its genuinely so fascinating binging all of archer to watch the show gradually realize as norms change that pam is actually the coolest and most attractive character. like, she goes from being unable to get anyone to sleep with her to a polyamorous party slut without actually fundamentally changing her vibes or personality.
Tags: Alcoholism, whump, slight injury detail, blood, non-sexual intimacy, implied/referenced sex, established relationship, best friends with benefits, late night conversations, flirting, complicated relationships, friendship/love, post-S11, modern era, no use of Y/N, neutral reader descriptions, no reader pronouns
Summary: He is impossible, you are impossible, your entire relationship is impossible. It shouldn't work as well as it does, yet it simply does. So you both let it take its course.
Word count: 5,227
Author's note: TFW you expose your own complex self-ship relationship for the world to see?! Seriously, I'm baring my soul here so BE. NICE.
Sterling is my stupid, amazing, idiotic, braindead, gorgeous, ridiculous baby girl and this fic has been five years in the works. Always been so apprehensive to post anything with him since he's just so... him, you know? I am HEAVILY projecting all my own feelings onto him because fuck being objective or impartial.
Title stolen from that one Travis Scott song... Which is very us.
Sterling Archer was and will always remain to be a mystery to you.
Not in the obvious sense of why he does the things he does. No, you understand that perfectly. You can dissect and appreciate his character and personality in a way you've never held regard or empathy for anyone else, not even yourself. But he is an enigma to you for why he consistently keeps coming back to you, for you. Why he chooses to do things with you, why he makes an effort to engage with – and even impress – you. Why he's so attached to you. And, admittedly, you wondered the same thing about him for the first year of your… friendship, but those musings soon became very redundant.
He's your best friend. You're not quite sure if he returns the title with quite as much meaning as you do but he's said as much before. Drunken and giggling and making fun of you as he often does whenever you say something even a fraction too serious or sincere, but he said you were the same to him. Friends — it's a weird term for whatever it is you have going on. It's too much and not enough all at once. It feels superficial and shallow yet overwhelmingly profound. It’s too impersonal given the fact you've spent more nights together than you can count, and too strong for how much distance still remains between the pair of you. Sterling doesn't do labels, not really, and you've almost convinced yourself you're fine with that. Almost. Some clarification might make things easier on you, to know exactly where you stand with him, but you know it would only serve to scare him off. Which is the very last thing you want.
It’s as though you have a sixth sense for him because your head turns to your apartment door the very moment you hear some muffled shuffling and groaning coming from the hallway. You were in the middle of reading some random horror book, listening to some old records and halfway to drinking yourself to sleep, but something told you to stay up for a little longer. Something akin to a sense of intuition you never knew you possessed.
There's a dull thump at the door, then another when you don't immediately answer; this has become a routine by now.
“I know you're in there,” Drifts the familiar, slurred, cajoling voice from the other side.
You shouldn't dawdle any longer — You know why he's here, in the dead of night, but the sight always makes your heart ache each time.
“If you're bleeding on my welcome mat again, I won't be happy.” You caution, no real bite to your words as you go to open the door.
A typically lazy smirk and half-lidded blue eyes come in greeting. “Thought you would’a had a stockpile of ‘em by now.”
You try to keep your gaze on those insanely beautiful eyes rather than the wound on his side he’s clutching onto, but – yep – too late. His hand is drenched in blood that's seeped through his turtleneck, of course dripping a steady crimson waterfall on the aforementioned welcome mat. The other that’s shakily propping himself up against the wall is also covered in claret, and there are several small cuts and bruises littering his face. His cane is slotted into one of his belt loops, probably forgotten and useless at this point. Your heart sinks, just a little. Not as much as it used to the first ten times he rocked up to your apartment unannounced and bleeding like a Russian princess, but it still hurts to see him in pain. Even if he covers it up with a dazzling smile and snappy retorts. You can tell, always can with Sterling.
The first time was years ago. He’d shown up at yours just an hour after you’d gotten in from work, finally relaxing for the night, as a ranting and raving frenzy. With two bullets lodged in his shoulder. You hadn’t the first clue on how to go about removing them without causing him any further damage, and being high as a kite probably didn’t help either, but he had guided you through the process as he vented about how he couldn’t believe Lana had the audacity to think he wasn’t trustworthy enough to babysit their daughter. In her defence, you could understand perfectly why she would have some reservations, always able to see things from both their perspectives since Lana was a friend too, but perhaps the bullets were a tad overboard. Not that it was her fault… directly. Still, you did lean more to his side, as you also always did.
Lana was – is – great in many ways, but she tended to keep you at arm’s length since she knew you and Sterling were basically two potty peas in a pod, fuelling each other’s crazy, constantly trying to out-do each other in whatever new harebrained competition you’d come up with. But that had been an unprecedented moment in your friendship thus far. To say the least, that night had been weird.
You took it as an implicit sign of trust and comfort.
Sterling probably just wanted a pretty girl to patch him up rather than spend a night in the ER.
It’s still unclear why he ever came to you for that.
“Oh, right, yeah,” As if it's instinctual, which it kinda is, your arm anchors around his back, allowing him to lean against your much smaller frame as you all but drag him in. “Silly me.”
Sterling glances down at you as he kicks the door shut, knowing it took a whole lot of energy to do so. “Yeah, silly you.”
From the strung out, lacking tone of voice, you can tell he's had a hellish night. Whatever mission he's crash landed back from hasn't been kind to him; they often aren't. Not much has been kind to him since he woke from his coma.
You've mentioned that same thing to him exactly once and was instantly shut down. The glare that was directed from across the table of your regular booth in one of your more seedier spots actually made you stop in your tracks. Apparently, Sterling could handle the overly-emotional, weepy, very intoxicated version of you who couldn't stop blubbering about how much you had missed him for those three uncertain years, how you had thought he might die, how much you despised Veronica Deane (that bitch) for what she had done not just to him but Lana, AJ, the rest of them. But he couldn't take a simple fact uttered with startling sobriety.
“Please tell me you at least re-stocked your scotch supply.” He huffs out as you help to lower him down onto your couch, setting his cane on the floor. “Last time was literal agony.”
“What do you take me for?” You ask incredulously, hands settling on your hips as you assess the mess that's writhing around and leaving a growing puddle of blood on one of your satin pillows.
Sterling grins up at you, easy-breezy as ever, “Honest answer?”
“Shut it,” You try not to roll your eyes at him; there will be plenty of time for that later, you're sure. “And take your shirt off.” You instruct him as you turn away to retrieve a med kit and a brand new bottle of Glengoolie Blue from the kitchen. There, you also wash your hands that already bear splotches of his blood and grab a clean towel. This really is a routine for you both, maybe even some weirdly intimate ritual, and you know exactly how the night will play out.
“Oh, you'd just love that…” He murmurs mostly to himself, lacking his usual conviction as he complies and peels the turtleneck off with a slight wince. “Ply my weakened, Adonis-like body with booze then have your wicked way with me.”
The eye roll wins out and you shoot him yet another exasperated look, offering the big baby his bottle as you place the kit on the coffee table. “I always have my wicked way with you, Sterling.” Easily catching his soiled shirt that is tossed your way, you throw it to the armchair, deciding to deal with it later. “You know that much by now.” You catch a whiff of smoke, scotch and sweat from it.
That dumb grin is back on his face, lapping up your attention as he always does. “Maybe I need a refresher…”
“Maybe you need to not bleed out on my cashmere blanket.” You counter, settling down on the floor beside him, preparing to deal with your provocative patient. “Also, Adonis didn't bitch half as much as you do, if at all.”
As if to prove your point, “Yeah, lemme just tell the three inch deep stab wound to stop gushing. One sec.” With all the practised grace in the world, he twists the cork out the scotch, carelessly tosses it to the side and immediately starts guzzling straight from the bottle. There's no ‘thank you’, no acknowledgment whatsoever, but you don't mind nor care since you're used to it. Used to him and his wicked ways. “A reminder of just how wicked you are would still be preferable. You should be offering it, really.”
