Molly

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This Year's Girl

Gif by the lovely @loveu2themoonandtosaturn, dividers by @/cursed-carmin

Eddie Munson x Cheerleader!Reader

Summary: It was a normal day for Eddie. Arriving at school late, getting to class late, leaving lunch late. But then an anonymous note, inked in glittery pink gel, fluttered from his locker. And he knew whose it was. No doubt about it. Because it was the same handwriting as the short message on the last page of his junior yearbook. Carved in glitter, color faded from the amount of times his thumb had traced every curved letter, every dotted ‘i’ and crossed ‘t’. It was yours. It was you. Calling him to the forest behind the school. And he had never been so early. 

Or

You seek Eddie out, maybe for a little herbal relief, maybe for something more. And who is he to turn down such a pretty girl? But how will he fare having to skirt the edges of your loose-lipped truths?

Word Count: 11.1k

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, PiV unprotected sex, semi-public sex, cream pie, virginity loss, dirty talk, nipple stim, fingering, oral (f rec), mention of masturbation (m), insinuated hypothetical pregnancy, virgin!Reader, semi-experienced!Eddie, fluff, mild angst, very mild dubcon (both R & E are high), Eddie’s POV, drug usage (weed), feelings, insecurity, fem pronouns, if I missed anything lmk!

Song Recs: Evie by Shoe, Palomino by FINNEAS,  I Want Somebody Badly by Jeff Buckley

A/N: Everyone say thank you and kiss this anon’s forehead for the idea. Also, it’s been a minute since I’ve freshly written a full fic and not just posted a draft from the summer, so be nice to me.

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 “You’re pretty.”

The words catch Eddie off guard. Especially since you haven’t spoken in two minutes, utterly transfixed by the sky above. Or maybe it was the falling leaves that stole your attention; scarlet and gold floating on the autumn breeze. Delicate. Pretty. 

Either way, he hadn’t expected to hear such a sentiment from the Hawkins High cheer captain. 

Although, he hadn’t expected to be here with you, at all, as a matter of fact. 

Not in the woods behind the school.

And definitely not alone. 

It’s unnatural.

You, laid out on top of the picnic table. Him, hunched on the seat below, straddling the old plank of wood. Too close. 

Closer than he’s ever been. 

It’s aberrant, really.

But maybe, just for today, everything is topsy-turvy. 

Maybe it will go back to normal soon. You in your bubble, him in his. Two separate worlds. Two separate planets orbiting the same rust-bucket town. The same miserable high school. At least for a few more months. 

Then he’ll get the hell out of this place. Just drive and drive and drive until the scent of manure no longer singes his nose hairs. Until the cornfields turn into beaches. Or mountains. Or shit, even swamp lands. He’s not picky. 

And you’ll be off at some college, probably. 

Find a braincell-deficient jock and pop out a couple of kids. He’s picturing a picket fence somewhere there, too. Possibly a station wagon with that dumb wooden interior. He hates that wooden interior. 

And you’ll forget he ever existed. 

And he’ll—

“So pretty.” 

It’s lower this time. A whisper. Like it was only meant to stay inside your head. Like you weren’t even aware you said it. 

And maybe you aren’t aware. Maybe the weed is hitting you hard. Too hard. It’s only your first time. 

So maybe he should pretend like he didn’t hear. Just continue to act like the metal box in front of him needs reorganizing. 

Re-reorganizing, even. 

Whatever it takes to not notice the way your pleated skirt has ridden up, bunched at the tops of your thighs. 

Because he hasn’t noticed. 

No, he’s not aware of how smooth your skin looks, or how the cherry blossom scent of your lotion seems to intoxicate him more than the shared joint, now forgotten, smoldering between your fingers. 

He has no idea what color panties you’re wearing, and absolutely no clue what powder blue fabric looks like when it darkens. 

Baggies to the left. Try to prop them up against each other. Bottles to the right. Line them up. Shit, the baggies won’t sit upright. Maybe lay them flat? Then, if he moves the tin—

“Do you think I’m pretty, too?” 

Fuck. 

Your heavy-lidded gaze is directed at him now, and he finally feels the high. Or maybe it’s just your effect; the kind of haze that leaves him wondering what new strain has him seeing a real life angel. The kind of feeling that sends his heart away at a dead sprint and his mind swimming in a tank of molasses.

Everything is muffled. And there’s only you. And those eyes. Waiting.

“Y-Yeah,” he chokes, hoping you don’t see the heat blooming beneath his cheeks. “You’re pretty. ‘S kinda your thing.” He shrugs. “Popular and pretty.”

It’s a deflection. It’s bitter. It’s crashing through the bubble with an unceremonious pop. 

Because yes, you’re pretty. Everyone knows it. Everyone.

Him noticing isn’t any different. 

You blink. “But do you think I’m pretty? Just pretty.”

He pauses, wondering, for only a split second, if this was all some kind of elaborate rouse to incriminate him. If, any minute now, Andy and Jason are going to step out from behind one of these trees, itching for a fight. Because Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson is tainting the precious queen of Hawkins High. His no-good, low-life, burn-out presence might as well stain your skin like black tar.

But he nods, nonetheless. A calculated risk; it’s shaky, not insincere. 

And that seems to be enough because your painted lips twitch into a small smile. It’s a breath of fresh air. If only his heart would stop pounding against his ribs like it’s trying to get out. To get to you.

“I told my friends, once, and they didn’t talk to me for a day and a half.”

Your smile is gone now. And your gaze is empty as you turn back to the tree tops. 

Eddie shifts in his seat, feeling more and more like he’s fallen through the looking glass. 

“T-Told them what?” 

He’s not sure he wants the clarification. Not sure he wants to understand. Because it doesn’t seem like it’ll work. Like he’ll never truly understand if you say what he—

“That I think you’re pretty,” you mutter, turning to him again, a simple pout weighing your features down.

Fuck.

“We were talking about crushes, and they said theirs. And they were so…excited…. And Heather was trying to convince Jackie S. to tell Patrick how she felt. And I wanted to feel it too.”

He can barely breathe, so he stays silent, just letting you speak to no one in particular. Because he’s not here. 

Not now. 

Not on this planet. 

Not in the same reality as the girl he’s pretended not to watch since the middle school talent show. The girl whose perfume somehow lives in his mind, though he’s never bathed in it longer than a shoulder brush through the halls. Not that girl, not in this reality. 

Not you. Telling him he’s pretty. No way—

“—wanted to hear what they’d say. Like if they would tell me we’d look cute together, or they’d say they’ve seen you looking at me, or something, and maybe there’s a chance.” 

Fuck, he’s low on E. 

And these damn baggies don’t organize well—he should really label them. And Reefer Rick has probably laced this new, stupid supply with something because there’s simply no conceivable way—

“But they just looked at me like I said something insane. Asked me if I was joking. They didn’t believe me at first—” 

He snorts, twisting the skull ring around his finger until the skin underneath starts to heat. You’re silent now, and he almost doesn’t want to look. But he has to. So he does.

Your polished nails, the lipstick stained joint, thousands of wool fibers bending and yielding to the curves of your body. Then that pout, your eyes. A frown.

The baggies of pills, the weathered wood; carved initials giving way to new grain.

“You don’t believe me, either?”

It’s so broken sounding, he has half a mind to lie and say of course he does. Of course he believes you, resident queen of Hawkins High—the girl who prances through school with five guys, minimum, trailing after her, lovesick and delusionally hormonal—are telling the God’s-honest truth. That you have somehow taken a liking to the town pariah. 

The people’s princess has woken up this day and decided she’d like to bestow upon him, of all people, the greatest charity he could never repay, nor even begin to deserve. 

And you’d say this exact thing stone-cold sober. Sure.

He could say that. 

“Um—” he clears his throat, repeatedly dragging a dirty Reebok on the ground until a pile of curled leaves starts to grow, “I believe…uh, we’ve probably had enough.”

Before you can make a move to stop him, he plucks the joint from between your fingers, ignoring the shock of your touch. 

The faint sizzle of embers being extinguished on old wood is the only sound that fills the air. That, and the rustle of wind through the trees. 

He can feel your eyes on him as he licks his fingers and pinches the end of the roll. It may very well be laced, but he’s not the wasteful type. 

And anyway, he’s got plans later. A date with his right hand and the well-loved porno mag he’s made some…changes…to. All while he pretends not to remember how your lips wrapped around the very same joint he hopes will last him long enough. 

You sit up suddenly, swinging your legs over the edge of the picnic table. He nearly knocks his metal lunchbox off the seat, scrambling to avoid the brush of your skin. 

“Do you not like me?” 

The words are filled with accusation, woven by insecurity, and Eddie feels insane. Clinically. Terminally, even. That’s not a thing, but given his luck, he could be the first man, ever, to die from a hot chick coming onto him. 

Because what the actual fuck? You’re looking at him like his very existence is a puzzle to you. As if you can’t imagine why in the world he’d be second-guessing your confession. 

He clears his throat, again, but chokes on his breath the second you slide down next to him, your skirt creeping impossibly higher before settling properly. And he’s up in a flash, like only the heat of you near him is all it takes to burn. And God, does it burn.

“N-No! No, I, um, I—I just don’t know you.” He shrugs, scratching the back of his neck. “Basically just met you today, really.”

He could almost kick himself, the way his voice jumps an octave he’s certain only liars can reach. And you seem to hold the same belief, your eyes all but say as much as you stand to follow him. 

Leaves crunch under his shuffling footsteps, and you pause, as if realizing the space between is carefully set. 

It’s a choice he’s fighting to make, just as he’s fighting not to look at you. Though, one is admittedly easier than the other.

“I mean, not really. We’ve been going to the same school since, like, sixth grade—”

He shakes his head, correcting, “Your sixth; my eighth.”

Bewilderment overtakes your frown, and he understands the semantics appear meaningless to you, but they keep him up at night. When the hours tick by and delusion creeps into the edges of his foggy mind, thoughts of fate start to sound more and more sane. 

 “My mom even made you that casserole when your uncle was sick.”

Oh, yeah. 

That. 

He remembers that day. Thinks about it when the delusion turns sour and his conscience wants to remind him what an embarrassment he is. 

He remembers perfectly how he heard your heels clicking from down the hall. How he took one look through the small hospital window, saw you in your Sunday best and booked it to the en suite bathroom. 

How he left Wayne to fend for himself in a state of utter confusion, never having seen his nephew move so fast. How he hid in the small space, surrounded by porcelain and that chemical smell that still makes his skin crawl. Just so he wouldn’t have to face you. 

So he wouldn’t have to watch you charm his uncle, lift his spirits like you do everyone. 

No, he only had to listen and imagine what shade of lipstick you chose to match with your outfit. Because that was way easier than seeing the cruel fluorescent lights fail to hollow you out like it did everyone who entered that godforsaken room. 

Yeah, hearing the raspy laugh of his uncle, followed by your airy giggles through the surprisingly thin walls was a cakewalk compared to what it would have been had he been forced to smile and nod along. 

Act as if you and he lived the same kind of life. As if one wasn’t a plunder and the other a jaunt through the daisies.

Eddie paces, unable to let his twitching muscles rest. “Yeah, but what does it really mean to know someone, you know? Uh oh! I’m gettin’ philosophical now!” He chuckles, but it’s strained, and your frown comes back, unmovable this time. “Probably the weed.”

His words are stilted, and you seem too aware of this performance, but he will press on with forced amusement until you believe him. Or at least until you let him be; go on back to your bubble. Leave him to suffocate in his. 

“Are you high? I’m high. I think we’re both really high. It’s so funny, it’s like I don’t even know what I’m saying— Blah!” He flails about, already planning on checking himself into Pennhurst after this. “This is so crazy! We probably make no sense right now.”

You cross your arms, trudging back to the picnic table. The breeze lifts your skirt as you plop down, and Eddie turns away. Because he has to.

“I’m not that high and neither are you.”

 It’s that damn pout that’s going to do him in. 

Curls twist around his fingers as he tries to hide behind his hair. “No…no, I’m pretty high.” He nods. “‘Miss Hawkins 1982’ is sitting here, tellin’ me she’s got, like, what—a crush on me?”

“‘S more than a crush,” you mumble petulantly, but for his sanity, he elects to ignore it. 

“I mean, shit! I didn’t think weed had hallucinogenic properties, but you know.” His shoulders shrug in defeat, and he still can’t look at you. “Learn somethin’ new every day!”

Your head cocks to the side. “So you don’t believe me?”

Eyes wide as saucers, he wonders if this is what it would feel like to explain the sky to a mole. 

“Of course I don’t believe you! You sound crazy! I mean you’re…” He searches for the words, but how does one sum up almost a decade of watching? Of wanting— “You. …And I’m me.”

It’s softer. Lower. Just where he should be. Because really, you’re the sky. And he’s just a burrower. Too afraid to leave the caverns he’s carved in his mind, even for warmth. For light. For a smile that doesn’t shine—

“Right…” Your mouth pulls, dim, and the huff of breath sounds derisive, like you can’t possibly pass it for a laugh, but still, you try. “You’re you, and I’m me—”

He nods along, internalizing the sound of his own words on your lips. If you believe it, that will be enough. It will be enough.

“Just boring…me—”

The sentence drips with resignation. As if it’s a truth you’ve cuddled up to long enough for the feelings to subside. Roommates with your own distaste. A years-long relationship molded into resentment. He feels sick.

“What?”

You resituate yourself, pulling inward, and if you could transform the atoms in the air, Eddie thinks there’d be a wall already reaching above the highest branches. 

“No, I just— It makes sense.” You tug at your sweater until your hands are almost hidden, and regret nips at his bare skin, colder than the breeze. “It’s totally true; you’re so cool—”

He swallows the words, but they catch in his throat. Unusual and untrue. And despite his quiet, “Cool?” that slips out, coated in disbelief, you carry on, adding brick after brick.

“You’ve got your band, and that game you love to play—”

Now that’s just strange. 

“D&D?” he mutters, blanching at the sentiment. Because, yeah, he thinks it’s cool. But he can count on one hand how many other Hawkins residents think the same. 

You perk up a bit, and he feasts on the split-second of sunlight. “Yeah! That’s the one. And you literally run a club for it. That’s, like, the definition of cool.” 

It’s the high. It’s the marijauna in your system. Either that, or you and he have vastly different definitions of cool—

“And your music taste! I hear you drive up to school all the time; you’re always blasting that metal stuff! It’s so…” your eyes wander, as if searching for the right word and his mind fills in the usual blanks: loud, shitty, annoying, satanic. “unique!”

You’re too good. He’s decided it. Not because of the popularity, like he had chalked it up to before. This is different. It’s pure. 

And he’s tar. 

“You know, if I had a nickel for every time someone told me my music taste was…unique, I’d be broke,” he huffs, crossing his arms like the act will protect against your budding smile, growing back like the first bloom of May flowers.

“Well, I’m sure they just haven’t tried it yet.” And you’re so sure. He can hear the optimism in your voice and it’s deafening. 

But then, it’s like time reverses, and in comes the April shower to drown the delicate bud; you retreat into yourself, again. Smile fading, insecurity rearing. 

“I’ve never… I mean— I’ve never really tried it before, either.” 

Now you won’t look at him, and the insinuation of your words alone is enough to haunt him. 

With a sigh, he closes the distance, sitting beside you on the bench. For a moment, he only listens to his own pulse. The rushing in his ears. He waits for the confidence to speak, unaware it’s a bus that will never come. 

But impatience gets the best of him, and he decides to walk it.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel— It’s just— I just—” He groans, watching the thoughts pass him by while he fails to hang onto even one. His skin feels too tight and he’s certain the only solution is to peel it off his miserable bones. “I don’t know why I am the way that I am.”

The admission rings out like a shot in the autumn air, and the silence that follows lands like an atom bomb, breaking the sound barrier in a mushroom cloud of mortifying truth.

He doesn’t know why he said it. 

Why he thought cutting himself down while you’re bleeding makes some sort of difference. How it could possibly count as some kind of balm to your wounds. 

But you wear your wounds well. And truth leaks from you without loss. It pools without inhibition. Not yielding, but seeping. Filling the cracks in him—the tunnels that quake—with something malleable and pure. Not viscous and sticky. Not like tar. 

His head hangs low, eyes following the way your thumb smooths over your wool skirt. Then his gaze tracks downward, and he wishes it wouldn’t. But your skin looks so soft, and he traces the curving terrain until he sees your pearly-white Keds digging into the dirt. 

You could probably make it to China before he finds the right words to fix this.

“You know, I’ve never had to convince a girl not to like me.” The quirk of his lips doesn’t change the tone, despite his best efforts. 

You cross your ankles, old wood creaking under you. “No?”

It’s simple. Gentle. You’re humoring him. And it’s a kindness he can’t afford, but you give it to him anyway, charity case that he is.

“No.” He huffs, something like a snicker but without the joke. “Usually, it’s the opposite.”

More atomic silence. And he starts to wonder if he ever actually learned how to behave properly. If he fundamentally misunderstands how to have a conversation. 

Or maybe he was just swapped at birth with an alien whose sole purpose is to elicit discomfort. And maybe there’s a human version of him out there, travelling among the stars, charming and suave, dripping with bravado. Yeah, that’s probably it. That’s what he’ll—

“What’s the argument then?”

His brows furrow, and he swings his head to look at you. But the second his eyes meet yours, he has to force himself not to flee. Not to make a coward’s retreat. 

“What?”

“The argument,” you respond coolly. “How are you gonna persuade me not to like you?”

God, he wishes you’d stop saying it. Maybe it’d be easier to hear if it didn’t sound so earnest. If it didn’t sound like it came from a well of truth.

His foot taps on the ground as he thinks, hands flexing restlessly. “Well…I guess I kind of thought the everything about me was argument enough.”

You stare silently, and his flesh might as well be made of a cellophane the way your gaze seems to expertly track the gears turning in his mind. 

“But clearly not,” he murmurs.

Your lips quirk. “Nope.” 

The glint in your eyes should scare him. Should shake him to his core. Because there’s something about this particular glimmer… 

With the determination of a predator poised to attack, or a vulture itching to pick him apart, you watch. Quietly. Waiting. It’s the kind of look only the helpless are on the other side of. He should be terrified. 

But he’s not. His hands aren’t shaking out of fear, and his stomach doesn’t flip out of nerves. 

No, it’s something else entirely.

Your chin tips, and your smile curls around the words. “To ensure a fair hearing, the court must consider all evidence; Mr. Munson, you may proceed.” 

His grin stretches, and he turns his body the slightest bit towards you. 

“Okay,” he nods, pondering the laundry list of reasons he has locked and loaded, ready to go. Who’s the lucky winner? What’s the bare minimum he can share without mortally wounding his pride—well, more than it already is. “Alright, well, sometimes I forget to wear deodorant, and I end up smelling really bad.” 

Before he has a chance to regret his choice, your laugh drowns out every doubt. It cracks through him with an unbearable weight, leaving behind splintered shards of bone instead of prison bars. His heartbeat sounds louder now.

And for a moment—only a moment—he forgets why he said anything at all. He forgets the point. He forgets that the melody floating from your lips doesn’t belong in his dysfunctional orchestra. 

But the urge is there. To hear it again. To be the cause. 

Your eyes squint from the size of your smile. “Shut up.” 

Locked in your gravitational pull, he moves closer—minutely, and he wouldn’t if he could help it. 

“No, I’m serious! It’s bad! That’s why I gotta leave school early sometimes, I start to smell like vegetable soup by 2 p.m.”

His grin is stuck as he watches your head fall back, the melody growing stronger, lodging somewhere deep in his brain. Between cobwebs and old, out-of-tune earworms. He imagines bottling the sound and building a shelf just to hold it.

“You’re an idiot,” you huff breathlessly, the word not carrying the same sting it usually would if it came from anyone else. Because there’s no bite to it. No teeth, even.

He leans in before he can stop himself. “Ah, see, that’s a good one, too! I’m an idiot!”

But the melody quiets, and the violins screech a nasty response as your smile starts to fall.

“No, you’re not.”

It’s firm and final, like you truly believed it even before it slipped from your lips.

“Yes, I am,” he says, soft yet steadfast. “I’m a three-time super senior army crawling my way to a ‘D’ in Mrs. O’Donnell’s class. And I’ve had two full tries at it.” 

You cock your head, eyeing him closely. Then—

“Well, practice makes perfect. Plus, I think it’s totally your year.”

Your smile is back and so is the warmth in Eddie’s body. If he had any sense, he’d steer the conversation elsewhere, because somehow, you’ve managed to flirt with him over his tragic academic history. You’re too powerful. You and your honeyed words, so sweet and thick, he could choke if he’s not careful.

He shifts, but can’t bring himself to move away. “Okay…what about this—I wanna do music.”

Your brows raise and he can tell you see through his pitiful attempt. 

“Well…you’re in a band,” you shrug. “I kind of already knew that—”

“No, like, professionally. That’s what I wanna do. I wanna go to L.A. and, I don’t know, like, get a record deal and shit, and just make music.” The light still shines in your eyes and he knows you’re not getting it. “No college for me, no office job, no suburbs—no picket fence kind of life.”

Your gaze never strays from his. “Eddie, that’s not a bad thing. That’s—that’s inspiring.”

God, you’re making this hard. Especially when you look at him like that—like he’s something to be enamored by. Something worth looking at. Something pretty… 

“No,” he shakes his head, clinging to the reality where you aren’t leaning closer to him, where your soft, perfumed skin doesn’t brush against his rough, bargain-bin jeans. “No, it’s a pipedream. It’s basically me begging to live in a van for the rest of my life because you and I both know it will never—”

“Eddie,” you cut in, grabbing his hand, “let me save you the energy. There’s nothing you can say that will stop how I feel. This isn’t a new thing. I’m not going through a phase. It’s not just a blip or a crush— I like you, Eddie Munson.”

His heartbeat slows, skipping every third thud like an old record, and he now knows the weight of your hand in his. 

And for the first time since his fingers brushed yours while passing the joint, he can’t look away. No amount of self-control or misplaced willpower can drag him up from the depths of your imploring gaze. 

“I like you a lot. You’re sweet,” and his face must’ve twitched because you grin and add, “When you’re not trying to act all tough and broody.”

Cellophane. He’s complete cellophane around you. Weak and pliant and see-through. His posturing means nothing, and he wonders if you always knew that. 

If every snide comment to the jocks came with a footnote in the smallest print only you could read: I’m jealous they get your time. They don’t deserve it. 

If every breezy look elsewhere gave him away as you’d walk past his table in the lunchroom, swaying skirt billowing in the winds of his repression.

“—and you make me laugh, and you’re honest.” Your hand squeezes his and he can’t quite bring himself to hold it yet. To open up. To keel over and admit defeat. “I just feel like everyone here…pretends to live the life they think they should live. But you don’t do that. You just live. And I think that’s beautiful.” 

Your chin tips low and he has a near physical reaction from losing the heat of your attention. 

“I think you’re beautiful.”

His mind whirs, sirens blare, but they’re silent. Unhelpful. Useless. Exactly what he feels like in the wake of your confession. And the only thought he can hold onto long enough to realize it’s just as useless is: he should buy a lottery ticket, or something. 

“I—” 

He watches you shift, doesn’t hear you breathe. 

“I…think you stole my line…”

The pitiful excuse for a chuckle comes too late. Too weak to sound genuine, but just strong enough to deflect. Because that’s what he’s good at, right? Deflecting? Distracting? 

Rejecting, apparently. At least that’s how you seem to take it, the way your hand slips from his so easily. The way your shoulders hunch and your legs squeeze together. 

Small. You’re making yourself small for him. 

And he’s just too unsteady. He’s not firing on all cylinders, not since you clipped his wires a ways back. Somewhere around you’re pretty and I like you. Just left of I told my friends and down the street from you’re cool. 

“Sorry. That was…a lot. God.” Your frown is back and you turn to say something, then give up before you even start. A beat. Then, “I—I’m sorry if I scared you off with all of that.”

You say it as if the moment’s done. As if he’s not still clinging to your words with a white-knuckled grip. 

And you retreat. 

Not in any real way. 

No, you’re still sitting next to him, still closer than ever before, but now, chipping away at your nail polish seems to be far more interesting than anything he could offer. 

“Well…I’m still here…” he tries, unsure.

“Yeah…. You’re still here,” you echo quietly.  

Showing mercy to your manicure, you shove your hands into your lap, twisting your fingers up. He recognizes the movement. The attempt to banish the need. The need to touch. He’s felt it too. Feels it now. 

The bricks stack higher as your wall grows; a structure never meant to be scaled. 

But he’s a burrower. 

“You know…” he ponders, forcing the humor from his tone. “I’m starting to think maybe it’s not the weed…”

That gets you. 

He hears the melody again, sees your wry smile.

“Shut up,” you whine, shoving his chest.

He moves fast and with grace as he traps your hand with his, holding your palm just over where your first laugh torpedoed his ribcage. Where the prisoner waits. 

“Your heart’s beating so fast,” you whisper, voice full of awe—the kind that quickly begins to carve away at his weakened flesh. 

He huffs, low and earnest. “Yeah…. The prettiest girl in Hawkins just told me she likes me and there’s nothing I can do about it. You’re lucky I haven’t gone into cardiac arrest over this.”

You smirk, and he thinks it might just kill him. Like actually. 

“Hm, well, now I feel like I’m kind of missing out on that…”

He snorts, his grin stretching wide. “Oh, yeah? You want me to keel over right here, right now?”

Your smile turns demure and he knows it’s a lie. Then, you give an innocent shrug that can’t even fool him. 

“I mean, I’m not saying I wouldn’t be extremely flattered—”

He jolts suddenly, grunting and groaning, curling his fingers tighter around your hand as he falls back against the edge of the wooden picnic top. 

You gasp, turning to prop a knee on the bench as you lean over his stiff body. “Oh my God, medic!” Your empty call echoes in the air, amusement bubbling just beneath the surface. Then, your voice falls to a low mutter. “Ohh, what do I do, what do I do? Damnit, I should’ve paid more attention in First Aid.”

Eddie convulses some, really driving the near Oscar-worthy performance home. Then he peeks an eye open, choking out, “M-Mmm-mouth.”

Your mask slips as you smirk, leaning closer. “Sorry, what was that? I didn’t quite catch it over all the dying.”

He slumps even more, the table digging beneath his shoulderblades as he sputters, “Mmm-mouth-to-mouth—”

You sit back, chewing the inside of your cheek and leveling him with an assessing stare as he twitches. “No…that can’t be it…”

Both eyes open as he brokenly utters, “No, it definitely is— With tongue! The tongue helps—” 

You snicker, “Oh, yeah? It’s a necessity?”

He squeezes your hand. “Yeah, big—big necessity.”

You lean in, so close, and his mind turns to static as your perfume invades his senses. 

This is it. It’s going to happen. Almost a decade of dreams that left him waking up in sticky discomfort, and he’s going to know the taste of—

“See, I just don’t remember that in the course,” you shrug, pulling away abruptly. “Mouth-to-mouth, sure, but adding tongue?”

One last shot, he reaches into the sky dramatically, convulses, then slackens in a lifeless heap, accented by his best death rattle.

He hears you call out, some half-assed plea that wouldn’t convince a soul, but then everything stops. Your lips slot against his, soft and plush and timid, and you might as well have used the paddles, the way his system shocks into action.

His hand finally releases yours, but you don’t move it, and he settles a gentle grip on the back of your head. Heavy enough to beg for more, soft enough to leave room for an escape, if you so choose. 

But you don’t. Instead, your tongue glides along his top lip—a teasing kind of sweetness he accepts gladly, thankfully. He responds in kind—in hunger.

He can taste your cherry lip gloss, hear your surprised hum. It’s a tiny sort of sound he swallows with a groan of his own. 

Then the pressure is gone. The taste, the noises—all gone. The music has stopped and the dizzying dance comes to an end with a blinding grin.

“Oh my God, it’s a miracle,” you pant, smoothing your palm up his chest until you reach skin.

He sits up, dazed, and you don’t move away, just letting him hover close like the proximity isn’t debilitating.

His next words slur out before he has a chance to think of a smoother line— “Have you ever considered becoming a doctor?”

And you laugh. And he’s learning that maybe you don’t want smooth. Because if you did, he certainly wouldn’t be your first call, and you wouldn’t be so quick to serenade every dumb comment of his.

So he thanks whoever rents the big house in the sky that you have a thing for burnouts and tries not to choke as you slide onto his lap, your pretty skirt splaying out across worn fabric. 

Your lips find his again, your fingers get lost in his hair, you don’t bother hovering, and he starts writing a mental Last Will and Testament. 

Jeff will get his Sweetheart, Mike will get his D&D manuals, Dustin will get his cassette tapes, and Gareth will finally get those twenty bucks he’s been whining about since last summer. He’ll leave it to Grant to dispose of his stash, and in payment, he can have the stack of porno mags under his bed. 

Though, he might just give them away whether he dies or not, because he’s pretty sure, with the way you’re pressing down on him, they’ll soon be rendered useless. 

Goosebumps rise along heated skin and something prickles up his spine as your nails rake through his curls. His mouth works against yours, a mind of its own as its aim widens, and he’s suddenly nipping down your jaw, tasting the tang of perfume on your neck. 

Your chest racks with heavy, panting breaths and noises that sound like earnest attempts at his name. It’s intoxicating. His lips swell from struggling to keep up with his greed, but he can’t stop. There’s a burning kind of ache deep within him, and it’s growing. 

His hands find their way to your hips, and he can’t tell if it’s you who moves freely, grinding down like you’re searching for something, or if it’s him and the ravenous need he’s not certain can be controlled. 

“Fuck—”

“Eddie,” you call, tightening the grip on his hair until he groans. His cock flexes, straining against the oppressive zipper of his jeans and missing a kind of warmth he’s itching to know.

“Hm?” he grunts into your neck, barely aware. He’s pretty sure he could devour you whole. But then again, he’d much rather savor you, pick you apart and feast on your supple flesh for ages. The smallest little bites until your sweet noises grow louder and louder; scratchy and desperate like the mindless roll of your hips against denim.

“E-Eddie—”

Your voice pitches up, his name breaking on the crest of your movements, and you hunch toward him like the pleasure is a weight your shoulders can’t possibly bear. 

And something twists in his gut then, something raw and hungry. 

He wants to hear that again. Hear his name shatter on your tongue as his hands explore beneath your dainty skirt. He wants to feel the vibrations of your moans as he kisses every inch of you. 

“Mm, yeah, baby?”

“I want— Want you,” you grit out, like the words take effort you can barely muster. 

“Fuck— I know, I wan’ you, too. So bad. So fuckin’ bad.” 

If it were any other time, he might feign control. Might deepen his voice with a confidence he doesn’t have. But this is not just any other time. It’s you, in his lap, whispering needy little pleas into the air like it’s obvious. Simple necessity. Like he’s not just a warm body and you’re not picturing someone else. 

His fingers curl into the waistband of your skirt, and it’s as if you remembered there was more to be said because your hips stall and you press against his chest. 

He swallows the disgruntled whine, and accepts your direction. Doubt creeps into the fog of his mind, but you don’t leave him time to get lost when your thumbs smooth over the stubble on his jaw, the worry in your eyes outweighing his.

“Eddie, I, um, I want—you,” you finish stiltedly, looking at him like you’re waiting for the penny to drop. “But, I, uh, I’ve ne—” It spins. “I don’t really—” And spins. “I mean, not that I’m, like—” And spins. “I’ve just never really—”

It drops, a metallic clang bouncing off the walls of his skull, and suddenly he feels like he shouldn’t touch you at all. His hands hover over your hips and the something-molten deep in his gut turns out to be much more familiar than he thought. Hot, bubbling, careless and incessant in its need to stain. To contaminate. 

“Never?” His brows furrow, trying to decipher the discomfort on your face. If it’s him—if it’s the tar—he might just leave town now. Screw graduation. Screw a diploma— “Like never ever?”

Stupid question. At this rate, he should look into surgically removing his foot from his mouth before he tries to speak next—

“Guess I was just…waiting,” you shrug, thumbing the hem of his shirt. Then your movements become less innocent as your nails trail against his skin. So light, if he weren’t acutely aware of everything you do, if his stomach didn’t twitch in time with his restless cock, he wouldn’t have caught it. 

“Sweetheart,” he almost warns, feeling like he misconstrued this moment for something serious, when clearly, you’re toying with him, spreading your palms along his waistband like you can’t see him shiver. Like you can’t feel his length straining beneath you, flexing against its jean prison, reaching for the warmth of your core. 

“S-Sweetheart,” he repeats, the endearment sounding more and more like a plea as you rake your nails through the wiry curls just below his navel. 

You go on, apparently undeterred by his fraying control. “I’ve been on dates—” 

He doesn’t care. His eyes track yours and the glide of your tongue along kiss-bitten lips. 

“Guys have tried—”

Okay, he cares. What? 

“I’ve just never really—wanted to.”

Fuck. 

You grind down, passing the motion off as adjusting your position, but Eddie doesn’t trust that gleam in your eyes. And you confirm it in the way your palms smooth down his arms until you press his hands to your hips. Making him touch you. Contaminate you. You encourage it, even. Wrapping your grip around his wrists as you guide his hands beneath your wool top. 

“But it’s different with you.”

He shudders. 

“Sweetheart.” 

It’s certainly a plea, now. A cry for mercy as your fingers return to the sensitive skin just above his waistband, travelling up, up, up until he’s entirely covered in goosebumps, and he worries you can feel the pitiful call of the convict in his chest. 

“I don’t want to. That’s not what it feels like—”

God damnit, he’s so confused and all the blood rushed from his brain long ago. There’s nothing up there anymore.

“‘S not like that. ‘S like,” you lean in close, letting him feel the words against his lips before he ever hears them, “a need. Like there’s something missing right now.” You roll your hips and he chokes on the breath he was holding. “And I think— No, I know, if I could just—feel you…inside me—I would be okay again. Better.”

“Oh, f-fuck,” he groans, thrusting up with the coordination of a muscle spasm. He lets his forehead fall against yours in an attempt to gather control. “You—you can’t just say shit like that.”

You peck his lips and he chases the small affection. “But it’s true. I don’t wan’ anyone else. Just want you. Inside me.”

“Jesus Christ,” he grits out, trapping you in a kiss that borders on consumption more than anything sweet. 

He can feel you everywhere: on top of him, in his hair, under his shirt, sinking claws into his sides; your touch is kindling to the fire raging low inside him. 

Suddenly, he’s reminded of the foiled condom he removed from his wallet just the other day. The old thing was practically useless, worn down and crumpled from years of sitting idle in between the folds of cracked leather. But something is better than nothing, and now he’s cursing his past-self for his terminal case of realism. 

The clink of metal draws his attention back, and he hadn’t noticed your lips leave his or how your hands have grown eager, already past his belt and now fiddling with the button on his jeans. 

“Wanna feel you, Eddie. I need to,” your honeyed whines wash over his body, sending a buzz through his veins. But then the purring sound of his zipper sliding open reminds him—

“Shit,” his hand wraps around your wrist. “Wait, I don’t— I don’t have anything,” he admits lowly, miserably. 

You smile, kissing around his mouth like you’re drawing the shame out, and him in. “It’s okay…. I just want you,” you repeat, firmer this time. “All of you.”

And something inside him rumbles, something sick and starving. Once-weak, but now growing in strength. It’s mean and sharp, with teeth that can cut through steel and an appetite that can devour innocence whole.

It’s not unfamiliar, this beast. He’s known it for ages. It’s an old friend. A confidant. Something to speak to in the darkest moments, but never to trust. Something to surrender to during the sweatiest nights, when his hand cramps but the need still aches. Still hungers. 

It’s got an imagination, too. Twisted as can be, it preens at the thought of possession, of staying. Of skin stretching and bones shifting, of curly-haired children that have your eyes and his smile. Soccer practice between label meetings, the sun beating down on hot sand as little feet kick at his back. A ring with weight and a necklace to match.

It’s like a plague on his thoughts. But it’s not. Not really. Because he doesn’t have to fear the lies anymore. The want. The bubbles are melding, his world is clashing with yours. And the beast tells the truth, now.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he mutters against your lips, the words sounding more like a warning than anything.

“Mmm,” you hum, trailing your affection down his neck. “Been there, done that. I’d rather keep you alive for this.”

And you’ve crossed his wires so expertly, he’s practically sparking beneath your touch. 

Imbued with a new kind of power, he slides you from his lap before shucking his leather jacket off and swinging it onto the table’s surface. His shirt follows with, finding a strategic home among the layers. 

You seem to catch on because you climb onto the table, laying yourself out just like before. He grins, helping you out of your top, only to fold it up and leave it where your head can rest. 

Both of you pause, taking just a moment to stare. Openly. 

He tracks your gaze as it trails across his chest, noting each tattoo. Then his eyes widen as you distractedly remove your bra like it’s nothing, like he hasn’t fucked his fist to the thought of this very moment. 

The material slides down your arms and you settle back, pretty as a picture, laid out all for him. 

“Jesus…Christ, sweetheart, fuck.” 

You smirk, and there’s that gleam again. Evil and conniving and he’s a willing victim, first in line, and hopefully last.

“See anything you like?”

He gulps, kneeling on the bench below, itching to touch you, but holding onto manners with a white-knuckled grip. “Yeah. See a whole lot.” 

“Then what are you waiting for?” You grab his hand, guiding it to your breast with a squeeze. “This isn’t a museum, you can touch.” 

“Oh, s-shit,” he stutters, losing all decorum as his other hand joins in, kneading the supple skin. Your sighs possess him, and before he can overthink it, his mouth closes around your nipple, tongue circling and laving at the tightening peak. 

“E-Eddie!” Your hand flies to his curls and he groans, parting his lips wider, needing to feel more of you in his mouth. 

You writhe beneath him, a victim of a fiendish kind of gluttony as he moves to your other breast, tweaking the wet peak he left behind. 

He explores your body zealously, taking his time tasting and nipping every bit he can reach until you start tugging at the roots of his hair, forcing him up. 

“Need you,” you huff breathlessly, yanking at his jeans. “Now.”

“W-Wait—” his hands land on yours, slowing your movements.

Your mouth parts as you look up at him, wide-eyed and completely desperate, and he feels his control unspooling like flimsy yarn. 

“No, Eddie, I already told you—”

“It’s not that,” he shakes his head, kissing you quiet. “I just— We can’t just…”

You watch him patiently, clinging onto every half-thought he struggles to produce. 

“I gotta— No, I—want to make this good for you…obviously,” he grunts, cringing at the lack of suavity. “And to do that, um, we can’t just…”

You nod, encouraging him as his face grows hot. There’s not a snowball’s chance in hell he’ll be able to explain the concept of foreplay to you right now. Not when you’re looking at him like that, bare and ready for him.

So he sighs and kisses you once more, this time slow and careful. Full of things he can’t quite say, but he hopes you understand. 

“You trust me, right?” 

“Of course,” you respond instantly, eyes shining so bright.

He swallows, rubbing a thumb along your cheek. “And you’ll let me take care o’ you?”

You lean into his touch, almost shy as you nod. “Yeah. Yes…please.”

And a piece of him breaks off, then. 

Splintered by your soft words, the plea that landed like a hammer on his scuffed lacquer.

One single chip in the barrier, and the beast rises in a crashing escape. 

His lips find yours—messy, needy. 

Wanton greed curls around every cracked rib, reaching out like smoke unfurling. Searching for something to envelop, to take. To take and take and take. Your breath, your taste, you. It wants it all. 

He wants it all. 

The words tumble out too easily. “Such pretty manners, huh?” 

You shudder, hiding your face in the curve of his jaw. 

“Pretty manners in a pretty girl,” he practically purrs, letting his hands slip down your body until his fingers invade the waistband of your pleated skirt. “Gonna let me take care o’ you, hm? Gonna let me get you all nice and ready?”

Your breathy sigh warms his neck as he shimmies the fabric down your legs, laying you back, gently. 

You squirm beneath his gaze, squeezing your thighs together. “Eddie…”

“Shh, patience, pretty,” he murmurs, trailing a finger along your curving terrain until he’s toying with the powder blue fabric. “Gotta be good for me. Think you can do that?”

“Mhm,” you hum, choking on the note as he softly pushes your legs apart. 

“Ohh, look at you…” His eyes darken and he thinks he could get used to this. To seeing you all laid out for him like a meal. A feast that could last him forty days and forty nights. 

You shift, almost imperceptibly, as he drags your panties down, but he noticed. He always does with you. “Be good,” he warns lowly.

“I’m trying.”

Your whine falls to static as he watches a single string of arousal cling to the blue gusset with a fragile strength he aches to snap. 

The trees rustle overhead and the sun peeks through, lending a perfect spotlight to your wet folds, and he groans, pocketing your underwear with little consideration. 

“Fuck, you’re so god damn gorgeous, baby, think I’m losin’ my mind,” he mutters, kneading the fat of your thighs. 

