a/n: this is nothing but i’m just gonna post it rather than delete it or keep it in my drafts forever. andrew would be obsessed with how you smell send post.
“what’re you wearing?”
you pull away from the—albeit pretty stiff—hug you wrapped pope in upon arrival to glance down at yourself in confusion.
“uh, clothes?” you say like it’s obvious. it’s a pretty basic outfit, one you’re sure you’ve worn a hundred times around him.
“no, i mean,” his fingers twitch at his sides, brows slightly pinched together, “you smell different.”
“oh! it’s a new perfume i got, do you like it?”
he pulls a strange face. like he’s trying hard to think of the right thing to say, which confuses you even more.
“i like your perfume,” is all he says, a frown now clear on his face.
“i don’t know, i kinda like this one,” you say, smelling your wrist before extending your arm out for him to smell again, “it’s a little more sweet.”
he’s shaking his head, nose scrunched up, “don’t like it,” he mumbles out.
it’s your turn to frown now, shoulders deflating a little with insecurity, “oh..”
“it’s not—“ he starts gruffly, upset with himself for making you feel bad, “it smells nice, it’s just different. it’s not how you smell. i like how you smell,” he explains.
you nod, beginning to understand now. he’s used to your usual perfume, it’s what he’s grown to associate with you since you’ve worn the scent for years—probably as long a you’ve known him—and he doesn’t like the change.
you smile at him coyly, “i like how you smell too, andy.”
you savor the flush that burns up his neck and tinges his ears a delicious pink as he looks away from your knowing gaze.
summary: you finally left your house to have a girls day. shopping, food, friendship- the works. robin and nancy always had your back but eddie- he was your best friend. hes the one who knew you inside and out. but is that all you wanted him to be? maybe a fashion show will change things.
warnings/tags: best friends to lovers, shy reader, typical eddie bullshit, fluff, comfort, alternating POV, smut (oral f receiving, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, eddie trying not to nut in 30 seconds, squirting)
masterlist // join the taglist
You were three stores deep into the kind of afternoon that only happened when Robin got bored and Nancy decided retail therapy was a legitimate coping mechanism.
Your phone buzzed in the back pocket of your jeans just as Nancy was holding up a soft gray sweater against you, head tilted in that critical way of hers. It's not your style but you like to appease her.
Eddie:
bored.
come over.
i have leftover chinese and a new playlist that will either heal your soul or destroy it. your pick.
You smiled at the screen before you could stop yourself. Robin noticed immediately.
“That’s the Eddie face,” she said, already leaning in. “What’s he want?”
“He wants me to come over.”
Nancy raised an eyebrow. “And you’re going to say no because…?”
You typed back while Robin peered over your shoulder.
You:
can’t. already at the mall with robin and nancy. not being a hermit for once.
Three dots appeared almost instantly.
Eddie:
the mall.
you’re at the mall???
and no one thought to invite me?
i’m hurt. actually offended.
also tbh you’re gonna get overwhelmed and start doing that weird thing you always do
i’m coming.
You stared at the message.
You:
eddie you don’t have to come
Eddie:
already in the van.
tell robin to stop making that face. i can feel it through the phone.
Robin was, in fact, making that face.
Twenty-seven minutes later you were standing near the big fountain on the lower level, arms full of bags. You'd dragged the two of them into Hot Topic and Spencers. Nancy had somehow convinced you that you needed new jeans— so you bought some black ones. Robin had dragged you into a candle store “just to smell things.” And then, because the universe had a sense of humor, the three of you had ended up in Victoria’s Secret.
You were still a little pink about that one.
The pink-and-black bag swung from your wrist every time you shifted your grip. It felt louder than the rest of them somehow. Like it was announcing itself.
Robin was mid-rant about this hot girl who keeps coming into her job when a familiar voice cut through the mall noise.
“Well, well, well. Look at this delinquent little shopping squad.”
You turned.
Eddie Munson was walking toward you like he owned the entire second floor, black jeans with the knees blown out, a faded Dio shirt under an open sleeveless flannel, rings catching the harsh mall lights. His hair was a little messier than usual, like he’d driven with the windows down the whole way. He had that grin on—the one that said he’d already decided this was going to be fun for him and mildly embarrassing for you.
Robin lit up. “Munson! You actually showed.”
“Had to make sure no one was bullying my favorite introvert into buying things she’ll never wear.” His eyes flicked to you, soft for half a second before the performance kicked back in. “Speaking of which… Jesus Christ, look at you.”
He stopped a couple feet away, taking in the armful of bags. His gaze snagged on the Victoria’s Secret one and stayed there just long enough for heat to crawl up the back of your neck.
“Wow,” he said, voice dropping into something almost reverent. “You actually went shopping. I’m proud. Also mildly concerned.”
Nancy smirked. “She needed jeans. And then Robin got involved. And she dragged us into her own stores. And then the lingerie section happened.”
Eddie made a wounded little sound, hand over his heart. “You took her into the den of sin without me?”
You shifted the bags, trying to hide the pink one behind the others. “It’s not that dramatic.”
“It’s a little dramatic,” he said, stepping closer. Close enough that you could smell the faint mix of cigarettes and that cheap cologne he always wore even though he claimed he didn’t. “You okay? You’ve got that look.”
You opened your mouth to say you were fine.
He just raised an eyebrow.
“…I’m a little overstimulated,” you admitted, quieter.
Eddie’s whole posture softened. He reached out without asking and carefully took two of the heavier bags from your arms, including the Victoria’s Secret one. He didn’t comment on it this time. Just hooked the handles over his wrist like it was nothing.
“C’mon,” he said. “We’re doing one more lap so Nancy can finish buying a new pantsuit or whatever, then I’m extracting you. Chinese food’s getting cold and my couch misses your weight on it.”
Robin grinned. “He’s so soft for you it’s disgusting.”
Eddie didn’t deny it. He just looked at you over the top of the bags, eyes warm and knowing in that way that always made the rest of the mall feel a little farther away.
“Yeah, well,” he said, voice low enough that only you caught the full weight of it. “Somebody’s gotta make sure she doesn’t disappear into the void.”
He bumped his shoulder lightly against yours.
“Lead the way, shopping gremlin. I’m your official bag mule for the next twenty minutes. Use me wisely.”
By the time you’d made it halfway through the next stretch of stores, the worst of the overstimulation had started to loosen its grip.
It was Eddie. It was always Eddie.
He walked half a step behind you, still carrying the bulk of the bags like it was the most natural thing in the world, occasionally bumping his shoulder into yours just hard enough to make you stumble and then catch yourself with a laugh. Nancy and Robin had drifted a few feet ahead, deep in a debate about whether a particular pair of boots were too much for the upcoming summer and who wears boots in summer anyway? That left the two of you in your own little orbit, the mall noise fading into background static.
“You’re quieter when you're with them,” Eddie said, voice low enough that it stayed between you. “Not in a bad way. Just… smaller. Like you’re trying to take up less space.”
You glanced at him. “And with you I’m suddenly loud?”
“With me you’re you.” He said it simply, like it was the most obvious fact in the world. “The version that likes to talk shit and snorts when she laughs. I like that version. Miss her when she’s gone.”
You rolled your eyes, but there was no real heat in it. “You’re so dramatic.”
“I’m correct.” He shifted the bags so he could free one hand and reach over, gently tugging the sleeve of your hoodie. “Look at you. Five minutes ago you were about to jump into the void. Now you’re about to roast me. Progress.”
“I wasn’t going to roast you.”
“Liar.” His grin was slow and crooked. “You were definitely going to say something about the way I’m carrying these bags like a peasant. Go on. I can take it.”
You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling too wide. “You look like a Victorian servant who got lost on the way to a metal show.”
Eddie gasped, hand flying to his chest hard enough that the Victoria’s Secret bag swung wildly. “How dare you. I’ll have you know this is high fashion. Wore my favorite rings just for you.”
“Your rings make you look like you stuck your hand in an antique store display and just bought whatever stuck.”
“Rude.” He leaned in closer, voice dropping into that teasing register he only ever used with you. “You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re mean. Otherwise I’d leave you here with all these bags and go find people who appreciate my good looks.”
You bumped him with your hip. “You wouldn’t.”
“I might.”
“You wouldn’t.”
"Try me."
"There's some mall rats over by Hot Topic. Bet they'd love you."
Eddie looked at you for a second too long, something softer flickering behind the performance. The kind of look that made your stomach do a slow, traitorous flip. He always looked at you like that when he thought you weren’t paying attention—like he was trying to memorize the exact shape of your smile, or the way your eyes crinkled when you were actually relaxed. Like you were the only thing in the entire building worth staring at.
You felt it. You always felt it. And you looked back at him the same way, even if neither of you ever said it out loud.
Robin’s voice cut through from up ahead. “Are you two flirting or fighting? Because from back here it sounds like both and I hope she wins.”
Eddie didn’t break eye contact with you as he called back, “We’re engaged in battle, Buckley. Mind your business.”
“Sure,” Robin said, entirely unconvinced. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Munson.”
He finally looked away, but the corner of his mouth stayed curved. He shifted the bags again and, without asking, reached over to take the last one from your hand so you were completely free.
“There,” he said, quieter. “Now you can actually exist without any extra weight in your hands. You’re welcome.”
You flexed your fingers, still warm from where the plastic handles had dug in. “You’re being weirdly nice today.”
“I’m always nice to you.” He said it like a fact, not a defense. Then, softer, almost under his breath: “Especially when you look like you’re about two seconds from disappearing into your own head again.”
You didn’t answer right away. Just walked beside him, the space between your arms brushing every few steps. Nancy and Robin had stopped in front of another window display, giving the two of you another pocket of privacy.
Eddie glanced sideways at you, rings catching the light as he adjusted his grip on the bags.
“For the record,” he said, voice low and almost careful, “I like when you let yourself be loud with me. Even when you're being a butt head. Cause I know you're only like that with me. Makes me feel special."
You looked at him. Really looked.
And for a second the rest of the mall—Robin’s laughter, the distant music, the fluorescent lights—dropped away.
“Yeah,” you said, just as quiet. “I like it too.”
Eddie’s smile this time was smaller. Softer. The kind he only ever gave you when the banter peeled back and something truer sat underneath.
He didn’t say anything else.
The drive back was easy in the way things always were with him.
Eddie had the windows cracked just enough to let the warm spring air in, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift like he was half-tempted to reach over and take yours. He didn’t. He just talked the whole way—about how Robin’s taste in shoes was a crime against humanity, about how Nancy had looked at a seventy-dollar candle like she could actually afford it. You laughed more than you had all day.
His apartment was on the second floor of a tired brick building two towns over from Hawkins. The kind of place with a sticky front door and a hallway that always smelled faintly of someone else’s cooking. He’d worked doubles and sold half his vinyl collection to make the deposit after graduation. It showed in the way he talked about it sometimes—quiet pride mixed with the usual self-deprecation.
“Home sweet dump,” he announced as he kicked the door open with his boot, still carrying most of your bags. “Couch has been waiting for you milady.”
It was exactly as lived-in as always. Band posters peeling at the corners. A thrifted couch that had seen better decades. A kitchen table covered in sheet music and empty coffee mugs. The faint smell of the dragons blood incense he always used because you once said you liked it.
He dropped the bags by the couch with a dramatic groan and flopped down, immediately stretching his legs out and patting the cushion beside him.
“Sit. Argue with me. I’ve been waiting all day to be wrong about something.”
You sat. The couch dipped under your combined weight the way it always did.
It started with Iron Man versus Batman, because of course it did.
“I’m just saying,” you said, turning to face him fully, “Tony Stark would fold Bruce Wayne like a lawn chair. The man has an entire AI, flight, repulsors—”
Eddie held up a finger, rings glinting. “Batman has prep time. Prep. Time. That’s his whole thing. He would study every single one of Stark’s weaknesses, build a suit specifically designed to counter the arc reactor, and then—”
“And then Iron Man would still vaporize him from the air before Batman even finished monologuing.”
“You’re underestimating the power of pure spite and a utility belt.”
“You’re underestimating the power of literally being able to fly and shoot lasers.”
Eddie threw his head back against the couch with a wounded sound. “I can’t believe I’m friends with someone this wrong.”
You poked his knee with your socked foot. “You’re just mad because you know I’m right.”
“I’m mad because you’re smug about it.” But he was smiling, soft around the edges, the argument already losing steam in favor of watching the way your face lit up when you got competitive. He loved that version of you. The one that forgot to be quiet.
After another minute of half-hearted defense of Batman’s honor, Eddie finally held up both hands in surrender.
“Fine. Iron Man wins. Happy? You destroyed my entire worldview. I hope you’re proud.”
You grinned. “Extremely.”
He huffed a laugh, then his eyes drifted toward the pile of bags near the arm of the couch.
“Alright,” he said, voice shifting into something lighter, curious. “Show and tell. What’d you actually buy, shopping gremlin? Besides the jeans Nancy forced on you and whatever candles Robin convinced you to buy.”
You felt the heat climb up your neck almost immediately.
Eddie noticed. Of course he did. His expression gentled, the teasing dialing back just enough.
“Hey. No pressure. You don’t have to—”
“Can I…” You hesitated, fingers twisting in the hem of your hoodie. The shyness was back, but different this time. Softer. Safe, because it was him. “Can I give you a fashion show?”
Eddie went still for half a second.
Then the slowest, softest smile spread across his face. The kind that made his eyes crinkle and his voice drop into something almost reverent.
“Yeah?” he said, quiet. “You wanna model for me?”
You nodded, small.
He sat up a little straighter, like he was preparing for something important. “Hell yeah you can. Go on. I’ll be the most supportive, least judgmental audience you’ve ever had.”
He gestured toward the short hallway that led to his bedroom. “Use my room. Mirror’s clean for once. Take your time.”
You stood, gathering the bags with slightly shaky hands. Eddie watched you the whole way, that same look from the mall settled deep in his eyes—like he was trying not to hope too hard, and failing.
Just before you disappeared around the corner, he called after you, voice warm and a little rough around the edges.
“And for the record… whatever you got in that pink bag? I’m already a fan.”
You didn’t answer.
But the door to his bedroom clicked shut behind you with a soft, anticipatory sound, and he leaned back against the couch, his heart doing something stupid and hopeful in his chest while he waited.
Eddie barely had time to scrub a hand over his face and pretend he wasn’t already halfway gone before the bedroom door creaked open.
You stepped out in the black jeans first—ones that actually fit like they were made for you instead of the baggy shit you usually hid in—and a soft, flowy crop top that kept flashing a strip of skin every time you moved. You did a little half-turn, arms sort of awkwardly out like you weren’t sure what to do with them yet.
“Okay,” you said, voice still quiet. “First one. Jeans and… this. It’s kind of floaty. I don’t know.”
Eddie swallowed. His brain helpfully supplied approximately forty different compliments and zero of them felt safe enough to say out loud.
“Floaty’s good,” he managed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees so he had something to do with his hands. “Floaty’s very good. You look… hippie. Very Stevie Nicks. Ten out of ten. No notes. Except maybe do the turn again so I can fully appreciate the jeans.”
You huffed a tiny laugh and spun slower this time. The confidence was still shy around the edges, but it was there. He could see it.
God, he wanted to bottle that sound.
You disappeared again. He let his head drop back against the couch and stared at the ceiling like it might offer him strength. It did not. All it offered was a water stain shaped vaguely like a middle finger.
The door opened a second time.
Black mini skirt. Tight black velvet crop top, cut to look like a bat. The kind of top that looked like it had been designed specifically to ruin his entire life.
Eddie forgot how to breathe for a full three seconds.
“Shopping for summer, you know?” you said, a little stronger this time, doing a small sway that made the skirt flip against your thighs. “Figured I should own at least one thing that isn’t a hoodie.”
“Summer,” he repeated, voice coming out rougher than he meant it to. He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Summer. Very… seasonal. The bat is a nice touch. Extremely on-brand for hanging out with me. I’m choosing to take that as a personal compliment.”
You smiled—actually smiled—and did a full turn this time. The skirt flared just enough. The velvet caught the low light of his shitty lamp. Something in his chest went tight and warm and stupid.
Look at you. Look at you getting braver every single time you walk out here. Like you’re remembering you’re allowed to take up space. Like maybe you trust me enough to let me see it.
“You’re staring,” you said, but there was no real accusation in it. Just a little spark of something playful.
“I’m observing,” Eddie corrected immediately. “Very different. Scientific, even. For example… observation one— the skirt makes your legs look criminal. Observation two— I’m going to have dreams about that velvet bat. Observation three— you’re getting less shy about the spins and I am thriving.”
You laughed, bright and real, and the sound did something catastrophic to his heart rate.
Third time.
You kept the mini skirt. Swapped the velvet for a ridiculous shirt from Spencer’s—a bunch of dachshunds with the phrase "Everyone loves wieners" and it's so perfectly you that Eddie felt his face do that soft, helpless thing he could never quite hide around you. You struck a little pose in the doorway this time, one hand on your hip, the other up in the air like you had no idea what to do with it. You probably didn't.
“Behold,” you declared, voice full of mock grandeur. “The intellectual peak of my shopping trip.”
Eddie clapped. Actually clapped, slow and dramatic.
“Masterpiece,” he said solemnly. “I feel smarter just looking at it. The skirt and the wiener dog shirt combination is inspired. You’re a visionary. I’m obsessed. I hope you wear this exact combination to your next outing.”
You were grinning now. Fully. The shy little glances had turned into actual eye contact, like each outfit had peeled another layer of hesitation off you and left something brighter underneath. He watched it happen in real time and felt like the luckiest bastard alive for getting front-row seats.
You walked closer this time, stopping a few feet in front of the couch, doing a slow turn without him even asking. The skirt flared up, giving him the slightest glimpse of the supple curve of your ass underneath. Eddie’s hands flexed against his knees.
You’re going to kill me. You’re going to stand there getting more confident by the second and I’m going to sit here and fall harder every time you laugh at your own joke. And you’re never going to know, because I’m a coward who would rather keep you forever as my best friend than risk saying the quiet part out loud.
You stopped spinning and looked at him, cheeks a little pink but eyes bright.
“Okay,” you said, softer again, but steady. “Are you ready for the finale?”
Eddie felt his entire soul short-circuit.
He sat up straighter, tried to play it cool, failed miserably, and ended up just staring at you with his heart somewhere in the vicinity of his throat.
“Yeah,” he said, voice low and a little wrecked. “I’m ready. Show me.”
The bedroom door opened again and Eddie’s brain helpfully decided it was obsolete.
You stepped out wrapped in the fluffiest pink bathrobe he’d ever seen in his life. It looked like someone had murdered a cloud and dyed it the color of cotton candy. Your hands were buried in the pockets, shoulders a little hunched, that familiar shy tilt to your head that always made him want to gather you up and hide you from the entire world.
“Okay,” you said, voice small. “Finale. Don’t laugh.”
“I would never,” Eddie answered immediately, and he meant it. His voice came out softer than he intended. “C’mon. Show me.”
You hesitated for half a second longer, then slowly tugged the belt loose.
The robe slipped open.
Eddie’s entire nervous system short-circuited so hard he was pretty sure he blacked out for a full second.
Hot pink. Barely-there hot pink lingerie that looked like it had been designed specifically to end him. A tiny bralette that clung to the soft curve of your chest, delicate straps, and matching bottoms that sat high on your hips and left almost nothing to the imagination. The kind of set that made every inch of bare skin look deliberate. Completely fucking lethal.