Raising a brow, “Yeah?” you unceremoniously, and a little too harshly, press the towel to his wound in an effort to staunch the blood flow. “Like this, you mean?” But you know he can take that and a whole lot more.
“Fuck!” He squawks, almost spilling scotch down his scar-streaked chest. “Could you be less gentle, you think? I’m only dying over here.”
With a shrug, you keep a firm hold over the cloth, flitting your gaze upwards where it lands on his less than impressed face. “I could try.” He’d probably enjoy it; he does have a rather blatant masochistic streak in him, after all. Which you know all about. “And you're not dying.”
“I might be if you keep that up.”
“Don't whine, Sterling. You also know how this goes.”
He lets out a long-suffering, over-the-top sigh, throwing his head back against the armrest of the couch. “Sometimes, I wonder why I come to you.”
The remark is offhand, blasé, not meant to imply so much, as most things are with him, but it makes your stomach flip nonetheless.
“Phrasing.”
“Nice.” He crooks a weak smile at that, stealing a glance over. “I mean, free booze, sure. Free pot. Good food on occasion. Comfy bed…” His eyes not-so subtly rake down your face, neck, slightly exposed cleavage, clothed chest, right down to how you're sitting on your knees. Like you're bent on a church pew in worship. “Warm… soft… cuddles.”
Again, you refrain from rolling your eyes at him. It would only give him a sense of satisfaction that his already overwrought ego does not need. You know he’s enjoying the ‘show’; he often makes his leering well known.
When your strange arrangement of spontaneously texting each other with demands of going out drinking or partying or whatever other debauchery you could imagine first came about, you actually used to care about how you looked. It’s almost pathetic to think about it now — How much you tried to capture his attention when it was glaringly evident you already had it. But you only ever saw how he would ogle other women, how easily he could drop a conversation with you in favour of drooling over a size two with double Ds flouncing past. Which, again, is pathetic to think about since neither of you were or ever would or could be in a relationship together. At least, not a committed, strictly exclusive one. Such an idea is impossible and one you don’t let yourself dwell on. Not often.
Besides, you’re not a jealous person… Or so you tell yourself. To your credit, you never once get jealous over Lana or Katya, or the dozens of women who warmed his bed when neither were available. Not really. Jealousy is for suckers. It’s undignified.
Now, you wear whatever you want and he’s still just as interested. Whether it’s a form-fitting dress whenever you’re out on a totally not-date-dinner, a much too short skirt at a hazy nightclub, or something loose and concealing when he’s round for an ‘innocent’ film night. As much as you know each other, you’re also both oblivious when it comes to certain aspects of each other.
“Amongst other things,” You mumble as you watch him glug more scotch down, his throat bobbing in a way that makes your mouth dry.
Sterling's expression is verging on cheeky even though you can see the fatigue laying under the surface. It's as amusing as much as it is baffling — How can he always sustain this level of confidence? Sure, he's had his moments of doubt and vulnerability with you, as rare and almost sacred as those may be, but there's still this unwavering sense of complete courage. You used to think it was just plain old boyish arrogance, asshole-ish-ness, jerk alpha behaviour, whatever. But you've since learned that Sterling Archer has a spirit that simply cannot ever be broken or extinguished, try as everyone might. Some days, it irritates you. Some days, it inspires you.
And you’ve learned that it’s as much of a façade as it is sincere. The human personification of an oxymoron, a contradiction, a constant conflict — That’s exactly what he is. You wonder how he can exist, how he continues to live this life of bright, blurry blue and raw, raging red all mixed up to create peculiar, pitchy purple. Particularly after the coma.
“You’re weirdly quiet,” Sterling states, peering down at you as you pull the towel away and see the wound has stopped flowing. “Did one of your favourite characters get miswritten in this week’s issue again? ‘Cause you always get so mopey when that happens, it’s unbearable. I swear, I’ll just write the damn comic myself one day.”
That makes you smile; he knows you well.
“No…” You reply, not intending to sound so reserved. “I’m just thinking.”
“Uh-oh. Everyone batten down the hatches and find a corner to cower in—the end is nigh.”
The eye roll is basically second nature at this point, an ingrained response to his incessant teasing and heavy-handed flirting and dramatic declarations.
When you don’t say anything, he nudges your shoulder with the base of the bottle. “Seriously. What’s up?”
You know he doesn’t like it when you get like this, which is rare. Sterling needs noise, stimulation, action all the time so he doesn’t retreat back inside his head. You also know there are unforgiving, looming figures in there; so many past lives that all belong to him whether he wants them or not.
Introspection is the enemy of happiness, he’s told you dozens of times.
“Nothing,” You turn away from him for a moment to grab a sterilising wipe, and so he doesn’t see your face when you lie to him. “I just didn’t sleep much last night.”
But it’s a pointless thing to do. He can tell from your voice as well as the way your shoulders stiffen slightly, like your body is rejecting you withholding the truth from him.
“Bullshit.”
Your lips pull into a slight pout as you tear open the wipe and start to gently mop up the blood stains. He doesn’t even flinch.
Sterling says your name, once, twice but before he can say it a third time, you look up and silence him with your hardened gaze alone. This is a skill you’ve steadily mastered over the years of knowing him — How to get him to shut the hell up. In a variety of ways. He never did in the beginning, never. Some mornings, you’d return home after a messy night out at some strip joint with a migraine and his deep, deliberately sultry voice replaying in your head like a broken, stuttering record. His one-liners always got stuck in there, making you so irritated you had to listen to music at the highest possible volume, not caring if it pissed off your neighbours.
“I’m fine,” You tell him firmly but not unkind, continuing to clean his wound.
He backs down, knowing that tone means ‘Leave it. Don’t pry.’ It’s one he uses on you when he’s not in the mood for your overbearing concern.
“Whatever,” He murmurs, swallowing back the questions he wants to ask with more scotch.
“Yeah. Whatever.”
You don’t know what’s gotten into you tonight, why you’re so wistful and aloof. It’s absolutely not you. At least, not when you’re in Sterling’s company. He always draws out that unguarded, unbridled playfulness that borders on deviousness. No – he doesn’t just draw it out – he stokes at it like a fire and isn’t afraid to get burned when it blazes. He revels in it as you revel in him. Quiet and quelled, over-thinking and omitting is not how you want to be with him. It doesn’t look good on either of you.
“How did you get this one then?” You finally ask, trying to make your voice lighter, once the wound is no longer soaked in blood. “Actually, let me guess. You called Robert a balding ballsack for the fifth time and Lana snapped.”
Sterling chuckles, the noise deep-seated in his chest, like the distant rumble of thunder warning of a brewing storm, then winces. You don’t bother to ask if he’s okay — He’s a big boy, this is barely a scratch for him.
“Nah, I kept the Robert-ribbing to a minimum today.”
“Unprecedented.”
“I felt like being nice.”
“For once.”
“Hey! I’m always nice.” He takes a pointed sip of scotch, burping without excusing himself afterwards before saying “I’m a perfect gentleman.”
The irony has to be satire, you think.
“I’m always nice to you, aren’t I?” He offers before you can reply with something witty.
You consider the question, ignoring the weight it holds.
In a manner of speaking, he is. Sure, he says things to purposefully get under your skin so you bite back twice as sharply in a way he internally rejoices over but never shows. He does things to upset the harmony in your apartment – leaves kitchen cupboard doors open, moves trinkets around from their precise places on your shelves, re-arranges your collection of lipsticks and nail polishes so they’re no longer in colour order – but it’s all harmless. He knows you don’t mind, not in any real way that would earn him a berating that might come from someone else.
