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freshlyrage · 3 months ago

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Running Like Water

Chapter 32

pairing: Javier Peña x OFC (written as xReader)

fic warnings: NSFW Explicit Smut (18+ MDNI) language, strained family relationships, mentions of drug abuse, discussions of insecurities and body image issues, daddy and mommy issues

fic tags: Best friends younger sister, Life-long crush, Friends to lovers, Unrequited love, slow burn, Push and Pull, Small Town Dynamics, Secret Relationships, latina MC, Fluff and Angst, OFC!Jessica Alba face claim, sorry Lorraine I'm bringing you into this, Time jumps, 2 year age gap, pre-canon

word count: 6k

A/N: I fear its safe to say I don't do well with change. I moved back to school and couldn't find my groove. Who knew I just needed a little ovulation and commute to work time to bang this one out. Chapter 33 will be arriving shortly.

Well Javier was on the floor. Without a complaint. The two of you didn’t stay too long at the fair considering each ride had a wait time of forty five minutes. In the car you decided to keep your hotel but still be open to staying over, when it was appropriate. So now you’re on his bed, back in one of his shirts. Surrounded by him. Criss crossed while he’s sat up on the floor.

“You could come up here.” You offer, removing your rings and placing it on his nightstand. Already claiming his space as your own, too natural for you. The offer has him quirking a brow. It was a test, you know he shouldn’t. Shaking his head.

“I shouldn’t.” He settles into the mattress, pulling the blankets to his shoulders. “We could talk like this.” Grunting from adjusting his newly relaxed body. You move forward on your stomach so that he could see you. Resting your head on your arms. You smile feeling like two kids at a sleepover, whispering and peering over the bed to see if the other fell asleep yet.

“Good you passed that one. Let's continue shall we?”

The game of 21 questions was more like two hundred questions and it continued all the way into the house.

Did you date?

I thought you asked me not to tell you about all of that.

I said I don't want to hear about Camila or Daniela or whoever.

You remember their names?

Yes, I couldn’t sleep and thought about a Camila under you. He flexes his jaw at that.

I went on two dates, which were set up by my partner Steve Murphy and his wife. They ended with goodbyes after dinner. Never spoke to them again.

I went on some dates too.

I don’t want to hear about that. You pinch him on the elbow and he shrugs. We’re different about that stuff, I hate to hear it. You nod and get the urge to apologize but fight it.

Now in bed he clears his throat, “Alright. Tell me what your apartment looks like?”

You smile, “It’s a steal for the area. I actually have a bedroom for the price of a studio. My rooms a bit more eclectic than my one here. My bedding is white but my room walls are a burgundy color. There’s no closet so I have a clothing rack. None of my living room furniture is new… it’s all second hand from stoop sales or whatever. My birds shit without batting an eye so I opted not to be dumb about that. What did yours look like?”

His eyes are closed for a moment like he’s trying to imagine it. “Hmmm.. it was dim in there, always. The kitchen and living room were open, a few steps to lead you to the living room. I had a leather couch and a desk. My television was pretty nice. Nothing was really– mine. I tried not to make it feel lived in because I didn’t want to get attached to that place–that world.” There’s a face that you’ve never really seen from him until you’ve been here. It’s one nearly blank but you know the way his face moves, there's a small crease in his brows and he clenches his jaw. Like talking about Colombia pained him and he has to conceal it. Almost like a child admitting to their faults after a spanking. Quiet, embarrassed, unsure, and on the verge of breakdown. “You would have hated it there.”

Probably. You just nod the best you can while laying down. Waiting for his question.

“Um…” He closes one eye, like it’ll help him think. He opts to go silent for a moment like he conjured a question but was waging his options.

Should I? Is this a line I shouldn’t cross? Is the wound still open? “Have you heard from your father?”

You frown for a second. Off put and taken off guard. Remembering the day, remember the rolling grass, low hanging branches and the cold demeanor from the one person she needed warmth from. Hearing urgent and violent words like I love you. Promising to take care of you.

“No. I never went back there. He never called me even though I’m sure my grandmother told him I moved to Louisiana. I stopped needing him after I got to know him.” You rarely thought of him, just the concept of being without a parent. Then you became an educator and realized that anyone you call family is your own. Your students taught you that, so did Javier years earlier but you suppose maybe you weren’t ready to accept it yet.

Javier hums to himself, staring at the ceiling. Contemplating if he should really share the way he had felt. Afraid it would break some rule in this delicate game you’ve got going. Wondering if you’ll furrow your brow and turn you back to sleep or internalize what’s climbing up, up, up his throat.

“If this is… against your rules you don’t have to say anything or we could move on…”

“Okay.”

Again he can’t look at you. How is it that you reduce him to a shy young boy?

“There’s nothing more that I want in life than to be the father of your kids.” There he goes leaping over the bounds to which he’s left in, but he can’t help it. It’s all he thinks about, all he thought about three years ago and it plagued him every time you spoke of your own father. He doesn’t see you but he can feel your eyes closed, silent, internalizing it all. After all, you'd never turn your back on him. “No one will ever know you like me. Love you, sure, but not as much as me. You’re too easy to love. But I know that you could show me what a mother looks like and I could show you what a father looks like. Our kids will never be in pain the way we were. Sorry if this makes you uncomfortable or-or confused. It’s all I thought about when I was away. And I’m so sorry for ever making you think I didn’t want you in that way.” Because he should have known that it was a deep point of insecurity for you, a deep well created by your parents. Urge to be loved, to create something and love it in a much fiercer and kinder way than your parents did you. Lorraine being able to have all that you wanted came like slice to the stomach.

Sniffling, you rub your face into the crook of your arm. Hiding from Javier. He looks this time and he doesn’t try to hold your hand like you’re itching for.

“Thank you… I—.” You wipe your face. Not willing to open the can of worms this could conjure if you just told him straight up that you’d be willing to start now. Fuck the trial, fuck trying to learn each other again, let’s start a family. Be irrational but be happy. You decide to keep it together. You thank him and he knows it’s genuine, you see it in his eyes. He understands your reluctance. “I found that I don’t have the need for many people in my life-“

“I need you.” He says before you. Like he did when he said he loved you. Throat bobbing, he pulls his sheets over him. “I’ll wait for you, until you need me again.”

“Can never get enough of each other huh.” Chucho chuckles while washing his hands in the sink. Boots clean and squeaking against the floor. It was a part of his routine, cleaned his boots every night even if he worked the next morning.

Last night you fell asleep with your face buried into the crook of your arm. Hand dangling off the mattress, grazing Javier’s neck. Need to touch, woke up with a sore arm. Bleary eyed you notice there’s no-body by the bed. Silent but the sound of running water.

That’s how you found Chucho, ready for the day at 8 am. Embarrassingly you pad into the kitchen in Javier’s shirt and boxers.

You shrug, he hands you a cup of coffee. Nodding a thank you, “We have established clear boundaries. We are just spending quality time. We have a lot to make up for.” You say it with a bit of a half awake half still dreaming slur that has Javier’s father beaming.

“Well if that’s what you’re calling it nowadays, so be it. I won’t be back until four pm.” He places his cup down and starts walking away. Your jaw drops and you nearly run after him. But you know he’s fucking with you, his shoulders bounce.

“It’s not like that!” You call and he waves a hand at you over his shoulder and steps straight out of his own home. Screen door slamming with a brisk breeze.

You hear a sneeze, “What’s not like that?” Your head snaps and eyes lock with Javier’s. Freshly showered, hair so wet it droops on his forehead. He looks younger this way. Grey shirt loose with jeans to match. Socked feet, he looks like he doesn’t want you to go anywhere. At least seeing him like this makes you want to find a nest for yourself in his bed. You can’t help but smile at him.

He’s skeptical of your cheery mood. Brows furrowing, nostrils flared but a hint of a smile. He’s cautious, like he knows you’re up to something. You aren’t, at all. You’re just giddy and it’s only been two days and you feel your boundaries loosening. Just wanting to find that place you yearn for. Just run to him now, kiss him, tell him to put a baby in you. Grab, pull, lick, love, whatever came with it. You decide to control yourself a bit.

Your eyes drop to his hands, he’s holding three VHS tapes. Your brows furrow just the same, wondering what movie he wanted to see with you. It wasn’t a thing the two of you ever did. Your time spent was short and only for conversations and kisses. And pot, back before everything. You had to stop smoking after getting your teaching gig.

You want to say something bratty like, assuming I’m staying for some home videos? But you can’t even do that, lord when did you become such a softie? “Big plans?” Is all you can manage to croak.

He shrugs, “Are you staying?” He says it without shame, you know it must take a lot for a man to nearly beg. You know he means please stay.

You look at him once more and down at your boxer clad legs. Shrugging. “I suppose”

Eric Fredricks' family owned a Haitian restaurant off main street. It was a small take out spot that had been bustling with business since 1961. Eric was your classmate. A friend of everyone, known for his large digital camera he carried around school. The loud, goofy kid shoved his damn camera in everyone’s faces. Annoyed or not, he would always say, “When you fuckers are forty you’re really going to appreciate these recordings!”

Well, each year he cut, edited and burned these tapes as his own NR rated yearbook videos. Selling them around school and you bought one each year. He was chill with the price for you just because you always perked up in front of his camera. Ready to gleam and answer whatever stupid questions he had like;

“Andrea, how does it feel to be the worst lacrosse player in Laredo history?”

“Or Andrea, what are your thoughts on today’s LHS Chilli special? “

You always answered with the same slapstick humor he had. You thought you lost these tapes years ago. Javier seemed to remind you that you left them at his house, might’ve been when Javier was in Houston.

He was right, your mother’s VHS player stopped working in 1982. You remember popping these tapes in and watching them during your winter break from Miami. Chucho snoring on the lazy boy, saved him from watching the closest thing he had to a daughter do a keg stand with her skirt flipped up towards her chest.

