You sobbed.

He grabbed your jaw hard, turned your face enough for his lips to brush your cheek as he squeezed. 

“Next time, I want you screamin’ for real.”

“John—please—”

“You’re mine now,” he whispered. “Only one who gets to hear me fuck is you. Only one who gets this cock. Say it.”

“I’m yours.”

He thrust harder. “Say it again.”

“I’m yours. I’m yours, John—fuck—I’m—”

You broke.

You came around him with a cry, body clenching so hard it almost pushed him out. Your thighs trembled, forehead dragging along the wall, toes curling into the hardwood. But John didn’t stop. He groaned, breath ragged, but his grip only tightened on your waist.

“Fuck,” he hissed through his teeth. “Still not done with you. With this sweet little pussy.”

He drew back and slammed into you again—harder this time. Sharper. You gasped, barely able to breathe, still reeling from the aftershocks.

“Gonna fuck you through it,” he growled, voice low and possessed. “Want every muscle in your body rememberin’ me tomorrow.”

Before you could catch your breath, his hand slid under your thigh. Lifted. You let out a soft, startled moan as he hooked your leg up and open, bent at the knee, bracing it on the wall with his hand with ease—his strength absolute.

“Keep it there,” he rasped, already adjusting his angle. “Yeah, that’s it—fuckin’ perfect.”

And then—

Deeper.

So deep you saw stars behind your eyelids. You arched, whined, voice going high and desperate as his cock hit something inside you that made your legs threaten to give out all over again.

“That the spot?” he murmured into your ear, rhythm relentless. “Right there, baby?”

You nodded, breathless.

He grinned against your shoulder, filthy and triumphant. “Gonna ruin this pussy.”

He did. With your leg hiked up and your body pinned to the wall, there was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Just the steady, brutal rhythm of him pounding into you like he owned every inch—like he’d earned it with every sleepless night, every note on your door, every second you made him wait.

Your skin slapped against his. Your name fell from his lips like a curse, over and over. One hand held your leg open like a claim, the other slid under your shirt again, palm flat over your stomach—right where he could feel himself bulge inside you.

“Fuck, look at this,” he groaned. “You take me so good. Like you were made to be filled by me.”

You whimpered, shaking.

“I could fuck you all night,” he breathed. “And I just might.”

He was still going. Still thick and hard and perfectly steady. The super soldier serum had him wound tight and strong and relentless—and you could feel the strain in his muscles, the control it took to hold himself back, to keep from breaking you in half with how badly he needed this. Needed you. And God, you needed it too.

You clawed at the wall, moaned shamelessly, sobbed his name again and again until your throat burned and your body writhed. When he finally let out a grunt—low and desperate—you felt his pace falter, hips stuttering once, twice.

“Shit—fuck—gimme one more, baby. Just one more.”

He reached between your legs, rubbed your clit again in tight, brutal circles, and you screamed. Came again.  Harder than the first. Vision white-hot. Your head was spinning. One leg still hoisted on his hand, his cock buried so deep you couldn’t even think straight, your body wrung out and shaking, coming down from your second orgasm—and still, he was holding back. Still fucking you, slow now, grinding through the slick aftermath, his hips rolling in slow, brutal circles that made you whimper every time.

“Gotta finish, baby,” he panted against your neck. “You want it?”

You nodded, breath catching. His grip on your thigh tightened. His rhythm stuttered. You felt the tension in him—his abs twitching, cock pulsing, the raw sound in his throat.

“I could pull out,” he muttered, voice like gravel. “Come all over that pretty ass. You want that?”

“N-No—”

“Then say it.” He pulled almost all the way out. The tip of him hovered at your entrance, soaked, thick, aching.

Your hips chased him, desperate. “John—please—please, don’t—”

“Where do you want it?”

“Inside,” you gasped. “Come inside me.”

He groaned, head dropping to your shoulder, barely holding it together. “Say it again.”

“Come inside me, John. I want it—please—I want all of it—” you sobbed, fat tears rolling down your cheeks. “Want to feel you fill me up please. Been so good.” 

His control shattered. He slammed back into you, hard enough to shove your hands higher up the wall. 

He fucked you deep—relentless, almost ragged—with that filthy, possessive growl in your ear. “Yeah, that’s right—mine. You fuckin’ take it.”

You felt it when he started to break—his cock thickening, his rhythm falling apart, his whole body tight and coiled behind you. And only then—only when you clenched around him with everything you had, body pulling him deeper like you never wanted to let him go— did John finally snap. He thrust once more. Deep. Held it.

And came with a sound so raw, so guttural, it shook through your bones. You felt the heat of it spill inside you. Thick. Endless. Filling you so completely it made you moan again, fucked-out and ruined. His body collapsed forward, chest against your back, both arms wrapped around your middle like he couldn’t bear to let go.

You didn’t move. Your cheek was still resting against the wall, breathing ragged, your body flushed and trembling, his weight draped against your back like a shield. He was still inside you. Still thick, softening slowly. Still holding you like if he let go, the world might stop spinning.

You felt his lips first—pressing reverent kisses to your shoulder, then your neck, then the nape of your spine. Soft. Slow. As if to apologize for how hard he’d taken you. Or maybe just to thank you for letting him.

You whimpered softly when he pulled out—your cunt fluttering around the loss, overstimulated and drenched, his spend already slipping down your thighs. He caught it with his fingers. A soft curse under his breath.

“You okay?” he murmured, brushing your hair aside with the gentlest touch.

You nodded, still braced against the wall. “Mhm.”

He kissed your jaw. “You sure?”

You turned your face toward him. Found his eyes. Blown wide, warm with something that looked suspiciously like awe.

“I’m perfect,” you whispered. “You ruined me.”

That broke him.

His expression twisted—pleasure and affection and something vulnerable in the lines of his mouth. He kissed you again, soft and slow, tongue dragging behind your teeth like he couldn’t get enough. Then he dropped to one knee behind you again, but this time it wasn’t to devour you. It was to take care of you.

He gathered your shorts and underwear from where they were discarded—soft cotton, useless now—and used the cleanest part of them to gently wipe between your thighs. His movements were careful, measured. Like he knew your body couldn’t handle more roughness, not after what he’d done to it.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty like this,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Don’t know how I didn’t touch you sooner.”

You leaned back into his hand as he cleaned you—hips twitching when he accidentally grazed your clit. He stilled instantly, whispered, “Sorry, baby.”

Then, without another word, he scooped you up. Lifted you right off your feet like it cost him nothing. You buried your face in his chest, arms clinging to his shoulders, and let him carry you over towards the bed. You felt the shift in him as he walked—something protective, quiet, anchored.

He laid you down gently on the bed. Tugged the covers back. Crawled in beside you and pulled you right into his arms without hesitation. You tucked yourself against him, your leg over his, your hand against his chest, his heartbeat loud and steady under your palm. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. 

“You still with me?” he asked, voice low.

You looked up. “Barely.”

He grinned. Kissed your temple. 

“You’re dangerous,” you mumbled into his chest.

“You’re the one that begged.”

“You threatened to pull out.”

“You liked it.”

You groaned. “You’re the worst.”

He chuckled, pulling you tighter. “Nah. Not when it comes to you.”

You blinked. Looked up. His eyes were already on you—soft. Clear. No more smug teasing. “I’ve never wanted someone like this,” he said simply. “Not just the sex. Not just…” He hesitated. “You. I want you.”

Your chest cracked open. You didn’t answer right away. You just leaned up and kissed him—slow, sweet, with everything you didn’t have words for yet.

When you finally fell asleep, it was tangled in him. And for the first time, the wall wasn’t there to separate you. It was just another surface. Witness to something real.

-

You woke to warm breath on your neck and the weight of his arm slung across your back.

The light was soft through the curtains. Gray, wintery. You shifted slightly under the covers, and his grip immediately tightened. Not hard. Not possessive. Just aware. He was still asleep.

You turned your head on the pillow, just enough to see him. His mouth was parted slightly, lashes resting against his cheeks, a faint crease between his brows like even in sleep he didn’t trust peace to last. You wanted to smooth it away with your thumb.

Instead, you stayed still. You didn’t want to wake him. Which was ironic, because he clearly had other plans. He stirred next to you a moment later—body shifting under the sheets, hard thigh pressing between yours from where you laid on your stomach—and then he was kissing your shoulder. Your spine. Your lower back. Lazy, slow, completely unhurried.

You let out a breathy laugh. “That’s unfair.”

“Mornin’,” he rasped, voice thick with sleep and satisfaction.

“You’re warm.”

He chuckled against your skin, his lips brushing the dip of your spine. “That’s the serum. I run hot.” 

Another kiss. Lower. Softer.

You squirmed. “John…”

He hummed. “Yeah?”

“I like you.” You hadn’t meant to say it out loud. It had come out small, breathless—like a secret falling off a ledge.

He stopped kissing you but he didn’t pull away. “Good,” he said after a moment. Voice rough. Honest. “’Cause I’m fuckin’ gone on you.”

You let out a quiet, nervous sound and ducked your head into the pillow. “Don’t look at me. I probably have awful morning breath.”

He shifted above you. You felt his grin before you saw it. “You think that’s gonna scare me off?” he murmured. “After last night?”

You turned just enough to glare. “Don’t you dare bring that up.”

“Oh, I’m gonna bring it up.” He leaned in closer, lips ghosting your jaw. “Every time you start pretending you don’t want me.”

“You’re so cocky.”

“You’re so sore,” he shot back, dragging a palm down your thigh. You gasped. He smirked.

