He always does this. He knocks on your door and grabs your face between big hands, and suddenly all that resolve and determination—never again—dissolves with your willpower. His hands are rough  and calloused, but trace your hips and hold you down so gently, you can almost pretend he cares if you break. His cock is thick and impossibly long, and he always drags it between your soaked heat and bumps it against your clit before pushing himself in just right. His lips are chapped and soft, sucking possessive marks into your neck that he has no right to claim, but that doesn’t stop you from running your fingers through his hair and holding him right where he is. He wouldn’t dare to leave. Not in the middle of this. Not before you’ve both gotten what you want.

What Dean wants. You don’t let yourself pretend that this is everything you need anymore. It’s the only hope you have of one day telling him no, because the rest of you control rests on a thin rope, and it always slips from your hands the moment Dean touches you like you matter.

You never walk away from him with an aching, unsatisfied body. A few nights ago he put you on his face and made you ride until your thighs were shaking and tears were springing into your eyes. Before this, he spit on your cunt and scissored you open with thick, careful finger, kissing and nipping at your thighs as your greedy pussy swallowed him right up to the knuckle. Even now, as every roll of his hips becomes smaller—as his face twists in concentration and his mouth against your jaw becomes desperate—Dean’s thumbing at your clit, trying to get you over the edge with him.

“C’mon, baby, c’mon-“ He pushes himself up to his knees, forcing a deeper, rougher angle. “Show me what you’ve got, I know you can do it, come on-

You whimper, staring up at him under lidded, glazed eyes. The whole world is just a blur of color at this point, but Dean is bright and clear. The heave of his broad shoulder and chest, every muscle in his arm as he wraps it around your waist and makes you arch your back, the flex of his abdomen as he ruts forward like a feral dog. The sharp, unforgiving thrusts are making your head spin with pleasure, turning you into a boneless wreck of need. You grab his arm, trying to steady yourself against something, and Dean’s attention rips up.

He says he likes to watch himself fuck you, and you’ve never doubted that for a second. He’s spent whole sessions just staring at his cock or fingers splitting your cunt open. He likes putting you on his face because he can watch you react. You like it better like that, usually. The eye contact is too close. Too intimate. Too real.

But you grab him, and he looks at you, and it’s almost like a shot. His eyes are blown-out and so strangely soft, staring at your wrecked, open expression with too much, too much, too much-

“De- Deeean-“ You cry it out like a pray, because it is. Dean grunts, hips snapping, the wet sound filling up the air and his eyes never leaving yours. “Dean- Dean- Fuck, please- Please-“

You’re babbling. You never do that with anyone else, but Dean is Dean, and he makes you do things you never counted yourself capable of. He groans your name, and you squeal when he drags you up, off the mattress and straddling his thighs. Your clit drags against his abdomen, his cock bullies right against your g-spot, and Dean grabs your jaw with a single, painfully gentle hand.

“Cum for me, sweet girl,” he rasps, still holding your gaze, even as your eyes start to cross. “Soak this fuckin’ cock, baby, cum-“

You almost scream as your orgasm rips through you, and Dean crashes his mouth against yours, eating every whimper and moan with harsh lips and his tongue down your throat. You press into him, pussy gushing and fluttering around his dick, and he makes that deep, rumbling sound that always comes right before-

“Shit-“ Dean gasps against your mouth, pulling you so close you can’t feel anything but the heat of his bare chest, the sensation of his cock twitching and pumping in your cunt. “Fuuck-“

Dean moans your name, and a warm, pleasant heat starts to spread through your tummy and drip between your thighs. He doesn’t stop moving until his cock is softened, and you don’t try to stop him. You’re barely more than a limp doll right now, returning his kisses with tiny mewls, eyes crossed and body limp.

For a moment after it’s done, you stay tangled together. You always do. It’s the most dangerous part of the whole thing, because it feeds that tiny little fool in your chest, who refuses to believe that this is just sex. Who takes your heartstrings and weaves grand worlds where Dean loves you back, and you’re going to be just fine.

Dean kisses your brow, and your eyes flutter closed. There’s an advantage, to being a crybaby whenever he fucks you stupid. He never once has considered that the tears might be real.

“Think you can walk?” He mutters, still buried deep inside of you, still holding you like he cares.

You shake your head, and his mouth twitches against yours.

“Alright, pretty girl. I’ve got you.”

And you press your face into the crook of his neck, letting that fool take you over. She takes his words as gospel. My girl and I’ve got you and Baby, they’re exactly what he means and nothing more, nothing less.

When the logical part of your brain wakes back up—Dean’s always had this ability to hit a button in you, sliding his hand around the back of your neck and making all your thoughts just bubblegum feelings and electric colors—you’re going to remember why you always say this has to be the last time.

He’s perfect, and he’s not yours. He makes that perfectly clear, until he pulls these little stunts and ends up buried between your thighs. You agreed that he wasn’t yours, when this arrangement started.

Safer with someone you know, he’d told you, like he hasn’t fucked his way across the entire country. Easier. Nothing to worry about, when it’s you and me.

And you’d been a starry-eyed, gooey hearted fool who just wanted whatever part of Dean he was willing to show you. The burning love you kept tended in your ribs hadn’t seen a problem with adding fuel to the wildfire, even if Dean was never going to see it. But now he’s carrying you to the bathroom like a princess, and he’s going to be gone in the morning, and that wildfire is an inferno. He doesn’t know. He can’t know. You can map out everything he’d ever say in response to your feelings, from the harsh sneer he would’ve given when he had the Mark of Cain, to the kinder let down you’d get now.

You’re too young, he’d say, like it was a consolation prize. And I like you, sweetheart, but I don’t do this kinda thing. Not with girls young enough to be my daughter. Not with kids that I hunt with. Not with you.

You press your face further into his neck. He’s always so warm and sturdy, a massive tree that’s offering you just as much shade crushing, unbearable weight and tangled roots that keep you pressed down. He smells like leather and whiskey and something perfectly, faintly spice. You want to drown in it. You want to drown in him.

“You good?” Dean asks, and his voice is too gentle. It rattles the little fool, screaming for the rest of you to listen and just accept that he loves you.

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t.

“You’re bein’ quiet, even for- Y’know-“ He chuckles, that low, insufferably charming pride crawling into his voice. “After I fuck you dumb.”

“You did not fuck me dumb,” you mumble against his skin, and you can hear his grin.

“Big words from the girl who couldn’t talk five minutes ago.”

“That was unrelated.”

“Unrelated,” he echoes, his thumb dragging a small circle against your spine. “Always forget how bratty you get after, sweetheart. Dangerous.”

You roll your eyes, and hug him tighter. He laughs, and kisses the side of your head, and he has the nerve to call you dangerous.

“You wanna watch a movie?” He asks, leaning down to run the water, still keeping you tucked so carefully against his chest, and all you can do is nod. Dean sighs. “C’mon, gimme a little more than that-“

“Yes, please,” you mumble, and he pauses.

It’s only a fraction of a second. You don’t understand it, and you don’t want to. Not when he feeds your delusions and kisses your brow again, then your cheek, then your lips. And you let him. You always let him, because you’re a foolish, stupid, lovesick idiot. You don’t want his affection, not like this. But you don’t want to lose him—it would be like ripping a vital organ out of your ribcage, even if you didn’t know you had it a year ago—and you can’t ever tell him to stop being so sweet without explaining yourself, and getting that gentle, horrible let down.

You don’t want it. You don’t want any of it. And this, this had to be the last time. 

You hold the line. You don’t know how, but you hold that line with white knuckles and grit teeth and a taste like bile in the back of your throat.

Dean knocks on the door, only two nights later, and you don’t answer. He calls your name and you sink into the mattress, praying he just thinks you’re asleep. 

“I just- Uh- I wanted to talk?” He says, and you press your face into the pillow like that can somehow shield you. “Really, that’s it. Just talking, so- If you could-“

Dean sighs. You can hear the please, hanging between every word, but Dean doesn’t really say please. He just begs with everything else in him, or gives up. And you can picture him running his hand over his face, the heavy look in his eyes, the defeated sag in his shoulders. It’s like a knife being driven through your gut, and you sit up, ready to open the door-

“Alright,” he mutters, and you freeze. “Night, baby. Sleep well.”

Footsteps retreat, and you stay there on the mattress, frozen and lost, adrift in a sea you dove into.

But you did it. You held the line.

And you keep it. It makes sweat bead and your skin burn, but you close the door and don’t open it back up. You’re done, and you’re going to keep it that way.

Dean doesn’t ask questions. You don’t know if you want him to or not, but it doesn’t matter, because you catch him staring and giving out signals, but he’s taken your no in stride, and doesn’t seem to have any plans to push back against it. When this started, you agreed to leave out a specific book on the war room table if either of you wanted something. Dean starts to leave it out every night, and you never go to his door, and one night, it vanishes.

And that’s fine. That’s exactly what you wanted.

And if it feels like you’re dying because of it, and if you spend an hour over the toilet dry heaving that night, that’s no one’s business but your own.

“Dean’s been grumpy lately,” Sam says one morning, and you blink at him over your coffee.

“Grumpy? Dean? That’s- Woah-“

“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Sam gives you a flat look. “You know what I mean. Grumpier.”

You shrug, looking back to your mug. “Maybe he needs to get laid.”

“Uh huh.”

You can feel Sam’s stare. It makes you itchy and small, and you’re not sure if you want to punch him or run. You settle for staring at your coffee harder. It’s the easiest course of action.

“Dean needs to get laid,” Sam repeats your words, something strange—almost sharp—in his tone, and you nod.

“That’s what I said.”

“Dean-“

“What’s up?” Dean walks into the kitchen, stopping right behind you, and you hunch over like you can grow a shell to protect yourself.

Even just a few feet away, he’s always so warm.

“Uh- Hey, Dean-“

“Hey,” Dean mocks back, and Sam huffs.

“Dude-“

“Shut your face-“

“I didn’t say anything- I-“ Sam says your name, and you glance up. His brow is furrowed with worry, his eyes locked on Dean behind you. “We were just-“

“Just what?” Dean snaps. “Just talking? Shooting the shit, getting real comfortable?”

Sam sighs. “Dean-“

“I got a gun, Sammy,” Dean points firmly, and you stare at his finger like a woman driven mad with thirst. “Don’t forget that.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “We all have guns, that- That threat doesn’t do anything-“

“I’ll show you doing something- Hey-“

Dean says your name, and you freeze. You’d been trying to slip out while they fought, but Dean—goddamn him—had noticed. He always notices. You love him so much it’s going to make you cave in on yourself, and maybe take the whole bunker with you, like a dying star.

He catches your arm, and you can’t stop yourself from looking at him. His brow is knit, his jaw locked, and his handsome face has deep lines you only used to see when the world was ending. There are bags under his eyes. Deeper than usual. You want to smooth the lines with your thumb and kiss his jaw until he relaxes, but that’s not your ache to soothe.

Dean doesn’t say anything. You can’t say anything. He looks exhausted, and there’s a lump forming in your throat.

“You- You hungry?” Dean rasps, and you’re starving.

“No,” you breathe before you can think, and Dean swallows.

“Well, when you’re hungry- There’s a diner in town-“

“Henry’s?”

“No, uh- A new one. I- I was wonderin’ if you wanted to go, later, or something.”

“Or something?” You tilt your head, and Dean nods.

“Whatever you want.”

God, he’s cruel. He’s perfect and cruel, and you want to vomit on his flannel and kiss him until you pass out.

“Oh- Okay,” you say, because you’re only so strong.

The lines in Dean’s face relax. His grip loosens. Then Sam coughs, and Dean lets you go.

The diner is… nice. Nice and easy, in a way you haven’t felt in longer than you want to admit. Dean insists on driving you, and paying, and sitting in one of those booths with your feet bumping under the table.

He presses his knee forward, while he orders. You swallow and don’t allow yourself to think much of it. He’s warm through his jeans, but he’s always warm, and he hasn’t tried anything in a few weeks, so you allow it. Your love for him hasn’t been flickering out, but the harsh wind of his absence has made everything feel colder. It’s okay, to indulge yourself in something so small. You’re still keeping it together. You’re still holding the line.

“So, uh-“ Dean clears his throat, turning his bottle in his hands. “How are you?”

“How- Am I?” You blink at him, and he nods tightly. “I- I’m okay. How are you?”

“Good. Great.” He frowns at the table. “You know. Same as always.”

You almost laugh. “You’re always great?”

“I focus on the positives, sweetheart-“

“No, you don’t.”

He rolls his eyes, glancing up to hold your light, amused gaze. His mouth twitches. His fingers tap against the glass, and you try not to let yourself sink too deep into the attention.

It’s okay to drown a little. A long as you don’t drop the line.

“Maybe I’m turning a new leaf,” he says, and your face splits into a full smile.

“You?”

“Yeah, me. Why’d you say it like that-“

“Because you’ve never turned a leaf in your life-“

“Ah-“ He points the head of his bottle at you with a grin. “Not true. Remember when I started learning guitar?”

“Yeah, you smashed it on a werewolf’s head after a month.”

“That was a tactical choice, I would’ve kept playing if the wolf didn’t get in the way.”

“Uh huh.” You lean back in your seat, crossing your arms. “What songs  had you learned to play?”

Dean’s nose wrinkles. “Hey, we don’t need to talk about that-“

“I think we do.”

“Nah, I mean- I only had a month-“

“You learned how to work a rocket launcher in a week.”

“That’s just buttons and triggers, sweetheart. Even you could work it.”

“Even I?” You raise your brows—trying not to let the delight shine too bright in your voice—and Dean freezes.

“I mean- uh- You’re not great with guns, and- I could teach you-“

“You could teach me.”

“Maybe? If you wanted- Or-“ Dean groans, slumping back. “Stop givin’ me that look.”

“I’m not giving you any look,” you tease, and Dean sighs.

“Will you stop if I say I’m an idiot?”

You soften slightly. “You’re not an idiot, Dean-“

“You sure?” He grumbles. “Kinda feeling like one right now.”

You laugh, but it’s gentle. You can almost see him pushing down into himself. It makes you heavy for him, like you’re trying to take that invisible weight off his shoulders, even if he can’t feel you helping the pain. “You’re a dork,” you say, bumping his knee under the table. “But you’re not an idiot.”

Dean grunts, watching you under hooded eyes, and you smile easily.

You missed this, more than you want to tell him. Just talking, without worrying that it’s going to end in world-changing, back-breaking, beautifully heart-aching sex. He feels like your friend again, closer to your fingertips than he’d been when he was balls deep inside of you.

“Wonderwall,” he grunts suddenly. “And Hallelujah.”

You blink. “What?”

“Those were the songs,” he mutters, picking at the label of his bottle. “That I got, before I smashed the guitar.”

“Oh,” you pause. “I love Hallelujah.”

“Yeah. I know.”

You stare at him, and he stares right back. A faint flush is threatening your cheeks, so you duck your head to hide it, and Dean lets out a soft laugh.

“You alright-“

“Yep. I- I’m good-“

“You look good.” Dean laughs again, when you shoot him a glare. “Don’t gimme that face, I’m saying something nice-“

“You’re being a butt,” you stick out your tongue, and his eyes dance with an easy kind of light that almost makes your heart stop.

“You’re the one who was callin’ me old earlier,” he drawls, and you roll your eyes.

“You are old.”

“Yeah, but that’s never stopped you, has it.”

Your mouth falls open, eyes going so wide it almost hurts, and Dean grins at you. If you weren’t shocked into static, you’d slap him or- or lunge across the table and kiss him-

Hold the line.

“Aged wine is supposed to be better,” you manage to say, somehow, and Dean laughs, loud and free.

“That all I am to you? Some wine?”

“No,” you smile at your plate. “You’re also very good cheese.”

“Good cheese, huh.”

“Mhm.” You point a stern finger at him. “No puns.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but dips his head. “Yes, ma’am.”

There’s the flush. You’d keep trying to hide it, if Dean didn’t start talking about something unimportant and easy, and suddenly you forgot to be embarrassed. He’s not trying to kiss you or get you back to the car. He’s just… Talking to you. Dropping that light, teasing praise like it’s nothing, then telling you a story about when he used a tuba to beat a poltergeist, grinning like a winner every time you laugh.

When lunch is over, he rests a hand lightly on your lower back, but doesn’t do much more. He kisses your cheek when you get back to the bunker, and asks if you want to watch a movie tomorrow night. You swallow, locking your hands together like they can force the line to stay firm. Dean says your name, almost panicked, and you blink up at him.

“Just a movie,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Out in town, at- Uh- That shitty theatre next to the coffee place. Or- I can try and find a drive-in, if those still exist-“

“They do,” you say softly, and he swallows. “There’s one out in Beloit.”  

“Beloit,” Dean mutters. “Yeah- Yeah, okay. You wanna go there?”

You nod, and he grins. You smile back, and it feels… Different. Shy, in a way you haven’t been around him since he first started fucking you. Almost delicate. You weren’t supposed to let this feel like something delicate.

Dean jaw works, and you can almost see the thoughts turning behind his eyes. He lurches slightly, brow furrowed, then pulls back up. You’re seconds from asking him what’s wrong when he just leans down and… does it.

His lips graze your cheek, his hand brushing against your waist, and you almost melt right into him.

But then he stands back up, and takes a large step away. You swallow, resisting the urge to reach up and brush your fingers over where he kissed. It’s not like he’s never done that before, but again.

It just feels different.

“See you tomorrow,” he murmurs, and you nod weakly.

If you had a mind that was thinking in more than bursts of glee and songs of Dean, Dean, Dean, you’d tell him that you live together, and he’s always going to see you tomorrow. But he walks away, and you let him, and it doesn’t hurt. There’s a space that he left, but something in you seems to think he’s going to come back. You can’t tell if it’s the fool or not.

For once, you decide not to try.

The movie is nice. Dean rests his hand on your knee, but doesn’t go any higher. You lean into his side, and his arm goes around your shoulders, but there’s no kissing or dragging into the back seat, and you didn’t know there could be a better way to be close to him. Sex is great. Looking up and finding him already watching you is better.

He brushes some hair from your face, and you half expect him to kiss you. His eyes dart down to your lips like he wants to. Your fingers curl in his shirt, and his throat bobs.

“You likin’ the movie?” He whispers, and you nod.

“Good find,” you breathe, and he grins.

“Thanks. Eat the popcorn, it cost me a billion bucks.”

You roll your eyes, and throw some of the over-buttered, half-burnt popcorn at his face. He laughs, catches a kernel in his mouth, and grabs your chin between two fingers. Your breath catches. He just turns your face back to the screen, and pulls you a little closer into his side.

The movie ends the same way the diner did. Dean walks you to your bedroom door like it’s the porch of your house, kisses your cheek, then walks away.

Then, after the movie, you play mini golf. You win, but you know he let you. He buys you a snow cone and licks it off his nose when he eats it like a rabid dog. You wipe a little extra off his cheek, and he stares at you, but still doesn’t kiss you. Not fully. His hand seems to always rest on your lower back, now, but that’s all the contact you get. All that you allow.  

Hugs are on the table, too. They’re somehow more dangerous than the forehead kisses. After the hugs, he sometimes just stares at you and cups your cheek, and your heart moves into your throat until you think you’re going to spill it out all over his chest.  

You manage to keep it together. For the sake of this new, slowly growing garden of what your friendship is becoming, you swallow your love with greater ease and more bile than you ever did while you were fucking. After the mini golf you get dinner and see another movie. You convince him to go on a walk with you, and he hates it less than he pretends to. You eat together in the bunker and call when he’s on a hunt with Sam and go to a car show and it all feels like breathing.

Sometimes he still looks at your mouth, and you freeze up, unsure if you want him to kiss you or not. You know you want him, but somehow you’ve found even more to lose than before, and if it slips through your fingers, you’re not sure they’re ever going to stop shaking and groping at the empty spaces again. You can take holding his hand in the bookstore while he peers over your shoulder, pretending to be interested for no real reason other than to make you smile.

“There are so many of them,” he mutters, and you giggle.

“There’s a lot of ways to write words, Dean.”

“Yeah, but- You’d think there would be repeats or something.”

“There probably are,” you shrug, running your fingers over the spines. “But they’re still all fun.”

Dean sighs, squeezing your upper arm. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

You hum, leaning back to smile at him, and all his features relax.

“You want some coffee?” He brushes some hair from your face and you nod.

“There’s a shop next door, could you get me-“

“Hey,” Dean flicks your nose, grinning roguishly. “Trust me, I know what you want.”

You nod a little stupidly, and his smile falters. He looks to your lips again, then almost shakes himself, taking a small step.

“Don’t move,” he squeezes your arm again, then backs away. You watch him go, unable to help yourself, and smile when he looks back. He does that all the time now. And he always smiles back.

You turn back to the shelf, looking at the books without actually looking. You already miss him, and he told you not to move, but that can’t count if you’re going to stand next to him in the coffee line, can it-

“Hey.”

You fumble slightly, turning to find a man leaning against the shelf and smirking at you. You blink, and his smirk widens.

“What’s girl like you doin’ in a place like this?”

“The… Bookstore?” You frown, and he laughs. You don’t think you said anything all that funny.

“Look, I just- I saw you from over there,” he nods vaguely, and you frown. “And I thought you were cute. Can I get you some coffee or something?”

“My- My friend is already getting me coffee,” you say, and your voice sounds strangely far away.

The man nods, but doesn’t retreat. “Alright, then can I get your number? Maybe beat your friend to coffee next time?”

And you don’t want to say yes, but this is a chance. To hold onto this new friendship with Dean while also getting over him at the same time. This man isn’t ugly. Compared to Dean, no one really stands a chance anyway, and you have to get over him eventually.

So you give him your number, and try not to feel like you just did something wrong.

Dean clears his throat from behind you, and you spin around on your heels, a sour guilt twisting in your gut.

“You- You’re back,” you say, and he grunts.

He’s not look at you. He’s glaring at the man with the same, deadly glint that he gives monsters and demons before he cuts them in half. You touch his arm lightly, and he tenses. You feel sick.

“Hey, buddy,” he snaps at the man, who—not seeming to understand the gravity of Dean’s glare—grins back.

“Hey.” He winks at you, slowly backing away. “Have fun with your friend.”

Dean’s coffee spills over the top of it’s lid. He doesn’t look away from the man when he leaves the store. He shoves your drink into your hand, not meeting your gaze.

“Dean-“

“I’m gonna go wait in the car,” he mutters, and you swallow.

“Oh- Okay.”

Your arm wraps around your stomach, and you press a little away from him, from the wrath seeming to wave off his body like a volcano. He glances down, jaw tight and a vein in his brow ticking. You stare at his neck, unable to hold the weight of his gaze. He lets out a sharp breath, and shakes his head.

“Get your book.”

You shake you head. “No- It- It’s okay-“

Dean says your name, and your mouth snaps shut. “Just- Get the damn book.”

He looks like he’s in pain, and you don’t know how to fix it, so you do as he says. You get a cheap one, that worm of guilt burrowing deeper and deeper into your gut until you can’t even drink your coffee without feeling like it’s going to come back up.

Dean’s fingers dig into your back, when he guides you out the door. He starts the engine by almost punching in the keys, and holds Baby’s wheel like he’s trying to strangle it. You can see all the anger brimming under the surface of his skin, and worried you’re just going to make it worse. You don’t even know where it came from. It’s not like you’re together, or the guy said something rude. You open and close your mouth too many times to count, then give up, shrinking back into your seat.

Dean looks over at you. You try to look out the window, and nowhere else.

A loud, sharp breath escapes him. “Son of a- Alright.”

You look over with a frown, then squeak when he yanks the wheel off to the side.

“Shit- Dean-“

“Just- Fuck-“ He bows he head, glaring down at his legs, and you swallow.

You fidget with your fingers, watching him nervously, waiting for him to break the silence. It takes while. So long you think about just getting out of the car to give him space.

But then he looks up, and your heart gets cleaved open. His face is twisted in pain, his lips parted and his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard.

“What-“ He takes a deep breath, scanning over your openly confused features. “What else am I supposed to be doin’?”

You blink at him, fingers curling in your lap. “What?” You ask softly, and his throat bobs.

“I- I’m really trying,” he mutters, looking back to his hands. “I swear to god, baby, I’m tryin’ my best, and- I know I ain’t amazing at this but- If you could throw a guy a rope when he’s never- I’ve never done this, alright.” He waves between your bodies, jaw clenched tight. “And I’m really givin’ it my best shot, but I’m still not allowed to kiss you, and you’re takin’ numbers right- Right in front of me- So just- Something.” He gives you a pleading, broken look, eyes shining on yours in the dark. “Anything.”

You open your mouth, but you can’t even figure out what the fuck you’re supposed to say. You know all the words he’s saying, but it’s like he’s speaking a language you never learned, spitting out a code you’re just supposed to magically understand. Dean’s jaw ticks, when you don’t answer, and you try to sputter out an answer, but he’s too loud to hear your confused whimper.

“Look, just- Whatever the hell you do need me to do, I’ll do it, I swear I’ll do it, but- You gotta tell me, sweetheart-“

“Tell you what?!” You almost shout, and Dean leans back in surprise. “Dean, I- I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Dean huffs a low laugh, looking back out to the road. “Yeah. Alright,” he grabs the keys, voice rough and pained. “Sure. Whatever-“

“No.” You grab his wrist before he can start to the engine. “Tell me what you’re talking about.”

“It doesn’t matter-“

“Yes, it does-“

“Nah.”

“Dean-“

“You wanna call that guy, call ‘im.” There’s an almost toxically bitter sound to the words, and Dean’s making a face like he just got shot. “Whatever. See if I care.”

Your nails dig into his wrist, when he tries to yank it away. He shoots you a glare, the bags—gone, after months of ease—already starting to form.

“C’mon, kid, just- let go-“

“Would you care?”

Your question is small, but it makes Dean recoil like it burned. He scoffs, but it’s too loud, and you hold him tighter.

“Would you care-“

“No, I fuckin’ love watching douchebags parade around with my girl, who would care about something like that?”

Something snaps, right at the base of your spine. You sit so tall you’d think someone is dragging you by the nape of your neck, and Dean blinks in something close to surprise.

“What-“

“Your girl,” you whisper. “That’s- I’m- Why would you say that?”

Dean blinks. “Why wouldn’t I say that?”

“Because you and I- We’re not- That’s-“ You lean back, letting go of his wrist, and when you look down, you’ve left little crescent marks in the skin. “No- No- You didn’t- You said no- No strings-“

“Yeah, and then you stopped fuckin’ me, and I-“ Dean says your name as you press back against the window, brow furrowed in worry. “Baby, it’s- It’s alright, I’m not that pissed-“

“You were yelling,” you choke out, and he swallow.

“Well, I was- Just- C’mere.”

He reaches out, cupping your cheek with the same gentle touch he used to use, right before he kissed you. You gape at him, head spinning, panting like you just ran a marathon.

“I’m not mad,” he rasps, almost pleading, and you shake your head.

“You were-“

“Sweetheart-“

“Why?” You whisper, grabbing his wrist, your nails sinking back into the marks. “Why- Why would you care?”

Dean swallows. He shakes his head, looks out the window, and chuckles.

“Dean-“

“I don’t want you goin’ out with him. And- Call it possessive, or stupid man shit, or- Whatever the hell you want,” he drags his thumb over your cheekbone, voice dropping to something tender, something soft. “You’re my girl. And I want you here, telling me what to do, how to- To be what you need.” His voice cracks. “Come on, baby. Just- Tell me what to be.”

You stare at him, a lot of pieces colliding into each other at once in your head. The diner and the movie and the touching and the caution and-

“Are we dating?” You choke out, and Dean frowns.

“What’d you mean, are we dating?”

“I mean are we dating, Dean, are you- Are you my boyfriend?”

“Uh- Boyfriend kinda makes it sound like we’re sixteen and necking-“

“What the fuck is necking?”

Dean groans, dropping his head. “Don’t say that, sweetheart. Makes me feel fuckin’ fifty.”

Your lips twitch. “You are almost fifty,” you say, and he chuckles.

“Yeah. Guess I am.” He looks back up to you, caution lining his features. “You always seemed to like it.”

You swallow. You did. You’d never been sure if it was the older thing itself, or the fact that it was just Dean, but you’d liked it. You always liked all of him, from the uglier wounds to the beautiful, glowing heart that almost managed to peak through, no matter how thick his steel and iron walls became.

He glides his thumb back and forth over your cheekbone, and your breath hitches. He swallows, closes his eyes, and mutters your name.

“Did you… Not think we were dating?”

You shake your head, and Dean snorts dryly.

“Huh,” his mouth curves into a tight smirk. “Makes sense why you wouldn’t kiss me, I guess.”

“You guess?” You squeak, and Dean nods.

“Yeah, makes a lotta sense, actually-“

“How long have we been dating?!” You almost shriek, and he gives you an amused look.

“’Bout three months.”

“Three months?!”

“That’s what I said, baby-“

“Shut- Shut up-“ You plant a hand over his mouth, and he raises his brows. “Why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me we were dating, you- You butt?!”

Dean’s eyes sparkle, looking pointedly down to your hand, and you release him with a scowl. He rubs his jaw, grinning at you like you’re some cute bunny, and you lean back in your seat with a huff.

“Sweetheart,” he says gently. “I thought you knew.”

“How would I have known-“

“’Cause I asked you on a date? And you said yes?”

“That- That never happened.” You snap, and Dean frowns.

“Yes, it did. Sammy- He was there-“

“Sam was there-“

“Yeah, and- I said there was a new diner in town, and you said you’d go with me, and we started dating!”

You stare at him, mouth hanging open. Dean stares pointedly back, and you can’t help yourself. You bark out a loud, sharp laugh.

“That was not asking me on a date, you fucking- Oh my god!” You shake your head, and Dean’s frown becomes almost puppy like.

“Yes, it was-“

“You have to actually say it’s a date, Dean! You can’t just- Just ask me to do something, I thought we were just hanging out! As friends.”

He’s pouting now. If you weren’t pissed, it would be adorable. “I- Uh- I paid for everything. And got you gifts.”

“Friends do that-“

“Do friends kiss your face all the time?” Dean twists to fully glare at you, and you pause.

“Um- Maybe?”

Dean snorts. “No, they don’t-“

“But I thought that was just you!” You protest. “You- You’re always- You know-“

“I know?” He mocks, and you scowl.

“We were fucking for a year, Dean,” you snap, tipping up your chin. “I thought you were comfortable with me.”

“I am comfortable with you,” Dean shrugs, leaning slightly forward. “Real comfortable.”

Your nose twitches. He’s too close, now. Consuming your vision, making your vision all stupid and fuzzy. “You’re comfortable with everyone,” you sniff, and he laughs.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, running a hand slowly up your thigh. “We both know that ain’t true.”

You make a tiny, involuntary sound when his fingers dip under your skirt, teasing sensitive, neglected skin. He hasn’t touched you there in so long. Too long. You have to hug yourself to stop your body from flying at him.

“I haven’t fucked anyone else in eighteen damn months,” Dean mutters, holding your gaze. “I’ve been waiting around for you for months, wondering what the hell I was doin’ wrong, and you thought I was just being nice?!”

You swallow, your voice suddenly small. “You are nice,” you whisper, and Dean snorts.

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re nice to me-“

“Because I-“ He cuts himself off, fingers pressing into the soft skin of your thigh. You grab his hand, holding it against you, and his eyes dart down. He heaves a long breath, squeezes his eyes shut, and bows his head.

“Dean?” You whisper, and he shakes his head. “Dean, I- I’m sorry I didn’t- You said we were just going to be casual-“

“I know what I said,” he grunts, glaring at your hands. “But I- I didn’t- I thought it would help me.”

You swallow. “Help you?”

“Yeah.”

“With what-“

“You know what.” He finally looks at you, and you’ve never seen him this vulnerable. Almost bowing before you, holding onto your hand like it’s the last thing keeping him alive. “And I can’t- I don’t know how to-“ He takes another ragged breath, gives you another pleading look. “You stopped letting me pretend, you started- You started telling me no, and I couldn’t- I couldn’t.” He swallows. “I’m tryin’ to do this right, baby.” He squeezes your hand, leaning a little closer. “Please let me do this right.”

You blink at him, tears watering in your own eyes, and nod. Dean’s shoulders shudder, and he holds your hand so tight you think he’s trying to just mold you together. He glances at your lips, but doesn’t move. So you do it for him.

Dean stares at you, completely still as you lean forward, his chest so still you’re worried he’s not breathing. You rest your hand lightly on his chest and press the lightest kiss you can to his parted lips. He shakes, one hand flying to your waist, his touch still heartbreakingly delicate. You kiss him again, a little harder, and a low rumble starts in his chest.

You pull back, pressing your brows tight together. Dean stares at you, eyes glossy and blown out, the restraint ticking in his jaw, and you smile softly.

“I love you,” you breathe. “And I- I know you can’t- You know, say it back, but- I love you, Dean.”

His breathing his ragged, and he’s still gaping. You laugh nervously, looking down to your fingers, fiddling with the collar of his shirt.