“I’ve never seen these.” Javier grunts when he straightens back up and walks to sit next to you on the brown couch. A couch with the tendency to swallow you whole. You remember Javier on his knees before you, pillow covering your spread legs while he unlaced your boots.

“Well you left so…” You grab the control and snicker, pressing play.

“Hah. Hand me that.” he gestures to the pack of cigarettes on the side table. You shake your head no and settle into the seat. “Cmon.”

“No. No smoking in the house.” You snap at the tv, “Watch.”

It’s Eric’s face, he’s sitting in his bedroom. “Hello. I’m Eric Fredricks. I’m fifteen and my passion is digital media. The yearbook club is full of hacks and strokes, so I’m going to make my own. The date is September 21st 1979. Ok bye!” the film glitches and the camera makes its way down the hall. Faces of people who you haven’t seen in years. Hairstyles forgotten, thank god. Winks at the camera, sly comments from Eric behind it. He asks questions in his interview segment that would never make it to the school's video yearbook.

“What does Eric do now?” Javier asks. It’s easy to forget that he missed so many crucial moments. He missed the infamous lunch box incident in 81', Laredos first soccer championship, the halloween rager that led to the assembly—all of that. You wonder if that’s normal, for the development of a person. To be plucked out of childhood and forced to be an adult while everyone else got to worry about if their drivers test aligned with their basketball practice schedule. Burdened with the responsibility of a person's livelihood is no place for a seventeen year old.

You bring your knees to your chest, finding the most comfort when you're guided and held. “Last I heard he was doing media production for Saturday Night Live. Like in New York City.”

He feels it too, you see the way his brows quirk. How he almost frowns. “That’s crazy—how different things went for everyone else.” You knew at that moment that the tape would be mere background noise.

“You— you know you made a name for yourself too.”

Hm.

You weren’t sure if that’s what you wished to say. He doesn’t get upset with you for it. He chooses to let it slide and for that you’re grateful because you hadn’t had a clue about what to say to him.

“Yeah.” He chuckles but doesn’t seem to be that amused. He pinches the bridge of his nose, leaning his head against the back of the couch. There’s not much to be said anymore. Lorraine changed the fabric of his being, so did the DEA. And maybe you too. His hand splayed on his knee, knuckles red from repeated trauma to the area. You opted to abandon the topic in general. Seeing his stomach tighten up under the thin fabric of his t-shirt when the choice was your hand on his. Small, soft, against his.

The two of you relish in the harmless intimacy, you give each other this. Tiny touches could be enough.

The two of you watch the bootlegged documentary in mostly silence. Rotating who strokes the other with their thumbs. You think about turning your cheek, kissing him. Pressing close and making out for a bit. A casual make out, breathy and gripping. You decide against it. This would be so easy if it was anyone else but him.

It’s not because you feel like you can’t control yourself—it’s not like a make out with Javier Peña would have your panties at your ankles. You could control yourself more than that. What it is—is that you’ll take advantage of those little liberties. Sneaking kisses at any time and when you go back home, you’ll be lost without it.

Maybe you’re doomed anyway, because if this doesn’t work out you don't know what you’ll do knowing you can’t just hold his hand.

Your brother comes out on halloween with a fang induced lisp drunkenly reciting the alphabet backwards at a party while Eric cackles behind the camera. It makes you laugh so hard you cry, missing being young. Missing your brother.

Lorraine pops up. High ponytail with red cheeks from gym class. Hands on her hips, it’s wrong for such an evil person to be so beautiful. You look at Javier and there’s a frown on his face.

He wonders why she was so bad to him, what he did to deserve to be plagued by her. He regrets knowing her, it’s hard for him to watch her smile.

Then you show up and Javier’s eyebrows raise. “I remember that day.” He mutters. There you are, looking the same just with that baby fat at the apple of your cheeks. Your hair was the closest to its natural brown, your pants were severely high waisted and your shirt a lacy shawl like thing. You’re at a locker taping a flier about lacrosse tryouts when the camera rushes you.

“Andrea Diaz! How does it feel to be Laredos worst lacrosse player?” Javier snorts next to you, squeezing your hand. That’s what he would do, come up to you and ask the dumbest, rudest questions. There, a fifteen year old Andrea rolls her eyes and rolls her thumb to secure the tape.

Crossing her arms, “I’ll answer your dumb questions if you’re nicer about it.” You cringe at the sound of your own voice, sounding awfully juvenile. Javier’s entire demeanor goes soft. All it took was the sound of you—back then, for him to forget the panic in his gut when watching Lorraine in her prime.

“Alright sure-sure- Andrea Diaz how does it feel to be the sexiest girl in all of Laredo?” Eric had quite the country accent, it made every line delivered feel like that of a typecasted movie star.

Quirking a brow, “I wouldn’t know. I could ask your mother.”

“All right that’s enough! You’re impossible to please ,woman!” Eric yells from behind the camera and it fades in little blocks to you getting set up for a keg stand.

You’re in a skirt and a flowing yellow top. Stumbling a bit, Daniel holds your shoulder to keep you upright. You try not to think too hard about the images you’ve left in people’s minds while you were drunk. Javier is getting more and more tense each passing moment. His hold on your hand becomes just a hold and no longer a soothing stroke.

You’re cringing at yourself, flipping your hair and chanting that you could do it while Daniel holds your waist. Hands trailing over your stomach, you almost forget that before Javier you had your fair share of hookups, him your most consistent.

The date on the corner March 1st 1980.

Drunkenly you lean forward and another one of your peers holds your other leg while another shoves a tap in your mouth. The entire party off screen and on, start chanting your name with whoops. That’s when your skirt flips and exposes the plain blue panties.

You cover your eyes.

“I don’t like this.” Is all that Javier can say, on the screen no one covers you until a random classmate of yours, Jenna? Or was it Jessa? Runs to your aid and calls all the men pigs before holding your skirt in its place. You’re dropped down and again you stumble backward into the arms of your pseudo boyfriend.

And then you yak all over the floor.

“Jesus christ I forgot about that.” You rub your eyes afraid to look over at Javier.

“Did—anything-“

“No. Well I think we went to someone’s room and made out. Then I walked home.”

His head nearly falls off his shoulders. “He let you walk home like that?” Javi grits, letting go of your hand.

You shrug, “Dunno, high school shit.”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

Your brows furrow, he’s being ridiculous but you know he can’t help it. He wanted—wants, nothing more than to take care of those he loves. You watch the video back, seeing your young eyes and wish to take care of her too. You can’t even imagine him. He only lets you know the surface level of his concern for you. You know it’s more than wishing you had called him.

You had before, panicked and blushing using the party home phone.

You decide calling him ridiculous would be in bad faith. You just lean your head on his shoulder. Moving your hand from his and holding his bicep instead. He looks at you out of the corner of his eye. Face softening along with his tense shoulders. “I don’t know. I was sixteen and stupid. And drunk.” Your cheek feels too good there.

He’s studying you. You wished you could read him in these moments. When he’s so in his head, he’s taking you in completely. “Can you? Now I mean.”

Your lips quirk and the apples or your cheeks redden. Pulling your brows because sometimes he’s too sweet it gives you a toothache. “I live in New York, Javi.”

“I know.” He’s close enough to kiss. “But I want you to call me anyway. If you ever feel unsafe or unsure—i know how twisted a human can be—i’ve seen-“

There it is. He’s cut off by a kiss on his shoulder.

“I will.” It’s a featherlight whisper and he does that thing again. That look, this time with a bit of restraint. The two of you focus on the screen again.

Twenty minutes into the forty-six minute video the two of you revert back to telling stories about the students on the screen and laughing at how high school, your high school experience really was.

“This is great, hottest couple in the school right in front of me.” Eric laughs, camera pointed at the ground then quickly shot up. Blurring than focusing on Javier at his locker. He looked so young, red cap on his head with a Righteous Brothers t-shirt. The image of him as a seventeen year old in your head had been fading for a few years, but now you’re watching him living, breathing and moving as himself. Smiling once he sees Eric approaching him.

“What the fuck was I wearing?”

You laugh, your cheek pressed to his shoulder. “Don’t know but I was obsessed with you anyway.”

He makes one of those grunts where you can’t tell if he’s annoyed with himself or with you. You nudge his shoulder with your chin. “What?”

“Makes me feel like such an asshole.”

All you could do was sigh. You know he’d give it all to do it over again. You look at Lorraine and there seems to be love there. It never fails to make your blood boil. You know that loving Javier can make you feel sick, crazy or desperate. But you suppose her love was selfish. For a while you felt like your own love was selfish, not caring for the consequences. But you suppose it was just a natural progression. Miles away from scheming to keep him forever, by ways of manipulation. The look in his eye isn’t the same since you left him.

A young Javier takes Lorraine’s jaw in his hand and kisses her cheek. She rolls her eyes. “He’s obsessed with me.” She smiles and he mumbles a yeah. Your cheeks heat in a rage that’s so juvenile, you want to turn off the entire thing. Maybe this was a shitty idea. Watching your most insecure and turbulent years in front of you. You were obsessed with him, crying furious tears. Avoiding contact. While he was content with her. It’s a nerve that will always be left exposed.

He clears his throat.

“Were you?” You bite. Removing your head from his shoulder, he sinks at the loss. Leaning forward to get a full image of your face. His brows are pulled together in confusion until they soften when he notices this is nothing but you showing him you are still so into him.

He bites back a smirk and you want to smack it off of his face. “Was I what, querida?”

You swear you will-

“Obsessed with her.” Firm, no room for it to sound like a desperate question. This definitely breaks one of your rules. But fuck it, he’s flawed and so are you,

He shuts an eye and shakes his head no. “I liked her. She was pretty. She was my girlfriend…”

You frown, that title belonged to you.