“Define ‘nice’,” You say with a brow raised, teasing.
Sterling shrugs, “Well, I always take my shoes off by the door 'cause you’re such a neat freak. Even put them in the rack sometimes. That’s pretty nice.” And consciously crosses his feet at the ankles.
“You’re rubbing dirt into my couch right this very moment,” You point out, aware that he already knows.
“I’m injured!” He protests, brow furrowed as he glares at you, just as teasing. “Gravely injured, might I remind you.”
It’s remarkable how quickly you can both slip back into your regular back-and-forth, even when there’s a thousand unspoken questions and words that linger around you like sweltering humidity in the nightly afterglow of a hot summer’s day.
“Yeah, you might not make it, Duchess.” You say with a mocking serious tone, reaching for a tube of Neosporin. “I hope you've got your last will and testament sorted.”
He grumbles at the use of his code name.
You just grin, wide and shit-eating.
“You’re taking your sweet ass time tonight,” He complains, eyes staring off into the distance, slightly glazed over and not quite present anymore.
“I’m being careful,” You correct, applying the ointment with a light touch to the skin around the wound, trying not to anger it anymore than it already is. “...Gentle.”
Sterling snorts crudely at that, “Makes a change.”
“Don’t pretend like you don’t enjoy all my rough play.”
“Never said that.” He has another sip, slower this time, contemplative. “You manhandle me better than Lana sometimes.”
If you were a lesser person, you might blush. He must be wasted by now if he’s saying shit like this.
“I doubt that,” Tossing the tube back to the med kit, you pluck a large square dressing from the seemingly endless pile. “She handles you far better than anyone else can.”
“Hmmm…”
It’s endearing to you how that woman – that brilliant, fierce, unrelenting woman – is basically always on his mind. You absolutely don’t blame him for it; you understand it completely. She is formidable in a way that makes you hot under the collar. You have no idea how Sterling remains so nonchalant and relaxed around her. For the most part.
A hush falls over the room, oddly companionable. Odd yet familiar.
Predictably, he breaks it within minutes.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you. AJ was asking about you the other day.”
That makes your hands pause just as they’re securing the bandage in place. Slowly, you dare to glance up at him. “Yeah?”
He smirks softly at your obvious intrigue, not smug or cocky like it usually is. “Yeah. I called her, see if she’s losing her mind in that damn boarding school yet.”
“The Swiss can be bastards.”
“Right? Probably somethin’ to do with how perpetually cold it is there.” He takes another sip before speaking again, well over halfway through the bottle. “She wanted to know how you are. What you’ve been up to.”
The smile that curves your lips can’t be helped, not that you want it to be. That girl is a wonder to you, much like her parents. She’s, somehow, an accumulation of all their best parts. You’re not one for children, they irritate you to no end with all their wailing and vomiting, but AJ makes you considerate in a way that stuns you.
When Sterling was in that god-awful coma, you naturally grew closer with her. Wanting to be there for Lana who was acting like she could shoulder the weight of seeing someone who pisses her off as much as he adores her – the father of their daughter who was clueless about what had happened – in such a state made all three of you closer. The circumstances were horrible, of course, but that silver lining, as painful as it is to think about it even now, lessened the blow. The first time AJ gave you a drawing of birds and bees and butterflies that was actually quite sophisticated for a three year old, you didn’t know how to react. The first time AJ called you ‘auntie’ all off her own accord, you thought your heart was going to burst. And when she left for Switzerland, you realised you were gonna miss her like crazy.
“What did you tell her?” You ask Sterling, busying yourself with the dressing.
“Oh, y’know, all the important stuff. How you’re still drinking like a fish, partying every night, completely obsessed with me.” He answers, much more smug now.
And, of course, there’s another eye roll on your end. “You neglected to inform her how I’m screwing a new girl every week.”
He almost chokes, caught somewhere between laughing and scoffing. “Right. Yeah. I’ll let her know next time. I’m sure she’ll appreciate the finer details.”
With a fond shake of your head, you tenderly smooth the bandage down and sit back, finally finished with patching up your idiotic infirm.
“Done.” You redundantly inform him.
“You’re just a regular Florence Nightingale,” He quips back, a smile still playing on his lips, “You know that?”
Naturally, he doesn’t say thank you.
Naturally, you don’t expect him to.
“I don’t know how I wouldn’t. You say the exact same thing every time, Sterling.”
His brow furrows, confused, “I do?”
“Yep.”
“Huh…” With a shrug, he tips more scotch into his mouth. “I’m running out of material.”
Cracking a conceited smirk, you start gathering up all the waste and neatly scrunch it up in your hands. “You ran out years ago.”
He makes a very offended sounding squeak. “Hey! I resent that! It’s wildly untrue, for one.”
“Yeah, yeah,” You murmur fondly, moving to rise to your feet.
But Sterling catches your arm before you can and drags you closer to the edge of the couch, uttering your name just as fondly.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” He insists in that typically teasing tenor of his you’ve grown to not only become accustomed to but honestly lean into.
Despite already knowing the answer, you ask “What would that be?”
“You have to kiss me better.”
You’d roll your eyes for the umpteenth time that night if the familiarity of his request that’s only thinly veiled as a demand didn’t make something settle deep and heavily in your stomach.
So you stall, just for a minute. “Don’t you mean ‘it’?”
“Nope.” His reply is lightning quick. “Me.”
A voice in your head wonders if it’s more pathetic or hopeless that you consistently fall for his dumb little tricks. Or if they’re synonymous at this point.
Deliberately slowly, you consume the short distance that separates you – that always seems to get in the way between you both – and press a chaste, painfully tender kiss to his cheek, just below a fresh bruise that’s forming around his eye. For a fleeting second, you think his lashes flutter shut.
“That… is not what I meant.” Sterling grumbles quietly, not daring to release your arm or pull back.
“You have to be more clear, then, Duchess.”
He huffs out a sigh through his nose, as if he’s annoyed or something like that. As if you could ever really annoy him.
“Fine,” He tugs you ever closer, making you nearly fall right on top of him with the force of it. “I’ll be the assertive one.”
Still, you can’t help but get the last word even when his lips are mere centimetres away from yours. “For once…”
Unsurprisingly, he’s warm, tastes like bitter scotch, smells like gunsmoke and feels like home, in a weird, warped sense of the word. Surprisingly, though, he doesn’t deepen the kiss as he usually would. He just lets it stay as it is. Soft, subdued, soothing and the slightest bit sensitive — vulnerable. Almost.
It could have lasted a minute as much as it could have lasted a month; time seems to stutter and still every time he’s this gentle.
Then, it’s over, and there’s a bloodstained hand lingering on your jaw, ever-so-slightly bloodshot eyes looking up at you, glistening lips parted, as if awaiting your next move.
“I think you’ve lost too much blood tonight,” You mutter, trying to sustain the usual firmness in your voice. “You look like a lovesick puppy right now.”
Sterling doesn’t even feign indignation or outrage, he just traces his knuckles up and down your cheek. “Been called worse.”
That sensation in your stomach tightens and flips, and you have to move away from him before you do something stupid like push him back against the couch and kiss him silly, until you’re both breathless and aching. That can come later when you’ve both smoked and drank way more and don’t care about the implications of how you’re basically the world’s most unconventional, untraditional, unusual not-couple. Something completely impossible and entirely normal at the same time.
“Pick a film,” You tell him, swiftly clearing away the mess and padding towards the kitchen. “No Burt Reynolds or black and white shit.”
Of course, you hear an exaggerated groan of protest. “You’re no fun! No taste!”
“You’re welcome to leave and watch Gator for the billionth time, if you want!”
“Oh, shut up. I’ve only watched it nine times.”
“That honestly surprises me.”
“Unlike you, some of us have actual lives.”
