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capslocked · 7 months ago

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PRAXIS

male reader x irene

23k words

"A girl could walk in and mistake this for an affair," you remark, and Irene smiles up at that.

The sound of city traffic underneath your open window makes for an uncertain backdrop - though the browns of her eyes glimmer caramel in the dying light. Something sweet, the beginnings of an addiction if you’ll let her.

"A girl could walk in," Irene says, "but, she never does."

It was not a good idea, of course, to keep doing this where the whole world could see, where your shadows and silhouettes make lurid shapes against the blinds, but your office is small and the lighting is soft and Irene keeps pushing up onto her tiptoes, pressing you flat against your desk, trying to kiss you, and you won't be able to stop her - or want to, not when she's already leaning into you with her arms loose around your hips, her eyelashes heavy, her mouth a pink line of want against her smile.

It’s inevitable, maybe.

Here's what they might catch in the exact moment, in a not-so-distant memory:

Your heartbeat, quiet and slow and distant, like there's too much blood for it in your veins, your skin electric-pulsing underneath Irene's, the feel of her leg hitched up your waist, your hand wound tightly in her ponytail. The tiny sigh of a smile at the corner of Irene's lips, like you're tickling her somehow - you'll stop if she really wants you to, but - she doesn't. She never does.

Why wouldn't we want to be mistaken for something? is what you’re supposed to hear; she's too haughty, too proud. Someone could catch you. She’ll never come out and admit, just what would anyone do, if they did?

So yeah. It’s complicated.

You give a little, Irene pulls back. You do your damndest not to push. You hate how goddamn easy it is to convince yourself of anything, everything - whatever the lie. Irene isn’t ignoring you. She doesn't ignore the texts you send her. You don’t need to make plans more than two hours in advance. Mixed signals are such a misunderstood phenomenon: she can just be shy, sometimes. Maybe she doesn’t want to intrude. She was nervous, but she felt really fucking good on top of you - maybe next time, the guilt will be a bit less for both of you.

It’s just sex, she says once to you after; there’s no strings attached. How could it get ever more perfect than that?

(And she’s right. You know she’s right, or at least you very well should.

See, you’ve been talking for hours about how you shouldn’t be talking for hours on end. Kissing her after a conversation you’d had around the fact you’d both be better off as friends.

So how's that gonna sound, anyway? Here, go on, try saying it:

Bae Irene? Yeah, met her on the subway - that's the story, the reason you know her; you got on a train one day and she was the prettiest person there. You were both headed to the same place. You’re just not sure when that's gonna change.

And well, the way you see it: you’d feel so much lighter, like a feather, with her off your mind.)

To be candid, you can't really pin down how any of this started. The logistical details, sure. However the suggestion, the sex, the seclusion - these things, not so much.

Somedays, if you squint, it plays out rather predictably. You’ll be going about your business, a particularly average day everything considered, or - well, mostly. Today, there are just the two minor caveats:

First off, your key grinds in the lock when you jam it in. That part is pretty normal, but to your surprise, the door is already very much open.

So, that's odd, you think. That's very odd. You slide inside, cautious, and as you call out an even more cautious "hello?" you realize all the lights are on - so either you've been robbed or are currently in the state of being robbed by someone with suboptimal visual acuity. A disability-washed-burglar. Not to minimize crime, of course, but that'd be interesting, you think, or representative perhaps? Maybe.

Alternatively,

Irene's let herself into your apartment again. It’s quite plausible.

She's not great at the whole 'asking permission' thing, though she swears every time it'll never happen again. You peek around your foyer: there’s her coat, her heels, her shirt, a handbag - all strewn about the hall like she’d been raptured and left a delicate trail of destruction, which does sound a lot like the Bae Irene you've known forever.

(Okay, six, seven months isn’t forever - but you get the gist; the general principle still applies.)

Now another, horrifying option is that both theories are true, simultaneously. A home invader has in fact gotten to Irene. In the middle of robbing the place. How terrible, how awful, how genuinely macabre, what a genuinely-

"Yeah, hey," you hear, followed by a heavy, sloshing thunk. "Welcome home or something."

Sure enough, as you enter the kitchen you spy your truly awful vision being confirmed. One of them, anyway. There is your incredibly hot (this is in reference to Irene), extremely fashionable (same boat as before, honestly), dangerously intelligent (yes) and notorious rulebreaker of an (it really bears emphasis on how hot and fashionable and stylish said rulebreaking often is) acquaintance as per her standard. Irene. A roguish and impossibly captivating conglomerate of trouble with a mild attitude and perfect posture; as a collection, she's a collection you want, a package you intend to keep, an accessory you'd die for. That, and a kettle on the stove apparently, so she can make you tea while you languish on the floor, and you could live like that forever, or so the dream goes.

Also right, the second caveat: there's the robbery. She's stolen a button-up out of your closet.

And look - she's actually so much prettier than she has any business being. Hair up in a messy bun, lips painted light. Nail polish starting to fade. She's still in her nylons and a tight little pencil skirt and you can't really complain. You'd need to be legally dead.

"Hi," Irene says, and the burner sputters to life. "Where'd you go?"

"The bank. And then I had to return books," you say, shucking off your jacket. "You know, I wasn't aware anyone else was living here."

"Excuse you," Irene replies. She turns, leans her forearms on the counter; the shirt buttons are misaligned, but she makes it look like a stylistic consideration - how the sleeves are pushed past her elbows and the neckline has already slipped down one of her dainty shoulders.

She has your clothes. She has an irritatingly winsome half-smirk. The clock above the stove says it’s barely even 9 PM.

"Do you get your mail forwarded here, too?" You shuck off your jacket. "To further clarify, why not call first? Maybe text? Hell, smoke signals could do."

"Because it's a hell of a lot easier to ask you for forgiveness," Irene tells you, knowing, "asking for permission gets me nowhere," and then grabs a mug from the cupboards. She seems to know where everything is already. "I don't know why you get so bothered about it, honestly, what should I do? Call you and say, wow, babe, I am planning on letting myself into your apartment, sorry, yeah, I was thinking we could - ah fuck - you know what, I am irreparably, incomprehensibly horny."

"Nice vocab."

"Thanks," Irene says, beaming, and even tips up her chin to show it.

You notice that you actually match right now, since it is, technically, your shirt. Sure, your collar’s a little stiff - and she’s barely able to keep the fabric from folding and spilling over her lithe frame, but that hardly matters. It's so ungodly hot. She could wear anything - or, probably, nothing, if you're being honest.

And you are, mostly.

So you pad into the space right behind her to tell her some truths, the things you think - but she spins on her heel before you get the chance to grab her, which is a pity; you'd love to do that, maybe just push her flat to the wall. You know, if she'd let you. She would. Probably. You'd ask, definitely, but you’re thinking you wouldn't even have to.

Irene crosses her arms. The collar keeps slipping. You see her collarbone, smooth. She is flawless, no fucking wonder. You are almost terrified of her at times.

"How do you know I’d have said no?" you ask, and it sounds a little sweet - then there’s you noticing an old bruise along her throat, where her shoulder dips down; that was probably your doing, probably from this week, last Saturday maybe? Her skin seems softer somehow, looks like her makeup was fresh at the beginning of the day and the end of the night, that kind of evening smudging. She's smiling with her nose crinkling up.

She doesn’t react when you press in closer.

"Really." You’re waiting for her. Probably waiting for her to kiss you, to reach up on her toes and latch her wrists behind your neck, to reach her mouth to yours - though, she doesn't. Her breathing picks up, so it's almost like she doesn't have to, she's smiling at you so sharply. It’s a rare win for restraint as far as your apartment is concerned.

"So then where lies the issue?" she asks, and then she simply waits on this smoldering sort of glance.

You can’t help the laugh that follows. "I mean it's the principle of the thing."

Irene hums at that. She glances to the side. Toward the windows, back to you, and then all over your face.

"Then, allow me a principle," she finally says, staring straight at your mouth, real subtle-like. "Yes, I'm going to keep coming here. Probably a lot. I mean, unless you have an actual issue you'd be hardly one to talk: Mr. Keeps Do Not Disturb Active At All Fucking Times. I bet you're the last person to go through their voicemails, too."

"Guilty, but look - I hit critical mass, like, a thousand unheard messages ago. It’s untenable and unreasonable. You should be offering me pity."

"You are ungovernable." Irene sinks back a bit against the countertop, slow, smooth and sinuous. "You're basically a hermit." She smiles at her own assessment, the grin growing with its truth. Her eyes sparkle in the low-light and her teeth bite at the bottom of her lip. The tea kettle starts to rattle.

"I think we’re supposed to be discussing the breaking and entering here," you correct, dryly, and step a bit closer, "also just for the record, hermits are implied loners. And yet."

"And yet," Irene echoes, letting her voice trail away.

There's an uptick in the corner of her mouth, and she glances at you, quick, momentarily mirthless. You wait for the punchline, the verbal parry, the expertly timed jab-

"What?" asks Irene, and her face instead is all soft edges, light pink lips, and clear, uncomplicated eyes. She grabs for the end of her sleeve and folds it one more time down the slender length of her forearm. The watch on her wrist catches the light. "It's a decent theory."

This almost feels normal, you think, like a routine, something domestic - Irene leaving her things all over your apartment, Irene occupying your bathroom cabinets and the space on your shower rack that used to belong to a singular bar of soap. This is a tale of a typical hookup arrangement gone absolutely off the rails: sex for a night here, a dinner together there, a break from the monotony. You shouldn’t even know Irene that well, you think, or nowhere near as well as you do - and somehow that didn't stop you from giving her a spare key to your apartment - or it didn't stop her from wanting the damn thing.

You try not to read too far into that last one, since you're probably the only idiot that hasn't noticed how smitten Irene has been from day fucking one. It’s your fault, it’s hers; there’s a case to be made for either.

"You can see how a girl might walk in and jump to the wrong conclusions," you remark.

Irene laughs at that, "Oh yeah?" and her eyebrows raise, her lips pursing in an immediate half-smile - this hot little line that’ll get kissed right off her mouth if she’s not careful. She doesn’t even pretend to react otherwise: that same brand of pleased, almost flirtatious - a bit unyielding. Pragmatic, maybe. Not fully on board, still keeping a distance, just an inch outside of what it could be. She never stops fucking with you. She's never anything but beautiful.

It's very unfair, if anyone’s keeping track.

"You mean like an affair?" She laughs out loud. The mark at her temple dots the expression like an exclamation point. "Like me, as your mistress. That’s fucking crazy."

"Satisfy my ego. Pretend that wasn't, in any conceivable world, the worst possible phrasing, but yeah. More or less," you say, "one which would, mind you, seem very poorly planned on both our parts, all things considered."

There's a pause where she scrutinizes your face; you stare evenly back. It's kind of a bluff. You are sort of a self-centered prick, on occasion, but you are not lying to this woman; you have no reason to. Maybe it's a gamble: to hope she understands you better than she ought to, or to wish she'd accept you in spite of that. To want her, in your home, at your leisure, a friend or something more.

Trying to materialize words for the immaterial is largely the dilemma.

"An affair, huh" Irene repeats slowly, tasting the word carefully, like she's trying it on for size - and she cants her hips towards yours. Her fingers had wrapped around the bottom of your tie at some point. "My goodness, that’s like, so, so romantic of us."

"Also jesus, please, ‘mistress’ is horribly gauche," you say, and Irene tugs a little too hard and you step forward. The smug look on her face suggests, not entirely unpretentiously: how else, then, shall we call it?

"But look at me. I am in your kitchen, I’m wearing your clothes," she reminds you, with another tiny pull, which draws you so much nearer. You can feel your neck prickle. "That makes us quite close, wouldn't you agree, darling?"

"Dial it back," you tell her, because Irene's the only person in the world that can put so much stress on a single fucking word and get away with it.

But she's watching you, watching you still, intently. She looks good, smells somehow even better, You inhale her. There's this cloud of shampoo, fragrance, whatever she's decided to wear - citrus today, light. God, she's so fucking gorgeous.

"I'm still trying to scold you," you end up adding, because it won’t go without saying.

"And I'm waiting for you to."

It's not the right answer, though your annoyance dissipates almost as quickly as it rises: Irene could probably charm her way out of anything if she really tried, maybe, and still make the entire world like her even better - so instead of responding, you just sigh, and sink further into her. She wraps your tie once around her knuckles, and tugs again, harder and pointedly, but it's not so hard that it hurts; you know she could manage that if she wanted. Irene just grins up at you, rosy in the face and pretty: no pain, just fun.

"Are you mad?" She tilts her head in and places her exhale right over yours. You could count her lashes if they’d stop fluttering. "Are you going to tell me you'll send me packing now? Just order me right the hell out of here and change the locks, do you mean it?"

"I would, definitely," you say, without so much as a beat missed. "If I weren't so busy being inconvenienced by the fact you're so goddamn pretty."

"Mhmm." Irene fits her lips to yours, murmuring, "exactly."

Her body presses and pushes up against you, and you're thinking again about Door A, Door B. Thinking about your future, her future: it doesn't mean anything. Who needs to dream, when Bae Irene's already such a walking daydream? Hypothetically - a wicked little fantasy if nothing else. She still can't fucking resist pulling away after just a second, just a touch too soon, and laughing right against your lips - even though, when you open your eyes again, her eyes are softly closed and she’s leaning in for more.

The reality is: the two of you, inextricably, are bound in each other's pull. A binary star of (1) extremely talented, (2) equally charming colleagues that only accidentally get lost inside the same room: (3) office, (4) storage closet, (5) bedroom, (6) living room, (7) kitchen, (8) the little-used laundry nook. Your list keeps growing. It is exhausting, but maybe not the worst: not, actually, so bad-

Your hands flatten against the cool material of her skirt.

"I could," you mutter, trying so hard, "you know, stop this. Maybe."

"I actually happen to believe you," Irene's saying. Her teeth graze your chin. "But maybe you can try," she offers, not so helpfully, "just this once?"

The hem of her shirt slips up the long stretch of her leg. It doesn’t move far before the bend of her knee has her pinned, skirt pressed flat to her thighs. You aren’t exactly a gentleman, so you pull it to her waist as you press even closer. The nylon feels wonderful against her legs.

So you let it boil down to the instinctual, the obvious. To physicality: her hip against your own, her soft sigh as the kiss grows in strength. You wrap an arm around her middle; her hands cradle the sides of your jaw - the tip of her tongue brushing yours - then her fingers find their home on the nape of your neck. When you touch the inside of her thigh, across the smooth fabric, ghosting over the center - where the tension is tightest - her lips part a little. She shivers. You try not to smile about it.

"Slow?" you ask her, and the amusement feels unfair to her, even if it is your best attempt to appear thoughtful. She sinks her nails into your skin and her eyelids open slightly. They gleam. "Told me to try," you point out.

You touch her, feel the heat as she says, a little strained, "I did." She swallows. "I'm allowed to change my mind later, though."

"Fine," you relent, "then so am I."

She considers this briefly. Her lashes lower and raise. She nods.

And the teasing has to go somewhere. "Well," you murmur, and kiss the hinge of her jaw. "Mistress it is. Guess there isn't much left to work with, huh." And in any other context, these are the things that earn you another patented-glare, a toss of a pillow over the bedspread, a hard swat on the chest, an indignant 'well fuck you, I can't believe we're having sex!', an abject departure, a million things all at once - at its most dramatic and emotional: a maelstrom of verbal riposte.

Here, though-

She hikes her leg even higher around your hip. Her fingernails clench even sharper. Your tie falls down a button, to the crook between her neck and shoulder, and her hair comes free of its messy ponytail. The line of it skims over her breast, just so.

Irene sighs louder, and does that thing, a deepening in the middle of the noise that lets you know exactly how badly she wants you - this, you're getting familiar with, or the start of it at least, that fine-tuned way Irene wants someone when she doesn't even hesitate to show it. It was odd, and at first almost embarrassing to see. That might've even been part of the charm, you think: Irene could want to devour you. You were you - slightly interesting, and in her eyes, probably the most intriguing fuck - but whatever her reasons, it all clicked for Irene. She had a system to evaluate and adjust and execute. There wasn't room for wasted effort.

"Hey," she hums, low in her throat.

"Yeah," you say, lifting her right up onto the counter.

And see - there are these gestures, reminders, not always in good faith, where you make her feel small: Irene's wrists are suddenly so narrow, one right at the surface of the counter, fingertips cool at your collar, and her nail polish chipping a little at the edges. Your palm is larger, enveloping the high, broad arch of her hip, the sharp line of bone to muscle to sinew. She feels fragile, is what it is, a fine-boned little bird, a thin silhouette under her loose, borrowed shirt - it's almost poetic, a regular old fuckbuddy - a physical habit, and you know her, know how many inches, and you can find your favorite parts of her in the dark, but-

"Want your mouth," Irene's saying now. Her lips glistening, eyes liquid; you want to tell her that that's an indisputable victory, just objectively, even before the clothes fall.

"Tell me where to put it," you offer back, and watch the corner of her lips twitch up.

She runs her hand through the back of your hair, mussing it, the lazy drag of her nails, her heel right to your lower back. The light from the stove is doing her wonders, gold catching off the paleness of her skin. "Make yourself useful, I think, like on your knees."

You raise an eyebrow at her.

"Don't give me that look" - and Irene shrugs her shoulders back - the shirt falling more, the flat plane of her stomach - this jut of bone, the pretty contour of her ribcage, the stark outline of her body just under a few too many buttons.

"It just comes off a bit greedy," you say, letting the words twist, playing with the hem of her skirt between your fingers.

"Maybe because you reward that kind of behavior," Irene retorts immediately.

"You’re spoiled," you laugh. "That’s all. Just spoiled. Life must be great for you, do nothing and let someone else do everything."

It's another one of those, 'you fucking like it', and Irene smirks like the shape of her mouth here is foreplay enough alone. She might be onto something. Like the easy back-and-forth - how she's sharp as razor wire underneath you - a double-edged sword if the weapon knew the sheath.

You lean in. She places her palm flush to your heart, like she can measure exactly how long you’re drawing this out with its steady thud. You know she’ll repay it in turn: she thinks it's hot to jerk around with your emotions before she fucks you, like playing roulette with her orgasm, yours - a slow crawl, a nice burn. Her fingers curl.

"And here you said I was ungovernable."

Irene huffs, slightly. "You are still fucking talking."

"If I shut up, will you scream for me, sweetheart?"

You run a hand up her waist. There's this whiny intake of air. Then Irene says, soft and slow: "earn it."

(Maybe you shouldn’t keep enabling her. Therein lies the problem. Okay, so maybe you like this particular problem.)

But she's tugging your tie out of the way before the words leave her lips. The distance you have between is scant, which seems to be fine, with the way she leans in as the last syllable drops off her tongue, kissing the corner of your mouth, impatient.

It takes approximately zero convincing to drop to your knees; that much has not changed. You glance up at her. Your hands curve to her waist, sliding up. It's funny - how your fingertips just brush under the billowy fabric, how the taut skin over her ribcage fills the length of your palms, and then a touch further. Perfect proportions, as Irene usually is; you're on your knees and that's by design.

Your thumb rolls over the outline of her nipple and it peaks, draws into a quick, rosy point beneath the flimsy cotton, like an open invitation.

Irene smiles lazily, gorgeous - and sinks back again against the countertop. Her feet land on your shoulders. The nylon in the bend of her ankle slides soft at your throat, gentle. "Waiting." She sighs a little. "Still, waiting."

You press a kiss over the nylon, the fabric underneath, teeth barred and tongue pushing. "You said slow," and the rest of you might as well catch on fire, just for borrowing a moment’s composure. You can see yourself bringing her down to the floor, the kitchen tiles, spreading her legs and fucking her into the linoleum, scratching them up, making her cum as many times as she asked. But there's this heavy drag down your back, the nerves blooming. "So let me. I won't get distracted," you murmur - or don't, really - into the softness between her hip and waist, along her navel, the tight planes of her tummy. "I promise, I'll get there, baby."

She hesitates. The breath she holds back is a telltale pause.

And the first thing that really sinks into Irene's skin, besides yourself, is this: every last shred of hesitation she was waiting on, the self-control? Now gone. You've done nothing but serve its loss. She seems to sense her power; and in one blink, the act is apex. In a beat her nerves are recovered, and the nerves are fuel. A natural killer, an organic toxin, that same smile curving her lips, a pointed glint to her eyes.

"Baby, your mouth," Irene insists, her knees falling to the sides, "open. And yes," and a pause, or maybe an addendum, a double meaning in the downtime, "to be perfectly frank: free for me to use. To come and go as I please."

"Haven't left my fucking mind for a minute, sweetheart," you offer up right back, not bothering with restraint.

Irene clicks her tongue. "But yet, you don't ever do exactly as you're told-"

She hiccups, or something close to it - because you grab her ass, bring her hips closer, until you can sink your nails into the firm give of flesh.

Irene looks down at you, eyes just wide, and - ah.

She sighs. Sighs because she knows - you can find god in everything; that’s the goal, that’s the creed - and maybe Irene wasn’t your original way, maybe you were always meant for a different sort of holy figure, but the words you choose are doctrine in the end; that first prayer you got down on your knees and said to her was no less truthful for its betrayal. There are rules to it: this is faith, the religion. This is her. You belong to Irene, and she belongs to you.

"Um. Did you just tear my stockings?" she asks, like a sudden realization, her mouth still dropping.

You nod, because, well, yeah, and pull her panties to the side. "Permission, forgiveness, et cetera."

In lieu of a reprimand or a rebuke, she lets a shockingly pretty little moan when her pussy gets stretched by a finger, two - and they're wet, slippery, easier than the lace had ever expected, and she's already so plush, red and rosy. Irene has always gotten wet quickly, with your fingers, your cock, your mouth on her - and her head falls back in one languorous stretch. The tightness around your finger is dizzying. You'll never grow tired of watching her: a sudden shift, the spine so pretty when arched, the pulse of blood under her thighs, the fluttering of her cunt as it comes to the very precipice of letting you in.

"Do you understand me, baby?" she's asking you, and her breath seems to pick up and the muscle flutters again.

You waggle your eyebrows and lean in, and whisper against her skin, "better than anything."

Your mouth attaches to her clit and never lets go. You fuck her, all sweet, on two fingers. Down to the last knuckle. You curl your fingertips, and she's gasping. The scent of her drives you fucking crazy; this is what paradise has always tasted like, and heaven's the press of her thighs - your name spilling from Irene's mouth. She gets wetter, and wetter - you lap as it floods out of her, down her thighs. You lick it, taste the salt and her bitterness and her arousal, how her pussy grows slick in an instant, swollen under your touch, wanting, aching. Her heels press over your shoulders and dig in, tight.

When you look up over the tight spasms in her diaphragm, you realize she's got the shirt unbuttoned, finally. Fabric spilling down to the granite, skin and bra and sheen; you wrap your arms around the perfect curves of her thighs, the nylon shifting soft on your hands and bringing her closer, hitching up to your shoulders. This is only part one of what you owe Irene - the easy part, actually: you can see her clench in the same breath that she's straining - the need and want to fill her up a sin, the wet smack as her folds are pried apart by the flick of your tongue, the sounds of your hands, the desperation. She'll want, and you'll get, until she can barely handle it. Until the tremors overwhelm her, until it is too much and it never will be, ever enough - until she's left so gorgeous like that, shivering.

The kettle's got the pitch to its scream now, and the volume. The sound makes you grind your teeth. Lick harder, suck longer, kiss a bit deeper - her clit, the pink tip of your tongue pushing in past the folds, between the ring, deep and heavy. Fingers moving slow, almost absent-minded, flitting across her breasts, pinching a nipple - Irene groans. The metal rattles louder, louder.

The shirt's rumpled, tangled, bunched up between Irene's elbows. You lean your teeth to the crease of her hips. You lick, the smell filling your nostrils, her fingers threaded in your hair - holding you where she wants you to be:

"And fuck, ah, do you, oh god- fucking do you- have an," she sighs, trembling as the movement of your jaw sends her shuddering, as your mouth runs and your hands open her legs. She pants. "Oh, darling. Have an honest-" she laughs and the sound pitches too, "-idea, I mean-"

Irene has started grinding against you. Your heart is thundering.

"-of what I'm-"

A moan finally breaks from her lips, so disarmingly beautiful. Irene grabs for the edge of the granite counter; she can hardly seem to make out what she wants. Her orgasm is cresting higher, each flick of your tongue and soft sound of you bringing her there, near. You like that she needs you, like that the word 'insatiable' becomes an insufficient assessment. You push, you move - her hands tug you. You taste her: a warmth, the depth, the pulsing.

"-what you're" - a gulp, a gulping swallow - the fridge keeps beeping, the front door sticks, and it'd be so perfectly quiet if not for the fucking tea kettle. It keeps boiling and boiling and you are drinking your fill, drowning. Her skin smells fucking delicious. You can feel her heat pooling. "Fucking, o-oh, fuck- fucking doing-"

You smile into it. Against her messy, quivering cunt. You are: unashamedly smug.

And fuck. She's gone, swept away, carried off, the pressure of your lips sending her crashing back down with a moan - the kitchen still buzzing and the steam a bit of a haze, and you haven't even finished bringing her through the dying breaths of her orgasm before she's gasping, pulling you back up on your feet:

"I need you, I- right now. Up here-"

Irene tries to grab for your neck again. She doesn't seem to mind her own lack of strength, though. In any other circumstance you'd think she'd look a bit pathetic: her shoulders curved, chin resting in a hand, a absent, pleasantly confused grin, legs and hair a complete unmitigated mess - and here: her lipstick wiped, mostly smudged, her wet, glistening thighs-

"Tell me," you say, and a thousand possibilities are imagined. To get inside of her, feel her nails dragging across your chest, her teeth at your throat, her moan as you slide into the very heat of her - fuck, you cannot stop. She's got you spinning and you’ll gladly lose this particular battle; a typical Bae Irene ending. "Please, tell me."

The water boiling over has begun to crack; and the first tendrils of steam begin curling into the air.

"God," says Irene, shaking with her body so desperate, her hand still grasping you back. The look in her eyes seems so beautifully wrecked, but in no hurry to show it. She smiles, because she wants that over anything. "Don't you fucking listen?"

She grins.

"Ah." Irene shakes her head, pulls your head back, staring, but does not rise to a sit, just slides herself out. One leg kicks, one, then two, from the corner of your eyes: her nylons shredding down their long seams. You're on your feet; you're not really standing, but then you have no real bearings to start with. Your cock is throbbing.

She just scoots on out, and shuts off the stove, and sets the kettle a step back.

"Maybe," you say, pressing your thumb to the seam of your pants. You could probably die of lust right now and have no regrets. "Maybe not. I think I need more convincing."

It would probably also help if your thoughts could stop racing.

"Huh."

She turns - though not with the skirt. The hem has fallen to the floor. A puddle at her ankles. She's only slightly out of breath; the wet between her legs gleams. The slick, smooth fabric of her lingerie sticks to the swollen outline of her pussy. Her fingers dip down, playfully, so she's leaning over the counter. She tugs, and it presses and plays and sticks at her center. You're obsessed, half-crazy from it. Her expression twists; it's fucking bliss. She smiles, one breath, then two - the house settles. You cannot stop staring; you can't. Your mouth feels hot and dry and sticky, wet from her cum, and your pants, you can't quite breathe and the view's only getting better: Irene naked, against the counter, the jostle of her breasts as she strums herself, as her breathing catches and rises, and those nails digging deep into her clit as her eyes drift shut-

She's biting her lower lip - but she looks at you and - stops, her toes pressed to the linoleum.

The moment is suspended, and suddenly the words do not fit anywhere in your throat.

"Want it?"

"Fuck," you exhale, and maybe she isn't just asking that out loud, she's the embodiment of the fucking question: the need between her legs so vivid. She laughs again, licks the taste of herself off her fingertip, sucks at the curve of her nails - she touches the tip of her tongue to the very edge of her upper lip. Her smile, in its sharpness and precision, remains unswayed.

"Bend me over?"

And then, very quietly, and without so much as a scoff in disappointment-

"Fucking christ," you mutter, and nearly fall in a heap towards her.

It's borderline unhealthy, that this happens as often as it does: sex that leaves you breathless, sex that shivers across every inch of your fucking skin, sex that aches afterward, that drives your lungs to strain, a moan trapped forever just behind her teeth. Her hips were either made for your rough palms, or you’ve worn them down to your grip. Softened all the edges. Her thighs open to you like you own her. The ridge down the center of her back, your mouth trailing down every vertebrae - her pussy. The inside, the depth - and everything she doesn't mean to let out: all these little notes she's learning with each thrust of your cock into her, and you think you should just say yes, give in.

Let it go, and just trust.

Sex as routine? A repetition of desire. What is routine is that, with Irene:

There's always a new discovery. She has you when she's bent over and you're pounding her knees into the cabinets. She has you on the floor with her. She has you when she's bent over and you're eating her out again, then on top, and on your couch, and with her legs kicked high on the shower wall, and - you fuck her, you find room for her on the bathroom sink. You cum all over her stomach and she just smiles dreamily. You fuck her until she’s almost sobbing, and then you're saying her name like she has your life and your attention, for everything and nothing at all. And after an hour of letting her have your patience, and your dick, your face pressed against her throat, and her nails deep in your back - you tell her she needs to stay.

It’s a hell of an admission, apropos of nothing.

"Oh? Say that one more time for me," and she's half-covered, the comforter pulled up over her the gentle slope of her breasts, the bedsheet tucked around her waist. "Again," and you have no real use left, you're certain. The most recent orgasms have nearly shattered you both in half: Irene can barely focus on your mouth, where your hips had slammed hers into the bed and - you are pretty certain - definitely did crack her skull right off the headboard.

"Yeah," you mutter face down into the duvet, "you should stay."

"Then it's decided," Irene says out loud, rather victorious, and drops a hand down the span of your back. She's there still, fingering her own cum from inside her pussy. The look in her eyes, sly. The message in them could not be any clearer: what an excellent suggestion, since you both know she'll have no shortage of reasons to keep coming back, anyway.

It all feels rather satisfying, pretending not to like the girl. It feels good not caring where she is at night.

As she had said, like an affirmation, a real statement: "this thing, between us, is so uncomplicated. It's so easy."

And she’s right:

She fucks, and you cum. She looks pretty. That's what she wants to show off, she does and does it well, and as long as you don't pay attention and pretend like it doesn't matter to you, it's an absolute fucking win-win. That's it: that's exactly why, when she calls, when she comes around and asks about dinner, you ask how far you're expected to go for her. What'll earn you her gratitude? Her pleasure's a quick hit, and it's free - if she asks nicely, if you're up for it, if it isn't the same bullshit, same scene - and the night's never a big deal to waste. That's her script; there's your line:

"What's your endgame here," is a thing you're always asking.

She tips her head, her hair falling off her shoulder, that old cliché, those large brown eyes, batting and fluttering. Just curious, but also to draw attention; what a killer pair she has, they're gorgeous. Your eyebrows raise, and your mouth falls open as her fingers dance over your chest, playing with the collar of the button-up that you aren't entirely convinced doesn't belong to her.

"Who says I have to have my mind made up right this second?" is Irene's usual comeback - a favorite - followed by another favor, then an expectation. Then, as your hands fall to the small of her back: "for you, the point is probably the chase," she reminds you, a low little murmur.

Your heart thrums with the little spike of anger. Then again, your cock's feeling the yearn ahead of everything else already; it’s a bad habit, and not getting anything you need. Or, there's a tumble, a mutual surrender in this somewhere.

"Sure, says you."

You kiss her so easily. Run your fingers through her hair and drink down her sighs, pull away and pretend. Pretend to dislike how pretty she looks when you do things like this. Pretend like you haven't missed her, that there is no desire, not to run your touches down the back of her knees, or sink your hands into her perfect little ass.

"Didn't need me to," she points out, the lick into your mouth. And her finger curls right under your chin, nails a pretty, perfect oval shape, manicured and soft at your throat, that way she loves - the angle intimate. "And yet. Not stopping me, are you?"

Which you're not. Neither of you is fool enough. You don't hate yourself, she doesn't hate the truth. So, whatever, sometimes you give in to it - if you could call this a 'means to an end', you suppose that might just about cover the ground, because her plans, her reasons don't matter to you, and vice-fucking versa: just to find an answer, or to find a few dozen, and that's enough.

You're no good at love; she says she's not looking for it either, no heartfelt romantic shit to get a tear out of you, she'd tell you at the start:

"Let's just play it by ear, how about that? I could surprise you. You could surprise yourself."

(But fuck: Irene's surprisingly full of surprises.

Take when she texts a few days later.

Hey, a blip on the screen, an innocuous string of numbers you refuse to mark a contact. There's too much power, and leverage. She isn't asking.

It's been too long.

A winky emoji.

I think you’re able to do me a big favor.

A period. It is imperative. She would tell you, with an authority she certainly isn't trying to front or to prove: she likes her punctuation.

I could really, really do with that same favor that you gave me back when we went to that housewarming party, you remember. It'd really be the best thing you've done with your evening if you could help me out. Call it the nice thing to do.

Is your vibrator out of batteries? you text back.

You are a genius.

Thanks.

Let’s go somewhere.

Just this once. But dinner's on you.

A selfie. Slippery fingers, glued to her pussy, running through the glisten-

Oh. Actually, it'll probably be twice.)

So. ‘Surprise yourself’ was, naturally, the key.

It's difficult to have a notion as to how exactly you might surprise yourself - but here you are a little later; she's dressed and in heels, and that's a relief, or rather a delight: this woman looks devastating with her hair down. But still, like this: the hem to her slacks that draws her thighs down to an elegant peak, the nice blouse she's got her buttons done to the top, and one less: this cleavage isn't wholly visible but the shadow is still a tease, her thin jacket only pinning in how her waist is cut into such a deep arc. Irene had asked if this looked too formal, and the second response in your brain was to ask why: her normal wardrobe's worse - less clothing, more fucking exposed. Then again, you might not mind watching Irene work so hard if it meant your hands get full quicker-

"That is absolutely no way to put it," she admonishes.

"Come again, Mistress?"

"Ass," she mutters. It's not even a reprimand so much as an agreement, you can see where the smile is trying not to crack open. "No," she corrects, and smiles anyway. She pushes a lock of her hair behind her ear, "I just mean- fuck you and your terrible metaphors. Anyway, we should go. You drive, my car is a total mess."

You take her out. There's dinner. There's drinks. It's something like a date, because that's what she wants. The hostess smiles politely. The waiter raises a suggestive eyebrow at your fingertips grazing Irene's leg underneath the table, and you both ignore the interest. You pass him her credit card without comment when you go to settle up. When you stroll about, the sun is going down and the dying light paints her skin orange, yellow, and red. She tells a story about work. You manage to get a few of your own. Your fingers loop through hers and the action makes her do this lovely smile.