There he is, an inch away from your face with such intensity. “But I would fuck her, and picture you. I imagined that you’d blush the whole time and would pretend like you couldn’t handle me just so I can fuck you harder. Would have to bury my head where she couldn’t hear because I’d come and say your name.” Your cheeks turn cherry red, just how he likes. Cunt pulsing, it betrays you. You’re so flustered and angry with him you want to lean forward and bite him. He doesn’t waiver, he leans much closer. You shudder, feeling crowded by his body. He has the strength to do what he’d like with you, you’re sure you’d put on a fight until you’re unable to lie anymore. You had been soaked the whole damn time. “What? Have I broken your rules?” He whispers, nose nudging your own lightly. You can’t help it, your mouth parts searching for his—

But he backs away and laughs at you. He laughs! Shaking his head like you’re some bastard child. Leaning back cooley and pressing play again. Lorraine’s voice ringing through the speakers.

Absolutely not.

You sit in silence. Staring at him while he’s glued to the image of him and his ex girlfriend. Your chin quivers, and you clench around nothing.

“G-give me the remote.” You blurt. Chest falling, bubbling with anger. He doesn’t look at you but smirks. He ignores you. Eyes welling with tears. “Javi.”

More silence. More her. You reach for his hand and he doesn’t look at you. He isn’t looking at you… so you pounce.

Jumping into his lap, clawing at him while he laughs and hurriedly finds different ways to keep you away from the remote. You’re seeping through your underwear and onto his boxers, your cunt rolling against his crotch unintentionally.

Your brows screw—“Just—Javi please turn it off.” He chuckles again and he’s all of this without focusing on the pain you’re in. Emotionally, sexually, whatever. You reach around him lifting your hips to get ahold of the controller but you lose again. Bouncing on his lap a bit. He grunts.

“Javi— Please- I’m not kidding.”

The tv shuts off with a wiring tone and his eyes finally land on your own. All the playfulness leaves when he realizes. And you feel like a heat sick kitten, rubbing on yourself this way. His brow raises, eyes falling to your tear stained cheek and down your grinding hips. You drop your face into his shoulder. At first he doesn’t touch you, he just watches you. Nose nudging your cheek. Wondering why after everything you’d give it up just to come quick like this.

“Hey… hey.” He whispers at the shell of your ear. “Fuck—Andrea—“

You can only whimper into the crook of his neck. Taking your feel for the girl in those tapes, for the girl who dreamt of him while he did the same. It drove you crazy, it made you violent and horny. “Baby…” His big hands span from your shoulder blades down to the small of your back and then splayed on your ass. Spreading you and rolling you harder. He grunts again. “Andrea… I can’t—we said we wouldn’t—I'm sorry for teasing you—cmon.” His hands move from your behind, come to your front, at your waist and lightly push you away from him.

He’s impossibly hard now, his tan cheeks have a bit more color now. He’s sweating. Feeling embarrassed, you freeze. Eyes dropped to his lap, cunt begging you to move again. You feel the length of him under you, mocking you. You shouldn’t. You know. You know he’s sorry for how rushed and stupid Christmas eve was. You’re still ticked off by it, but he’s doing so good for you.

“I’m sorry… we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” Is all you can muster out.

“You know I want to.” He rushes, leaning forward so he can hold your face, it just makes him shift against you again. Your brows furrow at the release.

“Okay…” A drop of sweat builds at the nape of your neck, the both of you are so turned on you’ll fuck each other if you keep this up. “Can we…can I…” You swear if he brings up your rules again you’ll crawl in a hole and die of embarrassment.

He juts his chin at you, egging you to complete your sentence.

You think you’ll die before you say it. Your face brightens real red and you shimmy out of his hold. You crawl off his lap and mutter to yourself. “Sorry, it’s stupid. I should just go.”

He catches your wrist and sits you back down next to him. “Tell me.”

“It’s stupid! And gross probably.”

“We aren’t children.”

You’ve been so open sexually until now. You felt twenty two again, never having orgasmed with another person, afraid to tell him what you wanted. He gave you it all.

“Can we— or can I touch myself?”

Javier’s eyes darken, “You want to touch yourself.”

God it’s like he’s trying to humiliate you.

“Yes.”

He clenches his jaw so tight. “Can I watch? Or do you want to go to my room alone?”

Idiot.

“Can we do it together? Now.” You can’t let the moment pass.

Well, he can’t either. His nostrils flare and he places his hand on his belt. Unbuckling so fast you can’t help but watch. You watch him unbuckle and unzip while you shimmy out of his boxers. His eyes glued to your movements. You feel filthy exposing yourself like this. He lifts his hips and pulls his jeans down a bit, the heft of his cock making a print through his underwear. You remember leaning down and pressing your lips along his bulge once. You’d like to do it again.

You circle your fingers along your clit over your panties. He palms himself.

“Tell me what to do.” You whisper.

“Oh.” He reaches into his boxers and pulls his length out. Your pussy clenches at the sight, a thatch of hair at the base and curved. You touched yourself to the thought of it. You pull your panties down and lift one leg up on the couch, spreading yourself open. “Give me your fingers.”

You furrow your brow but remove them. Bringing your hand to him. His free hand grasps your wrists and he takes no time, he puts the same two fingers in his mouth. You gasp, while he sucks, stroking his dick at the same time. Your fingers are impossibly wet when he stops. Your wrist is still in his hold. “Don’t put any fingers in until I tell you. Just play with your clit for a little.”

You nod, bringing your fingers back to it. Moving in tight circles. Javier’s fist is dry, working his way up and down his shaft— your lips gather with drool—you want to-

“Spit on it. If you want. Or I can.” He reads your mind. You take no time, moving to your knees, your knees knocked together giving you a tighter squeeze for your fingers. Feels even better. You lean into his lap, back arched like a kitten.

Javier groans at the sight. You desperately want to put your mouth on him—my rules, my rules. Spit drips from your mouth and onto the red head of his pretty cock. His hand comes to the back of your head and you moan, wishing he’d push down and force himself into your mouth. But he just strokes the back of your head instead. You lean back into the arm of the couch, you’re no longer side by side. Your whole body is barred for him, you bring your free hand under your shirt. Grabbing your breast and rolling your fingers over your nipples.

He uses your spit and moans audibly now. Grunting in his low baritone, you collect your slick and use it for slip. Your stomach tenses, “Put your finger in. Middle.” You nod and feel even more unsatisfied. “Fuck, I missed that pretty little face you make when something goes inside your cunt.”

“Javi…” You whine throwing your head back, fucking yourself with your small finger.

“I know—fuck.” Pre-cum gathers all over the tips of his fingers. You’ll ask to lick his hand clean when you’re done. “I know your cunt wants my cock again—I’m sorry I can’t.”

“It’s not enough.” Your knees knock together in protest.

“I know-I know. Add another baby. Ring.” You watch his stomach go taut so he slows down his strokes. Licking his lips at the sight of you adding another. “Mm. I miss you so much.” He shudders.

“I’m right here.”

“Please don’t leave me—fuck.” He whines, it’s so unlike him. You watch his tip surge through the tight hole he’s made for himself, he’s close but you’re closer. You can’t believe it’s him asking you this. “I want to follow your rules—show you I’m good—but please let me kiss you.”

The ridges of your fingers aren’t enough, you use your other hand to circle your clit without permission. He’s so caught in his emotions that he doesn’t seem to care that you touched yourself without his command.

He tells you what to do but truly he’s at your will. His eyes well with tears and his brows are pulled together. “Let me take care of you, I’ll do everything you say if you let me kiss you—“

“I can’t— I’m going to come!” Your back arches and it builds. You can’t see him now but you hear his pace, his fist slapping against his base. You writhe and shiver and it comes crashing down. You come hard, you mutter I’m sorry, over and over. And he groans at the sight, you can’t give him what he wants.

You can try and give him something else. You catch your breath and open your eyes. Your own come dripping to the inside of your thighs. He watches in pain, “Baby—” You whisper, fuck that’s against the rules probably. He nods, submissive suddenly. “Come here, come on my cunt.” You want to be marked, he’s yours.

“Andrea—“ still he’s fighting his need to follow your rules.

You nod, “It’s okay, come here.” He lets his length go at once, it twitches at the sudden abandonment. You lean forward and grab his arms, and he finally climbs over you. Reluctant, “Please Javi. Let me have what I want.” Were you power tripping? Yeah. But it was always him in control. You open your legs and he clenches his jaw. “Do you want me to finish it?”

He shakes his head no, you know he wants it. Still he tries to be good. You begin to touch yourself under him. He begins to jerk himself off inches away from your cunt. Your knuckles brush against each other and you're already climaxing again. He slaps faster, breathing heavily in the crook of your neck.

“Fuck—move your hand.” You do and he’s coming all over you. It shoots and covers the new growth of hair, it's warm against the bare part of you. Dripping and he instinctively slides his twitching, softening cock between your folds. The two of you gasp when just the tip of his cock prods your hole. Gasping at the way you pulse for him for that one second like muscle memory. “Sorry.” He mumbles, taking a hold of his still twitching and leaking length. He panics and tucks himself back into his boxers before he relaxes himself on you.

He’s catching his breath, you think he’s crying against your shoulder.

“It’s okay.”

You hold the back of his head, hoping to soothe him.

He had done this for you countless times. You find no issue doing it for him.

#fic!rlw #javier peña #javier peña x ofc #javier pena fanfiction #javier pena x you #javier peña smut #ao3 #fanfic #javier peña narcos #javier pena x reader

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thatsdemko · 2 years ago

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smooth operator - c.sainz

pairings: Carlos sainz x fem!reader

warnings: not intended for minors + angst

a/n: a short drabble/blurb for our smooth operator!!

《 the following content is not intended for minors. 》

A license to love, insurance to hold

Melts all your memories and change into gold

His eyes are like angels but his heart is cold

his heart doesn’t beat to the same rhythm as yours; love. the lust he gives and burning passion is all a nightly ritual, by morning time that’s faded with the stars. he’s a smooth operator.

his cock is the only thing that fits inside you, his love just fills the cracks. he’s a constant reminder that men are all the same. love is a game, and he’s down to play.