You didn’t even seem to notice the way his soul left his body. You just stood there in the middle of his living room like this was normal. Like best friends did this shit all the time. Like you weren’t currently rewriting every single one of his brain cells.
Jesus Christ.
He grabbed the nearest throw pillow and shoved it into his lap so hard. His jeans were already getting tight in a way that was going to be extremely obvious if he didn’t hide it. He tried to look casual. He failed.
“Holy shit,” he managed, voice cracking just enough that he had to clear his throat. “Okay. Wow. That’s… yeah. That’s the finale alright.”
You gave a tiny, embarrassed little smile and did a slow twirl.
The bathrobe slipped further down your arms, hanging loose around your elbows like a soft pink frame. The movement made the tiny scraps of hot pink shift against your skin. And then the smell hit him—your perfume, the same floral kind you've worn since the day you met him, the one that always lingered on his hoodie for days whenever you borrowed it. It wrapped around him like a second heartbeat.
Eddie dug his fingers into the pillow hard enough that his nails pressed little crescent shapes into the fabric.
You’re actually going to kill me. You’re standing there in the middle of my shitty apartment in the tiniest fucking lingerie set I’ve ever seen and you think this is just friend stuff. You have no idea. You have no idea that I’m two seconds from dropping to my knees and begging. That I’ve wanted to put my mouth on every single inch of you for months. That the only reason I’m still sitting here like a functional human is because I refuse to ruin the best thing in my life by being a horny idiot.
You finished the turn and looked at him, cheeks pink, completely unaware that he was actively dying.
“Is it too much?” you asked, tugging self-consciously at one of the straps. “I almost didn’t get it. Robin said the color was cute though.”
Eddie let out a sound that was half laugh, half wounded animal.
“Too much?” he repeated, staring at you like you’d just asked if the sun was a little bright today. “Baby— I mean. No. It’s not too much. It’s… fuck. You look unreal. Like someone drew you. The pink is doing something illegal to my brain chemistry. I’m serious. I might need medical attention.”
You laughed, soft and shy, and the sound went straight through him.
He adjusted the pillow again, very carefully, and tried to remember how to breathe like a person who wasn’t currently imagining peeling those tiny pink scraps off you with his teeth.
“C’mere,” he said, voice lower now, rougher. He patted the cushion beside him even though he was pretty sure sitting next to you right now was going to finish him off. “Let me look at you properly. Without you doing the nervous shuffle from six feet away.”
You stepped closer.
The perfume got stronger.
Eddie was so completely, utterly fucked.
The shyness came flooding back like a switch had flipped the moment you stood in front of him.
Eddie watched it happen in real time—the way your shoulders curled inward just a little, the way your fingers twisted in the loose sleeves of the bathrobe still hanging off your arms, the way you suddenly couldn’t quite meet his eyes even though you were standing close enough that he could see each mark on your body. Close enough that the heat of your skin felt like it was already touching him.
He swallowed hard and tried to keep his voice steady.
“Hey,” he said softly, tilting his head to catch your gaze. “None of that. You’re allowed to stand here looking like every fantasy I’ve ever had and still get a little shy. I can handle both.” He let his eyes flick down for half a second before forcing them back up. “You look… soft. And dangerous. And like I should probably be on my knees right now saying thank you, but I’m trying really hard to be a gentleman instead of a complete disaster.”
You let out a tiny, nervous huff of laughter. The sound went straight to his dick.
Eddie kept talking, walking that razor-thin line between honest and too much. “The pink is killing me, by the way. Like actually ending my life. And the way it sits on you—fuck—it’s not fair. You’re standing in my living room looking like that and I’m supposed to just… what? Act normal? Impossible. You’re making it impossible.”
You shifted your weight. The movement was small.
The left strap of the bralette slipped.
It slid down the curve of your shoulder in slow motion, delicate and pink and devastating, and Eddie’s brain broke in half so hard a low, wrecked moan tore out of his throat before he could stop it.
The sound hung in the air between you.
You both froze.
Eddie’s eyes went wide. The pillow was still crushed in his lap. His pulse was hammering so loud he was pretty sure you could hear it. Heat flooded his face so fast it felt like a fever.
You stared at him, lips parted, the slipped strap still resting halfway down your arm.
“…Did you really just do that?” you asked, voice quiet and a little disbelieving. A tiny, dangerous spark of something flirty flickered underneath the shock.
Eddie let out a strangled laugh that was half embarrassment, half pure desperation. “Yeah. Yeah, I really just did that. In my defense, the strap moved and— Completely involuntary. I’m a victim here.”
Your mouth twitched. “A victim.”
“Exactly.” He gestured helplessly at the strap still hanging off your shoulder. “Look at it. It’s torturing me. It’s doing it on purpose. You’re doing it on purpose.”
“I’m not doing anything,” you said, but your voice had gone softer, warmer. You didn’t fix the strap. You just stood there looking at him like you were suddenly seeing something new.
Eddie couldn’t take it anymore.
The careful distance he’d been clinging to for years—the jokes, the looks he thought you never noticed, the way he always stopped himself right at the edge—snapped clean in half.
He surged up off the couch, pillow tumbling to the floor, and closed the space between you. One hand came up to cradle the side of your face, rings cool against your cheek, the other settling at your waist like he’d been dying to put it there for years.
“Fuck it,” he whispered, and then he kissed you.
It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t soft. It was years of wanting poured into one desperate, open-mouthed press of lips. He kissed you like he’d been starving. Like the taste of you might actually save him. His fingers slid back into your hair, tilting your head just enough to deepen it, and a low, broken sound rumbled in his chest when you made a tiny noise against his mouth.
The slipped strap was still hanging off your shoulder.
Eddie didn’t fix it.
You broke the kiss with a soft, shaky inhale, lips still brushing his as you pulled back just far enough to see his face.
Eddie’s eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, mouth kiss-bitten and a little shiny. His hand was still cradling your cheek like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go.
“How long?” you asked, voice quieter than you meant it to be. “How long have you been thinking about doing that?”
His thumb stroked once along your cheekbone. He didn’t look away.
“Don’t lie to me.”
Eddie let out a breath that was almost a laugh, low and rough. “Jesus. Okay. No lying.” He swallowed. “Months. Longer than months. Since before I even had this apartment. Since you started doing that thing where you’d steal my hoodies and really all my clothes. I’ve wanted to kiss you every single fucking time you walked into a room since the moment I met you.”
Your heart did something violent behind your ribs.
You didn’t think. You just lifted your hand and gave his chest a playful little smack, right over the faded print of his shirt.
Eddie jerked back half an inch, eyes wide with pure betrayal. “What— why? What was that for?”
“Because I’ve liked you too, you absolute idiot,” you said, the words tumbling out before you could second-guess them. Heat flooded your face but you didn’t look away. “I’ve been sitting here in this dumb pink robe thinking this was just normal best-friend fashion-show territory while you’ve been dying over there with a pillow on your lap. We’ve both been ridiculous.”
For a second Eddie just stared at you.
Then a helpless, disbelieving grin broke across his face, soft and a little wrecked.
“We’re both idiots,” he said, voice thick with something that sounded a lot like relief. “Complete, hopeless idiots.”
And then he was kissing you again.
This time there was no hesitation. One of his hands slid down to your waist, the other still tangled in your hair, and he pulled you with him as he dropped back onto the couch. You went willingly, knees bracketing his hips, the fluffy robe slipping further down your arms as he settled you fully into his lap. The tiny scraps of hot pink lace were the only things between you now, and Eddie made a low, punched-out sound against your mouth the second your weight settled over him.
His hands found your bare thighs, rings cool against overheated skin, and he kissed you like he’d never get the chance again—deep and open and a little desperate, like he still couldn’t quite believe you were real and in his lap and kissing him back just as hard.
You sank down harder into his lap and the kiss turned messy, open, wet. Eddie’s hands slid higher up your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft skin just beneath the edge of the hot-pink lace. Every time you shifted, the thin material of the bottoms dragged against him, and the second it slipped to the side you both felt it—heat against denim, almost nothing left between you.
Eddie broke the kiss with a ragged sound, forehead dropping against yours.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “Look at you. So pretty. Always so god damn pretty.” His voice was low, reverent, already half-ruined. “I’ve wanted to worship you for so long it makes me feel stupid. Wanted to get my mouth on every soft inch of you and take my time. Make you feel how gone I am. Hope you're okay with that or I'm about to look like the biggest jackass in the world.”
You rolled your hips once, slow, and watched his eyes flutter.
The unspoken rule sat between you both like a ghost. You never talked about anyone else. Neither did he. No stories, no casual mentions, nothing. You’d always told yourself it was just boundaries. Now, with his hands gripping your waist like he was afraid you’d disappear, you understood. It had never been about boundaries. It had been about not having to picture each other with anyone else. About protecting something neither of you had been brave enough to name.
Eddie seemed to realize it at the same time. His expression went soft and a little pained.
“We never talked about it,” he murmured, thumb stroking along the waistband of the lace. “Not once. I used to think it was because you didn’t… you know. Because you never brought it up. I thought maybe you hadn’t… done much. And I didn’t want to push.” His laugh was quiet, self-deprecating. “Turns out we were both just trying not to break our own hearts.”
"Think you're right about that."
"I'm always right sweetheart."
You ground down again, deliberately this time— partially to shut him up and also because it felt so damn good. The lace shifted fully out of the way. The friction dragged a broken noise out of both of you. Eddie’s head tipped back against the couch, throat working.
“Jesus Christ—”
His hands slid up your back, fingers finding the clasp of the bralette with surprising care. He unhooked it slowly, like he was unwrapping something sacred, and the hot-pink scrap loosened. You shrugged it off the rest of the way. The second it hit the floor Eddie went completely still.
He stared.
No jokes. No dramatic commentary. Just pure, speechless hunger as his eyes dragged over you—bare chest, flushed skin, the way the remaining lace sat low on your hips and did nothing to hide how wet you already were.
“Holy shit,” he finally whispered, voice cracking. “You’re… fuck. You’re perfect. Look at these.” One hand came up to cup the soft weight of your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple like he was testing whether you were real. “Soft and pretty and already so fucking responsive for me. I’ve been dying to see you like this. Dying to get my hands and mouth all over you and make you fall apart.”
He leaned in and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the center of your chest, then lower, dragging his lips over the curve of one breast while his other hand squeezed gently at your hip, encouraging you to keep moving against him.
“Keep grinding on me like that,” he murmured against your skin, filthy and soft at the same time. “Use me. Wanna feel how wet you are through these tiny little things. Wanna make a mess of both of us before I even get my mouth between your legs.”
"What if I want you now Munson? What then?"
Your voice was wrecked. And the way he looked up at you—like you were something holy and filthy all at once—made it very clear that Eddie Munson planned to take his time worshipping every single inch of you.
Eddie moved like a man possessed.
He broke away from your chest just long enough to yank his shirt over his head and throw it somewhere behind the couch. His jeans were next—belt undone with clumsy, impatient fingers, zipper dragged down, fabric shoved past his hips until he could kick them off. He left the black boxers on— the hard line of his cock already tenting the front obscenely.
You reached between you without thinking, palm sliding down the plane of his stomach until your fingers wrapped around him. The second you pulled him free of the last bit of fabric, your breath caught.
He was thick. Heavy in your hand. Bigger than you’d let yourself imagine in all those late-night thoughts you never admitted to.
Eddie watched your face and let out a low, breathless laugh that was pure nerves and ego all at once.
“Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “I get that look a lot. Don’t worry, sweetheart—I’ll go slow. I’m not trying to ruin my favorite person on the first night I finally get to touch her.”
You stroked him once, just to feel the weight of him, and his hips jerked up into your fist with a punched-out little sound.
But he didn’t let you keep control for long.
Eddie gently caught your wrist and guided your hand away, eyes dark and focused. “My turn first. Been dying to get my mouth on you. Need to get you nice and open for me before I even think about putting that in you.”
He moved with surprising care for how wrecked he looked—hands on your waist, guiding you down until your back hit the couch cushions. One of your legs was carefully lifted and draped over the back of the couch; the other he guided down so your foot rested on the floor. The position left you completely spread for him, the tiny scrap of hot-pink lace still clinging to the side of your cunt.
Eddie knelt between your thighs on the floor and just stared for a long second, hands resting on the insides of your knees like he needed the anchor.
“Holy fuck,” he whispered, almost to himself. “You’re really here. In my apartment. In that tiny pink shit. Legs open for me like this. I can’t— Jesus Christ, I can’t believe this is happening.”
Then he leaned in.
The first drag of his tongue over your clit was slow and filthy, broad and wet. He moaned against you like the taste alone was enough to ruin him. One hand stayed splayed on your lower stomach to keep you still while the other stroked up the inside of your thigh, fingers teasing along the soaked edge of the lace.
“So wet already,” he murmured against your skin, voice thick. “All for me. Gonna take my time opening you up, okay? Want you dripping before I even try to fit.”
He licked another slow stripe through your folds, then sealed his mouth over your clit and sucked gently while one long finger pressed inside. The stretch was easy—you were already so ready—but he still worked it carefully, curling and stroking until your hips twitched. A second finger joined the first sooner than you expected, scissoring gently, stretching you while his tongue kept up that steady, filthy rhythm on your clit.
“That’s it,” he breathed, glancing up the length of your body. “Look at you taking two already. So fucking pretty like this. Can you give me one more? Want you nice and ready for me.”
The third finger pressed in slow, the burn sweet and deep. Eddie groaned like he was the one being stretched, forehead dropping against your hip for a second as he felt you clench around him.
“Fuck— there you go. Three. God, you’re perfect. So tight and hot around my fingers. Keep breathing for me, baby. Gonna keep working you open just like this 'til you’re shaking.”
He curled all three fingers and rubbed firmly against that spot inside you while his tongue flicked faster over your clit, wet sounds filling the quiet apartment. His free hand gripped your thigh hard enough to bruise, holding you spread wide open while he worshipped you with his mouth and hand like he’d been starving for it.
You were already shaking, thighs trembling on either side of his head, when the need finally spilled out of you in broken little pieces.
“Eddie— please— I need— fuck, I need you, I can’t— please just—”
He lifted his head immediately, mouth shiny, three fingers still buried deep inside you. His eyes were almost black.
“Yeah?” His voice was wrecked. “You need me right now, baby? Need my cock instead of my fingers?”
You nodded frantically, hips twitching down against his hand. “Please. Now. I need you inside me—”
Eddie didn’t need to be told twice.
He pulled his fingers free with a wet sound that made both of you groan, then surged up over you. One hand shoved his boxers the rest of the way down while the other stayed braced on the inside of your thigh, keeping you spread exactly the way he wanted.
He knew you had an IUD—he’d driven you to the appointment months ago, sat in the waiting room with his knee bouncing, bought you a milkshake afterward like it was the most normal thing in the world. So no condom. Nothing between you.
He wrapped a hand around himself and dragged the thick head of his cock through your soaked folds once, twice, coating himself in how wet you’d gotten for him. Then he lined up, the blunt pressure of him settling right against your entrance while your legs stayed open—one hooked over the back of the couch, the other dangling toward the floor.
“Breathe for me,” he whispered, voice low and shaking with restraint. “Gonna go slow. You’re so fucking tight and I’m not exactly small. Tell me if it’s too much.”
He pushed in.
The stretch was immediate, deep, almost overwhelming. Eddie’s mouth fell open on a broken sound as the head of him sank inside you, and he kept going—inch by thick inch—while a steady stream of praise spilled out of him like he couldn’t stop it.
“Holy shit— look at that. Look at you taking me. So fucking pretty stretched around my cock already. That’s it, baby, just like that. You’re doing so good. S' good for me.”
His hands gripped your thighs harder, rings pressing into soft skin as he sank deeper. Another inch. Another. His stomach was trembling with the effort of holding back.
“Fuck, you’re s' warm inside. Sucking me in so perfect. Knew you’d feel like this. Dreamed about it. God, you’re taking every inch like you were made for me— almost there, almost— there. That’s all of me. Feel that? Feel how deep I am?”
He bottomed out with a punched-out groan, hips flush against yours, and stayed completely still so you could adjust. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, breath hot and ragged against your neck.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, voice cracking with pure awe. “You’re perfect. So tight and wet and mine. Just stay right here and let me feel you for a second. Let me feel how you grip me when you’re full.”
He kissed the side of your throat, soft and reverent even while his cock throbbed deep inside you, and kept murmuring filthy, worshipful praise against your skin like he never planned to stop.
Your cunt clenched around him—tight, wet, perfect—and Eddie’s brain short-circuited all over again.
“Move,” you whispered, voice wrecked and needy. “Please, Eddie, move.”
He lifted his head, eyes searching your face even as his hips twitched with the desperate urge to thrust. “How do you want it?” he asked, voice low and rough. One hand stroked up your side, grounding both of you. “Tell me. I’ll give you whatever you need.”
“Soft,” you breathed. “Start soft. Then… rough when I’m close. When I’m about to come.”
Eddie nodded like you’d just handed him sacred instructions.
“Soft first. Got it. I can do soft.”
He pulled out slow—dragged every thick inch of himself almost all the way free until just the head stayed tucked inside you—then pushed back in just as carefully. The wet heat of you swallowed him again and a broken sound punched out of his chest. He did it again. And again. Deep, rolling strokes that kept him buried to the hilt for a long second each time, letting you feel every ridge and pulse of him.
“That’s it,” he murmured against your mouth, kissing you between words. “I could die happy here. So fucking soft and warm inside. Look at you. Perfect. You’re fuckin' perfect.”
He kissed you deeper, tongue sliding against yours in the same lazy rhythm as his hips. One hand stayed braced on the back of the couch near your knee, keeping that leg hooked high; the other cupped your breast, thumb stroking over your nipple in time with every slow thrust.
Internally, Eddie was losing his entire mind.
Holy shit. Holy shit, this is real. You’re under me on my shitty couch in that tiny pink lingerie, stretched around my cock, telling me exactly how you want it. I’ve jerked off to this exact fantasy so many times it’s embarrassing and now you’re actually here, actually clenching around me, actually letting me have this. Don’t you dare fuck this up, Munson. Go slow. Make it good. Make it so good she never wants anyone else. God, the way she feels— dripping down my balls already. I’m not gonna survive this. I’m going to come embarrassingly fast if I keep thinking about how long I’ve wanted to be right here.
He kept the pace steady and deep, every thrust deliberate, every kiss lingering.
“You feel unreal,” he whispered against your lips, voice shaking with restraint. “So tight every time I push back in. Think your body’s trying to keep me. Fuck— I love that. Love how wet you are for me. I'll give you anything you ever need baby.”
He rolled his hips again, grinding against you at the end of the stroke so the base of his cock rubbed your clit, and another filthy, worshipful groan spilled out of him.
Don’t rush. Don’t you dare rush. She’s trusting you. She’s asking for soft first. Give it to her. Worship her. Make her come so hard she forgets anyone else ever touched her. God, I still can’t believe she’s mine right now. Even if it’s just for tonight. Even if—
He kissed you harder to shut his own spiraling thoughts up, and kept moving—slow, deep, devoted—exactly the way you’d asked.
Eddie's hand under the thigh that was still draped over the back of the couch lifted you up and pushed it higher, folding you open even more. The new angle let him sink impossibly deeper on the next slow thrust, and he groaned into the side of your neck.
He leaned in fully, chest pressed to yours, and put his mouth on your throat.