So the gist of it is: you have a fling, her name is Irene, there’s some vague cohabitation occurring, and - oh, she's an absolutely fantastic lay.

It's the sort of thing that on the surface level sounds like a total and complete win, even for all its contradictions, flaws, and pitfalls. She fucks, and you're willing. She looks pretty. You keep her content. That's enough, as a friend-with-benefits; more of the benefits than anything else, she always reminds you. And every now and then, when Irene starts making demands of your time, of your availability - making plans, making reservations, making the expectation known that the two of you have a standing obligation, ‘benefits’ penciled into your schedules every Tuesday and every weekend (and Thursday, too, if neither of you is booked) - she suddenly becomes more complicated than she should have any rights or reason being. There's a kind of security you take away from it.

Irene's holding her clutch in the parking lot, posture perfect. The sky's on fire and the setting sun is burning down the horizon all around her.

"Can we do it in your car?" she's asking, totally nonchalant.

"What?" "Sex," Irene repeats, like you didn’t understand the question. Her expression is bright, seamless. She holds her wrist behind her back, and twists a little on one heel. "I want to get you off."

This is a case study; you’re walking, breathing empirical data. You’ve gone from wondering to knowing about what they say in regards to women of a certain age. The appetite. The inexplicable desperation. It used to be a joke. Maybe it's because men in their 30s are unusually relaxed with their dating life, or all of their friends are talking about wedding rings, kids, a white picket fence - with life a non-event to handle with finesse and a delicate grip. Or: maybe Irene simply isn't complicated in the ways people seem to expect her to be. She’s needier for sex than usual, for starters. "Are you expecting some urgent business meeting, or an important call - any sort of personal news, maybe - like, in the next half hour?"

"Are you serious," you manage. Fuck her, actually.

"I don't know why, I just feel like you might appreciate the cramped quarters. We can make out while you cum and stuff."

You almost snort, but - her hips have that sway. The door’s unlocked. You stare. The purse settles on the passenger's seat. This girl is so stupidly pretty.

"You, uh, wanna get on top?" you ask, voice already slightly drying at the sound.

Irene reaches over and traces your jaw. Her thumb feels lovely pressed to the seam of your lips, rubbing over them slowly. Her mouth is this gorgeous color and you just can’t stop staring. "So cute. What’s your best guess, sherlock?" She pats the roof of the car, gently. "Get the fuck in."

Irene is, at her most shameless, a list of demands: give me your fingers, touch my clit, do it now; take my wrists, fuck me faster; don't you dare fucking cum - there's no rush here, so put in the effort. You have a basic idea of where you're both headed, and the situation demands you to, um, obey. The sound of her wet cunt fills the tight confines of the car.

"Fuck, Irene."

At her most elegant, she's pretty much the same, but she fucks like a total dream:

"Slow, yes," she'll coo into your ear, in the early stages, before her head starts falling back and her chest rises, and all the sweet notes from the back of her tongue get driven to the fore, and there are moans instead of directions, groans and cries. "Feel me. Deeper. Fuck, babe, just like that."

Her nails drag deep, and that's not usually the plan - the start is fast and easy; her pussy drips like she's soaking a cloth, a fresh layer every second, and a clench that swallows every thrust; and somehow the friction's good enough that if you stick around and keep your focus, you get Irene begging for mercy by the end of it, just to savor and relish the sensation, the motion of your body into hers.

"There," and her eyes flutter, "yes. You are so fucking hard for me." She leans in, kisses the shell of your ear: "you’re fucking stretching out this little pussy, baby, you know that?"

"Jesus. Fuck, please-"

"Should we? Should I let you?" She clenches down, "fill me up, babe? You think you're worth the privilege?"

"If you'd let me - Irene, the things I could do," you don't breathe, "jesus fucking christ."

And she looks at you with wide, honey-smudged eyes. Pretty even when fucked; especially so. Her fingers get wrapped in your collar and she’s nodding her head in rhythm with her quick little bounce. The snapping of her hips. Up and down, and up and down like she’d be insulted if you didn’t drain your balls into her perfect little womb right then and there. She says don’t do this, don’t do that - and then she fucks you like you’re supposed to.

"Yeah, that’s right, be a good boy for me," her mouth whispers, even though there is no one else in her car, you're pretty sure. Her voice is like a vice, just you, with her hips, her hot little hands pushing you down so she's riding the top of your head. You can hear her dripping down into the space, a new leak.

"How're you gonna deal with it when I'm filling your tight cunt?" You thumb at her ass, squeeze. "This pretty, round ass? Want me to cum inside you every which way, huh? Marking up my territory?"

You hear her stutter on a reply, as her pussy gives a particularly strong flex, another contraction.

"All those wet loads, dripping out your cunt, down your thighs... on your lips... you gonna taste every last one, princess?"

She has a face like she wants to hurt you for that one, the moniker - you have a sneaking suspicion there's nobility in her blood, laid deep somewhere in her veins, another lifetime lived far from this one: she'll have a predilection for thrones, diamonds, queendoms to rule. And if that were true - well, you'd be downright lucky if she consented to an audience, even less entitled to her hand. She's out of your league regardless. Or maybe, she's the furthest thing from royalty and she just knows the script better than anybody. Kneel, she'll say, and you find yourself obliging; give me your mouth, your fingers, she'll ask, and you're compelled. It's all ingrained.

"What was that?" she asks, incredulous, riding your cock so hard the seat shakes instead.

"I said: this cunt, christ-"

You bring her closer to your face, have to feel that clasp of heat with every stroke - and when it is so fucking deep, her hips lock up, clamped, thighs quivering - you just hold her in place, give her a few breaths, let the satisfaction really sink in, even if she's already moaning.

"Well, I guess you got me there, huh." Her mouth gives her away, the lopsided-grin. "Yeah. So cum, give it." And then it twists. Her face looks so beautiful in distress, and you're certain you've had that thought many times since: if the situation demands it - maybe it would be just fine to push a little bit more? It's a neediness that doesn't go understated, even when Irene's more whining for it: like, the fuck are you waiting for, her tits out, panting, sweating, cursing and moaning at the slow drag through her slippery muscle, a grip like satin, like velvet.

You’re a total mess:

"Breathtaking, the faces you make for me" - "you look so good, like that, so handsome" - "has anyone ever fucked you this good?"

It’s official. She'll have to scrape you off the leather.

And as if to add insult to injury, Irene’s hands come up to her hair, holding it up into a messy bundle above her head. There’s a tilt of her chin, a bite into her lip. She’s bouncing fast, taking your cock deeper on each twist, and it’s all very performative. Fucking Irene is as visual an experience as it is visceral, because chiseled into her figure, the lithe frame, are these model-esque proportions - like she’s not actually five foot nothing in her socks.

(A beautiful little paradox. She’s showing off here. She’s showing off, simply because she can.)

"And you’re the one always calling me greedy," she breathes, like the punchline, as she takes the next inch, the wet slapping of skin. There's heat. So much fucking heat - she's got a pulse that pulls you forward and won't let go, your balls hitting her ass and thighs soaked, so red and plush and beautiful, a softness that takes a second and an elbow's reach and, fuck. Her thighs on the dashboard. "You've been-"

Your palms fit into the curve of her ass. How a small, fragile, dainty thing like her can have so much to grab onto remains a mystery and a fucking miracle.

"-a bit of a prick, honestly, for a minute-"

But she's so responsive - and you want to wring it out of her, really, a desire to destroy and savor, even when that sounds a little wrong and too close to sacrilege - you really ought to just call her the ultimate fantasy: she has the cutest tits, soft creamy thighs, tightly wound curves and a sexy-as-sin attitude; and when she sits heavy on your cock, wiggling her hips in a circle, you lose the plot and a little bit of your mind.

"-have to say, it's been getting to me."

"Here's hoping it doesn't give," you grumble as your arms tense and your back aches, your shoulders strain. Irene seems unconvinced, and she usually is, but the drive is relentless.

"Then you'll have to hurry up," the rake of her fingernails across your neck, "won't you?" and she is too slick and so eager, "because you’re gonna cum for me, sweetheart, just let it all out, baby." Her cunt and her heels in the upholstery and the stinging welts draw you deeper-

Your hand braces around the center console.

She has her lips on your temple, your hairline: "I’m imagining how my pussy will look, all creamy and used and pretty - all because you fucked it nice and hard and raw - no matter how many times I fuck myself with my fingers, I'll keep feeling the ghost of this fucking perfect cock."

The noise that leaves your lips is a full, throaty, ragged groan, your muscles shaking and skin burning. "Irene, god," you sputter out; it's not super attractive, you think.

Irene kisses the juncture of your shoulder and neck like it’s music to her ears, her jaw against your jaw:

"You've got to stop edging me, love, my little pussy was made to get stretched by your cock, show me-"

You thrust in deep.

"Fuck."

"Oh," she whispers, eyes hooded and lashes sweeping low, an awe so thick to her voice. "Such a good boy for me - now. Make me cum, yes - make me cum all over you - mhm-"

You jerk your hips again - your pants hanging around your thighs, her blouse pushed up around her waist. You've twisted and knotted the fabric over and over into something you can pull or hold onto - it's not clear to you yet which idea's more pressing.

Because there's no breathing room. You need to twist your hips just to fuck into her - her lips are parted with this insatiable moaning, and it's sweet and pretty and filthy. She wraps one knee higher. There's the lock to your ankle, but she's grabbing the lever and trying to pull your seat down, the rest of it; you absolutely let her. All this in heels that would be impressive without a tight wet pussy pressing down on the length of your cock, begging for what seems like an endless number of thrusts into that delicious heat, the perfect clutch. She rides you rough: the leather beneath your knees shifting with the constant scuffle. Her elbows bent, a thumb grazing her tits, pushing up the silk and the lace.

Her soft, pale skin is spilling all over you, her limbs finding purchase as her mouth slides against yours on a new rhythm of need and want: "that's the thing, right? You're such a delight when you put your mind to it." She's pressing a kiss against your temple - her tone, this intimacy, a hotness between her thighs that leaves you breathless, dumb - it's the only sort of inescapable validation that might suit.

You had the perfect view as she shrugged the jacket, unbuttoned the blouse, sat the bra over it, just undid her slacks: this perfection, laid bare, exposed in your passenger seat with her tits squeezed in both palms. Then it was her hand tugging at the zipper to your pants.

So - you're fucking her harder than you have any business doing. Her nails are digging trenches in the skin of your forearms and you have the slightest sense of everything she has, wants, demands; you've had her under you, bent her in half, folded at the corner of your bed. You’ve fucked her with your cock so far into the slick-dripping hole of her cunt until she can't stop cumming - or begging - or the Irene-equivalent.

"There you go," she says into your throat, like it's nothing, and sags a little further into your chest. "There we go," she repeats. Her brow is glistening with sweat, and you kiss it: hot, and a little bitter. You can't help it.

You're fucking her harder than she can handle. You're filling her. She's stuffed to the fucking brim with your cock, bulging at the folds of her insides.

And, christ, her fucking waist. She is so small, so fragile-looking. You wrap both hands around her middle, and as her hips grind forward, meeting the roll, she grabs your wrists, holds your hands up her ribs and gets, and gets - oh, just where you fucking left her. Your knuckles are left digging to the silky skin, bruises dotting purple across her back, her neck, her tummy and her thighs, every surface - you're grasping and claiming what she has to give you, just a hint. There's a million and one ways to love, to give back, to please a partner - but you have one goal: you're not an artist, you're not a philosopher, or a poet - so you’ll leave physical marks, reminders, of everything you've done and will do. You’ll make her cum. Just hold her still and make her cum again and again and again. The weight, the lift. If she asked, you would. Fuck. You would. She rides your cock and rocks you into the upholstery of the passenger-side chair. She sinks down and presses her mouth to the edge of yours, just shy, her own teeth pulling at her bottom lip-

"Your cock feels," and here Irene takes the moment for a heavy, contented sigh. "-ah, fucking unbelievable. Your fucking cock, jesus."

Her voice is… it's really so dreamy. The praise does strange things: you reach down and pull her thighs so they tighten at your waist. There are no illusions here, she's found something worth chasing. The bare-boned desperation drives her insides wild, you can feel it. The clench, the pulse, the absolute slutty-slick dripping, a real, honest, aching cunt, warm and clamped at the hilt of your cock - it's obscene, and your patience is stretching paper-thin. You aren't asking any questions; she's not taking them.

It’s just you and this petite, absolutely stunning, heartbreakingly gorgeous girl sitting in your lap and working herself on you like a doll, and- oh. She really does look great. It's impossible to look away.

The windows are fogged, and her cunt feels divine as she runs you further into your car seat. Her hips snap up, back down - the soft drag and then the cinching flutter. The inside of her, a total fucking delicacy. One of your hands slides across her back, counting the rise-and-falls of her spine. One, two, three, and so on. Her lips are flush at your throat. You feel her whimper.

It’s the most perfect noise you've ever heard.

"Baby," she mouths at your collarbone, her movements becoming more spastic, more erratic. "I can feel you throbbing."

The encroaching dark keeps threatening the corner of your vision, so much tighter each time.

"You're going to make me," you're gritting through your teeth - this feels a little insane, a little irrational. "Irene you- you’re going to make me fucking cum."

"Oh?" Irene’s reply is immediate. She slams herself down on your cock, hard. "Then cum."

Your patience is truly nothing at this point. There is not a single breath left inside her either: the heavy swell of her chest is proof enough, those eyes fluttering shut, the angle shifting as her ass meets your thighs. "Seriously, I'm going to fucking fill you, and it is gonna slip all down the back of your legs - Irene - sweetheart, I’m going-"

Her fingers curl behind your head. "Cum," and she groans, "I know- I'm here. Take it. Use this perfect little pussy, I want to feel you cum." and you pull the pace up into a frantic tempo. The metal beneath your back creaks with the strain; the bounce of her ass against your groin. The moan, it pitches: a need, a lust, and she is rolling, rutting her body in circles on top of you, a wild gasp and then a beautiful cry, almost in pure unbridled ecstasy.

The angle shifts and - fuck. You’re able to fuck up into her so easily. Her cunt is hot and soft in all the right places, wrapped around your cock, tight and snug like she was made for you. Every drag of slicked skin and clenched muscle sends you both reeling.

"Irene," you barely say, and you're cumming, you’re fucking filling her up with cum - the only possible endgame. You can’t stop fucking into her even though she's just been fucked senseless, stuffed with your cock: little helpless noises, squeals and yelps like they're being tugged out of her. She goes limp on you, and then she collapses, shivering and whimpering with every deep-bore pulse: you're going to mark every inch of her body, claim every part of her soul.

"Oh my god." A groan. Another. It's coming off her like a wave - like a river, really, you're drowning. "It is so, so fucking hot. Your cum, in my pussy..." She trails off.

Her tight cunt twitches: pulsing with every motion. She squeezes down - hard. It takes a great effort for you not to let out a loud, embarrassing whimper. Your fingers dig into her ass, her hips, steadying her grind.

But you're looking right into her eyes when she falls apart, too, that long, tensing shudder, the gasping groan - fuck - because she feels exactly like everything that you've done, you know: Irene's tight cunt has kept your cock perfectly in place. She was just waiting for the spill of it before the final, hardest crest. The smell's in the air and the haze is all through her expression and, god, you want her, you could just sink a million words into that, every possible adoration and every bit of yourself and you still wouldn't be getting the entire story; just fuck - you can never not be fucking her, never not want to have her riding your lap, moaning out and falling and dragging every part of your body deeper-

"Mmmmm," Irene lets out, soft and satisfied, a tiny whimper in the way that she goes all soft around your cock and comes down and presses a wet, tired kiss at the base of your throat.

"Mmmm-m?"

"Thanks, I think." Her blouse is falling off one shoulder, the material crumpled. There are creases all across it. She's biting on her lip, flushed. "Thanks for that."

It has to be said, here - because you know, because the sun is setting on your open window and your arm is snug at Irene’s waist and neither of you even have to mutter a word to acknowledge the fact that it will inevitably rise across your living room carpet again.

Irene is everything you might have been running from, everything you’ve ever chased - and you’d never ever stand a chance.

Greedy, however, just isn't the right word for it. Not really.

It's the way she leans in when you kiss. The way she fidgets. The way her tongue brushes across her bottom lip. So no - greedy isn't quite the right way to say it. It's more: instinctual.

She's this not-so-subtle tincture of want and desire, in its most basic form - and that makes this all so dangerous, isn't that right, miss? Because want isn't something to toy with; want is, by design, something measured in its inability to be indulged.

(And for the record, your car hasn’t even moved from the lot. You were supposed to get frozen yogurt but that's looking less likely, judging by the way Irene's fingers are tapping lightly across your shoulder, your own clamping down on her chin.)

It’s just so indulgent. Irene hasn’t left your lap, blithely warming your cock for you. Stealing kisses while the day’s last light bleeds low over the buildings. Soft sighs. Whimpers, mewls, muffled little keens of, "oh, oh, please." You trace the edges of her, where your body becomes hers, and her movements are fluid - supple and knowing and just this side of eager.

The car feels now even more cramped and narrow than advertised, the sweat in your skin starting to bloom. The musk of sex, a creeping heat: "go ahead," you rasp out.

She nods, a helpless dip, and that comes with a sigh, "yes, fuck, right there," her cunt squeezing, a hot, slick little velvety clench; there's something about being buried inside her and seeing her fall apart. This slow rock and build-up. All the hard edges worn to a perfect point. Her dark eyes are glowing, her clever little tongue darting to her lip.

You hold her, slumping together in the front seat. The leather squeaks with the gentle shifts, the slides. The color rising in her cheeks. She likes when your breath catches; her smile goes sharp, a hint of teeth: it's very obvious that she is very very drunk - on control, on cock, it doesn't seem to matter.

A beat passes before the architecture returns to her muscles. She's sitting up, and with your hand firmly cupping her ass, and your teeth pressed to the flat of her breasts. "You," she gasps, the most unironic and unexpected reply. The corner of her eyes is still glistening, still dazed, still blissful. "Don't play dumb. Fuck - no, don't stop."

"Sorry, say that one more time for me, miss."

"You- ah." She grins, and her hip shoves your cock out with a filthy wet sound in accompaniment.

The air of the car is sticky, and her slick is still covering your waist, so the discomfort makes the little groan extra appreciative, anyway.

"Fucking god-" she grumbles, and the whine that escapes is an order for attention.

You take her jaw with both hands. Pull her, and look her right in her eyes and kiss her. Not slow. Not gentle. Thoroughly, so the tip of her tongue reaches the very roof of her mouth. She ends up with her back shoved roughly into the dash, and your fingers tangled through her hair and tugging. And her laugh turns to a whimper, her eyes a half-closed - you fingerfuck her cunt open. Thumb pressed tight to the clit. Two, and the palm of your hand smacks between her thighs, resonating all throughout the car. It's your own hot cum coating your knuckles and drip-dropping off your wrist, so she's melting and needy. The evening's passing, her hands go to her bra, so she's twisting and slipping, the orgasms strung together like the pearls on her bracelet.

Her fingers squeeze yours, then let go.

She licks into your mouth. "Jesus, you're way too good at that," is what Irene murmurs, when you're both just left breathless, half-shivering, merely recycling the same torrid air.

"Let’s get you home, princess," you kiss into her skin, joking. "Before curfew."

She sits up. "Shut the fuck up."

"Sorry," you lie, smug - not sorry at all. "Can't help it. You're too pretty when you get like that."

"What, when I'm cumming for you? When your cock is inside me? When you're fucking my brain to mush?"

Her heels clack to the ground.

"You’re gross," she adds, and shoves your arm.

"You like it," you say to her, "don't lie."

"Because I’m just this sweet innocent thing, right? I can't be held accountable for anything. Look at you, fucking me like this - corrupting me." A flutter of eyelash, and she leans forward to meet your eyes. She's adjusting the straps of her bra. She's a picture-perfect pinup girl. "Is that really what gets you off?"

"It's not bad." You let yourself soak in it, for a second, just staring at her. "The whole naive, helpless schoolgirl act. It's a classic for a reason."

Irene snickers. It's sweet-bitter, and that's fitting. You like how her blush is red and stubborn.

"Goodness," she says, like you can't see the dust of a smile, of a smirk, take shape on her swollen mouth. "Okay sure, let’s get into that; say my dad is sitting up with worry." Her head cocks, playful. "My family probably sent a search party out for me," and her laugh's lighter than air, warm, a few shades shy of ridiculous - if you thought that the sound could make you as much of a fool as she does - then yeah, that’s pretty accurate.

"What - like in a rocking chair, with his shotgun and everything?"

"Yeah, you’re so fucking dead. He's so going to shoot you on sight when he sees the absolute state you're returning me in. His precious little girl, " Irene picks at her bra, tucks herself back in, adjusts her hair. The last of her hairpins drops, falls to the dash. It rolls back, between your legs. "Pull the trigger and turn you into swiss cheese. Last rites, eulogy, the full nine yards." Her makeup's smudged - red lipstick, the tip of her nose - and you just don't feel like pointing it out yet.

"Cremation, most likely?"

"Eh, who knows," she smiles, and now, more than ever, there's not a sign of hesitation in her face, her voice, the light and effortless way she drapes across the interior, stretches. "You’re so cute though. Maybe he'll give you a chance and let you run."

It hadn't really occurred to you until you arrived onto the front steps of Irene’s apartment and watched her sink back against the door, exhaling softly in the fluorescent light, her eyes heavy, but you have a sneaking suspicion that you're doing everything completely out of order.

You aren't in some trope-addled tv drama, and Irene isn't your childhood-friend or your slowburn-material, someone with a sentimental backstory.

Maybe in a parallel universe, some twisted alternate ending, where she's in this long, silky wedding gown, both sides of the aisle are watching you commit sins the way people can't resist doing in those fuck-it stories, all heat and sex and dopamine without remorse - but not now, not yet.

(Probably - probably not ever, and if that's a cop-out you can't help it. Because isn’t it silly, the things the people will do. Pretending to not be in love, all for the sake of the chase - getting themselves hung up in this world of digital advances and missed connections.)

You'll regret it later, you think. That's an unforeseen variable you should've predicted, though, isn't it?

Because you've both loved before, both been hurt, the excuses are all in the chamber: all the mixed signals and stereotypes. How she looks at you - or doesn't, some days. Your past, hers, the differences. You've never known exactly how this should go, if there even is a best version of this love to pursue, the idyllic happily-ever-after, that perfect white dress. Fuck, that is not the daydream you're supposed to be having.

The story instead, is like this: you drive her home. She sings along to the music on the radio. She kisses you over the console at a red light. Someone honks. You walk her to the door, because you're old-fashioned when you think it’s useful. You're a charmer, she's yours. You grab her by the chin and probably end up making out for far too long.

Just imagine if it had all been by the book:

A first date, then text messages. A second, where you're supposed to invite her to dinner, drinks. You’re supposed to call her, on the phone, with your voice and everything - low, a little assertive - not bossy or controlling, no: that's what the third date's for. There's a checklist for what to do, what to say; how you're supposed to kiss her, and why she's supposed to act all shy, the picture of demure - like she's innocent, though she'll be anything but. At the end of it, you're supposed to pay. She won’t let you. You're supposed to walk her home. She's supposed to linger, put the keys in the door and ask you what you're doing next - she's supposed to look over her shoulder as she walks inside and say goodnight, be coy, let it dangle on the edge. And that's supposed to be that. All of it: quintessential.

Nowhere in that manual does it say anything about pinning her up against the door and slipping your hand into her slacks either - underneath the soft, dark lace of her panties and placing your other palm over her mouth so the neighbors don't hear what a little slut she can be when she wants to.

Just this side of coquettish. A total delight.

Irene practically sobs into the side of your hand. Her mouth drops open, and you haven't even really touched her; she's wet already, soaked - well. She's always wet for you.

"I'll catch you later," you breathe into her neck, letting your fingertips skirt the puffy lips of her cunt on the drag back up because you’re actually not old-fashioned, like at all.

She tosses her hair, lets a sigh run through her smile, the blush, the creased eyes - and disappears through the door. It's the simplest way you two will ever say good night.

Ignoring all the rules of engagement, you and Irene never actually tiptoe around each other.

There's never even been a third date because the lines between hanging out and fucking and hanging-out-fucking blur with astounding ease. It's no real shocker: it's the little details in the way you find her sitting next to you at work, hips shifting minutely from side to side on the stool as she sifts through sheet music, sipping her latte, just barely making a sound.

It's the little details in the way she shows up, dresses to all the events, hands brushing yours to call attention to the ends of her fingertips; it's how every camera in the room seems to favor her.

If any of the 14th-century courtship philosophers could ever weigh in, now would probably be ideal. You’d be grateful, sure - because Irene is the epitome of entanglement. And that's your excuse. If anything's going to kill you, let it be her.

The texts do dry up for whatever reason.

Three hours between replies just to conceal a bit of earnest emotion or whatever. You wonder what that's called, wonder when it gets so boring - why all these steps had to be so dull, and why you can't do without them. The modern era has, after all, rendered the ancient rituals pretty fucking pointless - you could both use a time machine to the medieval ages, then you could get the fireworks. The gallant. Some declaration or betrothal - maybe a show of sword, a fistful of your bride's maidenhead. Or whatever the fuck they were calling it in those days, it all sounds a bit crude-

When it really comes down to it, this is less about the charm, the proposal, or the lack thereof. Less about the dear Irene, will you be mine, and more about the want. Want that's palpable, messy: about shedding decorum together and feeling filthy and rough, taking, receiving, biting into the sweet skin of her inner thighs and spanking her so hard she can't walk the next day.

That's all it is, you're pretty sure.

And look - she still attends a majority of your work functions even though, strictly speaking, she has no reason to. Everything is relatively normal, or maybe you don't know how normal is supposed to look, and that's alright because you're trying - and all you really care about is Irene smiling at you with that one knowing tilt of her mouth - and - and she does.

Hey, you're not entirely hopeless.

(The toxicity, the slammed doors, ignored voicemails and belted taillights zooming off into the night - look, not everyone is built for all the drama, not everyone feels the thrill at the tip of their fingers when they cut their losses and move on to the next. Floating through the memories thinking, wow, what a waste of time.

That's not you, you're aware. And Irene’s seen it before, probably, had a story just like it in her own life, maybe been there, maybe not, but isn't it fascinating how all of it always sounds the same no matter how the story gets told.

So, keep it simple stupid. It's easy that way. Don't confuse her, or yourself, don’t fuck it up by demanding more.

Afterall, it feels good, pretending not to care where she is at night.)

So - take some credit, you do something right for once. You call her.

It’s a Saturday and she’s working late because she’s a singer. She's between hair, makeup and costume. Bored. Or, pretending she is, and if you were a lesser person, the type to lie to yourself, you'd let the pretension sit as-is. It's not even difficult: no effort required to sit back, close your eyes, and listen.

"The way he was just staring at me was so embarrassing," Irene is going on about this production assistant, and her voice is always light, playful - it doesn't matter who, it doesn't even matter what, it's the cadence to her speech that lulls. "Like I could read his mind."

"Can't you?" you ask, indulgently.

"Okay, don't try being cheeky, mister," Irene scolds into the phone, but it's hardly stern; her tone's the softest kind of sultry, like caramel, dripping. "He wanted to bend me over the table. Get some nice little marks in."

Hey, who could blame him? She exhales, almost sounds annoyed - the pout on her face is practically audible.

You are not a good person by the longest stretch of the imagination. "Then what stopped him, princess?" you question, not a hint of chivalry left in you. "Fooled me - isn't that your kink? Fucking men you've barely just met."

She laughs - once, breathless and abruptly; something sharp. You're not actually joking and she can't pretend otherwise. "Fuck." The word is a sigh, the suggestion is all over the air. You aren't blind. "You would, wouldn't you? Probably love to see me bent over, too - and split in half on some stranger's cock. Worshiping it like you've taught me, or whatever the fuck."

You hum in amusement, putting the pieces together from what she hasn't said. "Aw," you coo. "Missing me already I see."

"Don’t flatter yourself," she shoots back, all quippy, fast: quick reflexes, the stuff of her brand. "What am I meant to be doing while I'm waiting for the crew, huh?"

And well, that’s the thing - you end up on the phone for far too long, far too late: she leaves you to wait a minute when someone knocks on the door, and you'll have her later, probably, but what's wrong with dreaming of fucking her in one of those dressing rooms, pulling that corset down her curves and kissing her silent in case someone walks by - leaving teeth and nail marks across the tops of her breasts. You expect her to bring the conversation to something a little more in the moment, but her voice carries back into the room and she's asking you, casually, what's for dinner, how was your day. You laugh, tell her a funny story that happens, talk about everything that's mundane, everything she should know and would know about you if you actually spoke all the words in your head.

"Hey," she says, at some point, quiet and suddenly gentle, and you're already wrapped around her finger and you've yet to tell her. "I like talking to you. Keep calling."

This isn’t like you, really. Or it hasn’t been - not in a while.

"As if that's up to you," you shoot back, your voice so dry you know she can see straight through it, but maybe you're doing alright, making leeway - because at least, it's a placeholder. Irene seems to understand what you can't explain.

"Ha." Another laugh, airy this time: easy-breezy. A vocal shrug. "My hair is way too cute right now to deal with your smart mouth, anyways - they're waiting for me." She hesitates, but the gap isn't uncomfortable, a space to breathe. "Let's just say you'll get tired of me before I get sick of you."

"Do you want me to see?"

"Later," says Irene, almost hurriedly, like an excuse, but in a pretty way, and the click on her end of the line is still warm.

(You hang up, stare at the wall and take deep, shaking breaths: in, out, hold - when you don't, you can taste her. But still, you wait for the feeling to subside.)

At first, she had seemed entirely untouchable. It’s funny. At first, you were convinced she'd look right past you.

She sends you a video, no commentary: the pretty, delicate sweep of her mouth brushing her shoulder. Her arm casts a shadow down the rise of her hips and your eyes trail that shadow south, across the soft planes of her stomach.

There are no questions after it, no words or emojis. Just her. In lingerie and no fucking context. The sound of her inhales.

(She says things with her face like that - or rather she says nothing at all. There isn't a hand-written translation key, though she leaves clues. She's playing it up, knows how you like her when she gets mouthy, lips glossy, knows how you like her panting. It wouldn't take much if she put her hand between her legs for you: you'd suck on her fingers, clean them off. You'd do anything.

The sound she does make eventually is low, frustrated. It's filthy - just thinking about her, all alone and barely touching herself: waiting for your reply.)

And yeah, it'd feel good not having to think about the bullshit anymore - you’d do your best to convince everyone that it's casual: the looks, the touches, all of it - the two of you together. It'd be a total lie, and you'd know it: everyone would know it, but that doesn't really matter. Because keeping things careless works. Never had it been about the feelings, and it's a cop-out, sure, that old cliché, but look - there's a really good chance you'll muck this up if you're given the power to put a name to the way her pupils dilate a half second before she grabs at you. Or the way you always fall a little more for her.

You think about that, about the worst of it: that she could ask you the most invasive question on her mind and instead, you'd answer, honestly and willingly, just like that: "hey, do you want to stay the night?"

But here’s the thing: she's a singer and she's got all these friends. Colleagues and acquaintances from work who are, in her words, also 'friends' (code for: people I am required to tolerate by contract.)

Hey, you're no marriage counselor - you won't try to figure out the etiquette. And her labelmates aren't a total disaster.

It's only fair to make an appearance, meet all these alleged Bae Joohyuns. And - she likes it, in that way Irene likes a lot of things you do to her. She’s texting you a new address every few minutes, texting nonstop by the time you've matched a tie to a shirt and are actually considering heading out. It's this afterparty, or wait, sorry, we're actually at a bar now - no, scratch that, it's a friend of a friend's place, you'll love it, I think? - and you can't really picture her stumbling through the city at midnight like she is, but there's a blurry photo of her and Seulgi and Wendy crowded around a mess of champagne flutes on a counter. An outdoor patio, a rooftop garden somewhere downtown. Her dress is breathtakingly gorgeous. There's an arm snaked around her waist and that's - hmm.

Wendy wants u here lol, the next text reads, and okay, you can't actually be bothered to give her shit for that right now. She can't be helped.

Someone's having fun, you type out instead.

Maybe I'm bored, comes the reply, just as fast, and then a few seconds later: i don't think anyone knows me here.

You roll your eyes. You'd love her despite, or maybe because of, a personality like that. "Never took you for anything like a celebrity."

Fine. I'll have to think of something to do, then, Irene responds, almost lazily, the following text-delete cycle appearing under your thumb like some new and innovative high-speed braille. Maybe.

But you could also come over and get me off, you think she should add. That could be fun, too.

No dice.

Meet me soon, she texts, and maybe a drunk mind speaks a sober heart, but she doesn’t even know what it does to your stomach when she follows it with, I miss you.

You wonder, a little, how you got here. You wonder if things like that ever just become normal.

Kang Seulgi is standing out front when you spill out of an uber and onto the sidewalk, all stooped over under the yellow haze of the streetlight on the corner, smoke coming up off a cigarette hanging out of her mouth.

The chill night wind picks up and the edge of a leather jacket flaps behind her. It's almost eerie in how mundane the sight should be - and you think it's funny: Seulgi can make herself at home, anywhere.

"Hey," the brunette calls, stepping up. She's tall in her heels, the crescents under her eyes deep. The stars in the sky are shining against all the bright signs and street lamps, and it's hard to spot them. "Haven’t I seen you before?"

"Around the office, probably-"

Seulgi's eyes light up - she's not as drunk as the photo suggested, you think - and she gives a bright smile. Her eyebrows jump in recognition: a blur, the glimmering pulse of neon over glossed eyes and a lip caught by a canine. "You're Irene's-"

"-work friend," you answer quickly, before she has the chance to finish. It makes her laugh, which you weren't really counting on, and pocket her hands. You have enough bad ideas; you don't need hers as well.

"Oh. So you’ve got an arrangement," she suggests.

"It's an occupation," is as much as you'll tell her. "We all have one."

"Mhmm," she agrees, the wince on her face passing as a thoughtful hum. She shrugs.

"Did you-?" You clear your throat, don't know why it's hard to get out. "Is, uh, Irene in there?"

She takes a slow pull, long eyelashes sweeping over her cheekbones. Smoke spills out over her top lip. "Of course," says the girl, with all the attitude. "Just, not so alone."

"So," you start, cautious. "Do I even want to..."

Seulgi waves her hand, drops ash off the cigarette. "Nothing to worry your little heart over, friend," she mumbles, shrugging. Her fingers are delicate as she blows smoke between parted lips, eyes angling up at the city lights. "She said she was meeting someone cute. And I’m left wondering, if that someone could be you."

"Um," you respond. "Could be."

"Hm." The word is loaded, considering, and when she takes another step forward there's a smirk painted to her mouth, the deep red cut in the center of her lips almost reflective. She tosses her cigarette aside: a clean arc into a storm drain. "Interesting."

