Summary: Some bitch at work flirts with your husband by baking for him. Frank makes sure it never happens again. You make sure Frank never forgets who’s the sweetest. And the tightest.
Warnings: jealousy, slight angst, hurt/comfort, explicit smut, jealous/possessive sex, biting/hickies, matched freak sex, table sex, standing sex, breeding kink, size diff, cock stomach bulge, dirty talk, lowkey funny ending bc you gotta be silly with the love of ur life, pwp. 18+ only. MDNI. Reader is always a consenting adult. smut written while listening to this banger
w/c: 7k
MASTERLIST
requested by a moot via DMs that wishes to remain anon 🤎
One of your favorite things to do is to surprise Frank on the job. Hell, it’s one of his, too, even if he’s got to fend off the drooling, indecent rats he works with.
But today?
Today you get a surprise.
And you’re not very fond of it.
Through the white haze of the sun, you walk from the gravel construction lot and to the prefabricated office building. Nothing more than a box of four walls and two screen windows by the door. Inside, just as bare. A water jug, a portable AC unit for the manager (perks of being up on the ladder, eh?) and a desk that’s usually empty. But, when you can’t get ahold of Frank—like today—this is where you check on the off chance the site manager’s around and he’ll retrieve your husband.
The heat brings flush to your cheeks, neck. The wind over the metal skeleton landscape slings bits of dirt into the grease-sponged brown paper bag you swing at your side. It’s not much, but it’s all you could manage over your thirty minute break at work. Frank’s favorite sandwich from the deli downtown.
Nearing the door, though… voices carry from the prefab. You scuff to a stop, ear tilting to listen.
“Jeez, Pete, it’s not a cookie eating contest,” says a feminine voice; one of velvet and easy confidence and breathy laugh. “I made them for you, big guy.”
Pete. Surely there are other Petes. Peters. Whatever. Surely it’s not your Frank someone else is baking cookies for.
“Mm,” but it’s your husband that hums, his mouth obviously stuffed. “Shit’s good. Real good. Ain’t had some ‘a these in a while.”
Okay. So. It is your husband. And she called him big guy. What the fuck? No other woman needs to be calling your husband big guy.
“Well, you said they’re your favorite, and they’re easy enough to make, so… I figured, why not?” A little pause, like maybe she’s watching Frank, relishing in his satisfaction. “…You like them?” A lift of her tone, seeking approval… seeking your husband’s approval.
“Yeah,” Frank says. “Yeah, real good. Did a nice job on ‘em.”
“Thaaanks!” she chimes, and you’re almost sick imaging what kind of smile she has plastered to her face right now.
Whoever the fuck this is. Last you checked, women didn’t work here. So— who the hell is she? Frank’s done nothing wrong. It’s not him you’re worried about. But you’re not blind, not stupid.
“So you said it’s been awhile, Pete. Since you’ve had any of these. I’m only here part-time. I bake a lot in my free time. Why don’t I bring you in some stuff when I can? You can be my taste tester. I get to bake, you get to go less than a while without cookies and such. How’s that sound?”
Face cinching with a scowl, you brace for the answer.
“Sounds like ‘m gonna get fat,” Frank huffs. “Wife ain’t gonna like that.”
“I have a feeling it’d just turn to more muscle on you, big guy,” carried by an undercutting laugh at your mention. “Well, then your wife should be the one feeding you, not me—”
Before the conversation skins you alive, your shoes stab up the two grated stairs and yank open the flimsy prefab door.
In a whirl of wind, dust, and threat, you appear with the shriek of hinges.
Old tactical memory—to react to surprise—Frank whirls to face the door, fists around a cookie and a plastic cup of water.
And there, at the fucking desk— her. Whoever the fuck she thinks she is, making your husband cookies. “Uhm, ma’am—?” Comes a polite scoff instead of who the fuck are you?, but Frank’s the one to answer with a low, praising whistle.
“Hey, there she is,” he says, a smirk pulling sideways to show his teeth. “There’s m’girl. Look at ‘er, huh?“ Frank discards the water and cookie on the desk like yesterday’s news: old, over it. He makes room for you, on you as you make the step in, his hand finding yours to help you up. Wired for you. “Showin’ up here, wearin’ m’favorite shirt like that, Jesus— how I get so lucky, huh?“
“So lucky,” you reiterate with your chin tipped up to him, a burning attention fixed entirely on Frank hot enough it singes the air. The mildew of the AC recycles the sweetness of the cookies; the stench of undermining. “Luckier now, since I’m feeding you, hmm?” And you hold you the brown baggie with the stiff raise of your brow, a smile too rigid. “I’d hate if you had to get full on junk food.”
Bag in his periphery, his eyes leaving yours for half a second to confirm it’s a sandwich from that deli down on Main, Frank’s expression sparks. “I got th’ best wife, huh? Tell these guys all th’ damn time. Best damn woman I ever met. Still dunno what she’s doin’ what an asshole like me, ‘less this’s m’last meal.”
“Well, it’d be a way to go,” you say, too tight. “Dessert before real food.”
Frank falters, but before he can question the tension in your cheeks, the subtle lashings of your tongue, she interrupts. A forced clearing of her throat, the chair rolling in place for attention.
The gentleman he is, Frank’s attention does divide. Two more seconds, though, his eyes linger on you. Trying to dissect the ice in your stare, the scrunch of your face.
“Hey, uh…” Frank opens up, but keeps you tucked snug into his side. “Marissa, this’s m’wife. Sweetheart, this’s Marissa. Temp site clerk.” Frank gestures an introduction.
Wrecking ball sounds more fitting, you think.
The worst part is she’s… pretty. Ridiculously pretty. Your stomach flops over, inverts like it might dispel your breakfast. A seemingly flawless complexion only few people are blessed with. A long sheet of silk for hair, hiked into a neat, slick ponytail so it swishes an intoxicating pendulum when she moves her head. You wedge deeper into Frank’s side, standing tall. Unmovable from what’s yours.
“…Hi.” She forces a smile.
“Hi.” You don’t.
And nothing else follows. Nothing but the nasty humidity of possession; a tangible ick of a woman’s place being challenged. Not threatened. Challenged.
Sensing the tension (repulsion) in the air from either side, Frank shifts. Holds you closer, bounces you a bit.
“Say, uh… Marissa made these cookies here,” Frank says, nodding at the plate on the desk. “Ain’t bad. Try one, yeah? You’re the cookie expert. See what you think, huh?”
You glance at the cookies. At Marissa. A flick of cold indifference in your eyes. Then back up to Frank. God, he’s so handsome. Handsome and oblivious. Quiet delight in his dark eyes, in the crinkles in the corners of them that only appear at the sight of you. Damn him. So you shrug. Take a step to grab one without leaving Frank’s side, lips in a cutting smile.
Marissa rolls her eyes elsewhere.
You don’t. You stare. Unrelenting. A threat that doesn’t require speech. And you take a bite.
“Mm,” you hum, moving the cookie you don’t chew into your cheek. “Tastes like the prepackaged cookies from Walmart. Using real ingredients’ll take that right out.”
You’d like to say it didn’t bother you that much. Earlier. Marissa. You’d really like to. But your heart rate hasn’t gone down since noon, your responses come out all bark waiting to bite, and Frank knows to tread lightly—just doesn’t know why.
You sit posted up on one side of the couch, back on the armrest. Chin high, face of stone angled away, bundled into yourself under a blanket, eyes glued to the television without giving a rat’s ass what’s on. The only place you allow Frank to touch are your feet, and he dragged those over into his lap himself minutes ago.
Frank… Oh, your husband reads you like a book. One in simple English, magnified text, because your attitude speaks volumes without a peep. Big paws knead your feet in his lap. Thumbs drive into the sole of your foot as he blinks glances from the tv, to you. Tv, you. He doesn’t say anything. He’s waiting for the right time, questions on his tongue, suspicions stuck behind his teeth.
“Would you like some real dessert?” You finally offer, the question baited with petty contempt. Not towards Frank.
It gets his full attention. Hands work your feet, but his head turns to fully look at you. All icy reluctance and clipped words coming full circle. Confirming the suspicion. “…S’a weeknight.”
“And?”
“You don’t bake on weeknights.”
“Want me to start?”
“Sweetheart— why’d I want that, huh? Think ‘m some kinda asshole? ’Spect you t’come home after workin’ all day t’make me dessert?” Frank huffs at the thought, faint shake of his head.
“Yeah, but would you like that? Someone that does come home after work to whip you up some store-bought crap so you’re not going unfed?”
Now Frank stops. His hands go motionless. Eyes slit. “You mad over that? Her makin’ cookies?”
“It’s not making cookies. She’s flirting, Frank.”
Frank’s in the middle of scoffing a laugh, but the look you give shuts him the fuck up. His brows pitch up, face screwed. “…That’s flirtin’?”
“Frank.” You face palm. “Good god, yes. That’s the equivalent of pulling your pants down and sucking you on the spot.”
“S’a, huh, lil’ extreme, sweetheart—”
“Frank. It is.”
“…So, uh…” The memories rewind, his eyes searching ahead. “All those times before we…” vague hand gestures to signal fucking, getting together, admitting feelings, whatever, “…you baked f’me… you was flirtin’? ……….with me?”
Deadpan disbelief, you blink at him. “…Are you seriously just now realizing that?” Yes. The silence says yes. “…God, it’s a good thing you’re not single.”
“Alright.” Frank nods slow understanding. “So you’re mad ‘bout that. You mad with me?”
“Not mad…” you mumble, brows pinched as you find the right words. “Okay. Maybe mad, yeah. Mad somewhere along the way you said I wasn’t baking them, that she found out they’re your favorite so she felt the need to take it upon herself to satisfy you.”
“Satisfy—? Christ. Ain’t like I asked f’any ‘a that—”
“I’m not saying you did. That’s not the point. The point is she thought of you enough to remember that. Go to the store. Spend money on them. Buy them for you. Bake them for you. Bring them in for you. You do realize that’s some pretty intentional flirting, right?” You ask, both brows hiked up to drill the essence of your case across. “It’s not a harmless joke or even a comment about your rugged good looks. She put time into this. Planned it.”
In slow motion, it unfolds. His brows smooth out. His jaw unlocks. His mouth opens, but it’s for a small inhale to help finalize the message between the lines.
“I don’t like someone else feeding my husband like he’s some neglected stray that needs attention,” you say as he processes. “No one else should ever think they get that right.” You scoff, take your feet back to burrow into yourself. Blanket at your chin, glaring at the D-Day documentary instead of him. “And I hate she did. And I hate that you enjoyed it. And that you didn’t realize they’re the bullshit refrigerator cookies that taste like stale dog ass.”
Normally he would’ve chuckled at the language. Right now he just nods. Looks down. Gnaws his bottom lip. Hands empty on his thighs, he offers them up in a yeah, you’re right. He says it, too. “Yeah, sweetheart,” hoarse with realization. “Yeah. You’re right. No one’s got that right but you, hm? Ain’t no one compares t’you, know that? Yeah. You’re my goddamn everythin’. Give me everythin’ thought I’d never have. Shit I don’t deserve.”
Jealousy’s an ugly monster. And when she leaves? She leaves a sickening guilt behind, residue jellied to your insides. Face falling to that guilt, frowning, you look down at the blanket; a safe space from the pound-puppy look you know Frank has. “Don’t say that…” you mumble, the fire diminished. Smoke in its wake. “You deserve every good thing. And I try to give you all of them. All that I can, anyway. Sometimes I think I get so caught up in the day-to-day I forget. Forget how easy it is to whip up some brownies or cookies or whatever just to say I love you. Because it’s the small things like that, that speak the loudest… right? And I do, god, I do… I love you so much, Frankie. It made me sick seeing someone else so… so… lit up by you.”
“Baby… C’mere. C’mon. Come t’Frankie, yeah?” Both legs spread wide, he pats his thighs. Wants you close. Wants to hold you, feel you, love you.
You fervidly shake your head. How’re you supposed to melt into him when you’ve been a bitch the entire night? When he’s so fucking sweet even after you’ve been so fucking sour?
“Look at me, sweetheart.”
Nuh-uh nuh-uh nuh-uh.
“No?” he asks. “Alright. Fine.”
“Eee! Frank!” Jostling as he yanks you across the couch, a gentle manhandle as he tucks you in a cradle for a comforting timeout.
Frank paws the blanket around your arms, under your chin. Tucks you comfy in the curve of his arm, your body draped over his lap. So sweet, so gentle you do nothing but lock your mouth shut. Quieted by his determination for resolution, your glare softening with reluctance.
“You’re it f’me, sweetheart,” he says, finger scratching under your chin. “No competition. You. M’ number one. You got me, I got you, yeah? How it’s always been. Ain’t gotta worry ‘bout nothin’. No one, hm?”
Cheeks hot from Marissa irk, you huff, eyes slanted away. He’s right. You know he’s right. It doesn’t make it any easier to witness someone actively providing a service for your husband. “It’s not you I worry about. I trust you. I don’t trust her.”
“Said you trust me?” Frank settles back between the cushions, your rigid weight defrosting over his chest and stomach. He waits for you to nod. “Then you gotta trust I’ll handle it, sweetheart. Trust your man’ll handle it?”
You don’t know what handling it looks like. He won’t punch an innocent (unfortunately it’s not criminal to flirt) desk clerk. So what will he do? God it pisses you off. Being in this situation. Some dumb bitch thinks it’s okay to spend money on your husband, bake for him, even dare to soil your name like you don’t cherish him enough because you haven’t made cookies in a while.
“Hey.” Frank bounces an arm, getting you from your thoughts. “Asked you a question. Trust me t’handle it?”
“Yeah,” you mutter, a fierce thought spearing through your mind. If you can’t get rid of Marissa… you’ll make sure she’s never even a thought. “I know you’ll handle it.”
You’ll believe it when you see it.
In the meantime?
You have your own plan.
Frank’s intentionally loud when he gets home. Finagles the key in the lock so the ribs scratch and click. Rattles the doorknob unnecessarily before actually turning it. Scuffs and stamps his boots, the sound streaking through the house. Works better than any doorbell ‘cause it’s personal.
When you hear him?
Shit.
Always come runnin’.
Frank loves the way you slide into the hall, feet goin’ too damn fast for polished wood, body fishtailin’ as you bulldoze straight into him after a day apart.
Today, though…
Today Frank comes in. Made all his usual noise. Didn’t work. Nothin’. No you. So he made more noise. Sniffed. Huffed. Cursed. Even coughed. Hacked up half a goddamn lung, still— nothin’.
Shuffled to a stop in the entryway, Frank pauses. Listens. Drone of the kitchen fan. Squeak of the dish washer. The smell, though… His nose takes to the air, nostrils flexing in their search. Cocoa… sugar… Warm oven air fannin’ out from the kitchen.
Baked.
You baked.
Christ. That can’t mean anythin’ good. Not after yesterday.
“Sweetheart?” he calls.
Two… three… four…
The seconds tick up in time with his worry.
Seven… eight… nine…
“Frankie?” Ultra sweet, drifting down the hall from the kitchen.
Longest ten seconds ‘a his goddamn life.
His shoulders deflate, a sigh of relief puffing his cheeks.
“You alright in here, sweetheart?” He asks while in motion; an intuitive navigation to you. “Didn’t hear me come in, huh?”
Jesus. He ain’t in the dog house. He’s in the fuckin’ pound, huh?
“Dessert,” Frank repeats, a wary amble through the hall, light at the end showin’ him an empty stove. “‘Fore dinner?”
“Mmmhmmm… Figured you could use a real treat. You want a treat? Would you like a treat?”
Rounding the corner with the roll of his eyes, “Baby, I ain’t a fuckin’ dog—”
You prove him wrong.
The sight? Stuns him. Stops him dead in his tracks, mouth open ‘cause he’s either speechless or might start barkin’ like a fuckin’ dog. Whatever comes first. Drools beats both, saliva submerging his teeth.
You. On the table. Dolled up in black lingerie. Black lace. Silky legs dangling. Crossed at the knee. A hand propping you up, nails ticking a leisurely click.
Beside you. Cupcakes. A full platter. Pink cups. Perfect top over the crinkled paper. Dark chocolate cake. Icing swirled high and tight. A dark, fat cherry the color of sin in a pillow at the peak.
Your eyes pin Frank’s, relishing in the way he looks back over his shoulder like he walked into a dream instead of his own home.
“Welcome home, honey,” you say with a hum, casual as you pluck a cherry from the icing by the stem. You twirl it in your finger and thumb, head tilting so your hair falls. “Are you… hungry?”
“Jesus,” his throat slinks, eyes roving you. “Fuckin’ starved.” Downright hypnotized when you inhale the cherry between your puckered lips, trapping it between your teeth for a slow… devastating… tempting… delicious… crush.
A spurt of red juice trickles down your chin as you chew. “Oops,” as if it’s not your plan when the sticky sweetness slides down your neck. “You wanna… get this for me, baby?” you ask, lashes batting innocence.
Frank’s feet carry him to the paper towels, but he can’t stop looking at you. Is it a game? A threat? A test? After last night, it can’t be a reward.
…Right?
“Ah-ah,” you correct as he goes to rip a towel off. “Don’t waste one of those. You can clean me up yourself, can’t you?”
Say less.
Frank approaches like he’s waiting to catch trip wire. A cautioned excitement scuffing his boots to a stop in front of you, towering over you where you sit. His tongue traces slow over the line of his upper lip, eyes everywhere. Every inch of your face. Following the line of juice where it stops on your throat. The swell of your tits in the lingerie. So fuckin’ beautiful he’s not sure he’s allowed to touch. Tries anyway. Both hands lift, an automatic reach for your breasts, but stops himself. Eyes you for permission.
“Waited all day to see you like this,” you tease, grin lopsided, quieter under the weight of his wonder. “Don’t make me beg for it.”
Frank musters some decency. Remembers the task at hand. Using the curve of his bent finger, he eases your chin up, baring your neck. Enthralled when the column moves. A slow, rolling swallow under delicate skin.
“Whatchu doin’, huh?” he asks, question hot against the subtle mound of your throat. “Sittin’ here like m’last goddamn meal.”
Your head falls back, eyes closing. “Reminding you there’s no place like home…”
His tongue pads a small sweep over your adam’s apple, tasting cherry-sweetened skin. Lips latch, sealing the saliva with a kiss disguised as good-natured. “Ain’t no place like home,” he mumbles against you, skimming along the juice line with a pointed tongue, planting an open-mouthed kiss every inch.
You’re getting lost in it. The gravity of intention in his touch. His hands smooth over your sides, thumbs spanning lazy arcs to memorize the soft lace rasping under his worn hands.
He kisses up to your chin. Nips the round of it. Hovers his lips over yours, the last spot he needs to clean. He waits there until you bat your eyes open. Look up at him, all soft surrender decorated in lace.
Both of you wear the same expression: hazy lust, the apologies of yesterday.
“Still mad?” he asks, a hand holding your jaw, fingers lightly squishing your lips.
“Mmm… not really,” you murmur, words slurred.
“Not really ain’t no, pretty girl. Lemme ask again…” a pause, the two of you sharing the same hushed, hot breath. “You still mad?”
Your shoulders bunch gradually. “A bit. I don’t like her, Frankie.”
“You ain’t gotta worry ‘bout her—”
“I know…”
“You don’t. Didn’t lemme finish. Gonna lemme finish, hm?” Soft, no bite. He gives your head a little sway by his hand, smooshing your mouth up more.
You nod, bunching your hands in the front of his shirt.
“Requested a site transfer. Got th’ transfer.”
You snap upright. “What? Frank, I didn’t mean to—”
“Sh-sh. Didn’t do nothin’ wrong, pretty girl. You had a problem with somethin’, I handled it. S’how this works, yeah? I ain’t gonna keep us ‘round trouble. Ain’t gonna worry you like that. Told you that, day one. Trouble don’t always look like blood ‘n guns, baby.” A warmth in his stare down at you, face hovering yours. The smallest tug of a smirk softens his face. “Trouble looks like that goddamn Walmart cookie dough ‘n tastes like stale dog ass.”
You laugh, cheeks pudging under his fingers. It spurs him.
“Huh? Yeah? You like that? Trouble lookin’ like bullshit cookies ‘n tastin’ like dog ass? Yeah, there she is. There’s m’ girl.” He leans the rest of the way down. Slots your lips to his though you’re mid-laugh. A firm mold claiming you as his number one, promising again, through actions and words, you’re always first. You taste like cherries and powdered sugar icing—the real stuff, nothin’ from the fridges. Forgiveness has a taste. It’s this.
Frank tastes like gum and coffee. Safety has a taste, too. It’s him.
Separating in a quiet, reluctant smooch, Frank grazes a finger back and forth over your lips. Slow. Content. “Where else you got cherry juice, huh? Where else I need t’get?”
You uncross your knees, the movement getting Frank’s attention, and when it does…
“Fuck, you been sittin’ here like that th’ whole time?” Standing between your knees, the realization so profound it’s painful, Frank licks his lips at the sight of the crotchless lingerie. Puffy little pussy on display, waiting for him, right there on the goddamn table. A wet glisten already on your folds. Access to the main course while the rest of you stays gift-wrapped.
You catch fire under his blatant stare at your bare cunt.
He licks his lips, eyes snapping to yours in a blink. No play. All hunger, a necessity to satiate himself on the taste of your pussy as your thighs break his neck. “Wider, baby. Spread ‘em wider, yeah? Gotta fuckin’ taste you.”
Little movements, you shake your head.
“No?” Frank’s brows jerk up. Maybe this is punishment. “Ain’t wantin’ that? Alright, sweetheart. Alright. How ‘bout you ride my hand, huh? Make a mess on me ‘fore I fill you up, yeah?”
His hand dips down but you snatch his wrist. “No. No, Frank, please. I want you to feel how tight I am for you. I need you to feel this, please.”
A groan lodges in his throat, a sound of borderline agony. “Baby… I gotta,” hoarse, his brows knit up, pained honesty. “You know I gotta otherwise it don’t fit.”
Your knees latch over his hips, fingers digging into the tabletop. “Make it fit.”
His eyes go black, devoured by hunger. “Don’t know what you’re askin’ for,” he pushes through his teeth, hands kneading the crease of your thighs as he drags you against him.
A rattled breath leaves you, your wet cunt pressed against the taut denim of his pants. You leave a glistening streak over the dark wash. “I’m asking you to make it fit, Frank. Please.”
“Goddamn it…”
You know Frank’s magic words. You know Frank can’t deny you.
Your hands fumble for the hem of his shirt, shoving your palms up his abdomen. “Off,” you pant, a frenzy of anticipation. “Off now.” You’ve never had your husband like this before— never without his hands working you open first.
You’ve tried. It just… doesn’t fit. He’s too big. You’re too small.
Hand in the collar of his shirt, Frank hauls it over his head. Throws it on the stovetop, burner still warm.
You dive for his belt, tearing his hips side to side in your struggle.
“Got it, baby, got it,” Frank mutters his assurance, replacing your hands with the swift solution of his.
The buckle jingles; the prelude to what’s yours. Pants and boxers go down together, the vein-threaded rod of his cock bowing free and heavy.
Just as his clothes are shed in a heap, you perch on the edge of the table, legs gathering him, ankles hooking above his ass.
Frank lines himself up. Uses a hand to wedge the tip over the slick of your folds, coating the leaky slit, other hand planted on the table behind your ass to cage you there with him.