“Eddie,” you call, wiggling into his grip, and he’s never been more certain that you’re a temptress put on this earth to destroy him and everything that he tries to be. Controlled. Polite. Genetlemanly. 

Every stuttering breath, every twitch of your hips, every slow blink—you’re chiseling away at the lacquer, unaware of all that lies beneath.

“Eddie, pl—ease!” 

His middle and ring fingers glide through your folds while his opposite hand holds your hips down as you try to grind onto him. 

“Knew you’d make the prettiest sounds. …Pretty sounds, pretty manners, pretty girl,” he chants the words like a mantra, entranced as he raises his fingers up to watch your arousal glisten in the evening light. “Pretty.”

You whimper, and suddenly it feels like he’s been pulled from the depths as he stares down at your face, pinched in pleasure. You’re waiting as patiently as you can and he has to reward that.

He spreads your folds once more, listening intently as he slips a finger inside. Your broken moan speaks almost directly to his cock, and he can feel a stream of precum soaking his boxers.

You call his name again, your chest moving in perfect time with the pulse of your warm walls. He responds to your plea for more with a second finger, and your nails sink into his wrist. 

“Doin’ so good for me, baby. So good,” he utters restlessly, leaning closer to your soaked cunt. He glances up, notes your closed eyes, and decides to feed the beast. 

With one stolen moment, he breathes deep, cataloguing the scent. Your perfume, your cherry lotion, and now you. The most intimate of all. And he can’t stop now. 

He knows your touch, your heady scent; he wants to know your taste, too. The real thing. Not just your lip gloss or your languid tongue in his mouth. He needs to know you deeply, fervently.

His fingers drag inside you, a slight curl every time you buck your hips. He hears your whines, sees you dripping down his hand, shimmery and inviting. 

Then he pulls out, much to your loud chagrin. And before he can scrounge up any last attempt at control, his fingers are in his mouth and he’s groaning at the taste—so sweet, he could choke. 

“Oh, fuck,” he grumbles, mouth full as you stare at him. He almost feels the need to apologize. He robbed you of the friction you were so desperately seeking just so he could be selfish. Though, he feels like he might never stop being selfish around you, so maybe he’ll allow the precedent.

He’ll blame the beast. It’s not really him. 

It’s not him who wants to drown in you, force you to ride his face until he passes out. It’s not him who wants to leave bite marks along your quivering thighs until salt coats your cheeks and you beg him just to fuck you. 

It’s not him who wants to live in your sweltering heat, carve out a place for himself. Make your walls know the shape of his cock, feel you milk him dry until something takes and you’re his and a part of him is yours.

It’s not him, it’s the rotted want. 

The need that grows hot, like a wound that has festered long enough. A gash you cut into him sometime ago. 

Bleeding for years and he never even knew it. 

The infection has driven him mad. 

But he’s beginning to think maybe you’re suffering just the same. Fevered skin and heavy limbs, weak from the wait. Like him. Withered and hungry. So long watching the have’s, resolved to be a have not— 

“Eddie, please, I need you.” Your hips search for him, for pleasure, for friction, and he drops lower, his breath spreading over your fluttering folds.

“I know, sweets, I know. But I gotta get you all ready, gotta make it good for you,” he whispers, staring as fresh arousal glints in the golden rays. It’s like you’re trying to entice, to coax. 

“‘S already good,” you slur, and it sounds like the words are burning to ash on your tongue. He can feel you overheating. “‘S so good, please, just—”

“Said you trust me, right?” He smooths a hand up your body until he finds your breast, kneading it some more. 

“Yes,” you huff, scooting closer to him. 

He licks his lips, and the lie comes quicker than he’d like. “Just a little bit more. Wanna make sure you’re all re—”

His voice becomes muffled as he presses his face against your cunt like a starved, rabid thing. Your fingers thread deep through his curls—a knee-jerk reaction—and he laps at you with open-mouthed kisses and agonizingly precise flicks of his tongue. 

You squeal and your thighs threaten to close around his head, but his fingers sink into the supple flesh, prying you open as his tongue breaches your slit with pointed thrusts. 

Your back bows, arching high off the table and he pulls you closer to him, finally satisfying what has felt like an insatiable ache. 

Because it’s different with you. He’s never felt this…full. Every pulse, every lewd slurp, fills him; he gorges himself on you. On your taste, on the way your moans crash over themselves like waves trying to drag you both under. 

His fingers slip in once more and your body goes rigid—the perfect picture of marbleized ecstasy. His tongue circles your clit and pleasure carves into your every curve, sculpting a release that courses through you like rolling thunder.

His name dies a thousand times on your parted lips, and your hips begin to flee. 

“O-Oh, God!”

He slows to a stop, smoothing a thumb over your twitching muscles. “Fuck, you taste so good— Knew you would,” he pants, sucking his fingers clean. He settles over you, whispering against your mouth. “Knew you would—”

“Tell me I’m yours.”

It’s sudden. An order.

Every syllable hammers into him, shattering something fragile. Shards of control—of disbelief, of belonging—bite at his skin. He’s paralyzed by it, a nerve punctured somewhere deep inside.

And you look worried, like that simple sentence wasn’t meant to land so heavy, but you don’t take it back. Instead, “Tell me I can be yours.”

He swallows hard, nearly choking on nothing.

He has wanted. Longer than you, he thinks.

But it’s all been in vain. 

Then you show up, move mountains and shift worlds with only your audacious honesty and a quarter of a joint for courage. He could really learn a thing or two from you—

“Yeah,” he whispers, staring into eyes he never thought he’d see this close. “You’re mine.” 

With a shuddering breath and a kiss so gentle, he’s almost certain reality falls away, his mind latches onto the moment your hands blindly find his jeans, urging the material down his thighs. 

He helps you, watching intently as you take him in—all of him—his cock weeping and flexing, reaching for something he never imagined asking for. 

You don’t speak, but he sees a reflection in the shine of your iris. It’s familiar. It commands. It guides as you drag your fingers along corded muscle with a level of reverence that leaves him dizzy. 

Peering down, he holds back every sound, his chest heaving from the marathon of your touch. 

You’re pacing yourself. Exploring—testing, in a way, like you’re figuring out what makes him tick. 

Confidently kneading here, a delicate brush there. 

Sinew twitching, his length jumping, stomach flipping. 

Your nails rake through the dark curls at his navel and you follow the trail until it grows coarse, an observant hum at his body’s reaction. 

“Pretty,” you mutter lowly. 

His frame trembles, the single word falling from your lips like a ton of bricks. 

As your hands wander, you don’t bother with permission and that almost makes him double over. 

There’s no question of can I? There’s only the surety of being yours, like an apodictic artifact you’ve excavated from a shallow grave. 

Because he did lay it to rest. 

So many times. 

Every morning his head lifted from his pillow, he buried it again. Every time your skirt caressed his desk, he threw roses. Every laugh he never caused, he said a prayer. 

But he could not abide an eternity of peace. 

Darkness would fall and he’d dig and dig and dig, the dirt already loose and the trees whispering their greetings. He’d drag up old ghosts—truths only meant for the moon—and dance with them all night. 

Then, like clockwork, golden light would send him reaching for the shovel; the sun would rise and he was resolved to live without. 

Now it’s you who has disturbed the holy ground and it’s freeing. To be exposed. To be known.

Your gaze settles on his face, and he wishes he could understand the thoughts in your mind, the ramblings behind your eyes. 

For a second, he thinks he recognizes the quiet curve of your lips, but—

“So pretty.”

He chokes, his body jerking as your hand circles his cock, firm, yet gentle. Possessive. 

Your unwavering attention and innocent smile turns the blood in his veins molten. His hips buck into your grip, unintentionally coating your soft palm in the sticky precum dribbling from his tip.

“S-Shit, sweetheart—” 

He hunches over, weathered wood scratching against his knees as he tries to warn, to caution you on just how easy he is. How little effort it’d take him to lose it, to let himself fuck your hand like a poor, desperate slip of a thing. 

“I’m ready,” you say, leading him down. “Please.”

He allows your thighs to hitch onto his hips, allows you to hold him, and he allows himself to be this close. To find purchase between your legs, to indulge in the heat of your core. 

He memorizes your features—the determined furrow of your brow, the flutter of your lashes. The version of you before him. 

He so badly wants to tell you what he sees.  

“God, you’re— Fuck!”

Your breath hitches as you press his cock to your folds, and he tries for coherence, but it all falls away when he feels you. Soft and wet and so inviting; you’re killing him slowly. 

“Please, Eddie,” you huff, your hips rolling like you mean to catch him. “Need to feel you, I swear to—”

The sentence shatters on a sharp moan the moment he takes control, letting his length glide against your slit. He’s coated in no time, practically drowning in you, but he doesn’t stop. 

It’s like a trance, the way he moves, watching fresh drops of precum mix with your arousal. He wants to taste that, too. You and him, together. He wants to know. 

You don’t seem to notice his paralysis, instead focusing on bucking your hips just right, and when his tip catches on your entrance, something shocks him into motion. 

Your body wraps around him shallowly, sucking the blunt edge of him in. He doesn’t fight it, doesn’t ignore your babbled pleas for more. 

For once in his life, he allows himself to take. It’s not begrudging permission, not shameful resignation to his more selfish nature. It’s enthusiastic, it’s encouraged, it’s accepted.

He pushes into you slowly, meeting your parted lips with ragged breaths, and your walls cling to him in a joyous welcome. Your pulse drums against his length, squeezing him in a sudden clench; he thinks he mutters advice, something about relaxing, but he’s not sure. 

Reality is bending and he’s thought about this so much, imagined this very moment countless times, and yet, nothing could have prepared him for how your nails take a chunk out of him, how you’re trying with all your might to pull his hips closer, huffing in impatience and cracking under the need.

You’re just like him. 

He hadn’t realized it until now. 

He saw shadows, heard the strain of your voice. 

But he hadn’t looked in your eyes, hadn’t been near enough to hear the call. 

The call of the hungry and withered. Of the wanton and greedy. 

He hears it now. Loud and clear.

Responding in a bellowing groan, he sinks into you fully. His lips flutter over your face, savoring your once-delicate features as they warp in pleasure. 

“F-Fuck! Ed— Eddie, more,” you cry, squirming for friction. 

“More,” he echoes mindlessly, latching onto the order. A real kiss, sweet and loaded like a gun soon to go off, then, “More. The pretty girl wants more— Gets what she wants.”

The words fall from his tongue with little thought—little care. Static whirs in his brain, blocking out everything but you. 

Drawing back steadily, he steals one more glance at you—checking in—then drops down in a sudden snap, guided by your fingers digging into the taut muscle of his ass. 

Sweat beads at his spine as his skin sticks to yours on every impact. His arms hook under your knees, changing the angle just to hear that shrill whine he’s quickly growing addicted to. 

All you manage to say is his name, over and over again like his thrusts are evicting every syllable from your chest. 

The shadows rise, spreading rapidly, and it feels much like possession coursing through him. 

He shudders, his stuttered breaths syncopating with the pulse of your cunt, choking him on every shove in. Your eyes have rolled back now, and your body moves with him, pliant, as if his to mold—to inflict upon, however he sees fit. 

A malleable offering of sheer innocence, laid at his altar. 

And it was your idea. 

The lamb’s idea to come to slaughter. 

“F-Feels good, huh?” he grits, watching you surrender to him so beautifully. 

Your response catches, snagged halfway up your throat, clawed back by a resounding whimper as you nod. 

“Yeah, it feels good,” he parrots, fighting back the raging fire deep in his gut—the one that threatens to engulf you, too. Because he’s not done yet. Not nearly. 

His hips pound into you, cock dragging along your walls at a punishing pace. The beast hums and he smirks as you try to form sentences.

“S-So— Agh! I— Mmmph!”

He nods like he understands every unspoken word. “Now you see why I had to get you all ready? Hm? You were so cute, thinkin’ you could just take it. So brave, comin’ here, all sweet on the freak.”

“Eddie!” 

You have the audacity to paw at him, to pull, to try to meet his strokes in crumbling desperation. He drops your legs, shoving your hands above your head as he presses down onto you, pinning you against the picnic table, the structure rocking with the movement. 

His long, rhythmic thrusts dwindle to swift, sharp ruts, the action bordering on animalistic.

“But now look at you. All mine,” he huffs, dark eyes roving over your trembling body. Then his gaze travels lower, where his cock burrows into you—where you take him so easily, opening up like he said the magic word a thousand times over. “Practically made f’me, fuckin’ look at you. Stretched full and so damn pretty, too. We fit real nice together, don’t we, baby?”

You whine and he maneuvers your wrists into one hand, helping to prop your head up with the other. 

“Look at you,” he repeats, firmer this time. “So wet, you’re drownin’ me, sweetheart.”

Something splinters on your face and he follows your eyeline, notices it fixed on the milky ring that circles the base of his thick shaft and the matted down curls you couldn’t stop admiring earlier. 

“Oh,” he drawls, a wicked, wolfish grin stretching his lips. “You like that?”

You nod and he practically preens. You are just like him. 

“Like seein’ me covered in you? Marked?” 

Your response is nothing more than a brittle whimper and he can feel you clench around him, already so close to falling into the after—the space in time where you will know what it feels like to be thoroughly picked apart, to be undone. By him.

“You’re markin’ me,” he growls into your neck, leaving open mouthed kisses along your jugular, trying not to bite. “Think it’s only fair you let me do the same, hm? What do you say, pretty girl? Gonna let me really fill you up?”

“P-Please! Oh, God, please, Eddie—”

His thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight, practiced circles on the swollen bud and you freeze, arching into his chest, searing your sweat-soaked flesh to his. Your cries fall silent as you gape, convulsing at every third swipe he makes. 

Your walls trap him in a vice grip, fluttering and milking rope after rope of cum from his flexing length. He shivers uncontrollably, feeling his warm spend flood the tight space until it leaks, shoveled out by his now-pitiful ruts. 

He tries to prolong it. Tries to steal the moment from time itself and live in it; play house with the present. But then his body finally gives out, muscles slackening, and your arms are there to catch him, welcoming the iron hold he traps you in.

Raspy whispers are muttered into your neck, tattooed by the heat of his breath; quiet sentiments he’s not certain you hear over the noise of two settling souls. And maybe it’s better that way. Maybe they’re things to hoard—at least for a little while longer. 

He trails kisses up your jaw, blindly searching for your lips, only to find them unresponsive. Worry fills him immediately. 

Maybe he was too rough. He did notice the half-moon marks scattered along your thighs. 

Maybe he was too mouthy. He can never think straight when it comes to you.

Maybe he was just too much— 

“Eddie,” you call gently, pulling him from somewhere deep and dark.

He meets your eyes, surprised to see them wide and wanting, shining with that honest gleam that makes him feel so exposed.

“You are mine.”

So you heard.

He wasn’t cautious and he said the words meant for an empty bedroom out loud. And you heard. 

Your fingers thread through his curls, dragging his wavering attention back to you.

“You are mine,” you repeat, softer but no less confident. 

He wonders how something so delicate could detonate something so sturdy. Years and years of denial, blown to smithereens in three words. 

And you make it look easy. 

Make it sound plausible. 

That he could be yours, just as much as you want to be his.

He nods, hanging onto you like a lifesaver as debris from the wreckage floats by. He swallows and his voice barely forms around the letters, breaking under the weight of it all.

“O-Okay.”

And he surrenders. 

He believes you. 

A/N: For the love of god, please be sweet and talk to me about this fic. I think I looked at it for too long and now I don’t know if it’s maybe the worst thing I’ve ever written or if I’m just too close to it rn, I’m being so for real.

Taglist:

@meetmeatyourworst @ratsematary @american-idiot-jpg @glassbxttless @justalotoffanfiction 

@stargirlsugar @thepinkpanther83 @sorayasworld @slaytheusurper @dangerousnbeautiful 

@hellmastereddie @ali-r3n @spoonflix @tlclick73 @joonbread

@bellalillyrose @bigboymoozz @am0iur @pastelpoppies @sammybrrr

@lionkingshiddenmessage @girlwedontcare @cheesesandwichsanto @avenjames-anderson @munsonzgf

@iheartgrayson @cowboylikemunson @skyfullofsong123 @thepurplelovewitch @munsondjarin 

@jayden-killer @fairylights-throughthemist @hippiegoth97 @whoschantel @wolfqueenxxx 

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@crybabyddl @pretendthisnameisclever @reidswifeyyyyyy @irrelevantbutembarrassing @walleloveseve

[multific]

The Prize

Scar x Reader

Words: 4100

Warning: SMUT, Minors DO NOT Interract!

Summary: Finding that incredible pyramid was only the beginning. Because soon, you’d find a very special room with writings on the wall. And you never expected a pyramid to change your life like this.

When you were chosen for the mission, you didn’t know what to expect. A pyramid appearing in the middle of ice? Where people barely even live anymore? 

You knew you had to go. It was an opportunity you just couldn’t miss out on.

When you arrived everyone was stunned, including you, you immediately started to collect pictures of everything you saw.

Wayland told everyone their places. Everyone was given a section of the pyramid they needed to decode. You knew it will take a long time, but slowly, you found out yours is one of the best ones yet.

Keep reading

[multific]

Unexpected Family

Ya’Skur x Reader

Warning: SMUT, Minors DO NOT interract. 

Summary: Somehow, you were always at the wrong place at the wrong time. And what seemed to be your demise, turned into your future.

A/N: Once again, this is a Yautja I made up, hope you like it, enjoy. 

A Yautja was a different kind of being.

Although that was rather obvious just by the fact that they were literal aliens, you did notice similarities between them and humans. Sometimes they were small little things that you noticed and other times they were very obvious.

You, a humble little human, who was at the wrong place at the wrong time.

Keep reading

[multific]

Mate of a Yautja

Wolf x Reader

Warnings: Mention of Smut 

Words: 1580

Summary: You never fit in, not in school, not at work. You were sure something was wrong with you. When you moved to Colorado, you hoped things would change, and to a degree they did, but as you grew up, you were still not fitting in. You didn’t know what to do, until one evening when all hell broke loose. 

Every time he arrived home from a hunt he was never sure what to expect.

After all, he forced you to go with him.

You were his. His mate and so, he intended to keep you safe. His clan took you in, but you never felt welcomed. How could you? You were so different after all.

You didn’t know anything about them. You didn’t speak their language, you didn’t know their culture.

But then, how did you get there?

Keep reading

[multific]

The Enforcer’s Claim

Summary: Taken by the Yautja at twenty years old, you have spent years working quietly as a maid within the household of an honoured hunter. Your days are spent caring for the home and its younglings. Life is controlled but predictable. That changes the moment Vorkath’ren, the clan’s feared Enforcer, returns from a hunt. 

You woke before the suns rose, as you always did.

The house was still and cool, the walls humming with the noise of Yautja technology that you had learned to live beside.

You gathered water, prepared food for the younglings, and tidied the common room before the first of them padded sleepily into the halls.

The children of the clan always found you amusing. You were small to them, soft, and fragile.

They adored you for it.

One clung to your leg as you tried to sweep the floor. Another demanded to be carried.

You obliged, lifting the smallest and settling him on your hip. His low purr vibrated against your shoulder.

This was your place. This was your life. It was not easy, but it was safe enough.

Until today.

The rumble of returning hunters echoed through the compound long before the door slid open.

The heads of the younglings snapped up. Their eyes widened with excitement.

“They are back,” one chirped, hopping from foot to foot.

The returning party always presented themselves to the tribe's Elder, and you were expected to greet them as part of your duties. You steadied your breathing and stepped into the main hall.

The air grew heavier as the hunters entered. The first few were familiar to you, masked warriors you had tended to after training sessions.

They smelled of iron and smoke, their hides marked with fresh paint and newly earned scars.

Then he stepped through the doorway.

Vorkath’ren.

You knew his title long before you ever saw his face.

The Enforcer.

The executioner of the Elder.

The one even seasoned hunters whispered about in low tones. His armour was plated in obsidian metal and decorated with bones from creatures you could not name.

His dreadlocks were bound with trophies, each one telling a story of violence and dominance. His presence filled the hall like a storm rolling in from distant mountains.

He carried the skull of a slain bad blood in one massive hand and dropped it into the centre of the room as proof that his task had been completed.

The warriors roared their approval.

You should have been able to stay invisible. You never made noise, never drew attention.

Yet as the Elder stepped forward to praise the returning party, Vorkath’ren’s gaze moved.

It landed on you.

For a moment, your body forgot how to move.

His mask turned fully in your direction, the glow of his eyes sharp and focused.

He had been looking at the Elder a moment before. Now, every line of his towering form faced you, as if pulled by an instinct he did not understand.

You lowered your eyes.

It was improper to hold a hunter’s stare for too long, especially one like him.

It was considered rude and a challenge between Yautja.

The weight of his attention. The force of it.

Your pulse quickened at the way he stood utterly still, observing you as though you were the only living thing in the hall.

Another hunter approached him, speaking of the fallen bad bloods. Vorkath’ren did not respond.

His focus rarely lingered.

The Elder noticed and followed the line of his sight, landing on you. His expression tightened with curiosity.

“You.” The Elder called out.

Your steps were quiet as you approached. You kept your hands folded, your head bowed.

“Offer greetings to the hunters,” the Elder instructed.

You did, voice steady despite the tremor beneath your ribs.

“Welcome home. May your hunts continue to honour the clan.”

A respectful sentence. One you had spoken many times.

Vorkath’ren tilted his head as though memorising the sound of your voice. His mask retracted with a sharp click.

You had never seen him unmasked.

His mandibles framed a mouth full of sharp, gleaming teeth.

Scars crossed his lower jaw. His eyes were a molten shade of amber, intense and almost strange in their depth.

He looked at you. He really looked.

Your breath caught.

Something flickered in those eyes.

He inhaled, sampling your scent.

You were not supposed to react, yet your heart thudded so loudly that you feared every hunter in the hall could hear it.

The Elder spoke again, addressing Vorkath’ren.

“Your hunt was successful, Enforcer. The clan is safer with the bad bloods destroyed.”

Vorkath’ren did not answer.

His gaze remained locked with yours.

The Elder’s eyes narrowed with thought.

“Does something interest you?”

A low, rumbling sound left Vorkath’ren’s chest. Not a threat. Not entirely. It was something far more complicated.

You took a small step back.

That was when he moved.

Only an inch forward, barely noticeable to anyone who did not know Yautja body language. But you knew enough. He was closing distance.

The Elder lifted a hand, halting whatever shift had started in the air.

“Return to your quarters, Enforcer. We will discuss the hunt later.”

Vorkath’ren hesitated.

A feared executioner. A brutal enforcer whose word was law to the lower ranks.

He hesitated.

But eventually he obeyed, turning away.

As he passed you, he looked down at you one last time, pupils wide, breath warm and heavy.

You felt it like a touch. A warning. A promise.

Something you did not yet have a name for.

You were supposed to return to your duties. You were supposed to forget this moment.

But long after he left the hall, you could still feel the burn of his eyes on your skin.

And deep in your chest, something answered.

You tried to tell yourself that nothing had changed.

You tried to believe it.

But from the moment Vorkath’ren returned from the hunt, the walls of the house felt different, as though something had awakened in the shadows and refused to rest again.

He watched you.

You first noticed it the very next morning.

You were carrying herbal infusions to the balcony to dry in the weak sunlight when you sensed it.

A shift in the air. A weight. The unmistakable feeling of being watched.

You lifted your head.

Vorkath’ren stood on the far side of the balcony, silent as a carved idol. His arms were folded behind him, skull trophies hanging across his broad chest. His eyes were fixed on you with that same intensity from the hall.

You almost dropped the tray.

He did not move. He did not speak. He watched.

You gave a small bow, unsure what else to do, and hurried away.

The moment you stepped inside, your skin prickled again. You looked over your shoulder.

He followed you.

Not close. Not enough to appear threatening. But he stood at the next doorway, gaze anchored to your retreating form.

You felt heat rise in your face.

He continued like this for days.

Everywhere you went, he was there.

In the training yard, standing against a pillar as you passed by with supplies.

By the nursery, observing quietly as you soothed a crying youngling.

In the market corridor, his towering form blocked a group of rowdy hunters from brushing too close to you.

The first time he did that, the younger hunter attempted to challenge him, puffing his chest and hissing a complaint.

Vorkath’ren turned his head slowly.

The young hunter froze. Whatever he saw in those amber eyes made him drop his gaze and step back at once.

No one bothered you after that.

You should have been relieved, but your heart raced whenever Vorkath’ren was near. Sometimes you caught him scenting the air when you walked past, a low inhale that made something stir deep in your stomach.

You had never been so intensely noticed in your life.

One afternoon, while trying to stack storage crates, you lost your footing. You braced for the impact, but it never came. A huge hand caught your arm, lifting you upright as though you weighed nothing.

Vorkath’ren.

He crouched, bringing his face level with yours. His eyes scanned you from head to toe, checking for injury.

“I am fine. Thank you.”

He did not release your arm immediately. His grasp was warm, steady, careful.

When he finally let go, his fingers traced lightly across your wrist as though reluctant to break contact.

He rumbled something in his own language. A sound low and soft. You had heard Yautja hunters speak many times, but none of them ever used a tone like that.

Then he rose to his full height and walked away, leaving you breathless.

Later that night, when you returned to your quarters, something waited on your sleeping furs.

A charm.

Bone carved into the shape of a curved talon, polished to a soft shine. A traditional token used by Yautja males when they wished to express interest.

Your breath stopped in your throat.

You lifted it with shaking fingers.

The air carried a faint scent that did not belong to you.

Him.

Footsteps echoed down the hall outside your door. Heavy. Controlled. You knew the sound now.

He paused outside your quarters.

Waiting.

Listening.

You clutched the charm to your chest, unsure whether to hide it or cherish it.

The footsteps moved on.

You sank onto your bed, the charm still resting in your palm, glowing faintly in the dim light.

You should fear this. You should return the token immediately.

Yet warmth bloomed in your chest. A slow, hesitant flutter that made you press your other hand to your heart as if you could calm it.

The Enforcer watched you. Protected you. Desired you.

And no matter how much you tried to ignore it, a part of you felt strangely safe when his shadow fell over yours.

A part of you wondered what it meant to receive a token from a male like him.

A part of you wanted to know what he would do if you kept it.

The gift weighed on your mind for days.

Every time you tucked the carved talon beneath your tunic, every time your fingers brushed its polished surface, you felt the same gentle ache in your chest. You should have returned it. You told yourself that many times. Yet each morning you found it still resting above your heart.

You noticed changes in Vorkath’ren too.

He no longer lurked in distant doorways. He approached you with deliberate steps, closing the distance inch by inch until there was no ignoring his presence.

He found you by the feeding hall one morning, sorting through herbs for the younglings. His shadow covered the table before you realised he was there.

“Enforcer,” you greeted softly, bowing your head.

His mask was clipped to his hip today. His face was bare. His eyes studied you with the precision of a hunter tracking something precious.

“Vorkath’ren,” he corrected, voice deep and gravelled.

You startled. He had never spoken his name to you before.

“I mean no disrespect,” you murmured.

He lowered himself until he was crouched at your level, movements slow and deliberate, as if approaching something fragile.

“You do not disrespect,” he said. The words were heavily accented, but the meaning was clear. “You speak. I listen.”

Your stomach fluttered. You had spoken to many hunters before, but Vorkath’ren was different.

His attention felt heavy, purposeful. His gaze tracked your eyes, your hands, the subtle rise and fall of your chest when you breathed.

You cleared your throat. “I should return to work.”

He tilted his head, mandibles flexing faintly in what you were beginning to recognise as curiosity.

“If I am too near, you speak. I move.”

The offer stunned you. Yautja were not known for yielding to humans. Yet here he was, offering you the ability to push him away.

You hesitated.

“I will tell you if I need space.”

He nodded once. A promise.

True to his word, he respected every boundary you set. When he stepped too close, you gently lifted your hand. He backed away immediately. When his looming presence became too much, you told him, voice shaking.

He bowed his head and stepped aside.

Each time he listened, something inside you softened.

But even with distance, he watched.

He watched you braid a youngling’s hair.

He watched you carry a basket of fruits across the courtyard.

He watched you walk home at twilight, standing sentry on the rooftop above as if guarding your path.

You should have been frightened. Yet somehow, every time your eyes found his towering silhouette, your heart steadied instead of racing away.

The change came on the night of the storm.

The world outside the house raged with thunder. The walls shuddered with each strike of lightning, the sound echoing in your chest.

You hated storms here.

The atmosphere felt different, heavier, more violent than storms on Earth.

You sat curled on your sleeping furs, arms wrapped around your knees, fighting the urge to hide beneath the blankets like a child.

A crash shook the compound so violently that you flinched and covered your ears.

Something moved outside your door.

Footsteps. Heavy, steady, unmistakable.

Your breath hitched.

The door opened with a quiet hiss.

Vorkath’ren stood in the doorway, his silhouette framed by flashes of white lightning.

He looked at you, then at the trembling doorframe, then back to you. A low hum vibrated in his chest, something warm and unthreatening.

“Fear. Your scent.”

You swallowed hard.

“The storm is loud. That is all.”

He stepped forward slowly, giving you time to refuse. You did not.

He lowered himself to sit beside your bed, his back against the wall, arms resting on his bent knees.

“I remain here. If you wish.”

Your heart fluttered.

“You are not needed.”

“No. But I remain.”

Another crash shook the house. You jerked, breath quickening. Vorkath’ren glanced at the ceiling, then back at you.

“You rest, I watch.”

There was no demand in his tone. Only quiet certainty, as though protecting you had ceased being a choice.

You lay back on your furs, though sleep did not come easily. The storm raged. Thunder cracked.

Lightning flashed.

But beside your bed sat the Enforcer of the clan.

Silent. Still. Watching the entrance with unwavering focus.

Your eyes traced the outline of his form.

The breadth of his shoulders. The slow rise and fall of his breath.

His profile was illuminated by every lightning flash.

You loosened your grip on your blankets.

He felt your stare and turned his head, eyes meeting yours through the dim light.

“Sleep,” he murmured.

Something in his tone unravelled the knot inside your chest.

For the first time since childhood, you fell asleep during a storm.

And when you woke, he was exactly where he had been, guarding your dreams with the patience of a creature who had claimed a place he would never relinquish.

The days after the storm settled into a strange rhythm. Vorkath’ren appeared everywhere you went, but no longer hid behind distance.

If you walked through the courtyard, he followed at a respectful pace. If you tended the younglings, he leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, protective eyes tracking every movement around you.

The clan noticed.

How could they not?

Whispers echoed through the corridors, hunters murmuring to one another in disbelief.

The Enforcer watches the human.

Why her?

Does she have a hold on him?

Some were curious. Some were unsettled. A few were openly displeased.

One of them was Jatruk.

He was younger than Vorkath’ren, ambitious, arrogant, a hunter who thought status made him untouchable.

You had always avoided him. His gaze was too bold. His voice is too sharp. He disliked humans and made no attempt to hide it.

You should have been more cautious when you passed through the storage hall alone.

You were gathering medicinal moss for the elder’s mate, head bent, arms full of herbs. No one else stayed in the long corridor. It should have been a simple task.

Footsteps approached. Heavy, confident, unhurried.

You looked up.

Jatruk blocked the doorway.

Your heart tightened.

“I have been watching you. The Enforcer gives you his time. His attention. His silence. You must know what that means.”

Your pulse sped. You stepped back, but he followed.

“I have wondered what you did to earn it. Did you beg him? Offer him something? Humans use tricks. It is known.”

“That is not true. Please let me through.”

He smiled, mandibles flaring faintly.

“Perhaps I should inspect you myself. See what he finds so interesting.”

You moved back again.

He trapped you between a support beam and his towering frame. Panic rose in you.

You clutched the herbs against your chest.

“Move,” you said, voice shaking.

“No,” he answered, leaning closer.

A low sound rumbled from your throat.

Not a cry. Not a scream. A sound of fear so raw it echoed through the corridor.

Jatruk’s hand reached for your arm.

He never touched you.

A shadow dropped behind him with the weight of a falling mountain.

Vorkath’ren.

His roar shattered the silence.

Jatruk spun, but it was already too late.

Vorkath’ren struck him hard enough to send him skidding across the floor. Skulls rattled on the Enforcer’s armour, teeth bared, mandibles wide with fury. Rage radiated from him in waves.

The entire compound seemed to freeze.

Jatruk scrambled to his feet, sputtering.

“She is a servant. A human. She has no claim.”

Vorkath’ren advanced one step. The floor trembled beneath his weight.

“You will not approach her. You will not speak to her. You will not breathe near her.”

Jatruk bared his teeth, refusing to yield.

“You break our customs for her. You shame the clan. Has she enthralled you? Has she made you weak?”

Vorkath’ren’s eyes darkened.

“No. She makes me choose.”

Jatruk lunged.

It was foolish.

It was the end of him.

Vorkath’ren moved with a speed you had never seen.

The collision sent Jatruk crashing into a stone pillar, air leaving his lungs in a single pained gasp. Vorkath’ren pinned him with one massive hand, claws pressed lightly against his throat in warning.

He did not kill him.

But the message was unmistakable.

The Enforcer chose restraint only for you.

Hunters gathered at the edges of the corridor, drawn by the noise, silent witnesses to what came next.

Vorkath’ren released Jatruk, who collapsed to the floor, panting and humiliated.

Without looking at him again, Vorkath’ren turned to you.

His voice softened in a way that stunned everyone present.

“Did he touch you?” he asked.

“No,” you whispered.

He stepped closer, towering above you, but his posture was low, submissive in a way Yautja rarely displayed.

He reached out, paused, and waited for your permission. You gave a small nod.

His hand came to rest lightly against your arm, warm and steady.

“Good,” he said, voice thick with relief.

The gathered hunters exchanged shocked looks.

A murmur rippled through them.

The Enforcer protects the human.

The Enforcer claims her.

The Enforcer chooses.

You swallowed hard, the realisation sinking in.

“What you did, you declared something.”

His eyes met yours, dark and burning.

“I declare truth. You are under my protection. My watch. My choice.”

The words were not casual. Not symbolic.

Among Yautja, such a declaration was the first step toward a mate bond.

“Vorkath’ren, you cannot simply claim me.”

He lowered himself until his face was inches from yours. His mandibles brushed your cheek in the faintest touch, the contact so gentle it barely existed.

“I do not claim your body, I claim your safety.”

His hand lifted to your chest. Not touching.

“As for more, you decide. Not I.”

Your heart ached at the tenderness hidden beneath so much power.

Hunters still watched, stunned, uncertain, afraid to speak.

But Vorkath’ren did not care for their eyes.

He stepped to your side, standing as your shield. He looked at the hall, at Jatruk, at the hunters gathered, and his voice thundered through the corridor.

“She belongs to my guard. My watch. My protection. Any who threaten her are my enemy.”

Silence fell like a closing door.

Your life changed with those words. Yet, you still choose to act as if nothing happened.

Even if you were no longer just a maid. You were the Enforcer’s chosen.

And nothing in the clan would ever be the same again.

Later that night

You help put the younglings down for sleep, soft humming drifting through the stone hall, blankets pulled up, little claws clutching at your sleeves as they nestle in.

Once the final one is tucked in, you step outside for a moment of quiet, breathing in the night air.

The village glows with dim bioluminescent lanterns.

The jungle sings in its endless voice of insects and distant beasts. Cool wind wraps around you.

You close your eyes.

A branch cracks.

Your heart jumps.

Then you feel it, the shift in the air, heavy and unmistakable.

You turn.

Vorkath’ren stands in the shadows between the huts, half-lit by the soft glow. His mask is removed now, hanging at his hip.

His bare mandibles flare slightly, breath deep and steady, eyes burning like molten amber.

He does not speak.

He simply watches.

You know in your bones he does not stumble upon you by chance.

He came for you.

Slowly, he steps into the lantern light. His trophies clink softly with each movement.

His muscles ripple with controlled violence under the dim glow, but his eyes… his eyes soften when they land on you.

A shock hits your chest.

This creature, who executes traitors without hesitation is looking at you like you are something delicate.

Something important.

You take a step back.

He takes a step forward.

“Why… why are you here?” you whisper.

He gives a low chirr.

So soft it sends heat down your spine.

Then he does something you have never seen him do with anyone.

He kneels.

One knee to the ground. Head bowed. Eyes locked on yours.

A gesture of intent.

A vow.

Your breath catches.

You don’t understand it.

You’re not ready to understand it.

He rises slowly, towering once more.

His claws lift, hovering near your face again, but he stops himself, pulling back with a frustrated growl.

Restraint.

You realise with a shiver:

He wants you.

Deeply.

And he is trying very, very hard not to take what he wants.

He steps back into the shadows.

Watching.

Guarding.

Obsessed.

You shiver.

Not from fear.

But from the dangerous flutter low in your stomach that whispers you might want him too.

For almost a full week, Vorkath’ren becomes a shadow stitched to the edges of your world. He doesn’t approach you directly.

He doesn’t speak.

He simply appears.

Everywhere.

When you fetch water, you sense him crouched on the rooftops, silent as a panther.

When you walk the younglings to their lessons, he lingers at the far edge of the training grounds, trophy bones clinking in the breeze.

When you sweep the family hearthstones, you catch glimpses of him through gaps in the walls, mask glinting as he watches.

He never moves toward you unless you look away first.

He never touches you again.

And somehow that makes it worse.

That makes the air between you tighter.

Sharper.

Hungrier.

The matron of the house notices the way you startle at every heavy footstep, every distant growl.

She tuts, as if amused.

“The enforcer’s interest is unusual. He shows no tenderness. No fondness. Not to anyone.”

“He’s not… interested. He’s just… cautious. Observant.”

Her mandibles twitch in what you’ve learned is a smile.

“My dear, that hunter is watching you as if you were a wounded animal he wishes to guard, and a mate he wishes to claim.”

Your cheeks burn.

She continues, voice softening.

“Be careful. His kind love fiercely… but when they choose, it is with absolute possession.”

The bowl in your hands suddenly feels too heavy.

You wake to the sound of metal striking stone.

Clang.

Scrape.

Clang.

You sit up in your small sleeping corner, heart thumping. The household sleeps deeply, but something outside calls to you.

You push aside the cloth covering the doorway and step into the cool night.

The moonlight spills silver across the training yard.

And there he is.

Vorkath’ren

Mask off. Standing before a tall stone pillar engraved with ancient glyphs. His dreadlocks hang in wild black ropes, some tied with the skulls of creatures you’ve only seen in nightmares.

In his hand, he holds a blade nearly as long as your torso.

Clang.

Scrape.

He drags the tip along the stone in slow, deliberate strokes.

Marking something.

A symbol.

A vertical slash followed by three cross-strokes.

Your breath catches.

You’ve seen that symbol before.

On armour.

On huts.

On weapons.

It is the sigil of a Yautja’s chosen mate.

You freeze.

He pauses, sensing you, head lifting slightly.

Very slowly, he turns.

His eyes glow gold in the moonlight, burning like twin suns. His chest rises with a deep, deliberate inhale, as if tasting the air you displace.

He doesn’t speak.

He doesn’t have to.

You can feel the weight of the gesture.

He has carved the sigil, knowing you would see it.

Knowing you would understand.

You step back, breath shaking.

“Vorkath’ren… I… I don’t…”

You don’t know what.

What to feel.

What to say.

What to do with the wildfire building between you.

He takes one heavy step toward you.

Then another.

Not fast.

Not aggressive.

Just steady.

Sure.

Like gravity itself has chosen you and refuses to let go.

Instinct takes over, and you brace to run.

He stops instantly.

His head tilts, mandibles tucking tight with frustration, almost fear. As if even the idea of frightening you rattles him more than any hunt.

He lifts one clawed hand.

Very slow.

Palm open.

Showing he means no harm.

The gesture steals your breath.

You’ve seen him lift that same hand to crush skulls.

To cut down traitors.

To silence those who disobey the Elder.

But to you…

He shows his empty palm.

His voice rumbles out, low and rough, shaping your name with surprising clarity.

It sounds different in his mouth.

Possessive.

You step forward before you even realise you’ve moved.

He inhales sharply.

Your closeness affects him, visibly, intensely. His pupils blow wide, his mandibles twitch with restrained hunger, and his claws flex as if begging to touch but refusing.

Slowly, he lowers himself to one knee again.

The enforcer.

The executioner.

The tribe’s monster.

Kneeling. For you.

Your throat tightens.

“Vorkath’ren… why are you doing this?”

He rumbles deep in his chest, a sound you feel in your spine.

Then he lifts one claw and taps the newly carved sigil on the stone.

Your breath stutters.

“You cannot, I’m human. I’m not… I can’t be that to you.”

He tilts his head again, amber eyes narrowing with a certainty that chills you.

He isn’t asking. He’s telling you.