Seulgi's fingertips brush your collar as she ducks into the door in front of you.

"Later, pal," she tosses over her shoulder, and doesn't look back to see what happens next.

(You’d feel so much lighter, like a feather, with her off your mind.)

A crowd's scattered around the rooftop, now spread a bit thin - most of the people you recognize from tv screens and billboard ads, and everyone else seems a mix of other media. They're talking to each other in hushed tones about some shoot-down, this piece of gossip. They're comparing agent fees, checking the pockets of their jackets, flicking gold-plated pens in their designer hands. The whine of a power drill going a mile a second comes from over the railing: a few shots left to take. A skeleton crew works behind a camera, behind the glass, but no one seems to mind the business of film in the midst of celebration. They really are a different breed, aren't they?

You pick her out of the crowd instantly - in a white silk cocktail dress that costs more than a college tuition and no sense to act the part, Irene is seated among all of them like she fits. It's never a surprise, her at the center of things.

The seam at her hip rides up when she turns to reach for her drink, her leg extended long: overstretched, one toe pointed elegantly as if she could place her full weight onto a thin little stiletto heel and not snap both ankles. Her bottom lip is coated with bright gloss, pink smearing as it pulls at the straw.

There's a pause where everything slows down: she licks the crease of her mouth, sucks something golden and sparkling down, swallows, blinks - slow, pretty, perfect. Her hair is dark, cute, spilling onto her shoulders, and it brushes a collarbone, slips a little into the slit between her breasts. She's looking for someone, gaze traveling across the patio, swimming through the party - searching - and then, suddenly, those deep-water brown eyes catch yours.

They shine just a little bit brighter.

And then, the only logical thing: Irene smiles, before her feet carry you right in your direction.

Inside, things aren’t so loud. The night had gotten its worst out of the way early, the only source of music low and reverberating through the walls, the ceilings - all dark and liminal spaces; you and Irene find one to spare and fall into each other there, slow and searching and full of everything. It would be enough to get lost in her completely, this sweetness. You, and the kiss, and nothing else.

It's almost private enough to call it quiet; you're both out of sight and hidden, but there's voices, drowned noise all around. The bass can be felt through the floorboards, underfoot, but you can only focus on the rhythm that thrums from inside of her chest.

There's a disarm, here, too:

"I kissed someone tonight," Irene confesses, and then there's this break, a fragment where neither of you knows who you are to the other, what any of this means - if she'll bite down, be that sore reminder of a few unspoken words.

"Did you."

"Yeah," she says, exhale tickling your jaw. Her lips drag on skin, trace bone - and maybe it should bother you, but either way you can't help it: a thought finds purchase. Irene in someone else's grip, just enough a squeeze. Someone she'd like, or someone she could put herself back in a relationship with, or whatever they're calling this - and all at once, she's trembling.

The revelation is a bit like getting shot through the heart. A simple, awful: fuck. You think you might be bleeding.

Irene pulls the strap of her dress back up her shoulder and explains how it happened, out in that patio garden: a closed-mouth thing, some fleeting nothing, really, a bold dare on his behalf and her lack of inhibition. No, she assures you - he tasted like vodka and it was boring. She kept his hands off her ass, just in case you wanted to know. But still, the blood pumps harder in your veins knowing what she has and hasn't done - and what's wrong is how you only hear her confession in the middle of feeling something envious, a sudden, strong, profound desire to mark your claim: you'd leave this bruise, something ugly at the hollow of her throat. It makes you a possessive, possessive kind of person, and the sentiment, you figure, can only end in trouble.

"Sorry," she sighs, tipping her face forward to brush her forehead against yours, her eyes scrunching as she apologizes. "I don't think you wanted to know, but-"

You're trying to distract yourself; she's pressed between you and the wall, arms circling your neck as her spine bows under a bit of pressure.

"Yeah?" you question though. You can't not. There's this telltale roughness, the need to breathe: you'll hold on too long, take her mouth the way she deserves, keep her quiet, and let your tongue flick across hers until her lips are numb. "What then - should I care? Am I meant to?"

She swallows. It's all reflex.

"He kissed me," is all she says, and then her palm is stroking against the shell of your ear, soft, quiet. "Then he kissed me again."

She shivers, eyes wide, wet and round and wanting: you could say you understand how he could only dream of being the one to turn her head and bring out her charm, the easy way she smiles, but-

"All I could think of was you."

There was never a chance to compete; this star whose shine eclipses. Your binary system was never quite fair, was it?

Your hands are on her wrists then, trapping them at her sides; her eyes smoky and dark and looking straight up at you. She can't breathe like that, mouth agape as your nose brushes hers, your words blowing straight against the heat of her lips:

"Are you still thinking of me now?"

It's only that - though you can hear a sound building up from her lungs. You kiss the line of her jaw and whisper things into her skin: you have me, you can have me, you've always had me. The truth.

And her eyes are slipping shut: mouth curling into the kind of smile that drives you crazy; half the reason why you're all over her in the first place. You don't care where she's been so long as this is where she ends up, your face brushing hers, the kiss held just out of reach - you press into her forehead, her nose, her cheeks; she tilts her chin towards you, begging you to just - but your mouth is on her, feather-light, not near enough: she chases the pressure, gasps your name as your lips find hers, tongue sliding right past, and oh-

It's fast. It's heavy: you take, you push; her whole body shifts and shudders when she finds a grip, one hand braced on your shoulder as the other swung upwards, pulling you closer by the jaw. Your hand runs up her thigh and you hear her inhale, deep.

Irene kisses you like she was made to. She makes sounds with her tongue against yours, ones that twist in you, wind, undo. Like this, it'd be so easy to just let it go - take, take, take. There's not an inch to hide as your hand climbs her bare skin, feeling a shiver rise as her breath rushes hot against your cheek, over and over and-

"Breathe, baby," you mutter, and Irene huffs like it's a game, one of her soft shuddering hiccups, like there's something you should've known - the gasp when you kiss her mouth open, how it was getting easier to drown. She's not drunk, but she's getting there - and she doesn't ask to take it back when you both tip and crash into the wall beside. The reverberation of her back hitting the surface is nothing like the rest.

You take her arm, press her further against the space.

"Bedroom," she barely manages to request. Breathes, the sound shaking and short, almost - almost a plea, or a prayer. A beg. "Somewhere quiet, please. Anywhere. Please."

There's nothing Irene doesn't do without grace - but how she needs you: her limbs give, and she sags, falls against the line of your torso. There's this full, bordering helpless sound as you find her waist, holding her up, pulling her closer. You're kissing in this empty corridor, knocking on doors, jiggling locked door knobs and wasting time, barely, maybe, forever until you can step back into some stranger's guest room: some hallway hideaway; the unoccupied kind of paradise.

"I want you," she mutters when your hand traces the slope of her neck, and then her face is burying against the space below your ear, her open mouth skirting across the sensitive skin there. "So bad, so much. Out of these clothes."

Her neck tilts and you lick. You find a place beneath her ear, kiss - hard. Irene says please. You leave a mark. You know you’ll leave more.

An unlocked door, and she shoves you into a bathroom instead, fucks you in there with her underwear tugged to the side and her skirt rucked up her thighs: the mirror reflecting back every whine, the squeal you draw out of her when your teeth dig too deeply, the shock, the undiluted want in her eyes when she leans up against it. You have her half on the sink, your arms a cage around her lithe waist, your grip white-knuckled in the silk outline of her dress; she cums around your fingers, cunt slick and slippery, gasping your name so loudly that you have to shush her; and even after that, when her gaze locks into yours, the pretty round of her cheeks all red and her lashes stuck with her tears: when she tugs your zipper down, fits you between her legs and pleads for you to fill her with your cock until the tightness around it is unbearable, fucking her just as you're pulling apart her clothes, the clasp of her bra snapped so hard she curses - even that doesn't stop. She doesn't ask you to stop - she's incorrigible, needy, practically begging.

"Please." Again. Again, as she touches her cheek, fingertips on the skin that's already turning a deep crimson, all shades and blooms; and then she touches the lipstick-smudged prints at the top of her breast, and all the ones on her jaw. Your teeth, where it was light, and your tongue where it was hard. You took, and you marked, and the way she is, her thighs quivering like an aftershock; her body pliable, barely-breathing: that was almost all of what she asked for.

Your hips snap, and the impact jolts through her: ripples sent into the curves of her body from the pleasure, the pain. You try not to listen, not to look - not the obscenities leaving her mouth in a steady stream as you press her down against the counter: every hiss and moan, your name, jesus fuck-

Irene cums a second time with a wail, like someone's hurt her, like she's been set free, like she'll never again breathe so well as she does when your lips catch the scream and hold down the sobs, fingerprints at the faint, fragile curve of her nape.

"God," she whimpers into your mouth; and the sound, that voice, as she moans it to you: "your cock - is gonna kill me, baby."

Her cunt is tighter around your cock than it's ever been, this total vice grip, her hips lean and arched upwards where she lies, slick-dripping onto the bathroom counter; the edge of her heel catches on the marble-topped basin, and her ankle knocks over the handsoap - the whole of it hitting the floor and shattering.

She doesn't care. She can’t. She's a fucked-out mess: her black hair in knots, sticking to her hairline, her face flushed with need.

"Darling," the sweetest, her soft voice cracking with a laugh, the tipsy tilt of a joke; she's begging with it, some lazy, pretty curl of a request, some pretty plea that turns around into a bite, the heat, the feral - you kiss her harder. Take her harder. Leave a few more marks: just so you know she'll still feel it later, bruised and sore and sorry, and it might be too much, but oh, the way Irene grabs and pulls and fights and tries to cling when it crosses the line; she'll be feeling this tomorrow, a sharp tugging at the inside of her chest as she rubs circles into the scrapes and imprints on her hip bones. This reminder; of what's right there, if only-

Mine, you bite against her skin, and the voice in her head might scream with it.

You can see the fantasy in her eyes: her standing here in the mirror after you've filled her pussy, fucked your cum back into her cunt and had your fingers inside her for so, so long that she'd been soaking, dripping with it - your palm pressing firmly on her swollen, desperate clit, two fingers hooking deep, right on the spot that makes her twitch, tremble. Her jaw goes slack, eyes fluttering and back arching as you watch her drip with the mess you've made of her.

"It was always, I think-" and she hiccups, a small pained sound, "it was always gonna be you." She says it like an apology, voice quieter, more uncertain, a little shaky. "I just can't get you out of my head."

Your hips are reckless, a little mean - but your mouth moves slowly across hers. It's tender. It’s everything.

"Baby," you plead back: and it's something soft and small when you sigh it into her mouth. Your fingers tracing her ribs and feeling how she breathes with your every motion; how you're filling her so deep she almost can't. Choking, with a whimper, like it's hard - and then her jaw goes slack, eyes snapping shut - her knees bend - like she'll give up on the control. Her body slackens and gives under you; her legs widen to fit your hips, all her weight sinking backwards on the marble-top-

She keens when you bottom out, a high, delicate noise. Whimpers at how full she is of you; she must've felt your rhythm slipping and letting it run too rough-

And even then. She asks, totally breathless, panting: "Right there," and fuck, god, please. "I love this," she whispers, the sweetest, the most gorgeous, lips moving as slow as a prayer - "and you fuck so good. And-"

Irene swallows; her chest expanding and then halting, shallow and deliberate. Her chin turns; her mouth opening in some expression of yearning before the word comes; a gasp, and she can't - she can't quite-

"Keep- baby, please." Her throat makes a noise and all the words taper. "Please, right fucking there."

She makes another sound, strung out and desperate - and she keeps gasping the faster you thrust your hips. Each drag through her hot, wet cunt has you both clambering closer.

"This," Irene's panting, this terrible, wonderful realization in her mouth. "This feels like-"

A stutter. A strangled sound: you don't even catch a full breath before she's trying again.

"-like us."

Oh, Irene, her heart murmuring. Like something soft, like something hard - this burn, this hurt; Irene, in her prettiest, highest pitch - the way she speaks, the way she breathes, her voice dropping a decibel like some clandestine secret. Like sin, a honey-coated whisper in the space between you two.

"Irene," you say, and she melts like you’re inscribing it into her skin. DNA-deep, carved into her bones. She takes it like a baptism, something in it an invitation, a promise to hold her dear - and all at once, that smile grows, blooms.

It's intimate. It's affectionate. Fuck, it's true.

You break open her world with her own name, spoken like a sigh and sounding like sin.

There's this hollow, raspy sound she makes. Beneath the shallow of her clavicle. When your fingers push down, her nipples pressing back into your palm - there, as her breath hitches, as she quivers - right there; her cunt trembles around you, eyes wide-open, and you're just watching each other lose yourselves until Irene has to beg for another kiss, and the next, her fingers grasping at the collar of your shirt as she slips her tongue into the corner of your mouth. You wonder why she bothers with perfume; when all she is is vanilla and cinnamon, a saccharine so sweet with a touch of spice; she murmurs the words into your ear: I want your cum. Fill me up. Use me.

You think:

God, her body; god, the feeling. The sound.

Think, still:

Look, your hand. At her waist. At her pussy. Right here. The place where you're connected. Flesh, bone, a stretch of skin - the raw, obscene mess you make; when all it takes is a rock of your hips, a thrust upwards and in to dismantle everything that is her, everything that is Irene, until her entire world is centered around you-

It could be a chorus, a refrain:

Let go. Let me see. Drown me out. Kill the lights. You’ll take three hours over three weeks where you pretend she doesn’t exist. It's simple. It’s, it’s-

It’s this: the press of her to your skin. The nails to your scalp, down your neck. The splay of her legs across your thighs. The sweat - hers, yours - all of it together; your mouths meeting and meeting and meeting. Again and again.

God. It’s the entirety of you which you were hoping to avoid. You love this woman. You fucking worship her, all of her, every piece and the whole - that she's making that noise in the back of her throat, soft; that her breathing is rising, ragged; that you do this to her, just this.

It happens in a blink. You tell her to turn. Tell her to bend.

She ends up over the counter, gripping the sink, and you lift the fabric up to bare her ass and keep fucking her, deep, deeper. This sound is all you need, this whine that Irene makes, like you're reaching even her furthest, hottest spots - and then the push through her sopping cunt, how she spills around you and the slickness smears at the insides of her thighs; she clings and squeezes and fucks back against you so wildly, she doesn't even recognize her own name. It's the moment when she loses all sight: that's when you bury inside her, pull back her hair, wrap your hand around her throat, and she's under you, on you, body angling upwards like a flower to the sun. She cums so easily, shuddering into the pull of the climax; her pussy tight around the throbbing swell of your cock - the deep and penetrating pain of that desperate pleasure, like a flash-flood, an earthquake, oh, the grip, the warmth-

The moment stretches, just like that.

Her heels kicked off and toes arching to scuff at the cool, tiled floors; she's sensitive; she wants to play dirty. Your grip loosens, that same tender thing when her throat bobs, a little movement, swallowing for you. She knows exactly what she's asking for, exactly what this all means - Irene begs so prettily: "put it inside me."

There's a few seconds in which you feel nothing but the heat and the way she flinches, like a reaction that's programmed straight into all her nerve endings; the raw instinct; the shudder from deep within her core when your hot cum finally starts to spill thick and heavy inside her - it's been too long since your last proper fuck, and her moaning in the mirror is, how do you say: an incredible inspiration.

"Your pussy," you can hear yourself say, throat gravel-dry. "Is so fucking tight, baby, shit-"

And she's nodding, voice ripped to ribbons. All the words liturgical, a prayer. She's begging with them; yes, please, fuck, god yes, give me-

Her thighs press together, but her eyelids have begun to fall.

"Use me," she mutters. Her breathing begins to even out - the very real sign she's spent, near unconscious. "Want this, want you - so fucking bad."

And the evidence is there. Irene is falling apart beneath you, hands fisting and legs spreading even further as she's braced against the sink, bent, and presented. All of it makes a beautiful sight: the spread of her toned, ivory thighs; her ass pale and her folds so pink; how she's bent, waiting. Everything about her is an artistic consideration, designed, purposeful.

"Christ," is all you manage. The strain is evident in how your tone rasps.

Because your hips are still pumping Irene’s cunt with cum. Fingers wrapped around her tiny waist and pulling her ass flush against your hips for good measure. Again and again and again; no room for doubt: you've missed the warmth, the fullness. Soaked to the hilt as your length curves within her; she coos, and she loves it. She says it’s ruinous. She says it feels incredible. She says it around the shape of your name and with no hint that you should ever stop fucking her apart.

"Feels so fucking amazing." She's panting and she can't say another word for a while; it's a fact and the other is simple. "It's - so good."

She can't stop moaning.

You’re both breathless, watching her reflection in the glass, a study in motion: the soft bounce of her breasts in the mirror, the cords of muscle tensing in her abdomen, the small, pinkish mark blooming below her left ear. There's her lower lip, pinched between her teeth, her eyes flickering shut as her hair drapes across her naked shoulder and her skirt rolls higher on her waist. She doesn't try and muffle herself: you could hold her down, or even give her your fingers to bite down on - let her go a little wild as she wrestles against the instinct to stay silent, keep quiet. You plant an open-mouthed kiss against the side of her neck and look up, see her watching the movements, her dark eyes lidded, dazed, fucked-out-of-her-mind content as she smiles - lidded and lovely and impossibly knowing and rocking her hips into the moment.

"You are unbelievable, you know that?" you're murmuring, your palm on her shoulder. Pushing her flat. "Absolutely breathtaking."

You rub a thumb against her cunt, pull at the outer, exposed, sensitive parts as Irene's smile falters. You just keep pushing.

"Oh, baby," she whines, pleading for more. For one more press, another, anything: she begs you. "Your cum feels" - she swallows hard - "so fucking warm inside of me."

A shush, the palm soothingly pressing between her legs, and she bites her lips hard. Still trying.

So - you push it all deep into her cunt.

There’s this beat, this moment, this quiet - where her eyes pinch tight, voiceless, speechless.

And right after, Irene is whimpering: her body seizing and shaking and arching away from the viscous slickness that just keeps building with each and every drag; the cum left on your cock when you pull it out, leaving Irene on the verge of sobbing, collapsing on her stomach, trembling. Your fingers are covered in her cum. And this is how she likes it, stretched and sloppy. The shudder through her body is proof: all over her nerves, electrified. Irene’s shoulders go limp when she feels the push - then your knuckles, curling. The gentle touch, the pressure, the fingers spreading her slit.

She asks what else, anything, please, and hints at wanting more; so much more.

“Irene,” you say, smiling into the ends of her hair. Maybe, you consider. Maybe later, maybe when you're fucking her flat on your bed; your cock up her tight ass or your palm coming down heavy on the supple roundness. You let her fantasize a minute, imagining it's the roughness she wants to receive; maybe the hot, slow grind of you still inside her or the whisper at her neck and her toes digging into the sheets. The offer has her breath stuttering in the mirror.

Irene tells you it's unfair.

"Sorry," you say, and don't mean a word.

Another breath in, the lungs expanding against your palm, ribs slipping. In and out, a reminder.

"Don't be," Irene manages, exhaling a laugh.

She offers you her lips, you know she doesn't mind - and she kisses you. You sink down to the bathroom floor and she sits so easily in your lap, your mouths meeting over and over again. She strokes your spent cock. Your hands squeeze her thighs and you take her chest in your mouth. Wiping your own smear of wetness off her tummy, bringing them to her face, letting her nose knock into your palm and lick at the tips.

"Can you taste how sweet your cunt is? Baby," and your mouth is on hers, kissing all traces off her tongue-

There's so many things you could do, it's enough to keep you sated for ages. Her back is pressed against your chest, and you gently draw another spill of cum leaking out from her pussy; she shoves your digits into her mouth, sucks until her jaw clenches, your thumb rolling around the roof, tongue pressed right between.

"If someone sees us," she whispers, licks her lips, your fingers, moans, tilts her hips and grinds down a bit. "We'd be so screwed."

"Don't worry, I'd say," and you can't help the tease in it; your voice low and all grit, the heat and your heart rushing through every vein. "It'd all be my fault."

It's filthy: her sitting in the puddle of your cum, making it soak the thin material of her dress; your heavy spill leaking from her cunt and soaking your slacks as the mess seeps further and further down your pants and her ass-

"We are such a disaster." She says it wistfully. "You and me, like this. A total fucking disaster."

(With your clothes torn open, hair a disaster, the imprints of your lips and fingertips all over her, she means. If it was anybody but the two of you: oh, how ridiculous it would seem. But the sheer audacity of the possibility has her looking at the cum glistening on her thighs. Then looking back to you, her dark-brown eyes, brighter than stars, searching the depth of the hold in yours, your arms wrapped around her.

Maybe she just wants to have this. For as long as you're giving it to her.)

You can feel yourself falling so deeply into her, the pull. The draw. It feels a lot like being lost. Like, there's something about loving her. The night's long and she's pressed so closely, fitting like something just perfect, and the way her hands find your ribs is the nicest, fondest ache. You only break out of the haze once the footfalls of her heels begin to echo behind you. The bass fades as you both make a run for the exit. It gets harder not to laugh - your giggling voices slipping between you. You have her nose pressed to the dip of your collarbone, kisses dropping in her hair, her lips curved into a smile every time your thumb does another circle - that place right below her hip, or right there behind her ear.

"Take me somewhere," she sighs. Her body pressed against yours, her cheek snuggling against you.

"Any suggestions?"

She shrugs, and the elevator chimes. "I wanna sit with you."

When she leans forward, just the faintest movement, her mouth upturning in the smallest smile. Her eyes flit away, and her brow wrinkles and lifts, like this: here. You could swear, to god, or the devil: there isn’t an ounce of light inside you that doesn't live at her mercy.

The clock is ticking down into the small hours. The night at its calmest, darkest, most wicked stillness. You ask her again, this time, just for clarity, a bit of guidance. "Somewhere we can go? If you have nowhere in mind, we could head back if-"

"No." Irene shakes her head. "Take me anywhere but home."

You're drunk. Irene's a little worse off. Her heel snaps. The usual grace, the poise, her ease, that’s all but vanished. It's just her: Irene. Hair windswept and the edge of her nose nipped by the chill, the moonlight.

She’s so fucking beautiful.

The night can hear her laughter in the air; you have her hands clasped around your middle, legs hoisted over your elbows. You’re carrying all fifty kilos of her across the pavement; the streets are quiet and the city's yours. Her dress bunches, and her voice is in your ear, a kiss peppered to the back of your hair. The both of you collapse and - ow, it's the crash onto concrete, a scrape and a bruise and a story to piece together tomorrow. Is this from the tumble? the sex? I don't know, Irene will say, sealing a band-aid over the red, the swell. Maybe this, maybe that. It all happened. The physical marks, the chemical thrill - the proof of life, a permanence, tethered.

"Let me, Irene," you're insisting, half-joking, pulling at the broken heel and tossing it a mile behind you. And like it's instinct, you just can't - can't help yourself. "Your legs are gorgeous, but, y'know. I’d hate to see you get hurt."

You run your palm down her calf and steal the other shoe. It gets tossed in the same direction, over her whine. "Babe."

Irene pouts, still too lovely, still too fucking sweet.

She doesn't laugh, or blush, or try to argue. Instead, she sweeps your hair back, curls her fist at the nape of your neck, and suddenly you're staring, eyes locked and wanting. Irene leans in, her weight settling against your forearms, and gives you a look; just long enough and tender and dreamy and calm enough to have the ache of your heart match its rhythm with her own.

"What the fuck," and her smile cracks open as the words struggle in her chest; her hand goes down your arm and strokes a featherlight finger to the edge of your jaw. "Please don't throw away a woman's shoes without permission."

She hiccups. Sways.

You kiss her. And kiss her, and kiss her. Irene smiles right against your mouth.

"Stay right here," she says. "Go get my fucking shoes, but stay right here with me."

Look, it feels so good, not worrying where she is at night.

"I thought," she's whispering as you cross into a twenty four-hour minimart, Irene on one arm and both her heels in the other - a pack of wet wipes in your hand - and then her pausing, stopping; this brief flutter of something - she says, "I used to think about how this would all eventually fall apart."

Irene leans forward and gives her weight onto you, hand playing around with the sleeves at your elbow.

"I used to wonder which one of us it would be," and the cashier is ringing up your purchases: a bottle of water, a cold compress, baby wipes and neosporin. The ice cream Irene's insisted you treat her for. She runs a hand up the back of your hair and smiles when you meet her eyes again, "which of us would drop the other, you know, first."

"The thought still come up?" you say, sliding a bill onto the counter and offering a quiet "keep the change."

"Yeah, sometimes. Or I mean I'd be watching you, sometimes, I guess." She smiles at your reaction, bumping your shoulder. "That’s the look."

You're walking out to the parking lot and you're pressing a soft kiss against her brow, waiting, patiently; because you always do, waiting. "Do I need to ask?"

Her grin, close-mouthed and gentle, a tinge of fondness, of humor: "you're going to ask either way."

"Hm," you say, popping the lid off the ice cream, breaking off the flimsy paper seal of the container. She's in the pocket of your blazer, Irene's fingers weaving in between yours, her hand reaching for a bite and grinning all the while.

It's four-thirty AM and the early hours will catch up to you, but. It's this: the yellow-orange streetlight above the two of you and her bare feet dangling off a concrete half-wall. In a white cocktail dress and sitting, you and her, atop a parking barrier. You're here, together, watching the skies lighten in the east - there, where the road will split to lead towards her place. Towards your own.

"There's no way," she says, wiping the corner of her lips with her pinky and then making a face. "For us to be together and not mess this up, eventually, somehow." She steals the carton and balances it between her knees. "There's no way to save this."

"Probably not."

Her mouth curls. There, and gone; there again.

"Doesn't that scare you?"

Your stomach is a riot of twists and nerves and the base of your throat is tight, like a swelling.

"It does." You lick your lips, can't think. "A bit, sometimes." You look at her - her profile, her silhouette, the messy, knotted ponytail, the wisping hairs beneath her temple. The press of her lips, how the gloss rubs off onto her knuckles, staining. "But then I see you - and I can't imagine how I'd even pull a 'it's not you, it's me,' convincingly."

Her throat clicks, and she leans her head against yours, and you're forgetting everything else.

You both stop. Sharing a bite. Sharing the silence.

There, and gone.

"Hey," she breathes out - and you can't explain her expression, how her brows knit together; she squeezes your hand, a tremor, and the corner of her lips pulls upwards, almost apologetic; sad, or thoughtful. "This ice cream is so fucking freezer-burnt."

"It’s not great."

You watch her nose twitch like she's holding back a sneeze, or a sniffle. She laughs instead and leans against the warmth of you; the smell of her, your bodies touching.

"I love it," you hear her say, and she doesn't give the container back.

Irene falls asleep in the backseat of a cab as the sun rises, your blazer draped over her chest; she murmurs your name and pulls closer, seeking warmth. The traffic thins as the roads lead to where she'll disappear, and you find yourself dreading it already.

In a day, maybe two. It’s funny. You could end up hating each other. You might have to force a pause, or take a break, or even step back from her entirely. That’s how it goes. It's the hardship, it’s living - it’s the knowing that she has a lease on life that will end, will expire, a loan where all her days are slowly counting down; a timer you recognize the injustice that it might someday read zero.

Not to get too far ahead of yourself, or to project some awful ending where one isn’t likely: but when Irene and you are like this, soft, sleepy, curled into each other; her hand at the small of your back, resting; this close, and closer. Your heart aches with an ambiguous type of feeling, indescribable-

Irene shivers a breath and presses her face into your shirt; and like a revelation: you fall further.

"Where do I take her, sir," the cab driver asks, and your eyes turn, watching her chest rise and fall, steady, easy; as her grip grows looser and her cheek presses onto the leather seats.

She's too gorgeous, too pretty in slumber, in sleep, the innocence the most dangerous thing; you fix these wispy tendrils of hair back behind her ear and press a hand to her temple, stroke the line of her jaw, the bow of her lip. How soft, she's always the sweetest sight - with her head resting, her mouth falling slack, eyelashes fanned out over the fullness of her cheeks, and all of her like this, all her darkness tucked away: you think about all those times you've traced her from across a room, across a city; if there was anyone else you'd rather wake up beside, in your bed and beside the pillow; someone who doesn't pick your fights and your silences and loves them in spite of, despite everything. Who lets the fights burn white hot until it leaves you both splayed raw and exhausted, in her, on you-

Someone who fits so, so perfectly with the grooves and the curves, who completes you.

"Just drive," you murmur, looking away, blinking away. "I'm not gonna remember."

You're thinking about a book you'd once read, an idea. The world of difference, the fact in its finer detail; all the myriad iterations of 'loving' and 'missing' and 'want': the imperceptible shifts between being the absence of something and feeling it, tasting it, taking it, drowning it and holding it in your palms, seeing it every time you turn, breathing, living: wanting to never let her go-

"You alright back there, bud?" the driver asks. The tone: the slow and steady understanding, his age, how he watches you, the soft shake in your voice, the gentleness with which you hold your gaze - he knows. A blind man could read what your heart’s written on your sleeve. "Late nights are a killer," he says, a chuckle, before shaking his head, muttering, "but mornings even more."

There are a few more hours left. Maybe more, maybe less, of not worrying, and not caring. The thing about loving Irene is this: her touch, the press and the tugging and pulling; her body and her heart; she can be anyone, the best friend, the boss, the mistress, the princess. The pet. And you would be remiss, she says, not to remember: you, too, can be just anybody. So long as it’s you, I always come running.

It's the last time you kiss her, and that's an okay thing; you pull off the side of the street to brush your hand up to her temple, and when Irene opens her eyes to you, her lashes fluttering against the swell of your cheeks; her hair in soft strands over her forehead and framing her face like this. This vision of her is for you, all yours, all the little things.

"I’ll see you soon," Irene says, sleepily, and you know that you will.

The nook she occupies in your head by now, is so well-established.

You can't remember when it began. Not like there was a sign, a hint, or a clue. Just, her. And her lips and her tongue and her touch, all this reckless abandon - like everything else, there had to be a leap.

Even with all the lights burning out and the moon hidden in clouds and the nights and days unraveling around you - in those early days, the press of her shoulders or the palms of her hands would always send the worst kind of butterflies through you, like everything else - just her, the sway and the tipsy, the turn and the look she'd have before she would touch the pad of her thumb to your cheek and drag her nail down the curve of your smile.

(It had felt - and you're no longer in it - but it had felt so frighteningly fast.

Weeks, she had told you once. I fell for you in weeks. Months? Years? Fuck, no time at all.)

"Hey," Irene says in the not-so-distant present. She's sitting across the kitchenette - knees under her, bare feet pointed to the window, and the steam rises from her tea.

"Mornin'," you mutter sleepily. Stretching, craning your neck and arching your shoulders and ignoring the pop in your lower back, the strain at your ankles. Irene tilts her chin up and blows through the steam. There's an air of self-sufficiency, a state of mind she seems to always have, as if, the ability to ignore her vulnerability is a muscle she could constantly flex, expand, train herself to avoid - and all you're noticing is how that small movement has her shifting and curling over the cup, trying to keep warm. Her hair is pulled high in a knot and held up by an elastic, her baggy sweats loose and rolled twice over, the camisole low, a thin strap sliding off her shoulder.

"When'd you-"

"Had to wake up earlier today." She blinks, her legs slipping open, bending.

"Any chance-"

"No." And Irene snorts. The teasing pull of her lips has your stomach twisting a little more: "you know me."

That you do; the lazy Sunday, the slight pull in the center of her lower lip as she purses it. Irene, with her hair messy-perfect and that stupid fucking smile, so careless, and the joke-flirt she's doing; she knows just what she's doing and, yeah, god. You still have a weak-spot for her and it's so big; the twist in the base of your throat. Your morning wood rising. You’re familiar with this: the deep ache.

"You know," you say instead, blinking through the heaviness of your lashes and scratching a thumb against the line of your jaw. "A girl could walk in and mistake this for an affair."

"Girls love me." She turns the cup around in her grip and grins again, makes sure that the image stays locked. "Or," and Irene holds up the fingers, counts on two. "I've had two affairs in my life. One is basically a distant memory-"

"The other?"

Her teeth press down on her lip again. "How am I doing so far?"

"Honesty and self-disclosure in the kitchen, at eight in the morning? Irene, you're really outdoing yourself."

She lifts a brow, then brings the mug to her mouth - like a second-rate cigarette and a scalding-hot burn. "If you did bring a girl here," she says after a while. And, smiling: "she'd see me sitting here, incriminatingly pretty. I mean, she'd probably cry. Screaming fits, a fist fight. Then the waterworks - oh, he was my first! I loved him! He took my flower - ow, don't touch me, I think I might faint-"

"I doubt it."

"Ooo," Irene sing-songs, turning and crossing the space to sit on the armrest beside you. The sway of her body's so obvious. You've got enough room to pull her onto your lap, but you keep your hands to yourself. She runs the tips of her nails over your shirt, just above the buttons and across the sleeves. "Hun, I bet she'd kill you. It'd be very bloody, but romantic. Sad, but inspiring in a mundane sort of way - something you've only heard in mystery novels. Riveting, sordid stuff. Could fill your entire inbox. I mean, as they say in Chicago: he had it coming."

"Nah," you decide, after a yawn. "Too dramatic."

"Not at all," she scoffs, peering at you over the tops of her glasses. "The man she loved was a heartless betrayer."

"Can I ask why my imaginary girlfriend always comes across like some cliché young ingénue? You seem to have a lot of opinions about this girl."

"What, the girl next door, a little smart, but neglects her intuition?" She flips the bun at the back of her hair. "All wide-eyes, a ribbon in her hair, a flower-child who's seen too many Wes Anderson movies." She sticks her tongue into her cheek. "Never once stops thinking about the bad boy."

"If you want to get technical, all my girlfriends have been older than me."

"Whoops," she says flatly, hand falling to her collarbone, "spoke too soon. Got you wrong. No need to panic. I'm sure you, a man, are not drawn to some young thing, easily swept up in a passion. Simply, if nothing else, for the sweet naivete. Those hushed little moans and then, the screams. She would tell you it hurts - and on the same note, she’d be begging you for more - the little slut. God, she'd still be so, so nice and soft and quiet. Ready to be anything for-"

"And if you're the girl?" You stand up and grab her wrist. "What then?"

She pauses, considering this new development.

"You do not treat me very well." Irene pushes the bridge of her glasses back up the curve of her nose. "No candle-lit dinners or grand, public gestures." She twists a curl of black hair around her finger. "Definitely not a confession on bended knee - oh, no, never, never - you'll not have to stoop to that. Because you are, in fact, quite terrible at it. I don't think I'd have a single opportunity to pine pathetically, waiting. And maybe you're a bad kisser, actually," she concludes.