“Asshole,” you muttered, cheeks flushed.

He kissed you gently. All warmth. All certainty. Like there was no one else in the world he wanted to look at first thing in the morning. “I’ve got my kid comin’ by later.”

You blinked. “Oh—should I go?”

His brows lifted. “I was gonna say… you should stay.”

You stared at him. He watched you steadily. “Only if you want to. No pressure. Just… feels stupid not to let him meet someone who’s makin’ his old man a better person.”

Your chest pulled tight. “You think I’m making you better?”

“I know you are.” He said it like fact. Like the easiest truth in the world.

You smiled, a little shyly. “I’ve never met a kid before. Not like this.”

He grinned. “He’ll love you. And if he doesn’t, I’ll bribe him.”

You laughed, relaxing back into the pillow. His hand came up to stroke your hip, thumb sweeping slow arcs across your bare skin.

“I’ll make breakfast,” he murmured. “Then we can talk about what this is. What we are.”

You rolled into him. Pressed your face to his neck. “Okay.” He kissed your forehead. And just like that, the wall between you was gone.

-

The eggs were burnt. You weren’t going to say anything, but he caught your expression the second you took a bite.

“You hate it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You winced, sweetheart.”

You tried to cover it with another bite. “No I didn’t.”

“You made a noise.”

“That was chewing.”

“That was suffering.” He grabbed the pan and scraped the next batch straight into the trash with an annoyed grunt. “Shit. I used to be better at this.”

“You were married, not a chef.”

“I used to make things, though,” he said, glaring at the skillet like it had betrayed him. “Eggs. Pancakes. Lunchbox stuff. Now I’m like a caveman.”

You came up behind him, slid your arms around his middle, cheek pressed to the warm fabric of his tee. “I like caveman John.”

He chuckled, one hand coming to rest over yours. The kitchen was still. The quiet wasn’t heavy anymore. Just soft. You swayed slightly against him.

“I don’t want to make this casual,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “I—wasn’t planning to.”

“I just…” He exhaled. “I’ve had a lot of things fall apart. Marriage. My reputation. The job. And now you’re here and it doesn’t feel like chaos for once. I don’t want to fuck that up.”

“You won’t.”

His grip on your hand tightened. “You sure about me?” he asked. “About this?”

You turned him in your arms. Looked up into his face. “I’ve never been more sure.”

His mouth twitched. That smug little smile—but softer now. Sweeter. “You’re my girl now,” he said, brushing your hair back. “Official.”

You leaned in, smiling against his lips. “Official,” you whispered.

-

You went home just long enough to shower, change, and sit on your bed in stunned silence for a few minutes.

Boyfriend. John Walker was your boyfriend. That word felt wild in your mouth. Foreign. Intimate.

Your body still hummed from last night. Your thighs ached. Your neck bore proof of his teeth. And now your phone buzzed with a message that read:

JOHN WALKER: He’s here. Take your time. We’ll be makin’ pancakes (again).

You smiled. Texted back. 

YOU: On my way.

-

He opened the door before you could knock. He looked nervous.

Behind him, standing in mismatched pajamas and socks, was a boy—maybe seven or eight, with brown curls, wide blue eyes, and a superhero-themed apron around his neck.

“This is Elijah,” John said, clearing his throat. “Eli, this is—uh—my friend.” You gave him a look. He corrected quickly. “My girlfriend.”

Eli’s eyebrows jumped. “For real?”

John chuckled. “For real.”

Eli turned to you. “Do you like pancakes?”

“I love pancakes.”

“Even bad ones?”

You grinned. “Especially bad ones.”

The kid nodded seriously. “Okay. My dad makes the worst ones. If you can eat them, you can stay.”

John let out a breath like he’d been holding it since last night. You came inside, stepping into a home that still smelled faintly of burnt batter and aftershave and something real.

They let you stir the mix. Eli told you about school. John kept sneaking glances at you like he couldn’t believe you were really there.

And you realized then: this wasn’t temporary. This wasn’t a maybe.

This was what it looked like to be kept.

To be chosen.

To stay.

[xocellyy]

so good.

only you

john walker 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – nsfw (18+), explicit sexual content, MDNI, fem!masturbation, dirty talk, phone sex, domestic fluff, DILF!john x babysitter!reader, idk if it’s a slow burn but it’s sweet, friends to lovers, John had his redemption arc already but you’re the gift he never expected

word count: 11k

Summary: John Walker wasn’t looking for more. Not after everything. Not after the shield, the war, the wreckage. But then you showed up—hired by Val to watch his toddler son, Elijah Lemar—and somehow, without meaning to, you made yourself at home.

You, with your snarky comebacks and soft hands. With your coffee mugs and folded laundry and the way Elijah lights up when he sees you. You were supposed to be temporary.

But now you’re in his bed. In his life. And in his heart.

notes – not proofread. brought to you by: me wanting to write more thunderbolts banter and flirty John Walker, and me yearning over this idiot

— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated.

You meet John Walker in sweatpants and a scowl.

It’s your second week working for Val full-time—enough to be cleared for field-adjacent duties, but not enough to be sent back into any real action. So when she said she had an “important private protection assignment” for someone with your skillset, you expected something high-profile. A diplomat’s kid, maybe. A VIP escort job.

You didn’t expect a toddler with a superhero sticker book and a half-eaten pouch of applesauce.

And you definitely didn’t expect him.

The door creaks open, and you freeze.

John Walker is… tall. Broad. Sleep-rumpled in a dark Henley and gray sweatpants, barefoot, jaw shadowed with stubble. His hair is messy like he ran his hands through it too many times, and his arm flexes as he leans against the frame.

He looks like every bad decision you’ve ever wanted to make twice.

Your mouth goes a little dry.

“You the sitter?” he asks, voice low and rough like it hasn’t been used all morning.

You blink. “Yeah. Val sent me.”

He doesn’t respond right away—just gives you a slow once-over. Not gross. Not leering. Just… assessing. Careful. Cautious. But there’s amusement, too, simmering just under the surface like he’s trying not to laugh at you for wearing tactical boots to a babysitting gig.

Before either of you can say another word, a tiny voice chirps behind him.

“Dada!”

Then a blur of motion: a toddler waddles into view, dark curls bouncing, chubby fists clutching a juice box half his size. He beams at you like you hung the moon.

You crouch instinctively. “Hi, little guy.”

John exhales, rubbing a hand over his face like he hasn’t slept in three years. “That’s Elijah,” he says. “He just turned two. He’s obsessed with trucks, blueberries, and throwing things he’s not supposed to.”

Elijah lunges toward your boots like you’re the most interesting thing he’s seen all day. You gently distract him with the toy dinosaur that was lying on the floor.

John watches. You feel it. “Val said you’re combat-certified,” he says after a beat.

You shrug, still smiling at the toddler. “Doesn’t mean I can’t handle diapers.”

That earns a low huff of a laugh. It curls under your skin and settles there. “Come in, then,” he says, stepping aside.

You do. And you don’t miss the way his eyes dip down one last time—just a flicker, one heartbeat too long.

John’s house is clean but lived-in. Toys scattered in organized chaos, a sippy cup upside down on the coffee table, a folded New Avengers hoodie tossed over the back of the couch.

You pick up on the quiet right away. No sign of a second parent. No recent photos with Olivia in the frames. Just John and Elijah—park days, bedtime stories, tiny hands on a too-big shield.

“His mom,” he says, catching you looking, “isn’t in the picture day-to-day. Olivia and I… didn’t work out.” You nod once, softly. “Just me and him, now.”

You glance at him. “You’re doing a good job.”

He huffs again. “You haven’t seen bedtime yet.”

-

Elijah’s easy. He clings to your legs the second John disappears to change into something less lingering, and hands you his favorite book upside down with a proud grin.

You don’t mind. You’re good with kids. Always have been. But it’s not the kid that’s messing with your head. It’s him.

John, when he comes back, is in jeans and a plain t-shirt. No socks. He moves through the room with a calm confidence that makes it hard not to look. He picks Elijah up with one arm like it’s nothing, bounces him once, presses a kiss to the top of his head.

You’re absolutely doomed.

He catches you watching. “You good?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow.

You clear your throat. “Y-Yup. Totally.”

He smirks. “Didn’t think the crime fighting babysitter would be nervous because of me.”

“I’m not,” you lie. “You’re just… not what I pictured.”

“You expected someone with a dad bod and a fanny pack?”

You glance at his biceps. “I expected an old diplomat with a brat. Not—” You stop yourself. Too late.

His smile is smug now. Dangerous. “Not what?”

You snatch the book from Elijah and hold it up like a shield. “Not someone who looks like that, okay?”

He laughs. Full-bodied. Deep. “You know you’re saying this in front of my two-year-old, right?”

“He doesn’t know what it means.”

“I do.”

Your cheeks burn. He’s enjoying this. “You’re an ass,” you mutter.

“You’re the one making it weird, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

God help you.

-

You think it’s over. You think the awkward tension is just that—awkward. A moment. Nothing more.

But when you pack up to leave after the first shift, John walks you to the door. Elijah’s already asleep, and the house has gone quiet. Too quiet.

You’re pulling your hoodie on when he speaks again. “Thanks. For today.”

You smile. “Of course. He’s great.”

“So are you.” That pulls your eyes back to his. He’s watching you again. That same careful, quiet assessment from the first minute you met. “You’ve got a calm about you that I definitely don’t,” he says. “And Eli likes that.”

You hesitate. “And you?”

He shrugs, slow and warm. “I like it too.”