“If- If you could say something, though, that would be- Um- Nice-“

Dean grunts, and your words fall off into a squeak as Dean drags you forward into his lap.

And this. This is a real kiss. Dean’s mouth slots perfectly against yours, his arm wrapping fully around your lower back, his fingers digging into your hips and his other hand cradling the back of your head. He kisses you like he’ll die if he doesn’t, pushing his tongue down your throat and moaning against your mouth. You pull on his shirt and he gropes at your ass, dragging you further into his lap. The pressure of his thigh against your core makes your head spin, but that might just be the lack of oxygen. Neither of you seem to be willing to come up for air, taking sharp, tiny breaths between sloppy kisses.

You whimper, already going limp, and Dean leans back with darkened, shining eyes. You know that look. You used to pray for and dread it all at once. It always made you feel like something close to prey, paralyzed and unable to flee his spell.

But this time is different. This time, there’s nothing you’d rather do but fall into his charm.

Dean presses another, small kiss to your lips, dragging his thumb over the tingling swell. Your tongue flicks against the pad of the finger, and he groans, pushing it slowly between your lips.

You wrap around him, sucking lightly, giving him your best, sweetest Bambi eyes. Dean’s throat bobs, his fingers digging into your ass.

“We’re goin’ home,” he mutters. “Then I’m gonna fuck you.”

That’s a lovely plan. You smile around his thumb, and he says your name, pulling his thumb away with a small pop.

“Jesus, you- You gotta tell me yes-“

“Just fuck me here,” you whisper, pulling on the collar of his shirt.

Dean glances to the backseat, then to you. “Uh- I mean- That’s- If you’re sure-“

“Please,” you push a little further forward, dropping your hand to press against the bulge in his jeans. “I need you, Dean. Now.”

And for a second, you think he’s going to demand going all the way back home. Say something about you deserving a soft bed and gentle loving, when you just want him, filthy and raw and yours. You’re so busy giving him doe eyes, you don’t notice his hand dragging down your spine and your ass, right up until it dips under your skirt, and cups your pussy through your panties.

You gasp, and Dean smirks, slowly rubbing his hand back and forth.

“Need me?” He drawls, pushing his thumb against your clit. “Like this, baby? This how you need me?”

“Ye- yes-“ Your lips brush over his, your hips starting to grind down as he drags his thumb in tiny circle, his hand still rocking back and forth. “Just- Just like that, Dean- Shit-“

You push down, kissing him with a sloppy, uncontrolled mouth. Dean grunts, splaying his free hand against your neck and pushing you down. He’s massive and warm, the hand working your pussy offering just enough friction to work you up, but nothing more. You wrap your arms around his neck, panting against his lips and moving you hips to chase more friction.

“That feels good, doesn’t it,” he mutters, kissing you between every word.

You coo, trying to kiss over his face, and Dean slaps your pussy once, leaning back with a stern glare.

“Doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” you answer immediately, already getting heavy-eyed and dazed. “So- So good, Dean, feels so good, just- More-“ You claw at his shoulders, trying to at least get to some bare skin, and settle for pressing your mouth back over his. “More- Need some more, De, now-“

Dean silences you with a deep, rough kiss, and taps his thumb against your clit in quick, harsh movements, pushing his palm down hard against your aching pussy. You cry out, trying to force your hips further down against him, and Dean squeezes that back of your neck.

“Look at  you,” he mutters, almost in awe. “Few months without some cock and you get bossy, don’t you.”

“No- No,” you manage to protest. “You’re just- You’re being slow-“

“I’m being slow?” He mocks, running his fingers over the line of your panties. “Baby, I’ve barely fuckin’ started.”

You try to roll your eyes at him, but he uses his hold on your neck to turn your head, forcing your gaze back down to his. Your eyes widen, and he smirks slightly, raising his brows.

“You gonna break out some manners for me?” He asks, slowly dragging your panties to the side. “Or am I gonna need to teach you again?”

“Te- Teach me?” You choke out, and Dean hums.

His thumb drags down from your clit, parting the lips of your pussy and smearing your arousal. Your heart is trying to hammer out of your chest, every nerve in your body seeming to respond to the mockingly sweet touch.

“Dean,” you press your hands against his chest, unsure if you want to push him away or drag him closer. “Don’t- Don’t be mean-“

“I’m not bein’ mean,” he hum, the gleam in his eyes something else all together. “I’m giving my girl exactly what she wants, how she wants it.”

You blink at him hopelessly, and he chuckles, pulling you down into a long, slow kiss. It would be romantic and loving, if it wasn’t for his thumb pushing at your weeping entrance, refusing to dip even a fraction of the way inside.

“Remember how you used to beg for me?” He mutters, and your face burns with a mix of arousal and shame. “I sure as shit do. Spent hours thinkin’ about it lately, planning how I was gonna take you when you let me again. But,” he switches out his thumb for the very tips of his fingers, yanking slightly on your hair when you try to look down. “Jesus, baby, I’m worried I’m gonna break you.”

You shake your head frantically, and Dean raises his brows.

“Words, pretty girl,” he reminds you, pushing his fingers just a little big deeper. “I know it’s hard, but you’ve got it, talk to me-“

“I can take it,” you breathe out, watching him under fluttering lashes. “I- I can take it. I promise.”

Dean works his jaw, his grip on your hair tightening. “Sweetheart-“

“Please,” you breathe, leaning down until your noses bump. “I need it. I need you.”

Those are the magic words. Dean stops trying to play noble, stops trying to hold back for the sake of romance. You loved him when he fucked you like a whore and gave you nothing soft, and you’re going to love him even more when he treats you like a toy, then kisses you everywhere after.

Dean smashes his lips against yours and eases his fingers into your waiting pussy, groaning under his breath when you clench down around him.

“So fuckin’ tight,” he mutters, scissoring them inside you. “Never gonna get over how fuckin’ tight you are, sweetheart, like you were made for me. Made to be mine.”

He almost snarls the last words against your lips, pushing himself fully up to the knuckle. You mewl as he finds your g-spot with that precision that makes it look easy, that’s always made you sure you couldn’t ever enjoy someone else if you tried.

Dean pumps his fingers slowly, crooking them so they drag against that spot, and pulls you back to watch your face contort with pleasure.

“That’s it,” he grunts, pulling almost all the way out before slamming them right back in and twisting to bully against that sensitive spot. “That’s just how you like it, huh? Already gettin’ like this from just my fingers,” he chuckles, grinding his hips up against your thighs. “Imagine how you’re gonna be on my cock, sweet girl, if you can barely fuckin’ take this?”

“That- That’s not fair-“ You choke out, every word breathy and weak, and Dean just smirks.

“Isn’t it?”

You try to protest, but Dean pushes your head back down, and his kiss knocks almost every thought from your head. It’s all just the familiar, perfect way his mouth moves against yours, rememorizing something that never stopped being his. The wet sound of his fingers working you open fills the car, and your whole body burns with desire and shame. He’s right. You’re already soaked and ready for him, your cunt clenching down and still begging for more. You need that full, impossible split of him. After months of nothing, you’re worried his cock is the only thing that’s going to be able to do it.

But Dean seems to like proving you wrong today. A coil, tight in your stomach, starts to wind tighter and tighter. He drops his grip on your hair for a second to push down on the base of your spine, forcing your cunt almost right over his bulge. He reangles his hand, forcing in another finger, and you make a strangled sound.

“De- Dean-“

“We’re gonna get you relaxed, baby,” he mutters, twisting his wrist so the drag against your g-spot almost rips through your body. “Nice and relaxed ‘f me, you can do it.”

You let out a shaky breath, trying to listen, and your clit pushes down against Dean’s cock, still tight in his jeans. The pressure is perfect, combined with the brutal thrusts of Dean’s hand, and you press your cheek to his.

“That- That’s good,” you pant, clinging to the hem of his shirt. “So- Soo good-“

You whimper, and Dean hums. He’s rubbing your back, and that’s somehow almost as good as the hand obliterating your cunt. “There she is,” he mutters. “Always so good at listening when I got my hands on you, aren’t you sweetheart.” He kisses the side of your head. “That’s my girl.”

That’s what does it. My girl.

The coil snaps, and your orgasm rips through you, making your eyes cross and your body curl limply into Dean’s arms. His hand coaxes you through it, his palm rubbing against your pussy as you mewl and clench around nothing, the light pressure helping you ride it like a long, easy wave.

Dean kisses your cheek when it’s done, then right under your eye, then your nose.

“That’s one,” he mutters, and you whine. He chuckles, hiking your skirt up with light touches. “Come on, you know the rule.”

“Stupid rule,” you grumble. “Never agreed to it.”

“Never heard you complaining before,” he points out, peeling your dress off, and you stick out your tongue.

“That’s because I always forget- Dean!”

He smacks your ass, and you squeak, pussy clenching around nothing. He’s forming a tent in his jeans as he looks up at you, and you narrow your eyes. You fingers brush against the head of him, and his groan falters, his head tipping back against the bench.

You smile, pushing your hand down against his cock, and he catches your wrist, shooting you a stern glare.

“Not at young as I used to be,” he warns, and you giggle.

“But I want to,” you try to pull your hand free, and roll you eyes when he won’t let you. “Oh- Come on-“

“Nope,” he grunts, even as his dick jumps against the fabric. “You know the rule-“

“Dean-“

“Three to one,” he mutters, a dare gleaming in his eyes. “You give me one, I give you six. That’s the fuckin’ deal.”

You laugh, but his mouth doesn’t even twitch, and slowly, your smile falls into something more serious. More determined.

Damn this stubborn beautiful man and his orgasm rules. Damn you, for thinking he ever wouldn’t want to fuck you when he made you orgasm rules that weren’t proportional or fair at all.

You yank your wrist away, stick out your tongue again, and pull your underwear fully off. Dean watches you with his hands tight on your waist, eyes shining with curiosity, but patient.

And you’ve never been good at riding him, but you’ve always been good at this. You climb over Dean’s lap so your ass is near his shoulder and your face in his crotch, your back arched like some animal in heat, your pussy bare and on full display.

Dean’s never been able to help himself. One hand immediately slides around the arch of your back, then the curve of your ass, then settles back against your pussy. The other slides in your hair, petting your hair while you fumble with his belt. He chokes out your name, and you shoot him a glare, pulling out his cock with light, careful hands.

He’s so hard you’re worried he’s going to hurt himself. Pre-cum is beading around his tip, his veins throbbing like a porno. You stroke him slowly, and he lets out a sharp breath between his teeth.

“I’m serious, baby-“

“Prove it,” you say, before licking a slow, teasing stripe up his shaft.

And you know how this game ends. You’ve played it a million times before. The beautiful thing about it is that—especially when Dean thinks he’s winning—you can never lose.

You take him into his mouth, and the sound that he makes is sinful. It’s a choked, rough version of your name that sounds holy from his mouth, and comes with his fingers dipping into your heat like it’s a comfort toy. You take him until he bumps against the back of your throat and hum, swirling your tongue. Dean grunts, and pushes your head a little further down. You wiggle your ass, pussy cold and throbbing, and Dean groans.

“Jesus, woman- Gonna kill me- Fuuuuck-“

You start to bob up and down, sucking with that perfect pressure you know he likes, getting what can’t fit in your mouth in your hand. You can take him better and better with every second, letting his push against your gag reflex, and you drop that hand to play with his balls. Dean’s already giving shallow uncontrolled microthrusts, repeating your name over and over until it’s more of a choked moan.

“Can’t- Shit, baby, I can’t- That damn mouth, you’re gonna- Shit-“

You squeeze his balls and suck as hard as you can, and Dean almost roars your name, his cock jumping as he shoots thick, white ropes of cum down your throat. You swallow every drop, licking the rest off your fingers as you rise back up. There’s going to be a handprint on your ass, from where he was holding onto you. You hope you feel it in the morning.

And when you smile at Dean, you know you’re in trouble. Naked and wet for him, crawling forward so your tits press into his face and kissing him as sweetly as possible. Dean grunts, one hand shooting up to cradle the back of your head, and his responding kiss is deceptively gentle. He lets you lead it, groaning when your tongues press together, tasting himself on your lips. He lets you pull his shirt over his head and lets you trace over the lines of his muscles. You smile against his lips and lean back, and there’s that predatory glint again.

Dean’s hand twitches on your back. He wipes your chin, gathering some stray cum and slowly pressing his against your lips. You clean it off obediently, and his jaw ticks.

“Back seat,” he grunts. “Now.”

You almost scramble to listen. Rolling off of him and trying to climb over, making it halfway before you feel massive hands wrapping around your waist, holding you in place. You swallow, trying to twist over your shoulder to look at him, but Dean blows a sharp breath over your clit, and you double over with a squeak.

“De- Dean-“ You plant your hand on the bench, blood rushing to your cheeks. “Dean- wait-“

“Hmmm.” He kisses one curve of your ass, then the other. “Wait for what?”

You’re not really sure. “This- I- I can’t hold myself up,” you fumble, and he chuckles, kissing right over your clit.

“That gonna be a problem?” He teases, pressing smaller, faster kisses over the sensitive button. “Or,” he spreads your ass cheeks, humming against your heat. “Do dirty girls get what they asked for?”

Shit. “It’s uncomfortable,” you whisper, and Dean pauses.

He sighs, then kisses your clit again. You squeak when he drags you back down, and melt into his chest as he kisses all over your face, rocking you back and forth in his arms.

“’S why I wanted the bed,” he mutters, and you sigh.

“’M sorry-“

“No,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, massaging your hips with steady hands. “I’ve got it, just- uh-“

He glances up, and you watch him frown around the car with an openly adoring expression. The work of his jaw and furrow of his brow as he thinks, how he holds you so tight in his arms, it’s impossible to not love him.

“Got it,” he mutters. “Trust me?”

You nod easily, and he glances back down. His eyes soften when they meet yours, and this kiss isn’t feral or brutal. It’s just… slow. Adoring, a silent promise of what you’ve sort of always known.

Dean is going to take care of you.

He lays you out in the backseat, rubbing your thighs as you settle into the cushioned bench. You watch him with your heart in your throat, arms wrapped tight around your stomach. Sometimes, under his attention, you’re not sure what to do with yourself. He’s too pretty, too big, too much in the best possible way.

“Getting’ shy on me?” He teases, pushing up your knee, and you flush.

“N- No.”

“Hm,” Dean pins your leg against the bench, guiding the other one so it hooks over his shoulders. “Sounds like you’re gettin’ shy.”

You swallow, hugging yourself tighter, and he chuckles.

“All that work to make you relax,” he mutters, kissing his way up your thigh. “And you’re already wound back up.”

“You took too long,” you whisper, and Dean laughs.

“Sorry, sweetheart.” He kisses just the side of your cunt, and your breath hitches as he sucks a small, firm bruise into the skin. “You know I’m gonna make it up to you, yeah?”

You nod weakly, then blurt, “Yes!”

Dean’s mouth twitches, and he grabs one of your wrists, guiding it down to his hair. You weave it between your fingers, your breathing already ragged, your whole body lit up with anticipation.

“Easy,” Dean murmurs, kissing the other side of your cunt, massaging your thigh and pushing your leg a little higher. “Nice and easy, pretty girl.” He kisses you pussy, open-mouthed and wet, and you let out a high, shameless sound.

His mouth should be classified as a sex toy or something. It moves and works against you like a machine, kissing you with so much fervor you already start to see stars. You had some recovery from the fingering, but Dean’s already stripping it away with sharp, unrelenting kisses and grazes of his teeth against your clit.

“Taste so fuckin’ good,” he groans against you, the word vibrating through your body. “Never wanna live without this pussy again, baby girl, shit-“

He groans and dives back down, starting to work you open like a man starved. You push on his head, silently begging for more, afraid to open your mouth. The sounds that leave you will be embarrassing, and you’re already too far gone for them.

But Dean likes you loud, and he won’t let you hold back. He hooks his arm fully around your leg, dragging you further down, giving him a better against your pussy. You mewl when he wraps his lips around your clit, sucking impossibly hard, and Dean laughs against your cunt.

“Fuck- Fuck-“ You grab at the front bench, yanking mindlessly on his short hair. “De- Dean- Oh my god-“

He groans, pushing his face impossibly further. His tongue is deliberate and thick, pumping in and out of your cunt before pressing flat on your clit and dragging back and forth. It’s enough to drive you mad, making the coil in your stomach burn and burn and burn until your whole body is shaking with the sensation.

“De- Dean-“ You whimper. “You- Fuck-“

He nips at your clit, dragging a long, slow stripe up your pussy. Your eyes lock, and you swallow, a broken moan falling from your lips. The first time he did this, he told you that he loved it. That there was nothing better than a woman, right on his face, dripping and sweet for him. It didn’t take you long to believe him.

Here, he looks at you like you’re some kind of heaven he’s been allowed to touch. His mouth never stops moving against you, his eyes lidded and almost drunk, and your arousal shining on his face whenever he reangles it to devour you a new way. It’s a sight that could knock you off your feet, if you had any left to stand on. Dean on his knees, his broad, freckled shoulders forcing your knees apart, his attention a drug you never want to bother being clean from again.

You start to shake, your stomach seizing up as you fight off your orgasm, but Dean doesn’t tolerate that either. His mouth goes back against your clit, his tongue darting up and down and back and forth in tiny motions, almost tickling it, making the little nerves light up and-

You cum with a loud, choked sound that’s really supposed to be Dean’s name, and push at his head. You expect him to stop, and finally get on top of you.

But you forgot about his stupid orgasm rule, and he doesn’t stop. His grip tightens and he starts to make out with your overstimulated pussy. You squeak, pushing weakly at his head, and his eyes gleam.

“De- Dean- Fuuuuck- That’s-“ Your eyes roll back, your body seizing up again, almost unable to take so much. “Oh- Oh my gooood-”

Dean groans against you again, and it’s worse than a vibrator. It’s warm and deep and Dean, mixed with his filthy mouth and stubble, scraping against soft skin.Your thighs lock around his head and he lets them, his eyes never leaving yours as he slowly pulls you fully onto your back, pushing himself up onto his knees. His cock bounces against his stomach but he ignores it, using his now free hand to grope at your breast. You moan, clenching around nothing as he laps at your clit and pussy.

“I- I can’t-“ Tears spring at your eyes. “Dean- Please-“

He hums, rolling your nipple between deft fingers, and you throw your head back with a broken moan.

Warm, thick fingers weave through yours, and  you blink at him under watery lashes. He’s let go of your breast to hold your hand. His thumb is dragging slowly back and forth, and his mouth isn’t slowing down, but you don’t want it to. You can see the challenge shining in his eyes. You take a ragged breath, give him the smallest nod, and he smiles against your pussy.

You didn’t know the human tongue could move that fast. You’re sure it’s not supposed to, but Dean’s never cared about things like that. He drinks you up like wine, rapidly toying with your clit—swirling and kissing and flicking and sucking like it’s candy—and your eyes roll back in your head as your third orgasm springs through your body like a geyser.

Dean lowers you down slowly, pressing one last kiss to your swollen kiss before rising back up, wiping his chin of your release and cleaning it off his fingers with a smug grin. His cock is at attention, and your mouth waters. He always gets it in. You’re a little afraid of it right now.

“Six?” You breathe out, and Dean snorts.

“You’re the one who pushed for it, princess.”

“It- It’s your stupid rule-“

“You love it,” he shrugs, slowly settling himself back between your legs. “And you’re gonna take it, aren’t you, baby.”

You wrinkle your nose, and Dean gives you a stern, amused look.

“Aren’t you?” He taps the head of his cock against your cunt, and you squeak.

“Dean-“

“You’re the one who got bratty and cocky, sweetheart,” he drawls, pushing your leg back down. “So you’re gonna take it, ‘cause I know you can.”

You swallow, giving him your best doe-eyes, and he just chuckles. Dean lowers himself down, presses a gentle kiss to your brow, and murmurs against your skin.

“That ain’t gettin’ you out of this.”

You press your face into the crook of his neck, and Dean smiles, kissing the side of your head.

“All shy again,” he mutters, dragging that massive cock between the lips of your pussy. “Let’s take care of that, huh?”

You cling to him as he rolls you both over, guiding your legs to straddle his torso and lining up his cock with your weeping, abused pussy. He pulls you gently up, rubbing your side and watching you a painfully adoring gaze. You try to cover yourself again, and he catches your hand, shaking his head.

“Come on,” he mutters, weaving your fingers together. “Let me see you.”

And damn him for being so soft and sweet, you don’t think you could tell him no if you wanted.

“Take it easy,” he says, wrapping both of his hands around your waist. “All you, baby. Show me what you want.”

“I- I can’t-“

“Yes, you can.”

You believe him, in a way you’d never believe anyone else. It might be how he looks at you. Like you’re an angel over him, like you’re really, truly letting him enter paradise as you sink down onto his cock.

He grunts, his fingers tightening against your body as his cock slowly splits you open. Even with how much he’s worked you open—your pussy so wet it’s already dripping onto his thighs—it’s a tight fit. You can feel every vein dragging inside of you, the hard curve pressing right into your g-spot and making you flutter around him.

Dean jerks his head up, squeezing his eyes shut, and you swallow.

“Sorry-“

“’S- ‘S alright,” he exhales sharply, relaxing back into the seat. “Don’t worry ‘bout me, baby. I’m good.”

A smile ghosts over your lips, even as you start to only breathe through your nose. “You look it,” you tease, and Dean gives you a half annoyed, half impressed look.

“You’re tight,” he grunts, and your smile widens.

“You’re big.”

He groans, throwing his head further back, and you giggle again. He’s sitting just right again, his chest rippling under your hands, and you feel like that angel. You feel like a goddess, with how his hands are dragging over your body, how your name falls from his lips.

“So fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters, eyes raking over your body. “So perfect.”

You take a deep breath, and start to grind down onto his cock. Dean groans, one hand dragging down to squeeze your ass, but he doesn’t move. He won’t unless you beg him, and you’re determined not to. You can ride him until your thighs give out. His cock bumps against your g-spot, and his abdomen drags near your clit, and it feels good. You rock back and forth a little faster, your breath catching, and Dean groans.

“Look at you,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Pretty fuckin’ girl, riding my cock like the needy little thing you are, aren’t you. So fuckin’ wet for me, baby, so- so tight-“

He groans, and you push down on his chest, picking up your pace.

“So big, Dean,” you moan, pushing up your chest like a pornstar, trying to make him break first. “You’re so big, feels so- so good-“

You moan, tossing your hair, and Dean makes an almost feral sound.

But he doesn’t break. The bastard never breaks, and you’ve never been good at riding him. Your thighs are already sore, and they quickly start to ache, making your movements smaller and weaker. Dean watches you start to whine, your brow furrowing in concentration, and just smiles. You both know what he’s waiting for. You don’t want to give in.

“So quiet, sweetheart,” he coos, running his hand up to palm at your breast. “Someone drove by, they’d think I wasn’t fuckin’ you properly.”

You glare at him, unable to even speak, and he chuckles.

“You know what you gotta do, baby girl.”

“Fu- Fuck you-“

“I will,” he winks. “If my girl says please.”

Your eyes narrow. His grin widens, and you think you might be about to fly apart with how bad you need it. Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid face that you love and his big cock that makes you all jelly and dazed thoughts and useless.

“Please-“

The word barely leaves your mouth before Dean moves. A single, well-aimed thrust up into your cunt that makes you fall apart. You fall forward onto his chest with a scream, and Dean groans, giving shallower, gentle thrusts to work you through the orgasm.

“I know,” he murmurs in you ear, his words painfully soft in comparison to the pleasure wracking your body. “I know, princess. Two more to go.”

You don’t think you can take two more. Four has been your max for a very long time, and that was with a lot more prep time and space between orgasms. But Dean doesn’t seem like he’s going to give you much of a choice.

You’re a doll in his arms again, when he hauls you up into his lap. His cock leaves you for a single second, just for the adjustment, and you whimper at the loss.

Dean hums, kissing all over your face as he slides back in.

“That’s my girl,” he starts to rock your hips back and forth with steady hands, picking you up then dropping your back down so his dick drags through every inch of your heat. “Takin’ me so good. Just like that, feel that, baby-“ He pushes on your lower back, making his cock slam against your g-spot, and you sob against his neck. “Feel how fuckin’ good we fit together, my girl.”

Dean’s voice is lined with something darker now. More possessive and hungry. He fucks up into your like an animal, dips drilling forward and mouth attached to your neck. All you can do is take it, over and over until your eyes are crossing and the only words you can remember are babbles of Dean and please.

The neck orgasm is slow, blooming from where he’s slamming against your cervix and spreading pleasantly through your body. Dean moans against your skin, mouthing at your jaw and neck, his tongue dragging and kisses messy. When you try to kiss him back, it’s mostly with a mewl and lips that follow his lead. Everything is humid and light in your body, everything is Dean around you, and there’s a new, strangely hot sensation in your core that’s demanding all of your attention.

It’s tighter than the usual coil, and gets hotter and hotter with every thrust of Dean’s cock. He’s getting uneven now, his own words falling into pants and moans, his balls slapping against your ass and hands leaving prints as he folds you fully over his chest.

“One- One more-“ His voice is gravelly, almost as wrecked as you feel. “Milk my fuckin’ cock, baby girl, cum for me-“

You open your mouth to warn him about the strange feeling, but it’s too late. Dean slams home, crashing his mouth against yours, and you cum with a hoarse scream. Hot cum shoots into your cunt, right as something gushes out of you in wet, burning waves. It feels good, so good you can’t think, so good your mouth hangs open and your moans turn into pathetic, weak babbles.

“Fuck- Fuck-“ Dean groans against your mouth. “Fuckin’- Yes-“

Your body seizes and twitches around him, but even when he’s done, Dean doesn’t pull out. The last of your release pushes itself out and her collapses backward, rubbing your back and craning his neck to grin at your cockdrunk expression.

“Gettin’ stupid?” He teases, and you can’t manage to raise an arm, so you just bite his nose. He laughs, leaning up to steal another, quick kiss from your lips before settling back down.

You curl over him, resting your head against his shoulder while he pets your head, both of you still panting and coming back down. You might be there for a hundred years, or just an hour. It doesn’t matter. The car is going to reek of sex for maybe a year. Sam might never agree to ride in it again. But it was worth it. More than worth it, when you look up at Dean, and find him—just as always—already looking back.

“We’re still dating, right?” You whisper, because you have to be sure.

Dean grins, and kisses you slowly. You hum, letting your eyes flutter shut. Letting him carry you, whenever he thinks is safe to go.

“Yeah,” he mutters, and you can hear it in his voice. All the love he’s been trying to show you, for who knows how long. “We are."

✦End note: if i write enough of these it's gonna happen to me guys trust ✦

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You laugh at his misery. "I love that you're so compassionate, but maybe this could be good for you. You should see what life is like for those of us who make fools of ourselves more regularly."

Remus scoffs. Only when the scene ends does he he uncover his eyes, taking a handful of popcorn from the bowl in your lap. "You're a masochist," he says, munching anxiously.

You lean your head on his shoulder. "You love me anyway."

You get a hum in return, and then Remus' body tenses as more on-screen embarrassment ensues. With little warning, your eyes begin to burn fiercely. You stand and mumble that you're going to the restroom. Remus reaches for the remote.

"No, don't pause it," you say. "I've already seen this part."

You lock the bathroom door behind you. Stare at your reflection in the mirror, like you can stop this before it starts if you're stern enough with yourself. It doesn't work.

An uncomfortable heat builds in your throat as tears form indistinct deltas on your cheeks. You take a piece of toilet paper from the roll to wipe beneath your nose when it starts to run. It was petty and cruel to test Remus, but you keep doing it anyway, and it never goes how you wish it will. You only wanted him to say that he loved you. Even if it was only in agreement.

You make yourself breathe slowly. No sounds escape the bathroom.

When your eyes look normal and you feel like you have a leash on your emotions, you unlock the door. Remus has paused the film. You're self-conscious of the squeak of the sofa as you sit down beside him.

"I told you you didn't have to pause it," you murmur.

"I know," he says, nudging the bowl of popcorn back into your lap, "but you like this film, and I didn't want to watch without you. Is everything okay?"

You're grateful to have the popcorn to avoid giving a full answer. You hum around a mouthful.

Remus pokes your leg, where you've curled up with your cold toes underneath you. Ordinarily you'd stuff them under Remus' thigh while sitting here like this, but you've kept away from him unconsciously. "Cold?"

"Guess so."

Remus hums knowingly, standing. He sets his hand briefly on the top of your head as he passes by, a small gesture of affection. Your heart wrings itself out like a wet rag.

He returns shortly with a pair of your winter socks. You can hardly look at him as he tugs them on for you, breathing out a soft, "Thanks."

"You alright?" he asks, with all the lightness of unsuspicion; he probably assumes you're only tired, or possibly suffering an upset stomach.

You reply that you are, thinking that it's you who should be asking him. Remus doesn't usually beat around the bush, but he has been for weeks with this. If he's going to end things with you, you don't understand why he hasn't done it yet. Why you're sitting here watching films and bantering when he can't bring himself to say that he loves you.

Remus reaches for you. "Come here, then."

It's the simplicity of it that does you in. To be asked for your closeness so casually, and to know that each night you have with him could be the last, and you won't know which it is. Heat floods your sinuses.

You press your lips together hard to keep them from trembling. Remus looks stricken.

"What?" he breathes.

You shake your head, cheeks wet again. "Sorry."

"Did something happen?" His tone is all soft concern. "Lovely, what's wrong?"

"I—"

Two things happen seemingly at once: your voice fractures, and Remus drags you into his lap.

"That's alright," he shushes you. "I'm sorry, take your time. You're alright."

It is easier to voice it into the curve of Remus' neck. Even now, his scent is lulling, like home. He holds you steady until you work up the guts.

"I don't think you love me anymore," you whisper.

Remus goes still.

His lack of a denial hollows you out. A rushing fills your ears, and you almost don't hear him when he asks, "Don't I get a say in that?"

You back off from him, confused. Uncaring of your swollen eyes and wet nose.

Remus doesn't look very different. Less of a mess, more hurt than heartbroken, but doubly as confused. His hands settle on your hips. "I think if I'd fallen out of love with you, I'd have noticed," he says.

"You never say it." You don't mean for it to sound as accusatory as it does; the wounded bent to Remus' brows deepens.

"I don't?"

"No," you murmur.

"Well, I…" His eyes flit over you, like he's looking for something. You'd give it to him if you knew what it was. "I suppose I didn't think I had to. I thought you knew."

Your voice thins, but you force it out. "Do you still love me?"

"Yes," he breathes. "I thought that was obvious. Do you, still?"

"Of course." It feels awful of him to ask you, as if you haven't spent the past month loving him so loudly, hoping it would echo back at you. "I tell you all the time."

"People can say things they don't mean, sweetheart," he murmurs gently. "Did you mean it?"

Whatever pain breaks across your expression is enough to make Remus flinch, his fingers tightening around your hips. "Of course," you say.

"Okay." Remus' forehead drops to yours. Tears drip from your chin into the space between your bodies. "I'm sorry," he says, sounding hoarse, "that I haven't made you feel loved."

"It's not about how I feel. It's that you never say it."

"I didn't think I had to," he says again, quietly. "I do love you, though. Very much." He finds your hand, rubbing his pinkie against yours. "I don't put on masochistic comedy films for just anyone."

A wet laugh bubbles out of you. It's a joke, but it's true. Remus bears a number of things he ordinarily wouldn't, even for James or Sirius, because you ask him to. He does things you don't ask him for, too. Putting on the kettle just before you get home on chilly evenings, and keeping track of your car's maintenance so he can take it to the mechanic for you. Bringing you a pair of warm socks when he notices your feet are cold.

Remus threads his fingers through yours. "I'm sorry. I can say it more often."

"I think," you hesitate, "I could probably listen better. To when you tell me in your way."

His eyes warm. "I could tell you more, too."

"Maybe just sometimes? So I don't forget."

"Okay," you say, a sigh somewhere in your voice, "I'd better go." 

Sirius frowns. "Go where?" 

"I have a doctor's appointment." You stand and pick up your back, looking around for where you left your shoes. You're still holding Sirius' hand like you mean to pull him along. 

"Do you want me to come with you?" he jokes. 

You blanch. "What?" 

He grins through his own confusion, squeezing your fingers. 

"Oh." Your expression relaxes, but something zaps across it first that gives him pause. You let Sirius' hand go. "Sorry." 

"Don't be sorry. Do you want me to come with you?" 

"No," you say quickly, spotting your shoes under the armchair, "I'm fine, thanks." 

Sirius smothers his hurt. "Did I do something?" 

"What?" You pick your head up from where you've bent over to tie your laces, nearly hitting it on the coffee table. "No."

"Are you upset with me?" 

"No, not at all." 

"Are you sure? Because you've been—you're being really quiet. If you are, I'd rather know." 

"No." You sit up, and there's something raw in your gaze as it meets his. Your voice softens with earnestness. "I mean yeah, I'm sure. I don’t mean to be quiet, sorry." 