Claiming you in the only way he knows.

He stands slowly, towering over you, body radiating heat, breath heavy with want he can barely contain.

His claws gently brush the air near your shoulder.

Not touching.

As if he’s waiting for you to choose first.

Waiting for permission.

You take the tiniest step closer.

He shudders.

Then he exhales a low, trembling sound you’ve only ever heard from wounded Yautja.

Vulnerability.

Need.

He backs away into the shadows before he loses control.

But you know now what he wants.

And what you are becoming to him.

Not prey.

Not property.

Not duty.

Something far more dangerous.

Something he would kill for.

Something he would die for.

Something he has already begun to claim.

---

The threats that once stalked your nights, bad blood hunters, political tension within the tribe, challenges to Var’kah’s authority, fade, conquered one by one beneath his claws.

His savage reputation remains, but there is a softness now that only you ever see.

And it starts every morning.

You wake to the warmth of his chest pressed behind your back, his arm coiled around your waist like an unmovable band of iron and affection. His mandibles rest lightly against your shoulder, a habit he formed the first time you shared a sleeping mat. The rumble he makes when he feels you stir vibrates through your ribs, low and content.

You turn to face him.

His eyes open.

He has never slept deeply unless you are beside him.

“Good morning,” you whisper, brushing a hand over the scars on his jawline.

He answers in a gentle click, then lowers his forehead to yours.

A gesture you once feared, now one that unties your heart a little more each day.

He lifts your hand to his mouth and presses a slow kiss to your palm. His tusks scrape softly, deliberately careful.

Once, he was the tribe’s executioner.

Now, he is the male who warms your feet at night, who wakes before dawn to hunt your favourite fruit, who growls possessively when anyone looks at you too long.

And no one challenges it.

Not anymore.

The tribe accepts you.

Respects you.

Some even adore you.

The younglings, greet you each day with chirrs and small carvings they insist on giving you.

When the matron grew too old to keep the nursery, you took her place without question.

Vorkath’ren rebuilt the sleeping hall himself, larger and sturdier, so you would be safe, though everyone knows he meant “protected by walls built with my own hands.”

He watches over you even now, but the obsession that once frightened you has softened into something deeply loyal. Intensely warm.

Still possessive, always, but no longer tangled in pain.

One evening, you sit together at the edge of the jungle, watching the twin moons rise. Var’kah crouches beside you, his size dwarfing your own, his arm brushing yours as if he cannot bear even an inch of distance.

He holds something in his hand.

A bone carving.

Small, elegant, shaped into a sigil you know very well: his.

You lift it with gentle fingers.

“For me?”

He nods, mandibles lifting in a subtle smile.

“Mine,” he rumbles softly.

Not a claim.

A promise.

You lean into him, resting your head against his arm. He shifts so you can settle more comfortably, pulling you against his chest with a tenderness that would shock anyone who once feared him.

“Yours,” you reply quietly.

His entire body warms at the word.

He wraps both arms around you, holding you as if you are the axis of his world, the thing he orbits. You feel the soft vibration of his contentment, a sound that settles into your bones like sunlight.

The moons climb higher.

The night grows still.

And for the first time in your life, the future feels simple.

Safe.

You reach up and brush his cheek.

“Are you happy?” you ask, though you already know the answer.

He presses his forehead to yours, eyes burning softly, voice low and sincere.

“With you, always.”

You smile, closing your eyes as he pulls you into the circle of his arms, the hunter’s moon glowing white above you both.

Here, in this life you built together, there is no fear.

No running.

No claws reaching in the dark.

Only warmth.

Only belonging.

Only love.

~Masterlist~

[dearwalker]

I think he knows

Pairing: Eddie Munson x reader x Steve Harrington Wc: 10.3k

Description: Eddie accidentally walks in on Steve fucking you in a WSQK storage closet. He thinks he’s doomed to a life of fantasizing over you with the only company of his right hand, until…Steve himself offers him a golden ticket straight to your bed: a threesome.

Inspired on the song ‘I think he knows’ by Taylor Swift <3

Warnings/tags: threesome smut, all are adults, fem!reader, established relationship with S5!Steve, no spoilers, Eddie survives S4 bc I say so, mentions of his scars, voyeurism, eddie fantasizes a lot, he jerks off a lot more, porn with plot, dry humping, oral male rec, fingering, piv sex, reverse cowgirl, both men are whipped for you.

Note: Surprise, new boy in the harem✨ No I don’t know how this happened, or how it ended up being so long but all I can say is merry early christmas my dears, enjoy the filth!! 🫦

archive | masterlist

he’s so obsessed with me and boy I understand

Eddie Munson had never hated the sun before.

Not until he saw it in your smile.

You were standing in front of him at the crawl meeting, giggling at something Robin had said, soft and golden in the way that only you could be, wearing Steve’s stupid jacket that by this point was pretty much your own. 

Because he was. 

Steve Harrington, Mr. Perfect Hair himself, asshole turned part time hero, was the guy who got to hold your hand in public. Eddie didn’t hate him. Not really. He wanted to, wanted it bad sometimes, when the jealousy itched too deep to scratch. 

He’d hated him at some point, when Dustin wouldn't shut up about how incredible his friend was. But alas, after everything they’d been through last year and Steve being the one who got him out of that hellhole, he really couldn’t hate him anymore. 

So, he hated the sun. Because he couldn't have it.

Eddie also hated himself for not speaking up sooner. For watching you fall in love with someone else while he sat in the background. And maybe that was his punishment. Maybe that was the price for every time he chickened out, every time he saw you in the hallway in that little cherry red jacket and panicked, ducking behind his locker like a coward.

Maybe if he hadn’t been, you would be wearing his jacket now. 

“Dude, wipe your face. You’re one drool away from filling the bucket,” came a voice from beside him, and undoubtedly by the tone–it had to be Henderson’s. 

Eddie snapped out of his trance by the sharp nudge of Dustin’s elbow. Shit. He hadn’t even realized he was watching. 

“I’m not,” he lied, even as he tilted his head just enough to catch another glimpse of you, this time laughing as Steve tried to sneak a kiss and Robin dramatically fake gagged next to you.

Jesus, Eddie was about to gag for real. 

“You’re staring again,” Dustin chuckled, walking away after patting him condescendingly on the back. 

Eddie shot him a glare but didn’t argue back. Because what was the point? 

All he could do was fantasize when it came to you. You would never look at him the same way you look at Steve. 

You just looked at him like he was funny. Your metalhead friend. And Eddie? Eddie looked at you like you hung the goddamn stars.

Things were finally looking up for Eddie. For once. 

Aside from his not so little crush situation, everything else seemed to be getting better. 

After almost dying being devoured by supernatural creatures–which, in his opinion would’ve been a very metal death–his uncle’s trailer had gotten split in half, and he’d gotten piles and piles of medical bills from his long recovery. Which led to him having to find a part time job as a mechanic besides his little dealing business. 

Oh! And how could he forget? The police department was still investigating him about the murders from last year. 

Between that, his job, the incessant crawls every week, and his therapy–both physical and psychological–he had absolutely no time to host hellfire anymore. Dustin had tried to keep it alive, but bless his soul, no one compares to Eddie Munson when it comes to being DM. 

But last week, by some miracle, he’d finally, finally been cleared as “innocent” due to lack of evidence and was able to start living a normal life again. His therapy sessions had been reduced to once every two weeks, and he’d also repaired a few fancy cars that earned him a pretty juicy commission. 

So yeah. Things were finally looking up for him after whatever the hell ‘86 was. 

So, with a pep in his step, he walked through the doors of the WSQK headquarters holding a cardboard box with all his stuff for that day’s campaign. Robin had told him they had a spare room on the back, and Steve said he could go earlier to set everything up. He even whistled as he strolled through the empty hallways of the radio station.

He saw two doors at the end, figuring he’d open both and find out which one he was supposed to settle in. 

But as all Munsons tend to run out of luck at some point, it seems like the curse finally hit him again when he opened the wrong one and changed the course of his entire fucking life. 

Because what he didn’t expect, what absolutely no one warned him about, was that you and Steve liked to use the storage closet to fuck like bunnies before anyone arrived at the station. 

He froze at the door, the box in his hand hanging on for dear life as he took in the scene in front of him. 

There you were. 

Propped up on a stack of cardboard boxes with Steve between your legs, your skirt was bunched around your hips, and your knees high on his waist. Your face was flushed, hair a mess and you were letting out choked little gasps because you couldn’t form words anymore.

Eddie’s heart stopped. He might’ve as well died for real this time. 

You let out a startled sound, grabbing Steve’s shoulders to hide yourself the second you saw Eddie standing there. Steve just glanced back over his shoulder, not even bothering to stop. 

“Dude. Do you mind?” 

Eddie slammed the door shut.

He walked out of WSQK like he’d seen a ghost. Didn’t even say a word to Dustin, who was just pulling up on his bike. 

He just got in his van, and drove straight into the woods far enough to be alone. And for the next ten minutes, the only sound in that van was the furious pumping of his hard cock into his hand and his broken, desperate moans repeating something.

Your name. Again. And again.

And again.

Then, after going back and giving a poor excuse to his boys as to why he couldn’t host that day and had to leave immediately (one that actually meant sorry guys! Gotta jerk off like 10 more times!) He went to repeat the same routine back at the small place Wayne managed to rent after the “earthquakes” had destroyed his trailer. 

He turned off the lights of the room he called his now. Lit a blunt just for something to do with his free hand. Threw on a loud tape to drown out the grunts and the pathetic moaning, and his fist went to town–again–to the memory of you.

The way you looked in that closet.

The arch of your back against the boxes. The sound of your voice breaking as you moaned his name–not Eddie’s, no, the one you belonged to. Steve. The way your fingers dug into his shoulders, pulling him closer, as if he wasn’t deep enough. And your face…

God. Your fucking face.

Blissed out and flushed, swollen lips parted, eyes half-lidded and completely lost in it. No cheap porn film he’d ever watched compared to that. No–you were the most obscene thing Eddie had ever seen in his life and it was burned into him now. Engraved into the insides of his lids. No amount of blinking could unsee it. 

No amount of jerking off could erase it. 

(He tried. Many times.)

People had sex all the time. This shouldn’t be on his head 24/7. But…Eddie couldn’t believe that was you. 

He’d always seen you as soft. As the sweet girl giggling at Steve’s dumb jokes while playing with his stupid perfect hair. As the one who would mediate when a crawl meeting got too heated when someone didn’t agree with the plan. As the one who always listened to everyone…even him. 

You even called him Eds once, so softly, that he’d walked around with chest pain for a full day like a goddamn lovesick teenager. 

But now?

Now he couldn’t stop imagining how your voice sounded when it wasn't innocent. Couldn’t stop remembering how your legs looked parted open, how your thighs shook as Steve thrusted harshly into you. 

He should’ve known better though, that was on him. He should’ve known that someone who once held the title of “King Steve” would be the one to corrupt a girl like you. 

Who wouldn’t want to? 

He couldn’t stop wondering what it’d feel like to be the one between your legs. To have you whimpering like that. To see you fall apart and know he did that. That he got you that high, that far gone…that wrecked.

He was fucking haunted by the fantasy. And it wasn’t lust, it was worse than that. It was curiosity, obsession, need.

The need to be the one who fucks the sweetness out of you. 

But now you were probably curled up in Steve’s bed, fast asleep on his hairy chest, wearing one of his shirts and dreaming about getting fucked by him, while Eddie dreamt of you after he didn’t have anything left to milk out.

He dreamt of your hand in his curls. Your thighs around his waist. Your voice in his ear breaking with his name over and over and…over. 

Eddie tried to be normal after that. God, he tried. 

At least you seemed to be normal. You walked into Thursday movie night at Nancy’s like nothing had happened, dropping onto the couch next to Steve with a bag of popcorn, listening to whatever Robin said, still sweet and smiley and wearing one of Steve’s jackets. 

He told himself not to stare. Repeated it like a goddamn mantra.

Don’t look, Munson. Don’t fucking look. You’ll just embarrass yourself. You’ll make it weird. 

But then your eyes met, and you smiled at him, and…Eddie forgot his own name.

His mouth opened, but no words came out. Just a squeak that could’ve been the start of a sentence, or a heart attack. He pretended to cough into his fist and buried himself deeper into the armchair. 

And Steve? Oh he noticed. 

Not just Eddie’s reaction, but all of it. The way Eddie’s eyes had locked onto you from the moment you walked in. The way they dropped lower every time you shifted. The way his fingers gripped the armrest. 

And the weird part? Steve didn’t get mad. He just smirked, knowingly, even amused by the whole thing. 

The next time something altered Eddie’s brain chemistry, was at the diner. 

He’d arrived late, mainly because he wasn’t even sure if he wanted to go in the first place, but the thought of seeing your smile was enough to convince him to walk through that door, and soon it was just him, Robin, and the perfect couple. 

Eddie looked at you from across the booth, wearing an outfit that he was sure would ruin his life later when he was alone back in his room. You were sipping from your milkshake, the pink straw pressed between your lips, as you let out a hum of contempt at the sweet taste. All Eddie could think was that could be something else.

Thank God for Robin’s need to ramble about everything that happened on her date with Vicky that weekend, that you and Steve were focused on her and not on Eddie’s anxious leg bouncing under the table. 

Or at least that’s what he thought. 

“Eds, take some fries,” you offered sweetly when Robin ran out of air, pushing the plate you’d been eating from with Steve toward him. 

Eddie hadn’t ordered anything, he wasn’t hungry–at least not for actual food–and of course you’d noticed and offered him some of your own. 

“Yeah man, go ahead,” Steve chimed in with a smile that was enough to freak him out. “I don’t mind sharing,” he added with a shrug, placing an arm around your shoulders, hazel eyes piercing into Eddie’s with a devilish glint. 

The implication left Eddie frozen in place, hand hovering over the fries as you began talking with Robin again, unaware of the way your boyfriend’s comment had left Eddie stunned. 

Steve didn’t say anything else. Just kept looking at him, head tilted, like he knew something. Like he felt it now. 

The shift. 

Eddie almost got up and left, but then he caught Steve’s eyes, and the bastard just winked.

Jesus Christ. 

You’re still breathless when Steve flips you onto your back again, mind stuck somewhere between heaven and passing out as your sore body still feels every inch of him buried deep inside you. 

He drapes you across his chest knowing you can’t hold yourself up anymore, bare skin sticky with sweat, your cheek pressed over his heartbeat. Steve's hand goes to your thigh, fingers brushing softly where he’d held you down minutes ago. 

You don’t want to move. You never want to after he’s done with you. So you just cling tightly to him, letting out a dreamy sigh and nuzzling closer, planting a soft kiss over his racing heart.

Steve smiles, shifting just enough to see your blissed out face. “You okay over there?”

“Mmhm,” you hum. “Can’t feel my soul. Congratulations, Harrington.”

That makes him chuckle. He kisses the top of your head. “Anytime, baby.” 

As his room settles into silence and you begin drifting off in his arms before he can drag you into taking a shower, Steve’s chest vibrates against your skin when he speaks again. 

“Hey,” he whispers, absentmindedly playing with your hair which doesn’t help your heavy eyelids closing. 

“Hmm?” 

“Do you ever notice the way Eddie looks at you?”

Your eyes blink open immediately. 

You don’t say anything at first. Just start tracing lazy little circles on a particular scar on his ribs, pretending to think about it, but you already know the answer. 

“Yeah,” you smile, “I’ve noticed.”

Steve hums, hand still resting on your thigh.

“It’s probably just a silly little crush,” you add, as if you didn’t know how Eddie’s voice breaks every time you spare a glance at him. Or the way his hands shake when you ask him to hand you a drink on movie night. “He’s just… traumatized from the time he caught us back at the station,” you chuckle. 

“Oh, baby. You should’ve seen his face in that closet.” Steve snorts. “You were extra loud that day, you really put on a show for him–the lucky bastard.” 

“What?” You ask, straightening up on his chest. “You knew he was going to get there earlier?”

“I was hoping he got there earlier."

You smack his arm with your mouth wide open, but a smile tugs at your lips. He grins like the bastard he is, shifting to ease you again into his embrace. 

“Don’t worry baby, I might have a way to fix him right back up,” he says smugly, those impossible hazel eyes glinting with mischief. “…Remember that talk we had a while back? Couple months ago. About maybe…bringing in a third?”

Your heart thumps so fast against your chest that you’re sure Steve can feel it on his. 

“…Yeah,” you say. “I remember.”

“What if…it was him?” He shrugs, like he’s discussing what movie to watch. “I’m just saying, we’ve both noticed. And maybe…” His hand drifts lower down your thigh, finding that place where you’re still sensitive. “Maybe it’s fun to imagine what he’d do if we invited him.”

His fingers press against your wet folds, easily sliding in and drawing a gasp out of you. His eyebrows shoot up, like he’d managed exactly what he wanted. 

“See? Don't you want to show him again how pretty you sound?”

Maybe it’s the overstimulation of Steve fingers pumping in and out of your pussy like he hadn’t absolutely wrecked it minutes prior, that the word comes out of your mouth before you can stop it. 

“Yes,” you exhale in a shaky moan. 

The thought alone thrills you. Because the truth is, you’ve been feeling it as much as Steve has. You've been wanting it as much as Steve has. 

The forbidden. 

Because it is fun to imagine. You guiding Eddie’s hand. Steve watching and telling you what to do. You crying out between the two of them.

God. 

“So…Eddie?” You pant, unsure if you’re asking or you're moaning out his name just to try it out on your lips. 

Steve just smirks. 

“Yeah,” he says, pumping faster. “Eddie.”

The moment that sealed Eddie’s fate was a random Thursday. 

He should’ve known better. 

The second you said movie night was at your place, he should’ve backed out. Should’ve faked a headache or a gig or even a freak accident involving his uncle.

Anything.

But–like the fucking idiot he was–he’d walked right through your front door that night. 

You’d picked a shitty movie on purpose. Something slow without any action scenes, full of long silences and artistic shots that made Robin snore into the couch cushion, with Nancy and Jonathan falling right behind. 

Steve sat beside you the whole time, like always, hand on your thigh, like always. Looking casual, almost innocent.

Eddie was on the floor, sitting too close to the TV just so he wouldn’t look at you. 

He’d been too busy picking at the skin of his thumb and lost into the mazes of his head, that he didn’t notice you’d disappeared with Steve until he glanced over to the couches and only found the girls and Jonathan dead to the world. 

He sat there for a few more minutes pretending to care about the stupid movie, but then–like a fucking idiot, again–he decided to get up, quietly leaving the room like he was going to the kitchen.

He took a hard left to the stairs instead. 

Eddie knew where your bedroom was. He’d been there before when you’d asked him to bring more blankets on movie night a few months ago. He still remembers the cute little nightlight plugged into the wall. 

As he tiptoed to the top of the stairs like a freak, the hall was dark, but a sliver of light came out of your room through the slightly open door. 

Eddie dragged his feet on the carpet, guided by shushing voices and a noise of what he was sure was the creak of a bed. Once he reached, he braced himself for the scene he was about to encounter as he peeked through the door, but no amount of breathing techniques could have ever prepared him for the image before his eyes. 

Oh, fuck.

You were on your stomach, face pressed into the mattress, Steve standing behind you with both hands gripping your hips. Your ass–god, your ass–lifted high to meet every thrust. 

Your skirt was bunched around your waist, panties pushed to the side, but nothing really hid you from the pervert on the door. Not even Steve’s body blocked the view of him disappearing into your dripping pussy, filling you so deep Eddie could see it, see the way your walls opened for him. 

The nightlight glowed behind you, casting just enough light to make it worse. 

Pink and soft and obscene.

Eddie’s eyes went over the curve of your spine. The shake of your thighs. Your fingers twisting in the floral sheets, holding on for dear life as your body kept being pushed forward. 

And the sounds. Jesus Christ, the sounds.

“Steve,” you gasped, “please–more–don’t stop.”

“Shhh baby, I know,” Steve cooed behind you, doing the exact opposite of what you asked and stopped. “But you gotta keep it down, don’t want to wake up your guests do you?” 

The fucking hypocrite then slammed back into you so hard the headboard bumped the wall. You moaned–no, cried out, trying to muffle it against the sheets as Eddie bit down his fist just to keep himself from making a sound. 

“Oh baby, you wanna be loud?” Steve chuckled, as he kept thrusting hard. “Go on then, I want to hear you.” 

“I–fuck–I love your cock, Steve” you choked the words out. “‘S–s’ so deep.”

Eddie froze at the crack of the door, heart pounding out of his chest as he watched you getting fucked within an inch of your life. 

The sweet girl. The sun. The angel he thought he knew. Gripping her sheets like a sinner. Moaning filth like she wanted the guests to hear.

Maybe you wanted him to hear. 

Eddie’s hand slipped inside his jeans, he couldn't stop himself. Not after that. He stroked himself fast and hard and desperate, watching your body take it, and your mouth beg for it. 

It didn’t take long for Eddie to come harder than he’d ever had in his life. He made a mess in his hand, his pants, and he was sure some of his cum dripped onto the carpet below, but he was too high and too far gone to care. 

He nearly collapsed against the stairs wall as he rushed back down, panting, already half hard again within seconds. 

The movie was still rolling, the guys were still fast asleep, but he had been changed forever–once again. 

Seriously, who the hell leaves the door open? Or unlocked? For two people who seemed to fuck like bunnies none of it made sense. 

Unless…you’d wanted him to watch. 

Eddie was in the middle of jerking off when someone started pounding on his front door. 

Of course.

He’d found his rhythm, music blasting, hips grinding into his palm, eyes squeezed shut and in his head, his filthy, freaky little head, you kept running your dirty mouth over and over. 

He’d been at it for twenty minutes. Maybe more. His dick was red and raw but he didn’t care because the only thing worse than jerking off to the memory of you was not jerking off to it.

Bang, bang, bang.

“Jesus–fuck,” he curses, pulling up his briefs with a groan, finding a pair of jeans from the floor as the knocking continues.

“EDDIE!!” A familiar voice calls over the music. 

Oh no. 

Eddie walks out of his room shirtless, crosses the hall in dragged strides, and opens the door wide enough to peek out, and yeah, there he is.

Steve fucking Harrington.

The absolute last person on earth he wanted to catch him red handed with his dick in his hand fantasizing about his girlfriend.

“Hey, man,” Eddie manages, clearing his throat when his voice cracks a little. “Uh…what’s up?” 

“Hey!” Steve beams, that preppy boy smile spreading wide on his face. “Mind if I come in?”

Eddie hesitates only for a second, then opens the door wider and steps back. Steve walks in, glances around, his gaze landing on Eddie’s bedroom. More specifically, on the bottle of lotion on his nightstand and the constellation of crumpled paper tissues on the floor next to his bed. 

Steve chuckles. “Sorry man, didn’t mean to interrupt.” 

“Wh–what?”

“You know. That thing you were doing.” Steve smirks, nodding his head toward the room. “Thinking about my girl?”

Eddie’s whole face goes red. “Dude, what the fuck–”

“You like her,” Steve says plainly, not as a question, not mad, not teasing. Just a matter of fact. “I know you’ve always liked her. But now you’ve seen her like I have. And now you can’t stop thinking about her.”

Eddie stands frozen in the middle of the living room, unsure of what he’s supposed to say to save his case. Although, given the evidence, there isn’t much to hope for. 

“Is this the part where you punch me?” Eddie asks, almost bracing for the impact. 

But Steve just laughs in his face. 

“No, man. No punches.” He shakes his head, amused. “You know…she likes it when you stare.”

You like it when he stares? You know he stares? 

“Alright Harrington, if you wanna hit me, just do it. Don’t fuck with me.” Eddie chuckles bitterly, already wishing he could just go back to his little twisted fantasies instead of hearing this bullshit. 

“Don’t you get what I’m saying Eddie?”

Eddie narrows his eyes. “No…?”

Steve sighs, then steps closer to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I’m saying…she wants you to fuck her.”

There’s a moment of deafening silence where Eddie questions if he actually speaks the English language, because there’s no fucking way in the world he heard that right. 

“...What??” 

“She does,” Steve repeats, then chuckles again, “Hell, even I want you to fuck her.”

“You’re not being serious,” Eddie accuses, backing off from Steve’s grasp to pace in circles with his hands on his hips. 

“Fucking hell man,” Steve groans. “Look–I’ve seen the way you look at her. And I get it, okay? She’s a dream, I know.” He laughs, but Eddie keeps pacing like a madman, shaking his head. “Dude–you ever wonder what she tastes like when she’s already come twice?”

That makes him stop right in his tracks. He turns to Steve in disbelief, but once again he doesn’t see anger, or teasing. He’s genuinely asking him if he fantasizes about his girlfriend. 

“Man, I wonder about everything,” Eddie finally blurts out, exhaling like he just lifted a weight off his chest that’s been dragging him down for weeks. 

Steve grins. 

“I wouldn’t offer you this if I didn’t trust you with her.” 

He walks closer to Eddie–again–but this time he doesn’t place his hand on his shoulder, just looks at him dead in the eye as his grin turns darker. 

“You’d be gentle with her, wouldn’t you, Eddie?” He asks, pupils taking over the hazel of his eyes. “You wouldn’t fuck her too hard the first time, right? She’s too sensitive after–and trust me, you’re gonna want her to keep going.”

Eddie is speechless for the 124378th time in that month. Which should be an achievement, considering he likes to talk as much as Robin does. 

“I’m not gonna say it twice, Munson.” Steve lifts a hand to clap him on the shoulder. “But she really wants it. So are you in?”

Eddie doesn’t even think anymore. He just nods frantically. 

Oh, he’s so in.

Oh, he’s so having a full blown existential crisis. 

He hadn’t slept the night before. Who could sleep after that conversation? Steve, poster boy for everything Eddie is not, just casually walked into his place, dropping that line like it was no big deal: 

She wants you to fuck her.

Which is how he ended up now, standing outside your goddamn house, sweating through his jacket and wondering if he’d actually never woken up from the demobats attack and this was all a coma dream. 

Because now you apparently wanted him.

In your house. In your bed.

On those stupidly adorable floral sheets he couldn’t stop thinking about. That’s what he came thinking about. That’s what he dreamed about every night. 

Steve’d said to just “roll by tonight.” Well, tonight is here, and Eddie stands outside the door contemplating his options. 

Does he knock? Does he just open it and walk into a fucking orgy?

Jesus. 

He adjusts his jacket, runs a hand through his curly hair, and tells himself it’s going to be fine. He’s already been through things someone his age should never have to in their entire lifetime. Strange things. He can handle a little threesome.

Right?

He rings the doorbell before he chickens out like he’s done his whole life. 

Eddie hears footsteps approaching the front door. He expects you, for some reason, but instead it’s Steve who opens it, shirtless, barefoot, only wearing some sweatpants, and smiling bright as if he’d just invited Eddie over to watch some sports game.

“Hey, dude! Glad you made it,” he beams, stepping aside.

Eddie walks through the threshold, and stops in the middle of the entrance hall pressing his lips tight. 

“You want water or something?” Steve offers casually, noticing Eddie’s looking around nervously. “She’s upstairs. All ready.”

“She’s what?”

“All ready,” Steve repeats with a grin. “You know, for you.”

Steve laughs at Eddie’s loss for words, claps him reassuringly on the back, and gestures toward the stairs.

 “Come on, man. Don’t leave her waiting.”

He walks up the stairs with Steve trailing behind. Eddie’s already hard under his ripped jeans, stopping right outside your door thinking what on earth does ready for me mean?

Are you naked? Are you touching yourself? Do you know how hard he is? Can you feel him on the other side of the door?

He can even see the damn nightlight is on behind it. His hand hovers over the doorknob, but for one second, the doubt comes crawling back in.

What if this is a joke? What if he opens the door and all your friends are inside pointing at him and laughing like “Look who actually believed it! You’re a pervert, Eddie!”

Wouldn’t be the first time someone pulls a cruel prank on him–or calls him that. Wouldn’t even be the worst. But–

“You gonna open it, Eddie? Or are you too scared of my girl?” Steve’s teasing voice cuts off his spiraling thoughts. 

Eddie takes a deep breath, finally twists the knob, and he swears time slows down when he sees you there. 

You’re sitting–no, half kneeling on the bed in the center of the room. Those floral sheets are bunched under your knees. And you’re wearing a little dainty lace set. The fabric is barely there, but the little bows on the straps make it sweet enough for Eddie’s mouth to go dry. Your exposed skin looks soft under the warm pink glow the nightlight casts against the walls. 

You’re all ready for him. 

Eddie nearly fucking dies. Again. 

You smile when you see him. It’s soft and warm and welcoming, like always. Except–nearly naked. Not like he hadn’t seen your guts getting rearranged about two times too much these past weeks anyways. 

“Hi, Eds,” you say, waving your hand as if you aren’t currently rewiring his entire nervous system.

He stands frozen in the doorway as Steve brushes past him, casual as hell. He walks straight up to you, bends down just enough to pet your chin with two fingers, making you laugh softly. 

“Hi again, baby,” Steve whispers sweetly. “Let’s give him a warm welcome, hm?”

You hum in agreement, watching Steve walk away and drop onto the puff in the corner of the room, manspreading like a king waiting for his entertainment to start. 

But Eddie…Eddie’s still standing by the door like 🧍🏻

“So uh…what–what are the rules?” He stammers. “Or, like boundaries? Or–fuck, I don’t know, a safe word?”

He means it for him, of course. 

You cover your mouth to stifle a laugh. “Oh my god. Eddie, you're adorable.”

Steve is not as delicate as you, “Dude,” he snorts. “You can’t be serious. Relax. No one's handing out instructions.” 

Eddie shifts anxiously on his feet. “I–there should be instructions.”

When the hell has ever cared about those? 

“You’re here to make her feel good, that’s it.” Steve says quite harshly, crossing his arms over his chest, then looks at you and everything in him softens. “You decide how far he goes, baby.” 

You melt. Right there on the bed. Blow him a kiss and then turn your full attention to the very shy boy at your doorstep. 

“It’s okay, Eddie. Can you come closer?” You ask, extending your arm and gesturing toward the bed. 

Eddie gives one step, that’s all he manages.

You smile wider, just enough to coax him. “Closer, Eddie. Please.”

Fuck.

He takes another step, then another, until he’s right by the edge of the bed, so close he can see the pattern of the fine lace of your lingerie, the way your chest rises when you breathe, the way you’re giving him the most deadly case of bedroom eyes he’s ever seen in his entire life. 

You don’t look shy, or unsure, you look…eager. 

Before he can overthink it, you slide off the bed to round him, and gently push his chest to sit down. Eddie falls easily, his body already knowing it’s not in charge anymore. The mattress dips under his weight, bouncing softly along with the curls in his head. 

“Kick those shoes off,” you say. 

He obeys. Oh–he obeys. A little clumsily, but they’re off in less than three seconds.

Only then you climb onto his lap. Eddie’s breath comes out in a shaky exhale when your ass lands on his thighs. His hands hover uselessly at his sides. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t really dare yet. He doesn’t even know where to look. His eyes dart from your shoulder to the wall to Steve, who has now thrown his arms behind his head like he’s watching his favorite movie.

“Well, don’t mind me,” he says. “Just enjoying the show.”

You cradle Eddie’s face to get his attention back to you. All he can think is your hands are warm, and too soft for his own good. Your thumbs brush his cheeks in such a normal, easy way, that still feels deeply intimate. 

“Pretty boy,” you whisper, smiling at him. “Such pretty eyes.”

Eddie’s heart does an entire somersault routine. He can feel the little feet of the people inside his head running around to process the compliment. 

We’re starting already???

He doesn’t even finish that line of thought when you lean in and kiss him. The kiss is slow and unrushed, but so so passionate. Your soft lips move against his, showing him you know exactly what you’re doing. Eddie melts into it instantly. He kisses you back desperately, starving, because he’d been feeling withdrawal for something he never had, and now–holy shit now he’s finally getting his fix.

Still, he doesn’t touch. Not until you take his wrists and guide them yourself, first on your waist, but then trailing down, lower, to where the lace sits and barely covers anything. His hands pinch your skin when he realizes what he’s touching. 

You.

“Oh,” he breathes in to the kiss, and had you known Eddie let out those pretty little sounds, you'd have brought him in sooner. 

You smile against his mouth and roll your hips, just a little, just to get more out. Grabbing him by the collar of his jacket, you grind down on him. Slow at first, just gentle little moves that made Eddie’s head tip back, and a symphony of broken sounds left his throat. Every grind of your body made his cock throb harder against his jeans. His eyes went between your chest, your mouth and the way your lashes fluttered when you finally found the spot. 

“Jesus–fuck yes, use me angel.” 

He didn’t even realize he’d said it out loud until you let out a little whimper at the pet name, and picked up the pace. 

You are used to terms of endearment from Steve, he’s the sweetest with you, but never in the years of your relationship has he ever called you something so divine as angel.  

Alas, your boyfriend still knows you better than anyone. You keep moving on top of Eddie, and even though his hard cock under the jeans is already making you see stars, there’s something…missing. By this point Steve’s fingers would already be deep inside you without even having to ask. 

Across the room, he watches your frantic moves and hears your moans getting needier. Eddie doesn't notice at first, but he does.

“Hey man,” he calls casually. “Play with her.”

Eddie, too lost in the way you keep rolling your hips, blinks like he misheard. “–What?”

Steve chuckles, “She’s used to it. Go on, don’t make her wait.”

Eddie turns back to you, but you don’t say anything, just look at him, chest rising faster, lips parted, a thin sheen of sweat starting to gather at your temples. And when his eyes search yours for permission, you nod.

That’s all it takes. Eddie’s hand slides down your stomach, dipping lower and lower, until he finds the paradise between your legs.

Oh fuck. 

“Baby–you’re soaking through my jeans,” he groans, trailing the wet patch seeping through your panties. 

You giggle, but the second his fingers go past the lace and brush over your clit, you let out the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. A little gasp of surprise, hips bucking slightly since you've been waiting for him to touch you right there all night.

Eddie almost comes in his pants. “Jesus–you’re perfect.”

He doesn't slide his fingers in yet, he doesn't need to, your slick is already dripping onto his jeans, smearing over his rings. You just grind into his hand, chasing your high. Every sound you make goes straight to his dick, every breath, every flutter of your lashes, every soft whimper of his name. He’s about to put a finger in when–

“Stop.”

Eddie freezes at your firm voice, his hand stills as panic takes over his chest. “Did I–did I do something wrong?”

Steve’s already standing from the couch, ready to lift you off Eddie’s lap if you need him to. But you just let out a sweet little laugh and shake your head. 

“No, you’re perfect. I want you to take your shirt off first,” you shrug, as if you hadn't caused both men a near heart attack. 

Steve exhales, muttering something about “always testing him” as he plops back onto the puff. You smile at him apologetically, he just shakes his head pretending to be annoyed but you see the smile tugging at his lips. 

“Oh,” Eddie says, blinking a few times before actually breathing again. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that, sweetheart.”

He fumbles a little, taking off his vest first, then his jacket, then–he hesitates for a second. It’s not that he’s insecure about his chest, but his tattoos now have fresh new roommates in the shape of multiple scars scattered across his skin from where he’d been attacked. And he doesn’t know how you’ll react to them.

You notice the doubt flashing across his eyes as his hands stop reaching for the shirt. “Are you okay, Eddie?” You ask, and now you’re the one wondering if you did something wrong.

“Yeah,” he chuckles, trying to not sound too pathetic. “It’s just–my…my scars,” he says, avoiding your gaze. 

You hum softly, “Steve has them too.”

Eddie’s head perks up at that, and his eyes go to the shirtless man on the couch. 

“Yeah man,” Steve breathes, straightening up, pointing at the lovely little bite marks the bats had left on his skin. 

Eddie squints and sees them washed in the glow of the nightlamp. He’d been so busy freaking the hell out when he arrived that he hadn’t even noticed that Steve’s chest indeed had marks. But not as many as him, and at least the hair around it makes up for it, he’s not sure his pale chest–

“Eddie…” You cup his face to gently guide it towards you. “You can keep your shirt on if you feel more comfortable that way, but know that I don’t care about what’s under there. I just want to feel your skin closer,” you reassure.

Eddie almost proposes right there and then. 

Okay–maybe he’s getting ahead of himself. But shit. He decides it’s wiser to just nod, and peels off his shirt in one rough pull. You look him in the eyes before looking down, and he nods again. Your eyes go down his bare chest, pale as you expected, not as filled out as Steve’s, and not nearly as hairy–but the tattoos and the scars make him the most badass rockstar you’d ever seen.

Eddie’s breath stills as you look at him like you like what you see. Like he’s the prettiest thing in the room. And then you make sure he hears it. 

“You’re so pretty, Eddie,” you smile, pulling him in for another kiss. Your hands smooth over his skin, fingers tracing the tattoos on his chest, the scars down his sides, the happy trail leading to a happier place. “So hot.”

You whine into the kiss, hips rolling again making him forget about the fact that he’s shirtless in front of you and instead he remembers–right. His fingers.

Eddie reaches for you, pulling your panties to the side again. He slides two fingers between your folds, slow enough to drink every second of the way your jaw drops when you feel his rings deep inside you, the way your eyes flutter shut, how you let out a desperate little sound that goes straight to his cock.

“Eds…” you moan, walls clenching around fingers and metal.

“You feel–fuck, baby, you feel so good…so tight…” 

He finds his rhythm easily, all insecurities set aside by how fast you’re falling apart on his fingers.  

Eddie knows what he’s doing. Those hands–those guitarist fingers don’t play. They move with instinct, with intention. His fingers curl, dragging quickly through your walls before pressing back in. The rings are a plus, cold metal against heat, and you gasp when one of them hits the spot. 

“Oh–Eddie–”

“That’s it angel, keep dripping all over me,” he coos, pumping harder. “Can feel you clenching when I talk like this. You like being a good girl for me?”

You nod, it’s all you can do. Steve just watches. Watches the way your body moves. The way your face twists with pleasure. The way your mouth drops open with every stroke. 

But he catches something else. He always does. 

Your head tips forward, forehead pressing into Eddie’s shoulder, breaths coming out in little broken sounds against Eddie’s skin as he works every inch of you. You keep grinding your hips, chasing more even as it starts to overwhelm you. A sudden wave makes your moan turn into a whimper, and your nails dig on his shoulder instinctively pushing him away. 

You cry out, that’s when Steve speaks.

“Hey–easy, Munson,” he calls out, not angry, but still firm enough that it makes Eddie slow down. “Remember what I said about going easy the first time? You go too rough too soon and she’s gonna be shaking for the rest of the night.”

“Sorry–” Eddie says immediately, but you cut him off. 

“It’s okay, Eds. We’re still learning each other,” you reassure, still giving him that dazed, happy look. He exhales in relief. “Just…a little slower, that’s all. I’m not really used to the rings.” You say it so sweetly, that he just nods like a little puppy eager to please. 

“You’ll get used to them soon, sweetheart. Promise.”

He pulls his fingers back in slower, watching your face the whole time, memorizing every reaction. It doesn't take long before you’re grinding his hand again and letting out soft moans of pleasure as you find a more comfortable rhythm. 

“There you go,,” Steve chuckles, approving. “She’s squeezing you, isn’t she?”

Eddie chuckles back, because he can feel how close you are. Your forehead presses into his shoulder again, mouth brushing his skin as you let out a sound that’s half gasp, half moan. 

“Hmm, that sound,” Steve hums, leaning further into the puff, stroking over his crotch. “She sounds like that when she’s about to come.”

“Yeah?” Eddie asks, curling his fingers just right. “Are you close, angel?”

You whimper, hiding your face knowing exactly what they are talking about, but it only makes it hotter for both men to see you like that. 

“Don’t you wanna tell him, baby?” Steve asks from his spot, but all that comes out of your mouth is another moan against Eddie’s shoulder. “Hey–eyes on me.”

You obey, turning to meet those wide, hazel eyes. You’re barely holding it together, already breathless. A literal mess on Eddie’s fingers.

But Steve just smiles, wide and bright when you look at him. “Now tell him what you need, sweetheart.”

Your eyes keep locked on your boyfriend as you whisper, “I–I wanna come, Eds…please.”

“Then come, baby. Drench my fucking rings,” he groans in your ear. His raw voice and another curl of his fingers is what gets you there. 

Your whole body tenses when the orgasm hits. You let out a broken moan that vibrates in Eddie’s chest and your walls clench around his fingers so tight he thinks you might break them. Your wetness coats his rings, soaks into your panties, his jeans, everywhere. 

You collapse, arms flailing to hold on to him, but before Eddie can catch you, you’re already falling back.

“Whoa, hey–” Eddie’s arms scramble to hold you, but Steve is faster.

He’s behind you instantly, steadying you with one hand on your back, the other cupping the back of your head easing you back into Eddie’s lap. 