Then, before you can reply, he opens the door for you like a gentleman. The night air is cool. You step out and turn back, already half-smiling. “See you next week, Mr. Walker.”

He leans against the frame, arms crossed, voice lower than it has any right to be. “Can’t wait.”

-

You’ve settled into a rhythm now. Babysitting Elijah on days when Walker was in the field and you weren’t, and then training in the tower or working with the New Avengers any other day of the week.

But somewhere in the middle of it all, bantering with John became the constant. He wormed his way into your messages regularly. At first under the guise of something about watching Eli, and now, whenever he had a snarky comment to make about Bob’s fashion choices or Alexei’s anti-capitalist rants.

One time he sent a message about Bucky’s “fuck ass bob” that made you laugh so hard during a debrief you got lectured from Val on professionalism.

Tonight is one such night in your routine, though, where you’re at John’s house, babysitting. And something new happens— a phone call.

The call comes just after 7 p.m., and you know it’s him before you even check the screen.

Walker🛡️: Incoming FaceTime…

You glance down at the two-year-old currently curled into your chest like a sleepy barnacle, thumb in mouth, warm and sticky from applesauce and a bath. He’s heavy now, relaxed in that total-trust way only toddlers can manage.

You answer with a quiet tap, careful not to jostle Elijah.

John’s face appears immediately—dusty, wind-blown, still in tac gear. You catch the edge of a transport ship behind him. And, faintly, two voices arguing about whose comms were off.

“There he is,” John says, softening the second he sees his son.

Elijah perks up just enough to murmur, “Hi, Dada,” before settling back down with a sleepy sigh.

“That his juice-drunk voice?” John asks with a grin.

You nod, cradling Elijah tighter. “Bath, blueberries, and five books. He’s down for the count.”

“You’re a miracle worker.”

“Something like that,” you deadpan.

Behind John, Yelena leans into frame. “Tell her she has to babysit me next time. I like cuddles and strawberries,” she mutters.

You snort.

Ava appears next. “Can she train Bob?”

“Nobody can train Bob,” you say, then glance back at John. “How much longer are you out?”

“Another twelve hours, tops. I’ll be back in time for breakfast. You okay staying overnight?” You look down at Elijah. He’s snoring now, clutching a truck in one hand and the edge of your sweater in the other.

“We’re good,” you say. “By the way, he called you ‘Duh-duh’ today. Not sure if that’s a promotion or a demotion.”

John laughs, quiet and fond. “I’ll take what I can get.” His eyes flick to you again. They linger for just a second too long. Your thumb brushes Elijah’s curls, and John notices that too. “You look good with him,” he says, voice lower, meant only for you to hear.

You raise a brow and try to pretend your heart didn’t fumble a beat. “Careful, Walker. That almost sounded like flirting.”

“Maybe it was.”

You grin. “You’re supposed to be saving the world, not making me blush.”

“Pretty sure I can do both.” Before you can answer, a loud crash echoes behind him. Bob, probably. John winces. “Gotta go, sweetheart,” he says. “Be good for her, bud.”

Elijah’s thumb wiggles in sleepy acknowledgment. The screen goes black.

-

John comes home just after 2 a.m.

You don’t hear the door. You’re dead asleep on the couch, curled under a throw blanket, one arm wrapped protectively around the baby monitor like it might explode if you let it go.

John stops in the doorway and just watches.

You’re tucked into the cushions like you belong there, face smushed against your shoulder, one sock half-off. He can hear Elijah’s white noise machine crackling softly through the monitor in your hand. The kid’s fine.

And you? You look…

He swallows. It shouldn’t be hot. But it is. Not just the curve of your legs, or the way your lips part in your sleep. It’s the whole damn picture—the domestic quiet, the way you smell faintly like his shampoo. He knows it’s a job. You’re just showing up for work. But something about the little messages you send to him throughout the day, or the fact that you stay even when he could probably get another sitter for overnights, lingers with him. Makes him hope for something more. And the way that you do this, without question? Like this is normal? It makes it seem like this is yours too.

It’s too much for a man as lonely as John Walker.

John exhales through his nose and shakes it off.

Barely.

Then, he steps past you to drop his keys and pauses. “Hey, wake up.”

You blink awake, startled. The baby monitor shifts in your grip. “Oh my god—sorry, I didn’t mean to—was gonna wait up—”

“Relax.” His voice is low. Warm. “It’s good. You’re good.”

You sit up slowly, brushing hair from your face. “He’s asleep. Didn’t even fuss.”

“I saw. Thanks again.”

You nod. “Welcome home, John.”

John rubs the back of his neck, and you don’t notice that his ears are a little pink. “You, uh… want to crash here tonight? You’ve already got a blanket, and I just threw whatever you had in the washer into the dryer.”

You hesitate. “You sure?”

“Yeah. Couch is yours. Or the bed, if you want it.”

“Your bed?”

“I won’t be in it,” he says with a crooked smirk. “Scout’s honor.”

You roll your eyes. “You weren’t a scout.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you flirt like someone who got suspended from high school.”

He laughs, soft and raspy. “You gonna pick a spot or keep complimenting me, sugar?”

Twenty minutes later, you’re curled up on the couch again. Elijah’s still down for the count. The monitor’s on the end table and you’re watching something dumb and half-muted, chewing on the end of a Twizzler John handed you without asking.

He disappears into the shower. Reappears in low-slung sweats and a navy t-shirt, damp hair sticking up in all directions.

He drops into the other end of the couch with a soft grunt, arm stretching along the back of it. You glance sideways, suspicious.

“You hover around me like I’m gonna bite.” He says with a smirk.

“I don’t think you’d bite,” you murmur. “I think you’d devour.”

John stills. His gaze cuts to you. Slow. Heated. “You flirt like someone who wants to be punished.”

Your mouth dries. “What if I do?”

Silence. Thick. Unforgiving. The look he gives you could melt glass.

And then a soft cry splits the air from the monitor. John exhales like he’s just been punched. “I got it,” he mutters, already rising. “You get some rest.”

You don’t argue. You just nod and watch him disappear down the hall. You hear the door creak open, then his low voice murmuring something you can’t quite catch.

You slip into his room a few minutes later. You didn’t mean to. You swear you were going to take the couch. But your eyes are already closing by the time your head hits his pillow.

He finds you there twenty minutes later, fast asleep. His side of the bed untouched. And for a second—just one second—John lets himself imagine what it’d be like if this was real.

If you were his.

Not the sitter. Not a job. Just… you. You, here. In his space. Staying.

He turns off the light. And quietly, silently, takes the couch.

For now.

-

6:32 a.m.

The monitor on the nightstand crackles to life with a cry that could rattle windows.

You jolt upright, bleary-eyed, hair flattened on one side.

Across the hall, John’s already moving. You hear the calm, familiar shuffle of a dad who’s done this a hundred times. “Shh, hey, little man. Dada’s got you. You okay?”

You swing your legs out of bed, rubbing your eyes, and pad toward the hallway in your socks. He meets you in the middle—Elijah on his hip, cheeks flushed and nose scrunched in that dramatic toddler way that always follows a nightmare or a diaper change.

John raises a brow at your tangled hair and your frown. “Mornin’, Sunshine.”

You squint at him. “Don’t call me that. It’s not even 7am.”

“Why not? You’re practically glowing.” Elijah babbles something incoherent, then leans forward and plants a sticky hand on your cheek.

“Sun,” he declares proudly.

You blink. “What’d he just call me?”

John chuckles, pressing a kiss to Elijah’s head. “Guess it stuck.”

Your ears go pink. You mutter something about needing coffee and duck into the kitchen, trying not to trip over the warmth blooming in your chest

Ten minutes later, you’re both in the kitchen—John barefoot, Elijah in his high chair, and you halfway through your first cup of coffee.

John’s slicing bananas. “You didn’t have to wake up,” he says.

“Try sleeping through a banshee scream.”

“He gets it from Olivia,” he deadpans.

“He gets it from you,” you shoot back.

“You calling me dramatic?”

You take a sip of coffee. “If the giant bicep fits.”

He grins. And then Elijah lets out a garbled squeak—right before he pukes all over your shirt.

There’s a beat of silence. John blinks. You stare down at yourself, frozen. “Oh my god—”

“Okay, okay, I got him,” John says, already lifting Elijah from the chair. “You—just don’t move.”

“I’m wearing it, John. Moving’s kind of the problem.”

“I’ll bring you a shirt,” he calls, already halfway down the hall. “Something that hides baby vomit and makes me look good.”

“You mean makes me look good.”

“That’s what I said.”

-

You’re wearing his shirt when he comes back from the bathroom.

A navy blue tee, stretched soft with age and clinging to your shoulders in all the right places. It’s massive on you—covers your tiny sleep shorts entirely. Your legs are bare, your hair is messy, and you’re lazily stirring a bowl of cereal while scrolling your phone.

He walks into the kitchen with Elijah on his hip and immediately forgets how to breathe. “Jesus.”

You glance up. “Something wrong?”

“You trying to kill me in my own kitchen?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Pretty sure Elijah already tried.”

John doesn’t rise to the bait and instead drags a hand over his face. “You’re in my shirt.”

“You literally just gave it to me, Walker.”

“Yeah but I didn’t mean for it to look like that.”

“Like what?”

He doesn’t answer. And the silence lingers.

Then, he shifts Elijah onto his other hip and leans one elbow against the counter, glancing at your phone. “What are you doing?”

“Swiping.”

“Swiping?”

“Dating app.”

His expression hardens in a second. “What for?”

You shrug. “Kinda single if you’ve not noticed. Kinda bored.”