"I don't want you to be sorry, lovely." Sirius sits forward, his chest tight with apprehension yet undispelled as he leans toward you. "Be quiet if you want to be, it’s fine. I'm not trying to make you feel bad. I just don't understand what's going on." 

Like holding his gaze gets to be too much, you drop it. Your lips rub against each other. "It's not you." 

"Then what is it?" he asks softly.

"I've just…it's stupid, but I've really been dreading this." 

"Dreading what?" 

"This appointment." Your voice is low, like it costs you to say it aloud. You're still looking anywhere but his eyes. 

Sirius blinks at you. It's not what he was imagining you'd say; honestly, he’d nearly forgotten the reason you untucked yourself from his side in the first place. He knows you're squeamish, that you don't like to watch bloody things or medical procedures on television, so he can see how that sort of feeling might extend to doctor's offices. It's just not something you've ever mentioned to him. 

"Hey," he coaxes, "I did mean it. I could go with you if you want." 

It's like Sirius' gentleness provokes the opposite reaction in you. You shake your head swiftly, standing. "Thanks, but I'll survive." 

"I think we can do a bit better than surviving, probably." 

"I mean, I'll be fine." 

Sirius catches your hand when you make to cross in front of him. "If it has a shot at making you feel better," he says, "I want to come with. Is that okay?" 

Your expression cracks, the rawness he glimpsed earlier finally revealing itself. "It's embarrassing," you murmur. 

"I don't think so," Sirius counters. "We all have our things. It's easier when there's someone nearby who wants to give you a hug. At least, I've always thought it was." 

Your trepidation doesn't vanish, but you lift the corners of your mouth halfheartedly. "You want to come along to give me a hug?" 

He raises his eyebrows. "Unless you're planning on asking someone else for one. I've been told they're not all equally as good, though, just to warn you." 

"I usually do this sort of thing without a hug." It sounds like a confession. 

Sirius matches your tone. "Well, that won't do anymore. Let me come with you, please?" 

He throws in the please for extra persuasiveness, and it works. You wave him up from his seat. Sirius hops to, stepping into his shoes and following you to the door. 

"Thanks," you nearly whisper on your way out, shame still lingering at the edges of you. 

It’s embarrassing, really, sitting here hiding from you as his heart tries to make a run for it. Cassian has faced death time and time and time again, they call him the fucking Lord of Bloodshed for Cauldron’s sake! Yet here he is, wings fluttering with obvious nerves, nearly wetting his pants as he waits for the female who has taken to avoiding him lately. 

It started the day after Starfall. The night had been beautiful- Mother, it was downright perfect. The entire family was there; happy, bright, and more than a little tipsy. He got to watch the colours bleed into your iris’, the look of awe on your face was simply otherworldly as colours painted the world around you. Jokes were made, stories were shared, tears were shed. Mostly by Cassian, but still. The night was perfect. 

But something must have happened, because the next day Cassian was left feeling empty in ways he’d never felt before. 

You were missing at breakfast; no dirty jokes shot or tinkering giggles shared across the table. Then you were a no show to training. In fact, Cassian didn’t get to see you until dinner, and even then you could hardly look at him – or anyone, really – before retiring to bed early. 

The next morning, you weren’t at breakfast but clearly had been, your scent lingering in the space like evidence at the scene of a crime. You still didn’t attend training that day, but he heard you in the library later that afternoon with Nesta. You did come to dinner, and while you were your usual quiet self you seemed even more so that night, speaking to no one unless spoken to and keeping your answers short. 

What really worried him, though, was that no one called you on it. No feline smirks being shot at you from Rhys, no gentle teasing from Mor, no breathy remarks shot at you from Nesta or gentle attempts at conversation from Azriel. Everyone just…accepted that you were checked out. 

Cassian decided then that he would intercept you as you went to bed that night, determined to get to the bottom of your obvious discontentment. 

Only for him to be held back by Nesta who grilled him about Valkyrie training and suggested changes to the current routine. She kept him into the late hours of the evening and by the time he freed himself from her grasp he couldn’t bring himself to risk waking you up. 

He decided to confront you the next day, but he woke up to find that Rhys had sent you and Azriel on a mission for the next few days, and Cassian chalked up his anger at the thought of you away from the safety of this house (and him) to the fact that you were simply not yourself lately. 

Things were different when you returned. Worse, somehow. 

Now you would finally look at him, but your eyes were always tinged with a subtle hollowness, like you were waiting for him to answer a question he didn’t hear you ask. 

You were quicker to join in discussions at the table, but Cassian himself could hardly get more than a few words out of you. If he didn’t know any better, Cassian would even go so far as to suspect you were avoiding existing anywhere with him alone, always leaving the room before the two of you could be the last men standing. 

Cassian felt like he was going crazy, so enough was enough.

“Enough is enough.” He whispers to himself as he hears the book club leaving the room.

You’re always the last to leave; sentient house be damned, you don’t like leaving empty plates and cups around and have taken it upon yourself to tidy up after everyone. It was so damn endearing that Cassian wanted to squeeze you for it. 

But he isn’t here to squeeze you. He is here for answers.

“Hey.” 

Now, it’s important to note that Cassian swears he was honest-to-gods going for light and unthreatening, but the sound of his voice has you letting out a shriek and sees a cup and saucer falling out of your grasp to the floor with a crash, porcelain splintering and shooting outwards from the point of impact. 

“Oh, I-” you suck in a breath, teetering on your tiptoes as you stare down at the mess by your barefeet, “oh gods.” 

Cassian is by your side in record time, heart returning to his esophagus at the thought of harm coming to you by means of splintered porcelain. “Hey, are you okay? No- don’t move. Are you okay?”

He stops you from bending over in an attempt to pick up the pieces. 

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I broke it.” You inform him, your pout pointed at the mess beneath you even as Cassian lifts you effortlessly and carries you over towards the built in bar. He’s glad he does as he listens to porcelain crunching beneath his boots. 

“I’m the one who startled you into dropping it, Princess. I’m sorry.” 

You sigh, apparently unable to come up with an argument for that though you don’t seem entirely inclined to agree with him. 

“I’m sorry for upsetting you.” He continues, bending in an attempt to meet your eye. You meet his gaze for a brief moment before they flick back towards the mess.

“You didn’t upset me.”

“I meant at Starfall.” 

You freeze; your entire body tenses as you sit up straighter, refusing to meet Cassian’s eye. He’s clearly on the right track. 

“What do you mean?” Your voice comes out a touch too high, and he can hear the effort you make to sound unbothered. 

You’re clearly bothered. 

“You’ve been avoiding me like the plague since then, I can only imagine I said or did something to upset you, and if I did, I’d like to know so that I can apologize for it.”

The thought of you being upset with him, hurt by him feels so fundamentally wrong he briefly wonders if he might actually be experiencing what he’s quite sure is called a heart attack. 

But nope, the ticker continues its assault on his trachea as he pleads with you, and Cassian takes a moment to congratulate himself of the fact that he hasn’t reduced himself to a blubbering mess on his knees, begging for your forgiveness.

He would, mind you, no questions asked if that's what it took for you to forgive him, for you to look him in the eye, for you to grace him with your smile again. 

Fuck, should he get down on his knees? He should probably get down on his knees. He’s going to get down on his knees.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Cass.” You whisper almost woefully. 

“Then why are you so far away?” He whispers back, desperate to right whatever wrong has taken place here so he can have his favourite girl back. 

Your eyes fill with tears at that, and Cassian considers stringing people up first and asking questions later when he considers that someone else may have upset you. 

“I’m sorry.” You sob, and Cassian’s heart – still in his fucking throat – splinters at the sound, his arms move on their own volition and pull you into him as he folds his wings around the two of you, a veritable shield from the outside world. 

“Please don’t apologize. Just tell me how to fix this? I want to fix this.” It’s official, a female has reduced Cassian to begging. 

“There’s nothing to fix.” You groan, leaning back far enough to wipe at the tears now lining your face. 

“Then how do I get you back?” 

All his question does is manage to punch another sob out of you. 

“I’m desperate here, Y/N. What will it take? What do I need to do? Because I’ll do it, you know I will.” 

“Cass, please-”

“I’ll do anything.” 

“It’s not-”

“Anything, Princess. Anything.”

“I can’t-”

“Please.” 

“You don’t understand, Cass-”

“Then help me understand! What happened on Starfall?”

“I found my mate!” You shriek, sucking in a harsh breath and covering your mouth as though you might be able to retroactively keep the words from slipping out.

But it was too late.

Mate. 

You have a mate. 

A mate that is taking you away from Cassian. 

An anger the likes Cassian has never experienced before poisons his blood stream and circulates his body, siphons glowing at the picture of you in another’s arms, being loved by someone else, protected by someone else, cherished by someone else. The wooden bar top creaks beneath his grip and you let out a squeak of fear, the fight immediately leaving Cassian as that damned heart of his falls from its place in his throat into the depths of his stomach. 

“Your- you… you have a mate?”

You nod cautiously, eyes tracking across Cassian’s face as though searching for clues. Of what, Cassian’s not sure. 

“You…found them, you found them on Starfall?

You might answer him, you might not; Cassian can’t hear much over the sound of blood roaring in his ears. It was only his family at Starfall. It had to be someone from his family. Your mate was a member of the Inner Circle. The only person you’ve spent any extended amount of time with lately is Azriel on that mission Rhys sent the two of you on. You’re mated to Azriel. Cassian is going to have to kill Azriel. Cassian is going to have to bury one of his brothers. 

Oh this is awful, just awful. 

He can’t kill Azriel; that’s your mate. It would undoubtedly make you sad should Cassian kill your mate. No, Azriel will have to live. 

Dammit. 

“Cassian?” You venture slowly, tilting your head as you now try to meet Cassian’s gaze who has taken to pacing back and forth like a caged beast. 

“Yes?”

“Are you…okay?”

No. 

“Yes.” 

“Are you…sure?”

Positive. 

“I’m…happy for you.”

Liar.

Your eyes narrow at him, hearing or perhaps even smelling the lie on him seeing as it tasted so sour leaving his lips. 

“Fuck, I just- I mean….Azriel? Really? I thought-”

“What about Azriel?” 

“Well it can’t be Rhys – he’s already got a mate.” He explains easily. “Unless it’s Mor? I feel like if you mated with Amren she would’ve already gutted Azriel for stealing you away for a week, and Rhys for allowing him to.” 

He isn’t even able to explain why he’s quite sure it’s not the other two Archeron sisters when you start laughing at him. Laughing. 

You have the grace to slap your hand over your mouth as if that might hide the fact that you are, indeed, laughing at the Lord of Bloodshed right now. Unbelievable; it’s been one fucking thing after another with you lately. 

“It is not any of them, Cassian.” You inform him from behind your hand. 

Oh Mother, it is one of the other Archeron sisters? 

“Cassian,” you all but holler around a laugh as if you could feel the way his stomach dropped at the thought that he lost you to two brand new fae, clutching your stomach from the force of your laughter. 

Unbelievable.

“How did you feel when you thought it was Azriel? What was the very first thing you thought of when you came to that conclusion?”

“That Azriel had to die.” Cassian admits easily, hardly embarrassed by how quickly he resorted to homicide. 

“And why would you come to that conclusion?”

“Because you should be mine.” 

Your smirk doesn’t waver but your brows rise and you tilt your head at him as if encouraging him to go on. You’re almost there, Cass you seem to say. 

“You should be mine.” He repeats with more emphasis. 

“Yeah?”

Cassian thinks about it for another moment and decides that yes, that feels right. Simple, and right. “Yeah.”

You nod, smiling at him like he’s your favourite idiot before sliding off of the bar stool he’d plopped you on earlier and offering him two pats to his arm. Something in him sings at the contact no matter how patronizing or brief. 

“Okay, Cass. Good chat.” 

And he watches you leave the room and feels a little guilty at the way his gaze drops to your hips because he really shouldn’t lust after another person’s mate even though you should be his, even though you really ought to be his, even though you – oh my gods, it’s Cassian. Cassian’s your mate. 

“Y/N! Wait!” Cassian hastily storms out the room after you, following the sound of your tinkering laugh throughout the house in search of his mate.

He hovers along the edges of the market like a dutiful sentinel, watching you bounce between stalls as you peruse their merchandise. 

Cassian is briefly distracted by a child scampering through the legs of various patrons—causing the Illyrian to have to lift his wings lest the little one get a talon to the eye—when he feels the bond thrum with a gentle anxiety. 

It’s taken some time since solidifying the bond between you for Cassian to react this way, but the familiar feeling brings a loving smile to his face. It’s no surprise that his sweet, shy mate is almost always experiencing some form of anxiety, but Cassian has come to learn which type of anxiety is which. 

For example, the anxiety you’re currently experiencing is likely because someone has dared to acknowledge you.

Sure enough, Cassian returns his gaze back in your direction to find your shoulders tightening as you smile politely at the merchant who has deigned to explain some of their products. 

He gives the bond a gentle tug, waiting for you to tug back before he makes his way over to you. 

“…and all of them are hand crafted!” the merchant explains proudly, smiling at you as he holds one of his delicate creations aloft. 

Cassian can’t profess to knowing what it is; doesn’t really care to know, either. He’s too busy admiring your face as you subconsciously lean in Cassian’s direction.

“It’s beautiful,” you agree softly, watching as the merchant lowers that one to hold another aloft. 

“Very beautiful,” Cassian agrees, seeing your gaze turn to find him gazing at you lovingly. 

You smile back, and Cassian’s just about ready to thank the merchant for his time and cart you away when you go ahead and completely blow his mind. 

The merchant returns with a larger sample of his works, jumping into an explanation of the piece as you reach for Cassian’s arm and pull it towards you, hugging it close to your chest and resting your cheek against his bicep as you continue dutifully listening to the merchant. 

Cassian turns to stone, afraid to move; he doesn’t want to ruin this but also doesn’t know what prompted it. Are you so nervous that you’re using Cassian’s arm as a shield? Have you turned him into an emotional support teddy bear? No complaints from him on either count, mind you, he’d simply like to know.

But you merely hum appreciatively at whatever the merchant is saying and squeeze Cassian’s hand in what he thinks might be a silent thank you.

For what? For holding your hand? Acting as your personal bodyguard against the horrors of being perceived alone? Cassian’s not sure.

Once again, he’s not sure he cares to know, he’s simply happy to be doing it for you.

Truly, Cassian is so distracted by your overt (and public!) display of affection that he doesn’t even register you’ve gone ahead and paid for one of the merchant's creations until you’re gently nudging his arm.

“You okay?” you ask, tilting your head up at him as a genuine divot of concern forms between your brows. 

He itches to kiss it away, but instead he laughs.

“Am I okay? Yeah, gorgeous, I’m perfect,” he tells you, returning the squeeze of his hand with a number of squeezes to your own. “Are you okay?”

And you—his cheeky little thing—fight against a smile as you furrow your brows at him as if you don’t know exactly how strange you’re being right now. “F’course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be okay?” 

“Because you’re touching me,” Cassian explains around a laugh. “Publicly!” 

But Cassian’s (loud) excitement clearly marks the line in the sand for you, seeing you recede back to the periphery of the goings on and glaring half-heartedly at Cassian every time he so much as winks at you.

Mother above, he loves the Hel out of you.

And one thing that serving his peach cobbler is very good at is earning him a beaming grin from a certain little mate of his. 

So, yeah, Cassian might not be very good at much, but he likes to think he’s good at what’s important. 

Mainly, making you smile. 

Thus, he’s feeling pretty good about himself tonight, smiling at the other members of his family around the table as they devolve into their usual dinnertime banter. 

“Every month?” Morrigan asks Feyre with a grimace, theatrically shuddering when the High Lady hums in agreement. 

“They lasted anywhere from three to seven days.”

“Every month,” Morrigan murmurs into her glass, utterly horrified. 

Amren hums thoughtfully. “Perhaps humans are hardier than we give them credit for.” 

“Didn’t you just say they were the only species who could be taken out by a papercut?” you point out playfully, nodding and nudging your wine glass towards Azriel when he wordlessly asks if you’d like a top-up. 

“Two things can be true at once,” the ancient being huffs. 

Feyre hums as something occurs to her, and she quickly swallows her bite to ask, “Do fae have allergies like humans do?” 

Rhysand snorts entirely unelegantly for a High Lord as his violet eyes flash in Cassian’s direction. “You’ve seen the infamous Lord of Bloodshed in Spring, darling.”

Cassian glares, but Feyre merely rolls her eyes. “No, not like that. Some humans are allergic to certain types of food. There was a boy in the village we grew up in that would go into anaphylactic shock if he consumed peanuts.” 

Most of the family looks at her thoughtfully, but it's you who nods as you swallow your sip of wine. “Fae can be allergic to foods.”

“Really?” 

You nod at the High Lady again. “My mother couldn’t eat shellfish, and I’m allergic to peaches.” 

The entire room grinds to an abrupt halt, the only sound the echoing ticks from the large grandfather clock in the corner of the room. 

“What?” Cassian rasps. 

You seem confused by the sudden change of atmosphere, looking around the table with furrowed brows and shrugging your shoulders helplessly. “I mean, not as severely as my mother or that boy from your village,” you explain. “But there’s a reaction.”

“A reaction,” Rhysand parrots thoughtfully, eyes narrowing over at Cassian as he puts the pieces together. 

“I’ve seen you eat peaches, though,” Morrigan argues, her brows meeting in the middle. “You eat Cassian’s cobbler all the time.”

Cassian watches the moment you recognize your slip up, your brows easing and shoulders creeping up towards your ears as you look at him apologetically from beneath your lashes. 

“Well, yes… but, I love Cassian’s peach cobbler.”

“But you’re allergic to it,” he argues then, finally finding his voice as he fights to wrap his head around the fact he’s been poisoning you for Mother knows how long. “What are the symptoms?”

“Oh, it’s really not a big deal, Cass. I-”

“What are the symptoms?” he repeats, his general voice slipping out unbidden. 

“I just…break out in hives, a little.” You’re clearly trying to downplay it, and certainly omitting details based on the way you can’t seem to meet Cassian’s gaze. 

“And?”

“And nothing,” you huff, clearly growing agitated by the interrogation this has turned into. 

“How long do the hives last?” It’s Feyre who asks, your eyes flickering over to her and leaving Cassian feeling bereft at the loss of your attention. 

“A few hours, sometimes less.” 

“Any other symptoms?” Rhysand continues, smirking when you swallow thickly. 

“I, uhm, I don’t know… I guess my tongue and throat get a bit itchy? But—”

“That means they’re swelling,” Morrigan interjects, clearly horrified. “Why do you eat it if it threatens to cut off your airways?”

“—But that only lasts like, twenty or thirty minutes.” 

Cassian says your name, but gone is the rough, barking orders of the Illyrian General; your name falls from his lips in a devastated plea that has the unanswered end of the mating bond between the two of you wrapping around his neck like a noose. “I’m sorry.”

Your face contorts in anguish. “No, Cassian. Please, I’ve always really enjoyed it; you’re very talented.”

“I almost killed you.”

“If I was deathly allergic, I wouldn’t have eaten it.” Your brow cocks at him as if daring him to argue. “You love making it, and you always seemed so pleased to serve it to me.”

If that isn’t the understatement of the millenia. Cassian loves anything to do with you; baking for you, shopping for you, going on walks with you, reading with you (where you read and Cassian holds a book as he watches you), topping up your wine for you which Azriel’s very much aware of meaning that the shadowsinger is reaching over to do it again now just to piss his brother off. 

It works. 

“Azriel.”

The shadowsinger’s lips twitch at the warning in Cassian’s voice. “Yes, Cassian?”

“Knock it off.”

“I’m only trying to be helpful,” Azriel offers innocently. 

“If you want to be helpful,” Cassian grinds out. “Go throw out the peach cobbler cooling in the kitchen.” 

A sound of dissent rings around the table, but nobody looks so crestfallen as you do. “But Cass-”

“Are you allergic to apples?” he asks quickly, placing his napkin on the table and making to stand.

“What?” 

“Apples, are you allergic?” he repeats, continuing when you shake your head no. “Any other food allergies?”

“No.” Your eyes track him as he makes his way towards the terrace. “Where are you going?” 

“To the shops, I think we’ve got the fixings for an apple crumble. Do you like apple crumble? I’ll be right ba- actually...” Cassian turns to round the table. “You should come with me.” 

You barely manage to let out a disbelieving exhale before Cassian is untucking your chair and helping you to your feet. 

“Real subtle, brother,” Rhysand huffs under his breath as Cassian ushers you towards the balcony doors. 

Cassian doesn’t grace the prick with a response, praying you don’t catch Feyre's parting comment as Cassian takes off into the sky with you in his arms. 

“Give the male a break, Rhys. He just found out he’s been poisoning his mate.”

Sam notices by breakfast.

He always notices.

“You sleep okay?” he asks gently, sliding a mug of coffee toward you.

“Fine,” you snap, too quick.

His brows lift slightly, but he doesn’t push.

You hate that he doesn’t push. It makes you feel worse.

The day drags. Research goes nowhere. A case file won’t load. Dean’s music echoes faintly down the hall. You feel like your skin doesn’t fit right.

By the time Sam leans over your shoulder to point at something on the laptop screen, you’re already at the edge.

“I think this symbol matches the one from—”

“I know, Sam,” you cut in sharply. “I’m not stupid.”

The silence that follows is immediate.

Heavy.

He steps back like you physically shoved him.

“I didn’t say you were.”

“I know.” Your voice is still tight. “You just—hover.”

His jaw flexes, but not in anger. In restraint.

“I’m trying to help.”

“Well, I don’t need help.”

The second it leaves your mouth, you regret it.

Because that’s not true.

And you see it land on him.

Not dramatic. Not explosive. Just a small, quiet hurt.

“Okay,” he says softly.

He moves away. Gives you space.

Which somehow makes your chest ache worse.

Ten minutes pass.

You stare at the same paragraph without reading a single word.

The irritation curdles into something uglier. Guilt. Frustration at yourself. The awful realization that you don’t even know why you’re like this today.

You push back from the table abruptly.

“Sam.”

He looks up immediately.

You cross the room and stop in front of him, arms wrapping around yourself like you’re holding something in.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you admit, voice cracking. “Everything just feels… too much.”

There it is.

Not anger.

Overwhelm.

His expression softens instantly.

“Hey,” he murmurs, standing up. Slow. Careful. “C’mere.”

You hesitate only a second before stepping into him.

His arms close around you, solid and warm and grounding. One hand settles at the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair.

You exhale shakily against his chest.

“I’m sorry I snapped,” you whisper.

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you. “You’re allowed to have off days.”

“I was mean.”

“You were overwhelmed,” he corrects gently. “There’s a difference.”

Your throat tightens.

He brushes his thumb under your eye, catching a tear you didn’t realize had fallen.

“You don’t have to be steady all the time,” he says. “I’ve got you when you’re not.”

The irritation that’s been buzzing under your skin all day finally starts to quiet.

Not because it’s solved.

But because you’re not alone in it.

You press your face back into his chest.

He holds you there as long as you need.

No fixing. No lectures.

Just steady.

And somehow, that’s enough.

“I am not.”

“You are,” he insisted, turning his head toward you. “You’ve been smiling since the encore.”

You rolled onto your side to face him, the thin motel blanket shifting between you. “That was a good encore.”

Eddie huffed a soft laugh. “It was an amazing encore.”

For a moment neither of you spoke. The muffled sound of a car passing on the highway filled the silence, headlights briefly sweeping across the ceiling through the gap in the curtains.

You became very aware of how close he was.

Close enough that you could see the faint crease between his brows when he squinted at you. Close enough that if either of you moved even a little, your knees would bump under the blanket.

“You know,” Eddie said after a second, voice quieter now, “most people after a concert like that would be out cold.”

“And miss the post-show analysis?” you said. “Never.”

“This is why you’re my favorute,” he murmured.

But he didn’t look away.

The quiet stretched between you, the small motel room seemed to shrink around the bed, until it felt like the rest of the world had slipped somewhere down the highway and left the two of you stranded in the middle of it.

"Well," you finally broke the silence. "As much as I hate that Gareth fractured his ankle, there would have been no way we'd all be able to sleep in this motel room together. So I guess it worked out money wise."

It was supposed to be the three of you on this little weekend road trip, but Gareth had gotten drunk and hopped on a picnic table one too many times before the show and had spent the evening in an emergency room getting a cast. You and Eddie had still gone.

"Yeah well, I came close to getting my own bones broken when he fell on top of me the second time." Eddie rolled his eyes with a huff of laughter. 

"Almost had to go all by myself and deal with my metal-induced euphoria alone."

"Perish the thought," Eddie said, a smile touching his lips. "I'm a vital part of your euphoria management system."

You watched the slow way he blinked, the way his lashes swept down against his cheek. 

"Eddie," you said, and you didn't know what you were going to say after that, only that you were going to say something.

But he was already moving, shifting onto his side too, facing you fully. The motion sent the mattress dipping again, bringing you even closer. The worn denim of your jeans brushed against the worn denim of his.

“Yeah?” he breathed out.

You opened your mouth to speak but pushed the thought aside and instead blurted out:

"I don't have pajamas." 

He gave you a confused look at the weird way you said it but then nodded slowly.

"Me neither."

You shifted your legs a bit, pulling your knees up closer to your body.

"I don't want to sleep in my jeans." 

"Yeah, I wasn't planning on that either." 

You raise an eyebrow and he goes on. "So...we could sleep in our underwear. I could look away for a second so you can get under the covers first. 

You think about the black thong you have on.

"Eddie?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm not really wearing underwear underwear."

"Uh... what?" He looked lost.

You took a breath.

"I'm wearing a thong."

He didn't say anything at all. Just kind of stared at you like you'd just announced you could fly. Then a slow flush started creeping up his neck.

"Oh," he managed after a solid ten seconds of silence.

"I could use my shirt to cover the top half. But still..." you trailed off. "My ass would be out." 

"Yeah... I uh, know how a thong works," he managed.

You just blinked at him. You hadn't meant for the conversation to go in this direction but now it was here and you didn't know how to get it back.

He swallowed, and you watched the movement of his throat in the dim light.

"Okay," he said, after a beat that felt longer than the entire opening act. "I mean, I'm not going to make you sleep in your jeans. That's a special kind of torture. So we can... you know. Do the underwear thing. I'll face the wall. And I swear on all my Judas Priest records I won't turn around."

You searched his face, the earnestness you found there making your chest feel tight.

"Right. Okay." 

You each get up from your respective sides and undress. Eddie kept true to his word, but you still felt the heat of knowing he was just a few feet away.

You slip under the thin covers and wait.

"Okay, done. You're good."

He turned around and got in. His briefs were black too, and hung low on his hips. He had also taken his makeshift tank top off and was only in his boxers.

"You're shirtless." You say as he pauses, halfway into the bed. 

"Uh... yeah? I don't usually wear a shirt to bed..." He trails off like he's just realized what you'd said. "Is that... is that okay?"

You just nodded.

He slid the rest of the way in and pulled the covers up.

There was a lot less space between you now. You could feel the warmth radiating off his skin, could see the way the dim light caught the tattoos scattered across his chest.

"You've seen me shirtless before, sweetheart. It's not some revolutionary event," he said, a note of humor in his voice.

"I've never been in a bed with you while you were shirtless. Different experience entirely."

"Right," he said, and then softer, "Well I've never been in bed with a girl and her ass cheeks were out, so I think we're even." 

"I told you not to look!" You shrieked, hitting him with a pillow.

"Hey! I said I didn't!" he laughed, raising his hands in surrender. "I'm a virgin not a monk, I can visualize what a thong entails." 

He says it so casually that you almost don't catch it. 

"...What?" 

"Okay..." he tries to backtrack. "I don't mean I'm visualizing your ass in the thong. Just an ass. Like a generic woman ass in--" 

"You're a virgin?" You cut him off.

The pillow fell from your grasp as you stared at him.

His whole body went tense.

The laugh had vanished from his face. He looked away from you, staring at the water-stained patch on the ceiling. He swallowed hard enough that you could see the muscles in his throat work.

"Uh... yeah." It comes out as a resigned whisper almost. Like, for once, he has nothing in his wordsmith arsenal to deflect.

You were too quiet.

And then your face did a weird thing that you couldn't quite control. Your eyebrows shot up and your lips parted and it wasn't bad. It wasn't mocking or judgmental.

It was just... shocked.

"Really?"

And for some reason, the simple, unadorned disbelief in your voice seemed to be exactly the wrong thing to say.

"Jesus, what, is that so hard to believe?" The words came out sharp, stung. He pushed himself up on one elbow, creating a sudden, unwelcome distance between you. "The freak, the dungeon master, the guy who sells drugs to kids isn't exactly a girl's fantasy. Don't tell me you're surprised."

"No! Eddie that's not what I meant at all!" You quickly try to sit up, while still keeping covered as well, but the blanket bunches weirdly around your waist and you feel even more exposed than before. "It's just... you're so..."

"So what?" He was genuinely agitated now, the vulnerable admission curdling into something defensive and angry.

"So... confident," you finished quietly. "You're always so... loud. And you command a room. And you're funny. And... I don't know. I just assumed..."

He stared at you, his chest rising and falling a little too fast. The anger seemed to drain out of him as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a deep-seated exhaustion.

"Being able to work a room doesn't mean you know what the hell to do when you're alone in a dark one with someone," he said, the words barely audible.

Silence crashed back into the room. This was heavier, weighted with things unsaid. You reached out, your fingers hovering just above the space between you, unsure if touching him would make it better or worse.

"And, let's be honest, if a girl is alone with me in a dark room, she's more likely to piss herself with the worry I'm going to sacrifice her to Satan, than be wet in any other way."

You scrunch your nose up at his verbiage. 

"Okay, one: ew. Two? Not true. Three?" You took a breath, deciding to throw caution to the wind. "I'm alone with you in a dark room. Piss free."

He blinked. "Thats different. You're not like, a girl." 

It was, in fact, now his turn to say the exact wrong thing. The tension that had just begun to dissolve returned twofold.

Your jaw set. "Right. I'm not. My mistake."

He scrambled, his words tripping over each other. "No, that's not what I-- Fuck. I mean, you're you. You're my friend. It's not... it's not like that. It's safe."

"Wow. Safe. That's every girl's dream. To be the safe, unfuckable friend."

You flopped back onto the pillow, turning your back to him with a huff. You pulled the blanket up to your chin, a thin, flimsy shield. You could feel the heat of anger and embarrassment prickling at your skin.

"Woah, woah, that's not what I meant either! I'm just... bad at this," he pleaded, his voice a strained whisper. The mattress shifted as he moved closer, a careful, hesitant movement. You could feel the warmth of his hand hovering over your shoulder, not quite touching. "I've never talked about this before. I mean, you know damn well none of the Hellfire guys are getting any. And I'm pretty sure they think I'm some kind of dark lord of getting laid. It's just... a lie. A story I tell. It's easier than the truth."

You stayed silent, staring at the ugly floral pattern on the wall. You could hear his breathing, ragged and uneven.

"And you're not... you're not unfuckable," he said, the words so quiet you almost had to strain to hear them. "You're... very fucka- I mean, you're... you know. You're great."

The clumsy, earnest correction almost made you smile. Almost.

"Look at me," he murmured. "Please?"

Slowly, you rolled back over.

His face was a mess of conflicting emotions in the dim light. The defensive sneer was gone, replaced by something more vulnerable.

"'Great' is what a teacher puts on your paper when you get a B+." You say, your voice small.

He let out a shaky breath, a sound that was half-laugh, half-despair. "Okay. You're right. You're not 'great' like a B+." He searched for the right words, his gaze flicking between your eyes. "You're... you're the solo in 'Master of Puppets'. You're the part of a song that's so good it makes you pull the car over. You're... the kind of thing that makes a guy want to learn guitar in the first place."

Your breath caught. That was not what you were expecting.

"Eddie..."

"No, I mean it," he pushed on, a desperate urgency in his tone now. "And being around you is... it's easy. Too easy. And then I get in my head about it. About saying the wrong thing. About being a disappointment. So I deflect. I make stupid jokes. I turn myself into the D&D nerd or the Satanist freak or--" 

"I'm a virgin too." The words were out of your mouth before you could stop them, a quiet confession that hung in the air between you.

The torrent of words from Eddie stopped. His jaw went slack. He stared at you, wide-eyed, as if you'd just confessed to being a secret agent.

"What?" he finally managed to breathe out. "I thought you lost it to that guy from the photography club."

"Tyler?" You couldn't help the small, humorless laugh that escaped. "No. We went on, like, three dates. He tried to stick his tongue down my throat in the back of the movie theater and then practically begged for a handjob in the parking lot. It was... underwhelming."

Eddie was still just staring, processing.

"Shit. Well, now I can tell you that I really hated that guy. For more reasons than just his terrible haircut."

A real smile finally touched your lips at that. "His haircut was pretty bad."

The silence that followed was different. It wasn't heavy or awkward. It was... quiet. A shared space.