You tsk, scandalized. "You are really not cut out to be the ingénue at all."

Irene laughs, softly, reaching out to tug gently at a tuft of your hair. She smiles up at you - and it's so easy for her, somehow. So graceful. "Shall I fix that for you?"

"Do not fall for me, sweetheart."

"I will try to resist the urge." She tilts her chin and presses a finger to her lips. "Kiss, first."

You lean forward, let your nose bump her temple, her hairline. "Glasses, first."

"Whiner," she murmurs. She yanks, gently. Tugs and pulls, and presses the pad of her finger at the sharp cut of your jaw - her gaze half-lidded and slow as she holds yours. Like she's reminding herself, something she can't forget - what it feels like, exactly. A reminder. You can only keep your eyes on the slide of her jaw. "Gonna keep you like this forever."

"Love," you find yourself whispering. Sometimes you wait just so you can relive that first kiss. Irene swallows. "What a beautiful temptation."

You imagine, again, if it had all really been by the book:

Three dates and a letter of recommendation. Making her pay for half, instead of making her feel guilty about paying at all, which for the life of you, you can't fucking figure out: how to treat a woman. Chivalry in modern times: a fucking travesty, truly. She'd lure you to her apartment, or you'd do the same to her - just after the first, you know, the obligatory. The getting to know her, except you'd end up skipping the post-dinner steps of being a gentleman, which would leave the night open-ended, and you wouldn't give it much thought until the kiss against her door is so fucking filthy it makes you reconsider everything and everyone, you know, the morality of fucking someone more than once in a day.

You'd have hit all the milestones, she'd have to lead you to bed, and you'd play all her favorite movies as she lays across your chest and shows you what she likes to do best: finger herself, or something. And you'd talk about it, afterward, you'd acknowledge it - because this should be what dating is, right? This should’ve been the next few months of your life. Running that same exact pattern, knowing each other so well you can tell what sex will be like before it even happens, anticipating exactly what kind of text you'll get the next day - the call the following night, the feel of her hands on you in all the right places. The lazy moans, her lipstick imprints on your skin, the smile at the corner of her mouth. Nothing like putting your own fucking hand in her pants and rubbing a few hasty circles until her slick gathers around her knees and she can't walk for a whole day.

Things fall into place, they fill gaps, the idea must be mutual at some point - mutual attraction, mutual enjoyment-

How it is Irene got to spending five, six nights a week at your place is beyond you. Not because you're worried about what people will say. You're not. It's just - weird, to not know what you've done to make this last so long.

Are there rules to loving someone? Is there a checklist, a script - what praxis will keep things in place: comfortable. Last you checked, you have no fucking idea how to treat someone like she deserves. To treasure and cherish, hold her tight but never cage - what qualifies, huh?

"Irene," you say, one day - as you're both brushing your teeth. Because really, what does.

She looks at you like she's bored.

"Forget it," you reply, laughing to yourself and leaning down to rinse your mouth. "Idiot."

"Wait, no," she says, stopping mid-brush, her toothbrush bouncing obscenely in her mouth. "What?"

"I said forget it," you tease, and of course, the glint in her eyes is a warning if you ever saw one - but who would you be, then, if you didn't lean in close and tell her, ever so gentle. The three words could be: not a clue, or, you're so petty, or, simply, I adore you and she’d let that one lay to rest.

You choose them a little differently, and Irene's face lights up like she hasn't known all this time.

A foamy spill of toothpaste leaks down her chin. "Th'a m'eh?" She's a mess, wide eyed and dripping and already reaching to swat you on the shoulder, disbelieving. "You can't just-" and her face scrunches, this exaggerated - ugh! - before she hides it in her hands.

Oh, you love her, and it feels so good, not pretending.

"Again. Say it again. I didn’t even hear you." She knocks her knee against yours, grinning behind her palms, wide and genuinely - happy. "Like, have some decorum."

Laughing - so hard you can't breathe - you shake your head and curl your fingers tenderly around her wrists, pull her hands from her face. "You are so greedy," you attempt between breaths, letting yourself press against the softness of her palms, her wrists, the pads of her fingertips - wanting to be a poet, she is a masterpiece - and tell her properly.

a/n: thanks for reading, it's always unbelievable to me anyone ever finishes these fics. This one's a very belated 'thank you' present for @yieldtotemptation. I'm like way late, but thanks for everything.

#irene smut #irene #red velvet irene smut #red velvet smut #red velvet irene #bae joohyun #kpop smut #kpop fanfic

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natalievoncatte · 2 months ago

Text

5. Alone

CONTENT WARNING: This ficlet includes themes of self harm and contains some heavy sexual content and themes.

The void called.

Lena heard its siren song for hours, even before she left the lab. She was sick, belly sick, soul sick. Running on fumes, running on whiskey for breakfast and rage. She’d been awake thirty six hours, fumbling with the Myriad module as she plumbed its secrets. Hiding within the alien metal bauble was what she wanted most, a world without deception, without pain, without crime or loss or hate or fear. No more wars, no more muggings, and no more lies.

Soon she could look Kara in the eyes and scream. Look what I did! Look at my work! I fixed the world, not you! No more crimes to stop, Supergirl. The world doesn’t need you anymore. I don’t need you anymore.

(but could she still say that in a world without lies?)

Lena stumbled into her apartment, head filled with dark thoughts, hateful thoughts, unwanted thoughts. Non Nocere would free her from them. No more pining for soft touches or stolen glances, no more dreams of feeling fingers slipping through silken sunny hair. No more waking up riding her own hand thinking about back muscles flexing or protective hands cupping her thighs.

No more more dreams of sunrise companions. She could rip it all out of herself and at last be alone.

Lena wasn’t going to look at the picture. She wasn’t, she wasn’t! Her hands betrayed her, her addled mind loosened by alcohol and sleep deprivation. She should have flung the fucking thing out the window but every time she tried her hand rebelled and she ended up clutching the shattered glass to her chest and wished she could impale herself on it.

The memory of the picture burned her. Alex had snapped it, an impromptu capture of the girls at game night. Kara’s cheek had been soft against hers and so very warm, just like her. She was soft and hard at the same time, the best hugger in the world.

Lena sobbed, because she was alone and she always would be.

It hit her all at once, crashing in from every direction. When she closed her eyes all she could see was the horror in Kara’s eyes, the terror of realization. That was what Lena wanted, right?

(It was what you wanted, you stupid bitch. Look at what you did.)

Fuck this, fuck it, fuck it all.

Lena stormed through her empty cold sterile apartment and onto the balcony. Grabbing a chair as makeshift stairs, she stepped up and onto the rail. Had to do it now. Had to.

Only to two people has she ever mattered. One slipped beneath the waves and left her and the other, she locked in a cage and robbed. She couldn’t save her mother and she’d backstabbed her best friend. It was in the blood.

Lena stepped into empty air and fell.

Below her, the street yawned wide, empty of traffic at this hour. It rocketed towards her and she had a horrific, bowel-watering realization.

The only thing in her life that could not be fixed was that she just threw herself off a goddamn building.

Lena screamed, shrieked for her life, the name tearing from the depths of her chest in a painful cry.

It didn’t matter.

She fell anyway.

Then she saw it, a red and blue streak in the corner of her vision. Too close, too low.

Goodbye, Kara. I’m sorry.

Kara flew beneath her, catching her not with her arms but her entire body, Lena’s jaw clicking and stomach flipping at the deceleration. Too late, too late.

No.

Kara slowed their descent, too fast, sending a jolt through her. The impact came and as Lena felt the shockwave pass through her body, she knew she was dead. All she wanted to do was tell Kara she was sorry, beg her forgiveness for making her see it.

Slamming to the pavement, Kara landed on her back, cratering the asphalt. It folded up around her like petals of a strange flower and sent up a cloud of dust and debris. Her arms closed around Lena and she cried out in shock and fear.

I’m alive, Lena thought.

Gathering Lena with her, Kara stood up and took off immediately. Lena crushed herself against Kara’s body as she lifted up, cresting above the balcony with a heavy thud of Kara’s boot heels. Kara said nothing, bearing her inside. Only then did Lena’s feet touch the ground.

Kara was feral, blazing, holding a quaking Lena by the shoulders.

“What happened?” she demanded. “Did someone attack you? There’s no one here. What the hell happened? Lena? Lena? Say something! God damn it answer me!”

Lena’s voice was small, broken.

“I jumped.”

Kara’s eyes went wide and her mouth fell open in almost comical surprise.

“Why… no, no no no Lena please no.”

Kara lunged into a hug, almost painfully embracing her. Lena’s walls fell, all the pain and hate shedding from her like skin from a snake. She was alive, alive and alive, and Kara was sobbing, her entire body shaking with grief and pain.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, please Lena I please, I love you I love you I love you!”

They both went utterly still. Lena blinked a few times; the blood rushing to her skull nearly stealing her from consciousness. It was like she’d been thrown into an ice bath.

There could be no mistaking Kara’s meaning. She didn’t mean friendship love, she didn’t mean side-hug brunch time love. There was a truth in her voice as potent and hot as her self-righteous arrogance and shocking, seemingly endless kindness. She meant love in the deepest sense of the word, the most raw, the most unbearable.

That was when Lena kissed her.

Kara hesitated, but something in her must have snapped because she kissed Lena so deeply, so filthily, that it was as if she meant to consume her entirely. Lena was dimly aware that property damage was happening- Kara simply tossed the entire sofa aside with a free hand as she stormed across the apartment.

She didn’t pick Lena up, Lena climbed her, locking her legs around Kara’s waist, shuddering at the feeling of powerful muscles flexing against her thighs.

No words were exchanged, only kisses that bordered on violent. Kara showed no more concern for Lena’s clothes than her decor, shredding through a designer outfit that cost as much as a car.

Only then did she stop, shocking Lena with the sudden withdrawal. Her restraint made her entire body shudder, stopping herself with same force as stopping a runaway freight train.

“Do you want this?” she panted.

Lena lunged up and grabbed the collar of her suit, yanking down. The most powerful being on Earth yielded to her without resistance.

“Yes,” Lena panted.

Kara shed her suit, wriggling out of it in a sensuous display that drove Lena wild. Once she was free and they were both bare, it began.

Kara held nothing back. She used her powers. Super-speed. Vibration. Even her freeze breath. It was as if she knew exactly what Lena wanted and needed, reading her body like an open book, playing her like an instrument, and she was relentless. It was like making love to a hurricane.

Only when Lena pressed a hand to Kara’s chest did it stop. Her entire manner changed in an instant and she became soft, handling Lena like something precious and irreplaceable, attending to her every need until her head landed on the pillow and sleep took her in an irresistible wave.

When her eyes snapped open, she was sure she would be alone. It had to be a fantasy or a vivid dream, but it felt real. She was loose and pleasantly sore at the same time, and felt an odd sense of weight around her.

Tears forced themselves to her eyes. She was damned, doomed to wake up alone forever, and then Kara moved, sighing contentedly. She pulled Lena closer, into her bare breasts and the silken embrace of her unclothed skin beneath the silk sheets. Lena’s heart almost seized.

“Kara?”

“Hi, baby.”

“You’re really here?”

“Yeah.”

“You saved me.”

“I always save you.”

Lena choked back a sob and rolled over into Kara’s arms, tucked into her, and buried her face in Kara’s neck as she swept her fingers up and down Lena’s back in a soothing gesture.

“Kara, I’m sorry,” she began.

“Shhhhh,” said Kara. “I forgive you.”

“But you can’t just do that.”

“I can, and I will. Can you forgive me?”

“Yes,” Lena whispered.

“Good,” said Kara. “Now I just hope Alex forgives me for plowing a fifteen foot wide crater in the street outside.”

Lena laughed through her tears, and she wasn’t alone.

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just-my-latest-hyperfixation · 2 months ago

Text

You and me makes three

(or four, or five ...)

Written for @steddiesmuttyseptember, week 4

Prompts: Breeding Kink & Vibrator

Rated: E

Words: 1,359

Tags: Omegaverse; A/B/O dynamics; Alpha Steve; Omega Eddie; Mates; Mpreg; Pregnancy Kink; Breeding Kink; Vibrators; Knotting; Possessive Steve; Jealous Steve

Notes: Set in the same universe as Whatever you want it to be

“Steve. Stevie, c’mon. Wake up, please.”

Steve shoots upright with a sound that's half snore and half growl, bleary eyes scanning the bedroom for threats. Then, his nostrils flare and the feral snarl gives way to a disbelieving frown.

“What, seriously?” he asks. “Again?”

Eddie shrugs. The movement makes more slick ooze from between his legs. Maybe he'd be embarrassed about it, if Steve's pupils didn't blow up like that, or if his scent didn't spike like it does. Or if he wasn't feeling this desperately, mind-numbingly horny.

“Sorry?” he says. “I'd take care of it myself, but it's getting kinda hard to reach, what with your kid in the way.”

Being pregnant is fucking bizarre.

Eddie has tried to approach it with an open mind, once the initial shock wore off and Steve assured him he wasn't going anywhere. But now, six months in? The whole thing just continues to weird him out.

Don’t get him wrong, he loves Steve. He’s the most perfect alpha and mate Eddie could've asked for. He’s going to make an amazing father to this kid. Which Eddie is sure will be adorable. He just sort of wishes he could skip the part where he needs to grow it in his own belly, being forced to put up with another hormone-induced ridiculousness every other week.

Hell, he thought the morning sickness was bad. Or the mood swings. Or the inexplicable cravings for salt and vinegar potato chips at three in the morning. But this most recent thing is well and truly taking the cake.

Steve yawns and grumbles, and Eddie can't say he blames him. The kid isn't even born yet and here he goes, robbing them both of their much needed sleep because his body has decided they need to get it on at least two times a day or perish. It’s fucking stupid!

Still, Steve folds back the covers, pulls open the nightstand drawer, and slips closer. Eddie sighs in relief when his mate's naked body slots into his from behind, already hard and pressing against his entrance, right where he needs it. Only a second later, the warm, solid weight of Steve’s cock is joined by something else, something smoother and colder, and the sigh turns into a low moan. Steve laughs softly and kisses his naked shoulder as the dildo hums to life.

What did he say? Best goddamn alpha in the world.

“This is so weird,” Steve murmurs as he pushes in, the combined girth of his cock and the toy stretching Eddie wide open, his free arm wrapping around the soft swell of Eddie’s belly to pull him close. “This was in none of the pregnancy books.”

“I know, ri-?” Eddie starts to say, but needs to stop himself for the chirp that bubbles from his chest. He feels deliciously full, the low vibrations of the toy sending shivers all the way down his spine, making little fireworks sizzle low in his abdomen. “Right? Seriously, what the fuck? You’ve knocked me up already, not like you can put ano- … another one in there.”

Steve, who has just started rolling his hips in lazy circles, goes very still. For a few seconds, the only sound in the bedroom is that of the dildo still humming away.

“What?” Eddie asks when he still hasn't moved after a while. “Steve, I swear to God, if you've fallen asleep with your dick inside of me I'll-”

“No,” Steve blurts. “I'm awake. It's just …”

He pauses to clear his throat and fidget, and that is when Eddie catches the change in his scent. Earthy and heady and distinctly aroused.

“Oh God,” he groans. “Don't tell me that does it for you!”

“What?” Steve mutters, and Eddie doesn't need to see his blush to know it's there. “You gotta admit, the thought is kinda hot.”

His hand finds Eddie’s belly, splaying over the round shape of it, and Eddie’s own cock twitches treacherously.

“Shut up, it's not,” he says, even as the familiar feeling pools at the base of his spine, hot and tight and urgent. Steve chuckles, pressing his face into the crook of his neck and scraping his teeth over the mating bite there.

“Your scent says otherwise, baby,” he murmurs, and Eddie can feel his smile against his skin as another chirp escapes him. “Just imagine … me stuffing you with my cock? Filling you up with my come, knotting you so good that not a single drop escapes? Breeding you round and full with my pups? I wonder how many I could put into you.”

“Oh God,” Eddie groans, baring his neck for better access and rocking his hips back as Steve finally, finally starts moving his cock and the toy inside of him again. “You're such a weirdo.”

Steve laughs, picking up speed. “Takes one to know one. Maybe that's the reason you can't get enough lately. Why no matter what I do, you never seem to be full enough. Why I need to use this thing…”

He pauses to push the toy in further, hitting that spot deep inside that sends sparks of pleasure zapping all the way into Eddie’s fingertips and toes.

“... to get you anywhere near satisfied for a few hours.”

“Aw, don't tell me you're jealous,” Eddie says. He tries to sound teasing but it comes out a lot weaker than intended. It's difficult, being smart while Steve is taking him apart in all the best ways. “You know there's no need to, right? Not with your baby in my belly and your mark on my neck. I'm all yours and nobody else's, alpha.”

Steve growls at the word, his summer forest scent filling the room like a tangible thing, and that is all the warning Eddie gets before the toy is pulled out and he finds himself flipped on his back, Steve's cock still inside of him, Steve’s lips claiming his for a hungry kiss.

“Nobody else’s,” Steve repeats. The bed frame creaks under the power of his thrusts as he fucks Eddie into the mattress. “All mine, forever and ever and ever.”

Eddie can’t say he minds the thought one single bit.

“You’re so beautiful like this, have I told you?”

Dawn is starting to creep through the blinds of the bedroom window, but Steve keeps running reverent hands over Eddie’s belly, eyes full of awe, and Eddie preens under the attention.

“Don’t mind if you tell me again, big boy.”

Steve purrs, pushing back Eddie’s sweaty fringe so that he can kiss his forehead and the bridge of his nose. “Absolutely breathtaking. My mate, carrying my child. I’m gonna put so many in you.”

“Yeah, fine, whatever,” Eddie yawns, stretching his arms over his head and arching his back as well as he can. The movement makes Steve’s knot, still large and locked inside of him, catch deliciously. “Can we just try to make it one after the other? I like actually walking places instead of rolling. Call me old-fashioned, but it’s an ability I’m rather attached to.”

“Oh, yeah?” Steve gives him a smug grin and rolls his hips. “There's another thing you're attached to right now, and that's my-.”

Eddie slaps a hand in front of his mouth. “Ugh, you're such a dork. I hope the kid doesn't inherit your sense of humor.”

Steve kisses his open palm.

“I hope they inherit your everything,” he says, ridiculously earnest, and Eddie needs to bury his face in the sheets to hide the way his face ignites.

“Whatever,” he mumbles at the pillows, ignoring how Steve’s chest quivers with barely concealed laughter. “Let's go back to sleep. Have you looked at the time?”

“Says the one who woke me because he needed to get dicked,” Steve grumbles, but obediently pulls the covers over them, curling himself around Eddie.

Silence descends over the bedroom, and Eddie loses himself in Steve’s soothing scent as he slowly begins to drift off again.

“Don't listen to him,” he hears Steve whisper, just before sleep claims him. “I'm hilarious and he knows it.”

A warm hand settles on his belly.

“Sleep well. Can't wait to meet you.”

More smutty September

#steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington x eddie munson #steddie fanfic #steddie brainrot #fanfiction writer #fanfiction #fanfic #my writing #steddie smutty september #hype's smutty september #whatever you want it to be

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loveinhawkins · 1 year ago

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The RV careens out of the trailer park and hits the open road with what pretty much amounts to ‘all speed, no grace.’ The turn Steve makes is, quite frankly, abysmal; he’s sure that if his driving instructor could see him now, the poor man would be weeping in distress.

Yet his passengers erupt into cheers as they pass the Leaving Hawkins sign, like he’s pulled some kind of James Bond move.

And, for all his insistence on being the absolute antithesis to so-called ‘jock culture’, Eddie rushes over to the driver’s seat, starts squeezing Steve’s shoulder with decidedly jock-like exuberance.

“Holy shit, holy shit, that was so fucking cool, Harrington.”

Oh, he’s definitely broken through the depression stage of the ‘finding out there’s an alternate dimension in Hawkins’ journey—landing firmly in the fuck it, might as well have some fun stage.

Steve could tell they’d reached that point even before the goddamn ‘big boy’ comment, when Eddie had taken one look at the Michael Myers mask, looked Max dead in the eye and said, “This is gonna be. So fuckin’ stupid. Let’s do it.”

Steve goes through a few seconds more of having his shoulder pummelled before saying, “Dude, you’re doing a shitty job at being undercover, stay down.”

“Like, do you have any idea,” Eddie says breathily, as if Steve hasn’t spoken, “just how perfect that was? That was, God, a childhood dream fully—”

“You dreamed of stealing an RV?” Steve says dubiously.

“Not in such crude literal terms, no. C’mon, Harrington, you must’ve had an imagination once—”

“Hey!”

“—didn’t you ever dream of, like, daring escapes, pulling the sword outta the stone, all that shit?”

Steve thinks about it. “I mean,” he says, “when I was a kid, I just kinda… climbed trees and stuff.”

Eddie sighs as if he can’t decide whether Steve’s done something especially annoying or endearing. “Of course you did.”

They reach a stop sign and Eddie finally flops into the passenger seat, facing Steve like he’s sitting side saddle on a horse.

“So,” Steve says, “I take a right after this, yeah?”

“Mm-hmm, well remembered, Mr Getaway Driver.”

Steve scoffs, glances over—finds Eddie framing him with his index finger and thumb, like a director trying to capture the perfect shot.

“James Dean,” Eddie says authoritatively, dropping his hands.

“What?”

“Was tryin’ to figure it out, your whole look, you know? Very Rebel Without a Cause.”

“Okay,” Steve says, “but I have a cause, we all do.”

Eddie just blinks at him, and Steve chuckles.

“You, idiot.”

“Oh.”

Steve has a moment to appreciate the way Eddie’s eyes go all soft and maybe just a little shiny, before he has to set off again. He takes the right turning.

“We should watch it,” Eddie says eventually. “Hell, I’ll take any movie. Just gimme, like, two hours of not having to think.”

“Tell me about it.”

Steve’s sure he’ll never complain about double VHS tapes ever again. Then a thought occurs to him.

“Shit.” He calls to the back. “Rob?”

“Yeah?”

“Y’know when we left Family Video, did we even lock up?”

“Yes,” Robin says followed immediately by, “No?”

Steve snorts. “God, we’re so fired.”

He hears Robin making her way up to the front, then Eddie saying, “Oof, Buckley, that was right in the ribs.”

“Why the sudden concern about our jobs, dingus?”

“I’m not concerned, I just got reminded of—Eddie was mentioning—”

“—Rebel Without a Cause,” Eddie finishes.

“Oh, Steve, I know you’ve seen it, I put it on last week!”

“Uh, maybe I was preoccupied doing, I dunno, my job.”

“It’s the one with—”

“James Dean,” Eddie cuts in.

“Yeah, I gathered, thanks,” Steve says sarcastically, but he can’t help smiling as he does so.

“—and it’s, you know,” Robin goes on, “troubled kid moves to a new town, and—”

“Aw,” Steve says, “you think I’m troubled, Munson?”

“It’s all in the eyes, Harrington. Such depths.”

“Right?” Robin says, and she’s laughing, tongue-in-cheek, “I’ve always said so.”

“You ever considered wearing a leather jacket?”

Steve laughs, too. “Tell ya what, Eddie, why don’t I just wear all your clothes?”

“Well, we know denim suits you.”

“If only you saw his last car-stealing outfit, Eddie.”

Steve sighs. “Robin, shut it.”

“Excuse me,” Eddie says, “d’you have form, Harrington? Grand theft auto form?”

“Literally once. Crazy circumstances.” Rest in peace, Todfather. “It was a Cadillac.”

“A Cadillac.” Eddie sighs dreamily. “Do you have any photos?”

“Uh, no, I was kinda busy.”

“I shall mourn the loss.”

“Take the next left here,” Nancy calls, which Steve is grateful for—the directions had gone completely out of his head.

“Wheeler, come up to the front,” Eddie says, “it’s a party.”

She must do, because her voice sounds much closer when she says, “Shit, I think I forgot to lock up, too.”

“Don’t worry,” Steve says, “no-one’s gonna ransack The Weekly Streak.”

Another stop sign—Steve looks over, smirks at how Eddie has ended up squished between Nancy and Robin, all of them sharing the one seat.

“They better not.” To Eddie, Nancy adds, “I think I gave your uncle the impression that I’m doing a big piece on you. Like, testimonials for an innocent man, stuff like that.”

For a flicker of a second, Eddie looks nauseated at the thought—Steve spots the shift, the decision to make a joke about it.

“Well, Wheeler, you better make me sound good.”

“Oh, I was going more for journalistic integrity.”

“Hey.”

Steve hears a couple of thumps behind him; without even glancing in the mirror, he says, “Sit your asses down, shitheads, don’t make me turn this thing around.”

“Don’t make me turn this thing around!” Lucas parrots.

Max scoffs playfully: “Nineteen going on forty.”

“Eddie was standing before!” Erica points out.

Steve rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, Eddie’s a law unto himself. Look, just sit down and, like, make a list or something, I’ll stop off for food after we’ve—”

Dustin laughs. “You really are forty.”

“Uh-huh, one more wisecrack and you’re not getting any chocolate pudding.”

Steve’s hamming it up, he knows he is—smiles to himself as he hears a quartet of giggles.

“Can you believe they used to think I was cool?” he says.

“I dunno, Harrington,” Eddie says warmly, “at least one of them doth protest too much.”

Nancy stands in search of a pen, Robin following, insisting to Dustin that, “We’re getting one of those camp stoves, if I don’t eat something hot soon, I’m gonna die.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. Maybe it’s because they’ll soon be arriving at The War Zone; his levity slips just a little when he says, “It’s probably, like, a proximity thing. Henderson’ll have a scientific term for it.”

Eddie chuckles. “What, the Steve Harrington effect?”

Steve shrugs. “You get too close, the shine wears off eventually.”

He doesn’t realise until he’s said it that the joking, perhaps, has stopped somewhere along the way.

“Huh,” Eddie says. “I’m no scientist, but that doesn’t sound like the Steve Harrington effect to me.”

“No?” Steve says.

He can see the parking lot in the distance, and he gestures for Eddie to duck.

“Nope,” Eddie says. Steve can hear him moving, crouching to hide behind the driver’s seat.

He parks and everyone’s abruptly all business, deciding who’s staying in the RV, who’s going into The War Zone.

Steve hates it, has a sudden intense longing to keep talking about movies, to just be stupid.

And maybe Eddie can tell, because just before Steve heads out, he catches his eye, smiles.

“Hey, don’t worry, Harrington,” he says with a tiny, fleeting wink. “You’re still my leading man.”

#Eddie staring at Steve dreamily: you have the range darling #conversations in the RV are becoming another fave #pre steddie #steddie #steddie ficlet #steddie fic #steve and robin #steve and the party #eddie and nancy #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve x eddie

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munson-blurbs · 2 years ago

Text

Single Dad!Eddie x Fem!ReaderSeries

1 | 2

Summary: You're determined to figure out why Eddie hates you, and he's more determined to avoid you at any cost. But confrontations with Jeff and Wayne may have him reconsidering all of his choices--including the one to become a father. How long can he run from his demons before they catch up to him?

Warnings: angst, Eddie is really mean to Reader, mentions of drug dealing, mentions of Eddie's dad, Reader's grandma has Alzheimer's, slowburn, strangers to enemies to lovers, angst, Eddie is 30, Reader is 28, no use of y/n

WC: 5.9k

Chapter 2/20

Scruffy!Eddie edit credit to @eddiemunsons-missingnipple Divider credit to @saradika

“He called you what?” Jess screeches, and you have to pull the receiver from your ear to avoid losing your hearing. “Oh, he’s a dead man.”

You place the phone back between your shoulder and cheek so you can stir the pot of marinara sauce while talking to your friend. She’d called to ask about your first day of work, and of course you’d mentioned Eddie’s frigid bitch comment. “I shouldn’t have expected anything less from a grown man who promises to call and then basically drops off the face of the Earth,” you say, trying to keep your anger at bay. There’s murmuring in the background coming from a voice deeper than Jess’s. “Do you have company? Because we can talk later–”

“Nah, I’m just at Viv and Jeff’s place.” Before you can tell her not to say anything, you hear her spreading the news to her sister and future brother-in-law. The girl’s a sweetheart, but she spreads news faster than the New York Times.

There’s the sound of shuffling and the phone being exchanged between parties, followed by Jeff saying, “Please tell me that you’re joking.”

“About being called a frigid bitch? I’m afraid not,” you confirm with a terse chuckle, draining a pot of spaghetti into the colander. “But, honestly, it’s really not a big deal. I’ve been called worse.”

Jeff’s quiet for a moment before he replies. “He’s such an asshole. Christ.” You detect a note of sadness in his tone, almost grief, like he’s mourning someone he thought he knew.

“Look, I shouldn’t have called him out on that stupid Cat and Mouse thing,” you say. “I should’ve just let it go, put a smile on my face, and acted civilly. I only said it to piss him off, and it worked.”

“No, this is more than you,” Jeff protests, letting out an exasperated sigh. “He never used to be like this. He used to actually be a great guy.” It sounds like he has more to say, but he just blurts out, “I gotta go,” and quickly hands the phone back to Jess.

The two of you talk for a few more minutes until the sauce on the stove starts to bubble, indicating that dinner’s ready.

“Grandma,” you call out, “it’s dinnertime!”

Your grandma pads out of her bedroom, hair disheveled even though you’d just combed through it this morning, and wrinkles her nose. “Not hungry,” she mutters, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Well, you gotta eat so you can take your medicine,” you tell her, keeping your tone even and patient, “otherwise, you’ll feel sick. C’mon, you love pasta.”

“I don’t have to take any goddamn medicine,” she snaps, scowling at the three pills at her table setting. “These aren’t even mine.”

Well, then, whose are they? Do you think I robbed a Rite Aid? You want to snap, but you bite back the retort. “Yes, Grandma, they are. This one,” you point to a small, white pill, “is for your blood pressure. And this one,” you point to a larger yellow one, “is your multivitamin, and this little yellow one is for, um…” you hesitate, “for Alzheimer's.”

“I don’t have Alzheimer’s!” Grandma shouts, swiping the pills to the ground. They fall with a clatter, bouncing underneath the table. “And I’m not eating shit.” She storms off to her room, muttering a slew of swear words under her breath.

You take a deep breath, feeling the oxygen fill your lungs. This isn’t the first time she’s had an outburst like this, and you know to just leave dinner on the stove, and she’ll come and eat in a few minutes when she forgets that she’s “not hungry.” In the meantime, you pick up the fallen medication and place them back on her napkin before digging into your own bowl of spaghetti.

Sure enough, she joins you about fifteen minutes later, exclaiming that “something smells good,” and eating her dinner happily. She only asks you twice where you’re from and when you’re leaving, but your heart still sinks with each question. The grandma who never missed a birthday and brought your favorite candy when she visited had all but been erased by a vicious disease. All you can do now is keep her safe and enjoy the brief moments when she’s smiling.

There’s only silence when Eddie shows up at Gareth’s house after dropping Harris at Wayne’s trailer. He’s usually greeted by the sound of everyone warming up and tuning their instruments. For a second, he thinks that he has the wrong night, or he forgot that they canceled practice, but he finds the guys sitting in Gareth’s garage. They all look up guiltily when they hear him walk in.

“Who died?” Eddie asks with a nervous laugh, shoving his hands in his pockets and shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Seriously, guys, what’s going on?”

Gareth bites his lip, wordlessly turning to Jeff. Eddie stiffens a bit at the silent shift to Jeff’s newfound leadership. Since when does Gareth look to Jeff to speak up?

“Ed, we need to talk with you,” Jeff says, sitting up a bit taller. “We, uh, we think Corroded Coffin needs a bit of hiatus.”

Eddie crosses his arms over his chest and gives a disbelieving snort. “Oookay,” he says sardonically. “And why are you telling me that we should break up the band I founded?” He walks closer to his bandmates, challenging them with the fury behind his eyes.

“It’s not fun for us anymore, man,” Danny admits. “This is supposed to be something we do to relax, blow off some steam and get a break from the real world. But lately, it’s been more of a chore.”

“A chore?” Eddie echoes, scoffing loudly. “What the hell does that even mean?”

Jeff stands up, ready to bulldoze through whatever counterattack Eddie concocts. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’re a miserable person to be around. When you first moved back, when Harris was a newborn, we figured it was just a lack of sleep. But your kid’s four now, Munson,” Jeff says pointedly, “and you’re still a dick.”

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” Eddie mutters with an incredulous laugh. “Let me get this straight: I have a couple of bad days, and you shut shit down? Without even talking to me about it first?”

This ignites a spark in Jeff, and he puffs out his chest and takes another step towards Eddie. “You wanna talk about it? Fine; we’ll talk. What should we start with, hm? The way you can never be happy for any of us unless it benefits you? The way you act like an immature teenager, selling drugs instead of getting a real job? The way you treat women like they’re disposable?” He looks Eddie dead in the eyes and says curtly, “I heard about your little ‘frigid bitch’ comment. And at her job, too. Real nice.”

“Why do you care whether or not I still sell? Or how I treat women?” Eddie shoots back. “Did I get you in trouble with your old lady or something?”

“That’s the other thing,” There’s no mistaking the bitterness seeping from Jeff’s pores. “I tell you–one of my oldest, closest friends–that I’m getting married and having a baby with the love of my life, and you couldn’t be bothered to give a shit.”

Eddie feels his mouth dry up, knowing that everything Jeff’s said is true; he clears his throat and tries to play it off. “You cool with this, Gareth?” he asks the drummer, hoping no one caught the waver in his voice.

Gareth can’t even let his gaze meet Eddie’s as he mumbles, “I used to look up to you, man. You were my honest-to-God hero. But now, I…I don’t want to be like you anymore.”

The confession is a total knockout; Eddie stumbles back as though he’s actually been punched in the gut. “Whatever. You can all choke for all I care.” He slings his guitar case back over his shoulder and starts towards his car.

“Let us know when you decide to grow up,” Jeff calls out. Eddie just flips him off, slamming the car door and speeding down the road.

Fuck them, he thinks, barreling through a stop sign without even noticing. Who the fuck do they think they are; breaking up the band because they don’t like my attitude? They didn’t mind my attitude when it protected them from all the assholes at school, or when it got them into clubs when they were underage. But now they’re complaining about it? Fucking pricks.

As he turns into the trailer park entrance, a thought occurs to him: how the hell did Jeff know that I called her a “frigid bitch” at work? What did she do, call him up and snitch on me? Trying to ruin my life all because I didn’t call her? He grips the steering wheel even tighter, throwing the car in park and stomping out to Wayne’s trailer. He knocks impatiently, as though he’s been kept waiting.

“What are you doing back so soon?” Wayne asks, concern written all over his face. “And why do you look like you’re about to punch a wall–Jesus, Ed, take a breather.”

