sunata

i simp for attractive people and want to show it <3

[geminiwritten]

en español ; joaquín torres

fandom: marvel

pairing: joaquín x reader

summary: after joaquín returns from a two-week-long mission things feel different, then he convinces you to go undercover with him where tensions rise—only for him to leaving you wanting more... until he stops by your office for a very intimate spanish lesson

notes: danny ramirez, the man that you are, holy fuck... like this dude has me in a chokehold??? what i wouldn't do for him (there's nothing, absolutely nothing)... i really hope y'all enjoy this! it was inspired by few different things and i had a blast writing it, so please let me know what you think! (p.s. i highly recommend watching the papasito music video and anthony vs. danny hot ones before reading)

warnings: swearing, alcohol, sexual tension, probably some very incorrect spanish (i'm apologising in advance), mention of guns / weapons, italics, lots of pet names / nicknames, SMUT (dirty talk, f oral receiving, unprotected p in v, semi-public-ish sex) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!

word count: 19998

You fall into your desk chair, careful not to spill your fresh mug of coffee as you fumble for your headset. You’re late—just barely—but if you’re lucky, Sam won’t notice. 

You slide the headset on and quickly sort through the programs running on your computer, eyes flicking across several screens. Then you take a deep breath, adjust your mic, and open the comms line. 

“How’s my favourite flyboy today? Still got all your limbs attached and your pretty face unscathed?” 

“Careful, hermosa,” Joaquín says, his voice smooth in your ear. “Sam’s on the channel. He might get jealous.” 

You smile to yourself, tracking their positions on your middle monitor. “Please. Sam knows who my favourite is. He’s come to terms with it.” 

Joaquín chuckles. “You trying to make me blush?” 

You roll your eyes despite the smile tugging at your lips. “If I wanted to make you blush, Torres, I’d be using more than just my voice.” 

There’s a beat of silence, the soft crackle of the open frequency filling your ears. 

Then Joaquín clears his throat, loudly. “Mission. Flying. No dying. Need to focus.” 

You laugh quietly, watching his heartrate spike on a screen to the left. “You better be careful, pretty boy. Can’t show you how much I’ve missed you if you don’t make it home.” 

“Show me?” Joaquín echoes, grin audible. “How?” 

“Come home in one piece and you’ll find out,” you say, voice low, teasing. 

His heartrate spikes even higher, and you have to bite your lip to keep from giggling. 

“Jesus Christ,” Sam sighs. “Can you two at least try to be professional?” 

There’s another beat of quiet—only brief—before, at the same time, both you and Joaquín say, “No.” 

You can practically hear Sam roll his eyes. “Why the hell did I let him convince me to hire you?” 

You grin to yourself, eyes still flickering across your screens. “Because unfortunately for you, Cap, you’ve never met a more skilled analyst who’d rather work seven days a week than have a social life.” 

“Joaquín is your social life,” Sam mutters. “I unknowingly hired the two most annoying best friends in the world.” 

“You forgot talented,” Joaquín pipes up. “Two of the most annoying and talented best friends in the world.” 

Sam groans—loud, frustrated—but he doesn’t argue. Because unfortunately, you’re both right. You’re two of the best people he could’ve found for the job, and despite the never-ending banter and insufferable tension, he’d be lost without either of you. 

You met Joaquín in the Air Force. You were first stationed together at Ramstein Air Base in Germany, and it didn’t take long for the two of you to get close. At the time, you were both lower rank, training in field surveillance, comms, and tactical ops before choosing your respective career paths. But even across continents and during off-grid missions, you stayed close. 

Joaquín contacted you a little while after he first met Sam, asking for help tracking a super-soldier anti-nationalist group in Munich. You didn’t ask questions—you just helped—and after it all came to a head, Joaquín couldn’t wait to introduce you to Sam. 

Long story short, you were quickly recruited, given an office and a ton of cool tech, and now you’re their guy in the chair. Sam probably only regrets it a little, considering you’re actually very good at being in the chair—which makes up for all the unprofessional banter between you and Joaquín. 

“Eyes up, Torres,” you murmur, watching the live feed on your main monitor. “Two heat signatures ahead. Could be guards. Could be raccoons. Either way, I’d keep your pretty face out of sight.” 

Joaquín exhales, amused. “You must really miss me, hermosa—the way you keep callin’ me pretty.” 

Your cheeks flush, heat crawling up your spine, because yeah—you miss him. Like crazy. They’ve been halfway across the world for two weeks now, and it’s the longest you’ve gone without seeing him since you started working for Sam. 

To say you miss him is a gross understatement. But he can’t know that—not really—because whatever this thing is between you two, it’s fun. Playful. It isn’t serious or deep. It’s not soul-crushing or gut-wrenching like the paralysing crush you’ve been nursing for years. 

And there’s no way Joaquín needs to find out about that. It could ruin everything. 

“Can you blame me?” you ask, keeping your voice light. “I haven’t seen you in two weeks. What else is a girl supposed to do besides fantasise?” 

You can almost hear his grin. “You fantasising about me now, baby? Damn. This suit just got a whole lot hotter.” 

Then Sam’s voice cuts in, low and sharp. “Can we please focus? The place is crawling with armed hostiles and I’m not dying in a building that smells like asbestos and cat piss.” 

“Noted, Cap,” you say, eyes flicking to his heat signature on your screen. “But for the record, Torres—you’re my favourite fantasy.” 

It’s not a lie—and it makes his heartrate jump again. 

“Oh my God,” Sam groans. “Why do I even talk?” 

“You love us,” Joaquín says, voice low and breathless as he inches toward a door, slowly cracking it open. 

“No, I tolerate you. There’s a difference.” 

You watch the hallway clear, two red dots vanishing from the drone feed. “All clear ahead. Turn left at the next hall. Intel says the artifact is in the records room—bottom floor, east wing.” 

“Copy,” Joaquín says, his voice dropping as he reins in his focus. 

You lock in too—eyes fixed on the screen, breath held, fingers hovering over your keyboard. As much as you love your job, it’s stressful. Especially when the people in the field are the ones you care about most. So you’ve made it your personal mission not to let anything go unseen. 

You watch closely as Joaquín moves down the hall, turns left, and starts down the fire stairs. Sam is still working the perimeter, keeping out of sight and watching for any hostiles that might be closing in on Joaquín. 

It’s taken them two full weeks to find this place—after a discouraging series of dud leads. The artefact isn’t even being hunted, just protected. And for what? None of you know. But from everything you’ve gathered, it’s intel that could open the door to disaster. 

So Sam made the call to find it before it became a hot item—before someone could sell it on the dark web and hand a new villain the keys to world domination. 

What he hadn’t expected was for the mission to take two whole weeks. Fortunately, things have been quiet enough lately that they could afford the time—but that doesn’t mean it’s been fun. You’re pretty sure Sam is one more questionable pizza topping away from leaving Joaquín in Jakarta. 

A heat signature two floors above the records room catches your attention. Your eyes track it, nerves creeping up the back of your neck. You’re just about to say something when— 

“Holy shit,” Joaquín says, voice low and a little breathless. “It’s actually here.” 

You lean in, fingers poised over your keyboard. “Confirmed visual?” 

“Uh… yeah. Package secure?” 

Sam’s voice cuts in, flat. “Seriously?” 

“Dead serious, man. It’s just… sitting here. It’s actually here.” 

You let out a slow breath, tension easing from your shoulders as you watch the heat signature double back—moving away. 

“No traps, no alarms…” you say, scanning the feeds. “Someone’s either cocky or stupid.” 

“Or both,” Sam mutters. “Let’s wrap this up. I’m ready to never think about this city again.” 

Joaquín chuckles softly, his smirk practically audible. “Bet you’re smiling right now, hermosa.” 

“Maybe,” you reply, despite the very obvious grin on your face. “But you’re not out of the woods yet, pretty boy. Stay focused.” 

Joaquín laughs again under his breath. “Focused. Right. That’s what I am.” 

Your eyes flick to his vitals. “I can tell. Your heartrate’s through the roof again.” 

“Can you blame me?” he says. “Your voice in my ear, calling me pretty and saying all this smart stuff… this whole situation’s a little distracting.” 

You roll your eyes. “You forgetting the part where Sam’s one bad mood away from killing you?” 

“No. Just ignoring it.” He pauses at a corner, scans, then moves. “How mad do you think he’d be if I said I’m only doing this to impress you?” 

You lean back slightly, grinning to yourself. “He’d pretend to be annoyed. But secretly? I think he’s just relieved you deal with me so he doesn’t have to.” 

“Deal with you?” Joaquín echoes, voice soft and teasing. “Baby, you’re the reason I get out of bed every day.” 

Your heart lurches, but you keep your voice steady. “Keep talking like that and I might start hacking into your home security system.” 

“Do it,” he says. “I’d sleep better with your voice in my ear.” 

Your cheeks flush, breath catching. 

“Still here,” Sam cuts in. “Still sweating. Still regretting every life choice that led me to this team.” 

You glance at his vitals and smirk. “Vitals are solid, Cap. No cardiac distress.” 

“Yeah, well, if Torres drops anything on the way out, I’m blaming both of you.” 

Joaquín chuckles as he heads toward the extraction point. “Relax. We’re good. We’re almost out.” 

“God,” Sam sighs. “I cannot wait to get home.” 

“Hope you’ve got a hero’s welcome planned, cariño,” Joaquín says. 

You roll your eyes, smirking. “You want a medal or a kiss?” 

“Definitely the kiss,” he replies. “Medals are nice, but they wouldn’t taste as good as you.” 

You choke on nothing, face burning, pulse thrumming as you watch him move through the building toward where Sam is waiting. 

There’s a beat of silence—a loud, charged pause as you scramble for a comeback. 

“Wow,” Sam chuckles. “Think you broke her, Torres.” 

“Nah,” Joaquín says, smug as ever. “She’s just thinking about all the ways she’s gonna show me she missed me.” 

You draw a sharp breath, one hand gripping the edge of your desk, the other white-knuckling your coffee mug. 

“Alright, flyboy,” you mutter, trying not to smile. “That’s enough. Just get home safe.” 

“See you soon, princesa,” he says, voice low and warm in your ear. 

- 

The next twenty-four hours are the longest of your life—you’re sure of it. 

You try to distract yourself with work while Joaquín sends updates on their journey home, but you just can’t sit still. You’re too excited. You feel like a kid on Christmas Eve, except the presents aren’t going to be there when you wake up. No—you have to wait until six p.m. for Joaquín to be back. 

Once you finish work, you head home to your studio apartment—the one you spend less time in than your office—and put on a movie. Then another. And another. Because you’re too anxious to feel tired. Eventually, you drag yourself to bed and lie awake for a few hours before giving up at four a.m. and jumping in the shower. 

You take your time getting ready for work—doing your hair, a little makeup, picking your clothes, having a long breakfast. Then at six a.m., you’re out the door and on your way back to the office. 

Only twelve more hours to go. 

You settle in at your desk and try to review data from Sam and Joaquín’s mission, double-checking every log, every report—anything to keep your mind occupied. It feels like hours pass, but when you glance at the clock, it’s barely been one. 

So at seven a.m., you get up for a coffee, moving through the motions slowly and deliberately. 

By now, the office is starting to fill up. It’s never packed—Sam keeps the staff lean—but a few government liaisons, data crunchers, IT specialists, and engineers have started drifting in for the day. You know them all, and usually you’d be happy to have a little chat in the kitchenette while your coffee brews. But not today. 

Today, you’re stuck in your head—counting down the minutes until Joaquín walks through the door with that stupidly handsome grin on his face. 

God. You feel ridiculous. Missing him this much when he’s just a friend. 

Except, he’s not. Not to you—hasn’t been since the day you thought you lost him on a mission in Seoul. That was the moment it hit you. The moment you realised how much he meant to you—how in love with him you really were. 

He turned up hours later, a little battered and bruised but very much alive. And you wanted to tell him how you felt. Wanted to just blurt it out. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Because it wasn’t worth risking what you already had. So you kept quiet, buried the feelings, and went on being his best friend. 

That was years ago. And now you’re so deep in the friendzone—so used to the playful flirting and easy banter—you couldn’t climb out if you tried. You’ve come to terms with it, of course. Accepted it. And decided that having even a small piece of him is better than not having him at all. 

You spend the next few hours sorting through analytics and going over maintenance logs from the mission—nothing major. Just a few software bugs and one broken ‘feather’ because Joaquín clipped a wing trying some fancy manoeuvre Sam explicitly refuses to teach him. 

By lunchtime, you’ve fielded a few queries from the engineers and booked in a meeting with one of the legal advisors about Sam’s passport renewal. It never fails to amuse you how superheroes still have to deal with the same boring admin as everyone else. 

The afternoon slips by faster than the morning, hours ticking past as you lose track of time in a haze of meetings and emails. You’re finally heading back to your office when your stomach grumbles—loudly—reminding you that it’s probably well past your five p.m. snack break. 

You swing the door open, mentally halfway to your snack drawer, when— 

“Look who finally decided to show up,” Joaquín says, sitting in your desk chair with that stupidly handsome grin. “And here I thought you actually missed me. Was it all a lie?” 

Your heart lurches. Your lungs seize. And instead of flashing him a smile or a snappy comeback, you just freeze. Everything in your arms hits the floor—your tablet, your phone, a folder you don’t even remember picking up—all crashing down with a clatter that makes you flinch. 

Because it’s not just that he’s handsome. No—he’s unfairly handsome. Criminal, even. Dangerous to your health, your peace of mind, and your goddamn ovaries. Joaquín Torres, sitting in your desk chair like he owns the place—with a freshly grown moustache and goatee—is nothing short of lethal. 

“You okay, hermosa?” he asks, grin fading as he leans forward a little. 

“I told him to shave it off,” Sam says dryly, stepping in behind you. “He looks like an Antonio Banderas knockoff.” 

Joaquín scoffs. “Please. I’ve got way more charm than that guy.” 

“Than Antonio Banderas?” Sam says, incredulous. “You’re delusional, you know that?” 

“I prefer endearing,” Joaquín grins. 

You still haven’t stopped staring at him—at the facial hair that’s apparently capable of triggering a full-blown hormonal crisis. 

“Delusional and endearing are not synonyms,” Sam adds, seemingly oblivious to said crisis. 

Joaquín’s eyes flick back to you, brows drawing slightly together. “You breathing, baby?” 

Your heart kicks again at the nickname you should be used to by now—and somehow, that’s what snaps you out of it. 

“Yeah—uh,” you clear your throat, “I’m breathing. I’m good. I—welcome back! But isn’t it early?” You glance at your wrist, searching for a watch that isn’t there. “Shit. Where’s my phone? Oh.” You crouch down and grab it from the floor. “Oh. It’s past six. Huh. That meeting must’ve run long. I didn’t even realise. I—” 

“Breathe,” Sam says, laughing softly as he drops a hand on your shoulder. “Just breathe.” 

You inhale deeply, cheeks burning, and glance back at Joaquín’s stupidly gorgeous face again. 

“So,” he says, mouth curling into a smirk that should be illegal, “you like it?” 

You shrug, trying to play it cool. “It’s… okay. Looks good, I guess.” 

Sam snorts. “Oh, she likes it, alright.” 

You turn around and smack him in the chest, shooting him a look that could kill—but he doesn’t flinch. 

“Alright, then,” he chuckles, stepping back. “I’ll let you two get caught up.” 

You roll your eyes and duck your head as you start gathering everything you dropped. You keep your gaze down, even when you hear footsteps and see Joaquín’s hands join yours, collecting papers that spilled from the folder. 

When you’ve finally got it all, you stand and hug the pile to your chest, letting your eyes meet his again. 

“So,” he says, still grinning as he holds out what he gathered, “about that kiss.” 

You shake your head, fighting the smile tugging at your lips. “Forget it. You’re dreaming.” 

He shrugs one shoulder. “Maybe. But hey, I’m coming over tonight anyway.” 

You arch a brow. “Oh? And why’s that?” 

He leans in slightly, eyes sparkling. “Because my place has no food… and yours has food. And you.” 

Your cheeks heat, but your voice doesn’t waver. “You’re impossible, you know that?” 

“Maybe,” he says again, that grin going a little soft. “But you love it.” 

You struggle to focus on wrapping up your work with Joaquín hovering around your office—ranting about the mission, touching your stuff, looking at you with that goddamn moustache on his face. What would normally take five minutes takes almost twenty, but by seven o’clock, you’re both in a cab on the way back to your apartment. 

When you open the door and step inside, Joaquín walks in like he lives there too. He drops his duffel by the lounge and heads straight for the fridge, pulling it open to inspect the contents. You know him well enough by now to know exactly what’s coming next—he’s going to complain about your lack of ingredients, then insist on cooking anyway. And somehow, it’ll still be delicious. 

“You know, cariño,” he calls, leaning deeper into the fridge, “most people throw milk out when it starts to smell bad. Let alone when it’s chunky.” 

“I haven’t been home much lately,” you say, a little defensive. “My best friend was on a mission and I was busy making sure he didn’t die.” 

“So you could kill me yourself with expired dairy products?” he asks, still wearing that ridiculous grin. 

You roll your eyes and bite back a smile, choosing to ignore him while you kick off your boots. He keeps rummaging through the fridge while you make your way through the small apartment, closing blinds, turning on lamps, and queuing up the show you haven’t touched in the two weeks he’s been away. 

“I’m going to shower,” you say, pausing at the edge of the kitchen. 

He glances over his shoulder, smirk firmly in place, brows raised. “That an offer?” 

Your eyes widen, cheeks burning. “God. What was in the water over there? You’ve come back even worse than when you left.” 

“Maybe I just missed you,” he says, stepping toward you. 

The kitchen isn’t big—much like the rest of the apartment—but with Joaquín standing barely a foot away, it feels downright claustrophobic in a very specific, very dangerous way. 

“You still haven’t given me my hero’s welcome,” he adds, eyes sparkling. 

You tip your head, ignoring the way your pulse spikes. “Didn’t have time to get the medal minted.” 

His grin turns wicked. “Guess you owe me a kiss, then.” 

You don’t answer. You just step forward, slow and deliberate, closing the space between you like it doesn’t matter at all—even though your pulse is in your throat. His brows twitch, surprise flickering across his face, but he doesn’t move. He holds his ground. 

You tilt your chin up, rising onto your toes until your lips are just a breath from his. 

His breath stutters, and you catch the sharp rise of his chest—like he forgot how to breathe. That cocky smirk slips away as your eyes linger on his mouth, then drop to that stupid goatee. Because of course he found a way to be even more ridiculously attractive. 

You could kiss him. Right now. You could close that tiny gap and change everything. 

But instead, your voice drops low—steady despite the way your nerves are buzzing. “You sure you’re ready for that, Torres?” 

His pupils blow wide, cheeks flushing. You see it. You feel it—the flicker of nerves under all that swagger. 

You drag your fingers lightly down the front of his shirt, watching him go still, revelling in the thrill that rattles up your spine. 

His throat bobs with a swallow, and you know you’ve got him. For once, he has no comeback. 

You smirk, dropping back onto your heels. “Didn’t think so.” 

Then you turn and walk into your room, heart pounding, head spinning, but your steps still steady. You shut the door and fall back against it, covering your face with your hands to keep from screaming out loud because God, that was hot. And holy shit did it take every ounce of self-control not to just kiss him. 

Eventually, you push off the door, strip out of your clothes, and step into the ensuite bathroom. You turn the shower on hot and wait while the water heats, wondering if Joaquín would notice if you took a little longer than usual. 

Which... you do. Because that ache behind your hipbones is insistent, and if Joaquín is going to be here all night, you can’t just be sitting beside him horny as hell or you might end up doing something stupid. 

So after a long, hot shower—and some quality time with the detachable head—you change into your pyjamas and emerge from your bedroom. The rest of the apartment smells like butter and garlic, and Joaquín is standing in front of the stove with a little crease between his brows as he flips what you assume is a grilled cheese sandwich. 

“Grilled cheese?” you ask, leaning a hip against the counter. 

He shoots you a sideways glare. “It’s the only thing I could think of with your serious lack of food. But it’s not just grilled cheese—it’s gourmet. With mozzarella—that I’m pretty sure isn’t off—garlic, caramelised onion, and basil.” 

You lift a brow, nodding slowly. “I’m impressed. And hungry.” 

He smirks. “And the tomatoes you had were too soft to put in the sandwiches, so I made a sauce.” 

“Wow,” you say, turning toward the cupboard. “Sounds like I had plenty of ingredients for you.” 

You can almost hear him rolling his eyes as you get out a couple of plates and wine glasses, knowing full well that you might not have much food in the house, but you definitely have wine. 

He finishes grilling the sandwiches and flips them onto the plates, garnishing them with something green that you hope is a herb and not something wildly out of date he found in the fridge. Then you pour each of you a glass of wine before taking your plate into the lounge room. 

“Hopefully you won’t be able to tell how stale the bread is,” Joaquín says as he sits beside you, his knee knocking yours as he shoots you another pointed look. 

You roll your eyes. “Please, sourdough doesn’t go off. Just gets chewier.” 

He frowns at you, eyes wide in disbelief. “That’s literally the definition of stale bread.” 

You just shrug, taking a generous sip of wine before biting into your sandwich. And God, it’s almost inhuman how this man can make some of the best food out of the crappy ingredients you have. 

“That good?” he asks, watching you with a smirk. 

“It’s alright,” you mutter, mouth still full. 

He chuckles. “That moan you just made says otherwise.” 

Your eyes widen. “I moaned?” 

He laughs a little harder, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he watches your cheeks turn pink. “Don’t be embarrassed, hermosa. I love the little noises you make.” 

Your heart lurches and your eyes snap down to your plate. 

“Wonder what other noises I could get out of you,” he mutters, low but just loud enough to catch your attention. 

You swallow hard on the half-chewed bite, wincing as it catches on the way down your throat. You cough and reach for your wine, taking a long, burning gulp that only fans the heat spreading through your chest. 

You cough again into your hand, struggling to catch your breath. 

“You okay, cariño?” Joaquín asks, light laughter in his voice. 

“Fine,” you choke out. “I’m good.” 

He laughs softly, clearly amused but too hungry to press you any further. You watch his profile as he takes a bite of grilled cheese, chews, and swallows—and damn if that doesn’t just deepen the wildfire of nerves and heat roiling through you. 

Two weeks away from Joaquín, and every ounce of resistance you’ve spent years building up is gone. Shattered. Nowhere to be found. You feel like some virginal schoolgirl, wide-eyed and helpless, just watching his throat move as he swallows another bite. 

His eyes flick toward you, brows drawn, and you quickly drop your gaze back to your plate. You stuff the sandwich into your mouth and take a big bite to stop yourself from blurting out something dumb—like how insanely hot he looks when he eats, or how badly you want to know what that facial hair would feel like between your legs. 

“Hear anything from the lab?” he asks, snapping you out of your spiralling thoughts. 

You shake your head. “Not yet.” 

He nods slowly. “Sam’s probably bugging.” 

“Why?” 

“Reckons it’s something big,” he says. “Something dangerous.” 

You tilt your head. “Like what?” 

He shrugs. “Dunno. Maybe something alien.” 

“Nah.” You take another sip of wine. “It’s probably old data from some collapsed organisation. Looked more like a hard drive than an explosive.” 

As if on cue, your phone lights up, buzzing on the coffee table beside your wine glass. You drop your sandwich and reach for it, tapping the answer button and pressing it to your ear. 

“Doctor Chen,” you greet. “How’s it going?” 

“The captain was right,” Maya—one of Sam’s lab techs—says. “This is dangerous.” 

Your brows pull together as you lift the phone away from your ear and put it on speaker so Joaquín can hear too. 

“What is it?” 

“Old Stark tech. Data, to be precise,” Maya replies. 

“Have you told Sam yet?” 

“Not yet. You were my first call. I figured Joaquín was with you.” 

Your cheeks flush. “Oh. Uh, yeah. He’s here.” 

Joaquín meets your eyes and gives you a cheeky little wink, lips curving into a smirk. 

“I’ll see you both first thing in the morning,” Maya says. “I’ll call Sam now.” 

“Okay,” you reply, shoving Joaquín’s thigh with your knee. “Thanks, Doctor Chen.” 

The line goes dead, the soft disconnect tone buzzing through the quiet room—Joaquín having paused the TV without you noticing. 

“What kind of data do you think it is?” he asks, brow furrowed. 

You shrug. “Who knows. Maybe something that’ll finally tell us how to shut you up.” 

He scoffs, leaning in just a little. “Or maybe something that tells me exactly how to get you to kiss me.” 

Your heart stutters, breath catching just loud enough for him to hear. 

“Or,” he adds, eyes dancing, “I just keep saying shit like that until your brain short-circuits and you snap.” 

You suck in a slow breath, trying not to smile. Trying not to give him the satisfaction. 

“God,” you mutter, nudging him with your shoulder, “you’re so fucking annoying tonight.” 

He just grins wider and takes another bite of grilled cheese—completely unbothered, maddeningly smug. And of course, your traitorous eyes fall to the line of his jaw as he chews, which does nothing to help your situation. 

- 

“It’s not just old Stark data,” Sam says, standing at the head of the small conference table. “This hard drive contains preliminary code for the foundational architecture of Stark’s first AI.” 

“As in J.A.R.V.I.S.?” Joaquín asks. “The computer that ran his house?” 

“J.A.R.V.I.S. didn’t just run his house,” you cut in. “He was integrated into the Iron Man suits, and he was part of Ultron and Vision. In the wrong hands, this data could be... catastrophic.” 

“Right,” Joaquín nods. “So... we destroy it?” 

“We can’t destroy it,” Milton—one of Sam’s more insufferable government liaisons—says. “Per federal protocol, all recovered Stark-origin assets are to be logged, quarantined, and transferred to a Level Four secure facility for presidential review and Congressional oversight.” 

Sam sighs, visibly holding back an eye-roll. 

“Quarantined for review?” you echo, incredulous. “Graves, this kind of data in the wrong hands could—” 

“And what authority do you have to decide that?” Milton cuts in with his usual sneer. “Who’s to say you won’t use it to recreate this... jervis?” 

Milton is easily your least favourite person in the office. He’s a stickler for rules, an arrogant idiot, and completely insufferable—but he does make a good target for your and Joaquín’s boredom-induced pranks. Like the time you rearranged his keyboard to spell something wildly inappropriate and watched him struggle to fix it for thirty minutes. Or when you convinced him that ‘Camo Friday’ was an official dress code. 

Needless to say, he’s not your biggest fan. Or Joaquín’s. But unfortunately for him, you’re both basically Sam’s second-in-command. 

“It’s Jarvis,” Joaquín says flatly. “J-A-R-V-I-S. Want help with the alphabet, or are you still stuck on the letter J?” 

Milton’s lips curl, eyes narrowing—ready to fire back—when Sam steps in. 

“We haven’t made a final decision about the drive,” he says firmly, glancing between Joaquín and Milton. “I’ll speak with the Department of Damage Control myself. Until then, it stays here, under full-time protection.” 

Joaquín sighs. “Don’t tell me—” 

“You’re not on protection,” Sam cuts him off. “I’ve got others for that. I need you somewhere else.” 

Joaquín sits up straighter, head tilted. “Where?” 

Sam glances at you and nods. You quickly plug your tablet into the display, and a second later, the intel you and the logistics team pulled together flickers up on the screen.  

“Matías Navarro,” you say, zooming in on the mugshot of a stern-faced, middle-aged man. “Clean on paper, but deeply embedded in tech smuggling rings. Works through proxies, keeps his hands clean. No one knows where he gets the tech, and none of his buyers care. He’s been arrested a dozen times, but he always walks.” 

You switch to a series of ledgers. “His name is tied to the building we found the hard drive in—not currently, but previously. He either sold it or abandoned it. Either way, he’s the last known owner.” 

“So,” Joaquín says, “we find Navarro and… question him?” 

You nod. “Exactly. He’s mostly dealt in weapons and arms. He might not have known what was on the drive—but if he did, or if he made a copy, we could be in serious shit.” 

“Right.” Joaquín nods. “Where do we find him?” 

“Club Calavera,” you reply, tapping your tablet until a picture of a dark brick building fills the screen. “It used to be a Latin dance club. Now it’s more like a networking spot for arms dealers and petty crime lords who like to salsa.” 

“Navarro’s a regular,” Sam adds. “Every Saturday. Like clockwork.” 

“Club Skull,” Joaquín snorts. “Subtle.” 

“You should fit right in, then,” you say with a smirk. “You’ve got all the subtlety of a brick through a window.” 

His eyes go wide. “Fit in? I’m going in? Like… undercover?” 

You nod. “That’s right, pretty boy. You’re our distraction.” 

“Distraction?” he echoes, brows shooting up. 

“I need to talk to Navarro,” Sam says, “but I can’t just walk in—not with all the high-profile thugs that frequent the place. I’d be too easily noticed.” 

“Hence,” you say, grinning at Joaquín, “our distraction.” 

He shifts in his seat, eyes flicking between you and Sam. “Alright. What kind of distraction?” 

Sam folds his arms, smirking. “It’s a Latin dance club, Torres. What do you think?” 

“You want me to dance?” Joaquín asks, voice cracking. 

“Oh, no, flyboy.” You lean forward, grin turning wicked. “We don’t just want you to dance, we need you to cause a whole damn scene.” 

He swallows hard. “How?” 

Sam chuckles. “Ever seen The Mask?” 

“That movie with Jim Carrey?” 

Sam nods. 

“You want me to cause a scene in the middle of a club full of criminals big enough to distract every single one of them?” Joaquín asks, brows drawing tight. “I—I can’t. No one could. It’s impossible.” 

“Oh, come on,” you sigh. “You’re Joaquín fucking Torres. If anyone can cause a scene that big, it’s you. Plus, you won’t be alone.” 

He frowns. “What do you mean?” 

“You need a dance partner,” you reply simply, tapping your tablet. 

The screen flickers before bringing up three headshots of three different women, each with a brief bio beside the names—abilities and all. 

“Kate Bishop,” you say, enlarging the first photo. “Hawkeye-in-training. She worked with Clint for a while. Definitely has the social skills to work the room, plus charm and skill.” 

Joaquín shakes his head. “No, she won’t blend in. Not in a Latin crowd, at least.” 

“Okay,” you nod, moving to the next photo. “Ava Ayala, a.k.a. White Tiger. Fluent in Spanish and has the physicality to back us up if things go south.” 

Joaquín considers it, tipping his head before shaking it again. “No, it won’t work. I’ve heard she prefers solo missions—might not adapt well to a cover role that requires dancing and mingling.” 

You take a deep breath and move to the last photo. “Alright. Elena ‘Yo-Yo’ Rodriguez. She’s great at going undercover and knows how to stay cool under pressure. Plus, she can get you out fast if needed.” 

Joaquín’s eyes flick from the screen to you, then to Sam, back to you, and then the screen again. 

“I don’t doubt her skills,” he says. “But have you seen her operate in this kind of scene? Nightclubs and criminal networks require a certain… finesse.” 

Sam sighs and pulls out a chair, dropping into it. “Well, you can’t dance alone.” 

“I know,” Joaquín says firmly. “But I can’t walk into a club full of criminals and half-ass it with someone I don’t know or trust.” 

“That’s the whole point,” you say, setting your tablet down with a sigh. “You’re supposed to go in, pick someone from the crowd, and make it look spontaneous. A big, passionate moment. If it’s too polished, too rehearsed, they’ll sniff it out.” 

He leans forward, bracing his forearms on the table. “I get that. But it still has to be someone I’ve got chemistry with. Someone I’m actually attracted to.” 

You frown, glancing at the screen full of attractive women, then back at him—feeling your stomach twist, even if you don’t want to admit why. 

“They’re all attractive. I don’t see the—” 

“Sure,” he interrupts. “But what if there's no chemistry? This is a club full of Latinos. They’ll smell fake passion from across the dance floor, cariño.” 

You cross your arms and lean back in your chair. “So what are you saying? You won’t do it?” 

“Of course I'll do it,” he says, smirking now. “But I’ve got one condition.” 

You look at Sam, deadpan. “He’s got conditions now.” 

Sam chuckles. “This guy.” 

You turn back to Joaquín. “Alright, pretty boy. What’s your condition?” 

“You dance with me.” 

The room falls silent. 

You freeze, breath catching. “M–Me?” 

He grins. “You, hermosa. It makes sense. We’ve got chemistry, and all you have to do is follow my lead.” 

You glance at Sam, half-panicked. “I’m not a field agent. I’m not—” 

“Actually,” Sam says, thoughtful, “it does makes sense. The two of you could sell it. No extra variables, no risk of another agent blowing the op.” 

Your eyes widen. “You’re not serious. I—I can’t even dance.” 

“You don’t need to,” Joaquín says. “You just have to let me lead.” 

Your heart is pounding now, nerves sparking like live wires, sweat prickling at the back of your neck. You’re not built for this. You’re the guy in the chair. The one locked behind bulletproof glass and a million firewalls. 

“Joaquín, I—” 

“It’s the only way this works,” he says, his smile infuriatingly smug. 

“Kid’s got a point,” Sam adds. 

Your eyes bounce between them, wide and overwhelmed. “I’m barely trained for combat. If something goes wrong, I—” 

“That’s why I’m there, cariño,” Joaquín cuts in, voice low. “You don’t have to do anything except look pretty—which you already do—and follow my lead.” 

You’re running out of excuses. And Joaquín is looking at you with those big, stupidly pretty brown eyes that always get him his way. You don’t want to say yes. But you really don’t want to say no. Not to that face. Not to Sam’s, either—especially when he’s looking this hopeful and just a little smug. 

“Fine,” you mutter, glaring at Joaquín. “But if either of us die, I’m going to kill you.” 

He just grins—impossibly smug, unfairly hot. A walking wet dream with tight sleeves and a killer smile, practically glowing with anticipation. 

The next few days are a whirlwind of intel, training, and—to your immense displeasure—costume fittings. Because you can’t just wear jeans and a top. No. You have to look like a part-time salsa dancer and full-time prison groupie, which apparently means a sparkly dress with a hemline that barely covers your ass. 

But that’s not even the worst part. 

The worst part is that Joaquín refuses to practice with you. He won’t even show you a few steps. Because, like you said, it has to look spontaneous. It can’t be rehearsed or choreographed, or someone might clock it for the distraction that it is. 

So he won’t dance with you at all—which is not exactly something you ever thought you’d be begging him for. Not unless you’re talking about the horizontal tango—because in that case, yeah, you could definitely see yourself begging. 

“Ouch,” Sam mutters, freezing mid-step. “That was my foot.” 

You scowl up at him, arms stiff where they rest on his shoulder and in his hand. “I told you, I don’t fucking know how to dance.” 

“Relax,” he chuckles. “You’re not auditioning for Dancing with the Stars. You just need to get through one song without crushing Joaquín’s toes.” 

“If he doesn’t want his feet stomped on,” you snap, glaring across the room, “then he should be the one teaching me.” 

Joaquín rolls his eyes and pushes off the wall, tapping something on his phone to lower the music blaring through the overhead speakers. You’ve taken up residence in Isaiah Bradley’s gym for the past few days, using the open space—and the crash mats—as Sam attempts to teach you the basics of salsa dancing. 

It’s not going great. 

“You need to move your hips more,” Joaquín says. “Feel the music. Don’t fight it.” 

“‘M gonna fight you in a minute,” you mutter. 

Sam laughs again, clearly amused, as Joaquín steps in behind you—close—his hands landing firmly on your hips. 

Your eyes go wide. Your spine snaps straight. Your fingers dig into Sam’s shoulder. 

“Ouch,” he murmurs, wincing. 

“Shut up,” you hiss. 

He bites back a laugh. 

“Okay,” Joaquín says. “Let’s move through the steps slowly.” 

Sam nods and starts moving. You follow, trying to count through the steps you’ve half-memorised. Then— 

Joaquín steps in even closer, chest almost brushing your back, and without a word, he guides your hips into the right position. Your feet falter. Your heart stutters. His hands are big, steady—thumbs pressing lightly into the small of your back as he shifts your weight, encouraging a more natural sway from your hips. 

“Too stiff,” he murmurs, voice low. “You’ve gotta loosen up, cariño.” 

Then his hands trail—slow and deliberate—up the curve of your waist, just high enough for his thumbs to graze the underside of your ribs. It’s a fleeting touch, but it leaves a trail of fire in its wake. And then, like it was nothing, he steps back—cool, casual, unaffected. 

Your breath catches. Heat rushes up your neck and into your cheeks, your brain short-circuiting as your body fights to stay upright and not melt into a puddle of incoherent desire. Sam watches the whole thing unfold with an amused grin, clearly not missing the way your knees nearly buckle. 

“You okay?” he asks. “You’re lookin’ a little pink there.” 

“I’m fine,” you snap. 

Behind you, Joaquín turns the music back up and says, far too casually, “She’s just tense.” 

Sam snorts. “Oh, I don’t think that’s the problem.” 

You grit your teeth and take a deep breath through your nose, summoning every ounce of self-control you have to not to completely lose it. 

“Okay,” you mutter, “let’s go again.” 

You take it from the top twice more before Sam’s phone rings and he’s called away for a meeting with logistics. By that point, you’re tired, sweaty, and still wishing you’d said no, but according to Joaquín, your hips are moving much more naturally. 

You try not to think too hard about him watching your hips while you dance. 

While you stretch and cool off—which mostly just means lying on the floor scrolling through your phone—Joaquín starts boxing with Isaiah. And holy hell if that isn’t making you thirstier than two straight hours of salsa dancing did. 

You try to focus on the video of a puppy eating raspberries currently playing on your phone, but your eyes keep drifting to the other side of the gym. To him. 

Joaquín’s in the ring—gloves on, shirt off, moving like a goddamn dream. His skin gleams with sweat, muscles flexing with every jab and pivot, the line of his back carved like something out of a museum. Even his hair is damp, dark curls falling over his forehead—and God, you want to run your fingers through it, tug it just a little to see what kind of noises he’d make. 

You swallow hard, watching the way he bounces on the balls of his feet, light and fast. Isaiah swings, Joaquín dodges, and you’re embarrassingly close to moaning when he ducks and throws a clean uppercut that lands with a satisfying smack. 

Your imagination fills in the blanks way too fast. What those hands would feel like dragging down your body. What that mouth could do if it wasn’t behind a mouthguard. You’re picturing him pinning you up against the ropes for a very different kind of workout when— 

“Enjoying the show?” 

You startle, eyes flying up to find Joaquín leaning on the ropes, gloves resting on the top strand, smirk wide and knowing. His chest is rising and falling, skin glistening, and there’s a wicked gleam in his eye that says he’s seen every second of you ogling him. 

You blink. “Nope.” 

He laughs. “You’re a terrible liar. Come here.” 

“What? Why?” 

He grins, pushing open the ropes. “Get in the ring.” 

You frown. “Absolutely not.” 

“Come on,” he says, stepping aside so you can climb through. “You’re going undercover. You should know how to throw a punch in case something goes south.” 

“I did a combat course,” you say, slowly climbing up and stopping in the middle of the ring. “A few years ago." 

“And I haven’t eaten a donut since Tuesday. Doesn’t mean I’m in peak condition.” 

Isaiah laughs from the corner, tossing Joaquín a towel. “Have fun, lovebirds,” he calls, hopping down from the ring. “Try not to injure each other.” 

“I make no promises,” Joaquín says with a wink, then turns back to you, holding out a pair of gloves. “Hands up, cariño.” 

You roll your eyes, sighing, but slide your hands into the gloves anyway. “If I get hurt, I’m suing.” 

He steps closer to tighten the straps on your gloves, and you try—really try—not to stare. But his chest is right there, slick with sweat, rising and falling with every breath. Your eyes flick to the constellation of tiny moles scattered across his collarbone and up the side of his neck, and your brain starts wandering where it definitely shouldn’t. 

Like how warm his skin would feel under your mouth. 

How he'd taste. 

Whether that facial hair would scrape or tickle. 

“You spacing out on me already?” he asks, smug. 

You blink hard and force your eyes back to his. “No. Just visualising how hard I’m going to hit you.” 

His smile grows. “Hot.” 

You scowl, cheeks burning. “I hate you.” 

“No, you don’t,” he says easily, stepping back and raising his hands. “Alright, let’s start with a jab. Front foot forward, hands up, aim for my shoulder.” 

You shuffle your feet and throw the first punch. It’s not awful, but it’s definitely not impressive. 

And he dodges it with infuriating ease. “Again.” 

You go again—harder this time—and his face lights up. 

“There we go,” he says, circling you. “Now try a cross. Pivot your back foot a little. Twist at the hips.” 

He moves around you slowly, correcting your stance, touching your elbow here, your shoulder there. Every brush of his fingers lights you up like a fuse. You try to focus on your footwork, your form, anything other than the way he’s watching you—like he’s memorising every move. 

And when you land a solid hit against his open palm, his smile turns molten. “Damn. Maybe I should be worried.” 

“You should always be worried,” you mutter, blowing a lock of hair out of your eyes. 

He steps in close, lowering his voice. “You’re better than you think.” 

You swallow. Hard. Because now he’s too close, and you can smell him—sweat mixed with something warm and spicy, like cinnamon, cedar, and something darker, something dangerous. His eyes flick down from your face to your body, not even trying to pretend he isn’t checking you out. 

“You’re staring,” you say, a little breathless. 

He smirks. “So are you.” 

The space between you shrinks, and suddenly the air feels thick—too warm, too charged. 

“You’re dangerously close,” you tease, trying to keep your voice steady while your heart beats like a war drum. 

He leans in just a little more, hot breath ghosting over your damp skin. “Close enough to hear your heartbeat,” he murmurs, voice low. “It’s fast.” 

Your breath hitches, and you force yourself to look anywhere but at his lips. 

“Careful,” you murmur. “I might start thinking you want to spar for real.” 

He grins wickedly. “Oh, I’ve got moves that don’t involve gloves.” 

You laugh, but it’s shaky. “That a challenge?” 

“More like a promise,” he says, eyes darkening with mischief. 

He steps even closer, just enough for your bodies to almost touch, the heat radiating off him setting your skin alight. Your hands twitch, itching to reach out, to feel the solid strength beneath those muscles. But instead, you bite back the impulse, take a breath, and jab forward, aiming a quick punch at his bicep. 

He’s faster—too fast—and his hand catches your wrist, grip firm. “Not bad,” he says, voice rougher now. “But you’re getting distracted.” 

You glance down at his fingers wrapped around your wrist—strong and warm—then back up at him. “Maybe I like being distracted.” 

He chuckles, low and throaty. “You have no idea what you do to me, cariño.” 

Your cheeks flush, and suddenly the gym feels smaller, the world reduced to just the two of you—the thud of your hearts, the quick intake of breath, the heat humming beneath your skin. 

He leans in again, his breath warm against your lips. “One more round? Winner gets to decide what happens next.” 

You bite your bottom lip, eyes flicking down to his mouth, then back to his gaze. “You’re on.” 

You throw yourself into the next round, fists flying, breath ragged—but he’s relentless, every move calculated to push you harder, closer. He’s not holding back anymore; his feet are quick, his hands even quicker. You feel like you’re flailing, only landing punches when he lets you. 

Then, without warning, he ducks a blow and catches you from behind, one arm wrapping tight around your neck. Not enough to choke—just to claim. His other hand finds your hip, fingers digging in, pressing bruises into your flesh. Your pulse spikes as your body freezes, caught between wanting to fight and drowning in the heat of him pressed against you. 

Your breath hitches as you recognise the undeniable length of him digging into your ass—heavy and hard. His mouth hovers just at your neck, warm breath teasing, lips barely brushing. “Careful, nena,” he whispers, voice thick with something dark and urgent. “You’re playing with fire.” 

Your hands tremble, heart pounding in your throat. Every second, every shallow breath drips with desperate hunger. His fingertips dig into your skin, pulling you impossibly close—his hips grinding slow and deliberate against your ass. 

You want to say something, anything, but the only sounds are your uneven inhales and the thump of your racing heart. Then—just as your resolve begins to crack— 

The gym door swings open, and Sam bursts in. “Alright, what’s the verdict? Lunch or more sparring?” he calls out, completely oblivious to the heat hanging thick between you two. 

