#stifling

An unfortunate aspect of my job is that much of it has to be done in person for security reasons, so I dragged my whole sickie self into the office today because my team needed to report back to our boss after our European pitstop a few days ago. She was not thrilled with the outcome and spent a good 5 minutes laying into one of the guys (he's a dick, so that's whatever) BUT, as we were getting up to leave, she did the whole hand-outstretched-but-not-touching-me-cause-she's-my-boss move, coupled with "you should really go home", sympathetic expression and all, and I about pooped on the spot.

Your head rolls back on the pillow, peering up at the ceiling in the dark. You reach down a little nervously, wriggling just a touch, drawing the fabric of your nightgown up around your hips. It’s not perfect, but it’s better. Inch by inch, the cooler fabric of the top sheet sweeps over every bit of your exposed skin. You settle it up around your hips, sliding your legs under the sheet. You can feel yourself beginning to sweat. 

You bite back a groan and shove the top sheet away, wriggling against the mattress and pushing it down toward the end of the bed. In your shifting, you neglect to note Indiana rolling over, and hear only a grumbled, “Cut it out,” Before you feel his hand land on your bare thigh. 

The two of you go stone-still. Your heart ticks up in your chest, and you close your eyes. The feeling of Indiana’s hand on your skin sends a flurry of anticipation through you. 

“...Thought your nightgown was longer,” Indiana mumbles after a moment, his hand still warm and steady on your skin. 

“It’s too hot.” 

All of your irritation and tiredness and annoyance at the goddamn heat all boil over in the moment. Indiana just chuckles. You feel him shift on the bed a little, but you refuse to look at him. You feel him move closer—it’s in the way his foot nudges against your calf, and the heat of his chest pressing against your arm. You shift against the sheets again, legs sliding to find a cool spot on the mattress. Indiana slides his hand further up your thigh, and your breath hitches just a touch. He stills before he can reach your hip. 

“Take it off,” He murmurs.

“What?” 

“Take it off,” He repeats. “It’s not like I can really see ya. You’ll be more comfortable.” 

“What about in the morning?” 

“I’ll avert my eyes,” He reassures. You hesitate before you scooch back, away from Indiana's reach. Your body tingles with excitement, as if you can feel Indiana watching you in the dark. You’re not sure how much of you he can make out; you’re not sure you really want to know. 

You drop your nightgown onto the floor beside the bed before you scooch down along the mattress. It’s not an instant fix. There’s still sweat beading on your body—in the hollow of your throat, along your back where it meets the sheets, the bends of your elbows and knees. 

You close your eyes again and try to focus on your breathing, hoping it’ll soothe you in some capacity, and distract you from the damnable heat. 

And then you feel it—the cool, slow push of air along your bicep. Your brow furrows. You know that it can’t be from the window. That’s too far away, too high, and the cool air is hitting you from the wrong angle. The air stops as suddenly as it started, and is chased by the sensation of the bed dipping beside you. You feel Indiana’s hands settle on either side of you. Before you can ask or look, another cool push of air slides down the column of your throat. It doesn’t effect the temperature of the room, but that doesn’t stop the shivers that sweep your body. 

The tip of Indiana’s nose trails over the cooled path, and you hear him draw in a breath before another caress of his breath. 

“Indy,” You mumble. He hums, lowering his head a touch more and brushing his lips between your breasts. You can’t help yourself then, and you raise your hand to rest on the back of his head. You can feel sweat beginning to dampen the hair at his nape. You know that if this continues, you won’t cool down in any measure—but that doesn’t stop you from spreading your legs when he shifts to settle between them. 

“I’ve felt it, you know,” He murmurs. 

“Felt—?”

“You’ve been hiding from me, sweetheart.” 

The accusation makes your stomach twist with remorse. You know that he’s right, a little—but you’ve been afraid. Not of Indy, never of Indy, but of who you might let yourself become with him again. You’d sworn up and down that you’d never let a man control you—not Walter, not Indiana, not anyone. But now Jones has talked you out of pursuing your own dig in the hopes of pursuing a fairy tale. 

You already worry that you’ve let yourself get in too deep for him again. It had taken you months of wanting the man before. Now, you feel as if you’ve drowned in Indiana Jones in just a matter of days. 

“Not hiding,” You mumble. Shielding. 

Jones doesn’t argue or belabor the point, just blows over your bellybutton in a way that makes you giggle. His hands sweep along the outside of your thighs, and he gives them a tender squeeze. When his breath blows a path along your twitching, wetting cunt, your hips give a short jolt. 

“Indy,” You plead weakly. He just hums, lifting one of your legs up to rest on his shoulder. The sweep of his breath and brush of his lips along your calf is tantalizing and soft, and buttoned with a kiss to the knob of your ankle. He lowers it to the bed, then reaches down and takes hold of your other leg. He reverses his trail, kissing your ankle before gracing your skin with tender little pecks and cool air. Your legs settle on either side of him as you reach up, sliding your hands along his biceps. Your palms slide easily along his skin, aided by the layer of sweat on his body. 

“Cooler now?” He asks.

“Mhm,” You hum dazedly. 

Indiana lowers himself, and you let your eyes slide closed as you wait for the warmth of his kiss. 

Instead, you feel the bounce of the bed beside you, the brush of Indiana’s body settling beside you, and his yawn of, “Good. Get some sleep.” 

Your eyes snap open in shock, and you turn to look at the back of Indiana’s head. He doesn’t move; he doesn’t turn to grin deviously at you in the dark. You peer up at the ceiling, sweating, molten-hot with embarrassment and irritation, and biting back a scream of frustration.  

“Hgnxt! Hnnxt! Hgnxt!” Eddie stifles for what feels like the hundredth time today. 

“Bless you, Eds. You don’t have to stifle around me, I know what your sneezes sound like.” Steve places a hand on Eddie’s arm. 

“I don’t wanna get my germs all over you,” Eddie mumbles. 

“I’ve already been exposed because I kissed you yesterday, remember?” 

“Buhhh…” Eddie hitches again, head tilting back a bit and mouth dropping open. He snaps forward with three barely stifled sneezes. “Hgnxt! Hnxt! Hxxt! …But I still don’t want to risk it.” He sniffles, pulling out his bandana and wiping his nose. 

“You’re going to wear yourself out like this, sweetheart.” 

“I’ll be fine.” 

Steve sighs. 

--

“Issh! Issh! Isssh!” Eddie sneezes into his bandana, absolutely exhausted and without the usual high-pitched ending. 

“You sound so tired, Eds. Why don’t you lie down?” Steve says, patting the spot next to him on the bed. 

Eddie nods and crawls onto the bed, lying down next to Steve. He places his head on Steve’s chest and sniffles wetly. “Thanks, Stevie.”