“Yeah,” Walking back into the living room with a half-full bottle of vodka, you pace over to the couch again. “That’s why you’re round mine acting like it’s such a burden to be saved by me.”
Sterling glances at you, not bothering to hide his smile, before reaching across to grab the TV remote from the coffee table.
Shoving his legs off one of the cushions, you settle down beside him, dismissing his melodramatic gasp. Soon enough, his calves are pressing against your thighs, the scotch back to his mouth, idly flicking through film options as you unconsciously run a hand up and down the material of his cargo pants.
Once again, this is all too familiar. But you adore it — Cherish it, even. It might be the best you’ll ever get with him.
“This one?” He asks, hovering over a selection that appeals to both of you. After all, he does know your tastes pretty well — in many deviations of the word. “Seems… halfway decent.”
“Sure,” You say before having a swig of vodka with one hand and beginning to undo the shoelaces of his boots.
“Don’t sound too enthusiastic, doll.”
“Never.”
The film starts, Sterling relaxes into your couch with all the air of someone who believes they own it, and crooks an arm behind his head as he watches with tired but attentive eyes.
You drink more, as does he, occasionally making crude remarks about what’s playing on screen, about the hot female actress you both would happily have a threesome with, some thoughtful comments on the lighting, the dialogue.
It’s unclear exactly when you moved closer, practically spooning him from behind, resting your chin on his shoulder, now more interested by the little curls of hair that wrap around the nape of his neck, but it happens. Like it always does; you let yourself be pulled in by his gravitational field. And he doesn’t mind, you know he enjoys it even if he would never openly admit it. This casual intimacy that isn’t defined by the constrictions of a label are something you both easily fall into and don’t regret the next day.
“You never told me how you got this, by the way.” You practically whisper in his ear when the film falls into a lull, fingertips carefully tracing over his bandage.
“Does it even matter?” Sterling counters weakly, growing both sleepier and drunker.
“Does to me,” You reply quietly but sincerely. “Always matters to me.”
You feel him freeze up under your hand, just for a second, before he casts you a typically teasing look. “Sap.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just tell me.”
And he does, embellishing every little detail as usual, gesticulating every other sentence, kicking your leg whenever you say something derisive. Within minutes, the film is forgotten, replaced by warmth and close proximity, mindless chatter and stolen, drunken kisses which have both of you giggling more and more with each one.
Like it always does, the night unfolds predictably and effortlessly.
Neither of you cares when the sun peeks out from beyond the horizon; neither of you cares about the fact you have work in a few hours. All that truly matters in the moment is sharing the third – or maybe fourth – bottle you’ve cracked open and discussing anything and everything that springs to mind.
It’s completely, uniquely yours and his. Belongs only to you both even if neither of you can to each other. But you don’t care. For now, for the years that have come before this moment, it’s somehow incomprehensibly, impossibly perfect.
—————
also posted on AO3 if you wanna support over there : https://archiveofourown.org/works/65952340#main
May 27: Happy 52nd Birthday to Actor Jack McBrayer, who provided the voices of the character of Randy Gillette from the Season 3 episode "Bloody Ferlin" (2012) on Archer, Marbles, Leslie (Zeke's cousin), and various characters on Bob’s Burgers, and Cindy/Beef's p**** from the Season 4 episode "Risky Beefness Adventure" (2024) on The Great North.
Sabotage is in the works over at the movie studio for a film in progress with Ellis Krane hiring the guys to get to the bottom of this and find who’s responsible, with Archer as Veronica Deane’s bodyguard. Part 1 of the two-part Season 7 finale, “Deadly Velvet Part I”, premiered on this day, 9 Years Ago.
I love seeing my Archer posts still getting notes. I feel like it was such an underrated show while it was on and I'd love to see it gain some serious cult status. There's always gonna be funny adult cartoons with surprising depth but there's never going go be anything quite like that ever again.
Your ex-husband isn't thrilled to hear about your latest romantic connection.
(It's more about Slater than Archer.)
Drama, Smut, Comedy, Story-Driven.
TWs: !!Smut!! And maybe a lil angst, jealousy, physical violence, drunk sex, long read, not proofread, this is not a 3-way fic, sorry! They're just both gettin' bounced on!
You've just moved cities for a new, low-profile job with a well-known spy agency, ISIS. It's a change of scenery where you can still use the specialized skills you've honed over the years at your old job. The CIA was a prolific time in your career, but with your divorce newly finalized after a long, messy process, you're ready to uproot your life and start over somewhere.
Finding this job was something of fate in itself. You were drinking your thoughts away in a shabby pub on a mission in Ireland when a man, just as wasted as you, came crashing through the door, spouting off at the mouth about "top secret agent" this, "classified mission" that. Even at your drunkest, you've never compromised yourself in such a way. All's well, though, as it ended with a job offer and a very interesting hook-up.
Try as you may, you can't escape the memories of that first sexual rendezvous after a lengthy legal battle. Your cheeks redden with warmth as you remember the way he bent you over, sliding his hands up your spine as he guided your hips against his waist.
You giggle to yourself as your stomach flips. All this time seeing him in a professional setting feels silly, considering his drunken personality when you first met him. You're certainly not in love, nor are you looking for it. It's just nice to explore without moral compromise.
Working with ISIS is a dream, not to mention getting to step out with Archer to fuck in a supply closet nearly hourly. The scandal of sneaking around only adds to the fun.
Your marriage was just as passionate for years, but with that came an explosiveness that working together at the CIA ultimately killed. No time apart, you smothered each other until it felt like there weren't any feelings to save.
Keeping things light with Archer has been easy, considering if he's not fucking you, then he's definitely off fucking someone else. Often other members of the agency. It is vehemently not love, and you love that.
One day, after months of casual hookups, Archer mentions something about taking you to dinner. An awkward silence falls over the two of you as you lie naked in his bed. "It's not that I don't want to, I just," you search hard for your next words.
"Oh, no. It's fine. I just figured I owed you after, you know, all this." He gestures to your whole body.
"You don't owe me anything, handsome. It's a pretty equal exchange if you ask me." You wink at him, slipping away from his possessive grip so you can get dressed.
"By the way, don't tell Mother I told you, but we've got some CIA agents coming in on Monday. I'm not sure what for. Apparently, none of us are supposed to know." Archer's clearly looking for any way to change the subject after his invite went wrong.
"CIA? Did you happen to get their names?" You ask, with a lump in your throat.
"No, but they can't be much worse than those other two dick heads." Archer settles back against his headboard, covered by nothing but blankets up to his waist. His chiseled body shines in the sunlight like a painting. You almost hesitate to leave, but after that awkward date denial, you want to get far, far away. It's not all his fault, he has no idea about your situation.
"Sounds like fun. I'll see you there, princess." You chuckle, lingering in the doorway.
"For the last time, it's Duchess. And we don't get to choose our code names!" His spiral makes you laugh as you wave goodbye and head out his bedroom door. His valet, an elderly man called Woodhouse, always meets you at the door to send you off. You smile warmly at him as you make your way to your car.
~~~Monday Morning
"Good morning, Pam," you yawn, stepping off the elevator. She waves a tired hello to you and you make your way toward your office. After a small window of time, Archer knocks at your door, right on schedule. You both slip down the hall and meet up in one of your trusty 'spots.' You've opted for the supply closet yet again.
Archer pulls you inside with him, hungrily grabbing at your breasts and roughly fidgeting with your buttoned-up blouse. You let out a giggle, a bit louder than you mean to, but you quickly quiet back down. He grins at the sight of your breasts pressed firmly against his chest.
"Oh, my God," he breathes into your neck, positioning himself right against you. "I'll never get tired of this." He slips inside of you with ease. A low, breathy moan escapes his lips as he reaches his hilt. From there, he's thrusting into you rhythmically, gripping your hips while you prop yourself against the shelves of dusty cleaning products.