Joaquín straightens, sliding his arms away with a slow, wicked grin, eyes sparkling with amusement and something more primal. He moves off to the side of the ring, turning away from Sam—no doubt hiding the bulge in his gym shorts. 

You’re burning up, cheeks flushed crimson, every nerve screaming as you struggle to breathe normally. 

Sam quirks his head, brows furrowed. “You alright? Is he pushing you too hard?” 

God. Something is too hard. 

You shake your head. “N-No. Just... sparring.” 

“Right,” Sam says, not sounding fully convinced. “Well, go clean up. I’m starving.” 

- 

After a shower—a very cold shower—a quick lunch, and several meetings, you’re back in your office combing through security tapes from Club Calavera, scanning for any familiar faces that might compromise tomorrow night’s mission. 

You’re midway through last Saturday’s tape when Joaquín pops his head in the door, grinning like he hadn’t pressed his hard dick against you just a few hours ago. 

“Sam’s hungry,” he says. “Again.” 

You clear your throat. “Already? It’s—” You glance at the clock, brows lifting. “Oh. It’s nearly seven.” 

“Yeah,” he says, stepping in and closing the door behind him. “He wants wings.” 

There’s nothing overtly threatening about the way he stands in front of your only exit—but it still feels dangerous. Being alone with him in this tight little four-by-four office, with nothing between you but a desk and a couple monitors, feels very dangerous. 

You’re not sure what changed while he was away on that last mission—all you know is that something did. And now, the tension between you is almost impossible to ignore. 

“Wings,” you echo, dragging your eyes back to your screens. “Got it. The usual?” 

“Yep,” he nods. “Extra ranch.” 

You smirk as you open a new tab—typing in only a few letters before the URL auto-fills. 

Joaquín frowns. “What’s that look for?” 

“Nothing,” you say quickly, shaking your head. 

His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t press. He just stands there, back against the door, watching you order the food with his bottom lip caught between his perfect teeth. 

“There,” you say, clicking submit order. “Death wings for Captain America, and a baby batch for The Falcon.” 

His eyes widen as he tries—and fails—to fight another grin. “I knew you were laughing at me. It’s not my fault I was born with a spice intolerance.” 

You lean back in your chair, rolling your lips to suppress a giggle. “I wasn’t. I swear.” 

“I’m brave in other ways,” he mutters, folding his arms across his chest. 

“I know.” 

You stare at each other for a beat too long. The air thickens, tension crawling over your skin, heavy and charged. Your eyes trace the line of his jaw, the sharp slope of his nose, the curve of his cupid’s bow beneath that maddeningly hot little moustache. 

Your fingers twitch over your keyboard, itching to touch him. To grip his shoulders. Tug his hair. Wrap around his hot, hard— 

Bang, bang, bang. 

Joaquín startles as Sam shoves at your office door from the other side. 

“Move your ass, Torres,” he calls, voice muffled. 

Joaquín exhales a shaky breath and steps aside—and you swear you see him subtly adjust himself in his jeans. 

“Wings ordered?” Sam asks, pushing the door open. 

You nod. “Death by buffalo coming right up.” 

He grins. “Good. Now get your asses to the conference room. Tactical support wants to run one last debrief.” 

“Ooh,” you say, jumping to your feet. “Do I get any weapons?” 

Both men whip toward you—eyes wide, brows drawn—and in perfect unison say, “No.” 

You sit in the meeting, pretending to listen, while mostly ogling the way Joaquín is testing out his gear. Without the wings, he’s going to be packing an assortment of easily concealed weapons, and something about the way he handles everything with practiced ease has you squeezing your thighs beneath the table. 

His hands are sure and precise—strong fingers wrapping around grips, forearms flexing subtly with each flick and pop. There’s a quiet confidence in the way he inspects every piece, the kind of focused intensity that makes your pulse quicken. 

His jaw tightens slightly, eyes narrowing in concentration, brows drawing together just enough to highlight the sharp line of his cheekbones. It’s like watching a master at work—every subtle motion deliberate, effortless. The way his muscles tense and relax, the small, almost imperceptible shifts in his stance… it all speaks of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing, and how much power he wields beneath that calm exterior. 

You can’t help but admire the rhythm, the flow, the way he seems to command the weapons almost as if they’re extensions of his own body. Your gaze lingers longer than it should, tracing the sinew in his forearms, the curve of his wrists, imagining what it would feel like to be touched by those hands—steady, confident, and undeniably capable. 

“You need a napkin, or are you just gonna keep drooling on the table?” Sam asks, startling you out of your daydream. 

You whip toward him, brow furrowed, one hand swiping instinctively at the corner of your mouth while the other smacks his bicep. 

He chuckles. “Wow. I could call HR, you know.” 

You roll your eyes. “Do it.” 

“Actually,” he says, tilting his head, “I think Joaquín should call HR, with the way you were eye-fucking him across the table. But the boy’s too stupid to notice.” 

Your eyes snap to the front of the room, expecting Joaquín to still be there—but he’s not. In fact, it’s just you and Sam left in the conference room. Even the weapons have been packed up and hauled off. 

“Oh,” you blink. “Is it over?” 

“Been over for a while,” he says with another soft chuckle. “My wings here yet?” 

Your eyes go wide. “Shit. The wings.” 

You jump up and dart out of the room, jogging down the hall to the front reception where you told the delivery driver to leave the food. Thankfully, it’s still there—and when you pick up the bag, it’s warm enough that Sam won’t kill you. 

With a relieved sigh, you carry the wings back through the building, past the now-empty conference room, and straight to Sam and Joaquín’s office at the very back—the one with the giant, obnoxious Captain America symbol frosted onto the window glass. 

“Special delivery,” you say, walking straight toward the table surrounded by low blue lounges. 

You pull out the Styrofoam containers and start sniffing each one to determine which is which. Sam appears beside you with three cans of beer, and Joaquín flops onto one of the lounges, grabbing the bag to pull out a wad of napkins—because you always ask for extra. 

“Shit. They forgot the wet ones,” he says, glancing up at you. 

“Don’t worry,” you mutter, “we’ve got enough wet wipes to stock a preschool.” 

Joaquín chuckles as you cross the room toward Sam’s desk, opening the middle drawer of the cabinet and pulling a fistful of wipes. 

“God, I’m starving,” Joaquín groans. 

You turn back just in time to see him sliding one of the containers toward himself. Your brow furrows, eyes narrowing, and just before realisation hits—before you can say anything—he opens it and lifts a wing to his lips.  

“Joaquín—!” you yelp, eyes wide. 

His gaze flicks to you, confusion creasing his brow—then it hits. 

His cheeks flush immediately, sweat prickling at his hairline and sliding down the side of his face. His eyes go wide, his body locking up—the wing still caught between his teeth.  

“That’s Sam’s!” you exclaim, rushing over. “Spit it out, you idiot. You’re gonna go into cardiac arrest.” 

“Wait,” Sam leans forward, eyes bright. “Did he just—?” 

You nod. “Yeah.” 

“One of mine?” 

“Yep.” 

“Holy shit.” 

“Joaquín,” you say firmly. “Spit the goddamn wing out.” 

He does, letting it drop back into the container with a wet plop. 

“Gross,” Sam groans, sliding the container away from Joaquín. 

“You okay?” you ask, biting back a grin. 

He looks like he’s been pepper-sprayed. Face red, eyes watery, lips puffy, breath coming and going in shallow gasps. 

“Uh uh,” he groans, shaking his head slowly. “Burns.” 

“I know, baby,” you giggle, unable to stop yourself. “I’ll go get some milk.” 

He nods slowly, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes. 

You let out another laugh—louder this time—as you run out of the room and jog down the hall, pivoting into the kitchen. You yank the fridge open, pull out the bottle of milk, and retrace your steps. 

By the time you return, Sam is grinning like a demon, face smeared with sauce, and Joaquín is full-on wheezing, fanning his mouth with his hand. 

“What happened?” 

“He drank the beer,” Sam says, clearly very entertained. “Made it worse.” 

“My god, Joaquín,” you sigh, dropping the milk in front of him. “Didn’t you smell the hot sauce?” 

He shakes his head, already chugging from the bottle. Milk dribbles from his lips and down his jaw, sliding down the column of his neck—and suddenly, you’re having thoughts. Filthy ones. 

You drag your eyes away, cheeks hot. 

Jesus Christ. Even watching him drink milk is hot now? 

“I just don’t understand how your tolerance for spice is so bad,” you mutter. “You’re half-Mexican for crying out loud.” 

He stops long enough to gasp for air—then burps like a frat boy. “That’s racist.” 

“It’s not racist,” you say, rolling your eyes. “I’ve been to your house. Your mama’s tamales are hot. And delicious.” 

“Ooh,” Sam smirks. “Tell me more about his mom’s tamales.” 

Joaquín shoots him a slow, deadly look over the milk carton as he continues drinking. 

“His mom makes the best food,” you say, finally opening your own container of wings. “The rest of his family can handle heat just fine—but this pretty boy always gets a custom serving. Mild.” 

“Wow,” Sam snorts. “Way to let the ancestors down, Torres.” 

Joaquín finishes the entire bottle of milk—though it was only half full—before he’s finally able to breathe normally again. His cheeks are still flushed, his hair a little damp, but at least he no longer looks like he’s about to explode. 

“Better?” you ask, smirking behind a half-eaten wing. 

“You know,” he says, leaning forward, that stupid, smug grin back in place, “might help if you kiss it better.” 

You raise your brows. “Your mouth?” 

He shrugs, eyes sparkling. “Probably a couple of places you could kiss that’d help.” 

Your eyes go wide, pulse spiking. Across from you, Sam chokes on a mouthful of chicken. 

“No,” he says between coughs. “Stop it. Both of you. I am not sitting here while you do your weird flirting shit. Leave me out of it.” 

Joaquín just grins, completely unaffected, and opens his container of mild buffalo wings. It shouldn’t be sexy, the way he sinks his teeth in and tears the meat off the bone. Or how his tongue flicks out to catch a drop of sauce at the corner of his mouth. Or the low, satisfied groan he lets out, like it’s the best thing he’s tasted all week. 

But God, when it comes to Joaquín Torres, you are well and truly screwed—just not in the way you want to be. 

- 

Your heart is in your throat. Your hands are trembling. Your back is sweating. 

Every step you take deeper into Club Calavera brings you one step closer to puking. 

The inside of the club is soaked in red light and velvet, thick with smoke and perfume. Velvet booths line the walls, half-hidden in shadow, crowded with people who look like they have knives in their boots and secrets in their smiles. The bar glows low and warm on one side of the room, casting amber light across bottles arranged like trophies. 

The music is bass-heavy, slow and deliberate, and the dance floor pulses with bodies moving close—too close. Everything sparkles—sequins, sweat, the occasional flash of a watch or the glint of a gun tucked just out of sight. 

It’s the kind of place where everyone’s watching, everyone’s working an angle, and no one’s here by accident. 

You feel completely exposed without so much as a headset or earpiece, but Sam insisted—strictly no comms. It’s too risky in a place like this. 

Teddy from logistics is ‘in the chair’ tonight, doing what you’d usually be doing—watching live feeds, monitoring heat signatures, keeping an eye out for trouble. You all know the signals. The procedures. Where to meet if it all goes sideways. But none of that is making you feel even remotely safe in this den of criminals. 

You take a slow, deep breath and continue weaving your way through the crowd, keeping your chin up—confident, not cocky. Your movements are measured. Deliberate. 

You know where you’re going. You’re not nervous. You fit in. 

“Hey, gorgeous,” someone murmurs beside you. 

You offer a small, coy smile, then duck away, putting several bodies between you and whoever that was—for good measure. 

The club is crowded enough to disappear in. You just have to make sure you don’t move too fast. Don’t draw too much attention. 

Not that this goddamn dress is making it easy not to draw attention. 

It’s gold and slinky, catching the light with every step, made from a breathable stretch-knit lamé mesh—fine metallic threads woven into silky, weightless fabric. The outer layer is a sheer gold sparkle mesh, densely packed with glittering micro-sequins that flash like fire under the club lights. 

It’s cut obscenely short—the hem grazing your upper thighs—with a scooped neckline just low enough to tease, and long flared sleeves that shimmer from shoulder to wrist. It doesn’t cling—but it follows your shape with a sleek, deliberate grace that leaves no doubt it was tailor-made for you. 

Beneath all that glitter, the bodice is reinforced with a discreet layer of ballistic fabric—a Kevlar-knit that’s thin and flexible enough to contour to your body, but strong enough to slow a small-calibre round or deflect a blade. So, as long as any would-be attackers aim for the dress and not your legs, you might just have a shot at making it out alive if things go sideways. 

“Excuse me,” you murmur, voice low as you squeeze between two people who were definitely not excusing you. 

You pop out of the crowd at the edge of the dancefloor just as the music shifts. It pulses low and slow at first, a sensual rhythm driven by a deep reggaeton beat. Then a plucked guitar winds through the bassline—sharp, teasing, almost flirtatious—while maracas and other percussion add a soft shimmer beneath it all, like heat rising off pavement. 

There’s a slinky sway to it, like hips rolling in time with every beat. The tempo is deliberate, confident, impossible to ignore—each note coaxing movement, inviting bodies closer. It’s the kind of music that wraps around you like smoke, warm and heady, and refuses to let go. 

You don’t see him at first—just feel it. That ripple in the air. A subtle shift in energy that tells you someone is watching. 

And then you spot him. 

Joaquín steps through the crowd like it’s parting just for him. He’s traded his usual tactical black for loose tan trousers that hang low on his hips, a gold chain draped from the belt loops. A crisp white shirt is thrown over a fitted tank, sleeves rolled up like he’s halfway between saint and sin. His hair’s slicked just enough to look intentional, a single curl falling over his brow, and there’s a glint of gold at his throat that catches the light every time he moves. 

He doesn’t just look good—he looks dangerous. Not in the gunmetal, locked-and-loaded way you’re used to. This is softer. Smouldering. The kind of danger that tempts instead of threatens. The kind that makes your breath hitch and your knees weaken. 

And he’s looking at you. 

Head tilted, tongue grazing the inside of his cheek like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. Like he’s been thinking about this all night. All week. About you in that barely-there dress. About what’s underneath it. About how many people are in this room—and how little he cares. 

Your stomach flips. 

Your whole body hums with anticipation. And you haven’t even touched him yet. 

You're still catching your breath when he reaches you. 

No words. No warning. 

His hand slides around your waist, the other catching your wrist, fingers brushing the underside of your arm like a question. Your body answers before your mouth can—yes. Whatever this is, yes. 

The music throbs through the soles of your feet as you move deeper onto the dancefloor. His hand drops lower, finding the curve of your hip. He steps in—chest to chest—warm breath grazing your cheek. 

You take a deep breath, reminding yourself that you’re working. This is work. Just a distraction so that Sam can get to Navarro. 

But right now, with Joaquín’s fingers splayed across your lower back, guiding you into the sway of the beat, your focus is wrecked. 

And this doesn’t feel like work. 

His body moves against yours with practiced ease—hips rolling slow and sweet. The rhythm is deep, deliberate, and he follows it like it’s stitched into his bones. His thigh slides between yours as he guides you, hand firm at your waist as you pivot together—tight, fluid, seamless. 

You loop your arms around his shoulders, fingertips grazing the back of his neck, and his mouth is suddenly very close to your ear. 

“Hola, mi vida,” he murmurs, “estás espectacular.” 

You might not know much Spanish, but you’ve spent enough time around Joaquín to know exactly what he just said. 

You tilt your head just enough to meet his gaze. “So do you.” 

He laughs under his breath—low, dangerous—and dips you. Hard. Your spine arches, body bending back over his arm, one hand clutching his shirt for balance. His mouth drops to your chest. Breath ghosting over your skin—warm, damp, too much. 

He lingers there. Like he's waiting for permission. 

Then— 

His tongue darts out. Wet heat against your chest. 

You yelp—then freeze. 

The crowd around you stills. Heads turn. All eyes on you. 

“Showtime, cariño,” he mutters, low and smooth, just for you. 

He pulls you up again—slowly. His hand drags from your spine to your waist, fingertips digging in like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. And if it weren’t for his grip, you’re not sure your knees would hold. 

He doesn’t even glance at the crowd. He just smirks. 

Because this was his plan all along. This is why he hasn’t practiced with you all week. Why he refused to rehearse. 

Because Joaquín Torres knew exactly how he was going to play you—just like he’s about to play this entire room full of criminals. 

The music builds again, deeper, filthier. That slinky reggaeton rhythm thickens with every beat, and Joaquín takes the cue. His hands slide down your waist, anchoring you as he rolls his hips into yours, slow and smooth—grinding to the beat like he’s got all the time in the world. Like no one else is here. Like the two of you don’t have an entire operation riding on this moment. 

Your hands grip his shoulders, then slide up to the back of his neck. The world narrows to the heat between your bodies, to the heavy pulse of the music, to the way he leans in close and breathes against your skin. 

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “Just like we practiced.” 

You snort—soft, breathless. “We didn’t practice.” 

“Exactly,” he smirks. 

He spins you suddenly, one arm looping around your middle to keep you close as your back hits his chest. His hand splays across your stomach, pulling you flush against him, and he starts to move again—grinding up behind you in slow, rhythmic thrusts. Filthy. Hypnotic. Perfect. 

Someone in the crowd whistles. 

You tilt your head just enough to meet Joaquín’s eyes over your shoulder. He’s looking down at you with heat, with purpose. Selling it for the crowd—but that look doesn’t feel like an act. 

Your gaze flickers past him, scanning the shadows—and there. You spot Sam slipping through the crowd, unnoticed, just as planned. 

Good. 

You drag your eyes back to Joaquín and grind back into him, slow and intentional. He groans—quiet, but real—and dips his head to the crook of your neck. His lips skim your skin, his breath hot and shallow. 

“Still working?” he murmurs. 

You bite your lip. 

“Because if this is just a mission…” He trails off, tongue flicking just beneath your jaw. “You’re the best actress I’ve ever met.” 

You laugh—shaky, hushed, raw. “Shut up and dance.” 

So he does. 

He drags one hand down your thigh, slipping briefly beneath the hem of your dress, just high enough to make your breath catch. Then he spins you again, facing him, and pulls you back into his chest with a practiced flourish—showy enough to earn a cheer from the sidelines. The lights flicker like heat lightning across his face, casting gold in his eyes, sweat glinting at his hairline. 

The air between you crackles. 

Then—he leans in, voice low, mouth ghosting yours. “Tell me when this stops being a game.” 

You don’t answer. You can’t. 

Because you’re not sure it ever was. 

“Confía en mí, mi amor,” he murmurs—trust me, my love—and you barely have time to register the words before he spins you out with a flick of the wrist, one hand still gripping yours. 

Your body twirls away from him, dress shimmering beneath the lights, the crowd around you gasping at the drama of it—and then you’re pulled back in just as fast. 

He catches you tight. 

One hand at your back, the other sliding low as he grabs your thigh and lifts—hitching it high against his hip, his fingers digging into your flesh. Holding you there. Staking a claim. 

Your breath punches out of you, caught between the sudden closeness and the weight of his grip. His eyes are dark, gleaming with heat and purpose, and you’re not sure which part of this is still the performance. 

His lips are inches from yours, breath warm, tension thick between you as the music pulses around your locked bodies—sweat, sequins, heat, and hands, everything glittering under low crimson light. And still, the crowd watches. Spellbound. 

So you decide to give them something to watch. 

You swallow hard, gather what’s left of your composure, and let your hand slide slowly down his chest—fingertips tracing the line of his sternum, dragging over warm fabric, feeling the beat of his heart beneath your palm. You sway your hips with the music, then pivot—smooth and deliberate—until your back is flush to his chest again. 

His breath catches. You feel it. 

You roll your hips back into him, slow and sinful, and his grip tightens on your hips. 

Your hand snakes up behind you, into his hair, curling tight just enough to make him tilt his head. Then, with a smirk tugging at your lips, you twist to whisper against his jaw—soft, breathy, just for him. 

“Papacito… ay, qué rico tú.” 

You feel the way his whole body reacts—his inhale sharp, his fingers flexing against your skin, his composure cracking for just a second. Just long enough for you to feel victorious. 

But then—he snaps. 

He grabs your hand and spins you back around to face him, hard and fast. His grip is sure, his eyes burning. He’s flushed now, lips parted, chest rising with every breath like he’s trying to get a grip—but losing it. On you. 

And then he drops. 

Not suddenly—deliberately. 

His hands trail down your sides as he lowers himself, eyes never leaving yours. Not until his breath hits your chest, lips ghosting over your damp skin. 

His mouth moves lower—hot, open, dragging over the glittering fabric until it settles just below your navel. The pressure is maddening. More suggestion than kiss, but it sets your nerves on fire. 

He rests on one knee. His breath is hot through your dress. His grip, searing. 

You feel his nose graze along the line of your panties, the heat of him soaking through the fabric. He lingers—mouth parted, exhale shaky—and you know that if he moves even half an inch lower, you’re going to moan out loud. 

Your knees almost buckle. 

So you do the only thing you can—you throw your arms up, eyes fluttering closed, and let the music carry you. You sway to the rhythm, pulse thudding in your ears, hips shifting just enough to brush against his mouth again. 

And when you dare to look down… 

He’s still there. On one knee. A hand branding the back of each thigh. 

Looking up at you like you’re the only thing in the world worth getting on the floor for. 

And God help you—you want him to stay there forever. 

But after a few beats, Joaquín lifts his head slowly, mouth brushing over your dress on the way up, trailing heat with every inch. His hands slide up your thighs, over your hips, gripping tight as he rises. 

You meet him halfway. 

Your fingers sink into his hair. Your body moulds to his. Breath mingling. Lips so close—so heartbreakingly close—you could count the seconds before they meet. You can feel the heat of him, taste the want on his breath. 

His mouth hovers over yours, a whisper away. The music fades. The crowd vanishes. It’s just him. Just you. Just this. 

Then—he pauses. 

His eyes flicker. Something cracks beneath the surface—heat, hesitation, hunger. 

And he pulls back. 

Not far. Not fast. Just enough to tear the moment in half. His gaze locks on yours, sharp and steady, full of something unspoken. A promise, maybe. Or a warning. You’re not sure which—only that it leaves you aching. 

Your breath catches. Your chest tightens. You blink up at him, dizzy, throat thick, trying to smile like it hasn’t cost you something. 

He leans in again, lips grazing your cheek—not your mouth—and whispers, “Sam’s clear.” 

You nod—barely, heart pounding so loud it drowns out the music. 

Then he steps back, slow and sure, every muscle coiled like he’s holding something back. 

You follow his lead, putting just enough distance between you to play the part. You sway with the rhythm—two agents, two dancers, nothing more. 

But your body still burns. 

And the ghost of his mouth still lingers, like a secret you’ll never know. 

Eventually, Joaquín leads you off the dancefloor and toward the bar, his hand warm and steady at your lower back. 

Eyes follow you—hungry, speculative. You feel them trailing over your thighs, your back, the glitter of your dress. Men watch like they’re waiting for their turn, like they saw the performance and think it was an invitation. But you don’t care. You’re too distracted by the phantom of Joaquín’s mouth, the ache of something unfinished still pulsing behind your ribs. 

At the bar, he flags the bartender down with a subtle nod and orders for both of you—something cold and sharp that might steady your nerves. You rest your hands on the counter, trying to slow your breathing, trying not to look at him, trying not to feel too much. 

“Pretty bold dance out there,” a voice says beside you, too close. 

You turn your head to find a stranger leaning in, all confidence and cologne, eyes skimming your neckline like he owns it. 

“How about a private encore?” 

Before you can respond, Joaquín shifts. Not aggressively. Not even visibly angry. But his body angles between you and the guy with a quiet finality, one arm draping casually across the bar behind you. 

“She’s not available,” he says, voice low but pointed. 

The stranger laughs like he’s not threatened—like he hasn’t realised the mistake he's made. “Didn’t look like that a minute ago. Looked like she was auditioning.” 

You barely see Joaquín move. Just the way his jaw tenses, the slight twitch of his fingers curling at the bar, the heat rolling off him in waves. But it’s enough. 

You touch his arm gently. “We should go.” 

He doesn’t look at you right away, not until the guy finally backs off, muttering something under his breath as he fades back into the crowd. Then Joaquín turns, his gaze softer now—but his hand is still tight on your waist. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice thick. “Let’s go.” 

Getting out of the club, into the night, and down the street is all a blur. Your feet move, but your mind is still back on that dancefloor—on Joaquín’s wandering hands, his breath hot against your skin, his eyes burning. 

Your chest aches at the memory of his mouth hovering over yours. Close enough to taste. Close enough to make you believe. He could’ve kissed you. He should have. He was going to. But he didn’t. 

And you can’t stop asking yourself why. 

By the time you reach the van parked a few blocks away in a shadowy side street, you’re grateful one of you is paying attention, because you don’t even remember the walk. 

Joaquín opens the passenger door and helps you in like you’re breakable—like you’re something valuable that needs securing. He reaches across and buckles you in, knuckles brushing your thigh in the process, lingering just a second too long. 

Then he’s gone again—door shut, around the van, into the driver's seat. He jams the key in, turns the engine, and starts reversing slowly out of the alley. Like nothing ever happened. Like you didn’t just nearly shatter years of friendship in a single, heated moment. 

You stare out the window while he drives, lost in your thoughts and the lingering warmth of him on your skin—sweat, spice, and something that feels specifically made for you. Something that makes your heart race and your knees weak. 

“Where did you learn that?” he asks suddenly, voice low and rough. 

You frown, turning to face him. And God, is it a sight. Flushed cheeks, sweat-damp skin, eyes glittering even in the dark. 

You clear your throat. “Learn what?” 

“What you said to me,” he says, glancing at you before turning back to the road. “When we were dancing.” 

“Oh.” You shift in your seat, dragging your gaze away from him. “Just one of those songs you always play.” 

“Right,” he mutters. “Do… do you know what it means?” 

There’s a beat. Only the soft hum of tires on asphalt fills the silence. 

Then you murmur, “Daddy, oh, how delicious you are.” 

His breath hitches. His knuckles go white around the steering wheel. 

You wait another beat before adding, “That’s right, yeah?” 

He nods. “Right.” 

He shifts in his seat—subtle, but telling—and you don’t dare let your eyes drop to his lap. 

He clears his throat. “The—uh—the pronunciation was good. Accent could use some work.” 

You snort—sharp and dry. “Thanks for the feedback. I’ll be sure to pencil in some extra Spanish practice.” 

“Let me know if you need a tutor,” he says, smirking now. 

Your heart thuds—heavy, too hard. You want to tease back. You want to slip into the familiar rhythm, the easy banter. But you can’t. Because now you’re confused, and a little wrecked, and everything feels off. 

“Oh, you don’t have time for that these days, Falcon,” you say, forcing a lightness you don’t feel. “I’m sure Gabe or Ceilia would be happy to give me lessons.” 

Two of the engineers you’ve often heard Joaquín arguing with in lightning-fast Spanish. 

“Gabe or Ceilia?” he repeats, tone unreadable, eyes fixed on the road. 

You don’t answer. You’re not sure what you could say. 

So you just turn your head back to the window, watching the quiet city blur by, willing yourself not to cry. Not yet. 

Not until you’re alone. 

- 

You wake up to a bright streak of sun slashing across your face. 

Your eyes are sticky—thanks to all the tears—and your body aches. You stretch your legs out and roll onto your back, careful not to slip off the couch cushions you curled up on last night. 

After regrouping at the office, both Sam and Joaquín offered to drive you home. You declined them separately—telling each you’d already agreed to leave with the other. It took some careful phrasing and a few weirdly timed trips out the front door, but it worked. And eventually, you were left alone. 

You stripped out of your dress and showered—because of course Sam has a shower at the office—before changing into a spare set of clothes you keep in case of emergency. Which, as it turned out, meant an old pair of loose gym shorts and one of Joaquín’s worn Air Force shirts. 

Then you settled in front of your computer and worked until it felt like your eyes were bleeding. You filed mission reports, checked maintenance logs, combed through security footage, and even tried digging deeper into Matías Navarro. But by four a.m., you were in Sam and Joaquín’s office, curled up on the low blue lounges and crying yourself to sleep. 

Partly from exhaustion. 

Partly from heartbreak. 

Mostly because you have no idea what to do about Joaquín Torres now. 

The sound of your phone vibrating against the table forces you to sit up. You rub at your eyes, yawn widely, and reach for it, flipping it over to see Joaquín’s goofy caller ID photo lighting up the screen. 

You stare at it, gnawing on lower lip until the call ends. Then a notification pops up—missed call from Joaquín—followed by a flurry of texts asking how you are, where you are, and if you want to hang out today. 

It’s Sunday. Which means usually, you’d be dragging him to a market or a movie—something sickeningly wholesome, the kind of thing real couples do on their days off. But you’re not a real couple. You never were. And you really need to remember that. 

So you slip the phone into your pocket without replying, deciding to do it later—when you’re less raw. 

With a heavy sigh, you push off the couch and head for your own office, pausing only to start up the coffee machine on the way. You wake your computer, rubbing at your temples as the screen flickers to life. While you slept, it’s been classifying intel, parsing Navarro’s comms for patterns, links, anything actionable. And surprisingly, it’s found some. 

Good. Now you have something to show Sam so he doesn’t kill you for working all weekend. 

You skim the new data for a few minutes before deciding that no amount of international weapons trafficking can be dealt with without caffeine. You’re halfway out your office door when— 

The alarm blares. 

You flinch. “Fuck!” 

Then you jog down the hall, push through the doors into reception, and swing around the desk. You punch your code into the alarm panel and silence the sirens—leaving only the sound of your pulse hammering in your ears. 

The system has been glitching for weeks—tripping randomly, resetting itself, spamming your phones with false alerts. But still, you drop into the chair and run a security check just in case, scanning for any open doors or tripped sensors. 

Once you get the all clear, you sigh and head back to the kitchen—now in desperate need of that goddamn coffee. 

You spend the next half hour glued to your screens, sipping coffee like it’s oxygen and stretching your sore back every five minutes. You’re so deep in the data that you don’t even hear your office door open. 

Not until— 

“Did you sleep here, cariño?” 

You jump, knocking your chair back a couple inches and sending your coffee mug clattering across your desk. 

“Shit, Joaquín,” you mutter, reaching for the tissues. 

“Sorry,” he chuckles, stepping in and snatching the box before you can. 

Luckily, the mug was nearly empty. There’s only a small puddle to mop up—which he does for you, dabbing at the spill with a clump of tissues, careful not to let anything touch your electronics. 

“There,” he says, tossing the wad into the bin. “Now, are you gonna answer me?” 

You frown. “Answer what?” 

He rolls his eyes and sits on the edge of your desk, invading your space and flooding your senses with the sharp, fresh scent of his cologne. He’s clearly just showered, and God, it’s almost rude how good he smells. 

“Did you sleep here?” 

Your cheeks burn. “Maybe.” 

His smile fades, eyes narrowing. “You told me Sam was taking you home.” 

“And I told Sam you were taking me home.” 

“So you lied.” 

You shrug. “Embellished.” 

He groans, tipping his head back. “Por Dios, me vas a matar algún día.” 

You squint up at him, lips pursed. “Something about God and dying?” 

He looks back at you, amused now. “You really need those Spanish lessons, mi amor.” 

“Well,” you sigh, dragging your eyes back to your screen, “I’ll try to squeeze it in, but I’m a field agent now. My time is valuable.” 

He chuckles again, low and warm, and shifts on the desk—just enough for his body to inch closer. Close enough to feel. Close enough to make your skin heat and your heart race. 

“What are you doing here, anyway?” you ask, forcing yourself not to look at him. 

“The alarm went off,” he says, holding up his phone. “Then I checked whose code turned it off and saw that you’re working. On a Sunday. You know Sam’s going to kill you, right?” 

You frown at your screen. “So if you figured I was working… why are you here? To watch me type?” 

He pauses, eyes fixed on you. You feel the weight of it, even as you refuse to meet his gaze. He knows something is off. He’s not stupid. He probably knows you better than you know yourself—and this? This isn’t normal. Not your usual rhythm. Not your usual banter. 

“Actually,” he says, sliding off the desk. “I’m here for your Spanish lesson.” 

That gets your attention. 

You glance up, brows pinched. “What are you talking about?” 

He moves toward the small whiteboard on the wall beside your desk and plucks the marker from the tray. 

“Joaquín,” you sigh, spinning in your chair to face him. “I don’t want a Spanish—” 

“Ah,” he cuts in, brow raised. “En español.” 

You give him a deadpan look. “I don’t know it en español.” 

He smirks. “Then it sounds like you really do need a lesson.” 

You exhale hard and lean back in your chair, crossing your arms and then your legs. “Go on, then. Maestro.” 

His eyes light up. “Muy buena, cariño. Now you’re getting it.” 

You don’t reply. You just stare at him, lips pressed into a flat, unimpressed line. 

He turns to the whiteboard and scribbles a phrase. You try not to look at his forearm as it flexes with each stroke of the marker—but God, it’s hard not to. 

“Alright,” he says, turning back with a smirk. “Go on.” 

You squint at the words, digging through years of memories—listening to Joaquín talk, watching him text his mother, the cheeky little notes he used to write in your birthday cards. 

“Estás... muy... guapo... hoy,” you say slowly. 

He chuckles, stepping closer. “It’s not ‘ess-tass.’ Loosen your tongue, cariño. Eh-stás. More breath. Less bite.” 

You roll your eyes, but try again. “Estás muy... guapo... hoy.” 

“Don’t chew it,” he says, folding his arms—and Jesus, do his biceps have to be so distracting? “It’s not gwaah-po. It’s cleaner. Crisper. Guapo. Let the ‘g’ glide. The ‘o’ is round. Like your mouth when you—” 

He stops—and laughs quietly, eyes gleaming. 

“Never mind. Try again.” 

You scowl at the board, determined not to let his arms—or his mouth—throw you off. 

“Estás muy guapo hoy.” 

He doesn’t say anything at first—just looks at you. Then that slow, dangerous grin spreads across his face. 

“Eso, mi amor,” he says. “You’re getting it.” 

Your lips twitch, but you don’t let him see it. You roll them together and raise your brows instead—quietly daring him to give you the next one. 

He turns back to the board and quietly writes out three more phrases. Each scribbled letter winds the tension tighter, threading the air with heat and anticipation—but you don’t know why. Not yet. You recognise some words, sure, but you can’t piece together the full sentences. 

“Me vuelves loco,” he says, overpronouncing it like a smug high school Spanish teacher. 

You sit up a little straighter, arms still folded tight across your chest, and echo, “Me vuelves loco.” 

He quirks an eyebrow. “Bien. De nuevo.” 

You know he’s just told you to say it again—more from the look on his face than his words. 

“Tell me what I’m saying first.” 

He grins, eyes darkening with something dangerous. “You drive me crazy.” 

Your breath hitches, pulse spiking—but you manage to keep your cool. 

“Me vuelves loco,” you repeat. 

He nods. “Very good, cariño. Next one?” 

You drag your gaze away from his stupidly handsome face—ridiculous facial hair still perfectly intact—and squint at the next phrase. You don’t recognise it. 

“Ponte… de… rodillas?” 

He chuckles—low, throaty—and steps forward, stopping directly in front of you. “It’s not a question, mi amor. Say it like you mean it.” 

Your brow furrows as you look past him at the board. 

“Ponte… de rodillas.” 

He moves closer, voice dropping. “The ‘r’—you’re swallowing it. It should roll. Just a little. Ro-dí-llas. You’re saying it too flat.” 

You try again. “Ponte de… rodillas.” 

He tsks. “Softer on the ‘ll’. It’s not rod-ee-yas, it’s ro-dee-yas. Let it melt. Let it glide off your tongue.” 

You give him a look. “If you think I’m going to get turned on by grammar—” 

“Not grammar,” he smirks. “Just me.” 

You roll your eyes—but he’s stepping even closer now, towering over you, eyes gleaming with that same reckless hunger he wore last night. 

“Say it right,” he murmurs, “and maybe I’ll listen.” 

“Listen?” 

He nods once. “Maybe I’ll do what you’re telling me to do.” 

You’re breathing harder now, your chest rising and falling beneath crossed arms. Your legs feel heavy, unsteady—too tense to stay crossed—so you shift in your chair, uncrossing them as Joaquín watches every movement like a predator tracking prey. 

“Look me in the eye,” he says softly. “Say it again. And mean it.” 

You clear your throat and meet his gaze. “Ponte de rodillas.” 

There’s a beat—one, long charged second where he just stares. 

Then—he sinks to his knees. 

His hands slide up your thighs as he settles between them, a wicked smirk curling his lips. He looks entirely too pleased with himself—and something else. Something darker. 

“See?” he murmurs. “Estoy de rodillas por ti, mi amor.” 

Your heart is in your throat, pulse pounding like a war drum. It fills your ears, thrums beneath your skin. Every nerve ending burns where his hands rest—just above your knees—like he's branding you. 

“Next one,” he murmurs, leaning in. 

Your voice catches before you can speak. You’re frozen, eyes locked on him as he lowers his face between your thighs, gaze fixed at the apex. 

You force yourself to look away—back to the board—blinking until the letters come into focus. 

“I… I don’t know.” 

“Just try it, baby,” he says, breath hot against the tender skin inside your thigh. 

You swallow, voice shaking. “N-Necesito… sentirte… adentro.” 

He draws a sharp breath, jaw tightening like he’s barely holding himself together. His hands slide higher, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shorts. 

Your whole body tenses. 

“Joaquín, I—” 

“Uh uh.” He pulls back slightly, just enough to make you ache. “Dilo de nuevo.” 

You blink down at him. “What?” 

“Say it again,” he murmurs, dark eyes dragging up to meet yours. “And I’ll reward you.” 

Your head spins. He’s still there, between your legs, looking at you like you’re something holy and wreckable all at once. This has to be a dream. There’s no way this is real. 

But the heat is real. The ache. The want. 

“Necesito,” you say slowly, breath shaky, “se—sentirte adentro.” 

He groans low, sliding his hands higher, fingertips brushing the edge of your panties. 

“Better,” he mutters. “But I know you can do it right, cariño.” 

You clutch the arms of your desk chair, grounding yourself, trying not to move. Trying not to beg. 

“Necesito sentirte… adentro.” 

His hands move again—slow and sure—one hand pushing your shorts aside, the other tracing down your centre, teasing along the fabric of your panties. He lets out a deep sigh before pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses to the inside of your thighs, moving higher with each wet press of his lips. 

“Better,” he mutters against you. “But it’s not ‘sen-teer-teh’—you’re flattening the ‘i’. It’s sentir—longer. Feel it in your throat. Let it roll.” 

His thumb drags gently along the crease between your thigh and your core, teasing the elastic. 

“You want it?” he whispers. “Say it right.” 

Your grip tightens on the arms of your chair. You close your eyes, suck in a breath, and try again—voice lower now, weighted with need. 

“Necesito… sentirte adentro.” 

A sound escapes him—almost a growl—and he dips lower, mouthing you through the fabric. You gasp, hips twitching. The heat of his breath, the shape of his mouth—it’s overwhelming. 

“Good girl,” he says softly, lips dragging over you. “Almost perfect.” 

You whimper, your body arching involuntarily. “Tell me,” you whisper. “Tell me how to say it.” 

He chuckles against you, the vibration sharp and sinful. “You’re rushing it. Slow down. Let me hear you want it.” 

His hands are steady on your thighs now, anchoring you open as his mouth hovers just above your pussy. Breath hot, cheeks flushed, dark eyes locked with yours—waiting. 

You draw a breath, forcing your voice to steady, and say, “Necesito sentirte adentro.” 

“Sí,” he groans. “Eso es todo, mi amor.” 

Then his fingers hook around the fabric of your panties and shove it aside. His mouth is on you just as quick, tongue hot and slick and merciless as he finally rewards you—lapping at your wetness like a man starved. 

You break—letting out a broken cry. One hand flies to his hair, threading through the curls, while the other grips the edge of your desk. Your hips lift into him as his broad tongue licks a slow stripe from entrance to clit. He groans into you, the vibration sending sparks shooting up your spine. 

Your thighs shake, breath coming hard and fast, but Joaquín doesn’t let up. He works his tongue in slow, devastating circles around your clit—just light enough to drive you insane, just heavy enough to make you twitch with every pass. Then he flattens it and licks up again, long and firm, before closing his mouth around your clit and sucking—slow, purposeful, obscene. 

“Así,” he growls into you, voice low and ruined. “Así me gusta verte.” 

Your hips buck. Your fingers tighten in his curls. 

“Joaquín—” 

He slides one hand higher, fingertips trailing over your inner thigh before gliding straight to your entrance. He drags two fingers through your folds—slow, deliberate, torturous—coating them in your slick, collecting the wetness, then finally pushes in. One knuckle, then two, sinking deep into your heat, his breath catching as he feels how ready you are. 

You gasp—sharp and high-pitched—and he groans into you like the taste is making him drunk. 

“You’re so wet,” he murmurs against your cunt. “Mierda.” 

You whimper something incoherent, every nerve in your body screaming, and he curls his fingers just right—hooking them inside you, hitting that spongey spot that makes your thighs spasm and your mouth fall open. 

And still, his tongue doesn’t stop. He licks and sucks and flicks, lips wrapped around your clit like a prayer, and when he groans into you—low and wrecked—it sends a full-body shudder straight through you.  

“Say it again,” he pants, fingers pumping deep and slow. “Say it. Dímelo otra vez.” 

You’re half gone—hips jerking forward, body sliding closer to the edge with every wet, filthy sound echoing between your thighs. 

You choke on your breath, trembling as you manage to say, “Necesito sentirte adentro.” 

He growls—honest-to-God growls—and his fingers speed up, curling faster, thumb brushing your clit just as his lips close around it again. 

“Buena chica,” he rasps. “I’m going to make you cum with my mouth, with my fingers—todo lo que me pidas.” 

Then he sucks—hard. One long, deep pull with tongue and fingers working in tandem, filthy and focused and fucking lethal. 

You cry out, hips bucking, the hand on his hair holding him against you as you grind on his mouth. 

He groans into the mess he’s made, lapping it up like it’s sweetest thing he’s ever tasted, fucking you with his fingers while his tongue traces lazy, hungry circles. 

Your body shakes. You grip his hair like a lifeline, breath shattered. 

“Joaquín,” you pant, tugging on his curls. “Joaquín, I need—I need—” 

“Gonna cum, baby?” he murmurs, curling his fingers again. “Gonna cum on my tongue?” 

You let out a strangled moan as he licks you again, the tip of his tongue swirling around your clit as his fingers pump in and out with an obscene squelching sound. 

“Joaquín,” you say again, firmer this time. 

His eyes flick up, meeting yours. 

“Necesito sentirte adentro.” 

He freezes. Everything stops. His fingers stop mid-thrust and he just stares at you, lips glistening, eyes wide. 

“Joaquín Torres,” you say, breathless, chest heaving. “I need you inside me. Right fucking now.” 

For a moment, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just stares up at you like you’ve broken something in him—something sacred. 

Then, slowly—deliberately—he pulls his fingers from your body and rises to his full height. 

You whimper, aching at the loss, feeling hollow. 

His face is flushed. His lips are swollen and slick. He looks wrecked, staring down at you now with wide eyes and an expression so raw it makes your chest tighten. 

“Are you sure, cariño?” he asks, voice quieter now. “We don’t have to. I—” 

“I’m in love with you,” you say, rising from your chair to stand in front of him, a small, sheepish smile tugging at your lips. “And I’d really like it if you fucked me right now.” 

He just stares. Lips parted. Eyes wide. Brows drawn like he’s trying not to cry or laugh or do both at once. 

Then, slowly, his lips curl into that familiar grin. The one you know too well. The one you love more than anything else on Earth. 

“I knew it,” he says. “I fucking knew it.” 

You roll your eyes, biting back a grin. “Oh, did you now?” 

He nods, arms sliding around your waist, pulling your body flush to his. “Why do you think I just gave you the best head of your life?” 