“She goes all soft after,” Steve says, with that fondness he always uses when referring to you. “You gotta hold her up for a second.”

Eddie’s arms wrap around you immediately, as you curl into him still trying to catch your breath. Steve leans to see you, brushing your hair back. He presses a soft kiss to your forehead that makes you smile. 

“Hey,” he whispers, eyes scanning your flushed face. “You okay?”

You nod against Eddie’s chest.

“You wanna keep going?” 

You nod again.

“Words, baby,” Steve coaxes, and you let out a little breathless giggle when he pinches your side.

“I do,” you whisper, loud enough for both to hear. Then you turn to him. “Thank you.”

For catching me. For checking on me. For letting another man fuck me while you watch.

You don’t even have to say it out loud for Steve to know what you’re thinking. He just brushes your cheek, with an amused smile on his face. “Anytime, baby.”

You shift on Eddie’s lap, turning back to him, lips brushing his cheek before placing your hands on his chest to look at those pretty brown eyes. “Thank you too, Eds. You made me feel so good.”

“Y-Yeah?”

You hum, patting the spider tattoo on his left peck. Once you feel like you regained your strength back again, you slide off his lap and drop to your knees in front of him.

“That’s my girl.” Steve praises. So pretty on her knees.” 

He rounds the bed to grab a small pillow, then drops it to the floor next to your knees, nudging it with his foot until you shift just enough to be on top of it. You lean to kiss the back of his hand as a silent thank you. 

Eddie is too busy remembering how to breathe for the 100th time to say anything. 

You settle between Eddie’s legs, hands resting on his thighs, your lashes fluttering as you look up with all your attention back on him. “I wanna thank you properly.”

Eddie laughs nervously, then whistles low. “Shit–then go ahead, sweetheart.”

Your fingers go to his belt–because of course he wore a fucking belt–and Steve chuckles from your side, one judging eyebrow raised. “Why did you even wear a belt, dude?”

“I thought I was coming over to watch, not to get fucking blessed,” Eddie shakes his head in disbelief, pushing himself up to help you lower his pants. 

His ass barely touches the mattress when your hands are already tugging his briefs. He laughs, out of sheer nerves and excitement, lifting again to take off the last piece covering him. 

He springs out.

And just as you thought. Just as you dreamed, he’s big. Eddie fucking Munson is packing a thick, flushed pink, already leaking cock just inches away from your face. 

Pretty boy with pretty eyes and an even prettier dick. 

You let out a sweet, pleased little dreamy sigh, when you feel his heaviness in your hand. “So pretty,” you praise, then lean in and press a soft kiss to the tip of his cock.

You reach out, eager, hand wrapping around him to guide him toward your mouth like a lollipop. Eddie makes a noise no one in that room knew he was capable of.

Eddie sees heaven. Sees the clouds, hears all the symphonies and shit. 

“Jesus fuck–”

Steve steps behind you again, crouching down. He runs his fingers over your spine, drawing delicate circles that don’t match the words that come out of his mouth. 

“You think you can take another, baby?” He asks, kissing the back of your neck. “Getting bored of just watching…”

You glance back at him, hand still wrapped around Eddie’s cock, and look down to see the fabric of his pants barely containing his. 

“Let me take care of you too, babe,” you chuckle, lifting your free hand to reach sideways, tugging Steve’s sweats and briefs down in one pull. He steps forward, letting you take him in your hand like you’ve done a hundred times. 

Now you have two, very hard, very beautiful, very yours, dicks in your hands. 

You give Steve one long, wet stroke with your tongue that makes him drop his head back and groan. Then, with a little giggle, you turn and give Eddie the same treatment. 

“Fucking hell, Harrington,” he gasps.

Steve smiles, watching you go from one the other, teasing both. “Oh, I know.” He cups the back of your head, stroking your hair. “Show him, baby. Show him how good you are.”

You hum with Eddie in your mouth, the sound vibrating just enough to make him curse under his breath.

You begin taking turns. Your lips are glossy and warm and full, as you switch between them. 

Steve. Then back to Eddie. Then back to Steve again.

Your hand stroking one while your lips wrap around the other. Back and forth. Eddie’s thighs start shaking with the effort of not coming in the first thirty seconds of this glorious torture. 

He’d never seen anything like it. 

He has both hands fisted in the floral sheets, barely keeping himself together as you take him halfway down and then pull away with a soft, wet pop that makes his vision go white, only to switch to the one who’s supposed to be your man. 

And if it wasn’t enough, Steve hands reach behind your back when you put him in your mouth, bending over you with his cock so going deep it makes you gag, to unclasp your bra, freeing your titties for both of them. 

He’s fighting for his soul at this point. 

You split apart from Steve, taking a deep breath to recover from his dick touching the back of your throat, and wipe your mouth before looking up at Eddie with a smile. 

“Hey Steve?” You call, eyes fixed on Eddie’s to catch his reaction. “Why don’t you get the camera?”

The…camera???

“Wait–what?”

“Don’t you want a little souvenir?” You tease, titling your head. 

“What the fuck–what–do I want a–?”

“Steve likes it,” you shrug. 

“Oh yeah,” Steve chuckles, already crossing to the bookshelf in the corner of your room. “I like it–but she loves it, man,” he adds smugly, 

“You have photos…doing it?”

“Whooole collection.” Steve drawls, finding what he was looking for. “You’d go crazy.” 

He is going crazy. 

Steve walks back over holding a black Polaroid camera, and hands it directly to Eddie, who’s still gripping onto the sheets for dear life. 

“I–” He stammers, looking at you. 

You shrug. “My hands are busy,” you smile apologetically, too damn sweet for the situation. 

Eddie finally takes the camera after a deep exhale, and leans back to lift it. He frames your pretty face between his thighs, lips parted open, spit shining on his cock. Then your mouth wraps around his tip again, and Eddie moans, loud and shaky, nearly dropping the camera.

He captures the grip of your lips, the way your tongue flicks over his slit, the stretch of your mouth when you sink deeper. Then you pull away and take Steve into your mouth instead, and Eddie moves the camera closer, watching your throat move, your hand still stroking him at the base.

It’s a miracle you are alternating, because if it had been just him, he would’ve busted in your mouth in under a minute.

You feel flash after flash after flash. Picture falling one after another, scattering on Eddie’s thighs. 

“Holy shit,” Eddie chuckles. “This is filthy. God, you look so fucking good like that.” 

Another flash. Another picture falling next to his balls. 

You pop off of him with a messy sound and a smile at the compliment, licking your lips as you turn to Steve.

“Your turn, baby,” you whisper.

Steve steps closer, and you feel the way he starts twitching in your mouth. It doesn’t take long before he grabs your hair, and starts thrusting to get himself off.

Eddie’s eyes widen, pulling the camera aside to enjoy the view. The way Steve holds you there. The way he fucks into your mouth, chasing his release, his fist tangled in your hair, his chest rising hard and fast as you take all of him. 

Steve finally comes in a few strangled moans, making sure he stays inside until you swallow every drop of his cum. He strokes your cheek with one hand, pulling out, reaching down to wipe the corner of your mouth. “There you go, baby,” he praises, still breathless. “So good for us.”

You don’t take more than a few seconds when you turn to Eddie, chest heaving, but before you can lean down again his hand comes up, stopping you. 

“Wait!” He says, coming off a little louder than he means to.

Your brows furrow. “Are you–are you not enjoying it?” 

“No no, Jesus–no,” he rushes, “You’re–you’re perfect. You’re actually heaven. I swear. It’s just…if you keep going like that…I won’t last.”

Steve huffs out a laugh, immediately understanding where he’s coming from. 

Eddie wants to save his cum for when he gets lucky to actually fuck you. 

Steve steps forward, helping you get to your feet. “Well,” he says, amused, “you’re a lucky bastard, Munson. I’m a man of my word, so I’m gonna let you fuck her properly now.”  

Eddie gulps. Your eyes light up. 

“That’ll get you going just fine.” Steve adds. 

He takes the camera from Eddie’s side, then walks back to settle onto the puff in the corner again, naked, angling the Polaroid camera like a professional. 

You take a moment to get rid of your panties, before pushing Eddie back onto the bed, making him crawl back until he’s in the center on the mattress, his curly hair draping over your multiple pillows. You climb over the pictures and his body until you’re hovering over him. 

Eddie doesn’t expect you to turn around, but there you are, moving away to straddle him in reverse, giving him a perfect view of your ass. His heart is racing so hard he can hear it in his ears, yet a devilish chuckle still comes out before he can stop it. 

“You want Steve to see your face while you bounce on my cock, sweetheart?” 

You nod, biting your lip even if he can’t see you–because Steve sure can–lifting yourself up with your hands on his thighs. “God, yes.”

You reach to line him up beneath you, teasing the tip only for a second because you can’t wait any longer than that to feel him inside. 

You sink down without giving him any warning. 

“Holy–fuck,” Eddie groans, throwing his head back onto the pillows. “Jesus fucking Christ, you’re so tight–”

He only shuts up when he hears the moans you let out as he stretches your walls so painfully good. He feels as huge as he looks, he fills you as well as you thought he would. He’s balls deep inside you. Your knees are on either side of his hips, ass to his stomach, fingers digging into his thighs as you begin to fuck yourself on him. 

From the corner, Steve lets out a low hum of approval as you bounce harder on Eddie’s cock, chasing your second orgasm. He strokes himself with one hand, the other snapping shots of the way your tits bounce, the way your face twists every time you sink down, the way you never stop looking at him.

Flash. Flash. Flash. Tug. Tug. Tug. 

“Fuck yes, baby–look at you. You look like a fucking porn star.”

You smile at him, then turn over your shoulder, just a little to see how your other boy is doing. 

Eddie’s falling apart. 

His eyes are glued to where your bodies meet. To his cock disappearing inside your folds. And if the sounds were obscene before–they’re so much worse now. Between Eddie’s grunts, your moans as you ride him, and the clicking sound of Steve’s camera, this was a full blown production. 

A priceless one. 

And then you make that sound again. 

The same sound you made the second time Eddie saw you fall apart on Steve’s cock. The sound you made with his fingers deep inside you. The sound that haunted his fucking dreams.

“You’re getting her there, man,” Steve says, stroking himself faster to the next series of whimpers you let out. “Make her feel good, then cum inside her. She loves that shit.”

Eddie nods. “That okay, angel? Want me to fill you up?” 

You can't even speak. You just nod frantically, gasping as your rhythm begins to falter, and your thighs start shaking.

“You gotta come again first, sweetheart,” Eddie says through gritted teeth, grabbing your hips to push himself up into you. He can feel you pulsing around him. 

“Steve–fuck–I’m gonna–”

“Then do it, baby,” he growls. “Come on his cock.”

You come harder than the first time. Your mouth drops open in a choked moan as your orgasm tears through you. Eddie nearly comes from how tight you clench around him.

But no. He still wants more from you. Needs it like he needs oxygen. 

This time he does catch you when you slump forward, sitting up still buried inside you, placing a kiss on your shoulder as you both catch your breath. But the quiet doesn’t last long. He’s still hard inside you, and the devil on his shoulder tells him to finish what he started. 

He earns a sudden yelp from you when he flips you, pushing you onto your stomach, pulling your hips back, and lining himself up again from behind…just like he’d seen you that day. Face in the sheets. Ass up. Wet pussy glowing under the nightlight. Floral sheets wrinkled under your body. 

Deja vu.

But this time, it’s not Steve–no, he’s just watching. Eddie is the one pushing his cock deep inside you with a harsh thrust that makes your whole body rock forward. 

He’s not that gentle anymore. Not in a mean way. Never in a mean way, but in a I-need-to-come-inside-you-now way. His hands are gripping your skin, knuckles going pale, holding you down as you become a mess under him. 

He looks up to the couch, and he expects to see at least an ounce of the jealousy he’d felt the day he saw you with him, but all he sees is Steve’s fist going up and down furiously on his cock. The camera had been dropped as soon as your cheek had hit the mattress.

He wanted to see it. See you fall apart. 

“…Holy shit, dude, go for it,” Steve whistles low in approval, chuckling when he hears your strangled gasps every time Eddie slammed into you. “Let him, baby,” he coos. “Be a good girl and take all of it.”

He really gives you all of it. 

Eddie’s sure he only survived ‘86 just to see the way your tight little asshole contracts with every thrust he drills into your swollen pussy. 

“Eds–Eddie–”

“I know I know. Almost there, angel. Gonna fill you up real good,” he coaxes over your small whines, “wanna see you dripping with my cum.”

Eddie slams into you once more, then groans so loud it echoes across the wallpaper walls, and finally spills inside you with a cry. 

Steve comes in his own hand as Eddie pulls out of you, slapping your ass a few times with his cock before you collapse onto the bedsheets. Eddie falls right behind you, blinking up at the ceiling, coming down from his high.

In the middle of all the panting, your chests rising up and down, he doesn’t really know what he’s supposed to do next. Part of him expects to be handed his clothes and a polite “thanks for coming.” But instead, you instinctively roll over to him, wrapping your arms around his body and burying your face against his chest. 

Steve just chuckles, finding his briefs on the floor and throwing them on, then finally walking over to where you’re cuddling Eddie, running his hand through your hair with a little smile.

“She gets kinda clingy after.”

You don’t even lift your head. “Don’t be rude.”

Steve grins wider. “Sorry, baby. Cute is the word. She gets cute after.”

You hum again, approving this time. Then, you let out a sigh of exhaustion, voice muffled in Eddie’s chest, “you guys are fucking crazy.”

Steve snorts. “We are crazy?”

“I didn’t exactly suggest a threesome, sweetheart,” Eddie chuckles, hugging you tighter. 

“Whatever,” you giggle. “Just…don’t let me fall asleep like this.”

Steve kneels beside the bed and rubs your back gently. “Want a shower, baby?”

You shake your head. “Bath.”

“Bath it is.”

He places a kiss on your shoulder, then stands and walks to your bathroom. A few moments later, Eddie hears the water running.

He could’ve stayed like that forever, really. With you curled into his arms, naked with his seed still inside you, surrounded by the filthy pictures he’d taken of you. His hand comes up hesitantly, brushing your hair back with the same tenderness he always sees Steve do it. 

Where does this leave him though? Is this a one time thing? A hit and run? How can he go back to his normal life after this? 

He’d already been losing his mind over you for weeks. He’s never getting over this.

“Are you okay?” You ask, snapping him out of his thoughts. 

“Me?” 

“Yeah, your heart is beating really fast,” you say, hand resting lightly on his chest, right over it.

Eddie laughs under his breath. “Uh. Yeah. I’m just…kinda expecting for someone to tell me to get up and leave?”

You hum softly, nuzzling closer to him. “I don’t want you to leave, Eds…” 

He doesn’t get to say anything before Steve returns, a pink towel slung over his bare shoulder as he stands on the bathroom door. 

“Well, dude,” he says. “You bringing her or what?”

Eddie looks down at you, all cozied up in his arms. You don’t say anything, but you smile, soft and sweet and welcoming as always. 

The sun in his arms. 

He's not sure what the hell is next for him now. But at least for tonight, he’s staying. 

And I ain't gotta tell him, I think he knows

Thank you so much for reading! hope you enjoyed 👀🤭

Feedback is always appreciated 🤍

[urawizardharry]

Forever

Steve Harrington X HendersonBFF!Reader

Summary: In which Steve doesn't realize that his way of coping with Nancy and his breakup is hurting Y/N in the process. He also doesn't notice that Billy Hargrove is not only trying to take his throne, but the girl he's loved forever too

Warning(s): Angst, mutual pining, Billy being bff material, smut, light choking if you squint, fluff, Steve being a dummy, riding, oral (f receiving), cockwarming if you squint

A/N: was listening to Forever by Jessie Murph while writing this

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She didn’t really understand how she got to where she was. How she wound up in this position. Truth be told, she somewhat did, cons of asking Steve for a ride to the party. 

She would’ve expected him to wander off with Nancy, and do his own thing as usual while she would go join some of her friends for beer pong. She’d expect him to tell her when he and Nance were ready to head out, as she always made sure they got Y/N home okay. Y/N would also expect for him to let her know if he got her a backup ride in case they left before she wanted to. 

What she didn’t expect was to watch him storm away, eyes glossed with tears as pure anger set throughout his entire face, pushing past the people in the crowd. Her gaze dropped and frowning as she gulped another sip of her beer. “Steve?” Y/N called out towards his direction. 

She followed when he didn’t even so much as acknowledge her, setting her cup somewhere on some random table, the music going to a soft hum as she stepped outside. “Steve, where are you going? What happened?” she calls out, watching him unlock his car. He still said nothing as he clenched his jaw. 

“Steve?” she says once more, rushing down the yard as he started up his engine. “Steve!” her voice rises as he begins to drive off without her. Y/N lets out a few curse words as she flips off his car while it sped down the street. 

She tried searching for Nancy when she got back inside, only to find her being carried out by Jonathan, explaining she was drunk off of her ass. She nods, thanking him while letting out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. When Jonathan offered her a ride, she politely declined, saying she would ask one of her friends to bring her back. Explaining that he should worry about getting Nancy home safely. 

Which now led her to where she stood on the porch, drink in hand as she let out a frustrated huff. Her friends had all been long gone by the time she tracked down one of their boyfriends, stating how they were all planning to stay put for the night. She usually would’ve stuck with that idea, but she had to be home to bring Dustin to Mike’s the next morning.

“The party’s inside, sweetheart,” a voice chuckles behind her, making her roll her eyes. 

She didn’t have to turn around to know who the voice belonged to. “Too overstimulating, and I’m trying to sober up enough to walk home.”

Billy Hargrove takes a seat next to her, cigarette in hand as he blows out a puff of smoke. “Thought King Steve was your chauffeur,” he snorted. “At least I see you following him like a lost puppy. How does Nancy not hate that?”

Y/N scoffs. “I do not follow him around like that. We’re best friends, and on top of that, they both want me to stay close by in case we need to leave. So don’t act all snarky, Hargrove.”

Billy lets out a loud laugh, taking in another drag. “I’m just saying,” he starts. “You’re a little obvious for how in love you are with Harrington. Maybe back off a bit, or better yet, leave the guy be.”

Y/N’s gaze snaps toward him, glaring hard. “What the fuck are you on, Hargrove?” she snaps, watching his eyebrows raise as his smirk widens. 

“Struck a nerve, have I?” 

“You’re being ridiculous.”

He purses his lips while shaking his head. “Not a bit,” he takes another drag. “But he’s gotta watch his own actions before Nancy realizes he loves you too.”

Y/N’s eyes widened at his words. 

“What are you talking about?” she snips, and he shrugs as he stands up, blowing out the last of his cigarette. 

He turns back to her, holding out his hands for her to take. “I’m gonna head home, I’ll drop you on the way.”

“I’d rather take another gulp of whatever is in Tommy’s mystery punch bowl than ride anywhere with you,” she scoffs, Billy rolling his eyes as he lets out a huff. 

“It’s the least I can do for being an ass-”

“You’re always an ass-”

“Are you always this much of a fucking headache, Henderson?” 

Y/N just stares up at him in shock at his tone, watching as he stands in front of her with his hands on his hips. She then sighs, crossing her arms. “You’ve been drinking, Billy.”

He purses his lips once more with a smirk, shaking his head lightly. “I can take more than you think, honey. I am sober enough to drive with my eyes closed if I wanted to.”

She eyes him once more before taking his hands he then offers her once more, Billy helping her stand upright as he leads her to his car. He even opened up the passenger side for her, closing it once she was inside. 

The engine revved to life, Billy giving her a smug expression before he sped off into the night. 

It was quiet for the first few moments, Y/N’s gaze looking out the window with her hands picking at one another in her lap. 

“So what is it about King Steve that makes you so obsessed with him? Let alone every girl I’ve met at that shit school of yours?” he starts up, making her groan and shake her head. “He seems like he’s so up his own ass, you can see his head coming up his throat.”

“Oh fuck off, you’re just as cocky. I don’t even know what you’re talking about, just let it go.”

He tuts. “Nope, I’m driving you home so I deserve to know what it is. You owe me that.”

“I’d rather jump out of the moving car-”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Well you’re wrong.”

Billy grabs her jaw to make her look at him as they rolled up to a stoplight. “Am I? Because it seems like you can’t see how you stare at him like he hung the moon.”

His tone is a bit more serious, nothing playful whatsoever as he looks at her, her eyes deflating as she sighs. She takes his hand off of her when the light turns green, rubbing her face in exhaustion. “There’s a lot to it,” she admits. “But he’s just always been there. Even in the worst circumstances, I’ve never had to question if he would be there for me. Even for my brother, he’s there at the drop of a dime.”

“Seems like tonight was the opposite.”

She rolled her eyes before sending him a scowl. “Something happened, so he probably needed to be alone. I get that way too when things happen. I’m gonna give him his space if so,” she explains, Billy snickering at her words. 

“Wow you really are down bad, sweetheart,” he jokes. “Here I thought I’d be able to woo you somehow.”

“Not like I’d give you the time of day, Hargrove. That dick of yours has been in every girl known at Hawkins high school,” she shot back with a chuckle, watching as his jaw dropped lightly at her words. He puts a hand to his chest as he acts hurt playfully. 

“Well played, Henderson. I’ll give you that,” he laughs, making her smile at him in amusement. “I like you, you’ve got some spunk to you.”

“You think I do, you should hear half the things my brother says.”

“Ah yes, the famous Dustin Henderson. I know all about that kid and his little shits of a friendgroup.”

She narrows her eyes and smacks his arm, making him hiss. “They’re good kids. Don’t you dare start.”

“They cause my sister to get into trouble, which causes me to get into trouble with our parents.”

“Well from now on if she goes off, you can tell your parents she’s with Dustin at my house. Have them call me and I’ll happily help you out. That way you don’t have to cancel any hookups of yours,” she jokes. “Fair trade?”

He rolls his eyes. “Noted.”

He pulled into her driveway, Y/N opening the door to step out, only for him to say her name softly. She bends down to look at him in the low car. 

“Don’t wait around for a guy that’ll make you his second choice.”

She bit her lip. “He’s not like that.”

Billy gives her a look. “If you need help with igniting the fire, give me a ring.”

She laughs before closing his car door, waving goodbye as she begins to walk back to her doorstep. 

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It was the next morning, and Y/N had been stressing at the fact that she knew Steve was coming to pick her up this morning. She didn’t really want to deal with the awkward tension right away in that car, especially if things went down between him and Nancy. 

She hesitated picking up the phone in the kitchen, dialing the number written down on a piece of gum wrapper from the night before. Her fingers slowly dialed the numbers into the keypad, biting her bottom lip as she held the phoneline to her ear. It didn’t ring for long, someone picking up the landline after a couple rings. “Hargrove residence, who’s calling?” a smaller voice, that didn’t take long for Y/N to know it was Max. She smiles softly to herself. 

“Hey Max, it’s Y/N. I know this is going to sound weird, but is Billy there? He gave me a ride home last night, and I had to ask him something.”

She hears Max chuckle on the other line. “What in the world did you get yourself into last night?” she jokes, making Y/N run a hand over her face. “I swear it’s not what it sounds like. Steve ditched me, and Billy was nice to just give me a ride home.”

“If you say so,” Max snickered. “Just be careful, okay? I don’t want to lose you because my brother is an asshole.”

“It’s not like that, but I’ve got it.”

There’s some rummaging on the other side for a few moments, before it was just quiet for a small second. Bily’s voice booming through the phone softly. “Well if it isn't a little miss lovergirl. You change your mind?”

“Very funny,” she chuckles dryly, twisting the phoneline between her fingertips. “I really don’t want to be stuck in that awkward tension with him this morning. Are you able to pick me up?”

It’s quiet for a few seconds, Y/N shaking her head to herself before rubbing her forehead. “It’s fine if not,” she says quickly. “I will just walk if anything. I just cannot deal with all of that first thing in the morning.” 

Billy hums for a second, leaning against the doorway with a smug look on his face. “Now what kind of gentleman would I be to let a girl walk to school, hm? Especially if it’s the one that’s going to cause Harrington a hard time?” he jokes back, making her roll her eyes. 

“I’ll just walk at this point-”

“Okay, alright fine. Sorry. Yes I’ll be there in a few. Hang tight.”

With that the line clicks, and Y/N let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. She finishes up her morning routine and eats breakfast with Dustin across from one another. 

As she is finishing up putting her dish in the sink, a car honks outside and it makes her freeze. Dustin eyes her with a confused look. “That’s not Steve’s car,” he says matter of factly. Y/N shuts her eyes for a second before huffing. 

“Don’t worry about it.”

Dustin smirks. “Oh I’m not worried,” he says slyly. “But Steve might.”

She shrugs. “Not my problem,” she mumbles before grabbing her bag, and going to give him a small hug. “Stay out of trouble today, please? Or at least wait till I’m home to go back into the woods.”

Dustin rolls his eyes, and nods. “No promises.”

With that she walks out the door, and looks up to see Billy’s car pulled up. Max is in the passenger seat, her smile widening at the sight of Y/N. Billy pushes Max’s arm, making her snap her head back at him with a glare. He nods to the backseat, making her huff and slide to the back. 

Y/N smiles down at Max as she opens the car door to get inside. “Well good morning Maxine,” she chuckles. 

Max smiles as Y/N hops into the passenger seat in front of her, squeezing her shoulders once she is inside. Once the door is shut, Billy sped off without warning, making both girls hold onto some part of the car while he laughs. 

“Thank you,” Y/N says after a bit of driving. “For last night, and this morning. I mean.”

Billy shrugs. “Anything to make Harrington shake in his boots, I’m for it.”

She narrows her eyes while crossing her arms. “Is that all you’re keen on doing? To take some stupid title in the school that’s his?” she shoots, shaking her head. “If that’s your goal, you really have a low satisfaction line. Which is kind of sad.”

“That’s how he is,” Max sighs, making Billy glare at her through the rearview. 

“Shut up, Max.”

“You’re not going to be an ass to her, not while I’m around. Especially if she’s right,” Y/N cuts in, making Billy roll his eyes. 

“You sure have some spunk to you, don’t you princess?”

She grimaces at the nickname, smacking his arm. “Never that. Disgusting.”

“Okay fine,” he huffs. “No, I’m not just doing it to get on Harrington’s nerves. It is fun, yes, but I’m also doing it because I didn’t think you deserved to be ditched like that. I may be an asshole and go through girls like I do, but I’m not past letting a girl get left like that.”

Y/N raised her brows in shock at his words, but nodded slowly. “I don’t know how that really cancels out with how you treat women, but I guess that’s nice? Of you?” she trails off, not missing the way Max holds in a snort. Y/N trying to hide a smirk herself, and Billy eyes her. 

“I’m half tempted to make you walk the rest of the way.”

“Do it, then. I said I was fine walking.”

Billy huffs out a laugh, turning down the street as the school comes to view slowly. “You really are a little shit like your brother.”

“If that’s what you think, then sure,” she shot back, not missing the way he coughs over a snort leaving his lips. 

Y/N had a few side conversations with Billy after that throughout the schoolday, only when they walked past one another in the school’s hallways. Or if they were in the same class, he would come sit next to her instead, and just talk to her. Nothing more than platonic, Billy enjoying having a girl that didn’t want him just to say she had him, but because she actually wanted to be his friend. 

The bell rang, signalling that second period was over. Y/N grabbing her books as she headed to her locker. She put away her history books and grabbed her things for physics, shutting her locker and jumped at the sight of Steve coming to view behind it. She held a hand up to her chest, letting out a breath. “Fuck, Steve,” she sighs. “You can’t just show up like that unannounced.”

Steve is looking at her with a hardened face, but his eyes are soft as he crosses his arms. “I showed up to your place this morning, Dustin said you were already gone. I was almost late to school. Where were you?” he asked her, making her eyes flick away from his. She tightened her grip on her books. 

“I’m gonna be late for physics,” she mutters before trying to breeze past him. Steve grabs her arm and turns her back to him. Y/N’s eyebrows furrow, looking at where his hand was and then back up into his eyes. “Steve I have a test this period, I can’t be late-”

“Where were you this morning?”

Y/N sighs. “You now care? It seemed quite the opposite last night,” she shot, making his face drop. 

“I was upset about the fight that happened between Nance and I. I just needed to get out of there,” he sighs, his voice getting quieter after each word he spoke. Y/N looked between his eyes. “I also just thought you’d be able to get a ride home from Tina or Rachel. So I didn’t really think about it after that.”

“Well then there you go. One of them picked me up this morning. End of story.”

Steve looks straight through her and frowns. “They’re not here today. Too hungover,” he shot back, Y/N snatching her arm away from his grip. 

“Well either way I got home, okay? Just leave it alone.”

“Y/N-”

“I’ve gotta go Steve.”

She turns to walk away, only stuttering in her steps slightly when she sees Billy walking by. Based on the look on his face, he had seen the interaction and gave her a questioning look as if asking if she was okay. She nods curtly before breezing past him, taking a sharp turn down the hallway towards the labs.

Billy’s face turns back to Steve, he doesn’t miss the way Steve’s expression hardens at the small interaction he had with his best friend. Billy gave him a snide smirk before walking off, patting his chest when he passed. He was going to get under Steve’s skin if it was the last thing he did. 

After Billy found out through Tommy and Carol that Steve and Nancy had gotten into a fight, pretty much breaking up at the party, he was going to get Steve to crack. He was going to make sure he pissed Steve off in every way possible, to the point he finally realized how much he wanted Y/N too. 

At least, if Y/N wasn’t going to do it, Billy was going to do it. In the most menace way possible. 

Especially when lunchtime came, he noticed Y/N was sitting at the familiar table that their entire group sat at, his eyes seeing Steve was still getting his food at the lunch line. Billy made his way over, sitting right next to her, leaning his elbow on the table causing her to jump at his sudden figure next to her. 

She smacked his chest. “You cannot sneak up on a girl like that, Hargrove!” she hissed, wiping her mouth with a napkin. He smiles widely at her. 

“When’s your free period?” he asked her, and she hummed while thinking and taking a bite of her food. 

“Fifth, why?”

He leans toward her. “You should come sit in the gym for a bit. Watch me humble your little boyfriend for a change.”

She eyes him. “This again?” 

He chuckles with a shrug. “I just want to push his buttons a little. I think you’d enjoy that after he ditched you after the Halloween party.”

“I already told you, he and Nance had a nasty fight. He apologized after that.”

Billy hums with a smug grin. “I think it still would be fun to watch, no? Come on,” he trails off, making her grimace. 

“Fine. But only because I couldn’t reserve the study hall in the library.”

“Good,” he says before standing up, his eyes immediately meeting Steve’s, who was glaring straight through him as he watched the boy slowly stand from the spot next to her. 

“Harrington,” Billy scoffs smugly. Steve’s eyes furrowed. “Wrong table, Hargrove.”

“It’s not if Henderson’s at it.”

Steve sets his tray down next to Y/N, the spot where Billy once sat, before standing over Billy 

“Back. Off,” he says. “She’s not the next girl on your list, so move to the next will you?”

Y/N frowns, putting a hand on Steve's arm. “Steve, leave it be,” she says, only for him to still look at Billy. Billy’s smirk just widens as he eyes Steve up and down. He looks at Y/N, eyebrows raising. 

She gives him a look as if telling him to knock it off as well, watching his eyes roll while he chuckles. He puts his hands up in defense, before pointing at her for a minute. “I’ll see you during fifth,” he chuckles. With that, he walks off, Steve huffing before slumping into the seat next to hers. She looks at him with an amused look, watching as he looks at her and rolls his eyes. 

“Don’t start,” he says with a sigh, she snorts. 

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“He’s harmless. Just being nice, that’s all.”

Steve looks at her with a look. “He’s being nice out of the blue? Yeah, he wants you, honey. You’re one of the girls on that long list of his.”

“Okay, don’t be an ass,” she groans, rubbing her hand over her face. “I’m still pissed at you, so you have no right.”

He shook his head. “I’m not trying to be, I swear. I just,” he sighs. “I don’t want you to get hurt. You deserve someone better than that jackass.”

Y/N’s eyes still at his words. “Steve, I’m not interested in him. He’s really just being friendly, that’s all. Nothing more, I made sure to vocalize that.”

He eyes her before letting it go, nodding before taking a bite of his food. “How did you even cross paths?” he asks her, making her shrug. She hadn’t told him that Billy was the one who drove her home that night, knowing he was already having a hard time with what happened that night with Nance. The last thing she needed was for him to flip out on hearing she was seen leaving with Hargrove that night. 

“Just one of the classes we have together. We were partners for something in Physics, so now we’re just friendly.”

He snorts. “I’ve never known that guy to be nice to a woman unless he wanted something else.”

“Steve.”

He eyes her, before huffing. “Okay fine, I’m sorry. I know I don't have the right to worry, but I do,” he says. “I’m also sorry. About last night. You didn’t do anything, and you would’ve just been there to let me rant about what happened.”

Y/N nods, her chest tightening at his words. “I get that you needed time, but you could’ve just said that as you were leaving. You left without a word as if I did something,” she explains. “I mean it’s not that big of a deal to me anymore, because I’ve literally been in those woods at night after being chased by those creature things, but it hurts because of how you left.”

Steve’s gaze softens as he stares into her eyes. “I didn’t think. I’m sorry. I promise I’ll make it up to you, okay?”  

“You don’t need to make up for it. Just don’t shut me out,” she says, and he nods. 

“So about Hargrove-”

“Steven.”

“Right, dropping it. Sorry.”

Fifth period came a lot quicker than she thought, not taking much time to grab her things to bring to the gymnasium. She saw that the guys were all already there, warming up for their game of Basketball, while she walked up to the bleachers to take a seat. She unpacks some of her homework, knowing it was better to get it done now rather than wait. 

She nearly had to roll her eyes when she saw the giant smile on Billy’s face, seeing he wasn’t wearing his shirt, panting as they positioned themselves for the next ball drop. Steve’s eyes followed Billy’s, gaze hardening as he saw Y/N sitting in the stands, her face lightly red as she rolled her eyes at Billy. He turned back to eye Billy. 

“You can’t just leave her be, can you, Hargrove?” he scoffs, panting as sweat rolls down his neck. 

Billy shrugs, playing into it. “It’s fun when you want something you can’t have.”

Steve’s insides burn at his comment, zoning in as the game starts off not too long after. 

Each time Y/N pulled her eyes up to watch the boys, she noticed how Steve and Billy were always on each other. She watches as Steve runs up on Billy, ball in hand as Billy guards up against him. 

She can see that they’re exchanging words, but not for long because Billy then snatches the ball from him, going down the court to score. Billy stuck his tongue out smugly, panting and sweating as he eyed Steve in amusement, before going to wink at Y/N. Before Steve can say another word, he hears his name, causing him to turn and see Nancy. 

Y/N’s heart clenches just slightly, not missing how easy Steve followed after her, Y/N’s eyes following the pair. Billy’s eyes leave the pair that exit the gym, his eyes softening as he sees Y/N’s longing stare at where the couple once stood. He felt his anger burn for her, knowing she was so into Steve that it hurt her. No matter how much she denied it. 

He continued to play, anger radiating off of him as he creamed their team without Steve. One of his teammates had to exit the gym to go grab Steve as they got dominated by Billy.

When Steve came back in, he looked more pissed off than he did before, putting everything into his game that he could. Y/N knew something bad must’ve happened, based on how hard he was pushing up against his opponents. He was panting so hard she was convinced he would pass out.

The whistle blew soon after the excruciating game, Y/N having to prevent herself from wincing at the scoreboard. 

She began to pack up her stuff, zipping up her bag as she made her way down the bleachers. Her eyes caught Steve’s, frowning at his expression. He looked like he was trying to zone out, wiping a towel across his face as he breathed heavily. “Steve?” she called, walking over to him. 

“What happened? You okay?” she asks, walking with him as he goes to grab his water bottle. He hums while squirting water into his mouth. 

“I saw Nance walk in-”

“Please don’t. Not right now,” he says, walking off towards the locker rooms. She turns to him with her eyebrows furrowed. “Do you want to go for a drive after school to talk about it?” she asks, and he shakes his head turning to look at her. 

“You’re going to have to find another ride home. I’ve gotta stay here for tutoring tonight.”

“Again? You’re shutting me out? We just talked about this,” she says, and Steve looks down at her as his figure towers over her. He kissed her forehead softly. With that, he heads into the locker room, making her chest tighten just slightly. Billy’s hand comes up to her arm, squeezing softly. 

“You okay?” he asks, and she nods. 

“I just hate how he does this. He shuts me out when things go wrong.”

He takes another gulp of his water. “You want a ride home?” 

She shook her head. “No, I’ll just walk. I’ve got to wait for Dustin anyways.”

He hesitates slightly, before nodding. She nods at him. “Besides I know how much you’ve been looking forward to this study date with Heather tonight. Just go, I’ll be fine,” she assures, making him purse his lips before squeezing her arm one last time and heading to the men' s locker rooms.

The walk home was nice for her, as she and Dustin talked about everything he figured out for what’s going on with Dart, his new animal friend he found in their trashcan. Saying how he’s going to take him to the school tomorrow to see if anyone can figure out what he is. 

Once they had gotten home, Y/N had immediately set to the bathroom to take a shower, rinse off the last few days as she let her thoughts run. 

She sighed as she dries off and throws on her pajamas, hanging up her towel. She hears a knock on the door, she opens it slightly. Dustin looks at her sheepishly. 

“Mom’s going to sleep early tonight, and I need to get to Max’s. Can you drive me?” he asks her, she groans. 

“Did she say I could take her car?” she asks, and he nods. “Yeah, just- give me a second.”

“If anything you can stop at Steve’s on the way back. I heard Mike say that he and Nance broke up. He’s taking it pretty hard.”

She froze slightly, but rolled her eyes while throwing on her sweats instead of her shorts. “You guys need to stay out of their business.”

He snickers. “You know about it all too, so you’re just as nosey.”

She shook her head as she grabbed the keys from his hand. “I actually didn't. Steve has shut me out since it happened,” she admits, walking out to the car. “That’s why I’ve been getting rides from someone else.”

“You mean Billy?” Dustin shot, making Y/N halt in her tracks. Her head snaps back at him, she lets her eyes shut with a groan. 

“Max,” she says more to herself, Dustin nodding as he packs up his bag. 

“You need to be careful with that douchebag. He’s not good company to keep,” he explains. “At least that’s what Max says. Has a new girl with him every second of the day.”

Y/N squints at him. “I don’t want Billy. Just because he’s nice to me, doesn’t mean he has my attention,” she explains. “Besides. I’m already stuck on someone else. I couldn’t get over them if I tried.”

“Steve wants you too, you know.”

She rolled her eyes. “Not this again-”

Dustin frowns as he opens his car door. “You’re his best friend, how has he not said anything?”

She shrugs. “He needs his space if it’s as bad as I think it is.”

“Or maybe he’s finally coming to the realization he’s in love with you.”

“Dustin!” 

“What? It’s true!”

She rolls her eyes. “At least that’s what Nancy thinks. Said something about how he can’t fully commit. She thinks it’s because he’s obsessed with you.”

She palms her face. “Okay enough, stop eavesdropping on Nancy’s phone calls. I’ll tell her you’ve been listening next time.”

His eyes widened, only nodding before changing the subject about something Mr.Clark was teaching currently. Only, Y/N’s mind couldn’t focus as she thought about if that was really true. Her thoughts threw a million questions around her mind as her brother rambled. 

Once she pulled into the driveway, she put the car in park and told Dustin to call her if he needed her to come get him. Knowing full well he would get back in one piece after everything that happened before El disappeared. 

She pulled out of the driveway, beginning her trek home, her mind going to wander back to Steve. More so back to what her brother was saying earlier. He had to be wrong. Had to have heard the conversation wrong, right? Because she knew how in love he was with Nancy. He only told her more than one hundred times. Each time aching more than the last. 

Y/N was sure he heard it wrong, not bothering to think much more about it as she drove back home quietly. 

Once she got home, she could hear her mom’s wave machine going, meaning she was passed out. She set the keys on the table before trudging to her room, closing the door behind her. 

She walked up to her phone, taking in a deep breath before raising the handle up to her face and dialing in Steve’s number. She wanted to check in, see if he was okay despite him shutting her out. 

The line began to ring as she played with the cord, biting her lip as she waited. It seemed as though it rang forever, making her sigh. She knew he was home by now, but he was choosing to not answer. It went to the answering machine shortly after. 

“Steve,” she says softly. “I know you’re hurting, and that you’re shutting down. But don’t shut me out, I want to help you. Whatever happened, I’m here to listen,” she says firmly. “But if you really want space, I'll give you your space. I just hope you’re okay.”

With that, she hung up the phone, and went to sit in her bed. 

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The next day wasn’t much better, as he was now avoiding her almost completely. Instead of prying, she chose to let it be, knowing he needed the space. She ended up walking to school that morning, only to get an earful from Billy, saying he would’ve happily stopped by to grab her again. She didn’t argue, as she was too exhausted to do so. 

