#who is not NOT into divorcee daddies who spend most of their time as an animate puppet with anger issues

[pedgito]

Smut request for Eddie, but I’m worried you might think it’s too close to your single!dad series! But I’m just gonna give it to you anyway because you’re my favorite smut writer. Dad!eddie and babysitter!reader? (Obviously 18+)

author’s note: it’s not at all!! i really wanted to try out something a little different so hopefully this isn’t terrible lol. i hope you enjoy!

cw: 18+ (minors dni), large age gap (21 & 36), dad!eddie, power dynamic (but it’s still pretty balanced, just given the content), virgin!reader, oral (f&m receiving), fingering, all the sex stuff—don’t come into my inbox with bs, if you don’t like, don’t read. but if you do, ily.

word count: 5.6k

Eddie liked to think that with being older came more wiser thoughts, actions—but through experience, he was still fumbling his way through life the same way he had back when in his early twenties, fresh out of high school and making the decent money that he could between shifts at the plant with Wayne, who had to nearly bribe his boss to give him the job, and the small shows he kept up with Corroded Coffin—not that it ever brought in a lot of money.

But, it did bring him to the life he had now; nearing his late thirties, fresh divorcee and a spirited young daughter to prove it. He couldn’t even believe it himself half the time—marriage was never something he planned out, or kids, or searching for babysitters instead of opting to force his child into daycare—spending hours looking through possible prospects, vetting them thoroughly. It felt like he was living a dream most of the time, until reality plopped down on his lap with a giant grin on her face, stray curls cascading down her forehead.

“Do you have to go, daddy?” His daughter asks, “Can’t you play another night?”

Any shows he did now were more for his own enjoyment—monthly shows at a small bar at the edge of town. They gathered a decent crowd and lended to Eddie meeting some very friendly ladies, not that he cared that much.

He had his eyes elsewhere and it was a damn shame nothing would come of it—as horrible as he felt about.

“Sorry, sweetie—I made a promise.” He explains to her, trying his best to lay it out in her terms, “You know I can’t break promises.”

You step through the door only a few moments after, overnight bag snug over your shoulder as you squealed gleefully at his daughter—her previous qualms about Eddie leaving disappearing in an instant.

“You could stay home and play board games with us!” She suggests excitedly, pulling at your hand. You smile knowingly at Eddie, it was typical behavior that didn’t surprise either of you.

“Yeah, Mr. Munson—she’s a pro at connect four, believe me.”

You say his name the way he hates, the way you know he hates. He’s told you time and time again—Eddie. It’s Eddie.

It felt like you were doing it on purpose most of the time.

And so what if you were?

“Oh, I do.” He smiles smugly, crinkling his nose toward the young girl as he fetches his keys from the letting. “Her mom said she might come tonight—maybe in the morning. I can never really predict her, but you’re fine with staying the night just in case, right?”

“I did bring my bag for a reason.” You retort with a playful tease to your tone, swinging the back around as you drop it on the empty loveseat. “You know I don’t have a problem with it.”

“I just—there’s no telling how tonight is going to go.” Eddie admits.

There was no telling how drunk he was going to get—that’s what he means to say. Your eyebrow quirks up in interest and Eddie only shakes his head. There was never any judgment—his life was his life. But, being so young and naive still, it made you wonder how life could really be as you grew older. Eddie seemed to be happy; great friends, nice house, a small but close knit family, he had it all.

Eddie felt the monotony set in the moment he tied himself down to his ex-wife, but being newly single—it had sparked something inside him that wouldn’t die out. Maybe it was an early midlife crisis, a lapse of judgment, but it made him want the things he knew he couldn’t have.

The clues weren’t there initially either. Eddie was as respectful and stern as you expected when you first met, scrutinizing and over-examining every part of your life—you were the secondary protector of his daughter outside of him, it only seemed fair.

But, things took a slow turn as you started to come around more—dinners were occasional, cigarettes out on the porch before you drove home, small talks about what you had to deal with while he was away that soon turned into Eddie being more open with his personal life, and in turn, yours.

There wasn’t a part of his life that was much of a secret anymore—you knew the dirtiest details, the saddest ones. He confided in you a little too easily, but you were just as much at fault for letting it happen.

The first night things shift, you keep telling yourself it’s not actually happening. You had your keys in hand, ready to step out the door until Eddie grasps at your wrist, nodding you back in for a glass of wine, Chardonnay, or whatever the hell he kept around in his cabinet.

“I…don’t drink wine, Eddie.” You say wearily, not complaining about the tug on your wrist as you follow him.

“I forget—you probably like beer, don’t you?” He teases, “At least I did at your age.”

Admittedly, you were twenty one—so it wasn’t like you were doing anything wrong per-say. You had graduated, opted out of college, and made most of your living through odd jobs and nannying—Eddie’s was probably the most stable you’ve been, even if you weren’t a live-in. You saw his daughter nearly everyday, dealt with his chaotic ex-wife as often as he did, and it felt like you had embedded yourself in his life. Eddie couldn’t complain, he liked having you around.

“I—I really shouldn’t.” You say regretfully, twisting the key in your hand. Eddie senses your nervousness, leaning an arm out against his open fridge. “I have to drive home and I—“

“Just one.” Eddie barters, holding up the two frosted bottles, “You don’t have to finish it if you don’t want to.”

You smile slightly, nodding despite your better judgment.

“Fine. One.” You say sternly, “And you still have to pay me for this week, don’t think I forgot.”

“Can you stretch it a week?” He asks, “I promised the little devil I’d get her that guitar she’s been begging for and her birthday is in a couple days.”

“I know.” You tell him obviously, but the smile you return is sweet. “But that’s fine—just, next week for sure. I have to pay rent.”

“Promise.” He grins, a perfect smile that has you clenching your thighs together every time. “Cheers.”

The clink of the bottles is deafening and Eddie moves to the corner of the counter where you take your seat in the barstool, leaning his torso over as he sips at the beer.

Being close wasn’t strange—you’ve sat next to him on the couch, at the dinner table, but the air is so thick you feel it caught in your throat. Your eyes flick up as the bottle tips to your lips, letting out a small giggle as he tips it up with his finger, a small amount of the liquid trickling down the side of your mouth.

You recover with a small cough, shoving at him weakly.

“Hey, that’s not nice.” You say, feigning annoyance. “You’re wasting a perfectly good beer.”

“Sorry,” He lies, taking a long chug of his own before placing it down on the counter. “So, plans for the weekend?”

He asked every week, it wasn’t strange to you. Eddie always seemed genuinely interested, but for some reason, it didn’t feel like that now—and maybe he was just stringing you along to keep you here, but you played into it so well.

You wanted it—maybe not as bad as him, but it was there.

“No,” You say shyly, shaking your head, “Just my bed and a couple movies. Same old thing.”

“No bars? No clubs?”

“Nope.” Your lips pop around the consonant, taking a small slip before shoving the bottle toward the middle. “They don’t interest me.”

“Come on,” He prys playfully, “There’s gotta be something you do for fun, sweetheart?”