Your brows lift, and a laugh bubbles from your throat despite yourself. “Of my life?” 

He nods again, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. 

“I don’t know,” you murmur, gaze dipping to that stupid moustache—still glistening with your slick, making your thighs clench. “I didn’t even cum…” 

His grin drops, and he growls. A deep, guttural sound—low in his throat and hot on your skin—as his hands flex around your waist. Then in one fast, fluid motion, he twists your bodies and slams you back against the desk. 

You gasp, hands flying to grip the edge for balance. But before you can speak, his mouth is on yours. 

And fuck. 

It’s not sweet. It’s not soft. It’s not careful. 

It’s years of holding back, years of wanting, all pouring out in one searing, breath-stealing kiss. His lips crash against yours, tongue demanding entry, teeth nipping at your lower lip like he’s angry he waited this long. 

Your arms wind around his neck, pulling him closer, tighter, until there’s nothing between you but heat and desperation. He kisses like he wants to devour you—like he’s trying to rewrite every second you spent not doing this. 

His hands fumble at your waist, tugging at your shorts, pulling them down as you shift your hips to help. Once they fall to the floor, he starts yanking at his belt with shaking fingers. 

“Fuck,” he mutters against your lips, breath ragged. “Fuck, I’ve wanted this—I’ve wanted you—for so long—” 

You reach down to help, fingers brushing his as you undo his fly and push his pants and briefs down just far enough. His cock springs free, thick and flushed and already leaking against his stomach. 

Your hand wraps around him on instinct—hot, hard, pulsing in your grip—and he curses again, burying his face in your neck. 

You stroke once. Twice. Just enough to hear him moan against your throat. 

Then—he pulls back, eyes wild, teeth clenched as he grabs the base and drags himself over your still-covered core. Nothing but the soaking wet scrap of lace left between you. 

“Feel that?” he rasps. “That’s what you do to me.” 

He pushes again, the thick head of his cock dragging over your clit through the soaked fabric, the pressure maddening. Your hips jerk, mouth falling open. 

“Fuck, baby,” he mutters, dragging the tip down your slit again. “You’re so fucking wet.” 

Your hand grips the desk, the other tangled in his curls as you breathe out, “Joaquín—please—” 

He looks at you like a man on the verge of losing control. Then he nudges your nose with his, resting his forehead against yours, breath mingling, eyes blazing. 

“Say it again,” he breathes. “One more time. Necesito sentirte adentro.” 

Your breath shudders as your eyes lock on his, your voice barely more than a whisper—raw, pleading. “Necesito sentirte adentro.” 

He groans—low, filthy, possessive—and grabs your thighs, lifting you onto the edge of the desk so fast it knocks the breath from your lungs. Then his hands are under your shirt—palms searing as they skim your stomach, over your ribs, until they find your bra. 

Without hesitation, he shoves it up—then your shirt—baring your breasts. He groans, deep and guttural, eyes locking on you. “Fucking perfect,” he mutters, voice reverent and wrecked. 

His mouth latches to your chest, hot tongue flicking over your nipple before his lips wrap around it and suck—hard. His other hand is already at your soaked panties, pulling them to the side again, and you feel the head of his cock notch against your entrance. 

“Please,” you gasp, one hand tangled in his hair, the other clawing at his bare back. “Joaquín—now.” 

He lifts his head, eyes burning, forehead resting against yours again. 

“You want me?” he asks, cock dragging along your folds. “You want every inch?” 

You nod, breathless, trembling. “Yes. I want you to fill me up. I need to feel you inside.” 

He curses under his breath, grips your waist, and thrusts forward. 

All the air leaves your lungs in a strangled cry as he slides inside—slow, thick, relentless. He doesn’t stop until he’s buried to the hilt, your bodies pressed tight, his mouth open against your throat. 

“Jesus, baby,” he groans, “you feel so fucking good. So warm. So tight. So perfect around me.” 

You whimper, legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him deeper—closer. He starts to move, hips rolling forward, dragging his cock nearly all the way out before driving back in with a filthy, wet sound that echoes in the office. 

“Fuck,” you gasp, nails raking down his back. “Just like that—don’t stop.” 

“I’m not stopping,” he growls, thrusting harder now. “Not until you scream my name. Not until everyone in this damn city knows you’re mine.” 

His hand slides up again, squeezing your breast, thumb flicking your nipple as he pistons into you—faster, deeper, every stroke hitting that spot that makes your vision go white at the edges. 

“You’re gonna cum for me now,” he pants, “and I’m gonna feel every second of it. You hear me?” 

You nod—wild, breathless—but it’s not enough. 

He thrusts hard, dragging a moan from your throat. Again. And again. Every push deeper, rougher, angling just right. Your head tips back, your hands scrambling for purchase—on the desk, on his shoulders, anywhere. 

“Fuck, Joaquín—” you gasp, already so close. 

But suddenly, he stops. 

Buried to the hilt and breathing like he ran a marathon, he stills, chest heaving. 

“Look at me,” he growls, his hand catching your chin and forcing your gaze to his. “I said look at me.” 

Your eyes snap open, dazed and wide, vision blurred. 

“I fucking love you, cariño,” he says—raw, desperate. “So fucking much. You feel that?” He rolls his hips, just once, dragging a broken sob from your lips. “That’s what love feels like. Me, inside you, losing my fucking mind.” 

You whimper, thighs trembling around his waist, and he doesn’t wait. He starts to move again—deep and punishing, hitting every spot that makes you see stars. 

“Tell me you love me,” he growls, one hand sliding up under your shirt again to squeeze your breast, fingers pinching your nipple until you're writhing. “Tell me, baby. Say it.” 

“I love you,” you gasp, voice breaking as he thrusts deeper, harder. “Fuck, Joaquín—I love you—I love you—” 

“That’s it,” he mutters, pressing his forehead to yours, fucking you like he means it—like he needs it. “Say it again.” 

“I love you.” 

His mouth crashes to yours mid-moan, swallowing the sound as he pounds into you, the desk rattling beneath your ass, every stroke sending shocks of heat down your spine. You can feel it building—tight and dangerous—coiling deep in your core like a spring about to snap. 

“You gonna cum for me, mi amor?” he rasps, lips dragging along your jaw as his thrusts start to stutter. “Gonna cum on my cock like a good girl?” 

Your entire body is shaking, one hand in his curls, the other clawing down his back as you choke out, “Yes—yes, I’m so close—don’t stop—” 

“I won’t,” he promises, voice wrecked. “Not until I feel you lose it. I want it all, baby. Cada maldita gota.” 

His hand slides down your torso, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, filthy circles in perfect rhythm with his hips. The pressure hits you like lightning—sharp, electric, blinding. 

“Oh my God, Joaquín—" 

You break. 

You fall apart. 

Your orgasm hits with devastating force, tearing through you in waves, pulsing around him as he groans—loud, low, carnal. He thrusts once, twice more, then stills inside you with a harsh, broken shout of your name, spilling deep as he holds you close like he’ll never let you go. 

You’re both panting, chests heaving, grinding slowly to ride out the high and clinging to each other in the aftershock—sweat-slicked, breathless, totally undone. 

He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t move. Just presses a soft kiss to your temple and stays buried deep inside you. 

“I’m so fucking in love with you, it hurts,” he whispers. 

You let out a breathless laugh—half delirious, half disbelieving—and tip your head up to look at him. His hair is a mess, his face flushed, his lips swollen from kissing you stupid. He looks wrecked. Ruined. Beautiful. 

“I can’t feel my legs,” you murmur. 

He grins, still inside you, still pressed so close you can feel his heartbeat hammering through his chest. 

“Good,” he says, smug and a little dazed. “Means I did my job.” 

You smack his shoulder, giggling now, and he catches your wrist—pressing a kiss to your palm, then the inside of your elbow, then the curve of your jaw. 

“You’re such an idiot,” you say, fingers carding through his curls while his lips assault your neck. 

His nose nuzzles into your skin. “Yeah,” he whispers, “but I’m your idiot.” 

“God help me,” you mumble, smiling into his shoulder. 

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his expression so open it makes your stomach flip. “You okay?” he asks, voice low and sincere. “Not just physically—I mean, really.” 

You nod, heart suddenly so full you feel like it might burst. “Yeah. I’m better than okay.” 

His smile softens. “Good. Because I’m not pulling out until I get at least one more necesito sentirte adentro.” 

You bark a laugh, head falling back. “You’re insatiable.” 

He shrugs, hips shifting just enough to make you gasp. “And you’re going to be fluent soon.” 

You tip your head forward, looking at him through your lashes, voice dropping to a sultry murmur. “Necesito sentirte adentro.” 

“God,” he groans, dropping his forehead to yours. “Vas a ser mi muerte.” 

He rolls his hips again, and you suck in a breath—he’s still hard, still thick and hot, dragging through your slick with maddening pressure. Your fingers twist tighter in his hair as you lift your chin and kiss him—hard and soft all at once, pouring everything into it. 

But then— 

You stop. And pull back. 

That sharp little ache flares behind your ribs, reminding you why you were in this office on a Sunday in the first place. Why you cried yourself to sleep. Why you weren’t even sure you could look at Joaquín today, let alone fuck him. 

He blinks, brow creasing. “What’s wrong, mi vida?” 

“Last night,” you murmur, eyes dropping to where your hand is fisted in his shirt. “Why didn’t you kiss me?” 

He gently hooks a finger beneath your chin, guiding your gaze back to his. “On the dancefloor?” 

You nod slowly. 

“I didn’t kiss you on that dancefloor in front of a hundred criminals because I didn’t want our first kiss to be undercover,” he says softly. “Didn’t want you thinking it was just for show.” 

“Oh.” Your lips twitch into a smile. 

He chuckles, soft and low. “Is that why you were upset? Because I almost kissed you and didn’t?” 

You nod again, slower this time. Cheeks burning, heart thudding. 

“Oh, mi amor,” he sighs, voice warm with laughter. “What am I going to do with you?” 

“Well,” you murmur, fingers curling tighter in his hair, “you could start by fucking me again.” 

That’s all the encouragement he needs. His lips are back on yours in a second, hips rolling forward, his hard length pushing into you with the most delicious stretch. You moan against his mouth, hiking your legs up higher around his waist to feel him deeper. 

His hands grip your hips with bruising intensity, searing fingerprints into your skin—marks you know will make you squeeze your thighs every time you see them. 

And then— 

Ping! 

The sound of your phone cuts through the soft whisper of skin on skin. Neither of you can help but glance at it, sitting screen-up on the desk right beside where Joaquín is fucking you slowly. 

“What’s that?” he asks, eyes narrowing. 

“Just a motion alert,” you reply. “I set it up a while ago when I was working a lot of weekends because Sam would come in and scare the crap out of me.” You look back at him, eyes trailing over his face so close to yours. “Doesn’t help though. I didn’t see the notification when you came in.” 

He frowns. “So it alerts you when someone enters the building?” 

“Yep.” 

“Right.” His eyes flick to the phone, then back to you. “So... someone just entered the building?” 

Your eyes go wide. “Fuck.” 

You grab the phone and unlock it with shaky fingers, bringing up the security system app and quickly flicking through the camera feeds until you find movement. 

Your breath catches. “It’s Sam.” 

“Shit,” Joaquín hisses, pulling out so quickly it leaves you winded. 

You let out a pathetic little whine, and he can’t help but chuckle as he fumbles with his pants. 

“Later, baby. I promise,” he says, stealing one last kiss. “But Sam is going to be here in a few seconds, and he’s going to know what just happened in here if we don’t—” 

Knock, knock, knock. 

“You in there, kid?” 

You both whip toward the door, seeing Sam’s blurred silhouette through the frosted glass. 

“Quick, cariño,” Joaquín whispers, helping you off the desk. 

You scramble into your shorts, yank your bra and shirt into place, then turn to Joaquín, raking your fingers through his wild curls—both of you stifling laughter like love-drunk fools trying to clean up a crime scene. 

Knock, knock, knock. 

“I can hear you.” 

You clear your throat, nod at Joaquín, and step around the desk toward the door. As you grab the handle, you glance back—and spot a little pool of evidence on the desk. 

“Joaquín,” you hiss, pointing at it. 

His eyes go wide, and he quickly sits on it, trying to look casual—as if he hadn’t just been buried inside you right there thirty seconds ago. 

Then you yank the door open, plastering on your most innocent smile. 

“Hey, Sam!” you say, probably a little too brightly. 

His hand was poised to knock again, but he drops it slowly, eyes narrowing as they bounce between you and Joaquín. 

“Hi,” he says, slow and suspicious, stepping into the room. 

You shuffle back toward the desk, sliding in beside Joaquín, praying to any god that might listen that Sam can’t read the Spanish on the goddamn whiteboard. 

“What are you two doing?” Sam asks, brows raised. 

“Working,” you both say, in perfect unison. 

Sam cocks his head, clearly unconvinced. “Really? On a Sunday?” 

You nod. “Yep. I was running data on Navarro all night and found a few leads. He frequents this deli in Washington Heights, owned by—” 

“Why does it smell weird in here?” Sam interrupts, sniffing the air like a police dog. 

“Weird how?” Joaquín asks. “I came straight from the gym, so if it’s sweat, that’s probably—” 

“Did you two have sex in here?” Sam exclaims, eyes wide—locked on that fucking whiteboard. 

“No,” you say quickly. “I was learning Spanish. Joaquín was teaching me—” 

“I know what that says,” he cuts in, pointing at it, brows drawn and lips pursed like he’s trying not to gag. 

“I was just being funny,” Joaquín says, tone light. “Nothing happened.” 

Sam raises a brow. “Oh, okay. So if I check the security footage, it’s not going to show anything?” 

Your heart lurches, your cheeks burn, and you turn toward Joaquín, burying your face in his chest with a groan. 

You hadn’t even thought about that stupid little security camera in the corner of your office. 

“I knew it!” Sam cries. “I can’t believe you two. This is a place of work,” he goes on, already climbing onto his high horse. “You just violated my trust—and the trust of everyone on this team. This is an environment for professionalism, not sex. I can’t believe you’d do something so reckless, so—” 

“Didn’t you bring a date back here the weekend after we started operating?” Joaquín asks suddenly, brows raised. 

You lift your head, blinking. “Oh my God. You did! What was her name—Kylie? Casey?” 

Sam freezes. His expression drops. 

“You know,” Joaquín continues, turning to you, “we could probably find the footage from that night. I think I remember the date.” 

“Wouldn’t take long,” you add, grinning now. “Could scrub through it before we erase ours.” 

“Okay!” Sam blurts, throwing up a hand. “Okay. You heathens win.” 

Joaquín grins, wide and smug, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and pulling you closer. 

“Go through the cameras,” Sam instructs, already backing toward the door. “Delete the footage. Both incidents.” 

“No offense, Sam,” you mutter, grimacing, “I really don’t want to see that.” 

“I’ll do it,” Joaquín says cheerfully. “I’m actually a little curious about how Captain America—” 

“Enough,” Sam snaps, pointing at Joaquín—but the twitch in his lips betrays him. “Do it. Go home. Take tomorrow off. Hell, take the whole week if you’re going to be all over each other like this. Just don’t defile any more government property.” 

Then he’s gone. Out the door and down the hall, muttering something about kids these days. 

Joaquín hops off the desk and wraps his arms around you, smiling like a sinner who just got a free pass to heaven. 

“You think we should keep a copy?” he asks, eyes gleaming. “I bet it’s hot.” 

Your thighs clench instinctively, and you wrap your arms around his neck. 

“Oh, definitely. And Sam’s too—for blackmail. Just in case.” 

Joaquín laughs. “God. Could you imagine if Captain America’s sex tape got leaked?” 

“Might boost his approval rating,” you snort, moving to slide into your chair. 

He stands behind you while you pull up the security system app, his arms around your shoulders, lips brushing over your hair again and again. 

He murmurs it at first—I love you, I love you, I love you—until the words melt into Spanish, growing filthier, hungrier. You can’t understand all of it, but it doesn’t matter. 

Because you’ll make him teach you. 

Slowly. Thoroughly. 

Between your legs. All fucking night. 

© 2025 geminiwritten. this work is protected by copyright. unauthorized use, reproduction, distribution, or training of artificial intelligence models with this content is strictly prohibited. all original elements of this fanfiction belong to geminiwritten. characters and settings derived from original works belong to their respective creators.

[borathae]

↳ Index [Day 26 - Lipstick & Photography]

Pairing: Jungkook x f.Reader

Kinks: Switching, red lipstick, kissing, body worship, nippleplay, erotic photography, praise, tears, finger sucking, sexy possessiveness, marking, tattoos & piercings, black leather jackets, rough & passionate sex on the sofa, she rides him, overstimulation (m.receiving), creampie, squirting, the aftercare :(, the sexual tension in this is making me weak, also Jungkook is wet from being in the rain because that deserves a warning

Wordcount: 6.6k

a/n: i want him, need him, crave him. i also wanna state that this story controlled me, i will not apologize for the utter feralness however. enjoy besties ❤

“Kiss me.”

You are on your way home after a date at the cinema. The sky is crying cold rain and the small bus stop barely shields your bodies. The sun has set a long time ago, the wet streets reflect the millions of city lights. Red, greens, whites, oranges and blues. The most beautiful paintings are engraved on the streets, destined to disappear once the world dries up again. 

“Kiss me”, Jungkook whispers, eyes glued to your lips and hands on your waist. He is standing by your side, resting his forehead against your temple.

You ignore him not because you want to, but because you feel way too shy to initiate his request. You are never that touchy in public.

“Please kiss me”, he begs, drawing closer until his lips brush against your cheek. They feel warm on your cold skin, forcing a shiver to run down your spine.

“The bus’s coming in two minutes”, you tell him.

“So kiss me in that time”, he says, pulling you closer by twisting a bundle of your coat.

You are so affected by him. If you weren’t still in public, you would have already given in. You have no idea why exactly he was as clingy as he was right now, but you won’t question him. You are so obsessed when he is like this.

“Let’s wait a little”, you say.

“How long?” Jungkook breathes, gazing at your lips. You are wearing red lipstick tonight and it’s been driving him insane. You look so beautiful with red lips.

“Until we’re home.”

“But that’s in twenty minutes.”

“You can do it.”

“No, I can’t.”

You turn your head.

He chases you instantly, eyes half-lidded and lips parted.

You move closer.

Jungkook moans softly, eyes falling closed.

Keep reading

[ahundredtimesover]

Inevitable (Series Masterlist) | JJK

Pairing: Jungkook x (f.) Reader (ft. ot6)

Genre/Tags: exes au, parents au, baseball player!JK; angst, fluff, smut (18+)

Series Warnings: foul language, alcohol consumption, minor character death, talks of insecurities, explicit sexual content (oral sex, fingering, making out, straddling, unprotected/protected penetrative sex but be safe please! specific warnings will be written on applicable chapters)

Series Word count: ~89.8k

Summary: You convinced Jungkook to break up years ago so he could pursue his lifelong baseball dream. Now he’s back home, staring at you, and the little boy next to you who looks unmistakably like him.

A/N: I love exes aus, and (athlete) dad Jungkook does things to me and after months of this little family living in my head, I finally got to put them into writing. So I hope you enjoy knowing them as much as I loved writing them 🥰 Also, my knowledge on baseball (and the MLB and the KBO) is quite shallow so for wrong terms and stuff… please ignore!

Prologue (wc: 2.2k)

Chapter 01 (wc: 6.9k)

Chapter 02 (wc: 7.2k)

Chapter 03 (wc: 7.7k)

Chapter 04 (wc: 9.9k)

Chapter 05 (wc: 7.5k)

Chapter 06 (wc: 7.7k)

Chapter 07 (wc: 6.6k)

Chapter 08 (wc: 14.7k)

Epilogue (final) (wc: 6.3k) 

Only Love: An Inevitable Epilogue (wc: 13k) || End

masterlist

[voyter]

NOT SO CASUAL ⟡ 01

pairing. jeon jungkook x fem!reader genre. streamer!jungkook. smut. friends with benefits. friends to lovers. slice of life. roommates au.

with one bathroom in the apartment and jungkook’s strict streaming schedule, he’s left with no choice but to join you in the shower.

word count. 5.9k words warnings. they shower together duh. bold words are in korean (oc is not korean, she just understands korean a little bc of jungkook). HORNY OC #OVULATION. hes a lil cocky shit in this. smut. fem!masturbation. use of toy. she gets off to his voice. fingering. oral (fem!receiving). MUNCH !! HE RUBS HIS NOSE AGAINST HER CLIT. face grinding. tongue fucking.

ana’s notes. this is just the beginning .. HEHEHE

NEXT ⟡ SERIES MASTERPOST

There was always a fine line between you and Jungkook.

You could use his coffee machine — but you couldn’t use all of his coffee grinds. He could use your bunny headband — but your face wash was strictly yours.

Some things, though, you were just bound to share. Like toothpaste. The same cups. The same towel once… accidentally.

And especially the shower. Since there was only one bathroom.

It was a constant battle. You always took ridiculously long to shower. Sometimes it was because you were genuinely scrubbing your skin and washing your hair for an hour, or shaving. Most times, it was because the water felt too good — relaxing your muscles until you couldn’t bring yourself to get out.

Meanwhile, Jungkook would be on the other side of the door, pounding and telling you to hurry up because he had to take a leak. And when you didn’t answer, he’d just come in and do it anyway. It wasn’t weird — you two had been friends since you were teenagers. Besides, when you gotta go, you gotta go.

And just like all those other days, here he was again, banging on the door and yelling for you to hurry up.

You rolled your eyes, trying to drown out his voice and lose yourself in the scorching water pouring on your skin. You’d spent the entire morning replying to hundreds of emails, your back aching from hours of hunching over your desk, your neck stiff from turtleneck posture. You just wanted this — a long, hot shower, and the rest of the day to finally relax.

Until you hear an aggravating voice calling your name.

“Please hurry up! I have to stream in a bit and I need to shower!” Jungkook shouts from the other side of the door.

“Kook, I just got in!” you yell back, head tipping back in frustration.

“No, you haven’t! You’ve been in there for half an hour!”

“Well, you’re gonna have to wait!”

He groans, then shouts your name again. “I’m so serious, if you don’t hurry up, I’m going in there with you!”

“Well, I’m not getting out!” you say back.

And with that, Jungkook twists the doorknob and walks in.

“You’re not serious!” you exclaim, seeing his blurry silhouette through the fogged up shower door.

“You left me with no choice, bro,” he says, already stripping his clothes off.

You don’t say another word, completely flabbergasted.

There’s no way. 

Before you could doubt him again, the door opens and he steps into the tiny shower with you, one hand on your bare back as he nudges you forward to make room.

“Jungkook!” you scream, covering your breasts.

“Fuck, why’s it so damn hot in here?” he says, leaning forward and adjusting the water, his bare chest brushing against your back.

“This is so weird, Kook.” you mutter, turning slightly to glare up at him.

“Relax. I won’t even look at you,” he says, eyes squeezed shut as he lathers shampoo through his hair. “I just need to wash up and I’ll be out.”

You try not to look either — you really do — but he’s right there. Water and soap slide down the solid lines of his chest, tracing the dip of his toned stomach before disappearing out of sight. Your gaze follows before you can stop it, curiosity flickering where it shouldn’t. He’s so big, even on soft.

You swallow hard, snapping yourself out of it. Then you turn around and push him back a little, his chest firm beneath your palm.

“You’re hogging, dude. I need to wash my conditioner out.”

His eyes stay shut, a lazy grin tugging at his mouth. “No one’s stopping you.”

You’re facing him — way too close for comfort — as you tilt your head back under the water. He finally opens his eyes, but his gaze stays low, focused on the way he scrubs his torso with the washcloth. Foam and bubbles lather over his skin, gliding down the water.

It’s respectful, really. How he isn’t ogling at you — a naked woman right in front of him — like any other man would. And somehow, that only makes it worse. Makes you want him to look.

God, you can barely breathe. He’s so close. His knuckles brush your ribs, a light bump that sends a jolt through you.

“Sorry,” he says in Korean, though his tone is completely casual.

You blink at him. What the fuck? How the hell is he so calm about this? You two have never seen each other naked — not that there was ever a reason to. Are you overthinking it?

He cracks one eye open, catching you before you can even look away. You’re still staring at his chest as he scrubs, and he lets out a low, breathy chuckle.

“Y’know, you're staring real hard for someone who said this was weird,” he teases.

Your eyes snap up, wide. “Shut up. You’re weird.”

“Hm. Okay, perv,” he says with a lazy grin.

“Just- hurry up and get out!” you snap, turning back toward the water to hide your face.

“Well, someone’s hogging the water!” he retorts.

“Hmph!” you huff, crossing your arms before stepping aside to let him under the water.

He rinses the soap from his hair, water streaming down his body and splashing everywhere like a wet dog — droplets hitting you from every direction. Annoyed, you twist the shower to hot, and when the water heats up, Jungkook yelps.

“Bro, you’re actually so annoying. C’mere!” he laughs, grabbing your shoulder and pulling you under the stream with him as he shifts it to freezing cold.

Your back collides with his slippery front, his arm instinctively looping around your waist to steady you. The sudden contact steals your breath — but before you can even process it, the cold water hits, and you let out a scream.

“Jungkook, please!” you shriek, trying to pry his arm off your waist.

“Brat,” he laughs, holding you in place as the freezing water pours down on both of you.

“Jungkook!” you shout again, squealing. “I’m genuinely going to kill you!”

He just laughs harder. Meanwhile, you can barely breathe through your shivers. Goosebumps start to form on your skin, but you can’t tell if it’s from the cold water or Jungkook’s cock pressing into you.

“Okay, seriously! It’s cold and I can feel your dick in my ass, dude!” you finally gasp, twisting in his grip.

He finally releases you and you immediately turn the water back to hot, the rush of warmth hitting your skin in relief and the glass immediately fogging up. He’s still laughing as he opens the shower door, grabbing his towel from the rack and getting out.

“Annoying ass,” you mutter, brushing water from your face.

“Yeah, yeah. Pervert,” he says back, wrapping the towel around his waist as his eyes flicker down to your chest.

“You just looked at my boobs!” you exclaim, brows knitted.

He shrugs. “You were looking at mine first?”

You grab the shower door handle and slam it shut. “Next time, I’m locking the door!”

“Yeah, and try showering faster!” he calls back, leaving the bathroom and shutting the door with a click.

Jungkook has always just been your best friend.

He’s funny, dorky, and has that annoying boyish charm that somehow made him impossible to stay mad at. You’d known him forever — too long to ever think of him that way.

But ever since he hopped in the shower with you the other day, your brain wouldn’t shut up. You kept replaying it — the proximity, his skin against yours, his cock literally pressed up against your ass. And now, every time he walked by, you couldn’t act normal without feeling carnal.

How could you not? It's not exactly normal to shower with your best friend. And this was all his fault, anyway!

You started seeing Jungkook in a completely different light.

The air got colder, and he was back to living in hoodies — cozy, oversized ones that made him look effortlessly attractive in a boyfriend way. His hair was always messy, his face bare, and every time he walked around, you’d get that swooning girly feeling.

And even worse? The sweats. The fucking sweats. The way they hung low on his hips, the way they showed too much. His print visible through the fabric, reminding you how absolutely hung he is.

God, you are a pervert.

You’ve been avoiding him. Leaving the room whenever he walks in. He hasn’t noticed yet — or maybe he has, but he hasn’t said anything about it.

Working from home didn’t help either. You were stuck in the apartment with him every hour of the day since he worked from home too. Your earphones and endless emails were enough to distract you for a while, but once the day ended and you were left in bed with nothing but your thoughts, it got bad.

And it was especially worse when you could hear his voice.

“Chat, I’m not taking off my hoodie,” you hear him say from his room, muffled but still clear through the thin wall. “It’s cold and I’m not wearing anything underneath.”

Then he laughs — low and knowing. 

Fuck.

You’d checked your period tracker earlier. Of course you were ovulating. That probably explained why every little thing he did suddenly aroused you ten times harder.

The ache between your thighs had been building all evening, a throbbing inconvenience that no amount of ignoring could make go away. Your pink vibrator sat in the bedside drawer, tempting, calling your name like a ritual. Quickly, you slid it open, fingers wrapping around the silicone toy.

You pushed the button, and the persistent buzz filled the room. The walls in this apartment were ridiculously thin; every word came through like he was right there with you. You could hear him, his voice pushing through the barrier as he flirts with his viewers like the little tease he is. If you were able to hear him, he could definitely hear this toy's relentless whirring.

But you didn’t give a single fuck — you needed this too badly to stop or care.

Impatiently, you hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your shorts and panties, yanking them down in one swift motion. The cool air hits your wet and swollen heat, pussy clenching in anticipation and need. You spread your legs slightly on the bed, the sheets crumpling beneath you and you positioned the vibrator.

Then you hear his voice again. “Take it off anyway? Yo, chat! Behave!” He giggles softly.

Why did that make you even hornier? Imagining him there, taking his hoodie off and streaming shirtless, feeding his audience what they want. It makes you wonder if he’ll give you what you want. The thought has you trailing the buzzing tip along your inner thigh first, teasing yourself. Finally, you pressed it firmly against your clit.

The contact was intense — vibrations pulsing directly into that sensitive bud full of nerves. Your body jerked involuntarily, hips bucking as a sharp wave of pleasure shot throughout you, making your toes curl. You cursed quietly, a soft moan escaping before you bit down on your lower lip. 

On the other side of the hall, he drives you to your edge quicker. “No! Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Jungkook chants, the words tumbling out in frustration. A deep groan followed, guttural and unrestrained. “Goddamnit! I was so close, then I fucking sold!”

He’s losing his shit over a game while you were about to cum from the pathetic sounds he was making.

You circled the vibrator slower now, grinding it against your clit in deliberate movements, the wetness coating the toy. Each stroke sent your nerves radiating, your pussy aching to be filled, but for now, this was enough — more than enough with his oblivious presence so close.

You clamped a hand over your mouth, fingers digging into your cheek as your back arched off the bed. The vibrator thrummed at its highest speed now, the intense vibrations assaulting your clit relentlessly. All that lust you’d been bottling up poured out in a flood of slick heat between your thighs.

Living with Jeon Jungkook was torturous…

“Chat, one more round or should I end stream for the night?” His tone was casual, yet had you in full effect — oblivious to the way your pussy throbbed at the rasp in his voice.

A muffled moan escaped despite your efforts, vibrating against your palm. Your hips lift from the mattress, grinding your swollen clit harder against the toy. You can feel it coming — the tight coil in your tummy twisting, your walls clenching around the toy as arousal leaks profusely out of you. 

“One more round? Alright, just for you,” he replied to his viewers — that signature giggle slipping out, the one he does when he knows the girls and gays are already folding over the simplest things he does.

But you weren’t some thirsty fan in his chat. No, Jungkook’s effect on you ran way deeper than that — a constant simmer that turned into this frantic need to fuck yourself while listening to him. 

You threw your head back against the pillow, neck straining as you bit down on your knuckle, teeth sinking into skin to muffle the moan clawing up your throat. The pressure surged to its peak, your body locking up as the orgasm took over.

Your clit pulsed under the vibrator’s assault as the pleasure exploded, making your toes curl and your back arch. Slick seeped out of you, coating your fingers and the toy, the wet sounds barely audible over the buzz and your ragged breathing.

As you came down from your high, the overstimulation became too much. You yanked the vibrator away with a gasp, fumbling to turn it off, the sudden silence deafening — you could hear Jungkook tapping away at his keyboard, finger clicking down on the mouse. The toy rolled away as you tossed it somewhere on your bed, too spent to care about the mess on it right now.

One thing was clear: you hadn’t felt like that in far too long — your thighs shaking uncontrollably, your sopping heat still throbbing hypersensitively, that deep, aching relief lingering in your lower stomach. The raw force of it drained you, a sluggish feeling in your limbs.

Post nut clarity hit you like a truck, shame and guilt starting to eat at you: you came harder than ever, all because you were fantasizing about Jungkook, your best friend. That incident in the shower and all the glances you stole — his wet skin glistening under the water, those thick, muscular arms flexing as he lathered soap all over his body, and his heavy cock hanging between his thighs. It had all ignited this secret explosion of lust. It wasn’t forbidden, but it had felt that way since you’d never thought about him like this.

Now, the idea of him walking by while you were in the living room, or coming into the kitchen behind you, peering over your shoulder to see what was for dinner — it all makes your tummy flutter, like a stupid crush. 

No way you could keep living like this.

You managed to successfully avoid Jungkook for the rest of the week. Not that it was difficult — he’d been too busy with his streaming schedule, headset on and door shut most of the time.

It was ironic, really — living with Jungkook and yet not seeing him for days.

Still, you weren’t taking any risks. You’d started taking quicker showers — gosh, you missed standing under the water until your skin steamed. You hadn’t cooked in days either, constantly dragging Jennie out for dinner or inviting yourself over to her place instead. 

Now, the cold air had your hands trembling as you tried to fit the key into the lock. After a few fumbling attempts, it finally clicked, and you pushed the door open, grateful to step inside the warm apartment.

You’d just come back from Jennie’s place after a cozy pasta dinner for two. She had joked about you moving in with her instead, just so you could cook for her like that every night.

And damn, maybe you should’ve considered her offer — because the moment you walk into the apartment, Jungkook’s already there in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up and a pan on the stove. He must’ve just finished streaming. Poor baby probably hadn’t eaten all day until now.

On other days, you’d cook for the both of you. But tonight, you couldn’t shake the guilt crawling up your spine.

“Hey,” he says, glancing over his shoulder as you step inside.

“Hi,” you reply, quick and polite.

But suspicious.

Normally, you’d linger — maybe steal a bite of whatever he was cooking or tease him about the mess he was making. Instead, you head straight for your room without another word.

Jungkook’s brows knit together. That just won’t do.

Your door’s already shut by the time he follows, knuckles tapping against the wood.

You scrunch up your nose, already dreading the conversation you’re about to have with him. How do you tell your best friend of years that you feel guilty because you got off to his voice?

“Come in,” you call, trying to sound casual.

He walks in — looking good as ever. His hair is tousled, his hoodie hanging loose but still fitting him perfectly.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

Shit.

You shrug off your jacket and toss it into the hamper. “Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know. You seem… weird.”

You sigh, turning away from him as you open your laptop, pretending to be busy. “Really, I’m okay.”

It’s quiet for a moment. And just when you expect to hear the door close, you hear him instead.

“Did something happen while you were out?” he asks, voice soft but worried.

You turn around to face him — brows slightly furrowed, that worry in his eyes making your chest tighten.

“No,“ you glance away, fumbling for composure. “I swear, everything’s okay.”

He still doesn’t look convinced.

“Then why won’t you look at me?” he presses.

You let out a nervous laugh. “I’m looking at you!”

You’re not. You’re very pointedly looking anywhere but at him — specifically at your nightstand. Yeah. That one.

“You’re not!” he whines.

“Jungkook, please.” You shut your eyes, trying to sound firm, though your anxiety betrays you.

“No! If something is wrong, you can tell me!” he insists, voice mixed with worry and frustration now. He takes a few steps closer.

“I said everything’s okay! Why won’t you just believe me?” you shoot back, finally looking up at him — a mistake, because he looks unfairly good even when he’s upset. Eyes bigger somehow, brows knitted in that way that makes him look both worried and boyishly stubborn.

“Because you’re not being believeable?” he says, as if obvious.

You sigh, looking down at your hands in your lap, the guilt gnawing away.

Then, quieter, almost hesitant. “Did… did I make you uncomfortable that day?”

Your head snaps up. There it is — the forbidden topic neither of you had spoken about since it happened. It feels foreign, like it shouldn’t have been brought up, but here it is anyway — being brought up.

“No, you didn’t,” you say quickly, almost too quickly. But he still doesn’t look convinced. “Kook, no. I swear you didn’t make me uncomfortable.”

“Then what’s wrong?” he asks, almost pleading now. He knows you too well — knows the difference between you’re fine and you’re pretending to be fine.

“It’s me, okay?” you blurt out, looking away. “That wasn’t exactly a boundary we should’ve crossed as friends, and now….” You exhale shakily, cheeks getting warm. “Now I feel guilty because I can’t stop thinking about you in ways I shouldn’t.”

Silence. Heavy, suffocating silence.

You can feel his gaze burning into you, and every inch of your body wants to sink straight to the floor. You brace yourself for it — for him to laugh and tell you he doesn’t see you that way. Or tell you you’re like a little sister to him. Either way, you’re already planning to text Jennie and tell her you’re moving in, because there’s no way you’re surviving this humiliation.

“You’ve… been fantasizing about me?”

Your head snaps up. A smug, satisfied look plastered all over his face — it has ego written all over it. His lips curl into a slow, teasing smirk, and his hands slip casually into the pockets of his sweats like he’s enjoying this way too much.

Of course he is. Of course this cocky little shit would love hearing that.

You groan, dragging your hands down your face. “Oh my god, Jungkook, you actually need to die.”

“That’s basically what you said, though!” he argues, clearly entertained.

You drop your hands and glare at him. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” he asks, tilting his head, that little grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he takes a step closer.

“Don’t be annoying.”

“Okay,” he says, hands raised in surrender — though he quickly slips them back into his pockets, that smirk turning into a soft smile. “I’m sorry.”

Your lips press into a thin line, your face hot. “Well?”

“What?” he asks, blinking at you like he’s clueless.

“Aren’t you going to reject me?” you ask, exasperated. “Actually, do it now so I can start packing.”

He just chuckles quietly. No rejection. No teasing comeback like he usually would’ve done.

“Come here,” he says, nodding his head toward himself.

“Jungkook…” you hesitate.

“Come here,” he repeats, firmer this time — his voice deeper, leaving no room for argument.

You roll your eyes before finally pushing yourself up, dragging your feet toward him like you’re walking into something you shouldn’t.

Once you stop in front of him, Jungkook’s hand slides around your arm — firm but gentle — and he guides you down until the back of your knees hit the edge of the bed. You sit, confused, eyes darting up at him.

“What are you trying to do?” you ask warily.

Instead of answering, he kneels down in front of you. His face is level with yours now, expression unreadable but somehow still soft.

“Whatever happened to that guy you were hooking up with?” he asks suddenly.

“Eunwoo?” you blink, caught off guard. “We stopped.”

He hums, leaning in slightly. “And since then?”

You hesitate, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. “It’s… been a while.”

His tongue clicks as his lips curve. “You poor thing.” He plants his forearms on either side of your thighs, caging you in. “No wonder you got all weird after the shower.”

You roll your eyes and shove lightly at his chest. “Shut up.”

He laughs teasingly, but doesn’t budge.

“And you?” you ask, lifting your chin, trying to stabilize your voice.

He tilts his head, smiling faintly. “Nope. Too busy streaming.”

He’s so close now, closer than he’s ever been — even closer than that incident in the shower. Your heart pounds vigorously in your chest, your frantic heartbeat echoing in your ears, and you’re sure he can hear it too. Heat floods your face, cheeks burning with embarrassment.

“So… if you want to…” he murmurs, leaning in even more until his breath fans hot against your lips.

“Don’t you have a bunch of streamer girls you know that you could fuck instead?” you ask, breath hitching as your thighs clench together instinctively, trying to subdue the ache between them.

“Don’t want them,” he whispers as he closes the gap further.

His lips brush yours — not a full kiss yet, just a tentative bump, testing the waters, giving you the chance to pull back if you want to. But you don’t. You can’t.

The moment stretches, and then he crashes into you like a man starved. His mouth claims yours, lips soft yet demanding, tasting faintly of the sweet balm he slathers on after every shower. His tongue slips past your parted lips, exploring, tangling with yours.

His hands roam boldly now, sliding around your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh there. He pulls you flush against him, trapping you completely in his grip, your body pinned by his solid weight.

With a sudden surge, he lunges forward, laying you down. He hovers over you, lips never leaving yours, devouring you with sloppy, urgent kisses, sucking on your lower lip before diving back in to taste every flavor of your mouth. 

One hand trails downward, slipping beneath the waistband of your leggings and panties. His palm is surprisingly warm, contrasting deliciously against your colder skin from the air outside.

He wastes no time, fingers delving lower until his middle one grazes your sopping pussy. You’re already so wet, warm slick coating his digits as it profusely drips out. The first touch sends a jolt through you, your hips bucking.

He adds another finger, pressing it firmly against the sensitive bud, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles. A muffled moan escapes, vibrating against Jungkook’s mouth.

You break the kiss, turning your head to the side, teeth sinking into your lower lip to stifle the sounds threatening to spill out louder.

“How long exactly is a while?” he asks, voice husky, laced with amusement.

God, you’re not even facing him, but you can hear that smug smirk in his tone, feel it in the way his fingers pause just to tease.

“Five months,” you gasp out, the admission hanging heavy in the air, your body trembling under his touch.

He doesn’t respond with words — just pushes two fingers deep inside your soaked pussy. Your walls clench around the intrusion, slick heat welcoming him, and you throw your head back with an audible moan.

He leans down, lips finding the curve of your neck, starting with a gentle kitten lick of his tongue before his teeth graze the skin. He bites down — not hard enough to bruise, but firm enough to mark, sucking the spot until you feel the delicious sting straight to your core.

Your hands fly up, cupping his face, thumbs brushing his sharp jawline as you pull him back into a feverish kiss. Tongues messily clash again. In response, his hand inside your pants speeds up, fingers thrusting in and out with a steady rhythm. The squelching of your arousal grows louder, filling the room.

“You haven’t eaten today, have you?” you manage through moans, your thumb rubbing soothing circles over the apple of his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin under your touch.

He chuckles low in his throat, the vibration rumbling against your lips as he leans into your hand. “You’re really doing this right now?”

“I-“ Your words cut off as his fingers curl sharply inside you, pressing against your inner walls with precision. A moan rips from your throat, your body shuddering. “I feel bad. Haven’t been cooking for you because I was embarrassed.”

“Don’t. That’s not your job,” he says, his smile evident in his voice, eyes gleaming at how sensitive you are, how every twitch and gasp fuels his ego.

“Don’t wanna starve you,” you whimper, the words tumbling out through the haze of pleasure.

“No?” He tilts his head, that playful dominance shining through as he watches your face contort.

You hum in agreement, shaking your head weakly.

“Okay, I’ll eat then,” he says.

He withdraws his fingers slowly, the sudden emptiness making you whine in protest, your pussy clenching around nothing as your sticky arousal gets on your thighs.

You exhale shakily, chest heaving, trying to catch your breath, but before you could regulate your breathing, Jungkook’s hands are at your waistband. With a forceful tug, he pulls your leggings and panties down your legs in one rough motion.

“Jungkook!” you exclaim, voice pitching higher as embarrassment floods. “What’re you doing!”

“About to eat,” he replies casually, kneeling between your legs hanging at the edge of the bed. “Since you’re so worried about my appetite.”

“This is not what I meant,” you protest, thighs closing in futile attempt to hide.

“Come on,” he whined in Korean, playful but insistent, his accent thick. His hands gently but firmly pry at your knees. “Been a while, hasn’t it? Let me take care of you.”

“Do not use that against me!” you whine back.

He switches tactics, those pleasing eyes boring into yours, one hand resting warmly on your knee. 

You’ve thought about this for days now. The cool press of his lip rings against you, how good he is with his tongue. The thought alone makes more arousal seep out of your entrance. Your legs part instinctively, opening wide for him, a silent invitation.

A slow, satisfied smile spreads across his face, dimple peeking as he leans in. He starts with soft kisses along your inner thigh, nipping lightly at the skin until goosebumps erupt. His eyes stay fixed on yours, intense and unwavering. But the intimacy gets too much, and you avert your gaze to the side, biting your lip again.

He chuckles softly, the sound vibrating against your thigh. “Look at me.”

Obediently, though with a hint of attitude in your narrowed eyes, you turn back, meeting his stare. It feels exposing, vulnerable, but the command in his voice sends even more arousal out of you.

He pushes your thighs wider, fingers digging into the soft flesh to hold you splayed open, your pussy on full display — swollen, wet, clit begging for attention.