Chest heaving, cunt aching, twitching with the swipes of his head, you hook your arms around his neck.
“Ready, baby?” he asks, all heat and husk.
You nod quick bursts, words lost and dried up.
“Breathe, baby, alright? Don’t f’get t’breathe f’me. Gonna get you open f’me. Make it fit, alright? Make you sit real nice ‘n pretty on it—”
Agony equal to bliss, your eyes widen, your chest inflates with a searing gasp as just the fat tip of Frank’s cock splits the vise of your cunt. Your spine springs a deep arch into him, nails flying to his shoulders to dig into the meat—to cling.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ—” Frank hisses through clenched teeth, face contorted like he’s malfunctioning under the pressure, the slick defiance of your cunt. His eyes cross from the wet clamp. Flared nostrils, bared teeth. A snarl of overwhelming euphoria as he tries to feed you another inch. “Breathe f’me, baby, c’mon. Relax, huh?” One hand blankets your lower stomach, his chest heaving as he pauses. Relaxes with you, an instruction for you to follow. “You sure ‘bout this, baby? Want you comfortable, hm?” The hand from your belly cradles your face instead, fingers extended into your hair, thumb pushing rough assurance over your cheek. “Wanna make you feel good. Don’t wanna be hurtin’ my pretty girl.”
Teeth chattering, body trembling, you lean into his touch. “Please, Frank…” a velvety whisper, a desperation popping out your collarbones. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
Surrender to your please, Frank’s forehead drops against yours. “Tell me ‘f it’s too much, yeah?” A low rumble. “You tell me. Ain’t nothin’ you gotta prove like this, alright? Nothin’.” A hand kneading the crease of your thigh, the other dragging down the lace-lined curve of your spine with reverent patience. “Love you, pretty girl.”
Your cunt pulses around his heavy tip once—he grunts, jolts.
You gasp, hum. “Love you so much, Frankie.”
And brace.
Frank dips his head. Scoops your mouth into a slow, crude kiss. All tongue between your lips, drawing yours out. Spit slick and deliciously warm, your tongues lap and lips suck around each other. Greedy, sloppy kisses of ownership.
“Fuck yeah, baby,” Frank groans into your mouth, his hips rolling a persistent nudge. “Fuck, feel so good.”
Arms winding around his shoulders, head dropped to the side, you suck his bottom lip into your mouth. Free it by raking your teeth over the flesh on the draw back. “More.”
“Yeah? Gonna fill you up. Ain’t gonna have room f’more,” he pants, eyes hooded as he marvels over the spit-sheen on your lips, the string draped between your mouths. “Spit on it f’me, hm? You do that, pretty girl? Spit ‘n I’ll give ya more.”
Breathless, lust-drunk, you nod quick agreement and peel back. Head dropping, your eyes widen when you see how he tries to conjoin you. Engorged veins cinch down his shaft, the first two inches (all he can fit right now) coated in your slick. In careful ruts—so fucking careful you whine—he pushes the hot clench of your cunt to open you up.
Frank meets you there, his head bowed in sheer awe as you both admire the tight fit, the near-impossible stretch of your pussy for his cock.
“Yeah, baby, yeah. Love how you take m’fuckin’ dick. So fuckin’ good. Look at ‘er,” he says, a thumb skimming your folds to graze them apart as he tip-fucks you, rub your arousal over the soft, sensitive skin. “C’mon baby, you forget you need t’spit on me, hm?”
Taking everything in your mouth, you pucker your lips. You drop out a cord of spit spanning from your pretty lips to his shaft, drizzling over him in thin spins until it all pools down.
“Ooh, that’s it, attagirl,” Frank praises in a ragged breath, thrusts picking up with the added slip. Tendons in his neck wire. Muscles in his forearms carve out, hands locked at the crease of your thighs. Pushes his cock in deeper, pushes through the strangle of your pussy around him. “Fuckin’ chokin’ me baby, huh? Pussy’s chokin’ me, fuck.”
“F-fuck!” You cry, body jolting once with the electric on of feeling him everywhere, prodding your guts. “Fuck, I told you, Frank. T-told you. So tight. So tight I didn’t think you’d fit—”
“—almost there, baby, almost, c’mon—”
“So tight around my own fingers, Frank, fuck—had to- had to feel you like this.”
He growls. An animalistic heave of possession; a starvation stemming from your confession. “Touchin’ yourself ‘fore I got here? Huh? Playin’ with that pretty pussy ‘fore I got home?”
“Couldn’t- couldn’t wait—” you pant, hands everywhere on him. Tearing through his hair, nails piercing his shoulder blades, clawing down the sides of his neck. “Thought about you. This. All day. All fucking day, Frank. Had to feel how wet I got just from thinking about you.”
A harder slam of his hips—punishment, praise. Reward for you in the stretch that sucks your breath dry, parching the cry leaving your lips.
“You cum?” he grits, yanking you so your ass teeters the very edge of the table. Forehead smashed against yours, mouth panting open and salivating for yours. “Make y’self cum without me, hm?”
“No,” you adamantly shake your head, knees spurring his ribs. “No. Just- just felt. One finger! That’s all. I was so fucking tight I needed you to feel, Frankie. I waited on you. Just like this. Just for you.”
Sweat slipping your foreheads, Frank grunts, hips rolling greedier, short snaps as the last. inch. goes. in—
“Oooh-ahhh! Frank—!”
Stuffed until you choke on the sob in your chest, body seized by an outburst of brilliant pain, a sharp sensation of such fullness you’re complete.
“Fuuuck, baby,” Frank grits out, head bowed to gape at how your cunt throbs around every fat inch. Cunt pressed flush to his base. Fit so perfectly, a bulge prodding the lace over your lower tummy where his cock banks. “Pussy’s so fuckin’ perfect, baby, so fuckin’ tight. Look at you. Look at that. Every fuckin’ inch in that tight little pussy. Still breathin’, baby? C’mon. Breathe f’me.”
You do. You listen. Small huffs. Stunned hums. A tumbling, breathy laugh as you look down and see how you sheath him.
“Feel your fuckin’ heartbeat ‘round me, baby,” Frank murmurs, lips grazing the corner of your parted mouth, “yeah, feels so fuckin’ good. Ain’t no one made f’me like you.”
Perked through the lace of the lingerie, you graze your nipples over his chest, a feline arch to your back. The cupcakes wait within reach. Ass perched on the ledge of the table, arms draped over his shoulders. Frank’s both your rescue and your ruin. You shimmy your hips just to hear him grunt a curse, feel the jump of his cock as it sits an idle pipe inside of you. Blindly reaching over, you scoop a glob of icing onto your finger. Head tipped back, you hold it an inch from his lips and his eyes cloud black. “Then fuck me like no one’s made for you but me.”
Without blinking, Frank leans that one inch in. Opens his mouth. And swallows your finger to the goddamn knuckle.
Your eyes widen, breath catches. As you begin a lewd, languid retreat of your finger, Frank flattens his tongue. And sucks. Drags off every bit of icing as your joints come out in a slow, spit-shimmering leave and pop off his lips. Stomach fluttering, eyes sparking— you’re done for.
And so is he.
Instinct over thought, you both clash. Both find union in desperation, in the hot vulgarity that hunger breeds.
Bodies tacky with sweat, both you grind. Frank stays buried inside of you, ruts into you, unwilling to leave the rapture of your pussy.
Shaky moans spill from your mouth and into the strong slant of his neck. Your hips curl down, out, in time with his, chasing the friction, the galvanizing totality of your husband.
A filthy slow motion, your swollen clit grinding the coarse hair at his thick base. Smears a white cream circle in his hair, frothing over his cock.
It starts low in your belly. The squeeze. The exhilarating, white-hot panic from overstimulation. Watching as his cock shifts under your lace, feeling the tip knock the deepest parts of you; places no one has ever touched—places no one else can reach.
The table creaks, legs scraping resistance thrust by thrust until it drives into the wall. Pinned—just like you. Nowhere to go. More leverage for Frank to wreck you.
“All fuckin’ mine—” he slams in.
“Mine.”
Slam.
“My pretty fuckin’ wife.”
Slam.
“Pretty fuckin’ pussy.”
Slam.
“Cum on my cock, baby, c’mon. Cum f’me, hm? Gettin’ close. Feel it, way you’re suckin’ me, yeah, fuckin’ love it.”
“Frank!” you cry out with urgency, clawing every conceivable place on him—biceps, chest, eventually sinking into his shoulders—as your world starts to plummet. Legs quaking. Stomach quivering. Eyes fluttering back. Then, softer, a plea you know he’ll answer: “Hold me, Frank, please, hold me while I—”
His arms form an immediate cage around you, unbreakable and unconditional. The safest place for you to fall apart in. Him.
“C’mon, pretty girl, c’mon— cum on m’cock, baby.”
The wet slap of skin. The pouring heat of sex and sweat and possession. Intoxicating lust teetering explosion as he rocks into you, hair scraping just right over your needy clit, arms an enclosure until—
“Oooh, Frank! Frank, I’m—!”
Cumming. Bliss, straight in his fuckin’ ear. Moans a fuckin’ choir, his name a prayer as you fall apart, climbing him for relief until relief’s all you have and you need him to come back down.
You gush on his dick, walls thrumming frantic compressions around him.
“Oh, yeah, there she is,” Frank coos, hips slowing to an agonizingly tender tease, hitting each pulsating shock. “There’s m’fuckin’ girl. Attagirl.”
Hair stuck to your face, you collapse over him. Cheek smooshed on his shoulder, arms locked in a shaking bolt around him. “Mm,” you hum, soft pants through the little part of your lips. One weak leg falls off his hip, and you’re too spent to care.
Frank rumbles a chuckle. Picks your leg up so it doesn’t dangle. Pins it back against his hip with his elbow. Strums his fingers over your thigh, other hand rubbing the nape of your neck. “You good, huh?” Softer now, still rough with lust. “Pretty girl. Always so good f’me. Look so fuckin’ pretty when you cum on m’dick like that.”
“Mhm,” your lashes flutter, head picking up. Heat blankets your face, chest. The lingerie’s damp and itchy on your skin. You sit up just enough to prove you’re okay, and Frank… god, he— Well, he looks like he’s seen God.
But it’s you.
“You ain’t done yet,” he says, and it’s a warning. “Ain’t done makin’ you mine. You do somethin’ f’me, baby, hm?”
Cock still buried, cunt sucking him with aftershocks, your breath catches as you nod. “Tell me. Anything.”
“Marks. Want ‘em. Fuck— want ‘em all over. You do that f’me? Bruise me up, huh?”
“Wha— Frankie, you sure? You never—”
One look shuts you up. Pupils a total eclipse of over his eyes, he wears this exact face into a war zone: brutal, a man unafraid to take victory by whatever means necessary, all dark possession with the mission but this is different. This is warfare in home territory; a battle where loss is unacceptable.
“Lemme feel you,” he says, head canted to offer the thick conduits of muscle and tendons in his neck.
A second—one—of mesmerization, your eyes dart from his to his neck. The stretch of his neck’s all you need.
You bite down on the sharp slant, a mouthful of muscle and his pulse. Hard enough he hisses. Hard enough your teeth impress to bruise.
“Fuck, yeah, s’it,” Frank groans and lifts you off the table. Standing, balancing you both, his fingers sprawl hooks under your ass and thighs, dropping you down and lifting you up on his cock in time with the plunge of his hips. “Don’t fuckin’ stop. Use that pretty lil’ mouth. Show ‘em what I got waitin’ at home, huh? Good girl waitin’ f’me. Tight fuckin’ pussy. Fuckin’ cupcakes—”
You leech onto his skin as he bounces you upright on his dick. Spit smearing your mouth, his neck, a trail of red-mottled bruises in your wake as tongue and teeth collide to assert your rightful possession over this body, this man. It starts again— the squeeze. Low in your belly, whittling ecstasy over your clit.
Pussy drunk, lust-induced, Frank’s head tips back. The shlick thumps of his cock bottoming out your cunt fills the kitchen, the slap of his balls, your muffled moans scoring through the walls.
Head spinning, lips swollen, you pry yourself off Frank in a gasp. Tits bounce in lace, hair disheveled, face flushed. You’re a goddamn angel of sin. You meet his wild stare. He’s just as disoriented as you. He’s beautiful, the strength in his neck and shoulders blooming contusions in the print of your teeth and shape of your lips.
You watch in flustered awe how he impales you, your cunt dripping and folds adhered to him. Crammed so fucking full, no more stretch to give, thrown on his cock with the sharp slap of skin.
The wide span of his fingers pull your ass apart so your cunt chokes tighter around every throbbing inch as he hammers up and in. His balls tighten. Biceps pumped from dragging your weight effortlessly over his cock.
“Frank,” his name quakes out your mouth. You swallow, legs quivering around his waist. “I’m gonna— oh, god, I’m gonna cum again, Frankie.”
“Yeah, baby?” he pants, “too full, huh? Can’t get enough, can you?”
“F-feel you everywhere,” you choke out, hole clamping down around him as your body seizes.
“Yeah? Where. Show me. C’mon. Show me, sweetheart. Where you feel me, huh?”
A trembling hand grasps your tummy. Here. It skates up your chest, squeezing your sternum. Here. And around your throat. Here.
That does something to him.
Rewires every fuckin’ instinct in his head ‘til it’s just you. You. You. You. It becomes consumption, fucking you to an oblivion where you’re one. Whole. Fucks you like he’ll die without you. Fucks you like his cock’s sustenance you need.
Fucks you to completion.
Neither without the other.
He fucks you stupid, your jaw slack as little, breathless moans punch out.
Primal inclination to breed you, to blow his load so deep you taste it in the back of your throat, Frank climbs onto the table—with you beneath him. One hand glued to the edge of the table, using it for leverage. Your head rests in the crook of his elbow, thrown back over his forearm as he fucks a brutal, senseless pace. Your hips lift off the table, Frank’s arm jerking them up for a deeper angle, for a harder drive so when he does bust? You’ll get every fucking drop. Yeah.
Trying to breed you.
Broad shoulders acting as spreader bars, Frank hooks your knees over them. Spreads you wide, deep, your legs down his back. By the plunging neck of the lingerie, he rips two fingers down it, breaking your tits free. Both of his hands bind around the edge of the table, veins swollen channels up his forearms, disappearing into the biceps that ensnare you.
Fuckin’ folds you in half. Growled grunts knock out of him in time with his hips. The pace stutters as pressure builds in his gut.
“Gonna fill you ‘til you fuckin’ leak,” he says, a man possessed. “Ain’t gonna be able t’walk without thinkin’ ‘bout me. That what you want?”
You nod, but it’s not enough.
“Words,” he coaxes, a gentle reprieve. “Use your words, baby. C’mon. Lemme hear you, huh?”
“Yes,” pure bliss, your nails hooking into his sides as your eyes roll back. “Yes, Frank, fuckyes. Wanna feel you in my stomach for days after. Want my legs to shake every step I take. Forget my own fucking name—”
“Nuh-uh, nah, ain’t f’gettin’ your name. You’re m’ fuckin’ wife. Mrs. Castle. My wife. You got that?”
As you reach your peak, Frank’s name tearing from your lungs as you claw into him, Frank plows two more balls-deep ruts before he’s spilling hot ropes of cum into your pulsating cunt with the guttural mercy of your name.
There’s nothing left but panted breath, sweat, and chocolate cupcakes.
Frank unfolds you gently, without a word. A bead of sweat trickles from his sweat-logged hair, easing your legs from his shoulders. With a kiss to each knee, Frank places your legs down on the table, cock burrowed deep in you yet.
Lingerie hanging on by willpower, you lie beneath him. Winded, blissed, dripping his cum. Heavy, hazy eyes follow his every move, the silent praise in his fingers as he carefully tucks your breasts back into the lace. He drops his head, pressing a kiss to the swell of each one. Then the sweat-salted curve of your neck. The soft line of your jaw. And finally, the parted line of your lips.
“You okay?” he murmurs, a gravel dredge, nudging his nose against yours.
“…I think I’m gonna need a wheelchair.”
Crickets.
Then—
You both laugh.
You bubble.
He rumbles.
“Le’s start with a cupcake, yeah?”
“Frank, are you seriously—?”
“Oh yeah.”
Dick in you, still riding the high in aftershocks, Frank reaches beside your head and grabs a cupcake. Settles back in, elbows on either side of your head.
Hovering inches from your face, ass cheeks out, Frank takes a bite equivalent to half the cupcake. Groans all over again, eyes fluttering.
“Good thing ‘m still in you. Think I came again,” he praises with a mouthful of cupcake, frosting smeared on his bottom lip. “Need your pussy ate f’this one, sweetheart.”
“That good, huh?”
“Need broads t’flirt with me more often.”
“Ass.”
“Great idea, pretty girl. Flip over. Gonna eat this off your ass, hm?”
“Frank—!”
Laughter rings through the kitchen. His impish chuckle. The slow, lazy smooch of kisses and murmured nothings. More laughter when he plops icing on your nose. And… other places. Different noises when he cleans up the mess he makes.
One thing about you and Frank?
This is it.
You. Him.
Handling trouble as it comes your way.
Trouble isn’t always blood and guns, remember.
Sometimes it’s dog shit cookies and a goddamn temp.
Trouble can’t touch this.
Frank won’t let it.
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So I um I found an amazing video and now I’m plagued by thoughts of sitting on Steve’s bed, him between your legs with his back to your chest, and giving him the sweetest loveliest softest handjob ever, scratching his tummy hairs and peppering kisses all over his neck
nonnie did i or did i not tell u i was coming back for this ask? and i came back with a hunger -- sort of sub!steve, 1.5k, everything the ask describes, as always MDNI this entire blog is 18+! enjoy <3
Steve doesn’t think anyone has ever asked to take care of him before.
He’s had plenty of partners in bed, sure. He’s rife with enough experience that honestly he thinks it would take a really strange request to throw him off his game. But you had— when you asked, “Can I just take care of you tonight?”
He hadn’t even been entirely sure what you had meant, pulling back from the steamy make-out with you on his lap— the usual late night rendezvous.
But still, he gave a slow and earnest nod, a soft ‘sure, honey’ and let you rearrange the two of you til you were leaning back on the headboard and he was leaning back against you. Your thighs on either side of him, your arms looped around his middle. Like a little spoon. Steve secretly adores it.
“Y’know I can’t exactly do much in this position,” Steve chuckles, pretending to have his reservations, even if he’s already eager to see what you mean by taking care of him. Your arms are around his waist, warm, your fingers tucking up his shirt to begin to work it upwards.
“Mm,” you hum, hoisting it higher and Steve moves forward, letting it get tugged off and over his head. Cool air flushes down his chest. “Dunno if you’re grasping the idea of letting me take care of you if you’re worrying bout that.”
The shirt flutters to the ground, forgotten, as your hands explore to freshly exposed skin. Steve sighs sweetly as you trace softly across his tummy, nails dragging lightly as your near his thighs. His cock is already perking up. It’s been interested since earlier, you in his lap and your tongue in his mouth, and it doesn’t take many more lingering touches for it to reach proper attention.
“No one ever taken care of you before, baby?” You ask, lips scraping his ear. Your breath is warm and your voice is low— but the kiss you give beneath his ear is hot and wet. You suckle at the skin, not even a nip of teeth. Desire pools low in Steve’s gut, a simmering heat.
One of your hands moves over his boxers and gives his bulge a gentle rub, making Steve rumble out a soft moan. Your other hand rubs soothing down his thigh.
Steve shakes his head to answer no to your question. His eyes fight to stay open, torn between wanting to watching your wandering hands or turning to kiss you but your persistent kisses on his neck give him little choice. He shifts his hips.
“Not- not like this,” Steve admits, breath a little short already. His tummy tenses when your hand drags back up over it, just a soft scratch of nails. His cock aches harder. He wishes you would touch it, wishes you would reach your hand in, all hot, soft and wet and tug it in that perfectly teasing way he knows you can.
“Sweetheart,” he breathes, hips shifting upward again. You smile at his impatience.
“Can we take these off?” You ask, pinching the ruffled elastic of his boxers. Steve nods fervently, hips shifting up to let you slide them down so he can kick them off. His chest feels warm, flushed beneath the hair and another groan tumbles out when you finally curl your fingers around his cock. “Fuck,” he pants as you pump tantalizing slow. “Fuck, feels so good, honey,”
A hunger for the feeling grows in his stomach, gnawing for more bliss. Steve lets his head tips back, resting against your shoulder and you take advantage of it in an instant; kisses upon kisses up his neck. It’s messy, lips wet with spit as you scrape your teeth down, right as your rub over the slit of his cock— Steve twitches, a jagged whine pushing past his lips. He pants a little heavier.
Pausing for a moment, you pull your hand back to your mouth and let yourself drool over it— sticky saliva covering your fingers. This time, when you grip his cock, Steve gasps loudly. Slick, hot, sounds reverberate in the room as you jerk him, hand twisting perfectly. Still slow, still gentle.
Your mouth find his earlobe, teeth nibbling a little mean, your hand not stopping— and Steve moans a little louder, like he can’t help it. His cock gives a little dribble of precum, tummy all tensed up again.
“See? S’nice to be taken care of,” You murmur softly. You thumb his slit again, delighting in the spurt his cock gives, then dive down to cup his balls. Your other hand strokes along his thigh lovingly, nails drawing lines as you rake them back up to his v-line.
Steve shivers, shuddering sweet whines escaping him. He’s so unbearably hard for you- especially as you rub his balls so perfectly, your hand dragging back up his cock and then back down, a mind-melting cycle. It’s so much, it’s not even close to enough, it’s, it’s—
“Oh god,” Steve whimpers loudly. His eyes have finally crushed closed, his hands gripping the bed sheets tightly beside you. His gut is burning with heat, pleasure filling every limb. It feels good. He wants to writhe against you, wants to fuck your fist, wants you to keep teasing him just like you’re doing.
“Oh god, oh fuck- f-fuck,” His words are getting more pathetic by the minute, barely fully formed, drenched in a whimpering tone. “Please, don’t… don’t tease, no- ah,”
It’s not even teasing, you just aren’t rubbing him hot and fast like usual. Your movements are slow, doused in adoration — your core feels sticky, burning hot from watching Steve get all worked up in your arms.
“M’not teasing you,” you say, fondling his balls and rubbing your palm against them in a circular motion, building his lust. Steve’s tense body and punched out breathes contradict your words. He’s so whiny. It’s a pity no one’s ever taken care of him before — though your stomach pinches hotly to know only you get to see him this way.
“Just taking care of you,” you sigh, grip tightening as you pull it back up his cock, giving the smallest jerk. Steve warbles out a throaty whimper, egged on by your roaming touch along his thighs. He feels molten hot, tummy already all clenched up, his cock just leaking all over your hand. Pleasure buzzes wildly in his body, back starting to arch up.
“Hone- aw, fuckfuckfuck, yes, just there, please, honey,” he pleads, voice starting to sound wrecked and feeble. God, he sounds pathetic; he only sounds like this when he's been fucking you for a good while. But a few minutes of the right touch? Reduces to a whiny mess in your hands.