Archer's fingertips dig into your skin as he lifts you off the ground for a better angle. Each delicate moan that escapes your lips is met with a sensual sound of his own or a passionate kiss on your lips to silence you. He places a firm, but gentle hand around your neck as he picks up his pace.
"Harder," you whisper against his broad chest and he's happy to oblige. At this point, you hardly care what can and can't be heard outside the closet. "Harder." And he complies, slamming into you with a force that'd tell a stranger he must hate you.
A knot begins to form in your stomach, growing tighter as you near your orgasm. He's moaning your name into your ear, sending your eyes rolling back every time he opens his mouth. You're doing all you can to keep it together, and just when you finally give, he pulls out and finishes on your chest, careful to keep aim on your exposed skin.
Your blue-eyed hookup helps you clean up and you realize there's yet another awkward silence as he lingers for a little longer than usual in the closet, just looking at you. "Wow," he sighs.
"You weren't too bad yourself, handsome," you wink, playfully tapping his chest with your palm. Once you've both steadied your breathing, he leaves first, scoping out the hallway, careful to give a cough or some sort of signal if someone's around. It's silent. You give it a few minutes and then you step out as well.
"Y/N!" A painfully familiar voice calls your name from the opposite end of the otherwise empty hallway. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Slater?" You knew it, you just wanted to believe it could've been anyone else. "Are you asking what I'm doing or what I'm doing here?"
"Well," he's stumped. "Both, I guess. Did you just fuck Archer in that closet?" He sounds equal parts disturbed and livid.
"I work here now. And that's really none of your business anymore." You cross your arms defensively.
"Trust me, Y/N, you don't want-"
"Stop telling me what I do and don't want. Don't we have a meeting or something?" You stomp off, not allowing his ability to set you off cost you this new job.
Archer and the other agents have already been in the meeting. You're late and if you weren't on Malory's good side, you know she'd have something to say about it. Instead, she just gives you a sharp look, and you take the warning for the golden ticket it is. You take a quiet seat near the group and tune into whatever the other CIA agent is explaining.
It's tedious, tiresome, and boring. Some of the staff are falling asleep while others are zoning out altogether. Archer's distracted and his disruption goes unchecked as he messes around with an Operation game.
Suddenly, the door slings open and Slater angrily crosses the floor. Most of the room falls silent, besides Archer, who is still playing with the toy. Slater reaches his desk and slaps the game out of his hands, causing others around them to gasp in surprise.
"Are you fucking my wife?" Slater yells lividly through gritted teeth, placing one hand on the desk surface to stop himself from swinging at the ISIS agent.
"What?" Archer's surprise quickly turns to amusement. "No, I'm screwing-"
"I'm not your wife anymore, Slater!" You scold from across the way. The room fills with sounds of confused shock, but no one's as wide-eyed as Archer.
"You're married to this douchebag?" Your dark-haired situationship points to Slater.
"Not anymore!" You toss your hands up defensively. "Our divorce is finalized. What Sterling and I do-" you're cut off.
"Sterling?" Slater erupts at the intimate comfortability between you and Archer. Unhinged, Slater grabs the front of Archer's suit and lands a solid punch to the face. His biceps flex intensely under his casual T-shirt as he tightens his grip for another swing.
Now Slater and Archer are in an all-out brawl. The desks of the lecture room are knocked into disarray as the two men toss each other around. Cyril and Ray both try to intervene, but it's pointless. Archer, as usual, takes nothing seriously. He's almost laughing and probably would be if he wasn't ever so slightly losing the fight.
"Enough!" Malory throws a glass of cognac so hard, it slams against the wall right between both men's heads.
"Mother!" Archer looks distressed by her close quarters warning.
"If you two don't stop this childish nonsense this very minute I'll have you both sent wherever the hell I want for treason." Her threat is grand, but it's clear she means it.
"Look, fuck you, but she'll actually do that," Archer speaks with his eyes narrowed at his rival. Slater sighs, glaring at Archer for just a moment more before finally releasing his suit jacket.
"Good," Malory relaxes, somehow already equipped with another freshly poured glass of cognac. She redirects everyone's attention back to the boring speaker from before. "Now, you were saying?"
~~~After Work, at Your House
"That's not what I'm saying!" Slater yells, an all too familiar sound. One you thought you'd gotten rid of.
"Then what are you saying?" You toss your arms up in frustration. "Because from here, it's sounding like you're telling me who I can and can't be with. We aren't married anymore!" That last sentence seems to piss him off, or at least hurt him. He closes his eyes and furrows his brows, trying to find it in himself to calm down. Something he's never tried to do before.
"I know we're not married anymore, but seriously? Him?" He shakes his head. "And why move? Why leave the CIA?"
"Are you kidding me?" You ask, utterly shocked by the question. "This is why! This tantrum you're throwing as if you haven't been enjoying your own freedoms even before the divorce was finalized!" The truth causes Slater to avert his eyes. It's true, he was living his own bachelor lifestyle quite early on in the process.
"It's just," he takes a deep breath. "Could it be anyone else?"
"You act like I'm in love with the guy." You laugh. "I'm just trying to feel something."
"Oh yeah? Does he know that?"
"Of course he does!" You knit your brows. "Have you met the guy? I'm not exactly at the top of his roster."
"His people said he hasn't strayed outside your little meetings for at least two weeks. That's like a year for him." Slater crosses his arms.
"Two weeks, huh?" You take a seat at your table. Slater sits right across from you. You do the math and realize you've only been working at ISIS for about a month.
"Two weeks. Not even Agent Kane had him down that long."
"Agent Kane? Lana? Do they have that kind of history?" You ask. It's clear to anyone that they've fucked, but you had no idea what their history entailed until Slater filled you in.
"You have no idea what this guy's about, huh?" He asks, smugly.
"I don't. And I don't care. I'm not stepping on any toes and I certainly don't owe you anything." You wrangle any corner of your face that may show discomfort, adamant to not let him know he got into your head. "I think you should go. I have work in the morning."
"Oh, I know. You and I will be working very closely for a while. Just like old times." He sounds sickly sweet as he heads for your door, like you asked. Just before he leaves, he hesitates, almost like he intends to speak, but he doesn't. He doesn't look back at you or anything. He just finally exits and a cold silence follows in his place.
"Fuck," you huff.
~~~The Next Day, in The Lecture Room
"Psst," Archer garners your attention.
"What?" You whisper and he passes you a note like you're two kids in school. It reads: 'My office, 2 PM.' You stifle the smirk blossoming on your lips. Then, before you have time to blink, the note is snatched from your hand by Slater, playing the role of the bitch teacher. After that, there are suddenly mandatory training exercises being held for certain agents at certain times. You've been lovingly gifted the time slot of 1:50 PM to 2:50 PM with Archer going right after you.
While each agent waits, you spend time at Cheryl's desk with her and Pam. A little gossip to speed things along. Pam doesn't hold back in the slightest, diving right in as soon as you sit down.
"So were you Y/N Slater or...?" Cheryl wrinkles her nose, asking a question far less invasive than Pam's.
"I kept my last name. I didn't know how to navigate that either." You shrug.
"Okay, but this divorce is recent, right?" Pam redirects the conversation.
"Recent for a divorce, sure. But we've been separated for over a year."
"A whole year of working with your ex-husband at the CIA?" The round-faced blonde raises her eyebrows.
"There's a reason I jumped at this opportunity, Pam." You tilt your head forward, widening your eyes at her. A look that says, 'Don't even ask.'
"Mrs. Slater..." Cheryl repeats to herself. "Nope, doesn't have a good ring to it."
"Sure doesn't!" You exclaim, holding up your left hand and wiggling your bare ring finger. Right on cue, Slater approaches you where you sit in front of Cheryl's desk. She and Pam both excuse themselves to eavesdrop from a few feet away.