"I didn't tell you because I was embarrassed," you admitted, your gaze fixed on a loose thread on the pillowcase. "I figured you like... I don't know, banged girls in your van after shows or something. I felt... left behind. Like everyone was growing up and doing all this stuff and I was just... still me."

"Sweetheart," he said, his voice soft. "I'm far from the van-banging king. I'm the guy who is currently panicking because he's shirtless in a bed with a girl in a thong and doesn't know the social protocol for what to do with his hands."

"So you admit I'm a girl now?" you teased, a glimmer of your usual self returning.

His eyes softened, and a slow, genuine smile spread across his face. It was the kind of smile that reached his eyes, crinkling the corners. "I've unfortunately been way too aware of that distinction for a while now."

"Unfortunately?" You raise a playful eyebrow.

"Because it was a lot easier to think of you as just... you. My friend. My partner in crime. The person I could talk to about whether Kirk Hammett was a better guitarist than Slash without getting a blank stare. Thinking of you as a girl? A girl I'm in bed with? That's... terrifying."

You feel a warmth spread through your chest that has nothing to do with the flimsy blanket. "Why terrifying?"

"Because I'm bad at this!" he exclaimed, gesturing vaguely between you. "This entire conversation is a testament to that! I say 'safe' and you hear 'unfuckable.' I say 'girl' and I sound like a caveman. The margin for error here is huge. And the thought of messing this up... with you..." He trailed off, shaking his head.

"Messing what up?" you whispered.

His gaze dropped from your eyes to your lips, and back again. The room suddenly felt a thousand degrees hotter. He swallowed, and the motion was so deliberate, so loaded with unspoken meaning, it made your breath hitch.

"You know what. Don't make me say it," he murmured, his voice raspy.

He was so close now. The dip in the mattress had eliminated all but the slimmest of gaps between you. You could feel the warmth of his breath on your cheek.

"I think I want you to say it," you breathed back. 

"Not going to." His smile was back, but it was different now. Shyer. More hesitant. But no less real. "I've said enough stupid things for one night."

Instead of explaining more, he started to lean in.

Slowly. Giving you every opportunity to pull away, to turn back to the wall, to put a stop to it.

But you didn't stop it. 

Not when his hand came up to cradle your face. 

Not when he used his thumb to gently trace your jawline, the rough callus on his finger a pleasant rasp against your skin.

Not when he finally, finally closed the last remaining distance between you and his lips met yours.

It wasn't a perfect kiss. It was a little clumsy at first, a misalignment of angles that ended in a soft, wet press against the corner of your mouth.

You giggled a little, ready to say something cheeky, but he didn't give you the chance. He tilted his head and tried again.

And the second one was perfect.

It was soft and tentative, the taste of a gas station slushie. The sigh he let out against your lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated relief, settled right in your core. 

His hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair. The kiss deepened, a slow, gentle exploration that sent shivers down your spine.

You found your own courage then, your hand coming up to rest on the warm skin of his chest. He let out a soft hum of encouragement, and you let your fingers trail over the lines of his tattoos, the dark ink a stark contrast to his skin.

"Touch all you want." He murmurs against your lips before pressing another quick kiss to your lips and pulling back just enough to look at you.

His eyes were dark in the dim light, pupils blown wide. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that matched your own.

"Okay." You say quietly, letting your hand wander.

"Okay," he repeated, a dazed sort of smile on his face. "Okay."

He was still looking at you, a deep searching look that seemed to be trying to memorize every detail of your face.

"You're staring."

"Can't help it," he murmured, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your forehead. Your hands are all over him now, touching anything they can reach. His shoulders, his biceps, the small of his back. And he was doing the same. His hands were everywhere, tracing the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist, the soft skin of your thighs above the line of the thong.

He froze for a second when his fingers brushed against the string of your underwear.

You hold back a small laugh as your hand travels to grab his ass a little, the soft cotton of his briefs giving way to the firm muscle beneath.

"Hey!" He yelped, jumping a little.

"You said I could touch all I wanted." You say with a sly grin. "Don't be shy."

He stared at you for a second before a slow grin spread across his face. "Yeah, okay. Fair's fair."

His hands grew bolder then, sliding down to cup the fat of your ass, pulling you flush against him. The thin fabric of your thong and his briefs was the only thing separating you.

He kisses you harder this time, a hungry, desperate kiss that stole the air from your lungs. His hips rocked against yours, a slow, deliberate friction that had you gasping into his mouth.

He was hard. You could feel him. 

"Eddie," you breathed out, his name a plea on your lips.

"That okay?" His voice soft as his lips travel over your jaw and down your neck. "How I'm touching you?"

You could only nod, words failing you. He seemed to take that as an invitation to continue. He nipped at the sensitive skin of your throat, making you whimper. His hands were still on your ass, kneading the flesh, pulling you closer as he rolls his hips against yours.

You were the one to reach for the hem of your shirt.

He pulls away, breathless.

"Wait. You sure?" He's searching your face again, looking for any sign of hesitation. "You don't have to."

You could feel the heat rise to your cheeks. "Do you... not want to see me?" The words were small, laced with an insecurity you hated.

He looked like you'd just slapped him.

"No! God, no." He shook his head, a look of pure panic on his face. "That's not... I mean, I do. I really, really do. I just... I don't want you to think you have to. Because of... all this."

He gestures to his erection and then to the two of you in the bed. "He's kind of an idiot, and he has terrible ideas about timing."

"I kinda like his timing." You said, your hands back on his chest. "And I want to." You slowly lift the shirt over your head and toss it onto the floor with your jeans.

Eddie went completely still, his eyes wide, fixed on your chest.

"I knew you didn't wear a bra. I could tell," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. "When you were jumping during the concert."

"Really?" You couldn't help but feel a little pleased.

"Oh yeah." He reached out a hesitant hand, like he was afraid you might disappear. "I was trying very hard to be a gentleman and not stare. But I failed. Miserably."

You let out a soft laugh as his fingers finally made contact, tracing the curve of your breast. His thumb was quick to find your nipple, brushing over it in a way that sent a jolt of pure pleasure straight to your core.

"Look at these pretty things." He murmured as he leaned down to take one in his mouth.

The feel of his tongue, hot and wet, against your sensitive skin was enough to make you arch your back, a gasp torn from your lips. He used his free hand to grip you ass hard, pulling you on top of him while his lips still wrapped around your nipple.

You were straddling him now, your knees on either side of his hips. The thin fabric of your thong and his briefs was soaked, the friction of him against you, even through the layers of clothes, was intoxicating.

You couldn't help the way your hips started to move, a slow, grinding rhythm that had you both gasping for breath.

"Can't believe you're wet for me," he said, his voice laced with a kind of awestruck disbelief. He lifted you up and adjusted you to where he could feel you better, a small moan leaving his lips at the contact.

"Can't believe you're this big," you shot back, more of a sigh than a statement. 

"Yeah? You like that?" The words were a low growl against your skin as he lavished your other nipple with attention.

"Mhm..." You could only manage a small hum, your mind going hazy with pleasure.

He's so hard. So hard that it's almost painful. You needed to feel him. All of him. You started to reach for the waistband of his briefs, but he stopped you, his hand covering yours.

"Hey, no." His breath hitched. "Not yet. Let me... let me do something for you first."

Before you could ask what he meant, he was shifting you, maneuvering you until you were on your back and he was settled between your thighs. He pushed your legs apart with a gentle pressure of his hands. And then he was leaning down, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee.

"Is this okay?" he asked, his breath warm against your skin.

You could only nod, your throat too tight to speak. He moved higher, pressing a trail of open-mouthed kisses up your inner thigh, stopping just short of where you desperately wanted him.

"You really want to?" Your own surprise at the question was evident.

"I've been dreaming about this," he admitted, his voice a raw, honest confession. "For a long, long time."

And then he was there, his tongue sliding against the fabric of your thong. The wet heat of him through the thin lace was almost enough to send you over the edge.

"Oh god... no wonder girls like this in pornos." Your legs start to shake a little as your hands find their way into his hair.

"You watch pornos?" He looks up at you from between your legs, a slow grin spreading across his face. "My dirty girl."

He didn't wait for an answer, just hooked his fingers into the sides of your thong and pulled it down your legs. He tossed it over his shoulder, and it landed somewhere in the vicinity of your discarded shirt.

"I feel like I'm supposed to pray to this," he said, a teasing glint in his eyes. "Like a holy relic."

You let out a shaky laugh. "D&D references aren't exactly what I'm looking for right now, Eddie."

"No? So you don't like my DM voice? 'You enter a beautiful, damp cavern... the walls are slick with moisture...'" He was  on you then, his tongue finally, finally making contact with your pussy. The feeling was so intense, so overwhelming, you couldn't help but cry out.

His hands gripped your thighs, holding you open for him as he explored you with a desperate, hungry curiosity.

"Guide me," he mumbled against your folds. "I don't know what you like. Tell me."

"Your... your tongue," you gasped out. "On my clit. When I... touch myself I just focus there... "

He hummed in acknowledgement, and then he was following your directions, his tongue finding that sensitive bundle of nerves and circling it with a slow, deliberate pressure. He was a quick study, and it wasn't long before you were writhing beneath him, your hands fisted in his hair, your hips bucking against his face.

"Mmm, feels so much better than my fingers." You whined, the pleasure coiling tight in your belly. He was good. So, so good. Better than you had ever imagined. And you had imagined this. A lot.

He pulled back for a second, his chin shining with your arousal. "Show me how you do it," he said, his voice thick with desire. "Show me what you like."

You hesitated for a beat, the vulnerability of the request hitting you. But then you looked at him, at the open, eager expression on his face, and you couldn't deny him anything.

You reached down between your legs, your fingers finding your clit easily. You started to rub slow circles, the motion practiced, familiar.

"God..." He groans. "You ever think about me? When you do this?"

Your fingers stutter. You look down at him, at the hope and the lust warring in his eyes.

"Only since last year," you said, your voice barely a whisper. "When you wore that ripped t-shirt to the fair. I could see your... happy trail..." 

He just stared, completely floored.

"Fucking Christ..." He pinched his eyes shut as he palmed himself through his boxers before he dived back in with a new enthusiasm.

He watched you for a moment, and then he joined in, his tongue prodding your entrance and licking at your fingers as you pleasured yourself. It was a messy, clumsy, and incredibly erotic sight.

"Fuck, Eddie, I'm so close," you moaned, your hips moving in a frantic rhythm against his tongue and your own hand.

He redoubled his efforts, nudging your hands away with his nose and sucking your clit into his mouth and flicking it with his tongue. It was the final push you needed, and you came with a cry, your body shaking with the force of your orgasm.

He didn't stop, not right away. He kept licking you, his tongue gentle now, soothing you through the aftershocks. It was as if he just loved your taste, greedy for more. Finally, he pulled back, a look of pure, unadulterated pride on his face.

He crawled up your body and kissed you then, a messy kiss that tasted of your release.

"Damn, I'm gonna get addicted to that," he murmured against your lips.

You just hummed in response, your body still buzzing with pleasure. You could feel his erection pressing against your thigh, a demanding presence.

"Let me..." you started, your hands trailing down his chest to the waistband of his briefs. "Let me return the favor."

"Yeah?" His eyebrows raise.

You answered by tugging the briefs down, freeing him. He kicked them off the rest of the way, and then he was completely naked, the dim light of the motel room casting him in a warm glow. He was beautiful.

He knelt between your legs, giving you a perfect view. He was long and thick, the head flushed a dark pink, a bead of precum glistening at the tip.

"I've never seen a real one in person," you confessed, your voice filled with awe.

He flushed a little, a rosy blush spreading across his chest. "Well, it's not going to win any awards. It's pretty standard issue."

"It's bigger than my dildo," you blurted out, then immediately regretted it.

Eddie's head tilted, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face. "You have a dildo?" He leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "I'm learning a lot about your sexy habits tonight."

"I'm a virgin, not a nun." You said defensively, a call back to his confession earlier.

"I know. I'm not judging. I'm celebrating." He kissed you again, a quick, hard press of his lips. "Now, were you about to do something?"

You reached out and wrapped your hand around him. He was hot and hard, the smooth skin a stark contrast to how rigid he was. He let out a sharp hiss of breath, his hips jerking forward.

You started to stroke him, twisting your wrist on the upstroke, the way you'd read about in a magazine.

"Jesus, that's... yeah," he groaned, his head falling back. "Just like that."

You watched him, mesmerized by the way his face contorted with pleasure. The way he was so open and unashamed of it.

"You know, when you said the thing about your... toy," he said, his breath hitching as you ran your thumb over the head of his cock, spreading the wetness there. "Am I really bigger?"

You smiled, a genuine, sly smile. "Considerably."

"Fuck." He seemed genuinely pleased by this information. "That's... good to know. For my ego."

He watched you for a few more moments, your hand working him with a steady rhythm. Then he reached down, stilling your movements.

"Okay, stop," he breathed, his voice strained. "I'm not going to last if you keep doing that."

You looked up at him, a question in your eyes.

"I want..." He swallowed hard. "I wanna be inside you."

The words hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning.

"We won't be virgins anymore." You say, soft and immediately feeling stupid for it. Of course he knew that.

His expression softened. He leaned down and kissed your forehead. "I know." He was so close, you could feel the frantic beat of his heart against your chest.

"I want that," you said, your voice firm. "With you."

He let out a long, shuddering breath, as if he'd been holding it for an eternity.

"Is it weird I'm nervous? I feel like that's weird for a guy." He admitted.

"It's not weird." You promised. "I don't think nerves are gendered."

He kissed you then, a slow, deep kiss that was full of all the things he couldn't seem to say. All the want and the hope and the fear. He only broke the kiss, to reach over the other side of the bed and fumbled in the pocket of his discarded jeans.

"I swear I keep this in my wallet all the time. Not because I was expecting... well this." He said as he pulled out a little foil square.

The crinkle of the wrapper was the only sound in the room. He tore it open with shaky fingers and rolled the condom on with an efficiency that belied his earlier fumbling.

He settled back over you, his elbows on either side of your head, caging you in.

"I can't believe I'm going to have sex with you." You whisper, looking into those consuming brown eyes, your fingers tracing the dimples that start to form when he smiles down at you. 

"Me either," he said, and there was such a raw, honest wonder in his voice that it made your chest ache. "If I'm being totally honest? I'm pretty sure this is a lucid dream I'm having after eating all that bad gas station pizza."

You laughed, a bright, happy sound that filled the small room.

"It's real." You promised.

"Okay." He takes a deep breath. "Okay."

He positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against your wet folds. He paused, looking at you one last time, giving you a final chance to change your mind.

You answered by wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him closer.

He pushed a little inside you with a slow, steady pressure.

It was a strange, unfamiliar sensation. A stretching, aching fullness that bordered on pain. You couldn't help the small whimper that escaped your lips.

He stopped immediately, his whole body tensing. "You okay? Am I hurting you?"

"Are you all the way in?" You asked, your breath hitching.

He shook his head. "Not even close. You okay?"

You nod. "It's a lot. Keep going."

He pushed a little deeper, a slow, inch-by-inch invasion that made you feel like your body was being remade to fit him.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and he kissed up your neck and over your face. Each new press of his lips a welcome distraction from the dull ache between your legs.

He finally was all the way in, his hips flush against yours. He stilled, giving you a moment to adjust.

"Okay." You breathe out.

"You okay?" He repeated against your lips, breathless from his own pleasure. 

"Yeah just... don't move too much yet."

"You feel so... incredible. It's..." He trails off as he shifts a bit, pulling just out a little and pushing back in.

You both groan. The pain started to fade then, replaced by a different kind of ache. A deep, throbbing need.

"Okay," you breathed, your fingers tightening in his hair. "Okay, you can move."

He started to move then, a slow, gentle rocking motion that was worlds away from the frantic rutting from earlier. Each thrust was a hesitant exploration.

You moved with him, your hips rising to meet his, your body learning the rhythm of his.

"Sweetheart..." It came out as a mix of a groan and a whine, you've never heard him sound sexier.

He started to move faster, a little harder, his control starting to fray. He was panting against your neck, his breath hot and damp. His hands were everywhere, on your breasts, your hips, your ass. 

"Eddie... talk to me..." You whine as he hits a spot deep inside you that made you see stars.

"What do you want me to say?" he gasped, his hips snapping against yours.

"Anything... dirty talk... something... my ears..."

He let out a shaky laugh, a sound that was half-arousal, half-nervousness before leaning down into your ear. "You feel so good. So tight. All I've thought about for the last year is what it would feel like to be inside you."

You moaned. You felt your pussy clench around him, your body responding to the dirty words. He pulled back to watch your face, a look of pure, unadulterated lust on his face.

"Yeah? Want me to keep going? Tell you how I've jacked off to the thought of your tits?"

You could only nod, your words lost in a haze of pleasure.

"Or maybe it was your ass. In those tight jeans you wear. God, the things I wanted to do to you." He punctuated the words with a particularly hard thrust that made you cry out. "Wanna kiss you until you're dripping for me. And I did tonight. Dripping all over my tongue."

His words were filthier than you ever would have imagined, and it was pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

"You're so wet for me. You're taking my cock so well." He groans, his forehead resting against yours. "You're all I want. Just... you."

The last words were a raw, honest confession that went straight to your heart. You were the one to kiss him then, a desperate, messy kiss that was all teeth and tongue and need.

"Touch yourself again," he practically begged against your lips. "Please, I love seeing it." He didn't want to finish before you did. And he also liked watching.

You didn't hesitate, your hand snaking down between your bodies to find your clit. You started to rub in tight, fast circles, the dual stimulation of him inside you and your fingers on your clit almost too much to bear.

"Its too good, Eddie." You whine, a high pitched desperate sound he's never heard you make.

"Let go," he commanded, his voice rough and hoarse. "Let me feel your pussy wreck me."

His words were the final push you needed. You came with a strangled cry, your body arching off the bed, your inner walls clamping down on him. The force of your orgasm was enough to send him over the edge too, and with a hoarse shout of your name, he came, his hips pistoning into you as he emptied himself into the condom.

He collapsed next to you, both of you panting, your bodies slick with sweat. The room was silent, save for the sound of your ragged breaths and the ancient motel air conditioner.

After a long moment, he propped himself up on an elbow and looked at you, a slow, dazed smile spreading across his face.

"If you don't want to be my girlfriend after this, I think I might actually die."

You laugh, reaching up to push a damp curl away from his forehead. "Well, we can't have that."

He leaned down and kissed you, a soft, sweet kiss that was a world away from the frantic, hungry kisses from before.

"So... is that a yes?" he asked, a playful glint in his eyes.

"Are you going to go easier on me during Hellfire?" You counter.

"Never." He grins. "You have to earn your honor just like everyone else."

"Then yes," you said, and the word felt like a promise. "Yes, I'll be your girlfriend."

He looked so happy you thought your heart might burst. He kissed you again, and again, and again, as if he couldn't get enough of you.

"Gonna 'kiss me till I'm dripping'?" You tease, your fingers tracing the lines of his collarbones.

"Very funny. Give me ten minutes and another slice of that gas station pizza," he mumbled against your skin, making you laugh.

He eventually got up to dispose of the condom, and you took the opportunity to look at him. Really look at him. The long, lean lines of his body, the scattering of tattoos, the way his hair curled in all directions. He was yours.

He came back to the bed and pulled you into his arms, your head resting on his chest. You could feel the steady, reassuring beat of his heart.

"I'm never going to get tired of this," he said, his voice a soft rumble in his chest. "Of you."

You tilted your head up to look at him. "Me neither."

You lay like that for a while, a comfortable, easy silence settling over you. The events of the night replayed in your mind, not just the concert or the sex, but everything beautiful that had happened in this small, ugly motel room.

He doesn’t answer with words.

Instead he groans low in his throat—long, ragged—and presses his whole body flush to yours. You feel every hard inch of him: chest, hips, the thick line of his cock already straining against his jeans. His hands slide from your cheeks down your neck, thumbs brushing your pulse points, then lower, mapping your collarbones, your ribs, finally settling on your waist with a grip that’s almost too tight. Possessive. Reverent.

“Missed you,” he mutters against your mouth. “All goddamn day. Couldn’t think straight.”

You’ve been apart maybe four hours—library run while he and Dean chased a lead—but the way he says it, you’d think it was weeks.

His lips find your jaw, your throat, open-mouthed kisses that leave wet trails. You tip your head back against the door; a soft sound slips out when his teeth graze the spot just under your ear. He hisses through his teeth at the noise—like it physically hurts him how much he wants you.

“Fuck, that sound—” He drags his mouth back to yours, kissing you slower this time, deeper, savoring. One hand slips under your shirt; calloused palm skates up your spine, then around to cup your breast through your bra. He thumbs your nipple until it pebbles, until you arch into him with a whimper.

“Sam—”

“Shh, baby. Just—let me.” His voice is wrecked already, gravel-rough. He rolls his hips forward, grinding the hard length of him against your stomach. Slow. Deliberate. You feel the heat of him even through layers of denim and cotton.

You grab fistfuls of his flannel, yanking him closer. He groans again—loud, broken—and pushes you harder against the door, thigh sliding between yours. The pressure is perfect; you rock down instinctively, chasing friction.

“Yeah,” he breathes, forehead dropping to yours. “Like that. Ride my thigh, babygirl. Show me how bad you want it.”

Heat floods your cheeks, but you do it anyway—rolling your hips in slow, needy circles. The seam of your jeans presses right against your clit with every grind. Sam watches your face like he’s memorizing it, eyes dark, pupils blown. His breathing is uneven; little hitches every time you drag over him.

“God, you’re so fucking beautiful,” he says, almost to himself. Then louder, desperate: “Can’t stop touching you. Never gonna stop.”

His mouth is back on your neck—sucking, licking, leaving marks he knows you’ll feel tomorrow. His hands are everywhere: one still kneading your breast, the other sliding down to grip your ass, pulling you tighter against his thigh. He rocks up to meet every roll of your hips, matching your rhythm until you’re both panting into each other’s mouths.

You tug at his hair—hard—and he whines. Actually whines. The sound shoots straight between your legs.

“Fuck, do that again,” he pleads against your lips. “Pull my hair. Please.”

You do. Harder this time. His hips jerk forward; a low, guttural moan rips out of him. “Shit—yes—fuck—”

He’s trembling now—big, broad-shouldered Sam Winchester shaking because of you. Because he can’t get close enough. His kisses turn frantic: teeth clashing, tongues messy, spit-slick. He’s grinding against you like he’s trying to fuse your bodies together.

You slide one hand down his chest, over the ridges of his abs, lower—palming him through his jeans. He’s so hard it must hurt; the denim is stretched tight. He jerks into your hand with a choked sound.

“Baby—don’t—gonna come in my pants if you—”

“Good,” you whisper, squeezing. “Want you desperate.”

He laughs—short, breathless, a little wild. “I already am.” Then he’s kissing you again, swallowing your moan when you grind down harder. His thigh flexes under you; the pressure builds fast, coiling tight in your belly.

“Sam—close—”

“I know. I can feel it. You’re soaking through your jeans, sweetheart. Fuck, I can smell how wet you are.” His voice cracks on the last word. He drags his lips along your jaw, up to your ear. “Come for me. Right here. Against the door. Let me feel you shake.”

You’re right there—teetering. One more grind, one more roll of his hips, and you tip over the edge with a sharp cry. Your nails dig into his shoulders; your whole body locks up, pulsing against his thigh in hard, helpless waves. Sam keeps rocking you through it, murmuring filthy praise against your temple.

“That’s it—good girl—fuck, you’re gorgeous—coming so pretty for me—”

When the aftershocks fade you’re boneless, held up mostly by his body and the door. He doesn’t stop touching you—gentler now, hands stroking your sides, your back, like he’s soothing you and himself at the same time.

But he’s still hard. Achingly so. You can feel him throbbing against your hip.

You reach down again, fumbling with his zipper.

He catches your wrist—gentle, but firm.

“Not yet,” he rasps. His eyes are glassy, cheeks flushed. “Wanna take my time with you tonight. Wanna kiss every inch. Wanna make you come again—on my fingers, on my tongue—before I even think about fucking you.”

You swallow. Your voice comes out small. “Sam…”

He kisses you soft this time—slow, lingering, like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth.

“I can’t stop,” he admits, barely above a whisper. “Every time I look at you I just—fuck, I need you closer. Always closer.”

His thumb brushes your swollen bottom lip.

You turn your head, kiss the center of his palm.

“Then don’t stop,” you tell him.

He exhales shakily—half laugh, half groan.

And then he’s scooping you up like you weigh nothing, carrying you toward the bed, mouth never leaving yours.

The night is long.

He’s going to prove his point.

Over.

And over.

And over.

Remus wasn’t oblivious to their anticipation. He noticed the way their eyes widened whenever they heard the pet name fall softly from your lips, or how their necks would snap in your direction, as if hoping you would be looking at one of them rather than him.

After three weeks, James acknowledged it. 

“What made you start calling Remus that, love?” James asked you late one evening, the four of you huddled around the Gryffindor common room, each wrapped up in your own tasks.

You glanced up from your crochet needles, the crease between your brows deepening. You hummed as if to get James to repeat himself, sticking one finger in the guide you’re following, but then you realised what he was asking you and you exhaled amusedly. 

“Because it suits him,” you smiled with a shrug. 

Before you could return to your attempted crochet, Remus wrapped an arm around you and kissed the side of your head hard. You giggled and leaned into him, nuzzling your back into his side. Despite the twinge of jealousy, Sirius’ heart melted at the sight of you both. He wished that he were small enough to fit in the tiny gap between your bodies. 

“So, if honey suits Moony, what do we suit, then?” James brought it up a few days later when they were in Potions class. You were working with Remus a few stations away, the two of you quietly chatting to one another as you expertly got on with the work Slughorn had assigned. 

Sirius was slightly startled by the question and paused from chopping his crow claw. “I’m definitely going to get darling.”

James snorted. “Right.”

Sirius shot him a look. “Why is it that Moony, who turns into a ten-foot beast every full moon, can be suited to honey, but I am unable to achieve darling status? Beautiful, doting old me? Am I not good enough? Not darling enough?”

James laughed harder and shoved Sirius with his elbow. They heard the sound of something dropping in liquid, and Sirius cursed when his cauldron started to make a hissing sound. 

“You made me drop the rest of the crow claw! That was way too much, you bastard!” Sirius huffed, but he was half-laughing anyway. 

“Fuck,” James hissed worriedly, and his eyes landed on Barty Crouch Jr and Evan Rosier’s unattended cauldron. Slughorn was drawing closer. They could hear him praising yours and Remus’ work. 

They both shared a knowing look as Sirius darted for the other cauldron, and that was the end of their previous conversation. 

Sirius figured that if he was going to be in a bit of pain, at least James was in it with him. They did like to do everything together, after all. It had been well over a month since Remus had adopted his new title, and no matter how much he told them to just tell you how they felt, Sirius couldn’t. 

He was fully aware that it was pathetic to want a pet name so badly that it sometimes hurt to hear you call Remus by anything other than his birth-given name. Besides, he wanted you to come up with one for him naturally, as you had done for Remus. 

He attempted to call you pet names even more, just to see if that would jog you along a little bit. It didn’t work. You smiled when he called you baby, but you wouldn’t say the word back. You hadn’t given him a variation of it. 

 James called him out for being a sneak, but Sirius reckoned that James didn’t care as much as he did. James wanted a nickname from you, of course he did, but Sirius doubted it was making James as antsy as it was him. James had always been a better sport than Sirius was. You’d think he was the one who had grown up with siblings, and that Sirius had been the only child, with how spoiled he acted.

It was a rainy Tuesday when James became your second boyfriend to gain a pet name, and Sirius became the last man standing. 

Hogwarts’ library had a busy thrum buzzing through it, students everywhere preparing for their end-of-year exams, and Sirius could have bet exactly where he would find you and Remus. James had one arm tucked around his broom, his hair damp from sweat and rain during his Quidditch practice, his other large hand on Sirius’ back, gently and subtly guiding him over to where he had seen you and Remus. 

You were sitting on one of the huge armchairs by the fire, in the very corner of the library. With a leg chucked over Remus’ thigh, your head was buried in a book, whilst Remus’ was tilted back against the sofa, his jumper-clad arms extended above his face, holding a notebook that he circled things in with a Muggle pen. 

Sirius nearly broke out into a grin at the sight of you two. James sped up, and quickly, they chucked their things down in the middle of the table. You shrieked, shooting James a scalding look when his broom landed on some of your parchment at the edge of the table. 

“James!” You complained and gritted your teeth when you were hushed by someone further down the aisles. “Did you not see my work right there? It’s all soggy now!”

James’ face became the image of panic, his brows tugging together, his bottom lip jutting out—not even on purpose in the same way Sirius does to make people feel guilty—James was apparently just naturally that sweet.

“Oh, fuck!” He muttered, and he yanked his broom back, beating your hands to the work that was now smudged and dripping muddy water. 

“What made you think it was a good idea to put your dirty broom on the table anyway, Prongs?” Remus raised a brow, eyeing the stained wood.

“Sorry, Y/N. Sorry, Remus,” James muttered, and he shook the pages, but it only made the bottom tear away. “Shit! Right, I’ll fix this. Don’t worry, love. I’ll have it all rewritten before—when is it due?”

You sent him a warm smile, one that suggested that you could never be properly angry at him, and cooed, leaning forward. You grasped his face in your hand and kissed his lips carefully.

 “It’s due first lesson tomorrow, darling,” you told him gently. 

James swallowed, and you thought he was just worried about the deadline, but his face tinged pink, and he turned away from you quickly, shooting Sirius a look. Sirius’ eyes were like saucers, his mouth falling open slightly. His gaze flickered between you and James, and his head kept repeating your soft tone: darling, darling, darling.

It took everything to make sure his face didn’t show how he felt. He even reached up to gently brush his own cheek, just to be sure he wasn’t glaring. His hands dropped by his sides, but then he wasn’t sure what to do with them, and it felt like he was taking up far too much room without even existing at all. 

James could read exactly what Sirius is thinking. His top teeth bit down on his bottom lip, torn between saying something and trying to let it go. Sirius gripped the bag on his shoulder tighter, his knuckles growing white. 

“I don’t feel like hanging around while you lot do homework,” Sirius said. “Have fun. I’m going to go and see what Pete’s up to.”

“Oh, alright. I think I saw him in the common room, Sirius. He was with that Hufflepuff girl,” you told him with a small smile

He gritted his teeth with a false smile of his own. “Great. I’ll go and see Pete and the Hufflepuff.”

Sirius spent the rest of his evening in his bunk, the curtains drawn and his head against his pillow. His arms were folded against his chest, the crease between his brow never fading for a second. He’d changed into his pyjamas—a black vest and some plaid pyjama trousers—and tried to go to sleep, but he couldn’t stop thinking about the three of you down in the library, most likely studying and laughing and having pet names for one another. He wished he didn’t care so much. He wasn’t sure why he did. 

Of course, he would be the last one to get a pet name! Sirius began to wonder if he would ever get one. Perhaps you didn’t think fondly enough of him, or maybe he didn’t suit any of the sweet ones, like honey or darling. He wished he were one of the other boys, bathing in your affection, feeling so incredibly special. 

There was a rustle against his curtain, and your head stuck through moments later. 

“Why are you lying above your covers?” You asked him, though there was hardly a hint of judgment in your tone. 

Sirius huffed through his nose. “Too lazy to get in.” You laughed, your face brightening. “Room for one more?” You asked, but you didn’t wait for his answer, your knee nearly colliding with his thigh before he moved it out of the way at expert speed.

“Not really,” Sirius chuckled, but his arm extended to you anyway, and you climbed in against his chest, half lying on his body. His hair tickled your forehead. “You smell nice.”

You beamed up at him. “Thanks. I had to go and finish some bits in the greenhouse for Herbology. I think it’s lavender—something fell on me, anyway."

Sirius stroked your arm. In return, you traced one of the tattoos he had gotten over the Christmas holidays. Each time you saw it, you couldn’t help but grin, thinking about the look on Professor McGonagall’s face when she had seen it for the first time. It was even better when Sirius had proudly told her that he planned on getting more and more. 

“Love this tattoo,” you murmured, your finger following the outline of the moth on his right bicep. 

Sirius quirked an eyebrow. “Really? You told me I’d regret it.”

“Well, you do hate moths,” you reminded him. “But it’s a pretty tattoo. Suits you, Pads.”

“Pretty,” he scoffed. “My tattoos are not supposed to be pretty.”

“Everything’s pretty when it’s on you, baby,” you murmured to him, stroking up and down his chest, and he became scared you would hear the way his heart stammered in his chest, completely missing several beats before pounding harder than it ever had before. 

The last time he felt this giddy was when the four of you had started your relationship. Months of dying to hear a pet name come from your mouth, and you’d finally picked one for him. An endearing term that was created specifically for him. Something you would call only him, and something he’d only let you call him. 

“Baby?” He croaked.