When lunchtime came, she saw him sitting at their table, making her eyes light up slightly. She began to walk over to him, going to sit in her normal spot. When she set her tray down, he immediately grabbed his own and began to walk away from her. She frowned at his behavior, her eyes burning slightly as tears lightly formed. She blinked them away. 

Y/N didn’t notice how Billy had watched the encounter, how he had noticed them all morning. He walked over to sit with her, telling her to come sit in the gym once more during fifth period, in which she nodded. 

She asked him how it went with Heather the night before, letting him ramble about it to distract her from the ache in her chest. 

When fifth period came, the boys were playing much harder than they had the day before, Y/N was writing down her notes as she heard yelling. She looked up, watching Billy yell out King Steve as he dribbled the ball. She watched the banter. “I like it. Acting tough today,” he plays. 

Steve rolls his eyes, guarding Billy. “Jeez, do you ever stop talking man? Come on,” he ushers back in a snippy tone. Billy just laughs as he dribbles the ball. “Why? You afraid coach is going to bench you now that I’m here, huh?” he pushes, watching the fire in Steve’s eyes ignite. With that, he pushes forward and checks Steve with ease, causing Steve to land on the ground with a loud thump and screech on the gym floor. She stood up like a reflex, shock written all over her face. She doesn’t miss the way he goes back over to Steve, lending down a hand. 

Steve glares at Billy, but takes his hand. “Or are you more afraid I’m going to take the one girl you’re too afraid to admit you couldn’t commit to Wheeler for?” he taunts, watching as Steve’s eyes harden. “You’re moving your feet. Plant them next time. Draw a charge,” he growls, before slamming Steve back into the ground and walking away to cheer with his teammates. 

He slowly straightens up, his eyes going over to the bleachers where he spots Y/N. She’s looking at him with both confusion and concern in her eyes, he doesn’t say anything, only looks away and gets back up to join his own team. 

Y/N’s heart aches as he goes back to acting like she’s just another person in the gym, slowly going to sit back down. 

Steve goes to guard Billy again, his eyes so harsh, they could’ve put Billy six feet under if looks could kill. “You’re not going to touch her. You’re gonna stay away from her,” he snaps, watching as Billy gets the ball passed to him. 

Billy laughs at his words, expression smug. “Careful. You almost sound territorial,” he snickers. “Besides, if I wanted her. I’d have her already. But she’s too stuck on the only guy who takes her for granted.”

Steve charges after him at that, playing as hard as he can the rest of the class period. 

When the whistle blows, Y/N is quick to grab her things and leave. Not wanting to stick around after what she witnessed, and knowing she also needed to get ready to take her test after school ended. 

The boys headed to the locker rooms to shower, Steve letting the water wash away every ounce of anger he had towards Billy. Only to huff when he knew it wasn’t going to work. 

“Don’t sweat it Harrington. Today’s just not your day, man,” Billy says in the stall next to him.

“Not your week, more so,” Tommy chuckles with a smug smirk on his face. “You and your princess break it off for one day, and she’s already running off with the freak’s brother,” he says, making Steve look at him with light confusion before looking away. 

Tommy’s eyes widened in shock. “Oh shit,” he says. “You don’t know. Jonathan and the princess skipped yesterday, and still haven’t shown. That must just be a coincidence, right?” he cackles, Steve eyeing him, scrubbing the suds through his scalp.

“I don’t give a fuck about them. He can have her for all I care,” Steve snaps back, scrubbing his hands through his hair. Billy smirks with a hum. 

“Oh I know,” he trails off. “You finally come to your senses over your Henderson girl, right? I hear she’s the reason you hate commitment. Because you want to commit to her, is that it?” Billy taunts, letting the water run down his chest. 

Steve scoffs and shakes his head, paying no mind to what either man was saying. “You don’t know her like that.”

“Oh, yes I do. I know a lot more than you think.”

Steve froze in his spot, his head slowly turning over towards Billy. “The fuck did you say?”

Tommy laughs, giving Billy a look. “You better tell him before he finds out through someone else, Hargrove,” he says, before grabbing his towel and turning off the shower. 

His words make Steve freeze. “What’re you talking about?”

Tommy wraps his towel around his waist. “Wow you really have been out of the loop,” he trails off, nodding his head at Billy. “She left with him after the Halloween party. Why do you think they’ve been so inseparable? Girl can’t get enough of him.” 

Billy glares at Tommy. “Goodbye Tommy,” he snaps back, watching the guy walk away with a smug grin on his face. Steve’s jaw was clenched, his eyes darkening as he looked over at Billy. 

“Relax, Harrington,” he chuckles. “Since some dick I know left her by herself that night, I was a gentleman and drove her home,” he admits, smirking happily. “You’re lucky she’s so obsessed with you, otherwise I definitely would’ve taken her back with me, and trust me,” he chuckles while turning off the shower, patting Steve on the shoulder. “I’m still debating.”

Steve eyed him hard as he left, whipping off his own shower head. 

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Y/N had finished up her test, smiling warmly at her teacher as she handed it in, bidding a goodnight as she left the classroom. The halls were now quiet as it was after school hours, the rain slowly beginning to dribble outside as she could hear the echoes of other students playing in the gyms. 

When she opened up the school doors, the breeze had gotten a little chillier, goosebumps arising on her skin as she walked down the sidewalk. The rain slowly picked up as she walked, making her put her hood up.

Her eyes squinted as she noticed Steve’s car was still there, making her frown. She then froze only slightly as he stood, leaning against the hood with his arms crossed. He looked more than upset. He looked livid. “Steve? Why are you still at school? I thought you didn’t have tutoring tonight.”

“Get in the car.”

She frowns at his cold tone the closer she got. She shook her head. 

“No. Not after how you’ve been treating me lately,” she shot back, walking up to him. He clenched his jaw as the rain began to get heavier. He towered her figure, eyes staring down into her own. “I have to wait for Dustin too.”

“He went home with Mike,” he answered quickly. “Get. In. The car,” he says once more. 

Instead of prying, she huffs and walks over to the passenger side where he goes to hold open the car door for her, letting her slide in. As he closes her door and rounds to his side, she sets her bag on the floor in the back. He slams his door shut before reversing out of the parking lot, and driving off. 

“Why are you so pissed off? What did I do to you to make you hate me so much in the span of seventy-two hours?” she finally breaks the silence, her arms crossing over her chest as the rain poured.

His jaw tightens at her words, hand rubbing over his jaw. “I don’t hate you.”

“Then why are you acting like a dick? All I’ve been trying to do is help you, and you act like I don’t exist,” she scoffs as she keeps her gaze on the window. “I don’t know what happened between you and Nance, but I’m just trying to be there for you.”

He stays silent for a few moments, and then speaks. “We broke up. Things were complicated and she said things between us weren’t going anywhere.” 

“You could’ve just talked to me, you didn’t have to shut me out. I would’ve listened,” she says in a softer manner. Still somewhat firm to show she was standing her ground.

“It seems you had your hands full with Hargrove anyways,” he says under his breath, but it was loud enough for her to hear. She snapped her head over to him. 

“What?”

“You really took a ride home from Billy Hargove? Of all people? Seriously?”

She scoffs. “I wouldn’t have needed to if you didn’t run off like you did! Besides, he offered and was actually nice to me the entire way,” she explains, running her hands through her hair. “You have no right to be upset. You’re the one ignoring me and acting all big macho whenever he’s around.”

“Is he the one who’s been picking you up too? Bringing you home even?” he shot, making her roll her eyes. 

“You’re a fucking ass. Why are you so obsessed with this guy?”

“Because he’s not good for you! He wants to fuck you, and then leave you for the streets! You’re nothing but a piece of pussy to that man!” he blows up, making her eyes harden and her eyebrows furrow. 

“Stop the car.”

“What-”

“Stop the fucking car, Harrington! I will not be scolded like I’m a fucking child by you! Stop the fucking car, so I can walk the rest of the way.”

Steve looks at her like she is crazy. “Are you kidding? It’s pouring-”

Y/N starts to unlock his car doors, going to pull open the lever as the car was still driving, causing Steve to slam on his brakes as she opened his car door. “Y/N seriously?” he screeches, getting out of the car to follow after her. “Get back in the car! You’re being ridiculous!”

“I’m not! You’re the one being an asshole, Harrington!” she yells back, not looking behind her. She hears him let out a frustrated groan before slamming his car doors shut, and his engine coming up to the side of her. He rolled down the window. 

“Get in the car, Y/N!”

She ignored his pleas, her body shivering as she was now drenched from the pouring rain. “Y/N M/N, get in the damn car before I make you,” he warns, letting out a low growl as she still looks forward and keeps walking. Steve brakes the car once again, opening his door and stomping up to her figure. 

Y/N feels arms wrap around her waist, despite her protests, she’s then thrown over Steve’s shoulder. “Put me the fuck down, Steve! What the fuck is your problem?” she screams out, punching at his lower back. 

“Seriously, let me down! I’m fuckign done with you and your bipolar fucking behavior-”

Her words die in her throat with a squeak as a loud smack is heard, a sting following on her ass a few moments after. She narrows her eyes. “Did you just-?” She trails off as he walks over to open his backseat doors. 

Steve softly places her figure into his back seats, ignoring her curses and shouts at him as he slams the door shut and gets back into the driver’s seat. He sped off after that, not missing the way she was sending daggers to the back of his head.

“I told you to get back in the car, and you didn’t listen.”

“Because you were treating me like shit, and started accusing me of sleeping with Billy. When all he’s been doing, is being a better friend than you. Nothing more than that.” she spat, crossing her arms over her shivering figure. Steve sighs, clenching his jaw at her words. Knowing deep down that she was right, he was being a total asshole to her. 

“Not when I feel how I feel about you. I can’t move on, even if I tried.”

He froze, his heart stopped for a split second at her words, realizing she had said it so quietly in hope he didn’t hear, but he heard her perfectly clear. 

All of his anger slowly washed away as her words repeated in his mind, realizing that Nancy was right. He couldn’t tell Nancy he loved her, not when Y/N had been here all along. No matter how hard he tried, he really tried to make things work with Nancy. But she knew it wasn’t meant to be.

Because he couldn’t control how strong his feelings were becoming towards Y/N. Nancy knew it too, she saw it when he didn’t. Which was why she couldn’t blame him. He did try. He couldn’t bring himself to admit it. Not after how things just ended with Nancy. He needed to see if what he felt for Y/N really was real, which was why he pushed away. Turns out it was more real than he ever knew or understood. Especially after hearing Billy’s words. 

“We’re going to mine,” is all he says, making her glare at him. 

“What? No, I’m drenched, I need to go home and-”

“I have stuff you can borrow, so stop whining. We need to actually talk,” he shot back, making her go quiet with her mouth open in shock. “No distractions, nothing. Because your brother will somehow bring us into the next adventure going on, and we need to figure our shit out.”

Y/N lets out a grumble, but doesn’t argue any further, the car was quiet the rest of the way to his place. 

Once he parked in his driveway, he grabbed both of their bags, then opened the door for her to get out. She whisks past him as he locks his car, the pair running up to take cover under the slight covering over his front doorstep. 

When they both got inside, the sound of the rain pattering hard over the roof was heard, as well as the light sounds of the occasional thunder booming. He sets down their stuff, huffing at his now drenched state, shrugging off his jacket. 

“You can shower in mine. I’ll use my parents.”

He leads them upstairs, grabbing her a towel and walking her into his room that she knew all too well. He hands her a pair of his sweats and a hoodie of his she always used to wear, before grabbing his own towel and heading towards his parents’ room without another word. 

She goes into his bathroom, looking around as she sees it’s still the same. It’s been a while since she has been here. Her having the decision that maybe they shouldn’t hang out like they used to when he started dating Nancy. She didn’t want Nancy to think otherwise, and knew it wouldn’t look right. 

Y/N let the shower run for a bit, letting it get warm as she stripped down her soaked clothes, a light shiver running down her spine. 

Once the steam had filled the bathroom, she stepped into the shower, the warm water cascaded down her back, making her let out a small hum in content at how good the warmth felt. She rinsed and washed up quietly as she let her thoughts linger as she rinsed her hair. 

She was too in her mind to hear the door open slowly, Steve closing it behind him as he saw her back turned away from his figure. 

He couldn’t take it anymore. Not after hearing what she said. He was sick of dancing around it. 

When he opened the glass door, Y/N jumped at the noise and turned towards him with eyes wide. “Steve? What’re you doing?” she asked softly, her voice sounding exhausted. Defeated. Steve said nothing, only closing it behind him and walking to her slowly. Y/N’s eyes followed his own as they took in her figure, then eyes softening as his eyes found her own. 

He stopped just inches in front of her, the water running over them both, Steve towering over her as he looked down at her. Her eyes staring between his own as his hand came up to her jaw to make her fully look up at him. 

He inched closer to her face with his own, their lips just millimeters away. Y/N’s hands stayed covering her chest, but slowly slid down in relaxation as their lips barely touched. 

Their eyes looking between one another for what felt like forever, Y/N looked back at Steve with one final nod. That’s all it took, and his lips slammed down onto hers. It was hungry, needy, passionate. Fire ignited between them both as their lips moved in sync. Tongues fighting and teeth clashing as their pants filled the air. 

Steve brought both of his hands to her hair, pulling her head back to let his lips openly trail from her lips, biting at the bottom one before going to her cheek, her jaw, and down her neck. Y/N’s eyes shut with absolute bliss at the feeling of his lips making contact with her hot skin. How his tongue poked out every so often, teeth biting at some spots. 

Her arms came up to his forearms when he found a sweet spot behind her ear, making him hum in satisfaction. Y/N had grown greedy, and in dire need of his lips on hers once more, making her grab his face from the spot in her neck to slam their lips back together. 

Steve’s hands trailed down from her hair, down her body, leaving sparks and fire in his trail as he touched her everywhere he could reach. 

He never realized how much he craved her until now. Now, he couldn’t live without her. He couldn’t live with the fact that any guy could have her like this. Could’ve been in his spot. He especially couldn’t stand the fact that Billy almost could’ve been in his place if he waited any longer. 

The thought alone made him grip her hips hard, making her whimper lightly in his mouth. He groaned as she bit his lip. They broke apart, just millimeters away from one another as he looked at her with a haze in his eyes. 

“I’m never letting you go now,” he muttered softly, leaving one hand on her hip while the other trailed to her belly button. He watched her lips hitch in a gasp at his touch. Her eyes were big and hazy as they looked up at him. The rain poured hard outside, being heard even through the shower running around them. “Not when I’ve got you like this. This is all I’ve ever wanted. I’ve always wanted you. That was the problem, honey.”

His hand trailed down her navel, just above where she needed to feel him most. Her insides burn with desire and need for Steve. 

“I couldn't stop thinking about you. Every second of every day,” he trails off, leaving soft kisses on her lips between his words. “You were always the one thing I came back to,” he hums, letting his hand finally cup her heat. He smirked lightly as he watched her eyes roll back as he let his fingers rub up and down her slit. 

“Steve.”

“Hm?” he says, letting his hand figure out what she liked, how she wanted, needed, to be touched. Her face would contort when he rubbed or flicked certain spots, making him bite his lip as she watched her lose any ounce of control she had. 

“Hargrove kept saying how he would take you like this. How he was debating on it,” he taunts, letting a finger slide in, Y/N let out a moan as her head fell onto his chest. He chuckled darkly as he felt her beginning to hump herself into his hand. “I kept thinking about that. Picturing. It pissed me off.”

She shook her head as her hand went to grasp at his wrist while he pumped his fingers in and out of her. “Never would’ve happened,” she moans. “I wouldn’t have let it happen.”

He takes his free hand from her hip and trails it up to her neck, causing her to look up at him. Her eyes are still lightly closed, light moans and whines leaving her lips. 

“You sure? It seemed like you enjoyed getting pretty friendly with Hargrove.”

She shook her head. “Only wanted you. I only want you.”

“Oh sweetheart,” he says softly, taking his fingers out of her, causing her to groan at the sudden loss of contact. “I wish I believed that,” he says, shaking his head. She frowned at his words, still dazed and confused at the fact he left her high and dry. 

She decided to push right back at his smugness. 

“Maybe I should. If you’re only going to leave me high and dry. I’ll let him finish your job.”

Steve’s eyes darkened at her words, causing him to turn off the water behind her, then grabbing both of her thighs to wrap around his hips. He walked them out to his bedroom, slamming her body onto his bed as he towered over her figure. 

“You and that mouth of yours are going to get you in trouble, honey.”

He spread her legs open, biting his lip as he tried to muster his groan, but failing miserably. 

“And here I was going to be nice and give you my tongue,” he tuts, before grabbing his dick and sliding it through her folds. “But after that little stunt you pulled, I’m not feeling so nice anymore.”

With that, Steve slams all the way into her. The pair both let out moans at the feeling, Y/N grabbing his hair in one hand while the other scratched down his back. Steve began to pump in and out of her fast and hard, lips and tongue busying themselves with her breasts as they bounced with every thrust. 

“Steve, please,” she whimpers at his pace. He looks up at her through his lashes, seeing how she  is biting her lip to keep from moaning louder. He releases her left nipple with a pop and leans down to kiss her hard. 

“Maybe if you fix that attitude of yours, I’ll take my time,” he groans into her mouth, capturing her moans in his own. “Fuck you the way I’ve been dying to. Nice and slow to show you how in love I am with you. You’d love that wouldn’t you?”

Y/N’s hand grips his hair to pull his head back to make him fully look at her. “Please, baby,” she moans out breathlessly, causing Steve to groan. She clenches around him tight, causing him to stutter his movements. Steve soon begins to slow down slightly, still hitting that spot inside of her that she loved oh so much. Her grip loosened on his head, both hands going to grab the headboard behind her as her back arched. Steve looked down at her in amazement, mouth open as he moaned out her name. 

“So fucking pretty, fuck,” he pants, taking her slower as his gaze falls to where they’re connected. He sees her hips grinding up to meet his own, making him bite his lip and grab them to meet his own with each thrust. “You’re fucking mine. Not Hargrove’s. I don’t share. Especially not when it comes to you.”

Y/N can feel the tightness in her stomach getting closer and closer with every thrust, causing her to look back at Steve who is so focused on watching him thrust in and out of her. 

“Steve I’m-”

“I know, I can feel it. Let go whenever, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

It didn’t take much for her after that, clenching and sputtering around him with a loud moan that followed with his name. Steve came shortly after, placing his lips over her own as his hips stuttered against her pelvis. When their lips broke apart, Steve’s head immediately went into her neck, kissing at her collarbone a few times as they lay there breathless. 

Y/N’s hand trailed from his shoulders, up into his hair. She didn’t miss how his body broke out into goosebumps from her touch. His breathing slowed moments later, his now softened cock still inside of her. She could feel him twitching again, hardening as she clenched around him each time he twitched. “Steve,” she moans softly, gripping his hair as she feels his tongue and teeth biting at the skin along her chest. 

“I need more,” he groans out against her breasts, taking one nipple into his mouth. She arches into his mouth more at the feeling. His hands pushed down her hips as she started to nonchalantly grind up against his hips, letting his own hips slowly thrust and grind into her. “Gonna go all night. I might just need to have you like this forever,” he moans into her nipple, before pulling away with a pop. Y/N grabs his head and pulls his lips back down to hers, his thrusts hard but slow. Moans getting louder between them both as Steve hit that one spot inside her that made her toes curl. 

Before Steve could react, Y/N had tightened her grip on him with her legs, turning them over with him still inside of her. She took his hands from her thighs and laced them with hers, pressing them into the mattress beside his head. 

Her eyes looking into his with such adoration and want in them. She began to grind into him, moans leaving her mouth as she bit her lip from being too loud. Steve looked up at her mesmerized, mouth agape as he takes in everything about how she looked on top of him. 

“You look so fucking beautiful like this,” he sighs, watching her throw her head back she grinded and bounced on him. 

She let go of his hands, bringing hers to lean back on his thighs as she worked her way on him. Steve’s hands immediately went to the crevice where her hips and thighs met. He gripped them in a bruising hold, guiding her every move as he met his hips with hers. “Fuck Steve,” she moans out, not missing the way he hit that spot inside her once again. 

“Nobody will ever get to see you like this, Never again,” he moans as he lets one hand slithering up her front, going to grip her neck in a tight enough hold for it to go to her head. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head at the feeling. “Not even Hargrove. This is mine.”

“Always has been,” she sighs while looking back down into his eyes. Their highs were coming closer than they did the first time, Steve pulling her down by her neck to meet her with a sloppy kiss. 

Both of their movements became faster and faster as the pit in their stomachs got tighter and tighter. “Let go baby. I’m right behind you,” Steve breathes out against her lips, her nodding against him before her hips stutter and stilled as she reaches high. Steve took over and thrusted up into her through both of their highs as Y/N fell forward onto his chest. She wrapped her arms around his neck, nails running through his hair. His hands trailing up and down her back as they lay there breathlessly. “This is gonna sting a bit,” he said first, before slowly pulling out of her. They both let out a loud hiss, Y/N followed with a slight whimper at the emptiness as she gripped his hair lightly. 

“You okay?” he hums against her, and she nods lightly. He chuckles. “We should probably clean up soon.”

She hums. “Soon. Just not yet,” she breathes out softly against his chest. 

“Oh no, I’m basking in this as long as I can,” he chuckles softly. She smiles against his chest at his words. “I’ve got you, and I will not be letting you go anytime soon.”

“So you like me?” she jokes, making him grab her jaw softly to look up at him. He looked at her like she had two heads. 

“I think we both know I’m way past liking you,” he admits, making her eyes soften at his words. His thumb caressed her skin softly. “It only took me how many years to come to my senses.”

“It took me being friends with Hargrove for you to come to your senses,” she shot, making him roll his eyes. 

“Whatever,” he laughs, making her snort. “He’s not gonna let up on this, you know. He will be giving you shit till the end of time for taking so long.”

Steve eyes her. “He really knew before I did? Ouch.”

She smacked his chest softly. “He figured it out, I didn’t have to say a word.”

“Well, I still don’t like how flirty he is with you. So he better knock that off,” he says slowly. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“How will you do that?”  

“Oh, honey we’ve got all night. I’ll make sure he knows to keep his hands off.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹

[colouredbyd]

tolerate it

steve harrington x reader

summary: you accidentally overhear steve calling you “clingy” to robin. instead of confronting him, you retreat into silence, letting your hurt fester. steve notices and becomes desperate to understand, but the more he reaches out, the wider the distance grows.

word count: 6.1k

a/n: after writing way too much steve fluff, it’s time for some angst with my fav trope: fmc overhears her spouse call her clingy… eventual happy ending <3

tags: takes place after s4 timeskip, so much angst, emotional hurt, crying, reader has scars from a demo attack, nancy and robin are so sweet here, distancing, reader has ptsd, emotional vulnerability, reader was eddie's bsf, mentions of violence, trauma, typical upside down gore, lack of communication, so much fluff at the end, happy ending.

You truly didn’t mean to eavesdrop. 

If anything, it was an accident, a cruel, stupid accident orchestrated by the universe itself and whatever higher power up there that wanted to see you suffering. 

You’d been at the Squawk with Steve and Robin, the three of you crammed into the booth like always. Robin, as usual, was rambling about something while Steve laughed and bumped his knee into yours under the table, grounding you without even trying. 

By the time the clock crept past 8:30, the air outside was already dark and heavy, that familiar tightness had started curling in your chest; one that always showed up when it got late.

You’d told yourself you could handle it, that you were fine and you weren’t helpless, but you still asked Steve to accompany you home anyway, too afraid to go on your own.

“Can you come with me?” you’d asked casually, “or at least drive me home?”

Steve frowned, glancing at Robin. “Baby, you’ll be fine. You can go on your own. I’ll be back in like an hour, okay? ”

You nodded and kissed him goodbye, then you walked out to your car telling yourself you weren’t a scared little kid, and that nothing can harm you anymore.

Only to realize halfway down the lot that your coat was still inside.

So you turned around.

That was all; a forgotten coat, a stupid, normal thing, and you would have been in and out in seconds if not for your name cutting through the noise in the squawk as you heard Steve mention you to Robin.

You shouldn’t have listened, you knew that. You were raised better than to hover at doors and steal pieces of conversations that weren’t yours to hear, but your body didn’t listen to reason anymore.

Your feet stayed planted, your lungs forgot how to work as panic washed over you so fast and so violently that for a second you weren’t in Hawkins at all.

You were back in the Upside Down.

Back in that choking red sky, where  the air is thick and cold. You could feel all over again the vines slick and alive under your hands as you ran, heart tearing itself apart inside your chest. 

You could still feel the demobats, the weight of them, the wet snap of their wings, the sound of flesh ripping, the blood, so much blood, everywhere you looked there was bloodbloodbloodbloodblood—

—the combined screams of yours and Eddie’s. You remembered the way his body had gone still, the way Steve had dragged your bloodied body away as your entire abdomen was ripped apart, shaking so badly you couldn’t even scream.

You remember the way you’d thought you were going to die there with your throat ripped open and your bones scattered across that fucked-up place.

You hadn’t felt safe since.

Four months, five months? however long it had been, it didn’t matter. Fear had latched onto you like a parasite and refused to let go.

Everything startled you now, doors, clocks, cold air on your neck, cars backfiring, footsteps too close behind you. The world felt like a nightmare, and the night was only much worse.

Steve was the only place that didn’t feel like that.

Steve made it quiet. Steve made it stop.

You hadn’t even realized you’d started clinging until it was already done, until your body had decided he was shelter, that he was protection, that if he was near then nothing could touch you. 

And now you were standing outside a door, listening to him talk about you.

“I don’t know, Robin,” he says again, voice rough and worn down, like he’s been chewing on the same thought for weeks and it’s finally gone bloody. “She’s just… different. Ever since.”

Robin leans back against the counter, arms crossed, watching him carefully. “Yeah,” she says, slow and measured. “No shit. She went to literal hell, Steve.”

“I know that,” he snaps too fast, immediately regretting the edge in his voice. He exhales, drags a hand down his face. “I know. I do. That’s the problem. I know, and I still feel like shit about how I feel.”

She waits. Robin’s good at that. At letting him talk himself into the truth.

“It’s like,” he starts again, quieter but faster, words tumbling over each other now, “she’s everywhere. All the time. Wherever I go, she’s already there or tryin’ to be. If I grab my keys, suddenly she needs to leave too. If I’m sittin’ down, she’s sittin’ down. If I say I’m tired, she’s tired. It’s like she can’t exist unless I’m right next to her.”

Your stomach drops where you stand, frozen just outside the door, fingers clenched tight around the strap of your bag.

“I’m serious,” Steve keeps going, oblivious, frustration bleeding through every word. “If I’m goin’ to see Dustin, she’s got a reason to come. If I’m headin’ to the Squawk, somehow we’re paired up for drills again. She doesn’t do anything alone, Robin. Never. She’s just… latched onto me.”

He laughs humorless. “And I sound like a dick sayin’ it, I know I do, but it’s fuckin’ suffocating.”

Suffocating. Like he’s drowning because of you.

Robin doesn’t answer right away. When she finally speaks, her voice is softer, more careful. “Steve. That’s not weird, matter of fact it's a normal response given what she's been through. That’s her brain trying to keep her alive.”

“I know,” he says, rubbing at his neck like it physically hurts to admit it. “I know she’s not doing it on purpose.”

“She nearly died,” Robin presses. “She watched Eddie die right in front of her. She got dragged into the Upside Down and came back with scars all over her body. She wakes up screaming, Steve. You’re the only thing that makes her feel safe.”

“I didn’t say she was the bad guy,” he snaps, voice cracking despite himself. “I’m just sayin’ I’m overwhelmed. She’s so clingy, Robin. You saw her tonight. She didn’t wanna leave without me. I had to practically beg her to go first.”

Your vision blurs. You press a hand to your mouth, swallowing hard.

“It’s like I gotta make up excuses just to be alone,” he admits, quieter now, stripped bare. “I need space. I need to breathe. And I can’t say that without soundin’ like a heartless asshole because yeah, she’s traumatized, and then suddenly I’m the villain for wantin’ five goddamn minutes to myself.”

Robin scoffs, pushing off the counter. “Steve, you idiot. You said it yourself. Your girlfriend is traumatized.”

“Yeah,” he shoots back, voice rising, “but how the hell do I tell my traumatized girlfriend to back off without destroyin’ her. How do I say ‘hey, I love you, but you’re smotherin’ me,’ and not absolutely fuck her up more than she already is.”

“You don’t call her clingy,” Robin says immediately. “For starters. That word is banned and most girls, including Vickie, hate it.”

Steve lets out a short, bitter laugh. “Well, she is.”

Robin gasps dramatically, clutching her chest. “Oh nooo,” she mocks, voice high and obnoxious. “I’m Steve Harrington and my girlfriend loves me so much. Oh noooo, she feels safe with me. My life is helllll.”

“Shut up,” Steve mutters, shoving her shoulder.

“Oww, you asshole!” Robin shoots back, swatting him in return, then sobers as she gets all serious again. “You’re not wrong for being tired. You are wrong for talking about her like she’s a burden.”

Steve goes still. “I don’t think she’s a burden,” he says quietly, and this time it sounds like the truth. “I just… I don’t wanna be the only thing keepin’ her together. What happens if I fuck up? What happens if I leave?”

Robin sighs. “Then you talk to her. You communicate, dingus.”

You step back before they can see you, heart pounding, every word replaying in your head on a brutal loop. Suffocating. Clingy. Everywhere.

You don’t grab your coat when you leave.

You don’t even realize you’re driving until you’re already halfway home, knuckles white on the steering wheel as every memory crashes into you at once. Begging him to stay while you showered because you were convinced something would crawl out of the drain. Nights you woke up screaming, clinging to his shirt like it was the only safe place left in the world. Training days for the crawl where you stuck close, too afraid to be alone, grateful when you were paired with him again.

You could see it all, every single little thing you had leaned on him for, flashing through your mind like some god-awful horror slideshow.

Steve’s words had been like a bucket of ice water dumped on you, shocking you into clarity whether you wanted it or not. 

Maybe you had been too sensitive. Maybe you had been unbearable. Maybe you had been so clingy that it wasn’t fair for him, and maybe you needed to let go, at least a little. 

It wasn’t as if you had been the only one stuck in the Upside Down. Will had survived a week in that hell, seen things that should have ripped him apart, and yet he had come back and carried himself with a strength you couldn’t even muster. 

Dustin had lost Eddie too, but he hadn’t latched onto anyone, hadn’t made himself a burden. Eleven had been tortured, exploited, experimented on, broken in ways that should have left her crushed, and yet she still managed to find herself amidst everything, to stand and breathe and continue on. 

And here you were, the only one who seemed incapable of moving past it, of finding even a fragment of independence, still tethered to Steve as if without him you would fall apart.

Somehow, without realizing it, you had arrived at your shared home with Steve, parked your car in the driveway, and walked inside on autopilot, your body carrying you through familiar motions while your mind carried the full weight of guilt, shame, and heartbreak.

You stripped off your clothes in the bathroom, letting the water hit your skin in a rhythm you used to find comfort in, and prepared some dinner. You heated up leftovers, the smell of food filling the kitchen like it always had, but this time there was no laughter, no shared commentary on who had eaten what, no teasing Steve about his obsession with ketchup. 

By the time Steve arrived, the house was quiet. You were already in bed, tucked under the covers, something you hadn’t done alone in months because for months you hadn’t slept unless his arms were wrapped around you. 

But tonight, the house felt empty, and he found himself standing in the kitchen, fork in hand, staring at the warm meal you had prepared for him, and realizing that for the first time in an eternity, you weren’t waiting for him.

The next morning only deepened the silence. Steve woke to an empty bed, the sunlight spilling across rumpled sheets that smelled faintly of your perfume, and felt a prickling, cold panic he couldn’t name at first. 

You were already dressed, shoes on, ready to leave.

“Where are you heading?” he asked, voice rough.

“Going to get some stuff from the store,” you replied dryly.

“Want me to come with you, sweetheart?” His words carried that familiar gentleness, but you couldn’t look past it without feeling like a burden.

“No,” you said simply.

It was such a small, simple word. It shouldn’t feel like this. Except it made Steve sit in bed alone, blood running cold, realizing far too late that you were beginning to avoid him.

You leave early and don’t come back until the sky is already dimming, the house dark except for the kitchen light that Steve has turned on and off three times now like it might summon you home faster.

By the time you unlock the front door, he has been pacing a groove into the living room carpet, heart in his throat, mind running through every worst case scenario he promised himself he wouldn’t think about anymore. The second the lock clicks and the door opens, he’s there, crowding your space before you can even hang up your coat.

“Where the hell were you?!” he blurts, voice tight and frantic, eyes scanning you like he’s checking for blood. “You’ve been outta the house for nearly six hours. Six. I was losin’ my goddamn mind. I thought somethin’ happened to you.”

You sigh, slow and tired, and for a split second when you really look at him, at the pure unfiltered worry etched into his face, you almost break.

Almost step into his arms, almost let yourself melt into him and admit how badly you missed him, how those six hours felt like six days without his voice or his hands or the steady reassurance of his presence. 

If six hours did this to him, then the space you were forcing had been tearing you apart twice as badly.

But then your brain betrays you, replays his words in his voice, clingy, suffocating, always there, and you harden.

“I was out, Steve,” you say quietly.

“Yeah, no shit,” he fires back, following you as you walk toward the kitchen. “Out where?”

You open the fridge, more for something to do than because you’re hungry, and shrug. “With Nancy. We hung out and I accidentally lost track of time.”

The tension drains out of him immediately, shoulders sagging in relief. “Jesus,” he breathes. “Why didn’t you tell me, huh? I was freakin’ out. Is everything okay? Did somethin’ happen?”

You shake your head. “No, nothing happened, don’t worry.”

He nods quickly, like he’s trying not to push. “Okay. Okay. I won’t pry.” He hesitates, then softens. “Hey, I was thinkin’ dinner. You want lasagna or pizza?”

“I’m not hungry,” you say, already turning away. “I’m gonna go sleep, okay.”

He frowns. “But I thought we could just hang out a little, I mean we barely saw each other toda—”

“Maybe another time, alright? Goodnight, Steve.”

He exhales, defeated. “Goodnight,” he says softly. “I love you.”

You pause just long enough to whisper it back before disappearing down the hall. “I love you too,”

The days after are worse.

Steve wakes up and barely gets a word in before you’re already pulling on shoes, mumbling something about a jog. If he waits, you need a shower. If he waits longer, you’re late to see your nana. 

If he suggests the Squawk, you’re already going with Nancy. It’s like every time he reaches out, you slip through his fingers a little more, like trying to grasp smoke.

Not long ago, you haunted him with your presence. You were everywhere, constant, inescapable, but now you ghost him with your absence. He doesn’t know where you go or what you do, only that the house feels emptier even when you’re technically still there.

That’s how he ends up sitting on the edge of the bed tonight, waiting for the bathroom door to open, heart pounding like he’s bracing for bad news. When you finally step out, hair damp, towel slung over your shoulder, he looks up like he’s been holding his breath.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says gently, like he’s testing the word to see if it still belongs to him.

You glance at him in the mirror and give him a small, careful smile. “Hi, Steve.”

He lingers there for a second, then steps closer, hands hovering before he settles them lightly at your waist, afraid you might flinch. He leans down and presses a kiss to your collarbone. 

“I missed you,” he murmurs. “You’ve been out all day. Didn’t even see you at the Squawk.”

Your body betrays you before your mouth does, a shiver running through you at the sound of his voice, the warmth of him behind you. For a heartbeat you let yourself feel it, the pull, the ache. Then you pull away, just enough to break the contact, reaching for your hairbrush like it’s a shield.

“Yeah,” you say lightly. “Nancy asked me to go shopping with her again.”

“Oh.” He straightens, nodding, trying to keep his tone easy. “Was it fun? I figured you’d come back with, like, ten bags or somethin’.”

You shrug, brushing through damp hair. “Didn’t need anything.”

He watches you in the mirror, the way you won’t quite look at him, the way your answers land flat and stop short. He clears his throat as heshifts his weight.

He hesitates, then clears his throat, trying again, voice low and careful. “Uh. We trained today. Me, Hopper, and El. She shaved her time down again.”

You pause only briefly, tugging at your hair with the brush.

“Thirty-three seconds,” he continues, a little brighter despite himself. “Last week it was thirty-six. She’s pissed about it too, which I guess is good. Means she knows she can do better.”

“That’s good,” you say quietly.

He nods, even though you’re not looking at him. “Yeah. She’s gettin’ scary strong again. In a good way.”

“Mhm.”

Steve frowns. He leans back on his hands, searching your face even though you’re facing away now. “We could all hang out this weekend. Just us, or maybe the kids too. Whatever you want. Thought it might be nice.”

“I’m actually quite tired,” you say quietly.

“Okay,” he says quickly. “Yeah. That’s fine. We don’t have to do anything big.” He pauses, then softly asks. “Hey. Are you okay? Like, really okay?”

You swallow. “I’m fine, Steve.”

There’s a beat of silence where he clearly wants to say more as his mouth opens and closes like he’s rearranging words that never come out right. 

He tries again, desperate now. “Did I do somethin’? Because if I did, I swear I’m not tryin’ to mess this up. I just need you to talk to me, okay.”

Your chest tightens. You squeeze your eyes shut.

“Steve,” you say softly, cutting him off before he can dig himself deeper, “can you turn off the light, please?”

He gets the hint; you don’t want to talk.

He freezes for a second, then nods once. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

He stands, reaches for the lamp, and the room falls into darkness. He lingers there for a moment longer, like he’s hoping you’ll turn back around, say his name, give him something to hold onto.

You don’t.

“Night,” he says quietly.

“Night,” you reply, barely audible.

He lies down beside you, careful not to touch, staring up at the ceiling with the awful, sinking realization that this is what losing you looks like..

As the days passed, then quietly turned into weeks, you built a new routine that did not include Steve in it at all. It happened slowly enough that it almost felt reasonable at first. 

You learned how to time your mornings so you were out the door before he woke up, learned how to come home late enough that conversation felt unnecessary, learned how to smile just enough to keep him from asking questions that you did not have the strength to answer.

Avoiding him became second nature. Lying became easy.

You spent most of your days outside, anywhere that was not the house and not around him. Sometimes you sat beside your nana’s hospital bed for hours, holding her hand and watching the rise and fall of her chest just to remind yourself that people stayed alive even when everything went wrong. 

Other days you walked until your legs ached, wandering neighborhoods you barely recognized, letting exhaustion drown out thought. Occasionally you called a friend, anyone who would answer, and let the hours blur together in cafes and parking lots and friendly conversations that never went anywhere deep enough to hurt.

It got to the point where you could not remember the last time you had kissed him without forcing yourself to think about it, and when you did, the number made your stomach twist. Four days. Four whole days since his mouth had been on yours, since his hands had found your waist without asking, since you had slept tangled together instead of inches apart. 

There was a time when five minutes apart felt unbearable, when you haunted each other in hallways and kitchens and doorways, hands always reaching, always searching.

You grew used to the distance. 

Steve though, did not.

His patience thinned in ways that showed. It did not help that things with Dustin were already strained. Steve started snapping again and retreating into old habits he thought he had outgrown. 

He tried to pull himself back every time he felt it happening, tried to reach for you like he always had.

And every time he did, you stepped further away.

That was how he found himself one late afternoon sitting on the couch, elbows braced on his knees, staring at the front door. 

You had been gone all day again, supposedly with Nancy, doing whatever it was you told him you were doing now. 

Steve knew you were close to her, knew you trusted her, but not to the point where you would spend hours every other day together. Still, he told himself not to judge. Girls were odd in their friendships, and he did not want to be the guy who questioned everything.

But his mind would not shut up.

Every instinct in him was screaming that something was wrong, that he needed to do something instead of sitting there waiting. He was snapped out of his thoughts when the doorbell rang.

Steve was on his feet instantly, relief and fear colliding in his chest as he rushed to the door. He yanked it open, already ready to say your name.

Instead, Nancy Wheeler stood there.

For a split second, his brain refused to process it. Then panic slammed into him so hard it stole the air from his lungs. If you were supposed to be with Nancy, then why is she standing here alone?

“Where is she?” he blurted out, voice sharp and scared. “Is she okay? What happened?”

Nancy blinked in shock at his reaction, taking in the way his shoulders were tight, the way his hands were already shaking like he’d been holding himself together by sheer force of will. “Whoa, Steve, hey,” she said quickly. “Slow down. What’s going on?”

“What,” he shot back, breath uneven, eyes already scanning the driveway behind her like you might suddenly appear. “Where’s she? Why are you here without her, Nancy?”

Nancy frowned. “Without who?”