John narrows his eyes. You swipe on a guy with a dog. “This one’s cute.”

“That dog’s the only thing he’s bringing to the table.”

You laugh. Swipe again. “This one?”

“Wears socks in bed.”

Another. “This guy’s tall.”

“Yeah, so are murderers.”

“Okay, what do you approve of?”

“Me.”

The word is out before he can stop it. You freeze, but he doesn’t look away.

Elijah burps.

You snort. “Careful, Mr. Walker. That almost sounded like jealousy.”

“Did it?”

“You gonna tell me not to date other men?”

“No,” he says, voice lower now. “But I might start pickin’ you up after your dates just to make a point.”

“What kind of point?”

“That none of them know how to fold a stroller one-handed while carrying a two-year-old and a bag of wipes.”

You blink. “Okay, that was hot.”

“I know.” His smirk makes your heart melt.

-

Your clothes are dry by the time you’re getting ready to leave.

You change and carry the shirt out of the bathroom, folding the borrowed shirt with a little too much care, fingers brushing over the soft cotton like it’s still warm from his skin. When you step out, hoodie slung over your arm, John’s in the kitchen—back to you, shoulder muscles shifting under a bare upper back as he pours juice one-handed, balanced as ever.

You sit the shirt on the island when he’s turning towards you. “Hey, I’m gonna head out—”

And then he pulls on the shirt.

That shirt. The one you had just wore this morning and sat on his kitchen island. Faded navy, worn thin in a way that made it fall just right across your frame—and now it hugs his like a goddamn sin. It stretches over his chest, clings to his arms, and when he adjusts the hem casually, you go still.

Too still.

John raises his gaze.

Catches you.

And smirks. “You like this one, huh?”

Your throat goes dry. You recover fast, but not fast enough. “Don’t flatter yourself, Mr. Walker.”

He takes a step toward you, slow and self-assured, that damn smirk growing. The shirt shifts with his body, and your stomach flips. “Oh, I’m not flattering myself, sweetheart. I’m flattering you.”

You shove a plush toy you picked up from the floor at his chest—harder than necessary—and pivot toward the door before you combust. “Bye, John.”

Your voice is too even. He knows it. “See you next week, Sunny.”

Behind you, you don’t see his face. But you feel his smile all the way down the front steps.

-

The mission is simple. In and out, minimal contact, no major threats. You, Yelena, and Bucky spend most of it in tactical sweats and earpieces, staking out a lead on an arms deal that’s taking forever to go sideways.

You’re barely paying attention when your phone buzzes in your back pocket. The soft trill of an incoming FaceTime rattles against the dull night air.

Walker🛡️: Incoming FaceTime…

You blink. “You gonna answer that?” Bucky asks, not looking up from his scope.

“Depends,” you mutter. “Could be a code red. Could be a two-year-old with questions about ducks.”

Yelena snorts. “Both are equally deadly.”

You answer. John’s face fills the screen immediately—forehead first, like he hasn’t quite mastered the angle. “Hey, sweetheart.”

You lean against the wall, smirking. “Mid-mission, Walker. You miss the memo on operational silence?”

“Eli wanted to see you.”

Your breath catches. You say nothing. Then the camera tilts—and there he is. Tiny, curly-haired chaos. A juice stain on his cheek and a toy truck clutched in his chubby hand.

“Sunny!” he squeals. Your heart does a somersault.

“Hey, Buddy,” you coo. “You being good for your Dada?”

He nods solemnly, then drops the truck and leans closer to the screen. “I miss Sunny.”

You hear Yelena audibly melt beside you. “You’re going to kill that man,” she whispers.

John’s still holding the phone, expression unreadable. Except—no, not unreadable. Soft. Quiet. Like he’s trying not to show how much that nickname does to him.

“He didn’t nap,” John says casually, but his voice is off. Tighter than usual.

“I’m not surprised,” you reply, eyes still on Elijah. “He only naps for me.”

“Don’t start,” John mutters.

“Start what?”

“Flirting while I’m holding a toddler.”

You blink. “You started it.”

“You answered,” he counters, then smiles. “Lookin’ good, by the way. Field gear suits you.”

Bucky’s voice drifts in from your earpiece. “Tell him to stop checking you out mid-op.”

“Barnes says stop checking me out mid-op.”

John just grins. “Tell Barnes to mind his business.”

You roll your eyes. “Say bye, Eli.”

“Bye, Sunny!” He kisses the screen. “Luh you!”

And just like that, your body forgets the cold. The exhaustion. Everything. John’s eyes flick to you. And linger. “Be careful out there,” he says quietly.

You nod. “Always.”

The call ends.

You stare at the blank screen for a second longer than necessary.

-

Later that week, you weren’t planning to go out. The date was a favor to a friend-of-a-friend—a finance bro with decent hair and too much cologne. He picks a bar with overpriced cocktails and keeps talking about himself.

You check your phone four times in thirty minutes.

The fifth time, you don’t even hesitate.

You call him.

He doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t mock you. Doesn’t tease. Just asks, “Where are you?” And then says, “I’m on my way.”

When he shows up, it’s without Elijah—thankfully. You assume Olivia has him tonight. John pulls up in that black SUV like he’s heading into battle, and when he steps out, he looks pissed.

He’s in jeans and a Henley, forearms taut where he slams the door shut.

Your date blinks. “Who’s that?”

You smile too wide. “My ride.”

John doesn’t say a word. Just stares the guy down, jaw tight. One hand on the open door, the other flexing like he wants a reason to use it.

“You okay?” he asks you, eyes only on you.

You nod. “Now I am.”

The bro tries to protest. “Hey, man, I was just—”

“You can shut up now,” John snaps, eyes narrowing. “She’s good. You’re done.”

You slide into the car before it gets worse. He doesn’t say anything until you’re two blocks away.

“What was that all about?” you finally ask, trying for light. “You show up like my dad. Or… my bodyguard.”

“You called me, remember?” he growls.

“Yeah, I did.” You fold your arms. “Didn’t think you’d actually come.”

“Don’t say shit like that,” he mutters. “You think I’m not gonna show when you ask?”

“I didn’t even think. That’s the problem.” His hands are gripping the wheel too tightly. You glance over. His jaw’s clenched, pulse jumping in his neck. “You jealous, Walker?”

“That guy looked at you like you were a joke.”

“And you don’t?”

“No. You know I look at you like I know exactly what kind of trouble you are.”

You swallow. “That supposed to scare me?”

“Should.”

The silence stretches. Thick. Hot. You shift in your seat, heart racing. “Why’d you come?” you ask quietly.

“Because you called me.”

“That’s not the real answer and we both know it, John.”

He glances at you. The streetlights flicker over his face, highlighting the shadows under his eyes. “It felt good,” he admits, voice raw. “Being your first call.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you don’t.

He pulls up in front of your apartment and shifts into park—but doesn’t unlock the doors. Just sits there.

You turn to him. “You coming in?”

“Don’t ask unless you want me to.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m this close—” he holds up two fingers, barely apart “—to pulling over and finally kissing you senseless.”

Your breath catches. “You could,” you whisper. “If you wanted.”

He looks at you, really looks, and starts to lean in. You meet him halfway. The tension crackles. His hand brushes your cheek. Warm. Callused. Reverent.

And then—

BRRRRZZZZZT.

His phone buzzes violently in the cupholder. He pulls back fast, blinking like he forgot where he was. You exhale shakily. John checks the screen. His face shutters. “It’s Olivia. Probably about Eli.”

You nod. “Go ahead.”

He hesitates, then answers.

You open the door. “Goodnight, John.”

He grabs your wrist before you can leave. “Hey.”

You pause. Look back. His voice is soft. Wrecked. “Still want to kiss you.”

Your lips part. “Then maybe next time don’t wait.” You close the door behind you and don’t look back.

-

Elijah’s fever starts just after lunch.

Nothing dramatic—just a slow burn, cheeks flushed, whimpers between sips of water and repeated cries of “Sunny.” He doesn’t want to nap unless you’re holding him. Won’t eat unless you spoon-feed him applesauce. Every now and then, he drifts off mid-sentence, his fingers still tangled in your sleeve.

You don’t hesitate. You text John.

You snap one—Elijah asleep against your chest, thumb in his mouth, cheeks rosy. You’re not even fully in frame, but John doesn’t miss the detail of your hand resting over his son’s heart, or the way your body curls protectively around him.

You stare at the screen. Heart stuttering. Stomach flipping. You type. Delete. Type again.

You don’t. You should.

Instead, you curl tighter into the hoodie, into Elijah’s weight, into the house that smells like all the things you pretend don’t matter.

But they do.

Because no matter how many times you remind yourself that this isn’t your family, your heart keeps forgetting.

-

It’s 11:43 p.m. when your phone buzzes again. It’s a FaceTime from John.

You answer half-asleep, wrapped in fleece and shadows. Elijah’s down for the count, finally. His breathing even in the baby monitor beside you.

John’s face fills your screen—wet hair, a low-cut tee, tired eyes. “Hey, Sunshine.”

“Hey, Walker.”

His gaze drops to the hoodie you’re wearing. “That mine?”

“Maybe.”

“Looks good on you.”

“Everything looks good on me,” you deadpan.

He laughs, soft and warm. “True.”

You shift under the blanket, self-conscious. “I didn’t mean to steal it. I just… wanted to smell like you.”

He stills.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The tension creeps in. Thick. Slow. Heavy. He watches you like he wants to climb through the screen.

“I miss you,” he says.

You blink. “You miss me or the free childcare?”