“more, amor. I need to hear you.” you can feel him in your core. tears brimming your eyes as you try to bat them away with your heavy mascara covered eyelashes, but nothing stops them from slipping.

your nails rake his tanned skin back. lips hovering over yours, his eyes are glued shut waiting for his name to burn the little hairs in his ears. he needs to hear you beg for it. he needs you to remind him why he’s here in the first place, why he’s skipped his family dinner for a silly little orgasm.

“c-carlos.” it croaks out from the back of your lungs, he can barely hear you over his own grunts and the burning around the tips of his ears. his big dull brown eyes flicker into yours and for a second, you crumble.

you remember why you were against the hotel mattress, wrists pinned to the sheets while his cock takes deep long strokes that itch your clit with a new found sensation that makes the nerves ready to combust. your body craves this, nobody else does it like Carlos sainz.

“carlos,” it comes out from you again, tears stream down your cheeks. the sound comes from your gut, it’s louder, but it’s not loud enough. he wants to hear it reflect off the walls, he wants to hear that lando called the front desk for a noise complaint.

“louder,” his tip nudges the bundle of nerves one more time and you can feel your body curl into him, the gasp of his name is loud. it fills the room, and finally he signals for you to come. body finally relaxing, you listen to the tension in your muscles, the ache in your groins, and the pain of your pussy.

you watch him slip from the bed, the belt that was casted aside was now slipping around his belt loops. once again, he flees the scene before you can say the words that have been held tight against your chest. the ones that’ll make him stop coming.

Coast to coast, LA to Chicago, western male

Across the north and south, to Key Largo, love for sale

Smooth operator

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reincrimination · 3 months ago

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stop waking me up in the middle of the night

9-1-1 | eddie diaz x evan buckley

content warnings: nightmares

collection: buddie week 2021 (reposting sept. '24)

read on archive of our own

“Do you not like sleeping with me, Diaz?” Buck hazards, taking a swig of his nearly-empty bottle. Chim parts his lips like he’s going to make a comment- but Hen hands him a chip instead to occupy his mouth. “If you would stop waking me up in the middle of the night, I might like it more,” Eddie sighs, half-genuine in his annoyance. “Buck kicks like a racehorse.”

Eddie doesn’t mind sharing the bed with Buck, not really.

The comforter is that crisp kind of down that he’s only ever had in hotels, and the sheets are some Egyptian cotton that he’d never consider buying, even if they went on sale. Eddie’s not sure, and he doesn’t want to ask, but he would put money on the mattress being one of those fancy ones he sees TV ads for.

When Eddie bought his mattress, he went to the store, found the cheapest one, and then bought the next one up from that.

So, no, all things considered, sharing the bed with Buck is not that bad. There’s also the added element of having another living, breathing human next to him that soothes his PTSD hyper-vigilant tendencies, and the fact that his other options are the downstairs with either Hen or Chimney- and Chim snores horrifically. Hen is fine, but he’s not totally ready for her to see him when he’s just woken up, hair looking the most like Christopher’s it’s ever going to get, and a trail of drool down his chin. No, that version of Eddie is reserved for himself, God, and, these days, Buck.

That said, there is a slight problem.

Buck kicks.

Not all night. He doesn’t do it on purpose, Eddie is certain. Yet, every few hours, a cold foot will kick against his shin, and he’ll be startled out of whatever sleep he’d fallen into. He’ll shift away and look to see if Buck is awake- he never is- and then another kick will come a few hours later. It’s like Buck is intentionally doing it, the entirety of his body still except for his legs, and only for a few moments per night; but that’s not his style, so Eddie is sure it’s unconscious.

It’s enough to start wearing on Eddie, especially after long shifts. He doesn’t want to insult Buck’s hospitality, and complain about sleeping in the queen-sized but fit-for-a-king bed he’s lucky enough to share.

So, he shoves an extra pillow between the two of them and it’s enough to mostly stop it, except for on really bad nights. Buck got him under the kneecap once, and he swore loud enough that he woke up Hen from downstairs. When he sits up and looks over at Buck incredulously, the only clue to what he’s done is a slightly agitated expression on his very asleep face.

A week of long shifts seem to wind Buck up even more, and while he sleeps soundly, his limbs knock into Eddie at least twice a night. Eddie’s used to waking up a lot during the night, but not being startled awake by flailing legs, and he’s pretty sure the bags underneath his eyes can’t solely be attributed to the overnight shifts they’ve been pulling.

After the last of a string of shifts, preparing to enjoy a very boring, lazy weekend off, the four of them are gathered on Buck’s balcony with beers and snacks. Hen and Buck are arguing about something trivial, a movie or a sports game, and Eddie is zoning out as he stares out over the lights of LA. Everyone being stuck inside only serves to illuminate the skyline more, almost every single bedroom light on even at seven in the evening.

“Eddie? Did you hear me?”

He snaps his gaze over to Buck, who is waving a hand in front of his face. “Sorry. Tired.”

“We all are,” Hen sympathizes, patting his shoulder, and Eddie scrubs a hand over his face.

“Do you not like sleeping with me, Diaz?” Buck hazards, taking a swig of his nearly-empty bottle.

Chim parts his lips like he’s going to make a comment- but Hen hands him a chip instead to occupy his mouth.

“If you would stop waking me up in the middle of the night, I might like it more,” Eddie sighs, half-genuine in his annoyance. “Buck kicks like a racehorse.”

Chimney barks out a laugh, a few chip crumbs spewing out- he puts a hand up in apology and finishes chewing-, “Are you saying Buck is… bucking?”

“I said kicking, moron,” Eddie shakes his head, but a little smirk takes over his expression.

Buck remembers to laugh just in time to keep it from being awkward.

When Eddie steps out of the shower, steam-warmed and almost asleep, he’s ready to fall into the luxurious bed and sleep for as long as circumstances will allow. With no shift on the horizon, tomorrow’s looking like a great day to catch up on the sleep he’s lost thanks to work… and Buck.

Which is why he’s a little dismayed to see Buck striding around the upper loft, with blankets in his arms like he’s in the middle of rearranging the bedroom.

“What-?” Eddie mumbles, tossing his dirty laundry into the (now) communal hamper. He’s pretty sure he’s wearing some of Buck’s clothes as he speaks, and wouldn’t be able to differentiate between their t-shirts if there was a gun to his head.

“I’m gonna sleep on the floor,” Buck explains, sheet making a snapping noise as he fluffs it out vigorously. He doesn’t meet Eddie’s eyes, instead focuses on picking a feather out of the pillow tucked under his arm. “So I don’t wake you up.”

“What? That’s- no, Buck, it’s your bed,” Eddie sits down on the edge, leaning over to size Buck up. He’s being weird, he thinks. “Look, I was just kidding around on the patio. It’s no big deal. I’ve shared a bed with Chris enough times to get used to being kicked.”

Buck pauses, but then tosses the pillow down onto the shitty bed of blankets he’s made himself. It’s bound to be almost rock-hard with how little padding he has. Since Hen’s on the air mattress, there’s not anything else for him to use.

“At least for a few nights, man,” Buck reasons, hands out placatingly. “You look dead on your feet.”

Eddie narrows his eyes discerningly. Buck raises his eyebrows, as if asking if Eddie’s satisfied with that reasoning.

“Alright,” Eddie grumbles, crawling up to lay his head on the pillows. “But if you’re uncomfortable, you get back up here.”

Buck turns out the light and shuffles around as he gets comfortable, but Eddie’s already on the fast track to unconsciousness.

A sigh is the first thing out of his lips when he’s woken with a loud smack. Nothing has kicked him, this time, but the bed frame did jolt. He sits up, rubbing sleep from his eyes- it’s just past midnight, so at least he’d gotten two solid hours in first- and leans over to look at Buck.

The man is sat up in his makeshift bed, hunched over and rubbing at his shin. His face is turned away from Eddie, but the silver light flooding in from the windows reveal that he’s biting down on his lip, hard, and his eyes are a little shiny.

“Buck?” Eddie murmurs, squinting to see him better.

“Shit,” he hisses, glancing at Eddie and then hiding his face, again. His voice wobbles as he says, “Sorry, I’m sor- shit. Go back to sleep.”

“Is your leg okay?” Eddie asks, sitting up fully and shuffling over to swing his legs over the side of the bed that Buck is beneath.

It’s his bad leg that he’s clutching like it’s been crushed all over again. Even in the gray-scale of the night, Eddie can make out a harsh, red line where he’d hit it. It doesn’t look like it’s bleeding, but it’ll bruise pretty bad.

“It’s fine, just- gimme a minute,” Buck hisses, clenching his teeth as he rubs his fist over the angry divot in his shin. He tips his chin up, blinking back tears. “Kicked the- fuck- the bed.”

Eddie reaches out and smooths a hand over Buck’s tousled hair, the movement practiced as it’s something he does to Christopher often. His unruly bed-head curls bounce right back into place after the pass of Eddie’s hand. Buck’s eyes flutter closed at the contact, and Eddie doesn’t even pretend that it doesn’t prickle at something inside his chest. In the privacy of the night, Eddie finds himself thinking a little freer, a little more honestly.

“What’s going on, Buck?”

Eddie rests his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands, looking down at Buck like if he looks hard enough he’ll be able to parse out whatever is bothering him.

“Just a bad dream,” Buck mumbles, stretching out his leg and trying (failing) to hide his wince.

Eddie’s brain comes to a screeching halt.

“Just tonight, or-?”

“Forget it, it’s nothing,” Buck rolls over and reaches for his pillow. “Go back to sleep, I’m sorry.”

“Buck. Buck,” Eddie hisses, “Stop it. Look at me.”

Sheepishly, he turns back over. His head is resting on his folded arm, looking up at Eddie with the glossiest puppy eyes he’s ever seen from anyone except his kid. He’s wondering if Buck got it from Chris, or the other way around.