Soft kisses first—open and wet along the column of your neck—then the careful scrape of teeth. He found a spot just under your jaw and sucked hard enough to leave a mark, then another lower, closer to your pulse, worrying the skin between his lips until he knew it would bloom purple later. Every time he bottomed out he did it again, marking you like he needed proof this was real.
“Fuck, you taste good,” he murmured against your skin, voice rough. “Gonna leave these all over you. Want everyone to know I had you like this. Want you to look in the mirror tomorrow and remember how deep I was.”
Your hand slipped between your bodies.
Eddie felt the moment your fingers found your clit—felt the way your cunt fluttered hard around him in response—and his hips stuttered.
“That’s it,” he breathed, lifting his head just enough to watch. “Take what you need angel. Let me feel it. Wanna feel every bit of you.”
She’s getting close. Fuck, she’s getting close and I’m still inside her and she’s touching herself and I can feel every single clench. Don’t come. Do not come yet, you absolute fucking idiot. She asked for soft until she’s about to finish. Give her that. Hold it together. Think about literally anything else— guitar tabs, the broken latch on the van, the way Robin would mock you forever if you finished in thirty seconds flat— anything except how perfect and hot and wet she is around you.
Eddie pressed his forehead to yours, breathing hard, still rocking into you in those same controlled, deep thrusts even as his thighs started to shake.
“You’re tightening up on me,” he whispered, almost in awe. “I can feel it. You’re getting close, aren’t you? Keep rubbing that pretty clit. Wanna feel you come on my cock. I’ve got you. I’ve got you, baby. Just let it build.”
He kissed you again, messy and open, and kept moving exactly the way you’d asked—holding that leg high, marking your neck, fighting every instinct that screamed at him to snap his hips and chase his own release—while your cunt kept clenching tighter and tighter around him.
“Harder,” you breathed against his mouth, fingers still working between your bodies. “Eddie— harder, please—”
The magic words.
Eddie pulled almost all the way out and then snapped his hips forward, the slow, worshipful pace shattering as he gave you exactly what you wanted. He kept the build gradual at first—each thrust a little faster, a little deeper—until he was driving into you with real force, the hard wet slap of skin on skin filling the apartment. The new rhythm forced him against your cervix on every stroke; he felt the firm resistance and the faint, unmistakable nudge of your IUD against the head of his cock and he did not give a single shit.
Not when you were taking him like this.
“Fuck— there it is,” he groaned, voice wrecked as he held your leg higher and leaned into every thrust. “Feel that? That’s as deep as I can get. Taking every fucking inch like you were built for it. God, you’re perfect— so perfect—”
Your cunt clenched down around him so hard it punched the air from his lungs.
Then you gushed.
Hot, sudden wetness flooded around his cock, squirting in pulsing waves that soaked his stomach, his thighs, the couch cushion beneath you. The sound was filthy and unmistakable. Eddie’s eyes went wide, a broken, awed noise tearing out of his throat as he watched and felt you come apart under him.
“Oh my god— you’re— fuck, you’re squirting on me—”
That was all it took.
The tight, rhythmic pulse of your cunt milking him while you kept spurting around his cock ripped his orgasm out of him with zero warning. Eddie buried himself to the hilt and came hard, hips stuttering as he spilled deep inside you in thick, pulsing waves. He kept thrusting through it—short, messy strokes that forced his cum deeper while you were still gushing around him—mouth open against your neck, one hand locked under your thigh, the other braced on the couch like it was the only thing keeping him from collapsing.
“Shit— shit, baby, I- fuck— feel that? Feel me filling you up while you’re still making a mess of me? Fuck, you’re incredible— so wet and tight and perfect—”
He stayed inside you through the aftershocks, cock twitching as the last of your squirting eased into trembling little pulses. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, breath coming in ragged, disbelieving gasps, every muscle in his body still shaking from how hard he’d finished.
The couch was ruined.
He couldn’t bring himself to care.
Eddie stayed exactly where he was—chest to chest, cock softening in the wet heat he’d just filled. His breath was still coming a little uneven against the side of your neck. One hand stayed hooked under your thigh like he wasn’t ready to let you close your legs yet.
He lifted his head after a long moment, eyes dark and a little dazed, and looked down at you.
“…Did you know you could do that?”
His voice was rough, still wrecked around the edges, but there was pure curiosity underneath it. And a little bit of awe he wasn’t even trying to hide.
You blinked up at him, cheeks flushed, and gave a small nod. “Yeah.”
Eddie stared.
“Yeah?” He let out a short, disbelieving laugh that made his softening cock twitch inside you. “You’ve been walking around knowing you can do that and you just… never mentioned it? Not once? We’ve talked about every stupid thing under the sun and you never thought to bring up the fact that you can soak a couch?”
You shrugged as much as you could with him still on top of you. “I didn’t know it was gonna happen with you.”
Eddie opened his mouth. Closed it. Then dropped his forehead back to your shoulder with a dramatic groan.
“Oh my god. You’re serious. You actually didn’t know.” He sounded personally offended and deeply smug at the same time. “So what you’re telling me is that I did that. Me. Eddie Munson. Made you squirt. On my couch. And how often does that happen?”
"By myself? A lot. With other people? Not as much."
"So you're saying I'm a sex god?"
"I'm not not saying that."
He lifted his head again, grinning now—soft and a little filthy, hair a mess, lips still kiss-bitten.
“I’m never recovering from this. You’re never living this down. I’m going to be so insufferable about it. Just warning you now.”
He shifted his hips the tiniest bit, still half-hard and sliding through the mess of both of you, and made a low, content sound at the feeling.
“Also,” he added, voice dropping into something warmer, “for the record? That was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen in my life. You just— just… gushing all over me while I was coming? Jesus Christ. I thought I was going to black out. You ruined me. Completely.”
He kissed the corner of your mouth, lazy and fond, and didn’t pull out.
“We’re gonna need to burn this cushion,” he murmured against your lips, clearly not sorry at all. “And probably the whole couch. Worth it. So fucking worth it.”
Eddie cleaned you up with a care that made your chest ache.
He disappeared into the bathroom for a minute and came back with a warm washcloth, still bare and soft-eyed, and wiped between your legs with slow, gentle strokes like you were something precious. He pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee when he was done, then another to your hip, and helped you stand on slightly unsteady legs.
“C’mon,” he murmured, voice still rough. “Bed. Couch is a crime scene and I’m not making you sit in it.”
His bedroom was dim and lived-in—unmade sheets, a pile of band tees on the chair, the faint smell of his cologne and laundry detergent. He dug through a drawer and tossed you a soft black shirt that was definitely his and a pair of boxers that hung low on your hips. You pulled both on while he watched, something warm and possessive flickering across his face when the shirt settled over you and the boxers disappeared under the hem.
Then he tugged you down into the bed with him.
You ended up half on top of him, head on his chest, one of his arms wrapped solidly around your back while the other worked the remote. Some random late-night show played at low volume, the light from the screen flickering across the ceiling. His fingers traced idle patterns along your spine under the shirt. Every so often he pressed a lazy kiss to the top of your head like he couldn’t help it.
The quiet stretched long enough to feel safe.
You traced a fingertip over one of the tattoos on his chest and finally asked, voice soft, “What are we now?”
Eddie let out a short, incredulous laugh that rumbled under your ear.
“Are you serious?” He shifted just enough to look down at you, dark eyes soft and completely certain. “You’re asking me that while you’re in my clothes, in my bed, still smelling like me and sex? Baby. I’m not letting go of you now. Not after that. Not after years of wanting you and finally getting to have you.” His hand slid up to cup the back of your neck, thumb stroking behind your ear. “You’re my girl. That’s what we are. Official. Permanent. Whatever word makes it sink in. You’re mine.”
He kissed your forehead, then the tip of your nose, then your mouth—slow and sweet.
When he pulled back there was a familiar crooked grin tugging at his lips.
“Also,” he added, “I’m keeping those ruined little pink panties. They’re mine now. Evidence. Trophy. Whatever. I’ll buy you a new set. Hell, I’ll buy you ten new sets if it means I get to ruin them the same way. Fair trade.”
He settled back against the pillows, tugging you more firmly against his chest, and turned the volume on the TV up just a little.
“Now quit overthinking and watch the show with me,” he murmured into your hair, already sounding half-asleep and completely content. “My girl needs rest. I’ve got you.”
Summary: you invite Andrew over to your apartment for the first time and he becomes obsessed with cleaning for you.
warnings: fluff!! kissing, groping (of the breasts)
author note: alright guys I just wanted to write this idea I had about Andy cleaning your apartment and that's his way of saying he likes you
wc: ~1.6k
“You can just leave your shoes there.”
Andrew walked through your apartment door, already scanning the place like he always does when he’s in an unfamiliar environment.
It was the first time he’d been over your apartment. You were nervous. The past month or so you’d only interacted with him at Smurf’s place when Deran invited you over. He’d always told you about his brothers, but it was different to put faces to a name. You two knew each other from surfing, actually becoming really good friends. The night he invited you over for family dinner, you had no idea his older brother they called Pope would be so breathtaking.
His brown curls, the way he glared at you from down the hallway, the way he mechanically passed you a plate, avoiding brushing on your fingertips to not scare you. He wasn’t the mean older brother Deran painted out to be. He was careful, difficult to trust, but you know there was something kind about him.
After that you were always welcomed to come by for a swim. You and Deran would lay outside on the lawn chairs, soaking up the sun. Pope would be outside doing yard work. He couldn’t help but stare. You looked great in the tiny bikinis you wore. He could see the tan lines on your shoulders, the way your breasts pushed together and glistened from all the sunscreen. How high up the ties to your bikini really went, how smooth the skin on your ass looked, how smooth your pussy looked when he caught glimpses of your thighs spreading apart. You knew of course that he was always looking. It made you blush. It made you keep coming around, made you curious about him. He wasn’t bad to look at either. He’d take his shirt off after a while, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. His freckled arms so toned, his abs wet from sweat creating droplets on his skin.
Then you two began to speak to each other. On a random day you were in the kitchen and he happened to come in. You poured him a glass of water.
“You look nice today Andrew.” you said shyly.
It stopped him in his tracks. He turned to you, trying so hard to keep a composed face. “Thank you.” From that moment, he was yours. Though he still, up to this point, hadn’t confessed it. He started talking to you any chance he could get. Taking breaks from his lawn work to come over and block out the sun from your face to say something. Sitting next to you at family dinner and always serving you food. You didn’t know what this was, but it was nice. So you mustered up the courage to invite him to your apartment. No more just hanging out at Smurfs. You proposed a movie and maybe ordering takeout.
So there he was slowly taking off his shoes, neatly placing them by the door, and walking into your living room.
“This is it! It’s no house of course but—”
“Yeah. It’s nice.” He said stepping in further. He walked into the kitchen. He noticed right away the dishes in your sink, and the dishes still on the dish rack. Oh my god why is this all still there? He thought to himself. His eyes fixated on the dried food crusted onto plates, cups sugared with residue of soda. He felt himself getting worked up, knuckles tightening until they turned white.
“Andrew?”
“You shouldn’t leave your dishes in the sink like that.” He said moving towards the sink. “You’ll attract pests.”
“I had planned on doing them later?” You watched as he grabbed your cleaning gloves and turned on the faucet.
“And put away your dishes that are already dried so you have more space for them.” He covered your sponge in soap and began scrubbing. You stood there completely confused. He’s actually washing my fucking plates?
“Andrew, you really don’t have to do that.”
“No, I do.”
You knew better to protest. So you sat at your breakfast nook and watched Andrew Cody be domestic and wash your dishes. He was precise, checking each plate front to back to see if he missed a spot. He grabbed a dish rag and meticulously wiped off water before lining them up on your dish rack in an militarized fashion. This is weirdly hot you thought biting your lip. He looked so good focused on something.
The rest of the night you guys were able to watch the movie, eat, and actually sit very close to each other. You hated how slow this was going, but you loved spending time with him. It became a regular thing for him to come over, and get to cleaning. It was like he had x-ray vision on something else needed to get to.
“You have to dust every week,” he said, dragging his index finger on your TV console.
“I do!”
“No you don’t.”
Dusting, sweeping, mopping, changing lightbulbs, hell even fixing your garbage disposal he was doing it all. And you started to like it. Purposefully leaving something out of place, forgetting to do the dishes, leaving a mess for him to clean up. It was so sexy how he got to work, scrubbing, the shape of his shoulder peeking out from his shirt. He looked so sexy down on two knees on the ground, you began daydreaming about him on his knees begging for you. Or you on your knees begging for him.
And he loved it. Every time you invited him over, he thought of another thing to do to impress you. Show you he can take care of you. Show you just how much he cares about you. A man of few words, but a lifetime of actions he was willing to do.
After a couple of weeks you did start to feel guilty. But you also started to wonder where this was going. A friendship? More than that? You two exchanged glances all the time. Sat closer and closer to each other. He would brush his fingertips with yours while reaching for something. There had to be more to this than just Andrew coming over to clean your apartment and then watch a movie.
One night while he washed your dishes you finally mustered up the courage to make a move. You walked over, leaning against the kitchen counter watching him. His face a little scrunched, his big brown eyes scanning a plate, his freckles lightly scattered all over. He was gorgeous.
“Andrew?”
“Hm?”
“Maybe you stop doing the dishes?”
“Almost done.”
“Just finish them later?”
“No, because then I’m gonna mop the bathroom.”
“But you already did that last week.”
“Yeah and do you know how many germs live on the bathroom floor?”
You took a deep breath and grabbed his wrists. It was the first time you ever touched him. He looked up into your eyes, frantic, confused, unsure what was going on.
“Andrew,” you whispered. “Stop doing the dishes.”
“Why?” he whispered back.
You couldn’t help but smile. Your hands moved from his wrist to slowly dragging up his arms and around his neck. “Because I don’t invite you to come over to clean my apartment. I invite you over because…I like you.”
Andrew was terrified. He never expected to hear those sweet words from you. He hoped, but never thought it would be real. His feelings for you had developed so much he wasn’t ready to even begin to make a move. He’d rather live in the fantasies that kept him up at night, than ever telling you. But here you were. The gorgeous woman he’d think of all the time. The woman that always smiled when he walked into a room. The woman that always asked for him when he wasn’t around. The woman that never called him Pope. He took a deep breath, his signature glare melting away from his face.
He slowly placed the dish back into the sink. Taking off the gloves, gently placing them over the sink head to dry. You watched his face, still smiling, because you knew he was trying so hard not to blush. When his eyes finally met back with yours, he couldn’t help but smile.
“You like me?”
“Yes you idiot. Why else have I been inviting you over?” You laughed, pulling him a little closer. “I don’t invite you over to come clean, although I have to admit it’s pretty sexy to watch you.”
“Yeah?” He bit his lip, trying to hide a smile. His hands were still at his sides, so scared to touch you. To hurt you. To damage this perfect woman he’s been wanting the minute she walked through the front door. In that moment without thinking, you leaned forward to kiss him. It was quick. You pulled away to see his face. His cheeks with flushed wink pink and red, his smile growing bigger until he leaned forward and kissed you. This time it was sweet, tender, and long. Your fingers ran through his hair, and you slowly grabbed his hand and placed it on your waist.
With this permission he gripped onto your waist, making you moan slightly. Both of his hands grabbed your ass, causing you to wrap your legs around him as he lifted you onto the kitchen counter. Kissing, sliding his tongue around your mouth, nipping your bottom lip with a neediness you never knew he had. He’d been waiting so long to touch you, and now he didn’t even know what to do. His hands traveled around your body. Caressing your thighs, squeezing and digging his fingers into them leaving a mark. Feeling your arms, grazing over your breasts until he found your nipple and began to pinch. You let him. You let his hands explore everywhere as the kiss got more and more hungry.
When you both finally pulled away, you both were out of breath.
“Does that mean you like me back?” you teased.
He rolled his eyes, and began kissing you again.
☆ Summary: Levi Ackerman has never been good at flirting, which is unfortunate, because insulting you is no longer enough to hide the fact that he’s hopelessly, embarrassingly in love with you.
☆ Pairing: Levi Ackerman x Female Reader
☆ Genre/Tags: Canon Compliant, Mutual Pining, Levi Ackerman is Bad At Feelings, Soft Levi Ackerman, Flirting, First Kiss, Love Confession, Humor, Fluff, Smut
☆ Content Warnings: Explicit sexual content, oral sex (f. receiving), unprotected piv, creampie
☆ Word Count: 9.0k
☆ AO3 Link
☆ Check out the other fics in this collection!
☆ a/n: this is day 2 out of 7 for my birthday week celebration! thank you to my beta reader @slaytherinthoughts <3 also please don't ask for a part two i will take a sledgehammer to my laptop if you ask for a part two
Levi first sees you in the morning in the hallway outside of Erwin’s office. You’re holding a stack of reports tucked under one arm, your cloak clasped crookedly, and a half-finished piece of bread pinched between your teeth because you realized eating breakfast and walking to your briefing is an efficient way to multitask.
Levi sees you from the end of the hall and stops walking. His entire body locks up for the stupidest reason—because it’s you. He immediately thinks There she is. Then, because his mind is determined to ruin him, it adds, Her hair looks nice. He almost turns around and walks directly back to his office just to avoid facing you, but because he’s Captain Levi Ackerman, a man who has faced Titans without blinking and therefore shouldn’t be taken down by a woman holding paperwork and chewing bread, he keeps walking forward.
“You look like hell,” he says as soon as he’s close enough.
You stop and look at him, taking the bread out of your mouth as you lift your brows. “Good morning to you too, Captain.”
Levi stares at the bread, then your mouth. He tries to find something else to focus on. Maybe he can tell you your cloak clasp is twisted and Erwin will absolutely notice. Maybe he could ask whether you slept, because the shadows beneath your eyes look darker than yesterday, and yesterday they had already irritated him enough that he left a cup of tea outside your office and convinced himself he only did it because your exhausted handwriting was difficult to read.
“You look better than yesterday, though,” he adds, because he doesn’t know how to shut up around you.
You half-smile. “That might be the closest you’ve ever come to saying something nice to me.”
He feels his stomach drop. Was it? Was that nice? Had he been too obvious? No. No, that’s impossible. No one could hear “you look like hell” and think it was sweet unless they were deranged. But you’re not deranged. In fact, you’re too competent and too observant for his peace of mind.
“You’re insane,” he says, reaching forward before he can stop himself to fix your cloak clasp. The moment he brushes his fingers against your throat, he wishes the floor would swallow him whole.
You freeze out of surprise, then lift your chin slightly as his knuckles graze the skin beneath your jaw. Levi’s mind goes blank in the most humiliating way possible. He hears the scratch of your breath, feels your pulse at your neck, smells the soap you use—because of course you would be the only other person with proper hygiene standards—and everything he’s learned in life to survive abandons him. He steps back as if you’d burned him.
“There,” he says, voice flat. “Try dressing yourself like an officer next time.”
You glance down at the straightened clasp, then back at him, amusement tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Are you always this charming before breakfast?”
“No.”
“Only with me, then?”
He turns and walks away. Behind him, you laugh, and Levi immediately knows by the burning of his cheeks and the repeating Stupid, stupid, stupid in his mind that this is going to be a very long day.
He insults you again five minutes later inside Erwin’s office, where Erwin stands at the head of the table. Hange lounges over a chair, looking as if they’ve only slept for either four hours or not at all. Miche stands near the window quietly, as always. You take the seat across from Levi, who keeps his eyes on the meeting notes. He refuses to look at you. If he does, he won’t be able to stay composed.