“So pretty,” you whisper and Steve can’t tell if you mean him or his dribbling cock, all pink and twitching in your hand. He can’t even feel the fabric gripped between his own fingers— can’t feel anything except your palm right around the head of his cock, teasing it lightly. It’s torture, it’s perfect, it’s not enough, it’s—
“Please!” The word bursts out of Steve, desperate, swallowed immediately by a moan. He fights to get his next words out as your hand returns to his heavy balls, caressing them soft and slow again. It’s not fucking enough. His pleas fall out all whimpery, “Take— take care of me, please, wanna cum, I wanna- I wanna—“
It’s the magic words. You grip his cock properly, your whole hand curling around him for the first time that night and you set a fast pace- lewd, squelching sounds echo in the bedroom. Steve keens forward, a soft cry coming from him as his pleasure turns into a blaze in his stomach. “Oh my god, oh god- yes, fuck—“
Your free hand moves to his tummy, scratching down to thatch of hair at the base of his cock and Steve can’t help it, he cums, hard. He turns his head, hides it in your neck and releases a whimpery sort of wail. His chest heaves as his pretty cock spurts out his hot pearly cum — coating your hand enough to ride him through it, your hand never stopping.
“That’s it, so good,” You coo at him. Your sweet words carry him through it, your pace slowing as his body starts to twitch back against yours. His cock gives a few final dribbles of cum and you rub your thumb over his slit, spreading it. Steve whimpers loudly. “Mm, there we go.”
It feels like it takes forever for him to settle back down. Steve feels wrung out, feels spent, feels like he had his brain melted out his ears — like he could just nap against you now and be happy forever. Your soft kiss against his cheek has him opening his eyes, pulling back enough to look at your face.
“Good?” You ask, though he knows you can tell just how fucking good it was. “Good to be taken care of?”
Steve nods with a loving hum, a hefty exhale rushing out his lungs and he lets his face huddle back into your neck, eyes slipping shut. He’ll move in a minute- maybe when he can feel his thighs again.
slash begging and whimpering for you to slow down because he got to drunk and underestimated how sensitive he'd be when he got off after saving himself the whole tour
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: steve harrington x reader
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: old money!steve, waitress!reader, slow burn, enemies-ish to lovers, idiots in love, mutual pining
♡ · · · ♡ · · · ♡
The card room is full of men old enough to be your father.
Some are old enough to be your grandfather.
They all call each other by their last names and gamble away more money in a single hand than you make in six months, all while finding the time to tell you you'd look prettier if you smiled.
The tips are obscene, though.
So you smile.
You refill glasses before anyone has to ask and laugh politely at jokes that haven't been funny in thirty years.
You pocket your tips. You move on.
Until one Thursday, someone new walks in.
He couldn't be more than a year or two older than you.
Maybe not older at all.
He's got the kind of face rich boys seem to keep well into their thirties: hazel eyes that catch warmth in the low chandelier light, a strong nose and soft, full lips. Thick brown hair that refuses to stay in place, falling forward in a way that looks accidental even though you know it probably took a 300-dollar haircut to make it look that effortless.
He's dressed simply—pale blue Oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms and dark slacks—but everything about him is stupidly expensive if you know what you're looking for.
The watch, the loafers. The clean, understated cologne and the heavy gold signet ring on his left hand.
Old money.
Of course.
Another trust-fund prince getting dragged in by his daddy to “learn the family business.”
You grab the bourbon ordered for seat four—two fingers of Woodford Reserve over fresh ice—and carry it across the room.
He glances up as you set the glass beside him.
Unfortunately...
He's somehow even better-looking up close.
His eyes are stupidly big, lashes stupidly long. There's a scattering of tiny moles across his left cheek, little imperfections that stop him from looking carved out of marble.
Rich boy's got a nice face.
Shame about everything else.
His eyes catch yours for a moment before he gives you a polite nod.
“Thanks, honey.”
Then his attention drops right back to his cards.
You blink.
Honey?
Who the fuck is this guy?
He's your age.
Maybe younger.
You've got seventy-year-old regulars who've been calling waitresses “sweetheart” and “doll” since before you were born, but somehow hearing it from someone who probably still remembers freshman orientation is infinitely more irritating.
You turn on your heel before he catches the expression crossing your face.
Trust-fund asshole.
Probably couldn't tell you what a gallon of milk costs if you put a gun to his head.
Fuck that guy.
· · ·
Well.
Turns out, trust-fund asshole is good at poker.
Disgustingly good.
He’s not loud about it either; that’s what the older men hate most.
For almost an hour, he folds hand after hand, absently spinning that signet ring around his finger while everyone else slowly convinces themselves that he's way out of his depth.
So it's almost funny, when this twenty-something-year-old cleans out someone who's been playing cards since before he was born.
You have to bite back a laugh when one of the regulars slams his cards down hard enough to rattle everyone's glasses.
Serves him right.
By the time you make another round, half the table is bleeding chips.
Everyone's in a foul mood.
Everyone except for seat four.
You set another Woodford beside him.
“Thanks, honey.”
He smiles, this time.
The corners of his hazel eyes pinch with it, little creases fanning outward. It gives him an almost boyish look, rounding out his cheeks, smoothing away the sharp lines of his face until there’s something disarmingly gentle about him.
Huh.
Then he goes right back to looking at his cards.
Asshole.
· · ·
The game finally breaks sometime after midnight.
You're clearing glasses when you notice a thick wad of cash tucked under silver-spoon dickhead's—seat four's—empty tumbler.
You assume it's meant for the cashier... until you pick it up.
It's all hundreds.
A lot of hundreds.
You count it once. Then again. Then a third time because surely, surely, there’s no way.
Your head snaps up toward the entrance and find him standing by the coat room, shrugging into a camel-colored cashmere overcoat that could probably cover your student loans three times over.
You hurry after him before common sense can stop you.
“Hey! Um, excuse me!”
He turns.
“I think, uh...” You hold up the money. “I think you made a mistake.”
His eyes drift over your face, then flick down to the wad of cash pinched between your fingers—fifty crisp hundred-dollar bills.
He blinks at you, those ridiculous lashes fanning against his cheeks, his brows drawing together like he honestly can't figure out why you’ve chased him down.
A tiny little crease appears between his brows, which would almost be cute if he wasn't so disgustingly wealthy.
“Did I?”
“...Yeah.”
He studies the cash for another second before understanding dawns on his face.
“Oh.” He gives a small shrug. “No.”
“No?”
“That wasn’t a mistake. It was for you.”
You laugh, because that's insane.
To someone who just walked away with well over a hundred thousand dollars, five grand probably feels like buying coffee.
To you, it's rent. It's gas, tuition, groceries, bills. An entire semester where you wouldn't have to hold you breath every time you swiped your debit card.
“I... I can't take this.”
His brows pull together again. “Why not?”
You stare at him.
“Because it's... five thousand dollars? That's—” You huff another disbelieving laugh. “I mean, that's just... way too much for a tip.”
He glances back toward the card room, then back at you.
Smiles, just a little.
“Didn't seem like too much from where I was sitting.”
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.
And before you can think of another reason to refuse a tip worth more than your savings account, he's already shrugging the rest of his coat on, straightening the lapel with an absent swipe of his thumb.
He turns toward the door, making it only three steps before he pauses.
One hand settled on the brass handle, he glances back over his shoulder.
“You're here Thursdays, right?”
It takes you a second to answer.
“...Yeah?”
His smile comes back.
“Great.”
He tucks his hands into his coat pockets, gives you a little nod, and heads for the door.
“I'll see you next week, honey.”
And then he's gone.
· · ·
He comes back the next Thursday.
And the Thursday after that.
By week five, you've learned his name.
By week six, you've stopped rolling your eyes every time he calls you honey.
By week seven, he starts lingering after the games instead of disappearing the second the last hand is dealt.
One night, you're hauling a crate of empty glasses toward the bar when, without warning, the weight disappears.
You glance up to see a pair of hazel eyes blinking down at you—a warm, boyish smile on those plush lips, almost sheepish, like he's not sure if you're going to let him help or tell him to get lost.
You raise a brow. “Uh, I'm pretty sure that's not your job.”
“No, it’s not,” he agrees easily.
“Then why are you doing it?”
He shrugs like the answer couldn't possibly be complicated.
“Gets me an extra five minutes.”
“Five minutes?”
“With you.”
He says it so casually that it takes a second for the words to actually land.
And when your face flares with heat, you’re grateful he’s too busy balancing the crate to notice.
· · ·
After that, Thursdays become a little easier.
The job is still the job—the endless dance of dodging wandering hands, stepping away from men who mistake a smile for an invitation and politely slipping your wrist free from people old enough to know better.
But Steve Harrington becomes your bright spot.
He never touches you unless you’re handing him a glass.
He’s the only man in the room who doesn’t let his eyes linger on your ass or snap his fingers to get your attention.
He always arrives ten minutes early.
Always orders the same Woodford Reserve. Always says thank you.
Always calls you honey.
You learn little things about him.
That he tips everyone far more than necessary.
That he folds cocktail napkins into perfect little squares whenever he’s lost in thought.
That his thumb always finds the gold signet ring on his finger when he’s making a decision.
That he taps it twice against the felt whenever he’s nervous about a bluff.
(You never tell him you figured that one out.)
You learn that Steve doesn’t talk much about his work or his family.
Instead, he asks about you.
Your classes, your major. The exam you mentioned weeks ago that he somehow remembers without you ever bringing it up again.
You tell yourself he’s probably just like that with everyone.
That Steve Harrington is simply the kind of person who makes people feel noticed.
Special.
You never quite believe it.
· · ·
One Thursday, the game wraps up just before midnight after two of the regulars call it early.
The older men filter out puffing expensive cigars, grumbling about bad beats and rematches.
You're halfway through counting your tips when Steve appears beside the bar.
Hands tucked into the pockets of a navy wool coat, rocking back on his heels.
He waits until you look up.
“Hi.”
“Hey.”
And Steve Harrington—poker prodigy, heir to whatever impossible amount of money his family had sitting around—suddenly looks unsure of himself.
Which is new.
And, admittedly, a little adorable.
You set your money down.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah.” He answers too quickly, then clears his throat. “Yeah. I just—can I ask you something?”
You eye him suspiciously.
“With you? Depends.”
A small smile pulls at his mouth.
“Fair.”
He pulls his hand from his coat pocket, resting it on the bar between you. His thumb brushes over the gold signet ring on his finger, twisting it slowly.
“Well, I was just wondering, if you're done for the night...”
Tap. Tap.
Two soft taps against the bar top.
You bite back a smile.
“Would you let me take you to dinner?”
You blink.
“...Right now?”
“Yeah.”
“It's midnight.”
“Late dinner, then?”
His expression is so serious that you have to bite back another laugh.
Steve watches you, a faint smile tugging at his own mouth.
“What?”
You shake your head, reaching for your jacket.
“Nothing.”
“No, what?”
You look back at him, pursing your lips.
“You’re just... so different from what I thought you’d be.”
He tilts his head slightly, a flicker of amusement creasing his expression. He’s not offended in the slightest—if anything, he looks intrigued.
Steve Harrington has never been someone who seemed bothered by other people’s opinions of him.
“In a good way or a bad way?”
You consider him for a moment, taking in the guy you were so sure you had figured out from the second he walked through the door.
This boy you’d dismissed as just another entitled douchebag, who turned out to be so downright strange—awkward where you expected arrogance, thoughtful where you expected indifference.
A hot summer, a wrong kind of love, and the feeling that some things begin already tasting like goodbye.
The college lot empties fast after the four-o'clock. By the time the sun hits the tree line, it is just the vehicles belonging to people with nowhere better to be, your sedan and his van.
Eddie is leaning against the side panel with his arms crossed when you stop a few feet short, closer than you mean to.
"Did you know?" he asks. No preamble "When you moved in. Did you know what you were teaching?"
"No, Eddie."
Something in his face opens. Your arms come up, cross over your chest.
"We talked about your job," he says, watching you do it. “Multiple times, sweetheart”
"We did."
"You never said where."
"You never asked."
"I asked what kind of work," he counters, that animated, theatrical cadence climbing.
"And I said the kind that makes people ask questions at parties."
"That's not an answer."
"It was enough of one at the time." You plant your feet. Your chin finds an angle. Eddie's jaw sets
A station wagon pulls out of the far end of the lot, headlights sweeping over the asphalt. Neither of you moves.
"I have to be responsible about this," you say. "There are rules. My job"
"Yeah, your position." A bitter, sad smile catches the corner of his mouth. "The creative writing position. Of all the classes in this hellhole, you end up teaching the one where I actually want to show up"
"It's a legitimate academic discipline, Eddie." His name comes out flat, interchangeable, a name from a roster. "Literature, rhetoric, the deliberate construction of narrative."
"Right, sure" he says, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. He takes a step closer anyway,"Look, I'm in the class. I signed up for it on purpose."
"And why exactly did you?" Sharper than you mean it. "What exactly made you think"
"Because I'm a DM!" he fires back, voice rising before he catches himself and drops it. "I run campaigns. I build worlds from scratch every single week for a table of nerds who will absolutely mutiny if the plot holes are too big. I need the vocabulary for it." He stops. Hears himself. Almost laughs, a short unhappy sound. "That's why. What did you think, I wandered in off the street?"
You open your mouth to counter with something departmental, but the air leaves you all at once. Your arms loosen, just slightly.
"You're the DM," you say, in the old voice.
"The DM," he says, watching your arms, watching whether they stay loose. "For three years. Everyone in town knows this."
"I don't know everyone in town." The arms cross again.
"Right," he says. "You don't."
The lot is very still.
"Look Sweetheart let’s be honest here” he’s almost whispering “Is it the job," he says, to the pavement more than to you. "Or is it me?"
"You don't understand what's at stake for me here." The chin lifts back to its angle. "This is my first semester. My career. You can't understand what that means from where you're standing."
He looks at you for a long moment, not your face but to your arms, your feet, the two feet of air you've put back between you.
"Right. Got it." He backs up a step. The salute that follows is clean, no wobble in it. "Ok, fine. You want to pretend nothing happened? You want to play the professional professor?" His eyes go once more over the crossed arms, the set jaw. "I can play my part."
Before you can say anything, he turns on his heel, gets into the van, and slams the door.
He plays his part with a terrifying, disciplined precision for the next weeks. In the classroom, he becomes a ghost, never looking at you long enough for your eyes to meet. On the gravel lot between your trailers, the silence is even heavier. You hear the low rumble of his van leaving at dawn; you see his leather jacket draped over his porch chair at dusk. He is entirely there, occupying every corner of your peripheral vision.
The weeks wear on you in small, stupid ways. You mark the wrong set of essays twice. You forget your keys in your office door overnight and don't notice until morning, the little brass tongue hanging there in the porch light like it had been waiting for someone to walk off with it. You catch yourself flinching when Diane knocks on your open door, like she might have already worked it out just from your face. When she asks if you're sleeping fine, you say fine, too fast, and she doesn't push, because you've already perfected the flat, closed voice that ends a conversation before it starts.
Eddie doesn't slip. Not where anyone can see. He's loud in the hallway between periods, all elbows and noise, high-fiving some kid over a D&D reference you don't understand. He's out at the trailer most evenings hauling something, like the gravel lot is a stage he's decided to keep dressed. Wayne's neighbor gets a wave and a whole grin. Nothing about him from thirty feet away looks like a person carrying anything at all.
It's only up close, only by accident, that you catch the seams. A cigarette burning all the way down between his fingers one evening, untouched, forgotten, ash bending toward the filter while he stares at nothing past the tree line. Another night, past ten, his van still parked crooked in the lot, engine off, and him just sitting there, forearms crossed over the wheel, head down on top of them, not moving, like the last of something finally caught up to him now that no one's around to watch him carry it. You slow down without meaning to.
You start to understand there's a difference between the two of you. You are new at this. He is not.
On a bleak Tuesday afternoon, the last students leave in a swift wave but you notice he is still there. You've been erasing the same clean corner for longer than it needed, your back to the room on purpose.
He has his bag in his lap, flipping through his notebook, in no hurry at all. You keep erasing the board until the green slate is clean, a little past clean actually.
His steps are slow when he finally approaches the desk. "The scene that doesn't happen," he says. "In the Carver. The one where they're supposed to talk and they just choose don't. The author cuts away before anything gets said." He tilts his head slightly. "Is that a cop-out or is that the whole point?"
You set the eraser down, though your fingers don't quite let go of it at first. "What do you think it is, Mrs. Munson?"
"I think," Eddie says slowly, his dark eyes tracking across the surface of your desk before coming back up to yours, "that the author knew exactly what was going to be said. Wrote it, probably and then took it out."
"Why would he do that?"
"Because some scenes are more powerful when they live in the margin. The reader fills it in. And whatever they put there is going to hit harder than anything the author could've written. Because it's theirs."
"That's a generous reading," you say, carefully.
"Or," Eddie says, and the corner of his mouth moves, just slightly, "the author was protecting something. Knew that if he wrote it out, named it, put it on the page in plain ink, it would stop being literature and start being a confession."
The air in the room grows thin. You reach for a stack of papers that don't need straightening and straighten them anyway.
"And the character who acts against their own interest?" you ask, needing to put some narrative distance between where this just went. "The one who makes the choice that's clearly going to cost them. You think that's intentional too?"
"Of course," Eddie says, quieter now, leaning just slightly forward over the desk, "that's the most honest moment in the whole book. Because nobody does the thing that costs them unless it's the only true thing left to do. Everything else is just managed distance."
"That's—" you start.
"A good observation?" The smirk was back there, but it's softer than usual. "You can say it, sweetheart, I won't tell anyone."
The word lands between you like something dropped from a height. His jaw tightens the moment it's out, but he holds your gaze with the particular stillness of someone who has decided to stand very still next to something fragile. Your hand, still resting on the stack of papers, goes flat and still too, like moving it might make a sound.
But the door bursts open. Three girls from the sophomore block spill into the room. The tallest one stops when she sees Eddie.
"There you are," she says, her smile slow and deliberate. "We've been waiting for you."
"Good things come to those who wait, Tina," Eddie says, and the grin he gives her is all ease, all warmth.
You pick the stack of papers back up. Tap them once against the desk to square the edges, though they were already square.
The girl beside Tina leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. "We need you before the end of the day. The usual place? We've been a little desperate, honestly."
"Aw." Eddie presses a hand to his chest, mock-wounded. "You should've said something sooner. I hate thinking of you desperate."
Tina laughs, low, and says something to the girl beside her that you don't catch, and you find yourself listening for it anyway, straining past the blood suddenly loud in your own ears to hear a joke that was never going to be about you.
"So you'll come?"
"Van's out front," he says, easy. "End of the day. I'll take care of you."
The way he says take care of you is the same register to you seconds ago, and you hate that you noticed, and you hate more that some ugly, small part of you is already doing the math.
Eddie turns back and you see it, the slight set of his jaw, the way his hand has closed around the strap of his bag a fraction tighter, the quick unfocused flick of his eyes toward the door like he's checking it's actually shut.
You can't tell if it's the joke he just made, or you, or something underneath both of those you don't have the shape for yet. He knows you were watching. He doesn't explain it.
"Right," he says. Back to neutral, the transition so smooth you'd have missed it "Thanks for the insight."
"Anytime." You're already turning back to the board, already reaching for the eraser you don't need. "better hurry, Tina’s waiting."
It isn't anything, really, said in the same flat voice you'd use to remind a student about a due date. But Eddie goes still for a beat too long by the door, like he's replaying the sentence to see what's underneath it, and whatever he finds there, he doesn't say.
He just watches you not look at him for a second longer than the moment needs, and then he's gone, the door swinging shut behind him on its own weight.
The van's parked nose-out on the gravel behind the science building, doors already open, the smell of it thick and sweet before anyone gets close. Eddie hops up into the back like he's done this a thousand times, which he has, and starts pulling bags out from under a loose panel.
Tina leans against the bumper, arms crossed, watching him work instead of watching the road.
"You're slow today," she says.
"Been a long week."
"Poor baby." She says it soft, the way she used to say things right before she asked him for something. She pushes off the bumper and closes the distance, and her perfume gets there before she does, something sweet gone a little too sweet, the kind that used to make his head swim in a good way and now just makes his temples ache. Her hand finds his forearm. "You look tired. Wayne working you too hard, or is it something else."
"Just tired." He doesn't pull away. Old habit doesn't know how to yet.
"Mm." Her thumb moves once against his wrist, absent, the way you'd worry a coin in your pocket. "You used to tell me everything, you know that? Couldn't shut you up. I'd ask one question and get a whole monologue." She reaches up, tucks a loose piece of his hair back behind his ear. "Now I have to pull teeth."
"Guess I got smarter."
"Guess you did." Behind her, the sun's dropping low enough to catch the side of her face, gold and soft, the kind of light that makes anyone look kinder than they are, and on her it just makes the smile harder to read. "How's the class going. The writing one."
"Fine."
"Just fine?" She tilts her head. "You never take anything just fine. You either love it or you're plotting an exit strategy by week two. Which is it."
"It's fine, Tina."
"Okay." Hands up, easy. "New teacher's pretty, though. I'll give her that."
He doesn't answer. Reaches for the next bag, and his palm's gone damp enough that it slides on the plastic, takes him two tries to get a grip on it. If his hands slow down for a second, it isn't enough for anyone not already looking for it.
"That's all I said." She laughs, low, delighted. "I didn't even ask you anything and you already look like I caught you at something."
"You didn't catch me at anything." Too fast. He hears it too, and covers it by shoving the bag toward her harder than it needs.
Her eyes flick past his shoulder, out toward the lot, and something in her face sharpens.
He doesn't turn to look. He doesn't have to. He already knows whose car is parked out there, has known since he clocked it on the walk over, has just been doing a very good job of not thinking about it until right now.
Tina's mouth curls. She doesn't say anything about it. She just steps in close, tips up onto her toes, and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, easy, the perfume thick enough now that it's the only thing he can smell.
His hand finds her waist before his brain catches up to what his hand is doing. Old geometry, old choreography, the body remembering a dance the mind gave up on years ago.
It lasts a second. Maybe two.
Across the lot, a car door doesn't open. Not right away.
Tina pulls back first, and it's only then, following the line of her gaze a half-beat too late, that he sees what she already saw. The shape behind the windshield, still, unmoving, not yet reaching for the door handle.
Tina looks at his face. Then she looks over at the car. Then back at his face, and whatever she finds there makes something in her expression settle into place, slow and satisfied, like the last piece of a puzzle she wasn't sure existed clicking home.
"Oh," she says, quiet, delighted. "There it is."
He doesn't ask what she means. He already knows he doesn't want the answer.
"Tell your teacher I said hi." She pats his chest once and steps back, bag tucked under her arm. "She's got a good face for it, too."
She's walking away, her heels loud and even on the gravel, and he's still standing there, one hand hanging useless where her waist isn't anymore, when he hears it.
A car door. Closing, not slamming. Quiet, careful, deliberate in a way that's somehow worse than if she'd thrown it shut.
He doesn't turn around to check. He already knows what he'll find if he does, and he isn't ready to see it yet.
Aqui está a cena com o Eddie cortado completamente, terminando no grito e no silêncio depois:
The walk to your car takes longer than it should, because your legs have apparently decided that dignity requires a normal pace, even now, even with your face doing something you can't feel and don't trust. You don't cry. You've gotten good at not crying in parking lots; it's practically a skill set at this point.
You keep seeing it anyway. Not the kiss itself, that part your brain skips past like something too bright to look at directly. It's the hand. The easy, unthinking way it found her waist, like it had done that a thousand times and was just doing it again.