“You’ve been having nightmares?”

Buck just nods. Then, he turns onto his back and stares up at the ceiling, like he can’t make himself meet Eddie’s gaze. “Yeah. Since the bombing, since the tsunami, everything. Worse since- since COVID, but, we’re all struggling, I figured.”

“Sure, but not having nightmares three times a night,” Eddie reasons. “Is that why you kick?”

Buck passes a hand over his eyes, scrubbing a little too harshly. They’re a little wet around the edges when he pulls away. “I’m always either getting my leg crushed again or trying to swim through the tsunami, so, I guess that’s why I kick. I am sorry, I’ll try to- to stop.”

“Buck. Listen to me,” Eddie snaps, but at Buck’s flash of fear he softens his tone. “Hey. I’m not mad. Just… why didn’t you tell me?”

A touch of genuine confusion floods into Buck’s expression. “I mean, why would it matter?”

“Because I care about you, Buck,” Eddie exclaims. The words come out a bit loud, a bit harsh for the hour, but he needs Buck to know he means them. “I want to know when you’re hurting.” Buck’s bottom lip twitches, almost indistinguishably, but Eddie clocks it. Normally, he clocks everything about Buck- how he missed this, he’s not sure. Guilt hangs heavy on his heart, tripling in intensity with every glimpse of Buck’s wet eyes he catches.

“I’m hurting,” Buck whispers, voice cracking, and then Eddie is slipping off the bed to kneel down next to him and pull him into his arms.

Buck goes willingly, melting into Eddie’s embrace even despite the awkward angle, hands tangling in the fabric of Eddie’s (his) shirt and folding himself as small as possible to fit as much of himself in Eddie’s arms as he can. Buck’s hurt leg sticks out awkwardly, and his back aches from how he’s sitting up, but God, is this what he needed. His nose presses against the soft skin of Eddie’s neck as the latter rocks him back and forth slightly, arms tight around his middle, one palm smoothing up and down Buck’s spine.

“Come on, get in the bed,” Eddie says, voice gruff from the guilt building up in his throat. His chin is tucked over Buck’s shoulder. “You’re not sleeping on the damn floor.”

He wrestles with Buck until he’s able to maneuver the pair of them into the middle of the bed. Buck lays, curled on his side, watching Eddie with glossy eyes as he tugs the blankets up and over the both of them. Eddie ends up facing Buck, one hand outstretched and resting under the other man’s head. His fingers curl in the hairs at the nape of Buck’s neck; petting, soothing.

Buck falls asleep quicker than he’d like to admit, even as the bruise on his leg still throbs, and his eyes still sting. Eddie keeps watch, playing with the short strands of hair, scanning Buck’s expression for the slightest amount of discomfort.

He’s barely drifted off himself when Buck twitches, and before it can get worse, Eddie is shuffling closer and wrapping his other arm around Buck’s shoulders. Eddie tucks Buck’s head underneath his chin, trying not to think about the way Buck’s hair brushes against the stubble of his beard, or how Buck’s lips ghost over his neck when he mumbles out, “…Eddie?”

“Right here,” Eddie whispers, tucking his chin down to press a not-kiss to Buck’s hair.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before,” Buck mumbles like a confession, curling tighter into Eddie’s grip, stretching out his legs to interlock them with the other man’s.

Eddie cards his fingers through Buck’s hair. A fond sigh escapes before he can stop it, as he tries to wrangle his feelings into some palatable words. “I know you’re hard on yourself, and I can’t stop you from doing that, but, I wish you’d give the rest of us a little more credit. You assume we feel about you how you feel about yourself, but that’s not true.”

Buck’s breath stutters, and Eddie thinks the long-brewing tears have finally spilled over when a little spot of wetness blossoms on his neck.

“We love you- I love you, Buck. I want to be there for you, but you have to let me in,” Eddie breathes. Another not-kiss is pressed to Buck’s head.

“Same goes to you, Diaz,” Buck chuckles, voice wet. “Okay. I love you, too, you know?”

“Yeah,” Eddie buries his nose in Buck’s hair, lets his eyes flutter closed. “I do.”

#ren's 911 #911 abc #evan buckley x eddie diaz #buddie whump #buddie #buddie fanfiction #evan buckley #eddie diaz #buddie week 2021

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oswednesday · 7 months ago

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i have a theory that the star wars hotel was originally going to be a summer camp thing for children, everything about the design makes sense: the small location thats behind the theme park, the low to the ground seating, firm mattress with small rooms, the bright lighting and blocking interior design, the semi-athletic experiences and entertainment rooms, the way the menus werent really unique to the venue; somewhere along the line someone was like hey we'll miss out on alcohol sales and obvi star wars adults are a bigger whale than disney adults combined them together and its no wonder they thought they could charge anything, offset even the cost of advertising on to the public and you have a fast cash tax write off

#im like...obsessed with the badness of it like the legit i hope this is in the history books as like the turning point to the collapse of #the company

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wroteclassicaly · 2 years ago

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Summary: Two years. You never drive far anymore, you don’t linger outside of your new city limits. Because how can you drive into the desolate life you once had? Then again, Hawkins and its story book tragedies have a way of bringing you back for more. A mangled marriage, an abandoned two story, and a loved one in turmoil, it finally brings you back home.

Parings: Eddie Munson x Female Reader

Warnings: Language, shitloads of angst, mentions of major health trauma (it’s heart related, so be warned before reading, as I don’t want to trigger anyone), that angsty angst, but with a happy ending, & obvious smut/nsfw content that will appear later in the story!

A/N: Sneak peek/teaser into my new series, and the first one I’m publishing for this fandom — That House In Indiana (inspired by Ethel Cain’s ‘A House In Nebraska’. Lyrics below that I obviously don’t own) There will be a happy ending, so don’t worry! I’ve also drawn off myself for the situation with Wayne, based off what happened to my own dad. It’s pretty rough, but Wayne will be okay — I promise! He has a health crisis in this that might trigger some people, so please DON’T read if you know it’ll upset you! And let me know what y’all think if you do read, please and thank you? ❤️💘❤️💘

February 1st, 1990

~*~

Labored breaths and bed sores, sing it to me all day long

When the aching sound of silence used to be our favorite song

You and me against the world, you were my man and I your girl

We had nothing except each other, you were my whole world

Then the day came and you were up and gone

And I still call home that house in Nebraska

Where we found each other on a dirty mattress on the second floor

Where the world was empty, save you and I

Where you came and I laughed, and you left and I cried

Where you told me even if we died tonight, that I'd die yours

~*~

Shaking hands with chipped polish of a once fresh manicure, now worried down from alternating chewed grinds between chattering teeth and trembling lips, stained with overflowing salt — switch to a tight grip around a faded leather steering wheel, the cracking leather mingling with that of rustling denim. Scattered neon pink chips spray nail beds, making you twitch with the need to placate that urgency in your guts that pummels the muscles, seizing those in your eyes to force you to glance at where the gold band used to sit, used to distract you so perfectly. You were sure that you’d gotten over that. Funny what delusions the mind can bank on to get you through destruction and pain. You sniffle upon a jagged exhale, breath coming out choppy and overused.

Your body feels stuck to the seats, melted into a frozen statue. You really don’t want to be you, to think. Hell, your thoughts border on everything they shouldn’t, all the what-ifs, the blames, past tragedies, and your wishes that if this was the end result — maybe it would’ve been better if you died that night in the Spring of 1986. Long drives that aren’t in line with the simplicity of five minutes, you’d avoided for the last two years. Four hours from your one bedroom townhouse in Illinois to a hotel room in your hometown of Hawkins, Indiana — you’re a prisoner to your psyche.

You’ll see your crumbling dream in the form of white plaster, broken wood planks, and rotten rose bushes, frosted across shattered glass windows — ones you had stewed over for days on what color would look the best for curb appeal, and a large for sale sign in the front yard that was once littered with the cars of friends and loved ones. That very same home, the one you had shaped with your partner, that curly haired, doe eyed boy that you first met when he gave you money to pay for the groceries you couldn’t quite afford when you were fifteen, unbeknownst to you that it was his last five dollars, but he gave it to you because he knew you needed it more. He’d be fine as long as you were. You don’t have to try to embrace every whisper his hands had gifted your skin with. Your walls are gone, body ripped open and bare for the entire town you’d left behind two years ago.

The scenery is starting to fill in, barren trees near bloom. Maybe an early Spring, you can’t be sure? Your tires click against wet asphalt when you turn, splashing water on the chrome body of your car as you head into the embankment of treetops that glow, entwined into an arch that blankets the road in charcoal shadows. You manage to raise your hand to hit your windshield wipers, crystal clearing in a thick smear. Your sclera, however, floods over, lashes sticking to raw under eyes, puffy and exerted. You swallow harshly around a raw and wet throat, foot accelerating the gas pedal. You have to get there.

You haven’t slept since you heard his voice, your ears floating into a familiar peak, a swell of overwhelming longing stealing every ounce of breath from your lungs, trapping your diaphragm beneath whimpers not cried. You knew right away that something wasn’t okay. He called for the first time in years, he was in the place of his uncle, your confusion palpable as you hadn’t expected the youth for the familiarity of your weekly calls with his own family. You could hear his deep voice, raspy and shrouded in painful storms unmatched. Your body was like a dead weight, fingers struggling to hold onto the receiver, tone a mere whisper, one that felt like broken glass being dragged out through your windpipes.

“What’s wrong, Eds?”

“He… I, Y/N—“ Like a plea that was too silent to fully find its vessel, his voice became caked with an ocean of tears, thick like the swamps of isolating despair.

You’d almost resorted to begging, but you had known, even then, Eddie always took his own path to processing grief. Resisting an instinctual soothe towards him was like rejecting the air that earth offered you.

Your fingers prickled in an uncomfortable heat, numb and dulled, tongue heavy and choking you. The same as that night you awaited to hear whatever horror Hawkins had dropped into your lives once more.