“Y/N,” he snapped, panic bleeding into anger because fear always did that to him. “I’m talking about Y/N.”

Her expression shifted immediately. “Yeah,” she said slowly, “that’s actually why I’m here. I haven’t heard from her in weeks. I just wanted to check in.”

The words hit him like a punch straight to the chest.

“What do you mean you haven’t heard from her?” he said, quieter now, like saying it louder might make it real. “You were literally  together today?”

Nancy let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Steve, no. I’ve been with Jonathan all day. He’s waiting in the car right now. I just stopped by because I was worried about her.”

The color drained from his face so fast it scared her.

“Steve,” she said carefully, stepping closer, “you’re freaking me out. What’s going on?”

He swallowed hard, throat tight like it was closing in on itself. “She’s been telling me she’s with you,” he said. “Every time she’s gone. She says she’s with you.”

Nancy stared at him. “Why would she lie about that?”

“I don’t know,” he said, voice cracking despite how hard he tried to keep it together. “That’s the thing, Nance, I don’t know. One day she was everywhere. Everywhere. I couldn’t turn around without her being there, couldn’t breathe without feelin’ her next to me, and then suddenly it’s like she vanished. We didn’t fight. I–i didn't do anything. At least not that I remember.”

Nancy sighed, rubbing her forehead, her tone firm but not unkind. “Steve. You don’t just wake up one day like that. Something must've happened.”

“No, no, no” he said immediately, shaking his head. “No, I would know. I would remember if I fucked up that bad.”

“And you didn’t think to ask her?” Nancy pressed.

“I did,” he snapped. “I tried. Every time I tried she’d shut it down, say she was tired or busy or fine. What the hell was I supposed to do, corner her?”

“She was clingy, okay. I’ll say it. I couldn’t go anywhere without her, couldn’t get a second alone, and then suddenly it’s like she was gone.”

Nancy’s head snapped up. “Don’t,” she said sharply.

“What?” he shot back.

“You do not call her clingy, Steve!” Nancy said, anger flaring now. “You don’t get to use that word with Y/N out of all people!”

He bristled. “Oh come on, Nancy. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Yeah, you did,” she said. “And even if you didn’t, it doesn’t matter. In case you’ve forgotten, Harrington, we’re all wrapped up in this upside down bullshit because we have to be. I do it because of Mike and Barb. You do it because of Dustin. Guess what? She doesn’t have to be involved in it!”

Steve opened his mouth, then stopped.

“That girl is fucking traumatized, and she went through that shit because you dragged her into it!” Nancy continued, voice steady but fierce.

“She nearly died. She was attacked by monsters that shouldn’t exist. She watched Eddie die just like the rest of us, and she doesn’t get to talk about it with anyone outside this circle. She can’t go to her friends or her family and say, ‘hey, I got slimed by an interdimensional monster and almost got ripped apart.’ The only person she feels safe enough to lean on is you!”

His jaw tightened, guilt creeping in through the cracks.

“So yeah,” Nancy went on, “maybe she leaned too hard or she  didn’t know how to be alone after that. But that doesn’t make her clingy, Steve. That makes her scared.”

He dragged a hand down his face. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

“I know,” Nancy said. “But intent doesn’t erase impact. Something you said or did made her feel like she was too much, like she was a burden, and instead of yelling or crying she did the only thing she could think to do. She disappeared.”

Steve let out a shaky breath. “She’s been lying to me, Nancy.”

“She’s protecting herself,” Nancy said. “You need to see things in her light”

Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.

“So what,” he said finally, voice raw. “What if she’s just… done? What if she realized she doesn’t need me?”

Nancy softened then, stepping closer. “Steve. She needs you. She just doesn’t think she’s allowed to anymore. And that’s on you to fix.”

He looked at her, eyes glassy. “How?”

“You talk to her,” Nancy said simply. “Really talk. Don't accuse her or get defensive. Listen to her.”

She glanced back toward the driveway. “I’ll stop by tomorrow and check on her too, okay? But you can’t let this sit. Whatever’s going on, it’s clearly eating both of you alive.”

Steve nodded faintly, chest aching. “Yeah.”

Nancy opened the door, then paused. “And Steve.”

“Yeah?”

“Snap out of it,” she said firmly. “Before you lose her for real.”

With that, she left, heading back toward Jonathan’s car, while Steve stood alone in the doorway.

Ironically, barely ten minutes after Nancy and Jonathan pulled out of the driveway, you came home.

The house was dark. Too dark.

Your stomach dropped immediately, panic flaring hot and fast as you stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind you. No lights. No TV. No noise.

For a split second, every worst-case scenario you’d trained yourself not to think about came crashing in all at once.

“Steve?” you called out, voice tight.

Footsteps shuffled, and then he appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, lit only by the faint glow from the stove light.

“Hey,” he said, like nothing in the world was wrong.

You froze for half a beat. “Oh. Hi.”

There was something awkward in the air instantly, like you’d both stepped into the same room carrying entirely different weights. He leaned against the counter, trying to look casual.

“How was your day?” he asked.

You shrugged, slipping your shoes off. “It was… alright.”

His eyes drifted to the bag clutched in your hand, the crinkled plastic catching his attention. “What’s that?”

“Oh,” you said quickly, glancing down at it. “I stopped by the pharmacy to get the cream. For, uh… you know. The scarring.”

He nodded, softer now. “That’s good.”

Neither of you said anything else as you walked down the hall together. The bedroom felt smaller than usual as Steve sat on the edge of the bed while you set the bag down.

“Um,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Do you want me to help you apply it?”

You hesitated for a second. Then you nodded and handed him the bag.

He unsealed the ointment while you slipped your shirt off and sat cross-legged on the floor, your back to him. You were suddenly acutely aware of every scar—deep, jagged reminders carved across your back and abdomen from the demogorgon attack. Old wounds, but never really gone.

Steve didn’t react the way you always feared people might. He never did.

His hands were warm as he scooped some of the cream, spreading it carefully across your skin gently. He worked it into your shoulders, thumbs pressing lightly as he massaged your shoulders.

You let yourself breathe.

He kept going until he was done, smoothing the last of it in with quiet focus. As you started to shift, ready to stand and pull your shirt back on, you felt it—

Two soft kisses. One pressed over each long scar crossing your back.

Your heart kicked hard against your ribs.

You stood quickly, sliding your shirt back on, suddenly unsure what to do with all the space between you. You were halfway to the door when his voice stopped you.

“Uhm, Y/n.”

You turned. “Yeah?”

He reached out, fingers wrapping gently around your hand, and tugged you a step closer. “Can we talk?”

He keeps hold of your hand when you hesitate.

“Talk about what?” you ask quietly.

Steve doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he steps closer, close enough that you can feel the heat of him, the familiar gravity that’s always pulled you in whether you wanted it to or not. His hand tightens around yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens his grip.

“I know I’ve been shitty,” he says again, like repeating it might finally make it land where it needs to. His voice is low and rough, scraped raw by guilt. “I know I’ve been so far away from you. I know you felt it. I saw it, even when I pretended I didn’t.” He swallows hard. 

“And I know you’re going through things—things I can’t even fully understand—and I hate that instead of being the person you could come to, the person who made it easier, I—”

He cuts himself off with a sharp breath, hand lifting to his face like he can physically stop the words from spilling.

Your chest tightens so painfully it almost steals your breath.

“I panicked,” he rushes on, panic bleeding straight through his words now. “I didn’t know how to handle it. Knowing someone was dependent on me, really dependent on me, not just for rides or babysitting or stupid shit like that, but emotionally.” His voice wavers. “I thought I was gonna screw it up. Thought I already was screwing it up. And instead of dealing with that like an adult, I freaked out.”

He laughs once, sharp and broken. “God, I thought I needed space. I thought if I pulled back, things would calm down, that we’d both breathe easier. But fuck—” His voice cracks hard on the word. “This is so much worse. You being gone is so much worse than you being everywhere. I’d give anything to have you hovering around me again, asking if I’m okay, touching my arm, sittin’ too close on the couch.”

He steps closer, hands shaking as they come up to your sides, not quite touching like he’s scared you’ll flinch away.

“Please,” he whispers, forehead nearly brushing yours now, eyes glossy and wrecked. “Please, sweetheart. Don’t stop being dependent on me. Don’t stop needing me. Don’t stop loving me.”

Your breath stutters, a broken sound caught somewhere between your chest and your throat.

“I need you to need me,” he says, the words spilling faster, desperate and unfiltered. “I didn’t realize it until you pulled away, but I do. I need it. I need you. Because I can’t do this anymore. I can’t wake up every day wondering if you’re okay and knowing it’s my fault you don’t tell me.” His voice drops to a whisper. 

“I can’t do this without you.”

That’s when you break.

The sob tears out of you violently, ripping through your chest like something finally gave way. Your knees nearly buckle as you fold into him, crying so hard your body shakes, hiccups jerking through each breath. 

Steve reacts instantly, arms wrapping around you tight, crushing you to his chest like if he lets go you’ll disappear for real this time.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into your hair, voice breaking completely now. “I’m so sorry. Fuck—fuck, baby, don’t cry. Please don’t cry.”

His hand moves up and down your back in slow, steady motions, grounding and familiar, his chin pressing into your hair. You cry into his shirt until it’s damp, until your throat burns and your lungs ache and you feel wrung out and hollow.

Eventually, trembling, you pull back just enough to look at him.

“I heard you, Steve,” you say, the words tripping over themselves.

He freezes. “You… heard what?”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms like you deserve the sting. “A few weeks ago. At the station. I left early and forgot my coat.” Your voice wobbles badly now. “I came back, and I heard you.”

The color drains from his face so fast it scares you.

“You were talking to Robin,” you continue, tears spilling again. “You said I was clingy. You said I was suffocating you.”

“Oh—no,” he breathes, panic exploding across his features. “No, no, no, baby, please—”

“I didn’t mean to be,” you sob. “I swear I didn’t. I wasn’t trying to trap you or make you feel stuck. I just—” Your breath breaks, the words barely making it out. “I only felt safe with you. And everyone else was doing okay. Everyone. And I wasn’t. I was falling apart and I didn’t know how to be alone with that.”

You swallow hard, voice dropping to something small and raw. “And somewhere along the way, it started to feel like you weren’t loving me anymore.”

Your eyes lift to his, shining. “It felt like you were just… tolerating it. Tolerating me.”

Steve’s hands come up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing your tears away like each one physically hurts him.

“Baby,” he says fiercely, voice shaking as his arms tighten around you. “You can cling to me as tight as you want and as long as you want. I don’t ever want you to feel like you have to pull away to protect me.”

His voice drops, thick and aching, the words pressed straight into your hair. “I love you so much it hurts. I love you so much it scares me, and instead of owning that, I ran my mouth and said something stupid and careless. And I hate that it hurt you. I hate that I made you feel like you were too much when all you ever were was… you.”

He presses his forehead to yours, breath shaky. “You were never suffocating me. I was just scared of how much I needed you back.”

You search his face, eyes swollen, chest still hitching with quiet aftershocks of sobs. He looks wrecked and earnest and painfully open, like every wall he’s ever built has finally come down.

“It’s okay, Steve,” you whisper, even though the words wobble on the way out, even though they don’t quite feel solid yet.

He shakes his head immediately, curls bouncing with the movement. “It’s not. It’s really not.” His hands slide up your back, holding you close. “But we’re gonna fix it, okay? I will fix it. I promise. I don’t care how long it takes.”

His forehead presses against yours again, like he’s grounding himself. “Just… don’t pull away from me ever again.”

You nod, slow but sure, arms wrapping around him fully now as you bury your face into his chest. He holds you like he means it this time, rocking you gently, big hands warm and steady like they’re reminding you that he’s real, that he’s here.

You breathe him in.

And then—

Grrrgrgrgrgrgr.

You freeze for half a second.

Then you pull back just enough to look up at him, eyes still wet, face scrunched, and you burst out laughing—broken, hiccupy laughter that comes out of you mid-cry.

“Are you—” you sniff, laughing harder, “—are you hungry?”

Steve’s face goes bright red.

“I—” he stammers, mortified. “I was gonna wait for you to come back, okay? I didn’t wanna eat without you.”

That just makes you laugh more. You press your face back into his chest, shoulders shaking, and he lets out a breathy laugh too, embarrassed but relieved, his arms tightening around you again.

“God,” he mutters. “Timing, huh.”

You tilt your head up and kiss him. He kisses you back immediately, like he’s been starving for it just as much as food. When you pull away, barely an inch, he leans in again and kisses you harder this time and deeper, pouring everything unsaid into it.

He breaks the kiss with a breathless laugh, forehead resting against yours. “Missed kissing you.”

You smile. “Me too.”

He exhales, then straightens suddenly like he’s had an epiphany. “You know what?”

“What?” you ask.

“I am starving,” he says, dead serious. “And I’m pretty sure you are too.”

You blink. “Steve—”

“Come on,” he says, already grabbing your hand and tugging you gently toward the door. “Grab a coat.”

“Wait,” you laugh, stumbling after him. “Where are we even going?”

He grins over his shoulder, that familiar boyish smile you fell in love with. “Enzo’s.”

Your eyes widen. “What? No, Steve, that place is expensive. And you need a reservation and— I can just heat something up, it’s fine—”

“Nope,” he cuts in immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“Steve—”

“I gotta spend the next year or so making it up to you,” he says, squeezing your hand. “Minimum.”

You gape at him. “But—”

“Too late,” he says cheerfully, already opening the door.

You stumble as he leads you out to the car, the night air cool against your skin. He opens your door for you like always, and excitedly smiles at you. As the engine starts and the house disappears in the rearview mirror, you lean back in your seat, heart full and sore and warm all at once.

Deep down, you know it again: Steve will stay by your side. He’ll wait while you heal. He’ll hold you steady until you’re strong enough to take steps on your own.

And Steve knows, wholeheartedly, that he’ll be the one clinging to you just as tightly. Because you’re the only one he’s ever loved enough to spill his heart to.

And, apparently, spend three hundred and ninety dollars on at some fancy restaurant without even blinking.

[iydiamartinx]

PREY TO PREDATOR

Pairing: Male Yuatja x Female Reader

divider by: @sinisterexaggerator & @enchanthings word count: 4.2k synopsis: The group has no idea of the Predators amongst them, and they're closer than they think. a/n: I'm not sure what it is about the Yautja that has me writing smut for them but here's another. This fic is based off of Predators 2010. warning: 18+, yautja smut, breeding kink, size kink, oral, plot with porn, etc.

The jungle felt as if it was pressing in on all sides. The air was thick with humidity that clung to your skin, soaking your clothes. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of damp earth and rot, and every sound—every buzz of an insect, every distant cry of something unseen—felt magnified beneath the choking canopy.

You trailed a few paces behind the others, silent, your eyes downcast but alert. Compared to the hardened soldiers, cartel enforcers, death-row inmates, and professional killers that made up the group, you looked out of place. Fragile. Docile.

And they noticed that right away. 

Stans had been the first to speak up. “What’s this? They start droppin’ cheerleaders in now?” His grin split wide beneath the grime streaking his face, feral and amused. “Lucky me. Haven’t had a woman around in a long time.”

Cuchillo chuckled low in his throat, flicking open one of his blades with an audible click, as though steel would give weight to his words. “Maybe she’s just bait, man. Soft skin, innocent—meant to make us forget where we are.” His gaze dragged across you, sharp and unashamed, before he gave a low whistle. “Not bad bait though, eh?”

You didn’t answer. You refused to give them the satisfaction.

From ahead, Royce’s voice cut through the exchange, cold and clipped. “Focus. Keep moving.” He didn’t raise his tone, but the warning was clear.

Stans wasn’t deterred. He slowed his stride until he was beside you, elbow nudging against your arm as if to test how far he could push. “Hey, sweetheart. You stick with me, huh? I’ll keep you real safe.” His smile was all teeth, his breath sour with the rank staleness of gum chewed far too long.

From behind, Nikolai muttered something sharp in Russian, the weight of his glare enough to freeze a braver man. Stans only snorted, but he shifted away all the same.

Isabelle’s eyes flicked toward you, her jaw tightening as though she wanted to intervene but chose not to. She said nothing, though her discomfort was clear.

You lowered your head and walked on, refusing to let their words rattle you. Instead, you made sure to drift closer to where Royce, Isabelle, and Nikolai moved, safer with them where the worst of them wouldn’t dare push too far.

Your eyes shifted upward, toward the dense canopy. For a moment you could have sworn something moved—an unnatural ripple swayed the leaves.

“Everything okay?” Isabelle’s voice cut quietly through the silence beside you.

You blinked, forcing your expression into something calm before giving a small nod. “Yeah… yeah. I just want to get the fuck out of here.”

She snorted, the sound edged with dark humour. “You and everyone else in this little circus.”

You tilted your chin toward the left, studying the ground. “We should head this way. The soil’s damp. There’s got to be water nearby.”

Royce stopped, his sharp gaze following where you pointed. After a beat, he gave a single approving nod. “Good eye.”

Somehow, you and Royce had fallen into the role of navigating—picking paths through the choking wilderness, marking subtle shifts in terrain that might lead to shelter or resources. Hours seemed to blur together beneath the oppressive canopy as you pressed forward, the air growing thicker, heavier.

Yet something shifted, the jungle had changed. The sound seemed to have bled away the constant chorus of insects and distant cries of unseen creatures bled away, leaving only the heavy thud of boots and the ragged rhythm of breath. You froze, instincts clawing up your spine. A jungle never went quiet without reason. Silence meant one thing—there was a predator near.

“Anyone else notice that?” Mombasa whispered, slowing his pace.

The answer came a heartbeat later. A sharp crack split the air, followed by a streak of blue fire. It screamed across the clearing and tore through Cuchillo chest, dropping him where he stood. The stench of scorched flesh hit you even before his body finished collapsing.

Everyone scattered.

Stans swore, dragging his weapon free and bolting for cover. Hanzō vanished into the undergrowth, his katana flashing as if it could do a damn thing against whatever unseen predator was out there. Isabelle dropped to her stomach, aiming up through her scope, her jaw tight.

You ran with them at first, heart pounding, lungs straining. But then the earth beside you exploded, dirt and fire swallowing you whole. The blast knocked the breath from your lungs, sent you sprawling into the muck. Ears ringing, vision blurred, you gasped against the choking soil.

You tried to push yourself up, coughing, but the others were already retreating. You saw their backs vanish into the foliage—saw the moment they chose to leave you.

“Leave her!” Stans barked in panic. “She’s dead weight anyway.”

Royce didn’t argue. None of them did.

You stayed down, pressing yourself into the dirt, every instinct screaming at you to remain still. The shouts of the others faded into the distance, swallowed by the jungle until only silence remained. The sudden silence seemed to grow thicker before it was broken by a low, guttural growl that rolled through the air, vibrating in your chest. The sound was primal, and it sent a shiver down your spine. Heavy measured footfalls followed, drawing closer through the undergrowth. Every muscle in your body tightened as the brush parted before you.

Black armour caught the fractured light beneath the canopy, its surface dull yet menacing, etched with wear from countless hunts. A mask, cruelly carved with savage lines, concealed the creature’s face, as his gaze swept over you.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. You and the hunter simply stared at one another before  your lips split into a grin. With a soft groan you pushed yourself upright, every muscle aching from the blast, but your eyes never left him.

“How did I do?” you asked cheekily, reaching out a hand.

His clawed grasp met yours. Despite its size, his touch was careful as he easily hauled you to your feet before brushing the leaves and soil from your hair with a strange gentleness that only you had ever witnessed. A sigh slipped past your lips as you pressed your palm against the black plates of his chest armour, feeling the low rumble of his approving growl resonate beneath your skin.

With his other hand he reached up to remove his mask and your gaze softened at the sight of him.

“They suspect nothing of the part I played,” you murmured, lips grazing the alien ridges of his mandible as you leaned closer, your voice silk against the steel of him. “They’ll be exactly where you want them soon enough.”

His mandibles flared, a softer purr in his throat, that told you he approved and was proud of your success. He pulled you into him with sudden force, and your body melted against his. His towering frame engulfed yours, his arms an unyielding cage that somehow made you feel safe. The scent of earth and blood clung to him, the familiar scent of him had your body relaxing.

The humans had been all too oblivious to the true monster in their midst. You had played your part beautifully, leading them by the nose, herding them like cattle toward the slaughter. You knew the layout of this jungle far better than they ever could. The terrain was a map you had walked a hundred times before, your body remembering the unspoken routes your mate had shown you.

The Berserker… Your Berserker.

The humans called him a monster, a devil cloaked in steel and shadows. His true name—T’varak, “Black Fang” in the guttural rhythm of his language. He was one of the strongest war-leader’s of his kind. Towering over most and brutal by even their standards. He was the one that others, even his own kind feared. But to you, he was far more dangerous than any monster they could imagine. He was yours. Your mate. Your love.

The camp was deeper in the jungle. You followed T’varak through the undergrowth, his towering frame clearing the path without effort.

Two figures waited at the edge of the clearing—hulking, armoured, just as fearsome in their silence. Tracker stood first, the beast at his side shifting restlessly, its glowing eyes locking onto you. For a tense heartbeat the creature’s tusked maw parted in a low growl—then its massive head dipped, as it let out a yip of excitement.

A smile softened your face as you crouched low, extending a hand. Your fingers brushed the ridged plates of its muzzle, the warmth beneath the armor thrumming into your palm. The hound rumbled deep in its chest, the sound almost pleased.

“Still a good boy, aren’t you?” you whispered fondly. The beast’s jaws snapped close to your hand in what passed for affection, sharp tusks flashing before retreating again. Tracker grunted, a short, rumbling sound that carried amusement.

You rose smoothly and turned to the other figure. Falconer’s mask tilted toward you, his head bowing in a mocking flourish as the sleek shape of his drone circled high above the treetops. He had always been the quieter of the two, sharper and more calculating, yet his mandibles flared slightly when he saw you—his equivalent of a smile.

“Falconer,” you greeted, inclining your head with equal mockery. “Still sending your bird to do the hard work for you?”

A rattling click escaped him, his version of a chuckle. Tracker growled something back in their language, teasing, and for a moment the three of you bantered like soldiers reunited after a long campaign. You were not an outsider here—you were family. 

The humans had given them their human names—Tracker, Falconer, Berserker. Titles born of ignorance, stripped down to the barest function and appearance. Yet the nicknames lingered, in a fond joke between you all.

But then T’varak’s shadow fell across you, blotting out the firelight as he loomed. His massive hand slid across your waist in a silent claim. The air seemed to shift with it, the easy camaraderie dissolving in an instant as the others recognized their leader’s need for his mate.

“Enough,” he growled, his voice a rolling thunder that filled the clearing.

Tracker and Falconer exchanged a brief glance before stepping back, their silence respectful, unquestioning. Without protest, they drifted toward the campfire, leaving the two of you alone beneath the canopy’s shroud.

Your mate guided you  toward his shelter, where a nest of furs lay piled high. The walls bore the weight of his trophies—bones, hides, skulls, remnants of kills long past—all woven into a testament of his legacy. The air thick with the musk of him. 

You stripped without hesitation, shedding the thin remnants of clothing until nothing stood between you and the heat of his gaze. When he drew you down into the nest, you went willingly, your body curling into the furs as you watched him strip away his armour piece by piece. Each discarded plate of black metal thudded against the ground until only the gleam of his steel neck plate remained, framing the scarred, brutal expanse of his skin.

Crooking a finger, you sighed in contentment when he finally lowered himself beside you, his weight sinking around you. His mandibles brushed against your throat, grazing over the scar carved there—the mark of his claim.

Your fingers rose, cupping his face, tracing the harsh ridges and lines of him with a tenderness that belonged to no one else. You had memorized every edge, every texture, long ago.

“You hunted well today,” you murmured, though he had not yet spilled blood. Not directly. It was all part of the greater game—the elaborate trap the four of you had woven together through years of practice and perfected deception.

His growl vibrated low against your chest, words torn through the distortion of his broken, guttural voice. “You deceived well.” His head dipped, mandibles ghosting once more across the scar at your throat. The faintest brush of them against your skin made heat stir beneath the surface, and you all but preened under the attention—his focus on you rather than the hunt.

“Mine,” he growled, deeper now, resonant. “Always mine.”

The words were not tender, not in the way humans understood tenderness, but you felt the truth of them in every rumble of his chest, in every careful way his massive hands cradled you. His kind had no need for poetry. Love was not spoken; it was carved into action—in the way he shielded you with his body, in the knowledge that he would slaughter entire worlds if it meant keeping you safe.

Your lips brushed the line of his mandible, and he let out a sound that was not quite a growl, not quite a purr—something that would only ever be meant for you, his mate. The jungle howled outside, alive with the screams of prey and the echo of beasts, but here in the heart of the camp, you curled into him, wrapped in the heat and scent of your mate.

“Take me, mate,” you whispered. “It’s been too long since I’ve felt the pleasure of your touch.”

T’varak let out a low growl as his weight shifted. You whimpered in need when his massive length brushed against your weeping pussy, your body aching to be filled by him.

“Please,” you begged, voice breaking.

“Patience, mate,” he chided, his voice a dark rumble. “Must make sure you are prepared.”

And he did. One long, thick finger slipped down to stroke your folds before pressing carefully into your heat. A sigh escaped your lips as he slowly pumped the digit in and out, mindful of his claws. Soon a second finger joined the first, stretching you further, and by the time a third slid inside you, you were already a trembling mess—whimpering, pleading for his cock.

The sounds filling the tent were obscene, wet squelches with every thrust of his fingers, your breath breaking into desperate gasps. When he finally withdrew, the emptiness made you ache, a hollow burn that had you clenching around nothing. Your gaze snapped to his, transfixed as he brought his slick fingers to his mouth, mandibles twitching as he tasted you. A low rumble rolled through his chest, thick with satisfaction at your flavour.

“You are ready.”

It was the only warning you had before he thrust forward, burying himself inside you in one smooth stroke.

A cry tore from your throat, nails digging into the hard planes of his shoulder as he drove into you, rough and unrelenting. He dominated you in every sense—your body, your breath, your very being. You were certain you were loud enough that Tracker and Falconer could hear every cry and every sharp slap of flesh, but you didn’t care. They would guard the camp, protect the perimeter, while your mate claimed you.

It had been far too long since you’d last had him, longer than you could bear, and the reunion was overwhelming. He felt too good, too deep, every thrust grinding against the place that made your vision blur. Your body trembled as it hovered over the edge, before finally breaking out into violent shudders as you shattered beneath him—screaming your release as pleasure tore through you.

T’varak kept moving, prolonging your orgasm with deep, powerful thrusts, forcing every last ripple of ecstasy from your body. Only when you sagged against him, spent and quivering, did he finally slow—his chest rumbling as he held you close.

Your body lay limp and sated, every muscle relaxed against the furs, but a thought tugged through the haze of pleasure. Your brows furrowed, and you lifted your head to look at him.

“You didn’t finish.”

T’varak gave a low grunt, his hand brushing over your thigh. “You need rest, mate.”

You pushed yourself up, stubborn fire sparking in your chest, and met his gaze with a glare. “I want you. I want you to feel good too.”

“Your pleasure is enough,” he rumbled.

You huffed at his stubbornness. Before he could stop you, you slid down the line of his body until you were face to face with his cock. The sheer size of him never failed to make you hesitate—thick, ridged, and massive compared to anything a human could handle. But tonight, you wanted to taste him. You wanted him undone.

“Please,” you whispered, flicking your gaze up at him with the look you knew he couldn’t refuse. Wide, pleading eyes—the one weakness of your warlord mate. He could command entire hunts, slaughter armies without flinching, but those doe-eyed stares of yours always made him cave.

His answering growl rolled low in his chest, a warning more to himself than to you. You smiled in triumph, your gaze dropping back to his swollen cock. A bead of precum glistened at the tip, and you darted your tongue out to taste it. The flavor was sharp, musky, intoxicating. His hips jerked involuntarily before he forced himself still.

“Do not tease,” he snarled, voice strained.

Your grin widened. And before he could react, you lunged forward, lips parting as you engulfed the tip of him. The stretch burned at first, but the reaction was worth every ache. His entire body went rigid, a shudder tearing through him as he fought the primal urge to thrust deeper into your mouth, to take what you were so freely offering.

Your tongue worked eagerly over the head and ridges of his shaft as you bobbed shallowly, whatever your mouth could not take you stroked with your hands. T’varak’s massive palm settled at the back of your head, his clawed fingers stroking through your hair with surprising gentleness. Low growls and rumbling purrs spilled from his chest, vibrations that told you just how much he relished this.

This ooman act was something he craved from you—something no Yautja female could or would give. He loved the feel of your tongue massaging his sensory bumps, the wet heat of your mouth wrapped around him, sucking greedily. This was not an act for breeding, not a ritual of duty. This was pure pleasure, and it belonged to the two of you.

You gagged slightly as you forced yourself to take him deeper, eyes watering. When you flicked your gaze upward to meet his, his mandibles twitched wide, and the approving purr that rumbled from him made your core clench. Spurred by his reaction, you pushed harder, working past your aching jaw and burning throat, desperate to please him.

You felt the tightening in his body, the subtle tremors that signalled how close he was. But just when you thought you might drive him over the edge, his hand tightened, pulling you off of him.

Any protest died in your throat as he dragged you up against him and, in one brutal motion, impaled you back onto his cock. Your mouth fell open on a sharp gasp, nails biting into his chest as he thrust into you with rough, unrelenting force. His thumb found your clit, circling it with the same brutal rhythm, demanding your release.

Your body broke quickly under him, trembling violently as your walls clamped down around his girth. Pleasure tore a cry from your lips, and the second you shattered, T’varak roared. His thrusts plunged deep as he finally spilled into you, hot and overwhelming, filling you with his release.

You collapsed against his chest, body limp and spent. His arms wrapped around you instantly, holding you close. He did not pull out. Instead, he kept himself buried inside you, plugging you with his cock as his load leaked around the edges of your connection. A content sigh escaped you, your cheek pressed against the broad expanse of his chest as his steady rumble soothed you.

“One day, you shall swell with my pups,” he growled lowly, giving a shallow thrust that forced his seed deeper into you, as though to seal the promise. You whimpered at the overwhelming fullness, but the sound melted into a soft sigh as you pressed a lingering kiss to the broad expanse of his chest.

“Soon,” you whispered, voice heavy with exhaustion and longing. “I missed you.”

“As did I, sweet one.” His reply vibrated through you, a deep, resonant purr as his massive body curved protectively around yours. His arms tightened, an unyielding wall of muscle enclosing you. “Sleep now. You are guarded by my brothers and I.”

You didn’t argue. Safe within the circle of him, you let your body relax, your breathing steady. Tomorrow the hunt would resume. Blood would spill, bones would snap, and the humans would finally learn the truth of what predator truly meant.

But tonight—you were home.

The next day, the hunt was on. Your mate had led you to a clearing where the earth was charred black, scarred by the echoes of old hunts. There, beneath the skeletal remains of twisted trees, he bound you against a thick trunk. The rope was looped haphazardly around your wrists and chest, just tight enough to look convincing, just loose enough that you could slip free in a heartbeat.

With one final purr and nuzzle, your mate vanished back into the jungle’s shadow. Tracker and Falconer melted with him, leaving you alone to play your part, the perfect lure.

An hour crawled by, the silence punctuated only by the distant cries of the jungle. Before you finally heard footsteps. Heavy, cautious, drawing nearer.

Royce and the others broke into the clearing.

Your head sagged forward as if you’d only just come to, hair hanging limp across your face. The sight of you stunned them into silence—several froze mid-step, disbelief written plain across their expressions.

“You—” Isabelle’s voice cracked, shock flaring in her eyes. “You’re alive.”

Nikolai muttered something under his breath, a hurried prayer, the barrel of his machine gun wavering.

But Royce didn’t move. His gaze locked onto you, cold calculation narrowing his eyes. “No,” he said flatly, as his gaze swept the area. “That’s too convenient.”

You raised your head slowly, letting your lashes flutter as though it cost you effort. You wove the ache of feigned exhaustion into every line of your face. “They took me,” you rasped, the hoarseness of your voice wasn’t something you needed to fake. “Dragged me off when everything went to hell. Please—help me.”

The lie lingered in the heavy air. Some of them wanted to believe it—you saw it in the softening of Nikolai’s stance, in the way Isabelle’s lips parted, desperate for hope. But not Royce. He wasn’t fooled. Suspicion burned heavy in his gaze.

“Funny,” he murmured, pacing closer, his boots crunching over brittle ash. “They kill everyone else on sight. But you? They tie up neatly and leave in the open.” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing further. “Almost like bait.”

You let your bottom lip tremble, widened your eyes. “I don’t know—” Your voice cracked, raw and pleading. “Please. Please help me. I don’t want to die.”

“Royce—” Isabelle began, but he cut her off with a sharp flick of his hand.

“No.” His tone was steel, his stare never leaving yours. He stepped closer, looming now, voice dropping low. “All of us were sent here because we’re killers.” The words slid out like a blade. He leaned in, his breath hot with suspicion. “So tell me—who are you really? Because I’m not buying this scared little girl act.”

The others shifted uneasily.  Hanzō’s hand curled tighter around the hilt of his katana, knuckles white. Stans’ jaw flexed, his teeth grinding. Mombasa frowned, his eyes dark with conflict—hope fighting with the gnawing certainty that Royce might be right.

Finally, you sighed. A long, weary exhale that carried not fear, but inevitability.

“Always the smart one,” you murmured, your lips curving faintly. With a flick of your wrists, the ropes slipped free and you let them fall into the dirt at your feet.

The click of safeties echoed instantly. Half a dozen barrels levelled at you, all fingers twitching on triggers.

“Stay where you are,” Royce ordered.

You tilted your head, smirking. “You might want to reconsider that.”

Three crimson dots flared to life, steady against Royce’s chest. A heartbeat later, another found Isabelle. And then Nikolai. The three heaviest hitters of the group.

The air rippled with movement. One by one, colossal shapes broke free from the cloak of invisibility, dropping from the trees with bone-shaking thuds. Tracker emerged first, his beast padding at his side, tusked maw rumbling low. Falconer followed, his drone circling above with a predatory hum. And last came your mate—the Berserker.

Panic erupted. Shouts cracked through the clearing, boots scraping across ash. “Behind you! Move!” Stans roared, wild-eyed.

But you didn’t move.

You didn’t even flinch as T’varak’s shadow swallowed you whole. His arm coiled around your waist in a single, possessive sweep, pulling you flush against the black steel and heat of his body. Instinctively, without thought, you leaned into him. It was as natural as breathing.

A low rumble reverberated in his chest, a sound of possession, of triumph. Your hand lifted, brushing the alien ridges of his forearm, utterly unafraid. You nuzzled into him, earning another growl, softer this time, meant for you alone.

The humans froze. Their weapons trembled, but none fired. Confusion rippled across their faces, horror dawning slow and heavy as the truth began to take shape.

Royce’s voice finally cut through the silence, tight with fury. “You’ve been working for them.”

You smiled, it was cruel and wicked. You were a complete contrast to the docile girl they’d known. Tilting your head back against the towering frame at your back, you let your voice fall soft as silk. “Not for them,” you corrected. “…With them.”

[somewheres-woods]

Imagine being a human warrior on Yautja Prime... this is one long ahh drabble...

Taken in by an elder female warrior, she vouched for you in order for yourself to be taken seriously. To not be chased out and killed or put in the arena for entertainment. She practically raised you, she's your mentor, someone you always felt you can rely on.

For the rest of the clan, you're kept at a distance. You still need to prove your worth.

There's this one male in particular that seems to utterly despise you. He's the most celebrated male in the clan, an attractive Big Game Hunter who hunts monsters far beyond human comprehension. He doesn't even waste his time hunting humans. To him, and most yautja, humans are ugly little creatures who can get creative and unfair out of nowhere. We're basically the equivalent of goblins to them.

You're no different to him. Your face is weird and just wrong, and you're far too small and soft to be a worthy adversary. Constantly trailing behind your master like a lost whelp. He'd rather keep his distance.

A prideful traditional yautja. Arrogant as the rest.

Yet, when a giant scorpion like beast strikes him with its poison tipped tail, he has no choice but to seek out your master for an antidote. After taking his trophy, of course. Yet your master is nowhere to be found. Only you reside in the cave.

He's half tempted to turn around and muscle out the poison. However, he decides this is an opportune moment to test your prowess. To see if you're worth being your master's pupil.

He'd rather that you weren't touching him. He's a vain creature, you see. A "you can look but don't touch" type of yautja. Why wouldn't he be? He's incredibly attractive by yautja standards. Honestly, attractive by human standards too, but it's best if you don't tell him that. Don't want to inflate his ego any further.

The softness of your skin... it's not the worst thing. He's certainly been in close contact with more disgusting things.

You cure him of his ailment. Quite quickly, too. It seems like you're improving your master's recipes...

...

Humans certainly are crafty.

Half a day passes, you're sitting by the fire inside your master's cave, stitching up a tapestry for her. You feel something heavy dumped on top of you in a heap. Soft, warm fur enveloping you. It's a pelt on some kind of great wolf-like creature. You certainly like pelts, having started your own small collection of prey you skinned yourself. You remember seeing this kind of pelt on someone before. You certainly remember eyeing a yautja who was wearing one, thinking about how you'd get your own like that.

Just who wore that cloak again? Wasn't it—

"A gratitude gift. Think nothing of it." He grumbled as he stalked away, you only caught a glimpse of his back when he turned around to return to camp.

Your master stares at the scene, a look in her eyes that seems to be a mix of endeared and amused. In a way that only older people can look at young couples people.

Several days pass, and yet he hasn't seen you in his "gratitude gift" yet. Which ticked him off. He spent all that time hunting down that creature, just to create a fur cloak with smaller proportions than he's used to. It was tedious. Troublesome. You didn't deserve the effort. He doesn't even know why he felt the need to make that for you. You don't even bother to wear it.

But on this particular day, it rains. A torrential downpour fitting for the harsh climates of Yautja Prime. He sees a flash of silvery white running around the camp as he prepares to hunt for rations for the clan. You're wearing his gratitude gift.

...

He's only admiring his handiwork. He did a fine job in creating a fur cloak to fit someone with smaller proportions.

Yes. That's it.

He's only admiring his handiwork.

[iydiamartinx]

PREDATOR'S CHOICE

Pairing: Male Yuatja x Female Reader

divider by: @sinisterexaggerator & @enchanthings word count: 5k synopsis: After killing the Bad blood who hunted you, you gain the attention of another hunter. a/n: Y'all don't judge me for my hear me out. I did not intend for this to end the way it did, but clearly I got carried away. For those apart of the Predator franchise, I'm new here and still learning the lore so I hope I got most of it correct. warning: 18+, yautja smut, biting kink, size kink, more plot than porn, etc.

The jungle was unnervingly quiet in the wake of the slaughter. Smoke curled lazily from the scorched wreckage of gear, bodies strewn like broken dolls among shredded foliage. The metallic tang of blood hung thick in the air, mingling with the acrid scent of burnt flesh.

Above, smoke still clung to the treetops, drifting from where your unit had been ambushed. Twelve soldiers—half gone in less than ten minutes, the other half having slowly been hunted down over the course of the day. You were the only one left, though “standing” felt generous. Your breath came hard and uneven, weight braced on your rifle, every muscle screaming from hours of evasion and bursts of return fire.

You hadn’t seen the thing kill your squad, but you’d heard them die. One by one, their voices had crackled over comms—panicked screams cut short, the sound of erratic gunfire halting as you heard pleading cries dissolving into wet, choking gurgles that left no doubt about their fate.

A sharp crack broke the stillness to your right. Your head snapped toward the sound, rifle coming up in reflex, finger tight on the trigger.

What stepped—or rather, crashed—into the clearing was massive. Armour hung on its frame in mismatched plates, rusted and scored from old battles, the surface stained with rot and dried blood. The helmet was jagged, clearly scavenged, its targeting system flickering with an unstable red glow.

It let out a feral snarl, the reminded you of battle cry before it charged. That was your only warning before the hulking shape bore down on you.

You didn’t think—you reacted. Ducking under its wild swing, you drove your combat knife deep into the unarmored joint beneath its shoulder plate. It roared, claws lashing for your throat. You ducked, but its other hand shot out, fingers closing around the front of your vest. It hurled you into a tree with bone-jarring force, the impact knocking the breath from your lungs. You hit the ground hard, vision going white at the edges.

The creature lunged for you again. This time, you rolled, mud slick beneath your palms, and your hand closed around a fallen sidearm half-buried in the muck. You brought it up and fired point-blank into the gaps of its helmet until sparks spat from the damaged metal.

It staggered.