"Ready for some assistance training Agent Y/L/N?" He asks, a bitterness already biting in his voice.
"Absolutely, Agent Slater." You give a false sense of enthusiasm. "Anything to get you out of here faster."
"Then right this way," he gestures for the elevator. The firing range is on an entirely different level, and something about the usually short lift ride is excruciatingly long today. You stand next to each other uncomfortably for a while before you finally glance over at him. He doesn't look at you, but you get a good look at his chest and crossed arms. His seemingly permanent angry expression etched lightly into his features. "Like what you see?" He asks, smirking smugly.
"Shut up," you snap, facing forward and silently scolding yourself for being so quick to nearly forget why you left him in the first place. Finally, the elevator doors open to the shooting range lobby. It's empty until you and Slater step out of the elevator. After checking your weapons and loading up on ammunition, it's time to start shooting.
You've always been a pretty solid shot. These exercises don't meet your skill. You'd do better to practice with a course, but that's not an option right now. "Two in the head, one in the chest," Slater says, and you don't think twice about what he's talking about. You fire the three bullets you were instructed to fire. This goes on for a while and you begin to think an hour of this might not be so bad.
"Oh, hey. I was thinking, why not make this a group effort and save some time?" Archer, seemingly drunk, appears in the soundproofed doorway of the shooting range.
"Agent Archer, I'm gonna have to ask you to leave." Slater smiles deviously as he shoves him back and slams the door. Once it's locked, he turns his attention to you. You missed the whole ordeal due to the quality of your ear protection. You didn't see or hear Archer's impromptu class suggestion or it's brutal rejection.
"Are we done?" You ask, assuming that's what he's come to tell you when he lifts the earmuff off your head.
"No," he shakes his head. "Your form is a little off." His comment makes you arch your brows.
"No it's not."
"Yes, it is. Here." Slater takes your arms and guides them up to point your gun at the target. With his body pressed against yours, he wraps your hands around the firearm and "shows" you the proper form. It's no different from how you were just standing, and you know that, but that's not the point. The point is, now he's flush against your body and you can feel his heartbeat in the heat radiating off his chest.
"Slater, come on. What are you doing?" You try your best to sound serious, but you fail. He takes the gun from your hand and places it on the counter before slipping off your ear protection and setting it to the side as well. You're still standing with your back to him, and he leans in to whisper.
"Why don't you show me how good your form is?" He slips his hands into your hair, pulling it back gently like a ponytail before suddenly wrapping one hand up and roughly pulling your head back so he can plant a heinous love bite on your neck. You let out a breathy moan as your eyes slip back into your head. This is why it took so long to get away. If it wasn't an argument that had you nearly throwing chairs, then it was this.
"I can't... Or rather, I don't want to."
"You don't owe him anything. He's drunk right now, probably already fucking someone else in a different tiny, filthy closet." His grip on your hair tightens. "Haven't you missed me? Just a little?" The raspy nature of his voice vibrates into his chest that's pressed up against your back. Your skin erupts into chill bumps as his grip loosens and then tightens back up again when he doesn't get an answer fast enough.
"Slater," you pull away, finally. Much to your disappointment. Listen. Regardless of Archer, you know this isn't a good idea." You straighten up your appearance and calm your reddened cheeks. "Training's over," you say as you speed walk out the door.
At the end of the day, you're back at your place, freshly walking through the door after a stressful day at the office. Who'd have guessed Slater would make an appearance so soon in your journey to figuring out the single life? Who'd have known how absolutely unprepared you were for it?
After a few drinks, at-home vodka cranberries with far too much vodka to cran, you stare at your cellphone. All of you wants to call Slater and cave as quickly as you turned him down earlier. You shake the thought from your mind, scanning through your contacts for Archer. You stare at the number for a moment, recalling his dinner invitation.
You wonder if it was really meant to be a "repayment" of your promiscuous meetings. It felt far too personal, though. So personal, you sit with his number pulled up for another twenty minutes before ultimately hitting the red button, and clearing out all the information. Slater's presence has thrown your entire dynamic through a loop and it's pissing you off. Defiantly, you dial Archer's number.
Your stomach ties in knots as imagine what kind of mental strain this may put on him. To know you don't want anything more than an orgasm to get your mind off of the divorce. Surely he understands, right? It's not like he's the sentimental type.
"Hello?" A voice on the other end of the phone doesn't match the contact dialed. It's a woman and she's clearly wasted.
"Um, Archer?"
"Oh, he's kind of-" The next part of the sentence is clouded with laughter and the scuffling sound of a phone being dropped. Finally the call ends. An intense wave of relief washes over you. Thank God, you think to yourself. The relief is short-lived as you realize you've lost your lover for the night. You consider a trip to the bar, but it feels too desperate. That's when your phone begins to ring.
You stare at the screen. Slater's name flashes on the small device and you roll your eyes, sighing heavily. Already preparing for the mental toll this is about to take on you.
"Hello?" You answer on the last ring.
"Hey," he starts. "I just wanted to call and um, apologize." He sounds agonized by his own words. An ego check he never asked for.
"Apologize? For what?" You ask with a giggle.
"My behavior today was... Less than professional. I shouldn't have put you in a situation like that." It's as if this apology is being forced out of him at gunpoint, but you're appreciative of the effort.
"Thanks, Slater." You roll your eyes, still chucking.
"Are you uh- You alone tonight?" He asks, hesitantly.
"Yes, but not by choice. It seems someone else has made their way to my benefit's bed." You laugh. "I'm having wine and watching that show I like."
"What kind of wine?" Slater asks. You roll your eyes. He's always done this when he wants attention. Just sparking up a conversation about any and everything.
"Oh, you know, the cheap stuff." You shrug. Slater's unmistakable laughter crackles through the line.
"You love cheap thrills," he sighs with a smile. Silence falls over the conversation for just a moment before his voice rings through the phone one more time. "I'll talk to you soon."
"Slater, I-" but you're cut off by the telltale sign of being hung up on. You groan, tossing your phone across the room and letting it softly land on a fainting couch on the other side of the room. You rub your temples, silently venting about the man you've spent all this time trying to escape. Not due to any kind of fear, but simply because you know it's not ever meant to work.
An hour or so passes since you've changed into a sill nightgown and settled in for the night. You even consider digging out your weed stash and rolling a joint in the peace and quiet. You're halfway through the process (didn't have to twist your arm) when there's a knock at the door. Three soft knocks. Instinctively, you dismiss your buzz with sheer willpower. You glance at the clock. It's late, too late for visitors. Gripping the neck of your wine bottle, you stealthily make your way to the door.
Knock, knock, knock. Again. You don't jump, you hardly react at all. Nothing but a blink. Taking your place tactfully, standing right next to the door, you begin to slowly lean in toward the peephole. Just before you catch a glance, you hear a sound outside. A sigh. "Oh, Jesus Christ," you nearly melt with relief.
You open the door, pale in the face. All you could imagine was the CIA taking back their word and sending someone to take you out in the middle of the night in your own home.
"What the hell?" Your ex-husband stands before you with something in his hand.
"God damn it, Slater," you sigh. "What's up?"
"You said you were drinking the cheap stuff, so brought you a bottle of Château Calon-Ségur," he says, eyeballing the bottle in your hand meant to be a weapon. "But I'm now realizing this is the cheap stuff."
"The pay at ISIS isn't too shabby." You shrug. A second of silence passes between you two before you finally step out of the way and invite him inside. He nods a thanks at you and takes a hard look around your home. His eyes narrow at the lack of evidence of ever having a life with him. It's just a staged house of anything that isn't from or about him.
"Nice place you got," he says, stifling any other comments he wants to make.
"Thank you. I figured you'd have something shitty to say." You laugh, raising your eyebrows in surprise at his lack of insult.
"Not a lot of pictures," he tosses.
"I don't have any to hang yet," you arch an eyebrow at him.