And it was the same thing he had called you after a week of taking in the job, a kind endearment that didn’t make you feel any certain way, a sweet way to differentiate from calling you by your name, but it sits on his tongue like sin—begging for you to lick it off, let him defile you the way he desperately wanted to. It wasn’t lost on either of you how tense the air had become—it was Eddie’s web and he had you caught.

And as much as you enjoyed it, tonight just wasn’t the night.

He’d had a bit too much to drink, alcohol dripping from his breath.

“That is fun.” You insist, “Some of us don’t need to go out to the club and relive our younger years to feel good, you know?”

It’s meant with all the care in the world, a playful jab for how insistent he was being in keeping you here tonight, dragging out the conversation instead of getting to the point.

You would’ve been more satisfied if he had just kissed you at the door and let you leave, but then again, this was pretty enjoyable.

“You’ve never seen me play,” Eddie points out, “I think you’d really enjoy it.”

“I’m sure I would,” You agree before shaking your head slightly, “but I wouldn’t be caught dead at that bar.”

Eddie makes a face, a little taken aback at the insult.

“How come?” He asks curiously.

“A bunch of creepy old men who stick around to prey on the younger girls who sit and watch you play—no thank you.”

Eddie laughs through his nose, leaning into your space slightly.

“What about me?” He asks, wide eyes glazed over in a haze.

“Creepy? No.” You assure him. “Old—-eh?”

“I’m thirty six, that hurts.” Eddie pouts slightly.

“So old,” You reinforce, “We should probably put you into a retirement home already.”

“I can promise you, sweetheart.” Eddie says menacingly, bottom lip pulling between his teeth briefly to nip at the skin. “Nothing about me is old.”

Your eyebrows raise in subtle interest, leaning forward slightly.

“I could show you.” He suggests, eyes glancing down at your lips briefly before catching your gaze. He’s close enough that you can feel his breath, see the freckles on his face this close, faint but there. “If you want.”

He can see the gears in your head turning, deciding. But, it quickly fades as you pull back, his lips barely brushing yours.

“I have to go.” You tell him again, insisting more sternly despite how kind your voice sounds. “Eddie, we can’t.”

He looks instantly dejected, pulling back slightly and rubbing at his eyes with the palms of his hands. He’d forget this in the morning surely, his words had been slurring together most of the night and he wouldn’t have acted so boldly otherwise—would he?

“Let me walk you.” He insists, sliding your bottle toward the trash, his own following until the clink to the bottom.

The walk is slow, palpable, his toes on your heels as he hovers behind you. He grabs the door handle before you can reach for it, pulling it open silently.

“Tell her happy birthday for me?” You ask hopefully, knowing you wouldn’t be around in the day despite how much you wanted to be. “Please?”

Eddie nods quietly, lips pursed together in a tight line.

“Yeah, of course.” He assures you. “Goodnight.”

You lean up on your toes as you turn, caution to the window as you press a chaste kiss to his cheek, stubble rubbing against the sensitive skin of your lip. You can feel the sigh Eddie releases as you make contact, his hand coming to rest against your hip gently, a featherlight touch that if you were to have blinked you would surely miss.

“Goodnight.” You smile, words spoken against his skin.

It’s the same touch Eddie reminds himself of as he tightens his hand around his cock that night, stretched out and writhing on his bed in the loneliness of his empty house—and god did he wish you were there to keep him company.

His ex-wife shows up an hour before midnight, a lot more put together than you’d usually expect, but she fetches her daughter without fuss, leaving you to clean up the mess left behind.

It doesn’t take long, only a little over a half an hour—and your immediate thought is to leave, get the hell out of there, enjoy your weekend like you planned, but you still hadn’t been paid for the week prior, and you’d be damned if Eddie didn’t follow through like he promised.

“Hey—“ His voice is soft as he shakes you away, your figure hunched over the arm of the couch where you napped briefly, peering up at him through bleary eyes. You poured slightly, his face becoming clearer by the second, “did she pick her up?”

He looks surprisingly sober, which is unusual for him.

Admittedly, it was a weird night. His mind had been racing all day, he didn’t play as well as he’d wanted, and he spent the entire night hoping you’d still be there when he got home.

At least one thing has gone right for him.

“What time is it?” You ask, avoiding the question.

“A little after midnight.” He tells you, watching as you leaned up from your reclined position, adjusting your clothes and smoothing out your hair as best you could.

“Uh yeah—yeah, an hour ago.” Your speech is slow and spacey, “Why?”

“Well, I figure you would have left already.” Eddie says admittedly, running a hand through his tousled curls, the hairstyle never changed—and you were kind of grateful for it.

You’d seen pictures of him younger, mid-twenties and dating all the way back to his first day of high school—he didn’t look all that different aside from the slight aging in his face, worry lines buried into the corner of his eyes and that light scruff he wore every now and then when he didn’t shave for a week.

“You still need to pay me.” You retort with a tinge of annoyance, holding your hand out expectantly.

Eddie snorts, reaching for his wallet and slapping the fold of bills into your hand. He hadn’t forgotten at all.

“Did you have a good time?” You ask curiously, stuffing the money in your wallet before burying it back into the back placed on the coffee table, kicking your feet up behind you on the cushion as you stared up expectantly.

You could’ve fled immediately after he handed over the cash, but something was telling you otherwise. Eddie frowned slightly but it disappeared as quickly as it came.

“It was alright.” He tells you halfheartedly, “I hope my kid didn’t give you too much of a hard time, she can be a little, uh—“

“She’s never a problem for me.” You assure him.

There’s a long beat of silence as Eddie lingers about, hands shoved in his pocket as he leans against the wall. You hadn’t talked about that night, hadn’t even mentioned it, but it was still heavy on your mind—and hopefully just as heavy on his.

You pat the cushion next to you expectantly, friendly—it wasn’t out of the ordinary or weird, and Eddie doesn’t hesitate as he throws himself down lazily, stretched out at the other corner as he kicks his shoes off and onto the floor, smiling at you like he always did.

“No groupies tonight?” You tease, knowing he’d had a few experiences with them, none of them memorable or positive.

They were always messy and weird and everything he hated.

Eddie mocks a laugh and rolls his eyes slightly, “I shouldn’t have gone out tonight anyways, too much on my mind.”

You give him a skeptical look, turning to him fully with your arms bugged around your legs, chin tucked up by your knees. He tries to ignore how innocent you look, wide eyes and eager, hanging on his every last word.

“You wouldn’t understand.” He excuses, letting out a deep, heavy sigh as he rests his head against the back of the couch, legs spreader unnecessarily wide. Your eyes draw to the stretch in his jeans near his groin, quickly darting up to meet his gaze with a soft smile.

“Try me.” You shrug, tongue poking out slightly between teeth as you bite down gently, “You’d be surprised.”

Eddie huffs again, a mix between a laugh and flippant noise of dismissal, “Come closer.” He suggested, motioning toward the cushion positioned between you two. You crawled forward without question, resuming a similar position. “Are you uncomfortable?”

“No—this couch feels amazing, actually.” You tell him honestly.

“Sweetheart.” He says like a prayer, head tilted down slightly despite how his gaze still stays. “That’s not what I mean.”