“You’re quiet,” Hange says to him after Erwin begins explaining the revised training schedule for the week. “You’re either listening or plotting something.”
“Unlike you, I can do both quietly,” Levi says.
Hange grins. “That’s what I admire about you, shorty!”
You snort under your breath. Levi looks at you without meaning to. You’re clearly trying not to smile, one hand pressed over the bottom half of your face, eyes lowered to the table. He sees it all, because he always sees too much where you’re concerned. That’s the problem. It means he notices the loose strand of hair against your cheek, and the warmth in your eyes when you catch him looking at you. Levi looks away immediately, thinking to himself Idiot.
“Something wrong, Levi?” Erwin asks, quirking up an eyebrow.
“No,” Levi says.
“You were staring into nothing.”
“I was just assessing whether her paperwork is as sloppy as her uniform.”
You mock an offended gasp. “My paperwork is pristine.”
“It’s tolerable.”
“From you,” you say, pointing your quill at him, “that is basically a marriage proposal.”
Everyone in the room goes quiet. Hange inhales like they’re about to burst. Levi goes completely and utterly still. Marriage proposal. You said it as a joke. Obviously, right? It’s just a harmless, casual joke, banter shared between squad leaders when too much paperwork has turned everyone’s brains into horse feed. There’s no reason for his mind to take the phrase, drag it and him into an alley, and start beating him with it.
Marriage proposal. His mind races before he can stop himself, supplying a series of images: you standing at an altar, you and him in his office alone, your laughter at breakfast, your hand in his, your mouth on his—
No. He’s not going there again. Not now.
Hange’s grin grows wider. Miche looks out the window, but his shoulders shake with silent laughter. Erwin, who is the worst kind of friend to you both, simply looks between the both of you, silently filing this moment away for later to use against either of you when the time comes.
Levi picks up his teacup. “You’d make a terrible wife,” he says.
You grin and rest your chin on the top of your linked hands, elbows on the table. “Why’s that?”
“You’re loud, annoying, and you don’t even know how to chop a carrot.”
“You notice the strangest things about me.”
Levi drinks his tea to avoid having to answer, and even though the tea is too hot, he refuses to cough. Unfortunately for him, you notice his eyes squinting slightly, and your smile softens so much it nearly kills him on the spot. No, he thinks. I can’t let her do this to me.
He spends the rest of the meeting saying as little as possible, which would work better if Hange didn’t keep sneaking glances at him with barely contained excitement.
Levi expects the week to improve after that. It doesn’t. The problem is that you’re everywhere. You’re in the training yard in the afternoon, walking between your squad members to correct their positions. You’re at the stables in the evening, arguing with someone about your saddle in disrepair. You’re at the mess hall the next morning, laughing with Nanaba over something silly, your head tipped back in a way that fully exposes your throat and immediately makes Levi think of how nice it would be to kiss it.
It’s nothing. It’s not attraction, it’s not a crush, because he’s a full-grown man and he has no use for romantic attraction. It’s just… a normal appreciation of competence. It’s nothing.
Then you bend to pick up a dropped training knife, showing off your ass perfectly, and Levi walks straight into a wall.
So, not nothing, then.
.
By the fifth day, he’s found numerous excuses to pass through the training yard—at least three times.
The first time, he claims he’s merely checking formations and whether the recruits are holding it correctly. The second time, he claims the training dummies aren’t being raised correctly. The third time, he says nothing at all because even he knows another excuse won’t fool anyone.
You catch him near the fence line with his arms crossed, watching as you demonstrate a disarming technique to your squad. “Captain Ackerman,” you call, breathless from your exertion. “Are you here to criticize my form again?”
His mind immediately says Yes, then No. Tell her she moves well. Tell her that her squad trusts her. Tell her she can command a room without having to do anything. Tell her—
“Your stance is less terrible than usual,” Levi says. He slaps himself in his mind. Stupid.
You turn slowly. “Less terrible? Are you praising me?”
“It wasn’t praise.”
“Definitely sounded like praise,” you sing.
“Get your hearing checked.”
You grin. Levi looks away, biting the inside of his cheek. Your squad disperses after another hour, groaning with exhaustion, and you remain behind to gather the practice blades, humming under your breath while the wind blows through your hair.
Levi knows he should leave. He has reports, he has inspections, he has an office to clean and tea waiting for him that’ll oversteep if he continues standing here like some lovesick idiot. He finds himself walking toward you anyway.
“You’re wearing that wrong,” he says.
You look down at yourself, squinting your eyes. “Wearing what wrong?”
“Your harness.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I’ve worn ODM gear for years.”
“Then it’s embarrassing that you managed to fuck it up this badly.”
You put both hands on your hips, cocking your head at him. “Alright, then. Fix it if it bothers you that much.”
His soul practically leaves his body, but because he has absolutely no self-preservation, he mutters, “Fine.”
He steps behind you and reaches for the strap crossing your back. It’s only slightly twisted, barely enough to matter, but he focuses on it as if the fate of the Walls depends on that strip of leather lying flat. Focusing on the strap is easier than focusing on how warm you are, how close you are, how you freeze when his hands settle at your waist to adjust the lower buckles.
This is normal, he thinks. You’ve adjusted soldiers’ gear before. He pulls and tightens. Then, he finally realizes this is not normal at all. He’s too busy thinking about your waist. How nice it feels under his hands. How nice it would be to hold it while he presses up against you from behind. Goddamnit, get it together. He tightens one strap, loosens another, checks the angle, then checks it again because he can’t bring himself to pull away.
“You’re awfully thorough,” you say.
Levi freezes. He hears the smile in your voice. A small one. Possibly innocent. Probably innocent. He can’t lean forward and investigate, because if he sees your expression, he may just blurt something stupid out like I like standing this close to you, and then he’ll have to desert the Scouts and live alone in a cave for the rest of his life.
“If you fall out of your gear, I’ll have to hear about it,” he says.
“Ah, so this is precaution.”
“Obviously.”
“You’re very thoughtful.”
“More like annoyed.” You laugh softly, and he finishes the adjustment too quickly, stepping away in an attempt to restore whatever part of his dignity just died. “There,” he says. “Try not to embarrass your rank.”
You turn to face him, completely oblivious to the fact that he’s just survived an internal war. “Thank you, Levi.”
He blinks at the use of his name. You usually don’t say his first name. It’s always Captain, Captain Ackerman, or Captain Levi. Never just Levi. He looks away before his expression can give him away.
All he says is a simple, “Tch.”
.
You still don’t realize that Levi thinks of you differently, even weeks later.
Levi is rude to almost everyone, blunt with everyone, sparse with praise and allergic to any kind of emotional displays, so it doesn’t occur to you immediately that the insults he gives you are not the same as the ones he gives everyone else. You just assume Levi tolerates you, perhaps even respects you. You don’t assume Levi watches for whether you’ve eaten, or that he’s memorized how you take your tea, or that he once spent ten minutes deciding whether he should knock on your door with medicine in his hand when you were out sick one day.
Hange assumes all of it, and unfortunately for you, Hange assumes very loudly.
In the mess hall, you sit alone at the end of one table with a bowl of stew, a cup of tea, and a stack of formation notes you’re trying to read without dripping broth on them. Even now, you don’t know how to stop working. Hange slides into the seat across from you so quickly that the table shifts. You look up, raising your brows.
“Hello to you too,” you say.
“You and Levi,” Hange says.
You pause with your spoon halfway to your mouth. “Me and Levi what?”
“Oh, don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Pretend you haven’t noticed.”
You stare at them, and Hange stares back, eyes bright behind their glasses, their expression so gleeful it’s almost terrifying.
“Hange,” you say slowly. “I genuinely have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Their smile falters, then returns even wider. “Oh, that’s even better.”
“Why am I scared?”
“You should be. I know something.”
“You say that a lot.”
Hange waves that away, then leans closer. “Levi has a crush on you.”
You almost drop your spoon into your lap. Surely they must be joking, right? The words don’t even make sense at first. They enter your brain, bounce around for a few seconds, then immediately get rejected by every sensible part of you.
“Levi,” you repeat.
“Yes.”
“Captain Levi Ackerman.”
“Yes.”
“Humanity’s strongest soldier. That Levi.”
“Do we have another emotionally stunted short man named Levi wandering around?”
You look across the mess hall at Levi, standing near the far wall, speaking with Erwin. His arms are folded across his chest, face blank as always. Nothing about him suggests he has a crush on you. The man looks like he was born to disapprove of everyone and everything. To be fair, he already does.
“He insulted my uniform,” you say.
Hange leans even further in. “I saw him fix your cloak.”
“He told me my paperwork was tolerable.”
“Levi considers tolerable high praise.”
“He said I would make a terrible wife.”
“He was totally thinking about you being his wife.” You open your mouth, then close it, because you have absolutely nothing to say in response to that. Hange presses on with a devilish smile. “He brings you tea, too,” they say.
“So?”
“Good tea.” That makes you pause. “He corrects your supply forms before Erwin sees them.”
“So? He corrects everyone’s forms.”
“No, he writes ‘redo this garbage’ on everyone else’s. Yours come back fixed.” You can only blink in response. “He always says something when your squad gets stable duty, and somehow those assignments always mysteriously change.”
“That could be Erwin.”
“It’s not Erwin, trust me.”
“Okay, well… he criticized my gear.”
“That was only an excuse to touch you.”
“Hange.”
“What? I’m observant.”
You sneak a glance at Levi again, and as though sensing your gaze, he looks over. His eyes meet yours across the mess hall, and you see the smallest shift in his expression. A fondness you hadn’t seen before. He then notices Hange sitting across from you, sees the wide grin on their face, and he narrows his eyes with immediate suspicion. Hange waves. Levi looks like he’s considering whether he could get away with murder. Then you notice—and you’re entirely convinced you’re just seeing things—the redness blooming across his cheekbones when he looks at you again.
Oh.
Oh?
That is, unfortunately, very cute.
Then you realize. It all hits you at once. The tea outside your office, the fixing of your cloak, the bread that mysteriously showed up on your desk, the fact that he somehow always manages to appear when you’re carrying something heavy, the way his insults land just a little softer when they’re directed at you.
“You’re enjoying this, you naughty thing,” you accuse Hange.
“Immensely.”
“If you’re wrong, I’m going to look very stupid.”
“I’m not wrong.”
“You’ve been wrong before.”
“I’m rarely wrong in matters this entertaining.”
Across the room, Levi pushes away from the wall and starts walking toward you. You feel your stomach drop as Hange stands up.
“Good luck,” they whisper.
You look to them in panic. “Hange, don’t leave—”
“Be gentle. He’s not emotionally housebroken.”
They vanish before Levi arrives, leaving you sitting with your lukewarm stew, your scattered notes, and the sudden realization that Levi Ackerman has been crushing on you for who knows how long now?
Levi stops beside the table. “What did they say?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
He narrows his eyes. “Nothing usually means something.”
“It means nothing, actually.”
“That’s somehow worse.”
You look up at him and, for the first time, allow yourself to study him with the possibility of affection returned. He looks the same as always: tight mouth, sharp eyes, neat cravat, straight posture. But now you see the tiny tells beneath it. He doesn’t look at you directly for too long. His attention flicks to your tea, your food, your notes. His fingers twitch once at his side before he forces them to be still.
He’s nervous. Levi Ackerman is nervous.
You nearly break into a way-too-obvious smile, but thankfully, you manage to just tilt your head. “Captain,” you say, “are you worried about me?”
“No.”
“Well, that was a quick answer.”
“Because it was an easy question.”
“So you’re not worried about me.”
“No.”
“And if I skipped dinner?”
His eyes flick to your bowl. “You’re eating dinner.”
“But if I did.”
“Then you’d be an idiot.”
“You’d notice, though.”
Levi looks at you pointedly, and you smile. You see the visible tightening around his mouth and the subtle shift in his breathing.
“Hard not to notice when someone is being an idiot in public,” he says.
You lean your chin into your hand. “You know, if you wanted my attention so badly, you could’ve just asked for it.”
You swear Levi stops breathing. You see the hitch in his breath. His face doesn’t change as much, but you see the subtle shift in his eyes, the catastrophic collapse happening behind them that he’s so desperately trying to hide.
She knows, Levi thinks, then with rising horror, She knows, and Hange told her. I’m going to kill them. “I have better things to do than ask for your attention,” he says, swallowing through the tightness in his throat.
“And yet, here you are,” you say, smiling widely.
Because he doesn’t know where else to look, he peers at your notes. “Your handwriting is messy again.”
“Deflection.”
“Mere observation.”
“You make a lot of those about me.”
“Someone has to.”
You laugh. Levi wishes he didn’t love that sound as much as he does.
You become an absolute menace after that.
.
You don’t do it immediately—you’re too clever for that, and Levi is too slippery to corner. So, you start with small things, such as sitting beside him instead of across from him at the next briefing, which he notices immediately. He stiffens in response.
“Morning,” you say cheerfully.
He looks at the empty chairs around the table. “There are other seats.”
“I like this one.”
“It’s too close.”
“To what?”
“To me, idiot.”
You look at him innocently, batting your eyelashes. “Am I bothering you, Captain?”
Yes, Levi thinks, because you’re too close that he can clearly smell your divine scent, and because your sleeve brushes his when you reach for a report, and because he can see the little crumb that you must not have fully swept away on your mouth and wants to stupidly wipe it off.
“No,” he says.
“Good.”
Hange bites their knuckles across the table.
Later in the mess hall, you ask Levi to pass you a fork. The utensils are closer to you than to him. It doesn’t go over his head, but he reaches for it anyway, because he’s embarrassingly obedient to you. When he hands it over, you deliberately brush your fingers over his. Levi nearly drops the fork. He doesn’t, thankfully, but he manages to keep his hand steady, even though internally, he wants to run face-first into a wall.
You lower your voice. “Careful, Captain. You seem distracted.”
He glares at you. “You’re imagining things.”
“Oh, am I?”
“Yes.”
“That was also a very fast answer.”
“You ask stupid questions.”
“And you still answer them anyway.”
You catch his eyes flicking down to your mouth only once, only for the smallest amount of time, but you see it, and all traces of wanting to tease him escape your body.
For all your amusement, for all the fun of watching him unravel, you’re not immune to him. Levi’s awkwardness is adorable, yes, and his insults are ridiculous as they are normal, but you know how to decipher the way he shows you attention. He’s always fiercely contained. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t want to crack that composure just a little.
After dinner, he follows you in the always-empty corridor outside the mess hall, the one just around the corner. He positions himself in front of you, standing near a window where the moonlight cuts across his face.
“You’re doing this on purpose now,” he says.
You stop walking. “Doing what?”
“Don’t play dumb.”
“I’m not. I want to hear you say it.”
He clenches his jaw. There’s no one else in the corridor, so surely, he can say it with little repercussions, right? Levi looks at you, then shifts his gaze away.
“You’ve been acting strange,” he says.
“I’ve been acting strange?”
“Yes.”
“That’s interesting.”
“No, it’s just annoying.”
You step a little closer, but Levi doesn’t move. “Am I making you uncomfortable?” you ask softly.
“No.”
“No?”
“You’re not making me uncomfortable.”
“Then what am I making you?”
His eyes meet yours, and for once, he doesn’t seem to have an insult resting on the tip of his tongue, ready to strike. The silence stretches for a moment longer than necessary.
“Annoyed,” he says finally, crossing his arms.
“Ooh, that’s the answer you’re going with?”
“It’s the answer you’re getting.”
“Levi.”
His name again. You use it gently, and the effect it has on him is visible in the slight flare of his nostrils and his fingers flexing once against his sleeve.
“You can tell me to stop,” you say.
“I know.”
“And?”
“And I won’t.” Levi looks irritated by his own honesty, but he doesn’t retract. His gaze drops to your mouth, snaps back to your eyes, drops again before he can stop it, and this time both of you know. Both of you feel it. Both of you stop denying it. “I can’t think straight around you,” he says very quietly. The words seem to surprise him as much as they surprise you.
Your smile melds into a softer one. “Do you want me to back off?”
“No.”
You take another step closer. “Do you want me to keep teasing you?”
Levi looks genuinely pained when he says, “You’re enjoying this too much.”
You shrug. “A little.”
“Brat.”
You raise your hand slowly, giving him enough time to move away if he so wishes, and you touch the edge of his cravat, feeling the fold beneath your fingers. He tracks the movement with his eyes as if your hand is a blade.
“Do you want to kiss me, Levi?” you ask.
Levi’s heart drops straight through the floor. There are many things he can do under pressure. He can make impossible decisions with blood on his hands. He can move faster than fear. He can face death with a blank expression. But this—a direct question, so clear in its intent, asked in your soft voice while you stand close enough for him to count your eyelashes—destroys him completely.
But he’s tired of losing to himself.
“Yes,” he says.
“Then what’s stopping you?” you whisper.
He waits a second longer, just enough to make sure you don’t step back or retreat fully, just enough to give you the chance to change your mind. You don’t, so Levi kisses you.
At first, he’s too careful, his mouth pressed against yours with restraint. It feels like he’s holding back an army, one hand hovering near your waist before he places it there. You feel the tension coiled in him, the uncertainty buried inside him. Levi doesn’t kiss you with any sort of confidence. He’s scared. You can tell. So you help him. You step into him, sliding one hand to his shoulder and the other to the side of his face, and kiss him back hard enough that his breath leaves him in a startled exhale.
Then he changes. Some guarded place inside him finally lets down its walls as his hand grips your waist and his mouth moves against yours with deeper intention, having thought about this moment for longer than he’ll ever admit. Every insult and cup of tea has been leading him here, to this corridor, to this moment, to the relief of wanting you and discovering that you want him too.
And goddamit, do you want him.
When you part, you stay close, your noses brushing, his hand still at your waist, having forgotten to let go—and when he remembers, he still doesn’t pull away. He notices your smile first.
“What?” he asks.
“You’re totally blushing.”
“What? No I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Stop it.”
“Levi Ackerman is blushing from one kiss?”
“You and your fucking ego.”
You laugh, and he can’t help the small smile that creeps onto his lips. Then he’s pulled back to exactly how you even got to this point, and his almost-smile curdles into a scowl.
“Don’t flirt with me in front of Hange again,” he says.
“Why?”
“Because they’ll never shut up about it.”
You tilt your head. “And?”
Levi looks down the corridor once, then turns back to you. “And because I’ll probably embarrass myself,” he almost mumbles.
“You didn’t embarrass yourself,” you say. He looks slightly skeptical. “Levi. I asked you if you wanted to kiss me and you said yes. That was actually very impressive.”
“Tch.”
“For you, I mean.”
He narrows his eyes. You just laugh and kiss his cheek once before walking away with glee in your steps, leaving behind a very miserable, blushing Levi.
.
The days after your kiss are strange, for lack of a better word. You and him don’t announce anything to anyone else, which Levi appreciates, because if Hange finds out, he’ll never know peace again. But privacy doesn’t mean mercy—you’re too evil for that. You’re gentle with him still, but you’re also you, and you’ve realized very quickly that Levi’s composure is a door with a faulty hinge.
You touch his hand in meetings. You call him Levi and sometimes Vi in passing and watch him stop as his face flushes red. You smile at him over your drinks and soup and bread in the mess hall. You tell him, after one long afternoon of reports, “You know, you’re almost sweet when you’re pretending not to be.”