"Right," he says, recalling the endless amount of photographs of you two he still has in his attic. "You seem happy. You look," he leans back, shaking his head with a sly smile. "Great."
"Yeah?" You smile politely. You know you look great. You've done nothing but glow since the papers were very first served. It's then that you notice the scent of his cologne. A decade of forgotten feelings comes flooding back, and as aware as you are that it's the wine, you can't help the redness flushing your face. And that's all it takes, just like that, he knows he's in.
Slater crosses the living room and takes a place on the couch next to you. "What's all this?" He asks, gesturing to your half-rolled joint. "I thought pot was illegal around here," he chuckles, finishing the joint and lighting it.
"It's decriminalized, but I still usually step outside before lighting it."
"Whoops," he responds flatly, bringing the joint to his lips as he lies back on the couch, sinking into the soft cushions. You pass the joint back and forth until you're both in a haze, surrounded by lingering clouds of smoke. The TV plays a Western, and though you're both staring at the screen, it feels like you're focused on each other. Each stealing eye glances at the other.
"Wine?" You ask, breaking the comfortable silence. He nods and you disappear to grab another glass. In the kitchen, you can feel the moment of his hands running through your hair, pulling it back, and whispering in your ear the other day. Chills run up your spine. Quickly, you return to your ex in the living room. He's sitting up a bit straighter now. After pouring him a glass, you join him on the couch.
He'd be a piss-poor agent if he didn't notice how much closer you sat to him upon your return. He can't help himself. "You know, your little friend with benefits was getting pretty friendly with some escorts in a casino tonight." You roll your eyes.
"My God, Slater. Are you just stalking everybody now?" You laugh, shifting a bit away from him. "Besides, I already know. He was supposed to come over tonight, but he seemed a little busy." Slater's eyebrows narrow.
"So sorry you had to settle for me," he smirks.
"I didn't. You just showed up." You eyeball him as you sip your wine. "And that begs the question; What do you think would've happened if you showed up while I was reaping the benefits?"
"Ugh," Slater shakes his head. "I don't want to think about it." He's laughing, but the boiling in his blood is as present as ever when he thinks about you with that secret agent idiot. His "casual" grip on the back cushions of the couch ignites his knuckles white. "God, do you live to get a rise out of me?"
"What do you mean? I didn't even invite you here." You look around the room as if to look for who might've invited him, sending the message that there is, in fact, no one. He invited himself.
"Y/N, look. I know the divorce is finalized. I understand I don't really have a leg to stand on."
"Oh, god. No, please stop."
"Will you just hear me out?"
"I really don't want to." You look at him, eyebrows turned up. "That sounds like some really heavy stuff and I'm really high." Slater sighs with defeat.
"Fair enough."
"Why'd you come over tonight?" You ask, curious and figuring it can't hurt seeing as he already made things tense.
"Ya' know, I don't really know."
"Really? No cheesy monologue about missing me?" You laugh. He used to try too hard. Always phoning it in. No substance.
"Oh, please." His eyes narrow. "Like you haven't been thinking of my hands in your hair all evening." His bold statement causes you to nearly choke on your sip of wine. Slater's chuckling at you, looking pleased with himself.
"You're insufferable," you scoff and his giggle erupts into laughter.
"You're so much easier to read off the clock." Slater leans forward and toys with his glass for a moment before downing its contents in one swallow. The tension between you is palpable as you refill his glass, not once spilling a drop and maintaining eye contact the entire time.
You hardly realize how close you are to him when you return the glass to his hand. Your palm flattens against his broad, solid chest. You've unintentionally pushed the two of you into a lounging position where you lie on top of him, staring down into his eyes as they scan your face.
You want to tear his clothes off and climb him like a tree, but you're preoccupied by the possible repercussions. You ball up your fist on his chest and release a frustrated sigh before creating a gap between you once again. You're sitting up, but Slater is still lying down, looking confused.
"Whoa, what happened?" He holds his empty arms out like he doesn't understand how you got away.
"I don't want to be shitty to you, but," you swallow the awkwardness down. "I don't want to create a dialogue that isn't there."
"What the fuck are you talkin' about?"
"I'm not interested in fixing things, Slater."
"Fixing things? Y/N, sweetheart, we had a good run." He sits up. "But I'm not trying to marry you again. I hardly like you."
"Bitch."
"But if you're gonna be sleeping around anyways, you might as well give me a call sometime."
"Jesus Christ. I'm not just handing it out like a prayer pamphlet," you say, crossing your arms.
"Never said you were," he arches his brows, annoyed that his own words aren't landing correctly.
"You very much implied it."
"Of course, you're gonna do this. You always do this." He begins to shift like he's planning to stand and leave. You can't tell if that's what you want or not.
"Do what? You just came over and told me if I'm gonna be a whore, I might as well include you in my whoring."
"No one called you a whore, Y/N!" He runs a hand through his pushed-back hair and groans with impatience. Finally, he stands and so do you. "Look, I'll just let you get back to smoking pot and drinking while your Mama's boy boyfriend has sex with a bunch of hookers."
"What the fuck is your problem?" You raise your voice. "And that's not what they're called anymore. They're sex workers." He rubs his temples.
"Jesus fuckin' Christ, Y/N."
"Oh, fuck you. You're the reason this is so hard to navigate. You made that divorce as difficult as possible at every turn!" You shove a finger into his chest.
"Because years ago, when I was fucking stupid, I didn't want to lose you!" The confession is too heavy. Too sweet. Too real. You hate it.
"Lower your God damn eye brows when you're talking to me." You push away the sentimental nonsense and Slater notices right away.
"I don't love you anymore, Y/N. We're both over it."
"Then why the hell did Archer make you so angry? You beat him up in front of his own mother."
"I don't know. Still a little protective, I guess." He begins to cool down. After a criminally short moment of silence, Slater sighs and rolls his eyes before closing the gap between you and crashing his lips into yours.
Everything in you screams fucking finally! But instead, you wrap your arms around him and deepen the kiss. He starts to lead you to your bedroom, but once he realizes he has no idea where it is, he picks you up, wrapping your legs around him. It's an easy stroll to the couch where he drops you onto the cushions and makes quick work of removing your nightgown.
You glow beneath him. His eyes study your exposed form like he couldn't see until he saw you. One hand grips at the curves of your waist, and the other squeezes your breast through your bra. A breathy moan slips from your lips like a sigh. All feelings aside, it's as if your flesh missed each other.
Slater's breathing is heavy as he drinks in the image of you beneath him. All those years together, but neither of you has felt like this since the very beginning. Back when it was just harmless fun in an empty office at work.
You tug his shirt up and over his head before resuming the sloppy kiss. After unfastening his belt, you begin to unhook your bra, but his hands stop you. You erupt into chill bumps as his fingers trail up your back and effortlessly flick the clasps undone. It's one part the alcohol and one part the history, but you're nearly breathless with anticipation.
"God damn," he huffs.
"I know, right?" You smirk. He shakes his head with a chuckle, burying his face in your neck and biting down softly, but firmly. You gasp as his teeth drag over your skin. He strokes himself a few times, looming over you with sparkling, dark eyes. His free hand pushes a stray piece of hair back from his face. You wait with bated breath as he slowly pushes himself against your sensitive clit.
"I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss this," Slater sighs before slowly sliding into you. You release a low, sultry moan as he grinds himself against you. He pulls your legs up so that they're hooked up over his shoulders, giving him all the angles he needs to thrust himself entirely into you. His movements are rhythmic and steady as he savors every inch of you he can reach.
"Oh, my God!" You gasp, earning a pussy-throbbing smirk from the man inside you.
"Don't get the cops called again," he chuckles, still thrusting. He's speaking about a time during your marriage when he fucked you so well that your moans and screams not only woke but concerned the neighbors.