And he’s not drunk—stone cold fucking sober, actually. That’s what intimidates you the most, his willingness to do whatever he felt he needed to have you. It wasn’t just the influence of fuzzy inhibitions. It was genuine, selfish want. Something he knew he shouldn’t have, couldn’t have—yet here you were.

“Around you?” You ask, he nods slowly. “Never.”

The touch he returns is careful, fingers wrapping around your ankle gently, rubbing soft touches into the skin. You follow his movements, the silence lingering.

“And now?” Eddie asks quietly, eyes flicking toward you briefly before returning back to his slowly moving hand.

A slow drag of his middle finger up your calf, up under the curve of your knee until he can wrap his fingers around it and widen your legs slightly, arms spilling from where they’re snug and tight around you, forcing you to sit up slightly. There’s no resistance when he pushes your legs apart, eyes darting toward the apex of your thighs. Your breath catches slightly, hands falling behind you in an effort to keep you upright. You’ve never been more thankful than to have chosen a dress on a night like this and Eddie can’t even act like he’s able to keep it together, thin lace panties on display before his very eyes.

“Do you want me to stop?” He asks when you don’t answer his first question, your chest rising and falling rapidly at his lingering touch, guiding along the inside of your thigh. The leg that isn’t bracketed against the back of the couch falters to the floor, spreading you so wide that Eddie has no other choice but to rub his fingers over the clothed mound of your cunt, pulling a soft gasp from your chest. “Answer me.”

“Nono,” You rush out embarrassingly quickly, “please, don’t.”

It’s exactly what he wants to hear. Needy, desperate—everything he was feeling just as intensely.

“Have you ever been touched like this?” He asks, words careful and precise, his movements as such, dragging a single finger down the seam, pressing into the growing spot of wetness there.

And you can’t take your eyes off of him, same as he does for you, it’s so much more than admiring your body, rather admiring the way you react to his touches, taking it all in. Your mouth hangs slightly, soft breathy gasp escaping.

You shake your head shyly. As much as you would’ve liked to lie and say you had tons of experience, you didn’t. Most of the time you lied, afraid of the ridicule, but you’d been saving yourself for someone special—and if that was Eddie, so be it.

His finger curves around the barrier of your underwear, forcing it to the side until there’s skin against skin and he feels it, if he wasn’t attempting be so coy he’d make a comment about how wet you already were, but the words are lost on him as he drags a finger through the pool of wetness and presses gently against your clit, unmoving as he watches you.

“Is this okay?�� He checks in again. There was never a doubt in his mind, but he needed to ask for reassurance, to know that he wasn’t just dreaming again. “Do you like it?”

You bite harshly at your bottom lip, nodding a fervent yes in response. The heat invades your face, your eyes, practically your entire body as it flushes under Eddie’s gaze. The tension had always been there, but it had finally snapped and you couldn’t help but stare at him now, watching as his face contorted into his own version of pleasure, idly running his open palm over the front of his pants, palming his growing cock as it sat heavy in his jeans.

“Talk to me, sweetheart.” He encourages, “Don’t go shy on me now.”

You giggle softly—it was completely unlike you, knowing you talked his ear off every chance you had, but there wasn’t a single word or thought in your head that made sense right now.

“I’m sorry,” You apologize meekly, “I don’t know what—what to say.”

Eddie smiles warmly, head resting back against the couch as he slips a finger inside you wordlessly, just the beginning of his first knuckle, not enough of an intrusion to make you feel anything.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” He says softly, “how you feel, maybe?”

“Good,” You chirp quickly, “I’m okay.”

His finger pushes in more, breaching past the tight entrance and you gasp, finally breaking eye contact as your head luls back, gaze caught on the ceiling as he moves slowly, pulling his finger out gently before pushing back in—it’s torture, count throbbing with every movement he made. You could hear the soft ruffle of fabric, metal against metal and a zipper being undone and when you finally have the courage to look up, you’re not sure you’ll ever recover.

It’s not the first dick you’ve seen and you’re not sure it will be the last, but you can’t help staring and taking it all in. They’re never pretty or enticing or enough to make your mouth water—but with Eddie, that’s all out the window.

He’s thick, cut, and everything that intimidates you. He’s confident in the way he holds him, let’s spread wide as his hands come down to cup his balls gently before traveling up his shaft, squeezing over the sensitive head.

“Fuck, sweetheart.” He coos, pulling his working fingers out to glide over your clit, rubbing soft and timid circles until you’re moaning out his name—it’s like music to his ears. “You’ve really never done anything?”

“I’ve—I’ve kissed boys.” You admit, “And girls—but never, never—“

“Never let them touch you,” He finishes for you, “have you?”

You nod, affirming his statement.

“Can I have you?” He asks softly, voice sweet and dripping with adoration, “I want you to be sure, don’t lie to me.”

And you can’t even properly describe how badly you’ve wanted him. It felt like crossing a line—like sleeping with your boss, but lust wins you over.

You nod slowly, “Yes. Just—I don’t know what I’m doing, not really. I don’t want to screw anything up.”

“There’s not much to it,” He comforts, removing his hand from your aching cunt and grabbing your own hand, guiding it over his dick, pulling his shirt up slightly where the tip rests against his lower stomach. You always forget how toned he is, how well he takes care of his body, always hiding himself under his work clothes and suits, “I’ll talk you through, okay?”

“Okay.” You answer, letting him squeeze your fingers around the shaft, dragging your hand up slightly before pulling back down, creating a slow rhythm. He grunts softly, eyes half-lidded as he continues the motion until he thinks you’ve got it, resting his hand over your thigh, traveling up until he can squeeze at the curve of your hip, feet tucked under you as you lean over his lap slightly. It’s like soft velvet against your even softer fingertips—Eddie notices the difference immediately, used to his horrible calloused hands all worked and worn out from his jobs, the joints aching with age. It gets the job down, but it’s never as good as this. Ever.

It does grow boring though—not that you didn’t enjoy every soft sound and subtle face that Eddie made when you squeezed him a little too harshly or teased your thumb over the head of his cock, swirling through the oppulescent precome heading at the tip.

“Can I—“ The words catch in your throat when his eyes lick on, peeking out from under his previously closed eyelids.

He sees the way you glance toward his dick, smiling at your bashful awkwardness and nods, “If you ask nicely, that is.”

He’s only teasing, but he loves watching you squirm, trying to find the courage to ask for what you want. You’re always so confident, sure of yourself—it’s one of the reasons Eddie adored you so much, there was never any doubt with you. He never had to worry.

“Please?” You retort playfully, watching as Eddie’s grin grew wider, “Please, Eddie?”

He nods, urging you down between his spread legs, forcing his jeans down further until he can remove them fully, letting you settle until you're comfortable.

You expect it to feel a little awkward, peering up at him as he does down to you, cock still heavy in your hand as he pushes your hair away, gathering it into his hands skillfully—but truthfully, the feeling never approaches.

You’ve talked to your friends about it before, seen small clips in porn, and none of it ever really made sense, and especially not now as you’re sitting between his legs, staring at his dick and hoping that you weren’t about to make a complete full of yourself.