You reached up and played with the curls in his hair. “My baby,” you confirmed, and kissed his jaw.

It only took Sirius a few seconds to recover and flip you so that you were beneath him. Your screeching laughs filled the room as he kissed you all over—your face, your neck, your hair, your shoulders.

“Sirius!” You laughed. “That tickles!”

“Say it again!” He demanded with a laugh. “Say it, Y/N!”

“Baby!” You wheezed, and your laughter dimmed when he chucked himself hard against you, nuzzling his face right in between your neck and shoulder.

The curtain opens, and Sirius grins up at Remus and James, who look equal parts amused and concerned. 

“It finally happened?” James asked.

“I don’t care if you told her,” Sirius grumbled into your skin. “My one is better than all of yours.”

You snorted. “You and James should have told me months ago you wanted me to call you something.”

James rolled his eyes. “Where’s the spontaneity in that?”

“You’re both pathetic,” Remus teased.

“Says the one who got his pet name first, you hypocrite!”

Sirius squeezed you tighter, not ready to share you yet. He felt awful for the one-sided annoyance he’d been surviving through, and the jealousy he’d felt every time Remus was called honey. It turned out, good things did come to people who waited. Sirius wasn’t sure how he’d survived eighteen years without hearing you call him baby before. 

Now that you’d said it once, he’d need to hear it every single day. 

You’re pressed into his side on the floor, legs tangled, sharing a bowl of popcorn that has been refilled more times than either of you are willing to admit. His knee bumps yours every time he laughs and you don’t move away. You never do. Max shoots you a look from the sofa, something knowing and sharp. El is perched beside her, crown of tinsel tangled into her hair. Nancy and Jonathan are in the kitchen, whispering like their relationship is somehow a secret. Steve is arguing with Lucas about the countdown song. Will is sketching something on a napkin, glancing up at the noise like he’s trying to memorise it.

It’s almost midnight. The weight of it sits in your chest, heavy and hopeful and stupid.

You slip away when no one’s looking, which is a lie. Robin clocks you immediately, eyes following as you pad into the kitchen. She raises an eyebrow. You pretend you don’t see it.

The grapes are on the counter in a chipped bowl, twelve of them picked out carefully earlier, washed and lined up like they matter. You feel ridiculous holding them in your hands, heart beating too fast for something so small. It’s an old superstition a girl in elementary school had whispered to you once, laughing as she did it. Twelve grapes at midnight, under the table, each one a wish for love to come in the new year.

Desperation, some say. You prefer the word ‘hopeful’.

You duck back into the living room and slide under the dining table, knees knocking wood, the music muffled instantly. Dust coats your palms. Someone’s shoes are right in front of your face. You pull your jumper down over your hands and breathe out a laugh you swallow quickly. If Eddie sees you, he’ll tease you for weeks.

The countdown starts, muffled and chaotic.

Ten. Someone whoops. Nine. Your fingers curl around the grapes. Eight. Your chest aches.

Seven. You think of Eddie without meaning to.

Six. His hands, always warm.

Five. His smile when it’s just for you.

Four. The way he looks at other people, careless.

Three. Your heart thuds. Two. You close your eyes. One.

The room explodes. Cheers, laughter, clinking bottles. You shove the first grape into your mouth, chewing quickly. Sweet. You keep going, one after the other, breath hitching, hands shaking. The table vibrates as people dance around it. A foot knocks your knee and you hiss quietly.

Halfway through, the noise above shifts. Someone crouches. Light floods in as a head appears upside down at the edge of the table.

Eddie.

He’s grinning, curls falling into his eyes, a party hat perched crooked on his head. His grin falters when he sees the grapes in your hands, your cheeks full, your wide eyes. For a second he just stares, like he’s stumbled into something sacred.

“What are you doing, sweetheart?” he asks, voice soft, pitched low.

You swallow, heat rushing to your face. “Nothing.”

He snorts quietly and ducks under the table with you, knees knocking yours, back pressed to the leg. The space is small, intimate in a way that makes your lungs forget how to work. His shoulder brushes yours and he doesn’t move away.

Robin’s voice cuts through from above, sharp and delighted. “Eddie, your soulmate is eating grapes under a table.”

You hear her laughter, the clink of her bottle as she taps it against Steve’s. Eddie goes still beside you. You risk a glance at him. His jaw is set, eyes flicking to your hands, the grapes, your face. Something unreadable moves there.

“It’s a thing,” you mumble. “You eat twelve grapes at midnight and you get love in the new year.”

“Yeah,” he says. His voice is rougher than usual. “I know.”

You blink at him, surprised. Eddie shrugs, a helpless little movement in the cramped space. “My cousin used to do it. Made us all do it. Thought it was bullshit.” He pauses. “Still kinda do.”

You nod, throat tight, and lift another grape. Your fingers tremble. Eddie reaches out without thinking, hand closing gently around your wrist. The contact sends a jolt through you, sharp and familiar and too much.

“You don’t need that,” he says quietly.

The words land wrong, heavy. Your chest tightens. “It’s just a superstition.”

His thumb presses into your pulse. He feels it jump. His eyes soften, something like fear creeping in. “I know. I just mean…”

You look at him then, really look. At the crease between his brows, the way his mouth pulls down when he’s trying not to say something. The music swells above you, distant and loud. Confetti drifts down through the crack at the edge of the table.

“Mean what?” you ask.

Eddie opens his mouth. Closes it. Lets out a breath that sounds like a laugh and not at all like one. “Mean I hate the idea of you thinking you have to wish for something that’s already right here.”

The grape slips from your fingers and rolls away, forgotten. Your heart stutters, trips over itself. Eddie’s hand is still on your wrist, warm and real.

“Eddie,” you say, and his name feels different now, heavier.

He looks at you like he’s bracing for impact. “I love you,” he says, rushing it like if he doesn’t it’ll disappear. “I’ve loved you for so long. Thought you knew. Thought you didn’t feel the same. Thought I was okay with that. Turns out I’m not.”

The world narrows to the space under the table, to the sound of your own breathing, to the way his eyes search your face like he’s looking for permission or mercy. Your chest aches, full to bursting.

You laugh, a soft, broken sound. “I’m literally eating grapes under a table because I want to be loved by you.”

He stares at you, stunned. Then he laughs too, disbelief and relief tangled together. “Oh,” he says. “Oh.”

Above you, the party roars on, oblivious. Under the table, Eddie squeezes your wrist, then your hand, fingers lacing with yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You squeeze back, heart hammering, hope blooming bright and reckless.

You forget the rest of the grapes.

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he's not there to necessarily party. he's there to make money, drink, and observe. he doesn't even really miss the partying, or the people. since he was the plug, it was only ever about business. how much can someone get, what can they get, for what price, thanks, have a good night. he didn't get much socialization done in his life right now, so his best bet was to just watch.

he took his place on the couch, somewhere in the clouded area of the living room of whoever's house he's in right now. it was almost deja vu for him.

eddie would be SUCH an observer. quiet, listening and watching to everyone and everything since he was always in the corner unless he was needed. so when his eyes scanned the room after taking a puff of his blunt, it wasn't odd that his eyes latched onto you first.

you were wearing your usual, tube top, fishnet and jean shorts that rode up your ass and hugged the dips of your hips and waist. i think eddie tried to stop looking at you, especially when you saw him staring from your spot where you poured yourself another drink. but even you catching him didn't make him have any shame.

he was checking you out unabashedly. he was staring at the way your tits squeezed against the fabric of the tube top, how your tummy poked out of your shorts because they squeezed into your curves, how the fishnets had holes in some spots on your legs probably from stretching over the width of your thighs.

i think eddie would definitely try to make a move on you, his confidence wasn't lost on him, but he would wait. and while he would wait, he would think about touching you, talking to you, maybe even talking you through it.

he was a freak.

he waited until you finally decided to dance with a few of your friends, getting up from his spot and mixing in between the bodies to get next to you. eddie wasn't a dancer. not in these settings, even he surprised himself.

the obsession was mutual. your hands couldn't stop touching him as you two danced, whispering little things in each other's ears.

"you're really fucking pretty, you know that? like, insanely pretty. i couldn't stop looking at you from across the room." his voice was all you heard even when the music tried to drown it out, he was the only one you could listen to.

"eddie right?" you asked in his ear and your voice was even sweeter than he thought. he just nodded and let his hands fall onto your hips.

"you think i'm pretty?" you asked, your eyes fluttering up at him and biting your lip.

eddie only put his hands on your waist and squeezed, pulling you into him and smiling as you both danced together. putting your hands on his chest as he moved his hands to the lower part of your back and dipping his finger tips into your shorts, he leaned down and whispered in your ear,

"more than pretty. can't even focus on my job when you're right there in front of me just begging for me to come and take you away."

your eyes flutters again, this time with your lips parted and small hitch in your throat.

it was the same expression you had that night, upstairs in the guest room as everyone partied below you when he pushed his fingers inside of your heat.

"oh, ooh baby," he would say as he watched your cunt suck his fingers in, coating him in your juices and making a mess over his hand.

"i-i'm, eddie, oh my god eddie," you groaned, jean shorts discarded and panties moved to the side as he played with your cunt.

his hands ripped the fishnets between your thighs, letting his fingers spread the thick of your cunt and press his finger pads onto the glistening pearl that made you flutter your eyes shut.

it was the same expression you gave when he pushed his length into your sopping heat, and grabbed onto every inch of skin he could. once he entered you after making you cum on his fingers, he got eager.

eddie pulled your top down and let your tits free, becoming even more obsessed you might end up having to put a restraining order on him. it turned out, eddie was a tit man. he played with your tits as he slid in and out of you, squeezing your pebbled nipples and teasing them. sucking on his fingers just to play with your nipples, grabbing your tits and pushing them together to watch them bounce as he fucked you.

he was in love.

you didn't know eddie much, but he took his time with you. even when the party seemed to get even more rowdy, he only fucked into you harder. his hips snapping against your thighs, now calves on his shoulders as he quickly grabbed a pillow and slid it under the small of your back.

"my fucking god, sweetheart, look at you," he said, slipping back into you and adding a stretch that added to your pleasure, "even fuckin' prettier like this, you know that? goddamn, i'm gonna fucking get addicted to this pussy,"

the wind had been knocked out of you, breathless and scrambling for something to say but without missing a beat eddie ran his fingers through his hair and grabbed your ankles, spreading your legs wide beside him to see you open for him.

"i, i, daddy please, i can't, too much, can't breathe," you could feel his cock in your throat, punching into you and making your legs twitch at his lace.

"just like that, pretty girl, hold yourself open like that, be good for daddy." he groaned, sitting on his knees to slide back into your gaping hole as you placed your hands on the back of your thighs.

"there we go, so fuckin' good, so pretty," he whispered to himself, watching as tears ruined your perfect makeup and sweat collected on your forehead and chest. you were ruined, aching and throbbing, still begging for him even when he was giving you what you wanted.

"please, please, so fucking good s' so fucking big," you said, out of breath as he moved to your liking.

he couldn't fuck you like that for long, not when he was watching the weight of your tits bounce and move to the rhythm of his thrusts, not when you begged for him, not when he looked at the way your legs pressed against your stomach that was so soft and round for him—now becoming his favorite part to touch as he lifts himself from his knees and putting his weight into your waist.

he got a good grip like this, you thought, feeling how his hands molded into the skin you bashed for so long just to fuck you deeper and more relentlessly.

it was when someone knocked on the door, asking for eddie, (after your second orgasm) when he decided to flip the two of you over so that his back was now against the random headboard of the bed and your thighs sat on top of his.

you were positioned at his tip, most of him sliding out after your orgasm pushed him out. you couldn't help but feel yourself drip onto his length as you looked at the state of him, hearing the man call for his friend outside of the door, and watching as eddie got lost in your curves and softness.

"fucking hell. goddamnit, look at you," he breathed, hands moving all over you, "this will never leave my mind. i'm telling you right now. gonna be thinking about this for fucking ever, thinking about this pretty fucking body on me,"

he was touching everything, all over you, squeezing parts of you you'd never though you'd let anyone see. kissing the stretch marks and moles and the extra flab of your arms and leaning you back to kiss the width of your tummy.

"sit down on me, baby, please, let me have it, let daddy have it, i've been real good for you, baby," he begged, whined, pressing the side of his face into your tits and gently suckling on the skin.

he was growing tiresome, feeling your hole clench around his weeping, red tip that ached for you. eddie didn't even realize he could throb this hard for anyone, or that he even wanted anyone as bad as he wanted you when he saw you. he didn't even know he could last as long as he did, not with you being right in front of him begging for him to fuck you.

you were beautiful, you had something about you that he couldn't take his eyes off of, something he knew he wasn't going to stop thinking about even if he tried.

"but, they're asking for you," you whimpered, fingers dragging through eddie's hair and fingernails scraping his scalp as he groped your tits and sucked on them. "the party, you have customers,"

he leaves kisses when he speaks again.

"the fuck does that matter, hm? as far as i'm concerned," he said and leaned back, watching the way your cunt looked so he could remember every detail. how juicy your cunt was, how he could palm it and rub your clit at the same time, how well your cunt wrapped around his cock when he gave everything for you to take,

"i got the prettiest, juiciest fucking pussy i've ever had in my fuckin' life right here about to sit on my cock, you think i'm gonna stop trying to make you cum so i can get a 20 dollar bill?" he scoffed, "absolutely fuckin' not. fuck that party. now let me fuck that pretty cunt baby, please, let me feel it again,"

he whimpered when he met your eyes, desperation for a nut especially like this, and you melted. you clenched around his tip and he winced as you slowly lowered yourself onto him. you were gasping at this point, trying to fight for air while you let your cunt take all of him until your clit was pressed against his thatch of hair.

"oh fuck, FUCK, fuck baby," he practically yelled, throwing his head back against the headboard and you couldn't help yourself. his hands were gripping your asscheeks so hard they left hand prints, pulling and spreading them apart just to leave slaps to imagine how your ass would jiggle with it.

it left him moaning even more.

your lips attached to his neck and kissed everywhere you could, licking his pale skin and sucking on his neck and chest. you left hickies where you could. the soberness in you wanted him to remember this, to be looked at so people can know someone fucked him this good and it was you.

the drunk in you just wanted to claim him as yours. let everyone know he was fucking you. and only you. or so you convinced yourself to think.

as you buried your face into his neck and suckled and licked, your cunt clenched around him and slowly you lifted your hips up, just to slam them back down and make lewd noises fill the room. his moaning was turning you on even more, knowing his was sounding fucked out like this because of you.

"eddie, yo what the fuck? i'm tryin' to get some weed man! come on!" the obnoxious voice was drowned out by eddie's moans and whimpers as you decided to speed your bouncing up.

you did it for a hot minute, rolling your hips and bouncing your ass on your knees as you took him in with every lift of your hips. he was so much more filling this way, so much more bigger and reaching places it felt like was your stomach.

"eddie, e-eddie, p-p-please, eddie," you were crying into his neck when you whined and it only made him release a guttural groan as he quickly wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled your body down to his.

"eddie, what, wh-" you tried as he fixed positions, planting his feet and raising his hips before continuously slamming up into your cunt.

"oh, oh, oh my, f-fucking, mmphf, my," you really tried, to make sense of what he was doing until your mind went blank, until you felt the head of his pink cock hitting your cervix over and over again until it began to mix pleasure with pain.

it was delicious, it was everything, and yet the man was still at the door. "eddie, eddie," you moaned, sort of forgetting about everything else but the man ramming into your sore hole, you corrected yourself quickly as he fucked you harder, "daddy!"

"woah, hey, are you, are you fucking in there?? eddie!!! my man!!" the man cheered through the door but to you it was muffled.

you couldn't hear anything but the messiness of your cunt, the squelching, the groaning and crying, the moaning and whimpering, his words making you tighten around him.

"take that fucking dick, baby, take what daddy's giving you, yeah?" he growled in your ear as he kept his pace up, your tears hitting his shoulders and your whines being muffled by his chest.

"i know baby, you're taking me so well, being so good, feel so fucking good,"

"cmon baby, let me have another one, cum again for daddy,"

"next time i'm gonna bury my fucking face between those thighs and let your ride my tongue, just wanna taste my pretty girl the right way," he was breathless, and listening to you cry from his words and beg after every sweet nothing he couldn't hold it anymore.

"get it man!" again. eddie was almost getting pissed off. actually. he was pissed off.

this random man was able to hear the way you sounded just for eddie, the way you called for him and said his name, the way you cried when his cock hit your spot over and over again in this angle.

"get the fuck out of here, fuckface!" eddie screamed angrily away from your ear, only making you clench harder as he then flipped you to lay on your side.

his cock was still inside of you, only now he laid behind you in the same position and lifted your leg by the thickness of your thigh and held it there as he lifted his thigh and slipped further inside of you.

"m' the only one that should hear you like this, not him, nobody else. look at that," he says in your ear as he uses his other hand to point your head downwards to see the way his cock slammed into your cunt over and over again, barely being able to see it over your tummy, "see how she's crying for me? god i wish you could fuckin' see yourself, how fuckin' pretty you are,"

"daddy, daddy, fuck, fuck me, fuck my pussy please, make me feel good," you managed to get out as he moved his hand from your hair to your throat, forcing you to throw your head back against his.

eddie puts his chin right at the top of your head, somehow seemingly bigger than you and crowding you as he kept his pace.

"touch yourself, princess, touch that pretty little clit for daddy, daddy's gonna make you cum all over his big fucking cock, how's that sound, pretty girl? you like that?" he asks, and you can hear the smirk in his voice.

it only grows deeper when he sees your weak hand move to your messy cunt, finding your clit and rubbing firm circles into her. eddie can feel you clench and drip onto him, covering his cock in your cum and juices as you reach your climax for the third time.

you didn't know eddie. he didn't really know you. but in this moment, holding you to his chest as you leaves kisses in your hair and on your cheek sweetly, fucking you roughly and messily, palm still at your throat.

you were crying by now, tears slipping down just for eddie to dry them back up.

"i know, i can feel you baby, can feel you gettin' close for me," he boasts, his own thrusts getting sloppy and missing the rhythm as he struggles to hold his own release back.

"so good, feels so good daddy," you gasped, voice dry and strained, "gonna make, fuck fuck, baby i can't, too much,"

"uh-uh baby, what were you gonna say? gonna make you what? cum? gonna make this pretty little cunt cum all over my cock again?" eddie's balls pulled taut, fighting back his orgasm until you clenched hard one last time and yelled out.

"yes! yes! yes! make me cum, you're making me cum, i'm cumming, daddy please," you shouted, body shaking in his hold as you move your hands to grab at his wrist and try to wriggle out of his grasp, his thrusts becoming too much too fast.

"oh fuck, oh fuck, baby, fuck," he whimpered, wincing and releasing a string of moans and groans as he cums in the condom; desperately wishing he could've painted your walls. you were still shaking in his grasp, whimpering when eddie pulls out of you and moves his hands to fix your hair.

eddie moves you to lay on your back as he sits up on one arm and admires you, the lipstick smeared and eyeshadow messy, eyeliner running and your face makeup staining whatever pillows were there.

eddie wasn't the type to think he was going to call back. thats for sure. he wasn't a dating man, a 'see you more than once in a year' man. eddie was confused for the most part, not knowing where this was gonna go next depending how he went about this last part of the interaction. he especially wasn't a girl. not that girl who asked what we are on the first hook up. not the girl who day dreamed about someone when they weren't near.

he wasn't a girl. he especially wasn't that girl.

you opened your eyes to him staring with a lopsided smile, scanning over your face and chest.

"what?" you smiled, breathlessly and sleep pulling at your eyes.

he shakes his head with a small smile and drowns out the music playing from downstairs, watching you scan his face.

He runs down the paper like it’s his grocery list, “Okay, first of all Joe was playing the radio in the shop today and Queen came on and it made me think of you.” 

Your heart flutters at the sentiment, “Aw, what song was it?” You’re curious to know what it was so you can go listen to it, even though you’ve more than likely heard it a million times. You just want to listen to it from his perspective, imagining what lines made him think of you. 

You giddily wonder if it was Killer Queen, you do have an insatiable appetite for him. Or maybe it was Somebody To Love, you swoon at the thought of Eddie hearing the choir-like chanting, ‘Find me somebody to love,’ knowing he’s coming home to you. His somebody. 

Your rose-colored thoughts are dashed when he quips his answer. 

“Fat Bottomed Girls,” he’s got a proud grin stretched across his face before he looks at his lengthy list once more, quickly moving on. 

Your eyes deaden, lips pressed into a thin line, “Okay.” A tone of defeat saturating the word, you should’ve known better. That’s about right for Eddie, your perpetually horny boyfriend. 

He continues as if he’s presenting on a time limit, too much to say, please hold all questions ‘til the end. 

“Okay, up next, I stopped at Bradley’s Big Buy on the way home and bought you a new bag of tootsie rolls.” He reaches into the paper bag on the chair beside him and plops the huge bag of the sugary treat on the counter. “I checked the pantry this morning and saw we’re running low. Plus, your period is supposed to come this week and I can’t be without my greatest allies.” He finishes by patting the crinkling bag. 

You furrow your brow, jerk your head back, eyes flutter-blinking in a questioning manner, how did he know you’re supposed to get your period this week?

“Oh don’t look at me like that,” he waves off your confusion as if it’s preposterous, “I keep up with my girl, and my girl’s girl.” He gestures vaguely to your lower half, it makes you snort. 

“Did you just refer to my vagina as sentient?” Your eyebrows are furrowed, eyes alight with mirth. 

He shrugs, “You know me.” He’s so blasé with it, as if those three words explain everything. 

What you don’t know is he keeps a little pocket calendar that he uses to mark your menstrual cycle. He wants to know when his girl isn’t feeling very good, but he also wants to know when his girl is feeling extra good. 

“Moving forward,” he shouts with a finger up in the air, turning his nose up as if frustrated by your incessant interruptions. Such a drama queen, you think. 

“Gareth asked me if we want to go on a double date with him and Jenna this Friday, I told him I’d ask the old Ball & Chain.” He’s grinning when he says it, preparing for your inevitable smack. 

And you do smack him, right on his shoulder. “Hey! I’m not a Ball & Chain until you lock it down,” is your only response, you can’t help but smile at the glee in his eyes when you mention being his forever. 

“You’re so right, my dearest, how very silly of me.” He says it in a stilted overly-formal voice like he’s a 1940s business man puffing on a cigar. “But mark my words, you will be my Ball & Chain,” he says in a playful threat, “When you least expect it, that’s when I’ll strike.”

You shake your head, smiling at his stupidity. He’s smug at the fact that you don’t know he’s been wearing the engagement ring he bought you around his neck, beneath his clothes, for the past four months just waiting for the perfect moment.

“Yes, let’s do dinner, what’s next,” you question, craning your neck forward to get a glimpse at his chicken scratch writing. 

He jerks the paper away from your view, it’s then that you realize he’s written all of this on the back of a purchasing request from the shop. You see the logo for ‘Joe’s Cars’ at the top of the page, god, you hope they didn’t need this document for their files. 

He holds the paper to his chest, reprimanding you like you’re a nosy kid, “No peeking!” 

You laugh as you settle back into your stance in front of him, waiting for what he has to say next. 

“On my way home I saw a banner on the mall advertising a sale at the Gap and I figured we could go get you that dress you saw in the catalog the other day. Maybe you can wear that to dinner with Gareth and Jenna,” he suggests. 

It’s so straightforward the way he says it. He’s waiting for your response, but you’re nearly choking back tears at the way he loves you. The way he sees you.

You had shown him the dress last week while he was building you a shelf for your joint bedroom. The shelf would be a place for you to put your romance novels, a lot of Jilly Cooper and Jackie Collins, something your ex would’ve never done. He always made you feel bad for reading those types of books, but not Eddie. Eddie built you a place to display them proudly in your room, no longer having to dig under the bed to reread them. 

When you showed him the dress, you didn’t think he actually remembered the interaction. He gave you his attention when you talked about how pretty it was and how much you liked the pleated skirt, but you just thought it went in one ear and out the other. You thought that he was probably nodding, ‘oo’-ing and ‘ah’-ing until you’d go away, leaving him to work. 

But here he was a week later, having remembered the exact dress and the exact store, offering to buy it for a silly little dinner. 

You smile at him with watery eyes, nodding, “Yeah, I’d like that very much,” you move to kiss him, but he holds up his hand to stop you. A pinch of worry squeezes your heart before he says, “Hold on I’m not done yet!” 

His hand still held in the air, he dutifully looks at his list as if he’s reading something lengthy, preparing to recite the next thought he had at work that he needed to share with you. 

He takes a big breath in before turning to you to share the last thing, “And- I love you.” He says it with the sweetest smile on his face, just happy to talk to you, happy to come home to you. 

It takes you a minute to grasp what he said. That was it. That was the last thing he thought at work that he needed to tell you. Wrote it down and everything. 

He stopped your incoming kiss and affection to tell you that, he gave you pause thinking you rudely cut him off again. But he just wanted to tell you he thought about how he loves you while at work.

He’s so stupid, you think fondly. He’s your stupid, silly, dramatic, lover boy. 

Your close-mouthed smile is so big it makes your eyes squint shut, nose scrunching as you shake your head at his antics. A huffing laugh leaves your nose as you reach for him, his arm pulls you in for the sweetest kiss, the one you get to have every day with him. 

“I love you too, stupid face.” 

You love your non-nonchalant boyfriend. 

Bonus: 

On Friday, you’re getting ready for the double-date in the bathroom, touching up your makeup in preparation to show Eddie. 

“Teddie!” You call out the fond nickname, he loves when you call him that, it liquifies his insides. You always make him melt. 

You can hear his soft thudding steps into the bedroom, a slight squeak of the bed as he sits down. 

“You ready to see?” Your voice echoes from behind the door, he can hear the smile in your voice and it makes him smile. 

“So ready,” he grins, “Gimme my prize, baby. Show me what’s behind door number one!” His imitation of a game show host is weirdly good, he blames it on Wayne’s addiction to old reruns of Let’s Make A Deal.

You open the door, stepping out, nervously brushing the nonexistent wrinkles out of the skirt with your hands. You look up at his face, asking a hesitant, “How do I look?”

He’s frozen in his spot, his eyes are wide as they take in the angel in front of him. He finds you sexy any way you come, but he does love when a gift is covered in pretty wrapping. 

Your confidence grows at his speechlessness, you know him well enough to know it's good speechless. 

He stands up abruptly, “Excuse me- I gotta-hold on-,” and he’s out the front door. You have no idea where he’s going, but knowing him, this is for dramatic effect. So you sit down on the bed and wait, crossing one healed leg over the other, leaning back on your arms, bobbing your foot idly. 

When he comes back in thirty seconds later his black suit is disheveled, his hair no longer neat in a ponytail. The shorter curls are windswept as they frame his face, he’s unbuttoned his dress shirt to his sternum, he’s breathing hard and ragged. You stand at his entrance, hands on your hips, an amused glint in your eyes. 

His cheeks are pink with exertion and sweat beads at his hairline, “Sorry, you’re so hot I literally had to take a lap, I’m back now, we’re good to go. You look amazing, by the way.” He leans in to hold you in a kiss, but you put your hands up to stop his body from touching yours. 

You're giggling at his antics, ‘Ew, you’re all sweaty now,” you whine. 

He grins mischievously, “Oh good, then it won’t matter if I get even more sweaty.” Next thing you know he’s clumsily grabbing the sides of your head, pulling you in for a comically sloppy kiss, and pressing his body to yours desperately. You can feel his leg hitch onto your body like he’s about to climb you like a damn tree. 

You break the silly kiss with a loud laugh, tossing your head back, “Eddieeeeuhhh!” 

Warnings continued: clueless!eddie, Dream!Reader is a chatty cathy, Dream!Reader is a little mean at times but remember it’s his own subconscious, loooots of dirty talk, cream pie, handjob, wet dreams, guilt, shame, Eddie’s kind of a bad friend at times, allusion to suicide (not actual feelings just embarrassment from saying something stupid), maybe dubious consent but remember it’s his own mind conjuring you and dreaming of having sex with you, Reader has boobies that jiggle (1x throw-away mention), loooottt of teasing, kissing, a little biting, lot of endearments (baby, pretty, sweetheart, teddie, lover, loverboy, etc), one scene with daddy/mommy kink but in the playing house kind of way (read it–you’ll understand, I’m not necessarily a fan of straight up daddy kink either if this tag gives you pause), brief hair pulling (Eddie’s), mention of masturbation, friends to lovers, tension, déjà vu, Old Yeller joke lol, jealousy, mentions of alcohol and weed, nipple play, if I missed anything lmk!

A/N: A couple things: Pay close attention to everything that’s said in the dialogue, there’s a lot of callbacks. In the same vein, if you think I forgot to describe changing scenes or actions—remember how glitchy dreams are. One last thing about the contents of the fic: remember that, in the dreams, he’s hearing what he wants to hear—so it may not be realistic to the bits we see of y/n outside of his dreams. I made a playlist of songs that helped me write this inspiration-wise, so here’s that. There Is Something on Your Mind by Big Jay McNeely is probably the song that reminds me most of this fic and them as a whole. Also, I hit 1k followers which is very wild and crazy and cool, so thank you all for reading my shit. That’s very rad of you and you guys bring me so much happiness with your interactions. Lastly, I worked on this almost nonstop for over a month, so please, please, please let me know your thoughts. Gimme the play-by-play, I need to geek out over this fic. There’s a lot of moments in here that have been added to my mental list of the best excerpts I’ve ever written, so yeah!

Masterlist

He would walk for miles muttering

“I’m sure this rain won’t last

I’m sure its time is up

Though it’s pouring down, I’m sure this rain won’t last”

As it fell on Job’s eyes, this water of doubt

He said, “I’m wading in lies, it’s wearing me out

But if you want it, alright

I’ll buy it 

I’ll buy it 

I’ll buy it

I’ll buy it

I’ll buy it”

The wind screamed, “Blood too dirty for mosquitos

I hope that you die soon

Pray to any god you believe in”

—Job’s Eyes by Far

Eddie pats the pockets of his jacket, then his jeans, missing the obvious lump of his wallet. He lifts random items on the counter, checking beneath them for the folded leather. A glance at the microwave’s digital clock reminds him—he’s running late.

“Fuck,” he mutters, running back into his room to search the pockets of discarded jeans. Once he finds the missing item, he secures it to the chain on the pair he’s wearing, swiping the van keys off the table, ready to head out the front door. 

When he opens the door, he jumps at the sight of you on his front stoop, your fist raised to knock. Stumbling back, he presses a dramatic hand to his chest. “Jesus, dude! You scared the shit outta me!” 

Your shock melts into amusement, huffing out a laugh as you lower your hand. “Sorry, Eds.”

“Nah, it’s fine. I was just about to meet up with Chris. What’re you doin’ here? D’you need something?” He’s more jittery than usual, the clock ticking down the seconds until he’s well and truly late for the date with his girlfriend. 

Instead of answering, you climb up the last step entering his trailer, brushing past him into the living room. He watches you turn around to face him, standing with your hands clasped in front of you, hanging from your body. Letting the door swing shut, he glances at the clock again.

“Sweetheart, I really gotta go. What’s up?”

Any amusement you showed is now wiped clean from your face. Wide eyes and fluttering lashes gaze at him as you let out a mumble, “She’s not right for you.”

“What?”

He heard you, but he’s not sure if he heard you correctly. 

Letting go of your hands, you carefully move toward him, but your timid steps don’t stop until you’re almost toe-to-toe with him, sharing the same shallow breaths. Wide brown eyes follow the way your tongue slides over your dry lips, wetting them with a shine in the low lamp light of his trailer. 

The sight of you nearly chest to chest with him has his heart rate picking up. He’s been your best friend since preschool, but he’s only ever been this close to you a handful of times, and neither of you are in formal wear—so it can’t be one of those times.

The staring contest breaks with the downward tip of your chin, glancing at the minimal space between both of your bodies. His stare remains on the crown of your head—where your nervous eyes just were. His stomach twitches at the feeling of wandering fingers inching up the side of his abdomen. 

“You heard me,” the mutter is almost unintelligible until you look up at him again through painted black lashes. “She’s not right for you.” 

His huffing breath hitches at the smooth fingers weaseling their way under his band tee, the skin on his stomach jerks at the unfamiliar, cool touch. Sucking in a stuttering breath, his eyes flutter shut at the teasing tips of painted nails as they dance across his waistband. Forcing his eyes open with a struggle, he gulps. “I–I d–don’t…under–understand.”

Meeting his wide, brown irises with drawn brows and pouty lips, you whisper, “No? Wan’ me to explain?”

Nodding his head, he nervously clears his throat as your lips creep closer to his. This isn’t what he was expecting in terms of an explanation. He’s trying so hard not to lean in, but it’s like there’s a gravitational pull—like he’s stuck spinning aimlessly in your orbit. 

A strangled sound escapes his throat as you pull him by the shirt to the couch, shoving him down before settling onto his lap, legs bent on either side of his thighs. He calls your name softly, a miserable attempt to deter your actions.