You surged forward, using the opening, and drove your blade into its throat. Hot, alien blood fountained over your hands, thick and bright green. You twisted hard, feeling resistance give way, and ripped the knife free. The creature gurgled once before collapsing in a final, heavy thud that sent leaves shivering from the canopy above.

Panting, you stood over the body, blood and sweat running into your eyes, staring down at the corpse. Only then did you sense another presence.

From the shadows, a figure stepped forward.

It was another of the same kind of alien you had just killed—but this one was different. Taller. Broader. His armour was etched with intricate markings that caught the fractured light filtering through the canopy. Every step he took set the small skulls, teeth, and bones hanging from his loincloth clattering together in a grim rattle.

You swallowed hard, forcing back the instinctive prickle of fear. Everything about him screamed superiority—the easy way he moved, the measured weight of his presence. This was no frenzied brute like the one before. This was a true seasoned hunter.

The realization struck like ice: he had been here the entire time. Watching the battled you had with his partner.

His mask turned toward the body at your feet, then back to you. Slowly, he extended one massive arm and the twin wrist-blades slid free from his gauntlet with a metallic hiss.

You were already bleeding from the ribs, every muscle aching from the last fight, but your grip tightened on your knife all the same. There was no way in hell you were going down without a fight.

A low, almost amused sound rumbled from his chest—but beneath it was something else. Interest.

Then he moved.

The world narrowed to motion—your blade flashing, his gauntleted arm swiping out a strike that would have struck a normal human. But you weren’t normal. You were one of the best, forged through years of elite military training. You were ducking the backhand before your mind could even catch up with your body, pivoting and delivering a sharp kick into his abdomen hard enough to make him grunt. Pain flared white-hot through your side from your sharp movement, but you stayed upright, refusing to back down.

Steel found flesh once—your knife slicing across his upper arm. It wasn’t deep, but it made him pause. His head tilted slightly, as though you had just passed some silent, unspoken test. Then he shifted, fast as lightning, and sent your knife spinning into the dirt.

Even weaponless, you swung at him, but his palm slammed into your sternum—not hard enough to break bone, but enough to knock the breath clean from your lungs. The jungle tilted around you. You stumbled, vision tunneling, before a massive hand caught your shoulder to keep you from collapsing entirely.

The edges of the world blurred. The last thing you saw before darkness claimed you was the tilt of his mask, as he studied you.

When awareness returned, it did so in fragments—heat against your skin, the slow rhythm of your own breathing, the faint hum of something mechanical in the distance.

You pushed yourself upright with a groan, every muscle protesting, and realized immediately that this wasn’t Earth.

The air was thick and humid, smelling of strange herbs and cured hides. You lay upon furs softer than any wool, beneath a ceiling worked in patterns you could not read. Through a latticed wall, the light was amber and alien, casting long shadows over weapons mounted like trophies.

The fight came back to you in shards—Your murdered team, the berserking alien, the fighting. And then… him.

Your gaze flicked to the doorway as a shadow fell across it.

Your alien captor stepped inside, filling the space with his presence. Without the chaos of battle to blur the details, you could take him in more clearly now—the well-maintained armour marked with intricate etchings, the heavy, mid-length dreadlocks falling over his shoulders, and the steady, assured confidence in every movement.

In his hands he carried a carved slab piled with thick cuts of red, raw meat and a horn flask filled with water. Crossing the room, he set them on the floor within your reach, then straightened without a word. The bones and charms hanging from his armour gave a faint clatter as he shifted, his mask angled toward you, watching.

You didn’t touch the offering—not at first. Your eyes stayed locked on him, waiting for the trick, the catch. Instead of closing the distance like you might've expected, he lowered himself onto a seat across the room. Then his hands rose to the sides of his helmet, claws working the clasps with practiced ease.

A hiss of released pressure filled the air as the mask came free.

Your breath caught. This was the first time you’d seen his face—alien in every sense. The ridges along his crown swept back in bold, clean lines, their mottled patterns catching the light. A scattering of scars marked his hide—evidence of battles survived. His mandibles flexed subtly as though testing the air between you. 

What struck you most were his eyes—molten gold, sharp and unyielding, fixed on you with a predator’s unwavering focus. There was a confidence there, the quiet certainty of one who knew his own skill and strength and had proven it time and again. Everything about him was so distinctly inhuman and yet, to your own surprise, you didn’t recoil in fear or disgust.

You were… intrigued. But instead of embracing your curiousity, you looked away. You still didn't trust him. He had tried to kill you, and then abducted you. You had no idea what the hell he wanted with you.

The first week passed in that tense rhythm. Each day, he returned with food—slabs of raw meat still warm from the kill. The second day, you’d shifted closer for a better look before instinct made you recoil. He’d only grunted, as though your refusal was of no consequence. By the third day, hunger gnawed deep enough that you carved off a strip and held it over the flames, certain by now it wasn’t poisoned.

At the sight, he’d grunted again, eyes narrowing as he tore into his own portion raw. All the while, he watched you, gaze following the slow chew of your jaw as you struggled to bite through the cooked meat with your ooman teeth.

Neither of you spoke—not for lack of trying on his part. He didn’t fully understand your tongue, and whatever sounds came from him were low, clicking growls and deep-chested trills you couldn’t begin to match.

But there was no mistaking the way he studied you—the way your steps carried you through his home, how your gaze lingered on the carved trophies along his walls, the way you instinctively stiffened whenever his shadow fell across you.

Just as he watched you, you watched him. You noticed the smooth, predatory ease in the roll of his shoulders when he moved through the dwelling. The way his hands—large enough to encompass your skull—handled his weapons with a quiet reverence. You took note of the small ritual before each meal, the careful sharpening of his blades, the pause at the doorway each dawn as he scented the air like a wolf testing the wind.

He never closed the door completely when he left. You noticed that too. You weren’t sure if it was meant as a test or as bait. Without your weapons, you weren’t confident enough to risk finding out.

Yet, by the seventh day, the walls of his home as if they were closing in, even your own skin felt too tight. When he stepped toward the door with a spear slung over his back, you followed him.

“I’m coming with you,” you said.

He paused, turning his mask toward you. A long silence stretched between you. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he beckoned you forward—and held out your knife. The sight of it made your pulse quicken. You hadn’t even realized he’d taken it, you thought it had been left back on Earth.

The terrain outside his home was like nothing on Earth—mountains formed from jagged black stone, plains broken by thick forests of emerald-leafed trees. The air carried the distant roars and shrieks of unseen things.

That day’s quarry was a thresk—if you managed to understand his guttural growl correctly—a six-legged, deer-like creature with thick, scaled hide and wide antlers that shed once a season. It was fast and skittish, grazing in small herds on broad-leafed plants. Not harmless as you soon learned—it could gore you if startled—but it was food. He moved like the forest was an extension of him. You followed his lead, scanning the ground as he did—reading the bend of crushed stems, the imprint of heavy claws, the faint sway of disturbed foliage, caused by the passing of the herd.

When the kill came, it was sudden and brutal—your knife in the creature’s throat while his spear pinned it in place. He let you take the final strike, then showed you something strange. From his belt he drew a narrow, curved blade and cut free one of the creature’s fangs—long, polished by wear. He pressed it into your palm and curled your fingers around it. A mark of the hunt. A piece to keep even if the meat was the true prize.

You didn’t realize until later how much that small gesture shifted something between you both.

Days later, the second hunt changed everything.

You’d just brought down a gar’shun—a thick-bodied, tusked boar with spiny ridges along its back—when the air split with a scream. The sound was sharp enough to cut through the pounding of your pulse. Out of the undergrowth burst something you hadn’t seen before—a varik, all coiled muscle and hooked claws, its mottled hide blending perfectly with the ferns until the moment it struck.

You didn’t spot it until it was too close.

He did.

He slammed into you, the impact knocking the breath from your lungs, shoving you clear just as the varik’s claws tore across his chest. The sound of rending armour was followed by the wet, ugly rip of skin beneath. The fight that followed was brief but brutal—two predators colliding in a flurry of snapping mandibles, slashing claws, and spear strikes. He drove the weapon deep into its side, twisting until the creature let out a final, guttural shriek and collapsed.

When the beast hit the ground, he was already staggering.

You could have run. You could have vanished into the terrain, taken your chances finding your way home. But you didn’t.

Instead, you dropped to your knees beside him, your hand already reaching for the small pouch of emergency supplies still strapped to your belt. You cleaned the wound with what little you had, tearing strips from your undershirt to bind it tight. The alien blood was shockingly bright green, slick and hot against your fingers.

His mask tilted down at you, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low and gravel-edged. “Why?”

It was the first time you’d heard him speak your language. The words were rough, growled, thick with an alien accent that rolled strangely over familiar sounds.

You didn’t stop working as you answered. “You saved my life. Now I’m saving yours.”

After the varik attack, that shift became more apparent.

It was subtle at first. He lingered closer when you moved through the forest—more protective. His gaze, though still sharp and assessing, had lost the hard edge of suspicion. When you worked together over the thresk carcass, he wordlessly passed you the choicest cuts—something you didn’t even notice until later.

One evening, as you sat beside the low-burning heat pit, he placed a strip of raw meat into your palm and gestured toward his own mouth.

You gave him a look. “It’s raw. Human's don't tend to eat meat raw.”

A low rumble sounded in his chest—amusement, maybe—and he tilted his head, urging. His massive hand came up, the tips of his claws nudging the meat closer to your face.

You eyed it warily, sighing when he gave your hand another insistent push. Finally, you lifted it to your mouth and took a small bite. The taste surprised you—sweet and tender, almost buttery, with a freshness that made Earth’s cooked rations seem dry and lifeless by comparison, and every time you’d been cooking it, the meat’s subtle flavour had been vanishing, becoming tough and leathery, but raw it was tender and flavourful.

After that, you stopped bothering with the fire.

Days passed, and you began to notice something about his speech. His helmet’s built-in translator let him understand you perfectly, yet when he spoke, it was almost always in his own language. The sounds were a mix of deep-chested trills, low growls, and the sharp clicks of his mandibles.

One evening, curiosity got the better of you.

“You can understand me,” you said, tearing off another strip of meat. “But you don’t speak my language.”

His mask tilted slightly, as though your observation amused him.

“You could,” you pressed. “I could teach you.”

He let out a low click, then gestured for you to continue. And so you did—pointing to objects, naming them in English, repeating the words until the alien syllables began to form on his tongue. The consonants were difficult for him, vowels stretching oddly in his deep voice, but you could hear the improvement with each attempt. Sometimes you corrected him, sometimes you laughed at how adorable he was trying to say the correct word, and sometimes he repeated a word so carefully with that rumbling growl it sent a shiver down your spine.

You fared no better when it was your turn. Listening to him rumble the Yautja equivalent of whatever English word you were trying to teach, you tripped over the sharp clicks and guttural rolls. He was patient in a way you hadn’t expected, correcting you with a low growl or the faintest click of his mandibles when you mangled a syllable.

Slowly but surely, you were both learning. The exchanges were broken, imperfect, but the gaps between you were closing. Bit by bit, you were beginning to communicate.

It wasn’t until a week into your growing truce that you finally asked the question that had been nagging at you.

“Why did you take me?” you asked, curiosity edging your voice.

He clicked his mandibles, as if weighing his answer, then spoke slowly, choosing his words. “You kill bad blood. Bad blood leader come. He take you. You fight… until die.”

You frowned. “Bad blood?”

“Me. Yautja,” he said, tapping a closed fist against his chest before pointing to a helmet resting on a shelf—one you hadn’t realized was there until now. Recognition jolted through you. It belonged to the Predator you’d killed. “Him. No honour Yautja.”

“So… me killing the bad blood would’ve had his leader take me and make me fight until I died?” you clarified.

He nodded once.

“But why save me from them?” you pressed.

He hesitated, mandibles clicking once before he spoke. “I don’t. I bring you to heal… and hunt. No honour to hunt broken. Only strong.” His head tilted slightly, his voice dropping into something almost gentle. “But no more. You now… friend.”

You blinked, the words settling heavily between you. “You brought me here to heal, and then you were going to finish your hunt?”

A part of you didn’t know how to feel about that revelation. Another part wasn’t surprised—that explanation fit more with the creature you’d first met than the one you’d begun to know.

“No more hunt,” he said firmly. “You. Friend.”

Your lips twitched despite yourself. “You know, I just realized—if we’re friends, I still don’t even know your name.”

He straightened slightly, then spoke—clicks and rolling syllables that resonated low in your bones. “Drak’ven.”

You tried it, mangling the guttural tones until his mandibles finally flared in what you guessed was approval.

“Y/n,” you replied, pressing your hand to your chest.

He repeated it slowly, tasting the human sounds, and for reasons you couldn’t quite explain, hearing your name in his voice made something tighten in your chest.

A few days later, you decided to test the luck of your new-found friendship.

“I need a shower,” you announced one morning. It had been weeks since your arrival, and you could take an educated guess that his kind didn’t share the same hygiene habits as humans. Still, your skin itched with the need to be properly clean, more than the small basin and a cloth you'd been using and you silently prayed he had something to help.

His head tilted, mandibles shifting slightly.

You mimed scrubbing your hair, letting your hands trail water down your arms. He watched, still as stone, for a long moment. Then his mandibles twitched in thought, and he turned, gesturing for you to follow.

The walk took you into the denser part of the forest, where the air hung heavy with the scent of damp earth and the calls of unseen creatures. Eventually, the trees opened into a secluded clearing, revealing a hot spring cupped by jagged stone and draped in thick vines. Steam curled lazily upward into the shafts of golden light breaking through the canopy.

You nearly gasped. The place was beautiful, untouched. You were still taking it in when you heard Drak’ven shift behind you. Excitement to wash away days of dirt and grime overrode any hesitation; you stepped to the edge and tugged at your clothes. 

His gaze followed—steady, unflinching—as you stripped and slid into the water. Heat enveloped you instantly, seeping deep into your muscles and drawing a low sigh from your lips.

When you looked back, he was removing his armour. Piece by piece, it revealed the thick cords of muscle beneath, the mottled pattern of his skin, the faint sheen of condensation forming where steam met flesh. Broad shoulders, sculpted arms, the ripple of strength across his chest.

You caught yourself staring, pulse quickening in ways you hadn’t felt in a long while. And when his gaze met yours again, you knew he’d been doing the same.

The water rippled as Drak’ven stepped in, steam curling around the edges of his broad frame.

You swallowed, your body moving before you had the sense to stop it, wading toward him as if drawn by something you couldn’t name. When you reached him, your hand rose—hesitant at first—until your palm met the solid heat of his chest. Your fingers traced the ridges of muscle, skimming over old scars that told stories you could only imagine, then followed the curve of his shoulder to the powerful line of his arm.

A low, resonant sound rolled from his chest—something almost like a purr, but with the underlying edge of a predator’s growl. Before you could pull away, his hand closed around your hip, claws pressing lightly into your skin as he hauled you through the water until you were flush against him.

Your breath caught. The heat of him was unmistakable, the hard, unyielding press of his body against yours impossible to ignore. Instinct tugged your gaze downward—just for a moment.

And gods help you, you looked.

Your eyes widened fractionally, and his mandibles flexed in what might have been amusement… or a warning.

You’d never cared much for human men—always finding them lacking in ways you could never quite explain—but standing this close to him, feeling the hardened length that was now pressing against your stomach, something inside you tightened. The want came sharp and sudden, curling deep in your loins like a spark catching flame.

It had been too long since you’d last touched yourself, too long since anyone had stirred your interest—and now, despite the gulf between your species, Drak’ven was the first male in years to make that spark flare.

His head tilted slightly, mandibles shifting as he scented the air. You realized, with a jolt, that he could smell the change in you—the growing arousal sweetening your already sweet scent. His expression was unreadable, but the weight of his gaze was not. It was filled with growing hunger. 

Yet, despite his own desires he slowly shook his head. When he spoke, his deep voice rumbled low with warning. “Me too big. You too little… to mate.”

No human man had ever come close to him in scale or presence. Not even close. You should have been intimidated by his sheer size, should have let his words cool the moment—but they didn’t.

Instead, you pressed closer, your breath hitching. “I can take you.”

For a long moment, he didn’t move.

His kind mated only for reproduction, never for pleasure, and among the Yautja, it was the females who dominated. Mating was a brutal contest—if the male wasn’t strong enough, he could be killed in the process. This was different. He wanted you despite knowing his seed would not take.

You felt so soft in his arms, pliant where his kind were unyielding. He knew you could be a vicious little thing when you wanted. Like when he’d seen you take down the bad blood, it was why he had marked you as his next hunt recognizing the predator you were. He’d intended to bring you here, let you heal, and then face you in an honourable fight. But then you had hunted with him, fought alongside him, saved him, and something in him had shifted.

He was still considered young by the standards of his people, and the elders would sneer at the idea of taking an ooman as a mate. But the more time Drak’ven spent with you, the more he found himself seeking your presence. There was strength in you, fierceness in the way you moved, in the way you met his gaze without flinching.

Still, your body was smaller, more fragile than his own. In his grip, you felt delicate—breakable—and that unsettled him. Gentleness was not something bred into his kind. He did not know how to wield it.

He let out a low, frustrated growl, hauling you up with sudden, effortless strength until your legs locked around his waist. The water lapping at his waist. Your faces were inches apart and the weight of his stare held you in place as surely as his hands.

Your gaze flicked to his mouth—not quite a mouth, not as you knew it. The mandibles were powerful, edged with faint ridges, twitching slightly as he studied you. You didn’t overthink it; you simply leaned in, closing the distance until your lips brushed lightly against the outside edge of one mandible.

His entire frame went still.

For a heartbeat, you thought you’d crossed some unspoken line—until that low, resonant sound rumbled from his chest again, the one you were beginning to recognize as approval. His head dipped, and one mandible shifted, grazing along your cheek in a deliberate, unhurried sweep.

It wasn’t a kiss, not exactly. But it felt like his version of one.

Your breath caught, the heat of him sinking through you. In that moment, it didn’t matter that you were two different species from two different worlds—you understood him. This was his way of returning what you’d offered, of saying I accept you too.

His hand tightened on your hip, pulling you imperceptibly closer as he began to move through the water toward the rocky edge. You soon realized what he was doing when he sat down at the ledge, shifting you higher on his lap. He was leaving you in control and giving you the choice to continue with what you both wanted or not.

You stared down at him, heart pounding. Everything about this was strange, and quite literally alien… and yet, you didn’t want to pull away.

Your body was already primed and aching, heat pooling deep inside you. It was almost embarrassing how wet you were and how much of it had nothing to do with your swim in the springs. His low growl vibrated through you as your hand slid lower, feeling the firm, heated weight of him resting against your thigh. You could barely encircle him, your fingers mapping the unfamiliar texture along his length.

A deep, purring sound rumbled from his chest as you explored, tracing those ridges with tentative strokes. The warmth between you grew until every nerve felt alive, and you took your time, ensuring you were both ready and his cock was throughly slick with both your fluids before lining him up with your enterance and slowly sinking down. 

You gasped as his head pushed into you, the stretch of him burning. A deep snarl tore from his throat, his entire body tensing as he did everything he could to hold back and let you adjust to his sheer size. You were so tight, so warm and soft—softer than any Yautja female—that all he wanted was to bury himself fully inside you and savour the sensation of your walls gripping him. But he held back.

As much as it drove him crazy, he let you set the pace with shallow movements, your body gradually allowing him to sink deeper inside you. Slowly, the burn faded into pure pleasure as those ridges brushed against every sensitive nerve ending within you. Soft, breathless moans slipped past your lips, your hands bracing against his hard chest as you rocked against him. His hands found your hips, steadying and guiding you until, eventually, you were taking all of him—and he was practically taking over for you, lifting you on and off his length like you were a doll for his pleasure.

Moans spilled past your lips as your nails dug into his chest in pleasure. The moment he felt the sharp pinpricks of pain, the last thread of his control snapped. In an instant, you were on your back, and he was rutting into you without restraint. Broken moans escaped you, your eyes fluttering as your head fell back against the soft moss in rapture, baring your neck. Drak’ven’s mandibles came down, pressing against your skin in a primal stake of your submission, keeping you exactly where he wanted as he claimed your body.

His claws dug into your soft skin, blending pleasure with the slightest bite of pain. Tears stung your eyes—the sensations were almost too much, yet you craved more. You urged him on, digging your nails into his shoulder and tugging him closer, earning a low growl as he snapped his hips faster, driving you steadily toward your peak. Finally, you when you were all but sobbing, that tightening coil inside of you finally snapped and your vision went white, eyes rolling back in ecstasy. Your entire body shuddered as utter bliss ricocheted through you.

You barely felt it when his teeth sank into the junction where your shoulder met your neck, marking you as his mate before he pulled back with a mighty roar, releasing himself inside you.

For a long moment, the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the low, purring growls rumbling from his chest. Gradually, your awareness returned, each heartbeat pulling you further from the haze.

You slowly became aware of his touch again, his tongue lapping over the tender spot where his teeth had sunk into you. The sensation was strangely soothing despite the sting, a primal mix of comfort and possession that sent a shiver racing down your spine.

“Mate,” he growled, the word deep and certain, resonating through you as much as it did in the air.

He pulled back, eyes molten and unreadable, before rolling to your side. One massive arm hooked around your waist, hauling you effortlessly against him as he curled around your smaller form.

You only sighed in contentment, snuggling closer. “Yours.”

[multific]

Chains of Fate

Crucified Predator x Reader

Summary: Abducted to a strange world and hunted for sport, you found a chained Yautja. 

The jungle was suffocating, thick with heat and the stench of rot. 

Death.

All around you.

You had not slept in what felt like days. The others in your group had already been scattered, taken, or killed. 

You should have been running, hiding, conserving what little strength you had left. 

But then you heard it, a low, metallic clank through the trees.

Curiosity outweighed fear. Pushing through the vines, you stumbled into a clearing. And there he was.

A monster. A giant. Shackled to a grotesque totem of steel.

Chains dug into his arms and chest, suspending him upright. 

His body was broad and scarred, armour torn, his mask catching glints of the alien sun. He breathed heavily, every exhale a guttural rasp. And though instinct screamed at you to flee, your feet held fast.

This was not one of the hunters who stalked you. 

This was their prisoner.

He stirred at your presence, head tilting toward you. The sound he made was low and sharp, a growl that trembled in your bones. But he did not thrash. He only watched.

“They chained you up,” you whispered, voice breaking. He would not understand your words, but you spoke anyway. “Guess I’m not the only one they like to torment.”

You should have walked away. Freeing him meant gambling your life. But something in him called to you.

Your trembling hands moved to the shackle at his wrist. 

You dug a scavenged blade into the lock, heart hammering. One wrong move, and he could crush you in an instant. 

The chain snapped free. His arm dropped heavy at his side, but he did not strike.

The second, then the third. 

Each lock you broke was a test, each silence a reprieve. When at last the final chain fell, he staggered forward, towering over you.

You froze.

The mask tilted downward, so close you could see the scarring along its edges. Then, a sound. A deep clicking hum.

You exhaled, shaky. “You’re free now. Don’t make me regret it.”

For a long moment, he did not move. Then, slowly, he stepped past you into the jungle.

You thought that was the end of it. 

But when the sky bled red and the hunting beasts got close again, he returned. 

His blades cut them down with ruthless efficiency. He stood before you, chest heaving, green blood dripping from his armour. When your legs gave out, he caught you with one massive arm and steadied you.

From that night onward, he shadowed you. Silent, constant.

When you scavenged water, he stood guard. When the hounds came to hunt you, he tore them apart before they touched you. 

Sometimes you caught him watching as you slept, his mask angled low, as though puzzled by you. As though trying to understand why you had freed him. Why did you help him?

You did not speak the same tongue, yet slowly, you learned each other’s intent in gestures and silences. A nod when you found safe ground. A rumble of disapproval when you pressed too far into danger. 

A strange clicking tone that you began to think might mean comfort.

What had begun as a reckless act of mercy became a bond.

A bond so strong, at the time, you didn't even realise what it truly meant.

And as days turned into nights, as survival became something you shared rather than endured alone, you realised something even stranger. 

You were no longer afraid of him. Instead, you felt safer at his side than you ever had on Earth.

You had freed a monster. But in his eyes, you were no longer prey. You were something else entirely.

A mate.

He built a small home underground, keeping you safe on this planet of fire and death.

He hunted prey and brought back presents.

You didn't understand at the time what his intentions were.

But you put the fur on your bed, the skulls on a mantle and the meat you cooked kept you both alive.

He was strange. A completely different being. You found comfort in his arms during the long storms. Rain and thunder on Earth were kind words to use for the absolute carnage storms left on this planet.

During your first storm, you flinched at the sudden loud noise. 

You found yourself in his arms moments later, and it surprised you just how warm he truly was. 

A beast like him, a hunter, so warm and comfortable, you fell asleep on his chest. His big form gave you the comfort you never knew you needed.

One late evening, you were sleeping with your back pressed against his when you heard a strange noise. It woke both of you at the same time.

The Yautja got up and grabbed his knife. He motioned for you to stay put.

You stayed so silent, your breath was barely audible.

Then you heard it, voices. Humans.

You long gave up on going back to Earth, so calling out wasn't an option.

You both waited for the voices to disappear before getting back to bed.

This time, he pulled you to his chest, his much bigger figure wrapping around you.

This was the moment you realised this is all you ever needed and wanted.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[multific]

The Trial of Bond

Yautja x Reader

Summary: You should have been prey, yet he spared you and marked you as his.

The first time you felt his claws against your skin, you had thought it meant death. 

The Yautja warrior towered over you, his dreadlocks slick with rain, his mask glinting in the fading light. 

Instead of striking you down, he had drawn a shallow cut across your arm, careful, precise. You hissed in pain until you saw the shape it left behind, a mark. 

His mark.

Later, you learned what it meant. 

You had not been killed because he had chosen you, not as prey, but as mate.

The clan erupted in fury. 

Voices clicked and hissed, mandibles snapping in disgust. 

A human was unworthy, they spat. 

A human could not bear the bloodline of warriors. 

But your hunter had stood firm, shoulders broad, his low growl filling the air.

“No,” his translator barked out in a rough imitation of his voice. “Mine.”

The Elders’ judgment came fast, if you wished to stand together, you would face the Trial of Bond. 

Only by surviving the trials could you prove that a human and a hunter could truly belong to one another.

That night, as you sat by a small fire in the makeshift shelter he had built, you whispered.

“What happens if we fail?”

He turned his mask toward you, a series of clicks rumbled in his throat, then the harsh voice of his translator spoke. 

“Death. Both.”

Your stomach knotted, but when he extended a clawed hand, you found yourself taking it. 

His palm was rough, scarred, yet the touch was careful.

“Then we cannot fail,” you said softly.

He gave a sound, something almost like a purr, and squeezed your hand once.

The first trial was the hunt.

You ran with him through the forest, your legs burning as you followed his lead. 

He moved like a shadow, silent and sure, and when you stumbled, he caught your wrist, pulling you upright with surprising gentleness. 

The prey was a beast with tusks like spears, its hide thick as stone. 

You watched him circle, his plasma caster charging with a whine.

“No,” you whispered urgently, pointing to the ridge above. “Drive it there. The ground is weak.”

He tilted his head at you, then gave a soft clicking sound that almost resembled amusement. Obeying, he lured the beast with a taunting roar. You ran ahead, loosening the rocks. 

When the creature charged up the slope, the ground gave way beneath it, and it fell hard.

Together, you struck, your blade to its throat, his spear through its chest. The kill was yours, shared.

When he tore a tusk free, he pressed it into your hand. 

“Warrior."

You could not help the smile tugging at your lips. 

“Not bad for a human, right?”

His mandibles flexed in what you had come to recognise as laughter.

The second trial was endurance.

The storm broke suddenly, rain hammering down, lightning flashing. Mud clung to your boots, your clothes soaked through. 

You swayed, shivering violently, but he stayed close, always at your side. When you fell, he caught you, lifting you with effortless strength.

“Put me down,” you murmured weakly, embarrassed.

“Never,” came the translator’s reply. 

His arms only tightened.

That night, you curled up close to him. 

His body radiated heat, his breathing slow and steady. You dared to rest your head on his chest, listening to the deep, steady thrum of his heart.

“You could have left me,” you whispered.

His mandibles brushed your hair lightly, almost tender. 

“Mine,” he said simply.

The word settled deep in your chest, warming something you had long thought frozen.

The final trial was combat.

At dawn, a rival warrior stepped forward, larger, stronger, his armour marked with many kills. 

He demanded proof that your mate’s choice was more than foolishness.

The fight was vicious, metal clashing, roars shaking the air. Your mate met him blow for blow, but the rival pressed hard, slamming him back with brutal strength.

You did not think. You darted in, your blade driving under the rival’s arm where the armour was weakest. 

He howled in pain, faltering just long enough for your Yautja to strike. His spear drove through the rival’s chest, ending the fight.

Silence followed, heavy and thick.

Your chest heaved, your blade slick with blood. 

Slowly, your mate reached for you, his claws curling lightly around your wrist. He raised your hand high, his deep voice cutting through the quiet.

“Bond. Strong.”

The Elders considered you both for a long moment. 

Then, one by one, they raised their spears in salute.

That night, the fire roared high in celebration. 

You sat close to his side, his massive hand resting against yours, his presence steady and proud. For the first time, you felt no eyes of scorn, only acceptance.

When he lifted his mask, the sight of his eyes made your heart twist. 

He leaned close, his mandibles brushing your cheek in what you now understood was affection.

“No more trials,” his translator murmured. “Mine. Always.”

You smiled, touching your forehead gently to his. 

“And you are mine.”

The clan could rage, the universe could burn, but it did not matter. 

You had proven yourselves. Together, you had won not only survival, but love.

And nothing would ever break it.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[superbassbuck]

one hundred sleepless nights

ii. "keeps us together" || part one || masterlist

civil war!dark!bucky x f!reader

Warnings: 18+, noncon, smut with a sprinkle of plot, p in v, stalking, brainwashed bucky, guilt, hurt/no comfort, coercion, dirty talk, manipulation, panic attack, hyperventilation. please tread carefully.

Summary: After three months of hiding since Hydra fell, he thought he had finally rid himself of you. But when he runs into you at a market in Bucharest, the Winter Soldier programming in his mind kicks in instinctively, urging him to claim you as his once again.

Word Count: 3.8k

Your mind was now fractured and broken. Since your escape—or rather, since the soldier let you go—you’ve been on a painful journey, gathering your shattered pieces and trying to put yourself back together one by one.

Three months into your freedom, the headlines exploded. Captain America had gone against the Winter Soldier, and in the process brought down Hydra—and S.H.I.E.L.D along with it.

The man you once knew as the Winter Soldier was revealed to be James Buchanan Barnes, a soldier who had fought alongside Steve Rogers before Hydra captured and twisted him into their deadliest weapon.

When his familiar face appeared on the screen—the same face that haunted you both in dreams and in waking life—your body froze with fear. Since then, you’ve only seen him through television reports and newspaper clippings. 

Every article said the same thing. 

The Winter Soldier vanished after the battle, a deadly ghost still running free.

Now the thought that stalks you day and night, is what would you do if you saw him again? Would you turn and flee? Would you regret not pulling the trigger when you had the chance, when he handed you his own gun?

Or would you stay rooted to the ground, unable to see the monster that abused you, and instead see the broken boy Hydra had stolen—tortured and used, just as you had been?

When Hydra fell, so did their files. Among the wreckage were documents proving you had been forced into serving the Winter Soldier for his “pleasure.” The release of those records left you feeling reeled and… utterly alone.

You half-expected sympathy—maybe even pity. And in truth, you craved it. You wanted people to comfort you—someone, anyone to tell you that you’ll be okay. But the world is cruel. Instead, some people saw your face and branded you nothing more than a killer’s whore.

Bucharest was meant to be a fresh start. A city large enough to disappear in, yet quiet enough to keep to yourself. You rented a small apartment above a cluster of grocers, where no one asked questions or even looked your way. But despite that, the silence was a gift. It was better than the judgemental stares, the whispers, or the endless questions about Hydra that you had no answers for. 

You found work cleaning rooms in a dingy hotel—a job that kept your hands busy and your mind mercifully blank. You didn’t need to speak the language, and no one cared about who you had been before. But with each small step forward, that dreadful shadow of your past trailed with you—looming over you from behind. 

You were only able to sleep with the lights on, and even then you woke up in a cold sweat, clutching at yourself and checking if your clothes were still on. You looked around the bed frantically, trying to silently reassure yourself that the soldier wasn’t there, laying beside you. 

Getting through the nights was the hardest, but at least your days were busy enough to distract you. It was a Saturday when you found yourself at the market, crowded as always. You liked it that way, losing yourself in the chatter of voices, the shuffle of footsteps, the comfort of being hidden.

You stood at a vegetable stall, weighing potatoes in your palm, when someone brushed past your shoulder. The contact made you flinch. You turned, but the man kept his head down. 

Dark jacket. Baseball cap pulled low. Backpack strapped across his chest. 

You shrugged and kept to yourself, but what you didn’t realize was that the man who lingered just a few steps away, kept stealing glances from beneath the brim of his cap.

Bucky swallowed hard, his gaze tracing the familiar slope of your arms—arms he had once bruised with his grip and lovemarks. His eyes followed the line of your neck, remembering the way his fingers wrapped around it, the way his mouth had marked it. Then his focus dropped to your lips.

Your lips. The same ones that once moaned for him, cried for him, begged him to stop. Now, they were asking casual questions about produce, and it made his chest tighten, his cock twitch, his pulse quicken.

The man at the stall he was hovering by was trying to get Bucky’s attention, but his eyes were still stuck on you. When you adjusted your bag and turned to leave, he followed. He took quiet steps, trailing you through the streets, past corners and alleys, until you reached your small apartment.

He stayed far enough behind to remain unnoticed. Years of training had made him a ghost when he wanted to be. You didn’t hear him when you unlocked your door. You didn’t hear him break in seconds after, slipping in silently the moment the shower faucet turned on.

Now, he stood in your living room, still as stone. 

Waiting. Watching.

He didn’t know what he’d say to you when you stepped out. Would guilt make him apologize?

But guilt wasn’t the only thing in his chest. His body naturally ached for something else. The soldier inside him didn’t crave forgiveness or closure. He wanted your body again. 

He wanted you. 

After your shower, your bare feet padded into the hallway, tugging the towel tighter around your body. Drops of water clung to your skin, your hair still damp as you hummed softly to yourself. You stepped into the living room, then froze.

He was there.

The man from the market. The soldier.

He stood in your living room, those familiar broad shoulders shadowed by the dim light, his eyes stared down at you, completely unreadable. 

For one fragile and tortuous second, you couldn’t move. You thought you were free. You thought that you finally left the nightmare behind. No more being his. No more being the Winter Soldier’s whore. 

But freedom had been an illusion. And here he was, tearing it apart.

“Wh—what are you doing here?” the question slipped out, thin and broken, your voice betraying the fear you fought hard to swallow.

His head lifted towards you, those sharp blue and scary eyes catching the light. He stepped forward, then paused, raising his flesh hand slowly, palm up steady as if he was trying to soothe you. Your gaze naturally darted to the other hand—gloved, concealed, yet you could still feel and taste the metal that’s hiding beneath it. 

“Don’t,” he rasped out, his voice low. “Don’t be scared. I’m not here to hurt you.”

He claims he’s not here to hurt you, yet all you knew being around him was hurt. 

You clutched the towel tighter against your chest, silently cursing yourself for being caught in such a vulnerable state—even though none of this was your fault. With a pounding heart, you took a cautious step back.

“I… I had to see you,” he said, taking a step closer as you took another one back. “I don’t even know if I should’ve come. But I couldn’t stay away.”

Couldn’t stay away.

You knew what that meant. You knew what it implied.

Back in your cell, the walls echoed with your screams as he came to you only to take, to break, to claim your body until your mind shattered piece by piece. That’s what it means to not be able to stay away.

And now, in this quiet town you’d hidden yourself in, he had found you again.

Your devil.

“Please,” you whispered, voice trembling. “You don’t have to do this anymore. H–Hydra’s gone… you’re free now.”

The words spilled out desperate and pleading. You searched his face, hoping—begging—for him to hear you. The way he spoke now was different than before, different from when he’d been Hydra’s weapon. There was a hitch in him, a hesitation.

He paused. His expression shifted, a slight frown and his eyebrows furrowing—the same expression you’d seen once before, in the moment he let you go.

“I’m not free,” he mumbled so quietly, it was like he was speaking to himself. 

Your chest tightened. But that was something. A crack in the soldier’s shell. Something you could work with. After all, you knew what it meant to be a prisoner. You two were different sides of the same coin—kidnapped, broken down, used by monsters.

You swallowed hard and forced yourself to take a small, careful step forward.

“W–we’re the same, you know? You… you don’t have to do this. I don’t even know why you’re here, or what you plan to do to me, but you don’t have to use me anymore. You can just…” your throat tightened, the words trembling out of you, “…leave. I’ll pretend you were never here. You can just turn around and walk away.”

Your voice cracked, timid and thin, and you hated yourself for how small you sounded as you tried to talk your way out of this. 

“Just leave, okay, James? Th–that’s your name, isn’t it? I… I saw it on the news.”

His shoulders stiffened at the sound of his name. Slowly, he stood up straighter, eyes locking onto yours. Just the look of his cold eyes alone was enough to knock the wind out of your lungs. Every instinct screamed at you to run, towel be damned, but your body refused. You stayed. Because you knew what he was capable of. 

Even here, under your own roof, he held the power.

Three months of hiding without your body to use did a number on him, hollowing him out. 

He knew it was wrong—God, it was so fucking wrong—but the wanting never stopped, and he didn’t know why. At night, he dreamed of you, his body betraying him, craving you. 

And now that you were in front of him again, his whole body burned—stiff with restraint, hot with need. A part of him wanted to hold you, to whisper how sorry he was for everything. But the stronger part ached to pull you in, rip that towel away, and take back what he’d lost the night he let you escape.

It was wrong. So utterly wrong. But it felt carved into him—like the Winter Soldier had been programmed to claim you.

“I couldn’t help it,” he rasped, voice fraying. “I saw you and… it’s like something in my head tells me to come to you.”

He stepped forward. You took one step back. 

“I want to apologize,” he continued, his voice unsteady. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what you’ve been through. For what I’ve done to you.”

He took another step closer. This time, you didn’t move.

“I don’t think I could just let you go without saying it. I know I don’t deserve forgiveness, but…” his voice dropped even lower and rougher, as though the words themselves dragged against him.

You said nothing. You didn’t even know what to say. Ironic, really—how you used to beg for him to speak to you back in your cell, and now that he stood here apologizing, your voice failed you.

“Can… can I hold you?” he asked, the words trembling and heavy. “Just once more. One last time. After that, I’ll go. I’ll leave you alone. Forever. You won’t have to see me again. You’ll never even know I was here.”

You didn’t know if you could believe him. God, you wanted to—you were desperate for him to be out of your life forever. But hadn’t he let you go once before? And still, here he was. If he could hand you freedom once and take it back, what was to stop him from doing it again?

But still. You wanted to believe him. Just one embrace. That was all he claimed to need to finally release you. 

One hug… and then you’ll truly be free. 

Your feet started moving before you could think. Slow, cautious steps carried you forward until you were standing right in front of him, towel clutched tight against your body. He raised his arms stiffly, like he was silently asking if you were sure this was okay. 

When he pulled you in, it was hesitant—awkward, almost human. His chin dropped, breath brushing the crown of your damp hair. For a long second, it felt like the kind of embrace he might have given if life had been different. 

If neither of you had been broken.

But the longer he held you, the less it felt like an apology.

His grip tightened around your waist, practically crushing you against his strong chest. He inhaled you, his chest rising and falling against you—harder and rougher like he was struggling to keep control. 

“God,” he murmured against your hair. “I can’t get enough of you.” 

You shuddered in his arms, the towel slipping against your damp skin. You pressed lightly at his chest.

“O-okay, that’s enough—”

“Just a little longer, baby,” he cut you off, his grip tightening. “Your soldier needs this.”

Your eyes widened as his hands began to roam, rough against the thin fabric, the towel rustling under his touch. His breathing grew heavier, chest rising hard against yours, until you felt the unmistakable press of his arousal straining through his pants.

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Please. Let go of me.” 

“I’m sorry, I can’t,” his head shook slowly, his nose brushing through your damp hair. “My body craves you. It always has. I let you go once, that was mercy. This…” his voice dropped, almost reverent, “…this is my reward. The soldier always gets his reward.”

A cold chill ran through you as his hands left your hips, sliding up until both circled your throat. Pressure built around the fragile column of your neck.

You pushed your hands harder against him, gasping. “No, stop! You don’t have to do this anymore!”

“Don’t scream too loud, baby,” he murmured. “I could snap this pretty neck of yours in an instant. You remember that, don’t you?”