“Don’t laugh.” You tell him, a small pout forming on your face.

“Never, sweetheart.” He comforts you, free hand rubbing the underside of your chin, following as your lips draw forward, closing over the head of cock, swirling your tongue testingly over the tip, through the slit to taste the salty slick of him that had formed there. Eddie groans softly, the first real noise he’s made all night, face scrunching up in concentration as he cradled your head, hair and all, as you moved your way down, taking him sparingly into your mouth until your lips connected with the hand you had around him, covering what you couldn’t reach.

“That’s it.” He compliments, “Fuck, that’s perfect.”

You barely acknowledge him, but given how hard you were trying to concentrate on not fucking up, he understood. His words flowed freely, openly, and once they started they never stopped.

“Look at you, so pretty with my dick in your mouth.” Eddie says softly, pulling your chin forward slightly from where he had a tight grip on your face, forcing you deeper. You gagged slightly, breathing through your nose. “Hold it, sweetheart. I know you can.”

If you weren’t so eager to please, you would’ve pulled away immediately, but you allow him to hold you there, cock heavy on your tongue until you can’t take it anymore, pulling away with a harsh gasp, lips shining obscenely as you stared up at Eddie.

It’s the same look he had the first time he met you, but a sharp edge of something more, something dangerous.

“Stand up,” He instructs, a guiding hand running along your thigh as you go, fingers delving under your dress to pull at your underwear, slipping the fabric down your legs carefully. He flips the fabric of your dress up, dragging the soft surface of his lips along your upper thigh, eyes following you the entire way, “good, sweetheart—can I taste you?”

You nod quickly, hands cautiously running over the top of his head and through his thick curls, whimpering soundly at the way he chuckles, deep and gruff against your cunt, raising your leg over his shoulder carefully, his hands resting at your back to steady you.

It’s like scolding hot fire with the first touch, his tongue delving deep and running up your cunt, ghosting along your clit as he bites playfully at your folds, looking up at you sparingly to gauge your reaction.

You couldn’t even act like you were able to keep it together, moaning unabashedly as the hands in his hair soon traveled down his back, body curling over him slightly as he made it his mission to torture you relentlessly, sucking at your sensitive clit until you’re softly tapping at his back, silently begging for a break while the words are still caught in your throat.

“Tapping out already?” He teases, squeezing the soft globes of your ass. You shake your head defiantly, peaking his interest

“I want you,” You tell him coyly, “I’ve been thinking about it and—“

“Oh, hey—“ He soothes, “That’s special, you don’t have to give that to me, sweetheart. You’ve already given me plenty.”

Another defiant head shake, shoving his hands away as you took a careful seat on his lap, his eyes following you intensely, arms held out at his side as you seated yourself against his cock, the heat of your cunt striking his body with the reality of this situation.

“No, you don’t get to do that.” You tell him, noticing the concerned look on his face, “I’m capable of making my own decisions.”

Eddie smiles slightly, reaching up to cradle the side of your face tenderly. He can see the subtle pout on your face, bottom lip poking out slightly—and he feels the overwhelming want to kiss you, force it off of your face. So, he does.

And he kisses with a forcefulness you’ve never felt—he’s not timid or unsure. Eddie’s confident, given his experience, he had no reason to doubt himself. You whimpering softly, his teeth pulling your bottom lip in, tongue sneaking its way in and tasting the saltiness of himself on you. He pulls away briefly, nose bumping yours.

“One problem, sweetheart,” Eddie starts regretfully, “I don’t have any condoms—I’m not really used to using them anymore.”

You shake your head fervently, “That’s not a problem.” You assure him, “Trust me.”

You didn’t need to explain and Eddie didn’t feel the need to ask—it wasn’t hard to piece the information together. But god, he’s never been more thankful for modern medicine.

“You sure?” Eddie asks again, lips grazing yours as he speaks, chin resting against his fingers, rubbing delicately at your skin. “I need to hear you say it.”

“Eddie,” You chide softly, “I want you to fuck me.”

He laughs at that, your boldness startling him slightly.

And he doesn’t need to be told more than once, taking control of the situation as he lifts your hips, bracing you over the head of his cock, allowing you to ease down at your own pace. It’s nothing like you were expecting, more of a dull sting if anything—but the filling of fullness, it’s overwhelming.

You rock your hips gently, watching as Eddie’s eyes fell to the place where you were joined with him, dress lifted up slightly as he reached for your clit, rubbing gentle circles to distract your wandering mind—and it works perfectly, gasping when you feel him deep, buried inside you as the back of your thighs hit his lap.

“God, you’re fucking perfect.” He comments idly, eyes falling shut as he leaned back—and it’s infuriating that you can’t see his chest, hidden behind the buttons of his shirt; a ridiculous black button up, making him look well beyond his years. You yank at the buttons with steady hands until the skin peeks through and you can shove the shirt off his shoulders, hands placed firmly against his chest.

You’ve never seen his tattoos this close, not that you could focus much now, but your hand closes over the one of his chest and your blunt fingertips dig into the skin as you lift your hips and seat yourself just as swiftly, punching a ragged groan from the both of you.

“Knew you’d be this good,” Eddie admits, “Thought—thought about it every fucking night.”

“Oh?” You challenge softly, “Tell me?”

Eddie nods, though the struggle to remain cool is evident on his face, losing his focus every time you clench around him, grunting with every little movement you make.

“Just like this,” He admits, “taking me so fucking well, too.”

You nod in agreement, humming as you leaned forward to drag your lips along his jawline, “Like…I was made for you?” You ask teasingly, giggling at his airy groan.

“You’re fucking devious,” Eddie retorts, “not nearly as innocent as I thought you’d be.”

His hands grip your hips tightly, pulling you impossibly deeper, closer, and you can’t bother to keep yourself upright, letting him do the work, hips snapping into you with force.

“What—what do you mean?” You stammer through broken gasps, “I’m so innocent, Eddie.”

“Not a chance,” Eddie disagrees, eyes squeezing tight as he buried his face into your neck, sucking a faint bruise into the skin, “be honest with me.”

“I wasn’t—wasn’t lying.” You respond, words dying out on a desperate plea, his hand snaking between you both, rubbing insistent circles over your clit. “I don’t do this stuff—was waiting for the right person, you know?”

Eddie nearly comes then, panting desperately into your skin.

“You think I’m the right person?” Eddie asks redundantly, given your current situation—that was pretty goddamn obvious.

“Your cock is inside me, what do you think?” You ask playfully, eyebrows furrowing in anguish as Eddie makes a quick pass over your swollen bundle of nerves, driving you over the edge unexpectedly, clinging to Eddie out of instinct, letting him rock you through the duration of your orgasms until he’s coming deep inside you, legs shaking as he groans pitifully.

And despite his obvious exhaustion, he retorts a snarky, “I think I’m the perfect person, sweetheart.”

You smile, leaning forward to press a sloppy, passionately filled kiss against his lips, nodding slightly at his response.

“Same time next week?” You ask cheekily and Eddie chuckles in response, biting gently at your shoulder at your obvious playfulness.