“They kicked me out of the band,” he mutters through gritted teeth, walking over to where Harris is eating a bowl of macaroni and cheese in front of the TV and sitting down next to him, pressing a kiss to his curly hair. “Gave me some BS about taking a break, how I make all of them miserable, blah blah blah.”

“What’s ‘BS’?” Harris pipes up with a mouthful of cheesy pasta, but Eddie just mumbles, “don’t worry about it,” under his breath, and the boy goes back to watching a rerun of The Flintstones.

Wayne sighs, scratching at the scruff of his beard. “They said that you make them miserable?” he asks, wincing slightly. He knew that his nephew’s demeanor had changed considerably over the years; what was once teenage cynicism had slowly morphed into a constant state of anger and unhappiness. Wayne thought maybe it was just in his head, or just around him, but if Eddie’s best friends noticed it, too, it was more serious than he’d initially thought.

“More or less,” Eddie chuckles tersely. “And then they threw something in there about my–my job, about how I, um, pursue lots of different women, how I don’t support their choices when we all know it’ll take away from the band.”

“Support their choices?” Wayne echoes.

“Jeff’s girl is having a baby, and he wants to marry her,” Eddie explains, biting his thumbnail as he shakes his head incredulously. “So he’s gonna have less time for Corroded Coffin. How are we supposed to make something of ourselves if he’s gonna flake?”

“I don’t know if that’s flaking–”

“I mean, let me get this straight,” Eddie interrupts, standing up to pace. “Jeff’s a goddamn superhero for knocking someone up and taking time away from the band, but I’m the one who’s ruining it for everyone? Because I actually act like a rockstar?”

“Well, Rockstar,” Wayne crosses his arms over his chest angrily, “have you ever stopped to consider that maybe they’re right? Stopped to think about how your actions impact them? How would you feel if Jeff berated you for wanting to start a life with someone you care about?” He pauses for a moment, glancing at his grandson. “I’m not saying you have to get married or settle down, but if you aren’t gonna have a maternal figure in your boy’s life, you should at least show him how to respect women.”

Eddie snorts, grabbing his keys from his pocket and walking towards the door. “Like how women respected me? How all the girls at school called me a ‘freak’ or a ‘loser’?”

“You’re not in high school anymore!” Wayne shouts, snapping Harris from his Fred Flintstone-induced daze. “You’re a grown-ass man! With a kid! And if you spend the rest of your life jumping from girl to girl because of how you were treated fifteen years ago, you’re gonna continue to be one miserable son-of-a-b–gun.”

Ignoring his uncle’s rebuttal, Eddie waves Harris over. “C’mon, Har-Bear. We gotta get home. Say good-bye to Grampa Wayne”

“Ed, you don’t have to–”,

“I’m really not interested in what you, or anyone else, has to say about my life,” he snaps, taking Harris’s empty bowl and tossing it in the sink with a clatter. “I’m doing the best I can; my kid is fed and clothed, and the lights and water are on in my place. Harris, I said, let’s go.” He takes his son’s hand and walks him to the car.

“Daddy!” Harris whines as Eddie buckles him into his carseat. “I didn’t get to say goodbye to Grampa Wayne!”

Eddie lets out an exasperated sigh. “It’s okay, bud. We just gotta get home. Grampa understands.”

Harris bursts into tears, screaming and wailing at the top of his lungs. “I! WANT! GRAMPA!” he shrieks, kicking the back of Eddie’s seat over and over. “I don’t like you anymore, Daddy! You’re mean!”

Eddie tries to ignore the sting of Harris’s insult, reminding himself that he’s just a kid, but the words are like a thorn in his side. “I’m mean?”

“Mhm,” Harris says with another heaving sob. He tries to catch his breath between his words. “You…m-made…Grampa Wayne…yell. A-And th-then you…didn’t let me…say…goodbye!”

A dull ache thumps behind Eddie’s frontal lobe. “I’m sorry, Har. I should’ve let you say goodbye. We can call him when we get home, and you can say goodbye then.”

This seems to quell Harris’s tantrum, and his soft hiccups slowly fade out as he drifts off to sleep. Eddie gingerly unbuckles his seatbelt and lifts him. There will be a day where he won’t be able to lift him anymore, but he can’t bear the idea right now.

He carries his son up the three flights of stairs and places him in his tiny race car bed. Eddie’s frameless mattress is right next to it, and he lays down and watches Harris’s chest expand and contract with each little breath. His bow-shaped lips are slightly pursed, and there’s a smudge of dried mucus under his nose, a remnant from when he was crying earlier. Eddie makes a mental note to wash off his face before he goes to school tomorrow.

School—the thought of seeing you, really—had his stomach twisting in knots. Everything was fine until you waltzed into town, getting so bent out of shape over a one-night stand that you ratted him out to his bandmate. And now he looks like the asshole.

He’ll sort it out tomorrow. He’ll march into the school and ask for—no, demand—that Harris is transferred to another classroom. And then he’ll never have to deal with you again.

“I’m sorry, but all of the classes are full.”

Eddie raps his fingertips on the school secretary’s desk impatiently. “They’re…full?” He sputters, unable to believe his shitty luck. “Nah, there’s gotta be space for him somewhere. Can you check again?”

The secretary peers up at him over her coke-bottle glasses and rolls her eyes. “Mr. Munson, in order to remain in compliance with Indiana state standards, we are allowed a maximum of ten students per class. All of our classes already have ten students.”

“For fuck’s sake,” he hisses, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Can’t we just swap him with a kid from another class? He can have their teacher and they can have his.”

“If a student from a different classroom moves or requests a transfer, we can discuss allowing Harris to switch. For now, we can just make a note of it in his file and let you know if that opportunity arises.”

Harris looks at his dad with a puzzled expression. “But, Daddy, I like my teacher! She’s really nice and she doesn’t get mad at me if I forget the rules.”

Heat creeps into Eddie’s face as he feels the secretary’s glare–a mixture of bewilderment and irritation that he’s wasting her time with his asinine request. He gives a resigned sigh and takes Harris’s hand as he walks him towards the classroom.

“Have a great day, Har-Bear!” he says, feigning enthusiasm as they reach the door. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

Harris frowns. “You’re not gonna walk me inside like tomorrow?”

Eddie pauses for a second, brows pinching together in confusion before he realizes what Harris means. “You mean yesterday?” Eddie corrects him, the corners of his lips tugging into a small smile at his son’s error. “I, uh, I think it’s better if I just stay out here.”

He waits for the impending tantrum, but to his surprise, Harris just shrugs and says, “Okay, bye!” and swings the door open, backpack bouncing as he speedruns into the room excitedly. Eddie can hear your voice, calm and patient, saying, “Harris, we use our walking feet in the classroom,” and his son replying with a chipper, “Oh, yeah! Sorry!”

He’s halfway down the hallway when you call out, “Mr. Munson?”

“Ya?” He stops walking, but doesn’t bother to turn around and face you. He stares at a bulletin board that reads Welcome Back to School in glittery red cut-out letters. Framing the message are little cardboard apples, each with a student’s name written on them in permanent marker. He spots the one that says Harris in the top left corner, and an unfamiliar twinge of pride sets in his chest.

“I need you to sign Harris in,” you say, trying to keep your tone as even as you do with your students. “It’s school policy.”

“Christ on a cracker,” Eddie grumbles under his breath, spinning back on his heels to head back to the room. So much for avoiding you. You’re standing outside the door, and he immediately notices the way your maroon pants hug your curves in all the right places. If only her personality was as pleasant as her ass, he thinks bitterly, dragging his gaze to the clipboard in your hand. “I didn’t have to do this yesterday.”

“It was the first day of school. I forgot,” you admit. You’re not exactly sure why you’re giving him so much ammunition; perhaps it was the way he just conspicuously drank in the sight of you. “Kinda crazy around here.” You will yourself to shut up, practically clamping your lips together so you’ll stop talking.

Eddie scoffs, yanking the clipboard from your grasp. “Well, aren’t you Teacher of the Year,” he sneers, clicking the pen and scribbling his signature next to Harris’s name before jabbing the sheet back at you.

Ignoring his insult, you force yourself to make eye contact as you inform him, “You’ll need to come back in later to sign him out.”

He bites back an irritated laugh, shoving his hands in the pockets of his torn black jeans. He’s equipped with another comment ready to launch at you, one related to your rendezvous a week earlier, but he stops when he sees Harris tugging on the hem of your shirt with urgency.

“What if I’m with my new teacher?” he asks innocently, eyes wide with concern.

“What new teacher, honey?” you ask, crouching down to his level. “You mean Mr. Will?”

Harris shakes his head fervently. “Daddy asked the lady at the desk if I could have a new teacher instead of you.”

You expect Eddie to be embarrassed by his son’s candidness, but he doesn’t even appear to be fazed. “It was your idea, Sweetheart,” he says with a sly grin. “I’m only making good on my word.”

“Well, look at you, keeping your promises,” you bite back instinctively, silently cursing yourself for snapping at him when you’re on the clock. He might be a total asshole, but he’s Harris’s dad first. At least while you’re at work. You turn your attention back to the little boy. “I’m sorry if we confused you, Harris. I’m your teacher, okay?”

Harris nods slowly, indicating that he doesn’t quite understand what’s happening, but he doesn’t press the issue further. His gaze flits between you and his father. “Why’d you call her ‘Sweetheart’?” he questions Eddie. “Are you boyfriend and girlfriend?”

Eddie nearly chokes on his own tongue. “Absolutely not,” he insists at the same time that you chime in with a firm, “no.”

“Then why–”

“It’s a nickname,” Eddie interrupts before Harris can say anything else. “Like how I call you ‘Har-Bear,’ or how I call Grampa Wayne ‘Old Man.’”

“Oh.” Harris chews on the answer before seemingly accepting it, giggling when he thinks of the way his grandpa grimaces at the name ‘Old Man.’. He smiles up at you. “Can I call you Sweetheart, too?”

You smile back at him, ruffling his curly hair. “That’s Ms. Sweetheart to you,” you tease, but as a four-year-old, he doesn’t pick up on your sarcasm.

“Okay, Ms. Sweetheart!” he laughs, and he mimics your movements and ruffles your hair right back before you stand up. How is this kid so precious when his dad is a complete and utter douchebag?

“Well,” Eddie says finally, crossing his arms over his chest, “I won’t forget about signing him out when I pick him up.”

“Try to get here on time today,” you retort, guiding Harris over to where Will is playing with the other students. “Really makes my job easier when the parents do what they’re supposed to do.”

He walks away with a haughty laugh. “Bold of you to assume I’d want to make anything easier for you.”

The rest of Eddie’s morning proceeds as normal. He picks up the product from Rick’s place and gives him his cut of what he made yesterday. Carefully separating it into small baggies, he delivers to his usuals: the guys who work down on the loading dock, the supergenius stoner who allegedly works as some top government official, the young teacher at Hawkins High who, more than once, has paid for her share with decent head behind the football field. Of course, Eddie keeps a bit hidden away for himself. Whoever coined the phrase don’t get high on your own supply never had a seemingly never-ending stash of weed.

He arrives back at his apartment just before noon, ready to crash on the couch and watch some mind-numbing TV. Opening the door, he kicks off his muddy sneakers to find his uncle sitting on the couch, twiddling his thumbs anxiously.

“Jesus, Wayne!” Eddie shouts, putting a hand to his chest. Giving him a key to the place suddenly didn’t seem like such a great idea. “Scared the shit outta me. What’re you doing here? Don’t you have work?”

“Took the day off,” Wayne explains, reaching for the manila envelope that he’s placed on the cushion next to him. “Had, uh, an appointment.”

Based on the serious look on his face, Eddie assumes he’s talking about a doctor, and the blood drains from his face at the thought of Wayne battling a terminal illness. “Shit, you okay? Are you sick?”

“Sit down, Eddie.” He hands him the envelope without another word. Eddie does what he says, flipping up the edges of the silver fastener and taking out a small stack of stapled papers. He scans the documents, expecting to see some kind of medical test results. Instead, his eyes widen as he reads the opening lines:

TEMPORARY CUSTODY AGREEMENT:

I, EDWARD JOHN MUNSON, the custodial parent of the following child(ren): HARRIS WAYNE MUNSON, do hereby give custody to WAYNE ALBERT MUNSON.

“What the hell is this?” Eddie snarls, clenching his fists and crumpling the papers. “Are you trying to take my kid away from me? Is this some kind of sick revenge because of our fight yesterday?”

Wayne shakes his head. “Ed, this has nothing to do with what happened yesterday. I’ve had this meeting with the lawyer for a while now.” He lets out a long, tired sigh. “When you got arrested a couple months ago, it made me realize how much I was turnin’ a blind eye to your…business.”

“You mean when Hopper let me off with a warning?” Eddie reminds him. He rolls his eyes impatiently, but his bouncing leg gives away how nervous he is to have this conversation. “The Chief isn’t gonna let anyone lock me up just for selling pot. I won’t sell the hard shit anymore, and Rick knows that.”

But the older man presses on, ignoring his nephew’s rebuttal. “When your dad got arrested, I was lucky that the state gave you to me instead of sticking you in foster care. But we were both twenty-odd years younger; I don’t know they’d be so willing to let an old man take care of a four-year-old without it in writing.”

The mention of his father has Eddie seeing red. “I’m not my dad.” he spits. “My dad didn’t fucking take me to school. Couldn’t even be bothered to make sure I had everything I needed. Food, water, shelter? That piece of shit didn’t give a rat’s ass.”

“But he did sell drugs. And that’s how he got busted,” Wayne points out, voice rising a bit. “And Hopper’s nearly as old as I am. He’s gonna be retiring soon; we can’t keep countin’ on him to cover for you.” His eyes are misty with tears as he says, “all I want is for Harris to have the same kind of protection that you had. Just until you get a job that doesn’t put you at odds with the law. It’s all temporary, see?” He motions to the first bolded word at the top of the document.

But Eddie’s too enraged to care, tearing up the papers and letting them fall to the floor like legal confetti. “I’ve gotta go,” he hisses, grabbing his keys so quickly that they clatter among the sea of document scraps. “You should go, too.”

“I could get you some work at the plant,” Wayne offers meekly. It’s not the first time he’s extended the opportunity, but he figures it’s worth a shot. “Just somethin’ while you look for what you really wanna–”

“I said, leave!” Eddie shouts. “I don’t need you poking your nose in my life anymore. My life works for me, and it works for Harris, and there’s no reason to turn everything upside down.”

“You think his dad gettin’ thrown in prison won’t turn his life upside down?!” Wayne snaps, finally unloading everything onto Eddie. “You think being torn away from the people he loves won’t hurt him? I’d do anything to keep that boy safe, just like I did for you, you ungrateful sonofabitch.”

Eddie’s response flies off of his tongue before he can bite it back. “And look how that turned out for me.”

A pained expression crosses Wayne’s face, but he recovers quickly. “I’ll always love you, Ed. No matter what.” He pauses. “But I don’t like who you are anymore. Ever since you moved back here, all you’ve done is push away the people who care about you.” He starts towards the door before briefly turning back. “When you’re ready to let people in, to be happy again, you let me know.”

Eddie scoops up his keys and flings open the door, letting it slam behind him. His fingers tremble as he fumbles for the pack of cigarettes in his back pocket. It takes a few tries before he can steady his hands enough to light one, and he inhales deeply to try and calm his nerves. How could Wayne possibly think that Harris wasn’t safe with him? After everything Eddie had sacrificed for his son; the dreams he gave up, the life he let go of…

Did anyone actually believe that he still wanted to be here, in Hawkins, the town bursting with haunting memories? Every time he drove near the high school, he could practically hear the echoing taunts of freak and loser emanating from its hallowed halls. No; he was only here because he couldn’t raise a kid alone. Apparently, Wayne thought he was incapable altogether.

He goes through another three cigarettes on the ride to the preschool, snuffing out the last one with the toe of his scuffed Vans outside the entrance.

“I need to sign out my son, Harris Munson,” he tells the secretary, who gives him a bemused glare. “Family emergency.”

The secretary nods, picking up the phone without taking her eyes off of Eddie, as though she’s concerned that he’ll bolt if she lets him out of her sight. He hears her relaying the message that Harris’s dad is here to pick him up early, but he’s too busy pacing back and forth to eavesdrop for a response.

All he can think about is how it would feel to sign those papers, basically admitting defeat. Admitting that he couldn’t handle fatherhood. Just because he stepped up when Harris’s mom wasn’t able to be a parent didn’t mean he was a good dad. It just meant he stuck around.

Maybe his presence in Harris’s life was doing more harm than good.

“Mr. Munson?” Your voice draws him out of his rumination. You’re holding a now-empty Tupperware that once contained a salad; dressing smeared on the inside, and your eyes hold nothing but concern. Nothing in your body language demonstrates any sort of contempt, and Eddie has to wonder how bad he looks for you to not hate him, even briefly. “Is everything okay?”

It’s then that he realizes that his lip is bleeding from biting it so hard, and his cheeks are wet with tears.

“Don’t you have a classroom of kids to watch?” he sneers, watching as you wince. “Really vying for that Teacher of the Year spot, aren’t ya?”

“It’s my lunch break…” you start before realizing that you have no need to defend yourself to him. “Why are you so mean to me?” You keep your tone as hushed as possible, not wanting to attract any unwanted listeners. “Seriously, what did I do to you?”

“Besides ruin my life?”

You scoff incredulously, annoyance creeping back into your posture. For some reason, this bothers Eddie less than seeing you worried about him. “What are you talking about?”

“Your little gossip session with Jeff?” he spits back. “The one where you told him I called you a frigid bitch? Or maybe the one where you painted me to be some asswipe womanizer all because I didn’t call you?” He rakes his fingers through his long brown curls. “I have no one now; are you happy? Christ, you’ve lived in this goddamn town for two minutes and you’ve managed to turn my best friends against me.”

“I didn’t do shit,” you fume, whispering the last word in case children are passing by. “I told Jess, and I didn’t know she was at her sister’s place. And the only reason Jeff even knew about our night together was because I needed a ride after you basically kicked me out of your apartment.”

“You weren’t supposed to sleep over,” he murmurs so softly, you can barely hear him.

“Why not? What would’ve been so bad about that?”

He doesn’t have the chance to answer–or come up with a half-hearted excuse–before Harris is flinging himself into his legs, wrapping his arms around his waist in a tight hug. “Daddy! Mr. Will said I’m going home, but none of my friends are going home.”

Eddie scoops up his son, resting him on his hip. “That’s because you and I are having a super-special, super-secret Daddy-Son Day at the zoo!” he whispers in his ear, and Harris beams in response. Eddie’s own father never took him out of school and brought him on fun outings. The only time he got out early was when they were on the run from the cops or evading an eviction notice over unpaid rent. Zoo trips? Unheard of. So there, Wayne.

“Have fun!” you chirp, swallowing your anger for Harris’s sake, and for your own. “I can’t wait to hear all about it, Harris.” You rub his back gently and walk back to your classroom. Like most of your encounters with Eddie Munson, you leave with more questions than answers.

“Daddy, look at that!” Harris shouts happily, pointing to a flamingo stretching and flapping its pink wings. “Look how fluffy it is!”

Eddie squints in the sun to get a better view. “Yeah,” he agrees with a laugh, squeezing Harris’s hand. “Fluffy like a teddy bear.”

Harris frowns, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “No, Daddy. That’s a bird, not a bear.”

“You’re right,” Eddie says, trying to hold back his laughter. “You’re really learnin’ a lot in school, huh?”

“Mhm,” Harris says, leading his dad to the next exhibit. A hippo pops its head out of the water and glances around curiously before lowering back down. “Ms. Sweetheart is the bestest teacher ever! She sings songs, an’ reads to us, an’ she’s even helping me write my name!”

At the mention of your inadvertent nickname, Eddie’s jaw clenches. It’s my own stupid fault for bringing up school, he thinks bitterly, but brushes past it. “Are you having fun on our Daddy-Son Day?”

“Most fun ever!” Harris jumps up and down with each syllable. “Did you and Grampa Wayne do Daddy-Son days?”

Eddie shakes his head. “Har, remember? Grampa Wayne is actually my uncle, not my dad.”

“Oh, yeah,” Harris says, slowing his pace slightly. “But he was kinda like your dad, right? He took care of you like he’s your dad?”

“Y-Yeah,” Eddie nods. “Yeah, he took care of me like a dad.”

“Where is your dad? Why didn’t he take care of you?”

“He, um, he couldn’t,” Eddie offers lamely. “He didn’t know how to be a dad. So Grampa Wayne decided to raise me.” As he says the words, he feels sick. He’s tried so hard not to be like his old man–his biological one–and yet he’d basically become a carbon copy. Just a guy in way over his head, failing to be the man his son needed him to be. “You know I love you, right?”

“I know,” Harris chirps happily. “Daddy?”

“Yeah?”

“Can we go see the penguins now?”

“Sure thing, bud.”

On the way back from the zoo, with Harris nodding off in the backseat after the self-proclaimed “best day of his life,” Eddie pulls into the record store parking lot. It’s changed quite a bit since his younger years, but the music selection is still the best this town has to offer. He peruses their metal section, a snoozing Harris resting his cheek against his chest. Plucking a few cassettes from the bin, he places them on the counter and digs into his back pocket for his wallet. A handwritten HELP WANTED sign catches his eye.

“You guys hiring?” he asks the bored teenager behind the register.

“Yup,” comes the monotone reply, not making eye contact as he rings up the tapes.

Eddie waits a beat before continuing. “Is there an application or something?” The cashier pulls a sheet of paper from behind the sign and hands it to him. “Cool. I’ll drop it off tomorrow.” Eddie takes the bag of cassettes and shuffles back towards the car.

The application feels like it’s staring at him from where he’s set it on the passenger seat. The idea of being a minimum wage employee makes him cringe; it’ll probably take him weeks to earn what he makes in a day for Rick. He glances in the rearview mirror at his peacefully sleeping son.

“Only for you, Har-Bear.”

@littlepotatobeansworld @kelsiegrin @lma1986 @munsonology @stuckontheceiling @avobabe87 @eddapwinchester @peachysink @definitelynotecho @browneyes8288 @jeremyspoke-inclasstoday @breezybeesposts @tlclick73 @wednesdaymunson @feltonswifesworld87 @take-everything-you-can @bebe07011 @krahk @81rain @dylanmunson @oscarisaacwhore @eddiesguitarskills @everheart12 @etherealglimmer @hollster88 @wh0re4life @siriuslysmoking

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@meadow20 @theweasleyskettle @lost-in-the-stars03 @elizabethmidnight2017 @aysheashea @fckyeahlames @chaoticgood-munson @rachofficial @poofyloofy @girlintherubyslippers @shotgunhallelujah @thirddeadlysin @sinczir @vintagehellfire @ieatmunson @behind-thebrowneyes @southblizzard @ilovetaquitosmmmm @blueberry--lemon

#eddie munson #eddie stranger things #eddie x reader #eddie x you #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson angst #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfic #fanfic #eddie munson stranger things #stranger things #tui

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angelwings-crossbowstrings · 1 year ago

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You’re Beautiful and Sick Like Me

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Setting: The Quarry

Warnings: None

Summary: Even the toughest of the tough just need a gentle touch now and again.

*gif is not mine

“What crawled up your ass?” You asked, continuing to pin up the laundry on the sad little line Merle had set up for you. You practically had to twist his arm and, in retaliation, he had placed it just high enough that you had to stand on your tip-toes to get anything done.

Daryl had returned from hunting, pacing and running a hand through his short hair. You could guess it had to do with the lack of deer beside the fire pit.

“Goddamn geek got my deer.” He spat, vibrating with frustration but still taking the time to place his crossbow next to his tent almost tenderly. Then it was back to pacing. You watched your boyfriend with an arched brow, finally abandoning your task with a sigh when it became clear he was going to create a ditch.

“Come over here.” You stood behind the stump you three used for a chair more often than not. Narrowed blue eyes slid over to regard you but he made no move to comply. “What? You think I’m gonna shank you or something? Come here.”

With a quiet ‘pfft’, he stalked over and stopped in front of you, head tilted questioningly. “What is it?”

“Sit.” You pointed to the stump.

“Ain’t a dog.” Daryl huffed, kicking at a rock.

Rolling your eyes, you reached across the space between you and grabbed the front of his tank top, pulling him forward so that you could grab his shoulders and spin him. He got the point and plopped down on the stump. Before he could ask, you placed your hands halfway between his shoulders and neck and began to knead the muscles there. Any snide comment died on his tongue as his head fell forward.

“That sucks about the deer.” You placated quietly, using your thumbs to really press into some knots you felt in his tense shoulders. “Not much you can do about it now though.”

“Don’t need ya to shrink me right now. If you’re just—”

Utterly nonplussed, you tightened your grip on his shoulders when he made to stand, pushing him back down with an ‘oomph.’

“Woman, I swear—”

“Stop being so grumpy and let me take care of you. No one’s watching.” You ran your fingertips down the length of his spine before pressing into the muscles of his lower back. The moan he let out had his face flushing all the way to the tips of his ears. You were thankful he couldn’t see your cheeky grin.

You, Daryl, and Merle had joined up with this little group not long after the first corpse started walking. The boys had intended to rob the occupants blind and then you would all disappear and move on to the next. It was your initial apprehension after seeing the kids that gave Daryl pause, eventually leading him to approach Merle with the decision to just stick around. Merle hadn’t liked the idea. In fact, he was quite vocal about it. You had stood on the sidelines with your pistol, just waiting to shoot the elder Dixon in the foot if he raised a hand toward Daryl.

Daryl had taken to hunting for everyone, unable to stand the thought of the children going hungry. He’d never say so out loud but he didn’t have to. You knew. The burden he had placed upon himself kept him busy, which in turn kept him away from most social engagement. He was never much of a talker.

But now, the enemy had taken the day’s dinner. Merle’s group had arrived back from a run to the city at some point, though you had yet to lay eyes on Merle himself. They had, however, brought back a stranger. What’s more, Daryl only managed to bring back enough squirrels for maybe a stew. He’d have to go greet his brother in a moment. You’d accompany him, of course.

For now, you had a moment to show him some tenderness he’d usually never allow outside of your tent. Your palms slid up to his shoulder blades, thumbs pressing in circular motions to help the muscles relax. His head was hanging, shoulders slowly dropping down from where they had been tensed nearly to his ears.

You could literally feel the tension drain as the stress he carried began to release its hold. He hadn’t moaned again but the sighs and grunts were enough to let you know you were doing a good job. As you rubbed up over his shoulders again, he tilted his head to nuzzle his cheek across your knuckles, reminding you of a cat showing affection.

Still kneading at the junction of his neck and shoulder, you leaned in closer. “Let’s go say hi to Merle and get it over with, okay?”

His eyes opened and blinked lazily. You thought he may have been content to stay on that log for the rest of the day, but sadly, you were right. Grunting at the loss of your touch, he pushed himself to his feet and grabbed the string of squirrels. He took a step but stopped and turned to you, taking hold of your chin and caressing your cheek with his thumb. The corner of his mouth lifted and he quickly released you and flicked the end of your nose.

When he started down toward where everyone was gathered, you fell in behind him.

“Merle! Merle! Get your ugly ass out here!”

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metalhoops · 2 years ago

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Steve was going to die crouched behind a picnic table in an unfamiliar town. That’s how he saw it, anyway.

He’d been looking for Robin. That’s where it all went wrong. She hadn’t shown up for work at the video store that Saturday morning. It wasn’t like her. The two had just started at their new job and it was a goddamn Saturday. Steve had been run off his feet all day.

At the end of his shift, he couldn’t help but look for her. Since the incident with the Russians, both he and Robin had their days where they would disappear, but they’d always let the other know they were safe.

Steve never used to be a worst-case-scenario kind of guy until everything with The Upside Down. All day he’d felt panic rising in his stomach. What if she’d been taken by demogorgons or kidnapped by secret government operatives?

He drove the BMW past all of Robin’s familiar haunts. She wasn’t at home or at Steve’s place. The school was closed, so she couldn’t be at band and she’d have asked him to drive her to the movies.

That’s when he started to check the places he didn’t want to find her. The Junkyard, Lover’s Lake, and the remains of the Hawkins lab. She wasn’t there. It was then he recalled a conversation they’d had last Sunday.

“All right, I’ve got some more evidence,” Robin had exclaimed days before, and Steve had known exactly what she was talking about.

“Well don’t hold out on me, Rob,” Steve pushed, pulling out a notebook he should’ve been using to keep track of people’s late rental returns.

Instead, it harboured two columns and a series of tallies, an ode to their Scoops Days Steve was secretly proud of thinking up. ‘Vicky likes boobies’, proclaimed one column while the other argued, ‘Vicky doesn’t like boobies’. He’d never said he was mature. Plus Steve got a kick out of watching Robin squirm. They’d been trying to work out if Vicky was a viable crush. Steve thought she was but so far the columns were an even split.

“Last night I saw her car parked outside the fairgrounds in the next town over. Any other day of the week and I wouldn’t think it was weird, but Saturday night, it’s a spot, you know?” Steve didn’t know.

“A spot?” He echoed.

“Yeah, you know? Like how skull rock is ‘a spot’ but it’s only for certain kinds of people.” Steve’s brow pinched together and he nodded.

He could imagine what Robin was implying. He’d added another tally to his favourite side and thought nothing more of it until he’d run out of places to look for Robin in Hawkins. It was a Saturday night. It was a long shot, but he’d take it.

Steve drove to the next town over and was surprised to see a smattering of cars at the fairground. There were a handful of boys in their twenties sitting on picnic benches around a boombox playing music Steve was vaguely familiar with. Then there were a couple of girls sipping beer and passing the bottle around.

If you didn’t know, it’d seem like any other half-assed party but if you knew what to look for, you’d know you were in the right place. Steve didn’t know when he’d become the kind of person who knew what to look for.

One of the guys had his hand tucked into the back pocket of another’s jeans. Then, of course, he saw his fair share of coloured hankies, carabineers and key rings. Sometimes, Steve actually listened when Robin talked to him about that kind of stuff. He figured it must get lonely, not having anyone to talk to about those things. He wanted to be a good friend even if he couldn’t relate to Robin. Steve liked girls. That was the beginning and end of it.

He studied each of the partygoers' faces and felt his throat begin to constrict. Robin wasn’t there. Where the hell was she? This had been the last stone left unturned. Now what?

Steve’s heartbeat was a kick drum, threatening to crack his ribs in two as it burst from his chest cavity. His vision began to tunnel and a ringing in his ears swelled to a crescendo as he crouched behind an abandoned picnic table.

What if something happened to her? How the hell was he meant to find her?

Steve felt a hand on his shoulder.

He looked up with a start, almost leaping out of his skin when he saw one of the boy’s faces inches from his. The space was dark, illuminated only by the moon and the intermittent flickering of car headlights.

“Hey. You’re okay. Just breathe with me for a second, alright?” The boy instructed.

His voice was vaguely familiar, but Steve couldn’t string together a coherent set of thoughts. His body was focused on not keeling over. He tried to copy the overdramatised rise and fall of the boy’s chest.

“There you go,” the boy soothed as Steve’s breathing evened out.

“Guessing, it’s your first time here. Don’t worry too much about it. The first time I went to a gay bar in Indy I had a panic attack in the bathroom.” Munson. The voice belonged to Eddie Munson, Steve’s brain supplied at last.

They’d gone to high school together. Though Steve wasn’t sure if the guy had graduated. He vaguely recalled Eddie hating all jocks on principal and Steve had tried to give the boy a wide berth because of it. Turned out he was the type to hang out at gay bars. Okay.

There was no way Eddie recognised Steve. He was being way too nice to him. Maybe Munson was a good guy. Steve hadn’t taken the time to find out back then. Steve hadn’t really been a good person. He was trying hard to be better.

“No one’s tried to push you into anything, right? Because that’s not what this place is about. I might not be able to kick anyone’s ass, but I know a guy who could,” Eddie commented, confirming Steve’s suspicions. He was a good guy.

“No. I’m good... I’m looking for someone,” Steve breathed, hoping maybe Munson would’ve seen Robin.

Then again, if Eddie hadn’t seen her, he’d be outing Robin, which Steve knew was a shitty thing to do. Eddie spoke before Steve had the chance to decide what he was going to say.

“You see him around?” Eddie asked, moving to sit beside Steve on the grass, scanning the crowd.

Oh. Eddie assumed Steve was... That was fair. He was at ‘a spot’. He guessed he could work with that.

“I think he stood me up,” Steve covered, looking for an excuse to get out of there.

“His loss,” Eddie mused, placing a hand on Steve’s knee. Oh, no. Flirting.

“I should get out of here,” Steve stuttered, jerking upwards.

“Right, shit. Sorry. Too strong,” Eddie spoke half to Steve, half to himself as he stood up and dusted grass from his jeans.

“Don’t let me spook you. Seriously. You look like you need a night out. I can sit all the way over there and we can pretend this never happened,” Eddie proposed.

Steve was dreading the ride back to Hawkins, knowing if he went home now, he wouldn’t be able to sleep. Steve surprised himself by shaking his head.

“No, I don’t want you to... just... don’t go. This isn’t something I do. I could use the company.” Steve was surprised at the words as they left his mouth. In what world did Steve Harrington want to hang out with Eddie Munson?

“Alright, no funny business, I promise. I’ve got some beer in a cooler. We could keep things all PG-13,” Eddie proposed, leading Steve to where the aforementioned cooler was stashed on a free picnic bench.

“I’ve got to drive back home, but I could stay for a bit,” Steve remarked, sitting down beside Eddie’s cooler on the tabletop.

He tried to focus on the distant music and the sound of passing cars. His thoughts kept returning to Robin. He dug his thumbnail into the table, scratching at the splintering wood as he tried to stop his mind from reeling.

“Is your place far from here?” Eddie questioned, sitting beside Steve and lounging back on his elbows, glancing up at the night sky.

“That wasn’t a preposition, by the way,” Eddie clarified quickly.

“I was just trying to make conversation. Christ, man. I’m shit at this.”

“Shit at what?” Steve questioned absentmindedly, glad to have a distraction.

Eddie grabbed a strand of hair and coyly hid a smile behind it.

“You know. Talking to pretty guys.’

It wasn’t like no one had called Steve ‘pretty’ before. They had. But they’d always done it as an insult. He’d heard the word, ‘pretty boy’, spat through gritted teeth a handful of times, but no one had ever made it sound like a good thing, like something Steve wanted to be.

It was strange. Steve hadn’t been lying when he said this wasn’t something he usually did. He wasn’t gay. He didn’t hang out with men in a way that walked the tightrope between platonic and flirtatious, but he’d gone on a lot of dates with girls, some that’d been far worse than the way his night was panning out. Steve was surprised at just how comfortable and familiar the setting felt.

“I’m from Hawkins,” Steve admitted, feeling Eddie’s keen eyes on his profile.