Finally, he leans in closer, his breath ghosting over your heated core, making you shiver. His tongue darts out, licking a stripe right over your sensitive clit. Immediately, a sharp wave of pleasure shoots down your spine, your hips jerking into his mouth further. Your thighs quiver, instinctively trying to close in on his head, but his grip is stronger, keeping you spread at his mercy.

He holds your gaze as he buries his face deeper, the metal of his lip rings against your folds. His mouth latches onto your clit fully now, lips sealing around the bud as he sucks — gentle at first, then harder, tongue flicking rapidly against it. 

The suction pulls a quiet moan from your open mouth, your back arching, pressure building in your lower tummy. Slick coats his chin, dripping down as he devours you, humming in approval at your taste, the vibrations adding another blissful yet tormenting sensation.

He lowers his face further, his tongue extending to lap directly into your sopping entrance. The tip of his tongue presses inside, tasting your arousal, swirling against your inner walls as he gathers more of your juices. Then, his nose nudges firmly against your swollen clit, the firm bridge bumping it with just the right pressure.

“Y- yes, Kook, right there,” you moan, the words spilling out in a breathy plea as you lean back on one arm, propping yourself up to watch him work, your free hand gripping onto the sheets. 

He starts moving his head up and down in a steady rhythm, the rounded tip of his nose circling and pressing into the throbbing nub, intensifying the friction. His tongue stays buried inside your pussy, thrusting shallowly, lapping up your warm slick.

A deep hum vibrates from his throat, the sound muffled against your heat, like he’s seeking your approval or praise, dark eyes flickering up to lock onto yours. The lower half of his face is completely buried deep between your spread thighs.

You nod frantically, eyebrows knitting together in ecstasy, your bottom lip caught so tightly between your teeth that you’re convinced you might’ve drawn blood. “Fuck, yes, just like that,” you gasp, the praise fueling him as your body trembles.

Jungkook’s own brows furrow in concentration and bliss, his expression twisting like he’s savoring the richest feast imaginable — and he is, devouring your pussy with all his focus. Breathing is a challenge with your thighs clamped around his ears and your pussy coating his mouth and nose, but the thought doesn’t discourage him; he’d gladly suffocate between your legs.

His gaze never wavers from your face, taking in every detail: the way your features contort in pleasure, eyes half-lidded and glassy, your lower lip now visibly swollen from the abuse of your teeth.

Driven by your reactions, he shoves his face even deeper, the hard ridge of his nose bone grinding harder against your clit, providing relentless friction that builds the coil in your tummy tighter. His tongue plunges further inside, fucking into your pussy with wet, slurping strokes that echo obscenely in the room, pushing you toward the brink.

“Jungkook, baby, I’m already so close,” you moan, your voice coming out hoarse and hushed, strained from all the moaning and restraint.

Your hips start to rock subtly against his mouth, and he hums again — the low vibration rumbling straight through your core, making your clit pulse against his nose and your inner walls clench around his invading tongue. That sensation ignites something within you — your hips buck forward, grinding harder into his face, chasing the pressure as you smear more slick across his skin.

You throw your head back as louder moans tear from your throat, your entire body flushing hot, skin prickling with sweat. The orgasm crashes over you, seizing your muscles in a frozen moment of pure intensity before you convulse, thighs shutting around his head, pussy clenching as your cries fill the room.

After a few blissful seconds, the aftershocks turn into overstimulation, the continuous lap of his tongue and nudge of his nose becoming too much on your hypersensitive nerves.

“Okay! Okay!” you giggle breathlessly as you push at his shoulder with your foot, trying to create some distance while your body still twitches.

Jungkook finally pulls back with a low, guttural moan, his tongue darting out to lick his lips clean of your essence, savoring the sweet taste. He rises slowly, crawling up your body, his eyes low and dark with lust.

You haven’t laid a single hand on his cock yet, but he looks utterly wrecked — face flushed a deep pink, hair disheveled and sticking to his forehead with sweat. Your arousal glistens across the entire lower half of his face, from his chin to the bridge of his nose.

“Your face is all wet!” you giggle again.

He doesn’t respond verbally, just leans down to capture your lips in soft, lingering pecks, as if he suddenly can’t be apart from you for even a moment, sharing the faint tang of your own essence between you.

“Alright, munch,” you say with a teasing lilt, pressing your palms against his chest to create space, sitting up alongside him on the bed. “Go wash up.”

“Fine, fine,” he succumbs, getting off you with exaggerated defeat, hands raised in mock surrender as he stumbles to his feet, legs a bit unsteady like he’s had one too many drinks, his bulge straining obviously against his sweats.

“Need help with that?” you ask, your voice light and teasing, eyes flicking pointedly to the obvious problem between his legs.

“Nah,” he groans, the sound low and rough. “You rest, I’ll take care of it.”

“And eat a real meal, please?” you call after him, voice laced with affectionate concern as he heads toward the bathroom.

“I just did!” he yells back, the playful retort echoing down the hall, followed by the sound of running water.

You snort, a hand coming up to cover your face as laughter bubbles out.

Yeah, you wouldn’t be texting Jennie tonight. You’re right where you want to be.

© VOYTER 2025. all rights reserved.

[taeshobipop]

How to Get a Guy. jjk | 01

PART 01 OF 02 | PART 02

pairing: Jungkook x Reader | [slight] Yoongi x Reader

genre: fluff, angst, smut, roommates!au, college!au, fuckboi!jk, enemies to friends to lovers

summary: Star basketball player Jeon Jungkook has a reputation as the ultimate fuckboi. He’s loved by everyone. Everyone. And you would have followed suit if he had not broken all your strict Roommate Rules™ within the first week of his stay. Jungkook, on the other hand, thinks you’re absolutely bizarre. But there’s a silver lining — Mr. Fuckboi here knows basketball captain Min Yoongi, your dreadfully clueless crush. He strikes up a deal with you: he’ll teach you the ways of flirting if you lessen your load of rules (so Jungkook can continue perusing his way through the ladies on campus). Yet the longer Jungkook spends with you, the more he realizes that maybe he doesn’t want to be the campus fuckboi anymore. The problem is, how does he prove that to you?

rating: 18+ sexual content.

warnings: protected sex, oral (f. receiving), handjob through clothes??, cumming in pants :D, slow burn, a lot of making out, titty sucking, cursing, alcohol consumption from parties, drug (weed) consumption (but not main pairing), marking with nails (not from y/n tho omg), jk sleeps around, and he’s a basketball player oof, honestly jk and y/n are just hella confused

word count: 20.6k

a/n ✑ it’s here, part uno! thank you so much for your patience!! i hope you enjoy this fic that was originally supposed to be 15k max… i appreciate all the support/motivation mwah mwah <3 the warnings for part two are included here as well (so if they dont show,,, it’s cuz it’s in the next one)

Keep reading

[randomoutsiders]

ISA PLS MAKE A BLURB ON THE 🦕 TITS ONE ZJDHDHSHSH

warning/content: swearing, showing your breasts, remus x fem!reader

CONSENSUAL ACTIONS!!!!!!! 

“Okay, love. We have a proposition.” 

Without looking up from the book you’re flipping through, you shake your head. “Although very kind, I’m going to have to pass on that one. Thanks though. I appreciate you thinking of me.” 

“Can you just listen?” James croons frustratedly, crossing his arms over his broad chest. 

“What?” You inquire, raising a brow as you turn the page, trying to the best of your ability to focus your attention on the text. 

“We wanna see your tits.” It’s Sirius this time. 

You can’t help the bark of laughter that tears from your throat at that, but when you glance up, the boys are wearing stoic expressions. You finally place the book down, being sure to bookmark the page before you do so. “You’re serious?” 

“Well, that is my name,” The male snarks, sitting down at the end of Remus’ bed. “But, yes. Deadly.” 

“Absolutely not.” You cross your arms over your chest as you scowl at the two boys. “What in the hell gave you the idea that I would even be somewhat okay with that?” 

James’ nonchalant manner is lulling bubbles of laughter out of your throat, but you repress them by glancing in the opposite direction when he speaks. “Well, y’know, we share everything ‘n technically what is Moony’s is ours too. He said so.” 

“That is not even inherently true.” You scoff, crossing your arms while you suck at your teeth at the proposition. 

“C’mon, please. We won’t tell anybody and it’ll be our little secret! Besides, if Moony gets to see them then I think it’s fair that we get to, too.” Sirius’ lips are pushing into a pouting beg, and once again, you’re scoffing and shaking your head. 

“You know, just because your best friend has a girlfriend doesn’t mean you two can’t get them. Go get laid or something and stop asking to see my tits.” You pull the book back into your hands and open it back up, but you know in the back of your mind that you’re not going to be reading anytime soon. 

“No, no.” James shakes his head, throwing a defensive hand up as he shakes his head in a disappointed manner. “We are getting laid. This is for research purposes only.” He’s leaning in, so close you’re forced to draw your legs close to your body. 

“No.” 

You slam the book shut this time, sliding off the mattress until your feet collide with the carpeted ground. “I’m leaving. Thanks so much for your time but I’d love to get going. Y’know, to do better things than to argue with you boys about whether or not it’s reasonable to see my titties.” Your words are but playful as you dip down to press an endearing kiss atop Sirius’ head. 

They don’t say more as you meander out of the room, waving your goodbyes to the two males before you depart and go to head down the stairs. 

However, on your way down, you run into your lanky boyfriend, his mess of auburn curls tucked away behind the hardcover spine of his most recent find; Little Women. 

“Hi, bubba. Where you headed m’love?” You question, and because you’re a few steps up, you’re able to get your arms around his broad shoulders a lot easier than you would have been previously able. 

From your position on the stairs, you can hear the echoing, booming voices of the boys (despite their low volume) as they debate whether or not they had approached you in the right way. 

Remus doesn’t answer your inquiry but instead closes the book with a soft thud. “What are they arguing about this time?” 

“Oh, get this,” You pause, lips quirking up with a small giggle. “They came right up to me, y’know, while I was reading, and they asked to see my tits. As if I was going to-” 

“You didn’t show them?” 

“Uh, no-” 

“Alright, turn around then, get your pretty little arse up those stairs.” He sighs, taking another step up and rapping his fingers in a gentle swat against your backside. 

“Rem!” You’re gasping, allowing a small bout of laughter to escape as you follow his command until you’re at the top once again. “Did you honestly expect me to say yes? They’re literally your-” 

“You see, poppet,” He presses a steady hand against the small of your back as he urges you towards their dormitory at the end of the hallway. “When the boys ask you to do something, you should know better than to argue with them. Especially when they are my tits. Now you’re gonna go apologize.” 

You’re left choking on your arguments as you all but stumble into the open room, mouth agape with surprise. Sirius and James are now on their respective beds, both sporting arrogant smirks at your baffled expression. 

“Yeah, y/n. Make an apology.” James muses with the obvious repression of a giddy smile. 

“I’m.... sorry, that....” You’re struggling to find the right words and when you glance to the side to find Remus’ warning gaze, you swallow down the lump in your throat. “... I didn’t show you my tits when you asked.” 

But you’re not done, as according to the pointed glare that Remus shoots in your position. You furrow your brows in confusion, mouthing a ‘What do you want me to say?” 

Remus’ eyebrows shoot up as if saying, ‘You should know.’ 

Your jaw nearly drops in surprise at the prospect of him actually making you do this. But you close your parted lips before it’s too obvious how absolutely stunned you are. 

“... And...” 

“Ohh, Prongs, there’s an ‘and’!” Sirius shivers as if surprised, although it’s pointedly obvious what you’re about to say. 

“I’d like to make it up to you.” You finish, walking across the room to sit beside James (for his bed is closer than Sirius), curling a leg under your bottom as Remus follows after you with his hands shoved deep into his pockets. 

“Arms up, bunny.” He commands, and with crimsoning cheeks, you oblige, raising your arms above your head so Remus’ slender fingers can dip under the hem of your sweater and tug the material up and off your body. 

There, your chest is bare, unconstrained by the wire and mesh cage of a bra you’d left stranded inside your trunk. 

You’re left twisting your fingers anxiously, teeth chewing anxiously at your bottom lip as Sirius bounds over to get a good look at your breasts. Your cheeks are searing hot with flames that are licking under the curvature of your jaw and over the hollows of your cheeks. 

James cocks his head to the side as if getting a view of them from every available angle while his tongue sticks out as an illustration of his concentration. 

After a while, he nods, fixing the glasses atop the bridge of his nose as he sits back. 

Sirius’ jaw has dropped at how gorgeous they are. 

James just sits back, lips crooked with a satirical grin. “Huh. Pretty.”  

“So pretty as to you’re going to actually do something with them?” Remus asks his question. 

Sirius shrugs, fingers twitching at his sides. “If you insist.” 

TAGLIST: @james-potter-simp   @nicodoesntexist @siriusblacks-bitch  @adhara  @stiffsockz  @trickylittlewitch   @a9283  @plzineedhelp  @sokkas-socks  @anggraenirhj  @sambucky8  @hollandary  @deansdeliciouspies  @mentally-in-northern-italy  @maravderofthephoenix  @blackpinkdolan  @anyasthoughts  @florenceivy  @harrys-girl-almighty  @savingprivatecass  @astmelie  @thotbutpurple  @heavenly-bratt  @accio-rogers  @sarcasticallywitty15  @psychkunox  @totallyjovialblaze @wonderful-writer @asuperconfusedgirl @playgirl1  @hoeartchoke @figlia–della–luna @tinylumpiaa @lvpinsmoons @damonwhitlock @avengersassemblee @siriusblklftv @thatslovelymoony @pinkwhorecrux @milkshakelol @cecile-sucks @mullthingsoverinthehotwater @isxfisticated @quindolyn @st0nesnglitter @marauderssimpthings  @emmaev @lilymurphy03 @weasleyposts @rileyloves5 @carrotjoe @limerenze @zzzfour @maraudersgirlxx @pinkandblueblurbs @amixedwitch @3in1shampooconditionerbodywash @memissbee @bluemoony11227 @auroraboringalis57 @wonderlandhatter @snoopydoop1 @buuchie @ohgodidontwannabehere @kittykylax @spxllcxstxr

[aquaminwrites]

Paper Cranes | Kim Taehyung (M)

PAIRING: Kim Taehyung x F!Reader

GENRE: Fluff, smut, angst. Non idol AU. College AU. Best friends to lovers. Slice of life.

WARNINGS: Explicit sexual content, unprotected sex (stay safe!), so much fluff you might pass out

WORD COUNT: 18.3k

DESCRIPTION: It is said that if someone folds 1000 paper cranes, they will receive one wish. Kim Taehyung has been folding you paper cranes since he was six years old. He won’t tell you what he’s going to wish for once he reaches his goal, but even into your twenties, all you know is that he’s been wishing for the same thing every time.

You’re six years old when you receive your first paper crane from Kim Taehyung.

Your first year of elementary school is almost over—there’s only two months left until summer break, and you’ve been counting down the days until you are finally free to wake up as late as you want and play with your friends until the sun goes down.

That’s also why it strikes you as odd that there’s a new transfer student, his newly assigned seat right beside yours, being introduced to the class. His eyes are big and wide underneath a fringe of dark brown hair, and he’s cute in the way that all kids are cute—with rosy cheeks, big ears, and a shy demeanour that tells you that he would most likely rather have stayed at his previous school.

After a brief introduction of Hello, I’m Kim Taehyung, he shuffles over and takes his seat. He doesn’t really look at you, keeping his head down as he pulls his notebooks from his backpack. You see that the margins are covered in doodles, little cartoons and make-believe stories etched onto every far corner of the page.

You open your mouth to introduce yourself, but the sound of your teacher’s voice has you facing the blackboard once more. You try not to think too hard about the new boy sitting beside you, gently humming to himself as he doodles butterflies in an open meadow.

At recess, you’re playing with a few friends, doing cartwheels and rolling around on the grass. You’re giggling with your friend, Chaeyoung, when you hear a ruckus happening not too far away.

“Hey! Please, no, give it back!”

Keep reading

[p3mybeloved]

hold you here, my loveliest friend

Summary: There are protocols in place for a reason.

Pairing: Peter Parker x female reader

Word count: 10.9k

Rating: 18+, no minors

Warnings/tropes: sex pollen therefore dubious consent, smut, unprotected sex, rough sex, anxiety, coworkers/friends to whatever the hell these two have going on

Peter Parker was a nice guy. 

And not a nice guy in the way that men described it when they couldn’t figure out why women weren’t interested in them, but a genuinely nice guy. When his name popped up on the schedule, she looked forward to work just a bit more. He was easy to talk with and smarter than anyone she’d ever met, but never in an obnoxious way. Just kind and goofy and considerate and he actually listened when people talked. 

She knew some things about him— his aunt was a nurse, he’d gone to ESU and graduated two years ahead of her, he showed up to work sometimes with faint bruises on his face, and that he had nice eyes. Maybe it wasn’t very professional to think about his eyes, but who was gonna get in her brain and stop her? Thinking wasn’t a crime. Anyway, it was just a little bit of loneliness. She’d been single for six months now— the entire time she’d known Peter, actually. He’d come to the lab a week after she’d ended it with her boyfriend, her selfish shitty mean boyfriend who she should have ditched ages ago but was too scared to. 

The day they’d met, Peter had had the decency to not judge her when she’d angrily shouldered the vending machine after it had eaten her dollar, because all she wanted was a stupid bag of chips on her stupid break and the stupid red light just blinked at her with an error message, a middle finger if she’d ever seen one. 

But instead of leaving, he’d walked over, given the machine an impressive shove, and the bag dropped to the bottom. He’d fished it out, handed it to her, and she’d accepted it, totally embarrassed that anyone had seen her have a meltdown, especially a new coworker. What a great first impression. 

“I’m so sorry,” she’d said, staring at the bag. “I, uh. It’s been a bad week. I won’t do that in the lab, I promise.”

He’d nodded kindly, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s okay to have a bad week. Sorry it’s happening to you.”

They’d been friends ever since. 

“Hey, does a straw have one hole or two?” he asked her, apropos of nothing while they were running some tests. It was just the two of them tonight, which meant Todd wasn’t there to undermine everything that they said. At first, she’d thought he was sexist, but it turned out he was sexist and a dick, because he had something to say about everyone’s work, not just hers. So it was nice to only be with Peter, because he listened to her and they worked through obstacles together. Because not only was Peter Parker a nice guy, he was also a great problem solver. 

It was also their first night on the graveyard shift, and it was hard not to miss her bed when it was just after midnight. Peter, somehow, had boundless energy, no matter what time of day it was. He was an anomaly, and she let him know it at least once a week. 

“One long hole,” she replied with a barely hidden yawn, pulling her goggles off and rubbing at her cheekbones and forehead, wishing she didn’t have red lines all over her face. 

“But there’s a hole at the top of the straw and then— shit, we’re out of pipettes,” he frowned, peering into the box. 

“I’ll go grab some,” she volunteered, grateful for a chance to stretch her legs. The high stools they sat on did her body no favors. She usually left work feeling like she’d been clubbed in the small of her back. 

The supply closet was down the hall, and she made quick work of locating what they needed. As she trudged back with the box tucked under her arm, she noticed a plant sitting by the lab entrance. Frowning, she knelt to pick it up, wondering who the hell was leaving flower deliveries at midnight. Or had it been sitting there all along and they’d somehow missed it as they’d scanned in? Well, she was single, so she doubted they were for her. Maybe Peter had something going on. She felt like he would have mentioned it, but it was his business. 

The plant had deep green leaves and bright yellow buds, curled in tightly on themselves like they were keeping a secret. They were bright at the tip and deep at the bottom, a self-contained sunset of gold and mustard. She didn’t recognize the species, but then again, botany wasn’t her specialty. There was no card or note, just the plant in its black plastic container. Weird. 

As she scanned her badge, the lab doors swooshed open, locking behind her. Peter was still working at the counter, hunched over with laser focus. Meticulous was a word she’d use to describe his work. Never a decimal or measurement out of place, protocol always followed to the letter. 

She set the plant on the counter and slid the box across to him. The noise cut through the air, and he reached a hand out without looking up to stop it from falling off the edge. In the past few months, she’d noticed he had freakishly good reflexes. After she’d made an offhanded comment about it once, he’d turned pink and mumbled something about pure dumb luck. Why that had embarrassed him, she wasn’t quite sure. As laid back as he was, there was something occasionally quiet about him that she couldn’t quite figure out. Something just a little guarded. Maybe Peter Parker had a big secret. 

“Thanks,” he said, slicing open the side of the box. “What’s that?” He gestured with his pocket knife to the plant she was still holding. 

“Oh, um. It was sitting by the doors. Did you hear anyone? Or was it there when we came in and we missed it?”

Peter shook his head. The collar of his lab coat was creased all wrong, and she wanted to straighten it out. “I feel like one of us would have seen yellow flowers. We’re both pretty observant people.”

She shrugged, and set it on the counter. “Who the hell is sending flowers at,” she checked her phone, “twelve fourteen in the morning?”

“Maybe Cupid doesn’t rest?” 

She rolled her eyes playfully and folded her arms on the counter in front of her. But as she shifted, she elbowed the plant, sending it crashing to the ground. It exploded out of the cheap container and its roots poked out of the dark soil where the plant lay in disarray. 

“Shit,” she muttered, crouching down to clean it up. Peter had already grabbed the dustpan and was next to her, sweeping up the ruined plant. In the fall, the yellow buds had burst open, revealing neon orange stamen. It was an unnatural color, and she half-expected they might glow in the dark. 

But the buds had also unleashed some sort of pollen, silver in the air. Shimmering. That was stranger than the stamen. It smelled sickly sweet, like candy made specifically for kids. 

“What the hell is that?” Peter asked, trying to wave it out of his eyes, but all it did was send it in her direction. It prickled at her nose and curled inside her mouth, sweetly melting against her tongue like cotton candy. “Was there a note with it? Or one of those little… tabs that tells the species?”

“No note—” she turned her head to cough as it stung her eyes. “I think it’s pollen? I don’t know anything about plants other than they make spring miserable. I have a basil plant at home that keeps dying no matter—”

His hands stilled, gripping the dustpan with white knuckles. “You brought… a plant with no note into the lab?”

Nerves struck her. She hadn’t considered it might be dangerous. They were just yellow flowers, right? The things that grew in gardens and brightened up bodegas. Oh God, she was so fired. This wouldn’t have happened if she’d stayed on day shift. She was overtired and had now possibly compromised herself and Peter. “I thought maybe you had— maybe someone sent them to you?”

“Someone had sent them to me?” he repeated with wide eyes, an edge of panic lacing his words as he ran a hand through his thick hair. “Who do you think is sending me flowers?”

“I don’t know!” she spluttered as blood rushed to her face. “I don’t know who you hang out with outside of work!” Her mouth was paper dry out of nowhere, and she swallowed hard, wiping her suddenly damp palms on her thighs. The lab coat was uncomfortably scratchy against her skin, and she wondered if maybe the laundry had switched detergents. And she was warm, God, why was it hot? It was November, for fucksake. It had to be from screwing up so spectacularly. Just nerves. She shrugged the coat off, even though it went against protocol. She’d already broken one rule, what the hell did another matter at this point? The air against her skin was a shock— she wasn’t just warm, she was burning up. “Did you mess with the thermostat when I left?” she asked. Sweat beaded along the back of her neck, dewdropping her temple. Gross. 

Peter shook his head wordlessly, eyes fixed on her. A strange expression crossed his face for a moment, something unreadable. Was he mad? Disappointed? Disappointed was so much worse than mad; the thought of letting him down was awful. He must think she was a total idiot. 

She noticed his hands shake for just a split second. Glancing down, she watched her own palms tremble. It felt like she was looking at someone else’s body, and a bolt of fear went through her, knife-sharp in her chest. The air was thick, almost humid, but it wasn’t that. It wasn’t like anything she’d ever felt. But it had to be anxiety from fucking up. “Okay, well, I guess… let’s just get back to work? It’s probably nothing, it’s just… it has to be nothing. Just a stupid plant that got delivered to the wrong part of the building,” she suggested hopefully. Everything was fine, she was just freaking out for fucking up, and the room wasn’t warm, she was just mortified. “I’m sorry about the plant, I wasn’t thinking, I just, I picked it up and I thought, I don’t know, maybe someone sent you flowers and, like, what a cute reversal on gender— gender norms, right, guys never get sent flowers—”

“Hey, whoa,” Peter interrupted her, brow furrowed. Silver coated the apples of his cheeks, and absurdly, she was reminded of The Wizard of Oz. When she swiped at her own face, her fingers came back shiny, and she tried to rub it off on her thighs. “You’re going a mile a minute. Just take a breath, okay? Everyone gets one free fuck up.”

“I feel funny,” she mumbled, blinking rapidly. His face swam for a moment, features swirling like a funhouse mirror, and she leaned against the counter to steady herself. 

He reached out to touch her hand, and it took forever. Slow motion like a warped VHS, staticky and jerky and wrong. Blinking didn’t help, it just made her eyes heavier each time. His fingers brushed against her wrist in what was probably meant to be a comforting gesture, but it was somehow the best and worst thing she’d ever felt. Soothing and terrible all at once. It took every bit of control she had not to grab him and pull him close so she could revel in his touch.

“Look at me,” he said gently, completely unaware that he was making her skin buzz. Fire licked at her, and she wondered if she wouldn’t burst apart from the heat. “Your eyes are…” he was still talking, but she couldn’t hear anything over the roar of her own heart. 

“What?” she asked stupidly, watching words fall from his lips that she couldn’t understand. Lips that would probably feel so fucking good against hers. Wait, no. What the hell was wrong with her? Was it— it wasn’t. It couldn’t be the flowers. This wasn’t a thing that flowers did. It would be common knowledge if a species like that existed. 

“Sit down,” he said patiently, pushing her gently onto the stool. His hand was a brand on her shoulder. “Your eyes are glassy. I’m gonna get the first aid kit, just stay right here.”

She nodded when she really wanted to beg him not to leave, to stay there and touch her hand and her cheek and her neck— oh, she was dizzy. Experimentally, she ran her fingers against her neck and jolted when sparks lit across her skin. All she could think to do was lean down and press her forehead to the cool counter, and she wondered if she’d leave a sweat-stamp behind. The lab felt like a swamp, and she imagined alligators and cottonmouths and mosquitos closing in on her, ready to tear her into pieces. There were too many things touching her but she couldn’t just take her clothes off at work, who the hell did something like that? CEOs, probably. 

There was a beeping sound somewhere to her left, and she turned to see Peter with a digital thermometer. Had he always been so tall? He seemed so much taller today. 

“I shouldn’t have touched those flowers, I shouldn’t have brought them in,” she said as he scanned her forehead. “I think I’m having a reaction to it, I…”

“Well, your temperature is just over one hundred,” he told her with a frown, pressing the inside of his wrist to her temple. She almost grabbed his arm right then and there. “You don’t sound great. Can you breathe all right?”

She couldn’t. Every breath was brutal, like the air was suddenly full of fiberglass. It stung her esophagus all the way into her chest. All she could manage was to shake her head, and a tremor wracked her body. 

“You’re shaking really badly,” he said with a furrowed brow. “I think we need to get you to the hosp—”

She shook her head frantically. The only thing she could think was fucking flowers, how could flowers cause this? It made no sense. And worse, she wasn’t just boiling hot and shuddering uncontrollably, but she was turned on. It was an empty feeling; a hollow starving ache that she needed to fill. It was also beginning to overpower the pain with a new kind of hurt. All she could do was press her thighs together and hope it would pass. “We can’t go anywhere, we don’t know what this is. What if it’s deadly? Remember that movie? 12 Monkeys with— with Bruce Willis?” Was she talking too loudly? She was, right? It was hard to tell, because everything was echoing off the ceiling, pinging through her skull incessantly. 

“I think we’re still a few years away from cracking time travel, sweetheart,” he tried to console her, but the pet name made her dizzy with want. He’d never called her that before, just her name. Why had he said that? When she dared to look up at him, she saw that he looked just a bit off. Flushed neck, wide dark eyes, and his breathing was shallow. Oh God, it was happening to him now. Oh, shit, if she was turned on, then he—

“Peter—” she began, not sure how to warn him. What the hell was she supposed to say? Oh, this was a fucking disaster, and she’d caused it because she was irresponsible. 

“I feel weird,” he muttered, so quietly she thought she might have imagined it at first. “Really weird.”

“Weird how?”

“Lightheaded,” he replied, but it was more of a question. Lightheaded? “I don’t know, it’s— it’s warm in here, yeah.” He reached for a pipette, and she couldn’t focus on anything other than his fingers. Long fingers, good fucking Lord. Heat crept up her neck and spread to her face, but she couldn’t make herself look away. She also couldn’t make herself care; maybe she wanted him to notice that she was staring at him. 

“You have big hands,” she blurted out, completely unashamed. He did have big hands. Hands that would probably feel really good on her hips and throat and thighs. She blinked, trying to clear her thoughts. But something in her was upended entirely, swirling and airy and wanting, curling through her body uncomfortably hard. She didn’t feel in control in the slightest, and it was equal parts unnerving and exhilarating. 

“Yeah?” he asked, and when he met her eyes, his gaze was dark. Not the kind eyes that she was accustomed to, but something else. Dangerous. But it didn’t scare her. Instead, her heart kicked up. 

“Yeah,” she nodded, trying to figure out why she’d said that to him. It was like someone else was piloting her mouth, someone much bolder than her. Did she think Peter was attractive? Yes. Had her mind drifted to him late at night a few times? Also yes. Was she someone who commented on her friend’s hands during work hours? Never. “Something’s wrong with me,” she tried to explain, licking her lips. The sensation of it took her breath away. Her skin was fucking burning, ready to split under the slightest pressure. “Something’s— something’s really wrong, Peter. I’m not me. I don’t…” she trailed off blankly, looking to him for help. It was impossible to articulate what she was feeling, because she was about to lose her mind. 

She stood and took a wobbly step and all she could smell was him. It was overwhelming— something woodsy and masculine with just a hint of the cinnamon gum he always chewed and she wanted to shove her face into the crook of his neck and lick at his pulse. Arousal spiked through her at the thought and she froze in place, staring up at him. Words failed her. He had such a pretty face, and she’d never really looked at his mouth before, and now that’s all she was looking at. 

But he took a step back. “I think you should get out,” he muttered, looking back down at his work. 

“What?” she asked, taking another step. It wasn’t even her choice, it was like she was being compelled forward, yanked like a marionette by some unseen hand. She needed to be near him, needed something. Needed—

His head was down, but his breathing was completely off-kilter now. She reached for his shoulder, and he dodged her hand. 

“I think you should get out,” he repeated sharply. Sweat had darkened his hairline, and a drop slowly slid down the side of his face. It was hypnotic. 

“I can’t.”

He looked up sharply, nostrils flared. “Something’s very wrong with us.” His voice was strained, his words deliberate and measured. “I don’t think we should be near each other. I really think you should go—”

“Go where? We can’t open the door, we’ll let it out,” she pointed out, wringing her hands uselessly. Another shudder ripped through her, setting her ablaze. Everything in her body was contradictory: her cloudy brain and her shaking hands, her heavy eyes and her pounding heart. And every time she looked at Peter, something nudged at her, deep in her bones. The collar of his lab coat was begging to be yanked on—

“I don’t know!” he exclaimed, shoving his chair back and shooting to his feet. His pupils were blown out, leaving his eyes practically black, and she wanted him to push her up against the wall and knock the breath from her lungs. “But if you stay here—” 

“You’re not being fair,” she accused. Angry tears burned at her eyes and she wiped at them in embarrassment. There were too many emotions competing inside her, twisting into a terrible storm of fear and lust and frustration. “You feel it too, that’s why you want me to leave. But I can’t leave, I can’t take the subway, I can’t be on the subway feeling like— like I’m gonna fucking die.”

Peter’s breath was coming in sharp exhales that skittered invitingly across her brain and she imagined him panting against her neck while his hips slammed into hers. “What are we supposed to do?” he asked. He gripped the edge of the counter, and she wondered if he might snap. A muscle twitched in his jaw and it only made her think of his stubble between her thighs, scraping her soft skin until she was red and raw. Every thought she had was being rerouted to sex. Oh, this was bad, this was so—

“Can you make it stop?” she asked. Begged. His face went white at her question, and his fingers dug into the counter even harder as he stared at their abandoned work. Her lungs were so tight in her chest she wondered if she wasn’t having a panic attack on top of everything else. All she could feel was her heartbeat hammering away in her throat like a wild thing; a caged animal hellbent on escape. “You always fix everything, you always figure it out. When you touched my wrist, it felt so much better. I need— can you just—” 

Helplessly, he looked up at her and she hated herself for asking him to be the one to solve the problem she’d caused. “This isn’t us talking right now, it’s that— that plant. We can’t just—”

“I know I shouldn’t ask you this,” she said, wiping a tear from her eye. She’d never been so turned on in her life, and her whole body ached with it. And for what? Because she’d touched a mystery plant. It was shameful; she was practically begging him to fuck her. “But I feel— I feel like I’m gonna die, and I know it’s not fair, Peter, you’re my friend. It’s not fair of me and I’m sorry.” Again, she took a step, and another until she was just inches from him. 

He caught her before she could close that agonizing space between them, and the pressure of his hands felt so good that she let out a ragged sigh. She wanted to tell him to squeeze harder, until his fingerprints left tattoos on her skin, until it hurt. Maybe more pain would push this horrible feeling out, or at least distract from it. 

“I don’t want you to hate me,” he ground out miserably, fingers tight against her biceps, twin stars on her skin. “I can’t have that, I can’t have you hate me.”

“I don’t want you to hate me either.” Had she always sounded so breathy? She shook her head so hard that the room tilted under her feet. Desperation pulled at every part of her, and it was becoming difficult to string a sentence together. “I wouldn’t hate you, Peter, I would never, please—”

She didn’t get to finish. Peter yanked her flush against him and it was too much and not enough all at once. He was hard against her hip and that was enough to send her knees buckling. 

“Whoa,” he muttered as he threaded his fingers through her hair, tilting her head so she was forced to look up at him, and the tight pressure of his hand rocketed through her, making every part of her body clench. “I’m fucked up, I’m sorry.”

“I am too.” His nose brushed hers and she grabbed his collar, pulling him close. 

“We can’t undo this,” he said hoarsely as she shoved the lab coat down his surprisingly big shoulders. Their PPE was so unflattering and boxy that it was nearly impossible to tell what anyone looked like under it. “I don’t know if I can stop if we start.”

“I don’t know if I can either.”

His eyes searched hers. “You’re sure you want this?”

God, he was somehow still nice, despite the fact that she had exposed them to some kind of aphrodisiac. Even now, he was trying to give her one last out, when he was clearly in just as much agony as she was. In the very back of her mind, she knew this could wreck their friendship, but the only thing she could focus on was how she was close enough to see the smallest bits of honey in his brown eyes and how she wanted him to pin her to the ground, hard enough that she’d feel it for days. 

Instead of replying, she kissed him hard, and a second later, his hand was on her ass, holding her against him as he caught her bottom lip in his teeth. The way he held her made her feel small, but somehow so good, because she knew he was going to make her feel better. Peter could fix this. 

“Sorry, I’m so sorry,” she panted between frantic kisses. His tongue was in her mouth and she sighed in relief as he dug his hands into her hips. He tasted wonderful sweet— from the pollen, she supposed, because why else would he taste like sugar? God, she hadn’t been kissed in months, and she’d never been kissed like this— thorough and passionate and like she was the only thing on the planet that mattered. Nothing else, only her. Desire spiked sharp in her blood and she reached up to tug at his hair, and when he groaned into her mouth it coiled through her painfully. It was bordering on uncomfortable, how turned on she was, and she felt like a ticking time bomb. It was threatening to undo her until she was nothing.

“It’s okay, don’t apologize,” he urged as he broke away from her. “Fuck, you’re shaking so hard.”

“Please touch me,” she begged. Embarrassingly, a tear slipped down her cheek and he wiped it away, his thumb burning her skin. For a moment, she thought he might ask if she was sure again, but instead, he leaned down and buried his face against her neck, his stubble scratching at her roughly. When his teeth found her pulse, she let out a whine. She’d never made a noise like that in her life, but any shame she’d had was long gone. “Please, Peter, I—”

“Hate hearing you beg,” he said, shoving his hand between them, plucking at the button on her jeans. “I’ll give you whatever you need, okay? Gonna make it all better, I swear.” His voice was soft but low, fucking blown apart with lust and it was doing nothing to soothe her. It felt like an eternity passed before she heard the creak of her zipper and felt him tug her jeans and underwear down just enough to get his hand between her thighs. 

She couldn’t even talk. Every word she’d ever known had fallen out of her head, and she was sure she looked stupid, all slackjawed and blank as she stared up into his dark eyes. When his thumb brushed her clit, she had to grab his shoulders so she didn’t collapse to the ground. “Peter—”

“I know,” he assured her, leaning down to kiss her as he rubbed tight circles against her. It was just enough to take the sting out of her chest. His other hand was gripping the base of her skull, and she needed that, needed him to hold her and tell her what to do until her head cleared. “Need you to kiss me back, okay? Need you to try to give it back to me. Can you do that?”

With a nod, she closed her eyes as he kissed her again, working her mouth open with his, summer-hot and molasses-slow. But it was hard to focus on that because the heel of his hand was pressed to her clit now and he was telling her how wet she was, fucking cooing the words to her in a low voice that she couldn’t handle. Trying to find friction, she bucked her hips against his palm and he slid a finger inside her. Stars flashed across her vision and she looked up at him, into those bright eyes that she liked so much, to find him watching her closely. 

“You need more?” he asked, his voice rough against her swollen lips, and she nodded so quickly her nose bumped his. She jumped when he pressed another finger in, curling them against something deep inside her that was making her legs shake already. The heat in her body was at a dull roar but it still hurt, and she ground down against his hand in an attempt to find relief. 

God, this was embarrassing; she was squirming uncontrollably and out of her mind with how he was fucking her with his fingers and it still wasn’t enough. 

“Let’s get this off, come on.” He tugged at her shirt with his free hand, maneuvering her around like she weighed nothing. And thank God he still seemed to have some of his faculties about him, because her head was full of nothing but air and the singular goal of coming. Maybe if she could get off it would reset her? With shaking hands, she helped him get her black tank over her head, and then unhooked her bra, tossing it unceremoniously to the side. The cold air made her skin itch. He froze for a minute as he took her in, eyes roaming over her like he didn’t believe what he was seeing. “You’re fucking beautiful.”

Somehow, there was room for her to grow even warmer from his words, but there wasn’t any time for her to say anything intelligible because he was leaving sloppy kisses against her collarbone and breasts, sucking bruises against her sensitive skin. He was still fucking her with his long fingers, encouraging her to ride his hand, and she was unsteadily trying to follow his movements. “Feels so good,” she panted as his hand blurred between her thighs. Sharp pleasure tugged at her, deep in her belly, and her calves began to shake as an orgasm finally, blessedly, pulled her under. She shoved her face against his sternum, breathing in that scent that was so perfectly him. There was a rumble in his chest; she blinked up at him and watched how beautifully his mouth moved. 

“Huh?” she asked inelegantly. 

“Are you okay?” 

No. It still felt like there were subwoofers in her chest, booming under her ribs. “It still— still hurts, it’s this pressure—” she babbled as she shook her head. Peter shifted against her, his hard cock nudging her hip, reminding her that she wasn’t the only one who was hurting. “But you— you still need…” she said, reaching for his belt. Maybe a task would distract her from it all. Not that it was a task, she wanted to touch him. 

“You don’t— you don’t have to,” he protested weakly, taking her wrist and holding it still. “You don’t need to do that. I can—” 

“But you told me to give it back to you.”

That got his attention. 

She reached for him again, palming him gently while he guided her hand, his fingers tightening against her as she explored the length of him, which, Jesus Christ, Peter Parker. Swallowing hard, she looked up at him again, and he was staring at her so adoringly that she was reaching up to kiss him before she knew what she was doing.

“I don’t think I’m in control of myself,” he whispered as she kissed her way down to his jaw, nipping at his pulse point, sucking a mark there that made him groan loudly. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”

“Do what you want, you won’t hurt me,” she assured him as she yanked his shirt over his head and how the hell had she missed that he was in devastatingly good shape? Lean and toned and fucking beautifully muscled with a collarbone that she would write a poem about if she wasn’t so fucked up. 

“Can’t say things like that to me, I can’t—” he tried to warn her, but she cut him off with another kiss and pulled him down to the floor because she could barely stand. Her legs were still trembling, and her theory of regaining control was very wrong, because now she just wanted more and more until it broke her irreparably. 

He helped her kick off the rest of her clothes and then yanked her into his lap, holding her thighs apart so he could grind up against her cunt. She was still sensitive and it skated along the edge of pain, the way the denim rubbed against her. He was so fucking hard under her that she was bordering on stupid with lust, but her hands were shaking too hard now to unbutton his pants. “I can’t get this.”

His hand was in her hair again, holding her tightly as he kissed her, and his other hand slid between them, working the button open. She reached down to help shove them off, frantic to have him inside of her, to drown out the screaming want in her head. 

“Wallet’s in my locker,” he realized as he kicked his jeans and shoes off, his voice miserable. “I don’t—”

“Doesn’t matter, I’m on the pill,” she interrupted as she clumsily pulled at his boxers. His cock sprang out, thick and beautiful and achingly hard, and he groaned when she wrapped her hand around him and began to stroke him. Part of her was worried she wouldn’t be able to take him, and the other part couldn’t wait to find out. “Please, I need you.”

Gently, he pushed her back against the cold tile. “Don’t wanna hurt you,” he told her again as he slotted his hips between hers, his cock sliding through her soaked folds, sending a shock through her as he ground against her clit just right. “Shouldn’t be like this, on the floor of the fucking lab, you deserve—”

“I deserve whatever you wanna give me,” she breathed, reaching for his broad shoulders as he loomed over her like a storm. There was a darkness in his eyes; he wasn’t quite himself, but neither was she. They could meet in the middle of whatever this was. “Please.”

He nodded, and she didn’t know how he had any self-control left, because she’d stopped trying to find hers. Maybe it wasn’t affecting him as badly since he was bigger. Maybe he was fighting it harder than she was. Maybe—

“Put your arms around me,” he told her. He had her spread open with his thighs, and the pollen had her arching into him in anticipation. Embarrassingly, she couldn’t stay still, jerking like she was being manipulated by puppet strings, and he gently held her face in his hand, forcing her to look at him. She could feel the blunt head of him right at her entrance, and she nodded. That was all he needed, and he sank into her slowly. 

It was so much that she came immediately. It hadn’t even felt good, because she was so wound up that it barely registered. Just a painful whip crack through her body. Her legs were trembling and hot tears rolled down her face like she’d just finished throwing a tantrum. Peter wiped them away gently, shaking with the effort of staying still, trying to give her a chance to adjust to him because he was big, God he was big. “I’m sorry,” she tried to tell him, but he shook his head. 

“Did you just come?” he asked, wide-eyed, and she was so humiliated that she turned her face away from him. “Did it help?”

“No,” she confessed. He twitched inside her and she rolled her hips up into his as she cupped his face in her hands, feeling a muscle tic under her palm. She liked how his stubble scratched at her, and how he was looking down at her with worry in his eyes. Even through all of the chaos, he cared about her. “Feels like you’re gonna break me apart.”

He groaned at her words, shuddering between her thighs, fucking swelling harder inside her, stretching her deliciously. “Okay.” He kissed her thumb as it brushed his bottom lip. “We’ll try again, okay?”

“Okay.” The word was barely out of her mouth before he rocked back and thrust into her at such an angle that it sent her eyes rolling back in her head. 

The pace he set was brutal. Her nails scraped across his back, and she vaguely registered how muscled he was, but she couldn’t even wonder about that because he was panting divinely against her neck as he fucked her and it was so deep that her vision blurred at the edges. She arched up, trying to plant her heels against the floor, but he grabbed the backs of her knees and held her in place, spread open and helpless under him. 

“Need you like this,” he told her with a gasp. “Just like this, can you stay like this for me?” 