“It’s Wayne.” There was an eerie quietness as Eddie had caught up with himself and moved forward enough to inform you. You couldn’t have stopped the gasping cry that left your mouth if you’d taped it shut.

He’d wanted nothing more than to reach through the phone and take you into his arms, needing to remember what the heartbeat of another human felt like, more specifically — his human. But you weren’t, you hadn’t been, and he wasn’t calling you to tell you that. You loved his uncle like a father. Having to break this news, to lay a layer of pavement over your spirit and let it dry, driving over it to forget, Eddie guiding your heart into another turmoil — it made him want to attempt to dislocate his own jaw.

“What about Wayne? Please tell me what’s going on?” You lost every piece you’d mangled together, helpless to their violent disappearance.

Eddie had trembled as he sighed, shaky and worn. “He had a heart attack a few hours ago.”

Your organ had begun to lose traction, beating sporadically that you were sure some of your bones had been reduced to ash beneath the forceful erratic rhythm. Leaving behind everything but your shoes, coat, keys, and purse, you were already at your front door, phone cord stretching with you. “I’m coming home. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Yeah. Kay. I’ll be here.” Eddie sounded lost, that light he’d accumulated in his lifetime, part of it was dimming. He couldn’t lose the one person that had been with him his whole life. You were already gone. This would devour him whole.

You sit up straight in your seat, the action causing your back to crack. You take a few deep breaths, engrossed in the glossy branches in your sky view, thunder roaring in the distance, your vehicle approaching the clearing and ready to hit that final road that will take you home.

~*~

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dtaylor67 · 6 months ago

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Choosing the Perfect Luxury Hotel Mattress for a Five-Star Sleep ?

Unveiling the Secret to Five-Star Sleep: Choosing the Perfect Luxury Hotel Mattress for Your Home in Ireland

Have you ever returned from a luxurious vacation feeling utterly refreshed and revitalized? Think back — what element contributed most to that feeling of rejuvenation? Chances are, it was the incredibly comfortable bed in your hotel room. Now, imagine recreating that same blissful sleep experience every night in the comfort of your own home in Ireland.

The secret lies in the Hotel Mattress. Hotel mattress brands understand the importance of a good night’s sleep for their guests, which is why they invest in Luxury Hotel Mattresses. These mattresses aren’t just about comfort; they’re meticulously crafted to provide superior support, pressure relief, and ultimate relaxation.

But how do you choose the perfect luxury hotel mattress for your home in Ireland? Here’s a comprehensive guide to help you navigate the world of Luxury Beds Ireland and Luxury Handmade Beds:

Understanding Your Needs:

The first step is to understand your individual sleep preferences. Do you prefer a Spring Mattress For Hotels that offers a classic bounce, or are you drawn to the pressure-relieving comfort of Memory Foam Mattresses? Consider your sleeping position — side sleepers often require a softer mattress, while back sleepers might benefit from a firmer option.

Luxury Doesn’t Have to Mean Compromise:

Luxury Hotel Mattress Brands offer a variety of features to cater to different needs. Look for mattresses with:

Multiple Support Layers: A combination of high-density foam, pocket springs, and other supportive materials ensures optimal comfort and proper spinal alignment.

Pressure-Relieving Technologies: Memory foam or gel-infused comfort layers adapt to your body shape, minimizing pressure points and promoting blood circulation.

Temperature Regulation: Advanced cooling technologies like breathable fabrics or cooling gel layers can help you maintain a comfortable sleep temperature throughout the night.

Beyond the Basics:

While these features are essential, Luxury Beds Ireland go a step further. Consider handcrafted details, high-quality natural materials like organic cotton and hypoallergenic fabrics, and exquisite hand-finished touches. These elements elevate your sleep experience to a whole new level of luxury.

Finding the Perfect Fit:

Mattress Ireland offers a wide range of sizes to accommodate your needs. From King Size Mattress Ireland for spacious master bedrooms to Single Mattresses for guest rooms, there’s an ideal option for every bed.

Investing in Quality:

Luxury Hotel Mattresses are an investment in your sleep and well-being. While the initial cost might seem higher, remember that a good mattress can last for a decade or more. Think of it as an investment in countless nights of restful sleep and a significant improvement in your overall health.

Exploring Your Options:

Luxury Bed Companies in Ireland offer a variety of Luxury Hotel Mattress options. Consider visiting showrooms to test different models and feel the difference for yourself. Look for brands like Respa Beds https://www.respabeds.ie/ that prioritize quality materials, expert craftsmanship, and a commitment to creating the ultimate sleep experience.

Remember, the Most Luxurious Mattress Brands are not just about price; they focus on innovation, comfort, and exceptional quality.

Embrace the Five-Star Sleep Experience:

By choosing the perfect Luxury Hotel Mattress, you’re not just investing in a comfortable bed; you’re investing in your overall health and well-being. Imagine waking up every morning feeling refreshed, energized, and ready to take on the day. Transform your bedroom into a haven of luxury and relaxation, and experience the five-star sleep you deserve in the comfort of your own home in Ireland!

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mattress-to-door · 2 months ago

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How Often Should You Wash Your Bed Sheets?

Do you wash your sheets as often as you should? Many of us are guilty of not washing our bed sheets frequently enough. We tend to focus on more visible household items that obviously need cleaning. But letting your sheets go too long between washes can lead to a buildup of germs, dead skin cells, body oils, and other yuckiness.

So how often should you wash your bed sheets to keep them fresh, clean, and hygienic? We’ll cover the expert recommendations and reasons it’s vital to wash sheets regularly. Read on to learn the signs it’s time for a wash, top laundry tips, and how Mattress To Door’s quality bed sheets like the Printed Bed Sheet MTDBS01 can enhance your sleep experience.

Most experts agree you should wash sheets at least once a week. Here are the top recommendations on how often to wash bed sheets:

Weekly — Washing sheets every 7 days helps remove accumulated dead skin cells, body oils, and dust mites. It keeps your bed hygienic and sheets feeling fresh.

Every 1–2 weeks — For those without allergies or pets, every 1 to 2 weeks is generally fine. You may be able to stretch a bit longer between sheet washes.

Other factors — Wash sheets more frequently if you have pets that sleep in your bed. Those with dust allergies or asthma should also wash more regularly.

“Experts recommend washing your bed sheets at least once per week for optimal cleanliness and health.”

The Case for Weekly

Washing bed sheets every 7 days has its benefits. Here’s why it’s a good idea to wash your sheets once a week:

Removes dead skin cells — We shed millions of skin cells per day. These collect in sheets and provide food for dust mites.

Eliminates body oils and sweat — Our bodies continuously produce oils and sweat that transfer to sheets.

Reduces dust mites — Dust mites feed on skin cells and thrive in warm, humid environments like beds.

Smells fresh — Weekly washes make sheets smell clean and deter bed bugs or other pests.

Prevents staining — Frequent washing helps avoid buildup of body oils and dirt that can lead to yellow stains.

Kills germs — Hot water washes eliminate bacteria that accumulate from everyday use.

Every 1–2 Weeks: A Reasonable Minimum

For those without allergies or pets, washing bed sheets and bedding every 1 to 2 weeks is generally sufficient to keep them fresh and avoid an overgrowth of dust mites or bacteria.

Some reasons you may be able to stretch a bit longer between laundering sheets:

Don’t sweat excessively at night.

Don’t eat or drink in bed.

Use a mattress protector.

Have a high-quality mattress like those offered by Mattress To Door that doesn’t absorb as much dead skin and oils.

But note that sheets should be washed sooner if they become visibly dirty or smelly. Yearly or only occasional washing risks serious buildup of allergens, microbes, and dust.

Beyond the “ick” factor, what’s the real harm in not washing your bed sheets often enough? Here are some top reasons it’s important to wash sheets regularly:

Hygiene

Infrequent washing allows dead skin cells, body oils, sweat, and germs to build up. This creates an unhygienic sleeping environment that can cause:

Bad odors

Allergy symptoms

Acne breakouts

Illnesses

Frequent hot water washes kill bacteria and keep sheets smelling clean.

Health Benefits

Studies show regularly washing sheets:

Reduces asthma symptoms

Lessens allergic reactions to dust mites

Prevents skin irritation for those with eczema or sensitive skin

This is especially critical for those with dust allergies. Hot water washes destroy dust mite allergens that can trigger reactions.

Extend Sheet Lifespan

Laundering bed sheets regularly:

Preserves elasticity of fitted sheets

Prevents stains from body oils and dirt buildup

Follows fabric care instructions to reduce wear

Uses stain removers to treat problem areas quickly

Letting sheets go too long between washes shortens their lifespan from excess dirt, stains, and stress on fibers.

As you can see, it’s about more than just a fresh smell or appearance. Regularly washing bed sheets has major hygiene, health, and practical benefits that shouldn’t be underestimated. Most experts suggest a weekly wash routine for optimal results.

Next, let’s look at some signals it’s definitely time to strip the sheets and cues that a wash cycle is overdue.

When Do You Know It’s Time to Wash Your Sheets?

You don’t need a calendar reminder to know when your sheets are begging for a spin cycle. Here are some clear signs it’s time to wash your bed sheets:

Visible stains — Food, drinks, makeup, or other spills create stains.

Dirt buildup — Sweat and body oil cause dingy spots.

Sheets feel rough/stiff — Lack of washing makes cotton feel rough.

Increased sneezing — Dust mite allergens trigger sneezes.

Pet slept in bed — Dander and hair accumulates quickly.

You eat/drink in bed — Crumbs and spills transfer to sheets.

Pay attention to these clues your linens need freshening up. Don’t let your bedding get greasy, grimy, or full of allergens.

When to Wash Different Types of Bedding

Sheets — Wash weekly, or every 1–2 weeks minimum.

Pillowcases — Wash weekly along with your sheets.

Comforter — Wash 2–3 times per year, or when visibly dirty.