You are not jealous. You are furious, which is a different thing entirely, and you spend the whole drive constructing the argument for why. He is your student. There is no claim to stake here, no betrayal to speak of, nothing that gives you the right to feel anything at all about who he kisses in a parking lot behind the science building. You repeat this to yourself at every stop sign, and at every stop sign it holds up for about four seconds before it doesn't.
You're still repeating it when you shoulder through your own front door, and it stops holding up entirely somewhere between the door and the kitchen. Your bag hits the counter harder than you mean it to, a pen skittering off the edge and rolling under the fridge where you will not be retrieving it tonight. The blazer comes off next, yanked down your arms and thrown, actually thrown, toward the back of a chair it doesn't land on, sliding instead to a heap on the floor you don't bother fixing.
The phone starts ringing before you've even got your shoes off, shrill and demanding, and you consider, for one genuine second, not answering it.
You answer it.
"The Shelley's going to be a problem," your attorney's voice says. "He's filed for a formal appraisal. The annotated volumes. He's claiming collaborative scholarship."
"He's claiming what." You kick your shoes off, one skidding into the cabinet with more force than the shoes deserve.
"Collaborative scholarship. His lawyer's argument is that if any of the marginalia constitutes joint academic work, we're looking at a contested division. Which means—"
"Those are my books." Your voice climbs before you can stop it. "I bought half of them before I even met him. I wrote in the margins because I was thinking, not because he was standing over my shoulder dictating footnotes."
"I understand that. But if he can demonstrate—"
"He didn't demonstrate a single original thought in six years of marriage, and now he wants to demonstrate collaborative scholarship?" You laugh, short and ugly, and it doesn't sound like you. "Jesus Christ. Of course he does. God forbid he actually build something of his own, he'd rather go through my books with a fine-tooth comb looking for anything with his fingerprints on it."
"Which means more time. More filing fees," your attorney says, patient, used to this by now.
"How much more time."
He tells you. You press the heel of your hand flat against the counter, the number landing somewhere behind your sternum, on top of everything else that's already sitting there, and something in your jaw locks tight enough to ache.
"My advice," the attorney continues, "is to let him have the poetry. Cut the line and close the ledger. You're rebuilding down there. Don't let three inches of spine hold up the rest of your life."
"Three inches of spine," you repeat, and your voice has gone somewhere flat and cold you don't fully recognize. "Tell him he can have the Shelley. Tell him I hope the margins bore him to death."
"I'll pass that along in slightly more professional language."
"I'll call you Thursday," you say, and hang up hard enough that the phone rattles in its cradle.
You stand there in the kitchen, breathing through your nose, your whole body strung tight and humming with nowhere left to put it. The ex-husband. The lawyers. The months of your own handwriting about to become evidence in someone else's argument. And underneath all of it, worse than all of it somehow, that hand on that waist, easy as breathing, like you were never even in the running.
It isn't fair, how much of it is about him. You know that. Knowing it doesn't help.
The pressure builds behind your sternum until it isn't pressure anymore, until it's just heat, climbing your throat, and you cross the kitchen and throw the window open before you've decided to do it at all.
The scream that comes out of you isn't decorative. It isn't a release valve you chose. It rips out of you raw and ugly, all the words you didn't get to say to your attorney, to your ex-husband, to a boy who kissed someone else in a parking lot while you sat in your car with your hands on the wheel doing nothing, saying nothing, being nothing anyone had to account for.
It echoes out over the dark lot and comes back to you thinner than it left, swallowed somewhere between the trailers, and then there's nothing. No lights snapping on. No door opening. Just the cold coming in through the open window and the sound of your own breathing, ragged, in a kitchen that doesn't answer back.
You stand there a long time before you close the window.
The days that follow feel airless in a way you don't have a word for yet, your trailer too quiet, the grading too slow, every evening stretching out long and empty in a way it never used to.
By Wednesday you've had enough of your own kitchen, enough of your own face in the bathroom mirror looking tired and unwanted. You know Eddie only works the Hideout on Thursdays, so Wednesday feels safe. You tell yourself that's the only reason you're choosing it, and you almost believe it while you're putting on the earrings you haven't worn since before the divorce.
That's how you end up at the far end of the Hideout's bar, ordering a bourbon you don't really want and drinking it slower than you mean to, because it gives your hands something to do.
Rick leans over the counter, wiping the dark wood that doesn't need it. "Rough week?"
"Something like that." You trace the rim of your glass. "Though I suppose bartenders are paid to assume everyone has a rough week."
"Don't look it." He tilts his head, studying you with the unhurried attention of a man who has all night. "Rough weeks look good on you."
"That's either very kind or a very practiced line." You mean it lightly, but it comes out slightly flatter than you intended, and you take a sip to cover the gap.
"Maybe both." He refills your glass without being asked. "What do you teach, again? English?"
"English, yes." You try for something clever about subtext and reading between the lines, and it comes out fine, technically fine, but a beat slower than it would have a year ago, like you're translating the sentence from a language you used to speak fluently.
Rick doesn't seem to notice the lag. He leans a fraction closer. "Shift ends at midnight. I could buy you a real drink somewhere without fluorescent lights."
You let the silence stretch, the way you remember doing once, a long time ago, with someone else entirely. It is warm, and it is easy, and for the first time in two weeks somebody is looking at you like you're the only thing in the room worth looking at. You take another sip and offer him a smile you hope reads as unreadable instead of just uncertain.
A wooden crate of empty longnecks hits the floorboards near the storeroom door, louder than it needs to.
Eddie emerges from the shadow, soaked in sweat, his hair tied back in a loose knot. He does not look at Rick first. He looks at you, at the earrings, at the tilt of your head, and something moves through his face too fast to name before he's already crossing toward you.
"Rick." Just the name, easy on the surface, but his eyes do not leave you as he says it. "Didn't know you did customer service now."
"Just being friendly," Rick says, straightening up.
"Sure." Eddie claps him once on the shoulder, steering him a half-step down the bar. "Table six has been waving at you for ten minutes."
Rick glances at you, half apology, half a man reading a room he's suddenly not welcome in, and finds somewhere else to be.
Eddie stands where Rick was standing, close enough that you can feel the leftover heat off him from whatever he was hauling in the back.
"He's not wrong, though." His eyes move over you once, unhurried. "You look beautiful tonight."
"You always say that." It comes out with more edge than you meant, the bourbon making you bolder than you'd normally let yourself be. "I've started keeping count."
Something flickers across his face, caught, maybe, pleased to be caught. "Yeah? What's the count."
"Wouldn't you like to know." You hold his eyes when you say it, and it almost works, almost lands the way you wanted it to, except your voice catches slightly on the last word and gives away how much effort the whole sentence cost you.
He notices. Of course he notices. But he doesn't call it out, just watches you with something softer than the smirk he started with, and huffs something like a laugh, reaching over to steal a pretzel from the bowl by your elbow like he has every right to it.
"Does Tina know you're here?" It's out of your mouth before you've fully decided to say it, light on the surface, not light at all underneath, and you watch it land on him with a small, ugly satisfaction you're too warm and too tired to be ashamed of yet.
His hand stops halfway to his mouth, pretzel forgotten. "What?"
"Tina." You shrug, aiming for careless and overshooting into something closer to pointed. "Didn't realize she was the kissing kind of friend."
The bar noise doesn't change, but something between the two of you does, all at once, like a window slamming shut somewhere close.
"That's not." He sets the pretzel down, exactly where he picked it up, like precision might buy him a second to think. "That's not what that was."
"I didn't ask what it was."
"You kind of did, actually." He says it quietly, no performance left in it at all, and for a second he looks less like the version of himself that showed up at your window and more like someone who's been caught somewhere he doesn't want to be found. "It's not what you think."
"I don't think anything." This is, you are aware even as you say it, a lie large enough to be visible from space. "I'm just making conversation."
"Right." He studies you a moment, something working behind his eyes that isn't the easy warmth from thirty seconds ago. "You don't usually make that kind of conversation."
You don't have an answer for that, which is its own kind of answer, and you take a sip of your bourbon instead, mostly to give your face somewhere to be that isn't looking at him.
He lets the silence sit a beat longer than it needs to, like he's deciding whether to push, and then, mercifully, doesn't.
"How many of those have you had," he says, gentler than you'd expect, an olive branch disguised as a question.
"Enough," you say, and it comes out smaller than you meant it to.
He nods toward the door, toward the two-lane road and the dark past it, the walk that's short in daylight and a lot longer at eleven at night with a few bourbons in you. "I'm headed that way anyway. Just saying."
You should say no, and you know the reason you should say no, but it arrives already worn thin from a week of arguing with yourself about smaller things, and tonight you don't have the energy to hold it up. Not with the earrings on. Not with the thing about Tina still sitting sour in your mouth. Not with somebody finally looking at you like you're worth the trouble of looking at, even after you just went and proved you noticed too much.
"Fine," you say, sliding off the stool. "But if you tell anyone you carried my books, I'll fail you on principle."
"Wouldn't dream of it." He's already reaching for his jacket off the hook, and something in his face has gone soft in a way he doesn't seem to notice yet, though it sits now next to something more careful than it was a few minutes ago.
The van smells like cigarettes and old cassette tape, and the heater takes its time deciding to work. You mean to keep talking. You mean to ask him something clever about Carver, about Rick, about anything that would keep the air between you from going quiet and soft. Instead your head finds the window and the window is cold and the road hums under the tires like something patient, and somewhere past the second stop sign you stop meaning to do anything at all.
He notices when you don't answer him. Glances over, finds you gone soft against the glass, mouth parted slightly, one hand still loose in your lap like you fell asleep mid-thought.
He doesn't wake you.
He drives slower than he needs to. Takes the long way past the school without deciding to, without really admitting to himself that's what he's doing.
"You know what's funny?" he says, low, to the windshield, to the dark road, to a version of you that isn't listening. "I used to be able to run a whole campaign in my head without thinking about anything else. Six hours, easy. Full session, dice and voices and everything, not one wasted thought." He shakes his head, huffs something that isn't quite a laugh. "Now I'm sitting there mid-session and some part of my brain just wanders off. Goes looking for you. Doesn't even ask permission."
The heater finally kicks in, ticking as it warms. He doesn't seem to notice.
"The messier part is that I don't think about you. That makes it sound like a choice." He glances over at you, at your face slack and unguarded in the dashboard light. "It's not a choice. It's just, you're there. All the time. Like somebody left the radio on in my head and I can't find the damn knob."
He exhales, slow, like he's trying to let the pressure out before it does damage.
"And I know what this is. I know exactly what this is. It's not a crush, it's not. It's not some dumb thing I'll get over by some average Tuesday. It's the real, stupid, capital-letter thing, the thing they write songs about, the thing that gets people…"
He stops himself hard, jaw clicking shut on the word before it can get out, and grips the wheel like it did something to him. A beat of silence, tense with everything he almost said. "Yeah. Anyway."
The van rolls to a stop outside the trailer, engine idling low. He sits there a second, looking at you one more time before he finally reaches over and says your name, soft, twice, until your eyes open and you have no idea what you missed.
Three days of radio-silent pass. The temperature drops another degree each night. It is eleven-fifteen when the heater behind your baseboard unit shifts from its low, familiar knocking into something erratic and sharp.
You knock on his door before you finish deciding to. He opens it after a beat, in a faded gray t-shirt and an old pair of dark sleeping shorts, his hair pulled up in a loose knot. His feet are bare on the cold threshold.
He takes you in — the damp hair, the pajamas, the complete absence of the blazer or any cover at all — and something in his face has to work to stay easy.
"Heater," you say. "Three days already. Tonight it died. It's cold as hell."
He grabs the flashlight off the counter and follows you out into the cold metal box without asking a single question, like he'd been waiting on a reason.
Soon he's on his knees behind the unit, flashlight in his teeth, his rings sitting on your kitchen floor where he dropped them without breaking stride. You're crouched beside him holding the panel. You hand him the smaller flathead screwdriver before he even reaches for it. He takes it without looking. The work settles into a comfortable quiet, just the small sounds of metal against metal. You'd forgotten how much space that old ease used to take up.
A minute later, something shifts inside the unit and the knocking stops. He sits back on his heels, pulls the flashlight from his teeth, and looks at the baseboard. "Loose bracket. Cold makes them contract."
"So it was trying to get out."
"Everything in these walls is trying to get out." He says it lightly, but his eyes come up to yours, and the lightness doesn't quite make the trip.
The kitchen light catches the loose curls at the back of his neck, the strip of skin where his shirt falls short. Neither of you moves to stand up. The floor is cold and neither of you seems to notice.
Your eyes drop to his mouth. It isn't subtle. You don't try to make it subtle.
He notices — of course he notices, he notices everything about you, that's half the problem — and something in him gives, just slightly, like a bracket finally letting go. He leans in, slow enough that you could stop it, slow enough that not stopping it is its own kind of answer. You feel his breath before anything else, warm against your mouth, and your own breath goes shallow and stupid in your throat.
He gets close enough that you both stop pretending this is about the heater.
Then he pulls back — deliberately, gently, like he's setting something fragile down on a high shelf instead of dropping it. He doesn't go far. Just far enough. His jaw works once, like he's chewing on the shape of the sentence before he lets it out.
"Thing is," he says, quieter now, turning one of his rings around his finger, not the one he dropped, "if this blows up — and stuff like this always blows up — I'm the guy who torched your whole thing. New job. Fresh start. All of it." A small, humorless huff. "Cast me as a lot of things, sweetheart. Not that one."
You open your mouth.
"I'm not saying the door's closed." He picks his rings up off the linoleum, one by one, like he needs his hands to have a job. "I'm saying not like this. Not at midnight, not in your pajamas, not with a fixed heater and good lighting doing all the heavy lifting. That's not a decision. That's just gravity." He stands, hands you the screwdriver, picks up the flashlight. "You deserve better math than gravity."
At the door he pauses, his back still half turned.
"Knock if it starts up again," he says. He doesn't quite look at you when he says it.
The door closes behind him with a small, quiet click.
You stay on the kitchen floor a long moment, the screwdriver still cold in your hand. You walk to the window and press your palm against the glass, looking out at the dark space between the two chassis. Across the gravel, his porch light is on. After a minute, his shadow crosses the yellow pane. He doesn't look back out at you.
He doesn't have to. You already know exactly what he'd look like if he did.
childhood enemy!gator tillman x reader - w.c. 16.6k
summary: when your dad takes off for a weekend fishing trip with his friend roy, he enlists the help of his son gator to keep you in line while they're away. unfortunately for you, gator might be the one person you hate enough to get grounded for.
tags/warnings: childhood enemy!gator x reader, no use of y/n, childhood/family friends (but you hate each other), enemies to lovers, reader and gator are 19, mentions of domestic violence, mean!possessive!douchebag!gator, hate sex, manhandling, play fighting but kind of not play (scratching, wrestling, etc), slut-shaming, degradation, praise, p in v sex, oral sex (f receiving), body worship, maybe elements of cnc if you squint?, cannot stress enough gator is mean in this
author's note: based on this request from a while back! i'm so proud of this and if no one reads it i will cry. please check the tags!
---
You stand in your driveway watching your dad pack up his gear, your arms crossed and your face set in a scowl.
“Don’t give me that look,” he calls to you, loading his tacklebox into the bed of his behemoth truck. “You made your damn bed.”
You don’t argue back, already sensing how futile it would be. Your father is many things, but unpredictable is not one of them. And now that he’s made up his mind about how you’re going to be spending the weekend while he’s out fishing with Roy Tillman, you know there’s no changing it.
“Goddamn disgraceful,” Roy calls from the other side of the truck, where he’s packing his own fishing gear. “Nice young lady with that attitude toward her daddy. He oughta smack it outta ‘ya.”
Your frown deepens, but you wisely don’t reply. Your dad’s never hit you– you’ve always thought he just lacked the guts– but that doesn’t stop his best friend from suggesting it any time he sees you. So what if you’ve always been unruly, always balked against the town’s expectation you be perfectly quiet and chaste? It’s only a few more years till you’re out of here for good, and you won’t have to worry about Roy Tillman and his sycophantic male fantasies anymore. Or, arguably worse, his disgusting, intolerable, pain-in-the-ass son.
As if your thoughts have summoned him, a black truck pulls up to the curb outside your house, and your mood darkens even further. You don’t mind your dad leaving for the weekend– you prefer it, actually. The issue, though, is that he’s decided you won’t be spending it alone. Instead, mostly because the last time you were left home unsupervised, you might have taken the opportunity to spend a couple hours with your then-boyfriend, and your dad might have found out from the neighbors, this time, you’re going to have a babysitter.
The door of the black truck opens, and you watch as Gator’s heavy combat boots hit the concrete. He’s dressed ridiculously for the hot weather in a black t-shirt and that weighted tactical vest, his beige cargos thick and creased from the drive. His hair is gelled back, like he actually bothered to make himself presentable for this bullshit job. To top it off, he’s already taking a pull from his neon-tropical-vomit-flavored vape, blowing a pungent cloud into the air.
Your nose wrinkles almost unwittingly. You think dimly that you must hate him more every time you see him.
Gator slams his door, and his eyes land on your stiff form immediately. “Hey, sweetheart,” he calls to you, a grin pulling at his mouth as he stalks up your driveway toward you.
You freeze in place, willing your frown and your crossed arms into stone before him. It’s a practice you’ve perfected when dealing with Gator– a survival tactic, really. You’ve learned over the years just how many miles he’ll take if you relinquish that first inch.
Roy catches the nickname, which Gator’s been teasing you with since you were fifteen, and frowns, too. Crossing around the truck to his son, he grips him by the shirt and warns him loudly, “No funny business. You hear me, boy?”
Gator raises his hands in surrender, and you can’t help your amusement as his tough-guy facade cracks a little under his father’s scrutiny. It’s maybe his truest weakness you’ve ever been able to detect. “Relax, Dad, I was just kiddin’ around,” Gator complains.
Roy releases him and turns to you, pointing one finger at you. “And you– honor thy father and mother. You know what that’s from?”
“Hamlet?” you guess innocently, ignoring the look your dad shoots you in response.
Roy’s jaw clenches, displeased by how he’s failed to intimidate you. “Be good,” he barks. “Gator here’ll make sure you behave.”
The shit-eating smirk is back on Gator’s face, and you fight not to let your face burn. You’re almost twenty– you don’t need a goddamn babysitter. This whole thing is ludicrous.
Your father calls his goodbyes to you, and without saying anything further, you turn on your heel and head back into the house. You don’t need to check behind you to know Gator’s following you.
You’ve probably hated Gator Tillman since he’d first learned to walk and talk and pull your hair.
The town of Lehigh is just small enough to get uncomfortable when you find someone you truly detest. And ever since that first moment you can’t remember, some family barbecue or church picnic too far back to recollect, whatever moment you first met Gator, you’ve known he was someone you were engineered to despise.
He’s loud and lewd and completely unapologetic about it. When he’s not shovelling food into it like he’s been starving for years, he’s got the foulest mouth of anyone you know. When the opportunity has presented itself, he’s never once failed to make a comment about how your ass looks.
He’s despicable. Disgusting. He chews up women and spits them out, barbie after barbie, in and out of his tacky, red-pill bedroom at the ranch. He was the first one on the playground to call you names and the only one in the class to boo your presentations in high school English. Even if it weren’t for his crippling nicotine addiction, the ridiculous way he wears his hair, and the superiority complex that’s only worsened since he got his license to work as a deputy for his father, he’d still be the same arrogant, sexist prick you’ve grown up barely tolerating.
In some ways, you think Gator might be even worse than his father. Roy’s an unbelievable asshole, it’s true. Apart from his insane, puritanical beliefs about women, the cruelty and abuse he levels at everyone around him, he’s got one thing and one thing only going for him: he’s honest. He might be evil, but it’s what he is.
Gator’s different. Gator isn’t evil, not to the core of who he is. And that’s what makes him worse– he could be different if he ever pulled his head out of his ass and stopped trying to be Roy. He could learn to love women instead of using them, to handle things softly, to speak gently despite that tough-guy voice in his puny brain. But he won’t do it– won’t make that choice. That, you think, might be weaker and more pathetic than anything.
And no matter how much you hate him, no matter how many times you’ve screamed into your pillow with frustration after a fight or stormed out of his truck when your dad has forced him to pick you up from some school event or another, Gator’s stuck to you like flies on shit. He seems to think it’s funny– some sick little game in his head to keep coming back for more. He’ll keep mocking you with flirting, teasing you about your hair or your clothes. He’ll keep threatening the guys you’re seeing to scare them off, thinking it’ll never get back to you. He’ll keep provoking a fight, even when you shove at his chest and fire insults right back at him.
That’s just Gator. He’s never known how to leave well enough alone, how to keep his hands from clenching in a vice grip. Everything he’s once owned has bruises on it.
As you make your way to your living room, you hear him shut your front door, probably with a little more force than necessary, and drop his overnight duffel bag in the entryway. “What, no hello for me?” he mocks you, not bothering to take off his shoes as he follows after you.
Set on ignoring him, you flop onto the couch and pull over the magazine you’d been flipping through idly.
You watch those idiotic combat boots stop a few feet before you on the living room rug.
“You know, if you wanted to know ten ways to drive a man crazy, you could just ask me.”
You snort, not lifting your eyes from your magazine. “Yeah, I’ll pass. Repulsion’s really more your area, isn’t it?”
“You sure?” Gator goads you, and you don’t need to look at him to be able to tell he’s grinning down at you. “Bet I’ve got a tip you could use, sweetheart.”
You lower the magazine, finally meeting his stare with all the ire you can muster. “I’d rather stick my hand down a garbage disposal, thanks.”
Gator’s grin is absolutely feral. Quicker than you can avoid, he leans down and snatches the magazine out of your hands, and a fresh wave of fury rises in your gut as you scramble for it back.
“Now, what are you ‘n I gonna get up to this weekend?” he asks you, thumbing through the pages of the magazine as he strolls away from you.
You leap up from the couch, going after him. “I have plans,” you inform him sharply. “You can do whatever the hell you want. Your bedroom’s in the doghouse out back.”
“Nuh-uh,” he shakes his head solemnly, closing the magazine and chucking it onto the dining table. “Your daddy said you’re under house arrest. That means no going out, little miss.”
“Oh, blow me, Gator. We’re the same age.” you spit back, face twisting.
“Well, sure, but someone still can’t stay home alone without gettin’ into trouble, now can she?” Gator teases. “Heard you had your lil’ boyfriend over last time. What’d you do, huh? Suck him off while your folks were gone?”
Your face goes brilliantly, vibrantly red. “You’re a pig from hell,” you fire at him, planting both your hands on his chest and shoving him back. “It’s none of your damn business.”
“We’re friends, aren’t we?” Gator goes on crudely, his eyes tracing over your burning face. “Friends tell friends what they’re gettin’ up to. ‘Specially when they’re whorin’ around and need lookin’ after.”
He knows exactly what to say to get to you– he always has. If Gator Tillman ever had a talent, it was knowing the precise formula of words to lay down to make you go white with rage.
“You’re just jealous,” you shoot at him. “I bet no one’ll come near yours. I doubt you’ve gotten head since Lottie Jameson during seven minutes in heaven.”
Gator steps closer, his eyes sparking with temper and challenge. “You wanna settle that bet, baby?”