He looks up from his paperwork and accidentally leaves a line of ink across the page. You stifle a laugh. He’s not going to be happy when he looks back down.
“I’m not sweet,” he says.
“Almost sweet.”
“Still wrong.”
“You brought me tea yesterday unprompted.”
“I always do. And you looked dead.”
“Aw, you noticed?”
“Hard to miss.”
“Because I looked pretty?”
“Because you looked dead.”
“Pretty dead?”
He stares at you. You stare back. His mouth twitches first.
Another thing that fits into your long, exhausting days are the stolen kisses. A brief one in the narrow hall outside the records room. A longer, messier one in his office after you bring him corrected notes. One in the shadowed stairwell that ends with him muttering, “You’re going to get us caught,” even though he’s the one who pulls you back by your wrist when you start to leave.
Every kiss teaches you something. Levi likes to pretend he isn’t affected by you, but he’s always betrayed by his hands. They start almost formal, then grow bolder when you respond, fingers spreading along your waist, your back, the side of your neck. He doesn’t make much sound unless you surprise him, and once you realize that, you become silently determined to surprise him every chance you can get.
He learns too. He learns that you like when he says your name softly, in the low, rough voice he uses when he’s too flustered to hide behind composure. He learns that you laugh into kisses when he deepens it out of nowhere. He learns that if he cups your jaw and tilts your face toward his, your breath catches so beautifully that it makes his heart flip.
One night, after a late strategy review, after Erwin dismisses the squad leaders and Hange leaves with an extremely pointed and suggestive look, Levi mutters, “Walk into a Titan’s mouth,” under his breath as soon as the door shuts and returns to his office. You join him because Levi still has your patrol notes. It’s just an excuse—both of you know it.
Rain taps gently against the windows. Levi stands behind his desk with your papers in one hand while he scans the revised schedule. Meanwhile, you lean against the edge of a cabinet and try not to watch his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.
“You changed the rotation,” he says.
“Mhm.”
“It’s better.”
You raise your eyebrows. “Was that praise I just heard?”
“Observation.”
“A positive one.”
“You’re making it weird.”
He looks up, but there’s a different look to his eyes, something worn down by days of wanting you and stopping and wanting you again. You feel your body answer, a warm pull in your lower stomach, the ache that’s been building every time he kisses you longer than you expect. Levi sees your expression shift, and he grips his papers tighter.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re about to start trouble.”
You push away from the cabinet slowly. “Would you like me to stop?”
He hates that question with a passion. Every time you ask it, it matters. You give him enough space to refuse, to breathe, to get himself together, and it makes him want you more than any stupid flirtatious remark ever could.
“No,” he says.
You approach him slowly. Levi sets the papers down, aligning them with the edge of the desk, as he always does. When you reach him, you don’t smash your lips against his—even though you desperately want to. Instead, you touch his sleeve first, then his wrist, then the back of his hand where his fingers rest against the desk.
“Stop thinking so hard,” you say.
“It’s what I’m used to.”
“I know.”
His gaze drops to your mouth. “You make it worse.”
“Good worse or bad worse?”
“Depends on what you do next.”
You kiss him, and there’s nothing quick about it this time. Levi’s hand rises to cup your face almost instantly, gripping your jaw firmly. The little sound he makes when you press yourself up against him is so involuntary, it makes your pulse jump and heat spread through your limbs. You back him into the desk by accident or maybe not, and he reaches up to grab your waist with his other hand. The desk creaks behind him.
Levi breaks away first, breathing unevenly, forehead nearly touching yours. “Wait,” he says.
You freeze immediately. “Sorry.”
“No, not—” He exhales sharply, frustrated with himself, then looks away. “Not stop. Just wait.”
You nod, sliding your hands down to rest against his chest. “We can wait.”
“That’s—no, that’s not what I—I mean.”
“What do you mean?”
There’s no insult waiting on his tongue this time. Levi looks down at your hands against his shirt, at the simple intimacy of being touched without being grabbed or wanted without being cornered. He swallows. You watch the anxiety move through him, which might not be visible to anyone else, but it’s obvious to you now.
“I’m not…” He stops, then sighs. “I’m not inexperienced, but I’ve only done this once before. A… a long time ago. It wasn’t—” His mouth twists. “It was fine. But it wasn’t this.” Levi looks angry with himself for even saying it. “And now you’re looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“I—I don’t know. Like I’m—like you could break me.”
“I don’t think that. But you are nervous, aren’t you?” His silence answers for him. You lift one hand to his face, touching him with enough care that he nearly closes his eyes. “That’s okay.”
His laugh is barely a breath. “Doesn’t feel okay.”
“It is. I promise you.”
“I don’t want to be bad at this.”
You smile and brush your thumb along his cheek. “Levi, you’re not being graded.”
“That sounds like something you say before giving a bad grade.”
You laugh softly. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“I want you,” you say, and your directness makes him freeze. “I don’t want a perfect version of you who knows exactly what to say or do. I want you. Nervous you, awkward you. A you who insults me because you don’t know how to flirt—”
“I know how to flirt,” he frowns. “I told you that you looked better than you did yesterday.”
“That is the worst excuse for flirting I’ve ever heard, baby,” you whisper. His ears turn red, and you grin.
“Shut up,” he mutters.
You kiss him again. His hand comes to rest on your waist, your fingers slide beneath his jacket, and his breath hitches when you move closer. Levi’s anxiety doesn’t just disappear, but his nerves settle under your touch. With your comfort, he’s able to move through them instead of having them stop him.
When you begin taking off his jacket, you pause, waiting. He nods once, so you continue, and the jacket falls from his shoulders. Levi catches it before it can hit the floor, and in a motion that stuns you, he turns, folds it once over the back of the chair, smooths the fabric out, then turns back to look at you.
You stare at him. He stares back. “What?” he says.
“Are you seriously folding your clothes right now?”
“I’m not leaving them on the floor like an animal.”
“Levi.”
“What?”
“We’re having a moment.”
“And I can have a moment and have basic standards too.”
You look at him for a second, then you start laughing, almost too loudly. It spills out of you before you can stop it. You don’t know what you expected, but you honestly shouldn’t be surprised that Levi Ackerman can be flushed, breathless, visibly aroused, and still be a clean freak.
“If you laugh at me right now, I’m leaving,” he mumbles.
“No, you’re not.”
“No… I’m not,” he says, irritated that he’s proven your point.
You catch his face in both hands and kiss him before he can recover, and that completely breaks his restraint. He grips your waist as he turns you and presses you back against the desk, enough to make you gasp and make his breath shudder in response. You feel him tremble once, or maybe it’s just you, or maybe it’s both of you. When you slide your fingers into his hair, ruining his neat parting, he makes a low, strained sound against your mouth.
“You’re sure?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“You tell me if—”
“Yes.”
He searches your face for any hesitation. “Don’t just say it because—”
“Levi,” you whisper, pressing your forehead to his. “I promise. I’ll tell you. You tell me too.”
He swallows, then he nods. He folds his cravat next, because that’s also non-negotiable, and you bite your lip so hard to keep yourself from laughing that he points at you and says, “Don’t.” You help him with your own clothes and he tries not to stare too obviously until you step closer and guide his hands to you.
“You can touch me,” you say.
He flexes his fingers. “I know.”
“Do you?”
“I’m not trying to be an idiot.”
“You’re doing fine.”
“I haven’t done anything yet.”
“But I trust you.”
Levi pulls you into the adjoining room—his quarters, a space you’ve only seen in glimpses before. He leads you there with your hand in his, fingers laced tight. The moment the door clicks shut behind you, you both stare at each other. You feel your heartbeat in your throat as you both begin shedding the rest of what you’re wearing.
Levi pauses, his shirt half-unbuttoned, eyes flicking over you with that same mix of hunger and hesitation that’s been building for weeks. “Can I… undress you?” He sounds like he’s asking for permission to breathe.
You nod. “Yes.”
He exhales, the sound shaky, and steps closer. His hands rise to your shoulders first, sliding your shirt off. He follows the path of the fabric with his mouth, soft kisses pressed to the curve of your shoulder, then the side of your neck. His breath is warm.
Then you feel the faint tremble in his fingers as they roam lower, tracing the line of your ribs, the dip of your waist, mapping you without looking. He tugs at the rest of your clothes, peeling them away until you’re bare before him. His eyes are dark and wide with want. He can’t believe that you’re real, that you’re here, that you want him. The anxiety spikes again, making his hands shake just enough that you notice.
You reach up, covering one of his trembling hands with yours. You whisper against his ear, “It’s okay, Levi. Breathe. I’m right here with you.”
You see his shoulders loosen by a fraction. He presses a longer kiss to your neck, sucking gently at the skin until a bruise blooms. He then pulls back to finish undressing himself. You don’t pay attention to where the rest of his clothes end up, because by the time they’re off, he’s guiding you back onto the bed, the mattress dipping under your weight as he climbs over you.
He doesn’t hesitate when he shifts lower and settles between your thighs. Without warning, he dives in, mouth hot against you as his tongue strokes in a long, slow lick. It sends a jolt straight through your core. You jump, a gasp tearing from your throat. Your hands fly to his hair, fingers threading through his locks and gripping tight. The sensation is overwhelming despite its lightness.
Levi pulls up immediately, concern flashing across his face. “Do you want me to stop?” he asks, then you see the panic overtake him. “I’m sorry, I should have asked first, I just—”
“Don’t stop,” you breathe out quickly, your grip on his hair easing but not releasing. “I was just surprised. It felt good—really good. Please, keep going.”
You see the relief wash over him. Something hungrier takes its place. He nods once, then lowers himself again. His tongue teases your clit in firm strokes, alternating pressure that makes your hips twitch upward. At the same time, one hand slides between your legs, fingers slicking through your folds before one presses inside, curling just right as he adds a second.
The combination is devastating—his mouth sucking and licking with growing confidence, fingers thrusting in a steady rhythm that gathers heat in your belly. Levi’s thoughts race. He wants you to feel good. He wants to make you fall apart—and it shows in the way he devours you. His tongue flicks faster over your sensitive bundle of nerves while his fingers work deeper, scissoring gently to stretch you.
Your moans threaten to spill out too loud, so you grab the corner of the pillow and bite down hard, the fabric muffling the sounds as your back arches. Levi notices, glancing up with a small, breathless laugh.
“Cute,” he says, the word soft and fond before he doubles his efforts. His tongue presses flat and broad, then flicks rapidly while his fingers pump in time. The wet sounds of it mix with your muffled gasps. Pleasure coils tighter and tighter, your thighs trembling around his head as he pushes you higher.
Your orgasm crashes over you in waves. Your body clenches around his fingers as you ride it out, hips rolling against his mouth. He doesn’t pull away, licking you through every pulse, drinking you in with appreciative sounds until the peak fades and you’re left panting. The pillow is still clutched in your teeth.
Only then does he ease back. He presses gentle kisses to your inner thighs before crawling up your body again. His lips find yours in a deep, lingering kiss. The taste of you is shared between you. He presses against you, hard and aching to feel you, but he’s content to just hold you close.
He trails kisses from your jaw down to the middle of your throat. You feel the rapid beating of his heart against your chest, matching your own. When he pulls back slightly, his eyes are dark and wide, but you can see the flicker of anxiety within them—the hesitation that he's been dragging with him the moment you stepped into his quarters.
“I want to,” he says. His fingers trace your hipbones. “But I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t—” He stops, clenching his jaw, searching for the right words that won’t make him sound as vulnerable as he feels inside.
You reach up, cupping his face in your hands, forcing him to meet your gaze. “You won’t hurt me,” you whisper. “We go slow. We stop if anything feels wrong. I trust you, Levi.”
The sound of his name seems to unlock something in him. He exhales shakily, nodding once, and shifts his hips to align with you. His length presses against your entrance. You feel the tremor that runs through his arms as he braces himself above you. He’s trying so hard to be controlled, to be careful—but you can see the strain in his shoulders and his breath hitching.
He pushes in slowly, and the stretch is intense. Your breath catches, back arching slightly as your body adjusts. He’s thicker than you anticipated, filling you almost overwhelmingly. Levi notices instantly and freezes, his eyes snapping to yours with panic.
“Are you—should I stop?” he gasps, already starting to pull out.
“No!” you manage to say, gripping his shoulders tight. You wait a moment, letting yourself relax around him. Then you let out a breathy laugh that’s half wonder and half sensation. “You’re just… you’re big. Really big.”
Levi scoffs, though the sound is strained and his face is flushed. “Stop exaggerating,” he mutters. He’s still holding himself perfectly still, afraid of causing you pain by moving.
“I’m not exaggerating,” you insist, squirming slightly beneath him, which makes him groan low in his throat. “I need a minute to adjust. You’re filling me up so much, Levi.”
The explicit confirmation completely breaks him. His face goes red—truly, deeply red, even coloring the tips of his ears—and he lets out a choked sound of embarrassment. He ducks his head down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, hiding from you. You feel the heat of his blush against your skin and his chest rising with mortified breaths.
You can’t help the small giggle that comes out. You thread your fingers through his hair, holding him close. “Hey,” you whisper. “It’s a good thing. I promise. Just… give me a second.”
He mumbles something unintelligible against your neck. His hands slide down to grip your waist. You feel the slight shaking of them. Even now, while he’s joined with you, he can’t shake his nerves. It’s almost endearing.
Once the initial burn eases into a pleasant ache, you wrap your legs around his hips and pull him deeper. “Okay,” you breathe. “Okay, move. Please.”
Levi lifts his head slowly. His expression is still flushed, eyes glassy with arousal. He searches your face for any sign of discomfort. When he finds none, he begins to move. His first thrusts are almost torturous in their gentleness. He rocks into you with shallow rolls of his hips, testing the rhythm and depth, watching your face carefully for any adverse reactions.
“You feel,” he starts, then stops, letting out a sharp breath. “You feel too good. I can’t—”
“Then don’t hold back,” you tell him, dragging your nails down his back. “Let go, Levi. I can take it.”
The leash around his neck snaps. His pace quickens, thrusts deepening as he loses himself in the sensation of you wrapped around him. The bed shifts beneath you, the frame groaning as he moves faster and harder. The sound of your skin meeting grows louder in the quiet room. He’s still trying to maintain some control—you see it in the strain of his neck muscles. But it’s slipping, eroding with every clench of your body around him.
You look up at him, watching the first bead of sweat forming on his forehead. His hair has fallen into his eyes. He’s beautiful like this—undone and desperate.
“Captain,” you whisper.
Levi’s eyes flash. He responds with a single, brutal thrust that drives the air from your lungs and causes you to throw your head back against the pillow. You cry out, hands flying to grip his biceps. Your nails dig in hard enough to leave marks.
He doesn’t apologize. He leans down, kissing you as he continues to drive into you. His tongue sweeps through your mouth, devouring, and you meet him eagerly. Your fingers tangle in his hair as he increases his pace. The kiss becomes messy, teeth clicking, breaths mingling in gasps. He pistons his hips, each thrust rocking the bed against the wall.
You’re his. That’s the only thought in his mind now, primal, washing away the last of his nerves. You’re here and you’re his and you want this, want him. He can’t focus on the kiss anymore, can’t split his attention between the taste of your mouth and the heat gripping him so perfectly. He breaks away with a low sound, forehead dropping to rest against yours. His eyes squeeze shut. He surrenders completely to the need pounding through him.
His hips become relentless, a rhythm that has you gasping and clutching at him. You feel the tension coiling low in your belly again. The friction of him drags against your walls, building you toward another peak. The sounds coming from you are embarrassingly loud—moans and whines that seem to echo. You instinctively raise a hand to cover your mouth, trying to muffle the noise.
Levi’s hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist before you can hide your sounds. He pins your arm back against the pillow, then does the same with the other. He traps both wrists in one of his hands above your head. His eyes open, burning into yours.
“Don’t,” he growls, voice gravelly. “Don’t cover your mouth. I want to hear you. Need to hear you.” He ruts in particularly hard, angling his hips to hit that spot inside you that makes your vision blur. “Louder,” he demands, practically begging. “Please, let me hear how good I’m making you feel. Let me—fuck—let me hear it.”
His words, the desperation in them, the way he’s holding you open and vulnerable while he pounds into you, has your toes curling and back arching off the bed. You let the sounds come freely, cries of his name breaking from your lips. He groans in response, a visceral sound of satisfaction. His free hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit and rubbing in circling strokes.
“Levi—” you gasp, straining against his grip. “I’m close, I’m so close—”
“Cum for me,” he pants. His own rhythm falters slightly as his own peak barrels down on him. “Cum on my cock, let me feel you—”
The coil snaps. You cry out loudly as the pleasure crashes over you in waves. Your cunt clamps down on him so tightly he curses, a strained, filthy sound. He keeps thrusting through your climax, dragging out the bliss until his own control breaks.
With a final thrust, he buries himself to the hilt, his body locking into place above you. You feel him pulse inside you, feel the heat of his release flooding you as he cums with a ragged groan. He collapses forward, but catches himself on one arm. The other releases your wrists to cradle your face instead.
He kisses you messily as he empties himself into you, his hips giving small, involuntary jerks with each pulse of his orgasm. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down. He kisses you through the falling peak, his tongue languid against yours now. When he finally pulls back slightly, his eyes are half-lidded and dazed. The anxiety has been completely washed away and replaced by something sated.
“You okay?” he mutters, thumb stroking your cheekbone.
You laugh and press a kiss to his jaw. “Better than okay. You?”
He huffs out a sound that might be a laugh. He hides his face in your neck again. “Yeah,” he breathes against your skin. “Yeah. I’m good. We’re good.”
When he pulls back again, you see the color high on his cheeks again. He slowly withdraws and falls beside you. The room is dark except for the grey light from the window. Levi lies stiffly at first—as if sharing a bed with you is somehow more intimate than the sex. You almost laugh again, but then you see the uncertainty in his expression.
You touch his bare chest, fingers stroking his skin. He looks at you. “You can relax,” you whisper.
“I am relaxed.”
“You’re all tense like you’re on trial.”
His mouth twitches, so you move closer, resting your head on his shoulder. After a moment, his arm wraps around you, tentative for half a second before it relaxes, drawing you against him.
“There,” you say. “Wasn’t so difficult, was it?”
“Tch. You’re annoying.”
“You like me.”
He’s quiet for long enough that you think he’s either asleep or just ignoring you, but then his arm tightens around you.
“Yeah,” he says.
.
Morning arrives. You don’t know where you are at first. There’s a strange warmth at your back, light pouring through at an angle that you usually don’t see in your room, the faint smell of black tea and clean linen, and an arm resting around your waist.
Then Levi shifts behind you, and everything comes rushing back to you so fast your only response is a small squeak. You remember the office, his confession, his stupid folded jacket, his mouth and hands, his body fitting against yours.
You turn carefully. Levi is awake, his hair slightly disheveled as his eyes fix on you, less guarded than usual. “Morning,” you whisper.
He stares at you for a few seconds, then, because he’s Levi and doesn’t know what else to say, he says, “You drool.”
You open your mouth in offense. “I do not.”
“You did.”
“I absolutely did not.”
“On my pillow.”
“You’re lying.”
“Badly, apparently, since you’re not convinced.”
You shove his shoulder lightly, but he grabs your wrist without the intent to stop you. He brushes his thumb over your inner wrist once. You look past him and notice his boots aligned near the wall, his pants half-folded on the chair beside it. Then, on the floor near the foot of the bed, you see his shirt. Wrinkled and abandoned and scandalously unfolded. Your eyes widen with joy. He follows your gaze, then freezes.