“Y–You know I’m with Chris…” he shakily defends, an earnest attempt to remind you he’s a taken man. But you won’t hear it, sitting your weight onto the bulge beneath his fly. 

Roving hands slide up his chest, past his throat, and into the curls at the nape of his neck. His eyes close on their own volition, the scratching sensation of your nails on his scalp too much for his nervous system to handle. He can feel the soft puff of breath on his lips, the heat from your taunting mouth. He can almost feel the words you speak, your lips are practically on his own.

“Yeah? Well, maybe I have someone too. So let’s call it even.” 

The mention of you having a boyfriend or someone—as you put it—has him frowning. He doesn’t recall you mentioning anybody. You two told each other everything. Who is this guy? Eddie doesn’t get the chance to interrogate you when he feels your soft hand on his bare cock. 

Looking down, he watches you spread a bead of precum around the ruddy tip. He doesn’t remember you undoing his pants or pulling them down enough to free his length, but he also feels like he doesn’t remember the past minute since you walked in, guns blazing. 

“W–What are you doing?”

You let out what almost sounds like a whine, the noise makes his cock twitch in your firm grip. You breathe desperate breaths into his mouth, head bobbing forward to graze deprived lips to his. “I need you, Eddie. Please…I’ve needed you for so long,” you mewl, guiding his head through your drenched folds.

His forehead presses to yours, mouth dropped open in anguished pants. He’s trying so hard to understand what’s going on, but all the blood from his brain has rushed south. An unwilling moan leaves his throat at the feel of your warm arousal. Looking down his nose, he watches you sink down on his cock, the skirt he hadn’t even noticed you wearing now offering perfect, easy access. 

Biting back a groan at the way your walls adhere to him, squeezing him so well, he musters up enough power to utter a single word. “B–But–”

Rolling your hips, you hurriedly peck the lips you’ve been grazing with your own for the past twenty seconds, assuring him, “Nobody has to know, I promise. You know I can keep a secret…”

The way your head tilts has him following your lips, entranced by the small peck you granted him. Ringed fingers slide up your thighs, settling on your slow moving hips. Moaning at the feeling of you everywhere—breath on his lips, hands in his hair, cunt on his cock, scent in his nose—he can’t stop himself from guiding your hips faster. 

“T–This is wrong, we sh–shouldn’t be d–doing this.” His words are interrupted with stuttering moans and hissing pleasure as your pussy squeezes him so tightly. He’s getting close and he has no fucking clue how any of this happened. 

He was going somewhere when you arrived, somewhere he can’t remember now…

He was meant to do something—meet someone? Thoughts are functioning at a third of their typical speed in his head, every idea is dragged down by the drawl of your sinful hips. The pulsing of your walls mark each passing second his morality degrades in the flames of his desire. 

He feels your soft hands pull his head, catching his foggy gaze. “Don’t you know, baby? It’s not cheating if you don’t cum inside me… Be good, Eddie, baby. You can be good for me, right?” 

Melting at your saccharine words, he has to grit his teeth not to cum right then. Moans are free falling from his lips as your hips pick up the pace, fucking yourself on his hard cock. 

Planting a wet kiss to the corner of his lips, you mumble against his hot skin. “Or maybe…you want me to be good for you? I can do that… Is that how you wanna play, lover?”

A growl leaves his lips, hips twitching upwards, needing more from you. He’s never heard you speak like this, your voice is so fucked out, the things you’re saying—he feels like he’s losing his mind. Large hands grope your ass, working you up and down on his throbbing cock. 

“You’ll be good for her and I’ll be good for you. Or how about, you’ll be good for her…and I’ll be bad for you. Would you like that?” The question is tainted by a moan, the unfamiliar cadence makes his brain whir with static. 

Your words are all registering as dirty promises to Eddie. With no thoughts in his head to stop him, he flips you over as you squeal, your back falling to the old couch—the one you’ve spent many nights sleeping on. He watches with hunger as your breasts jiggle from the sudden movement—he doesn’t remember when your shirt came off, but he’s been a little preoccupied with every near kiss you tease him with. 

The new angle and his unforgiving thrusts have you moaning uncontrollably, gyrating hips making a pitiful attempt to meet his movements. Mumbling curses and hitching breaths into your neck, he cages you in. Beside his ear, he hears a combination of what sounds like panting breaths and giggling laughs from you—the same laugh you’d let out when you won every arcade game against him. 

“Oh, I knew there was something about you,” you pant out, whining as he bites the junction of your neck. “You like to be all sweet and silly, but you’re a beast aren’t you? 

Just take what you want in bed, hm?”

Your sultry words have his hips stuttering, losing the rhythm he built up. Running a sweaty hand down your conjoined bodies, he rubs the little button he’s been dying to play with. Hearing your breath catch in your throat, he relishes the way you moan his name as your walls squeeze the life out of his cock, throbbing around him in fluttering pulses. 

“Mm, fuck, sweetheart. Cunt feels s’fucking good, pretty.” 

He feels your hot gaze on his face as his eyes roll back, stomach clenching, balls pulling taut to his body. For the life of him, he can’t remember what he’s supposed to do right now. Can’t remember if there's a formality he should partake in, a question he should ask you before the fiery feeling becomes too much. 

“Remember the rules, lover boy,” you warn with a moan.

“F–Fuck,” he drawls, languid hips carry him through his orgasm as rope after rope of his cum paints your warm walls. 

He drops onto your chest in exhaustion, and you smack the back of his shoulder blade. “Oh, naughty boy,” you chide, giving a punishing yank to his curls—only to earn a moan in response.

Drawing his head from your neck, you hold his hot cheek, looking into hazy eyes. “You wanna see your mess, pretty boy? Wanna see what you’ve done to me?” 

Struggling to catch his breath, Eddie nods tiredly, backing off of you. Right as he feels the squirming feeling of his soft cock sliding out of your wet hole—prepared to look at the oozing mess—he wakes with a start.

Face down into his sheets, the pillow shoved further up the bed than his body, he feels the most uncomfortable sensation he’s ever felt. He knows he was just humping the bed, he wouldn’t be in this position otherwise. Beneath his crotch, he feels a squelching wetness. Jumping up in a rush, he looks down, panting at the sight before him. 

His sheets are damp with a big, blotchy stain, and his boxers have a matching wetness. “Shit,” he mutters, scrambling off the bed and shoving the soiled underwear down his twitching legs. Grabbing a fresh pair of boxer briefs from the half-open dresser drawer against the wall, he glances back at the stain, tugging the fabric up before stripping the sheets off the lumpy, old mattress.

Eddie doesn’t remember anything, but it must’ve been some dream—this is the most he’s cum since he first discovered masturbation. Peeking out of his bedroom door, he notes Wayne’s absence. Sunday means diner day with his buddies from the plant, Sunday also means hang outs with you and the gang. You. He’s getting the weirdest sense of déjà vu having to do with you. Was he supposed to do something? Say something to you? 

Shaking off the confusing train of thought, he shuffles out of his room, shoves the dirty sheets into the wash with some detergent, and starts the cycle. Yanking open the refrigerator door, he grabs the orange juice, drinking right out of the carton—a habit you always yell at him for. 

He swipes away a stray drop of juice from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, messy in his movements, as he considers the last time he had an 'accident' like that—couldn’t be any less than five years ago. Snorting at the memory, the day after his first prom night was a doozy, one he doesn’t often like to reflect on. 

The phone rings, shaking against the wall with the shrill noise. He checks the clock on the microwave, giving himself another bout of déjà vu. Ignoring the strange feeling, he sets the carton of juice down, heading to the phone. 

“Munson residence, how may I direct your call?” he asks with a hoity-toity accent. 

A smile grows on his face as he hears your familiar giggle through the phone, you always laugh at every new way he answers your calls. “Hi, Edward.”

Despite the clear smile in your voice, he cringes at the name you use. “Oo, gross, hate it.”

“Well, it seemed right with the way you answered the phone.” You laugh at his dramatic gagging. 

“Okay, noted. I’ll never use that voice again.” 

“The world will thank you. What are you up to?”

“Uhh,” he hesitates, eyes darting between the washer and the cum soaked underwear still on his bedroom floor—he doesn’t think you need to know every detail of his morning. “Just drinkin’ some orange juice.”

“Out of a glass?” 

“...Yeah.”

You’ve known him long enough to be able to hear the lie in his voice. “Egh, you big fibber! You’re drinking out of the carton again, aren’t you?” 

“Hey! I resent that very true accusation!” Eddie’s cheeks ache from the wild grin stretched across his face—he loves getting to talk to you first thing in the morning. It reminds him of all those school years when you’d meet up before classes and every moment in between.

“Ugh, you’re a beast. You should be taken out back and shot Old Yeller style.” 

Snorting at your words, he can’t help the furrow of his brows. Something about your sentence sounds familiar—like you’ve said that very same thing to him before. Shaking the thoughts out of his head, he scrambles for a response.

“Yeah, well, I’d like to see you catch me. It’d be like hunting wabbits,” he finishes in his best Elmer Fudd impression. 

“Whatever, weirdo. Hey, what are we doing tonight, by the way? Steve was asking me.” 

“Uhh, I dunno,” too hung up on the mention of Steve, he can’t think straight until he lets the question fly. “You talked to Steve?”

He didn’t know you talked to Steve. He thought you two were only connected via his joint friendship with you both—only conversing when the group was together. 

“Yeah, he was over at my place the other day. Came to ask for that ‘Dirty Dancing’ VHS.”

The frown never leaves Eddie's face as he hums into the phone. “Hm…Family Video does house calls now? What, did they increase their budget?” 

He hears crackling static and your giggle over the line. “I don’t know,” you muse, “I think it was an excuse to come look at my dad’s new car. I mentioned the luxurious purchase last week, and well, you know Steve.” 

He does know Steve. He knows Steve better than you. He knows that the guy loves cars, but he loves women even more, and that’s what concerns him.

“Right,” Eddie feels a weird prickling sensation in his chest, choosing to ignore it, he carries on the conversation. “Uh, what about the arcade tonight?” 

“Sounds good to me. I’ll let Rob know. I’m sure she’s at work with Harrington right now.” 

The line goes quiet for a second. He pauses, it doesn't sound like you were done speaking. Then your voice picks up again, a quiet tone—different from the light and teasing smile he heard through the receiver a second ago. 

“Is Chrissy coming?”

Eddie’s eyes widen, this is the first time today he’s thought about Chrissy. Usually he gives her a call right when he wakes up, but he was so distracted with the mess he made, then you called, and he can never resist joking around with you. Shit, he needs to call his girlfriend. 

“Uh, you know what? I’m gonna call her right now and ask.” He rushes out a quick, “See you soon, sweetheart,” before hanging up. 

“Fuck, fuck fuck fuck.”

Dialling the number he knows by heart, he presses the yellow telephone to his ear, listening to the ring. 

“Hello?” The soft voice of his girlfriend pours through the static. 

“Oh, Chris! I’m so sorry, I forgot to call you when I woke up—it’s been a crazy morning.”

Muffled giggles preface her words, “It’s okay, Eddie. I was just about to go for a run. How’d you sleep?”

Suddenly uncomfortable with her question, he obfuscates, “Uh, I…it–slept fine. You?” 

Deeming less words better, he listens to her talk about the dream she had. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t want to divulge the events of his morning—cleaning up after his wet dream. It’s not like he hasn’t had sex with his girlfriend or that they abstain from talking about sex. It’s just that he doesn’t exactly remember the dream, so he’s not in the mood to flounder at her inevitable probing questions. 

He must’ve zoned out on her tale because he jumps when he hears a question directed at him. “Have you ever had a crazy dream where you’re like, ‘Woah, that felt so real’?”

Heart rate picking up, he doesn’t know why her question gives him so much anxiety all of a sudden. “Uh, not one I can remember—I don’t think… Hey, listen, I was wondering if you wanted to come to the arcade tonight with me and the group.” 

“Sure! Sounds fun! You’ll pick me up?”

“Yep, let’s do seven.”

After getting off the phone with her, he calls you back. He gets your machine but leaves a message confirming the time for tonight. With plans solidified, he goes about his day—making his bed with fresh sheets, writing down some notes for Hellfire, and doing more laundry. Seven approaches and he hasn’t thought about the mystery dream once. 

Arriving at the arcade with Chrissy, he greets you, Steve, and Robin. He notes that you look different than normal, but he can’t put his finger on it. Never exactly great with observations, he lets it slide—there’s been one too many times throughout the years where you’ve waited expectantly for him to notice your new haircut. Eventually you always have to tell him or it’ll be grown out again by the time he notices the change. 

The night is filled with fun and laughter—he watches contently as Steve and Robin argue over who will play Ms. Pac-Man first, and laughs at how Chrissy swoops in to play while they’re too busy bickering. You beat him at Joust like you always do, causing him to groan and complain and you to giggle maniacally. 

“Be good, Eddie,” you chide, telling him to behave like a man instead of a sore loser. 

The one time you lose to him is during a round of Ghosts ‘n Goblins—and only because he’s too busy sabotaging your gameplay. He constantly blows air in your ear, pinches your waist, and moans obnoxiously loud, drawing attention from those around you until you finally smack him.

When you don’t even make it past the stone hopping—instead sinking into the water—you slam your hands on the control board. Whipping around to Eddie, you angrily watch as he’s doubled over in laughter at his successful attempt to bring you down a peg. 

“You did that! That doesn’t count, it’s your fault I died! Look at what you’ve done to me!” You gesture to the pitiful end score, barely even making it off the first piece of land. 

His laughter dies down at the unsteady feeling in his body, he looks around at all of the young adults and kids in the bustling arcade. Déjà vu again, but he hasn’t been here in a while. Your words draw him back, his body feeling steady again.

“You owe me a game of Q*bert,” you threaten, marching off without looking back. 

Eddie moves to follow you, but Chrissy pops up in front of him. “Hey! Can I watch you play Dragon’s Lair? I really like when the princess is on screen, she’s so pretty.” 

Glancing down at his girlfriend’s big blue eyes, he realizes he hasn’t hung out with her much tonight. Looking around, he spots Steve and Robin bickering over a game of Punch Out—Robin laughing in Steve’s face while he complains about the machine being rigged. 

“Uhh, I was gonna–” his words catch in his throat. Telling his girlfriend ‘no’ to go hang out with his best friend who he’s been with all night sounds like a bad boyfriend move, so he doesn’t. 

Meeting your eyes from across the room, he sees you standing guard by the machine, keeping any annoying kids at bay while you wait for him. A faint smile lingers on your lips, but your eyes flick between Chrissy’s back and his wide brown ones.

He’s not sure if he saw what he thought he saw, but your smile seems to falter as he squeezes Chrissy’s hand. Glancing back down at his expectant girlfriend, he asks her to go wait by the Dragon’s Lair machine.

“I’ll be right there, I just need to go do something really quick.” 

Eddie feels awful when your smile brightens as he comes closer. “Ready to get pissed at the idiotic movements of a little ball of orange obsessed with geometry?” 

A rueful smile creeps across his face at your quip, fiddling with the rings on his fingers, he gestures vaguely to where Chrissy just was. “I would love to, sweetheart, but I think I–I should play a round with Chris. Don’t wan’ her to feel left out.”

The bright smile slowly falls off your face, a neutral look of understanding replaces it. “Yeah, of course! You should go–play with your–girlfriend.” 

He knows you're upset by the way you're overcompensating—being overly accommodating and offering stilted encouragement—and he wishes he could just play Q*bert with you. He’d much rather hear your evil laugh as you beat him yet again than play Dragon’s Lair, but he doesn’t want to upset Chrissy.

“How about this, we can come back here—just you and me—I’ll provide the change and you can bulldoze me all you want. I’ll even play Dig Dug with you.” He knows how much you love that game, especially because it’s your best one—and he has never won against you on that damn machine. 

The smile that pulls at your lips makes him want to run a mile in celebration—he’s got you. “Sure. But only if you get me pizza afterwards.”

“Deal,” he grins, shaking your hand.

All it took were a couple more dreams and wet sheets for Eddie to catch on. He couldn’t remember them at first, but then he started having weird reactions while around you or hearing your voice. Bit by bit, the dreams started to come back to him. 

Wandering hands, breathy sighs, your voice saying strings of words he never thought he’d hear come from your lips. It’s almost indiscernible. Dream you and you you. He’s known you for so long, you must have a whole room of files in his mind—information, memories, the way you speak, the cadence of your voice, the gait of your walk. 

Shock takes over his body, flooding his nervous system with unease every time he wakes up. Every single dream feels real. You feel real. He’s certain he knows the exact feel of your–

But then comes the guilt. The morose shame that threatens to drown him in the wet ashes of his morality. He’s tried everything—going to bed early, going to bed late, smoking weed before bed, drinking himself to sleep, not going to bed at all. 

You still worm your way into his unconscious mind. He’s so tired all the time, all he wants to do is sleep. At least in his dreams, everything is clear. You want him and he–

He won’t admit it. Admitting it would be the worst thing he could do. No. He loves his girlfriend. His sweet, kind, gentle girlfriend. He refuses to hurt her, she doesn’t deserve that. He can get better, he has to get better. 

This is just a weird perverted phase. Probably happens to every guy with a girl best friend as pretty as you–

No. 

Not pretty. 

Normal looking. 

A girl. 

With attractive qualities that most girls have. Nothing special and nothing new. 

He loves his girlfriend. He loves his girlfriend. He loves his girlfriend. 

And he’ll do anything to keep her. 

So he starts bailing on individual hangouts, making up excuses to avoid movie nights with you—barely answering the phone for fear he’ll hear your soothing voice right in his ear, just like–

Eddie’s refusal to pick up the telephone pisses Wayne off a lot, but he just can’t risk it. He can’t handle the shame that fills him every time he hears your giggle. 

He can’t cut you out of his life entirely—nor would he want to. He’d be lost without you. He just can’t be alone with you until this illness has surrendered its grip on his subconscious. Having the group as a buffer is fine, though—helpful, even—as it allows him to pretend he’s not cutting you off completely.

It’s four in the afternoon when he wakes up, drooling on his pillow and an uncomfortable hard-on pinned to the bed beneath restless hips. He’s learned to take what he can—at least he didn’t cum in his boxers this time. 

The time on the digital clock next to his mattress has him shooting out of bed, stumbling as the tangled sheets refuse to free his legs. Knocking into the bedside table, he scrambles to catch some knickknacks tumbling to the ground. “Shit, shit, shit!” 

Wayne must be close by in the kitchen because he hears his uncle’s gruff mumble. “Damn bull in a china shop.”

Throwing on whatever semi-clean clothes he can find, he tucks his unyielding erection into the waistband of his jeans before jogging into the kitchen for his keys. 

“Hey, Ed, that girlfrien’ o’ yours called. Said she was just gonna meet’ya there—wherever ‘there’ is. She wasn’t very specific.”

Eddie freezes at the relayed message from Chrissy, halting his attempt to pull on his dirty Reeboks. He straightens up to look at his uncle.

“What? Why didn’t you wake me up when she called? I was supposed to pick her up!”

Wayne shrugs, unfazed by Eddie’s admonishment, as he pulls a TV dinner from the tiny freezer and unwraps it. The lack of urgency in the man’s explanation is driving Eddie crazy—he’s already late, and now he knows his girlfriend had to drive herself because he couldn’t wake the hell up.

“Y’looked like you needed the sleep,” the old man grumbles, his eyes never leaving the task as he fiddles with the plastic wrapping.

Groaning, Eddie continues shoving his feet into his shoes before heading to the door. “That’s the last thing I need.” 

Wayne calls after him, asking about your whereabouts and why you haven’t been over lately. Eddie only gives a passive shrug, yelling out a half-assed, “Dunno,” before jumping in his van and tearing out of there.

Eddie’s running up to the group as they hover outside the Hideout, chains jingle as his heavy footsteps hit the gravel. “Hey, shit–sorry guys! I overslept.” Ignoring your wave, he stops right in front of a miffed Chrissy. 

“Dude, it’s 5:13…p.m.”

Scowling at Steve’s comment, Eddie wraps an arm around his girlfriend. “It was a nap,” he lies, leaning into the short blonde. 

“Sorry, baby, I overslept.”

Crossing her arms, she purses her lips at him, “I heard.”

Sparing a quick glance at you, his body jolts in surprise as he accidentally makes direct eye contact with you. You look upset at him—he hates that look. But guilt eats at him for even looking at you, so he turns back to his girlfriend. Grabbing her soft cheeks, he pulls her in for a messy kiss.

A shocked hum leaves Chrissy’s throat as she leans into him, arms unfolding and hands settling on his hips. He tries to ignore the discomfort her small, soft hands bring—that’s never something he’s felt when being touched by her before. Chalking it up to the unusual PDA, he breaks the wet kiss when Robin groans. 

“Egh! Get a room, guys. That’s so nasty.”

The group secures their usual booth once inside the busy bar. Typically, Chrissy doesn’t attend Thursday night drinks, so Eddie sits on one side of the booth with you while Steve and Robin take the other side. Today, when you slide into the seat opposite the already bickering knuckleheads, Eddie doesn’t follow. Instead, he hovers awkwardly at the end of the table with Chrissy, acutely aware of your expectant gaze on his face.

Biting the bullet, he avoids eye contact as he says, “Hey, uh…do you think you could let me and Chris sit there?” 

He’d rather walk over hot coals than sit next to you on that cracked leather seat. You’d be so close, there’d be no direct line of sight to your lower bodies under the table, he’d feel the dip of the cushion where your supple thighs splay–

He can’t sit next to you. Not until he’s better.

“Oh, Eddie, it’s fine. I can just pull up a chair.” 

The blonde moves to grab a nearby chair from a four-top, but his warm hand on her arm stops her. There’s a quarter-second lull—Steve and Robin falling silent at his request to you, your inability to move from your seat, his hand stopping Chrissy’s attempt to accommodate the usual seating chart. It’s only a fraction of a second, but it feels like ages when he catches sight of the hurt behind your eyes.

It’s like everything is transitioning from slow motion to regular speed when you scooch out of the booth, making room for the couple to sit down. 

Chrissy looks at you with wide eyes and pinched brows, “Are you sure? I’m fine sitting on the chair–”

“Sit down, Chris.” 

The girl’s attempt to check in with you is cut off by Eddie’s order, tension crackles in the air and nobody but Eddie understands why. 

Throwing a tight-lipped smile at the worried blonde, you pull a chair to the edge of the table. “It’s fine, Chrissy. Thank you, though.”

The rhythm of conversation wears down the tension—mostly thanks to the never-ending noise spilling from Steve and Robin. Something, something, Steve sucks at taking inventory and Robin is better—Eddie can’t really be bothered to keep up. The most he can offer are half-assed ‘yeahs’ and ‘uh-huhs’ to Chrissy as he toys with the condensation on his pint glass. Thankfully, you don’t have much to say tonight either.

Eddie knows you know he’s avoiding you—has been since Sunday. The two of you haven’t gone this long without talking or hanging out since before you even knew each other—which is saying something, considering he wasn’t exactly hitting the social scene before the age of five. 

Knowing you, you’re pissed at his ‘boyish’ ways—which is really just another way of calling him stupid for how he handles his emotions. That’s something you’ve always called him out on without hesitation. But he knows you won’t say a word in front of other people, so all he has to do is avoid being alone with you until his ailment passes. Then everything will go back to normal. He’ll be guilt-free with Chrissy, you’ll accept him back with open arms and a lecture, just like you always have, and everything will be as it should be.

There’s too much guilt in his body to feel shame over the way he’s leaning into his girlfriend, overcompensating with affection he wouldn’t otherwise display so publicly. This is his first real relationship, but even then, he’s never been the type to hang all over her like he is now, arm firmly around her shoulders, playing with her hair.

He touches you with no problem—well, he used to. He’d play with your hair, hug you, tug on your clothes, shove you when you’re being annoying—he’d do all of that in public and in private. But he’s never been very touchy with Chrissy, he’s not sure why. It’s not like she doesn’t touch him constantly. Maybe that’s why. She touches him so much already, he doesn’t feel the need to touch her. 

A lull in the conversation has you readjusting in your chair. You look like you’re about to say something and Eddie’s heart rate spikes. 

“Hey, Eds, I was able to secure a copy of Child’s Play if you wanna do movie night on Friday?” 

“Yeah, thanks to me reserving the first copy that came in,” Steve butts in, causing Robin to roll her eyes.  

“Sure, it was him—totally not me because he couldn’t remember what movie you wanted…” 

You laugh at her crossed arms and pinched brows. “Okay, thanks for the group effort, guys. You can share your kudos,” you placate.

Steve sits up at that, jaw dropped and tone resembling a petulant child. “I don’t wanna share with her, she’s a kudos hog!”

Robin cocks her head in consideration, “Kudos hog, huh. Odd way to refer to someone who’s always right.” 

Eddie watches as Steve looks at you, a hand gesturing to Robin’s face, “See what I mean?”

Chrissy's giggles echo around the table; unused to how annoying the bickering can get, she finds it hilarious. You lift a warning finger in their direction, eyebrows raised as you reprimand them. “Control yourselves before I muzzle you both.” 

Eddie moves to pick at the soggy label of the empty beer bottle from Steve’s previous drink—the condensation already wiped clean on his own pint glass. Hyper-focused on his fidgeting fingers, he doesn’t catch the way you turn back to him. 

“As I was saying,” the emphasis you put on the last word tells him you probably threw the two idiots a dirty look. “I got Child’s Play, so did you want me to come over Friday?” 

Chrissy has to elbow him to get his attention away from the way his blunt nails catch on the wet paper. “Eddie, she’s talking to you.”

Startled, he looks up, eyes darting around everyone’s faces—all attention on him. “Uh, yeah. I got work tomorrow, though. So just give it to Chris or something and we can watch it on Friday.” He turns to look at his girlfriend as he finishes the stuttering sentence. 

Robin frowns, catching sight of your resigned face—she’s pretty sure Eddie just pushed you out of your own plans. 

Chrissy’s head jerks back, face screwed up in disgust. “Ew, I don’t wanna see that movie. Dolls freak me out. Plus, I don’t do horror. Why don’t you two watch it, that’s what you usually do, right?”

Before you can answer, Eddie speaks up, “Well, I’m actually really booked up at the garage this week, so–”

“That’s fine, we can push it to next week–”

“Next week, too,” he hurries, cutting you off. “It’s a really busy month, actually.”

Robin eyes Steve, silently checking to make sure he’s hearing what she’s hearing. After Eddie’s obvious excuse, you don’t speak up for the rest of the evening—resigning yourself to silent sulking. 

Laying next to a sound asleep Chrissy, he stares aimlessly at the dark ceiling, listening to the hypnotic whirring sound of the box fan by his bed and the deep breaths coming from his girlfriend. Mentally shuffling through every D&D monster he can think of, he tries to train his brain to dream of something else for the night. 

Waking with a start, he glances at the alarm clock on his bedside table—2:57 AM. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but luckily, he doesn’t recall any dreams his subconscious may have conjured in the short time he slept either.

Listening to the same old box fan, he lifts his head off the pillow, looking around the dark room. Everything is as it was when he laid down for the night and he can still hear the calming sound of his girlfriend’s deep breaths. Tired eyes fall on her sleeping form, watching the way her back moves with each expanding inhalation. 

Settling his gaze back on the ceiling—ready to count sheep back to sleep—he hears the rustle of sheets as she adjusts her position. 

“Eddie?”

He jolts upright onto his elbow, eyes snapping to the source of the voice—that’s definitely not his girlfriend. In the same spot he could’ve sworn Chrissy occupied only a second ago, you’re there, turned toward him, awake, and calling his name. Panicked breaths rush through his chest, and his eyes widen as they take in your soft, sleepy form.

He knows that look, he’s seen that look on every sleepover—every time you’d come into his room to check on him and end up staying over in his bed. But that hadn’t happened in almost a decade. Not since Wayne informed you two that boys and girls should sleep separate once they get to a certain age. 

He remembers how upset you were at the new rule change, not understanding what the big deal was—what the implication was. But Eddie knew. He understood what his uncle meant the moment he said it. He noticed the different feelings he experienced during that year, he had forcefully broken one too many longing glances during movie nights to confuse Wayne’s meaning. 

“What are you doing here?” 

Looking up at him through fluttering lashes, your head rests gently on the pillow. “I’m sleeping over…like you asked me to. What’s up with you?”

God, you sound so normal. You sound just like you. The plain tone, the straightforward answer—he has asked you to sleep over many times, but he definitely didn’t tonight. 

Eddie closes his eyes and shakes his head, hoping that maybe once he opens them, you’ll be gone and Chrissy will be back. But you’re still there when he looks down—still lying on his bed, in his sheets, your waiting eyes gazing up at him expectantly.

“Where’s Chrissy?”

Your eyebrows pinch together, “Who?”

He’s starting to get sick of these mind games. It wouldn’t shock him if he woke up in a padded room and the last few weeks were all just a very realistic hallucination. If that doesn’t happen, he’s considering looking into antipsychotics because this shit is driving him insane. 

Losing his patience, he bites out, “My girlfriend. Where is she? What did you do with her?”

Frowning, you sit up to level with him, leaning on your elbow to better address his concerns. “Eddie, I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

Sitting up fully, his eyes never leave your very real looking figure. “She was just here…” he mutters.

He watches as your concerned frown melts into an annoyed eye roll. “Oh, please. You’re so guilty you can’t even properly write her out of your own dream without crying about it.” 

His eyebrows twitch, creasing in focus as he studies your face, noticing it’s almost like you broke character—as hard as that is to compute in his head. “Who are you?” He asks the question slowly and steadily; he doesn’t even know how to begin wondering who—or what—you are, or why you’ve attached yourself to him, plaguing him constantly.

Sighing, you readjust to sit up more. “Ugh, you know who I am, Teddie. Same old me since preschool,” you shrug breezily, glancing down at your body as if the sight will convince him you’re the same. 

The use of your childhood nickname for him sends him reeling. Looking down, matching the tilt of your head, he takes in your appearance—as you do the same. He hadn’t noticed until now, but you’re wearing a black silk teddy nightgown. The disheveled, flimsy triangular fabric barely covering your breasts makes him gulp.

“Except I’m all womanly now,” you shimmy with a smirk. 

The confused frown never leaves his face as he narrows his eyes at your exposed figure. Shaking his head, he pants out a dissenting, “No, you’re not her.”

Amusement flashes across your face before you mask it with a curious pout. “I’m not?” 

Brown eyes follow your hand with rapt attention as you daintily caress your body—starting at your soft, bare thighs and ending at your supple, immodestly covered breasts. Giving a light push to your bust, you lean in. “Feels real… Think you should check?”

Swallowing harshly, Eddie shakes his head ever so slightly. “No.”

“No? But you dreamt me up like this. I’m all pretty just for you and you don’t wanna cop a feel? You’re breakin’ my heart, baby.” 

Sanity slipping at your crooning tone, he almost feels shame for rejecting you—even when you’re not real. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, truly contrite. 

You coo at his sad, muddy eyes. “It’s okay, honey. I know what’ll make you feel better. Let’s play house,” you coax with a smile. “It’ll be just like old times.” 

Ignoring his silent rejection—frizzy curls moving with the shake of his head—you come nose-to-nose with him. “I’ll play mommy and you can be daddy.”

The voice, the tone, the inflection, the visage, the faint perfume—it’s so you. But you’re not here. There’s no way. Not looking like that and not offering to play childhood games. 

He feels like a sailor slowly succumbing to insanity, constantly rejecting the siren’s call. There’s no escape from you—you’re in his head. Unable to plug his ears or sing a disruptive tune, you whisper sweet nothings in his mind every time he tries. He should just let you drag him under—let you have your way with him. He’ll sleep forever, and you can keep him as yours.

It takes a little too long for guilt to trail after that thought—he really is slipping.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he shakes his head fervently, wishing to wake up. “Stop,” he grits out, sounding far too pitiful. 

Feeling the breath of your words on his lips, you whisper, “But, daddy, I’m so confused. It doesn’t feel like you want me to stop.”

A stuttering exhale leaves parted lips as he feels the firm grip of your hand around his stiff cock. Placing his hand on yours, he means to remove your grasp, but his mind sends the wrong signal down his arm. Instead, he squeezes your grip tighter, moaning at the relief that shoots through him. Eyes closed in ecstasy, he pants out a useless, “S–Stop it.”

He can almost hear the smug smile in your voice. “I’ll stop once you let go of my hand…”

Ignoring your response, he keeps a pulsing rhythm of firm compression going—imitating the feel of your warm, tight walls around him. A vain attempt compared to the real thing—but what does he know about real? When his only point of reference is what unfolds behind closed eyes, in moments like these, he knows his mind is the last place to bear truth.

“Mm, but you’re not gonna, are you, daddy? You don’t want mommy to stop. You wanna play just as badly, I can feel it.”

The breathy, sultry tone of your voice has him heaving—shallow gasps of air bringing no relief in his search for oxygen.

“What are you doing?”