You scoff, lost for a comeback at his heated expression, at the nickname that’s always completely disarmed you. “I can’t believe my dad thinks you’ll keep me out of trouble. He’d have better luck having me stay with a crack addict.”
“You got a dirty fuckin’ mouth on you, you know that?” Gator drawls, nonplussed. You watch as he digs in his tactical vest and pulls free his vape, and your brows shoot up.
“Do not fucking puff that in my house, Gator,” you warn him, pointing a finger threateningly at his hand.
Gator’s smile spreads slowly. “Oh, yeah? What are you gonna do about it?”
“I’m not kidding,” you threaten him. “Those things are fucking disgusting. I don’t need this house to smell like you.”
Gator raises it halfway to his lips, and you take two sharp steps toward him, telling him just how quick you’ll make good on your promise of violence. He halts at your motion, amused, then smiles wider as he lifts the vape up to his mouth.
Unable to kill your temper, you lunge at him.
Gator dodges your first attack, swerving out of the way of your hand as it grabs for the stupid pen. The second time you reach for him, he’s not as fast, and your nails dig into the skin of his hand as you wrest the vape from his fingers, pulling it free and quickly pitching it out the wide-open living room window.
Gator’s eyes flare in shock as he tracks the precise throw, then turns back to you, now only inches from your face. “That one was a spare,” he goads you, reaching into his vest again and pulling out another, even more disgusting bar of e-cancer.
“Give me that,” you spit, hands digging into his again.
Gator growls as you wrestle with him, trying to pull away. “Quit fuckin’ scratching me– ow!”
His free hand grabs for your wrist, and you work your elbow into him to try to wedge your way out, grunting with the effort. It lands somewhere against his ribs, but with the heavy vest, it probably hurts you more than him.
The vape in Gator’s other hand clatters to the floor as he grabs for your wrists again. “Would you fuckin’ quit it?”
“Let go,” you hiss, twisting your arms to get him to loosen his grip on you. The wrestling match devolves between you, more frantic, less fair. You stomp your heel down onto his foot, and he swears, grabbing for your arms to try to pin them to your sides. To his credit, Gator doesn’t try to hurt you– just get you to stop laying into him, like he knows somehow it’d be wrong to rough up a woman who, despite her temper, still isn’t as strong as him. It must be the influence of the one loose brain cell rattling around in his head that hasn’t yet been corrupted by his father. Still, his hands are rough and his grip strength is completely ridiculous, so the dig of his thumbs into your biceps will probably bruise.
“Christ, stop thrashin’, woman!” he yells at you as you try to twist away from him, accidentally pinning yourself against his chest. “You’re like a wild fuckin’ animal. Will you– ow, fuck!”
Gator’s finally had enough– wresting his hands free, he grips your waist and hauls you into his arms, making you loose an aggravated yell.
“Put me down, you fucking asshole!” You yell at him, slapping at his shoulders as he carries you back through the living room.
“Calm the hell down!” he barks at you, his hands a vice on your legs as heaves you up, throwing you over his shoulder completely. “Goddammit, woman, you’re fuckin’ relentless.”
You thrash against him, writhing against the unbending pressure of his arms.
“Gator, I swear to God, if you don’t put me down–”
He reaches the couch and chucks you down onto it, and you yelp as your back hits the plush cushions. Gator comes over you, knees on either side of your thighs to keep you in place. Your hands reach up, probably to claw his eyes out or something, but you settle for slapping at him like you used to do when you two would fight like this as kids, the blows weak but sufficiently annoying.
Gator’s hands try to still your attacks, fighting for control of your wrists again. “No, no– ah, fuck. Hold still, will you? There– hah. Gotcha.” His hands clamp down on your arms, finally pinning you to the cushions.
“What the fuck?” you spit, blowing hair out of your face as you wriggle against him.
Gator pants above you, triumphant. “You done?” he asks, brow raising. You loosened his hair of some of its gel when you yanked it, and strands hang down over his forehead as he looms over you.
Something twists in your gut– unnamable, but so close to that same rage you always feel when you see him.
“Get off of me, you bastard,” you tell him, fuming.
Gator just smirks, his breaths evening. “Guess you’ll do anything to get me on top of ‘ya, huh?”
The teasing makes you see red, and you move before you have a chance to think, driving your knee up between his legs.
Gator blocks you with his thigh just in time, his eyes widening in shock and outrage. “Jesus, you’re a real piece of work,” he huffs, his breath ruffling your hair. “What the hell is wrong with you, woman?”
“Get off of me,” you say again through your teeth, thrashing again. “And don’t call me that shit.”
He finally releases you, sitting back on his heels as you scramble upright. He examines his hands, now sporting red lines from your scratching. “Cut your fucking nails,” he orders you. “You’re like a dragon.”
You push off the couch, rubbing at your sore forearms. “Don’t touch me, Gator,” you bite, stalking away. Your cheeks are red, your heart is pounding, and you’re absolutely humming with anger. And you have a feeling it’ll stay that way for a while yet.
A few hours alone in your room cool you off significantly.
Despite the fact that you can hear the noise of the TV blaring whatever inane hunting show Gator’s put on while he lounges around doing fuck all, you spend the first hours of what was supposed to be your blissful, solitary weekend hunkered in on your bed painting your nails and calling your friends. All of them are outraged but unsurprised when you tell them about your fight with Gator, and none of them can admit to ever having come to blows with a man before. You tell them, of course they haven’t– and neither have you. Gator’s not a man, he’s a weasel.
You’re on speaker with your friend Emmie while you finish up painting your toenails, only just beginning to feel the hunger you’ve been dreading. Hunger means you have to get dinner. Dinner would require stepping out of this room and seeing the amoeba that’s taken residence on your couch.
Emmie’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts. “Come on, babe. It won’t be that long.”
“Easy for you to say,” you huff. “You’re not the one hearing the dulcet tones of Duck Dynasty through the walls.”
“Oh, please,” Emmie snorts. “Don’t pretend you’re not enjoying the view a little bit.”
You color despite yourself, your eyes flicking to your door, as if Gator will appear there and scare the hell out of you. It’d be in character. “I am not.”
Emmie laughs into the receiver. “Face it, hon. Gator Tillman might be the biggest asshole ever to walk the earth, but he’s hot. You’ve always thought he was hot.”
You narrow your eyes, picking your phone up to hiss into the receiver, “If there was ever a sliver of attractiveness in him, it was immediately overruled by how completely and totally revolting he is. I do not think he’s hot.”
“Yeah, right,” Emmie teases, unperturbed. “He had you pinned to the couch today.”
You scowl, though she can’t see it. “Shut up, Emmie. It’s not like I have a crush on him. I mean, I’m not thirteen anymore.”
You can hardly stand to recall those few months you’d had a teeny-tiny thing for Gator– right up until he made out with Mandy Collins in front of you and stomped your heart into the dirt. You knew better now than to let yourself fall for any kind of lie he told you. No part of Gator Tillman was worth the torture that was spending any amount of time around him.
A creak of the floorboards in the hallway makes your head shoot up. Your eyes narrow, but when there’s no more noise following it, you relent and turn your attention back to convincing Emmie you’re still sane.
You talk for a while more, but eventually, your stomach starts growling louder than you can ignore any longer. You sigh and tell Emmie you have to go, then hang up and reluctantly rise from your bed.
You open your door cautiously, looking left and right for any sign of him. Then, shaking yourself, you remember it’s your house, too, and you don’t have any reason to hide from him. In fact, if anyone should be embarrassed of your fight earlier, it’s sure as hell not you.
Without another thought, you make your way down the hallway, your nose in the air and your eyes forward.
Gator’s not in the living room– in fact, he’s placed himself exactly where you’re going. The fridge is open, and he’s picking up containers from within it and throwing them down aimlessly, unimpressed. He must find one he likes– some kind of leftovers your dad must have stuck in there– because he takes it out and pitches it onto the counter.
“Don’t eat that,” you snap. “I already made pasta for tonight.”
Gator turns, brows raised at your tone. He hasn’t fixed his hair since your fight, and you brush aside how much better he looks when he’s a little disheveled like this, his t-shirt rucked up a bit around his waist from lounging on the couch. “You cook for me, sweetheart? That’s cute.”
Your nose wrinkles. “I must have gotten you confused for a homeless person. Feeding you is kinda like doing charity.”
“Nah, I bet you made it special,” he teases you, rifling through the fridge to find the container you’re talking about. “You put my name on the label, too?”
“Just move out of the way,” you spit, knocking your hip into his to shove him over before he completely wrecks your organization of the fridge. “God, do you have to destroy everything you get your hands on?”
He shrugs, nonplussed, as he steps back and leans against the counter. “Lotta girls like what I do with my hands.”
You hiss at the joke and don’t reply as you find the container of pasta and set it on the counter, pulling down two bowls from the cabinets and moving for the forks.
“Kinda sweet, you makin’ dinner for me,” he hums.
“I did not make dinner for you,” you repeat bitterly. “My dad said I was responsible for cooking this weekend. This was completely forced.”
“Whatever you say,” Gator replies mildly. “Doesn’t look that way, though. Almost looks like you have a crush on me, or something.”
Your fingers freeze over the silverware, your heart leaping into your throat. “The fuck did you just say?”
You turn over your shoulder to find Gator smirking at your back, utterly triumphant. “You heard me,” he insists. “You got a crush on me, sweetheart?”
Your fingers close around the two forks tight enough to hurt. “You were eavesdropping?” you ask in outrage.
“Kinda hard not to when you talk so fuckin’ loud,” Gator drawls.
Anger roils in your gut again, that quickly. You toss the forks onto the counter and glare at him. “Well, if you were listening at my door, you little pervert, you would have heard me say how deeply I don’t have a crush on you.”
“But you did,” Gator corrects you, a grin spreading across his face.
You fight the redness blooming in your cheeks. “I was thirteen and deluded,” you defend yourself. “I also thought I was gonna marry Justin Bieber."
“How bad did you like me, huh?” Gator asks, his voice needling deeper at an old wound you didn’t realize was still capable of hurting. “You write ‘Mrs. Tillman’ on all your notebooks?”
“God, do you need an ego boost that bad, that you’re digging at middle school me?” you scoff in challenge, refusing to let him humiliate you. “Why the hell do you care, Gator? Times have clearly changed.”
Gator pushes off the counter, something settling even and dangerous in his eyes. His voice is a low rumble as he tells you, “Maybe I’ve got a crush on you, too.”
Your heart pounds harder in your chest– so hard it’s embarrassing. So hard that for a stupid moment, you worry he might be able to hear it.
“Yeah, right,” you make out roughly. You refuse to let yourself fall for it. This boy has burned you too many times for you to believe him now. “You don’t have a crush on anything that can say words with more than one syllable.”
“Whatever you need to tell yourself,” he murmurs, stepping closer until he’s towering over you, his face slightly bent towards yours. Your breath hitches just the slightest bit, caught off guard by the close proximity. You pray he didn’t notice, but know somehow he did anyway.
“You’re insane,” you tell him, your voice weaker than you mean it to be. “I hate you. You hate me. You just don’t like that you can’t control me, so you play this game with me instead.”
“Maybe,” he hums, his eyes half lidded as they drop to your lips. “Or maybe I’m thinkin’ about you every time I get a minute alone. Maybe I’m makin’ some girl scream, and I’m picturin’ the way you’re lookin’ at me right now.”
Your chest feels tight, your heart beating an odd, off-kilter rhythm. “You’re repugnant,” you breathe. “You’re sick, Gator.” For some reason, your emotion feels almost too big to come to terms with. “I fucking hate it when you do this. It’s like sex is some competition to stoke your ego.”
His hand comes up slowly, and your eyes track the movement. Gently, he presses his thumb to the corner of your lips, his eyes studying the touch with rapt attention. “You have no idea what I’ve been thinkin’ about doin’ with this pretty little mouth.”
The touch entrances you, catches you in a cloying spell. It only breaks when his smirk returns, irreverent as always.
His fingers drop away from your face, and before he can say another word, you put both hands on his chest and shove him backward. “Fuck you, Gator.”
His lips twitch upward. He knows he’s won. “You wish,” he mocks you.
Abandoning the food on the counter, you flee from the kitchen, fire alight in your belly. “Make your own damn dinner. I’ll eat in my room.”
“Come on, baby. Don’t be like that,” he calls after you, that smartass humor still lingering in his tone.
You don’t care. You’re already gone.
It’s only a few minutes later, when your noise-cancelling headphones are set firmly over your ears and you’re sulking to your moodiest playlist, that your bedroom door swings open and Gator reappears.
“Knock, much?” You snap at him, already scowling.
Gator stays in your doorway and snorts, waving a hand at you. “Like you’d be able to hear me with those huge fuckin’ things on.”
“Get out of my room, Gator,” you spit harshly.
He reveals his other hand, which holds a steaming bowl of the pasta you made. Without ceremony, he throws the bowl onto your desk and sticks a fork in it.
You blink. Gator Tillman sort of made you dinner. That’s fucking new.
“Here,” he drawls, giving you a flat look. “You women get cranky when you’re hungry.”
“Get out,” you yell, grabbing one of the pillows on your bed and chucking it at him.
He laughs as he dodges it. “Have a good night, sweetheart. Don’t try to sneak out your window– I’ll know.”
“Why don’t you go blow yourself?” you yell after him. “It’s all you’re good at, anyway!”
His chuckle echoes down the hall.
The next morning, you don’t emerge from your room until you’re fully dressed and ready.
Unfortunately for you, Gator’s always been an early riser.
“Cute outfit,” he calls from his place leaning against the kitchen counter. He’s showered since you last saw him, and he’s dressed more casually in jeans and a rock t-shirt, a baseball cap set backwards atop his ungelled hair. You guess he’s not going into the station today– probably no need, without his dad there for him to impress.
“Bite me,” you fire back, not looking at him. You’re still furious about the shit he pulled last night. You spent hours tossing back and forth in bed over it, actually– completely revolted at what he’d implied. Your sheets had been cloying and burning against your skin. And, petulantly, you’d hoped that somewhere in the house, in whatever room of the house Gator had finally crashed, he was sleeping even worse.
You can’t put your finger on why it bothered you so much that he said what he did. Gator’s always been that way– teasing, mocking, pushing entirely too far over the line of basic decency. He’s always used sex against you, whether you’ve been getting any lately or not. Maybe it’s that you’ve been single for a few weeks now, and the aloneness is starting to feel a hell lot like a dry spell. The last thing you need in the midst of all of that is Gator fucking Tillman telling you he jerks off thinking about you.
You shove that thought aside before it can torture you any further this morning. It’s all a game– it always has been. You just need to keep a grip on your anger and a firmer one on your composure and get through this godforsaken weekend.
The killer thing, you think as you stroll through the kitchen, feigning being unbothered by his presence, is that your outfit really is cute– an olive green tank and your shortest denim skirt, your nicest sunglasses pushing back your hair. No part of it is for him, however. In fact, today, you’re planning on putting as much distance between you and Gator as possible.
“So where we goin’ today, sweetheart?” he asks as you near him in the kitchen.
You grab an apple out of the fruit bowl and a bagel from the breadbox. “We are not going anywhere.”
“Now, don’t be like that,” he chides you, pushing off the counter and moving closer. “You and I could have some fun this weekend if we really tried.”
You ignore him and his innuendos as you nab the cream cheese from the fridge and start spreading it on your bagel, untoasted. “I’d hate to interrupt your busy schedule of kicking puppies and stealing candy from babies.”
He grins again. “I can raincheck it till next weekend.”
When you don’t respond, he moves closer. “Come on,” he presses you. “You got all dressed up for me. Can’t let it be for nothin’.” His hand slips toward you and tugs at the hem of your skirt, his knuckles skimming along your thigh.
You go ramrod straight, your knee jerking forward and knocking against the cabinet in front of you, hard enough to make you wince. “It’s not for you,” you fire back when you regain control of your words. “I’m going out. Now get your hands off me before I find another use for this butterknife.”
“You’re goin’ out?” he repeats, disbelieving.
“Yes,” you spit, finishing with your bagel and moving away from him.
Gator laughs dryly. “You’re not goin’ out.”
“The hell I’m not,” you scoff. “Emmie’s gonna be here in ten minutes. I’m getting the fuck away from you for a while.”
“Emmie,” he repeats, laughing again. “Yeah fuckin’ right. You think I’m dumb?”
You let out an incredulous laugh. “You really want me to answer that?”
“You’re sneakin’ out to go see your fuckin’ boyfriend,” Gator says in challenge, moving an inch closer. “And you think I won’t find out.”
“I don’t have a boyfriend, you idiot,” you spit at him, taking a bite of your bagel.
“Then whoever you’re givin’ it out to this week,” Gator suggests, shrugging. “Doesn’t matter so much to me.”
“Oh, yeah?” you scoff, meeting his eyes with fire in yours. “‘Cause you seem pretty damn interested in where and when I’m putting out. You jealous, Gator?”
Something shifts in his eyes as he watches you, his eyes dipping to your mouth as you chew your food slowly. “You gonna give me a reason to be?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
His eyes sweep down your body, then back up. “It means I don’t see what I have to be jealous about when I’m the only one you’re always screamin’ at.”
“Oh my God,” you snort, though you feel none of the casual indifference you project. “You are so full of shit. I think your ego’s actually starting to infect the rest of your brain.”
“You’re not goin’ out,” Gator says with finality. “Pops told me to watch you, and that’s exactly what I’m gonna do.”
“You can’t keep me under house arrest, Gator,” you challenge, panic flaring within you at the thought of him actually trapping you in here with him all weekend.
“The fuck I can’t,” he snorts. “I’m the babysitter, ain’t I?”
“You’re not my babysitter,” you fire at him, your temper kicking up again.
“Oh, yeah?” he hums. “What am I, then?”
“My local parasite?” you offer, mockingly sweet.
Gator doesn’t take the bait– just smirks at you. “You try and leave here without me, sweetheart, and I’ll just have to call your daddy and see what he has to say about it.”
“There’s nothing to do in here,” you argue, trying desperately to make him see reason. “I’m gonna be bored out of my skull, and so are you.”
“Alright, then let’s find somethin’ to do,” Gator suggests. “You and me. Not Emmie or whatever fuckin’ guy you were gonna let put his hands on you all afternoon.”
“You’re such a fucking pig!” you nearly yell in aggravation.
“Come on,” he goads you. “You wanna play a board game? Want me to braid your hair?”
“I want to get as far away from you as possible before I catch something contagious.” You ditch the rest of your food and make for your room again, dimly aware that it’s becoming something of a fortress.
“It’s a small house, sweetheart,” he tells you as he follows you, right on your heels. “You can’t avoid me forever.”
You whip around and stick a finger into his chest. “I want you out of here, Gator. I want you gone. I don’t care where you go. Just get out of my fucking house and leave me alone.”
“I can’t do that,” he tells you, intensity back in his expression.
“I don’t care,” you repeat, shaking your head. You’re almost trembling with anger, your fists clenched. “I don’t care what our dads say about it. I’d rather be grounded until I’m dead than spend another moment with you.”
For a second, Gator doesn’t speak. And then, voice low, he mutters, “You weren’t kiddin’ yesterday, were you?” he asks, his eyes scanning your face. “You really do hate me.”
“I do,” you agree– probably the only time you ever have. “And you hate me.”
“But you think about me,” he murmurs without answering you. His voice takes on a low, dangerous edge, and you become aware again of how little space there is left between your faces. “Don’t you, pretty?”
“You’re delusional,” you hiss, the words coming out on a whisper.
“Nah,” he brushes you off. “I can tell, baby. When you’re all hot and bothered like this, when you get this fired up…” he lets out a breathy laugh. “I bet you toss and turn all night, too riled up to get to sleep ‘cause all you can think about is me.”
The words hit too close. They make your breath hitch, and like always, he can tell. It’s like he knew what you were doing in your bedroom last night– knew how long it took you to finally settle down, and only after you’d taken care of yourself a few times, just to pull some stress out of your brain. It’s like he knew what you’d been thinking about when you had.
Gator sees it on your face– that vulnerability, open and ready for him to exploit. And you can’t let him have it. And you’re running on five hours of sleep. And you’d rather die than let Gator win one over you like he has all your life.
And you tell yourself that’s why you grip him by the neck of his shirt and haul his lips to yours.
The kiss is hard, abrasive, and pressing. You don’t give Gator a second to adjust, swallowing his breath of surprise, your hand fisted in his shirt.
And something in you, something you’ve been ignoring for your entire life, something that tortures you on nights like last night and days like today when you really can’t shove him out of your mind, settles and clicks into place. That dooming, disastrous secret you’ve pretended all these years you haven’t yet discovered.
Heat licks up inside you, seeping into your belly. You want more, you realize– more than the slide of your lips against his, more than Gator still and receiving. You want hands and tongues and teeth. You want him to move, but for once in his pathetic life, Gator Tillman seems frozen.
With the hand still gripping his shirt, you shove him back, sucking in a breath.
His face is torn in shock. He’s panting slightly, his shining lips just beginning to turn pink. His dark eyes rove over your face, wider and more focused than you’ve ever seen.
Your stare traces from the few hairs sticking out of his ballcap down to his lips that were plusher than you’d thought possible for a man like him. And then you laugh, low and harsh.
Without another look at Gator, your heart in your throat, you turn on your heel and disappear behind your bedroom door.
You’re sitting at the high table of a coffeeshop next to Emmie, your feet propped up on the bar between your stool legs, when the sight of a black truck pulling up to the curb outside makes your heart drop through your shoes.
It would be fair to say that, in the heat of anger, you did something pretty fucking stupid.
After you’d kissed Gator and left him standing in the hallway, the retreat to your room hadn’t felt any less stifling than being in his presence. With Emmie still on her way to pick you up and the elephant sitting between you and your next interaction with Gator, you’d thought that then would be the perfect time to manufacture an escape.
Ironically, Gator had given you the idea by himself. Your window was ground-level, and your dad had never bothered to stick a screen on it to keep out the summer bugs. Today, that would work in your favor.
You left your music blaring out of your speaker and snuck out the window as gracefully as you could once Emmie had texted and informed you she was parked around the block. And then you’d driven into town and filled your friend in on everything you still couldn’t believe had just happened.
Emmie had laughed herself sick when you’d told her you kissed Gator. You supposed it was fairly ridiculous, really– a stupid, uncharacteristic, poorly-thought-through move. It would cast a pall between you– that much, you knew. But you’d been too tired of him playing that game, holding feelings and attractions over you like you were the only affected one. So, there. Now, at least you’d shown him what you were made of.
Emmie notices you staring out the window, and her eyes widen as she realizes why. “Is that–”
Gator jumps down from his truck and slams the door, his expression already awash with anger. You swallow as you watch him stomp toward the café and rip open the door, his eyes landing on you immediately.
A jolt runs down your spine at that look– the total rage that’s directed only at you. He must have driven around looking for Emmie’s car– guessing at the spots you two frequent together. You wish you could say you’re surprised he found you so quickly, but Gator’s always had a good memory when it comes to cataloguing how best to drive you insane. Including but not limited to memorizing the name of your favorite coffeeshop.
Gator stalks toward you, and you register dimly that his hair is a wreck beneath his cap, his mouth set in a grim line. Oh, he’s furious you ran out on him. This was his one job, the one promise he made his dad for these two days– and you made him fail.