“Oh,” you say softly, “Captain.”
“No.”
“You left that on the floor.”
“Stop.”
“Like an animal.”
He groans and closes his eyes. You start laughing before you can help it, and he rolls onto his back with a long sigh. He knows it’s way too early in the morning for such nonsense. You know it too. Will you stop? Absolutely not.
“I—I was distracted,” he stammers.
“You? Distracted?”
“Don’t sound so happy about it.”
“I’m incredibly happy about it.”
“You’re lucky I love you,” he mutters.
Levi realizes what he said at the exact same moment you do. He opens his eyes, but he doesn’t turn to look at you yet. He stares at the ceiling, wondering if it’s possible to just disappear off the face of the earth forever. You turn toward him slowly, your grin widening and softening at the same time.
“You love me?” you tease.
His face changes in increments: irritation, realization, horror, resignation. “No.”
“Really? You just said it though.”
“I’m tired.”
“So am I, and I’m talking just fine.”
“Fine. Then I was… vulnerable.”
“That’s even worse for you.”
“Shut up.”
You prop yourself up on one elbow, looking down at him while your heart beats hard. “You love me.”
Levi stares at the ceiling, hoping it’ll fall on him and crush him at this very moment. Then, with a sigh that sounds like it was dragged from the very bottom of his soul, he reaches for you and pulls you down against him, hiding his face near your neck where you can’t see the color in his cheeks.
“You’re making this weird,” he says.
“It is weird.”
“Doesn’t have to be.”
“It definitely does. You insulted me for months because you had a crush.”
“I brought you tea.”
“You called me sloppy.”
“You were sloppy.”
“You also fixed my cloak. What was that about?”
“It was crooked.”
“And you told me my paperwork was tolerable.”
“It was.”
“Marriage proposal,” you whisper.
He groans into your shoulder. You laugh, smiling into his hair. Levi doesn’t tell you to stop, and instead just holds you there, letting the morning continue in all its noise and duty, while the two of you exist in the aftermath of your surrender to each other.
Levi still has no idea what to do with romantic feelings. They’ll remain inconvenient for now. Messy and, quite frankly, a nightmare. But when you trace circles over his shoulder and whisper that he’s the sweetest man you know, when you laugh softly against his mouth after he tells you not to push your luck, when your hand finds his beneath the blanket and he squeezes without thinking, he decides that maybe being terrible at feeling doesn’t mean he can’t learn how to feel.
After all, if you’re the one teaching him, he might just survive it.
summary: youve always had this...problem when it comes to sex. youve never made it across the finish line like...ever. you intended on keeping this a secret. especially from your older coworker eddie but your best friend had to just open her stupid mouth and now hes on a personal mission to right the wrongs of the universe.
warnings/tags: 2002 au, age gap (15 years), bartender! eddie and reader, pining, smoking, smut (oral f receiving, squirting, multiple orgasms, breast worship, multiple positions, praise, big dick! eddie, aftercare)
masterlist // join the taglist
The bar was a goddamn ghost town at three in the afternoon. Half the stools still had yesterday’s coasters stuck to them. The jukebox was stuck on some early 2000s alternative bullshit that no one had the energy to change. You were wiping down the same stretch of sticky counter for the third time when Jess leaned her elbows on it, chin in her hands, eyes gleaming like she’d just gotten away with murder.
“I’m serious,” she said, voice low and conspiratorial even though the only other person in the place was Eddie, restocking the well bottles with his back to you both. “This guy. Last night. I don’t even remember his name. Doesn’t matter. He went down on me like it was a calling. Like he’d been training for it since puberty. I came so hard I thought I was gonna black out. Twice. In like twelve minutes.”
You snorted into the rag. “That’s disgusting. And also… congratulations?”
“Thank you.” Jess preened. “I’m glowing. Look at me. Post-orgasmic radiance.” She tilted her face toward the neon Bud Light sign like it was a mirror. Then her expression softened into something more pointed. “Speaking of which… you still having your little problem with men?”
You froze mid-wipe. “Jess—”
“What problem?”
Eddie’s voice cut across the bar, casual as anything. He didn’t even turn around at first, just kept lining up the Jack and the Jim like he hadn’t been listening the entire time. When he finally glanced over his shoulder, one dark brow was already arched high under the messy fall of his hair. He always looked unfairly good—black band tee stretched across his shoulders, silver rings flashing every time he moved, that perpetual half-smirk that made it hard to tell if he was about to roast you or flirt with you. Probably both.
Jess didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, you know. Her problem.” She jerked a thumb in your direction. “She’s never came from a dude before.”
The bottle of whiskey in Eddie’s hand paused halfway to the shelf.
You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole. “Jesus Christ, Jess—”
“What?” she said, all wide-eyed innocence. “It’s not like it’s a secret. You’ve told me like six times. And he’s right there. He’s basically part of the furniture at this point.”
Eddie set the bottle down with deliberate care and turned fully, resting his forearms on the bar. The corner of his mouth twitched. “Never?” he repeated, voice low and amused and way too interested. “Like… ever? Not even the accidental ones? The ‘oops I moved wrong and something happened’ variety?”
Heat crawled up your neck. “Can we not—”
“Nope,” Jess said cheerfully. “We’re airing it out. Self-awareness is in bitch.”
Eddie tilted his head, studying you like you were a particularly fascinating puzzle. The long hair, the rings, the faint scar through his eyebrow—everything about him was unfairly magnetic, and he knew it. He’d always known it. The way his eyes lingered a half-second too long when you reached for the top-shelf bottles. The way yours did the same when he stretched to change the lights over the pool table.
“Huh,” he said eventually. “That’s… tragic. Actually tragic. Like Greek tragedy levels of tragic.”
You glared at him. “It’s not tragic.”
“It is,” he insisted, deadpan. “You’re twenty-one. Peak prime. And you’re walking around out here unsatisfied like it’s some kind of personality trait. That’s criminal. Someone should fix that.”
Jess grinned. “See? He gets it.”
“I get nothing,” you muttered, scrubbing harder at a non-existent spot on the wood. “And for the record, it’s not like guys haven’t tried. They’re just… bad at it. Or distracted. Or weirdly determined to go for the Olympic gold in thrusting while forgetting the rest of the body exists.”
Eddie made a soft, wounded sound. “Ouch. Collectively roasting half the male population. Bold.”
“Deserved,” you shot back.
He leaned in a little, elbows sliding closer across the bar. The metal of his rings clicked against the wood. “So what you’re saying is… every single guy who’s ever had the privilege has been mid at best.”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“And none of them managed to, y’know—” he made a vague, elegant gesture with one hand, rings flashing, “—get the job done.”
Jess was delighted. “God, this is better than daytime TV.”
You pointed the rag at her. “You started this.”
“And I’m thriving.”
Eddie ignored her completely, eyes still locked on yours. There was something sharp and curious under the teasing now. Something that made your stomach pull tight.
“Interesting,” he murmured. “Very interesting.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t look at me like that. Like you’re taking notes for later.”
His grin spread slow and wicked. “Baby, I’ve been taking notes for months. This is just the first time the subject’s come up in conversation.”
Jess actually clapped. “Oh my god.”
You felt your face go hot. “Eddie—”
He straightened up, palms raised in mock surrender, but the smirk never left. “Hey. Just saying. If the bar’s this dead every afternoon, maybe we should start a support group. I can lead the hands on portion of the presentation.”
You threw the wet rag at his chest. He caught it one-handed without even flinching, laughing under his breath as the damp fabric slapped against his shirt.
“You’re the worst,” you told him.
“And yet,” he said, tossing the rag back onto the bar between you, “you keep looking.”
Jess made a delighted little noise and stage-whispered, “I live for this shift.”
Eddie just winked at you—slow, deliberate—and turned back to the bottles like he hadn’t just set the entire afternoon on fire.
The next two hours crawled by in that special brand of dead-bar purgatory where every glass you washed felt like a personal insult. A couple of regulars drifted in, ordered cheap beer, and left again. Jess kept shooting you meaningful looks every time Eddie got within ten feet, which was constantly, because the universe had decided you two were stuck on the same side of the bar for the rest of the shift.
He waited until Jess disappeared into the back to change a keg before he started.
“Alright,” he said, voice low and conversational as he dried a pint glass with unnecessary care. “Pop quiz time. You ever come from oral? Like, someone actually knowing what they’re doing down there.”
You nearly dropped the bottle of vodka you were restocking. “Eddie.”
“What? Scientific inquiry. I like to learn.” He tapped his temple with one ringed finger. “Answer the question.”
You glanced toward the empty booths, then back at him. “No. Not really. It’s usually… fine. Then they get bored or their jaw starts hurting and they switch to something else.”
He made a soft, wounded sound like you’d just insulted his entire bloodline. “Christ. The bar is in hell. Next question—missionary. Ever gotten there that way?”
“No.”
“Doggy?”
“Eddie—”
“Answer.”
You exhaled through your nose. “Once I thought I was close. Then he asked if I was okay because I went quiet and the whole thing died.”
Eddie actually stopped drying the glass. He stared at you for a second, then set it down very carefully. “I’m going to need a list of names. Ban them from the bar. They're never allowed in your presence again.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m invested,” he corrected, leaning a hip against the counter. The afternoon light caught on the silver at his knuckles. “Okay, reverse cowgirl. Ever tried that one?”
You gave him a flat look. “You’re just listing positions now.”
“It’s a thorough survey. I’m a thorough guy.” His mouth curved. “What about when you’re on top and you actually get to control the angle?”
Heat crawled up the back of your neck. “Still no.”
“Against a wall?”
“No.”
“Bent over something?”
“Eddie, oh my god.”
He held up both hands, rings flashing, but he was grinning like a man who’d just found a new favorite hobby. “Okay, okay. Solo work. You can get yourself there, right?”
You hesitated, then nodded once. “Yeah. That’s… the only reliable method, honestly.”
Something shifted in his expression—still playful, still teasing, but there was a new sharpness underneath it. Like he’d just filed that particular answer into a mental drawer labeled Important.
“Interesting,” he murmured. “So the equipment works. The operators just suck.”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
He reached past you for a clean stack of coasters, close enough that you caught the faint scent of leather and stale tobacco. His voice dropped even lower. “How do you do it, then? Fingers? Toys? Pillow humping like a teenager?”
You shoved a coaster into his chest. “I’m not answering that.”
“Coward.”
“Voyeur.”
“Guilty.” He caught the coaster before it fell and spun it between his fingers. “Fine. Keep your secrets. I’ll just have to hypothesize.” He tilted his head, studying you with that same intense focus he’d given the whiskey bottles earlier. “I’m guessing fingers. Two, maybe three. Slow at first, then faster when you get close. You go quiet. Bite your lip. That soft little sound you make when you’re frustrated with the register? Probably the same one.”
Your face went hot enough to fry an egg. “You are unbelievable.”
“I’m observant.” He flicked the coaster onto the bar with a soft clack. “And currently constructing a very detailed theory about what it would take to fix this tragic situation.”
You turned away to grab a new bottle of well tequila, mostly so he wouldn’t see the way your mouth wanted to smile. “You’re plotting.”
“Obviously.”
“You’re thirty-six. Shouldn’t you be plotting, I don’t know, retirement or something?”
Eddie barked a laugh. “Baby, I’m in my prime. And right now my prime is extremely focused on the fact that you’ve never been properly ruined by another person and that is a personal offense to me as a man who takes pride in his work.”
You glanced over your shoulder. “Your work.”
“I’m a multi-talented individual.” He winked, slow and filthy. “Bartending is just the day job.”
Jess chose that exact moment to reappear from the back, wiping her hands on her apron. She took one look at the two of you—Eddie’s smug expression, your flushed face—and grinned like Christmas had come early.
“Oh, this is gonna be a great closing shift,” she announced.
Eddie just hummed, turning back to the glasses with the air of a man who had all the time in the world and a very specific plan forming behind those dark eyes.
The night stretched on like it had a personal grudge.
By eight the place finally woke up—college kids with fake IDs, regulars who lived three stools down from alcoholism, a table of guys who kept trying to get Jess’s number and failing spectacularly. You and Eddie moved around each other like you’d been doing it for years, hips brushing when the space got tight, fingers grazing when you both reached for the same bottle. Every time it happened he shot you a look that said noted, and every time you pretended not to notice.
He waited until you were both stuck behind the bar during a rush to lean in close, voice low under the music.
“So when you’re alone,” he said, pouring three shots of Jameson without looking, “how long does it usually take?”
You nearly over-poured the vodka in your hand. “I’m not answering that while I’m making someone a vodka soda.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Eddie.”
He slid the shots down the bar with a practiced flick of his wrist and turned just enough that his mouth was near your ear. “I’m building a timeline. Important data. Is it a ten-minute situation or a ‘I’ve got the apartment to myself for an hour’ situation?”
You shouldered him back an inch. “You’re exhausting.”
“And yet you’re still answering.”
“I’m not.”
“You will.”
By eleven the crowd thinned enough that Jess could handle the floor alone. That left the two of you restocking the back bar, bodies close in the narrow space between the ice well and the speed rack. Eddie handed you bottles one by one, rings clicking against glass, and every time your fingers touched he held on a second longer than necessary.
“Okay, new category,” he said, passing you the triple sec. “Toys. Yes or no.”
You set the bottle down harder than you meant to. “I’m going to kill you.”
“That’s not a no.”
“It’s a none of your business.”
He grinned, slow and sharp. “So yes. What kind? The little bullet ones that die after six months or the fancy ones with remote controls that costs like two weeks pay?”
You stared at him. “How do you even know about those?”
“I have lived a full and varied life, sweetheart.” He leaned past you to grab a fresh stack of napkins, chest brushing your shoulder. “Also I have internet access. Shocking, I know.”
“You’re still this much of a menace. That’s actually impressive.”
“Thank you. I try.” He paused, then added, quieter, “You go quiet when you’re close, don’t you? Even by yourself. I’ve seen the way you bite the inside of your cheek when you’re concentrating on the register. Same energy.”
Your face went hot again. “Stop studying me like I’m a lab rat.”
“Can’t. You’re the most interesting thing in this entire shitty bar.”
Midnight came and went. The last wave of drunks stumbled out around one-thirty. Jess clocked out early with a pointed “don’t do anything I wouldn’t do” and a look that promised interrogation tomorrow. That left just the two of you closing—chairs up, floors mopped, registers counted in the weirdly intimate quiet of a bar after hours.
Eddie wiped down the last section of the counter while you counted the till. He waited until you were halfway through the twenties before he spoke again.
“Last question of the night. Promise.”
You didn’t look up. “You’re a liar.”
“Probably. But still.” He tossed the rag into the bin and came to lean against the register, arms crossed, watching you. “If someone actually knew what they were doing—knew exactly how to get you there and refused to stop until it happened—do you think you could?”
You paused with a stack of bills in your hand. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Somewhere in the back the ice machine kicked on with a loud clatter.
“I don’t know,” you said finally. “Maybe.”
Eddie’s mouth curved, soft and dangerous all at once. “Good answer.”
You finished the count in silence after that, the weight of his attention sitting warm against the side of your face. When the drawer finally balanced you locked it and straightened, rolling your shoulders. Your feet ached. Your lower back ached. It had been a long-ass day in every possible way.
Eddie was already shrugging into his leather jacket, hair a mess from running his hands through it all night. He held the door open for you as you both stepped out into the cool 2 a.m. air.
“Same time tomorrow?” he asked, like he hadn’t spent the last nine hours conducting a very public interrogation about your sex life.
You locked the door behind you and turned to face him under the streetlight. “You’re not done with the questions, are you?”
He smiled—slow, crooked, full of intent. “Not even close.”
The next day Eddie walked in looking like he’d made an actual effort, and it threw you off so hard you nearly dropped the stack of clean glasses you were carrying.
He’d clearly showered. The usual faint haze of cigarette smoke and bar soap that clung to him was gone, replaced by something warmer, cleaner—like cedar and maybe sage? underneath. His hair was still long and messy, but it looked deliberate this time, pushed back from his face like he’d actually run a comb through it. Black jeans, a soft worn black shirt that fit a little too well across the shoulders, and those same silver rings. He looked… intentional.
Jess noticed first. She mouthed what the fuck at you from across the bar the second his back was turned.
You just shook your head and tried not to stare.
He didn’t launch into the interrogation the second the shift started. That was the weirdest part. No pop quiz. No filthy little comments under his breath every time you bent down for a bottle. He just… worked. Smooth, quiet, efficient. When the bar got busy he moved around you like he’d memorized the shape of your body in the space, hand settling briefly at the small of your back when he needed to slip past, voice low and easy when he called out drink orders.
It should have been a relief.
It felt like standing too close to an open flame.
You floated through the night in a strange, charged quiet. Every time your eyes met across the bar something tight pulled low in your stomach. He caught you looking more than once and just smiled—small, private, like the two of you were sharing a secret no one else was in on.
Closing came faster than it should have.
Jess clocked out with a pointed look and a whispered “text me if you die” that made you want to throw a lime at her head. Then it was just the two of you again, stacking chairs in the low light, the jukebox finally silent.
Eddie wiped his hands on a towel and glanced over.
“You wanna come smoke?”
The question was casual. The way he said it wasn’t.
You usually said yes. Half the time after closing the two of you ended up on the back steps sharing a joint and talking shit about customers until the sky started getting light. Tonight the air between you felt thicker. Like the question meant something else entirely.
You still said, “Yeah. Okay.”
He nodded once, like he’d expected that answer, and grabbed his jacket.
You followed him out to the employee lot after locking up. His van was the same beat-up black thing it had always been, but even that felt different under the streetlights. He unlocked the passenger side for you without a word, then climbed in himself. The engine rumbled to life. Neither of you spoke for the first few minutes of the drive.
The silence wasn’t uncomfortable.
It was loaded.
Eddie’s place was a small rented home ten minutes from the bar, the kind of place that looked like it had seen better decades. He parked in the cracked driveway and killed the engine. For a second he just sat there, hands on the wheel, staring at the dark porch like he was deciding something.
Then he looked over at you.
“You good?”
You nodded. Your pulse was doing something stupid in your throat. “Yeah.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, almost to himself. “Cool. C’mon.”
You followed him up the steps. The porch light was out. He unlocked the door and pushed it open, stepping aside so you could walk in first. The living room smelled like him—leather, weed, stale cigarettes. A couple of amps in the corner. Records stacked in uneven piles. A couch that had definitely seen better days.
Eddie tossed his keys on the side table and shrugged out of his jacket. The clean scent of whatever he’d put on earlier drifted toward you again.
He glanced over his shoulder, that same small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“You wanna sit outside or in here?”
The question hung in the air between you, heavier than it should have been.
You met his eyes.
You nodded toward the dark backyard. “Outside.”
Eddie grinned like you’d given him the exact answer he wanted and jerked his head for you to follow. The backyard was small and overgrown, a couple of mismatched plastic chairs near the fence and a milk crate that clearly doubled as a table. He dropped into one of the chairs with a satisfied groan and pulled a little tin from his pocket.
“Got some really good shit tonight,” he said, already breaking up a dense little nug between his fingers. “Friend of a friend. Sticky. Smells like a forest fucked a skunk and they both loved it.”
You snorted and took the other chair. “Poetic.”
“I try.” He packed the bowl with practiced ease, silver rings flashing under the porch light that barely reached this far. When he lit it the first hit made him cough once, sharp, then he laughed and held it out to you. “Careful. This one sneaks up.”