Part of her spun-out mind wondered if he wouldn’t shatter her, and she didn’t even care because it would be such a nice way to go. Pleasure built and built inside her, hot and golden and swirling this time, and her heart was beating so fast she was sure he could hear it. “Peter, I’m gonna—”

“That's it,” he urged, his big hand pressed to her cheek. “Come on, sweet girl.”

The pet name broke her, and another orgasm crashed through her, rolling through her body like thunder. But she felt every part of this one, clenching around him as she shuddered in his arms, trying to grab his shoulders for leverage. He kept fucking her, and he was saying something that she couldn’t hear over her own sighs. When she fell still and her vision cleared, she could see that his eyes were wild. 

“I can feel your heart,” he grunted, dropping his head to gently kiss her breasts, tongue flicking lazily across her nipples. He’d slowed his movements but was still driving into her at a steady pace, his narrow hips rolling into hers like an ocean wave. She was soaked between her legs, fucking dripping with how bad she wanted him. “Doing so well.”

“How are you not— how are you not losing your mind?“ she stuttered. 

He brushed her damp hair from her cheek. “I am.” A weak laugh left her and he groaned, dropping his mouth to her throat. “Don’t laugh when I’m inside you, holy shit.”

Miserably, she realized her chest was still painfully tight, that the pollen was continuing to scratch at her from the inside out. “It hurts,” she whispered, gripping his hand, lacing her fingers through his as though they were having some sort of tender discussion. 

Peter stopped moving, a frown splitting his handsome face. “Me?”

She shook her head, squirming up against him like it would kickstart his hips. “No, the— the pollen. You feel good, you feel so good, Peter.” 

With a slow thrust, he canted forward again and she sighed in relief. “You’re so fucking sweet,” he murmured as he caught her nipple in his teeth, sucking it until she cried out. His voice was quicksand-thick, pulling her helplessly into him. She didn’t want to fight it for a second. “Arch your back, let me have you.”

She obeyed him more than willingly, gasping as his tongue traced along the curve of her breast, humming in pleasure as he continued to fuck her. His control seemed to come and go in waves, his gentleness coming through in his words and movements until it was too much and his hips ground relentlessly into hers, circling until she couldn’t breathe. But even when he was saying filthy things to her, they were honey-laced. Even if she was completely herself, she’d still fall head over heels for his pretty words, calling her beautiful and sweet like he’d done it a million times before. 

It was difficult to tell, but she thought maybe her head had cleared just a bit, like the sun poking its way through storm clouds. Tentatively, she traced up along his side, exploring the dip of muscle at his hip, and honestly what the hell was a lab geek like him doing with this sort of body? Peter Parker seemed to be full of surprises, and she wondered what else she’d learn about him. 

Silvery smears decorated his collarbone, and she licked it all off, pleased when he moaned her name brokenly. “You taste good,” she said as he fisted her hair in his hand and nipped at the underside of her jaw. 

“Yeah?” he panted, and she nodded as he easily flipped her onto her stomach. “You know how good you smell?”

She shook her head, arching in surprise when she felt his mouth at the base of her spine, dropping a line of wet kisses up her back and licking the salt from her shoulder. There was barely any time before he was pushing into her again, thick and blunt and practically splitting her apart but she didn’t care, she just needed him to make her forget what was happening to her. She couldn’t get enough of him, didn’t want anything else but him telling her obscene things as he licked into her mouth like he was the one who needed her. 

Peter covered her easily with his body, lacing his fingers through hers as he pinned her hands to the floor, effectively immobilizing her. And she fucking loved it, being shoved flat under him, her cheek pressed to the ground as he moved in slow, deep strokes. “Feel so perfect, sweetheart, can’t stand it,” he muttered as he rose up on his knees, pulling her back with him so she was flush against his chest. It felt like he was literally fucking her brains out, like she was getting dumber every time he sank into her cunt. She could hear herself, making airy little noises as he wrung pleasure from her. Each thrust was harsh, harsher than she’d thought someone as nice as him would be capable of. But she also hadn’t expected all those muscles, muscles that were pressed into her spine and shoulders and hips. The only word she could manage to say was his name over and over, Peter Peter Peter, like she was trying to pray to him, ask for absolution and maybe he could save her from this if she begged sweetly enough. 

“You’re close, I can feel you clenching around me,” he growled in her ear, his hips slamming into hers. The lab echoed with the harsh slap of his skin against hers and her broken pleas. “Come on.” He reached between her legs, his other arm holding her in place, so tight she thought he would bruise her ribs but the idea of seeing him left behind on her skin made her whimper. 

She came with a particularly hard thrust, going limp against him as stars streaked across the black of her closed eyes. Sweat dripped down her neck and he licked at it with a groan, his teeth catching against her shoulder. He didn’t stop moving, just slowed his pace down. 

“Want you,” she whispered, reaching back to tug at his thick hair. As she turned around to kiss him, she wrapped her hand around his dick, greedily swallowing the helpless noise he made. 

“Yeah,” he said mindlessly as she kissed her way down his chest, letting her knees buckle as she made her way to his hip, and she was so confused because she’d spent months thinking he was skinny under that lab coat when he looked like an Olympian. “Use your hand, just like that.”

Twisting her wrist slowly, she looked up at him as he staggered back heavily into the counter. She leaned forward, gently flicking her tongue against the swollen head of his cock, and he swore, grabbing her hair. Normally, she didn’t like when someone did that to her, but none of what was happening was normal. Instead, she leaned into his grip and ran her tongue along the length of him, tasting herself. When she moaned against him he pulled her away, his hand shaking as he touched her cheek reverently. Under it all, she knew he was trying to exercise some self-control. She’d never been with someone who had lasted so long, and she wondered if it was him or the pollen. 

“Please let me?” she asked, tracing a thin scar on his thigh before kissing it. There was a set of larger ones across his chest and she could not imagine how the hell he’d gotten those. Maybe she didn’t know him as well as she’d thought. “I want to.”

He blinked down at her owlishly, like his brain had shorted out, sparking and malfunctioning in his head as she ran her fingers up his hip. Wordlessly, he guided her back and she opened her mouth eagerly, desire pooling between her thighs. “There you go,” he muttered, as she let him push his cock between her lips, eyes watering at the size of him as he slid across her tongue. “Good girl, you’re such a good girl.”

His face was nothing short of wrecked, and she began to wonder if his stamina was as out of control as hers was. She wasn’t tired at all and he didn’t seem to be either. His grip tightened in her hair as he picked up speed, rolling his hips into her mouth. This was not something she’d ever done before— let herself be used like this— but she liked how he was muttering her name as he fucked her mouth, clutching her like a lifeline. It was messy and frantic and he was being a little too rough but the pollen smoothed it all out, turning everything dreamy. The way he was groaning fuck fuck fuck good girl just like that was shooting through her and she thought she was going to come just from the sounds he was making. 

Suddenly, he hit the back of her throat and it was too much, pulling her sharply back to reality. She pulled off of him with a gasp and wiped the back of her mouth, and when she looked up she barely recognized the man standing above her. His disheveled hair hung in his dark eyes and he was shaking like she was now, unnatural movements that shuddered through his chest and shoulders. Grabbing her by the wrist, he pulled her up so quickly she almost lost her balance, his mouth slanting over hers hungrily, almost violently. “Shouldn’t be doing this to you,” he mumbled as he lifted her up, stepping between her thighs, “I’m out of my fucking mind. Should be treating you better, shouldn’t be fucking your mouth.”

“It’s oh— okay,” she moaned as his hand drifted up her stomach to palm her breast. “I liked it.”

“Lie back for me,” he said, lacing his fingers through hers. The counter was cool against her sweaty skin and he was kissing his way down her stomach, nipping at her ribs. “Shouldn’t be eating you out on a fucking counter,” he groaned, whispering her name against her hip as he yanked her knees over his shoulders, laying her bare to him.  

“I like when you say my— my name,” she whispered, and he growled it out against the top of her thigh. “Peter, please— oh—”

Again, that helpless feeling returned as he shoved her legs open and licked into her cunt, feverishly hot as he began to pull her apart again. Heat raced through her belly at an alarming rate, and she arched her back when his tongue slanted inside her. When she looked down, she found that he was looking at her with such intensity that it was her undoing. With shaking hands, she reached down to pull at his hair, but her orgasm ripped through her before she could touch him, and she was twisting away from his mouth because it was too much, too intimate, he couldn’t just look at her like that. Tears streamed down her face and she let out a pathetic sob as he helped her sit up, taking her face in his big hands. 

“Don’t cry, please don’t cry, sweetheart,” he urged her and she was lost in his pretty eyes for a moment. “Tell me to stop and I’ll try, I swear.”

She shook her head, terrified at the prospect of losing his touch. Of losing him. “I don’t want you to stop, please don’t stop.”

His slick mouth crashed into hers and it was a relief, like water in the desert. Reaching between them, she touched him and his breath stuttered. Emboldened, she wrapped her hand around his cock and he thrust into her hand with a groan, pulling her off the counter to stand on unsteady legs. “Just like that, fuck. Beautiful fucking girl, can’t believe I never told you.”

She couldn’t answer him because his tongue was sliding against hers like she belonged to him and she was just whimpering pathetically into his mouth while she jerked him off. Never in her life had she felt so scatterbrained and overstimulated, and she was trying so hard to help him too but when he was calling her things like beautiful and good girl and sucking bruises against her neck, it made it nearly impossible. His free hand slipped between her legs and she’d lost track of how many times she’d come because it was all blurring together in her foggy little brain. Everything ached but there was still something she was trying to chase, something more that she needed. Something still twisting through her like a vine, seeking and coiling and pulling relentlessly. “Need you inside me,” she pleaded as she twisted her wrist. “I need it, please, you make me feel so good.”

“Fuck,” he muttered, kissing the corner of her mouth as he helped her to the floor and she shifted so he could position himself between her legs. “You need it?”

She nodded and he thrust hard, bottoming out with one stroke. The noise that left her was a gasp, and she closed her eyes at the fullness. She couldn’t move and she didn’t care because the only thing that mattered was how he was looking at her, black-eyed with lust as he started to pound into her again. He hadn’t even come yet, and they’d been fucking for what felt like ages. Maybe the pollen worked differently on men and women. 

“You gonna come again?” he asked roughly, dipping his face against her shoulder, licking the sweat from her skin. His tongue traced the cords of muscle in her throat lazily, charting her for his own. “Feels so good when you come on my cock.” 

“I like when you make me take it,” she told him, fingers slipping against his strong hips. 

“Fuck,” he rasped out, and he pulled her on top of him. Something in the back of her head loved how he was manhandling her, using her, but he wasn’t really, was he? He was chasing her pleasure down as much as his. It certainly wasn’t selfish, how he was fucking her. Somehow, he was still clear enough to keep his focus on her most of the time. “Give it back to me.”

Her legs shook from the stretch of him but she was so desperate to make him feel good that she rose up on her knees and sank down hard, bracing herself against his toned chest. There were tiny freckles across his torso and arms, like someone had carelessly flung them there, and she tried to pick one to focus on while she ground down onto him. It proved impossible, because he groaned low and deep and she looked up to see his head tip back and she could not look away from the long column of his throat. “Ride me just like that, fuck, that’s good.”

Her heart sped up at his words and she leaned forward, sinking down with slow rolls of her hips while her hand drifted toward his neck. His pulse shuddered under her fingers and he locked his arm around her back, forcing her closer, sending a thrill through her body. “Wanna make you feel good, wanna help you,” she said as yanked her into a punishing kiss, his teeth scraping against her lip. 

“Keep looking at me with those pretty eyes,” he groaned against her mouth, his hips slamming up into hers, punching the breath from her lungs. “Taking me so well, fucking use me and make yourself come.”

This time, his words were an overload. A strange feeling came over her; a lightheadedness that she didn’t recognize. It was easier to just bury her face against his shoulder while he continued to fuck her stupid and whisper filthy praise into her ear. But then her body began to shake again, starting in her calves and climbing up into her shoulders. Dimly, she knew that it wasn’t the pollen. “Peter, I’m gonna…” she trailed off, not entirely sure what she was trying to tell him.

“Give me one more, sweetheart,” he encouraged, not slowing down. “Come on.”

“It’s not…” she tried to say as dark spots swam in her vision and her limbs went limp. For a few seconds, she couldn’t hear anything, just distant echoes. Peter was cradling her face when she could see again and all she could manage was blinking down at him. 

“Hey, hey, look at me.” His brown eyes swam into view, and he gently patted her cheek. “I’m so sorry, holy shit. Are you okay?”

It was hard to have a conversation when he was still buried to the hilt inside her, and all she could do was laugh. Laugh at how absolutely insane it was that he’d fucked her so hard she’d passed out. It wasn’t funny at all, but she couldn’t stop giggling. But above all that, she still ached. Impossibly, she still ached. Self-preservation screamed in the back of her head somewhere to stop but she ignored it. Chasing pleasure was more important, the way Peter was holding her and kissing her and ruining her was so much more important than stopping. She didn’t care, she just needed him. 

“I’m fine.” She kissed his thumb, watching his eyes dilate. Slowly, he slid it into her mouth and groaned when she swirled her tongue around him. 

“Don’t do that,” he warned, trembling under her with the effort of staying still. But he made no move to stop her, eyes glued to her mouth as she continued. There was a warning nudge of his hips, and she nodded eagerly. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

He exhaled thoughtfully, stroking her face as he contemplated her. Sometimes the looks he gave her were more intimate than what they were doing, and it lit her up inside. “Gonna go slow, okay?”

It was almost too tender, the way he pulled out of her and carefully laid her back. The cool tile was a balm, and she stared up at the speckled ceiling while he gently rubbed her thigh. 

“Come back to me,” she asked, reaching for him. But Peter was busy near her knees, pressing lazy open-mouth kisses up to her hips like they had all the time in the world. Time that she has no gauge for; she didn’t know if they’d been in the lab for hours or days. Her brain was so scrambled that all she knew was him and his sun-bright warmth. 

“Slow,” he reminded her as she wrapped her legs around his hips. 

And it was slow. Achingly slow. He sank into her, letting her have him inch by inch until the air was gone from her lungs again. When she reached up to thread her fingers through his hair, he kissed the inside of her wrist and that little gesture made her heart sing. Gently, he pulled her knees up so he could press into her more deeply, and she sighed, tracing his jaw contentedly, trying to parse all the shades in his eyes. 

“You’re beautiful too, you know,” she gasped, weakly rising to try to match his steady thrusts. 

“You and your gender norms,” he chuckled, then groaned when she tightened around him, watching his eyes fall shut, dark lashes fluttering. “Fuck, you’re gonna make me come.”

Pride streaked through her and she clenched around him again, pulling a growl from him. “I want you to, oh— like that—”

“Killing me with those pretty noises,” he grunted, finding the deepest parts of her each time with perfect drags of his cock. 

“Want you to give it to me,” she whispered when he dropped his face to her shoulder. How he’d held out this long, she had no clue. Maybe he’d done it for her, some kind of insane self-control he was exercising until she was on the other side of whatever was happening. “Want you to come inside me.” 

“Yeah?” He sloppily kissed her shoulder, his rhythm faltering at her words. 

“Kiss me,” she ordered, not sure where her nerve had come from. “Please kiss me.”

His mouth was on hers instantly and she tugged on his hair before dragging her nails across his shoulders. “Fuck,” he groaned into her mouth, and she did it again, wanting to push him off the edge like he’d done for her countless times. 

“Please,” she choked out, and he thrust into her one last time, grinding his hips hard into hers as he came deep inside her, panting into her mouth. It was an unfamiliar feeling because it wasn't something she ever did but for some reason it had been the only thing that made sense. She shuddered around him, small spasms racing through her body as he continued to pump his hips into hers, almost like he’d forgotten to stop fucking her.

The pain inside her was dull, and the claws that clutched her lungs were finally loosening. Relief swallowed her up as she ran her fingers through his sweaty hair. He was still twitching with aftershocks, nosing at her neck weakly, telling her how good she was. 

“Are you okay?” she whispered, stroking his back as he pushed himself up on his forearms, caging her close as he studied her with clear brown eyes. There he was; there was Peter. 

His face was incredulous. “Are you?” he asked, making no effort to move off of her.

She laughed, and her body had never felt heavier. 

“Don’t laugh, don’t—” he muttered, kissing her with a grin to shut her up, but she was fading fast and could barely return it as his lips ghosted down her jaw. 

The last thing she felt was his mouth against her temple, and she thought she heard him call her beautiful one more time. 

-

Sore. That was all she could think. Sore. 

There was a pair of muscular arms wrapped snugly around her, and a stubbled chin was tucked against her shoulder. A long leg was shoved between her own, and the other was slung over her calf. 

Peter Parker. 

Slowly, she opened her heavy eyes and carefully turned to face him, his hand slipping to her hip. She studied him blearily, sleep still pulling at her. Strangely, there were no marks on him that she could see. She knew she’d raked her nails across his back, bitten at his collarbone and chest, sucked marks onto his neck because that was the only way she could think to thank him. Where the hell had they gone? Meanwhile, she was covered with hickies and she felt like she’d been thrown from a moving car. Somehow, it felt wonderful. Gone was the confusion and the pain of arousal, and now she was left with the aftermath of what they’d done.

Oh, God. 

She’d never been more relieved to realize it was a holiday and no one was coming in to work. The lab was a mess— clothes strewn all over, papers knocked askew, pipettes scattered across the floor, and one of her boots was on the counter. Their coats were on top of them as makeshift blankets; Peter must have done that because she didn’t even remember falling asleep. 

Nerves began to pluck at her now that she was clear-headed: she and Peter had spent the entire night pulling each other apart over and over because she’d violated lab protocol with flowers. There was an unbelievable ache between her thighs, and her throat felt sore. Whether it was from crying or begging or from when she’d gone down on him, she wasn’t sure. 

Pressing a hand to her forehead, she carefully shrugged out of his embrace. She’d begged him to fuck her and end the misery she’d caused, and he’d done it, over and over, sweet and rough and perfect. Sitting up, she pulled her legs to her chest and leaned her forehead against her knee, trying to take a steadying breath. He was going to hate her, no matter what he’d promised. Promises didn’t mean anything when they had both been fighting the urges that had bloomed inside them. They were just words, just excuses to try to find relief from the pollen.

Peter stirred beside her. “Hey,” he mumbled sleepily, his fingers gently tracing up her spine. “How’re you feeling?”

That was a loaded question. Terrified she’d wrecked their relationship. Exhausted. Humiliated. 

“Sore,” was what she chose to say. You idiot. To his credit, he quietly continued stroking her back, and it felt so nice, his warm touch comforting in the early hours of the day. “But I’m me again.”

“Me too.”

They sat in silence, and it was absurd. They were naked in the lab and she’d never been more confused in her life. The things she’d said and did— who was that girl? Maybe the pollen had brought out a dormant part of her. “Peter, I’m sorry,” she mumbled, staring decidedly at her knees. “I think I ruined our friendship.”

He sat up with a grunt, and leaned his head against her shoulder. That was unexpected. “You didn’t ruin anything, sweetheart.”

Her heart tripped in her chest, and she turned to look at him. Sunlight streamed through the slats of the blinds, and God, he really was a pretty man to wake up next to.

“I’m sorry I brought that plant inside,” she apologized as he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “I didn’t know.”

With a frown, he gently tilted her head to the side, inspecting her neck. “I’m sorry I… did all that,” he replied sheepishly as his gaze swept across her breasts and thighs. “I should have been gentler, I’m so sorry. It felt like something else was in control. I tried so hard.”

“You’re not superhuman,” she reminded him, and he glanced down, lips twitching. “Peter, I felt like I was gonna die last night.”

“I did too.” He brushed a mark on her hip, and a shiver went up her spine at his touch. 

“Buy a girl dinner first,” she tried to joke, because she was somehow nervous under his gaze even though he’d fucked her so hard she’d blacked out momentarily. But no, a gentle touch was somehow too much. 

“I can do breakfast,” he offered quietly, planting a kiss on her shoulder, where he’d left behind a purple thumbprint of a bruise. 

She blinked. “Really?”

“I like you, you know,” he told her matter-of-factly, pulling her to his chest as he lay back down with a groan. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you for a while.”

Oh. 

“I like you too,” she admitted. His heart was slow and steady under her ear. Dependable. “We did this all backwards, huh?”

He snorted, tangling his fingers in her hair affectionately. “I usually wait until the fourth date to have plant-induced marathon sex with someone,” he teased gently and she swatted at his shoulder. 

“I’m really glad Todd wasn’t on the schedule last night.”

Peter groaned. “Don’t bring him up.”

“He would have told us everything we were doing wrong,” she continued with a grin. 

“‘When I don’t satisfy my wife, here’s how I do it’,” Peter intoned in a disturbingly good impression of their coworker’s Texan drawl, and she giggled, tracing a pale scar on his ribs as they fell quiet. 

“Can we stay like this for just a few minutes?” she asked shyly, looking up at him. 

He looked at her with another one of those reverent gazes. But now that he was clear-headed, it hit her even harder. No plant, just Peter. “Of course.” 

She closed her eyes, letting the thump of his heart under her ear relax her. Every anxiety she’d had had completely dissipated, and now, as he toyed with her hair, she felt warm and safe. And even after the complete debauchery they’d been pulled into only hours ago, he wanted to take her out to breakfast. 

Because Peter Parker really was a nice guy. 

~

Spoiler alert: I put the plant there and the species is deus ex machina.

This is what happens when @mrshipsmcgee says "do it do it do it" so thank you for planting (ha ha haaaaaa I'm so funny) this idea in my head.

Taglist: @rae-gar-targaryen @letmeplaytheliontoo @mortwig @silkspiderstuff @mrshipsmcgee @fallensilencefics @withahappyrefrain @abibliophobiaa @squiddtheekidd

Let me know if you want to be added to future tags! Don't touch weird plants!

[chestharrington]

Adult Education || Steve Harrington x Reader

Summary: Steve Harrington is really weird about the adult film section of Family Video, which really should change its name. After a lot of teasing about dirty movies and the people who rent them, you both take your fixation on dirty movies a little too far.

Couple: Steve Harrington x AFAB!Reader (GN Pronouns)

Category: Smut/Fluff

Content Warning: graphic smut, mutual masturbation, mentions of really bad 1980s adult movies

Word Count: 6.3k

Requests: Open!

For a Friday, the video store was pretty dead. You sat on top of the counter, grateful that Keith had better things to do than police your behavior. Usually, when he caught you, he’d go into a tirade about wasting employee time and loitering without making a purchase. 

Okay, so you didn’t work at Family Video and maybe you did intimidate some customers with annoyed stares when they interrupted your conversations. Still… free country and all that. 

Steve was doing his best to look occupied while you hounded him, an amused grin painting your lips as he blushed practically crimson. 

“C’mon, Steve, you’re a grown man!” You leaned forward, staring pointedly until he turned to meet your gaze. “You’re telling me you’ve never wanted to creep behind that partition and sneak a peek?”

He sighed. Deeply. “Technically, I have to go behind that partition and reshelve whatever the degenerates bring back.”

You grinned wickedly at that. “Watching porn doesn’t make you a degenerate, Steve. It’s totally legal now. Normal, even.”

Whatever effort Steve was putting into the pointless task of alphabetizing the candy bars on the counter was halted. Clearly, he couldn’t avoid the conversation. 

“Need I remind you that this store is called Family Video?” He whispered insistently. You peered around the empty store and raised a brow. “What’s with the hang-up on dirty movies today anyway?”

You shrugged, drawing shapes mindlessly onto the glass countertop. “I’m just curious,” you admitted. “Nudie mags are one thing, but movies… I dunno. They seem illicit and sexy to me.”

Steve did his best to run from the rest of the conversation, taking the cart of movies to be reshelved on a stroll through the store. It would’ve been a nice respite from being cornered behind the counter if you weren’t always two steps behind him. 

He reached up, shelving the constantly rented VHS of Sixteen Candles where it belonged while you watched curiously. His shirt rode up slightly, and you had to bite your lip to keep from grinning at the sight of a happy trail. 

“Need something?” He asked impatiently. 

“All good,” you replied with a cherubic smile. “Just wondering why you’re so shy when talking about this with one of your best friends.”

As if on cue, Robin appeared from the back rooms with new standees and merchandise to put on display. “Ooh, talking about what?”

Steve’s eyes went wide, and his jaw clenched as your smile grew. You could see the threat in his gaze. Don’t you dare.

“I can’t say,” you replied sweetly. “Stevie here’s shy.” You winked and sauntered towards the counter, picking through the new promotional merch like a vulture on a carcass.

Robin furrowed her brows, glancing between you and Steve quickly. “It’s the porn, isn’t it?” 

You sighed in relief. “Yes! It’s weird right?”

“So weird. Especially about reshelving.”

Steve scoffed loudly from the drama section, peering over the shelves to glare. “I’m right here, you know.” He rolled his eyes, and you couldn't help but burst into laughter. 

———

The next time it comes up is a Tuesday, when you’re sitting behind the counter with Steve and an old man with burning red cheeks places a VHS tape called Pleasure Olympics onto the counter for a return. 

“Don’t say anything,” Steve said firmly after the man was gone. 

“I wasn’t going to!” You replied, which was a lie. You were absolutely gonna razz him about it. “It’s just… is it weird knowing that geriatric guy was jerking off to it? Kinda makes you not want to touch it.”

He gives an exasperated sigh, letting his head fall into his hands. “I just said don’t say anything. Gross.” His lips fall into an exaggerated pout and you genuinely feel a swell of pity for him. 

“C’mon, if it bothers you so much I’ll go put it back,” you offered. “And I’ll stop teasing you about the porn since it’s bugging you.” You pause, biting your lip for a moment before the words spill out. “It’s just… aren’t you at least a little curious?”

“I’m not.. I mean I—“ He was tripping over his own tongue, his cheeks burning, blazing hot. “I’m.. I—“ He shut his mouth firmly for a few moments to collect himself. “Maybe a little.”

And his eyes looked so warm and sheepish and earnest for a second that you wanted to melt or puke. It was sickeningly sweet. “C’mon let’s put this back and see what we’re working with here,” you said. With a swift movement, you snatched up Pleasure Olympics and made your way towards the partitioned room. 

“Hey, I don’t… I don’t know if we should,” Steve said, helplessly following you. “I mean, someone’s gotta man the desk. So like… maybe we shouldn’t, and I can take that back there.”

You blinked a few times, confusion furrowing your brows. “Stevie, it’s two in the afternoon on a Tuesday. I think we’ll be fine for like, one minute.” Before he could physically hold you back from the illicit back room, you slipped behind the curtain. 

“Oh,” you sighed, more than a little deflated. It wasn’t some erotic, mysterious liminal space like you’d been imagining. It was just a room. Albeit, a room filled with graphic erotic images on VHS cases, but still. “This is so boring.” Steve skidded to a stop beside you, swallowing audibly as you circled the room like a predator searching for prey. 

“Where does this one go?” You asked, holding up the old man’s tape. 

“Uh.” Steve swallowed again, his eyes glued on the sight of bare tits on a cover in front of him. “Um. New— uh, new releases.”

“Heh, release,” you muttered under your breath, shelving it without much thought where he had said. You doubted that anyone back here cared about organization that much. “So… see anything you like?”

His eyes snapped to yours, wide with affront. “Hey! That’s… We are not going to talk about…” he waved his hands wildly in a gesture to what you assumed to be the entire room, “This.”

You held up your hands in surrender but kept your eyes glued on the cases curiously. It was your turn to swallow hard, feeling like your mouth was simultaneously too wet and completely dry like you were hot all over. 

Maybe, just maybe, you’d taken the teasing too far. 

“Oh, so now you’re the one who’s shy about all this,” Steve said, almost victoriously. You frowned, insulted by the idea that you would be prudish and shy about anything. Fuck. That. 

“Nope,” you said firmly. You let your eyes wander the shelves for a moment longer before you snatched a tape up and held it out. “I want to rent this one.”

   He blinked at you dumbly, his brain not computing the sight of you holding a dirty movie and the innocent-looking outfit you wore. His mouth hung open for a few moments too long before he firmly shook his head. “No. No, I’m not renting you that.” He insisted. 

“Why not?” You asked defiantly. “I’m a customer, right? Keith likes to remind me of that all the time.”

“Yeah, well, you’re also you and one of my best friends so I’m not going to rent you…” his voice went quiet and a little pitchy, “porn.”

A huff of indignation flew past your lips as you realized that the two of you were clearly at an impasse. “For someone who can’t shut up about all the sex he has, you are such a prude.”

“I’m not a prude!” He said insistently. “If anything, you’re the prude and I’m… the opposite of a prude.”

“So let me rent…” You paused to glance at the title in your hand, “Erotic Detention II, and see what the hype is about. And then I’ll never bring it up again. Pinky promise.”

He sighed, running his hands through his carefully styled hair. Just the fact that you had gotten him to do that annoyed him. “You’ll shut up about the dirty movies forever if I let you take that home?” He asked pointedly. With a sickeningly sweet smile, you nodded. He swore under his breath, and you knew he was gonna cave.“Fine. But I don’t want to hear about it.”

You grinned. “Of course not, Stevie. You’ll just have to live the rest of your life wondering what happens to people in erotic detention.”

He rolled his eyes. “If I had to guess, I’d say sex.” He pushed past the privacy curtain, back into the main shop, and, of course, you were right on his heels to continue pestering him about other matters.

———

Steve called your private line every night that week. “So, have you watched your perverted movie yet?” He’d ask, trying his best to sound like he was teasing instead of morbidly curious. 

By Friday night, you had grown tired of his weird act. “For someone who didn’t want to hear about it, you sure seem interested.” He stumbled through a reply, which made you grin. “I’ve got the house free this weekend, so tomorrow I’ll finally put the sinful movie in the player and cement my place in hell. Plus I don’t want a late fee.”

He scoffed, or choked on air. You really couldn’t tell which. “Yeah, well, have fun with that,” was all he could manage in reply. 

“Steve, can you just admit that you’re curious about the movie and stop acting like a total puritan?” You sighed, twirling the cord of the phone around your finger. “This is all strictly to satiate my curiosity. I’m not going to be like… touching myself or anything while I watch it.”

“Jesus Christ, (Y/N).” You could hear his breath heavy on the other line. Huh. There was a pause, heavy and weirdly intense as both of you scrambled for something to say. “Do you really think you’ll be able to control yourself?” 

Huh.

“I guess I’ll find out tomorrow, and I promise you won’t hear about it. Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight.”

———

Almost exactly 24 hours later, you were in your basement, hands sweating as you put the tape into your VHS player. After hyping the mere idea of dirty movies up so much with Steve, you felt strangely unprepared to press play. 

A shaky breath escaped your lips, and you felt hot all over. There was something weirdly erotic about the entire act, something sinful about having a physical tape of people fucking in your possession. 

Steve’s words echoed in your mind and you wondered, could you control yourself? 

It was weird how insistently you pestered him about pornos. It was weird that he had called to ask if you’d watched it yet. It was weird that you had even brought one home and let it get to this point. 

As you were considering taking it out and returning it to Family Video with your tail tucked between your legs, there was a knock at your door. 

A yelp escaped you, and the shame of it all made you want to hide for the rest of the night. In the deep recesses of your brain, you were convinced some sort of porn police was at your door ready to lock you away for being a degenerate. Reluctantly, you tiptoed up the stairs and into the foyer, where you saw a recognizable silhouette behind the glass of your front door. 

Steve Harrington.

“What are you—?” Before you could finish asking, he’d pushed the door open further with his foot, sidestepping you to make his way in. “Alright, be my guest.”

He smiled back at you, making his way into your living room with an armful of pizza and sodas. “Wanted to stop by,” he said with an easy smile, like he didn’t know exactly what he was doing. “You weren’t busy, were you?”

With a simple shrug, you closed the front door. “No, not all, Stevie, make yourself at home.” He immediately sat down on your couches, the plastic covers crinkling. It didn’t matter that they were almost as old as you were, you doubted the actual fabric would ever see the light of day. 

“No Robin?” You asked, settling on the floor in front of him, eager to dig into the pizza boxes. A delighted smile spread across your lips at the sight of your favorite toppings— he knew you so well. 

“Does Robin have to be here for me to hang out with you?” He asked, reaching over you unceremoniously to grab the piece with the best toppings. 

A scrunch formed between your brows as you considered it. “Typically? Yeah.” You grabbed a slice and leaned back against his legs, sighing contentedly at a hot meal after a day of canned soup and random shit from the pantry. “What’re you doing in my neck of the woods anyway?”

“I was just… around,” he said around a mouthful of food, though you could hear a hint of restraint in him. “Any plans tonight?” Goddammit, he was so obvious.

“Nope,” you replied. “I mean, I have Erotic Detention II queued up downstairs, but that can wait. I want to spend time with my best friend Steve Harrington.” You turned to face him with a wide, notably false smile. He swallowed hard, his cheeks an adorable if not annoying shade of pink. 

“Oh… that…” he trailed off in a very poor mimicry of nonchalance. “I, like, totally forgot you even had that. That’s… that’s crazy.”

“Steve, be honest… Do you want to talk to me about my lord and savior or something?”

“What? No!”

You turned to face him, sitting back on your heels with a curious expression. His fists awkwardly rubbed along his thighs— he could have either been wiping off pizza grease or clammy hands and you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. Gut instinct told you it was the latter. More than that, he was struggling to even meet your gaze. 

“I’m an idiot,” you said on an exhale. “You wanna watch it, don’t you?”

“No!” He said insistently. 

“So… you want to watch me watch it?” You asked, brows furrowed. 

He swore under his breath and you wanted to grab him by his shoulders and just shake until something that made sense popped out. “Look, Steve. Robin says they’re like… super cheesy and poorly acted and dumb. So let’s just rip off the proverbial band-aid together.”

His eyes went wide. Robin? You wanted to roll your eyes but he seemed like a frightened little rabbit who might spook at the first sudden move. 

“Fine, but the second things get weird, we’re turning it off and watching Saturday Night Live.”

You put your hands up in surrender. “Deal. We probably won’t even make it past the opening credits.” With an easy laugh, you grabbed the pizza and hurried down into the basement. 

You vaguely waved to the couch as you heard Steve join you, muttering something about getting comfy while you pulled the TV trays from the corner in front of the couch. Satisfied, you placed your pizza boxes on one and nodded for Steve to put the sodas on the other. 

Perfect. It’s like a fucked up version of thanksgiving.

“It’s pretty nice down here,” Steve mused, wandering around your basement while you grabbed a blanket from the old chest that used to be in your bedroom. “Why don’t we ever hang out here? It’s always Robin’s or Family Video.”

“My parents. They’re in that midlife phase where they’re obsessed with feeling young again. Makes having friends over pretty weird.”

With a contented sigh, you looked at your work and felt like you had done all the stalling possible. Steve settled into the couch, stretching out lengthwise so you’d have to squeeze to fit at all. But you’d cross that bridge later. There were more important matters to attend to.  

You settled on the ground in front of the TV set, daunted by the simple task of pressing a single button. Your mouth felt dry as you sat in front of the VHS player. The inside of your lip felt raw from all the biting you had done since you made it downstairs. 

“You have to press play, by the way,” Steve piped up. How had he gone from a blushing, bumbling idiot to the smug asshole behind you? 

“Shut up, I know how a VHS player works,” you muttered. Your annoyance finally gave you the strength to press the stupid play button, which left you scrambling to the couch before the film began. 

After a brief MPAA title card warning you about the contents of the film, the worst jazz music you had ever heard filled the room. Erotic Detention II was plastered across the screen in a garish red script before the names of the actors scrolled across. 

Nothing too bad, you thought as you tucked your legs beneath you. I can definitely make it through this. 100%. And then the credits ended, and the onscreen fucking began just as abruptly. 

No story build-up, no introduction to the characters— just two very naked people fucking on a squeaky desk while more horrible jazz music played. 

“Huh.” You cocked your head and furrowed your brows at the sight. 

“Huh? Huh, what? What are you ‘huh’-ing about?” Steve asked quickly. 

“Huh, like is that really what people look like when they’re having sex? It’s so… I don’t know.” Embarrassing? Weird? The awkwardly lit, overacted passion on screen made you want to make a renewed vow of celibacy. “Like… look at the tan line on his ass. I’ve never thought about the guys I sleep with having tan lines on their asses before.”

He huffed, affronted. “I’m not looking at his ass.”

“It’s basically all they're showing,” you replied with a scoff. Your eyes went wide at a graphic shot of the literal penetration happening, your lips turning into a frown. “I stand corrected.”

You weren’t exactly sure who was getting off on videos like this. Maybe it was the novelty and risk of watching, or maybe some people enjoyed watching sex even with the weird camera angles and fake moans. There had to be a better way to do it, but you weren’t sure what it was. 

Out of the corner of your eyes, you saw that Steve was totally glued to the sight before him. His dark eyes were wide— glossy and reflecting the screen a bit. His mouth was slightly ajar, lips wet from his tongue darting out to swipe across them. Did he like it? Were you just watching it wrong?

The realization hit you suddenly— you needed to get out of your head if you were going to actually gain something from watching it. You tried to forget that Steve was there, tried to forget about the shitty jazz music and that it was an elaborate film production at all. You were simply a voyeur peering in on something illicit and sexy. In a totally consensual and normal way, of course. 

There was something about the way that the woman on the screen arched and gasped with each thrust, the hunger in her eyes when the man leaned down to kiss her. Teeth dug into your bottom lip as you sat up a little straighter. 

And the way they talked was unlike anything you’d ever heard. All your hookups had been quick in the back of cars or weren’t worth making any noise about at all. The carnality and hunger that they spoke with made desire burn in the pit of your belly. 

You felt yourself slipping in the way you shifted in your seat, the way your mouth felt dry and you had to keep swallowing or licking your lips to feel comfortable. It was like you had never truly been awake within yourself before, and your body was springing to life, little by little. You were annoyingly conscious of the feeling of your tits beneath your cotton T-Shirt, the way it rubbed against your nipples. And you regretted the decision to forgo actual pants and just wear some of the boxers you got to sleep in. 

Everything within you was desperate to break the tension with some snide comment about the bad lighting or make fun of the guy’s ass tan lines again, but you couldn’t bring yourself to. Despite your greatest efforts (which, really, weren’t that great at all), you were really fucking turned on. 

Onscreen they switched positions, or acts, or whatever. You couldn’t think well enough to really describe what they were doing. But she was on her knees with a dick in her mouth, eyes wide and tongue out. You wanted to fucking whimper. 

Holy shit, you thought. I’m watching this with Steve.

It was that moment that you glanced over, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, but must’ve only been five minutes. His cheeks were a pretty pink, and he was so wired-in to whatever was happening on screen that he didn’t even notice you watching him. But you were, and he was doing his best, you had to give him that. 

It didn’t feel very friend-like to notice that Steve was visibly hard. Your entire face, ears, and neck went flaming hot like you’d been suddenly thrust under a heat lamp. His hands were firmly splayed out on his thighs, unmoving, though the occasional twitch in his fingers said he really fucking wanted to move them. 

And holy fuck, you wanted him to move them too. 

You looked away quickly, partly knowing you should end whatever this was then and there. But you liked it. Maybe that made you a deviant sex freak degenerate or whatever Steve had said (and based on the looks of him, he was the same fucking thing), but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. 

If there was some sort of manual for this, you would have been frantically flipping through pages to the one titled, “how to politely tell your best friend that they’re allowed to get themselves off while you sit beside them, and that you kind of want to do the same, and it’s totally normal and friends can do that because it isn’t weird unless you’re touching right?”

You wanted a lobotomy. Maybe you could use your Nana’s old knitting needles that were sitting in the corner. 

Onscreen, the scene had totally changed and you didn’t even notice. Frankly, you didn’t even think they were in detention anymore, and you weren’t sure how they had managed to squeeze in that plot point while you were debating telling Steve that he could totally jerk off if he wanted to. 

“This isn’t right,” the girl onscreen gasped while her onscreen partner kneeled between her thighs. They were in library stacks, apparently. Definitely not detention. “We shouldn’t.”

But they did. 

“Steve?” You said, your voice sounding strange in your own ears. He made a weak noise in response, something between a hum and a whimper. Jesus Christ. “This is… I mean you can… if you want.” Not how you wanted that to come out. “I mean, if we don’t touch each other nothing will be weird.”

He swallowed and you glanced over at him, looking over at you for the first time since the movie started. His pretty brown eyes were dark and hungry, his cheeks flushed and his mouth so pretty. “Mhmm. Totally. It wouldn’t be weird if we don’t touch.”

“Yeah,” you gasped in response. “Yeah, it’s okay.” 

The dam broke totally then. Anything that might’ve been holding you back was now utterly and totally washed out by how ridiculously horny you were. 

A contented sigh escaped your lips as you let your fingers slip past the waistband of your boxers, too pent up to tease. You were soaking wet, coating your fingers as you let them circle your entrance before replacing them on your clit. Soft circles weren’t good enough. You wanted to fuck yourself into sweet, blissful oblivion. 

“Fuck,” you gasped, throwing your head back. Half of you wanted to forget Steve was there so you could really focus on yourself, but the other was completely honed in on his presence. 

The softest of noises were slipping past his lips, his hand rubbing along his hard-on through his jeans. It was cute, the way his hips shifted and thrust into his own touch. God, he was cute. 

“You don’t have to do it like that,” you said quickly before you had a chance to regret it. “You should get to feel good. Really good. I won’t mind.”

“Yeah?” He asked. You nodded quickly and he gave a gratified sigh. “Fuck, yeah, okay.” He sat up quickly, tearing his polo over his head and tossing it over the back of the couch. At your confused expression, he gave a sheepish smile. “I don’t like making messes.”

Oh. You swallowed hard. “Okay.” 

You shouldn’t have kept watching, really. It was all rapidly devolving past things friends do, which, if you were being honest, had probably started the moment Steve walked in the front door. 

His fingers were fumbling with desperation as he popped the button of his jeans, quick to tug down his zipper and offer himself a bit of respite from how ridiculously tight his pants were. He practically shoved his hand into his briefs to get some actual relief, desperate and needy. 

Onscreen, the girl gripped onto shelves to ground herself as her partner feasted between her thighs. His eyes wide, peering up at her from where he was latched onto her pussy, her thighs dimpled beneath his fingers from his tight grip. 

It was hard to do much of anything with your shorts still on— making any sort of below the belt touching awkward. You couldn’t exactly make yourself cum with limited mobility. Fuck it. You lifted your hips off the couch just enough to tug the boxers down your legs, kicking them off to the side. 

In your mind, Steve was both present and completely irrelevant, which was horribly contradictory. Sort of like a Schrodinger’s Steve situation where if you wanted him there you were totally cognizant, while also having his presence melt into nothingness when you weren’t focused on him. You needed it to be like that for you to retain your sanity and keep from having a total meltdown.

But then he made a soft, needy sound in the back of his throat, and oh boy was he on the forefront of your mind. You glanced over and his gaze was on you— on the desperate movement of your hand between your thighs, on your parted lips and heaving chest. 

Both of you should’ve turned away, but you wanted to watch him, you wanted him to watch you. You moved your free hand to your lips, pushing two fingers into your mouth, and he moaned. You felt like you’d seen heaven. When you moved those fingers between your legs and pushed them inside of yourself, he looked totally wrecked. 

As you curled your fingers and grazed delicious spots within yourself, you were struck with the sudden fear that you would cum too fast and reality would come crashing down around you. There was nothing you could do anymore, no way to squeeze the toothpaste back into the proverbial tube. 

Might as well make it count. “I wanna see you,” you gasped out, meeting his gaze with lidded eyes. “Please?”

He nodded quickly. “Yeah, okay.” You wanted to kiss him on his stupid, cute mouth. If this was the effect that pornography had on people, you weren’t surprised why so many politicians wanted to ban it. It was turning you into some sort of hormonal monster. And you weren’t even upset.

The sight of Steve with his dick in his hand felt like a religious experience— the sort of thing that makes you want to change the trajectory of your life forever. The self-imposed no-touching rule felt sacrilegious, and you had never hated your own words more in your life. 

“You’re so pretty, Stevie.” The words slipped past your lips like a prayer. The moan he gave in response was all the answer you needed. “And so big. Wanna feel you.”