He stops in front of you where you still clutch your mug, not sparing Emmie a second glance. “Let’s go,” is all he says– not a request.
Swallowing, realizing you’ve pushed him to the limit, you rise from your stool and turn back to Emmie.
She’s watching the encounter with wide, skeptical eyes. “Babe,” she starts, her voice quiet. “Are you gonna be okay?”
You know what’s on her mind– what’s probably running through the minds of everyone in this café. They know Gator’s reputation, and they know his daddy. Worse, they know what it means when a woman upsets a man from the Tillman family.
But you’re different for one reason– you know Gator. And no matter how hard you push, no matter the bullshit he spits at you, you know one thing about him for certain– he will not hurt you. You used to call it pathetic, just like with your father, but now you think differently. Gator wouldn’t hurt a woman because he doesn’t have it in him. And he won’t hurt you because all he wants to do is the opposite, even in his weird, twisted way.
“I’ll be fine,” you tell Emmie, pushing off your stool. “I’ll get you back for the coffee later, yeah?”
Emmie nods, watching as you turn back to Gator.
He’s no less full of ire, but you can tell he’s satisfied by your compliance. He lets you walk toward the truck first, and you wonder if it’s so he can catch you if you try to run off again.
When you reach the passenger side door that he holds open for you, you start, “Gator–”
“Get in the fucking car,” he snaps.
You clamp your mouth shut, still riling internally against his order, and climb into the seat.
The drive back to your house is wordless, but you can tell he’s still steaming about this. It’s only when you’re back in the house, the door slammed behind you and your jacket thrown over the hook again, that he finally pipes up.
“You’re a real fuckin’ brat, you know that?”
“You wouldn’t let me go,” you argue flatly.
“What are you, fuckin’ twelve years old?” he shoots back. “Climbin’ out your window? They weren’t kiddin’ when they said you needed a goddamn babysitter.”
“It’s my house.” Your expression contorts with frustration. “I should be able to leave it when I want to. And I don’t need some overgrown manchild guarding my door.”
He storms over to you, his expression stony. “Well, clearly, you fuckin’ do. I come in there to check on you, and you’re just gone. That’s real mature, sweetheart.”
“Check on me?” you scoff. “Oh, please. You were probably just worried I’d tell your daddy what you’ve been saying to me all weekend.”
“What I’ve been saying?” he huffs, outraged. “How ‘bout what you’ve been doing? You’re nothin’ better than a fuckin’ preteen, stompin’ around and escapin’ outta your room.”
You meet his stare, your brow set and low. “You think you can just keep me here– that I’ll just do whatever you want. You’re wrong, Gator.”
“It is my job to take care of you this weekend,” he snaps.
“No, it’s your job to watch me,” you correct him. “I can take care of myself.”
“I’m supposed to know where you are. I’m supposed to keep tabs on you, woman. ‘Nd I don’t need you climbin’ out your window and runnin’ off ‘cause you want to fuckin’ rebel.”
You round on him, his attitude only feeding yours. “I told you I was gonna go crazy in here. You can’t lock me up, Gator. You’re not in charge of me.”
“Right now, I am,” he spits back. “Right now, you answer to me. And when I tell you to do something, you fuckin’ do it.”
“You’re a prick,” you breathe. “You’re the worst person I’ve ever met. Why the hell would I listen to you?”
He crosses the rest of the room toward you in three long steps. “Say that again.”
“You’re not mad about this,” You shake your head, meeting his eyes. “You’re not mad I ran off or got you in trouble.” You let your eyes scrape down over his face, then back up. “You’re mad because I did it after I kissed you. You’re mad I didn’t just fall at your feet like everyone else does.”
“You really wanna talk about the shit you pulled back there?” he asks threateningly, eyes widening. He looks crazed like this– almost feral. “You wanna go there? ‘Cause you don’t tend to like it when you ‘n I talk dirty.”
You will a smirk onto your face. “You liked it, didn’t you?”
Gator’s expression shifts. He’s almost shaking with anger. You’ve never seen him like this– never once. You’ve never seen him when he’s losing before.
“When you thought I meant it,” you clarify. “For a second there, I made you believe it.”
Gator doesn’t say anything, his eyes boring into yours. And that’s how you know– you won. It just doesn’t feel as sweet as it should.
“You don’t like me,” you shake your head, finally seeing the full picture. “You just don’t like that you can’t have me. That’s what I am to you– something you can’t stand for anyone else to put their hands on.”
He snorts, tries to wave it off. It’s not as convincing as he tries to make it. “‘Cause you know everything about what I think now?”
“Yeah,” you challenge. “Yeah I do know you, Gator. And what you’re doing here? It’s fucked.”
“Yeah, well I know you, too,” he spits out, his glare so hard it could chip rock. “I know you tell yourself you’re throwin’ yourself at all those douchebags ‘cause you’re rebelling, but really you just can’t stand anybody rejecting you. I know you take shit from your dad and my dad and everyone else ‘cause you don’t have enough of a spine to stand up to ‘em.”
“You don’t know me,” you say gutturally, the words landing sharp as gravel in your chest. “You don’t know anything. Least of all how to want something without hurting it.”
Gator’s fists are clenched to hide his shaking. “Fuck. You.”
“You wish,” you throw back, and you don’t need to say it harshly. Because for once, the words you pitch at him are true, and the both of you know it now.
Gator rips his eyes away and stalks back toward the living room. “Go hide in your room again. Do whatever the hell you want. You always do, anyway.”
You watch him walk away, and in your head, beneath the rushing anger, you make a decision.
You’re not going to hide. You’re not going to slink away and let him have this– let him avoid what you’ve made him feel today, tonight, maybe for longer than you know. He doesn’t get to give up the game now that he’s lost the upper hand.
So, that night, you don’t go back to your room.
You do your summer homework at the counter with your headphones on while Gator fires off curt emails at the dining table. You eat a wordless dinner side by side, the leftovers somehow tasting worse than they had yesterday– but maybe that was the aftertaste of the fight in your mouth. Gradually, things even out, some of the tension slipping out of the air. Maybe it’s that it’s all on the table now– nothing left unsaid between you, and nothing to say that could possibly be worse.
You and Gator settle into a rhythm, the fizzing, livid frustration soothing between you as you move side by side, unspeaking, for the entirety of the night. The first time you exchange words again, it almost feels like things are back to how they were before.
Gator’s on the couch in front of the TV, but he’s not watching it. Instead, he’s observing you as you emerge from your room, where you’d changed into a baggy sweatshirt with your high school’s name on it and a pair of athletic shorts you’ve probably grown out of by about two years. Gator’s eyes track you as you make your way back into the living room, running up and down your body.
“What?” you snap, sick of his scrutiny.
“Nothin’,” he replies, not tearing his eyes away as he smirks. “Real sexy outfit, that’s all.”
You roll your eyes, though you might be secretly glad the two of you are any kind of back to normal. “I’m in my own living room. I'm allowed to wear what I want.” You flop down onto the other end of the couch from him unceremoniously and pick up the discarded remote. “You probably sleep in your jeans, you cretin.”
Gator hasn’t changed out of his day-clothes yet, but his hair is sticking out further from the front of his cap. He adjusts it on his head, and you have to pull your eyes away from the way his arms flex with the motion.
Adjusting to be more comfortable on your end of the couch, your back against the armrest and your legs stretched out across the cushions, you change the channel, and Gator makes a noise of protest. “I was watching that.”
“You were watching 10 Things I Hate About You?” you deadpan, giving him a look. “Really?”
Gator fumbles a little for words. “It’s the guy from The Joker. I don’t know.”
You snort, clicking through channels. “Didn’t know you were such a fan of rom-coms.”
“You’re so fucking annoying,” he gripes, turning his eyes back to the screen.
When a few minutes have passed and you still haven’t settled on an evening feature, he makes a noise of exasperation and throws a hand out at the TV. “Will you just pick something already?”
“It’s my house,” you remind him imperiously. “It’s my TV. I'll take my damn time.”
“I’m gonna be dead by the time you land on a movie.”
“All the better for me,” you answer sweetly.
“Just give me the fuckin’ remote,” he insists, sitting up and reaching out for it.
“No, thanks,” you huff, holding the remote away from him in case he decides to snatch it out of your hands. “I have very little interest in watching Swamp People or whatever the hell it is you find entertaining.”
“Well, you’re gonna pick some girly crap, and I don’t wanna sit through that,” he argues.
“Then go to bed,” you propose, not looking at him as you keep clicking. “Nothing’s keeping you here.”
With no warning, a large hand clamps around your ankle, and you yelp as Gator drags you toward him by your leg until you’re staring up at his smirking face, your sweatshirt hitched up around your waist. The action, the audacity of it, steals the breath from you, and for whatever reason, you don’t fight him as his hand spans your calf to keep you in place.
Gator leans over you, and there’s none of the playfulness of the last words you spoke in his eyes. Instead, he’s staring down at you with such unbelievable focus it makes your heart pound in your throat.
It doesn’t even surprise you when he kisses you.
Gator’s lips are as plush as they were this morning, but this time, he doesn’t freeze. He pushes against you, hard and claiming, his head bowed over yours and his hands loosening their grip on your legs. The kiss is messy, his tongue pushing past your lips and sweeping your mouth, like he knows neither one of you can stand to do anything halfway anymore.
You don’t even notice that he’s wrested the remote from your hand until he pulls back and smirks at you.
You stare up into his face– his stupid, arrogant, triumphant face– as he holds the remote over you in victory, just like he’s held everything over you, every little thing he’s ever won.
It’s less than a moment before you snake your hand around the back of his neck and pull him back down toward you.
You kiss him again, harder this time, the push and pull of your lips igniting something in your gut you didn’t ever think Gator Tillman would be capable of eliciting. It’s intoxicating, that feeling– so close and intimate. You nip at his bottom lip, and Gator groans.
You have just enough sense left in your dazed brain to pull the remote from his fingers again, and he lets it go almost willingly. This time, you’re the one who pulls back, relishing in that last second of victory.
The two of you hang there for a moment, staring back into each other’s faces.
And then, in one brief, intoxicating second, the dam breaks, and all bets are off.
The remote clatters to the floor. Gator’s hands surge for you, wrap around your back and band around you to pull you upright. Your lips lock together, messy and desperate, and the noises you’re making are absolutely indecent as he licks into your mouth like he wants to steal the sounds from you. You break the kiss only long enough to push yourself fully upright and onto your knees, swinging one leg over his lap and straddling him, your loose hair falling down between you.
Gator looks ravenous as you loom over him, hunger baked into his expression, so intense it makes your breath catch. You don’t pause long enough for him to mock you for it.
You grab his face in both of your hands and pull him toward you again, teeth scraping against lips. You take a second to knock the cap off his head and pitch it away, and then you’re tugging his hair and he’s panting against your mouth as his hands squeeze harder than necessary at your waist and hips.
You’re surprised– honestly shocked– he hasn’t made a move to grope at you yet. His fingertips press into you so harshly you think they might bruise– so rough and needy, like it’s been years of waiting for him to paw at you like this. Maybe it has.
Your hands run down his body, over his shoulders and pecs and tensed abdomen. You don’t break the kiss while your fingers grip his belt tightly, and Gator lets out another groan into your mouth.
His hands dip a little lower, his fingers skimming under the hem of your sweatshirt, but that’s all he does. Fine, then– maybe all his big talk is just that. If you need to be the cleaver of what you’ve spent years convincing yourself is a normal, hate-hate relationship, then so fucking be it.
Your hands scrabble to undo his belt without looking, the starched denim of his jeans rough against your bare thighs.
Gator pulls away from you just long enough to catch his breath, his eyes hazy with lust as he looks up at you. “What’re you doin’?”
“Gonna fuck you,” you pant, surging forward to kiss him again. You finally make progress with his belt and nearly tear it open, but Gator’s not finished.
“Yeah?” he murmurs, one of his hands sliding up beneath your sweatshirt and settling flat on your back. “Thought you hated me.”
“I do,” you correct him, voice strained even now. You tear your lips from his to kiss down his neck, finger still working to pull his belt free. “I hate you so fucking much, Gator.”
You can almost hear his grin in his voice as he says. “Good. Just checking.”
His hands grip your thighs, and suddenly you’re in his arms, your legs wrapping automatically around his waist as he pulls you up with him as he stands.
“What are you doing?” you ask against the skin of his neck, your attention honed on leaving an obnoxiously big mark there.
“I’m not fuckin’ you on a couch,” Gator tells you dryly, and begins to carry you toward your bedroom like it’s second nature.
“Such a gentleman,” you mock him. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”
“I just want you spread out,” he says bluntly, his nose prodding into your hair as you continue to attack his throat. “Let’s not get things confused, baby.”
You give a muffled laugh against his Adam's apple.
When you make it to your bedroom, Gator actually throws you backward onto the bed, so hard you squeak when you hit the mattress with a bounce. “‘Course you got stuffed animals on here,” he drawls, moving over you on all fours. “You’re such a kid.”
“And you’re a heartless bastard,” you coo, your hands coming to rest on his chest. “They’re cute.”
With one hand, Gator sweeps your stuffed animals off the bed. “‘M not having them watching me.”
“You insecure, or something?” you tease, your voice a high pitch.
Gator’s eyes narrow into a glare. “Why don’t you put your hand in my pants and find out, sweetheart?”
“Take your shirt off,” you demand, refusing to let him know what the challenge in his eyes is doing to you. With him hanging over you like this, his broad body commanding your attention, you feel like you’re on fire.
“You’re pretty fuckin’ needy, aren’t you?” he goads, but he sits up and tugs his shirt over his head anyway.
“And you’re doin’ exactly what I told you to,” you point out, though the effect of the teasing is a little lost when your eyes fall to his bare chest.
You almost hate him just for looking as good as he does. The unfortunate side effect of the gym-bro identity he’s developed is that Gator’s had serious results. His pecs are sculpted, his stomach lean and toned, and his arms… well, if you weren’t seriously fucked before, you certainly are now. His biceps flex as he moves over you again, pulling you back into a harsh kiss. “Your turn,” he makes out when you break free. “Strip.”
“How romantic,” you croon. “What if I wanna keep everything on?”
Gator shakes his head. “Nope.”
You give him a look. “Excuse me?”
“Show me your tits,” he orders you. “I’m gonna see every inch of you.” When you still don’t move, he barks, “Now.”
“You know, your bossiness?” you hiss, fingers moving almost involuntarily to the hem of your sweatshirt, “One of your worst qualities.”
“It works, don’t it?” he huffs, watching as you struggle to free your arms. Impatient, he pulls back again and yanks you upward. “This is the ugliest fuckin’ sweatshirt I’ve ever seen.”
“Fuck you,” you breathe, and he drags it over your head and tosses it aside, baring you to the room. Your nipples perk up from the sudden chill, and the warmth in your gut builds as Gator takes you in hungrily. When he touches you again, he starts by smoothing down the hair he wrecked with your sweatshirt. And then those hands run over your shoulders and down your arms, soothing the goosebumps that haven’t gone away since the second he kissed you.
“Fuck,” he blurts out, staring unabashedly at your chest.
Your skin prickles under his stare, the vulnerability of it. You’re not afraid of Gator. You just can’t tell what he’ll do when his walls are down, and that’s more thrilling than anything.
Without any more delay, he cups your right breast and squeezes gently, like he’s testing the weight in his palm. You squirm a little, and he tells you, “Hold still.”
“Gator,” you make out, a little put off that this is taking so long. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Just shut the fuck up and let me touch you,” he says back, and kneads at your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple. “It’s the first time, sweetheart. Gotta enjoy it.”
Your breath hitches when he slaps lightly at your tender flesh, watching the movement with a smirk on his face. “You’ve got great tits, you know that?”
You shoot him a dry look. “What, first time you’ve ever seen a pair?”
He lifts his other hand and presses into both at once, massaging with a care you didn’t know he had in him. “Mouthy,” he observes, frowning. “You should quit that. Pants.”
“What about them?” you ask indignantly, watching the way he remains fascinated by your chest.
Gator’s eyes flick up to yours. “Get them off.”
“I suppose ‘please’ is a foreign concept to you,” you drawl, laying back against the comforter. In the back of your head, you register that you’re letting him order you around, and that under normal circumstances you would be completely revolted with the way you’re giving in. Right now, it feels like the least of your worries.
“I like to have all the manners comin’ from you.” Gator breathes as he moves over you again, his face appearing above yours. He kisses you once, briefly, and then starts drawing a line down the middle of your body with his lips– your chin, your throat, your sternum. He gets distracted at your chest and diverts to suck one of your nipples into his mouth, and you arch up into the touch, letting out an embarrassingly loud gasp.
Gator hums against your breast, satisfied by the sound. His teeth scrape gently over its peak, and your fingers curl in his hair in response.
“This doesn’t feel like fucking,” you mock him, though it comes out breathy and weak.
“Be nice,” Gator tells you flatly. “Or I’ll stop being nice.”
That’s ironic considering you can’t recall him ever starting.
Your fingers dip into the waistband of your shorts just as Gator’s lips reach your stomach, and he helps you work them down your legs, his broad hands smoothing over your skin until you’re completely bare and he chucks the shorts away. You shiver, the reality of being so exposed in front of him hitting you beneath the hazy lust. Your legs tense up involuntarily at the realization, your knees locking together.
Gator’s head snaps up, and that sight alone almost rips another moan from your throat. His hair is falling in his eyes, mussed from your grip. “Hey. Don’t fuckin’ hide from me.”
Your jaw clenches. “Why the hell should I trust you?” you ask, the question tearing from you before you can stop it.
His stare is absolutely wicked. “You spread your legs for all those other guys, don’t you? Doubt you trusted any ‘a them. Bet they didn’t even make you come.”
His mocking does nothing to quell your insecurity. “You’re an asshole, Gator,” you snap, pushing up on your elbows and drawing your legs away from him.
His hand reaches out and grips you around your ankle again, halting you. And then he says, his eyes intent upon your face, “I know you better than anyone. That’s why you should trust me.”
The words relax you without you meaning them to. Gator sees it, and he smiles a little– not quite devoid of arrogance, but something bordering on genuine.
And then he grips you by the ankles and props your legs up, eye-level with your cunt.
He doesn’t touch you at first– just looks.
“Gator–” you squirm a little, arching your back. From here, you can see the pleased expression on his face as he examines you, and something about the diligence in it is making it hard to stay focused. “Gator, either move or get back up here. I don’t care.”
“Just let me look at you, baby,” he throws back, nonplussed. One of his thumbs brushes against the skin around the center of you, and you shiver. “You’re so wet it’s unfair.”
“Stop staring at me, you pervert,” you make out, but the light touch is affecting you so much already that your argument sounds weaker than you mean it to. “It’s creepy.”
“Why?” he asks bluntly, that thumb guiding itself through your folds, parting you gently. “It’s pretty.”
Compliments are rare coming from Gator. You can probably count on one hand the number of times he’s legitimately offered you one. Which is probably why you’re trembling before he’s even touched you– not because you want him to so badly right now you can’t think straight.
“Aren’t you gonna ask me what I like?” you prod him, your voice low.
Gator’s face dips slightly, his eyes still intent upon the center of you. “Nope.”
You snort. “And they say chivalry’s dead. Do you– oh.”
At the first broad sweep of his tongue, every argument falls from your lips.
It’s fair to say you’ve been with a number of sexual partners. Not as many as Gator mocks you for, but you’re not what you would call naive to how sex should feel when it’s done right. You’ve had guys go down on you like they’re making out– slow and sensual and unhurried. You’ve had uncomfortable, oblivious experiences that ended in rolled eyes and faked orgasms. And you’ve had a few really stellar players, too– ones that don’t need to brag to tell you they know what they’re doing.
As in most things, Gator feels different.
It might be the eagerness with which he latches his mouth to your cunt, or the immediate pressure he adds without reprieve. But something about the intensity of the strokes of his tongue, the slight drag of his teeth, the way his nose presses against your clit, is unlike anything you’ve experienced before. Gator goes down on you like he’s starving for it– like he’s trying to consume you, to press himself so deeply against your heat there’s no chance of retrieval. He laps at your wetness, his tongue spearing inside you, and you moan louder, your back arching off the bed and your thighs squeezing either side of his face.
Harshly, he takes one broad hand and presses your right leg back to the mattress. He removes himself just enough to say, “Gimme some room to work here, alright?”
“Gator,” you breathe, overwhelmed.
“What?” he responds as he dives back in, sucking your clit into his mouth.
You let out a cry, forgetting what you’d meant to tell him. It was probably something derogatory. You wish you remembered.
“So fuckin’ responsive,” he laughs, the vibrations travelling along your center. “Can’t believe how wet you are, baby. I really turn you on that much?”
“Fuck off,” you pant, and Gator looks up at you through his brows.
“What’d I just say?” he goads you, and without preamble, slides one of his fingers inside you. “Be nice.”
You gasp, your hands fisting in the sheets. “Gator– fuck, Gator.”
He pumps his finger inside you, then adds another just as fast. It’s almost annoying how he can tell immediately how to curl them to hit the spot that always makes you writhe, but when you move too much for his taste, he uses his other hand to slide over your lower stomach and pin you to the bed. “Go ‘head and hold onto me, sweetheart,” he tells you, seeing how badly you want to move. “I know– I know. It’s a lot, baby, but you can take it.”
Your cheeks sting at the way he’s talking down to you, but you can’t formulate a scathing enough reply. Instead, you snake your hand down into his hair, clutching at the strands so hard it probably hurts.
“There you go,” he purrs, eyes on you as he lowers his mouth to your clit again, fingers still moving inside you. “That’s my good girl.”
The worst part is that he’s right– it is a lot. It’s too much, too fast, too far, but Gator doesn’t seem to care, and with the way you’re catapulting toward your orgasm, you can’t bring yourself to, either. Nothing about the way he laves and sucks at you, the way he nips gently at the apex of your core while his fingers make you bow off the bed with their consistent, unrelenting pace, is even pretending to be gentle. That’s not who Gator is– that’s not what he’s willing to give you. He’s always been this and only this– hard, rough, brutal where it hurts the best. What’s killing you even more than the overstimulating pressure is that you’re realizing in the back of your mind that he’s the best lay you’ve ever had.
“Fuck,” Gator mumbles against you, and retracts one of his hands to adjust himself in his jeans. “Jesus Christ, you taste good. Never had pussy this perfect before.”
You groan and grind your hips up against his face, and Gator makes a noise of approval deep in his throat. “Do that again.”
You don’t need to be told twice. Your hips chase his face as he presses harder into you, his fingers pumping faster and faster. “Fuck my face, baby. Come on— there you go. Give it to me.”
“Oh my God,” you pant as the coil inside you tightens and tightens, poised to snap. “Gator— Gator, right there, fuck—“ Your fingers clench in his hair, and he whines against you.
“Go ‘head, baby. Let go. Lemme see your pretty come face.”
Your eyes squeeze shut as your orgasm tears through you, and Gator doesn’t let up for a moment as he works you through it, mumbling how good you’re being, telling you to let him see it. By the time it finally breaks, your entire body is tingling with leftover energy, and Gators tongue is still working at your center.
“Gator,” you plead, your voice a defeated whine. “Too— too much. I’m sensitive.”
“You made a real fuckin’ mess down here,” he says gruffly in return, licking over you— cleaning you up, you realize. “You can do it. Hold still.”