Duvet cover — Wash every 1–2 weeks with sheets.

Mattress pad — Wash every 1–2 months depending on use.

Blankets — Wash every couple months or when dirty.

Mattress — Vacuum and spot clean every 1–2 months.

Now let’s get into the nitty gritty of how to wash your sheets for maximum cleaning power:

Temperature — Use Hot Water

Hot water — 130°F or higher. Helps kill germs and allergens.

Warm water — 90–110°F. Gently lifts away most dirt.

Cold water — 68°F or lower. Saves energy but reduced cleaning.

For sheets, use the hottest water recommended for the fabric. This helps eliminate germs, allergens, and deeply embedded body oils.

Detergent

Regular laundry detergent — Use as directed on the package.

Add stain remover — For tough stains pretreat with stain fighters.

Avoid too much detergent — Excess suds can cling to fabric.

Stick to regular laundry detergent and spot treat stubborn stains. There’s no need for special woolite or gentle detergents for bed sheets.

Drying Your Washed Sheets

Tumble dry on low or medium — Helps minimize wrinkling of cotton sheets. Remove promptly.

Hang to air dry — Great for delicate synthetics and fabrics.

Dryer sheets — Add for extra static reduction and scent.

To reduce wrinkling, tumble dry sheets on low or medium heat. Remove them promptly from the dryer and fold or make your bed.

Cleaning Mattress and Other Bedding

Vacuum mattress — Use hose attachment to vacuum surface monthly.

Spot clean mattress — Use upholstery cleaner for stains or odors.

Wash pillowcases, blankets — Weekly for pillowcases, monthly for other items.

Rotate/flip mattress — Extends mattress life by evenly distributing wear.

Don’t neglect areas like your mattress and pillows! Vacuum and spot treat your mattress. Frequently wash pillowcases and blankets.

For more details visit us at how often should you wash your bed sheets? Mattress To Door

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hsm-sapphic-selfship-fanfiction · 3 months ago

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HSM Slave fic (or a look into Josefina’s depraved mind while she sleeps)

Alternate New Mexico, alternate 1924

I woke up inside a steel cage, on the hot floor, sweating. A large crowd gathered around the area, looking at, not just me, but others. I looked to see there were guards dressed in Blue and black. I heard a bellowing voice “Alright! Ladies and Gentlemen! Welcome to the Albuquerque Slave Auction!” So that’s what this is.

A voice next to me whispered “is this your first time” I looked to my side to see a small timid girl about my age with curly hair and small breasts “b-being sold, I mean” I turn to her and try to read her collar “Kelsi, my family tried to escape Cuba when the Spanish left and these people followed us and my mother’s side have all been sold for two generations and broken up … they say for Treason. Kelsi looked at me sternly “your parents were treasonous, they tried to overturn the American puppet republic in Cuba during the Buchanan years, when he decided to de-racialise slavery. But that wasn’t my question” I stuttered trying to remember “I think this is my first time, Mistress discovered I love the sexual aspect of slavery, but only ever with other girls, so she sent me here, I guess” Kelsi gasped “ you don’t just tolerate being a sex object, you like it? Nasty! To be fair, I’m being sold with the girls too soooo…”

The voice bellowed out “and now to introduce the girls, a fine specimen for the ladies and a fantastic toy for yourself and others, Specimen J4168” suddenly a big hand grabbed my chains and pulled me out onstage before pushing me, completely naked and blushing to my knees. I tuned out the man listing off how responsive and obedient I was as well as the sale instead staring into the crowd, who would own me next, who could it be…

“Sold to Miss Evans! The Princess of a luxury hotel chain empire across the American West” the man bellowed out again before I got led offstage and into their finishing room

The guard looked at my file “right Miss… oh goodness, Josefina Williams-Velasquez? The granddaughter of the treasonous family in Cuba?” I nodded, He chuckled “first sale must have been scary for you, especially being brought just for sex” I gulped some water “yes sir” I pucker for some lipstick and he put some Ruby on me “can I have the slave girl blouse please” I enquire to his shock “already a good girl?”

“Mistress and I practiced in her living room” I answered making sure to bow when I received the clothes, mattress and blankets. He then put a leather biting gag in my mouth and a blindfold over my eyes before leading me out to my new owner

***

When I was unblindfolded and ungagged I found myself sat on the ground waiting for something “Mistress…” I started before being silenced immediately “shut it slave, I know this station looks empty but that’s because it is an employees and management only train service. I must have looked cute because later she said, “fine, I’m Mistress Sharpay, you’re going to be the hotel’s official pet and human sex toy, your job is to be pretty and have lots of sex, that’s it, that’s your job slave” I asked her “Mistress, how am I going to be able to stop people falling pregnant”

“Girl, you’re not a boy, that’s not possible and our clients are mostly women”

“Mistress I have a penis” she breathed in and huffed “we have dragonfruit syrup” and swiftly changed the subject “are you on any medications I should know about?” I sorted through my bag and found a box labelled “Isolate Estriol” “yes mistress, this”

“Only that?”

“And some medicinal Red Wine for Blood Pressure and Pepsi for staying energised and for my gut”

At that point a belching, coal rolling train came into view and Sharpay tugged at me to get on

#high school musical #sharpay evans #proship #proselfship #proship selfship #self ship #selfproship #bd/sm relationship #hsm fanfiction #bd/sm slave #slave kink

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remembertheplunge · 10 months ago

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Martin and I visit New York City. Blog 3 of this series .

Continuing with 7/31/2011

7/31/2011 Sunday 11:54am

Greenacre Park. “A private park for public use.”

No cameras, no exercising, no kids and no pets except on a leash. There is a snack bar where they sell hot apple cider. NO ALCOHOL SOLD THERE.

It’s like a haven from the rest of 51st street.

MAC’s up showering. He feels better. His jangled body loosens.

Greenacre park is a good place to be just pre the World Trade Center (WTC) visit. There is a soothing waterfall int the park. A tribute to the WTC.

Sunday is a good day to visit the WTC. What were they all doing July 31, 2001, the people who died on 9/11/2001 at ground zero?

We were all 10 years younger.

Greenacre Park is also a nice place to think about my late partner Jim.

The ubiquitous, iconic, New York City water towers are visible from the park.

It’s kind of nice being in a place where photographs and exercise are not allowed. They are, in their own way, invasive.

This NYNY visit is not so much about running around and doing as it is about be.ing. Greenacre Park is perfect. A healing place.

It’s loud enough here because of the waterfall that it drowns out the city sounds. You can’t talk on the phone. It inspires and enforces contemplation. “My time”.

7 minutes to 2 pm

Martin beautifies. I sit by the air conditioner watching sun bathers on an adjacent roof top. “New Jersey, Pennsylvania, New York” the radio rambles.“Sleepy's Mattress Sale! “One of the comedians made fun of it last night. I thought He made Sleepy’s up! “Sleepy’s, the mattress of professionals.”

7/31/2011

9:14pm EST

Dark again. The taxi dropped us at ground zero (WTC). What is this? A mistake? Nothing there but tomb stones, an old church and big fences. And a half way finished new tower. A foreign man kept asking me “Is this all there is? Is this 9/11?”

10:28pm

MAC’s back. Breaking Bad’s on.

11:57pm

MAC and I just walked back from McDonald’s. It was sprinkling and cool/warm. MAC ordered food, but, didn’t eat

We were going to go to the Empire State Building after dark. He sleeps now.

My body aches, knees and arms. What’s wrong? Instead of working out, we walked around ground zero. The biggest acknowledgement of what happened at ground zero on 9/11/2001 is the ancient church cemetery across the street from ground zero. It stands as a silent soldier saying “this is what happened. This happened." And jets flew "through" the buildings as we stood there. Haunting. People at ground zero today talked and thought and inquired.

Then we taxied to the High Line elevated walking trail. MAC loved it. The plants. The buildings.

Then, back to the Pod Hotel for a rest.

Oh, MAC and I then went up on the Pod roof and looked around at the view from there of the City."

End of entry

Greenacre Park is located at 217 E 51st Street, New York, NY.

The Tower built to replace the WTC twin towers is called One World Trade Center . It was completed in 2014.

The September 11, 2001 attacks, per Wikipedia, were four coordinated Islamist suicide terrorist attacks carried out by al-Qaeda against the United States. Four jets were high jacked. Two were flown into the World Trade Towers. One was flown into the Pentagon. And one, flight 93, was forced by passengers to crash in Pennsylvania. A movie called “Flight 93” later came out about the events that transpired that day.

Breaking Bad was a TV series that MAC loved. It was about an all American White family that got heavily involved in drug manufacturing and sales. It was outrageous and fun at the same time.

#7/31/2011 #World Trade Center #World Trade Center Ground Zero 9/11/2001 #The Winter Garden New York City #The High Line New York City #Greenacre park New York City #No phone #kids #cameras or exercise foster contemplation in Greenacre park #Breaking Bad

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shojoknife · 2 months ago

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youtube

Tips of buying a good mattress

This is usual individual assertion and varies with manufacture specifications. Sleeping on your side requires one of the mattresses which are soft. Soft mattress is designed to have individual springs which click here are set in a padded frame which may include a pillow topper.

Going by the fact that most human beings spend more time in bed, it is importance to ensure that our sleep is comfortable and stress free. other than bed choice, the type and quality of the mattress is also a contributing factor. A mattress is not like a piece of cloth that you buy and use for a short while before discarding, it is therefore important to buy material that is durable and of good quality. To ensure that the mattress you purchase is of high quality, it is important to consider the following 7 tips on picking the perfect mattress for your use;

Your height

A good mattress should be at least six inches longer than the person sleeping on it. The choice of the mattress should give an allowance to your feet.

Do some homework before you start shopping

Do ground work about the choice of the mattress you want to buy. Do enough research about the type, the quality and the size of the mattress you really want to purchase. For example, you can try to remember of that day you slept in lodge or rather a hotel or a friend’s house and had good sleep. That can serve as beginning of making good choice of a mattress. You must have a starting point.