Eddie hums thoughtfully, “How about tomorrow?”

And even if you had plans, they diminished into thin air, offering Eddie an affirmative smile.

Please consider a reblog if you enjoyed this fic! It’s makes a huge difference. ♡

[fauvester]

🎵 EVERYONES A BIT OF A FIXER UPPER THATS WHAT ITS ALL ABOUT🎵

[artificialqueens]

Like They Do in Vegas, 1/5 (Vanique) - Mac

AN: This fic came about from a series of prompts I did on my blog and is entirely Ortega’s fault. I blame her, and this is also dedicated to her because Vanique is a god tier ship and I needed to contribute in some way.

As always, Meggie is a lovely person and I thank her endlessly for betaing this.

And to you at home I hope you enjoy!

BGM Challenge Notes: Vanessa and Monique’s friends show up in Chapter 4! And I’m working on a playlist for this AU that I’ll link next chapter!

Summary: Vanessa is a Casino Girl just trying to get by. Monique is a mysterious rich stranger. They meet in the city of sin. What could possibly go wrong?

Chapter 1: Go Big or Go Home

Vanessa arrived exactly twenty minutes before she was scheduled to clock in.

She threw her purse into the row of lockers and headed for the back of the small employee lounge. She passed the clock-in computer, the whiteboard on the wall, the flyers for various shows around town, and walked all the way to the last dressing room, after noticing the other two were already occupied. Vanessa smiled instinctively at the sound of Vixen’s voice raised above the sound of someone else playing music. She was yelling to whoever was in the adjacent dressing room, recounting a story of the night’s events.

Vanessa got dressed quickly, slipping out of her plain black jeans and sweater combination and into her sparkly silver dress that caught and reflected beams of light in a way that she had been told was mesmerizing. Vanessa never really noticed before she started working here, the dress most likely having been picked off a sales rack back home. It didn’t matter where it came from now.

What mattered now was that Vanessa’s hair was a mess.

Aquaria told her so and tried to sound exasperated when she did. It only ended up coming out fondly. Vanessa gave her a winning smile and batted her lashes too for good measure before the younger girl rolled her eyes and motioned to the chair beside her. Aquaria went to town on curling the particularly unruly strands, but there wasn’t time for much else; they both knew another round of patrons was due to hit any minute now.

Everyone that worked in Vegas knew the waves.

11 p.m. brought the moms and the bachelorette parties.

11:30 p.m. brought older couples and divorcees.

12 a.m. brought the guys with girlfriends.

12:30 a.m. brought the guys without girlfriends.

1 a.m. brought the wealthy singles, and the wealthy not-so-singles.

1:30 a.m. brought in the drunk people.

2 a.m. was what girls like Vanessa liked to call ‘closing time.’ Seal the deal or your ass was out on the curb for the night.

Luckily, Vanessa had an apartment, unlike some of the other casino girls. And the 300 square feet could be roomy—if she closed her eyes.

Vanessa made do.

Aquaria shooed her away from the chair at 12:55, giving Vanessa ample time to squeeze every last detail from Vixen, who was more than happy to recount yet another story about a creepy man trying to get her to join his brothel.

Offers like that were strangely common in this line of work. Well, maybe they weren’t so strange.

Most people thought they were sex workers anyway. Prostitutes or strippers, whores hired to seduce the male patrons and run them dry. Some of the other girls saw it that way. But as far as Vanessa was concerned, she was a glorified waitress. Her job was to facilitate the purchase of alcohol. The more people drank, the prettier she looked; the more they bet, the more they lost or won, the more money the casinos made.

In a lot of ways, it was a dream job. Vanessa got paid to look pretty and talk. Two things she was naturally gifted at.

Out on the main floor of the casino, Vanessa began her usual route around the space. She spent a good few minutes just drawing eyes, pulling focus from the card games, slot machines, and general greed. She walked slowly, careful to tilt her head down, flutter her eyelashes when patrons were close enough to see the eye makeup she had hurriedly done on the bus.

Vanessa was good at her job. She found a mark within five minutes.

Older guy. Late fifties. Nicely dressed. Seemingly ordinary. But what Vanessa instantly noticed was his watch. Rolex, one of the older ones. That’s ultimately how Vanessa picked all her marks. Her daddy used to say ‘what a man wears on his wrist he wears with pride.’ There was something more about shoes and hiding, but Vanessa never remembered that part.

She was fine with the Rolex, but she had really been hoping to find a Patek tonight.

Rolexes only started at $5,000.

But Vanessa made do.

She waltzed over to the roulette wheel, making sure to smile warmly at the employee behind the table. She gracefully rested her hands on the edge of the table as the casino employee gave a nearly imperceptible nod toward Mr. Rolex. Vanessa winked at him in thanks.

“You know I always go for 32,” Vanessa said to the group of men who had just started to take notice of her presence. She honed her sights on Mr. Rolex to see his reaction.

He practically preened under the attention. Vanessa rolled her eyes internally.

This was getting too easy.

Mr. Rolex eventually pulled up another seat and sent Vanessa to the bar three times before turning to ask her name.

If she were anywhere else, doing any other job, Vanessa might have been offended.

She only batted her eyes and giggled animatedly. “Vanjie,” she lied.

Mr. Rolex took that as his cue to lean in closer and press a whiskery kiss to Vanessa’s neck. She did her best not to freeze up under the attention and to just go with it.

It was then while pretending she was anywhere else, that Vanessa noticed a woman at the opposite end of the casino. She was sitting alone in one of the plush chairs that made up the lounge. It was noticeable because she was alone and fucking gorgeous. Long flowing dark hair and the tightest red dress Vanessa had ever seen that fell off her curves like water.

Vanessa was intrigued instantly. No woman that looked like that was alone in Vegas for no reason.

She convinced Mr. Rolex and his new buddies that they needed more gin and made her way quickly over to the bar, allowing herself the immense pleasure of ogling the strange woman from afar.

For all her smooth grace and easy confidence, Vanessa was rendered nearly incoherent when it came to women. Men were easy. You leaned over the table and their monkey brains took over. Women on the other hand… Women were a different species.

Vanessa tried to squeeze information from the bartender. He knew nothing, only that she ordered a martini and had been sitting alone all night.

Vanessa couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more to her. So she did something stupid. Something stupid and silly that she would beat herself up over later: she ordered the mystery woman a martini. Vanessa went back over to Mr. Rolex and his friends, placed the drinks in front of them, and then made up an excuse about ‘being right back’ and having to ‘take care of something.’

Mr. Rolex and his friends were too engrossed in their game to care and Vanessa slipped away without any fuss.

As she headed back over to the bar, Vanessa noticed the woman was gone from her spot in the lounge. Vanessa’s heart sank in her chest and she was tempted to throw the whole night out as a waste when she noticed the woman perched at the bar looking directly at her.

“So you’re the cute thing that ordered me a drink,” the woman said by way of a greeting. “This one,” she nodded her head at the bartender, “was tellin’ me you don’t do that for many people. Should I be honored?”

“You tell me,” Vanessa shot back, surprising even herself with her quick wit.