You took it. The smoke was thick and sweet and immediately made your head feel softer around the edges. You passed it back and watched him take another hit, the way his throat moved when he held it in.
A few quiet exhales later you tipped your head, studying him.
“What’s up with the get-up today, by the way?”
Eddie blinked, all faux innocence. “What get-up?”
“Don’t play dumb. You smelled different. Looked different. Like you actually owned a bottle of real cologne instead of just rolling in whatever was on the floor of the van.”
He waved a hand, smoke curling around his fingers. “I showered. Revolutionary concept, I know. Sometimes the hair gets washed. Sometimes the shirt isn’t the same one I wore three days in a row. It’s called being a functional adult.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m serious. Zero effort. Pure coincidence.”
You took another hit and exhaled slowly, watching him over the rim of the bowl. “Well… I liked it.”
The change was instant. His whole posture shifted—shoulders loosening, that slow, pleased grin spreading across his face like you’d just handed him a trophy. He sat up a little straighter, eyes bright even in the dark.
“Yeah?” he said, voice warmer. “You noticed.”
“Hard not to. You walked in smelling like you had somewhere better to be.”
Eddie laughed under his breath, low and a little giddy, and ran a hand through his hair like he couldn’t help himself. “Shit. Okay. Noted. I’ll keep that in the rotation then.”
You passed the bowl back, lips curving. “I like normal you too, though. The regular version. The one who smells like your van and talks too much and leaves guitar picks in the tip jar.”
He went quiet for a second, turning the bowl between his fingers. When he looked at you again the playfulness was still there, but something heavier sat underneath it.
“Yeah, well,” he said, voice rougher now. “I just wanted you to notice the effort. Because if I ever get my hands on you…” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on yours. “I want you to know there’s gonna be full effort there too. No half-assing it. No getting bored halfway through. I’m talking dedicated. Thorough. The kind of focus that makes you forget your own name for a little while.”
The air between you went tight.
You raised an eyebrow, slow and deliberate, and let a small, challenging smile pull at your mouth.
“That a promise or just talk?”
Eddie stared at you for a long second. Then he laughed—quiet, almost disbelieving—and shook his head like you’d just dared him to jump off a roof.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice full of dark delight. “You’re gonna regret asking me that.”
Eddie set the bowl down on the milk crate with a soft clink, still grinning like you’d just handed him the best idea he’d ever heard. Before you could even process the shift in his expression he was out of the chair and in front of you, hands already sliding under your thighs.
“Wait—Eddie—”
Too late. He hauled you up in one smooth, practiced motion and tossed you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing. The world tilted. Your hands flew to his back for balance as he started walking toward the house, one arm locked firm around the backs of your legs.
“Eddie, put me down—” you laughed, smacking the solid muscle of his shoulder. “You’re such an asshole, oh my god—”
“Mm. Keep talking. It’s cute.” His free hand settled on the back of your thigh, fingers spreading possessively as he carried you up the porch steps and through the open door. “Been thinking about doing this since you told me no one’s ever gotten you there properly. Figured I’d start with the logistics.”
You twisted, trying to push yourself up enough to see where you were going, still laughing. “Logistics? You’re manhandling me—”
The sharp, open-handed smack landed right across your ass.
The sound cracked through the quiet house.
You went completely still.
The laughter died in your throat. Heat flooded low and fast, a sudden, traitorous pulse between your legs that made your breath catch. Your fingers curled into the soft fabric of his shirt. You didn’t make a sound.
Eddie stopped walking.
You felt the way his whole body went alert underneath you—the slight pause, the way his hand stayed right where it had landed, palm warm against the sting he’d just left.
“…Oh,” he said, voice dropping into something darker and deeply pleased. “There it is.”
He adjusted his grip and kept walking, slower now, like he was savoring every step. You could hear the smile in his voice when he spoke again.
“You went quiet real fast, sweetheart. That little problem of yours just get a whole lot more interesting?”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your face was burning and the ache between your legs had gone from nothing to urgent in the span of one single slap.
Eddie carried you down the short hallway and into a bedroom that smelled like the real him. He bent and deposited you onto the mattress with surprising care, letting you slide down his body until you were sitting on the edge of the bed looking up at him.
He stayed close. Close enough that you had to tip your head back. One of his hands was still resting on your waist like he hadn’t fully decided to let go yet.
His eyes were darker than they’d been outside. The playful edge was still there, but it was sharper now. Focused.
“Yeah,” he murmured, thumb stroking once over your hip. “I saw that. Felt it too. You clenched up the second my hand landed.” He tilted his head, studying your face with open, hungry curiosity. “Interesting reaction for someone who’s never come with another person. Almost like your body already knows something your brain hasn’t caught up to yet.”
He leaned in just enough that his next words brushed warm against your mouth.
“We’re gonna fix that.”
Eddie stayed right there between your knees, looking down at you like he’d already decided how the rest of the night was going to go. His hand was still warm on your waist, thumb tracing idle little arcs against the fabric of your shirt.
“Alright,” he said, voice light but serious underneath. “Before I do anything irreversible—you got a safeword?”
You blinked up at him, then huffed a soft laugh. “Jesus. You’re old. I’ve never needed one.”
His mouth twitched. “Charming. Really making me feel great about the age gap right now.”
“I’m just saying. Never came up.”
“Well it’s coming up now.” He reached past you, grabbed a pillow, and tossed it further up the bed like he was already planning ahead. “Pineapple. That’s the word. You say pineapple, everything stops. No questions, no attitude, I back off immediately. Clear?”
You stared at him for a second, then broke into a genuine laugh. “Pineapple? That’s the best you could do?”
“It’s memorable. And you’re not gonna forget it when you’re—”
You didn’t get to hear the rest of the sentence.
His hand slid up the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, and he closed them in a firm, controlled fist. The pull wasn’t rough—just deliberate enough to tip your head back so you had no choice but to look straight at him. The sudden shift in control sent another low pulse of heat straight between your legs.
Eddie’s eyes dropped to your mouth, then back up. His voice came out quieter. Rougher.
“How do you like it?”
The question sat heavy between you. You swallowed. Your scalp tingled where he held you.
“I don’t know,” you admitted. Honest. A little breathless. “No one’s ever… asked. Or stuck around long enough to figure it out.”
Something dark and satisfied moved through his expression. He leaned in closer, the grip in your hair keeping you exactly where he wanted you.
“Then you’re getting the whole experience,” he murmured. “Every version. Hard. Slow. Filthy. Whatever makes that pretty little problem of yours finally give up.”
He closed the last inch and kissed you.
It wasn’t soft. It was deep and immediate, mouth open, the kind of kiss that felt like a claim. His free hand came up to cup your jaw, tilting you further into it while the one in your hair stayed locked, holding you in place as he licked into your mouth like he’d been thinking about it for weeks. You made a small sound against his lips and he answered it with a low hum, pressing closer until your knees had to part wider around his hips.
When he finally pulled back just enough to breathe, his voice was wrecked already.
“Yeah,” he said against your mouth. “We’re gonna take our time with this.”
Eddie kissed you down into the mattress like he’d been holding himself back and finally ran out of reasons to. The weight of him settled over you. His mouth never left yours for long, only breaking long enough for both of you to drag in air before he was back, deeper, hungrier.
Your hands found the hem of his shirt at the same time his found yours.
Fabric got shoved up between frantic kisses. You both laughed once against each other’s mouths when your arms got tangled, then the shirts were gone—his tossed somewhere toward the floor, yours pulled carefully over your head so he didn’t catch it on your hair. The second your bare skin met the cooler air of the room, Eddie went still.
His eyes dropped.
The tattoos you’d kept hidden under work shirts and bar aprons sat dark against your skin—delicate lines and soft shading that only showed when the fabric came off. He stared like he’d just been handed something private and important.
“Fuck,” he breathed. One hand hovered, then settled lightly over the ink on your ribs, thumb tracing the edge of a design. “You’ve been walking around with these under those little black tanks this whole time and never said a word?”
You felt heat climb your throat. “Didn’t come up.”
“It’s coming up now.” His voice had gone lower, almost reverent. He leaned down and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the center of your chest, right between your breasts, then another a little higher. The metal of his rings was cool against your side as his hand slid up.
He paused there, mouth still brushing your skin, and looked up at you through his lashes.
“Can I take this off?” His fingers rested at the back clasp of your bra, waiting. Not moving until you answered.
You nodded.
Eddie kissed the same spot on your chest once more—soft, almost grateful—before he reached behind you. The clasp gave easily under his fingers, like he’d done it a hundred times and still treated it like it mattered. He drew the straps down your arms slowly, letting the fabric fall away, and sat back just enough to look.
The way his expression changed was quiet and thorough. No teasing. No smirk. Just open, focused appreciation as his gaze moved over you.
“Look at you,” he murmured. One hand came up to cup the side of your breast, thumb stroking once beneath it like he was learning the shape. “Hiding all this under work clothes every night. Perfect fucking girl. Trying so hard not to let anyone see.”
He leaned back down and pressed a slower kiss to the soft curve of one breast, then the other, voice still gentle against your skin.
“Gonna take my time looking at every single thing you’ve been keeping to yourself.”
He stayed right there, mouth and hands devoted to your breasts like he had nowhere else in the world to be. Soft, open kisses trailed across the full curves, lingering under the weight of them where the skin was most sensitive. His tongue flicked once over a nipple before he closed his lips around it and sucked—gentle at first, then deeper when your back arched. The whole time he talked, voice low and warm against your skin.
“So responsive,” he murmured, switching to the other side. “Look at the way you push up into my mouth. You’ve been starving for someone to just… stay here and worship these for a while.” Another slow suck, a quiet hum of approval when you made a soft sound. “Perfect tits. So fucking perfect.”
You were soaked.
You could feel it—heat and slickness gathering between your legs until your underwear clung uncomfortably. You didn’t think you’d ever gotten this wet before. Not from kissing. Not from anything. Every drag of his tongue, every quiet, filthy-sweet word made the ache worse.
Eddie kissed lower, across the soft skin just beneath your breasts, then lifted his head. His eyes were dark, pupils blown, but his voice stayed careful.
“Can I take these off?” His fingers rested at the button of your jeans, waiting.
You nodded.
He popped the button and drew the zipper down slowly. You lifted your hips so he could work the denim down your legs and toss it aside. The second the cool air hit you, his gaze dropped—and locked onto the dark, obvious wet patch soaking through the center of your underwear.
His whole body went still.
You watched the thick outline of his cock twitch hard against the front of his jeans, straining against the fabric like it was trying to get to you on its own.
Eddie exhaled a rough, almost pained sound. “Jesus Christ.”
You swallowed, voice quieter than you meant it to be. “Fair is fair. Take yours off too.”
He didn’t argue. He stood just long enough to shove his jeans down and kick them away, leaving him in dark boxer briefs that did almost nothing to hide him. The outline was obscene—long, thick, heavy against his thigh, the head clearly defined where it pressed against the cotton. Even confined like that he looked massive.
Your mouth went a little dry.
“Holy shit,” you breathed before you could stop yourself.
Eddie glanced down at himself, then back at you, a slow, knowing smile tugging at his mouth even as his voice stayed soft.
“Yeah,” he said, climbing back over you. “We’re gonna take this real slow, sweetheart. I’m gonna need you nice and open for me.” His hand settled on your hip, thumb stroking the edge of your soaked underwear. “But first I’m gonna make sure this pretty little problem of yours never stands a chance.”
Eddie kissed you again—deeper this time, slower, like he was trying to pour every filthy intention he had into your mouth. You couldn’t help the way your hips rolled up against him, seeking friction, grinding the soaked center of your underwear against the hard line of his cock. The second you did it he groaned into the kiss, one hand sliding down to grip your thigh and hold you there for a second longer.
Then he pulled back.
“Greedy,” he murmured against your lips, almost fond. “Alright. I hear you.”
He started kissing down.
Your chest first—lingering again on the soft undersides of your breasts, tongue tracing the curves he’d already learned—then lower, across the plane of your stomach. Every open-mouthed press of his lips made your muscles jump. He nuzzled the soft skin just above the waistband of your underwear and exhaled like the scent of how wet you were was doing something to him.
You lifted your hips without being asked. Together you worked the soaked fabric down your legs until it was gone. The second you were bare, Eddie went quiet.
He sat back on his heels between your thighs and just looked.
His hands settled on the insides of your knees and slowly pushed them wider, eyes locked on the slick, flushed mess of your cunt. You were so wet it was almost embarrassing—glistening along your folds, dripping down toward the sheets. He stared like he was trying to memorize every detail.
“Fucking perfect,” he said, voice low and rough with sincerity. “Look at you. All pretty and shiny and soaked just from me playing with your tits. You’re beautiful like this.” His thumbs stroked higher along your inner thighs. “I’m gonna take such good care of you. Promise.”
Then he dove in.
No teasing. He flattened his tongue and dragged it through your center in one long, filthy stripe, collecting everything you’d made for him. The sound he made was almost pained—hungry and relieved all at once—before he sealed his mouth over your clit and sucked.
Your whole body arched.
Eddie hummed against you like the taste of you was exactly what he’d been after all night, and settled in like he planned to stay there for a very long time.
He started slow—long, flat strokes of his tongue from the bottom of your cunt all the way up to your clit, gathering every bit of slick that had already collected there. The sound was wet and filthy every time he dragged through you. He hummed low in his chest like the taste of you was something he wanted to memorize.
“Fuck, you taste sweet,” he murmured against your folds, voice already rough. “So wet for me already. Been dripping since I smacked that pretty ass, haven’t you?”
His hands stayed firm on your inner thighs, holding you open exactly how he wanted. When he focused on your clit he did it with devastating patience—soft, circling licks that barely gave you pressure, then firmer ones that made your hips twitch. Every time your thighs tried to close he just pressed them wider and kept going.
You were already shaking.
Eddie noticed. Of course he did. He lifted his mouth just enough to speak, lips shiny, eyes dark and focused.
“That’s it. Let me feel it. You’re allowed to get loud, sweetheart. Nobody’s here but me.” He dipped back down and sucked your clit between his lips, gentle at first, then harder when your back arched. “Good girl. So sensitive. I can feel you throbbing on my tongue.”
He worked you in waves. Soft and teasing until you were rolling your hips up against his mouth, then deeper—tongue pushing inside you in slow, filthy thrusts while his nose pressed against your clit. The wet sounds filled the room. Your hands found his hair and twisted, not sure if you were trying to pull him closer or survive it.
Eddie groaned like he loved the sting.
“There you go,” he praised, voice muffled against you. “Use me. Grind on my face if you need to. I’ve got you.” He sealed his mouth back over your clit and sucked in a steady, relentless rhythm while two fingers finally slid inside you—curving, searching, pressing up into that spot that made your vision blur. “Fuck, you’re squeezing me already. So tight. So needy. Gonna make this little cunt come so hard for me.”
He didn’t rush the build.
Every time you got close he eased off just enough to keep you hovering—switching to broad, messy licks, kissing the insides of your thighs, murmuring soft filthy things against your skin about how pretty you looked spread open and dripping for him. Then he’d return to your clit with single-minded focus, fingers working you open, tongue relentless.
Your stomach started tightening. The pleasure turned sharp and overwhelming. You could hear how wet you were—slick sounds every time his fingers moved, every time his mouth sealed over you again.
“Eddie—I can’t—”
“Yes you can,” he said immediately, voice low and certain. He doubled down, sucking harder, fingers curling in steady, perfect strokes. “You’re right there. I can feel it. Let it happen. Give it to me.”
The orgasm hit like a wave you couldn’t stop.
Your whole body locked. A broken, high sound tore out of you as the pleasure crashed through—your cunt pulsing hard around his fingers, slick gushing out of you in warm, uncontrollable pulses that coated his mouth and chin and dripped down onto the sheets. Eddie moaned like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted and kept going through it, licking you through every spurt, every tremor, drinking you down like he was starving for it.
He only slowed when your thighs started shaking too hard to stay open.
Even then he didn’t pull away completely. He pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses to your oversensitive clit, your folds, the dripping mess he’d made of you, voice wrecked and reverent.
“That’s my girl,” he murmured against your cunt. “Look at that. Fucking beautiful. You came so hard you made a mess of me.” He licked a slow stripe through the wetness still dripping from you and groaned.
Eddie sat up just long enough to shove his boxer briefs down and kick them off the bed. His cock sprang free—a heavy thump against his stomach. After everything he’d just done to you, he looked almost painfully hard.
He crawled back over you and kissed you deep.
You tasted yourself on his mouth immediately—sharp and sweet and filthy. The knowledge that he’d just had his face buried between your legs made your stomach flip all over again. He licked into your mouth like he wanted you to taste how hard you’d come for him, one hand braced beside your head, the other stroking slowly along your side.
When he pulled back, his voice was quieter. Careful.
“Still sure you want this?” His eyes searched yours. “I already made you come. We can stop here if you need to. No pressure.”
You didn’t answer with words.
You reached up, grabbed the back of his neck, and pulled him down into another kiss—harder this time, open-mouthed and certain. Your other hand slid down between your bodies and wrapped around the thick length of him. He was so hot against your palm, so heavy, the skin soft over the rigid hardness underneath. Eddie groaned into your mouth like the simple touch of your hand almost undid him.
“Okay,” he rasped against your lips. “Okay. I’ve got you.”
He reached down and wrapped his own hand around his cock, guiding the broad head through the soaked mess of your cunt. The first drag of him against your oversensitive clit made your hips jerk. He did it again—slower—slicking himself up with everything you’d already given him, the fat head catching against your entrance every time he passed over it.
You were so wet the sound was obscene.
Eddie braced himself on one forearm and looked down between your bodies, watching the way the blunt head of his cock pressed against you. His breathing had gone uneven.
“Gonna go slow,” he promised, voice strained. “You’re tight as hell and I’m not exactly small. Tell me if it’s too much.”
He pushed.
The stretch was immediate and intense—thick pressure that forced you open around him inch by careful inch. You could feel every ridge, every vein, the way your body had to give to take him. Your mouth fell open on a broken sound. Eddie’s forehead dropped against yours, a low, punched-out groan spilling out of him as the head finally slipped inside.
“Fuck—look at that,” he breathed, hips trembling with the effort of holding still. “Taking me so well already. You’re soaking my cock baby girl.”
He gave you another inch. Then another. The burn of the stretch mixed with the leftover sensitivity from your orgasm until your thighs were shaking around his hips. You could feel how deep he was already getting, the heavy weight of him filling you in a way nothing else ever had.
Eddie kissed the corner of your mouth, sweet even as his voice went filthy.
“That’s it. Just like that. Let me in, sweetheart. Gonna fill this pretty cunt up until you forget anyone else ever tried.”
“Move,” you whispered.
Eddie exhaled like he’d been waiting for permission. He drew his hips back slowly—just an inch or two—then pushed back in just as carefully. The thick slide of him forced another soft sound out of your throat. You felt everything. Every ridge. Every subtle pulse of his cock as he sank deeper. The way your walls had to stretch and flutter around the heavy girth of him just to take it.
He kept the pace almost gentle.
Long, controlled strokes that let you feel the full drag of him pulling out and the slow, relentless push back in until he bottomed out against you. His forehead stayed pressed to yours. His voice never stopped.
“That’s it,” he murmured, breath warm against your mouth. “Feel how full you are. Taking all of me like you were made for it. S' tight. S' perfect around my cock.” Another slow thrust. Your fingers dug into his shoulders. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart. Letting me open you up.”