You weren’t super coherent at that point— any filter you had was gone, and all of the words that you kept under lock and key on any given day came spilling out.

His blush deepened. You felt like you were on fire all over, practically riding your own fingers as your finish neared. The movie was forgotten at that point. You had both turned towards each other, letting your eyes rake over one another’s bodies. 

It felt like a rubber band had snapped when you finally came— all tension leaving your body as your fingers worked you through your finish. Your head fell back against the cushion, eyes fluttering closed as utterly delicious waves of pleasure washed over you. 

You were partially aware of Steve then, the moans falling from his lips, the comforting feeling of his presence near you. You didn’t open your eyes until your breathing had returned to normal, suddenly overcome with bashfulness as you tugged your shirt down and chewed on your lip. 

An arm had been thrown over his eyes, his chest heaving and glistening in the dim basement light. Ropes of cum cooled on his belly, his cock still twitching with aftershocks. 

The movie felt horribly graphic, with the loud, overdramatic moans and the weird music. You stood up on legs that felt like jelly and made your way to the TV, which you quickly powered off. 

Your shorts were a little ways away from the couch, so you slipped those back on too, hyper-aware of Steve’s gaze locked on you. 

“What?” You asked, raising a brow as you hopped back onto the couch. He was making quick work of trying to be presentable, mopping up his tummy with his shirt, quickly buttoning his pants. 

“Hm?” He asked, looking quickly at you, then away. “Nothing. Just, uh, great movie.”

“So good,” you lied. “Five stars.” 

“Do you, uh, want to wash that shirt now?” You asked, trying not to sound as awkward as you felt. “You can borrow one of mine while you wait.”

“Yeah,” he replied quickly. “Yeah, if you don’t mind.” 

“Washer’s over there.” You gestured vaguely towards the back wall. “And there’s a small bathroom if you wanna clean up more. I’ll, uh, go grab you a shirt.”

Escaping to your room had never felt so good. You were quick to shut the door behind you and pull your phone into your closet, the springy cord sandwiched between the frame and the closet door.

The number you dialed was muscle memory, and you were eternally grateful when they picked up after only one ring. 

“Hello?” Fuck. Parents were the last thing you wanted right now.

“Hey, is Robin home?” You asked, trying to sound casual. “Tell her it’s a friend emergency.” The adult on the other line grumbled, and you heard muffled commotion and movement as the phone was passed to someone else. 

“Jesus, it’s late for a friend emergency,” Robin mused into the line. “Everything okay?”

You sighed deeply and cupped your hand around the phone. “I fucked up,” you said quietly. “Steve came by and—“

“You and Steve?” She asked quickly. “Shut up. Did you guys like… do it? Wait! Don’t tell me that, but I also really wanna know.”

You shook your head quickly before realizing that she couldn’t see. “No! We didn’t touch each other or anything, I just feel like we’ve kind of crossed a big line that we’ll never come back from.”

She sighed on the other end. “That’s pretty vague. And confusing.” You were about to vaguely go over a little bit of what happened when you heard Steve call your name from the basement. 

“Shit. I’ve gotta go. I’ll call you tomorrow, I think.” Before she could say anything, you hung up the phone and grabbed the first shirt you found on the way out of your closet. 

Steve stood at the foot of the stairs, a can of Coke in one hand and a box of detergent in the other. “I can’t figure out the washing machine,” he explained. 

“I’ve got it,” you replied, trading him the clean shirt for the detergent. “Just go turn on Saturday Night Live or something.”

“Right,” he replied, sounding a little more than dejected. He sprawled out on the couch and powered the TV on, which immediately made shitty porn blare over the speakers. He scrambled to the floor, hurrying to turn off the VCR and put it back on cable. You both laughed forcefully before returning to your respective tasks. 

You started the wash and returned to the couch hesitantly, settling on the very far end opposite of him. The cushion between you could’ve been miles— at least, that’s what it felt like. 

“I like this new guy,” Steve piped up, gesturing at the screen. “Robert Downey whatever.” You didn’t feel like saying that this season’s cast wasn’t your favorite, so you just mindlessly nodded. 

The awkwardness was killing you. You wanted to just word vomit everything you were feeling, but it was so much easier to just sit in silence. Halfway through the episode, though, he reached out for you, nodding to his outstretched arm. “C’mere, dork,” he teased with a hopeful smile. 

You felt yourself relax at his offhand term of endearment, despite how weird you felt about what you had done. But was it weird? You were both so into it that you couldn't bring yourself to regret it at all. You scooched across the mile-long cushion and settled against his side, resting your head on his shoulder. 

“You know you’re one of my best friends, right?” He asked, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

“Mhmm…” you trailed off, turning to look up at him. 

“But that was pretty hot.”

“Really hot,” you agreed with a smug smile. “You’re like… pretty well endowed actually. I never would’ve guessed.”

He furrowed his brows, mouthing never would have guessed with a confused expression. “Thank you?”

“I mean it,” you said insistently. “Like you come off as a guy who’s all talk, but, wow, you are not.” 

“Alright, alright!” He said with a sheepish laugh. “No more talking like that or I’ll get turned on again.” You raised a brow, trying to fight a grin. Gonna tuck that away for later. 

It got quiet again as you turned your attention back towards the TV, where you both laughed at the occasional good joke or rolled your eyes at the frequent bad ones. Steve's hand was warm against your skin as he absentmindedly traced shapes along your arm. "Can I admit something?" He asked suddenly. 

"I don't think there's a lot you can't do around me anymore," you replied with a laugh. 

He exhaled nervously. "I totally watch tons of porn all the time," he said quickly. "Like, I sneak movies like that out of the back room practically every shift."

Your eyes went wide as you sat up, shoving him playfully. "You fucking pervert! I knew there was something weird going on with you and the porn! You're, like, addicted or something, like they talk about on the news." You sat back down against his side, feeling victorious for catching him on it. But... you paused, furrowing your brows. "So... why were you so weird about me watching it?"

"I wasn't being weird," he said defensively. "I just... didn't think you were going to go through with it. Whatever, my secret is off my chest, and now you know. Do not tell Robin." You mimed zipping your lips and snuggled closer.

He was definitely being weird about it before, but you weren't going to push him. You were pretty sure you knew why.

———

You woke up drooling on Steve’s shoulder, blinking lazily at the sight of morning news playing on the screen. Steve was warm beneath you, burning like a furnace. You sighed, wiping your mouth on the back of your hands.

“Steve?” You said, voice croaky with sleep. 

“Mmm…” he didn’t bother opening his eyes. His hair was messy with sleep, falling into his face.

“Didn’t you have work today?” 

He stood suddenly, the shirt he’d borrowed from your closet riding up to expose his stomach. “Shit! Shit. I’m due in…” he trailed off, glancing at the cat-shaped clock on the wall. “20 minutes. And we’re about a 15-minute drive. Keith is going to murder me.”

“Uniform?” You asked, frantically cleaning up the pizza boxes and empty cans. 

He nodded, scrambling aimlessly. “Vest’s in the car, and uhhh… shit.” He frowned over at you from the washing machine, holding up his very wet polo. “Fell asleep before I dried my shirt so I’m stuck with—“ he peered down to look at the shirt you’d given him. “'Hawkins High Theatre Troupe '85.”

“Aw, you’re so cute when you're wearing my clothes, Stevie,” you teased, throwing him his keys. “Spare toothbrush in my bathroom. You know where my room is.”

“Thank you,” he said quickly, crossing the room to plant a kiss on the top of your head. “I’ll see you later, alright?” 

You wrinkled your nose and pushed him away teasingly. “Alright, big guy, get going.” He made it halfway up the stairs before he stopped suddenly and came back down. “Almost forgot.” He popped out the VHS tape and held it up victoriously. You rolled your eyes as he ran upstairs. 

A few minutes later, you heard the telltale sounds of the front door slamming, his car radio blaring, and his tires squealing away. 

What a weird week.

———

Sundays were the worst, but Robin was genuinely looking forward to Steve walking through the doors after her strange call with you the night prior. She spun around on the chair behind the counter, twirling a pen between her fingers, sighing heavily as she looked at the clock. 

Fifteen minutes after his shift was supposed to start, Steve practically burst through the door, looking frazzled and panicked. And… holding a porno in his left hand. 

“Hey, dingus,” she greeted. “Nice of you to join us today.”

“Robin,” he gasped, leaning across the counter, a dopey smile on his lips. “I think I’m in love.”

[kaynothanks]

JULIET DIED

Pairing: Billy Hargrove x fem!Reader

Summary:  You wouldn’t call Billy Hargrove a friend—but misery sure does love company

Warnings: NO, nobody dies, it's just a title! (18+ mdni), swearing (like a lot), smut, thigh riding, billy being a lil bat shit (personality trait?) crying, angst, smoking, sad shit, domestic violence!, it's dark I ain't gonna lie

Word-Count: 25.9k (I don't know how this keeps happening)

To the vast majority, the very essence of childhood was encapsulated in a singular, formative memory—a bright, indelible mark upon the canvas of their existence. These recollections, oft recounted with a gleam in the eye and warmth in the voice, were predominantly woven from the fabric of joyous days. Days spent in the cherished embrace of dearly loved ones, under the golden sun of endless summers or amidst the cozy dimness of a family room lit only by the flickering images of a movie night. Tales of vacations painted in the vivid hues of adventure, of afternoons spent marveling at the wonders housed within the silent watchfulness of zoo enclosures—these were the stories shared, the common thread binding the tapestry of shared human experience.

Yet, amidst this chorus of reminiscences, not once did a voice falter, not once did the flow of memories stutter into silence—as if each story, each recollection, was a pearl, smoothly rolling off the tongue without a moment's hesitation.

You, however, found yourself adrift in this sea of shared nostalgia. When the spotlight of expectation turned to you, when it was your turn to pluck a gem from the treasury of your past, you found the vault seemingly empty. A heavy silence would envelop you, a thick, tangible thing, punctuated only by the expectant gazes of those around you. In those moments, a flurry of panic would dance behind your eyes, a frantic search through the archives of your memory for something—anything—that could pass as a semblance of the joyous tales so freely offered by others.

And so, you took refuge behind the facade of little white lies, crafting tales of your own. Tales that were never lived but painted with enough detail to pass as truth. You knew, instinctively, that these fabrications were necessary—not for your sake, but for theirs. To preserve the sanctity of their bubble-wrapped worlds, where the possibility of a childhood untainted by the same joys was unthinkable, a harsh discord in the symphony of their understanding.

Thus, you crafted a mask from the clay of necessity, molding an awkward smile upon your lips as you spun a tale from the threads of imagination—a story designed to dance gracefully upon the ears of your audience, a melody in the key of fiction they were all too eager to hear. Beneath this veneer of compliance, however, you waged a silent battle, pressing down the memory that surged forth with the clarity and insistence of an unwanted ghost. It was as if you were condemned to an eternal viewing of a particularly distasteful episode of a show, one that had been replayed in the theater of your mind more times than you cared to count.

In those moments, as the lie unfolded from your tongue like the petals of some strange flower, you were mercifully detached from the raw emotions that had once torn through the small, trembling body of your four-year-old self. You were no longer the child cocooned in the dubious sanctuary of a cabinet, its door cracked just enough to admit a sliver of the world outside—a gap so minimal it might have escaped notice altogether, were it not for the significance of the vantage point it offered.

From this slender aperture, you bore witness to a scene that would forever imprint itself upon the canvas of your memory: the harsh, unforgiving grip of your father's hand as it ensnared your mother's head, the violent arc as he brought it crashing down onto the unforgiving surface of the kitchen table. His voice, a thunderous roar that filled the room and set your very soul to trembling, was a soundtrack to the horror unfolding before your eyes, a cacophony that seemed to fuel your incessant shaking.

The final image that burned itself into your retinas, a haunting tableau, was of your mother's slow, agonizing crawl towards you. A rivulet of red, a stark contrast against the pallor of her skin, traced a path down her forehead, a silent testament to the brutality she had endured. And then, with an act of maternal instinct so profound it bordered on the prescient, she reached out to close the cabinet door, shrouding you in darkness. Somehow, she had known—known that even in this desperate moment, her first instinct was to protect you, to shield you from the ugliness of a reality no child should ever have to witness.

In the immediate aftermath, darkness enveloped you, a shroud of impenetrable black that seemed to swallow every shard of light, leaving you suspended in a void where time itself hesitated. It was a silence so profound, a darkness so complete, that for a fleeting series of seconds, you found space to draw breath—a brief respite in the eye of an ongoing storm.

Then, piercing the stillness, came a watery plea—a voice so drenched in despair it seemed to bleed through the air. This was swiftly followed by the sharp, unmistakable sound of a step, a harbinger of chaos yet to unfold. What ensued was a cacophony of crashes and screeches, each imbued with such terror that they seemed to vibrate within the very marrow of your bones. Abruptly, it ceased. The ominous drum of your father's steps receded, and the lament of your mother's cries fell silent.

Within the confines of that cabinet, your sanctuary of shadows, you remained hidden. There, amidst the dust and the dark, you had fostered a belief, a child's naive conviction, that no malevolence could ever breach your fortress of solitude.

Time, however, cared little for such beliefs. You had outgrown the cabinet, outgrown the illusion of invulnerability it had once provided. The specters of those bad things, those harbingers of hurt and harrow, had since learned to find you, to ensnare your mind with their inevitable grasp, to sink their cruel claws deep into your psyche, marking you with scars unseen but deeply felt.

This realization pressed upon you with a weight all its own as you stared into the fractured visage reflected in the broken wardrobe mirror. The spiderweb of cracks across the glass seemed to mock, to distort not just your reflection but the very essence of who you had become. With a heavy heart, you diverted your gaze, a tacit acknowledgment that the sight of your own battered being was a reality you were not ready to confront—not now, perhaps not ever. There was no need to etch this image any deeper into your memory, no need to prolong the inevitable reckoning with your reflection, with the visible manifestations of those all-too-invisible wounds.

In that moment of avoidance, of turning away from the broken mirror, you were confronted with a truth as shattering as the glass before you: the realization that some scars run too deep, their roots entwined with the very fibers of your being, a constant reminder of battles fought and yet to be faced.

With a precision born of necessity, you moved—a delicate ballet of careful contortions designed to avoid the sharp bite of pain that lurked, waiting to pounce with each ill-considered twitch. Bending with the grace of a willow swaying in a gentle breeze, you reached beneath the shadowed underbelly of your bed, fingers searching for the familiar, lightweight case of your first aid kit. The ease with which it came into your hands was a small comfort, quickly extinguished by the sinking realization that greeted you upon its opening.

Inside, the remnants of preparedness mocked you: an empty bottle of saline solution stared back, its purpose exhausted, alongside a few band-aids, torn and useless, victims of your past impatience. The other contents, like the tweezers, lay in wait for a need that did not currently exist. You allowed yourself a moment—a brief, piercing inventory of this inadequate arsenal—before pushing the disappointment aside and hoisting yourself back to a stand.

Clad in the remnants of a past encounter, a hooded jacket left behind by a fleeting connection, you approached the window. It was a silent affair, the window yielding to your touch with the stealth of a whisper, betraying none of the turmoil that brewed within.

The act of escape was nothing short of a physical ordeal. Your limbs, heavy with ache, maneuvered through the small aperture of the trailer window—a testament to both desperation and determination. Once outside, crouched low to avoid unwanted attention, the cool embrace of the night air greeted you. It was a balm, this newfound freedom, a stark contrast to the stifling confines of your room, littered with the debris of broken dreams and shattered expectations. The open air offered a cleanse, a baptism of sorts, from the relentless cycle of cleanup and repair that had become your existence.

Gone were the days of painstakingly removing glass from picture frames before their inevitable destruction; a ritual born from the foresight of their transient nature. The weariness for such tasks clung to you, a cloak woven from threads of frustration and resignation. Yet, here, under the cover of night, with the world stretched wide and open before you, the weight of that cloak seemed, if only for a moment, a little lighter.

As you strode past the silent form of your car, a sigh of irritation escaped your lips, its sound a soft testament to the internal debate you'd just settled. The decision not to awaken the engine into roaring life was not only a tactic to maintain stealth but a silent concession to the fact that walking might just offer the solace and clarity your tangled thoughts so desperately needed. Moreover, it presented an opportunity to prolong your absence from the confines of what was supposed to be home—a place you were increasingly reluctant to return to, especially tonight. He had played his part, an unwelcome performance that assured you of a temporary reprieve from his intrusions, securing you a night free from disturbances, free from his discovery of the emptiness that now characterized your bedroom.

With a sense of resolve, you drew the black hood over your head, plunging your hands into the depths of your pockets as if to anchor yourself to this decision. You embarked on your nocturnal odyssey, leaving the trailer park's dimly lit confines behind. Your path unfolded on the deserted street, feet finding rhythm and balance on the white lines that dissected the asphalt—a tightrope walker in the quiet of the night. A melody, the residue of days spent with the same song on repeat in your car, hummed softly from your lips, a solitary soundtrack to your solitary march.

The gas station, a beacon of fluorescent light in the darkness, promised to be your oasis—a mere thirty-minute pilgrimage from the trailer park. It was a sanctuary that never closed its doors, a constant in the fluctuating chaos of your life. Behind the counter, the night shift was personified by a young man, his attention more on the beef-flavored Space Raiders he chewed with open abandon than on any potential customer.

With your head bowed, a gesture born of habit more than necessity, you navigated the familiar aisles towards the back. This little corner of the gas station, with its modest array of medical supplies, had become an unlikely ally in times of need. The sound of the entrance bell, a faint chime announcing the arrival or departure of a soul, barely registered as you focused on gathering the items that would serve as tonight's band-aids for both physical and metaphorical wounds.

Items gathered in the crook of your arm, you made your way to the counter, a silent procession of one. The goods—a testament to the night's necessities—were unceremoniously deposited onto the surface, a prelude to the exchange of currency for what passed as care in the small hours of a world that never quite slept.

As the cashier busied himself with the register, a mechanical dance of fingers on keys, you cleared your throat to pierce the silence that had settled between you. "Can I get a pack of Marlboros, too?" The words hung in the air, simple yet laden with an unspoken tension.

He paused, his movements halting as his gaze lifted to scrutinize you. There was a moment, brief yet charged, where his frown deepened, a silent commentary on the obscured view of your face. Nevertheless, his hand moved with practiced ease, reaching behind without hesitation and grasping the familiar green box.

Your response was almost instinctive, an eye roll born of the assumptions wrapped around that particular choice. "Red." The word was clipped, tinged with a mix of amusement and annoyance at the stereotype you were unwillingly cast into. As you handed over the money, pulled from the snug refuge of your jeans' back pocket, his suspicion seemed to spike, eyes narrowing as if trying to decipher an unsolved puzzle.

Money exchanged and items clumsily gathered, you were ready to retreat into the night from whence you came. Yet, a thought anchored you in place, a sudden reminder of a need unaddressed. "Could I have the key for the bathroom?" The question, simple in its asking, seemed to hang precariously in the space between you.

"It’s out," came his reply, short, almost reflexive, a barrier thrown up with the ease of someone who had uttered those words too many times.

Yet, you stood your ground, nodding towards the key that dangled tauntingly over his shoulder, within reach yet seemingly miles away. "It’s right behind you." Your words, firm, carried a weight of certainty, a challenge laid bare.

His response was a study in stillness, a monument to inertia, as if the very act of acknowledging the key's existence was beneath him.

"I need it." The finality in your voice, a blend of resolve and a barely contained plea, echoed in the cramped space of the gas station, a testament to the myriad small battles fought in the dead of night, under the fluorescent glow of a whole other world.

"Toilet's broken," he declared, an excuse worn thin by time and repetition.

Indeed, that very toilet had clung to its broken state for a spell nearing two years—a testament to neglect. "I don’t need to use the toilet. I just need to use the room—” you attempted to clarify, seeking a foothold in a rapidly closing door of opportunity.

"Boss said to not let anyone in," came his rebuttal, a line likely recited from a script of convenience rather than concern.

"Dude—" The word hung in the air, a precursor to the battle you felt brewing within. You inhaled deeply, a silent prayer for patience, your teeth clenching in an invisible grip. "Never mind. Have a terrific night," the words coated in a veneer of nicety that you mustered with all your might, your smile, though sarcastic, was an attempt to bridge the chasm of your frustration, hoping its curve was visible beneath the shadow of your hood. "Dickhead," the insult slipped from your lips in a whisper, a secret shared only with the night as you stepped through the door into the embrace of the outside world.

Tired and tinged with annoyance, your gaze swept the vicinity, seeking a haven for the simplest of human needs—to get cleaned up. Then, like a beacon in the night, your eyes settled on a car stationed at the farthest gas pump. It stood solitary, a silent sentinel in the fluorescent glow. You cast a quick glance over your shoulder, a spy's caution, to ensure the car's owner wasn't lurking nearby. The coast appeared clear, save for the presence of the obstinate cashier, now dubbed the idiot in your evening's narrative.

By the dim glow of the gas station's overhead lights, you found a temporary sanctuary beside the car, a silent accomplice to your solitary ritual. With deliberate motions, you placed your newly acquired treasures upon the cold, unforgiving ground and crouched, your body tensing as you prepared to confront the reflection you had been avoiding. The side-view mirror, initially angled to capture the expanse of the road behind, was now coaxed into a new purpose. With a hesitant push, you angled it to reveal your own visage, a canvas marred by the recent past.

The act of lowering your hood felt akin to peeling away a layer of armor, leaving you exposed and vulnerable. What greeted you in the reflective glass was a mosaic of bluing bruises and angry red slashes—a testament to a tale you wished remained untold. A grimace twisted your features at the sight, your heart sinking. The reflection bore evidence of a fierce struggle, a physical manifestation of pain that made the concept of beauty a distant, unattainable dream.

With a sigh, you sought solace in the ritualistic lighting of a cigarette, a small act of defiance against the night's events. The pack crinkled as you extracted one, placing it between your lips with a sense of purpose. Yet, as you patted down your pockets in search of a flame, a sinking realization dawned upon you—your lighter was missing, presumably lost amidst the chaos that now defined your living space. Disappointment seeped into your bones, mixing with the lingering adrenaline and fatigue that clung to your skin.

Undeterred, you turned your attention back to the task at hand. The cigarette, forgotten for the moment, dangled unlit as you began to tend to your wounds with the care of a seasoned medic. Each touch to your skin with a damp tissue was a whisper of comfort, a gentle caress amidst the harsh reality of your existence. The application of Neosporin was a balm not just for the physical scars, but a fleeting attempt to soothe the deeper, unseen injuries that lay beneath

As you were about to seal the wounds with plasters, a testament to your resilience and a badge of your suffering, the tranquility of the moment was shattered. A voice, unexpected and jarring, cut through the silence, startling you from your reverie. The sudden intrusion felt like an invasion, a breach of the fragile peace you had managed to carve out for yourself in the shadows of the night.

"Antiseptic works better."

Through the mirror, you caught a glimpse of the silhouette that dared intrude upon your moment of vulnerability. The cigarette perched precariously between your lips bobbed as you spoke, your voice tinged with the weariness of one too acquainted with pain. "You’re wrong," you countered through the cigarette hanging from your lips after grabbing a second plaster and ripping its package. "In fact," you continued, pressing the adhesive over another wound, "there’s a chance it may damage the skin." Your expertise on the subject was born from necessity, not choice—a testament to the scars you bore, both seen and unseen. As you finished tending to your injuries, gathering your things with a finality that marked the end of the unwanted interaction, you turned to face the source of the unsolicited commentary.

The dim light revealed his identity—the new guy, an unwelcome disturbance in your carefully maintained distance from the world. You shot him a look that spoke volumes, laden with the exhaustion of a soul yearning for nothing more than the sanctuary of a warm bed, before you attempted to leave his presence behind. His voice, however, laced with an unmistakable amusement, halted you once more. "Hey," he called out, a grin audible in his tone. "I know you."

The assertion sparked a flicker of irritation within you, a flare in the dimness of your resolve. "You don’t," you corrected sharply and turned halfway, vexed by your exhaustion and the want for a warm bed. "You might have seen me around, but you don’t know me."

"Christ," he swore, wearing a shit-eating grin that made you want to pull out his infuriatingly long eyelashes one by one. "What pissed in your—"

"Bye," you interjected, rolling your eyes as you turned your back on him, the roll of your eye a silent rebuke to his unfinished query.

"You need a lighter for that, sweetheart?"

Your feet anchored themselves on the spot, your shoulders slouching just the littlest bit; you really, really did need one. Aversion in your bones, you slowly turned back to him. Keeping your distance, you placed yourself across from where he was leaning against his car.

The smirk playing on his lips stretched into a full-blown grin, a silent prelude to the audacity that followed. In one fluid, almost theatrical motion, he reached out, plucking the cigarette from your lips and putting it between his with an ease that spoke of practiced finesse. The silver lighter appeared in his hands as if by magic, its flame dancing to life with a flick that carried the flair of showmanship. The lit cigarette found its way back to his lips, and he inhaled deeply, the smoke exhaling in a deliberate stream toward you, enveloping you in a cloud of provocation as he gauged your reaction, almost baiting an outburst.

Yet, instead of the explosion he anticipated, you simply reclaimed the cigarette from his grasp, a silent acceptance of his unsolicited gesture. "Thanks,” you uttered, the words hanging in the air as you resumed walking, leaving the moment behind.

His voice followed, a casual offer laced with an undefined undercurrent. "You want a ride?"

Your steps faltered, a frown creasing your forehead as his words registered. "That is one hell of a random question to ask a stranger. As a stranger,” you retorted, the skepticism in your voice as palpable as the cool night air that enveloped you both.

"You want one or not?" His reply was curt, edged with impatience, a stark contrast to the mysterious offer he had just extended.

"Why would you offer?" Curiosity laced your tone, mixed with a hint of caution. Billy Hargrove’s reputation had preceded him, painting a picture of a Californian rebel whose actions were as unpredictable as the ocean’s waves, and certainly, acts of chivalry seemed as foreign to him as a language unspoken.

"Forget it." His dismissive gesture, a psuh from the car before he swung the door open, spoke volumes of his irritation. Yet, as he made to seal himself within the metal cocoon of his vehicle, your voice pierced the night, a decision made.

"I do want one."

The car door slammed shut, and for a moment, the only sound was the car's engine coming to life, a growl in the quiet. His gaze, sharp and assessing, met yours through the glass. A roll of his eyes served as his acquiescence to your unspoken plea for a ride. The door cracked open, an invitation as gruff as his tone. "Are you getting your ass in the car or do you need a written invite?"

His words, brusque yet oddly inviting, spurred you into action. The interior of the car enveloped you, the scent of leather and the undercurrent of his cologne mingling in the confined space. No sooner had you fastened the seatbelt than the car lurched forward, tires screeching in protest as Billy Hargrove accelerated into the night, propelling both of you toward the unknown that lay in the direction you had originally been heading.

"I live at—" you began, the words barely taking form before they were cut short.

"I know." His interruption was swift, a statement so sure and unfazed.

Confusion momentarily clouded your thoughts, mingling with a spark of irritation. How the fuck could he possibly know? The question danced at the tip of your tongue, but before it could leap into the open air between you, realization dawned. The company he kept at school, the circles he moved in—those were all the answers you needed. Billy Hargrove, with his effortless charisma and an air of danger that clung to him like a second skin, naturally gravitated towards and was embraced by those you had learned to keep at arm's length. Those very individuals, Carol Perkins, Vicki Carmichael, and Tommy Hagan, had painted your world in stark, unflattering colors, branding you 'trailer trash' with their sneers and jeers for a decade.

A bitter laugh threatened to escape, thinking of them, their cruelty a constant shadow over your school days. If only they knew the disdain you harbored, so potent and vivid. You wished, not for the first time, that their arrogance and aspirations could be forcibly fed back to them, a grotesque cycle that would see their malice choking them, expelled from their mouths like a vile confession of their true natures.

You adjusted the window, allowing just a sliver of the night air to slip through, and extended your arm, the cigarette perched between your fingers, embers dancing with each inhale.

"What happened to your face?" Billy's voice, laced with a curiosity that didn't match his usual demeanor, cut through the hum of the road beneath the car's tires.

"Fell from heaven, of course," you retorted, the words tinged with sarcasm as your eyes rolled, a silent protest against his prying. His persistence was like a thorn—unwanted and sharp. "Nosy much?"

"Catfight?" His guess was off mark, yet it pricked your patience.

You exhaled, a mix of frustration and resignation coloring your tone. "Ran into a tree," the lie smooth on your tongue, as you took another drag, the cigarette's glow a brief flare in the darkness.

He scoffed, disbelief etched in the sound. "And the tree beat you up for that?"

Your agreement came out as a hum, a playful note in the solemn night. "Had a mean right hook, too. Damn birch trees," you quipped, allowing a brief smile to dance on your lips at the absurdity of it all, blowing the smoke out into the night, watching as it dissipated into the cool air.

Silence fell between you, a heavy, tangible thing that seemed to swell with each passing second. It was an odd sort of discomfort, more unsettling than the exchange of words had been, wrapping around you like a thick fog. You found yourself almost wishing for his voice again, to break through the quiet that now felt louder than any spoken word. Yet, as the car sped on, devouring the road with eager haste, the lights of the trailer park approached, promising an end to the journey and the silence that had settled between you.

Suddenly, he extended his hand towards you, an unspoken request hanging in the air. You found yourself momentarily puzzled, your gaze fixed on his fingers before realization dawned. After taking a final, lingering drag from the cigarette, you passed the diminishing ember to him. With an effortless flick, he sent it soaring out of the window, watching as it disappeared into the night after taking it down to its last breath.

"Since when are girls like you smokers of the good stuff?" His voice was casual, yet loaded with an unspoken judgment that hung heavily between you.

The implication behind his words, ‘girls like you’ didn't necessitate an explanation. You understood perfectly—the label wasn't about you personally. It was a placeholder, a stereotype applied broadly to any girl who found herself in his car, a commentary not so much on the individual but on the perceived collective. The notion that somehow, despite the vast differences among individuals, there was a uniformity assumed among all those deemed ‘other’ by those who never bothered to look beyond the surface. It was a tired, worn-out perspective, suggesting that understanding, respect, and equality were territories too foreign for those entrenched in their own narratives.

"I'm not a smoker," you retorted, your voice steady, pushing back against the label he tried to affix to you.

He turned to you, an eyebrow arching in skepticism. "Sweetheart, I think the tree might have hit you in the head." His words, meant to tease, danced in the space between you,

"Special occasions only," you finally spoke, breaking the silence that had settled between you, thick with unvoiced judgments and assumptions. Your voice carried a defiant edge, a sharp contrast to the vulnerability you felt. "Also, fuck you."

Billy's response was a chuckle, the sound low and somewhat amused, as if your resilience added an unexpected flavor to the night's events. "What's the occasion?" he inquired, his tone lighter, yet carrying an undercurrent of genuine curiosity.

You found yourself hesitating, caught on the precipice of disclosure and reticence. The likelihood of crossing paths with him again felt as remote as the stars dotting the night sky above, their light distant and indifferent. You weighed the ephemeral nature of this encounter against the catharsis of sharing, even if just a sliver, of your reality. "Having choices," you said at last, the words feeling like both a confession and a declaration.

"What choices?" His question followed, simple yet laden with the weight of stories untold.

You offered no reply, merely a shrug, a gesture cloaked in layers of meaning. Your silence was your fortress, safeguarding the complexities of a life marked by pain and defiance. Within you, a habit had taken root, a ritual born from the ashes of violence at the hands of your father. Smoking had become your rebellion, your assertion of control in a life that often felt governed by the whims of a man whose presence was as oppressive as it was destructive. To smoke was to choose the manner of your harm, to claim agency over your own demise, however slow and insidious it might be. It was a twisted form of empowerment, preferring the slow burn of tobacco to the acute brutality of paternal hands. Crushing the extinguished remnants of your defiance under your boots served as a tangible metaphor, a declaration that the man who should have been your protector held no more power over you than the spent cigarettes you ground into oblivion.

Entering Billy's car that night, accepting the ride from someone enveloped in rumors and mystery, was a choice emblematic of your current state of being. Bruised, both physically and spiritually, by the very person who should have been your haven, you found yourself gravitating towards choices that flirted with danger. In the shadow of your father's tyranny, even the potential threat of an unknown like Billy felt like a liberation, a dare to the universe that tonight, of all nights, you were the master of your fate, no matter how recklessly that fate was courted.

Merely blocks away from the shadowed outlines of the trailer park, you felt the tension knot tighter in your gut, prompting you to instruct Billy with an urgency that surprised even yourself. "Stop the car here." It was a calculated measure, a bid to remain unseen should your father's usual stupor be interrupted by a rare moment of vigilance. You couldn't risk him spotting you from the confines of an existence you both shared yet endured on vastly different terms.

"Why?" Billy's inquiry sliced through the hum of the engine, a roaring beast that seemed all too eager to encroach upon the sanctuary you so desperately sought to protect.

"'Cause I said so!" The words burst from you, a mix of fear and insistence, as panic clawed at your chest with icy fingers when he veered dangerously close to the trailer park's entrance. "Stop the damn car!" The command was punctuated by the violent squeal of tires as they ground against the asphalt, the sudden deceleration forcing the seat belt to bite cruelly into your already tender flesh. "Thanks for the ride," you managed to huff out, a terse farewell as you swung the door open and exited with a haste born of desperation, the door slamming shut with a resounding finality. "Asshole," you muttered under your breath, a feeble attempt to regain some semblance of control over the rapidly fraying edges of your composure.

You had barely taken a few steps when a compulsion, inexplicable and unnerving, urged you to cast a glance over your shoulder. There he was, Billy, his gaze already locked onto your retreating form. Even through the cloak of night, his silhouette was unmistakable, and the distance did little to obscure the wink he sent your way—a gesture that felt both mocking and oddly comforting in its audacity.

With a swift turn of your head, you dismissed the fleeting connection, quickening your pace as if to outstrip the myriad emotions that encounter had stirred within you. The night air, cool and indifferent, seemed to whisper secrets as you disappeared into the labyrinth of shadows that promised both sanctuary and imprisonment.

In the sanctuary of shadow and silence, you made your way to the trailer that bore the dubious honor of being called home. The silver metal shell, tarnished by time and wear, loomed before you, a testament to a life far removed from the dreams you once harbored. With each cautious step, you moved with the stealth of a creature well-versed in the art of invisibility, ensuring that your presence remained undetected by Billy's lingering gaze.

Approaching the window to your room, the cool night air kissed your cheeks, a stark contrast to the warmth that awaited inside. Your hands, acting on the instinct honed by countless nights of return, deftly managed the small but significant task before you. The purchases, a meager collection of necessities and small comforts, found their way through the open window with a soft thud against the carpeted interior, a silent testament to your return.

With the grace of a practiced climber, you hoisted yourself up and through the window, your body moving with an economy of motion born from necessity. The interior of the trailer welcomed you back into its cramped but familiar embrace, the air tinged with the scent of a life lived on the margins.

That night, as the world outside continued its indifferent spin, you took a moment to secure the only sanctuary you knew. The lock on your door clicked into place with a finality that spoke of a desire for solitude, or perhaps, a prayer for safety. In the dim light of your room, surrounded by the humble trappings of your existence, you prepared to surrender to sleep.

The act of locking your door was more than a mere precaution; it was a ritual, a whispered plea to the universe for just one night of peace. As the shadows deepened and the trailer park settled into the quiet hum of the night, you lay down, your thoughts a tangled web of hopes, fears, and the stubborn resilience that had carried you this far. In the stillness that followed, sleep arrived, a reluctant visitor, to claim you in its embrace, offering a temporary reprieve from the trials of a world that waited just beyond the thin walls of your silver metal haven.

…

Dawn's first light crept through the cracks of the blinds, casting a muted glow across the room. You stirred from the uneasy dreams that had plagued your sleep, finding the morning's silence a stark contrast to the tumultuous echoes of last night. With a deep breath, you summoned the strength to face another day, one that began with the painstaking task of camouflage.

Seated before a mirror streaked with age, you embarked on the delicate art of concealing the evidence of yesterday's storm. Each brushstroke was a silent battle, each dab of powder a feeble attempt to erase the marks that pain had etched upon your skin. The bruises, a palette of purples and blues, refused to be hidden completely, protesting under the layers of makeup you applied with a desperation born of necessity.

As you dressed, a sharp twinge of pain caught your breath. The mirror revealed a ghastly bloom of purple spreading like a shadow across your side, just below the ribs—a grim reminder of the violence you wished to forget. A lie formed in your mind, a necessary deception for the physical education teacher, claiming the protection of a condition as natural as it was unrelated to the truth.

The ritual of preparing breakfast unfolded with a practiced ease, though your heart was elsewhere. You moved through the kitchen, your gaze carefully avoiding the man who sat at the table, expecting the service you provided as if it were his due. The sizzling bacon and the scramble of eggs filled the silence between you, a silence as heavy and uncomfortable as the bruises hidden beneath your clothes. His expectations hung over you, a constant reminder of the narrow path you were forced to tread to avoid further displeasure.

School offered no respite from the act you were forced to live. With your hood pulled high, you navigated the halls with a deliberate slowness, dreading the moment you would have to enter the classroom and face the day's challenges. The quiet comfort of anonymity was shattered when Mrs. O'Donnell's voice, sharpened by authority, cut through the air. Your heart sank as her words found you, a beacon spotlighting your defiance.

"I do not condone hats or hoods in my lessons," she declared, her tone leaving no room for dissent. In that moment, the weight of the day pressed down upon you, a reminder of the battles yet to be fought, both in the light of day and in the shadows of your own life.

The atmosphere in the classroom thickened, a palpable tension that clung to your skin as you stood at the precipice of decision. Around you, the collective breath of your peers hung suspended, their curiosity mingled with the anticipation of rebellion they'd come to associate with you. Yet, in that moment of scrutiny, you chose compliance over defiance. With a slow, deliberate motion, you slid your hood back, exposing the canvas of your pain to the voracious eyes around you.

A collective inhale filled the room, a chorus of shock and disbelief that painted you in a light far removed from the anonymity you craved. Even your teacher, usually so composed and authoritative, faltered under the weight of the revelation, her voice lost to the ticking clock that suddenly seemed deafening in the heavy silence.

She recovered, albeit shakily, her command to continue an attempt to restore normalcy to the disrupted order of her classroom. But the damage was done, the facade cracked. You couldn't wait to escape, and the moment the class was dismissed, your hood resumed its place, a shield against the prying eyes and whispered judgments.

The day unfolded exactly as you had dreaded. Each class became a battleground, your hood the flag of your defiance and your bruises the wounds of wars fought in the shadows of your life. The whispers followed you like a relentless shadow, and when lunch arrived, you sought solace in the solitude of the cafeteria's farthest corner. Surrounded by the outcasts and the unnoticed, you found a semblance of peace, even if it was the peace of a pariah among peers dreaming of revolutions they did not understand.

You observed them, the future rebels with their leather bracelets and spiky hair, their existence a stark contrast to the battles you fought daily. They wore their rebellion like a badge of honor, unaware of the true cost of surviving a war against the very fabric of one's life. And as you sat there, hidden in plain sight, you couldn't help but wonder about the diverging paths of those destined for a picture-perfect existence and your own, forged in the crucible of pain and resilience.

Stepping out from the confines of the school building as the day bled into the mellow hues of late afternoon was like shedding an invisible shackle, a temporary respite that made your shoulders relax and your breath come easier. This fleeting sense of liberation accompanied you, a silent companion that whispered promises of tranquility, until the familiar sight of the trailer park loomed ahead, shattering the illusion with the harsh reality waiting within.

As you navigated the maze of silver metal homes, the sight of the lights blazing through the windows of your own trailer felt like a physical blow, a harbinger of the storm that was about to break. Your heart, a frantic drummer in the cage of your ribs, seemed to echo ominously with every step you took toward the creaking door that served as the barrier between you and what awaited inside.

He wasn't supposed to be there, not yet. The very thought was a cold hand squeezing around your heart, draining the color from the world. With trepidation lacing each step, you entered, your gaze flitting nervously from the desolate sofa to the ominously closed door of his bedroom. The strap of your school bag became a lifeline, something tangible to anchor you as you tiptoed toward the sanctuary of your room.

But fate, it seemed, was not on your side. The floor beneath you, a traitor clad in aged wood, groaned loudly under your weight, a sound so jarring in the silence that you couldn't help but wince, your entire being tensing in anticipation of the fallout. Time seemed to stand still, a suspended moment filled with the electric charge of impending doom.

Then, movement shattered the silence. The bedroom door was flung open with such force you half expected it to fly off its hinges, revealing the man who stood in the doorway. His presence filled the space, an imposing figure that you could barely reconcile as the one responsible for your existence. In that moment, as you faced the man who should have been your protector but felt more like a looming threat, you realized the fragility of the peace you so desperately sought in the confines of what you called home.

The utterance of your name, whispered with a darkness that cloaked the room, immediately heightened your senses, alerting you to the imminent storm. Instinctively, your feet shuffled backwards, attempting to put distance between you and the tempest that was your father. His voice cracked through the tension like a whip, "What did we talk about?" The words barely left his lips before your body responded with a quiver, the dread manifesting physically.

"You're just as useless as your bitch mother," he bellowed, his hand cutting through the air with predatory speed to clamp around your throat. Your legs struggled to bear the sudden weight of fear and despair as he dragged you, your resistance feeble against his force, through the claustrophobic hallway into the stark light of the kitchen. There, he released you not in mercy but to crash onto the unforgiving floor, his grip morphing into an iron band around your neck. "Now, I know you ain't the smartest but how can anyone be such a dumb cunt?" His eyes flicked toward the refrigerator with a menacing expectation.

Frozen, more by terror than choice, you remained motionless, inciting his fury further until he yanked you upward by the very lifeline he was squeezing. "Open it!" His command was a shout, propelled by anger, as he thrust you toward the cold metal of the fridge. With every fiber of your being screaming to comply just to make it stop, you mustered the strength to lower your shaking head and fumble with the fridge door.

"What did I tell you?" he growled, his breath hot against your ear.

"To take care of things," you managed to whimper, your voice barely threading through the tightness of his grip.

"That's right," he confirmed with a dark, rumbling voice. But his next words were like daggers, each one punctuating your worthlessness in his eyes. And then, with a brutality that seemed to echo in the sparse kitchen, your head was forcibly introduced to the side of the fridge. The sudden release from his hands felt as much a punishment as the assault, a clear message that you had once again failed to meet his expectations. "Fucking take care of it," he spat, leaving you with the pain and the cold echo of his disdain.

For a fleeting moment after his departure, you remained motionless on the cold kitchen floor, the echo of his retreating footsteps a temporary relief. As you coughed, savoring the rush of oxygen filling your lungs once more, you rose with shaky resolve. Closing the refrigerator with a soft click, you retrieved some cash from the hidden savings can, each movement automatic, driven by necessity rather than thought. Your feet carried you swiftly to your car, a sanctuary of sorts in the midst of chaos.

With trembling hands, you inserted the keys into the ignition, pausing as you caught sight of their unsteady dance. Just as you were about to press the gas pedal, a different sensation caught your attention. Blood, warm and unsettling, trickled down from your nose to your lips. Instinctively, you reached up to wipe it away, only for a solitary tear to escape, tracing a path down your cheek. In a burst of anger, you struck the steering wheel, imagining for a split second it was his face absorbing the impact, receiving the punishment he so richly deserved.

The drive out of the trailer park felt like an escape, albeit a temporary one, as you headed deeper into town. Your destination was the only supermarket in Hawkins that turned a blind eye to selling alcohol to minors. The cashiers, two souls long since resigned to the monotony and despair of their roles, barely registered your presence, their gazes fixed on some distant, unseen point beyond the walls of their confinement.

You found yourself wiping your face again, this time checking the rearview mirror to assess the damage. The sight of your bloodshot eyes was a grim reminder. Physical blows you had learned to endure, but the insults, the verbal lashings that cut deeper than any fist, remained wounds that refused to heal. The most painful barbs were those aimed at your mother, a woman who had possessed nothing in terms of material wealth but had fought valiantly, albeit futilely, to escape the tyranny of your father. She was a woman of courage, standing between you and his wrath, even as cancer waged its own merciless battle within her. Your admiration for her was boundless; on her deathbed, she had worn a smile, radiant and victorious, for in her passing, she had finally escaped the man who had sought to break her spirit.