The woman chuckled in response, throwing her head back and causing a commotion with her joy. Something inside Vanessa ached to be that free.

The woman motioned to the barstool next to her and Vanessa took it without another thought.

“You play much?” Vanessa asked, motioning to the various gambling methods.

“Betting?” the woman asked. “Not usually. I get sucked in, and you know what they say.”

“Hmm?”

“Greed is a sin.”

Vanessa laughed. “Oh baby, you in the city of sin.”

“Monique,” the woman corrected.

“What?”

“Not ‘baby.’ Monique.”

Vanessa smiled, and the woman, Monique, smiled back.

She raised up her hand to take a sip of her drink and Vanessa nearly choked at the sight of a Mille RM 51-02 draped elegantly over Monique’s wrist.

She had never seen a Mille in person before, having only ever heard stories of the watches that started at $30,000 and could go up to two million.

The vortex of gold and silver embedded in the watch face drew Vanessa’s eyes and she couldn’t help the smile overtaking her face. “Well, you know what they say, Monique?”

The corner of Monique’s mouth quirked up and she shook her head no.

Vanessa smirked. “Go big or go home.”

…

Vanessa smiled into her drink as Monique threw her head back in a laugh.

The sound reverberated off the glass in her hand, and Vanessa was sure that the joy in Monique’s voice had more to do with the warmth in her stomach than the alcohol.

“So what is it that you do, Vanjie?” Monique asked, her voice alight with humor and warmth.

“You ain’t never met a casino girl before?”

Monique shook her head no.

“I look pretty and get drinks,” Vanessa chuckled. “Speakin’ of,” Vanessa trailed off, looking to the side door where she could clearly make out her boss, Ms. Visage, glaring at her. “I’d love to keep talkin’ but—”

“How ‘bout I play some games?” Monique offered. “That should get her off your back, yeah?”

And now Vanessa was sure the alcohol couldn’t be the cause of the warmth because her whole body lit up under the knowledge that Monique wanted to spend more time with her.

“Thought you didn’t gamble,” Vanessa teased. “Somethin’ about it bein’ a sin…”

“I think if the Lord were in my place, he’d understand.”

They made the rounds: slot machines, poker, and Vanessa’s favorite, Blackjack.

The Blackjack tables were set apart from the rest of the casino, some architect really letting loose with the layout of the section. The ceiling was arched, and the tables were long surrounded by plush seating rather than the stiff angled chairs that lined the other tables.

Vanessa assumed her favorite position, perching herself on the arm of the chair while leaning into Monique’s presence, allowing her easy access to duck down and huskily whisper words of encouragement. All the while keeping their skin from touching.  

It was an old move. One she had learned her first week working here. The girls called it the Blackjack Bag. You made it so you were constantly leaning down to whisper directly in your target’s ear; this gave you the excuse to flaunt your cleavage while also getting a target riled up by the sound of your voice.

The Blackjack tables are where you bagged targets, hence, the title.

Monique seemed to be no different in that respect. No matter how hard she tried to hide her flush, each time Vanessa leaned down to compliment her, her hands tightened on her cards.

She was doing well. She had gotten a face card nearly every hand, and she knew when to fold and when to go for it. Vanessa was impressed. She told her as much.

“Beginner’s luck really does exist,” Vanessa teased.

Monique pulled her head back to look Vanessa up and down, taking her time to really take the younger woman in. “I’ll show you luck,” she said as she moved her massive pile of chips to the middle.

“All in.”

The men at the table squawked in a mixture of shock and protest. Monique just made a vague hand motion to keep playing.

Vanessa’s jaw was on the floor.

Monique only had a three and a queen. Statistically, at least one of the other players had to have higher cards than that.

The house went around, the men to her left and right got another card, but Monique stayed calm, and denied it.

It was then that Vanessa realized what Monique was doing.

She was using Vanessa as a lie detector almost, signaling to the other players what cards she had. Vanessa kept her expression neutral, and did a damn good job of it too because the other players all looked at her surprised.

As expected, they all folded, and Monique took back her mound of chips and the additional bets.

She looked up at Vanessa with a self-satisfied smirk, never breaking eye contact as she flipped her cards over.

The table erupted.

Two can play your games, she had said without opening her mouth.

Vanessa just smirked.

At one point, after Monique bested some business suit out of his measly twenty grand, the man approached Vanessa and attempted to make a move, running his hands harshly up and down her sides. Vanessa rejected him but pointed him in the direction of one of her fellow employees.

He didn’t seem to get the hint until Monique looked up from her cards and wrapped an arm possessively around Vanessa’s middle.

“I think,” she practically spit, “my girl told you to get lost.”

The suit looked at them with a raised eyebrow but didn’t dare say anything more. Vanessa felt white heat in her gut at the feeling of Monique’s arm around her, and she had to take a second to compose herself.

Vanessa turned back to the game and was surprised to find Monique’s eyes searching her own. “Does that happen a lot?” she asked, genuinely concerned.

“Yeah,” Vanessa tried to brush it off, “but you know, it’s Vegas.”

“And that makes it okay?”

Vanessa shook her head lightly. “Nah, but what can ya do?”

Monique looked at her hard, calculating. She didn’t say anything, but turned back to her game, placing her cards on the table before attempting to stand up

“I fold.”

Vanessa looked at her shocked. “You were winning, wha—”

Monique stood in front of her, eyes wide, asking permission, seeing if this was real. The vulnerability in her expression nearly made Vanessa take a step back.

“You wanna get out of here?” Monique asked, expression unassuming and open. “You can say no. I—”

Vanessa stopped Monique with a hand to her face. The first skin to skin contact. “Do I look like I wanna say no?”

[charlottewinthrop]

► ( RYAN DESTINY & AGENDER ) according to the school’s records, CHARLOTTE WINTHROP is a 23-YEAR-OLD SENIOR studying FASHION DESIGN, and THEY live over in HAWTHORNE.  THEY ARE a LEO, so that must be why others describe THEM as AMBITIOUS, LOYAL, COMPETITIVE and INFLEXIBLE.  when i see THEM, i’m reminded of SHOPPING SPREES WITH DADDY’S CREDIT CARD, SEARCHING FOR YOURSELF IN THE FINEST HOTEL ROOMS IN EUROPE & HOURS SPENT FINDING THE PERFECT FABRIC.  ( DREW, TWENTY-TWO, HE/HIM, EST ) ◄

backstory:

born to the only child of an oil tycoon & a middle-aged divorcee, charlotte grew up with access to more money than most people could even imagine — and yet was always surrounded by prep school kids who were derisive over the fact that their family’s money was “new”. the town whispered about their parents, looking down their nose at their parties and galas even as they lined the long driveway with cars.

the moment they graduated high school, they fled the small connecticut town and took to travelling. for two years, they flitted somewhat aimlessly around the world, moving from resort to resort and spending weeks in fancy hotels. they watched paris fashion week from a front row seat, eyes catching all of the details and fingers aching to recreate them — to create something better, something more.

by the time their parents gave them the ultimatum of either going to college or finding a job, they had books filled with half-finished designs and a few custom pieces in their wardrobe — not to mention all of the designer clothes that they had tailored to their style with a few smart stitches. and deciding on haddon was easy enough, it wasn’t one of the big schools but it’s program was good enough that it didn’t matter — and going to school was just a way to get their parents to continue funding their lifestyle anyways.

with their senior year on the horizon, they’re getting restless — their parents have agreed to fund their desire to release a fashion line, so long as they ace their senior project. and given that they’ll have to find models for the school’s fashion show in may, they’re racing to find the perfect people and convince them to do it without spending too much money ( after all their allowance is for more important things than paying off their classmates ). 

trivia:

at this point, their wardrobe is a seamless blend of designer clothes and custom pieces, classic styles and hot trends blending together. all in flattering cuts & colours, of course. 

will teach you to tailor your own clothes but if you think that they’ll do it for you, you have another thing coming. 