“Don’t do that.”

Your breath catches. “Do what?”

“Pretend this doesn’t mean something.” The silence stretches.

You speak first. Quiet. Honest. “It’s getting harder to pretend.”

John exhales. Runs a hand down his face. “You’re in my clothes. In my house. My kid callin’ you Sunny like you’re his favorite damn person in the world.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah,” he says, no hesitation. “You are.”

Your throat tightens. “Come home, John.”

He nods slowly. “I’m trying.”

The call doesn’t end for another hour. But the moment? That lasts the whole damn night.

-

John gets home just after sunrise.

The house is quiet, humming with the soft static of early morning. No cartoons. No little feet slapping against hardwood. No voice calling out “Dada!” on repeat. Just stillness.

He toes off his boots, drops his bag by the door, and makes a beeline for the living room—half-expecting to find you passed out on the couch with the baby monitor tucked under your arm.

But you’re not there. You’re in his bed.

The door’s cracked. Enough for him to see. You’re curled under the blanket, deep asleep, wearing the hoodie you mentioned and nothing else he can see. And tucked into your side—sprawled across your stomach like a starfish—is Elijah, his little hand gripping the edge of the hoodie like it’s his favorite blanket.

John doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

He just… stands there.

And tries not to fall harder.

-

You wake up to the sound of someone clattering in the kitchen and the faint smell of coffee.

Elijah is still snoring on your chest, drooling through your shirt. You shift, stretching one arm and peeking at the monitor. Still on. Still safe.

When you shuffle into the hallway, John’s at the counter. Fresh clothes. Hair damp. Mug in hand. “Morning, Sunshine.”

“Hey,” you mumble, voice rough. He turns, eyes dragging down your legs—bare except for socks and his hoodie, sleeves too long, collar stretched from sleep.

You rub your face and try not to notice the way he stares just a second too long.

“You guys get any sleep?” he asks casually.

“Some. Your son’s a bed hog.”

“Takes after me.”

“I noticed.”

He grins. “You hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Good. You’re comin’ with us.”

You blink. “Us?”

“Me. Elijah. You. Target run. Maybe pancakes. You in?”

You pretend to groan. “Are you asking me on a date or kidnapping me?”

“I’m asking if you want to spend the morning with a grown man who folds laundry like a soldier and a toddler who can’t pronounce ‘banana.’”

You lean against the counter, smile soft. “Hard to say no to that.”

-

It’s so painfully domestic it makes your chest ache.

John pushing the cart with one hand, Elijah babbling nonsense in the seat. You trailing alongside, tossing snacks and wipes and sippy cups into the basket. Every few minutes, Elijah reaches for you—chubby fingers opening and closing with a determined “Sun. Sun!”

John doesn’t stop smiling the whole time. “You’re his favorite,” he says as you wrangle Elijah into his little jacket in the parking lot.

“He’s mine too,” you murmur. John looks at you. Long. Quiet. You look away first.

-

A week later and John’s gone again. Short mission. Three nights, maybe four. He doesn’t like leaving Eli, but Olivia’s schedule is slammed and—well. There’s only one person he trusts with his son when he can’t be there.

You.

You don’t think twice. You’re at the house within twenty minutes of his call, hoodie in your bag, toothbrush already stashed in the bathroom from last time.

By the second day, you’re back in the rhythm. Morning cartoons. Afternoon walks. Bedtime meltdowns and storybooks read on loop.

And John? John’s texting you nonstop. Sometimes it’s just to check in. Other times? Other times it’s more.

You hesitate.

Then give in.

Snap a quick one in the hallway mirror—bare legs, messy bun, oversized hoodie swallowing your frame. No makeup. Just you.

That should’ve been it.

Light flirting. Nothing new. But you’re feeling reckless tonight. Sleep-deprived and warm and just buzzed enough from the glass of wine you allowed yourself after bedtime.

So you snap another photo. A little bolder this time. It’s still the hoodie—but this time you’re lying on the bed. The zipper pulled down just enough to show the dip of your collarbone. The swell of your breasts. A sliver of skin and nothing else. No caption. Just the photo.

And then:

-

The op’s supposed to be clean. Quiet. One-and-done extraction with minimal resistance and no unnecessary fire.

But then again, John should’ve known it wouldn’t be easy the second you stepped out of the briefing room in tactical gear and laced boots, stretching like it was just another Tuesday.

You lock eyes with him as you tighten your gloves. “You ready, Captain?”

He swallows. Hard. “Always, Sunshine.”

He’s seen you tired. Grouchy. Makeup-smudged and hoodie-drowned with a toddler half-asleep on your chest.

But this? This is something else entirely.

On the field, you’re fire and honey, all swaying hips and lethal grace. You move like a weapon—fast, fluid, fucking mesmerizing. You’re not flashy. You’re precise. Efficient. A ghost on the wind. And still somehow the brightest thing in the middle of a goddamn warehouse full of shadows and gunfire.

John nearly walks into a crate watching you dodge a stun charge.

“Eyes up, Walker,” Yelena snaps. “Not on her ass.”

“That’s a damn lie and you know it,” he mutters, adjusting his grip on the shield.

Ava chuckles. “You’re doomed.”

“Shut up.”

You don’t even notice the way he watches you. You’re too busy calling shots, redirecting momentum like a pro. You press your fingers to your comm, murmur something about extraction windows, and when you duck behind cover beside him, you’re all heat and focus.

You glance up, eyes shining with adrenaline. “Having fun yet?”

“Define fun,” John says, voice lower than it needs to be.

You flash a smirk. “I’d define it for you, but then you’d owe me dinner.”

“Bold of you to assume I haven’t been planning that since day one.”

“Bold of you to assume I haven’t been letting you.”

And just like that—boom. He’s gone. The second it settles—operation over, intel secured, comms cleared—John’s pacing outside the extraction van like a man possessed.

He’s not thinking about the objective. He’s thinking about the way your knee brushed his thigh when you both slid behind cover. The curve of your mouth when you called him Captain with a grin. The way you looked—covered in sweat and dirt and pride—laughing with Ava like none of it touched you.

He’s fucked.

He’s in love. It hits him hard. Like an elbow to the solar plexus. Because this isn’t just a crush or a phase or something he’ll sleep off when the hoodie doesn’t smell like you anymore. This is real.

And he’s John Walker.

The dumbass. The joke. The emotionally-stunted dad with the bad PR and the even worse track record. You deserve someone stable. Someone who knows how to hold it together when a woman like you steals his breath and calls his son “baby.”

So he does what he always does.

He covers it up with bullshit.

“You looked good out there,” he says once you’re alone in the back of the van.

“Thanks,” you murmur, leaning your head against the cool metal wall. “You did alright too. For an old man.”

“Old?” He snorts. “You gonna start tucking me in after bedtime too?”

“You want me to?”

You don’t see it—but his jaw tenses. “Depends. You bringin’ the hoodie you commandeered?”

“It’s still mine.”

“I’ll allow it. On one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“You wear it to bed again.”

Your eyes flick to him. Heat under your skin. “That almost sounded like a fantasy.”

“It is.”

Silence.

Thick.

And then—you both look away at the same time.

Like cowards.

Later that night, while you’re showering off the mission grime in the team’s safehouse, John’s lying on his bunk, staring at the ceiling, phone in hand.

He re-looks the last photo you sent. The one in his hoodie. No pants. Just legs and attitude and a caption that said: You’re missing the best part of your house.

He groans.

Slaps a hand over his eyes.

And says aloud, to no one in particular, “God help me, I think I’m gonna marry her.”

-

The post-mission bar isn’t glamorous, but it’s open late, and no one questions IDs or how many weapons you’re packing. The music’s loud, the lights are low, and the air smells like cheap beer and sweat.

Ava’s halfway through her second whiskey when she leans into John’s side, eyes narrowed. “You’re in love with her.”

John doesn’t look up from his beer. “Nope.”

“Liar.” Yelena slams her glass down and spins toward him on her stool, grinning like a gremlin. “I give it two weeks before you combust.”

“I’m not combusting,” he mutters.

“You were literally hard for half the op.”

John chokes on his drink. “Excuse me?!”

“I was behind you,” Yelena says sweetly. “Trust me. If there was a roundhouse kick, I would’ve caught friendly fire.”

“Can’t help it,” Ava adds, sipping. “Guy’s walking around with a lightsaber in his pants.”

“Val warned us during onboarding,” Yelena stage-whispers. “Special equipment.”

John groans, dragging a hand over his face. “You two done?”

“Not even close,” Ava says. “You were panting watching her knock out that merc in one hit.”

“She was hot!” John defends.

“Uh-huh,” Yelena grins. “You know what else was hot? Your entire face when she touched your arm. Looked like you were gonna propose.”

“You think I’d propose that fast?”

They both blink. “…So you’ve thought about proposing,” Ava says.

He slams his glass down. “I’m getting another drink.”

You find him twenty minutes later at the edge of the dance floor, sipping bourbon and looking like he’s trying not to die inside. You nudge him with your hip. “You hiding?”

“I was until you found me.”

You grin. “Poor baby. Girls giving you hell?”

“You mean the two harpies dissecting my facial expressions like I’m on trial? Yeah.”

“Can’t imagine why,” you say innocently.

“You want in on it too?”

“Nope.” You lean in, hand sliding around his wrist. “I just want a dance.”

He stiffens. “Here?”

“Scared?”

“Of you? Always.” Still, he follows when you tug him forward. Onto the floor. Into the blur of moving bodies and pulsing bass.