Choose the right type of store that deals with mattress product.

Choose the best sleep specialty store that sell mattresses. In this particular store it is highly possible to get the best quality mattress. Go for a dealer or a retailer that provides you with the right information about the mattress as well showing concern over the mattress that meets your needs and desire. You can as well ask from a friend of any dealer he/she knows in case you do not know of any. Stores that specialize in mattresses usually have the whole training on matters to do with good sleep and sells variety of mattresses.

Make use of retail sales person or associates

Always work with knowledgeable sales person who can help and guide you through bedding choices. Ask him or her questions that you need answered. Ask the dealer if he do offer comfort guarantee of the mattress before you buy. Ensure that you understand the details that are contained in it, for example, know whether you can return the mattress within a certain time frame if it doesn’t satisfy your needs.

Test drive your mattress

After you have made your choice of the mattress, try and do the S.L.E.E.P. test. This involves lying on the mattress on different position to find out whether the mattress meets your needs. Spend some extra time in the position you normally sleep. This will make you feel the true support of the mattress. That is, are you feeling the comfort you want the mattress to provide?

Other tips to look at include;

number of coils or turns in a mattress, your sleeping lifestyles, a note on the lifespan of the mattress and warranty, time to use the mattress, among other things to consider.

Make your sleep as comfortable as possible by simply buying the right mattress. Make a wise choice from the various stores that deal with the sales mattress. No need to have backache and sleepless night because of the mattress choice. Following the above discussed tips will lead you to buying quality mattress. Good sleep come hand-in-hand with a good mattress choice.

#Youtube

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radiationgroove · 2 years ago

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Day to Day

I can finally share my piece for the second volume of the @falloutghoulzine Greetings from Gecko! Much like the first, the second volume was a dream to work on. We'll be having our extras sale soon, so watch this space! Be sure to give this some love over on AO3 too!

It’s almost impossible to pin down what Carol could be daydreaming about. The possibilities, Greta learned long ago, were nearly endless.

Most of the time it was Gob and whatever troubles he was in. The young visitor from Vault 101 to the Northwest told Carol that instead of Gob exploring the world, he’d landed himself in some scummy little dive bar well outside the city. Carols’ mind raced with possibilities: Gob somehow owned this bar, or he was the life of the party, the bartender everyone loved, or was this something more sinister? The Vault Dweller seemed to choose their words too carefully. Was Gob in trouble? Danger? Did he need rescuing? Those fugues were broken with bouts of nostalgia; Greta spent countless nights listening half-heartedly to stories about Gob and the years Carol spent with her adopted son.

Sometimes she was trapped in thought and wandering centuries in the past. Those were the days Greta tiptoed around her partner, keeping any outside noise in their little hotel to a minimum the best she could. Those were also the days that more often than not began with Carol waking in the middle of the night gasping for air. She whimpered, sobbed, dropped her head into her hands and cried for her Daddy. Greta couldn’t imagine what Carol saw; her ghoulification had come after the Great War when she was old enough to understand what was going on. Carol watched herself fall apart unprepared.

It wasn’t out of the ordinary for Carol to just be sad. She drifted about the hotel like a ghost, face soft and distant. Greta caught her staring at the hallway painting in its gilded frame. Greta knew, once, who painted it, what it was called, but that had since been lost to time. These particular bouts of melancholy were sometimes too much for Greta and too hard to break. She spent longer on her smoke breaks, or tucked away in her kitchen. At the end of the day, separation was best for both of them.

Greta hid behind her interactions, her abrasion. She didn’t hold back when it came to the quality of her food (for the few tender-stomached smoothskins that managed to linger in their doorway, anyway), or her malice towards Azrukhal and the not-so-friendly competition his bar held across the hallway. Her patience for indecisiveness was thin; you either knew what you wanted at Carol’s Place or you got the hell out. Free time was spent concocting something new to put on the menu, or at least make something more than palatable.

She didn’t really do “friends”. At the end of the day all she needed was Carol and the little life they’d carved out with each other at Underworld. They’d been together so long it was hard to imagine a day spent without the other. Sometimes, though she wouldn’t admit it aloud, she wondered if they stayed this way because they always had been.

But, of course, that was nonsense. Love was a rare commodity in the Wasteland, and to have a love that lasted as long as theirs had was rarer still.

Carol’s Place was quiet today. A few of their friends and neighbors wandered in for breakfast and lunch, but the hours ticked by quietly. Tulip stopped by briefly on her break for the special (nothing at all was “special” about the special) and to drop off her copy of Paradise Lost for Carol to thumb through. Even their full-time boarder, Mister Crowley, made himself scarce with little fanfare. It was quiet, and Greta was glad for it.

Lost in the depth of her thoughts, Carol stood at the side of the bed she shared with Greta. She slipped a grimy pillow into a slightly less grimy pillowcase and fluffed. And fluffed. She fluffed again for good measure and centered the pillow on the bed. She bent to tuck the sheets into the mattress and smoothed the comforter over top…and paused.

She was young again, a slip of a thing, all of twenty-six. Carol woke early that morning with the intention of going into town for…who knew? A day of shopping, of selfish consumerism? Sight-seeing, maybe, a stroll through the streets of Washington, DC and take in the Halloween storefronts? Either way, Carol was planning on looking her best. Every blonde lock was tucked perfectly in place. Though her father said she didn’t need it, that she was beautiful as she was, she did her makeup, balancing a face that was all high cheekbones and a strong jawline. Carol smoothed the sheets and comforter over the crisp corners of her bed. It was shaping up to be a beautiful October day. The grandfather clock downstairs in the foyer struck nine o’clock in the morning with distant gong. Her father came barreling into the house, slamming the door behind him.

Father sped to the bunker. Chaos was still in the process of erupting around them. The streets didn’t feel any busier than normal, but people were pouring out of homes with duffle bags and suitcases. Sirens blared high above the city. The longer the sirens sounded, the faster her father drove. A crowd began to gather around the public fallout shelter; the car had barely stopped before Carol was commanded to run. Her father wasn’t far behind.

Until he wasn’t.

Another siren. Carol stopped only a moment, turning back to check on him. A mother, a woman barely older than herself, was struggling with her twin toddlers and new baby. Her father stopped to help, to gather the children in his arms. An explosion shook the ground beneath her feet. A flash of light blinded her. Someone grabbed her arm; she screamed. The shelter door closed behind her and the survivors were plunged into darkness.

It was too quiet. Greta wondered if this was what parents talked about before the Great War; if the children were quiet, there was usually trouble. Wiping her hands on the apron tied about her waist, Greta peeked around salvaged hospital dividers and down the little hallway. Carol remained frozen at the corner of their bed.

“Carol?” Greta murmured, stepping slowly down the hall. Carol startled. “Hon, you okay?” It broke Greta’s heart that the woman she’d spent decades with was so distant.

When they emerged once again, blinking into the sunlight, Carol was face to face with the blackened shape of her father scorched into the wall. She was sick all over the ground. The survivors from the shelter staggered about while DC burned. She just followed her feet forward. Always forward. The Museum of History, a place she treasured visits with her father, a place that would eventually become known to the Wasteland at large as “Underworld,” became a sanctuary. Then it became a home.

It wasn’t until her skin began to peel that she knew there was a problem. Great chunks of it sloughed off all over. Carol spent panicked mornings in the museum restroom examining the changes; what sort of twisted puberty had the bombs brought? Then it was her hair. Her beautiful blonde hair was falling out fistfuls at a time. Between losing her hair and staring at a face full of exposed muscle, it was a wonder Carol didn’t lose her mind as so many did in those first few years.

Carol blinked slowly. Greta didn’t look like Greta for a moment, just a mess of missing skin and clumps of hair that turned her stomach. It was like looking in the mirror in those early days when she was in pain and her body was falling apart. Panic swelled in her chest.

“Hey…hey, you’re okay.” Greta kept space between them for fear of startling Carol further. She lingered some feet away from the bed. To Carol, “okay” couldn’t be further from the truth.

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, and eventually there was nothing Carol could do to stop the floodgates. They rolled down her cheeks unbidden. Her lips quivered and tension she didn’t know she was holding her shoulders released. Greta sighed and finally closed the gap between the two of them. Carol sobbed as she buried her face in Greta’s neck.

Helplessness was Greta’s least favorite feeling. More than anger, more than disgust, more than malice, it was helplessness. She couldn’t help Carol, not in any way that made a difference as far as she was concerned. All she could do was hold her. Greta carded her fingers through Carol’s hair while peppering her face with kisses.

They sank into the freshly made bed, Greta pulling Carol into her lap. Across the desk, the door opened. The quiet creak was enough to draw Greta’s attention away. Winthrop stood in the doorway and suddenly felt very awkward. He wasn’t sure if it was because of Carol’s tears or…no it was definitely Greta’s glare penetrating into his soul that made him turn tail and close the door behind him.

What had he come here for? Whatever it was he needed could wait.

The breath slowly returned to Carol’s lungs. The trembling deep in her shoulders and the knot in the pit of her stomach lessened. Her grip on Greta relaxed. Tears still rolled uneven tracks down her cheeks, but Carol was coming back into her body and her mind. Soon all they heard was the buzz of fluorescent lighting overhead and their own soft, synchronized breathing.

“Carol? You with me?”

“...Yeah. Yeah, I’m here, Greta”

“Good.”

Greta pressed barely-there kisses to Carol’s forehead and stroked the back of her arm. “Do you need anything?”

Carol sniffled and wiped her eyes and nose with the back of her hand. “No, I don’t think so.”

Another moment of long silence; Greta wasn’t going to pry as to what had brought this on. The options flipped through her mind once again: Gob, her ghoulification, just because? It was impossible to know what made Carol sad.

All Greta knew is that her girl needed her.

#fallout 3 #Carol #Greta #Carol and Greta #Rad Writes

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