[ alcohol mention ] has a wine fridge in their dorm, one of those small ones that plugs into the outlet — it’s crammed full of vintage blends and champagne. they’re also subscribed to multiple ‘wine of the month’ boxes & have a small collection of crystal wine glasses — more than one has ended up shattered when they’re drinking.

not into hookup culture, generally follows the 3rd date rule but is fine paying for the dates to avoid going to somewhere like applebees. a bit of a snob, but will apologize if they realize that they’ve upset you, they like to think they just have standards though.

[emily-roses-babble]

Second Grade Confessions

If you’ve never been to confession, it’s a bit like the DMV, except instead of getting your driver's license you get absolved from your sins. First, everyone stands in a line and is told to “think hard” about what to say before they go in and tell a priest all of the mediocre sins they’ve committed. The best way to know if you’ve sinned, the teacher would tell us, is to think about how God would react to your actions. Would he be disappointed to know you cheated on a test? If you think God would be upset then he is absolutely furious. “Guilt is a message from God,” we were told. “It is him speaking directly towards you, having you feel the weight of your sins.”

Seven is the age when children attend their first confession. By now the Catholic Church decides you’ve dealt out enough suffering in the world and that you need to be saved from your sins. In school, confession was an event- a celebration, almost. After the fact children were awarded cookies and chips as a condescending way of saying, “Congrats! You’re free of sin!” But before that happens, you have to endure the terrifying ordeal of being known only by your gravest mistakes. The point of confession is to get God to like you again. And everyone really wants God to like them, obviously. So, I was excited to attend my first Holy Confession. 

You wait in line for what seems like hours and feel the burden of your sins. And you’re told to behave- no dozing off or talking, you must look straight forward and contemplate. Familiar classmates go in before you, spend time behind a velvet curtain, and then come out and kneel on carpeted steps as they say penance. It’s deafeningly silent, save for the coughs of sick children and the sound of heels against the marble. When the time comes your teacher leads you through the curtain and you are faced with a choice; either face-to-face confessional or one behind a screen. I’ve heard mixed things about both. I once knew a very Holy girl whose parents were in the Church choir who would choose the face-to-face method. She’d tell us it’s more relaxing because it feels like a conversation rather than an exam. I also knew a boy who was big and brutish and would be bullied more if he wasn’t so intimidating. He would always choose the screen method, and always left the confessional crying. 

For my first time, I chose the screen. I didn’t do well with eye contact, and the screen had the Act of Contrition taped to the wall, so I could read from it. The Act of Contrition is a tiny prayer we had to memorize and recite before each confession. It goes like this:

“O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee: and I detest my sins most sincerely because they displease Thee, my God, Who art so deserving of all my love for Thy infinite goodness and most amiable perfections: and I firmly purpose by Thy holy grace never more to offend Thee.”

I could never memorize it. I had difficulty memorizing most things. Though the prayer was posted everywhere, like eyes, always watching for your mistakes, I never paid it notice.

So after the Act of Contrition the priest asks for your sins. The night before I wrote down all of the things I was to mention- I didn’t go to Church often, I stole cookies from my Grandmother’s pantry, I quarreled with friends over boy bands, and my parents fought a lot. I didn’t consider that last one to be a sin, but the teachers say that you can also ask your priest for advice.

So I did. I told him that, a few days ago, my father approached me and asked how I would feel if Mommy and Daddy got divorced. I became upset, but he told me that he and Mommy might be happier separated. I believed it to be so. I asked the priest if he agreed.

The priest then came around to my side of the confessional- breaking my wish of no eye-contact, and knelt down beside me. In a low voice, he said “listen, Emily, you cannot let your parents get a divorce. Divorcees go straight to Hell, and they damn their children too. You must do everything in your power to keep them together. But keep it a secret. They shouldn’t be guilted into staying together.” Then he told me to say ten Hail Marys and sent me on my way.

As though ten Hail Marys were going to save my parents marriage! Imagine, telling a single-digit aged child, that God does not like them because of something outside of their control? The constant disapproval from someone who loves you more than anything? You, child, who can’t count to a 100 yet, who doesn’t know how to multiply. You, are being watched by some all-powerful being that you can never meet until you die. And this all-powerful being came to Earth thousands of years ago and he died for you and suffered for you. And because of this, the rest of your life is spent trying to repay the debt. He created you. And every time you do something wrong, he shuts the gates to paradise and hates you. Because you should know what’s right and wrong already. Feel guilty, because you were born a sinner. 

But I kept it a secret like he said. I behaved. I kept my head forward and didn't talk to my friends, or my family. I didn’t talk to anyone for a long time, because I was afraid. I knew that the more I behaved the less likely my parents were to fight. And that was the trick, what kept you in God’s favor: being quiet. Don’t speak up about what bothers you. I became what God wanted, and that’s all you had to do. 

I was taught this before I knew how to read. God loves me under one specific condition: that I am perfect. Before I learned about slavery, corruption, pollution, sex trafficking. Before I knew about all the awful things God created, I was taught that he loved me and he would save me. Save me from what? 

What have I done wrong?

[northofsomewhererp]

Your Name, Age (17+), & Timezone: Natasha, 24, EST

Your Birthday: 12/19/93

Calliope Rowena Grimshaw turned 27 years old on January 14. She a Food and Beverage Manager in Greensville. Her face claim is Jessica Parker Kennedy.

Admin Note: Hi Natasha, welcome to NOS! All you need to do now is send in Calliope’s account, and we can get your follow link posted (we’ll also get you a link to the OOC). If you have any questions, please feel free to reach out, we’re here to help! We look forward to RPing with you!! - Admin Tash

Bio: Calliope was born to a Swedish divorcee who was in the middle of a whirlwind romance with a new man. They were married before Calliope could even sit up and her brother was born that December. Growing up with brown skin among her very Nordic family with parents who seemed to actively distance themselves from her led her astray. She met disaster (James) when she was nine and by the time she was twelve, there was no going back. Her teenage years were spent on drugs, prostitution and misery. The worst day (at least, it seemed like it at that point), was when he kicked her out, unwilling to raise a child. She was nineteen, then. She went back to her parents for support and, after the baby, Diona, was born, was set up in an apartment and she never heard from them again. Things stayed terrible for two years. Diona was born small because of the drugs, Calliope had no friends or family to support her, and she was attacked by a John one night, which pushed her to seek out a job as a cashier. That hardly afforded her enough to keep herself and Diona fed, let alone comfortable, so she went to the only person she could think of, Frankie, an older half-sister she’d stumbled upon seven years ago.