Now that your walls are down again, you find it in you to start disobeying like you’re used to. You squirm against his grip, your hips bucking. Gator uses the hand on your stomach to press you further into the mattress, letting him finish his diligent work. When he’s finally satisfied with himself, he presses a messy kiss to your inner thigh and moves over you again.
“Still think I’m an asshole?” he asks, his smirk intolerably wide.
“Marginally less so,” you breathe, a little surprised, yourself.
Gator grins and lowers his head to kiss at your cheek, your neck. “Guess the only reason you’re always bitchin’ at me is you’re too pent up to do anything else, huh?”
Your eyes flatten as he sucks at your neck, your fingers twisting in his hair. “Call me a bitch again. See where it gets you.”
“Aw, don’t feel bad, baby,” he croons. “You’re too stressed, in’t that right? Need someone to work it outta ‘ya?”
“And here I was, thinking my attitude gets you hard,” you drawl, too spent to bother being humiliated by his words.
“Maybe it does,” he offers. “And maybe I like bein’ the one to get you to finally fuckin’ relax.”
“Mm, what every girl dreams about,” you tease him. “Sex being relaxing.”
“You bored?” he challenges, pulling back to raise a brow at you.
“Whole lotta talking going on,” your return evenly, pushing down the thrill his expression sends through you.
“You’re pretty fuckin’ insufferable, you know that?” he gripes, and you grin as your hands slide up his bare chest and push him backward so you can sit up.
“Says you,” you hum, shifting to sit cross-cross between his legs. “Pretty big talk for a guy who hasn’t pulled his dick out yet.”
“You gonna beg me?” he goads, his own grin growing.
“Over my cold, dead, rotting body,” you reply, your voice low and sultry.
Gator laughs and pushes off the bed, his fingers going for the zipper on his jeans. His eyes are on you as he shucks them down his legs and kicks them away, then follows with his boxers.
In one terrible second, the reason for every speck of arrogance in Gator clicks into place in your mind. He’s hung. Like, the kind of hung that you thought was a joke when rumors started circulating in high school. Every coy, teasing plan you’d had running through your head a moment ago curls up and dies, and your mouth goes dry as you stare at him in outrage.
“You goin’ dumb, sweetheart?” he asks you smugly.
You glare and point a finger toward his length. “Absolutely not.”
“What?”
“I can’t take that,” you shake your head, incredulous.
“Sure you can,” Gator waves you off, ego simmering in his eyes.
“Nuh-uh,” you scoff. “I’ll break. There’s no way that fits inside me.”
“Never know until you try,” he points out, crawling back onto the bed toward you. “I just warmed you up. You’ll be fine.”
“Gator—“
“Just shut up and lay back,” he complains, his face inches from yours. “I’m not gonna hurt you, sweetheart.”
He’s so uncannily good at that– saying things to you that put you immediately at ease, even while he relinquishes none of the control. Gator knows the formula of exactly how and when to push you, and he knows when it tips into too far. You didn’t think he had that sort of emotional intelligence in him, but somehow, even bare and exposed before him now, you’re not nervous.
Gator moves over you, his head lowering to kiss you again– slower and sweeter, like he knows you need the reassurance. There’s still that fire underneath it, that unkillable, tortuous want, but it’s settled somehow in the way he’s pressing your bodies together.
“Condom?” he mumbles against your lips.
You scour your brain, trying to remember if you replaced the box of rubbers in your nightstand after the last time your dad raided your room looking for contraband. “Mm– I don’t know if I have one.”
You roll your eyes at his expression. “I don’t actually put out that much, Gator.”
“You don’t have a single fuckin’ condom?” he deadpans. “What are you, some kind of virgin?”
“Just check the nightstand,” you snap.
Gator crawls off of you and reaches out to rifle through your top drawer. A laugh escapes his throat, and he withdraws a familiar, bright-purple object. “Now, hang on a sec. What’s all this?”
You groan and press your eyes shut. “Oh my God, just kill me.”
Gator flicks the vibrator on where he kneels straddling you on the bed, studying the way it jumps in his hand. “You think about me when you use this?”
“Gator Tillman is holding my vibrator,” you mumble to yourself. “I’ve died and gone to hell and this is it.”
“It’s kinda cute,” he says observantly. “Little. You want me to help you out with this?”
“Your window for putting on a condom and fucking me is closing,” you inform him dryly.
He heaves a sigh, mischief in his eyes as he smiles down at you. “Fine. Some other time.” He flicks the vibrator off and sets it on the nightstand, then rifles through your drawer some more until he finds a single foil packet. “Fuckin’ finally.”
“Oh, and whose fault is it for taking so long?” you snap, pressing up onto your elbows as he sits back and tears the wrapper open with his teeth.
“You know, you’re not real good at this whole ‘patience’ thing, baby,” he tells you mildly.
You watch as he rolls the condom over his length and pumps himself once, twice. “I can’t believe I’m actually doing this.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’ll make it fit. You’ll be fine.”
“I mean having sex with you,” you retort flatly.
“Oh, please,” he huffs. “You know you’ve been dreamin’ about this for years.”
“I fucking hate you,” you remind him, eyes narrowing. “I’ve spent my entire life hating your guts. And now you’re naked in my bed. I feel like I’m on drugs.”
“I’m not that surprised,” he tosses back, staring down at you spread out beneath him. “Been flirtin’ with you since I was twelve. Figured we’d get here one day.”
“You were not flirting with me,” you counter, the words sending color to your cheeks. “I think what you were doing qualifies as harassment.”
“You think I talk about every girl’s tits like that?” He arches a brow.
“I know you do,” you hiss, slapping his thigh. “That’s what all disgusting, horny, deadbeats do.”
“Uh-huh. I’ve been droolin’ over you for years,” Gator snorts. “You’re pretty fuckin’ dense if you couldn’t tell, baby. Everybody else could. My friends gave me so much shit about it in high school.” Your cheeks burn redder, and he grins. “Yeah, you fuckin’ knew it, too. Your face always went red just like that.”
Determined not to let him hold it over you, you push further upright. One hand curling against his chest, you halt his movement over you and push him back into a seated position. “Is that why you’re so hard right now?” you coo, angling your head. “‘Cause I’m so affected? And you’re so above it all?”
He studies you, his eyes tracking the movement of your lips. “Never said I was.”
“Yeah, you look pretty fuckin’ desperate, too,” you murmur, your hand tracing gently over the lines of his abdomen. “I better help you out, huh?”
“Lay back,” he says again, the words low and gruff.
Your lips curve up into a smile, and slowly, you shake your head. “You had your turn– now let me have mine.”
His brows raise in surprise, but he doesn’t object.
Cautiously, you extract yourself from beneath him, pressing up on your knees to straddle him again. Your hand comes hesitantly down to touch his length, and you watch Gator’s jaw clench as you close your fingers around him.
“Sensitive, huh?” you croon, and he glares at you.
“You wanna move your fuckin’ hand?” he drawls. “You keep lookin’ at me like that, I’m not gonna last too long.”
You huff a low laugh and give him a testing squeeze, moving your hand up and down. He really is huge– so big you have no idea if you’re going to be capable of your next step. That tinge of uncertainty finds you again, but it’s just as quickly soothed by the feeling of Gator’s warm hand spanning your thigh, smoothing over it. It’s enough to encourage you to rise higher on your knees and notch him at your entrance, gritting your teeth at the sensation.
Gator hums at the feeling, too, looking up at you with smug admiration. “You gonna ride me, baby?”
“Shut up right now,” you mumble, eyes squeezing shut.
He laughs roughly. “Come on– sit down. I’ve got ‘ya.”
With deliberate slowness, you begin to sink down, letting out a pathetic little noise at the stretch.
“Good girl,” Gator coos, drawing out the word. “You’ve got it. You can take it all.”
You halt your progress to give yourself a moment to adjust, the stretch of him inside you walking the delicate line between pleasure and pain.
“Breathe,” Gator orders you. “Breathe, baby.” You can hear the smile in his voice as you suck in a bigger breath and let it out. “There she is. Look at you, baby– face all screwed up. All stretched out on my dick. Keep going. I want you lower.”
You whimper and keep going, your hands finding purchase on his shoulders while one of his grips your waist to help you down. For a moment, it’s too much, and you stop again.
A sharp smack sounds, and the back of your thigh stings as Gator lands a slap to it. When your eyes flutter open in surprise, you find him glaring.
“Hey. I said lower,” he tells you. “Take it. Don’t make me do it myself, sweetheart.”
“Fuck. You,” you make out, your breath coming in pants.
He smacks your thigh again, and you cry out. “Drop the fuckin’ attitude,” he snaps. “You don’t want me to flip you around and take care of it for you. Lower.”
“It’ll hurt,” you say through gritted teeth.
“You were built for me,” he murmurs, the hand on your waist coming up to push your hair behind your ears. “You’ll be fine.”
Your hands tighten on his shoulders, and you sink lower, inch by tortuous inch. It drags another sound from your throat, and Gator preens. “Thaaat’s it. Good fuckin’ girl. You’re doin’ so good for me, baby. You’re gonna get it all the way, huh?”
Your face burns, but the challenge gets to you like it always does. Jaw clenching, you shove yourself the rest of the way down, ignoring the jolt of pain and the way you gasp outright. It fades quickly enough into ecstasy at the sheer size of him– the fullness so intense it makes you wonder if any sex will ever be the same again.
When you manage to come to, finally adjusted to the pleasurable burn, Gator’s hands are brushing over your cheeks, smoothing down your body, keeping you centered. “There she is,” he hums again, a smile blooming all over his face. “Knew you’d fuckin’ do it for me. You’re perfect. So pretty like this– my own little cocksleeve.”
“‘M not,” you argue, your face falling forward into the crook of his neck and shoulder.
“Sure you are,” he counters, hands slipping around to hold you close. “So proud of you. You took it so well, sweetheart.”
You whimper– at the words or at the stretch of him, you don’t know. You feel a little drunk on it– the headiness of being this close to him, the rush of anger at being so demeaned. You can’t tell if you love it or hate it.
“You’re gonna move now,” he tells you, hands slipping down to your hips. “You’ve got it. Go slow.”
You don’t have the faculty to disagree. Carefully, you begin to roll your hips, Gator’s big hands guiding you as you grind back and forth over him. Desperately, you find his lips and press them to yours, cupping his face like he’s some kind of precious to you. You clench around him, and he moans into your mouth.
The drag of him inside you is just the right side of too much. You move faster, chasing your pleasure and his, letting him push and pull you how he wants to. It feels like worship, your bodies working together like this. The fit is seamless, despite how unfathomable that would have seemed to you a day ago.
“Your little boyfriends teach you how to do this?” he mocks you breathlessly, one of his hands tangling in your hair and tugging your head back so he can bite at your throat. “Were you this much of a slut for them?”
“Shut up,” you breathe.
“Bet you learned all on your own,” he goes on. “None ‘a them fucked you like this. They made you do it all yourself, didn’t they? That’s why you’re so perfect for me now.”
You tangle your fingers in his hair and tug, temper flaring in you. “Quit fucking talking about them,” you bite. “I’m fucking you now, aren’t I?”
“Damn straight,” Gator huffs, his breath hot on your throat. “Best fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever had. Shoulda been with me the whole time.”
“I’m not with you,” you gasp out. “I’m just– fuck, Gator– I’m just…”
“Just what?” he challenges, nibbling at your pulse point.
You squeeze your eyes shut. “Having a– oh– momentary– lapse of sanity.”
He laughs roughly, pushing his hips up to meet yours. “We’ll see about momentary. Ah, fuck– squeeze me like that again. Jesus, you’re tight.”
You let out a keening sound as you do as he asks. “Gate–”
He lets out a groan, arms squeezing tighter around you at the nickname. “Tell me how much you hate me.”
You fumble for words a little, your concentration completely shot. “What?”
“Talk,” he breathes. “Tell me. I know you want to.”
“You don’t know anything,” you pant. “You don’t know me. You don’t have any idea how much I– ah!– how much I hate that we’re doing this.”
“You don’t look like you hate it,” he murmurs.
“I do,” you nod, your eyes squeezing shut. “I fucking hate it. I hate you more than anything. You make my skin crawl.”
Gator groans.
“You’re disgusting,” you go on. “I hate the way you talk to me and the way you treat girls. I hate that you can’t live without your stupid fucking vape. I hate the way you gel your hair.” Your breath hitches as he thrusts up into you, and your rhythm falters. “You’re arrogant. You’re self-serving. You’re– fuck, Gator– you’re a prick. You’re the worst kind of asshole, and I wish I’d never met you.”
“You’re so pretty when you lie,” he moans, reaching a hand up to tweak your nipple.
You take a jagged breath. “I hate that you’re gonna hold this over me till I die.”
“This?” he scoffs, but his voice is a little weak, a little breathy. “Nah, baby. This is just for me. Can’t have anyone else knowin’ I got to see you like this.”
“Gator,” you eke out, his reassurance hitting you somewhere low and deep.
“Yeah, baby?”
You don’t know how to say it– how to get what you want without giving him his. You don’t know how to say that you need to be closer to him, to fuse your bodies together, to go over the brink with him and not care for an hour or two what sharp rocks are at the bottom of this pit you’re willingly throwing yourself into. You need him deeper, harder, more.
“More?” he mumbles, as if taking the words straight out of your head. He’s always been so good at reading you, for better or worse. It’s how he knows now to make sure you’re ready, to hear you say it even in spite of all the dominance, all the insults. It’s that fact that makes you wonder just how meaningless all this really is to him.
You nod frantically, and that’s all it takes for Gator’s hands to grip you again and lay you back down on the covers, still joined. He hitches your legs up to lock around your waist, and then he’s drilling back into you, his hips slamming into yours.
“Gator!” you gasp out, your nails clawing at his back.
He moans, taken over just as much as you are by the feeling of you squeezing him. “That’s it, baby. Fuck– so fuckin’ tight. Perfect little doll for me.”
Every thrust into your body drags another cry from your throat as you rake at his back, the drag of him against your walls driving you out of your mind. “Fuck– fuck– fuck, Gate, I need–”
His hand is already there– moving down between you, finding your clit as he keeps at his unrelenting pace. “You beg so– ah– so pretty.”
You arch your back up into him as his fingers circle your clit. “Gate, I’m close. I’m– oh, fuck.”
“Can’t talk so well, huh?” he goads, pace increasing. You tip your head back at the new pressure, your mouth dropping open. “That’s okay, baby. I know I’m… know I’m fuckin’ you dumb.”
“Come with me,” you whimper, scratching at his shoulders. It’s all you need– all you’ve been able to think about for minutes now.
Gator’s head droops, and he hisses out, “Fuck.”
“Please,” you whisper– the first time you’ve said it all night. “Need it. Need– you.”
Gator kisses you hard, halting your words like he wants to seal them into permanence. His pace increases until you’re panting into each other’s mouths, and the warmth in your core is growing and growing, and you’re spiralling toward your peak–
You throw your head back and cry out his name as your second orgasm hits you, and it’s only seconds before Gator follows after you, spitting out curses with an intensity to match how he’s pounding into you.
He works you through it, your heart beating in your throat, your bodies getting closer and closer with every slowing thrust. Eventually, you’re chest to chest, Gator’s bare skin pressed to yours, his weight an intoxicating blanket that does nothing to ease your exhaustion.
Your fingers slowly release their vice grip on the skin of his back, your hands sliding up hesitantly to tangle in his hair. Gator lets out a defeated little noise into your neck as you scratch at his scalp.
For a single, deluded second, you feel like you want to stay there forever. You know this has to end– know Gator’s bound to pull away any moment now, to toss you some shitty comment about not getting attached, shuck his clothes on, and walk back out of your heart with one more thing to hold over you forever. It’s a problem of yours– you’ve always hoped for more from him. For better. And even if you know this meant nothing, if you’re trying to cement that knowledge into stone in your head, a tiny, insane part of you wouldn’t be upset if maybe he cared, too.
Which is why, when he finally does move, it surprises you more than anything tonight.
Gator pulls out carefully and shifts his weight so he’s not crushing you, but his hands don’t relinquish their grip on your body. Instead, they slide slowly over it, spanning your ribs, holding you delicately. And then his mouth lowers, and he presses a soft kiss to your sternum.
Your breath feels caught in your throat as he begins to place a line of careful kisses down your abdomen, his fingers brushing at your ribs and your waist. He’s touching you reverently, haltingly, like he’s mapping the expanse of your skin, worshipping the warmth of your form. It’s not sexual, and that’s perhaps what shocks you the most. It’s diligent. Curious. Purposeful.
He mumbles something against your stomach that you can’t make out.
“Gator,” you make out, your voice hoarse.
He moves back over you again, finding your face. Drops another kiss to your throat, your jaw, and then your cheek.
“What are you doing?” you whisper.
He stares down at you, his eyes half-lidded. “Treatin’ you good.”
You fight the urge to correct his grammar and focus on the words– the simplicity of them. “Why?”
Gator doesn’t blink. “‘Cause I never said I hated you.”
You reach down and grip his forearms, feeling the corded muscle there. You roll your eyes. “Come on. Be serious.”
“I am,” he insists, voice low.
The statement drags a scoff from your throat, and you push at his arms to tell him to get off.
“I am,” he repeats, shifting so you can slide out from beneath him. He remains on your bed, watching as you get unsteadily to your feet and walk across the room to get your robe.
“This isn’t real, Gator,” you argue, but whether you’re convincing yourself or him is lost on you. “You don’t mean any of this. You’re just… high on sex, or something.”
“I know what the hell I'm talkin’ about,” he snaps. “You’re tryna’ tell me that wasn’t fuckin’ incredible?”
You clench your jaw, finishing off your robe tie harshly. “I’m telling you I’m not gonna fall for this, and neither should you.”
“What’s there to fall for?” he challenges, watching as you scoop his pants off the floor and toss them onto the bed for him. “I’m bein’ serious. Let me take you out tomorrow. We’ll get dinner.”
You huff. “No.”
“Lunch.”
“Gator—“
“Coffee,” he proposes. “Come on, baby. You know you want to.”
“I’m not playing this game with you,” you cut him off. “We’re not together, Gator. We fucked. That’s it. This was a one-time thing.”
“I like you,” he says baldly, rising off the bed to start dressing. “And I know you like me, doll. Don’t see what sense there is fightin’ it.”
You squeeze your eyes shut, heaving a breath. “Don’t call me that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ll start thinking you mean it,” you say in challenge.
Gator buttons his jeans and puts his hands on his hips. “Good. Something’s gotta get it through your thick head.”
“Nothing good happens when I let myself believe a word out of your mouth,” you return mildly, not rising to the bait. “Last time I was stupid enough to fall for you, all I got was humiliated and hurt. I won’t do that again.”
“Who says it won’t work out different this time?” he proposes.
“I say it won’t,” you tell him flatly.
He waves a hand. “You’re a cynic. I want a second opinion."
You hold back the aggravation in your tone and say firmly, “I don’t want to date you, Gator. You’d be horrible for me.”
“How do you know?” he fires back. “I’ve never been your boyfriend before.”
“I know because—” you sigh, frustrated. “You just are what you are, Gator. I can’t fix that. You’re always gonna be the guy that put gum in my hair in middle school and crashed my first date.”
He arches a brow. “I’ll also always be the guy that beat up Brian Murphy in senior year ‘cause he called you ugly.”
You flush a little at the memory— the embarrassment. The way Gator had looked as he sat outside the principal’s office, scowling at you like it was your fault he had a bloody lip. You guessed it sort of was.
Gators eyes narrow at your expression. “So what, I just can’t ever grow?”
“You can,” you correct him, tossing him his shirt, “But you won’t.”
“Three years ago, I wouldnt’ve fucked ‘ya like I just did,” he informs you, pointing to your rumpled bed. “That’s fuckin’ growth, sweetheart.”
You fight to keep your tone even. “One orgasm doesn’t just change a person like that. You’re still who you were when you walked into this house. I’m still me.”
“Yeah, and we fit pretty good, don’t we?” he drawls.
“You don’t like me.” You brace your hands on your back, determined to get this point across. “You want to… conquer me.”
Gator walks toward you evenly, sizing you up. He doesn’t stop until he’s towering over you again. “Maybe I like that I can’t.”
“And when you finally do?” you challenge, emotion working its way into your flat tone. “When I finally fall for you again? What are you gonna do when the chase isn’t interesting to you anymore?”
“Then we’ll get a little kinkier in bed,” he offers dryly, lifting a hand to brush a knuckle over your cheek.
The touch stills you for a moment, but it doesn’t quell your aggravation. “Stop it,” you roll your eyes, batting his hand away. “You suck, Gator. Just get out of here and we can pretend this never happened.”
You turn away, but Gator doesn’t let you get far. Gripping your arm, he turns you back toward him and hauls your face to his, locking you in another deep, pressing kiss.
You can’t help it— you’re only so strong. You forget your fight and sink into it, relishing the feeling of his tongue sweeping your mouth— the feeling you can't help but stupidly hope you’ll feel again.
When Gator pulls back, your expression must betray you, because he smirks. “You tell me you didn’t feel anything just then, and I'll let you go.”
“I—“ You fumble for words, shaking your head as you stare up at him.
“Go ahead,” Gator goads you, nodding his head to you. “Say it.”
You wrench your arm out of his grip and glare at him, wishing you had the faculty to just get it over with and lie. “Just because something feels good doesn’t mean it’s right,” you spit. “It’s not a reason to throw yourself into something blindly.”
“It’s the only reason,” he scoffs. “And you’d see that if you weren’t so fuckin’ scared.”
“I’m not–”
“It's alright, baby,” he interrupts you, lifting his hand to your mouth again, brushing at the corner. “I get it. You’re scared I’m gonna make you feel too good, right? Scared to let yourself have what you really want for once?”
You step back, wishing your chin wasn’t trembling as you answer him. “I’m scared you’ll end up just like your daddy, and I’ll be too obsessed with you to see it.”
Gator’s face shifts slightly– hardens. “That’s not gonna happen.”
“How do you know?” you press him.
“‘Cause I’m not my daddy,” he says firmly, his voice lowering like he can’t bear for anyone else to hear it. “And you’re not like my mom.”
You still. Gator never talks about his mom. He hasn’t once brought her up in the time you’ve known him. But you’ve heard the whispers– everyone in town has. Linda Tillman, who ran off and left her boy– Linda Tillman, who Roy beat on till she just couldn’t take it anymore. Linda Tillman, who was the one and only person Gator might have loved more than his father.
She’s a cautionary tale in the back of your head– a lesson about what happens to women who fall for men like that. But, for all his faults, do you really believe Gator is one of those men? Do you believe there’s a chance in him to care more about something than proving himself– to care about you, in that stupid, deluded way you’d always secretly wished he would?
Gator must see the deliberation in your face, the desperate, feeble hope in you, because his lips soften, turn somehow sweeter as he stares back at you, not waiting for an answer. “Here’s what we’re gonna do,” he explains to you quietly, stepping forward and reaching up to cup your face. This time, you don’t stop him. “I’m gonna take you out. We’re gonna put our weapons down and talk. Really talk, alright? I’ll tell ‘ya whatever the fuck you wanna know. And you can keep bitchin’ about how stupid you think all this is for as long as you want.”
Your lips move to disagree, but he shushes you.