"Fuck you," you huff, speaking between the slamming of your pelvises against each other.
"It's what you needed," he winks, picking up his pace. He's broad, strong, and well-endowed. It's hard to compare anyone to the feeling of being with him. It's like fucking a really sexy brick wall.
After an eternity of him slamming into you, legs tossed over his shoulders like a ragdoll, he pulls out. You gasp at the sudden absence. "Why don't you show me that ass, sweetheart?" He says, his voice is taunting and dominant. You do exactly as he says, turning over and arching your back to put on a bit of a show. Nothing he's never seen before, but you'd hardly be able to tell by his reaction.
Slater grips both your hips with his open palms, hooking his fingertips into your soft flesh as he pulls you back against him with each thrust. He tosses his head back in ecstasy. "Oh, fuck," he sighs with heavy breaths. You wrap your arms around the throw pillows, hoping for some sort of leverage against the harsh bucking. He raises a hand and playfully slaps your ass, earning a light squeal of excitement from you.
Just when you don't think you can process anything else, he slides a hand up your spine and wraps it in your hair. With each desperate slam into you, he pulls tighter. At some point, he releases your hips and your hair is the only handle for leverage he has, using it to pull your body to meet his as he thrusts as far as possible inside you. It just happens to be pretty goddamn far.
"Have your fun, Y/N," he huffs, voice raspier than usual. "Fuck whoever you want. I don't care." The sound of him sliding in and out of you has evolved to loud, wet echoes. "You're always gonna be mine." He picks up his pace yet again, slowly losing his rhythm as his flesh slaps against yours.
You can't argue. You know he's not wrong. Sure, neither of you cares so much for the marriage aspect, but you know you'll be right back in this situation a million more times before you're ever truly done. For the last time, you're working toward another orgasm when he quickens his thrusts and with one final slam against you, he withdraws and finishes on your displayed ass.
Breathless, Slater slinks backward into the couch and you collapse where you are, flattening out on the other end of the couch. You flinch as he cleans you up, leaving you with a playful smack.
"God damn, Slater," you sigh, eyes still threatening to roll backward.
"Better than your Mama's boy?" He asks between breaths.
"I don't know. I think I need to run a few experiments first." You grin, flushed in the face.
"Fuck you."
*****
Author's Note:
I wrote this entire story based on one glance at that GIF and I can't even remember what episode that is or what's actually happening there.
Update: I watched the episode and I love the handsome cartoon men. That's all. (I love the women too, but I objectify men.)
Fandoms: Stranger Things, Vice Principals, The Righteous Gemstones, Fallout, Dinner in America, The Passenger
Stranger Things- (I no longer write for ST.)
Eddie Munson:
Y'know I Knew a Guy Like You. (Eddie x Y/N, but Y/N talks like Theo Von) A silly adventure. No smut.
"Your Sister is Hot." (Eddie x Fem!Harrington!Reader) You're Steve's hot sister and Eddie is down bad. Yes smut.
...Yet (Eddie x Fem!Reader) A pool hangout feat. the whole gang turns steamy after a few shots and a game of Two Truths, One Lie. Yes smut.
Second First Time (Eddie x Fem!Reader) You lost your virginity to a guy who couldn't make you cum. Eddie can fic that. Yes smut.
She's Got a Boyfriend, Anyway. (Eddie x Fem!Reader) Your friendship dynamic changes when you start dating Billy Hargrove. Yes smut.
Let Me See You (Sub!Eddie x Fem!Reader) Eddie's got a kink you didn't know about. Yes smut.
Finish What You Started (Perv!Eddie x Fem!Reader) A night of truth or dare awakens a need in Eddie that his pervy little heart will do anything to satiate. Yes smut.
Where Have You Been All My Life? (Dom!Eddie x Fem!Henderson!Reader) You're Dustin's beloved big sister who happens to be a perfect parallel of his friend, Eddie. Yes smut.
You're Mine (Eddie x Fem!Reader) Eddie goes with you to get a tattoo. He's horny. Yes smut.
Claimed (Eddie x Fem!Reader) You're new at Hawkins and Eddie has already made his claim, you just don't know it yet. Yes smut.
Innocence Lost (Eddie x Fem!Reader) Corruption kink type beat. Yes smut.
Innocence Lost Pt. 2 (Eddie x Fem!Reader) Part 2 of 2. Yes smut.
Steve Harrington and Eddie Munson:
Interruption (Steve x Fem!Reader x Eddie) Eddie barges in on your time with Steve. Yes smut.
People Pleaser (Steve x Fem!Reader x Eddie) Eddie likes to see how far you'll go for him. Yes smut.
Billy Hargrove:
It's Personal (Billy x Fem!Reader) Billy's been an ongoing bully/ nuisance in your life since you met. He's acting a little different after finding out you've been hurt. No smut. (Part 2 coming soon)
Billy Hargrove, Steve Harrington, and Eddie Munson:
What are You Thinking Drinking About? (Billy, Steve, Eddie x Fem!Reader) You and your friends hang out pretty regularly. You've known each other for a long time and have a lot of history since meeting in high school. Some of the group can't make it to the hang out one night, and there's a weird tension between you and the ones who do show up. Yes smut.
Vice Principals-
Lee Russell:
•••Series 1:
First Trip (Lee x Fem!Reader) (Pt. 1) You're the new secretary at NJH. You've caught Lee's eye, but disaster strikes before anything can be done about it. No smut.
The Foundation of Learning (Lee x Fem!Reader) (Pt. 2) A dream changes things and Lee plots Belinda's downfall by framing a teacher. No smut.
Teacher Work Day (Lee x Fem!Reader) (Pt. 3) "Is that bitch pissing on that cop car?" No smut.
Preoccupied (Lee x Fem!Reader) (Pt. 4) A plan is hatching, sure. You and Lee can't stay focused. What are you two thinking about? Yes smut.
Light my Fire (Lee x Fem!Reader) (Pt. 5) Your plan goes awry. Tensions are high. What's everyone gonna do about it? Ooh. Yes smut.
•••••
•••Series 2:
Subordinate (Lee x Fem!Reader) (Pt. 1) North Jackson High has a new principal and your coworkers are not coping well. XOXO. No smut.
Subordinate (Lee x Fem!Reader) (Pt. 2) Something goes wrong at the pep rally. You and Lee get closer. Yes smut.
The Righteous Gemstones-
Baby Billy Freeman:
Hallelujah, What a Payday (Baby Billy x Fem!Reader) Baby Billy's on the search for his next co-star. Yes smut.
Fallout-
Prewar Cooper Howard:
Hard to Get (Cooper x Fem!Reader) It's been a new experience being cast in the lead of the latest Hollywood movie. What's even more nerve-wracking is your far-more-famous-than-you co-star. After you can't seem to sell the chemistry between you to the director, you're pushed to spend more quality time with your cohort. Yes smut.
Dinner in America-
John Q. / Simon:
Don't Piss Me Off (Simon X Fem!Reader) (Pt. 1) You're back in your hometown for a few weeks to house sit for your parents. A rivalry dating back to your high school years makes an appearance, but this time, he's met his match. No smut.
Don't Piss me Off (Simon X Fem!Reader) (Pt. 2) You still can't stand sticking around your parents for too long, but you stay in town for a while longer just to see him play. Yes smut.
The Passenger-
Benson:
I've Got My Eye on You (Benson x Fem!Reader) (Pt. 1) Benson's displeased with your inability to stand up for yourself. You're the distraction he needs to keep him from snapping. No smut.
I've Got My Eye on You (Benson x Fem!Reader) (Pt. 2) Oops, Benson wasn't distracted enough to keep him from snapping. Romanticizing an inevitable life on the run. No smut.
You're Just Drunk (Benson x Fem!Reader) A story about hidden feelings, bad brains, and probably blossoming alcoholism. No smut.
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