The sweetness of it almost undid you more than the stretch.
Every praise landed low in your stomach. Every careful roll of his hips sent sparks up your spine. You could feel how wet you still were—slick sounds filling the quiet room every time he sank back in. But the longer he stayed that measured and deep, the more something restless started building under your skin.
You needed more.
Deeper. Harder. Something that matched the ache he’d already put in you.
Eddie must have felt the way your hips started chasing him, because he pulled back just enough to look at your face. His eyes were dark, pupils blown, but his voice stayed soft.
“I know,” he said. “I can feel you getting greedy again sweetheart.”
He sat back on his knees, still buried inside you, and hooked his hands behind your knees. In one smooth motion he pushed your legs up and open, folding you nearly in half until your thighs pressed against your own chest. The new angle made him sink impossibly deeper on the next slow thrust. You gasped—sharp and high—as the thick head of him pressed against something that made your vision spark.
Eddie groaned low in his throat and held the position, hips rolling in the same unhurried rhythm, only now every stroke dragged against that deeper, more intense place inside you.
“There we go,” he praised, voice rough with restraint. “That’s what you needed, huh? Deeper?” He thrust in again—slow, deliberate, grinding against the end of you. “All folded up and still sucking me in. Perfect girl. Just keep breathing for me. I’ve got you.”
He never sped up.
He just kept fucking you deep and steady, sweet words spilling out of him the entire time, like he had no intention of stopping until he’d ruined you completely.
Your voice broke on a high, frustrated sound.
“Eddie—please—harder. I need it harder, I can’t—”
He didn’t make you beg twice.
The second the plea left your mouth his whole demeanor shifted. The careful restraint he’d been holding onto snapped. His grip on the backs of your thighs tightened and he started fucking you properly—long, powerful strokes that drove him deep enough to punch the air out of your lungs every time his hips met yours. The wet, filthy sound of it filled the room. Your body jolted up the mattress with every thrust until he dragged you back down by the hips and kept going.
“Anything,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “Anything you want. You need it harder? It’s yours. Need me deeper? Take it.” He snapped his hips in harder, the thick length of him dragging against that spot inside you on every stroke until your eyes rolled. “Fuck—listen to you. Whining for my cock like you were made for it. I’ve got you. Gonna give you everything.”
The intensity crashed over you too fast to stop.
Your second orgasm hit with almost no warning—sharp and overwhelming, your cunt clamping down around him in hard, rhythmic pulses as pleasure ripped through you. You cried out, nails digging into his arms, thighs shaking violently in his grip while you came on his cock alone. The wet rush of it made every thrust louder, messier. Eddie groaned like he could feel every flutter and kept fucking you through it, never slowing, praising you the whole time in a broken stream of words.
“That’s it—come on my cock, just like that. Fucking beautiful. You’re soaking me. Squeezing me so tight I can barely move. Good girl. Perfect fucking girl.”
He only eased up when the aftershocks left you trembling and oversensitive.
You could still feel how hard he was inside you—thick and throbbing, nowhere near finished. The realization made something determined spark low in your stomach. You reached up and pushed weakly at his chest.
“Want to ride you,” you managed, voice hoarse. “Please. Let me.”
Eddie went still. His eyes searched your face, dark and concerned even as his cock twitched deep inside you.
“You sure?” he asked, already breathing hard. “You just came twice. You’re shaking. We can slow down—”
“I’m sure.” You held his gaze, stubborn and flushed and still pulsing around him. “I want to. Let me.”
Something hungry and soft moved through his expression all at once. He carefully pulled out of you—both of you hissing at the sudden emptiness—then rolled onto his back in one smooth motion. His cock lay heavy and glistening against his stomach— pulsing.
He looked up at you, hands already settling on your waist as you straddled him.
“Alright, sweetheart,” he said, voice low and rough with restraint. “It’s yours. Take whatever you need.”
You braced one hand on his chest and reached down between your bodies, wrapping your fingers around the thick base of him. He was still soaked from you—slick and hot against your palm. You lined him up and sank down slowly.
The stretch punched a broken sound out of your throat. Even after everything, taking him from this angle felt deeper, heavier. You had to work yourself down inch by inch, thighs trembling, until you were finally seated flush against him with his cock buried to the hilt. Your head dropped forward. Eddie’s hands settled on your hips, thumbs stroking soft circles like he was grounding you.
You swallowed, voice already shaky.
“What do you like?”
His eyes were almost black looking up at you. A breathless little laugh left him.
“Anything that makes this pretty cunt of yours cream all over me,” he said, rough and honest. “You want to grind slow and deep until you’re shaking? I’ll lie here and take every second of it. You want to bounce on my cock like a desperate little slut until your legs give out? I’ll hold you up and thank you for the privilege. Use me. Ruin yourself on me. I’m yours.”
So you did.
You started rolling your hips—slow at first, grinding him deep so every movement dragged against that spot inside you that made your stomach tighten. The wet sound of it was filthy. Eddie groaned under you, head tipping back against the pillow, hands sliding up to cup your breasts as you moved. You found a rhythm and stuck to it, lifting up until only the thick head remained inside you before sinking back down and taking every inch again.
“Fuck—look at you,” he growled, voice strained and filthy. “Stretching that tight little hole around my cock. I can feel you fluttering every time you bottom out. So wet you’re dripping down my balls. That’s it. Fuck yourself on me. Show me how badly you needed to get filled.”
Your thighs started burning sooner than you wanted. The deeper angle made every bounce more intense, the stretch relentless, pleasure building sharp and overwhelming all over again. You kept going anyway—determined—until your legs began to shake so hard you could barely lift yourself. A frustrated little sound slipped out of you.
Eddie felt it immediately.
“I’ve got you,” he rasped.
His hands locked hard around your waist. In the next breath he planted his feet on the mattress and started fucking up into you—powerful, upward thrusts that drove his cock deep enough to punch broken moans out of your mouth every time. The new rhythm was relentless. Wet, filthy sounds filled the room as he slammed up into your soaked cunt, using his grip on your hips to pull you down to meet every stroke.
“That’s it—take every fucking inch,” he snarled, eyes locked on where he disappeared inside you. “Sit on my cock and let me ruin you. This greedy little cunt is sucking me in so deep I can feel it in my spine. Dripping down my stomach like a slut who finally got what she needed.” He thrust up harder, the force of it making your tits bounce. “You feel that? That’s me splitting you open. This is what was missing every time some useless asshole couldn’t make you come. A real cock. A man who knows how to use it.”
Your arms gave out. You collapsed forward onto his chest, face buried against his neck, while he kept pounding up into you without mercy—praise and filthy encouragement spilling out of him in a continuous, wrecked stream.
“Come on. Squeeze me. Cream all over this cock while I fuck you stupid. You’re taking me so well I can barely think. Perfect fucking girl. My perfect fucking girl. Gonna keep this up until you forget how to walk straight.”
Eddie kept fucking up into you in hard, relentless strokes, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room. Your body jolted with every thrust. He was so deep it felt like he was rearranging you from the inside.
His voice came out rough against your ear.
“Touch yourself. Play with that pretty clit while I fuck you. I want to feel you gush on my cock again.”
Your hand slid down between your bodies without hesitation. The second your fingers found your clit—swollen and oversensitive—you cried out. The dual sensation was almost too much: the thick, brutal drag of his cock splitting you open on every upward thrust and the tight circles you rubbed over your clit. Slick coated your fingers immediately. You were so wet it was obscene.
Eddie groaned like he could feel the way your cunt fluttered harder around him the second you started touching yourself.
“That’s it. Good girl. Rub that clit for me. Make a mess. I want to feel you soak my cock.” He snapped his hips up harder, the force of it punching broken, high sounds out of your throat. “Fuck—you’re gripping me so tight. This greedy little cunt doesn’t want to let me go. Come on. Give it to me. Third time’s the charm, sweetheart. Ruin yourself.”
The orgasm tore through you violently.
Your whole body locked up. A broken sob left your mouth as you came hard—cunt clamping down in strong, rhythmic pulses while a fresh gush of wetness flooded out of you around his cock. It was messy, uncontrollable, soaking his stomach, his hips, the sheets beneath you in a warm rush that just kept coming with every thrust he forced through it. The wet sounds turned filthy and loud. You shook apart on top of him, fingers still moving weakly over your clit as the pleasure dragged on and on.
Eddie cursed low and filthy, fucking you through every spurt until your thighs were trembling too hard to stay upright.
He didn’t stop moving, but his rhythm turned slightly more erratic—hips stuttering as he chased his own edge. His hands gripped your waist hard enough to bruise.
“Where do you want it?” he rasped, voice wrecked. “Tell me. Mouth, tits, stomach—where?”
You lifted your head just enough to meet his eyes, still pulsing around him, still dripping.
“Inside me.”
Something raw and hungry flashed across his face.
“Fuck—okay. Anything you want.”
He pulled you down flush against him and buried himself to the hilt, grinding deep as he finally let go. A long, guttural groan tore out of his chest as he came—hot, thick pulses flooding your cunt in heavy spurts. You could feel every throb, every rope of it painting you deep inside. He kept you locked there, hips pressed tight, cock twitching as he emptied everything he had into you with broken, filthy praise spilling from his mouth.
“Take it—take every drop. Filling this perfect cunt up. Made for this. Made to take my cum.” His forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard. “Fucking perfect. You’re perfect.”
He stayed buried deep as the last aftershocks faded, still pulsing weakly inside you, holding you like he had no intention of letting go anytime soon.
You collapsed onto his chest like every bone in your body had given up at once.
Eddie stayed inside you for a few more long seconds, one hand stroking slowly up and down your back while the other cradled the back of your head. His heartbeat hammered under your ear. When he finally moved, he did it carefully—rolling you both onto your sides, then easing out of you with a soft, wet sound that made you flinch. You felt the immediate rush of his cum starting to leak out of you and made a small, incoherent noise against the pillow.
“I know,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”
He pressed a kiss to your shoulder and slipped out of bed. You heard the soft sounds of him moving around the dark room—drawer opening, water running in the bathroom—before he came back with a warm washcloth. The mattress dipped as he climbed back in.
Eddie was gentle about it. He wiped between your legs with slow, careful strokes, cleaning up the mess the two of you had made without any teasing. When he finished he tossed the cloth toward the hamper and stretched out beside you, pulling you in until your head was on his chest and one of his arms was locked securely around your waist.
You were barely able to form words. Your body felt heavy and loose and thoroughly used. Every muscle hummed with leftover sparks. You managed a soft, exhausted sound against his skin and that was about it.
Eddie let the quiet sit for a while, fingers tracing idle patterns along your spine. Then, eventually, the familiar edge of amusement crept back into his voice.
“…So.”
You made a questioning noise that didn’t quite become a word.
“I’m just saying,” he continued, clearly trying and failing to sound casual, “for someone who claimed she’d never come from a dude before, you just came two times on my cock and gushed all over my face like it was your job. I’m feeling pretty fucking proud of myself right now.”
You managed a weak, breathless little laugh against his chest.
“There she is,” he said, sounding deeply satisfied. “Thought I broke you for a second.” His hand slid up to cup the back of your head, thumb stroking behind your ear. “You good? Need water? A trophy? I’m open to suggestions.”
You pinched his side weakly. Your voice came out rough and quiet.
“Shut up.”
“Can’t. I’m having a moment. Do you understand the historical significance of what just happened in this bed? I should call Jess. Let her know the little problem has been thoroughly, scientifically solved.”
You groaned into his chest. “If you call Jess I will actually kill you.”
Eddie laughed—low and warm and completely unrepentant—and pulled you closer, tucking the blankets up around both of you.
“Fine. No phone calls. But I reserve the right to be unbearably smug about this for at least a week.” He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, voice dropping softer even as the teasing stayed. “You did so good for me. Seriously.”
You didn’t have the energy to argue.
You just let him hold you, the steady rise and fall of his chest under your cheek, while the last of the aftershocks faded and the witty, insufferable version of him settled back in like he’d never left.
Two days later the bar was dead again—same sticky counters, same half-hearted jukebox, same mid-afternoon quiet that made the whole place feel like it was holding its breath.
Eddie had been insufferable since the second he walked in.
He didn’t say anything outright. He didn’t have to. It was in the way he moved around you—closer than usual, hand lingering at the small of your back every time he slipped past, that permanent little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like he was replaying the entire night on a loop. Every time you caught his eye across the bar he just raised an eyebrow, slow and filthy, and went back to polishing a glass like he hadn’t just rearranged your entire understanding of sex in his shitty little bungalow.
Jess lasted maybe forty minutes before she cracked.
She leaned across the bar while Eddie was restocking the back, voice low and delighted. “Okay. What the fuck happened.”
You kept wiping the same clean section of counter. “Nothing.”
“Bullshit. He’s been floating around like he invented the orgasm and you keep turning the color of a stop sign every time he looks at you. Spill.”
“There’s nothing to spill.”
Eddie chose that exact moment to reappear, carrying a case of beer like it weighed nothing. He set it down, glanced between the two of you, and the smirk widened.
“Talking about me?” he asked, all faux innocence.
Jess pointed at him. “You. Explain why you’re walking around like— like that."
Eddie leaned his elbows on the bar right next to you, close enough that his arm brushed yours. He smelled like the same cologne from the other night. “No idea what you’re talking about. I’m just in a good mood. Weather’s nice. Tips were decent yesterday. Life is beautiful.”
You shot him a warning look. He ignored it completely.
Jess’s eyes narrowed, bouncing between the two of you. Then something clicked. Her mouth fell open.
“Oh my god.”
“Jess—” you started.
“You didn’t.”
Eddie examined his rings like they were suddenly fascinating. “Didn’t what?”
“You fixed the little problem,” she said, voice climbing with glee. “You actually fixed it. Look at her face. Look at your face. Holy shit.”
You dropped the rag and pointed at both of them. “We are not talking about this.”
Jess clasped her hands under her chin. “I need every detail. Immediately. Was it good? Was it life-changing? How many times did you—”
“I will quit,” you said flatly.
Eddie made a thoughtful sound, tilting his head. “Y’know, I’m happy to provide a full report if she’s too shy. In the interest of science. And friendship. And the betterment of women everywhere who’ve been suffering under subpar—”
You shoved his shoulder hard enough that he laughed and had to catch himself on the bar.
“Do not.”
He held up both hands, still grinning like the cat that got everything it ever wanted. “Offer stands. Jess, you just say the word and I’ll give you the entire play by play. ”
Jess looked like Christmas had come early. “I’m listening.”
You grabbed the rag again and turned away, face burning, but you couldn’t quite hide the smile pulling at your mouth.
“Just so we’re clear,” he said, loud enough for only you to catch the undertone, “I’m available for follow-up research whenever you want.”
You're sat around the pool at the Cody house, perched on your boyfriend's lap excitedly chatting with your friends Deran and Craig.
There's are so many 'dudes' and 'bros' being thrown around in the conversation the three of you could be easily mistaken for a caricature of some west-coast surfer dudes.
You turn to Andrew without thinking, "Wait, bro, did I tell you—"
Immediately, his face falls. His dark eyes fill with something close enough to hurt to makes your chest tighten. You cringe internally, realising your mistake.
"I'm not your bro" he grumbles, his grip on your hip tightening almost like he's trying to remind you of his role of boyfriend. The last thing he wanted was to be lumped into the same category as his idiot brothers by you.
The expression on his face is almost pouty and you have to try your best not to let slip how amused you are at your boyfriend's offence over the tiniest slight.
"Oh shit!" Craig hollers from the other sun lounger and you shoot him a dirty look.
"I'm sorry, honey." You emphasise the last word, pointedly but he just frowns so you try again. "Handsome, my man, sweetheart, king?" He scrunches his face in disgust at the last one and you giggle.
"Andrew" You finally coo, having known that was what he wanted all along. He only grunts in response, but he looks relieved, his annoyance clearly placated. You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth and his brothers groan dramatically in protest.
"My Andrew," you announce, giving him another, longer smooch just to spite your dumb friends.
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a/n: this is so dumb but I have been struck down by writers block
satoru loves listening to you, especially when your lips are against his. . .
the room is quiet enough that every little sound feels louder than it should— the soft rustle of blankets, and the tiny laugh that escapes you when satoru steals another kiss before you even finish your sentence.
“you know,” you mumble against his lips. “you should really listen to me right now.”
“i’m listening,” he replies, barely pulling away. his lips brush yours with every word. “you said i’m handsome.”
“i definitely didn’t.”
“no? must’ve imagined it.”
you roll your eyes, though he can’t really see it from how close you are. your noses bump together, and he smiles before giving you another slow, lazy kiss.
“you interrupted me again,” you say.
“m’sorry.. keep talking, sweetheart.”
another kiss.
“i’m trying to tell you,” you whisper, your lips still resting against his. “that we need groceries.”
“we’ll figure something out,” he hums thoughtfully, his breath warm against your face.
“i doubt it, you big back.”
“you’re so mean to me.”
you laugh, the sound breaking into another kiss because satoru seems physically incapable of letting more than a few seconds pass without stealing one.
“kissing me until i forget what i was saying?”
“…is it working?” he muses.
you pause. “…maybe.”
“i know you‘re enjoying yourself,” he says softly, brushing his lips over yours again. “you haven‘t pulled away yet.”
“seems like i’ve made questionable life choices.”
he gasps dramatically, though his smile gives him away.
“oh? dating me is questionable?”
“sometimes.”
another kiss.
“when you leave your socks everywhere.”
mwah.
“when you eat all my snacks.”
mwah.
“when you—”
he kisses you longer that time, lingering just enough that you forget where your complaint is going.
“…see?” he murmurs.
“you are so annoying.”
“but?”
“but…” you smile. “you’re very cute.”
his grin is immediate, and he kisses the corner of your mouth
“what do you want for dinner?” you ask.
“hmm…” he pretends to think hard, his forehead resting against yours. “you.”
“oh my god,” you groan. “you’ve been waiting to say that, haven’t you?”
“maybe.” he grins into the next kiss.
“you should be embarrassed.”
“can’t hear your mean remarks when you’re this close.”
your lips meet in soft, absent-minded kisses between tiny conversations about nothing at all. whether the laundry is finished, whether the weather looks nice tomorrow, or how his teaching is going.
“toru—” kiss. “—how am I supposed to—” another kiss. “—focus?”
“why’d you need to?” his smile softens into something quieter, gentler than his usual teasing grin.
quarterly reminder that if i reblog something ai-generated it is 110% and always an accident and for the love of god please tell me so i can delete it from my blog
i feel like i don’t see enough headcanons for gaz and it makes me :///
anyways.
gaz is tooootally the type to be a proper gentleman towards you on your first date—wooing you with flowers, showering you with endless compliments—just completely reeling you in with an invisible string.
but when you guys fuck for the first time? oh, this man is dirty.
he’d fuck you slow and hard just so you could feel every beautiful inch and vein of him, but he’d lean in so close to the point where you could just barely even get in a full breath. especially not with how hard he punches right into your cunt, leaving close kisses on your cervix each time.
he’d shove his thumb right into your mouth and just let his fingerprint rest there for a bit. basking in the warmth of your mouth for a couple of seconds before pushing your mouth open wider and spitting a glob of spit right on the center of your tongue and watching it for a moment before shutting your jaw and forcing you to swallow.
he enjoys being the one to make you blush, but he lives for being the one to make you fall apart.
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