You press close. Not inappropriate. Not quite. But close enough that his breath catches when your hand slides up his arm. When you sway your hips to the beat and your chest brushes his. “You okay, Captain?”

“Peachy,” he says, voice tight.

You smirk. “Liar.”

He’s holding you too carefully. Like if he moves too fast, he’ll break the illusion—or maybe lose control entirely.

And you? You’re not helping. Your hand drags down his chest, slow and deliberate. His fingers curl into your waist. “You’ve been quiet all night,” you murmur against his ear.

“Trying not to say something stupid.”

“Try me.”

“You wore my hoodie. You sent me that photo. Then you walked onto the field like a goddamn fever dream. And now you’re doing this.” His voice drops, low and sharp. “You know exactly what you’re doing to me.”

You blink. Your smile softens. “Then stop pretending you don’t want it.” He exhales like he’s in pain.

Then Ava’s voice cuts through the crowd.’“Wrap it up, Walker! You’re two pelvic thrusts away from turning this into an HR violation!”

You laugh. He groans. The spell breaks. But the damage? It’s already done.

-

It’s well after midnight when you finally give in.

The house is too quiet. No Elijah babbling in the monitor. No cartoons humming from the TV. Just you. Alone in John Walker’s bed.

In his hoodie.

Wrapped up in sheets that still smell like him.

You’ve been here before. Dozens of times. But not like this. Not without the reason of babysitting. Not without the excuse of a sick toddler or a late mission briefing.

He’s away.

Elijah’s with Olivia.

And you’re still here.

Because when he handed you the spare key, it meant something. Even if neither of you said it out loud.

You roll over, check your phone, thumb hovering over his name.

It’s stupid.

You shouldn’t.

You do it anyway.

It rings. Once. Twice.

“Sunshine?” He sounds half-asleep. Low. Raspy. Like he rolled over to answer it without opening his eyes.

You breathe into the receiver. Just a second. Just long enough to gather the courage. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Yeah?” His voice lifts a little. “You at home?”

Your heart stutters. “Yours.”

“…Wait, what?”

You curl tighter under his blanket, nose brushing the collar of the hoodie. “Mhm. Just—couldn’t settle down. Didn’t wanna be alone.”

He goes quiet for a second too long. “You’re at my house right now?”

“Yeah. In your bed.” Still quiet. Except now you hear it: his breathing changes. Deeper. Sharper.

“You wearin’ my hoodie?”

“Mhm.”

“Jesus.”

You press the edge of the phone tighter to your cheek. Say nothing.

“I didn’t think you’d actually go over while I was gone.”

“I didn’t plan to. Just… ended up here.”

“Yeah?” His tone softens. “That why you called? Wanted to say hi?”

You pause.

Then, barely above a whisper. “Wanted to hear your voice.”

He stills completely. You add, slower this time: “It helps.”

“…Helps with what, baby?”

You let out a soft, shaky breath when he speaks. But the second he calls you baby, a small, involuntary whimper slips out.

That does it.

He groans. Low. Rough. Like he can feel you through the phone. “Don’t do that, Sunshine.”

“Do what?”

“Sound like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re laid out in my bed, in my clothes, legs squeezed together, and all I’d have to do is say your name a little softer to make you fall apart.”

Your breath catches. Your fingers tighten in the sheets. “John…”

“Yeah, baby?” It’s devastating—how he says it. All breath. All heat. Like he’s already half-undone just imagining you.

“I miss the way your arms felt around me. When we danced.”

He swears softly under his breath. “You’re killin’ me.”

“You started it.”

“Nah, sweetheart. You started it the second you put that hoodie on and sent me that picture.”

“I didn’t send you a picture tonight.”

“No, but I can see you. Right now. In my head.”

Another breath. Yours this time. Desperate. “John…”

“You need me there?”

“Yes.”

“You needy, baby?”

“You don’t get to tease me when I’m calling you like this.”

“I’m not teasing,” he says, voice gravel-thick. “I’m picturing it. You, all curled up in my bed. Hoodie soft on your skin. No pants, I bet.” Your throat is too tight to answer. “Bet you smell like me,” he murmurs. “Bet that’s why you’re in there. That’s what helps you sleep.”

You whimper again. “Yeah,” he breathes. “I’d put money on the fact you’re wet right now. Just from me talkin’ like this.”

“You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Then stop soundin’ like you wanna come apart just from my voice.”

You press the phone against your cheek, half-wrecked. “You’ll be home soon, right?”

“I’ll break every damn speed limit to get there if you keep talkin’ like that.”

“You’d better.”

“Sleep, baby. I mean it. I’ll be there soon.”

“You’ll hold me again?”

“Yeah,” he says, soft now. Reverent. “First thing.”

You fall asleep to the sound of his breathing on the other end. And the promise that the next time you call him like this… he’ll be there to answer with more than words.

-

The week after your last mission is brutal.

Not because of the job. The job’s easy—scouting, tailing, extraction, report.

What’s hard is the distance.

You and John are never in the same place at the same time anymore. Olivia’s got doubles, John’s doing recon, and you’re still watching Elijah whenever you’re in town.

John always leaves the house spotless for you. Your favorite snacks stocked. A fresh towel on the bathroom hook. Sometimes he texts you before he even lands. But it’s the late-night texts that really start to unravel you.

Tuesday, 11:47 p.m.

Wednesday, 12:06 a.m.

Thursday, 9:32 p.m.

By Friday, you’re calling him and asking what this is. What you’re doing. He meets the conversation head on— and then you talk.

You talk about dominance and softness. About control and being needed. About how you don’t want a savior—you want a partner. Someone who sees through your sharpness and knows you’re a little needy underneath.

He tells you he hasn’t wanted anyone like this in years. That it scares him how much you get under his skin. He talks about how he wants you physically. Emotionally. You swear you hear his voice shake when you tell him how safe he makes you feel.

You’re counting down the minutes until he comes home.

But you break on Saturday night when Elijah’s asleep. Olivia’s schedule didn’t change, so you’re staying over again. You’re alone in John’s house—his hoodie on your body, your thighs bare against his sheets.

And you miss him so bad it makes your whole body ache.

So you take a picture. You’re curled on your side in his bed, phone angled low, tank top pushed up a little. A flash of hip, the waistband of your underwear, the soft fall of your hair over the pillow. You send it. The only caption? please call me.

He calls five minutes later. You answer on the first ring. “Hi.”

He sounds wrecked. Like he sprinted somewhere and hasn’t caught his breath. “Sweetheart…”

“I’m sorry—”

“No. Don’t apologize.”

“I just—God, I missed you. I know I’m clingy, and I know I’m needy, and—”

“Hey. Hey.” His voice softens. “You’re allowed to need me.”

You swallow hard. “It’s embarrassing.”

“You wanna know what’s embarrassing?”

“What?”

“I saw that picture and had to excuse myself from the fuckin’ briefing room. Told Val I had heartburn. She’s gonna make fun of me for months.”

You laugh. It cracks under the weight of your chest. “You in my bed right now? In my clothes?” He asks voice warm.

“Yeah.”

“Goddamn. You touching yourself?”

“Not yet.”

“You want to?”

Your breath hitches. “Yeah.”

“You wet, baby?” You nod, before realizing he can’t see it. “Say it.”

“I’m wet.”

“For me?”

“Only ever for you.”

He groans—low, helpless. You hear a shift—his back hitting the headboard, his voice gravel-thick. “Slide your hand down.”

You do. “Under your panties.” You whimper. “How’s it feel?”

“Warm. Slick. I—John—”

“Yeah, baby?”

“I can’t stop thinking about you. About your hands. Your arms around me.”

“Fuck.”

“When we danced,” you whisper, “I didn’t wanna let go. I still don’t.”

He swears. You hear it muffled—like he’s trying not to fall apart with you. “You talk pretty when you’re needy,” he murmurs.

“So what are you gonna do about it?”

“Talk you through it. Make you come with nothin’ but my voice.”

“Only tonight?”

“Every night if you let me.”

Your hips roll into your palm. Slow. Desperate. “Tell me what to do.”

And he does. God, he does. Soft at first. Then sharper. Then reverent. His voice sinks into your skin until you’re squirming, moaning into his pillow, one hand clutching his sheets while the other follows his every word. “That’s it. Just like that, baby. You’re gonna be the death of me.”

“John—”

“Let go.” And you do. Quietly. Completely. His name is the only thing you know how to say. When it’s over, he’s still on the line. “You okay?”

“I think I saw stars.”

“You’re fuckin’ amazing.” He groans, and you laugh. Then he takes a deep breath. “I don’t want almost anymore.”

“Me either.”

“We’re gonna talk. When I’m home.”

“Promise?”

“Swear to God, Sunshine. I’m comin’ home to you.”

-

John doesn’t tell you he’s coming back. You open your front door to let in more light, and there he is—car keys in hand, Eli balanced on his hip like nothing in the world’s changed.

Except everything has. Because when he sees you? He smiles. Like it means something. You don’t even get a full hello out before Elijah squeals, arms outstretched. “Sunny!”

He practically launches from John’s hold, and you catch him with a little spin, laughing as his tiny hands grab at your cheeks. “Hey, buddy. You missed me?”

“Mhm,” he mumbles, head tucked into your shoulder. “Missed snackies. Missed you.”

John watches from the threshold—quiet, lingering. “Told him that you were gonna cry,” he teases.

“Shut up,” you say, voice thick.

He just grins and reaches out to you. “C’mere,” he purrs and wraps an arm around your waist as he presses a kiss to your temple, one hand still resting on Elijah back between you. He doesn’t let go for a long time.