That marked a shift in her life, the moment when everything very slowly began to come together. Her sister gave her a job bartending, the lodger she kept, Ransom, became a babysitter for Diona, and Calliope got to be a normal-ish, if not overly stressed, 22 year old. She started feeling safe enough to make friendships, she excelled at her job and started making recommendations for the menu, and she started to think about James less often. The next year, she went with her sister and her performance troupe on a European tour, playing with the band and providing food until they reached Sweden, where she spent the second leg with a maternal cousin, teaching Diona Swedish and recording some songs. When she was 24, she and Ransom started dating and (accidentally) started a family, which came with more heartbreak and hardship. Milo was born in August of 2017, and they were still working to clean up the mess falling in love caused by the time his first birthday came. The worst of it was over, however, and they’d gotten used to helping each other with their personal messes before they ever dated. Life was more stable than it had been since she was a child. She only hoped it would stay that way.

Activity (1-10): 7

Have you read the rules?: removed

Would you like to be paired with a buddy to have character connections with (For new applicants)? Sure~

In the event that you leave, can we keep your biography for future use? No. Any comments/questions?: I’d rather my bio not be broadcasted out into JPK’s tag or anything, please.

Sample( 2+ paragraphs):

“Oh…. Th-that….”

“Y-yes, that,” Frankie repeated, sounding stern, despite her hiccuping. Somehow, she always managed to be intimidating when she needed to be. Calliope didn’t understand it.

“He…. W-we…. I….” Calliope was at a complete loss for words. She probably know that Frankie was going to have something to say to her when she found out that Diona was calling her boyfriend Daddy, but she felt like she’d been blindsided with a punch to the gut nonetheless.

“C-Calliope,” she started authoritatively, “You two have been together for what, a month? And n-now this? Do you really think that’s smart?”

“I… I don’t know. She started calling him that and then he, he told me…. He’s OK with it…. H-he’s happy about it, I think, and…. They love each other, so…. She needs a father,” she murmured, not looking at Frankie. Calliope knew that letting Diona call RJ Daddy was a risk, a big one, but she didn’t want to stop her. Not if it was what they both wanted. What she wanted, as well.

“Lily, did you need a father? Did I?” Frankie asked indignantly. What was she trying to say? That women couldn’t manage on their own? Her mother certainly had, along with millions of other ones. And their father had abandoned the both of them before they were born, without a second thought. How could she want anything to do with him?

“Yes. I did,” Calliope answered forcefully, nodding her head as she did. “My life would’ve been totally different if he stayed. I might have gone to finished high school and gone to college and had a normal job before I was twenty-two and-.”

“And you wouldn’t have had Diona, nor would you have your little brother and sister, or me, or any of your friends, or your cousin. The list goes on and on and on. Would you really want things to be that way?” Why were they even having this discussion? Frankie never thought that, even after everything that went on, Calliope would want to do it all over again so things could’ve been easier. Just because it would’ve been easier didn’t mean she would be happy. She was happy now, wasn’t she?

Calliope looked down to the floor again as she listened to her sister, this time in irritation. “Are you done yet?” she asked pointedly. “I know all that, Frankie. I wouldn’t change anything. Not with the way things are now. But I certainly wouldn’t be sad if things had gone better before now, either. Can you blame me? Really?”

Frankie glared over at Calliope for a moment, but relented finally, and sighed. “No. I guess not.”

“No,” Calliope repeated, “You can’t.” She folded her arms and took a deep breath, trying to calm down a little, as difficult as it was. She wasn’t stupid. She knew that Frankie saw her as slightly incompetent. At least slightly. And no, Cal didn’t have the best self image or the most confidence in her abilities as a mother or an artist or anything, but it hurt her to know that her sister felt that way, even if it was only a tiny bit.

“But you have to admit that I have a point. At least with her natural father, she didn’t even know him, so she was never hurt by him. If RJ goes, she’ll be just as crushed as you. Maybe more so,” Frankie reasoned, softening her tone, trying to diffuse the situation and still get her point across.

“I know that, Frankie,” Calliope she answered, emphatically and exasperatedly. “I know. When he told me, I was terrified. And I still am. I thought about exactly what you’re saying, and I even tried to bring it up to him, but he said that you can’t go into a relationship and expect to it end, and he’s right.” Calliope shook her head as she spoke, seeming to say, ‘Why don’t you get it? How do I make you trust me?’ “I can’t just pretend that I’m not still worried that it’s going to happen someday, and it’ll be my fault, but I’m not going to let it get in the way. Besides, we don’t even know if he’d leave. He could still want to be in Di’s life. …Even if the two of us were on bad terms,” she added, praying to God that that wouldn’t be the case no matter what.

“I…. Fine. You’re right. It’s your life. And his. And her’s.” Frankie shrugged, resigning herself to the fact that Calliope wasn’t going to listen to her.

“It is our life, Frankie. We’re just trying to do what best for us as a… as a kind of family. We’re not talking about marriage or kids or anything. We haven’t even said ‘I love you,’ yet, but… this is what’s working. And I’m happy. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way in my life. And he’s happy, I’m pretty sure, and he makes Diona happy too, which is the most important thing to me. I’m being careful but…. I don’t want to sabotage this either,” she stated, signalling that the discussion was officially over.

“OK, OK. I understand. I will stop butting in where I’m not needed.”

“…I still need you, you donut. But I don’t need you to doubt me anymore, either. Sixteen year old Calliope and twenty-four year old Calliope aren’t the same people.”

Frankie looked over at her sister somewhat incredulously. That was the last thing she’d expected her to say. But maybe she had a point. Maybe she did still see that sixteen year old girl when she looked at her sister. That was kind of how it worked for parents and their kids, right? And when they were younger, Frankie was more of a mother than a big sister to Calliope, giving her the love and nurturing that she desperately needed, helping her to get her life together. “I’ll butt in less… forcefully, then,” she corrected. And finally, for the first time since the conversation took this turn, they smiled at each other, small, somewhat weary smiles that nonetheless showed their mutual understanding of each other. “So, now, I’m taking you home, right? You have to get out of that dress and they’ll be wondering where you are in the morning.”

“No, it’s OK. I want to stay here tonight. I’ll just tell them we decided to spend some time together after work. It’s not totally untrue,” she reasoned, giving a half-shrug. “I’ll send him a text.”

Frankie’s smile became a little brighter with the news that Cal was staying. “That works,” she said simply. “I’m gonna go bed. I have to be at the Shoppe early tomorrow, so.” She went to leave the bedroom, making it all the way to the door but as her hand got to the doorknob, she stopped and turned around. “Lily. …Thank you. For, for before.”

Calliope hesitated before saying, “You’re welcome. …And thank you. For being concerned and everything.”

With one last smile, Frankie bid her sister goodnight and left the room, feeling like the weight of the world was finally off her shoulders.