“Small world. Me too.” Everyone knew everyone in Hawkin’s. It’d only be a matter of time before Eddie placed him. Then what? He couldn’t imagine Eddie would want to hang out with him for long after that.

“I came here with a buddy but I’m pretty sure he’s screwed off by now, you mind giving me a lift? Think we could both use the company.”

Steve was always driving the kids around, that’s what he was good at, and it’d be a distraction. Steve nodded before he could think any better of it.

“I can do that. You say the word,” Steve muttered and followed Eddie’s eyes to the stars.

“Soon, give me a few minutes to enjoy the view”.

That was the one good thing about small towns in the dead of night. The stars could really shine, painting their way across the sky, all milk and moonbeams. For once, Steve wasn’t thinking of the things lurking in the shadows.

He could hardly make out the features of Eddie’s face, but he couldn’t help but think, if this was like the dates he’d been on with girls, this was the point where he’d kiss them. It’d be romantic. At heart, Steve had always been a romantic.

A car pulled up close to the two boys, bathing them in yellowed light. Eddie’s face turned to look at Steve. His eyes swelled wide with recognition. He’d expected Eddie to be shocked, this was the last place Steve would expect to find himself on an ordinary day. What he didn’t anticipate was Eddie jerking back as though Steve had physically hit him, his body tumbling backwards off the bench and onto the grassy lot.

“Holy Hell, Harrington,” Eddie choked out, as he tried to pull himself back to his feet, staggering. Right. Steve should’ve known this wasn’t going to end well. He should just leave now.

“I thought your voice sounded familiar. Christ. Steve ‘the hair’ Harrington. Here? Holy shit.”

Steve stood, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, trying to eyeball the best path to the Beamer, suddenly wanting to be anywhere but there.

“I’m going to go...” Steve began but was cut off by a wild flailing of limbs and Eddie’s hand encircling his wrist.

“Sorry. Shit. Sorry. Steve, Stevie. Wait. You surprised me.” Eddie placated, his eyes swollen wide as he looked at his fingers around Steve’s limb. It was as though his body had grabbed Steve of its own volition.

Steve couldn’t help but notice the muffled conversations from the surrounding tables had quietened.

“I get it if you don’t want to take me home, but I won’t tell anyone... you know. Cross my heart, dude.”

Steve hadn’t been worried about that until now. His heart rate sped up again. He wasn’t queer but if rumour got around. His dad would kill him. Steve wasn’t sure that the statement was hyperbolic. Eddie must have seen something in Steve’s face, because his grip on his wrist tightened.

“Promise I won’t. Look, somehow I’ve managed to collect your little flock of ducklings into my D&D club at school. They think you’re a good dude. That’s good enough for me.”

Steve trusted Eddie. He shouldn’t. He told himself he was dumb for doing so, but his instincts won out.

“Well, come on then, if you still want a ride,” Steve grumbled, pulling Eddie along with him to the BMW.

The two talked on the ride back to Hawkins, but all of it was inconsequential. It was just what Steve needed. Eddie rambled about the kids, something he and Steve had in common. It was the only thing Steve knew they had in common besides the fact Eddie thought they were gay, or at least that they both liked men.

It should’ve been awkward talking to Eddie, knowing the guy would’ve slept with him if given the chance, but surprisingly it wasn’t. Maybe that’s how Robin had felt about him at the beginning of their friendship. No. Don’t think about Robin. She was safe. She had to be. Steve would know if she wasn’t.

“What happened to you, Steve?” He heard Eddie ask out of the blue and realised his fingers had been gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles had turned bone white.

Steve didn’t know how to answer the question in a way that wouldn’t spur on deeper probing, so he said, “Nothing”. The reply seemed to tell Eddie everything he needed to know.

“I guess I grew up,” Steve supplied lamely.

“I wasn’t talking about how you don’t hang out with the same dicks from school. You stopped doing that before you graduated. Don’t ask me how I know that. Don’t make me say it. You’ve always been pretty, is all I’ll say. This is different. You never used to look so... haunted.”

What was Steve supposed to say to that? He didn’t say anything, just turned the radio up and wondered how Eddie Munson, of all people, saw right through him.

When they pulled up out front of the Munson’s trailer, Eddie paused, looking Steve over.

“Hey, Harrington? You still all on your lonesome in that big old mansion of yours?” Steve rolled his eyes but nodded.

“Well, would you look at that? Me too. I mean, minus the mansion. Want to not be alone, together?”

“I’ve got work in the morning,” Steve deflected as he found himself switching off the car and following Eddie up to the front door.

“Won’t bother me. I sleep like the dead.”

Steve was a horrible sleeper, not that it would matter. He knew he wouldn’t be sleeping that night. Maybe in the morning if he couldn’t find Robin he should call Nancy. She knew everything about missing friends, about knowing something was wrong and yet feeling like you had no one to turn to. He wished he’d been that person for Nancy years before but he hadn’t and there was nothing he could do about that now.

Steve found himself tucked into the corner of Eddie’s bed. The two boys had stripped off their jeans but kept their shirts on. He kept comparing the night to dates he’d had in the past. He kept thinking how easy it felt to do the same with a man. Steve liked women, he knew that, but he was beginning to entertain the idea he might be able to like men. Couple that crisis with his worries that Robin was somewhere alone and hurting and you had one messy knot of emotions Steve didn’t know how to unpick.

“Night, Stevie,” Eddie muttered, as his hand made its way to rest on his inner thigh. His breath smelled of alcohol.

“This okay?” He clarified. Yes, Eddie was a good guy and Steve wished he’d known that sooner.

“Yeah,” Steve admitted because it was okay, much to his surprise.

When Eddie did eventually fall asleep, he rolled over, keeping one hand on Steve’s thigh and slinging the other over Steve’s chest, somehow ending face down in the crook of Steve’s neck. He smelled of beer and smoke. It was the longest night of Steve’s life.

True to his word, Eddie remained sound asleep as Steve extracted himself from under him come morning. He paused to jot his number down on a notebook beside Eddie’s bed, surprising himself once again. He hadn’t gotten or wanted a second date with anyone in months. He wasn’t sure this was classified as a first date, but it had him wanting more of whatever it was.

Steve parked outside Robin’s place, surprised to find her waiting for him in the driveway, unharmed and applying her makeup with the help of a compact mirror as though it were any other day.

“You look like crap,” Robin noted as she slid into the passenger seat.

Steve could cry. Steve would’ve cried if it hadn’t been for years worth of emotional repression.

“You weren’t at work yesterday,” Steve said by way of explanation.

“Yeah. I went to Indianapolis for my aunt’s birthday. I told you I was going last week.”

Oh. Steve had forgotten. He nodded, then sniffed pathetically, pretty sure he was about to cry. Robin was fine. She’d never been in danger. She placed her hand over his and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

“Dingus, were you worried about me?” She teased, trying to lighten the mood. He shook his head, a blatant lie.

“So worried you didn’t go on one of your crappy Saturday night dates or do you have another story to tell me about how you stuck out with a smoking hot babe... again.” That brought Steve to his second crisis.

“Kind of.” Robin raised a brow.

“Kind of? Steve Harrington, since when are you coy about the people you date? Dude, when it comes to me you have no boundaries.” She was right.

“I think I went on a date with a guy,” Steve admitted, not meeting Robin’s eye as she let out an inhuman squeak.

“I was gone for one goddamn day and that’s the day you decide to date a guy?” She gasped, smacking his arm.

In retrospect, it was pretty funny. Steve’s urge to cry was suddenly stifled as his body rocked with laughter.

“I think I owe you one, actually,” Steve admitted, knowing he wasn’t going to hear the end of it.

Read Part 2 Here

#steddie #steddie Drabble #drabble #ficlet #steddie ficlet #first meeting #pre season 4 #au #steve harrington #eddie munson #platonic stobin #robin buckley #bi steve harrington #fluff and angst #steve x eddie #Metalhoops writes

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desecrated-guacamole · 2 months ago

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I know I’m *checks watch* twelve years late coming to this realization, and two years late to talking about it when it would’ve been at all relevant, but godDAMN

Young Justice wastes NO time being good after season 1. The producers really just said “hey, y’know all the characters and relationships you’ve loved seeing develop for the past 26 episodes? Well actually, fuck that, fuck them, and fuck you! Everything’s different now, everyone’s developed in new ways that you won’t get to see, but not even in a way that makes sense for a FIVE YEAR TIME-JUMP!”

Take Robin for example; in the five years that take place offscreen, Dick becomes Nightwing, Batman recruits Jason Todd as the new Robin, Jason Todd gets killed, and Batman recruits Tim Drake as the new-new Robin (oh and also Barbara Gordon becomes Batgirl). I love the Batfamily, but I can barely call it the Batfamily when we don’t ever actually see them becoming a fucking family! We don’t get to see Dick struggle with his mentor’s legacy, we don’t see Jason struggle to live up to the Robin that came before, or Barbara picking up crime fighting despite what Bruce tells her to do because fuck that guy. We don’t get to see any of them grieve Jason, we don’t get to see Bruce go off the deep-end, only to be brought back by a young Tim Drake, who shows him what makes Batman, well, Batman; helping those in need, saving people.

INSTEAD, we’re introduced to two characters we knew that are now wildly different with ZERO explanation as to why, and one that we’ve never seen before and is (so far in my watch) severely underwritten, but because they’re the characters we love from the comics we’re supposed to love them here. It’s using the iconography of the characters to get us invested without putting in any of the actual work DEVELOPING them as people. It’d be one thing if this was the first time we met any of them, but we’ve already been introduced to Barbara, and we’ve spent an entire season with Dick, but now both of them have undergone massive development we aren’t made privy to.

I read an interview with Greg Weisman talking about the time jump, and he says this;

“We wanted a big time jump between the first two seasons to truly illustrate what our series was about, i.e. GROWING UP. After that, honestly, it’s more about what feels right. There are always things we want to skip, so that they become reveals.”

Man, I wonder if maybe allowing the audience to actually watch the characters grow and change might illustrate that growing up thing better than just skipping ahead so you can make it a reveal??? Imagine a show where we get to see these characters grow up together, maybe even grow apart, some leave, some stay, some are replaced, some come back. Like, imagine getting to see Dick reckon with the fact that Batman REPLACED HIM, only to watch that replacement die! Imagine getting to see Tim Drake come to Dick for advice, instead of just skipping ahead to the point that they’re already an established team. Imagine getting to see M’gann help Gar learn to use his powers for the first time. Imagine the team throwing a goodbye party for Wally and Artemis! Imagine seeing Wally and Artemis continue to develop their relationship instead of just jumping to them being fully moved in and together! WE WERE ROBBED!!

Like I’m still gonna watch it (not in the least because my roommate’s already seen it) but I need everyone to know I’m doing it under duress. I love these characters, and they did not deserve this lazy bullshit. I do not understand how Greg Weisman made Spectacular Spider-Man because HOLY SHIT the writing decisions made on this show are pissing me off, and don’t even get me STARTED ON CONNOR AND M’GANN BECAUSE WHAT THE FU

#young justice #batfamily #batfam #dick grayson #dc robin #kaldur'ahm #aqualad #mgann morzz #miss martian #wally west #kid flash #connor kent #superboy #artemis crock #barbara gordon #batgirl #jason todd #tim drake #greg weisman

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mamawasatesttube · 8 months ago

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an excerpt of tim car fic wip :)

“My goddamn luck,” Tim mutters. He made such a point of being ready to change his tires on the side of the road, and then his stupid jack gave out on him. This is so stupid.

He rocks back on his heels and kicks at the gravel and pebbles in the dirt. It’s hot as hell, and he’s stuck on the side of the road. He can get back in the car, but that won’t help with the tire situation.

He looks back down at the offending jack, scrunching up his face with displeasure, and—

“Ohhh, come on!”

There’s grass stains on his cargo shorts now, just to add insult to injury. Tim throws up his hands and stalks a few meters away, blows out a breath, and sets his hands on his hips as he stares across the pasture. That one cow is staring at him again.

Ugh. So he’s got two options. He can call roadside assistance—which he really doesn’t want to do—or he can just…

Yeah, there’s only one real option.

Tim stalks back to the Redbird, opens the passenger side door, and clambers in. It’s getting hot in here already, though it’s still blessedly cooler than outside; he wipes his sweaty hands on his shorts and grabs his phone.

Kon picks up on the second ring. “Helloooo, sunshine! How’s Gotham’s most irresistable little freaknugget doing this fine afternoon?”

Mood already lifting, Tim wrinkles his nose. “What did you just—? Don’t say that again.”

Kon’s laughter rings out, a bright, clear peal even through the phone. “Whatever you say, babycakes. What’s up?”

Tim can just picture him lounging indolently back in midair, tossing one leg over another and resting his cheek in his palm. It’s amazing what just the sound of Kon’s voice does for Tim’s temper.

“I’m having an… issue,” Tim says. Clears his throat. It’s a little embarrassing. “That I could, uh. Use some assistance with.”

Kon’s voice is sharper, more alert. “An issue? What happened? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Tim hastily assures. “I just, uh. Well. I’ve run into a sort of… problem.”

“What do you mean, a problem?”

Tim’s face is hot. This is so stupid. “Um. A… scenario. Of the suboptimal variety.”

Kon exhales. “Rob, for the love of god. I’m gonna call you a freaknugget again if you don’t actually elaborate in the next ten seconds.”

Tim huffs. “Okay, don’t do that. Fine. I have, uh… I kind of have a flat tire.” This is mortifying. “And I know I said I expected that, with the experimental tires. But my dumb hydraulic jack has a leak. So I can’t fix it. So.”

A pause.

And then, to Tim’s indignation, Kon giggles.

“Oh my god, Tim, you had me worried for a second there!” Tim can hear his grin in his voice. “I’ll be there in just a sec, sweet cheeks. Sit tight and look pretty, okay?”

Tim rolls his eyes, but since it’s just a phone call, he doesn’t bother trying to mask his smile. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. …Thanks, Kon.”

“Anytime.” And then the line clicks off.

#rimi writes #kon deserves to call him strange and bizarre terms of endearment. bff rights include clowning on each other at all times #timkon #tim #kon

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girlboybug · 2 years ago

Text

Ultraviolence

"he hit me and it felt like a kiss."

or the one where ellie finds refuge in your farm house, whereas joel only finds a challenge of self restraint when he meets you.

what’s playing 🎧 : ultraviolence by lana del rey

pairing : joel miller x female!reader

word count : 9k

CONTENT WARNINGS : SMUT, mean!joel, virgin!reader, loss of virginity, manhandling, rough sex, spitting, slight voyeurism if you squint, f!masturbation, m!masturbation, spanking, fingering, slight dom/sub dynamics, panties fetish, creampies, unprotected sex, breeding kink, light restraining, choking, tummy bulge, impact play if u kinda squint and tilt ur head, degrading, light praise, daddy kink im sorry yall (not rlly), unspecified age gap, dirty talk, fluff for 2 seconds at the end :p

TRIGGER WARNINGS : reader has emotionally absent/verbally abusive dad, takes place after the david incident but there's zero mention of it lolz just background for yall, joel is mean and rude tbh, kinda very toxic but im addicted to old toxic men sowwy (plz dont ever let a man treat yall like this irl!!) anyways this is all i can think of, lmk if i missed anything! otherwise pls enjoy!! <3

a/n : wouldn't be a fic written by user girlboybug if the reader didn't have raging daddy issues lolz

there’s creaking at the front patio, the old wood worn down by countless stomps from your boots never failed to act as an alerting system for any trespassers. your heart sinks when you force yourself to get up, the responsibility to inspect the origins of the noise falling on your shoulders alone.

yippie.

your hand finds its hold around the neck of your dad’s shotgun, sock covered feet waiting a pregnant pause at your door, swallowing down the brunt of your nerves thickly. you inch out the door, holding the shotgun as steady as you can, eyes fighting to not fail you by succumbing to the night blur that glazes over your vision.

your sights land on a figure of a man, anxiety hitting you with the heel of its fist into your nervous system once his silhouette becomes clear before you. you pointedly aim at him, praying that the act seems intimidating enough. “you’re trespassin’” you call out, prompting him to raise his hands beside his head, keeping his movements slow and careful as to not give you a reason to shoot.

“just lookin for shelter ma’am,” he replies, his voice feels deep when it hits your ears, not stopping short of rich. “not buyin’ it. now i’m not gonna repeat myself, leave before i blow your goddamn head off,” you shoot your threats in the place of bullets, but your tone gives out on you, giving in to your fear, cracking in on itself mid sentence.

a young girl moves from behind him, her hands also beside her head. “ellie,” he whisper yells, trying to move back in front of her. your hard glare falls into a guilty gaze, and your shotgun falters downward. “thought i told you to stay behind me–” she cuts him off, probably causing a vein on the side of his temple to burst with stress when she moves in front of him to speak.

“we’re just looking for somewhere to stay for the night, and we’ll be out of your hair by morning. we promise.” the now named girl swears, looking at the man that dwarfs her in size for extra confirmation. “promise her joel,” she hushedly instructs and he huffs, looking back at you. “promise.” he adds gruffly.

they look like father and daughter, and you don’t have it in you to turn them away, and despite the possibility that lingers in the back of your mind that this is all a ploy to rob you blind, you settle on the fact that it’s worth the risk to let them in.

your shotgun rests beside you, no longer using it as a shield from the fear of an impending threat. “okay,” you verbally decide, and ellie lets out a sigh of relief, leaning into joel. he holds onto her with a sense of care, of protection, and your heart pangs at the sight as they climb up onto the patio.

your lips drop open unintentionally when the man that now has a name and a face to go along with it, stands before you.

he’s tall, he’s handsome, much older than both you and the girl. “thank you ma’am,” he says, a curt nod from the top of his head, and ellie offers a small smile, joining in his nod. “thank you,” she whispers, and you smile back, moving to the side to let them in.

immediate comfort envelopes the pair, a quiet breath of it being expelled from them, and you close the door behind you, locking it to make sure that the warmth from inside doesn’t morph into the frigid wind outside.

“there anyone else with you?” joel questions, unintendedly sending a worried alert in your mind, your body language showing a visible uncomfortableness at the question.

ellie notices, nudging joel with her elbow. “dude?” she mouths, eyebrows furrowed, silently asking, what the fuck?

you find yourself trusting her more than you do him, which is just enough of an amount to get you to believe he doesn't mean to sound as sketchy as he comes across. “just me and my dad. he’s asleep upstairs,” you respond, and joel looks back at you, pursing his lips, nodding.

“i’ll show you where you guys can sleep, and i can even get you a change of clothes.” you say, flickering between the two of them before turning on your heel. they trail behind you quietly while you lead them to their temporary rooms.

walking up the stairs, and past the stretch of the hallway, you stop at one of the spare rooms, pushing open the door. “there’s this one, and then,” you lean over, pushing open a door to the room just beside it. “this one. up to you guys to decide whoever gets which,” you send them off with a nervous smile, rubbing your palms over your pajama bottoms.

“thank you,” ellie calls out, lowering her voice but keeping it at an octave audible enough for you to hear. you turn back, smiling at the young girl before going into your bedroom. you grab a pair of pajamas for the pair, trying to be quick so as to not keep them waiting.

you return to them, finding them both in the same room, sitting at the side of the bed. ellie’s head is leant against joel’s arm, his stare resting over her. the pang hits you again, but you push past it, gently tapping your knuckles over the door. his stare moves from her to you.

“these are for her, and here’re some of my dad’s old clothes for you. they should fit, but if not you can uh, let me know and i’ll find something else for you.” you set them down beside him, and he nods, a tight lipped inch of a curl over his mouth spreads just slightly, acknowledging your actions.

“these should be fine,” he places a hand over the folded clothes, where your’s was and you find yourself swallowing hard again. his hand is big.

“alright, well goodnight.” you wish kindly, making your way out the door, nodding a polite bidding. “night,” he responds, traces of southerness apparent in his vowels. “thank you,” he makes sure to say before you leave.

for everything he wants to add, but he doesn’t, which is okay, you can hear it through the crickets and the quiet peacefulness that passes through the room.

you leave him with an equally hushed response of no problem, the door closing behind you at the curt ending of your reply.

–

your eyes snap wide open, a low wince falling out at the sting from the rude awakening your body is being subjected to. your name rings as a harsh echo, and you’re quick to your feet, remembering the girl and the man staying in your home, unbeknownst to your dad. “shit,” you groan, hurriedly rushing across the hallway and down the stairs.

and there was your father, loud, angry, and yelling at…joel? if you remembered his name correctly. “who the fuck are these people and why are they tellin’ me you let them in last night?” he all but shouts, and you feel small, humiliated.

“i did, i’m sorry, they don’t mean any harm, they just needed a place to stay for the night.” you answer meekly, and joel’s fists tighten, every fiber of his being wanting nothing more than to plummet his fists into the side of your dad’s jaw.

“lord,” he exhales, shutting his eyes and pinching his nose bridge. he walks towards you, a finger pointed at your face when he speaks.

“if they wanna stay they better make themselves useful, if not, i want them out my goddamn house in 5 minutes.” he snipes irritatedly, eyeing you down with annoyance, making sure you saw the seriousness in his face before he leaves, trudging out the front door. ellie watches with sympathetic eyes as you flinch when he slams the door shut.

it’s quiet for longer than you’d like for it to be, but you’re unsure of what to say after being belittled in front of people who are virtually strangers.

“what a dick,” ellie exhales and joel looks at her, eyes wide, lips tight with chastising ready to be released. “ellie!” he chides and she raises her arms in disgruntled defense. “what? he is!”

you laugh, and they turn to you surprisedly. “yeah, he is. i’m sorry about that.” you sigh, and joel shakes his head. “no, we’re sorry, we didn’t mean to impose and cause you all that trouble.” he apologizes, genuineness in his softened tone, a pane of his thick drawl behind it, and it soothes away the feeling your dad left you with.

“it’s alright, it’s just how he is,” you say, attempting to pacify their concerns, but ellie, blows out a quiet breath, eyes slightly wider when she tilts her head side to side. “massive asshole,” she mutters, and you giggle before joel can chide her once more. she smiles at your laughter, and joel just sighs his 100th sigh.

“you guys can sit, he’ll be gone for most of the day. i can make some breakfast before you have to go?” you offer, motioning towards the dining table, desperate to move past this topic. “mighty gracious of you, but we should get goin,” joel inadvertently rejects your offers, and you frown.

ellie turns to him, a hopeful stare chipping away at his decision. “dude please, there’s only so much chef boyardee i can take.”

you stifle a laugh at her pleading, tying an apron around your waist.

“fine.” he sighs, and ellie whispers a successful yes!

–

as time went by, you grew closer to ellie, but almost as a trade off, it seemed as though joel drifted further and further from you, leaving you with no idea as to why.

you’ve been nothing but kind to him, and the more you tried to do…well, anything, it only pushed him away instead of bringing him in closer.

granted, you did do things that prompt some kind of annoyed response from joel, like right now, as joel stands in the bathroom, his eyes falling to your discarded panties on the ground.

he marches out the bathroom, searching for you. “ellie, where’s the girl?” he asks, and she can hear the irritation building in the base of his voice. “uh, outside, she’s picking some fruit, why?” she queries, turning around from her seated position on the couch to face him.

he strides towards the door, eyes glaring straight ahead. “no reason.” he replies sardonically, and ellie rolls her eyes, flipping back on the couch.

your dad had gone into the next town over to collect more supplies, do some more trading and other various things, but you didn’t care, he’s gone for the time being, and you’re happy, at ease, with more time to look after your garden and spend time leisurely picking at the fruits that hang from the trees above you.

you’re resting on your knees, overalls rolled up to your thighs, bandana covering your hairline, nimble fingers plucking at the strawberries from the array of bushes. the rays of sunlight blanketing over your skin suddenly vanishes, and you turn, hand over your forehead when you look up at joel.

“oh hi joel! strawberry?” you chirp, offering a plump strawberry, and he exhales through his nose, eyes raking over you.

you have a habit of almost never wearing bra’s, and you just about live in overalls and shorts, always accompanied by some tight fitted top.

god, you make his life so hard.

little pink ribbons are tied over the top strap buckles of your overalls, and you look so adorable that it almost makes him angry.

“no, thanks, look, i know it was your bathroom before it was mine, but for the love of god, please stop leavin’ your…undergarments on the floor.” the subtle twang increases just a notch at the way he rattles about your sightly panties.

your face gets hotter than it was from the sun and you drop your arm, looking away embarrassedly. “oh my god how embarrassing, i’m so sorry, i’m just not used to sharing my bathroom, but that’s not an excuse, i’ll take care of them, i’m sorry joel,” voice pretty and soft, just like you, and he sighs, staring at you for a thick standstill, before going back into the house. “messy girl,” he mutters to himself.

he finds his way back into the bathroom, eyeing the suspect in question, feeling the strings in his chest pull in tight. he picks up the pair with a curl of his finger, eyeing it like a foreign object.

he clenches down on his teeth when he stares at it, the pink striped cotton is soft, a little bow adorning the front of it.

he feels dizzy.

he honestly considers pocketing them, but immediate disgust kicks in and he drops them, walking out.

dirty old man.

–

you are inescapable, easily running joel’s patience down into the dirt beneath his boot. your dad is still gone, but joel and ellie listened when he said to be useful.

they help you around the house, almost doin ’more than you, joel would grumble, but no matter how much he busied himself with chores, there was hints of you in everything.

when he’s feeding the chickens or collecting their eggs, he can look not too far out and see the clothesline where you air dry their laundry, not a single thought about letting your bra’s hang from the wire, taunting joel.

he imagines you in it, the racy little red number, nipples perked behind the flimsy material, shoulder’s beckoning to slide the straps down.

“shit,” he grunts, looking down and seeing the smashed egg in his fist, squeezed to pieces from the intensity of his perverse thoughts.

sometimes he thinks you do this shit on purpose, mocking an old man with something you would never give him, and he feels like banging his head into the wall.

and in this moment he feels it’d be an especially good time to do so, exhaling sharply from his flared nostrils while he searches around for you, calling out your name, only to be met with no reply. he can’t find ellie either and he’s panicking, he’s panicking bad.

he shouts your name from the very depths of his stomach, and he pushes every door he sees open until he stops at your bedroom door, pushing inside and growling with anger when he sees you laid upside down in your bed, hands resting on your tummy with thick headphones clamped over your ears.

he stalks towards you, bending down and ripping your headphones straight off your head. your eyes snap open and you jerk upwards from the bed, clambering off the bed in the most unflattering way possible, rushing to get to your feet.

“joel what the hell? what’s going on?” you ask, and he scoffs, mad that you have the audacity to be annoyed here.

“where the fuck is ellie?” he grits out, and you sigh, snatching back your headphones when you answer. “she’s in the stable with my horse, she’s fine joel.” you promise, and he squints his eyes, shaking his head frustratedly.

“y’can’t just send her off somewhere on her own like that and not even think to tell me, and – dammit, don’t wear those goddamned headphones when i’m callin for you, god you are so irresponsible,” he rants, his voice trailing up a ledge of loud anger, and it’s your turn to get mad.

“okay joel, you need to stop fucking yelling at me, she’s still on the damn property, she isn’t gone in the next town over, i’d never put her in a situation where she could get hurt and secondly, you don’t get to talk to me like that and tell me what i can and can’t do in my own house.” you’re in his face now, making an effort to stand up for yourself, but joel isn’t tolerating any of it.

“you listen here little girl and you listen good,” he moves in closer, and you suddenly feel overly aware of his proximity, almost immediately backing down to move away, but no, you wanted to talk back like a big girl, you’re going to face the consequences of one.

“you best lose that nasty fuckin’ attitude of your’s, i don’t care if this is your house or not, it ain’t an excuse to act like a goddamned thoughtless brat.” he’s breathing heavier now, his face too close to your’s, chest dangerously nearing your own.

your eyes nictate back and forth in his, desperately suppressing the tears that imperil at your waterline, biting on your bottom lip to stop it from wobbling. “you’re such an asshole,” is all you can manage to fire back through a weak excuse of a response.

he scoffs at you, stepping back before marching out your room. “no shit sweetheart,” he sneers with a lowered baseline of exasperation.

you fall back on your bed when he’s gone and out of earshot, holding your face in your hands, allowing yourself to let out the tears that almost spilled out in front of joel.

your fists wipe the tears away, angry that they were even there, each stream down your cheek is a reminder of who caused them.

refusing to give in to the pain that gnaws at your chest from his spewing anger, you get up, walking out your room, deciding to make your way around back to the stables.

ellie was saddled over applejack, your only horse, with joel sitting behind her, his arms wrapped around her, keeping her steady, keeping her safe.

the gnawing bites down harder inside your chest, and you’re unable to fight against it. instead you cradle yourself, comforting the ache while leaning against the bulk of the tree behind you, watching them interact.

his gaze over her is so soft, so full of care, of love, and he’s laughing, which enables her laughter, and you find yourself smiling as you watch them despite what had just transpired.

you watch as ellie plops the cowboy hat you had left on applejack’s saddle over his head, and your back gets stiff against the bark of the tree when she does.

he fixes the hat atop his head, and it annoyingly suits him well.

he looks like a proper cowboy.

your eyes drift down to the way his hips roll with each trot from applejack, his back leant naturally, looking relaxed, confident, like he knows what he’s doing, and that he knows he does it well.

his hand runs over the side of applejack lovingly, his strong hand smoothing over her coat, and you feel like crumbling down into the soil of the earth, breathing in a little harder when you imagine those rough, strong hands of his on your skin instead.

you reach up, pulling a peach from the tree above your head, settling down to sit and just watch the two gallop along with applejack.

joel’s eyes find you, they always do, and almost like she just knew, ellie decides to lead applejack back over to where you are. joel’s hands tighten over the reins, jaw clenching when they make their way over to you.

“well hi there sweet girl,” you coo, petting applejack when she bends her neck downward, greeting you happily.

you bite down into your peach, laughing quietly to yourself when the juice spills down your cleavage. joel follows the way the juice rolls down your chest, disappearing behind the pesky coverage of your tank top, and he feels like it's a punishment for his previous yelling.

you hand the rest of the peach into applejack’s mouth, cooing an, aww there you go sweet girl.

“damn these look good.” ellie whistles, reaching up to pluck a peach down.

she drops it, and she groans when it hits the ground. “i got it, don’t worry!” you remedy, turning around to bend down and grab it for her. joel feels like dying when he sees the heart curve of your ass, it’s almost too perfect, and he wonders if this is how his heart finally gives out.

kinda looks like a peach… he thinks to himself, eyes tracing over the form of your ass for as long as he can before you’re turning back to face them.

you go up on your tippy toes, quickly grabbing another peach, handing the new one to ellie and tossing the one that fell over to joel.

“you get that one,” you half tease, half huff, and ellie laughs, waving her clean peach at joel. his eyes settle on you while you talk to ellie, ignoring his presence.

his teeth sinks down into the peach, his stare trickling over the way you’re squeezed into those stupid fucking tiny shorts, and he thinks about a different type of flesh to bite into.

–

nighttime visits your household once more, but it’s anything but peaceful for you and joel.

ellie knocked out as soon as she collapsed in her bed, but joel’s wide awake. he wants to sleep, wants to forget this day even happened, but he can’t. he replays everything despite his efforts to pretend that the events from today didn’t even occur.

however, guilt drags its spindly fingers across the muscle of his heart while flashes of his loud anger directed at you forces itself to be acknowledged behind his eyelids. with a disgruntled huff he rips the blankets off his body, climbing out of bed.

he pushes past the door, making his way to your room to apologize for his harshness.

the closer he gets to your room, the more he hears a concerning sound gently echoing from behind the door. his brows fly up and he grips at your doorknob, turning it. his knuckles tighten over the knob, his body standing still and stiff in the cracked entrance when he sees you.

you’re sprawled in your bed, sheets hanging off you, covering not a single thing, leaving joel to wonder if what he’s looking at is real or not, and if it is, should he even be looking at you like this?

he knows the answer to that, it's a big fat resounding no, but joel doesn’t exactly have the purest morals of all time, so he stays in spite of his conscience telling him to close the door.

he watches your head roll side to side tirelessly, back arching off the bed, bucking your hips into your hand, struggling to pleasure yourself the way you need. your fingers keep sliding off your poor clit, too soaked to keep a good grip on it.

it sounds sticky, even from where joel stands, it’s all so fucking dirty, your sweet little whimpers going straight to his cock, pushing up against his sweatpants that already hang low off his hips.

he palms at himself, trying to alleviate the throbbing ache. his eyes follow the curve of your bare chest, your tight tank top under your chin, pretty tits in the air, hard nipples that are begging to be in joel’s mouth.

you whine to yourself, eyes watering with frustration when your fingers refuse to stay put on your needy clit, trying to instead fill your fluttering hole that clenches around nothing.

joel’s fingernails dig into the doorframe, physically restraining himself from going in there and shoving himself so far into you that it hits your cervix, stretching you nice and open for him.

he thinks about how he’d make you take it, how you’d claw down his back while he fucks you like you deserve.

he feels disgusting, like a goddamn pervert, but he again wins the battle against any morals he has left and stays to watch. you sound so wet its fucking ridiculous, he just wants to lap it all up on his tongue and drink you in.

but what he really wants, is to make you beg, to make you cry.

you further test his will, when his name floats from your trembling lips, his jaw going slack at the unreal moan. his hand falls to his straining cock, squeezing it, silently pleading with you to be good and say it one more time for him, to confirm he heard you right.

and you do, you whimper his name, an airy little, joel, while grinding down on your finger, trying to angle your hips to hit a spot you hardly ever have success in satiating.

good girl, he grits without a sound, his thumb brushing over the tip of his cock.

you think back to him yelling at you, ignoring the pain of the memory, and instead rewriting how the fight ended. your brain conjures up an alternate ending, where he bends you over the foot of your bed, smacking his hand over the fat of your ass before he rams himself inside you.

you think about his back curling over yours, his cock too deep inside you, muttering for you to fuckin’ take it.

he’d have his face in the crook of your neck, his beard would tickle your skin while the dirtiest words you can think of would be listed off in your ear.

his beard, your hips rise in the air desperately, your mind now imagining his stubble between your thighs, how his mustache would brush over your clit until it’s raw. “please, want it joel, want it so bad,” you moan to yourself in a pleading fluttery little voice, and joel almost steps forward at your begging.

i’ll give it you, he promises to himself, wishing he could tell you instead.

he can’t fucking take it, he drinks in the bare sight of you once more, memorizing each curve, the way your voice trembles, the way your legs shake, the plump of your thighs and chest, and fuck, he thinks he’ll pass out before he can even make it back to his room.

he carefully closes the door, striding hurriedly back to his bed. he shuts his door, making an immediate dash to his awaiting mattress.

he pulls the blanket over his hips, tugging down his sweatpants and letting his cock spring up. he uses his precum as lube, too impatient to spit in his hand. he fists at his fat cock, pushing past the roughness from his palm, pretending that it’s your soft hand wrapped around him.

he thinks back to what he just saw, imagining that he did step inside, closing the door behind him before making his way to you.

you’d probably get scared at the sudden sight of him in front of you, but he imagines that you’d be too desperate to care about his actions.

you’d grab his wrist, bringing his hand to your poor little cunt. “touch me, please joel?” you’d plead with those watery eyes of yours, and he would, he’d touch you until you couldn’t take it.

but he’d make you take it, he’d stretch you out on his fingers before he’d get his cock in you. he can only fantasize about how good your tight little cunt would feel all around him, how snug you’d be, gripping him in, but no matter how hard he tries to pretend, he knows his imagination does your pussy no justice to how good it’d actually be.

he starts fucking his hand, head falling back into his pillow, his bicep’s flexing with straint while he goes to squeeze his cockhead, traveling back down to his shaft, struggling to please every inch of himself.

he wonders if you’re a virgin, wonders if anyones gotten to see you like how he did, or did they get to experience it themselves?

he gets jealous at the thought, but he erases it, instead thinking of the possibility of no one ever getting to touch you but him.

yeah, he likes that, he likes thinking about being the first and last cock you’ll ever have deep inside you. shit, he growls, thumbing over his leaking tip, he’s close.

he starts panting, chest falling more rapidly with heavy breaths, his hand working over himself faster now, the slick from his pumping fist around his cock is embarrassingly loud, but he uses it and pretends it’s the sound of him in your pussy, and that does it for him.

he cums in his fist, slowly thrusting into the tunnel of his hand before he releases himself, and he groans, letting his body sink deeper into his bed.

fuckin’ disgustin’ he mutters to himself.