As you entered the supermarket, you smoothly plucked a basket from the stack beside the entrance, weaving your way through the aisles with a practiced ease. With each step, you carefully selected items, filling the basket with an assortment of goods that you knew would appease your father's palate. The basket grew heavier, a testament to your meticulous effort, until you reached the final checkpoint: the beverage section.

The coolers stood before you, a chilled barrier between thirst and satisfaction. You reached for the door, the cold air brushing against your skin as you grabbed a six-pack of your father's preferred beer. It was then you noticed him, a figure barely three weeks familiar with Hawkins, yet here he was, navigating the town's veins as if born to them. His friends had evidently provided a thorough briefing. Your attempt at a discreet observation failed miserably, as his attention snapped to you, an unspoken acknowledgment between strangers.

Your brows arched in involuntary surprise, not at his presence but at the sight of fresh cuts and bruises marring his face — wounds absent just the night before. A silent question hovered on the tip of your tongue, but before it could take flight, he dismissed the moment with a roll of his eyes and brushed past you, leaving a trail of unspoken stories and a fleeting connection dissipated as quickly as it had formed.

The line at the checkout moved slowly, a trivial inconvenience, yet it granted you a few more moments of anonymity. The store's quaint little bell announced Billy's departure, a sound that seemed to echo the finality of a moment passing. When it was finally your turn, you engaged in the mechanical transaction with the cashier, your mind elsewhere. Stepping out into the waning light, the sight of Billy Hargrove, casually nursing a can of beer against the cool metal of his car, intruded upon your thoughts. His car parked nonchalantly beside yours felt like a deliberate coincidence. The brown paper bag, a temporary vessel for your burdens, found its place in the backseat as you closed the door, acutely aware of his gaze tracing your movements, an invisible tether pulling at the edge of your consciousness.

You cleared your throat, a prelude to breaking the silence as you stood by your car, the keys dancing a nervous ballet in your hand. "Birch tree got you too, huh?" The words slipped out, a tentative bridge spanning the gap between you two.

Billy's scrutiny lingered, a silent appraisal, before his eyes dropped to the testament of violence painted on your skin, eventually locking with yours. "You want a smoke?" His voice broke the tension, an offer hanging in the balance.

Surprised, yet intrigued, you glanced around before nodding, a silent agreement forged in the twilight. You gestured for him to follow, leading him to the supermarket's side where the guardians of refuse, a row of large dumpsters, stood in solemn assembly. Climbing atop one with an ease born of necessity, you found a perch, waiting for him to join you in this makeshift sanctuary away from prying eyes.

Billy, with a nonchalance that seemed to cloak him like a second skin, produced a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, its silver surface catching the last rays of the sun. With a practiced flick, he ignited a flame, bringing it to the cigarette perched between his lips. The glow of the ember briefly illuminated his face, casting shadows that danced with the smoke. Taking a drag, he then passed the cigarette to you. As you inhaled, the sharp, acrid taste of tobacco filled your lungs, a bitter reminder of choices made, of moments shared in silence and smoke.

As the minutes melted away under the haze of shared smoke and silent camaraderie, the cigarette passed between you became a temporary truce, an unspoken understanding in the twilight of shared solitude. Eventually, Billy broke the silence, his voice rasping slightly from the smoke. "You have blood on your nose."

"Yeah?" Your response was tinged with a nonchalance that belied the undercurrent of tension between you. You accepted the cigarette once more, its ember glowing faintly in the dimming light. "You have some on your lip." Another drag, a momentary escape, then silence enveloped you both once again. The final act of discarding the cigarette to the ground felt almost ceremonial, as you crushed the lingering spark beneath your boot, a definitive end to the fleeting respite. "See you 'round, Hargrove."

Your words hung in the air as you turned to leave, a tentative goodbye to a shared moment of vulnerability. His voice reached out, halting your retreat. "You hungry?"

The question paused you in your tracks, the afternoon sun casting long shadows as you turned to face him. There was something in his gaze, a reflection of weariness and something unspoken, that mirrored your own. For a fleeting second, pity stirred within you, its target unclear, as empathy blurred the lines between self and other.

"I am," you conceded, the admission heavy with an unspoken understanding of the complications it invited. Yet, the reality of your own circumstances pulled you back from the precipice of further entanglement. "But I have to get home, actually." Your smile was a feeble attempt at normalcy, a polite curtain falling on the scene. "Bye, Billy."

His acknowledgment was a silent nod, a mutual recognition of the distance being placed between you once more. As you drove away, the rearview mirror captured the solitary figure of Billy Hargrove, a temporary companion in your shared narrative of survival and solitude, fading into the background of your departing world.

…

An unsettling sense of change lingered in the air, a silent shift that had settled over Hawkins High like a thick fog, imperceptible yet undeniably present. This peculiar feeling began to wrap around you, a subtle yet persistent presence, in the days following your second encounter with Billy Hargrove. As you stepped through the school's doors, braced for the usual barrage of sneers and the biting sting of ‘trailer trash’ hurled in your direction, you found instead a surprising void where hostility once thrived.

This newfound anonymity was strangely soothing, a reprieve wrapped in the unexpected guise of indifference. For once, the hallways that had felt like gauntlets now offered passage free from judgment, allowing you a semblance of peace amidst the storm of daily life. It was an odd sort of liberation, moving unseen and unmarked by the cruel jibes that had once shadowed your steps. For the first time in your tumultuous high school saga, the final bell did not signal a hasty retreat but a deliberate detour to the sanctuary of the art room.

The art class assignment, a canvas awaiting the touch of inspiration, became your excuse to linger in the quiet aftermath of the school day. While your peers carried their artwork home, eager to splash their visions across the canvas in the comfort of their own spaces, such a luxury was a distant dream for you. Home was no haven for creativity; your trailer, a place where art met its end not in completion, but in destruction—torn, smashed, a casualty of the chaos that waited beyond the school's gates.

There, amidst the smell of paint and the soft light filtering through the dust-speckled windows, you found solace. The art room, with its clutter of brushes and the palette of possibilities, offered not just an escape but a moment of creation untainted by the harsh realities that lay in wait outside its doors. It was in these stolen hours, surrounded by the silent witness of unfinished projects and the ghosts of inspiration, that you dared to believe, even if just for a fleeting moment, in the possibility of a world shaped by the stroke of a brush, rather than the sharpness of words.

As the day waned into evening, the corridors of Hawkins High slowly emptied, leaving behind a tranquility punctuated only by the distant hum of the cleaning crew making their final rounds. The fading light cast long shadows across the halls, painting everything in a soft, melancholic glow. You glanced at the hallway clock, a silent reminder of the hours you needed to kill to ensure you'd return to an empty, quiet home, free from the looming presence of your father.

Chewing thoughtfully on your lip, you diverted towards your locker, thoughts swirling with the prospect of solitude. It was then that a wave of laughter and lively banter washed over you, as a group of jocks, fresh from the showers and glowing with the invincibility of youth, breezed past, oblivious to your existence. Their jubilance, a stark contrast to your solitude, left a fleeting shadow across your spirit, one you shook off as you reached your sanctuary—a small, metal locker.

The ritual was familiar and comforting: exchange the day's burdens for the evening's necessities. But as your hand lingered on the locker door, preparing to seal away the day, another hand, unexpected and swift, slammed it shut. Startled, you spun around, only to find yourself inches away from a familiar face framed by a blond mullet, a figure who had become an unexpected constant in the landscape of your days.

"That was rude," slipped from your lips, a feeble attempt to assert some distance between you and the uninvited closeness. Yet, Billy Hargrove stood unyielding, a smirk playing on his lips, evidently amused by the discomfort flickering across your face. The proximity was overwhelming; his presence, a force that seemed to challenge the very air between you. You yearned to retreat, to press back into the cold, indifferent metal of your locker as you had so many times before. But something within, a spark of defiance or perhaps a curiosity yet unnamed, anchored you firmly in place. His gaze, intense and searching, held a question you weren't sure you wanted to answer, igniting a silent standoff in the dimming light of the nearly deserted hallway.

"Oh, I might just disagree with you on that one, sweetheart," Billy chuckled. "In fact, I found it was rather chivalrous of me to spare you from having to close the locker." Billy's grin unfurled like a flag of both charm and challenge, hovering in the nebulous space between disarmingly sweet and maddeningly smug. It was as if his every gesture, every flicker of expression, had been honed to perfection before an audience of his own reflection, each nuance calculated for effect. Whether your suspicion held water mattered little; the notion that behind his practiced ease lay a carefully maintained facade wasn't far-fetched. After all, mastering the art of the mask was a survival skill in its own right.

You responded to his teasing not with retreat, but with a stance of quiet defiance, arms crossed as if to ward off the sway of his charm. Your chin lifted slightly, an unspoken challenge, while a reluctant smile threatened to betray your composure. "I was actually talking about you trying to scare me into having a heart attack, but sure, let's go with your excuse," you retorted, your voice laced with a mix of sarcasm and amusement.

His laughter, rich and unguarded, filled the space between you, a sound that seemed too genuine for someone so practiced in artifice. The hand that had been a casual claim on the locker next to your head shifted slightly, drawing your gaze despite yourself. It was an involuntary flicker of attention, pulled momentarily to the subtle play of his tongue across his lips—a gesture that sent an unexpected shiver down your spine. In that moment, caught in the gravitational pull of his gaze, you felt a sudden, inexplicable connection, framed by lashes any starlet would envy. Yet, as quickly as it came, you shook off the allure, the momentary weakness. With a willful effort, you pulled away, stepping back from the invisible line that had drawn you dangerously close to his orbit. The air seemed to clear as you moved, dispelling the strange spell that had momentarily tethered you to him.

"Do you have any… plans for tonight?" His inquiry floated into the space between you, his hand retreating from the locker, leaving behind an echo of warmth where it once rested.

You found yourself momentarily caught in the headlights of his question. Friday evenings were the realm of raucous parties and cozy gatherings among friends, a social tapestry you found yourself conspicuously absent from. Your plans, if they could even be called that, consisted of nothing more than acquiring a solitary snack and retreating to the quiet of your car's hood in some forgotten corner of a parking lot.

"I'm more the spontaneous type," you offered, a deflection born of necessity as you idly scratched at your elbow. The admission of your solitude, especially in front of Hawkins' newest import, the effortlessly cool Californian, seemed a bridge too far.

"Good," he cut in, a word punctuated with decision as he turned on his heel towards the exit. You watched, a mix of surprise and curiosity bubbling within you as you followed him, your steps a beat behind, to his car. He performed the gentlemanly act of unlocking and holding open the passenger door, an invitation hanging silently in the air.

With a gesture towards the parking lot, you demurred, "I got my car here." Your thumb jabbed backward, signaling the aged Volkswagen that wore its rust and verdigris like badges of endurance, a relic from a bygone era now under the scrutiny of his oceanic gaze.

The tapestry of scars your car bore was a map of your tumultuous journey thus far. The rear windows, obscured by patches of duct tape, were a testament to a violent shove that had sent you crashing into them. The dented trunk narrated another tale of youthful recklessness, a collision with a telephone pole just weeks after your sixteenth birthday had granted you the freedom of the road. But it was the scar on your hip, hidden beneath fabric yet forever etched in your flesh, that told the most painful story. A vase, hurled in anger by your father, had shattered upon impact, embedding its fragments into your skin. Alone, you had navigated the sterile lights of the emergency room, weaving a tale of clumsy mishap to explain the glass shards that had to be meticulously extracted from your body.

Billy's gaze on you felt like a searchlight, probing for a jest or a convincing argument as to why you wouldn't abandon your car to join him. "I can’t just leave my car here, Billy," you found yourself protesting, even as part of you yearned for the escape he offered.

His response was a casual shrug, his posture relaxed against the frame of his open car door, the denim fabric of his jacket accentuating the lean muscles beneath. "Sure, you can," he countered with an easy confidence. "I can drive you back here after."

The word lingered between you, a mystery yet to unfold. "After what?"

Another shrug, the gesture becoming a signature of his nonchalance. "After." His reply hung in the air, an invitation to an undefined adventure, sparking a blend of apprehension and exhilaration within you.

The suggestion hung in the air, heavy with a dark humor that twisted your words into a sinister prediction. "You know, that kind of sounds like you are going to hack me up and then just dump my severed limbs here. After."

Billy's reaction was instantaneous, his voice laced with feigned hurt, "I would never do that." For a moment, you almost believed him, almost extended an apology, until the glint of mischief in his ice-blue gaze betrayed his jest. "You would get blood all over my car seats."

Your response was an eye roll, the tension easing into a grin at the absurdity of it all. "Fine," you declared, your resolve melting as you approached his car. "But don't you dare take me to someplace with all that healthy stuff," you added, a playful warning in your tone as he stepped aside, allowing you to claim the passenger seat as your own. Pausing, one leg already inside, you issued your culinary demands. "I want a burger, some greasy as fuck chili-cheese fries." You paused, a thought occurring. "And maybe a milkshake."

Billy's smirk was a beacon of complicity in the fading light, his teeth a flash of white as he gently closed the door behind you. Circumventing the vehicle with a swagger, he slid into the driver's seat, igniting the engine and bringing the car to life. The sudden eruption of Ted Nugent's distinct voice filled the cabin, the volume dialed to an almost reckless level. You recognized the voice, not out of personal preference, but thanks to a neighbor's musical obsession which had mercifully shifted from Nugent's raspy rock to the heady depths of heavy metal.

As the car pulled away, the world outside blended into a blur, the soundscape within dominated by Nugent's growling melodies. You found yourself enveloped in the paradox of Billy's world, where the threat of fictional dismemberment faded into the background, replaced by the immediate, vivid reality of a quest for the perfect greasy meal.

As Billy caught the wrinkled disapproval on your face, a chuckle escaped him, tinged with amusement. With a swift movement, he dialed the volume down, though the music still filled the car with a lively barrier against silence. It was loud enough to keep the void of conversation at bay, ensuring that the ride was enveloped in a continuous melody rather than awkward pauses.

You found a brief escape as you rolled down the window, extending your hand into the open air, mimicking the actions of your childhood adventures. The wind battled against your palm, inviting you to sway your hand rhythmically, an instinctive dance of freedom and nostalgia. Your eyelids fluttered shut, surrendering to the flood of memories that washed over you. Those adventures, as your mother had fondly termed them, were simple yet profoundly magical. They consisted of visits to art museums where she would craft whimsical stories behind each painting, imbuing them with life and laughter. There were hikes through dense woods, where she spun tales of bear hunts, making you believe in the thrill of the chase and the glory of imaginary conquests. On the rare occasion, she would navigate the aisles of thrift stores with you in tow. Financial constraints made these trips bittersweet, as the allure of unattainable treasures tugged at your young heart, a reminder of desires just beyond reach.

These excursions, modest in their execution but rich in imagination, formed a tapestry of cherished moments. They were escapes from the mundane, where every outing with your mother became a venture into the extraordinary, a testament to the power of love and storytelling to transform the ordinary into the unforgettable.

As Billy brought the car to a halt in front of the neon-lit facade of the arcade, you couldn't help but turn to him, an eyebrow arching in silent query. He responded with a heavy sigh, the weight of reluctance in his voice as he confessed the need to pick someone up. A brief glance at the digital watch strapped to his wrist revealed a clenched jaw, a silent testament to his impatience or perhaps something deeper, an annoyance or an obligation weighing heavily on him.

Before you could voice the questions dancing on the tip of your tongue, Billy's hand darted forward, retrieving a cigarette from the pack nestled within the confines of the glove compartment. The swift flick of his lighter brought the cigarette to life, its ember glowing fiercely with each inhalation, a beacon of his momentary escape. Exhaling a cloud of smoke through the window, he extended the cigarette towards you, a gesture of sharing in his solace, yet his eyes never met yours, as if the offer was made out of habit rather than genuine intent.

"I don’t smoke," you stated, a gentle reminder of your stance. His reaction was almost immediate, his gaze shifting to you, eyes searching for any sign of jest. Finding none, only the earnest clarity of your refusal, he muttered a blend of resignation and a half-hearted vow never to offer again, his attention quickly diverting to the arcade's entrance with a stare sharp enough to bore holes through the walls. "Are you trying to open the doors with your mind?" Your teasing broke the silence, a playful nudge against his intensity. As you sank deeper into the embrace of the leather seat, the corners of your lips tugged upwards. "I tried moving a pen once. I swear, I almost had it." Your words floated between you, a light-hearted attempt to pierce the seriousness that had enveloped him, inviting him back to a moment of shared levity amidst the unexpected pause in your night.

"She's late again," Billy grumbled under his breath, a tinge of irritation lacing his voice as his gaze flickered to his wristwatch once more, a silent sentinel of his impatience. "Little dipshit can skate home." His hand moved decisively towards the gear shift, ready to abandon the wait and drive off into the night, but you intervened, placing your hand gently over his, a silent plea for patience.

"We've been waiting here for barely five minutes." Your eyebrows knitted together in a mixture of concern and curiosity as you met his gaze, attempting to understand the rush. "We can wait a little longer. I don't mind." Your words were soft, an offering of compassion in the face of his growing frustration.

At that exact moment, as if summoned by your willingness to wait, a figure emerged from the glowing entrance of the arcade. A ginger-haired girl, her face flushed and breathless from her rush, her relief palpable as her eyes locked onto the familiar blue Camaro. With her skateboard tucked securely under her arm, she hastened her steps, almost speed-walking towards the safety and promise of a ride home that the vehicle represented.

As the ginger-haired girl approached, you smoothly exited the Camaro, your movements fluid and deliberate. Pulling forward the seat to allow her access, she clambered into the back with a graceless smile, her eyes flicking briefly to Billy with a mix of gratitude and irritation. You caught the exchange, a silent laugh hidden behind your facade as you adjusted the seat back into place and reclaimed your spot beside Billy.

The tension in the car was palpable, a silent storm brewing in the small confines of the vehicle. Billy's gaze, sharp and unyielding, found the girl through the rearview mirror, anchoring her with a look that brooked no argument, yet he made no move to merge into the street's flow.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, her voice barely a whisper, a fragile attempt to quell the storm. Her eyes darted away, seeking refuge in any corner that wasn't filled with Billy's imposing presence.

"You remember what we talked about?" Billy's voice cut through the tension, clear and authoritative. His question, more an ultimatum than a query, hung heavy in the air.

"I said, I'm sorry," the girl retorted, her defensiveness surfacing with her words. A scowl began to form on your face, mirroring the growing frustration and discomfort that swirled inside you as Billy remained stationary, his focus unbroken.

His eyes never left her. "What did I tell you?" The gravity in his voice pulled at you, a painful wrench in your heart as you felt the weight of his words. "What did I tell you, Max?" At his question, your emotions teetered on the edge of a precipice, a quiver on your lip the only hint of the turmoil within.

Suddenly, the confined space of the car became too much, the air too thick to breathe. With a surge of resolve, you tore open the door, the sound of it closing behind you a silent scream for escape. Your hands balled into fists at your sides, a futile attempt to steady their shaking, as the silence from within the car enveloped you like a cold embrace, as his voice haunted your mind.

Billy emerged from the car, his silhouette framed by the setting sun as he rounded the hood with measured steps. You stood there, amidst the quiet chaos, closing your eyes to gather the shards of calm scattered by the storm. A deep breath filled your lungs, an attempt to cleanse the tumult within. When his voice broke through the silence, a soft yet piercing inquiry, "You all right, sweetheart?" it felt different this time. Where once the pet names he draped you in felt like silk, now they scratched against your skin like burlap.

The glare you returned was loaded with an unspoken dialogue, a debate raging within you about the wisdom of diving into depths where perhaps you had no place. Yet, the image of the girl, her spirit dimmed in the rearview mirror, tipped the scales. "You didn't have to berate her like that," the words tumbled out, laced with conviction, while your arms folded defensively across your chest. "She said she was sorry twice."

Observing him, you saw the muscles in his jaw clench, a physical manifestation of his rising defensiveness, and his nostrils flared, a silent herald of the storm to come. "How about you stay out of my fucking business?" The words were sharp, a dagger thrown with precision, meant to wound and warn.

As your scoff broke the tense air between you, it carried with it a bewildering sense of revelation. You found yourself staring, almost in disbelief, as the layers of Billy's persona peeled back to reveal the hot-tempered core you had only heard whispers of. Rumors of his impulsive shoves in crowded hallways and aggressive dominance on the basketball court had reached your ears, painting a picture of a boy who wielded his temper as carelessly as he did his charm. The teenage girls of Hawkins High had not been shy in sharing tales of his less savory deeds, and yet, in a strange twist of fate, they still crowned him with their affections, blinded perhaps by the handsome mask he wore. To you, until this moment, he had shown a different face—one that hinted at kindness beneath the rugged exterior.

"I don't think I can come with you. No, actually, I don't want to anymore." The words emerged from your lips, firm and irrevocable, sealing the fate of the evening that had taken an unexpected turn.

At your declaration, a storm seemed to gather on Billy's brow, his forehead creasing with anger as he teetered on the brink of letting loose a venomous retort. "Why are you being such a bi—" His words faltered, clogging the air between you as the realization of his near slip clamped down on his tongue. A sudden shift overtook his features, the anger washing out as if drained by an unseen force, leaving behind a pallid mask of instant regret.

"You know what, Billy?" you threw the words into the thickening twilight, not seeking an answer but rather casting them as a final verdict. Your feet started to retreat, each step a defiant dance away from the scene. "Fuck you. Oh, and while you're at it, why don't you shove those burgers up where the sun never shines, yeah?" With those parting shots, you spun on your heel, the world spinning momentarily before settling as you marched back toward the familiar silhouette of Hawkins High.

"You don't have your car!" His voice chased after you, a mixture of frustration and incredulity painting each syllable.

"And, still, I'd rather walk!" Your voice rang clear into the fading day, a declaration of independence. For good measure, and perhaps for the sake of your bruised pride, you flung one of your favorite gestures over your shoulder, hoping it would catch him in a moment of speechless observation.

Fucking men.

…

A month had woven itself into the fabric of your life since that tumultuous encounter with Billy Hargrove. His existence had become a silent shadow in your days, marked only by the occasional glimpse of his step-sister, a ghostly reminder of the confrontation that had severed whatever thread had begun to tie you to him. It was ironic, really, how the absence of someone could teach you so much about them. Your days flowed on, untouched by his presence, yet whispers of his life seemed to find you.

You learned of his origins, not through any desire of your own but through the idle chatter of classmates, their words painting a picture of a life you hadn't asked to understand. Billy Hargrove, the boy from California, now residing at 4819 Cherry Lane, wrapped in a scent that lingered in the halls—and apparently his pack—long after he had passed through. These snippets of his existence, caught in passing, seemed to stitch a portrait of a person you no longer knew, if indeed you ever really did.

Each revelation, each accidental eavesdrop, added layers to the image of Billy Hargrove, filling in gaps with colors you hadn't chosen. Yet, for all the unrequested knowledge that had found its way to you, the essence of the boy remained elusive, a puzzle pieced together from fragments overheard in passing. The tendrils of your past, entangled with dreams of a future beyond the confines of Hawkins, whispered to you in moments of solitude. Your aspirations reached far beyond the town's limits, aiming for the hallowed halls of college—a beacon of escape from a life mapped out by circumstances rather than choice. Each rejection letter that found its way to you felt like a door slamming shut, while the solitary acceptance, devoid of the golden ticket of a scholarship, seemed a cruel tease of what could be. College represented more than an education; it was your lifeline out of Hawkins, a chance to evade the shadows that lingered there, including him.

Financial realities cast long shadows over your dreams. The fruits of years spent toiling in odd jobs had been whittled away by the necessities of life and the unending demands of medical supplies, a silent testament to the sacrifices made. The money that didn't vanish into the bottomless pit of healthcare needs was swallowed by the mundane yet essential needs for gas and food, leaving nothing for the luxuries that others might take for granted. The memory of purchasing something solely for the joy it brought, something as simple as a new mascara or a piece of clothing in your favorite color, had faded into the realm of distant dreams.

Yet, as you maneuvered the car out of the school's parking lot, a resolve took root within you—a quiet declaration of self-kindness. The day's burdens lifted slightly at the thought of indulging in a small luxury, a token of appreciation for yourself after so long. The thrift store's familiar aisles offered sanctuary and the possibility of finding something uniquely yours. Amidst the labyrinth of second-hand garments, a splash of yellow caught your eye, halting your aimless search. Your fingers grazed the fabric of a flowy yellow dress, the color a vivid echo of happier times.

In that moment, a memory blossomed, vivid and sweet—a day at the lake with your mother, her laughter mingling with the breeze, her own yellow dress a mirror to the one now in your hands. Despite the harsh realities that awaited back home, her smile in that instant had been a beacon of pure joy, untainted by the shadows of daily struggles. The memory, so sharply beautiful, tugged at your heart with a mixture of longing and sorrow. For a fleeting moment, surrounded by the whispers of past lives encapsulated in the thrift store's treasures, you allowed yourself the luxury of reminiscence and the hope of brighter days, fueled by the simple act of choosing something that sparked joy in your heart.

Your fingers hesitated for a moment before firmly grasping the dress, lifting it from its crowded perch among forgotten stories and second chances. As you queued for purchase, the monotony of waiting nudged your attention toward the world beyond the thrift store's window. Your eyes traced the ebb and flow of life on the sidewalk—a tableau of youthful laughter and the disgruntled expressions of passing adults, caught in a silent battle over public decorum.

Your gaze was about to retreat back to the cashier's call when the distinct rumble of a familiar engine sliced through the ambient noise, capturing your attention. A blue Camaro, unmistakable in its assertive presence, blazed past the window, a fleeting shadow in your line of sight. The timing hinted at a routine you'd inadvertently memorized, perhaps Billy Hargrove on his way to collect Max from the arcade. Despite the distance you'd placed between yourself and him, his existence still managed to weave its way into the fabric of your thoughts, an uninvited yet persistent presence.

Groceries, bought with the remnants of your carefully hoarded finances, soon occupied the passenger seat of your car, a tangible reminder of the practical concerns that governed your life. You returned to the trailer park, your vehicle coming to a rest beside the rusted silhouette of home. The neighborhood was alive with the small, personal escapes of those around you—barbecues, beers, and the semblance of community in the individualistic survival of trailer park living. You offered a half-hearted wave to the scattered acknowledgments from your neighbors, a gesture of civility in the shared anonymity of your lives.

One neighbor, a boy around your age with a habitual distance from the trailer park's confines, returned your wave with a shy, fleeting smile. His presence was a rarity, his time usually spent in the freedom of friendships beyond the park's boundaries. A pang of longing touched you at the thought, a wistful wish for connections you hadn't the luxury to foster.

Stepping out of your car, the dress in hand and groceries by your side, you couldn't help but reflect on the paths not taken, the friendships not formed. The trailer park, with its rusted dreams and patchwork communities, held both the weight of your realities and the whispers of what might have been, had circumstances been kinder.

The descent of twilight had always carried a particular solemnity in the trailer park, a silent herald of the end of another day's labors and the beginning of the park's nocturnal repose. As you ascended the weathered steps, the weight of the grocery bags in your hands was a tangible reminder of the day's responsibilities, a mundane yet necessary burden. Your father's gaze, sharp and scrutinizing, met you through the window, his eyes flickering with a mix of wariness and disapproval between you and the neighbor boy who had offered a fleeting gesture of camaraderie. His expression, a familiar tapestry of anger and suspicion, caused you to avert your gaze and hasten your steps, seeking refuge in the relative safety of the indoors.

The call to the living room came at an hour when the world outside had surrendered to the darkness, the only witnesses to its secrets being the occasional flash of lightning illuminating the sky. The neighbors, those transient figures of your day-to-day existence, had retreated behind their doors, driven by the sudden onset of rain. It was in this secluded setting that your father awaited, ensconced in the worn embrace of his brown-leathered armchair, a throne from which he observed the small dominion of your shared living space.

You paused at a cautious distance, the air between you charged with an unspoken tension, a testament to the delicate balance of your relationship. In the dim light, your fingers absently traced the familiar imperfections in your nails, a diversion from the intensity of his scrutiny. Your father, a man whose actions were measured and deliberate, had managed to maintain a facade of normalcy to the outside world. Whatever speculations might have circulated among the neighbors about the dynamics within your trailer, they remained just that—speculations, with no concrete evidence to breach the veil of privacy that curtained your shared existence.

In that moment, standing in the living room's subdued light, the distance between you felt more than just physical; it was a chasm of unspoken words and stifled emotions, a silent battleground where every gesture and glance held weight.

"I'm very disappointed in you," he spoke, orbs glued to your face which was turned to the carpeted floors. "I give you so much and don't expect a lot in return, now, do I?" You closed your eyes, teeth catching your lips as you shook your head no. "That's right." He lifted himself up from his seat, stepping closer. You stilled. "What I can't have, is my daughter whoring herself out to some boys."

You flinched as a hand gripped your jaw. "I don't—"

His hold tightened, warm alcohol-tinges breath hitting your cheek. "And to have so much disrespect to lie to my face."

"Please, Dad, I don't even know his nam—"

"Shut up!" You winced at his harsh tone, a trembling falling into your bones. "How long have you been going around spreading your fucking legs, huh? You think you can just do that while you're living under my roof?" He shoved you back into the kitchen counter, its edges digging into your skin painfully. "Fucking whore," he hissed. "If I ever see you looking at him again, I'm not going to be so nice."

Your voice was a mere whisper. "But I didn't—" A slap echoed and a jarring stinging spread across your cheek.

"Don't you fucking dare to talk back to me!" His fingers dug into your skin further as he yanked you forward and smashed you to the floor. "Who do you think you are, huh?" He ripped you upwards at the roots of your hair, wrenching you across the floor to the front door. Your head smashed into the wood as your father tore it open with no regard for you. His hand fell from your hair as he shoved you forward with his foot. As you didn't do as he pleased fast enough, he kicked you onwards and again until you tumbled down the stairs of your home.

"I don't want no disrespectful whore under my roof.” The night air was heavy with the scent of rain, a foreboding cloak that seemed to amplify your isolation as your father's anger found its final expression in the harsh, definitive sound of the door slamming shut behind you. Stranded in the aftermath, you lay there for a moment, sprawled on the cold, unforgiving ground, every breath a testament to the throbbing pain in your ribs. Gritting your teeth against the discomfort, you managed to pull yourself into a seated position, the tears that you hadn't invited nor could contain stinging your eyes, mingling with the rain that began to drench you in its cold embrace.

The world around you felt alien, a labyrinth of uncertainties and fears about where the night might take you. Trust, a commodity you found in short supply, left you without a door to knock on, without a sanctuary in which to seek refuge. Even the shelter of your car was denied to you, the keys a distant, unreachable comfort. Your heart heavy, you stood, the direction of your feet a mystery even to yourself as you meandered through the dimly lit streets of Hawkins. It was as if some unseen force guided you, leading you on a path paved with desperation and silent pleas for solace.

Cherry Lane materialized before you almost as if by magic, the familiarity of the surroundings doing little to ease the tumult in your heart. The houses stood like silent sentinels, guarding the secrets of those who dwelled within, until the sight of a blue Camaro, parked with an air of silent expectation, caught your eye. It was a beacon in the gloom, a signpost pointing towards a possibility you hadn't dared to consider until now.

With hesitant steps, you ascended the porch, each footfall a declaration of your vulnerability. The house before you was a tableau of quiet domesticity, its windows glowing softly in the night, yet betraying no hint of the lives unfolding behind them. For a moment, you allowed yourself the small comfort of shelter, the porch a temporary haven from the relentless rain. Gathering the remnants of your courage, you reached out, your hand pausing in mid-air as you braced yourself to bridge the distance between desperation and hope, between solitude and the possibility of finding an ally in the most unexpected of places.

Hesitation gripped you as the absurdity of your situation fully dawned upon you. What madness had driven you to seek refuge here, of all places? It had been over a month since any words had passed between you and Billy, and the possibility of him not being the one to answer the door loomed large in your mind, a specter of potential embarrassment you hadn't fully considered until now. Imagining the awkwardness of explaining your presence to his stepmother or father sent a shiver down your spine. Perhaps the familiar discomfort of your own leaky porch, where sleep would undoubtedly elude you amidst the elements, would have been preferable to the risk of utter humiliation here.

As you turned to make a hasty retreat, a clumsy misstep sent one of the plant pots clattering to the ground, the sound of shattering pottery piercing the steady drum of rain. Mortification washed over you as you knelt, frantically trying to salvage the situation by scooping the spilled soil back into its home, muttering curses under your breath for your own clumsiness.

"What are you doing?" The sound of Billy's voice, laced with confusion and rising over the roar of the rain, caused you to startle, nearly toppling the pot once more in your sudden panic.

You stood, hands smeared with dirt against the fabric of your wet pants, words tripping over themselves in a clumsy attempt to explain. "I'm sorry," was the simple, inadequate conclusion you reached. A nervous laugh escaped you, highlighting the absurdity of your predicament. "I... I don't even know what I'm doing here," you admitted, your voice tinged with the realization of your own folly. "I—I'm going to go. Sorry about the plant."

Billy's gaze drifted past you to the empty street, a silent question in his eyes before returning to you. "Where's your car?" The inquiry was straightforward, yet it left you grappling with the decision of whether to fabricate a lie about its whereabouts.

"I walked," you confessed, the truth slipping out with a hesitance that betrayed your vulnerability.

"In the rain?" His question hung unfinished in the air as his attention abruptly shifted, focusing intently on your face. Whatever he saw there caused a transformation in his demeanor, his previously questioning gaze hardening with resolve. He swung the door wider, an unspoken invitation hanging between you. "Get in," he commanded, a mixture of concern and command in his tone. Your uncertainty was palpable, a silent question mark in your stance until his impatience broke through your indecision. "Do you always need a second invitation? Get inside." His words, more a directive than a suggestion, propelled you forward, his intense stare ushering you into the warmth and shelter of his home. No sooner had the front door clicked shut behind you than Billy’s hand enveloped yours, his grip firm and unexpectedly warm. He led you through the hallway with a sense of urgency, the sound of your sodden shoes squelching against the floor marking your passage. The door to his room was next, closing with a definitive thud that seemed to isolate the world outside. Releasing your hand as though he suddenly remembered the protocol of personal space, Billy turned his attention to the task of decluttering his room with an efficiency that left his clothes arching through the air to land perfectly in a hamper across the space.

You found yourself standing somewhat awkwardly in the middle of his room, the chill of your drenched clothes causing you to shiver uncontrollably. Instinctively, you crossed your arms in an attempt to preserve warmth, your gaze drifting downwards before curiosity prompted a survey of your surroundings. The room was a capsule of Billy's world – his bed, a stark island in the chaos, lay opposite the door, while a white dresser burdened with an assortment of items claimed territory to your left. A stereo system and a mirror positioned at the foot of his bed stood guard in front of his closet, serving as silent sentinels of his privacy. The walls were an eclectic gallery featuring a mix of band posters—Metallica's ‘Kill 'Em All’ and Tank's ‘Filth Hounds of Hades’ among them—and a singular, provocatively posed woman adorning a minuscule bikini set.

A cough from Billy broke the silence, his posture shifting uncomfortably as he planted a hand on his hip, mirroring your own awkwardness. "Do you wanna take a hot shower?" His voice, hesitant yet earnest, sliced through the tension.

You matched his earlier gesture, clearing your throat before responding with a nod, your smile timid yet sincere, a silent thank you. "If you don't mind."

His response was quick, almost reflexive. "I wouldn't be asking if I did." The briefest flicker of something akin to regret crossed his features, a look that suggested he found the current situation less than ideal. With a barely perceptible shake of his head, as if to dismiss his own thoughts, he guided you to the bathroom adjacent to his bedroom. Handing you a towel with an awkwardness that seemed out of place on him, he promised to find you some dry clothes, leaving you with the comforting prospect of warmth and a momentary escape from the night's chaos. Peeling away the layers of your drenched attire felt like shedding a second, clammy skin, each piece a testament to the frugality that necessity had imposed upon your life. The fabric, cheap and worn, clung to you with a stubborn chill, and even as you stood bare in the relative warmth of the bathroom, shivers danced across your skin, relentless in their embrace.

You stepped over the edge of the tub with a cautious grace, turning the faucet with hands that trembled not just from the cold but from the uncertainty of the moment. As the water sputtered to life, you drew the shower curtain with a swift motion, sealing yourself away from the world for a brief interlude. The array of bottles lining the tub's edge caught your eye, prompting an involuntary snort of amusement.

Billy, it seemed, defied the stereotype of masculine simplicity in skincare, the stereotype that suggested a preference for efficiency over variety. Your father, with his staunch allegiance to three-in-one products, had been your benchmark for male grooming habits. Yet here, in Billy's shower, was a collection that spoke of a different creed. You couldn't help but smirk, a playful curiosity lifting your brows as you inspected the labels one by one. Shampoos, more than one might expect, each bottle worn from use, nestled beside conditioners—one clearly favored, its contents more depleted.

The body wash, singular in its presence, was an olfactory enigma. Unscrewing the cap, you were met with an assault of scents, as if the essence of every cologne and deodorant had been distilled into this one vessel. The smell was overpowering, undeniably masculine, a concentrated embodiment of Billy's presence. You searched for the words to describe it but landed on the singularly fitting—manly.

As the warm water cascaded over you, washing away the layers of the day—the sweat, the remnants of makeup that had survived the downpour—you moved with haste. There was a keen awareness of not overstaying your welcome in this unexpected sanctuary. Gratitude for Billy's kindness mingled with a sense of urgency; such generosity was a rare currency in your world, and you were acutely conscious of its value. In these moments, under the stream of cleansing water, you found a temporary reprieve, a fleeting sense of solace amid the turbulence of your life. The moment your skin felt the cool air of the bathroom, a soft knock echoed against the door, a gentle but unexpected intrusion into your solitude. Clutching the towel around yourself with a sudden modesty, you cracked the door open just enough to extend a hand into the gap. Billy's presence on the other side was palpable, his chuckle a low, soft sound that fluttered through the air as he passed a bundle of clothes to you. "Thanks," you murmured, a rush of words barely escaping before you retreated behind the door once more.

Dressed in the clothes Billy had chosen—socks, boxers, sweats, and a shirt—you paused at the threshold of his room, suddenly conscious of the absence of your bra and acutely aware that he was, too. With a final act of tidiness, you folded the towel meticulously and flicked off the lights, leaving behind the sanctuary of the bathroom for the uncertainty that lay beyond.

You found yourself lingering in the doorway, arms wrapped defensively across your chest, the fabric of his shirt a poor shield against the vulnerability you felt. Billy's gaze upon you was indescribable, heavy with an unspoken expectation as if he wished to peel back the layers of your being and examine the hidden scars that lay beneath.

Mustering what little composure you had, you broke the silence, your voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry."

His brow furrowed, confusion and something else—was it concern?—etching lines into his forehead. "For what?" he queried, his voice a blend of curiosity and something softer.

You diverted your gaze, a sense of intrusion overwhelming you despite the sanctuary he'd provided. "Bothering you. It's late," you admitted, feeling the weight of your unwelcome presence.

The sound of his movement pulled your eyes upward, half-expecting, half-hoping he might bridge the distance between you. Instead, you were met with the sight of his back as he rifled through his nightstand, the tension in the room palpable. "Sit," he commanded, and though under any other circumstance you might have bristled at the order, the exhaustion and gratitude mingling within you coaxed compliance.

Without protest, you perched on the edge of the bed, a silent observer to his actions, the room around you filled with an unspoken dialogue made of glances and gestures, a fragile understanding hanging in the balance. As he pivoted towards you, a black box in his grasp, an electric tension filled the air. He chose not to sit beside you on the bed; instead, he knelt before you, an unexpected intimacy in the space between your parted knees. Your breath caught, a silent gasp lost in the moment, and irritation flared within you as you noticed the slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "What are you doing?" you inquired, a mix of curiosity and wariness lacing your words, your gaze sharply tracking his movements.

"If I remember correctly, Sweetheart, you gave me a lecture on using Neosporin or otherwise you get scars, right?" His voice held a playful rebuke, cutting off any response you might have mustered. "Let's make sure that doesn't happen, huh?"

His attention fixed on a spot on your forehead, drawing your own hand reflexively to the area he observed, only to flinch at the tender reminder of a wound you hadn't registered until now. The memory of the collision with your trailer door flickered through your mind, a painful blur in the chaos of the night. His touch was unexpectedly gentle as he attended to the wound, a carefulness in his actions that surprised you, challenging what you thought you knew of him. Despite the months you'd spent in his orbit, this moment revealed layers you hadn't glimpsed before.

"You don't have to do that," you found yourself saying as he procured a tube of Neosporin—a recent addition to his kit, no doubt on your advice. "I can do it, too."

"Never said you couldn't," he hummed back, undeterred as he meticulously applied the ointment, his focus undivided. With deliberate care, he placed two butterfly plasters across the cleaned wound, a silent testament to his unspoken concern. Gathering the discarded wrappers and used items, he compressed them in his hand and rose, moving to dispose of the trash. In that small, enclosed space, with the sound of rain a distant murmur against the windows, a different side of Billy was illuminated under the soft glow of the room's lighting — a side tender, careful, and starkly at odds with the rough edges of his usual demeanor. You cleared your throat, a gesture so small yet so loaded with the weight of the evening's events.

"Thank you," you managed to say, voice barely above a whisper. He paused in his motions, turning towards you with a smile so radiant it threatened to stop your heart in its tracks.

"No problem, Sweetheart," he replied, his voice a smooth salve over the jagged edges of the night. As he moved to dispose of the trash, a sudden, inexplicable tumult stirred within you. With a hand pressed against your chest, you sought to quell the storm brewing beneath your ribs, a futile attempt to calm the chaos his mere presence invoked.

Rising to your feet, you drifted towards the window, seeking solace in the steady downpour that mirrored your inner turmoil. The rain continued to fall, now more fiercely than before, a relentless deluge that held you captive in this moment. You felt his presence before you saw him, the heat of his body a stark contrast to the chill seeping through the glass.

"Didn't get much of this in California, huh?" you ventured, an attempt to bridge the chasm of silence between you.

He let your question hang in the air, unanswered, yet the fleeting shadow that crossed his face spoke volumes, a bitterness that matched the storm outside. His gaze shifted, momentarily caught in the past before refocusing on the present — on the wound that marred your forehead. "What happened?" he asked, the question simple yet loaded with unspoken concern.

You shrugged, a movement laden with the weight of untold stories. "Nothing," you replied, the lie slipping from your lips as easily as breath, a practiced deception you had mastered over time. "I tripped."

"And that had you walking through the rain in the middle of the night?" His skepticism was palpable, a challenge to the facade you'd constructed.

A battle raged within you, the urge to confess warring with the instinct to conceal. You bit back the tears threatening to spill, the pain of admission too great to bear. "I locked myself out and didn't know what else to do."

"Yeah?" he pressed, his disbelief a tangible force.

"Yeah." Your affirmation was a whisper in the storm, a feeble attempt to maintain the crumbling walls around your heart.

He moved closer, his presence overwhelming, trapping you between the solid reality of his form and the immovable barrier of his closet. "If you don't want to talk about it then say so," he declared, his voice a command that brooked no argument. "Don't lie and pretend to be fine when clearly you aren't."

In that charged moment, with the rain as your sole witness, the space between you became a battleground of unspoken words and concealed wounds, a testament to the complexity of human connection. Your jaw clenched tightly, a tangible manifestation of your frustration and defiance. The notion of receiving unsolicited advice, particularly from him, was almost laughable. Gratitude for his shelter in the storm did not extend to welcoming painful truths. "Oh, that's rich coming from you, Billy. It's not like you aren't just fine all the time," you retorted, your words sharp, laden with a bitterness born of too many hidden truths.