Falling back against his pillow with a shove of your hands, he watches you straddle his lap. Groaning at the sensation, he practically melts as you grind down onto him, your bare, slick pussy sliding along his throbbing length. Your brazen, annoyed tone from earlier comes back, reminding him this is all his fault. 

“What am I doing? What are you doing?” you bite. “Dating her, dreaming of me?” 

Eddie’s eyes roll back with a groan as you continue to drag your hips. The leaking head of his cock keeps catching your waiting entrance and it’s driving him up the wall. He’s so close to feeling you again, he’d do anything for it. The way your walls hug his thick length, the gush of your arousal every time you sink down onto him greedily—he’s so used to it now, he needs it like he needs air. But you won’t let him in. Not yet.

“Shamefully cleaning the sheets every morning. Pretending everything’s fine. Kissing her sweetly and bailing on dates in the next breath—all just to come hang out with little old imaginary me. You’re turning down your real girlfriend to go fuck a figment of your imagination, baby, and I’m what’s wrong?” 

Desperate, veiny hands grip the sheets beside his body, using every ounce of restraint to not grab you and pull you down onto his aching cock. “S–Sweetheart–”

You chuckle at his anguished voice, lining him up at your entrance, languid hips gyrating on his fat, ruddy tip. “Aht aht aht, be careful, Teddie. That ‘unwilling victim’ act is starting to slip,” you warn. “How will you justify such immoral actions then?”

You feel so real. The slick wetness seeping from your hole, drenching his cock, tosses him off the cliff of sanity, sending him barreling down, down, down into delusion. This is exactly how you’d feel in real life. It must be. You’re so…so wet. So warm. So tight. How could his mind conjure something so damningly sweet? Your greedy heat is a honey trap he’d gladly fall for—every single time. He’d bare his soul, reveal every last burning secret if you’d just allow him inside you—if you’d just relieve him of his fidelity.

“Bottom line?” You sink down on him fully, pussy swallowing him in one go. He watches the victorious look on your face as a loud, needy groan escapes him. Leaning down, lips hovering over desperate, panting ones, you grant him a quick peck. “This is all you, baby.”

“Please–” he breathes out—unsure what he’s begging for. Mercy? Movement? For you to stop your evil monologue long enough to let him go to hell—let him fuck you like he needs to? Probably the latter. But you’re not done with him yet—not ready to give in. 

“You know I’m sound asleep at my place. Probably dreaming of puppy dogs and little sheepies…” 

Eddie groans as you roll your hips experimentally, then slowly lift your core until just the tip remains inside. 

“Or maybe I’m not asleep.” Hips circling his tip again, your movements elicit a strangled whimper from deep within his throat. “...Maybe I’m with someone.” Slamming down on his hard cock, you drop so quickly the feeling of your walls fully encapsulating him again has his stomach jerking, another loud, scratchy groan tumbling past his lips. This time the groan is not just in pleasure, but annoyance too. He wants you to stop talking—needs you to. He doesn’t want to hear about you with someone else. 

“Stop,” he grits out, teeth bared as he struggles to maintain his calm demeanor. Both of his hands pull at the roots of his hair, desperately withholding any attempts to touch you. 

You lean down again, chest-to-chest as you drag your soft hands all over his body despite his refusal to do the same. Lifting your ass, you slide up and down his shaft—slowly, torturously. 

“You remember my crush on Steve in eighth grade?”

He grumbles as you toy with him—quickly losing his patience. 

“Maybe I’ve given him a chance,” you muse. “I mean, he’s only gotten more attractive with age. Plus, he’s all ‘good guy’ now.” 

Eddie can practically hear the teasing, wicked smile behind your whispered words. Your blasé attitude has him grinding his teeth, struggling not to let your—hopefully baseless—pondering get under his skin.

“Stop it.” 

He wants you to continue fucking yourself on his leaking cock, but he also wants you to leave his friend out of your dirty talk. The white-knuckled grip he’s got on his sanity is slipping with each word you let out, describing how you’re with Steve. Maybe. Maybe with him. And the ‘maybe’ is enough to drive a man mad. 

“Make me,” you challenge, your slow, languid pace keeping him hooked. 

“No, I’m not doing this again. This is wrong,” he tries, unhappy with being toyed with. Trying to convince himself to put a stop to this, the words are there, but the meaning is hollow. There’s no fire—no conviction—behind his demands. There’s barely any guilt, either. He finds himself just saying what should be said. 

Sitting up, you grab the hands that he’s been gnawing on—his hair no longer enough to stop the desperate need to touch you. Spreading his fingers, you guide rough palms up your abdomen, slowly bringing them to rest on your supple breasts.

You pout, cooing, “Oh, poor daddy. He’s all confused. You can touch me, baby, I’m here for you—use me.” 

Huffing out a frustrated breath, he shakes his head, but he leaves his hands where you placed them. “You’re not real.” 

Regretting the comment as soon as you perk up, he watches an excited grin spread across your face. His comment was meant to deter you and it seems to have reinvigorated you as you fuck yourself a little faster on him, moaning softly. 

“Exactly! That’s what’s great about me because if I were real, this would be wrong,” you lower your tone on the word, mocking his earlier sentiments. “You’d be a dirty cheater and do you think I’d wan’ a guy like that?” 

Your words swarm his mind with guilt, but it’s almost like his brain has tortured him so much that he’s come back around—no longer feeling shame in this moment. With a newly unburdened mind, he finally moves his hands, giving a groping squeeze to your breasts, tweaking the pert nipples, reveling in the moan you let out. You may not be you, but you sound exactly the same, and he’s never needed to cum so badly before. 

Breaking the trance your rolling hips put him in, he remembers you asked a question. “No.” 

He has the decency to sound ashamed, but he doesn’t feel it. He wouldn’t want you to be with a cheater. He doesn’t want to be a cheater for you. That’s the limit of his shame right now. You wouldn’t like him if he cheated, so he won’t. 

“You’re so sweet to worry about what I’d think…”

The pulsing of your warm heat, the soft, smooth skin on your chest—he’s so close to pure, fiery ecstasy. He’s nearly there, all he needs is for your wet cunt to continue gripping him like a daydream. One roll of your hips away from tipping over the edge, his stomach tightens at your words.

“But what would your girlfriend think?”

Sucking in a harsh breath, his eyes snap open. He’s exactly where he just was, but now his face is buried in strawberry-scented blonde hair. Chest moving with ragged breaths, he feels a small body in his arms. The sensation is almost unfamiliar. Almost. 

He’s held her so many times since they started dating, but he’s held you more. The sleepovers, the movie nights, the time he consoled you when Joey Humphry stood you up in tenth grade. He would know your body blindfolded and this is not you. The sharp corners and soft curves are not right.

Eddie is pulled from his consuming thoughts when he feels pressure on his erection. Moving his hips back away, he realizes Chrissy is awake and making a move. It’s not like it hasn’t happened before. He usually wakes up with ‘morning wood’ and even sometimes in the middle of the night—like tonight. 

In the honeymoon stage of their relationship, when they couldn’t keep their hands off each other, they’d get up to no good during the wee hours of the morning. Messy kisses and wandering hands satisfying hormonal needs. 

It’s been a while since he’s been intimate with Chrissy, the honeymoon stage long since over, and the dreams keeping him busy and guilt-ridden. So when her hips follow his retreating pelvis, he cringes at the thought of the pressure not being the right kind—not the right hips, not the right ass, not the right girl. 

He tries to wipe that thought out of his mind like windshield wipers on a car, but it sticks—like a squashed bug that won’t wash away. Giggles pierce through the silence of the dark room—not the right giggles—as she turns around to face him. 

“Let me help you, Eds. ‘S been a while.” Her sultry voice sounds like nails on a chalkboard after such a dream—your moans playing like a hymn as he worshipped at your altar.

Gulping, he tries to back up again, avoiding her reaching hand. “No, it’s–it’s okay. Let’s just go back to sleep.”

Wandering hands run down his abdomen—not the right hands—closing in on the waistband of his underwear. “Baby, I can help you. Just wanna be close to you.”

Guilt overcomes his body and mind at her words. Not only has he not been intimate with his girlfriend in a month, but he’s blown off a few dates to sleep. He tried to tell himself it was because he keeps waking up so tired, constantly trying to avoid you in his mind. But that’s not the truth. 

He’s slowly succumbing to the siren in his mind, the woman who calls to him in his dreams. The girl he’s known forever needs him when he’s asleep and he’s always wanted to feel needed. 

This sleepover was supposed to be a compromise. He was supposed to hold her properly—like a boyfriend should. He was supposed to surround her with necessary affection and, maybe, if he could, guide that affection naturally into something more explicit. Make up for lost time.

But now he’s starting to think it’s not just you he needs to avoid—at least until he’s better. If you're going to permeate his waking mind, tainting every interaction with the woman he’s supposed to love, then he needs to step back and reconsider how best to burn you out of his head.

He’s already had to pull out of group get-togethers, the barrier of Steve and Robin no longer sufficient—not with the way his brain picks up a new quirk of yours every time he sees you, perfectly implementing it into his dreams with practiced ease.

A small, soft hand wraps around his cock, but it brings no relief. It’s not what he needs. 

Eddie’s thoughts are interrupted by her confused voice.

“Wha–you were just hard. I felt it.” Her hand squeezes his now flaccid penis. He’s as surprised as her. When he woke up a minute ago, he was on the verge of cumming in his underwear. And now he can’t get it up as his girlfriend tries to provide stimulation to his usually sensitive cock. 

Cringing at the way she sounds almost upset at the sudden disappearance of his erection, he gulps. “I’m sorry. I–I don’t know what happened, we–we can just go back to sleep.”

He can tell she’s trying so hard not to take it personally as she mumbles out a quiet, “Okay,” and turns back around—notably leaving a gap between two bodies. 

Staring at the ceiling, terrified of when sleep takes him, Eddie realizes he needs to try harder. He needs to fix this; he can’t keep going on like this. Something’s got to give, and he’s afraid to find out what.

When Eddie runs into you at Bradley’s Big Buy the next day, he nearly jumps out of his skin. You’re turning the corner with a shopping cart and he’s already been discovered as he crashes right into the front of the basket. It doesn’t help that he was just thinking about you—about how you felt last night, about what you said. 

“Oh my god! Eddie, I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you.”

“No–uh, th–that was my bad. I wasn’t…paying attention. Sorry.” He rubs the back of his neck, eyes darting around at all the other shoppers. Nobody’s batting an eye at the interaction, meanwhile this is his worst fear coming to fruition—you’re here looking at him, he can’t run away, and you look just like you did last night in his bed dream. 

He hates how awkward this interaction is—your shifting eyes, his stuttering formalities. You two have been friends since childhood, he shouldn’t be fumbling over every other word. It’s even worse because you seem resigned to the fact that he’s been avoiding you as you try to end the moment early. 

“Yeah, um–anyway, I should…go.” Maneuvering your cart around the blockade his body creates, you don’t get very far when his hurried question stops you. 

“Are you seeing someone?” 

Eddie’s suddenly craving the taste of gunpowder on his tongue when he hears what the hell just came out of his mouth. Your body goes rigid at the question—something that wouldn’t happen if he wasn’t actively pushing you away. Usually you’d tell each other everything, but that kind of honesty is reserved for best friends—something you’re not, apparently. 

He knows why he asked it. He knows the exact demon on his shoulder who whispered it to him just now—the one that looks eerily similar to you. Maybe I’m with someone. 

Wincing at the way you turn around, frown on your face, hurt and confusion flashing across your eyes, he watches as you consider him. It feels like hours before you respond. Like pristine windows into your soul, your eyes say so much—and nothing at all. He can’t even begin to translate them.

“Was trying to,” you sigh. Your defeated shrug and the plain answer shatters like glass in his ears—a sound he imagines a freeze-dried heart would make if slammed against the ground. “But I realized I’ve got some stuff to work through first. Things to get over.” You mutter the last part, avoiding his prying eyes. 

Eddie opens his mouth to probe for more information, your axis-tilting answer not enough to satiate his morbid curiosity—god forbid Dream You be correct about something. But before he can get a word out, you’re already bidding him a cryptic goodbye and practically fleeing the scene.

“See you tomorrow, Eds.” 

The familiar nickname evokes a sort of stabbing pain in his heart and he’s acutely aware of your thinly veiled dismissal as you flee the scene—you’d rather be anywhere but here, answering his strange questions. Watching your retreating figure, he can’t help but feel he should be the one running. It’s worse that it’s you who does it. It only reminds him that all of his actions of the past few weeks have actual repercussions—he can’t just ignore you in real life and be held by you inside his mind. 

A million thoughts fly through his head, one that continues to stick is the question of who you were trying to see. Nausea fills him at the chance that it could be Steve, just like you said. No, not you. 

His dream. 

Him. 

His mind. 

Correction: Just like what he dreamed you said. 

Though, it’s easier for him to pretend it’s really you saying these things, because he’d like to think he wouldn’t imagine such awful truths—if they could even be labeled as such. He’d also like to think he wouldn’t purposefully dream of cheating on his girlfriend, but the writing is on the wall. 

So dream or not—can he even trust a word you say when you’re on top of him? His insecurities scream yes, but the sliver of logic he’s been holding onto lately quietly tells him no.

The other thought that is sticking sends a chill down Eddie’s spine. Tomorrow. He forgot about tomorrow. He forgot he agreed to game night a month ago—a meager attempt to pretend he hasn’t been ditching plans. Now, the date has arrived, and he’s in the midst of avoiding you. He’s going to have to show up at Steve’s place, act as if he doesn’t feel a burning disdain for the guy based on conjecture from a dream, and exist in your presence for longer than five minutes. With no ability to cancel last minute, he hopes tomorrow never comes. Maybe if he wishes hard enough, the planet will get swallowed into a black hole and he’ll evade you once again.

Unfortunately, there were no world-ending emergencies today, so Eddie sits quietly on Steve’s couch, watching as you, Robin, and Steve gather around the coffee table to play Monopoly, all of you seated on the floor. He tried his best to give the world all the extra time it needed to end, even circling the block a few times before finally arriving at Steve’s door—forty-five minutes late. 

He can’t tell if it was his tardiness or his awful behavior lately—but you barely acknowledged his existence. Which, of course, made him feel worse. For some narcissistic reason, he finds himself capable of dealing with the fallout if he doesn’t have to…deal with it. When he first flaked out on Friday movie nights, he only had to hear you speak about it briefly at the Hideout. Then he didn’t hear anything else about it, not having to meet you face-to-face and turn you away at his door.

Now it’s you turning him away—directly to his face, and without so much as a word from him. He’s not even trying to talk, not handing you any easy reason to push him away, but you do it anyway—just like he’s been doing to you. 

You’re simply icing him out, ignoring his presence in the room. It doesn’t feel like you—it feels like high school. Like he could stand up on the lunch table, ranting about conformity and the stratified social food chain, and no one would give a fuck whether he lived or died, so long as it was entertaining. Although, even then, he’d get at least one quick glance.

But you offer him no such courtesy—and he knows he deserves it. So he sits there, watching, frozen out by your disinterest, wounded by your clear discomfort at being so close to him. At least he has a whole world in his head to retreat to. Though, last night’s dream was particularly unnerving. 

The things you said made his head spin—had him rethinking every moment he’s ever spent with you. Your harsh truths and revelations unlocked vaults in his mind he thought were securely locked and sunk deep in the ocean of his idle thoughts.

“I know why you asked if I’m seeing someone. I see the way you look at me…”

Like a lioness hunting, you approached him slowly. Your piercing gaze elicited a concerning amount of trepidation in his shaking body. He sat anxiously on his worn-down couch, the low lamplight of the trailer casting daunting shadows over your face. Your words struck fear in his heart—did you really know? Eddie’s wide eyes watched as your delicate fingers crept up his thighs, the muscles twitching wantonly.

“Does it make you jealous, baby? Does it make you feel prickly all over?” 

He sucked in a harsh breath as you danced the tips of your fingers across his upper thighs, coming dangerously close to his hardening cock. He felt prickly, but not with jealousy. Not at that moment. 

“You don’t wanna share your shiny new toy?” 

The questioning tilt of your head made him squeeze his eyes shut. He couldn’t look at you when you were like this—no matter how much he wanted to. Though, you didn’t let him hide for long. Your warm palm pressed into his bulge, causing his eyes to shoot open, instantly meeting yours. 

“No, that’s right…” you muttered, as if he had corrected you—despite his mouth being pressed tightly shut, willing any betraying sound to stay buried in his throat. “I’m not new. You’ve thought about it before.”

The raw warmth of your soft hand drew his attention. He looked down, helplessly watching as you granted slow, languid strokes to his now-leaking cock. A stuttering groan tumbled past his lips, brows drawn in desperation for just a little more. 

“You remember? Prom night? When I changed in your room, and you strategically positioned yourself right in front of the mirror?” You chuckled, recounting the memory, ridiculing the perversions of a young man. “Just dying to get a peek at me—your unassuming best friend. Naughty boy, Eds… Using a poor girl like that...” Shaking your head, you admonished him with a slow, mocking tsk, tsk, tsk.

The strained whimper that tore from his throat made your head tilt, eyes raking over his pitiful form before you seemingly decided he’d given enough of himself to earn a secret. “You know I changed right there for you. I wanted you to look—wanted you to touch yourself to the thought of me…”

Eddie’s head lolled back against the couch, groaning as you whispered in his ear, your deft fingers squeezing him so well. Your thumb brushed his leaking slit, drawing more precum out, earning another drawn groan as he succumbed to your touch. 

“Have you ever touched yourself to the thought of Chrissy?” 

The name was like a bucket of ice water, pulling his attention back to you in a split second. “D–Don’t say her name,” he grumbled, unintentionally bucking his hips at the responding squeeze you gave. 

“Oh, no… No, because talking about her would be bad…” a particularly mind-numbing twist of your wrist caused another involuntary reaction—his hips haphazardly thrusting into your slick palm. “You might hurt her…”

Regretfully, that hadn’t been the reason he didn’t want you to say her name. He hadn’t wanted to explore the real reason, but he needed you to know that specific string of letters was off-limits. “Don’t wanna think about ‘er.”

Puffs of air glided across his parted mouth. He felt trapped in your gravitational pull, lips aching to rest on yours. But you weren’t done—you seemed to take great pleasure in branding the truth into him, relishing the scent of his smoldering moral shortcomings.

“No, you wouldn’t, would you? The guilt doesn’t feel very good, huh, baby?” Your sympathetic pout mocked him, filling his mind with hot, sticky shame, gluing him to his place as you spoke.

He whimpered in response, your slick fingers circling his cockhead, constricting the fat, ruddy tip. He felt your next words before he heard them—rhythmic growls against his panting mouth, charming him like a snake in a basket.

“Gnawing, festering, bubbling…corroding that sweet heart of yours, isn’t it? Bad boy,” you hissed, pulling his bottom lip between your teeth. 

Clearly frustrated by his lack of response—his refusal to play your games—you gave his throbbing cock another harsh squeeze, making him jerk forward with a mewling whine, his forehead pressed to yours as he breathed through the burning desire.

Your saccharine tone bit at his heart and mind, taking chunks out of him—his will, his shame, his hunger, his sanity. “This isn’t a spectator sport, dearest,” you taunted.

Pleading eyes watched your gritted teeth as he tried to come up with any intelligible response, despite your hand teasing him—granting just enough pleasure to make him need more. 

Eddie nodded his head against yours, swallowing the lump in his throat as he forced his feelings to the forefront. “Mhm, s’killing me, it’s–”

Your lips had soothed his hurried pants, pressing a chaste kiss to his pleasure-bitten mouth. The sweetness hadn’t lasted long, though—just enough to leave him wanting more, the way you always did.

“Or, maybe…you don’t wanna think about her because it’s not…arousing?” 

He choked on his breath when your warm, wet hand traveled down, down, down, cupping his swollen, sensitive sac. 

“Doesn’t do it for you, huh, baby?” 

Now he’s stuck watching his friends have fun, feeling like an outsider—as if you’ve pulled him to the dark side and don’t even know it. He has to hear you laugh, knowing he hasn’t been the cause of it in what feels like forever. He has to sit with the words you spoke to him, the revelations uncovered, the secrets thrust into daylight—shameful truths forced to be considered.

Every new dream is like a plague upon his sovereign lands. He was resolute before you shook him to his core, dismantling every belief he’s held since he met you. You didn’t even do anything. Nothing changed, nothing happened—then one day, he was cursed with the hope that you felt something.

No.

Not hope.

Worry.

A worry you felt something he had sorely missed. 

No.

Not sorely.

But that is it, isn’t it?

His mind fed him a scenario he only ever dreamed of when he was a hormonal teenager—a scenario he hadn’t thought of since. Then all of a sudden there was a possibility. A possibility in his heart. Wishful thinking, really. 

Shame, shame, shame. 

Wishful thinking to feel much guilt over. 

But his rotten mind and decaying heart seem to have gotten the better of him, because he struggles to feel guilt now. He struggles to remind himself of the pretty blonde girl yearning to spend time with him. It's only during the darkest nights he’s spent with you that he allows the creeping thought to take root—small, delicate roots like a lima bean surrounded by a wet paper towel in a plastic cup on the windowsill, a childish experiment—but digging into his mind nonetheless: he should break up with her.

The thought doesn’t last long—much like your sweetness in his dreams.

The moment he wakes up, he’s confronted with the lunacy of breaking up with his long-term girlfriend based on the sheer, unsubstantiated hope that his best friend might ever feel something for him—something he wouldn’t even know what to do with if he were given the chance.

Your words and actions in his head aren’t the same as your words and actions in reality. There’s a reason he ended up with Chrissy after prom—and not you.

That line of thinking always devolves into one clear point: he’s got a sickness of the mind—but it’s not permanent. It can’t be. He can become the good boyfriend he once was—the loving partner. Because you don’t love him in that way, and he knows that. He has something real with Chrissy. You’re not real—not the you he wants.

And yet, despite it all, he’d sleep forever just to feel your touch. 

Eddie’s dissociative state shatters when you turn around, kind eyes settling on him and a warm palm shaking his knee. 

Startled, his heavy eyes blink open as he realizes he’s fallen asleep—he wasn’t just thinking; his mind had painted the exact scenario, letting him stare at your back, watch your effervescent smile as you turned around, and remain entranced while sorting through the detritus of his thoughts.

It’s starting to get scarier—the way his mind creates vivid scenarios, passing them off as memories, and now, even as the present. But he’s grateful to be awake now, especially by your soft touch—something he’s been yearning for. Maybe through this crack in your walls, he can endear himself to you again, earn the affection he’s been entitled to for nearly two decades.

Eddie’s wide eyes dart from your hopeful gaze to Steve and Robin, both lazily wiping the board of any tokens and sorting the colorful money into organized piles while they look at him. He realizes you must have said something, given the way everyone seems to be waiting for him expectantly.

“Uh, w–what?”

“I said, ‘Do you wanna play?’” you repeat, a hint of amusement in your voice—he must look as dumb as he feels. “We’re starting a new game.”

A small look of realization passes over his features, his mouth parting slightly before he shakes his head, holding a placating hand out in front of him. “Oh, uh, n–no…thanks. I think I’ll just watch.”

At his answer, Robin slides the tokens back into place on the ‘Start’ tile, returning everyone’s original game pieces. You shrug, seemingly accepting his answer, and begin dishing out the money—two $500 bills, two $100 bills, and two $50 bills.

“You do like to do that,” you say breezily, earning a chuckle from Steve.

Confused at what that’s supposed to mean, Eddie frowns at you, your back to him as you continue sorting the money. “What?”

You glance over your shoulder, pinning him to the couch with a heavy-lidded gaze and sugared drawl. “I’m just saying—I know you like to watch me, baby.”

“Eddie!” 

Jumping at the loud shout and the kick to his leg, Eddie’s eyes shoot open as his body jerks into the couch, moving further away from you, despite your still form on the ground by the coffee table.

Frustrated impatience shifts to concern on your face. “Dude, are you okay?”

An incredulous frown overtakes his features as he glances between your worried eyes and the matching apprehension on Steve and Robin’s faces. Whipping his head back to you, his brain aches, struggling to piece together what the hell is happening. He’s losing his grip on reality—but this moment feels more real, despite his conviction that the last five minutes were real too. He needs to get out of here.

When he doesn’t respond, you tilt your head, agitation furrowing your brow. “You’ve been out for the last half hour. Are you okay?”

Your repetitive concern finally jolts Eddie into action, he mumbles a quick, “Yeah, ‘m fine,” before grabbing his jacket and rushing out of the apartment.

Robin eyes his fleeing figure, sitting in shocked silence as the door slams shut. “Okay, did he seem a little–”

“Barely lucid?” Steve finishes, frowning at the exit Eddie just disappeared through.

“I was gonna say ‘under the weather,’ but yeah, that.”

He shoots you a questioning glance. “What’s going on with him? He’s been weirder than usual lately.”

“And he’s giving Sleeping Beauty a run for her money,” Robin quips, earning a snort from Steve, who scoops up the dice and gives them a shake, opting to continue despite Eddie’s blaze of retreat.

“I don’t know, but I’m just about over it… I feel like I should go after him.”

Robin watches you spare an uneasy glance at the closed door, as if you had X-ray vision and could see through it to figure out where Eddie had fled. She shrugs, taking $100 from a disgruntled Steve, playing the role of both the bank and her own token.

“Eh, leave it. At least until we finish this game. I wanna bankrupt dingus here.” You laugh as she cocks her head toward a now-affronted Steve. “Plus, it’ll give him a chance to make up another dumb excuse. Lord knows he’s been abusing that arsenal lately,” she sardonically mutters.

Eddie runs around his dimly lit trailer searching for his wallet, wet curls soaking the collar of his faded band tee. He could’ve sworn he had it on his person before he stripped down for a shower, now the stupid thing is nowhere to be seen. 

You always used to tell him his wallet chain was pointless if he didn’t consistently reattach the folded leather when changing pants—and he’s eating your words now. Just another reason to love you: you’re always right, both to his fortune and, sometimes, his chagrin. Right now, it’s the latter, because you’re not here to help him search. If you were, you’d annoyingly find it in the first place he looked—making him seem like an incapable idiot. He needs you.

When he catches sight of the radioactive green time glowing on the microwave—over two hours since he fled Steve’s place—he curses his past self for being so careless with his belongings. He’s late, and this is something he cannot afford to be late for.

After turning out the pockets of every pair of jeans in his overflowing laundry basket, he moves on to the stacks of papers scattered around his messy room. Your voice rings in his head—past admonitions from previous years bouncing back and forth like ping-pong balls of nagging truth—as he sorts through the pigsty he lives in.

“Jesus Christ, Eddie, please clean your room—at least once in your life.” No, he likes it like this. It has to feel like a cave, so he can dwell.

“Seriously, Eds? Do you really need three copies of the June Playboy?” Yes, she looks like you—her similar features send butterflies fluttering through his stomach.

“Eddie, just say the word and I’ll go to that new Office Depot store and get you a ringed binder for all this loose-leaf—I’m not kidding, I’ll literally go right now if you just promise to organize this shit.” Silence.

A short but firm knock on the front door drags him out of his zone. An impatient groan slips from his lips as he straightens up, taking a quick glance around his room and noting which areas he’s already searched. The knock repeats as he continues to ignore it and wonders whether he might’ve accidentally tossed his wallet into the drawers of his nightstand—though that wouldn’t make much sense, since that space is usually reserved for things he wants to hide. Things like every polaroid he once had of you on display, a fruitless attempt to curb the dreams by removing any source material. At the third round of knocking, rage courses through him—doesn’t whoever’s out there understand that he’s late?

“Hold on! I’m coming, Jesus H. Christ!”

Barreling down the narrow hallway, Eddie whips open the door, only to be met with the one person he was running late for—standing there on his front stoop with her fist raised. Wide eyes meet wide eyes as he catches you off guard with his violent door swing. 

All anger melts from his body, replaced by a spark of hope as he watches you glance at the small gap between his body and the doorframe. You seem to decide it’s worth the risk, squeezing through the space, ignoring his refusal to make room for you and the way his gaze burns into the side of your face as you brush past him—his yearning eyes following your every movement. 

He didn’t mean to make you have to nearly shove him out of the way to get through—though he doesn’t quite want to admit it was because he wanted to feel you close to him either.

He can tell you’re extremely uncomfortable as you turn around, meeting his rapt attention in the middle of his messy living room. Déjà vu hits him like a comforting memory as he takes you in—your stiff posture and fidgeting fingers don’t deter the longing in his wet eyes. Unable to conjure the first sentence, he’s relieved when you beat him to it. Though, the relief is short-lived when your voice comes out strained and firm—eliciting an anxiety that only strikes when he knows he’s about to get in trouble.

Your hands are held out in front of you, warning him not to move—commanding him to just stand there and take what you have to give. “Don’t say anything. Just let me speak–”

Never one to behave—Eddie hurriedly cuts you off. 

“I can’t find my wallet.”

Your next words seem to die on your tongue as your brows pinch in confusion at his seemingly random comment. He watches as your eyes momentarily shift off of him, scanning the space around him. Then, opting to take a better look, you turn your head, taking in the torn-up state of his trailer.

The confusion lingers, quickly joined by shock. He can tell you understand now—his words weren’t just a comment on his current mess. You’ve always been able to discern his shy, pitiful requests—the quiet pleas for help he never wanted to voice.

After one hesitant glance in his direction, you sigh and take slow, measured steps toward the kitchen, eyes roving in search of the worn leather pad. Eddie’s meek demeanor shifts, though, when you curiously lift a tipped-over cereal box to reveal his wallet. You pick up the small item, turning to face him and holding it up next to your head.

His shoulders drop as he takes in your incredulous look—your lips pressed into a line, head tilted in that familiar, obnoxious way. He can already hear the lecture forming in your mind—the reminder that his wallet chain is pointless if he doesn’t use it.

An indignant expression takes over his face, jaw dropping at your uncanny ability to make him look like an idiot—it’s practically a superpower at this point. “What the fuck?”

If you asked, he’d swear up, down, and sideways that he already checked the kitchen counter. But apparently, the universe favors you. It makes sense, considering what an awful person he’s been these past couple of weeks.

You don’t ask, though. Instead, you just toss him the wallet, forcing him to scramble to catch it before you continue with your impending speech.

“Okay, now don’t speak. I have something I need to say to you.” You hesitate, Eddie’s assuming you’re making sure he stays silent this time—so he does.

“I don’t know what I did to…piss you off—god, I don’t even know if that’s it. I don’t know what emotion I elicit in you because you’ve well and truly iced me out, here.”

Your frustration is clear, and he has to fight the urge to defend himself as he watches you throw your arms out in exasperation, humorless amusement overtaking your face. Though, he doesn’t even know what he’d say in his defense. There is no defense—anything he came up with would be a lie or an excuse. He can’t claim he’s been busy, since he’s been conveniently un-busy for group hangouts—at least until he had to stop those too. And he definitely can’t say he hasn’t been avoiding you—because he has. So, he just lets you continue.

“I mean, seriously, Eddie—you haven’t been this stupid since whatever the hell happened on prom night.”

The mention of that night—the one he tries so hard to block out, all poor timing and failed attempts—makes his stomach churn, especially coming from you. He hadn’t realized you even noticed something was off afterward. He thought he’d masked his feelings well. Apparently not. Thankfully, you don’t linger on the memory, opting instead to play hardball.

“So I’m here now,” you say, and he gulps at the way you seem to batten down the hatches—planting your feet firmly on his carpet, crossing your arms defiantly over your chest, emphasizing your frustration. “And I’m not letting you shut me out any longer. You’re going to tell me everything right now or I’ll... I’ll tell Wayne you’re being mean to me.”

Having been waiting with bated breath for the end of your threat, Eddie lets out an amused huff. Your childish tone brings him back to a decade ago. Of course your go-to ultimatum is to sic his uncle on him—you’re so damn cute when you try to be intimidating. It’s not an empty threat either; he just feared you’d say something worse. Like you’d never speak to him again, or maybe that you’re tired of his wishy-washy friendship and you’ve moved on with Steve. The thought alone leaves an acidic taste on his tongue.

Come to think of it though, Wayne might be worse. That old man loves you through and through—he’d absolutely tear Eddie a new one if you actually told him how cold your supposed best friend has been. His uncle always did seem to like you more than him anyway, always picking your side in those childish fights years ago. Eventually, Eddie stopped relying on Wayne as a mediator—the no-bullshit man would just hit him with a gruff, “I don’t know what you did, but you definitely did it. Apologize to ‘er.” So he’s inclined to yield to your threat.

Tell you everything?

Where does he even start? 

First off, glad to see you, sweetheart, was just comin’ to find you. Second off, I left game night to go break up with my girlfriend because I couldn't stop having sex dreams about you. I know, crazy, right? Funny enough, they weren’t just sex dreams—they were things I thought I’d buried a long time ago. Wishes, wants...whatever. Just stuff I told myself I didn’t feel anymore. Ha! Get a load of this guy, huh? Sentimental bullshit—love so damning it’s turning me into a bleeding-heart poet or some shit.