–

he can barely look at you the next morning, he feels hot all over when you so much as walk past him, your scent always trailing behind you and filling his senses.

you smell like the sweetest form of vanilla and it makes him unstable, feeling like he’s gotta hold onto something to remain upright when you’re near him.

you make your own soap, and, of course you make your own fuckin’ soap, he thinks to himself, growing weaker by the second when you talk about how you used vanilla beans in your recipe for soap.

you offer to make some for him, but he declines as politely as he can, finding any excuse to establish some space. he can’t be near you, not now, and not later, he needs time to remind himself what self control is.

he decides to chop some firewood, the nights are getting colder and colder anyways, and he thinks this’ll be a good distraction for him.

he pours all his frustration into it, swinging the axe from behind his shoulder and down into the blocks of wood, chopping them up into logs.

sweat lines his forehead, his biceps bulging from the tight constraints of his rolled up flannel, and you watch from the window, staring at him as he leans back, taking in a few deep breaths while he wipes his forehead before continuing.

you swish your thighs together, walking away when you realize if you don’t move now, you’ll stay the rest of the day just watching him.

after a few hours outside, joel is beat, he thinks he deserves a break. he trudges back inside, sighing when he’s greeted with the fresh air conditioned breeze.

your legs hang off the arm of the couch, head resting on a cushion and buried in a magazine.

he eyes your legs while he walks into the bathroom, almost unable to tear away from them. but when he walks through the door, he closes his eyes immediately once they land on the ground, as if the sight before him physically hurts.

he exhales with aggravation when he sees your white cotton panties on the floor, and your cream lacy bra hanging off the towel rack, mocking him.

he’s had enough.

he stomps out the bathroom, and you brace yourself for the latest lecture when you hear the nearing ruckus of his boots connecting to the wood floors.

he yells your name, his voice curling around the curve of an upward rage. “what joel,” you yell back mockingly, he stands above you, looking furiously down at you.

“what did i tell you about your goddamn panties and bra in the fuckin’ bathroom,” he shouts, jabbing his thumb back towards the bathroom. you huff, swinging your legs from the arm of the couch, rising to your feet. “i’m sorry!” you throw your arms up annoyedly.

“i’ll get ‘em, i understand it’s annoying but joel you don’t need to yell over every. fuckin’. thing, you can talk to me like a normal person,” you contradict your own words, pointing a finger at him while you shout back.

he grabs your finger, pulling your wrist down and away from his face, beaming anger glinting in his eyes.

“thought i told you to get rid of that nasty fuckin’ attitude little girl,” he spits, words hanging in the air like a venomous gas, and you all but growl with irritation.

“i’m not a little girl and you’re not my dad, y’don’t get to talk to me like that you fucking dick,” you bark back, feeling a sudden fear when you see the way he’s looking at you.

his top lip curls with disdain, and he nods slightly to himself, like he’s just mentally made his decision.

he grabs you by your upper arm, dragging you along with him back around to the couch. “let me go,” you try pulling your arm from him, but it does nothing, his grip is stronger than your efforts.

he sits down, pulling you into his lap, grabbing you roughly and repositioning you so your tummy rests over his thighs. “what are you doin–” he holds your jaw, forcing you to crane your neck to face him.

“i’m gettin’ real sick of your fuckin’ back talk, you say you’re not a little girl yet all you do is act like one, a real rude one at that,” he grits in your face, and you feel small, wishing the couch would just swallow you whole.

“i ain’t your dad but you need some serious fuckin’ discipline,” he lets go of your jaw, letting you fall back into the cushion. he unhooks your overalls, pulling them down and under your ass.

he exhales lowly when he sees the hypnotic curve of your ass, clad in baby blue polka dotted underwear, it’s too cute that it makes him sick.

he doesn’t even think when his hand runs over your ass, smoothing over your skin, squeezing the thick flesh in his large palms. you whimper under your breath, squirming in his hold. “stay still,” he orders, his tone cold, riding on a mean line of pointed annoyance.

“you’re gonna say you’re sorry with every one of ‘em, you hear me girl?” he asks, resting his hand on your ass testingly.

you nod quietly, but it isn’t good enough, he’s grabbing your face again, forcing eye contact. “when i ask you a question you answer.” he sneers, teeth baring for a second and you squeeze your thighs together, feeling your clit ache embarrassingly from the harsh treatment.

“i hear you.” you reply meekly, and it suffices, because he’s letting go of your jaw, refocusing on the new task he has at hand, or rather, in his lap.

he rests his palm over one cheek, causing you to suck in a sharp breath, the warmth from his hand tingling your skin.

your clit is right up against his knee, and you want more than anything to rut on it, roll your hips to gain any kind of friction, but you figure you’re in enough trouble as it is so it’s best to hold back these desires.

he raises his hand, slamming it back down and eliciting a loud smack that resonates around the room. you cry out, gripping onto the cushion under you. “i’m sorry,” you whimper out, skin prickling with heat.

he does it again, his heavy hand rising up only to crash back down against the fat of your ass. “i’m sorry,” your voice trembles, your eyes already beginning to water, despite the fact that you’re just barely getting started.

he slaps over your ass, hard. his rough calloused palm emitting an even stronger sting over your soft skin, and you cry out, kicking your legs against the armrest of the couch, feeling the anger increasing with each rough impact from his palm.

“i’m so-orry,” you hiccup, wiping away the tears streaming down your cheeks. he continues with the abuse on your ass, feeling a twinge of guilt at the way you cry but manage to say your apologies with each relentless hit to your bottom one after the other.

“you gonna listen to me when i tell you to do somethin’?” he raises his voice, along with his hand, letting it fall down onto your pounding flesh when you don’t answer fast enough. “yes, yes gonna listen,” you wail, little feet kicking with pain.

“gonna lose that fuckin’ attitude of your’s?” he grunts, smacking your ass hard over where he just hit, watching you howl in anguish, back trying to arch away from the pain.

“yes,” you sob, nodding with earnest.

you’ve lost count of how many it’s been, the only thing that remains consistent is the hot pain that comes in waves over your bruising skin, the welts in the shape of his hand throbbing and aching in never ending flashes.

he rubs over your skin, soothing the soreness away, before he drops his hand against it once more, erasing the little comfort he was giving you.

you’re apologizing through loud wailing, not a care in the world for how embarrassing it is to be sobbing in joel’s lap, because it fucking hurts.

he swats over your ass, fast and rough, letting the sting of it settle into a prickling pain that spreads down to the backs of your thighs.

after a few more hard hits to your ass, he figures you’ve had enough, your crying making him feel a pang of remorse for not taking it easier on you. he runs his hand over your scorched bottom, mending the abused flesh in an attempt to calm you down.

you’re crying, lashes getting slick from your tears, lips growing plump with the loud hiccups of pain. he massages over your ass, gently this time, but your skin feels too raw to enjoy it.

his self restraint is weakening, he can’t stop himself when he tilts his head back, leaning into the couch to look down at your inner thighs. he sees a wet patch spreading over your panties, and he scoffs, bringing two fingers to it.

you gasp, trying to wriggle away from it, but he keeps you still. “interestin’” he half snickers, and you just about die of humiliation.

“reckon you want me to do somethin’ about this?” he murmurs, voice gruffly cascading in the teeming air. he circles over the wet patch, giving you a chance to turn him down, shut down his advances, but you don’t want to.

you bend a little, arching into his touch. “please?’ you whimper, all embarrassment gone from the pain, and he inhales a hefty breath, swallowing thickly.

he slides your panties to the side, drawing his fingers up and down your slick. you shiver, tightening your legs around him.

“can’t believe you’re soaked over that,” he taunts meanly, judgingly, and you whimper, your face getting hot from the base of your throat when he pushes in his middle finger.

“you’re s’mean,” you sniffle and he scoffs at your complaints, pushing his finger in deeper to watch you gasp and shake.

“i showed you what mean is,” he chuckles lowly, leaning down to make sure you hear him. he shifts his hips around, pressing something to your hip, making sure you feel it.

“and this ain’t mean,” he curls his finger right up into that little spot you struggled to reach last night. he starts curling his finger, right there, and suddenly you can’t breathe, you can’t even believe this is happening, but whether it’s real or not you don’t want it to stop.

“more,” you whine, pushing back on his hand with a devout need. his free hand grips at the bruising flesh of your ass, the plumpness of it filling the gaps between his fingers, and you wince, little hands trying to grip at the cushions for comfort.

“you’re a greedy little girl with no fuckin’ manners. do i need to do this all over again just to remind you to say please?” he raises his hand back up over your ass, and you’re shaking your head, turning back at him pleadingly. “n-no, no, i’m so sorry,” you whimper, the backs of your hands covering your stinging bottom feebly.

he laughs at your attempts, but decides he’ll let it slide. he moves your hands away, and pushes his finger back inside, filling you up to the knuckle. you moan deeply, relief at the pleasure entering you once more. the way he fucks you with his finger is all you need to even begin trying to ignore the resounding pain he instilled into your ass.

little pants leave past your lips, your cheek squished against the couch while you try to fuck yourself onto his fingers. “feel’s s’good,” you drool.

he can’t stop the downward spiral he’s letting himself fall into with you, he’s in too deep, and he’s just accepted that he wants to go deeper.

you’re rutting your clit against his knee just how you’ve been wanting to this whole time, and he watches you as a desperate little wet thing in his lap trying to get off with what he’s giving you.

"you know i saw you last night," he whispers in your ear, beard tickling your neck when he leans in real close, his finger picking up speed when he continues.

your face burns hot, and you can't bear to look at him. "oh god," you moan, half from pleasure, half from pure humiliation.

"heard you sayin' my name too, there somethin' you wanna tell me?" he pushes you a little further, watching and waiting to see how you reply.

you're so disoriented, you can't think straight past the embarrassment and the feeling of joel refusing to let up with his finger inside you. he rubs over that perfect spot right there, and it feels so good that it almost kills the shame that burrows itself under your skin.

"n-no? no, i dunno," you whine dumbly, and he rolls his eyes, flicking his wrist harder now, gripping the hand of yours that tries to hold onto him. "you don't know?" he parrots back mockingly.

"you just so happened to be tryin' to finger yourself while moanin' my name? that just a coincidence?" his words jab at your cheeks with taunts and you whimper, hiding your face away from him, still shamelessly grinding down onto him when he works another finger in you, stretching you out.

"i'm sorry," is all you can whimper, you feel stupid with his fingers in you, bullying your poor cunt until it makes that addictive pap pap pap sound. "apologizin' for the wrong thing, should've been sayin' that instead of talkin' back to me," he grunts, letting go of your wrist to smack the side of your ass.

you cry out, shaking in his lap from the slap, the pain echoing over the sore flesh. "i'm sorry," you draw out longly, chest racking with tears mixed with pain and ecstasy.

he pulls his fingers from out your tight hole, and you whine, looking back at him with those pretty, innocently guilty eyes of yours.

"quit your whinin'," he mutters, pulling you upright into his lap. he looks back into your gaze, and it only reminds him of how you're breaking him down into a weak, weak man.

his thumb runs across your bottom lip, dipping into it. "open," he tells you with a softer, hushed sternness. you obey, parting your lips for him.

he spits in your mouth, and you take it like a kiss, carrying the action like a caress. it mixes with your own saliva, ingraining himself in your dna.

he stares at you expectantly, hands lowering down to your ass, squeezing it indignantly, like a warning.

"thank you," you breathe out, feeling drunk on him. he seems pleased, his tight clasp over your ass gets gentler, but it's still firm, still there.

"got a real issue of rememberin' your manners there girl," he tsks, his thumb trailing down your chin, his other hand patting your bottom. "but i'll fix that, fix that right up." he promises, but it feels more like a threat, one that he intends on staying true to.

he lays you flat on your back onto the couch, and you allow him to, letting him do whatever he pleases with you, and he thinks he likes you like this, so sweet and so pliant.

he pulls your legs towards him, he feels hungry, feels impatient, he wants all of you and he wants it all now.

joel hasn't wanted anything in years, because if you don't want anything, you won't be disappointed when you don't get it.

but now he's got you in front of him and he can't take it. he wants you. he's greedy, and he's dirty, but he doesn't care, you've done irreversible damage that he expects will be somehow repaired if he can just get a fix of you, just enough to gratify his bodily needs.

your legs find their way around his hips as if you've done this before, as if his body has been with your's prior to this, connecting like they're supposed to. he slots himself between your thighs, feeling almost overwhelmed to finally have you like this for him.

you want to kiss him, want to hold him, want him him him, and although you've already got him, you still feel like there's more of him to be had.

he unbuckles his belt, the sound urging your legs to tighten around his waist. his eyes drag over you, slowly taking in the vision that's you, as he unbuttons his jeans. he pulls himself out, your gaze dropping down to him, feeling your heart sink immediately.

you never assumed he was small, not that you thought about what was under those jeans, (lies) but shit, this was just obscene. near unnecessary, because how in the hell does he function carrying that…thing around?

he sees your gawking, and an annoying pride fills him to the brim at your visible awe. "is that gonna fit?" you finally ask, and he laughs, pumping himself when he inches closer. "we're about to see aren't we?" he answers, moving your panties to the side.

you get stiff with nerves, holding onto his strong bicep. "joel i-i dunno if it'll fit," you admit, you sound scared, because you are, and he almost feels bad. almost.

"if you don't want this tell me now," he places your panties back, but you're shaking your head, pulling him back in. "no i do, i do, promise," you sound so desperate, so needy, and he's trying so hard to not just fuck you right now.

"just, scared…i never uh..you know." you motion between you two and he swears he nearly punched the air with obnoxious success. "this your first time?" he confirms, and you nod, feeling shy under his stare.

"not like i've been trying to save myself or anything, there's just no one around over here," you explain, not that you needed to, if anything joel is ecstatic with a primal possession that he gets to be your first.

"so you're jumpin' at the first man who gives you some attention? 'specially an old man like me?" he circles the tip of his cock around your clit, and your lips part, hips instinctively lowering down on him. "n-no, i," you don't have any words for him, his actions rendering you silent.

he starts slowly inching in, and your head falls deeper into the cushion behind you, nails crescenting into his forearms. he goes in with no resistance, you're so fucking soaked around him, gripping him in like a warm welcome.

"shit," he shudders, fully sheathing himself inside you. his hand lands beside your head, panting above you, and he looks so beautiful like this. he's so handsome, his eyebrows are in that furrow that they're always in, but this time it's for a different reason.

you look down at where you're connected, and you feel as though you're now one, he's a part of you as you are of him, and you never want him to leave.

you start rolling your hips experimentally, no matter where or how you move, you feel him deep inside, the fat head of his cock hitting there, over and over, and it feels so good, you don't think twice about continuing your little ministrations.

he forcibly pauses your actions, halting your hips down with a rough grip from his hands. he's glaring down at you, uh oh.

"greedy little girl," he grunts, starting to piston his hips inside you. you cry out, leaning forward to find solace in his broad chest, but he pushes you back down, pinning you still. he pauses for a moment, grabbing his belt. "wrists." he orders, and you listen without wasting a second.

he ties your wrists, pushing them above your head before he continues. he's groaning atop of you, fucking you with a purpose, and you take him, entire body bopping upwards with every harsh thrust being fucked into you.

you want to touch him so bad, it feels like torture, you want to put your hands under his flannel, explore the skin that lies underneath, but he's denied you of that privilege. "brat's got such a tight fuckin' pussy," he grunts, impaling you hard onto his cock, stretching you out so good you can't stop yourself from trying to meet his thrusts.

the moans that pour from you are endless, all you do is whimper his name, crying for him and it inflates his ego, but he can't have you being this loud. a hand clamps over your mouth, and you moan behind it, any touch from him is welcomed wholeheartedly.

"quiet down girl," he grits, leaning in close while his thrusts grow harsher. "startin' to think you left your panties for me to find, bet you wanted me to get mad, jus' wanted some attention huh?" he moves his hand away from your mouth, instead using it to grip your face, squeezing your cheeks until your lips pucker. "speak," he orders.

"n-no, no i just fo-forgot, promise," you swear, words feeling difficult to pronounce and even think of when he's got you stretched out on his cock like this, fucking you dumb.

he doesn't believe you, his hands working around your throat soon after you squeak your response. "no?" he teases, his hands growing tighter around the pane of your neck.

your wrists wiggle around the confinements of the belt, wishing you could hold the hands that have you cradled like a glove.

"f'you just wanted my attention, or just wanted to get fucked," he rests on his haunches, pulling you with him, letting you slip down further onto his cock, the corners of his lips curling when you cry out. "then just fuckin' ask, don't need to be pullin' stunts like that,"

his hands around your throat feel loving, they feel safe, and perfectly fitted around you, like his hands were made for this. the lack of air feels right, feels like this is what you needed, and you want more.

tears well at your pretty eyes, rolling down your cheeks while you grip at the buckle on his belt, his cock moving so deep inside that you feel him in the base of your tummy.

he releases your throat, and you gasp for the air you didn't even realize was depleting. he pulls the belt loose, and you immediately go to his arms, running over them. squeezing at the muscles, feeling impressed with how they flex under your touch.

your hands travel up to his face, his beard tickling your palms. "feels sososo good joel, never felt like this," you slur, eyes falling shut at the pleasure. "yeah? this all it took for you to fuckin' behave?" he groans, your hands running across his wide back, trying to feel him, feel the muscles that you've only ever gotten to steal glances at.

he's letting you fall backward again, hovering close to your level, his cock filling you to the hilt, and then some, and you want to tell him how full you feel, how good it feels to have so much of him in you, but the words are lost on you, there are no thoughts left to be had, just pure physical manifestations of what he's doing to you.

"kiss me, please?" you beg, and he doesn't argue, doesn't mock you or tease, but connects your lips, kissing you hard. you moan into his mouth, calf resting on his lower back while he pushes in and out of you. his beard brushes around your chin, your nails gently scratching at the back of his head, eliciting his turn to moan in your mouth.

he kisses you like he fucks you, rough. it's rushed, messy, wet, but there's power in the way he does both, making you feel hazy, dizzy, and overfilled with rapture all at once.

every push, and every shove into the couch is registered as soft, gentle caresses, loving affection, so graciously given to you by the rough hands belonging to joel and you take it all in stride, left wanting more, craving more roughness that just feels like love instead.

his face falls to the warmth of your neck, nipping, biting down onto your shoulder when he buries himself further than you even knew possible, inside of you. your mouth parts, a string of whiny moans leaving past them when he grinds into you, bucking your hips to meet his.

"finally bein' so obedient, should've just gave in an' did this sooner," he grunts into your skin, hands holding you down by your hips. his fingers find your clit, rubbing over the sensitive nerves just like how you did last night, and you choke on a moan, tangling your fingers in his salt and peppered hair.

"so good, feels so good, thank you daddy," you cry like a prayer into his neck, and he sends an especially hard thrust into your cunt, knocking the air out of you. you feel frozen in horror when you realize what's just come out your mouth.

"that's real nasty y'know that right?" the sick curl in the corner of his mouth contradicts the shame he throws at you, and the way his cock twitches inside you acts as further proof that there's no truth in his mocking.

you cover your face in his shoulder, but no, he wants you to look at him when he fucks you, he wants to see the way those pretty lips of yours mold around the word that rightfully belongs to him.

"don't get shy now," he huffs, holding your jaw, head falling back when he feels you clench down around him. his hands fall back to where they belong, wrapped snug around your throat.

he watches the way your eyes roll back, bottom lip being sucked in while you try fucking yourself onto him. "dirty fuckin' girl," he grits, squeezing you while your fingers curl over his, intertwining with him. "s'all right, i can be your daddy," he grunts, pushing in and feeling you squeeze him when he lays his promises to you.

you force your eyes open, gazing at him hazily while he pounds into you. he brings his hips down to yours relentlessly, no mercy in the way he fucks you. he's growing messy, falling out of tune when he slows down, shoving himself all the way in you, letting the sensation of the way you wrap around him be appreciated like it's supposed to be.

"my fuckin' cunt, you hear me? repeat." he releases your throat, and you gasp, sputtering while you nod. "yes, s'all yours," you hiccup, watery eyes making out a blurry joel in front of you. he presses his hand to your lower stomach, groaning to himself when he can feel his own cock piston in and out of you.

he lessens the speed in his thrusts, slowing to watch his cock fill you up. you squirm at the extra pressure, pawing at his wrists. "so much, it's so much daddy," you whine, and he grunts, feeling pride at the way he's got you so fucked out. "take it," is all he says, sounding gruff and strained.

"can i cum please? promise m'gonna be so good for you daddy, gonna listen an' everything," you cry, wrapping your legs tighter around his hips, pulling him in deeper. he grits his teeth, chest getting tight at your pleads.

"really think you deserve it?" he grunts and you nod, gripping onto his shoulders. "yes, please, i promise, promise m'gonna be good, please please," he concedes to your begging, bringing his fingers to your clit.

you gasp, panting in all the air that'll fit in your lungs when it all hits you. your skin is tinged with heat, legs trembling on either side of joel's waist when you feel the tides start to ripple closer to you until it crashes, pulling you into the ocean and you're drowning. drowning in joel.

"thank you daddy, thank you s'much, so good," you muffedly sob, face in the crook of his shoulder while he fucks you through your orgasm, fingers running over your clit, winding you up just to watch you fall apart.

"fuck, squeezing me so hard," he laughs breathlessly, slipping into a heavy moan at the way you're clamping down on him. "so good baby, take what you need, that's my girl," he groans, holding your waist down, fucking you with a rushed need. the backs of your thighs rest over him, and you feel weak, but fulfilled, watching adoringly as he uses your body to cum. bursts of pleasure still erupting inside you at the way he fucks you.

my girl

you whimper at the fleeting affections, unknowingly clenching harder around him.

"shit, shit, gonna fuckin' cum, gonna fill this pussy up, greedy little cunt can't get enough," he groans, head falling forward while his orgasm envelopes him, the slick from your mixed arousal loud while he gasps, grunting with a few harsh thrusts. he pushes into you with finality, cumming deep inside you.

he slowly pulls out, and it stings, you're wincing, feeling bare and cold.

he pulls your panties back over you, eyeing the way his cum pools against the material, and he feels good, feels like he's permanently marked you as his. he tucks himself back into his jeans, catching his breath before he turns his attention back to you.

he dresses your limp body back into your overalls, his hands now ginger and gentle over your skin, touching you like you've suddenly become glass. he sits at the end of the couch, pulling you into his lap.

he's careful when he sits you down, aware that your ass still probably hurts. he lets you curl into his side, the last bit of trembling slowly leaving your body from what just happened. his palm runs up and down your back, feeling content at the way you rest on his chest. "feel okay?" he asks quietly, and you hum a sleepy yes.

your hand rests on his chest, toying with the buttons. "you've always been a sweet girl," he says, feeling like he needs to clarify that, and you smile against his chest, feeling relief and giddiness at his admittance. "a messy one but, sweet nonetheless," he pats your back and you shoot him a joking glare.

he holds you closer by tucking his hand under your thighs, cradling you into him. he kisses your temple, the first gentle action of the day. he tells himself he'll indulge in that more when he sees the smile that spreads across your cheeks.

#joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #pedro pascal joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel and ellie #tv tlou #the last of us hbo #the last of us smut #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller one shot #ellie williams #ellie williams tlou #the last of us #songfic

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look-at-the-soul · 7 months ago

Note

Cia I adore this gif you sent! (Thank you for the inspiration!!) I immediately got the idea but other stories came to my mind first 🤭

Still loving you

Robert Fischer x reader (and it’s also part of my grandma tribute) ♥️✨

Word count: 3,246

Robert waited next to the carrousel, there had been trouble with the system and people had to wait in order to pass with a custom. He just hoped this would be solved quickly because he had a meeting in…

That laugh and that voice only belonged to someone. Turning around he stopped looking at the screen on his phone.

No.

This couldn’t be happening.

¿Y/N?

Robert felt his body froze, his heart rate increased and memories came back and hit him like an avalanche. After all these years.

Flashback:

Y/N felt her knees go weak the moment she saw Rob stepping down his vehicle. Dressed in an immaculate suit with a silky black tie and that effortlessly hairstyle that suited him so well, his face seemed to be made by a Greek God.

It was odd that he asked about her appointment at the salon, perhaps he’d send his driver to pick her up for the gala…

She tried to grab his face to give him a welcome kiss, but Robert stopped her, giving Y/N an emotionless stare. She soon was aware of his cold reaction.

“What’s wrong?”

Robert shifted his weight from one foot to another uncomfortably.

“I’m going to the United States.”

Y/N blinked confused by his statement.

“What? When?”

He wanted to reach out and touch her, but instead he decided to hide his hands inside his pockets. “Tomorrow night, it’s all settled.”

“But.. but I thought you’d be starting on the September course.”

“No, I enrolled in the summer program.”

“Okay, I could cancel my Venice holiday and meet you there then…” Y/N proposed, thinking of some way to make it work.

They had just graduated and she was hoping they’d take the next step in their relationship soon, so moving in while he focused on his master degree in a foreign country sounded promising.

“I could start hunting apartments right away, are you staying in a hotel meanwhile babe?” She smiled again, thinking it could be good he took the lead and moved there first, so he could explore the area and find potential places. “But first I’d need to fly there, do you think your Dad would still let me use his private plane? He had said before anytime, but since you’ll be there…”

“Y/N…” the way he said her name, made her look at him. But she didn’t like what she found in his eyes. “This is why I needed to see you. I’m going away for a couple of years, we’ve to end this. Right here, before I go.”

And she couldn’t hear anything else he said, because her ears were buzzing, she felt like she was underwater and that someone was stealing the air from her lungs.

“But I could fly over and be there, lots of people have a long distance relationship nowadays.”

“Don’t make this more difficult.” He begged, making an effort to keep his emotions at bay.

“You can’t be serious.” Y/N blinked nervously, trying to find for a sign in Robert’s face that this was a bad joke.

She waited a few minutes, eagerly to hear him ask her to come with him, that he was only messing with her, he was always joking.

But when he didn’t back off, she swallowed hard.

“Really? You can’t even tell me a valid reason to break up with me?” Tears would start falling any minute now.

“You know I’m going to start my master degree overseas. It’s for the best.” Robert tried to excuse his sudden decision.

“The best?”

She barely had time to process the sudden news. How long had he been planning this?

Anger took over her, pinching the bridge of her nose, she tried to control her emotions. “You know what? Do whatever the fuck you want Robert! Go and study your goddamn master, I hate you!”

Taking her purse, Y/N rushed, needed to get to her car as fast as she could. She had dreamed Robert would ask her to go with him to the United States, to live together and then, get married. But instead he broke her heart? He was he love of her life, they had plans together for the future, they were good… or at least she thought so, now realizing how selfish he really was.

Tears ran free down her face and she cursed in frustration now realizing how selfish he really was. The son of a bitch, he didn’t care about anyone else but himself.

Y/N never saw the way he broke into a crying mess. Feeling guilt eat him alive for causing her such pain. But he was suffering as much as her or probably even more, she had been his rock, his safe place to hide, he could be real and honest with Y/N. But now, not only she was gone, but that part of him as well.

Robert kept his head down during the entire ride to the charity event his family was hosting, thankfully his driver kept quiet. Images of Y/N giving him a look full of sadness and disappointment for breaking up with her filled his mind, he hoped the image would stop haunting him at some point. He didn’t want that to happen, but he was convinced if he focused solely on his studies, he’d make his father proud.

They were still young, he wanted to prove he was worth of the Fischer company and he needed to work hard to achieve that.

Putting on an emotionless expression, he took a few shaky breaths to mask the fact that he was dealing with a broken heart.

Walking past the directors and board members of the company, he shook some hands, everybody was expecting a lot of things from him, he had a very important place to fill in…

“Darling, over here!” His grandmother’s voice caught his attention among the people. “Where’s Y/N?” She turned her face around, searching for her.

“She isn’t here grandma.”

His maternal grandmother gave him an expectant look.

“Why not? She was so excited yesterday.”

“I just broke up with her.” He explained uncomfortably, his jaw clenching.

His grandmother couldn’t believe his words, Y/N was the most charming girl she had ever met, she had Robert drooling over her, her family was respectable, she was well educated, smart, funny, beautiful, everything anyone would kill to be.

“I need to focus on my maste-”

But his grandma was already shaking her head and giving him a disapproving glance.

“This is the worst decision you’ve ever made. And you will regret it for the rest of your life.”

(End of flashback)

And his grandmother was right, he did regret it every single day. He finished his master and started working for his father’s company, he had made his family’s wealth bigger than he ever imagined.

But none of that really mattered, because he let true love slip away from him that night.

And now she was standing a few steps away from him. And she was still the most beautiful girl in the room.

“Why is that man staring at you?”

Zoe whispered at her friend confused. Was he even blinking?

Y/N frowned and turning her face around, she found the man that broke her heart years ago.

The world stopped spinning for an instant and the air escaped her lungs. She could practically feel her blood running out of her body.

All the memories flashing back at her, as if it was a movie scene. His cold words playing over and over in her mind.

No, time doesn't heal anything. It’s just a way to disguise the pain people say to cover an uncomfortable silence.

And she knew it still hurt like the first day because even after all these years, she still cared about him.

Robert managed to leave his initial shock behind, and he finally started moving towards her.

What should he say? Should he greet her with a kiss on the cheek or keep his distance?

The heaviness in his heart grew as he saw Y/N blinking, looking from side to side as if trying to find a way to avoid him.

“Y/N.” Her name on his lips seemed to burn.

She could feel her friends whispering in shock, they must’ve realized by now who he was because they knew the story.

How are you supposed to react in moments like these? Say it’s lovely to see you! No, because it wasn’t.

Could this be their chance to talk about what happened? He wondered if she had someone in her life. He opened his mouth to say something but nothing came up.

“Robert.” She raised her eyebrows, but other than that, he didn’t get much. Except she folded her arms in front of her chest, in a protective reaction. “All right, let’s go.” She stammered to the girls, wanting to go as fast as she could.

“There’s a problem with the car rental, they canceled.” Zoe announced and threw a subtle glance in Robert’s direction, he was still standing there, looking at Y/N.

He noticed Y/N wasn’t wearing a wedding band on her left hand, she was carrying a book in her bag.

“We’ll get an Uber then.” Y/N proposed trying to make her friends start walking.

“It’s extra expensive right now, it’s rush hour.”

“I’ve a driver waiting for me.” Offered Robert. “I could take you anywhere.”

A heavy silence fell upon them, you could hear a pin drop. Zoe and Lisa looked at each other, not fully believing what was happening. Then, they looked at Y/N.

“This isn’t a good idea.” She admitted in a low voice, avoiding his eyes.

“Hey c’omon we won’t be able to make it on time with this traffic.” Lisa pointed out.

Zoe gave Robert a suspicious look.

Whatever was crossing his mind, his ego dropped to the floor, he had been waiting for this moment all his life.

“I think a ride won’t hurt nobody, right?”

Before Y/N could protest, Lisa practically jumped on Robert, not wanting to give Y/N time to react. “I hope you’ve enough space in that vehicle because we overpacked.” And she grabbed him by the arm as if they were long time friends. “I’m Lisa.”

“I think I’m going to throw up.” Y/N grabbed Zoe’s hand for reassurance.

“Take a deep breath honey, this is not the right time to have a breakdown, you’re stronger than this.”

“Why him? Why now? After all this time…” Y/N’s eyes darted again towards Robert, who was walking several steps ahead with Lisa still hanging from his arm.

“I don’t know, but perhaps you were meant to run into each other, it was just a matter of time.” Zoe gave her friend a sympathetic look. “It still affects you.”

Her friend’s statement made Y/N stop walking.

It did. It still hurt her definitely. But it was only because Robert had been the love of life.

That was the truth, plain and simple, over time she of course started dating another man, but as soon as she realized things were about to get serious or that he would take the next step she decided to end the relationship not wanting to get married to the wrong man.

She wasn’t scared of marriage, she hated the idea of waking up one day and feel disappointed of the choices she made, it didn’t make sense probably for most of the people, but she rather choose to be alone.

Of course she never expected to see Robert again, there were a lot of things left unsaid between them. And all of those years apart didn’t prepare her to face him once more.

She remained quiet on their way towards his vehicle, the internal turmoil taking over with each step she took. And there he was holding the door open for her, giving her the sad and traumatized puppy eyes a pet would use after being scolded.

“I’ll go in the back.” Announced Zoe climbing in while the driver took their luggage.

Lisa gave her friend a curious look. “Can I go in the front? I get car-sick.”

That left Y/N sharing the second row of seats with Robert.

Y/N shook her head slightly while she tried to control her heart drumming like crazy, all their memories flashing her back in time to when they were happy, when they first kissed, when they first made love and of course, when he broke her heart.

A heavy and uncomfortable silence filled inside the vehicle.

Y/N tried to focus her gaze in the sighting they were passing through the busy streets, the man in the bicycle, the three women at the café, the elderly couple with their dog, anything but the man sitting next to her that was subtly looking at her and clearing his throat. She could feel his eyes on her, boring into her soul.

“Where am I driving to Sir?” The driver asked, waiting for instructions.

Lisa gave him Y/N address, she had a small loft in the city and they’d be staying there for the book signing event.