The shift in him was immediate, his anger dissipating as though your words had pierced a veil, revealing a glimpse of the vulnerability he so meticulously guarded. When he raised his hand, the gentle brush of his forefinger against the stray tear on your cheek sent an unexpected shiver down your spine. "I never said I wanted to talk about it," he murmured, his voice soft, revealing a hint of his own battles fought in silence. Your heart fluttered uncontrollably, his touch igniting a flurry of sensations, momentarily tethering you to a moment of raw connection.

The sudden crack of lightning, followed by the deep rumble of thunder, jolted you back to reality, breaking the spell that had momentarily bound you. The urge to flee, to return to the semblance of normalcy that awaited at home, surged within you. "I should probably go," you whispered, hoping against hope that your father's drunken stupor would erase the night's events by morning, that a simple act of domestic normality could smooth over the fractures in your life. "Do you have an umbrella or something?"

His response was instant, a resolute rejection of your plan. "Do you really think I'll let you get back there now? So, you can flash a cut lip and a blue eye tomorrow at school, too?" His words, though posed as a question, left no room for argument. In his refusal to allow you to venture back into the storm, both literal and metaphorical, lay an unspoken pledge of protection, a sanctuary against the tempest that raged beyond his door. "What does it matter?" you found yourself arguing, feeling the weight of your own arms as they fell limply by your sides. The sense of defeat was palpable in the air. "So, I stay tonight, then what, Billy? I'll have to go back eventually, and it's only until the school year's over. Then, I'm gone anyway."

His response came in the form of a growl, though you could tell his anger wasn't directed at you. It stemmed from a place of shared desperation, from having clung to the same sliver of hope himself. "So, you're just gonna let him beat you for the rest of the year?"

Your response was a snort, laced with sarcasm, as you tilted your head, challenging him. "Aren't you doing the same thing?" The silence that followed was telling, even if no words were spoken, until he dared to step closer.

"It does matter, you know," he said, his voice softer now, reducing the physical distance between you yet careful not to invade your personal space.

"Why?" The question came out more as a whisper of disbelief. For the past month, he had acted as if you were barely visible, and suddenly, he seemed to care deeply. "Why now?"

His hesitation was palpable, as if the words he was about to utter could scorch his tongue. "I like you." The simplicity of his confession hung between you, fraught with unspoken complexities.

You bit your lip, a sad, resigned smile tugging at the corners of your mouth as you lowered your head. "Don't do that to yourself." The words were barely a whisper, yet they carried the weight of a lifetime. Tears threatened to spill over, a testament to a sentiment you had never expected to receive. The idea that someone could not just tolerate but actually like you was foreign, almost too much to bear. All your life, you had erected walls to keep people at a distance, for their affection meant empathy, and with empathy came pain. The sight of your wounds would become their agony, and in a twisted way, their suffering would become yours, completing a circle of shared hurt you had always sought to avoid.

"Who do you think I am, Billy?" You backed away slowly, trying to maintain some semblance of distance between you and Billy, but the inevitable happened—your retreat was abruptly stopped by the wall. A wave of unfamiliar pressure washed over you. Was it fear? Or perhaps vulnerability? You couldn't quite place the emotion. "I'm not the kind of person to have around. I won't complete you, won't enrich your life,” you stammered out, your voice a mix of warning and fear. These words were your feeble attempt to shield him, to prepare him for the inevitable disappointment that seemed to follow you like a shadow. "I—I'm just so fucked up and stuck trying to put everything... everything broken back into place. I... I can't look for your shards, too."

When your eyes finally dared to meet his, you expected to see annoyance, maybe even rejection. Instead, what you found was empathy, his expression softened, recognizing the turmoil within you as something he too understood. "I don't want you to try and fix me," he said, his tone gentle, soothing the chaotic thoughts swirling in your mind. His hand reached for yours, not as a claim but as a gesture of companionship, of solidarity. "But searching for shit goes so much faster if you do it together." In the dimly lit room, where shadows danced across the walls with a life of their own, Billy Hargrove revealed himself in a way that words could scarcely capture. The man you thought you knew, encased in layers of protective anger and a cocksure swagger, allowed those defenses to melt away in your presence. It was as if he peeled back the veneer of bravado, exposing the raw, unguarded depths of his soul—a mosaic of past hurts and present struggles laid bare for only your eyes.

The moment his fingers brushed against your cheek, a cascade of sensations unfurled within you. It was more than a touch; it was an electric current that surged through your veins, rendering you speechless, breathless. As you locked gazes with him, drowning in the ocean of his bright blue eyes, the world seemed to pause. Every attempt at drawing breath felt like an insurmountable task, and yet, paradoxically, you felt more grounded than ever, as if an invisible force tethered you to the very core of the earth. Simultaneously, there lingered an exhilarating sense of lightness, a curious wonder if you might suddenly break free from gravity's embrace and ascend into the ether. The effect Billy had on you was profound, leaving you to ponder if perhaps, in some small way, you affected him similarly.

Did you trouble his thoughts as he did yours? Did your presence steal his breath and unsettle him to his core? Within the quiet chambers of your heart, a small, worn, and lonely piece of you clung to the hope that he might feel the same.

As his index finger traced the contours of your face with reverence, from the softness of your cheek to the furrowed worry lines on your forehead, and finally to the tender vulnerability of your lips, you sensed a hesitancy in him. His other hand, which had been a mere whisper away from yours against the wall, dropped slightly, fingers brushing against the fabric of the shirt he had lent you. With a subtle tug, influenced by a brief flare of his nostrils, it was as if he was battling a storm of desire within, restraining himself with a Herculean effort from crossing a line from which there was no return. In that moment, Billy Hargrove was no longer just a name or a face; he was a force, simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating, threatening to unravel the very fabric of your being.

The words stumbled from your lips, frail and unsteady, shattering the facade of indifference you had desperately clung to. "So—" you began, only to have your voice fracture cruelly midway, exposing the turbulence beneath your calm exterior. "You want to be friends…like officially?"

A crooked smile unfurled across his face, his deep-set eyes twinkling with a blend of amusement and an unexpected trace of shyness. His grip on the fabric of the shirt intensified, his knuckles whitening with the strain. "Trust me, Sweetheart, friends isn’t what I had in mind," he confessed, his voice a low murmur that sent a wave of heat cascading down your spine, igniting a flurry of desire that pooled in the depths of your stomach.

You stood petrified, a statue of anticipation, as an inexplicable longing surged within you, compelling your fingers to twitch at your sides. You yearned to weave your fingers through the silky strands of his meticulously styled hair, to explore the contours of his being with a touch. Yet, as he retreated, fishing a pack of cigarettes from the depths of his jeans, you found yourself anchored in place, watching him with a mixture of astonishment and burgeoning disappointment. It wasn't the withdrawal you had anticipated that took you by surprise, but rather the keen sense of letdown that he didn't pursue the tension crackling between you further.

When he turned his back to you momentarily in search of an ashtray, a childish pout began to form on your lips, a silent testament to your discontent. Billy, however, remained oblivious to your turmoil, opting instead to lean casually against the wall by the open window, exhaling smoke into the tempestuous embrace of the rainy night. You pondered over his actions, the deviation from his usual indifference to smoking indoors. The scent of tobacco, which had once been a source of discomfort, had, over time, woven itself into the tapestry of comforts associated with Billy's presence. It was an aroma that, in the context of his room—a sanctuary of chaotic tranquility—had become oddly reassuring. Mixed with the other, more elusive scents that lingered in the corners of his space, it crafted an ambiance that was undeniably Billy, and in that moment, you realized how deeply entwined your senses had become with the essence of his existence. The array of colognes that enveloped him carried none of the hallmarks of the cheap fragrances that typically permeated the crowded hallways of Hawkins High. His presence, and indeed his room, was suffused with a complex aroma—slightly woody, perhaps a hint of leather, and beneath it all, a subtle undertone of sweetness that floated gently in the air. It was an olfactory melody that intrigued you, a scent that you found unexpectedly comforting.

Wrapped in your own arms, you approached him, a silent figure against the tumult of your thoughts, pressing your back to the wardrobe adjacent to his window. Without a word, he offered the cigarette to you, a gesture that halted you momentarily. As you reached out, the brief touch of his warm fingers against yours sent an inexplicable shiver down your spine, a sensation that seemed to echo on your skin long after the contact had ended. Drawing in the acrid taste of the smoke, you allowed yourself a moment to indulge in the bitterness, your eyes lifting to meet his.

There he was, a grin playing on his lips, watching you with an intensity that rendered you momentarily breathless. The world around you narrowed to the space between you two, your senses hyper-aware of his proximity. The cigarette, now a forgotten prop in your hand, no longer demanded your attention as you found yourself irresistibly drawn into the depths of his blue gaze. An unconscious bite to your lip betrayed your thoughts as your eyes darted to his lips and back again.

He closed the distance with a single, purposeful step, igniting a trail of warmth that flickered to life within you. Billy leaned in, his breath—a mix of smoke and something indefinably sweet—brushed against your cheek, sending ripples of anticipation through you. His lips curled into a knowing smirk, his voice a blend of amusement and challenge. "You gonna smoke that, Sweetheart, or are you just gonna keep staring?"

In that moment, under the weight of his gaze and the heat of his breath, you realized the cigarette was merely a bystander in a dance of tension and unspoken desires, a dance that had you captivated and wanting more. A blush crept up your neck, a vivid testimony to the turmoil within, as you extended the cigarette towards him, a silent plea for normalcy. Yet, instead of simply taking it, he lingered, his chuckle a low rumble against the shell of your ear, sending a cascade of goosebumps down your flesh. He leaned back, his movements languid yet deliberate, eyes locked on yours as he accepted the cigarette, drawing in a slow, purposeful drag. Under the weight of his gaze, your heart raced, each beat a drumroll of anticipation. His lips twitched into a smirk, and in that moment, the tether of your restraint snapped.

Driven by a surge of boldness, you seized the fabric of his shirt, pulling him into a collision of lips. The world narrowed to the point of contact, where fear and desire mingled in a single breath. But as quickly as the impulse came, it retreated, leaving you to recoil in a mix of surprise and mortification. "I'm so sor—"

But your apology was cut short, his hand finding the nape of your neck, an anchor pulling you back into the storm. His lips sealed over yours with a fervor that spoke of raw need and simmering frustration. The sensation in your stomach exploded into a wildfire, racing through your veins, igniting every fiber of your being. His hands, emboldened and roaming, traced paths filled with longing and anticipation, his grip on your hip a silent command that spurred a sharp intake of breath. Yet, as Billy drew you closer, melding your body to his with a hunger that spoke of endless waiting, the kiss deepened, transcending the confines of time and space. The world outside this embrace dissolved into insignificance, leaving nothing but the intensity of your connection, a thirst quenched in the meeting of lips, finally stilled in the embrace of shared desire. Emerging first from the embrace, you found yourself ensnared in a heady daze, breathless from a mixture of oxygen deprivation and the intoxicating effect of Billy's touch. Your hands clung to his shirt collar, a desperate bid to maintain the closeness, the electricity that buzzed between you. Yet, Billy harbored no intention of releasing you into the cold reality just yet. As your eyelids fluttered shut again, his lips embarked on a fervent exploration along the tender expanse of your neck. Each kiss was a brand, igniting fires within your veins, stirring a wild rush of blood that screamed for more.

In his ministrations, Billy was anything but tentative, his actions painting the strokes of your silent wishes with bold, assertive colors. You reveled in the sensation, a glorious chaos made of his fervent kisses and the playful nip of teeth against your skin, eliciting a hitch in your breath that morphed into a soft whine. This sound drew a triumphant grin across his lips, a silent acknowledgment of the effect he wielded over you.

The moment shifted as he gently maneuvered you backward, only to ease himself onto the edge of his bed, pulling you into his orbit with an unspoken command. You remained on your feet, a silent statue, until he chastised you with a playful tilt of his head and a tug on the waistband of the pants he had lent you. "You do always need a second invitation, huh?" he teased, his voice a blend of amusement and desire.

His hands, firm and insistent, found your thighs, drawing you irresistibly onto his lap. Positioned intimately close, your breath caught as the proximity sparked a fresh surge of desire. Your gaze flitted over his features, captivated by the intensity in his eyes before inevitably being drawn to the smug curve of his lips. In that moment, caught in the gravitational pull of his gaze and the promise of his smile, you teetered on the edge of surrender, every fiber of your being alight with anticipation.

In the charged silence of the room, your voice was a mere whisper, a soft breeze that dared not disturb the delicate sphere of intimacy that encased you both. "Is anyone else home?" The words barely left your lips, a testament to the fragile moment you were so afraid to shatter.

Billy's response was a grin, one that spoke volumes of the thoughts he'd kept at bay, now unchained in the privacy of his domain. "No," he breathed, a single syllable heavy with unspoken promises. His hands, emboldened by the assurance of solitude, resumed their exploratory journey with renewed vigor. They ascended your thighs, ventured over the curve of your behind, and continued upwards until the rough warmth of his calloused palms met the smooth expanse of your waist. "Concerned you won't be able to stay quiet, Sweetheart?" he teased, a playful challenge in his voice that sent a shiver down your spine.

You shook your head, a flush of warmth crawling up your neck, betraying your inner turmoil. "Just curious," you managed to say, your fingers finding solace in the soft strands of his blonde hair. Under your gaze, something flickered in his eyes—was it adoration?—a fleeting glimpse into the depths of Billy Hargrove that few were privy to. The realization that you were witnessing the unguarded essence of the man beneath the facade was both exhilarating and daunting, a secret you cherished deep within your heart.

In an unexpected move, he drew you against him, erasing any distance that remained. The gasp that escaped your lips mingled with the air as you became acutely aware of his desire pressing insistently against you. His lips found yours in a seal of fervent need, prompting an involuntary arch of your hips against his. A groan, laced with curses and unbridled yearning, vibrated against your mouth as Billy's restraint began to unravel. And then, with a fluidity that left you breathless, the world flipped—Billy loomed above you, a figure of strength and passionate intent, casting a shadow that promised an escape from the confines of reality. One arm kept him propped up above you, the other sliding beneath your butt, lifting you to meet his movements. A delicate moan fled your tongue, almost lost in the kiss as he sealed his lips onto yours, excitement thrumming in your core. As Billy's lips departed from yours, a reluctant retreat that sent a pang through your chest, you were left gasping beneath him, the room spinning slightly in the absence of his touch. For a brief moment, the world outside the cocoon of his room ceased to exist, leaving nothing but the sound of your mingled breaths hanging in the air. Your eyelids fluttered open only when the tender caress of his thumb traced your bottom lip, drawing your gaze upwards to meet his. In his eyes, a storm of emotions hinted at a struggle, a reluctance to break the connection that had so fiercely ignited between you.

Silently, he rolled away, the loss of his warmth immediate and stark. The soft click of the light switch plunged the room into semi-darkness, illuminated only by the moon's glow filtering through the curtains. "Night, Sweetheart," he murmured, a term of endearment that now seemed to carry a weight of unspoken words between you.

Your brow furrowed, confusion and a myriad of unanswered questions swirling in your mind. The impulse to voice your bewilderment, to ask why he had halted the crescendo of your shared passion, rose sharply within you. Yet, each time your lips parted, no words emerged, as if the gravity of the moment held your voice captive. With a heavy heart, you turned away, presenting your back to him, a silent testament to the tumult within.

As the minutes trickled by, Billy's breaths deepened into the steady rhythm of sleep, a testament to his drift into tranquility. Left alone with your thoughts, the questions continued to dance at the edges of your consciousness, unanswered, echoing in the quiet of the night. Despite the turmoil, the pull of exhaustion proved stronger, and eventually, your eyes closed, surrendering to the elusive promise of rest, even as the mystery of his actions lingered, a shadow at the back of your mind. Upon awakening, you found yourself momentarily lost in the fog of disorientation, the remnants of sleep clouding your senses. As your consciousness gradually sharpened, the events of the night prior began to piece themselves together, painting a vivid picture of unexpected solace. For the first time in what felt like eons, you had been gifted with the luxury of a deep, undisturbed sleep, free from the clutches of anxiety that so often held you captive. The sensation of safety enveloped you, a cocoon of warmth that was both foreign and immensely comforting.

As awareness seeped further into your waking mind, you became acutely conscious of the presence beside you. An arm, strong and reassuring, draped across your middle, its weight a silent promise of protection. A leg, muscular and firm, intertwined with your own, anchoring you to this moment of peace. The thought of disrupting this tranquil intimacy, of stirring him from sleep and thus dissolving the delicate bubble of comfort you found yourself in, was unbearable. So, you settled back down, surrendering to the warmth, allowing yourself a moment more of this rare contentment.

However, reality was never far behind, its relentless march signaled by the crimson digits of the alarm clock on his bedside table. A quiet groan escaped your lips as you registered the time—6:30 a.m. The demands of the day loomed large, a reminder that the sanctuary you found in Billy's arms was but a temporary reprieve. School awaited, a stark return to the routines and expectations that defined your everyday life.

The fragile silence of the morning was shattered abruptly by the growl of an engine cutting through the calm, a harbinger of the chaos to come. The sound of car doors slamming, followed by the rise and fall of angry voices, punctured the tranquility of dawn. A woman's pleading tones, desperate for discretion, clashed with the male fury, an unwelcome intrusion into the peacefulness of the early hours. Footsteps, heavy and ominous, approached the house, the finality of the front door slamming open a jarring wake-up call.

In an instant, Billy was alert, his body tensing as he sat up, the sudden movement a stark contrast to the gentle stillness that had enveloped you moments before. The reality you had momentarily escaped was crashing back down with undeniable force, the impending confrontation a stark reminder of the world waiting beyond the haven of his room. You cursed under your breath, a sharp departure from the warmth and safety that had enveloped you just moments ago. The bed suddenly felt too large and cold as you distanced yourself, your presence—a constant source of comfort—receding with each step you took. Alarmed, you propped yourself up on your elbows, watching your silhouette navigate the dimly lit room. You paused at the door, an unmistakable tension in your posture as you strained to listen to the cacophony of voices and footsteps echoing through the house. It was a dance of shadows and sounds, one you knew all too well, having played the same game of anticipation and fear in your own life.

The voices crescendoed then waned, the storm outside your sanctuary dissipating momentarily. A male voice, harsh and demanding, cut through the relative calm, summoning you with a ferocity that made the air in the room heavier. You watched as the boy before you transformed, your body stiffening, every muscle coiling in dread. It was as if you could see the gears turning in your head, a frantic search for any misstep that could have incited this wrath.

"What's wrong?" Your voice was barely a whisper, a ripple in the tense atmosphere as you moved to join him. But his arm shot out, a barrier between you, a silent plea for you to keep your distance.

The impending confrontation burst into your room with the force of a storm. Your father, a tempest of anger, filled the doorway, his eyes wild, the veins in his neck bulging with every shouted word. His rage was palpable, a living entity that sought to crush everything in its path. And then his eyes found you. In that instant, the fury that had contorted his features melted away, replaced by a facade as thin and fragile as ice over a winter lake. It was a look you recognized, one your own father adopted in the presence of outsiders, a mask that barely concealed the storm raging beneath. His gaze flicked between you and Billy, a silent accusation in the shift of his eyes.

"I thought we agreed on no more... guests?" His voice, though softer, still carried the undercurrent of a threat. You remained silent, a statue in the eye of the storm, your resignation more telling than words could ever be. Your father straightened, adopting a veneer of civility that did nothing to ease the tension clawing at your insides.

"I'm sorry, but my son isn't allowed nightly visitors. Why don't you show your lady friend the door, hm?" The words were spoken with a superficial politeness that did nothing to mask the disdain and control that simmered beneath the surface. It was a moment suspended in time, a crossroads between the sanctuary of the night past and the harsh daylight reality of your present. Billy remained motionless, his gaze fixed unflinchingly on his father. The silence between them was heavy, laden with unspoken threats and long-standing grievances. It was in this tense tableau that he uttered your name, a sound so rarely heard in such a context that it jolted you. “Why don’t you get dressed?” His voice, though soft, carried an uncharacteristic gravity.

With a nod that was more reflex than conscious agreement, you skirted past the palpable tension in the room, escaping to the sanctuary of the bathroom where your clothes awaited, still bearing the chill of being slightly damp. Once enveloped in the privacy it offered, the murmur of voices beckoned you closer, curiosity and concern pressing you to eavesdrop.

“You’re gonna say goodbye to your whore and then you and I are going to have a talk,” you heard, the venom in the elder Hargrove’s voice unmistakable.

Billy’s reply was a shadow of his usual defiance, “She isn’t—”

“What was that?” The threat in his father’s voice was sharp, a warning that brooked no argument.

Unable to bear the thought of the situation escalating in your absence, you stepped back into the fray, positioning yourself as a physical barrier between Billy and his father. The air was electric with tension, a tangible force that seemed to test the very limits of endurance. Yet, your voice, when it came, was steady. “Billy, you promised to drive me home.”

“I’m sorry, but Billy can’t right now,” his father interjected smoothly, a sneer barely concealed beneath his veneer of civility.

“But I have no other way of getting home, sir,” you countered, meeting his gaze with a defiance born of necessity.

“I’m sure it’s close enough to walk. It’s Hawkins, after all,” he dismissed, his tone laced with condescension.

“See, sir, I live just outside of Hawkins, actually.” Your reply was calm, measured, even as you laid bare the stakes of the situation.

“Is that so?” His skepticism was palpable, a challenge thrown down between you.

“Yes, and Billy assured me he would take me home, otherwise I’ll miss school, sir.” Your words, carefully chosen, were a gambit, one that played on his momentary hesitation.

The standoff that followed was a testament to the complex web of power and defiance that characterized the Hargrove household. Eventually, he took a step back, conceding ground with visible reluctance. “Now, we can’t have that, can we?” His once-over was dismissive, reducing you to nothing more than a problem to be solved, a nuisance to be dispatched.

“We will talk when you get back,” he finally said to Billy, his words heavy with unspoken threats.

“I’ll have to drive straight to school after dropping her off, otherwise I’ll miss first period.” Billy’s response was a careful negotiation, a bid for time and a brief reprieve from the confrontation that awaited him. His father’s glare could have scorched the earth, a silent vow of retribution that hung in the air long after he had left the room. Billy closed the door with a quiet click, sealing off the outside world. He leaned against it, a solitary figure momentarily bowed by the weight of his father’s expectations. The sigh that escaped him was one of relief, a brief respite in the eye of an ever-present storm.

"Are you okay?" Your voice was laced with trepidation, the words barely a whisper in the charged atmosphere of the room. A part of you feared his anger, worried that your intervention might have only served to escalate the already volatile situation. Maybe, in his eyes, you were to blame for exacerbating the tension. He turned to face you, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that halted your breath. The silence that followed was thick, a tangible entity that seemed to pulse with your racing heart. When he remained motionless, the void of his response sent a spike of panic through you. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to make things worse. I should have stayed quiet—"

But before you could further berate yourself, his lips crashed against yours, an urgent, fierce motion that swept away the remnants of the confrontation like debris in a storm. His arms encircled you, pulling you into the eye of his tempest, while your hands found the solid wall of his chest, a grounding point amid the whirlwind. Billy's grin, felt rather than seen, infused the kiss with a defiance, a silent declaration that no force, no matter how daunting, could intrude upon this moment he claimed as solely yours. His hands shamelessly groped at your hips and behind, tongue dominating yours. You pulled away in desperate need for air, panting and dazed. Billy’s lips fell to your neck, sucking and licking at the saltiness of your skin. “You have no idea how much I want to fuck you right now.” Squeezing your ass again, he let go of you and, with one last kiss, went to get dressed.

You found yourself adrift in the center of his room, each breath a testament to the whirlwind of emotions that had carried you from silence to this uncharted territory. How, you pondered, had the distance between you closed so swiftly, transforming into an intimacy that left you both breathless and bewildered?

Moments later, the bathroom door swung open, revealing Billy. His readiness was astonishing, his preparation swift beyond anticipation. With a nonchalant ease, he emerged, the very image of casual confidence. "Come on, Sweetheart, let's the hell outta here," he beckoned, his voice a mix of warmth and urgency. Grasping your hand, he guided you towards the promise of freedom beyond these walls. Yet, as fate would have it, his father's voice shattered the brief illusion of escape, calling out to him once more. Instantly, you felt the change in Billy, a tension coiling within him, visible in the rigid set of his shoulders. He closed his eyes for the briefest of moments, a silent plea for respite, an attempt to shield his spirit from the weight of reality. Casting a fleeting, half-hearted glance your way, his fingers slipped from yours, leaving a cold absence in their wake as he turned to face whatever storm awaited him.

Left in limbo near the front door, you strained your ears, hoping to catch a fragment of the exchange, but silence was your only companion. With a soft sigh of resignation, you turned your gaze outward, taking in the Hargrove residence bathed in the soft glow of morning light, nestled among the uniformity of Cherry Lane, Hawkins, Indiana.

The neighborhood was a palette of similarity, each house a variation on a theme, distinguished only by the creativity or neglect of its occupants. Some lawns bore the scars of a relentless summer, patches of grass striving towards life amidst the drought, while others lay untamed, a testament to indifference. The Hargrove's lawn, though touched by the season's harshness, was neatly trimmed, a small rebellion against the decay. The path leading to their home was worn, stones cracked and yielding to time, yet adorned with recent attempts at beauty—flowers and bushes planted with hope at their edges.

It was a scene markedly different from the chaos of the trailer park, where the dance of avoidance was a daily routine—sidestepping the debris of forgotten nights and broken dreams. Here, in the relative tranquility of Billy's world, such hazards were absent, a small mercy in the grand tapestry of his life. When Billy reappeared, his stormy demeanor spoke volumes before a word was uttered. The disheveled state of his collar hinted at a confrontation, a silent testament to his father's harsh grasp. He breezed past you, the air crackling with the tension that followed him, his gaze barely grazing yours. You trailed behind, a frown etching your features, though you kept your thoughts to yourself. Settling into the passenger seat of his Camaro, you fastened the seatbelt, a silent barrier between you and the world outside. The cozy sanctuary that had briefly cocooned you both seemed to dissolve into the ether, leaving a palpable distance. Billy had begun to wall himself off once more, retreating from the fragile bridge of intimacy that had been tentatively constructed between you. His words echoed hollowly in the cramped space of the car.

‘Searching for shit goes so much faster if you do it together.’

The Camaro's engine roared to life, its vibrancy a stark contrast to the quiet turmoil unfolding within. Your lips pressed tightly together, trying to hold back the surge of emotions that threatened to overwhelm you. The sharp pang of regret and what-ifs punctured your heart with relentless precision. Had Billy not halted his advances, you might have found solace in his arms, seduced by the illusion of safety he offered. Alone, you might have scoffed at your own gullibility, labeling it as sheer desperation or foolishness. Yet, it was Billy's words that had resonated so deeply with you, mirroring the silent pleas that had haunted your thoughts for far too long. The desire to escape the solitude that clung to you like a second skin was overpowering. You yearned for something more, something profound to anchor you to this world, beyond the fleeting dream of liberation that the future promised. You sought a connection that bore significance, a beacon to guide you through the shadowed corridors of your existence. With the final stretch of senior year unfurling before you, the promise of college lingered on the horizon, a beacon of hope that signaled a departure from the shadows of your past. It was a chance to shed the oppressive weight of your father's legacy, to carve out a space in the world where his influence couldn't reach. You clung to this future with a desperation that was silent yet palpable, the prospect of freedom a balm to the wounds of your upbringing.

Billy, however, wasn't afforded the luxury of such dreams. The grim reality of his situation was a constant companion, a reminder that not all paths led away from hardship. College, a beacon for some, remained a distant, unattainable star for him. Influenced by the harsh criticisms that had echoed from his father's lips, he had internalized a belief in his own inadequacy. Education, a potential key to unlocking doors to a brighter future, held little allure for someone who had been taught to expect nothing from life. Instead, Billy had embraced a different kind of dream—a painstaking accumulation of savings with the hope of one day returning to California, to start anew on terms of his own making.

Yet, a shadow lurked in the recesses of his mind, a specter of doubt that cast long, dark silhouettes across his aspirations. On some days, it was but a whisper, easily ignored. On others, it roared to life, a cruel reminder that perhaps his dreams were just that—figments of wishful thinking, doomed to remain unfulfilled.

The journey to your trailer park passed in silence, each lost in their own reverie. As Billy's car rolled to a halt, you murmured a terse ‘bye’ and exited, the finality of the gesture marking the end of an era. Retrieving your spare key from its hiding spot beneath an empty vase, you slipped inside, intent on changing clothes and gathering your belongings. You assumed Billy would have driven off by then, his presence a chapter closed as abruptly as it had opened.

However, upon emerging from your room, you found him rooted in place in the heart of your kitchen, his gaze transfixed by something beyond the window. The sight of him, so unexpectedly still and contemplative, caught you off guard. In that moment, the kitchen—a space so familiar and yet suddenly imbued with a new, unspoken significance—became a silent witness to the complexities of connection and the quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, some dreams refuse to be confined by the shadows that chase them. In the fading light of the afternoon, the question hung in the air, heavy and unexpected, "Doesn't that one drug dealer live around here?" It was an innocuous inquiry, perhaps, but in the context of your shared silence, it felt charged with an undercurrent of concern.

Billy's presence, both imposing and unexpectedly comforting, loomed beside you, a steadfast figure in the shifting sands of your tumultuous life. Your voice, laced with a hint of surprise at its own firmness, broke the stillness. "Why are you still here?" The question was more than just words; it was an expression of the myriad emotions swirling within you, a mix of confusion, desperation, and a fragile glimmer of hope.

He seemed taken aback, as if your tone had shattered an invisible barrier between you. The moment stretched, filled with an unspoken tension that danced in the air, palpable yet elusive. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a warmth, a promise, "I thought I had made myself clear, Sweetheart. I'm not gonna put you up to that shit alone anymore." His words, sincere and unwavering, offered a beacon of solidarity in the chaos that had become your existence.

You found yourself at a crossroads, teetering between skepticism and the yearning to believe in the possibility of an ally. It was a delicate balance, the choice to trust, to lean into the uncertainty rather than retreat into the familiar embrace of solitude. With a quiet resolve, you chose hope over despair. "Let's get out of here," you agreed, stepping into a future uncertain yet suddenly less daunting with Billy by your side.

The journey to Hawkins High was a study in contrasts, the roar of Billy's Camaro slicing through the quiet streets, a herald of change. Anxiety gnawed at you, the prospect of walking into school with Billy Hargrove by your side—a notion so fraught with implications, real and imagined. His presence was a double-edged sword, offering protection yet drawing attention, the weight of countless eyes a tangible pressure against your skin.

Yet, as you emerged from the car, Billy's protective aura enveloped you, his glares warding off the curious and the judgmental alike. He became your shield, a guardian against the world's harsh judgments, his reluctance to leave your side a testament to a burgeoning bond, forged in adversity and softened in moments of shared vulnerability.

The day passed in a blur, the rhythm of school life punctuated by Billy's steadfast companionship, a promise kept. And when the final bell rang, it was his car that awaited, Max in the backseat, a silent acknowledgment of the shifting dynamics of your intertwined lives.

The drive home was a brief interlude, a moment of calm before the next chapter. Billy's insistence on ensuring your safety, his promise to meet at the Hawkins Community Pool, was a new thread in the tapestry of your unfolding story.

…

The pool, a place of childhood traumas and lost innocence, loomed large in your memories. Yet, as you drove towards it, the realization that Billy had carved out a space for himself there, as a lifeguard, offered a glimpse into his own attempts at navigating life's turbulent waters. The parking lot was deserted, save for the familiar silhouette of Billy's Camaro. The unlocked gate stood as an invitation, a threshold to cross into a space that was both familiar and fraught with the echoes of past fears.

Yet, in this moment, it was not the specter of childhood bullies that filled your thoughts but the prospect of standing beside Billy in this quiet, abandoned sanctuary. It was an opportunity to redefine the spaces that had once defined you, to reclaim a piece of yourself in the company of someone who was, against all odds, becoming an integral part of your journey. As you navigated through the dimly lit gates, the air hung heavy with the anticipation of the evening. Your voice, laced with a mix of irritation and playful defiance, cut through the quiet, "Billy?" The words fell into the silence, unanswered, as you moved deeper into the shadowy expanse of the pool area. The setting sun cast a soft, yellowish hue over everything, the lights around the pool flickering to life in a welcoming yet eerie glow.

Again, you called out, a whisper tinged with exasperation. "Billy?" It seemed ridiculous, this cat-and-mouse game, and yet, there was a part of you that couldn't deny the thrill of the chase. Your footsteps echoed against the concrete as you approached the locker rooms, the sound a solitary reminder of your presence in the vast, empty space. With a mix of annoyance and determination, you halted, the frustration evident in your voice as you threatened the unseen presence of Billy Hargrove with playful retribution. “Billy Hargrove, you had better get your butt out here now, or imma kick it when I see it.” No sooner had the words left your lips than you found yourself abruptly pulled backward, a gasp escaping you as you collided with a solid, reassuringly warm chest.

"Damn, Sweetheart," came Billy's hushed voice, a smile evident in its timbre, sending shivers down your spine. "Didn’t know you would be so violent."

The annoyance you felt dissolved into an electrifying tension as you turned within his grasp, your gaze lifting to meet his. The grin adorning his face was infectious, his fingers gently brushing away a stray lock of hair from your forehead with an intimacy that set your heart racing. There he was, inches away, the warmth of his breath caressing your cheek in the cool air of the locker room. The proximity was intoxicating, a mere tilt of your head away from a kiss that seemed both inevitable and yet delicately suspended in the space between you.

You stood there, caught in his gaze, the world outside the locker room melting away. The anticipation was palpable, a tangible force that seemed to draw you closer without moving. It was a dance of moments and possibilities, each second stretching out as you waited for him to bridge the final distance.

In the soft, flickering light, the realization dawned on you how swiftly and completely Billy Hargrove had ensnared you, his presence alone enough to tilt your world off its axis. And there, in the silence that enveloped you both, you wondered if he too felt the gravity of this moment, this turning point that seemed poised to redefine everything. His hand, a warm presence against your skin, retreated, leaving a cool trail of longing in its wake. As he stepped back, the absence of his touch was immediate and stark, a silent protest forming in the back of your mind, yearning for the connection you were on the cusp of deepening. You watched him, a mix of emotions swirling within you. The situation had spiraled into a realm of the ridiculous—a term that barely scratched the surface of this intricate dance you both found yourselves entangled in.

"What are we doing here, Billy? It's still way too cold to go swimming." Your voice carried a hint of bewilderment, laced with a curiosity that refused to be quelled.

His response came with that signature grin, a look that promised mischief and excitement in equal measure. "Who said anything about hopping into the pool, Sweetheart?" The question hung between you, playful and inviting. As he pulled you along, a sense of adventure bubbled within you, despite the confusion that furrowed your brow.

The sauna loomed ahead, a promise of warmth and perhaps something more—an intimacy yet explored. Billy's excitement was palpable, his enthusiasm for the job and its perks infectious. "Since I'm going to be working here, I thought I'd show you what kind of privileges you could have over the summer."

"Privileges I could have?" The concept seemed foreign, amusing even. A sauna, of all things, wasn't exactly on your list of desired amenities. The skepticism must have been clear upon your face as you questioned the appeal, the idea of sweating in a small room hardly enticing.

"You'll see what I'm talking about," he assured you, his confidence unwavering.

As he opened the door to the sauna, a wave of heat greeted you, enveloping your senses in a cocoon of warmth that was surprisingly welcoming. The wood-paneled room, with its benches lining the walls and the gentle hum of heat radiating from the stones, offered a retreat from the world outside. It was a sanctuary of sorts, a place where the chaos of daily life could not penetrate.

Billy's hand found yours once again, his touch grounding as he led you inside. The door closed behind you with a soft click, sealing you both in this haven of warmth and whispered promises. As you took a seat, the heat began to work its magic, loosening muscles and easing tensions you hadn't even realized you carried.

The air, thick with warmth, seemed to draw you both closer, an unspoken invitation to explore the connection that had been building between you. Here, in the seclusion of the sauna, the rest of the world fell away, leaving only the two of you in a space where time seemed to slow, where every breath and heartbeat felt magnified.

Billy's gaze met yours, a question lingering in the depth of his eyes, a silent query if you were ready to dive into the unknown together. In that moment, the sauna became more than just a room—it became a crucible for whatever was simmering between you, a place where the heat wasn't just physical but emotional, a catalyst for desires and confessions yet unspoken.

The air vibrated with anticipation, each moment stretching, filled with the promise of revelations and a closeness that went beyond the physical. In the dim light and enveloping warmth of the sauna, you realized that this wasn't just about the privileges of summer or the novelty of a new experience. It was about discovering each other, about unraveling the layers of connection that had drawn you together.

Pent-up was merely one of many ways to describe what you were feeling, with his fingers dancing beneath your shirt and withdrawing as quickly as they had come—a teasing grin on his face, making you aware that Billy knew exactly of the effect he had on you. “You’re such an asshole, you know?” You hissed, frown deepening as he pulled his shirt over his head and put it down on the bench, using it to sit on.

He chuckled lowly, hands threading through his wild locks, tongue running over the sharp edges of his teeth. “’C’mere,” he simply stated, fingers moving in a lazy motion to accompany his words. You hesitated for a second, lips catching between your teeth as you moved forward and into his grasp. “You gotta be so hot, Sweetheart,” he started, fingers already working at removing your top. “Let’s take this off, hm?”

Words vanishing from your lips, just as quick as your common sense, you nodded, letting him pull the shirt over your head. You didn’t know where it ended up, didn’t—couldn’t—care when his hands started unbuttoning your pants with swift movements. The loose article of clothing fell from your form and Billy’s hands instantly went forward, grasping your thighs and pulling you closer. He groaned greedily, fingers digging deeper into your flesh as he nosed along your stomach and the line of your panties. There was an incessant fluttering in your stomach as his tongue slowly slid from your naval lower.

 “Billy,” you breathed, eyes fluttering shot, as his teeth pulled on the fabric of your panties, your hands falling to his broad shoulders.

“Yeah, Sweetheart?” He mused, fingers sliding to the sides of your panties, before hooking his thumbs in the cotton. Flashing a grin up to your dizzy frame, he started pulling the fabric down your legs. “S’there something you wanna ask me, baby?” You shook your head in answer, swallowing heavily as you felt the cotton drop at your feet. “Had me so hard the whole day,” he groaned, pressing a sudden kiss to your core and you went rigid in anticipation. Heat gathered low in your stomach, down to your unsatisfied center.

“Kept thinking ‘bout pulling you into the locker room and fucking you stupid.” At the moan that tumbled from your throat, a dark chuckle fell from his lips. “Yeah, you’d have liked that, Sweetheart, ain’t that right?”

You whispered again, “Billy,” you tone edged with want.

“Hm?” He hummed, raising a casual brow at you as though his fingers weren’t trailing along the seams of your core. Even if he seemed utterly unaffected by the moment, you noticed the slight shift in his hips, as he adjusted himself. You forced yourself to swallow, eyes straying to the hardening bulge in his tight jeans. So terribly affected by only the thought of him, another rush of heat slithered to the pit of your stomach and lower. “C’mere here,” Billy said again, leading you onto his thigh with a quiet wickedness that set your chest aflame. He chuckled at your hesitance as you slowly settled on his thigh, the pressure against your core immediately pulling a whimper from you. His rough hand slid back to your hips, gripping tightly as the other one found your neck and brought your lips to his.

Sweat was leisurely building at the nape of your neck, a result of not only the sauna’s heat but Billy’s unhinged action, as he started to move you on his thigh. You nestled your head into the crook of his neck with a low moan, desire overshadowing your humiliation as you started to follow the pressure of his hand. Your head was starting to float with pleasure when Billy lifted his leg a little, the rough material of his jeans hitting your small bundle of nerves. A whimper slipped from your lips and onto Billy’s glistening skin. His thigh beneath your core felt so thick and sturdy, as he was whispering words so terribly vile they shook your being. One of his palms snapped harshly against the bared skin of your ass, the slap echoing in the small confinement of the sauna.

“Look at you,” Billy cooed, moving you back on his thigh before he jerked you back forward, your chest flush again his as he held you still. “Making such a mess for me, Sweetheart.” With a particularly hard grin of your hips, you felt his bulge pressing into the side of your thigh, straining beneath the blue fabric of his jeans. You whimpered at the feeling, the graze pushing a low groan from Billy’s reddened lips. Trying to move again against his thigh, his arm gripped you closer against him, a broad grin flashing at the needy whine that came from you in response. “Tell me what you need, Sweetheart,” he hushed in such a sinister tone, the devil couldn’t have said it any sweeter.

“You,” you said with no second of hesitation. It wasn’t just an admission of the desire lingering in your core, but a promise of not wanting to fight the world alone anymore. You had done it long enough, both of you.

[happyyyandcrazyyy]

secret (sirius black x reader)

summary: (y/n) (y/l/n) has known sirius black since they were kids, being part of the sacred twenty-eight and coming from elitist pureblood families meant that they had shared uncomfortable reunions and awkward dinners for as long as they could remember. once in hogwarts, sirius makes it well known that he’s everything his parents are not and (y/n) is forced to follow into her family’s steps. they shouldn’t be friends, but they are. after all, (y/n) knows him better than he knows himself and sirius is the only one that sees through her façade of a perfect daughter. they are best friends, maybe something more, but it must remain a secret.

warnings: relationship violence (not detailed and only briefly mentioned)

a/n: this fic is my baby, i love her w all my heart.

i. prologue

(Y/N) could only remember pieces of her childhood, fragments buried deep in her mind that when she thought back upon them they brought a smile to her face. She could recall the feeling of the sun hitting her skin, making it warm to the touch. She could remember the sweat that had dripped down her face after running around for hours and how her mother had wiped it off using her pastel green handkerchief, her head shaking in disapproval. She could recall the sweet taste of lemonade that had been prepared by the Malfoy’s house-elf and the smell of blooming flowers. Oh, and how could she ever forget about the piggy tails, those damned piggy tails that had tugged at her scalp but that her mother was adamant she needed to use because they made her look like a “proper little lady”. She could remember running as she played with the other pureblood kids in the enormous backyard of the Malfoy Manor. Well, it would hardly be fair to call it a game, they more so competed with each other (which had almost always resulted in someone crying) but she could only remember the feeling of joy. It had been fun, probably the most fun she had ever been allowed to have.

Faces were mostly a blur, as they usually are when one is young. She could distinctly remember Father’s frown and the tapping of his fingers in the table whenever he was disappointed, a habit that stayed as the years went by. About Mother she could recall her perfectly manicured hands and the way they would thread through her hair at night, roughly pulling at the knots. But, above everything else, she could vividly remember Sirius Black. His grey eyes— one of his most distinctive features and the one thing that hadn’t changed as he grew older —were the one thing she remembered the most. They were strikingly beautiful, always bright with amusement and shining with mischief. Maybe that had been what had lured her in. Or, perhaps, it had something to do with the gentleness and warmth that could be found in those grey eyes, behind layers of playfulness. There was a certain fondness when those eyes looked at her, something she wasn’t accustomed to. Either way, (Y/N) (Y/L/N) found herself becoming close friends with a young Sirius Black, one that was fiercely protective and didn’t hesitate to break rules or push boundaries for her.

(It was to be expected, really. Not only did they spend a vast amount of time together, but he was unlike anything she’d ever known. She’d grown up in a household where love was scarce, surrounded by people that were too focused on obtaining power and money, blinded by their belief that blood purity made them better. Sirius was like a feeling of warmth and gentleness in a world that was frigid and vicious.)

Keep reading

[rebeatros]

actually screaming

[rebeatros]

Andrew Garfield as Tommy D. in Never Let Me Go (2010)

Such a good movie in my opinion

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Now that Andrew’s Peter is popular again, can we put some hype on Eduardo Saverin in The Social Network?

deserved so much better :’

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i have a soft spot for Tom “the stalker”, would you take a look at his hair?? he’s gorgeous

[rebeatros]

what an interesting family

[rebeatros]

of course we love andrews peter parker, but what about andrews peter parker in the suit?

sir please demolish me with that suit.

[rebeatros]

i swear they’re the same guy in different fonts