Your throat bobbed against his palm as you swallowed hard, eyes squeezing shut to keep the tears from spilling.

“Please. Don’t do this. Don’t do this…” you cried. “You said you would go.” 

The words trembled out of your mouth like a prayer with no hope of being answered.

He gazed down at you, thumb stroking your jawline—what was supposed to be a soothing gesture felt like a cruel mockery. 

“I know, angel. I know. But I just need you one last time,” his voice softened to a whisper, coaxing, poisonous. “Then I’ll set you free. I promise.”

The false promise rang in your ears. You didn’t dare meet his eyes—those blue eyes that had been dragged through hell and back, through Hydra’s torture. Eyes that had once spared you.

You hated this. Hated yourself for standing frozen instead of screaming, for trembling instead of fighting. But if he let you live before… maybe he would again. Maybe if you endured, if you gave him what he wanted, he would finally leave you alone.

So you told yourself you’d survive this, just once. 

And then you’ll finally get your freedom. 

“You… you promise?” 

“With everything I have, angel.” 

But you knew how hollow those words were. He was a man running, a man who barely recognized his own name, a man without a home. In truth, he had nothing. Nothing to sacrifice.

“And you’ll leave me alone? Forever?”

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice low and rough. One hand moved gently under your chin, tipping your head upward. “Open your eyes.”

You remembered the last time he barked those same words in your cell, but this wasn’t the same. His tone was softer, coaxing, as if he were luring you into a trap.

Slowly, reluctantly, you blinked your eyes open, one hand clinging to your towel, the last scrap of modesty you had left.

His eyes drifted down to your towel. “Take it off,” he ordered. 

You shook your head, breath shaking. “I… I don’t want to—”

His grip on your throat tightened, just enough to make you gasp again. His face hovered close, voice sharp as a blade.

“I said take it off. Now.”

Your hand trembled as you loosened your grip and let the towel slip down. It fell to the floor, pooling at your feet. You kept your gaze on him, fighting every instinct to turn away. Because if you did, you knew you’d be in trouble. 

His face remained unreadable as his eyes moved down slowly. Then his hand moved, rough fingertips brushing along your fragile neck before gliding even lower. He traced the hollow of your collarbone, pausing at the soft curve of your breast, and you shivered under his touch.

“You’ve got goosebumps,” he murmured, tracing slowly over your hardened nipple. “I know you’re nervous… but we’ve done this plenty of times before, haven’t we?”

Your breath hitched in your throat. You didn’t trust yourself to speak. And it didn’t seem like he was waiting for a response anyway.

A low and amused hum escaped his lips as his fingers circled and teased, tugging lightly with unexpected care. The softness unsettled you. He was never gentle like this with you in the cell.

“You always begged me to be gentle,” he said, his breathing getting heavier. “So I’ll give it to you gently this time. Just like you wanted.”

Hearing him speak this much was strange.

Back in your prison, his words had been rough, sharp, and commanding. Now they were quiet and… almost soft. And it was worse, because it sounded like a twisted imitation of kindness. Whatever part of him that wasn’t The Winter Soldier anymore was still broken and fractured.

“Just… please make it quick,” you pleaded. 

He glanced at you, his brow twitching slightly in annoyance. “I can’t do that, sweetheart.”

His hands slid lower, gripping your waist and pulling you snug against him. “I haven’t seen you in months. I need to take my time… savor you… before I leave you for good.”

Before you could say anything, his mouth crashed onto yours, his tongue forcing its way past your lips. He said he would take his time, yet he kissed you like there was no more time left in the world—tasting, consuming, devouring—until his hunger overtook every emotion. 

His hands tightened on your waist, forcing you to stay still. You stayed rigid, unresponsive, until he arms shifted and lifted you easily by your hips. His gloved left hand—the one you remembered was metal—steadied you effortlessly against his chest, while his flesh hand hooked beneath your thigh, spreading your leg to wrap around his waist.

You clung to his shoulders instinctively as your body was being carried helplessly down the hall toward your bedroom. He lowered you onto the mattress slowly, his lips never leaving yours, claiming you with every breath.

When he finally pulled back, he stood at the edge of the bed, staring down at you with ravenous eyes.

“Eyes on me, sweetheart,” he ordered, peeling off his jacket. 

Then his henley. Boots. Belt. Pants. 

Until at last, he was completely bare before you.

For the first time, you saw him stripped of his gear, stripped of the leather and belts that had always shielded him. Scars marred the place where flesh met metal. His chest was broad and scarred, his arms large, and his legs sturdy.

And his cock—hard, leaking, and eager—ready to take you once again. 

He stepped closer to you, his eyes lingering on your body.

“You’ve taken good care of yourself,” he muttered. “I’m… happy for you.”

His knees sank into the mattress as he crawled towards you, eyes burning with unsatisfied hunger. His hand slid along your side, pausing at your waist.

“You’ve been eating right. Better than whatever they fed you back in your cell. I can see it in your curves… like here,” his fingers squished down on the soft flesh of your hip, “...and here.” He squeezed at your bare leg.  

You whimpered at the contact—a small, helpless sound that made his cock twitch against your thigh.

He groaned low in his chest, grabbing his cock and giving a few rough pumps before dragging his tip along your reluctantly slick folds. The faintest brush of your warmth against him had his breath stuttering, his whole body shaking like he might lose control right there. This—this heat, this softness—was what exactly he’s been starving for.

“When I fuck you,” he rasped, voice heavy with hunger, “I don’t want to hear ‘soldier’ anymore. Not even James,” his gaze locked on yours. “You’ll call me by my real name. Bucky. Understand?”

You nodded weakly, but his eyes narrowed.

“Say it.”

“I… I understand, Bucky,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

A satisfied sigh escaped him as he pushed forward, slowly forcing himself past your entrance. The stretch made him grunt, his cock throbbing hard inside your tight and warm walls.

“Fuck,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “After all the times I had you in that cold cell, you’re still so goddamn tight. Like this little pussy was made to take my cock and mine only.”

You whimpered beneath him, your body trembling against the mattress as the bedframe creaked under each thrust. One of his hands pinned firmly to your hip, steadying you, while the other roamed your body—grabbing, groping, desperate to feel every inch of you.

At first, he moved slowly, his hips rocking against yours. But you can tell with the way his jaw clenched and his arms flexed that he was holding himself back. He leaned down, his lips brushing against your temple softly. 

“Gentle… just like I promised,” he murmured softly, yet there is a strain in his voice. 

The longer he stayed buried inside you, the more his restraint unraveled. His thrusts grew heavier, his breath harsher against your ear. The poor bed groaned louder, as though it might give out at any moment.

“I’m sorry, angel,” he groaned, pressing his forehead to yours. His words shook with guilt, but his body betrayed him, driving faster, harder. “I’m… trying. I swear, I’m trying—but I can’t. I can’t stop.”

You gasped when his hand gripped your thigh, hauling it upward and angling your hips. His cock slid deeper, impossibly so, forcing you to take every thick inch. Your fingers clawed at his shoulders, clinging to him as his pace pushed you further into the mattress.

Every movement was filled with borderline desperation. 

“Fuck,” he grunted, hips snapping hard against yours. “Too rough—I know. I know. But I need you… I need you too much.”

His words slurred together as he continued rutting inside you, his hips moving with a litany of guilt and desire. You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your lips together to keep yourself from spilling out any noise. 

“Look at me,” he ordered when he noticed your eyes were shut. “Eyes. On. Me.” 

You opened your eyes reluctantly—dazed and trembling. He let out a wicked grin at the sight, his chest heaving and his pupils blown wide. He rolled his hips, making you whimper again. 

“Good girl,” he breathed. “You remember how to take me.”

“Y-you said you’d be gentle…” you whimpered, tears spilling down your cheeks as he slammed into you. 

His face twisted into a snarl. “I know, angel,” he groaned, his thrusts growing rougher and deeper. “I know I promised. I’m sorry—I can’t stop. I can’t.”

Your body shook beneath him, every punishing drive making the bedframe rattle even more. His flesh hand clamped down hard on your thigh, forcing your legs wider, forcing you to take him to the hilt.

“I shouldn’t be doing this to you,” he rasped, voice breaking even though his pace turned merciless. “But I need you. God, I need you. It’s like my body remembers you… programmed to claim you… no matter how much I fight it.”

You gasped as he rutted harder, his cock digging deep inside against your tight walls. His metal hand pinned your wrist above your head. His chest heaved, his eyes dark and wild, but also wet with guilt.

“Fuck,” he groaned, shaking his head, his thrusts savage despite the apologies spilling from his lips. “I’m hurting you, I know I am. I’m sorry, angel—so fucking sorry—but I can’t slow down. I can’t stop needing you.”

His mouth crashed against yours in a desperate, devouring kiss, like as if kissing you would make you forgive him. 

His thrusts turned frantic, every snap of his hips were hard and rough, like he was punishing himself as much as he was using you. 

“C-can’t stop… I can’t stop wanting you,” he gasped. “It’s been too damn long, baby. Too fucking long—” 

“Angel…” his voice cracked as he rutted deeper, his metal hand forcing your hips still against the mattress. “I’m sorry—I’m so sorry—but I need to finish inside you. I need to claim you one more time.”

Your body arched beneath him, his cock stretching you, filling you until all you could do was whine and groan beneath the weight of him. “P-please… just hurry up!” 

His thrusts started getting sloppy and messy, his pace completely losing rhythm as his dark mind took control. His jaw clenched, his eyes squeezing shut as his hips slammed into you one last time—bottoming out completely. 

A loud and broken groan escaped his lips, his cock twitching and pulsing deep inside you as his release flooded into your tight walls. The warmth spread through your core, and you felt utterly full and disgusted.

His body slumped against yours, his hold on you softening just slightly.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, his voice raw with guilt. “Forgive me—I couldn’t let you go without leaving a part of me inside you.”

You couldn’t breathe. Your chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven pants. Your trembling hands pressed against his strong bare chest, weakly trying to push him away even though he was still buried deep inside you. 

He opened his mouth to speak, but his words were lost in the ringing in your ears. You shook your head, sobs tearing free as your body shook violently beneath him.

Then his arms gathered you close, pulling you tight against him. He tried to rock you gently, but your body remained stiff, broken. He murmured against your ear, words you couldn’t catch—or tried to tune out. You didn’t know. 

You felt wet kisses trace your hair, your temple, your cheeks. But your body reeled at the contact. 

Little by little, exhaustion took over. Your eyelids grew heavy, your sobs softened, and your trembling eased. Your breathing slowed. His arms never loosened. He cradled you, rocking you gently until sleep finally claimed you.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, even though you were long gone in unconsciousness. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

When you finally woke up, the room was silent and cold. His warmth was gone, his presence erased.

Only the faint imprint of his body remained in the sheets, the lingering scent of sex in the air a haunting reminder. Your body still bare, still trembling from the night, proof that he had been here.

And then, just like a deadly ghost, he was gone.

[superbassbuck]

one hundred sleepless nights

i. "the chain" || part two || masterlist

winter soldier!dark!bucky x f!reader

Warnings: 18+, noncon, smut with a sprinkle of plot, p in v, stockholm syndrome, kidnapping, brainwashed bucky, confinement, dacryphilia, angsty, degradation, dirty talk. please tread carefully.

Summary: Your only purpose is to serve as a reward for the Winter Soldier. Each time he completes a successful mission, Hydra delivers him to you, and he uses you however he pleases. But when the other super soldiers wreak havoc and the base falls apart, you expect the cold and heartless Winter Soldier to finally dispose of you. Instead, you’re left reeling. Because you never anticipated what he would do next.

Word Count: 3.3k

You had been confined in a Hydra base for what felt like a hundred nights. But in truth, you lost count after day sixty-three.

Every night since your capture, they locked you in a freezing cell—nothing but a toilet in one corner, a thin mattress and a chain in the other. They fed you, they cleaned you, they kept you alive—though only in the way captors keep their prisoners alive.

You still remembered the first night they brought you in. Hours of crying and screaming had left your throat raw before you finally slumped in exhausted defeat. You thought those moments would be your last—until the heavy metal door creaked open.

A tall figure stepped inside, the glint of a metal arm catching in the dim light. You shot to your feet, begging and pleading for your life. The guard spoke to him in Russian, words you didn’t understand. But the soldier’s eyes never left yours. When the guard left, shutting the door with a cold metallic clang, the air in the cell grew heavier and scarier. 

“Please,” you pleaded to the soldier as he approached you slowly, but it seemed to fall on deaf ears. 

Maybe he couldn’t understand you. 

“Please don’t do this. Just let me go. I won’t tell a soul—”

But before you could finish your words, he was already pouncing on you. He ripped through your clothes like it was paper. You tried to cover your body with your arms but he’d only grab them roughly and pried them away. He grabbed the chains and used them against you. He ignored your cries when he threw you on the mattress, forcing your legs apart and sinking deeper and deeper inside your unwilling cunt.

And from that day onward, The Winter Soldier came to you every night after every mission—ready to claim his reward.

Sometimes his presence was terrifying, but sometimes… they were confusing. 

There were nights where he said nothing at all. Nights where he would simply remove his clothes, sit beside you, and hold you in silence until he fell asleep. But by morning, he would always be gone.

It wasn’t until three months into your captivity that you realized he spoke and understood English. One night, after you had begged for him to be gentle, you heard his voice for the first time—low, quiet, and unexpectedly human.

“Please,” you whimpered. “I can’t, soldier. I-it’s too big!”

Some nights you would beg for mercy, some nights you would just be silent and take what you were given. But your body was so sore and aching from the brutal pounding the night before—you felt like you couldn’t take it anymore. 

“Soldier, I can’t—” you cried out, clinging onto him tighter. “Please!”

You knew it was meaningless. You’ve cried, kicked, and begged before, and every single time he didn’t pull away. At this point, all the yelling and fighting was just a coping mechanism for you—a pity way to mask the reluctant moans that threatened to escape your lips every time he took you.

Then his voice came in. It was the first time he spoke, and at first, you thought you were imagining it. 

“I know,” he murmured, brushing a hand against your hair in a gesture at odds with the tight grip he had on your thighs. “Just a little longer, okay? I need this.”

You froze, staring up at him—unsure of what unsettled you more. The fact that he understood every word you’d ever said and ignored you… or that he’d chosen this very moment to answer.

“You… understand me?” 

He looked you in the eyes, and for a second, you think he might actually pull away. But instead, his grip on your thigh tightened and his other hand twisted deeper into your hair. His body enveloped yours entirely as he leaned over, his breath hot against your neck as he pressed sloppy and wet kisses. Suckling. Biting. Surely leaving marks and claiming you as his. 

“Wait!” you shoved weakly at his shoulders, a desperate attempt to put space between you. But instead, he grabbed your thigh and hiked it over his shoulder, giving him the angle to plunge into you even deeper. “Ah!” 

He let out a low groan at the tight and warm feel of you—your pussy squelching helplessly around him as you’re forced to take every thick inch of him. 

“Hold still,” he gritted out through clenched teeth. “Can’t—can’t fuck you properly if you don’t hold still.” 

His breathing is heavy and labored against your neck, his heavy balls were slapping against your bare ass, his hold on your leg was tight—all of it combined were overwhelming your senses. Your bodies were hot and sweaty, yet your blood ran cold in fear.

“Please,” you squirmed beneath him, desperation in your voice. “You’re hurting me—”

His hand came up from your thigh to your neck, fingers pushing up against the smooth column roughly as he held you down against the mattress. With one hand still in your hair, the other around your neck, and his entire body swallowing yours—it was a losing battle you were never destined to win. 

The least you could hope for was for him to listen to you. 

“Soldier! I can’t—slow down… it hurts—” 

“Shut up,” he growled. “You’ve taken my cock plenty of times before. You can do it again.” 

One thing about the Winter Soldier was that he didn’t like being ordered around while he was claiming his prize. In this cell, in this very moment, he was the one in charge. There were no orders for him to follow for once—and he sure as hell wasn’t going to listen to you. Not especially since you belonged to him. 

You whimpered and cried beneath him, tears rolling down your cheeks and onto the mattress as he rutted into you like a beast in heat. 

“P-please,” you begged, your voice wheezing out pathetically.

“Keep begging,” he grunted. His cock throbbed and twitched in pleasure after every whimper and whine. “Fuck. I love it when you beg… makes my dick s’fucking hard.” 

He angled his hips slightly, hitting that sweet and sensitive spot deep inside you with his weeping tip. Your walls instinctively clenched down on him as you pressed your lips together and squeezed your eyes shut—trying to drown the moans that threatened to slip out. 

“Fuck!” he barked out. “Your pussy is taking me in so sweetly, baby. I can’t get enough.” 

You couldn’t help the broken whimper and pathetic sobs that came out after being pet-called. Before this, he never spoke. He only grunted, moaned, and snarled. You never expected to hear the word ‘baby’ ever escape his lips.

His hand came down from the locks of your hair to your face, rubbing the tears and smearing them all over your cheek. “That’s it,” he growled, thrusting into you even harder. “Cry for me, baby. Cry for your soldier.” 

He leaned down, pressing kisses all over your face. You tried to pry yourself away from him, but his hand cupped your cheeks—squishing them roughly and forcing you to look at him. 

“Stop looking away. Look at me, baby. I want to see your pretty eyes wet with tears,” he grunted, his patience wearing thin as you continued to defy him. “Dammit. I said stop—fuck.” 

“Let me go! Please—!” 

His grip on your cheeks tightened. “Look at me, goddammit!” he screamed in your face. 

You flinched hard, shrinking deeper into the mattress with fear. You rarely hear him talk, much less raise his voice. His hips stilled inside you, and his grip on your cheeks softened just barely. He let out a sigh—and you couldn’t tell if it was a sigh of sympathy or annoyance.

“I could easily snap this pretty neck of yours,” he warned dangerously, “but I won’t—because I need your body nice and warm for me. So if you want to make this easier for yourself, you’re going to do as I say. Got it?” 

His other hand lingered around your neck, pressing his fingertips deeper into your skin—a warning. You whimpered, and his cock twitched inside you.

“Tell me you’re sorry.” 

You swallowed hard and looked up at him in fear. “I’m sorry.” 

He hummed in approval, but you could tell that he wasn’t satisfied. 

“Tell me you’re sorry for being such a disobedient slut,” he growled, his face getting closer and his grip on your throat getting tighter.

“I’m sorry,” you gasped, your small hand encircling his wrist, trying to pry it away. “I’m sorry for being such a disobedient slut—I’m so sorry!” 

A deep, threatening chuckle escaped his lips as he slowly ground his hips against yours, his cock twitching at the friction from your silky and tight walls.

“That’s right, baby. You should be sorry. You should be sorry for having such a tight fucking body. You should be sorry for being so damn irresistible,” he moved his hips faster, fucking you with newfound vigor. 

“Every time I’m sent on those damn missions, the only thing I can think about is getting back to your cell…” he grunted as your walls tightened down on him, “and fucking you senseless, over and over again until your body’s had enough.” 

He let out a hiss as your sobbing cunt pulsed and ripped around him—tightening against his thick shaft as he rutted into you. He brought his hand down between your sweat-slicked bodies, his rough fingertips finding your clit and rubbing it in quick circles. 

“I—I can’t… soldier–!” you whined as you held onto his shoulders for support, feeling yourself come undone around his cock. 

“Oh fuck, there you go…” he moaned, grinning as you sobbed harder and struggled beneath him. “Take it, baby. Take every fucking inch of me. Fuck… gonna cum—your soldier’s gonna cum!” 

A hard sob choked out of you the minute he slammed into you with one final, brutal thrust. His hips jerked and spasmed as he filled you up completely—hot, thick, ropes of his seed trickled down your puffy, swollen lips and seeped onto the mattress. His heavy body slumped against yours with a tired sigh, his face burying into the crook of your neck. 

By now, he would zip himself up and leave without a second glance. But this time, he remained still on top of you, his cold metal fingers brushing along your jaw in a way that you think is supposed to be comforting, but it doesn’t feel like it at all. 

“Good girl,” he breathed into your neck.

He wasn’t one to give you aftercare when he finishes. The most he’ll do is hold you close against him and fall asleep, but most times he’d leave. You’re not sure if you like this or not. You sniffled as you tried to calm your breathing, and he tilted his head to press a kiss to your wet cheeks. 

“That’s it, let it all out, baby,” he cooed. “Such a perfect little prize for me.”

Since then, he’d been more vocal with you during his reward times—and you’d been trying, cautiously, to reach him with words. Every night when he came, you’d attempt some small exchange.

The metal door creaked open, then slammed shut. Heavy footsteps crossed the concrete toward your mattress. You looked up. His hair was matted with sweat and blood, his eyes dark and unreadable.

“Soldier…” you swallowed hard, your fists tightening around your nightgown. “H-how was your mission?”

He advanced on you as he always did, stopping right in front of you. You looked up at him—eyes soft and vulnerable while you waited for an answer. Instead, a low growl rumbled from his chest. His hands clamped around your face, pulling you in so abruptly your breath caught. His mouth crashed against yours in a rough, unyielding kiss. You muffled, trying to turn your head, but his arm slid around your waist, lifting you effortlessly before pinning you to the mattress.

He pulled away from you to lift the hem of your nightgown, baring your glistening wet folds to him. 

“Soldier… I’m just—trying to talk to you,” you said, voice trembling.

“No talking,” he groaned, pushing your legs apart and settling himself between them. He pulled back just slightly to unzip his pants. His cock sprang out—already hard, leaking, and heavy just for you. “Just need your body.” 

You tried to squeeze your legs together, but he grabbed your thighs roughly and forced them apart. 

“No, please—” 

“Just be good,” he hissed, stroking his shaft as he pressed his spongy tip against your tight little hole.

You gasped as he pushed past your entrance without warning. He shuddered as he felt your tight silky walls accommodating and stretching around him. “That’s it,” he encouraged, sinking deeper inside you. “Fuck, you feel so good.” 

“No, stop,” you choked out a sob. “Soldier, please. I beg of you. Just listen to me—” 

“Shut the hell up,” he interrupted by shoving his metal fingers into your mouth, muffling your cries. “Don’t say a single word.” He warned. “Suck on them.”

You squeezed your eyes shut as you began reluctantly sucking on his fingers—cold and metallic on your tongue. You don’t even want to know where they’ve been or what they’ve done. All you need to worry about now is what they’d do to you next if you don’t comply.

“Thats it,” he grunted as he brutally thrust into your dripping and clenching cunt. “That’s it. Suck on my fingers while I fill this greedy cunt with my seed.”

You choked and whimpered around his metal digits, and the sounds only inflamed his dark urges to claim you. He didn’t stop—couldn’t stop no matter how hard you begged or struggled. 

“So fucking good,” he moaned as he fucked you like a wild animal. “Shit, baby. Gonna cum… gonna… pump you full!”

He angled his hips and slammed his cock directly into your sweet spot. The sensitive bundle of nerves sent a jolt of electrifying pleasure all over your body. You arched your back and came undone reluctantly around his thick length, spilling all over him.

“Ah!” you choked around his fingers. “Mmmph!”

He let out a loud roar of pleasure as his cock pulsed and throbbed—he shuddered as scalding ropes of his thick cum painted your walls white deep inside your cunt. He removed his fingers from your mouth and slumped beside you, but didn’t pull out. He wrapped his strong arms around your waist and pulled you close against him.

You two laid like that for a quiet moment. You were expecting him to leave, but he didn’t. 

“Soldier…?” you tried, but there was no response.

“How was your mission?” you tried again. 

Silence.

“Did… did you kill people? I smell blood on you—”

“What did I say about not talking?” he interrupted you coldly. But despite his words, it seemed like he made no effort to actually stick through with his threats. 

You shifted beside him, trying to get comfortable. “What do you do on your missions?”

He didn’t answer.

You frowned. “Do you have a name, soldier?” 

You felt his arms tighten around your waist, and he held his breath for a second. You blink up at him and he has a dark and dangerous look in his eyes—but there was something beneath them that seemed sad… and kind of lonely. He pressed his lips together as he wrenched his arms away from your body, pulling his softening cock out of your swollen pussy with a wet squelch. 

“Soldier?” you whispered, your brows furrowing in confusion as he rose abruptly, zipping himself back up and pulling on his boots.

He gave you no answer, no acknowledgement. You laid there—sore, shaken—watching him prepare to leave in cold and sharp movements. When you asked for his name again, he didn’t even give you a second glance. 

The door pulled open, and a moment later, the slam of the metal echoed through the cell, leaving you alone in silence once again. 

Two, maybe three days passed. For the first time since your capture, the Soldier hadn’t come. The metal door stayed shut—opening only for food. Your nightgown remained untouched, unwrinkled, whole—for the first time in ages.

For the first time since your capture, you were left alone with your thoughts—and that, somehow, felt worse. You found yourself waiting for him despite yourself, every shift in the shadows making your chest tighten.

While you were sleeping on the cold and stiff mattress, the ground shuddered beneath you. Dust fell from the ceiling, and you snapped awake in a coughing fit. Distant shouts rang from down the corridor, harsh Russian, followed by the rapid cracks of what seemed like gunfire. 

An alarm blared, red light flooding the concrete walls of your cell. You scrambled to your feet, heart pounding in fear. The sounds outside grew louder—metal crashing, men screaming.

You tucked yourself into the corner, terror swallowing you whole. What the hell was going on out there? Did something go wrong? From the noise—crashing, gunfire, endless screaming—it sounded like the entire base was falling apart.

The door slammed open. Blinding light spilled into the cell, and you squinted against it, certain it was a guard come to finish you off.

“Please,” you begged, voice trembling. “Don’t kill me—”

Heavy boots pounded closer. A hand clamped around your wrist and yanked you forward. Wide-eyed, you looked up into the face you knew too well—the same long dark hair. The same haunted blue eyes. The soldier who came to you every night.

“Stay close,” he ordered, his voice like steel. “Keep your head down. Be quiet. And keep up.”

“What are you doing?” you gasped, stumbling against him. “Please—don’t hurt me—”

His grip only tightened. With his metal arm, he hauled you close to his chest like a shield and dragged you into the blinding chaos of the corridor.

You kept your head low as he instructed, but your gaze darted to the floor. Boots pounding. Bodies clashing. Guns firing. Guards collapsing one after another. Screams echoed down the corridor, words in Russian you couldn’t understand—likely calling for him. He ignored them all, pulling you along without hesitation.

“I’m scared,” you whispered against him, hoping he could hear you. “Where are you taking me?”

“Stop. Talking.” 

He didn’t slow until you reached an empty room. He shoved you inside, slammed the door, and locked it. Crossing to the far wall, he forced open a narrow window.

“W-what are you doing?” you stammered, hovering timidly.

Your breath caught when you glanced outside. For the first time in months, you caught a glimpse of the world beyond these walls.

Without warning, he scooped you up in his arms. In an instant, you were lifted through the window. When your bare feet touched the ground, you shuddered at the feel of grass—real grass—beneath your toes.

“Go,” he said coldly, nodding past you. “Run. Run as far as you can. Don’t turn back.”

You just stood there. His words processing in your mind.

Go? Go where? 

Where would you even run to? 

You clutched your nightgown. Your legs felt useless, your bottom lip trembling. “Are you… are you coming with me?”

The door behind him rattled under heavy blows, Russian voices barking commands.

“I said go!” he snapped, drawing a pistol from his belt and thrusting it into your shaking hands.

You grabbed it with clammy and hesitant hands. 

“Go,” he repeated again. “Go, or stay here forever and die. Your choice.” 

You hesitated, the weapon shaking. You could point it at him, end it all, avenge everything he had done to you. He knew you could do  it—yet he didn’t move.

“What’s your name?” you asked him suddenly. 

For the first time, his expression faltered—just slightly—before his face twisted into a snarl. Without answering, he slammed the window shut, retreating into the chaos behind him.

You were left with only your reflection in the glass, drowned by the sound of shouting and gunfire. With the pistol clutched tight in your hands, you turned on your bare heel and ran—ran until your lungs burned, ran until your weak legs gave out. Ran until the base was outside of view.

And still, you didn’t know the soldier’s name.

[kinanabinks]

hatin' you

18+

Bucky Barnes despises you. You're the bane of his life, and the source of every problem he has. But he'd be damned if someone else tried to hurt you - hatin' you is his job, and his job alone.

Content Warning: Bucky x NEWAvenger!F!Reader, mature themes, enemies to fuckers, mention of violence, injury, blood, mention of death, manhandling, smut (choking, penetrative sex, hate fucking, degradation kink, mean!dom!bucky).

a/n: just watched thunderbolts and immediately had to do this. bucky i missed you. call me. please

a/n part deux: doctor bong is a real marvel comics character i did not make him up just had to put him in something because he's incredible and i need him in the mcu like YESTERDAY

You stumble into the rec room, in desperate need of the soft, plush couch. Limping your way over to it, you crash down and let out a loud sigh, grateful for its comfort.

"Fuck happened to you?" Bucky asks from the armchair where he's reading a book. "You somehow look worse than usual."

"You should've seen her an hour ago," Bob says with wide eyes as he stumbles into the room, hot on your trail. "Buckets of blood - and I mean buckets-"

"Alright, Robert, don't remind me," You groan, waving your hand as you shut your eyes. "That was so fuckin' embarrassing."

"Just another day in the life, then," Bucky comments bitterly, putting down his book.

"Practically a civilian," You utter to yourself, staring at the ceiling, in shock at your own incompetence.

"Doctor Bong is not just a civilian; he's a menace!" Bob exclaims, pacing the floor. "And he was specifically targeting you because of how awesome you were when he almost destroyed Lower Manhattan last week!"

"Bong? That guy with the homemade suit?" Bucky asks, frowning. "I thought he got locked up."

"He had a man on the inside," Bob informs him. "One of the prison guards helped Bong escape, and he caught Y/N alone today-"

"Let me guess: he beat her ass and managed to escape, again?" Bucky cuts him off with a raised brow before snorting. "You know you aren't allowed outside alone anymore, Y/N. The wind might blow too hard and knock you over."

His patronizing tone pisses you off to no extent as you sit up and glare at him. "Fuck you, Barnes," You hiss.

"You wish you could," He sings with a smirk.

"Dr. Griesz said you should be back to yourself in a couple of hours; your serum doesn't make you as fast-healing as the soldiers'," Bob says, walking over to and kneeling on the floor next to the couch. "Don't beat yourself up about it, ma'am. I saw you fighting - you were amazing."

"Robert, please," You mumble, shaking your head. "Just leave me alone. I need a nap."

With a nod, he gets up and leaves the room after gently patting your shoulder - and the sudden silence makes you realize that Bucky is gone, too.

Finally. Some peace and quiet.

A few days later, you're on your way to one of the meeting rooms and humming a tune to yourself when you spot Ava talking to Bucky. Ava looks furious as she rants, glaring at Bucky who looks like he couldn't be less bothered about whatever it is he's being reprimanded for.

"I did you all a favor, didn't I?" Bucky says casually. "If anything, you should be thanking me right now. One less asshole on the streets."

"This is exactly how not to handle shit," Ava grumbles. "You almost caused an innocent civilian's death."

"I knew he'd be fine," Bucky hisses. "I dont need you micromanaging me."

"You're part of a team now, Barnes, and that means your actions reflect on us," Ava says. "What you did was reckless and could've hurt a lot of people. Don't do stupid shit like that. Ever."

With a huff, Bucky spins on his heel and storms away in your direction. When he sees you, he rolls his eyes before shoving past you, making you turn and chase after him.

"What was that about?" You wonder, speed-walking so you can keep up with him.

"Fuck off," He mutters, turning into one of the mission prep rooms. While he takes off his tactical gear, you notice the dried blood and bruises on his face.

"You haven't been fighting civs again, have you?" You ask with a smirk as you lean against the wall.

He pulls off his shirt with a huff. "Matter of fact, I have," He admits lowly, before bitterly adding, "N'you oughta be grateful."

"Grateful for what?" You question him with a frown, parting your lips when you see his sweaty abs. Grateful for the view, most definitely.

It's incredibly annoying that, as incredibly annoying as Bucky is, he's also incredibly attractive. In fact, when you first met, you were ready to ask him to take you home, until he gave you one look and decided you weren't good enough for his respect. Ever since then, you've hated one another.

He looks up from his boots at you, clenching his jaw. "For getting rid of your little buddy, Bong," He reveals, taking a few steps towards you.

You're taken aback by his words and you stand up straight. "What do you mean?" You question him lowly. "You-"

"Killed him," He tells you bluntly. "I didn't give him another chance to escape from prison, and I sure as heck didn't give him a chance to beat another Avenger. I killed him."

Entirely surprised, you raise a brow. "Why would you do that?" You ask. "He was my mission."

"And you were failing miserably," He points out dryly, taking a few steps closer to you. "He knew you were onto him, so he targeted you. You know what they found in his house? A detailed itinerary dedicated to your death. He hated your guts, Y/N, and so I ended his life," Bucky relays casually, moving closer until you're forced to step back and hit the wall. He then leans down, lowering his voice to a grumble. "'Cuz hatin' you is my job, and my job alone."

Speechless, you keep your eyes on his.

"And if anyone's gonna kill you," He goes on to say, wrapping his metal hand around your throat. "It's gonna be me."

Instinctively, your legs squeeze together as he restricts your breath, making your heart skip a beat. Knowing you're almost as strong as him, Bucky also knows he can go hard on you without actually hurting you, and it turns you on to no end when he uses his strength against you. He notices your bodily reaction and raises a brow.

"Seriously?" He asks with a scoff. "You're turned on?"

"Fuck you," You hiss through gritted teeth, hating how badly your body is betraying you right now. Get your shit together.

Bucky chuckles darkly, bringing his free hand up to your cheek. "Mmm, I bet you want to," He mutters teasingly. "You getting wet for me?"

When he brings his knees between your legs, rubbing it against your mound, you shudder. "You- you wish," You manage to say, cringing at your weakened voice.

He smirks, knowing he has total control in this moment. It isn't often that he feels powerful when you're in the room, so he soaks it in and decides to use it while he still can.

"Beg for it," He orders simply, his tone blunt and unforgiving.

Swallowing thickly, you meet his eyes. "What are you-"

"Beg me to fuck you," He elaborates, tilting his head with a wicked look. "You know it's what you want. What you need."

"Go to hell," You say through gritted teeth. "I'd rather die than let you touch me."

Bucky begins to move his knee, rubbing it against your cunt. You suck in a sharp breath as your stomach flips. For a few moments, your mind goes blank and all you can focus on is him - but then you gather yourself and do your best to push him away, making him step back. He's quick to retaliate, grabbing you by your hair before spinning you around and slamming your face against the wall. You let out a whimper just as you feel his crotch pressing to your ass.

"Say it," He whispers in your ear. "Just a few simple words, and you'll get what you want. What you were made for. All you're good for."

"Fuck. You," You seethe through gritted teeth.

After a few seconds, Bucky lets out a dark chuckle. "Good enough for me," He mutters before suddenly ripping apart your tactical pants.

You give up trying to fight back when you feel his hard cock brush against your thigh. He brings it to your whimpering, soaking pussy, rubbing the tip through your folds and keeping it in place as it finds your clit.

Your entire body is set alight as he rubs your clit with his cock, your fingers and toes going numb. Bucky rests his chin on your shoulder as he covers his dick in your juices, deep sighs leaving his nose.

"I wanna hear the special word," He utters teasingly into your ear. "Want you to beg me."

A shaky breath leaves your mouth as your hands clench into fists. Even in your desperate state, your pride prevails. "Never," You whisper.

"Alright then," Bucky replies casually, not giving you any hints as to what his next move may be.

He wraps his hand around the base of his cock and starts stroking it where it is, brushing against your pussy every so often. Your breath is stolen and your eyes wide. His grunts and groans make your stomach flip.

"Don't worry baby," He mumbles. "When I'm done, I'll make sure every drop of my cum coats your wet little pussy. Then you can go ahead and finger it into your hole, and hope it feels as good as my thick cock would."

You're shaking like a leaf beneath him, losing every last drop of willpower. Shit.

"Is that what you want?" Bucky asks you gruffly. "Or would you rather I fuck your brains out and fill you up myself?" The wetness from your pussy drips onto his cock which is already wet with pre-cum. You can hear the smirk in his voice. "Promise I'll get much deeper than your fingers, baby."

With a hiss, you choke out the word he's longing for; the word you'd have rather died than uttered.

"Please."

"Oh, no, no," He tuts, slapping his cock against your pussy. "You're going to have to do much better than that, baby. See, you've done nothing but disrespect me for six months now, and it's gonna take a lot more than a half-assed plead to earn my cock."

For fuck's sake. With a deep sigh, you swallow your pride and what's left of your dignity. "Bucky, please," You repeat with a little more sincerity.

"And...?" He goads you.

"And... I'm sorry. For being disrespectful," You continue, falling into submission, each word stinging a little less. "I hope you'll forgive me."

Bucky spins you around and takes your chin in his metal hand, holding it firmly in place. "Keep going," He orders you bluntly, still stroking himself while you reduce yourself to nothing for him.

"I... I know I'm not worth your time," You say, gradually allowing yourself to submit entirely. "I'm beneath you. I'm nothing. But please, just give me a chance to prove my worth. Please use my body. It's yours, Sergeant Barnes. To do with what you may."

His eyes flicker with wicked delight. Without warning, he lifts up one your legs and wraps it around his waist before pushing his cock into you. You throw your head back as you feel him fill you up, every inch making you shudder.

"Now, that's a good girl," He says as he bottoms out. "See? You're so much better behaved like this. Full of cock. Taking it, like the good slut you are."

Your eyes roll back as he starts fucking you hard. When you half-heartedly agreed to helping Yelena out with a recon mission months ago, you never thought it would lead to you getting your world rocked by the Winter Soldier.

But you're so fucking glad it did.

"That's it, fuck, you're so tight," He grunts, snapping his hips faster. "This is all you needed, huh? Just needed a good railing to shut that smart mouth of yours?"

Unintelligible whines escape your lips as he lifts you up, wrapping both your legs around him and pistoning his cock in and out you, keeping you in the air like you weigh nothing. Your arms wrap around his shoulders and your right hand moves up to his hair, grabbing a fistful of it and pulling it, making him hiss. He spanks your ass, once, twice, three times, each one pulling a squeal from your throat.

Suddenly, he pulls you off his cock and throws you to the ground, before mounting you from behind as he pushes you down onto your hands and knees. His cock gets much deeper into you at this angle, making your thighs shake.

"Such a fucking brat, always talking back," Bucky rants. "Always got something to say. How about now, huh? Cat got your tongue?"

As hard as you try, you can't get a single word out, nothing but sounds of pleasure and desperation leaving your mouth.

"Getting fucked stupid, just like the slut you are," He grunts, tightly gripping your hips and surely leaving bruises. "If I knew this was all it would take to shut you up, I'd have fucked you the day we met. And I bet you'd have been more than willing, huh? Willingly let a stranger fuck you, like a whore. I know you wanted it. I saw the look in your eyes. Fuck, maybe I should've. The past six months would've been a lot easier if I knew I could just fill your holes to keep you obedient."

Your eyes roll back as his words echo in your mind, driving you insane.

"I bet I could've fucked your face that night, right?" He wonders out loud with a dark laugh. "You'd have let me. You desperate little thing, doing anything for my attention. But instead of being a good girl, you got an attitude. So now, I gotta fuck it out of you until you know how to behave again. Shit, are you about to cum? Tightening around me like a fuckin' vice."

You suck in a sharp breath and hold it in as you feel your climax approach, pouring over your body like ice-cold water.

"Keep breathing, baby, breathe through it," Bucky mumbles into your ear as he continues fucking you. "That's it. Nice, deep breaths. Let it take over. Cum."

Your entire body shudders underneath him and for a few moments, all you see is white. You can't hear anything but your own heartbeat as you orgasm, pure, unbridled pleasure coursing through your body.

As you come back down, his voice comes back into focus. He's groaning, moaning your name as he empties his balls into you. "Oh, fuck, baby, good girl, that's my good girl," He mumbles weakly, his thrusts gradually slowing down.

You lay on the ground, breathing deeply, wincing when he pulls out.

"Oh, shit," Bucky breathes out with a sigh as he gets off of you, before taking hold of your shoulder and turning you over onto your back. He then takes your hand and pulls you up onto your feet. You immediately stumble so he grabs onto you, his lips curling up into a smirk.

"Don't give me that fucking look," You mutter bitterly.

"Aaaaaand there she is," He responds with an eye-roll. "That good-girl behavior didn't stick, huh?"

"Oh, Barnes," You sigh, patting his chest. "You're gonna have to do a lot better than that if you want me to be a good girl full-time."

He clenches his jaw while you gather your wits and stroll out of the room, thankfully able to hide your limp. With his hands in fists, he glares at your back. "Fuckin' tease."

eek first thunderbolts* fic <3 hope u enjoyed

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