A million thoughts crossed Robert’s mind, he wanted to apologize first. But after all those years? Y/N could hardly stand to be in the same car with him clearly. What could he say? How could he even even begin to justify what he did to her back then? There wasn’t a single valid reason for leaving her the way he did.

And for what? To get his father’s approval? To show the old man that he was worth to be his son?

He lost the best damn thing that could ever happen to him. He lost her over nothing.

But now he was willing to give everything for her.

When they arrived, Y/N thanked the driver, took her bags and mumbled a very lowly thanks to Robert through gritted teeth, then she excused to rush to use the ladies room, leaving Robert standing there in the middle not knowing what to do with a million words to say and a sincere apology trapped in his lips.

Zoe approached him quietly, she had known Y/N for over ten years and given her reaction to the odd encounter, despite all, she knew Y/N still cared about him.

“Can I ask you a question before anything else?”

Robert crossed his arms and gave her a nod.

“Are you single?” That was the most important thing to know first.

“Yes.”

Then, onto the next question. “Call me a witch if you want, I don’t know you… but I know her. Do you still have feelings or something? I know it got messy the last time you talked but...”

Robert allowed himself to let his guard down, the one he had built after losing Y/N. He never let another woman into his heart. His bed? Yes. But not his heart.

“I don’t think it matters, she can hardly stand to look at me for two seconds.” He saw the pain was still there in her eyes.

“She’s going to hate me for doing this but if I can help in any way it’s worth the risk…” Zoe assured him. “I’ve a book signing today at four o’clock, this is the address.” Noticing the confusion in Robert’s eyes, she added; “this isn’t my business but I know the two of you’ve an unfinished business.”

Robert stared at the flyer, wondering what was the right thing to do.

“What if she doesn’t want to see me?”

“Oh it’s going to be hard, trust me.” Zoe then took her best friend side. “And if you hurt her again, I’m going to give you hell for ruining it twice.”

As the girls walked inside the apartment, Robert took his time to process everything, and taking his phone, he called his assistant to clear his schedule for the day, his mind couldn’t stop thinking of the series of events that just happened.

***

Robert took a look at his watch impatiently, then stared out the window of his vehicle and his eyes stopped at the women walking down the street. A grandma with what looked like her granddaughter, strolling with their arms linked, their eyes focused in the articles before their eyes and it made him think immediately of Y/N and her grandmother. How many times did he found them just like that, then they’d drive back into her grandmas house for lunch or dinner, the same with his grandmother.

When everything was simpler and happier. When they were together.

“Mr. Fischer, they are done signing the books.” His driver informed him.

Marcus didn’t ask him anything further, and without intention the man pressed him to make a choice. Walk in the book store and try to apologize to Y/N or drive away and leave behind a small possibility to get her back.

All damn day he kept thinking about her and what they had. How different his life would be if only he didn’t let her go that day.

But guilt was eating him alive, for the damage he caused her.

Did he deserve to be happy for once?

A bald man stepped out of the store, holding the door open and then he saw Zoe and Lisa walking out.

But when he saw Y/N hiding her beautiful eyes behind her sunglasses, he soon realized by just one look that he never stopped loving her.

“Y/N!” It was an impulsive move, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Wait…” he pleaded her, the three girls turned around to face him.

She gave him a confused look, not knowing what he was doing there or how he knew. Would the feeling of being incomplete without Robert would ever go away? Her heartbeat went crazy.

Knowing there was a possibility that Y/N could reject him, Robert cleared his throat and hid his hands inside his pockets. “I owe you a sincere apology, Y/N and I know it won’t take away what I did…” two pairs of curious eyes stared back at him. “I’m really sorry.”

Y/N stood there processing his words unsure of what to do or say. A million thoughts crossing her mind.

“If you want, we could talk? Privately.” He struggled to say the words, not because he didn’t mean it, because he was terrified of getting a negative answer. His next words came out as whisper whilst he looked down. “If you agree of course.”

Time slowed as Y/N took a deep breath, pondering on his words. Had she been waiting all her life for this moment? Was this the closure her heart needed?

She opened her mouth to explain him, she already had plans with her friends, but Zoe gave her a disapproving glance, reading her mind.

“I don’t know what will happen next,” Y/N said cautiously, “but I think a chat it’s a good start.”

“Thank you.”

As soon as she said those words, she felt free, relieved even for carrying the burden for so long. Whilst for Robert, this was the small light at the end of the tunnel.

They both knew it would take a lot of time to rebuild a relationship like they did. But at least this was the first step to try to get back the love they once had.

And without a doubt, he still loved Y/N.

Robert Master list

Tag list: @lyarr24 @ttzamara @gretelshelby @camilahpg03 @acillianproblem

@chishiyasan @allyly @fastfan @thomashelbyswife @lespendy

@onlydeadcells @prettylittlehoneyeyesxoxo @cloudofdisney @blondie-22 @esposadomd

@stevie75 @justrainandcoffee @elenavampire21 @thenattitude @adaydreamaway08

@darleneslane @sloanexx @shaddixlife @forbidden-forest-witch @forgottenpeakywriter

@ange-thoughts @babaohhhriley @kmc1989 @allie131313 @everythingelseisextra

@nela-cutie @betty21rose @aphroditeslover11 @lau219

#that’s what Cill said #robert fischer x y/n #robert fischer x you #robert fischer fanfic #robert fischer imagine #robert fischer x reader #cillian murphy characters #robert fischer inception

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rae-writes · 2 years ago

Text

[shove him back]

om x reader

wc : 0.3k

warnings : much cursing, very angy

synopsis+a/n : When the stuff with the Ring and Lucifer having amnesia happened (lesson 37-38 I believe), I really didn’t like how they didn’t give us an option to be hostile or standoffish towards Diavolo after he literally came in like “oh this is all your fault, I’ve had a suspicion ever since you came back but wanted to keep it a secret until I was sure and now the only way to fix things is to sever your pacts”. Like…if I was Mc I would’ve been angry and I feel like they didn’t give us a chance to expand on different personality responses for our Mcs by only giving us two shitty responses where we were either like “it’s okay” or “don’t worry”. They give us random ‘rude’ responses to choose from at the most uneventful times so I decided to write what we were robbed of—

“Get off.”

Diavolo’s arms tightened a fraction, voice carrying out genuine concern, “Mc?” though all it did was make you more agitated.

“Get.” You shoved at the prince’s chest, “Off!” Anger, hurt, and irritation bubbled in the pit of your stomach so hotly you almost felt sick, “I don’t need your goddamn apology.”

Everyone was stunned. You’d never had an outburst like this before- much less towards Diavolo. Even Satan doesn’t think he’s felt this strong of wrath build up.

“How dare you? I've been back for months! MONTHS! And instead of telling us there was something wrong with me and letting everyone help gather information - which would’ve made the process faster - you sat around and what?! Waited for the final fucking shoe to drop?”

Barbatos stepped forward, intent on putting you to sleep so you’d calm down, but Mammon intercepted with a glare.

“Lucifer is up there in bed with amnesia, which according to you is MY fault, and you have the gall to feel sorry for me? You have no idea how it’s gonna feel to sever my pacts! No idea how they’re gonna feel! And what the actual hell do you think Lucifer is gonna say once he gets his memory back? ‘Thank you’?! He’s going to have to mourn a connection he didn’t even know he was going to lose!”

Your feet halt their movement, as you were pacing the common room floor to try to control yourself, and you stare up at the prince with a blank stare, “This is no one’s fault but yours. You waited. You didn’t inform anyone. You decided you could get it all figured out and it’d be a happy day once you solved everything. Well guess what,”

Diavolo flinched when your fist hit his chest weakly.

“Apology not accepted.”

The brothers watched in despair as you walked out of the room, presumably to go join Luke and Lucifer. Barbatos felt a heavy weight on his chest that he couldn’t quite describe, though it couldn’t have been as heavy as Diavolo’s.

#obey me x reader #om x reader #diavolo x reader #obey me diavolo #om diavolo #barbatos x reader #obey me barbatos #om barbatos #lucifer x reader #om lucifer #obey me lucifer #obey me drabble

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elegantauthor · 4 days ago

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Saving Grace Chapter 20

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Aurora Stark

Summary: Ayo’s wisdom continues to be the balm Bucky needs, and Zemo oversteps his boundaries.

Warnings: allusions to episode 2 of The Falcon and the Winter Soldier, religious allegory

Series Masterlist

“What was rule number two again?”

“Don’t hurt anyone.”

“Goodbye, doc.”

“I knew… I knew before I helped Zemo break out of prison, it’d hurt her, but…”

“You did it, anyway,” Ayo intoned sympathetically, belying her own hurt at his betrayal.

Bucky gripped the steering wheel, leather chafing leather. He stared ahead, miles of road left to travel before they reached Prague. Though he didn’t deserve it, Ayo’s presence was a balm to his soul, helping him see reason as he confessed every sin he’d committed since meeting Aurora.

“After Zemo played that goddamn tape, of me… murdering Howard and Marie Stark, I anticipated Tony’s reaction, but Aurora’s…” He shook his head. “Nothing prepared me for her willingness to forgive, nor her capacity for loving a broken man like me. I never expected it, and I feel like I robbed her of the life she could’ve had.”

“Believe it or not, White Wolf, you are a man worthy of love. Do not trivialize her sacrifice by wallowing in self-doubt. She made her choice. Your past mistakes aside, her father’s short-sightedness caused a rift that Zemo capitalized on. Not once, not twice… This is the third time that man has used you and a member of the Stark family for his own personal gain.”

He hated to admit it, but Ayo was right. Zemo was a thorn in his side. A source of malcontent he couldn’t purge.

~ * ~

Aurora lay in bed for hours, staring up at the ceiling, ruminating on six months ago… five years ago… before she finally sat up. She glanced around the room with a forlorn sigh, her gaze alighting on yet another surprise that awaited her. Her luggage. Zemo must’ve packed it in the trunk of his car.

Slipping off the bed, she knelt down and rummaged through it for a thick sweater to offset the chill. She also pulled out a pair of leggings and woolen socks, first getting dressed, then testing the door. It was still unlocked.

Quietly, she walked downstairs, observing her surroundings with a keener eye. There appeared to be only one exit—on the first floor. She bit her lip, eyes flitting between the front door and the kitchen, from which a savory aroma wafted. Her heart thudded against her ribcage, in her ears, wholly consuming until Zemo’s voice cut through it.

“Breakfast? There is grapefruit juice, or coffee, if you prefer.”

Aurora closed her eyes and turned, opening them to see him standing in the space that separated the kitchen from the den. “So, you’re letting me roam free. Aren’t you worried I’ll try to escape?”

The corner of his lips lifted almost imperceptibly. “No.”

She raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“I have a security system,” he stated simply. Sitting down at the table, he unfolded the newspaper, while sipping from his coffee mug.

A frustrated noise escaped her. “You have a security system, but not central heating?”

He glanced at her over the top of the newspaper. “Are you cold, liebling? Allow me to remedy that for you after we eat. Please have a seat.”

His nonchalant behavior and casual tone were too much. Shaking her head, Aurora refused to give in. She was hungry, but couldn’t find it within herself to partake in his pleasantries.

She marched back upstairs, spotting a roomful of books out of her peripheral in passing. She paused at the doorway, giving the library a once-over before entering. Shelves spanned wall-to-wall, ceiling-to-floor. Taking comfort where she could from the old, musty book-smell, she walked around the room. Most of the titles were in German and other languages she couldn’t comprehend. Many of them worn and peeling, showcasing their use over the centuries. Of the authors she could discern were Tolstoy and Nietzsche.

“Would you indulge my curiosity for a moment?” At Zemo’s question, she turned to look at him. “What power does the daughter of Aphrodite possess? Other than reading people’s emotions, of course.”

“Uh. I can also calm emotions, and I…” She exhaled audibly and against her better judgement, said, “I can bend the will of others, to an extent.”

“You are a seductress.”

“What… No!” she exclaimed.

Zemo smirked, stepping fully into the room. “What do you prefer to call it?”

“I don’t know. Manipulation? That sounds bad…” she murmured, furrowing her brow.

He chuckled. “Did you ever ‘manipulate’ James?”

“Not without his consent. I never wanted him to think I was like HYDRA.” She lowered her gaze to the floor briefly, frown deepening. “You saw me, as you put it, ‘tame’ the Winter Soldier. I didn’t always use my powers on him so explicitly. I earned his trust, and eventually, he wanted me to. To help him heal. To calm him after a nightmare. To instill self-love. When he couldn’t let go of his self-hatred from what HYDRA made him do, I helped him through his darkest moments.”

“A literal goddess,” Zemo noted, sounding thoroughly impressed. “You were to him what a Christian might seek in God.”

“I’m not a— I’m not.” She laughed derisively at the absurdity of his statement. “He did all the hard work himself, the inner work. I just… planted the seeds.”

“I wonder, where would he be without you?”

Her eyes flickered sidelong to Zemo, now standing beside her. Even without the ability to read him, she was well-versed in recognizing envy when she saw it. Like Bucky with his superhuman strength, she knew that responsibility came with having extraordinary power. In contrast, for all his lecturing about Nazis, the Avengers, and Super Soldiers, Zemo was one bad choice away from becoming everything he despised.

The silence in the room was deafening after that. Too few spoken words gave way to far too many thoughts—each more troubling than the former. They tripped over themselves, vying for pole position in her mind.

“I won’t do what you want me to,” said Aurora.

Without warning, Zemo grabbed her by the nape of the neck. Her chest labored against his, as he pulled her into him. “Bold of you, but answer me this. Where is your Soldat to protect you?”

#Bucky Barnes

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margowritesthings · 2 years ago

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The Greatest Gift A Cowgirl Could Ask For

a @rdrevents Valentines gift exchange for @cowboydisaster

SERIES MASTERLIST

pairing: Arthur Morgan x f!reader word count: 4,400 words warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, explicit language, sexual themes, vaginal sex, mentions of death, unprotected sex, throwing up (TW EMETOPHOBIA), very brief mention of SA in the past, unexpected pregnancy, mentions of Micah Bell a/n: am I britney spears in her 2000 grammy award winning song??? because oops, i did it again. i don't know how I managed to get Bea as my recipient for a SECOND time, but it only felt right to carry on building this universe I've made for her and lying to her about it all week. Whoops.

Bea, my beloved, Happy Valentines Day. You deserve the world and Im so glad I could dedicate this fic to you. Honestly I probably couldn't have gotten the motivation to get back on my feet and write again if it wasn't for you. Thanks for everything you do bby and I hope this lives up to your 'if by some miracle you get me for your gift exchange disregard my prompts and write a TGG prequel' (yes she actually said that) idea. Love you lots xxx

taglist: @cowboydisaster @inkandbloodbound @counteveryfreckle @elifsukirdaghehe @reaveries @delilah-grimes @luvliewriting @mrsarthurmorgan7 @photo1030 @snobbybastard

My Darling Wife,

I’m writing to you from up near Tempest Rim. I’ve tracked this bounty all over the goddamn Grizzlies and I’m ready to come home to you. I miss you so much and I’m real sorry I can’t be home in time for St. Valentines. Hopefully I can catch this bastard soon and make it up to ya. We’ll go to the theatre and sit right at the back, how’s that sound? I’ll move heaven and Earth to be beside you soon, you know I will.

I can’t wait to see you, sweetheart. I’ll be there as fast as I can be with enough money to take you out on the town. Won’t be long, I promise.

All my love, Arthur

Your finger runs over his looped script, over and over as if it will somehow will your husband out of the crumpled paper and into your bed. It’s been 2 months since the letter arrived, 2 months of the agony of not knowing if he’s dead or alive robbing you of sleep each and every night. You miss him, more than you could ever imagine one person could miss another and you honestly don’t know what you’ll do if he doesn’t come home.

It’s a 600 dollar bounty, it’s sure to be a tough job you constantly reassure yourself, unable to focus on anything but the absence of half of your very soul in every waking moment.

The day he comes home starts like any other. Time's arrow marches on, the sun rises and sets over your makeshift family as they work and plan and rob and hunt. You busy yourself planning a job with Karen, cushioned into your schedule between menial tasks so that it’s just that bit easier to not think about him. As usual, your efforts are in vain, but at least the chores are done, your steed Diesel is happy, and, all being well, you and Karen will have about 30 dollars to split between you when the week is out.

An hour before he comes home, everyone retires to bed, save for John (who’s on watch tonight) and you’re left alone by the campfire. It crackles and pops, embers swirling the air around you. It feels like you stare at the twisting flames until your eyes blur and burn and you can’t tell which are tears of irritation to your senses and which are your heart breaking once more.

Moments before you’re reunited with the second half of your heart, you hear John yelling. It’s instinct that drives your hand into your holster, still resting against your hip despite the late hour, and you perk up like a startled deer, straining to decipher Marston’s words.

“Who is it?!” “Arthur, you dumbass!”

Arthur.

Arthur?

“Arthur?!” It’s a breathless shout, barely heard over the rushing blood in your ears as your feet take you to your husband before your mind can even fathom that he’s here.

But sure enough, when you reach the edge of camp, heart racing, you see Arthur Morgan riding his chestnut mare straight towards you, spurring her into a gallop as soon as he lays his eye on his waiting wife. Marston probably makes some remark about who ‘decided to show up’, but to you, there is nothing but you and Arthur, two magnets parted by an unnatural force finally reaching each other again with a deafening crash.

And it is. A crash, that is, when Arthur all but throws himself off his saddle and your bodies collide, great big arms wrapping around your frame. It is then that the tears fall down your cheek, soaking into Arthur’s coat that smells so much like him it truly feels like a dream.

You thought he was dead.

Only when you’re safely in his arms, when he’s pressing frantic kisses to your head, whispering your name over and over into your hair do you allow yourself to admit that fact. You thought he was never coming back, and yet here he is. Words fail you, the overwhelming emotion settling right in your throat.

“Oh, god… oh, darlin’ I-I missed you so much…”

You feel two large hands cup your cheeks, pulling you in for a kiss that holds everything and anything the past 3 months could have been had you not spent it apart. But everything fits back into place, the world starts spinning again and you’re whole the second Arthur Morgan’s lips meet yours. It lasts a lifetime, it lasts a fraction of a second. You want to stop time, keep Arthur in your arms forever and never again have to go through the torture of being away from each other. The two of you only part to throw near identical scowls at John, who is amusing himself by telling you to get a room.

Unfortunately, as Ms. Grimshaw so often reminds you all, the Van der Linde Camp is not a hotel, so tonight you will not be afforded the luxury of a private suite as John so kindly suggested. There is only your tent, hitched against the gang’s weapons wagon, the old canvas pulled around to offer a little privacy when you and Arthur first started… well, needing the seclusion.

Calloused fingers intertwine with your own digits, Arthur’s other hand flipping John off before his weight pulls you towards your little corner of camp. There's so much purpose in his stride, the need to have you all to himself, not even share you with the lord above or wildlife below, driving him forward. Driving him home.

When you’re finally, truly alone, the tears welling in your eyes glistening in the candlelight, no words are needed. Soon enough, you’ll talk for hours on end, catching each other up on every little detail of the last few months. But for now, all that there is and all that could matter is right this very second, when Arthur reaches for you, brushing a thumb over the tear tracks on your left cheek. His eyes, looking almost emerald in the dark of night, roam over each and every detail of you with such an intensity in him that you think he’s trying to remember this moment for the rest of time. You’re sure it’s one you could never possibly forget.

Arthur snakes both arms around your waist, guiding you backwards until the backs of your knees gently hit the cot and you lay back onto it. He covers the full length of you and then some, making you feel so fragile and small. It’s nice to feel breakable for once, to let go of the need to be the strongest in the room, lest you be ridiculed for being too sensitive or too weak or too womanly. Arthur knows just how strong you are, you need to prove nothing to him, so you can submit to his embrace, allow yourself to just breathe for once knowing you can break and there’s re will always be somebody to put you back together.

He lowers himself to your lips, pressing a kiss to them that doesn’t last nearly long enough. Arthur then kisses your nose, then your cheeks and chin, before trailing down to the crook of your neck. Your skin feels as though it’s on fire, so starved for the man you cannot live without that now he’s finally here everything feels that much more intense. The tiniest scrape of Arthur’s teeth against your flesh shoots through every single nerve in your body and you moan right into his ear. You can actually feel him harden against your thigh at the sweet melody of your pleasure.

Pushing Arthur’s hat off to the side, your fingers rake through his hair, nails scratching at his scalp encouragingly as he nibbles at your skin.

“Oh, Arthur… Oh, I missed you so much…” You breathlessly whisper, feeling your heart skip a beat when he pauses his movements to glance at you from under impossibly long eyelashes, jade green eyes glistening up at you.

“I missed you too, sweetheart. So so much.” His voice is soft, as if he’s handling the peacefulness around you so delicately and it causes the overwhelming emotion to well in your chest and choke up your throat. Arthur sees this, trying not to be too taken with his own surprising amount of emotion himself, and relieves you of your job of a response by directing his attention to the buttons of your shirt. You don’t remember him pushing your jacket off your shoulders, but there it lies on the floor beside the entrance to your tent, so he must have.

Despite the juxtaposition of such dainty buttonholes and such large fingers, Arthur expertly undresses your top half until you’re bare to him. He takes no time at all to take one of your nipples into his mouth, kissing and sucking at it with a hunger you feel right in your toes. You moan loudly, unable to stop yourself after yearning for this very feeling for so long.

Arthur coos and shushes you and it vibrates across your skin, not helping you stay quiet in the slightest. The hand not tugging on his dirty blonde locks reaches between your two longing bodies to begin to unbuckle his belt. You can feel your own heartbeat throbbing between your legs, your coil growing tighter and tighter by the second. It’s been almost 3 months since your bodies have joined like this, and yet you’re not sure you can wait another minute.

You’re purring for Arthur, twitching and grinding as your hand fumbles desperately at the belt. His absence from your skin is agony the second he pulls his hips back to sit up straight. Spotting your downright bratty expression, bottom lip protruding in a pout, Arthur chuckles lowly, “Patience, baby… I gotta get these damn clothes off us.” He gestures to his belt, still very much buckled around his waist. Definitely not your fault. He was being far too distracting.

He’s quick, you’ll give him that, shedding his clothes without taking his eyes off you. You burn under his stare, even more so when he crawls back on top of you to slide your boots off one by one and peel your pants and undergarments down your legs.

The heat radiates off his huge body, his cock pulsing with need. The way he’s putting his weight into his arms to stop from crushing you with his weight adds a definition to his already beautifully sculpted body. Reaching down, you brush the tip of your finger oh so gently over his rosy head, finding a bead of cum already leaking, and you snap. You can’t wait a second longer, scratching and gripping at him like he’s the air you need to breathe.

“Please, Arthur, please I need you. S-So long, it’s been so long-” “Shh, I know, princess, I know. I’m gonna take care of you, okay? Gonna take care of your pretty little cunt, I promise.” He soothes you, though his own voice is shaky from the very effort of restraining himself, maintaining his control to not drive into you and ruin you. While he whispers to you, he lines himself up at your entrance and you quiver in anticipation.

In all your years before you met Arthur, you never really saw sex as anything but something to give, or worse, something to be taken from you. You never truly understood, not until you met Arthur, who taught you it’s something to share, to experience. With Arthur, it’s different. It is connection and pleasure and it’s wonderful and god damn it, it’s addictive. So when Arthur slides into you, letting out a visceral, guttural groan as he does, everything is right in the world.

You feel so full, especially when Arthur pushes all the way to the hilt, connecting you completely at the pelvis. The moan that escapes your lips is downright obscene and Arthur crashes down into your mouth to swallow it.

Maybe it’s the fact that it’s been so long, or the emotion of it all, but you swear you can feel everything. Every vein and ridge, every twitch and movement of his perfect cock as Arthur slowly starts to move in and out of you.

“Fuck… s-so good, darlin. So tight- y’feel so fucking good, princess…”

You’ve never hurtled so close towards a climax so quickly in your life. His torturously slow, deep thrusts drag into your sweet spot every fucking time and trying to hold back brings a blur into your vision. Your own hips grind against his, Arthur gripping into your flesh to guide you perfectly in time with him.

“I-I’m so close already, Arthur… fuck…” You breathe out, your breath tickling Arthur’s ear and sending a visible shudder down his spine. He looks proud at your admission.

“You missed me that much, huh? Gonna cum for me already, darlin’?”

He gives you no time to respond, pressing a thumb to your clit and rubbing in time with everything else. You implode, pulling Arthur down to catch the scream you’re about to wake everybody up with. It has never felt so intense, and with every thrust Arthur fucks into you it only grows and grows, shattering you to pieces for Arthur to fix back together again.

When you return, a rhythmic thudding in your ears, the first thing you see is Arthur, of course. His jaw is fluttering madly, a bead of sweat clinging to his forehead but the candlelight makes him look ethereal. You still can’t believe he’s here, alive.

Tears start to glisten in your eyes. You’ve never cried during sex before, not for anything positive, at least, but somehow this doesn’t feel wrong. Arthur slows again, watching you, and you spot an extra shine to his own jade orbs. He knows. He feels it too.

He’s right there with you. As he always is.

He brushes a piece of hair stuck to your forehead away, and the gesture is enough to send the tears falling down the same worn path on your cheeks as before.

“I love you, Mr. Morgan…” “I love you, Mrs. Morgan…”

It seems to become too much for Arthur to stay still, and you’re glad for it. You’re desperate for the friction, already flying towards another orgasm. He’s really fucking into you this time, pulling almost all the way out before driving back in. He’s groaning and growling and you decide in that moment that it’s your favourite sound in all the world.

“I… I ain’t gonna last much longer, baby…”

“C-Cum in me…” “Huh?” He slows, shuddering at the exertion required to control his movements, “I-”

But you’re not listening to his protests, your nails digging into the skin of his back and ass and anywhere else you can reach to urge him forwards again.

“Please Arthur, I-I need you… I need you to cum with me, I need you with me…” you plead with him, not truly understanding your need but honouring it. You’ve been without him for so long, you deserve him with you now.

He appears to consider you for just a moment, before diving down to lock your lips with his. His tongue delves into your mouth, tasting every bit of you and he starts to pump into you unreservedly. His body grinds against yours and the friction is perfect and you’re so fucking full and before you can even try to hold back, you’re cumming again, stars scattering your vision, heart pounding out of your chest to find release from it’s mortal, physical cage. Your inner walls twitch around Arthur’s length and this time, he doesn’t hold back either.

His eyes fly open and lock onto yours as you both climax together. It’s vulnerable and strange, but perhaps more connected than you ever thought possible for two people to be.

Arthur’s cock twitches inside you, pumping out his spend as he groans viscerally, completely losing control of his rhythm as he thrusts into you one last time, harsh and deep. You’ve never experienced this before, with Arthur or any other man, normally erring on the side of caution when it came to such matters, but even as you come down you can’t bring yourself to regret it. Whatever you and Arthur just experienced together felt spiritual, and worth much more than a little risk.

Arthur collapses, even as depleted as he is still considerate enough to collapse onto his elbows and not crush you. He slides out of you, earning a little wince, and rolls to the side so you can rest your head on his chest. It’s like a locket that’s been ripped apart, finally fixed together with the most satisfying click.

═══════☆═══════

Two months later, life has returned to its equilibrium. You and Arthur are perhaps clingier, still in a sort of second honeymoon phase where you just can’t seem to keep your hands off each other, more so than usual. It’s a side effect of prolonged solitude, you’re sure.

The first time it happens, you blame Pearson and think nothing of it. It’s pretty early in the morning and you’re sitting with Tilly and Abigail, peeling potatoes for the stew tonight. Abigail is venting her frustrations about when John did this and John said that, and everything feels so normal. Pearson arrives, throwing a rather large, rather dead fish onto the table you’re leaning against and you feel the thud from the weight of it vibrate against your back.

It isn’t until the smell invades your senses that everything starts to feel off. It smells exactly like all the other fish Pearson has ever slammed onto that poor table, which doesn’t explain why you immediately lurch forwards, grabbing an empty bucket and throwing up your breakfast. The fish stench is suffocating and all you can do is get the hell away from it, not noticing when Abigail’s brows knit together almost… knowingly?

You skip the stew that night.

―

The second time it happens, you try not to think about it. You’re riding Diesel and almost don’t make it off him in time. There is nothing to set you off, no horse shit or rotting animal at the side of the road, and yet in an instant your stomach feels like it has been flipped upside down.

The sheer volume of your retching catches Arthur’s attention and he tugs on the leather reins in his hands to steady his mare.

“Darlin’? Y’alright?”

His concern is evident in his tone and in the tight line between his brows, which deepens when he finds you unable to respond in anything but a frantic nod. He dismounts, spurs clicking against the dusty ground when he approaches you.

“Oh, sweetheart… that’s it, easy, easy… you’re okay…”

You feel gentle circles rubbed into the tense muscles of your back as you try to get through this again. It’s not lost on you that Arthur is speaking to you like a spooked horse, but it actually really does help. (You decide to prioritise peace of mind and not psychoanalyse why that is). Eventually, it relents and you regain your composure, albeit somewhat less gracefully than you’d have liked.

“Sorry… I don’t know what’s gotten into me, maybe I ate somethin’.”

Your apology for something you can’t help earns you a sad smile from your husband, who places a loving kiss on the top of your head before reaching for your discarded hat and putting it back on for you.

“Y’don’t gotta apologise. I gotcha, darlin’.”

You know he does.

He always does.

―

The third time it happens, the luxury of denial is stolen from you. It’s early enough that your view while you sit with Abigail drinking coffee involves glorious hues of orange and pink scattered around the rising sun. It’s peaceful, tranquil. The warmth of the little metal mug in your hands and Arthur’s jacket around your shoulders is enough to ward off the fresh morning chill in the air.

There is absolutely no warning when it hits, when it happens again. You’re so goddamn sick (no pun intended) of hurling. Your eyes water and your throat hurts a little and you curse under your breath when it’s over. Abi is beside you, rubbing your back in an attempt to soothe you. She waits until it’s over before speaking hesitantly.

“Uh, can I ask you somethin’?”

You nod, eyes still red and glistening as you swirl coffee around your mouth to take away from the awful, acidic taste lingering.

“When did you last bleed?”

“What, like an injury? Uh, I cut my hand couple days back, but I don’t see what-“

… Oh fuck.

═══════☆═══════

The anxiety bounces around your body and you decide that you’ve become far too acquainted with the concept of nausea. You can actually tell the difference between nerves twisting your stomach and… well, let’s say it as it is: morning sickness. This is the former, you deduce, spinning both your engagement and wedding ring around your finger to give your hands something better to do than carve fingernail-shaped moons into your palm. He should be home any minute now. Any minute now and it will all change forever.

It’s quite late, but the poker game Arthur was scoping out for potential jobs is known to last a while. You’re the only one still awake, poking the embers of the campfire to keep yourself as comfortable as possible.

You hear hooves hitting dry dirt first, and it seems to trigger your fight or flight response. God, you’d love to run away from this, but that is pretty much impossible, so fight it is. It’ll be the greatest fight of your life, you’ll soon learn, one you’re privileged to be a part of. But right now, it feels like an all-consuming unknown.

Arthur can tell something is wrong the second he sees you. You’re terrible at hiding things, especially from him. He always reads you as though you have a poster advertising your feelings printed on your forehead. Arthur dismounts, kissing you tenderly on the temple and wrapping his arms around you.

“What’re you still doin’ up, darlin’? Is everything alright?” You can feel his worry vibrating in his chest as you nuzzle into his embrace.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, I just… Can we talk? I kept the fire goin’.” You say it into his shirt, reluctant to move from this hold.

“Of course…” there’s something in his voice, a tense apprehension that really doesn’t help the knot contorting itself in your gut.

While you’re more than capable of keeping a fire going, Arthur is an expert, and has it healthily burning within seconds of you sitting down on the overturned log the gang has fashioned into a bench. You’re back to spinning your beautiful gold bands around your finger, trying to remember to breathe in and out every so often.

“What’s goin’ on, sweetheart?” His voice is so soft, so kind that it makes you want to cry. But you promised yourself you wouldn’t until you’d told him, because this might just be the most important conversation you’ve ever had, and you definitely won’t get through it if you’re a blubbering mess.

“I, uh… I… somethin’s happened.”

You hear his breath hitch in his throat and Arthur leans towards you, completely enveloping your hands in his. They’re sandwiched in now and you can’t fiddle with your rings anymore.

“What? What happened? Was it Micah? If he’s said somethin’ to you, I’ll kill him, the rat bastard-”

“No, no, it’s… as much as I’d love to see that, it’s not him.”

The tension releases. Just a little bit.

“I’m pregnant.”

Oh wait, there it is.

The silence is deafening, even though you’re almost certain it isn’t actually silent out here right now. There's a fire going and crickets are just metres away, you’re just shutting down with nerves.

The normally so often tense, fluttering jaw of Arthur Morgan is slack, his eyes wide and gaping at you, occasionally flicking down to your so far bump-less belly. (You should know- you’ve been obsessively looking in a mirror any chance you get for some sort of sign that this is really happening).

Say something. Please say something. Please don’t be angry. Oh, God please don’t hate me.

“I-I… You’re pregnant?” He repeats, reassuring you that you haven’t actually gone deaf, though his tone holds no indication of anything but shock. That’s probably fair…

You nod, hands instinctively reaching over your belly. It feels… weird. Holding your hands over your baby. Yours and Arthur’s baby.

“It happened a couple months back, when you got back from The Grizzlies, I think… I-I’m sorry, Arthur. I shoulda’ been more careful and-and…” You’re rambling, filling a silence that probably should just be allowed to be a silence.

“There… There’s gonna be a baby?”

There. Right there, adorning Arthur’s beautiful features, is the pull of a smile. It chokes you up instantly, so far deep in nightmares of arguments and unhappiness that you hadn’t even considered the good. You start to nod, a little bit of your fringe falling in your face.

“Yeah… There’s gonna be a baby. Our baby…”

“Our baby…” He repeats, his arm raising to brush the hair away from your eyes in such a natural manner it feels like it’s just his instinct to care for you. It is his instinct to care for you, Arthur has shown you that in every minute of every day of your marriage, and suddenly you’re not sure why you’ve been so scared.

“I’m gonna be a dad?” He still seems in disbelief, but that’s normal. It’s taken you a few days to come to terms with it, and even then the fingernail marks in your palms are still red raw.

“You’re gonna be a dad.”

It hits him. Really hits him and he all but throws himself into you, scooping you up and spinning you around as he laughs unreservedly.

“Well goddamn, I’m gonna be a Daddy!”

You laugh with him, worries and anxiety a distant memory as your feet swing around in the air. You’re probably waking the camp up, but you don’t care all that much. Right now, you’re the happiest girl in the world.

A baby. There’s gonna be a baby. Arthur’s baby.

Really, it’s the greatest gift a cowgirl could ask for.

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