See, I tried to hold them off for as long as I could—tried convincing myself it was a phase. But I don’t think this kind of love is a phase. Unfortunately.

And yeah, I said love. 

It’s not perversion. I know what perversion is. I’ve dealt with it. I’ve stared too long in the mirror while you changed behind me. I’ve stolen a peek or two down your top when you cleaned my room that one time—I know perversion.

This isn’t that.

Perversion doesn’t fester and corrode the way love does.

And I know you don’t love me back, and that’s fine. I can live with that. Or—I’ll try to.

But I can’t keep living with you in my head. I’m losin’ it here, sweetheart.

When I broke up with Chrissy, she asked if there was someone else. Probably because of how much of a dick I’ve been—avoiding her, and not to mention, you. But I couldn’t answer her question, because…yes.

No.

There is, but there’s not.

It’s not your fault. You’re not doing this to me. You’re not actually in my bed every night, whispering all the things I wanna hear.

You’re not tempting a taken man—you’d never. I know that.

I’ve placed you on this pedestal in my subconscious—something you never asked for.

I’ve prayed to you in idle worship. But now, I’m asking you to put me out of my misery.

Hear my plea. Absolve me of my sins—

So I can continue to live in your shadow. Happily. 

Alone. 

With you. 

Happily.

But that’s a bit much and just a tad crazy. He’s spiraling, sure. But you don’t need to know that. So Eddie starts simple.

“We broke up.” 

He can tell you’re taken off guard by his admission. You’re probably floundering for context, considering Chrissy was still somewhat part of the group—at least up until a bit ago.

Your brows furrow sympathetically, and he can feel your frustration melting—the tension in the air fizzling out. That inherent need to console overtakes any prior feelings.

“What? Oh my god, Eddie, I’m so sorry. You were into her for like…years, right? That’s awful.”

The reminder of his stupid schoolboy crush makes his skin crawl. It’s like a swarm of ants under his skin, crawling up his arms, his neck—itching with the memory of someone he no longer is.

That version of him—wide-eyed, hopeful, convinced longing was the same thing as love—feels like a ghost. A haunting echo of an almost-man, displaced from time and reality. Cursed to float through his mind like 2 a.m. regret. Sure, the crush led to a formative relationship. Two years. But those two years didn’t validate the fantasy. They dismantled it. 

Because through Chrissy, he finally saw it. He saw you.

And now, the girl he’s always wanted—but never let himself want—is standing in front of him, trying to console him over someone he no longer aches for. 

His bleeding heart doesn’t beat for her anymore.

If he had any shame left, he would feel like a horrible person for moving on so quickly. But he’s fresh out of shame. You drained every last drop from him with your whispered sighs and rocking hips. You’ve permanently changed the chemistry of his brain with every sweet, imaginary kiss to his greedy lips, every teasing quip about his confusing feelings over the years. He doesn’t struggle with the end of his long-term relationship because he never adjusted to it not being with you. He realizes that now. 

You’re ingrained in his DNA at this point—a golden thread weaving magic through every atom that makes up his being. He understands now, with perfect clarity, that you were always his. You’re supposed to be his.

So he’s sure the cosmic forces can forgive a love that was written on the wall the moment you shared your Goldfish crackers with him at five years old.

A stone-carved devotion, so tried and true, it manifested entire fantasy worlds where you were surely his.

Choosing not to respond to your ill-timed sympathy, Eddie’s eyes dart away from yours, restless, sweaty palms rub against his black jeans. 

“What happened?”

He curses his lack of response. Maybe if he had been proactive about his storytelling, he wouldn’t have to look you right in the eyes and tell you the truth. Maybe he could tell you a sliver of the truth. Maybe that would be enough.

Although, knowing you, it wouldn’t be. 

“I broke up with her,” he mumbles, barely maintaining eye contact when you shoot him a shocked look—clearly taken aback by the fact that he wasn’t the dumpee. 

“Why the hell would you do that? I mean…I thought you really liked her. And she was sweet. ” 

He winces at your initial outburst, but it’s your last statement that imbues him with unearned confidence. 

“Not like you,” he mutters with a slight shrug, voice low and resigned.

You shake your head as if trying to knock loose some semblance of understanding, eyeing him carefully like you’re trying to peer into the right spot, earning a momentary glance inside his mind. His words are too confusing, you need the source material. 

“What are you talking about? She was, like, perfect for you.”

Eddie doesn’t know why you’re trying to rewrite the story. Why you’re pushing this version where he and Chrissy made sense. They didn’t. Not really. Not like you and him. You know each other—every weird, wonderful part. That’s always been enough.

“She wasn’t you.”

Frustration ripples through you again, tension crackling in the air. He realizes he’s not exactly being forthcoming—with his feelings, or whatever it is he’s trying to say. He’s never been Mr. Exposition Guy, but something’s happening to him, something that keeps him from spitting it out—and it’s pissing you off. He can tell.

It’s like he’s trained his whole life for a marathon. Months of running it, mile after mile, pacing himself, pushing through the exhaustion, waiting for the end to come into view. And now that it has—now that he can see the finish line—his legs feel like they’re about to give out. Fatigued from the journey, he’s unsure if he can make it. Everything he’s ever trained for is right there in front of him, and now his body won’t cooperate. His words won’t come.

The daunting realization that this is it—that this is his chance to convey how detrimental and beautifully significant you’ve been to his mind, his life, his heart—has him stumbling. And the consequences of this confession, of his actions, rage through his mind like a category five hurricane.

Which he finds—humorlessly—kind of funny.

You’d be the one to bring a storm like that.

His hericane.

There’s a battle raging inside him. One side is certain that telling you the truth won’t change a thing—you’ll let him down easy, things will be weird for a while, and then you’ll both pretend it never happened, slipping right back into best-friend territory. The other side is cataloging every fidget, every flicker of raw emotion in your gaze, and whispering that only someone with something to hide acts like that.

Maybe your something is like his. Maybe if he shows you his, you’ll show him yours. Maybe, in your confusion, you’re trying to push him away. Maybe you think you’re taking him from Chrissy. He knows you’d hate to be the other woman, and he never meant to place you in that role. 

“Say, you didn’t happen to get really drunk and take copious amounts of drugs, did you?” 

You’re trying to pass your question off as a joke, but Eddie hears the bite behind it. He’s known that tone for years—knows it even better now, after hearing it echo through his dreams.

Shaking his head, he holds up three fingers on his right hand, giving you the Scout’s honor—despite never having been one. “Stone cold sober, sweetheart.”

A scoff leaves your smiling lips, you shake your head, incredulous. Heading over to the kitchen, you start cleaning up the mess Eddie made in his search for his wallet—your hands just needing something to do. 

He eyes you carefully, watching the way your movements are harsh and unrestrained as you close cabinets, crumple scrap papers, and pick up tipped-over cereal boxes. Despite his own inability to be straight with you, he finds himself getting frustrated at the way you refuse to believe him. He’s your best friend—he thinks he deserves the benefit of the doubt. Then again, he may have squandered all the goodwill he’s earned with you over the past few months.

Without looking up at him, you cup your hand to scoop the fallen cereal off the counter and into your other, waiting hand as you dismiss him again. “Okay, maybe the lack of sleep really is getting to you.”

Quick to shut that theory down, Eddie steps closer, squaring off with you across the counter. You still won’t look at him, focused instead on sweeping the rest of the cereal into the trash.

“Nah,” he says, quieter now, more certain. “I’ve never slept better in my life.”

And it’s not a complete lie.

There was a time the dreams drained him—left him wrung-out and raw, waking more tired than when he went to bed. But something shifted. Once he accepted that you weren’t leaving his mind until he did something about it—until he made a choice, ended what needed ending, and faced the truth—he found you again in those dreams.

And this time, you weren’t a ghost weighed down by the chains of his guilt—like some specter he’d cursed to carry the burden of his indecision.

You were a promise.

Permission to rest.

The confidence of his declaration seems to piss you off because you finally stop what you’re doing, throwing your hands up in exasperation. “Then, Eddie, what the hell are you talking about?” 

Fuck it.

“I broke up with her for you,” he admits, imploring—wide, brown eyes wet with desperation, painted in truth.

You blanch at his words, eyeing him in horror. “I didn’t ask you to do that! You’ve wanted her since, like, forever. Why would you break up with someone you chased for years?” you shout.

Eddie’s heart pounds—you still don’t get it. Every second you don’t see it feels like you’re slipping further away.

“Because I’ve wanted you longer,” he says, the truth falling from his lips like it’s always been there.

The look of horror melts off your face, replaced by quiet calculation as you puzzle out what this new admission means. Eager to help you solve it, he continues. 

“Tell me you haven’t thought about it. Tell me…you never looked at me any other way than a friend, and I’ll never bring this up again.” 

Blood rushes in his ears as he stuns you into silence. If you say the words—if you reject him—he’ll go. He’ll be better. He’ll bury this thing between you and pretend it never existed. Not for himself, but for you. And it won’t be your fault. It never was.

“You can leave, I’ll try to stop these feelings, we’ll pretend nothing ever happened, and I’ll eventually be cured of this…thing.”

Disgust taints the word—thing—as he lays himself bare for you. Not disgust for you, but for the word itself, for the pitiful inadequacy of it. For the feelings he can’t name, for how he’s handled them, who he’s hurt in the process, and how long it took him to see them clearly.

His frustration is evident as he claws his way through the desperate, heart-felt pleas to you. Met with silence, a conniving, rotted kind of hope spreads through his veins like a viral infection. He can’t pin down one emotion in your shocked eyes—all he sees is a storm of confusion, surprise, petulance, and something else he won’t dare to name. 

The quiet of the trailer suffocates him—you won’t tell him no, but you’re not telling him yes. And the unfortunate truth is he’d let you string him along forever if you’d give him the bare minimum. If you chose not to answer him on this day, he’d take that crumb of hope and cut it up into a million little pieces to feast on from now until eternity. And that would be enough—just to be with you in any capacity.

But first, he has to push a little harder. He’s selfish that way.

The desperation in his tone multiplies tenfold as he tries again. The emotional turmoil of weeks upon weeks of you living in his head—showing him what he could have—is bubbling over, giving way to humorless amusement that makes him appear as if he’s gone mad. Festering, gnawing, corroding—just like you said. 

He gazes at your still form with rapt attention, hungry eyes devouring every minute movement you make. With a mad sort of tilt to his head, he leans over the counter slightly, attempting to close the distance despite the barrier.

“Please, just–just tell me. Put me out of my misery, ‘cause I can’t stand another second of dreaming about you and then seeing you like this–like none of it ever happened. Like you don’t know all the things we’ve done, all the ways I’ve held you.” 

“All the…” His voice falters, barely above a whisper. “All the ways I’ve loved you.”

You recoil, taking a step back, like his words were a blow you weren’t prepared for. He wants to scream at the way you break eye contact, the way you shut him down without a word. He’s trying his hardest to be clear, and you’re keeping him at arm’s length—or really, a kitchen counter’s length. 

“Eddie, you sound crazy,” you mutter, shaking your head and folding yourself into the comfort of your own arms.

“Maybe!” he shouts, threading his hands through the roots of his curls in exasperation. He’s going to have to spell it out for you. “Maybe I am crazy!” A humorless chuckle leaves his lips as he shakes his head, eyeing your questioning gaze. “I can’t go a night without dreaming about you—maybe that’s what’s driving me crazy. You, just living it up in my head!”

Eddie’s mocking, bitter voice makes you flinch. He can see tears well up in your eyes, causing his frustration to melt back into pathetic desperation.

“I–I don’t know what to say…”

He so badly wants to tell you what to say—to say you love him, to say you’ve just been waiting for him to pull his head out of his ass. But he doesn’t want to lead the witness…

He knows himself well enough to admit that selfishness runs through his veins like hot, life-giving blood. If he could lead you to that conclusion, and you accepted it—despite being shoehorned into the role of best-friend-turned-girlfriend—he’d selfishly take it. He’d live in yet another delusion that this was what you wanted all along.

But he also knows how that would end. He’s seen it already—in a dozen dreams, in every morning after. The illusion never survives daylight.

So, he won’t put words in your mouth. He won’t push you to decide. He won’t ask you to shatter what’s left between you just to spare him false hope. He’ll take what you give—if you choose to let him stay in your life after this disaster of a conversation and the immature way he’s been handling things lately.

Resigned, he graciously forfeits. He’s no stranger to rejection, even when it’s passive.

“Then don’t say anything,” he shrugs, lips curling inward, gaze falling to his hands, worrying the skin at his cuticles like it might distract him from the ache in his chest. “I get it. This was stupid anyway, I'm sorry. I…this was shitty of me.” A humorless snort escapes him, the understatement almost laughable. “Really shitty. Feel free to never speak to me again, by the way. I’d understand.”

Unable to meet your eyes for one last look, Eddie retreats to the couch, collapsing into a miserable slump. He’s not going to throw you out just because you rejected him—doesn’t feel like he has the right to tell you what to do. But he hopes you’ll spare him your pity and leave soon. He’d like to have at least one more good dream before they all shift into horror reruns of this conversation.

Unfortunately, he’s got hell to pay karmically, so the quiet pitter-patter of your feet approaching doesn’t surprise him. His dissociative state doesn’t break when he feels the couch shift one cushion away as you sit down, folding a leg beneath you. Eddie falls to his knees inside his own head, cursing everything in the sky above—because of course you’ve gotten comfortable. Looks like you’re staying for however long it takes to realize he’s an awful person and you should be rid of him.

Living in his peripheral vision—an ironic coincidence, given all the years he neglected to realize his feelings for you—he can vaguely make out your thoughtful expression as you stare at him for some time before taking a break to join him in his dissociation toward the turned-off TV. That trade-off continues for what feels like hours, but is probably only one. Maybe one and a half.

With time crawling by like the final mile of a race he was never meant to win, he loses track of you—too busy reliving every dream and the memories before. His mind flickers like Times Square, each screen lighting up with moments just for you.

If he’d been more aware, he would’ve noticed the way you crept closer to him every couple of minutes. Centimeters made the difference from the distance you originally kept. So deep down the rabbit hole you carved in his mind, he doesn’t realize until he feels heat bloom through his body, starting at his lips and traveling all the way to his toes.

Tears well up in his eyes, his chest tight with the unexpected flood of feelings your kiss stirs up. It's not just your lips—it's the overwhelming rush of something he didn’t see coming. Confusion clouds his mind—he thought you rejected him. The hesitation he saw in your eyes earlier, the way you fixated on Chrissy—it didn’t make sense. He thought he fucked up. You didn’t seem to accept his confession. But now, here you are, in front of him, close enough to make him question everything he thought he understood.

He can’t make sense of it. This doesn’t feel like rejection. No, this feels…like home. Like he’s finally come in from the cold. Like your sunny warmth is pouring through him, and he’s alive in a way he hasn’t been for a while.

But then, fear jolts through his veins—what if this is just another dream? What if this is the illusion of something real?

Déjà vu crashes over him like a second wave—but without the usual eerie discomfort. He’s been here before—this moment, this feeling—like it’s been lifted straight from a dream. Only now, he’s not fighting it. The warmth, the closeness, the way your lips feel against his—it’s all too familiar, too vivid. He swears he’s lived this before, seen it in his mind’s eye a hundred times. But now, it’s real, and it’s impossible to deny.

Your tongue glides along the seam of his lips, breaking him from his spiral—wordlessly begging him to reciprocate. He wants to, but his body refuses. The kiss is too real, too overwhelming, and he’s frozen in place, afraid that if he moves or speaks, it will all shatter. It’s only when he opens his eyes, feeling your warmth still lingering, that the doubt fades. There’s no escaping this. No denying it. You’re still there, close enough that he can feel the warmth of you, a thin string of saliva connecting the two of you—proof that this was real. A messy, fragile reality he never expected.

His brain functions at a quarter of its usual speed as his wide eyes rove over your face—you’re real. You’re real, and you’re really close. Closer than friends should be.

Just like in every dream he’s ever had of you, he can feel the words before he hears them. “How long?” 

Struggling to focus through heavy lids and buzzing static in his head, Eddie’s brow furrows. “What?”

The sweetest smile he’s seen almost every single day of his life pulls at your wet lips, despite your attempt to temper it. He must sound like an idiot right now, but he’d put on a dunce cap and do a little dance just to make that smile widen—and maybe, just maybe, if he’s really good—hear your melodious laugh.

“How long have you felt this way? I mean, how long have you known?”

Oh. That. 

Anxiety spreads through his chest as he realizes he’s going to have to share his feelings again—right after the disaster that happened earlier. He has to hope it’ll end differently, or he’ll never get another word out. Your kiss certainly helped feed his delusion…or maybe it’s not a delusion. 

There’s that pesky hope again.

“I–I wanna say since I met you, but I don’t think that’s really true,” he mutters regretfully—as if unconsciously loving you for the better part of two decades isn’t enough. “Wasn’t exactly ruminating on the meaning behind how much I loved you more than my other friends at five years old. I didn’t unlock the power of introspection until high school, unfortunately.”

His attempt at a joke lands, and he revels in the puff of breath you let out—more heat to his lips, more hope to his heart. He watches as you study him closely, your eyes scanning his face. His heart skips a beat when your gaze drops back down to his lips. But the weak organ feels like it’s folding in on itself, crushed beneath the weight of your next words.

“Can we just go back to normal?”

Crestfallen, Eddie struggles not to show it. Your pleading whisper harpoons his weak heart, dragging it violently from his chest and landing it in your squeezing grip. Of course you’d want that. Of course you’d want to go back to normal—it’s the least he could do for you after the way he blew up everything around him. Who would want to be with someone so incapable? You certainly don’t deserve that.

But the kiss.

The kiss was just a pity kiss. A weird way to let him down easy, but he won’t fault you. He’s been doing a lot of weird shit lately. He has no room to judge.

Forcing what he hopes is an understanding smile onto his face, he casts one last, longing glance at your lips—the lips he'll never feel again. “Y–Yeah. Yeah, we can.”

Much to his chagrin, you don’t move away from him. You’re still hovering close to his face, torturing him with what he can’t have. What he ruined. 

“And that means…movie nights and hangouts again, right?”

Gulping, Eddie puts on a brave face, ignoring the way he can feel your gravitational pull—your lips calling to him like a siren in murky waters. But he can’t give in. That would be the worst of the worst. To kiss you without your consent? He’d send himself to hell for that. Here you are, trying to become his friend again, and he can’t stop thinking about your lips. He could kick himself.

He’s got a lot of work to do—burning this feeling out of chest.

“Yeah, of course.”

The burn comes sooner than he expects—but it’s not the right kind of burn. Flames of heat engulf his body at the feel of your warm palm on his chest. Now he has two points of searing desire to deal with. Great. First, it was your sinfully soft lips; now it’s your gentle hand, your rogue thumb caressing him while he punishes himself for mistaking innocent consolation.

Unable to stop himself, his eyes flutter shut, reveling in the affection—before he forces them open again.

“Can we have sleepovers again?”

The request sets off alarm bells in his head. But you’ve proven to be real this time, so it can’t be that. Luckily, he’s fantastic at ignoring warning signs, choosing to nod a silent yes to your question.

He wants to say no. Sleepovers again? Watching you sleep, seeing the way your face melts in contentment, how you inch toward him, seeking solace in his body heat—it would be torture. But he’ll take whatever he can get. Damn his selfishness.

Eddie’s breath hitches as your head bobs, chin jutting forward, almost as if you felt the same pull he did. As if you wanted to find solace in his lips too. Like it was home to you as well.

“Can I sleep in your bed?”

The weight of the request sinks in, dragging him back to the reality of what he’s already imagined—the closeness, the heat, the way his heart would race. He’s torn, but he’ll do anything just to have you back in his life. If that means endless nights of torture and tests of his will, so be it.

“Sure…”

Before he gets a chance to follow up with how he’ll take the couch and you can have his bed, you’re whispering another question—drilling a millionth of a centimeter closer to the root of his temptation.

“Will you hold me?”

His eyes search your face, a brow raised at your request. In his quest to find any hidden meaning, all he sees is innocent curiosity. It only makes him want to punish his mind more.

Bad, bad, bad Eddie. Bad. 

Shame, shame, shame. 

“If…if you want.”

“Will you show me what you dreamed of?”

If you weren’t so close to his face, Eddie might’ve blanched at your words. Instead, he settles for a shocked tilt of his head, unable to tear his gaze from yours as he struggles to understand how this could possibly be reality. Pinching his arm, he tries to wake himself from what must be the most meta dream he’s had to date. There’s no way you just said that. After everything? He’s so confused he could cry.

At the quiet movement below, you glance down, chuckling at the way he’s desperately trying to wake himself from reality.

He finally releases a heaving breath when you back away, giving him space for the first time in what feels like forever. The relief is short-lived, though, when his heart thumps wildly like a rabbit’s foot at the feel of your warm palm sliding down his chest, then his abdomen—almost mirroring the movement from a dream he once had. But you don’t settle there. Instead, you rest your hand on his, halting his assault on his forearm.

“It’s real,” you assure, almost making him cry from the clarity he’s been sorely missing. “Now, I’m still pissed at you for being so stupid, and I’m not happy with the way you handled everything—I don’t appreciate the secondhand guilt you so graciously gifted me, considering I’m the one who came between you and Chrissy—but it’s real.”

Eddie wants to cut you off, his mouth already open to assure you that it was more like Chrissy came between him and you, given all the history there—but he swallows the argument when you shoot him a pointed look.

You suck in a steadying breath, seemingly preparing yourself for something—and he’s dying to know what.

Glancing up at him through blackened lashes, you mumble a vague, “It’s you, Eddie.”

A soft, rueful laugh slips from your shy smile as you gaze intently at your hand atop his. “It’s real, and it’s always been you.”

He watches you with rapt attention—doesn’t want to miss a single moment of this.

You hesitate, as if gathering the right words to explain how you feel, and Eddie finds himself empathizing. It’s a lot—to be real, to be transparent, to place your bleeding heart in someone else’s hands and hope they don’t crush it.

“I didn’t know if you would ever feel…the same—the way I did. Y’know…” You shrug, passively opting out of a full confession, still unsure of everything that happened between him and Chrissy—and your place in it all.

Eddie’s heart feels weightless in his chest, just pondering the past tense you used. You didn’t know. How far back? How long ago did you realize you felt…something? And that cop-out—y’know.

He doesn’t know. But god, does he want to. He won’t push you tonight, but he’ll spend the rest of his life begging for your version of every shared moment. He wants to know everything you feel for him.

And he’ll gladly, excitedly tell you his—as long as you tell him yours. He wants to hear your dreams. He wants to know if he stars in them the way you shine so brightly in his.

His train of thought crashes, cut off by the sharp jab of your fist into his shoulder. He flinches back with a wince. “Ow!” Jaw agape in full offense, he meets your determined face, your features drawn tight in admonition.

“You still owe me a game of Q*bert, jackass. And you’re definitely paying.”

Eddie’s pain melts away at the memory of the deal he made with you—how he promised to take you to the arcade, just the two of you, and pay for all your games. Pay for you to beat him on every lousy machine.

He didn’t forget. He won’t forget how much he owes you for everything he’s put you through.

Rubbing the spot where your knuckles dug in, he nods, avoiding your eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I know. Think I’ll be paying for a lot from now on.”

Another fist flies into the same sore shoulder as soon as he drops his hand.

“Damn right, you will.”

Before he can whine out a complaint, your lips are on his again, pulling him into a hypnotic trance of messy, wet tongues—one hesitant, one sure. When you pull away, his lips follow instinctively—resigned to his fate at the bottom of a darkened sea, forever drawn to the siren who led him there.

A smirk pulls at your mouth, a teasing glint dancing across your eyes—the same eyes he’s stared into every night for months. “That’s what boys do on dates, after all.”

A/N: This is just like when Lady Gaga said, “That girl in your head ain’t real. How bad do you want me, for real?” Anyway, I’ve been talking about this for so long. Tell me—did I deliver? Like, comment, reblog to help a writer out.

Dividers by: @/saradika

As you’re washing the soap off, once again soaking the counter and your sleeves, he holds something up beside you, “What’s this?”

You can’t see what it is yet, your eyes and mouth dangerously close to getting soap in them. So you stay silent, holding up a single finger.

“‘Looks like a… potion or something,” He muses, and when you finally clear the soap from your face you turn to see him holding up one of your moisturizers. Admittedly, the bottle is oddly-shaped and intricately designed, and it would be something straight out of a fantasy world if it wasn’t filled with lotion.

You giggle softly at his naivety, applying your toner, “Eddie, it’s moisturizer.”

He raises an eyebrow, “And.. what is that?”

“It’s in the name…” Your brows dip in concern, “It.. moisturizes you?”

“Right.” He mutters, gnawing on his lower lip as he looks over the bottle once more, flipping it back and forth in his hands. “Can I have this?” He holds up the bottle, “Not the shit inside. Just, like, the bottle? When you’re done with it?”

You pluck it out of his hands, throwing away the cotton pad that you’d soaked in toner. You dip your finger into the bottle and he watches intently as it comes back up smeared with white lotion, slightly translucent, that you spread over your face. 

“I guess,” You shrug, spreading the cream around your face, “I don’t think I’ll run out of it any time soon, but you can have the bottle when I do.

“Thanks, babe.” Eddie grins at you, and even though your eyes are still stinging slightly from the soap, you stare intently at him, drinking in his giddiness.

You tap a dot of the moisturizer on your nose, a dot on your forehead, one for each cheek, and finally your chin. Part of one of the cheek splotches smears towards your nose as you apply it, sloppy coverage from how slippery your hands are. 

It makes Eddie snort amusedly, “That kinda looks like-”

“I know what it looks like, Eddie!” You cut him off, desperately trying to avoid his dirty mind. He loves getting you flustered, it’s one of his favorite things, and tonight is no different.

His grin grows, watching you furiously spread the lotion over your face, desperate to clear away any of the visible substance. He stays silent to let you have a little bit of peace, observing you fondly, but when it’s fully rubbed in he pipes back up.

“What’s that?” He cocks his head to the side, his hair bouncing slightly as he does so. You turn the label on the jar around to face him, offering a simple ‘Eye Cream’ as his explanation.

“Eye cream…” Eddie’s nose wrinkles in confusion and slight apprehension, “For, like.. In your eyes?”

“No!” You drag the word out with a giggle, swatting at his hand that’s fiddling with your other beauty products. He’s acting like a kid in a toy shop, holding everything and inspecting it to satiate his curiosity.

“It goes under your eye.” You explain, swiping a dollop of the cream out of the jar and smearing it under both of your eyes, “It helps with dark circles, you just rub it in and-”

Eddie stands abruptly, his hands reaching for your wrists and pulling your hands away from your face. You watch him silently, an eyebrow raised in confusion, but your questions are answered almost immediately.

Eddie’s hands come up to cup your cheeks, his thumbs landing just under your eyes. He slowly starts working the cream into your skin, his tongue poking out in a display of the intense concentration he’s applying to the task at hand. His thumbs are warm against your skin, gentle in their soothing strokes, and you’re certain he’s taking much longer than he needs to. His fingers grow sticky, no longer slick with cream. He seems to realize this, but neither of you want to relinquish the contact, so he stays. 

He cups your cheeks so tenderly you can feel the love radiating from him. It’s evident in his eyes, sparkling with wonder. In the soft, lovesick smile on his face that grows the longer his eyes bore into yours. In the warmth radiating through your body the longer he leaves his hands on your cheeks. 

You’re sure you’ve never felt more loved. He tells you he loves you every day, almost obsessively. When you leave, when you’re getting dressed in the morning, when you’re making him lunch, when you close your eyes at the end of the night. He shows you he loves you, when he wraps you up in his jacket on a chilly day, when he carries your bags for you, when he makes you dinner (read: tries to make you dinner). You always feel loved, but this is different; it’s suffocating, intimate. 

Emotions are oozing from you, sticky sweet as they coat the two of you. You’re sure your eyes are heart-shaped, and the way that Eddie’s looking at you produces the same effect. The contentment that fills your chest, overflowing and spilling out of you while he holds your face, makes you surer than ever that you want to spend the rest of your life with Eddie. You’re in love, helplessly, hopelessly in love, and you know Eddie is too.

You voice your thoughts, even though you weren’t sure there were any words you could use to convey their true depths, “I love you, Eddie.”

“‘Love you too, princess. So fuckin’ much,” He breathes, keeping his voice low and soft so as not to dissolve the intimacy you’re blanketed in, “That.. that doesn’t even cover it. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone else, more than anyone has ever loved anyone else.”

The uncharacteristic romantic monologue from him has your heart impossibly swelling, fit to burst in your chest and beating out of your ribcage. 

“I know, Eddie.” You nod, his hands never slipping from your cheeks, “I know, I can feel it. And I feel the same way. You’re.. You’re my everything.”

He lets out a shaky sigh, a hushed, ‘Baby,’ slipping from his lips before he brings you into his chest. Only one of his hands abandons your face, the other still firmly in place as he wraps the first around your waist. 

Your eyes drift shut naturally as you nuzzle your free cheek into his chest. The worn material of his hellfire shirt offers the perfect cushion over his chest as you relax into his embrace. It’s silence, it’s serenity, it’s love. He sways you gently back and forth in the cramped bathroom, all concern for the rest of your routine gone as he holds you. A strand or two of his messy hair dips down over his shoulders, hanging in front of your face. It doesn’t tickle you like it usually does, but you reminisce on the times it has as you melt in Eddie’s arms. 

Anytime he hovers over you, staring you down fondly, a few loose hairs always make it their business to ghost over your nose. You always chide him for it, berating him for not keeping hair ties on hand, but he claims that his mane is ‘too tough to tame’. A grin grows on your lips as you run through memories in your mind, and he feels it against his palm.

“What’cha smilin’ about, baby?” He queries, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

“You.” You supply simply, peering up at him lovingly, “You make me smile.”

The fondness in his gaze is unmatched. He’s looking at you like a treasure, like a priceless gift given to him by the universe itself; a cosmic blessing. He treats you like one, too, his hands slipping to your hips and planting themselves firmly against the backs of your thighs. He scoops you off of your feet, setting you on the counter behind you beside your skincare products.

“I’m glad I make you smile.” He stands between your legs, his hands braced on the counter on either side of you, “It’s my favorite thing to see.”

“You’re my favorite thing to see.” You gloat giddily, love-drunk and mushy as a result of the domestic atmosphere.

“So cheesy,” He teases, but it’s not an insult. 

Affection drips from his words, and you nod in agreement. “Jus’ for you, Eddie.”

“Good.” He tilts his head up, jutting his chin out slightly, “‘Makes me feel special.”

“You are,” You barely get the words out before he’s leaning forwards, crowding you against the mirror behind you, “You’re the most special person I’ve ever-”

“Shh,” He doesn’t wait for you to finish, mumbling the words against your lips, “Kiss me.”

You do. His lips are on yours before you can even make the decision, soft and warm and plump. Your tongue juts out to lave slowly over the lower one, but no one makes any advances past that. You’re content where you are, kissing Eddie in the little bathroom adjacent to your shared bedroom. It’s your space, and Eddie is your love.

When he breaks away it’s to tilt his head forwards, resting his forehead against yours. You gaze dreamily into his eyes, even though it looks like he only has one with how close he is. You giggle softly at the image, your one-eyed boyfriend, and he’s laughing at you too, the silliness of the image adding to the intimacy of the moment.

“Okay,” He leaves one last firm kiss against your lips, slowly pulling away and looking down at the mess of products on the counter, “Which one next?”

“That one.” You point to your lip serum, “Goes on my lips. ‘S just a gloss, you can squeeze it on.”

He uncaps the tube of paste, squeezing experimentally and finding that it’s mostly empty. He finds a pocket of product near the bottom, working it up to the spout and holding it out in front of your face.

“Pucker up, baby.” He grins cheekily. You over-accentuate the gesture, giving him plenty of material to work with. He can’t help himself, leaning in to peck your lips one last time before putting the product on.  You giggle as he smears the gloss messily over your lips, using the rounded tip of the applicator to smooth it evenly over the skin there.

“Okay, rub ‘em together.” He commands, screwing the cap back on, “Anything else?”

You shake your head, too busy rubbing in the gloss on your lips to answer. He smiles proudly, taking the wet washcloth and squeezing it dry before draining the sink. He hastily pushes all of your products to the side of the counter, his version of ‘cleaning up’, and then stands expectantly in front of you.

“Ready?” He means for bed, the day long gone. You nod eagerly, reaching for him and wrapping your arms around his neck. He pulls you in with open arms, one under your butt and one around your back as you curl your legs around his waist. You’re clinging to him like a little koala, your face already nestled into his neck, lips staining his skin with sticky gloss. Nevertheless, it spreads a grin over his cheeks.

“Come on,” He starts for the door, flicking the light off in the bathroom as you exit and clutching you tighter against his chest, “Let’s go to sleep, baby.”

tags: @shenevertricks1831 @nadixq