You spend the day with the boys. John takes Elijah to the park while you sit on the blanket and read and sneaks you gummy bears while Eli isn’t looking. He grills for lunch, makes fun of your overly complicated burger preferences, and threatens to throw you over his shoulder when you sass him. It’s… domestic. Easy. Like it’s always been this way.

Later, when Elijah goes down for a nap, John leans against the hallway doorway with his arms crossed. He’s quiet. Thoughtful.

“You okay?” you ask.

“Yeah.” He nods toward the living room. You follow him there, sitting close on the couch. Your knees brush. He doesn’t move away. “I’ve been thinkin’.”

“Dangerous.”

He huffs a soft laugh. “I told you before. I don’t want this to stay… halfway,” he says.

You look up. “This?”

“You and me.”

Your heart flutters. “Me neither.”

He nods. Glances down. Like it took everything in him just to say that. You lean in and he meets you half way. When he kisses you, its not soft. Not tentative.

It���s hungry. Hot. His hand in your hair, your knees pulled across his lap, your body flush against his as his mouth takes yours over and over again like he’s starved for it.

And then—

A knock at the door.

You both freeze. “It’s probably—”

“Yeah.”

He opens it and Olivia stands there. You sit up, adjusting your shirt, face flushed. Olivia glances at you. Then at John. Then back. She raises an eyebrow. “Well, it’s about damn time.”

You blink. “Wait, you’re not mad?”

“Please.” She waves a hand. “I’ve known for weeks. Eli calls you Sunny like it’s a love song and I know he had to pick that up from somewhere.” She casts a pointed look at her ex husband.

John groans, but she continues with a smile. “I’m here to talk about my cousin’s grad party next weekend. But I can come back.”

“No, no,” you say quickly, standing. “I should head out anyway.” You brush past John with a small smile and he trails you out the door.

“You good?” he murmurs.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll text you.”

“You better.” You kiss his cheek and walk to your car.

He watches you until your car vanishes off his street.

-

You don’t know what to expect when John says he wants to take you out properly.

Not just for dinner. But for a date.

He said the words exactly like that—voice low, serious, a little shy. “Let me take you out. Like… not just ‘grab food and come back to my place.’ I want to do this right. A date.”

So when he shows up at your door—clean-shaven, in a dark button-down that fits him too well, bouquet in hand, eyes soft—you just… blink.

“Hey, sunshine.”

You laugh, breathless, and step aside to let him in. “You got me flowers?”

He shrugs one shoulder, a little bashful. “They’re not great. But they’re yellow. Thought they’d be fitting.”

You smile, ear-to-ear. “They do.”

You let him watch you put them in water. He doesn’t say anything, just leans in the doorway and watches like he’s memorizing something private.

He takes you to a quiet place on the edge of the city. No press. No fanfare. Just dim lights, good food, and a view of the water. It’s not fancy. But it’s perfect.

John pulls your chair out. Orders your drink without asking, because he remembers. You talk. You laugh. You tease. But under it all, there’s a softness neither of you names yet.

He looks at you like he’s still in disbelief.

“You ever get tired of starin’ at me?” you tease, sipping your wine.

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Not once.”

You blink. He grins, not cocky—just honest.

“I’m serious. You’re the best thing I’ve seen in years.” And then, quieter, he adds, “I think about you even when I shouldn’t.”

Later, when you’re walking side by side along the water, his hand brushes yours. You link fingers without a word.

He squeezes.

You squeeze back.

“You’re different,” he says.

“How so?”

“You’re the only person who ever made me feel like I could be good without tryin’ to prove it.”

That one hits. Deep.

You stop and turn to face him. “I already know you’re good, John.”

His jaw works. Like he’s trying to keep it together. You cup his cheek and smile as he leans into it.

“I don’t care about the shield,” you whisper. “Or the past. Or what the world sees. I care about the man who holds his son like he’s the whole world. The one who lets me borrow his hoodie and watches cartoons with me. The one who shows up.”

He blinks. Hard.

And then he kisses you. Slow and deep. Nothing rushed. Just steady and real.

-

Back in the car, your hand stays on his thigh. He holds it there, thumb brushing the back of your knuckles like he’s trying to say thank you without words.

At a red light, he glances over. “You wanna come home with me?”

You smile. “Always.”

He lets out a breath. Like he didn’t know he was holding it. “You sure?”

You lean in, kiss his jaw. “Yeah, John. I’m sure.”

-

You kick your shoes off by the door and watch as John shrugs out of his jacket, hanging it neatly on the hook beside the fridge. He doesn’t even glance at it—but you notice the way his muscles move under his shirt when he lifts his arms.

“Want tea?” he asks, like he hasn’t been fighting the urge to kiss you again since the car.

You nod. “Sure.”

He puts the kettle on. You slide onto the couch. It’s familiar here—the soft click of the stove, the muted hum of the baby monitor in the other room (Elijah’s already tucked in at Olivia’s for the weekend). The space smells like cedar and coffee and laundry detergent. It smells like him.

You curl your legs beneath you and watch him move. The way his hand braces the counter. The flex of his forearms when he opens a cabinet. He’s domestic and devastating all at once.

“I had a good time tonight,” you say softly.

He glances over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

You nod. “You were sweet.”

“I’m always sweet,” he deadpans, but there’s a twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

The kettle whistles. He pours two mugs and brings them over, sitting beside you with a quiet grunt. As you take your tea cup from him, your fingers brush, sending a small jolt through your spine. You sip in silence for a few seconds.

Then—

“You keep lookin’ at me like that, sunshine,” he murmurs, “and I’m gonna forget how to be a gentleman.”

Your gaze flicks to him. “I like you better when you’re not trying so hard to be one,” you reply, voice soft, teasing.

That gets you a huff of a laugh. But he doesn’t look away. Neither do you.

He shifts a little closer, the warmth of him seeping into your side. His fingers brush your knee. Then rest there, calloused and steady. “You keep wearin’ my hoodie to bed?”

“Mhm.”

“You sleep in my shirts, too?”

“I like to pretend you’re still here.”

His hand tightens slightly on your leg. His voice is rough when he speaks again. “You think about me when I’m gone?”

You nod. “Too much.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches you. “I think about you, too,” he finally says. “Sometimes I get home from a mission and this place’s too quiet. Too clean. Makes me wish you were already in it.”

You look at him, startled by the honesty. “John.”

He sets his mug down and turns toward you fully. Then, softly asks, “Can I kiss you again?”

You nod.

He kisses you like it’s instinct.

No rush.

No fight.

Just mouths brushing, hands finding skin. The slow, deliberate kind of kiss that builds. You end up straddling his lap before either of you really registers the shift, your arms looped around his neck, his hands splayed over your hips.

“You’re trouble,” he murmurs into your mouth.

“You love it.”

“Yeah,” he whispers. “I do.”

You roll your hips once, slowly. He groans. His fingers dig into your thighs. He looks up at you—eyes heavy, breathing uneven. “You wanna take this to bed?”

You nod. Breathless. Wanting. He stands, lifting you with him like it’s nothing.

His hands are firm on your hips as he carries you, your arms looped around his neck, your nose brushing his jaw.

It’s quiet in the bedroom when he sets you down.

But your pulse is loud. So is his breath.

He leans down, presses a kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then your mouth—soft, almost cautious, like he’s waiting for you to flinch.

You don’t.

You chase his lips instead.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” you murmur, your fingers at the buttons of his shirt.

He helps you, undoing the rest with shaking hands. You drag it off his shoulders, and your breath hitches at the sight of him. Strong. Solid. Familiar, and yet so intimate like this.

“Your turn,” he says, low and warm.

You slip your top off and toss it aside, bare from the waist up. He stops. Just stares for a second. Then reaches out like you’re something holy.

“Jesus,” he whispers. “You’re beautiful.”

You pull him close, skin to skin now, and he makes a noise that sounds like something breaking open.

You fall back onto the bed together—slow, careful, a tangle of hands and mouths. You’re not rushing. He touches you like he’s trying to learn you. Like he wants to memorize every reaction. Every sigh. Every shiver.

His mouth trails down your throat, across your collarbone, between your breasts. He kisses slow. Hands anchoring you to the bed.

You’re already trembling.

“Still good?” he asks, looking up at you.

You nod. “So good.”

“You nervous?”

“A little.”

His palm slides up your thigh. “Me too.”

You laugh softly. “You?”

“I’ve never wanted to do this right so badly.”

That admission—so honest, so raw—makes you kiss him again, hard and deep.

He groans into your mouth and presses a knee between your legs, parting them. He strokes over your panties, eyes on your face the whole time.

“You’re soaked,” he murmurs. “For me?”

You nod. “Only you.”

He kisses you again. Then slides those panties down your legs, slow and reverent.

You feel bare. Exposed. But never unsafe.

When his fingers slide through your folds, your whole body jolts.

“Shh,” he soothes. “I’ve got you.”

He keeps his touch slow—teasing circles, dipping shallow just to watch your face. He kisses you through every gasp. Every twitch. When he sinks a finger in, your hips rise.

You’re clinging to him already.

“I love how you fall apart for me,” he murmurs.

You arch. “John—”

“I know, baby. I know.”

You tug at his jeans, and he chuckles as he shimmies out of them, followed by his boxers. When he presses against you—bare, thick, heavy—you freeze.

Oh, fuck.

Your eyes go wide. He’s thick. Long. Veined. Heavy in his hand. You whimper.

“That’s the sound I like,” he mutters. “Scared little gasp like you know I’m too big for this sweet little pussy.”

“You are,” you breathe.

“I’ll make it fit.” He notices the look in your eye at his words and pauses for a moment. “Still okay, baby?” He asks, tone soft again. Reverent.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Just… it’s a lot.”

He grins, a little cocky now. “It is.”

You swat at his chest. “I mean emotionally, jackass.”

But you’re laughing.

So is he.

It breaks the tension. Eases you back into it.

He lines himself up, the head of his cock nudging your entrance.

You’re soaked. Sensitive. Wrecked already.

And he knows it.

He leans down, mouth to your ear. “Gonna split you open, baby. Real slow. Let you feel every inch.” He promises. “But you can stop me any time.”

You nod. And when he finally pushes in—slow, stretching, breath catching in his throat—you clutch him like a lifeline.

He curses softly. “That’s it,” he groans. “Take it. Just like that.”

He bottoms out, hips flush against yours.

You breathe through it, feeling every inch. The burn fades to fullness. To pressure. To something deep and real. “You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod. “Don’t stop.”

“Atta girl,” he purrs. He starts to move—shallow thrusts, careful, eyes locked on yours. You’re gasping into his shoulder, legs wrapping around his waist, trying to pull him closer.

He kisses your cheek. Your neck. Your temple. “I’m right here,” he whispers. “I’ve got you, baby.”

You’re not just moaning anymore.

You’re feeling.

Letting go.

He speeds up slightly, still controlled, but deeper now. His hand finds yours on the pillow, fingers threading tight.

“I missed you,” you say, voice breaking. Because you can’t say I love you yet. Not without feeling like it would be weird.

He kisses the corner of your eye, catching the tear that slips free. And you wonder, for a brief moment, if he knows what you really mean when he says, “I missed you, too, sunshine. So fuckin’ much.”

You come first—shaking and overwhelmed, sobbing his name into his neck as he holds you through it. He follows with a groan so low and deep it curls your toes, burying himself as far as he can go.

And when it’s over—

He doesn’t move.

Just stays inside you. Kisses your shoulder.

Then your hand.

Then your lips.

Like he’s still trying to believe it’s real.

-

You don’t plan to move in a few months later. You just… start forgetting things. A toothbrush here. A hoodie there. A mug you like. Socks in his laundry.

John notices. Of course he does. He just doesn’t say anything—until he trips over your slippers in the hallway.

“These yours?” he asks, holding one like it personally offended him.

You look up from where you’re folding laundry. “Yeah.”

He just looks at you like he’s waiting.

You raise a brow but smirk as you speak. “Say thank you.”

“For what?”

“For finally admitting you like me being here.”

He snorts, tosses the slipper at your leg, and walks off grumbling something about “taking over his damn closet.”

The next week, Elijah insists on brushing his teeth next to you. He drags a little stepstool to the sink, looks up at you through the mirror, and declares, “I like when you sleep over. You make Dada eat pancakes.”

John, walking in with wet hair and a towel slung low on his hips, blinks at you both. “I do not eat pancakes.”

Elijah grins, toothpaste foam on his chin. “You had four.”

You grin at John, handing Elijah a washcloth.

“Busted.” You tease.

It builds from there. A basket of your skincare products in the bathroom. Books on his nightstand. Elijah’s drawings on the fridge—stick figures labeled me, Daddy, and Sunny.

You overhear John on the phone with Olivia one night, pacing the hallway. He doesn’t say coworker. Doesn’t say babysitter. Doesn’t even say girlfriend. He just says, “She’s here. Yeah. Home.”

And your heart does something it’s not supposed to do that casually.

You still argue sometimes. About dumb things—dish soap, laundry folding methods, whether Die Hard is a Christmas movie. About serious things. But you always prioritize communicating and not going to bed angry.

“You’re folding that shirt like a sociopath,” you say, elbow-deep in laundry.

“It’s a tactical fold,” he deadpans. “For maximum drawer efficiency.”

“It’s ugly.”

“You’re ugly.”

“You want me to fold your shirts or fold you?”

“Yes,” He smirks and wiggles his eyebrows at you.

You throw a sock at his face.

-

One night, Elijah’s having a bad dream. You’re up before John even hears the cry, already halfway down the hallway. When John catches up, you’re rubbing Elijah’s back, murmuring something soft while he curls into your side, hiccuping through sleepy tears.

John leans in the doorway. Watches. Says nothing. Just crosses his arms over his chest and exhales like it hurts. Later that night, when he climbs into bed, he kisses your shoulder without a word and tucks you into his side a little tighter than usual.

One Saturday morning, Elijah’s curled into your lap on the couch, watching cartoons and feeding you dry cereal from a cup with sticky fingers. John walks in from a run, sweaty and flushed, and pauses in the doorway.

You glance up. “What?”

He shakes his head. “Nothin’. Just…” He walks over, leans down, and kisses your temple. “You two are somethin’ else.”

Eventually, you realize half your wardrobe lives in his dresser. Your name’s on Elijah’s emergency contact forms. The barista at the corner shop starts calling you the “Walker order.”

You still have your own place. But every time you walk into this one— it feels like the only place that matters.

-

The house is dark when John returns.

He’s dusted with exhaustion, boots muddy from the field, duffel heavy on his shoulder. His neck aches. His mind’s still half on the debrief. But all of that vanishes the second he steps through the door.

Because it smells like home. There’s a familiar mug in the sink—your mug. One of Elijah’s little socks on the hallway floor. A quiet cartoon menu screen flickering on the living room TV.

And then—

Soft snoring.

He moves quietly down the hall, pushing the bedroom door open with careful fingers. There you are.

Asleep on top of the covers, legs tangled with Elijah’s, the two of you curled like a matched set. His son’s tiny hand is tucked beneath your cheek. You’ve got one of John’s hoodies on—oversized, worn soft—and your face is turned toward Elijah’s like you’d never dream of letting go.

John forgets to breathe. Because this? This is the part of his life he never thought he’d get back. Not after everything. Not after who he became. But it’s here. In his bed. In his house. With his son.

And you.

Always you.

He crosses to the edge of the bed and crouches down, elbows on his knees, just watching for a moment. His eyes drift over the soft rise and fall of your chest, the way Elijah sleeps with one foot tucked under your leg like he knows this is safe.

“Hey,” you whisper, barely stirring.

John blinks. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.” Your voice is groggy. “Just… felt you.”

He swallows hard at that. His hand finds yours where it rests near Elijah’s shoulder.

“Mission go okay?” you ask softly.

“Yeah. Long.”

“You hungry?”

“Not for food,” he says, before he can stop himself.

Your eyes flick to his.

Something shifts.

Carefully, you ease yourself out from under Elijah’s weight, whisper a soft kiss to his curls, and meet John in the hallway, closing the door gently behind you.

And then it’s just the two of you. In the warm hush of the hallway. Nothing between you but air and months of everything.

“I missed you,” you say, voice tight.

John steps in, close—too close—and cups your cheek with one calloused hand.

“You’ve ruined me,” he murmurs.

You blink. “What?”

“You. This. I used to think I didn’t get to have soft things. That I didn’t deserve a second shot.”

Your heart beats faster. “And then you showed up in my house. Made Elijah laugh over and over. Took over my closet. Argued with me about dish soap. And I didn’t even realize I’d let you in until you were already home.”

You reach for him—palm to his chest. Right over his heart. “You’re not the only one who didn’t think they deserved this,” you whisper.

He leans in, forehead resting on yours. “I love you,” he says, rough and sure and without a single inch of hesitation.

Your breath catches. “I love you, too.”

He kisses you—slow and deep, not hurried or hungry, but like he knows. Like he’s trying to memorize how it feels when everything finally clicks. When he pulls back, he grins—thumb brushing your cheek, forehead still pressed to yours. “You’re in my bed every time I come home.”

You arch a brow. “Problem?”

“No,” he says quietly. “It’s my favorite damn thing.”

A pause. Then he says, “I don’t want you leaving it anymore.”

Your heart stutters. “John—”

“I mean it,” he says, voice rough now. “Don’t go back to your place. Don’t wake up somewhere that isn’t next to me.”

You look up at him—brows drawn, breath caught, that dangerous, tender thing stretching between you. “You asking me to move in?”

“I’m asking you to stay,” he says. “For good.”

You snort. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m in love,” he says. “I can be ridiculous.”

Then, softer, he murmurs, “only for you, sunshine. Always only you,” as he presses a kiss to your temple.

-

Elijah’s asleep. The dishes are done. The house is quiet. You’re curled into John’s side on the couch, wearing one of his old shirts and nothing else, your legs tangled under a shared blanket. He’s got a hand on your thigh, thumb brushing absentminded circles. On the coffee table, your mug sits next to his. Matching. Lived in. Home.

“You ever think we’d end up like this?” you murmur.

John smiles, kisses your temple, and pulls you closer.

“Not once,” he says. “But I’d do it all over again just to get here.”

[xocellyy]

THIS IS AMAZING!!

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.

[xocellyy]

when you read the most beautifully written fic of your favourite character and you check for a second part and realize they haven’t posted in 3 years.. (you are not getting that second part)

[xocellyy]

Not currently writing.

hii a little get to know me

my name is cel

i’m 20

i love marvel, video games, and lewis pullman.

i will be using this account to post fics i write. I do not have set dates for anything and don’t plan on it until i get into the groove.

i’m newer to writing so bear with me while i figure out my style and please note that most of my work will probably be 18+ so MDNI!

[xocellyy]

GAMBIT & ROGUE | X-Men '97