“And I’m gonna convince you,” he promises. “I’m gonna win you over. Hold out for as long as you want to, doll. I’ll get through to ‘ya eventually.”
“Gator–” you start, but he silences you with another kiss, deep and consuming.
He doesn’t pull back far. He’s only millimeters from your face when he whispers, “Just lemme take you out, okay?” Let me show you how good I can be to ‘ya.”
You make a noise of disagreement, your eyes shut as you take in the sensation of him– always so abrasive, so difficult to swallow. Gator Tillman has never had any difficulty commanding the entirety of your attention.
“You want me to get on my knees for you, doll?” he offers, his smile spreading as your resistance gives way under his hands and lips. “‘Ya liked that before.”
You can’t help it– you huff a laugh against his lips, and Gator grins. “There she is.”
“You’re so fucking annoying,” you inform him, allowing your hands to come to rest on his bare chest, still blazing with heat.
Gator kisses you again, his smile searing against you. “Yes?” he surmises, though you’re certain by now he’s already torn the answers from your hands, already seen through your unwillingness and plunged through to the part of you that wants him with a desperation.
So you stare into Gator’s hard, dark eyes, softened in pursuit of you, and tell him, “Fine.”
Guys tell me why I'm so like hyper focused on Steve just being like a stubborn prick, who won't let himself cum until you have? And like he's physically shaking, panting, giving himself like a pep talk?
You feel the tremor start in his thighs first, it's this finest, insistent quiver that slowly works its way up through his hips and deep into the rigid line of his spine. He’s buried deep, so fucking deep inside you that you can feel every desperate hitch of his breath as he thrusts, but he’s so far gone trying to hold himself above you. His jaw's clenched. Sweat is sliding down his temple. His hands are fisted into the sheets on either side of your head, knuckles turning white, like he’s literally trying to holding himself in place through sheer force and fucking willpower.
"Steve," you gasp, arching up against him, and he shudders at the moment - like actually shakes - but doesn’t dare move because he know what will happen of he does.
"Not yet," he moans out, voice long gone, you can feel the strain in it, the ragged edge as it sits lower than normal. "Not - fuck - not until you"
He’s started panting now, these open-mouthed, messy gasps for air against your shoulder, and you watch his eyes squeeze shut, his brow is strunched in this almost pained state of concentration. His hip twitches, just once, an involuntary movement he didn't plan for and he bites down on his lower lip with a string of curses as his forehead drops against yours.
"Come on, Harrington," he mutters to himself, like a prayer and a scolding mixed into one. "Come on. Hold it together. Just - just hold it"
He’s vibrating now, all that strength is fraying apart at the seams, every muscle is clenched tight and trembling with the effort of trying to keep himself at the edge. His chest heaves again, a shaky breath escaping his lips as he rocks into you, just barely but enough that his whole body jerks like he’s been electrocuted. A strangled whine catching in the back of his throat.
"God, you feel..." He cuts himself off with another rough exhale, hips stuttering against yours again, losing the battle to sink into you further inch by inch. "I’m not - I’m not gonna" He swallows the lump in his throat and you feel his cock throb inside you to match. "Not before you. Not a fucking chance."
on your mind | steve harrington
part one: the unspoken rule of apartment 4b
pairing: steve harrington x reader
word count: 5.9k
warnings: 18+ mdni (male and female masturbation, vibrator use)
includes: roommate!steve, freak4freak, a little mutual jealousy, a little bit of pervy!steve, but also pervy!reader tbh, tiny mention of bisexual!reader, steve gets hard over chicken parmesan
summary: steve can't help but notice how quiet you are when you bring guys home and he finds himself fixated on your pleasure more than he should be. but when he comes home during lunch one day he's in for a surprise when he finds out just how loud you really can be.
a/n: i actually don't know what to say about this other than enjoy and prepare yourself for part two. as always thank you to lid @tinfoileddd who lets me pick her brain and expand on the random ideas i send her. this wouldn't have came to life without her <3
masterlist
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Steve Harrington prided himself on being a considerate guy.
Which meant his roommate telling him that they’re going on a date tomorrow night was all he needed to know. He was considerate enough to read between the lines and vacate the apartment for the evening with no questions asked.
It was an unspoken agreement between the two of them and he was grateful his roommate extended the same courtesy when he mentioned going out with someone– especially when his said roommate is a woman.
Steve had never imagined himself having to live with a roommate, especially a woman that wasn’t his significant other, but coaching and teaching sex-ed to a bunch of middle schoolers didn’t pay shit, and he couldn’t stand living with his parents anymore. So when one of the few people besides him out of the rag-tag group of people he called friends that had stayed in Hawkins mentions something about getting a place together he figures– why not?
He’d known you for years, had experienced too many near death experiences with you, and he also knew you were looking for any excuse to get out of the damn near slum of an apartment you were living in then. So, on a bright sunny Saturday morning in April the two of you sign the lease for what has now been your home for a little over a year.
Living with each other was a lot easier than either of you thought it was going to be. Shared chore lists, weekly movie nights, eating dinner together, learning each other’s little quirks– it was all very domestic.
So domestic that sometimes your lines of reality and fantasy blurred and sometimes you’d have to remind yourself that Steve was not your boyfriend and just your best friend. Which usually happened a couple times a month when he’d casually mention that he had a date and so you’d be the good roommate you are and let him have his alone time and then the following week you’d just so happen to have a date also.
Which is how you’ve ended up with Eric breathing heavily into your ear as he pounds into you with such a hurry that you think maybe he wants this to be over with faster than you do. Your bedframe repeatedly hits the wall as you count the ceiling tiles above you and it’s not until you hear him groan something along the lines of i’m cumming that you let out a fake gasp and then he’s rolling off of you without as much as a second glance.
He says he’ll call you tomorrow.
You know he more than likely won’t and that’s more than fine with you.
Steve strolls through the door near midnight, figuring thats plenty enough time for you two to do whatever, and for the guy to leave without there being any awkward introductions. Thankfully he’s right and he’s greeted with you sitting on the couch, freshly showered and in your pajamas, with what he can only assume is your leftovers from dinner in your lap.
He plops down onto the couch beside you with a sigh and you immediately shove the styrofoam container of lasagna towards him. “Want some? It’s from Enzo’s.”
“Enzo’s?” Steve questions, eyebrows raised in surprise. “He must have really wanted to impress you,” he states, grabbing the fork and shoving a piece in his mouth without a second thought. “Did it work?”
“No,” you reply, taking the fork back from him and splitting what’s left down the middle for the two of you to share. “Should have ended the date after dinner was over.”
Steve doesn’t say anything, but he knows what you’re alluding to, and he just nods understandingly at you as he takes his turn with the fork. The two of you didn’t necessarily talk about your sex lives, it was implied when either of you had mentioned going on a date and that you needed the apartment to yourself, but neither of you sat here and talked in detail about the latest orgasm you’d had, but if Steve had any inkling, he was pretty sure the guys you brought home weren’t giving you any.
The thing about your unspoken agreement with Steve about dates and bringing people home was that it wasn’t fool proof. Sometimes the two of you would go out without any expectations of bringing someone home. Then one thing leads to another and suddenly there’s someone trailing in behind either of you and the sound of a bedroom door slamming. It didn’t happen often enough to where it would be an issue, but it happened enough that Steve, while he wasn’t trying to be a creep, was being observant and had seemed to notice the lack of noise from you.
He’d quickly put on music when he’d hear the sound of your drunken giggles echoing down the hall and then a much deeper voice accompanying yours, but the times when you come home long after he’d gone to bed and you end up waking him up with your loud footsteps and hushes to the mystery man– those times he shamelessly listens.
It seems to be the same variation of sounds and actions every time– the guy trying to be all suave with you, your headboard hitting the wall in rapid succession for a short amount of time, some curses from the guy, and then the sound of the front door slamming shut. Not a single peep out of you the whole time and at first Steve thinks you’re just being considerate, that you’d made the decision to bring someone home while he was here so you’re just being extra quiet, but he also knows that sometimes no matter how hard you try, staying quiet during sex is sometimes impossible.
He figures you’re bound to slip up after a while and he’ll hear a moan or a little dirty talk bleed through the walls, but it never does, except for that one guy you brought home that would not stop with the dirty talk and kept asking you who’s pussy this was. Needless to say Steve ended up putting on music that night.
And not to toot his own horn, but he knew what it sounded like when a woman was experiencing pleasure, and from what he could tell those guys weren’t getting you off. While he can’t account for the times he isn’t in the apartment, he can tell from your demeanor when he comes home that those times aren’t particularly stellar either.
Your less than blissed out state as you sit next to him on the couch, sharing your leftover lasagna with him, it proves his point.
But Steve doesn’t say anything about your lack of post sex glow and how these guys should make it their priority to make you feel good. He doesn’t want to overstep, doesn’t want to cross any lines and potentially make things weird between the two of you, even if he’s a little more concerned with how other guys are treating you in bed than he should be.
Instead he takes the last bite of his portion of the lasagna and extends an olive branch, an out if you ever needed it, because again he cares about you more than he should.
“You know if you’re on a date and he’s weird or making you uncomfortable or even if you just want to come home– you can call me. No questions asked, I'll come get you. I’m almost always at Eddie’s or at Slinky’s having a beer.”
You give him a soft smile, trying to ignore the way his words make your heart do a traitorous thing, like the idea of him being willing to drive across town to come and take you home doesn’t make whatever you feel towards him that much more complicated.
“Thanks Steve,” you reply, eyes focused on the little bit of lasagna left instead of him.
“Of course,” he responds, slowly standing up from the couch. “Think I’m gonna go to bed,” his eyes traipse over you, waiting for you to look up at him, and when you finally do he smiles in that endearing way that makes your chest ache. “Goodnight.”
“Night.”
You hear his bedroom door close and you’re left sitting on the couch with the now empty takeout container in your lap wondering how much longer you can go on with this act. How much longer can you continue to bring home these guys that don’t know your clit from your nipple and act like the man you actually want isn’t thirty feet away.
You always get in your head like this afterwards, especially when Steve comes home and you’re absolutely buzzing on the inside with want, but the one thing you want– you can’t have.
The couch creaks under you as you get up and make the decision to leave the takeout container on the coffee table, claiming you’ll take care of it in the morning. As you pad down the hall and past Steve’s room you hear his muffled voice behind his door and you’re not meaning to eavesdrop, but the sickeningly sweet tone that bleeds out under the door has you frozen in place.
“Yeah, yeah– I know it’s late and I’m sorry, but I just couldn’t get you out of my mind.”
“Your number was burning a hole in my pocket from the moment you gave it to me tonight. I couldn't wait to hear your voice again.”
“I had a really good time tonight and I’d like to see you again if you’re up for it?”
“Yeah? Great. How about dinner next Friday?”
“Can’t wait. I’ll call you later with the details.”
That all too familiar sinking sensation settles deep in your gut and before Steve can figure out you were listening you dart across the hall and into your room. The door slams shut behind you with no regard for the pictures on your wall and before you know it you’re burying your face into your pillow. He’d met someone while he was out tonight and you know you have absolutely no room to talk, no leg to stand on when it came to however you were feeling, you’d been on a date tonight, brought a guy home and had sex, if you could call it that.
Steve was allowed to do whatever he wanted to, and you knew that, it’s just that you don’t think you can handle another failed date on your end to fill that ache in your heart.
The next morning you take the initiative to call Eric before he doesn’t and the second date is set for Saturday.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
A couple weeks later you manage to score a day off during the week, which meant you had the apartment to yourself.
Steve had thought it was weird how eager you were to send him off to work this morning, in fact majority of the time when you manage to get a day off during the week you’re begging him to play hooky and spend the day with you, but this morning you were nearly pushing him out the door.
He tried not to think too much of it, maybe you just wanted some alone time, or maybe you were inviting Eric over. He had spent the night the last time you went out, which Steve thought was strange, considering you never let guys sleep over, but the mid breakfast meeting between the two men had been interesting to say the least.
As you walked into the kitchen that morning you found Steve sitting at the little table eating his food with your plate across from him– eggs made just how you like, orange juice in your favorite cup, and toast still hot to the touch. It wasn’t an unusual sight by any means, but what was unusual was you having company in the morning. So he doesn’t even think to make sure you’re alone when he hears you enter the kitchen, eyes not even looking up from his plate, before he blurts out – was he any better this time?
Eric awkwardly clears his throat from behind you and Steve looks up wide-eyed and slightly embarrassed. Before Steve can even begin to spit out an apology Eric mumbles I should get going and it’s an awkward thirty seconds as he gathers his jacket from your room and walks out the front door, because you don’t even try to get him to stay and Steve continues eating his eggs, now content with the departure of the man from your shared apartment.
Steve figured after that debacle there was no way Eric would be back around, but if he knew Steve wasn’t going to be there today, well there was a chance, and it bothers Steve more than he’d like to admit. Either way though, Steve was going to find out what was going on back at home, because by the time second period rolled around he realized he’d forgotten his change of clothes for baseball practice tonight. There was no way he was going to be out there on that field in slacks and tie, especially when in true Indiana fashion, summer had arrived early and it was sweltering already in May. He’d just run home on his lunch break and grab some clothes and be right back– no big deal.
He’d even called you before he left to give you a heads up that he was coming home soon, but there was no answer, and so he thinks that maybe his little spiral over Eric potentially being there was for nothing and you probably were out shopping.
When his pickup truck pulls into his unofficially assigned parking spot at home and your black sedan is in its usual spot next to his– his mind conjures up a million different reasons as to why you hadn’t answered the phone earlier. None of them are good and frankly majority of them involve Eric and he chooses to ignore the alarms going off in his head about how he shouldn’t care this much about you fucking another guy.
His eyes do a quick sweep of the parking lot, he doesn’t know what Eric drives, so he really doesn’t even know what he’s looking for, but Steve feels like he has crazy intuition and he’s expecting the vehicle to glow like a fucking beacon the second his eyes land on it.
The search is of course futile.
His wristwatch lets him know he only has twenty minutes left until he needs to be back at the school and with the hope of not walking through the front door to find Eric balls deep in you– Steve reluctantly gets out of the truck and walks towards apartment 4B.
For the first time ever in his life– Steve knocks on his own front door. Not because he’s forgotten his key, but because he’s afraid of what might be going down on the other side of this couple inches of wood.. He gives it a minute and when there’s no response or the sound of two people scrambling to get dressed, he shoves his key in the lock and slowly opens the door.
The living room comes into view as the door fully swings open and to Steve’s surprise it’s exactly as he remembers it when he left this morning– your favorite blanket draped over the back of the couch, his glasses that he claims he doesn’t need on the coffee table, and some of the various VHS tapes that Steve had nabbed back from his Family Video days in a pile on the side table.
The apartment is eerily quiet save for the hum of the refrigerator and Steve comes to the conclusion that one of your friends has come and picked you up, because when you’re home it’s obvious. There’s always music playing or the TV is loudly playing some show you aren’t even watching– your presence is always known and right now all that lingers is reminders of you.
He doesn’t think much more of it as he wanders down the hall and towards his room, but the sound that bounces off your four walls and through your door has Steve stunned and his feet cemented to the floor.
“Oh my god!”
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
From the moment you woke up this morning you’d been buzzing with anticipation, finally having the apartment to yourself in god knows how long, the new toy you’d picked up the other day burning a hole in your bedside drawer, and the fact that you haven’t had a good orgasm in ages– it had you wound tighter than a drum.
It didn’t help that you’d slightly been edging yourself all morning, refusing to touch yourself, but constantly thinking about how good it was going to feel once you did. You could have jumped right into your bed and shoved your hand down your pants as soon as Steve left this morning, but this was more fun, and you knew the payoff for waiting would be worth it.
It’s not until you find yourself squeezing your thighs together as you fold laundry that you finally cave.
You grab your new vibrator from the drawer and get comfy on your bed as your heart nearly beats out of your chest from how worked up you are without even touching yourself yet. You’re still in your pajamas, a big t-shirt and shorts, but you keep them on to tease yourself just a little longer. The feeling of your fingertips tracing antagonizingly slow circles around your nipples through your thin t-shirt has a steady warmth spreading through your body and the ache between your plush thighs that much stronger.
While your left hand still gives your nipples the attention they so desperately crave, your right travels down past your navel and in between your thighs. Your sleep shorts are thin and perhaps you hadn’t put any underwear on last night when you went to bed and maybe the ragged seam had been rubbing up against your clit all morning and maybe you did it on purpose so that when you finally caved just the slightest touch to yourself would have you gasping.
Which is exactly what happens when your index and middle finger press down against your clothed core and the seam of your shorts rubs against that sensitive bundle of nerves. It feels so good and god you want nothing more than to just go crazy and bring yourself over the edge, but you’ve been so patient, and you’ve got all day to play with yourself.
So why ruin the fun so prematurely?
You start slow, the pads of your fingers rubbing small circles over the fabric while your other hand, that is now slipped under your shirt, pinches and gently tugs at your nipples, the both of them working in tandem. The warmth that radiates through you is intoxicating and it doesn’t shock you to feel the cotton of your shorts dampening in record time. You’d been working yourself up all morning and when your hand finally trails under the waistband of your shorts it’s a little obscene just how wet you are.
Your shorts quickly get discarded, haphazardly thrown onto your floor, and then your shirt gets bunched up just enough to expose your tits to the cool air. The anticipation is burning through you like a wildfire and the only way to smother it is to make yourself come.
Which is something you planned on doing– multiple times.
Soft moans slip past your lips as your fingers rub tight little circles on your clit and as your eyes flutter closed your mind wanders to the one thing that you know will only amplify your pleasure.
Steve.
You’d imagined one too many times, what it would be like to be the girl moaning underneath him, how it would feel to have his big warm hands caressing your body, to have him showering you in compliments and praises.
Your fingers trail through your folds and down to your sopping wet cunt, circling the sensitive skin around your entrance with such a slow tortuous pace that it tears a whimper from you, hips bucking forward for something more. You know your fingers aren’t going to give you what you need, but you sink your index and middle finger in anyways, searching for that pleasure that you’ve never been able to give yourself.
If only you had Steve’s long and thick fingers inside you right now, he’d surely have you grabbing at the sheets as he curled them just right, reaching that spot inside you that had you seeing stars. It wasn’t like you had much experience when it came to getting pleasure from your g-spot, considering the only person to ever find it was the girl you hooked up with last October, but you had confidence that Steve would have no issue.
Just the idea of Steve pumping his fingers inside your tight cunt, stretching you out as he adds a third, it has you mewling. The squelching sounds of your own fingers pistoning into you fills the room and you could only imagine the dirty comment Steve would make about it. You knew he had a way with his words in the bedroom, you’d shamelessly listen through the walls on those nights when he’d bring home a girl on a whim, and you’d stored away those words for times like these.
God, you’re so wet for me, aren’t you pretty girl?
You’re soaking my cock baby.
Gonna make a mess all over my sheets aren’t you?
But even with Steve’s dirty talk echoing around in your head, your fingers of course aren’t enough to bring you over the edge, and you’re hurriedly reaching for your vibrator, slick fingers fumbling with the button before it comes to life in your palm.
The second you press it to your swollen clit it seems as if electricity shoots through you, pleasure coursing through every vein in your body, and you’ve never been more thankful to be home alone as you lose all composure.
“Oh my god!”
Your eyes are screwed shut, head thrown back against your pillow, and the prettiest sounds continue to slip past your lips as you increase the intensity level on the toy.
It doesn’t take long at all for that all too familiar feeling to creep up on you, for the warmth that’s started low in your belly to spread throughout your body. When you take your vibrator off your clit and slowly trail it up your body all the way to your nipples and circle each of them with it you swear you lose all ability to breath for a second.
Your chest heaves as you trail it back down your body and back to the sensitive pearl between your spread legs, increasing the intensity once again, which makes your chest heave even more. You’re teetering on the edge, the coil in your tummy on the verge of snapping, and all you can think about is Steve.
How it sounded when he’d brought home Amanda a couple weeks ago– which is what had caused Eric to happen– how she’d moaned out his name laced with such pleasure that it made you squeeze your thighs together while you laid in bed. How she’d told him don’t stop and how she unapologetically let everyone know how good she was feeling. There was clearly no need for her to fake it.
God you wanted to know what it was like to be pleased like that, to be taken care of in such a way by someone else that it had you practically incoherent.
The bad thing was, you wanted that someone to be Steve, who was unfortunately your roommate and best friend. So, having unholy thoughts about him while you masturbated was just going to have to suffice.
You click the intensity button once again and that is what finally brings you over the edge and turns you into a babbling mess, legs trembling, free hand clutching so tightly onto the sheets that your fingers cramp.
“Oh my fucking god. Don’t stop, don’t stop,” you holler, pressing the toy harder against your clit as you ride out your orgasm, wishing it was Steve giving you it instead of this vibrator. “Please don’t stop, please, please.”
Something mixed with greed and insanity takes over you and you press the intensity button again causing your leg to twitch and your hips to buck upwards, all while the vibrator is still glued to your clit. Your second orgasm crashes in fast, riding on the coattails of your first one, and it hits hard.
“Oh fuck. Oh my god. Please Ste-”
You bite down on your fist, eyes rolling to the back of your head, all while muffled sobs fill your room. The vibrator gets tossed somewhere, on your bed or floor you aren’t sure, but your legs collapse out from under you and you lay flat on your bed, ears ringing with aftershocks coursing through you.
On the other side of the door Steve is beside himself, his cheeks are flushed, and the semi he’s sporting is damn near a full erection at this point. He knew he should have swiftly turned around and left the second he realized what was happening, but he couldn’t, not when he’s imagined what you sounded like for some time now. What it sounded like when you were experiencing pleasure, what it sounded like when you came, and what it sounded like when you said his name.
Alright so maybe he was getting ahead of himself, but Steve swears it sounded like you were about ready to moan his name, and you very well may have been getting ready to stay stop again, but he shamelessly hopes it was his name, because then he wouldn’t feel as dirty knowing you think about him when you touch yourself just like he does with you.
God, you sounded so pretty though, and Steve can’t believe that those sounds came out of you. The girl who he wouldn’t even know was having sex unless he heard your headboard and the sound of the guy or you in a nonchalant way mentioning that the sex with whoever was shit.
His heart is nearly beating out of his chest and his dick is achingly hard as he hears you coming down from what he could tell was two back to back orgasms. The way he can still hear little whimpers coming from you as you probably lay there spent, your inner thighs slick with your arousal, nipples still so sensitive and sore from you tugging on them.
There were a million dirty thoughts swirling around in his head and he should feel ashamed, should feel like a creep for what he’s thinking, what he listened in on, but he doesn’t. He hasn’t for a long time when it came to you and he isn’t sure how he’s supposed to feel about that either.
Steve’s startled out of his horny moral dilemma by the sound of your bed creaking and before he can get caught he’s swiftly darting into his room, grabbing what might be a dirty cut off t-shirt and shorts, and tip-toeing back down the hall and out the door.
As soon as the driver’s side door of Steve’s truck slams shut (which is the only way to guarantee it’s actually shut after Dustin fucked around with it by swinging on it like he was five and now it’s never been the same since) he let’s out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in as his hands grip the steering wheel with such vigor that his knuckles are stark white.
He quickly adjusts himself in his slacks, tucking his erection into the waistband of his boxers, and tries to think of anything other than the sound of your pretty little whimpers. His head smacks against the headrest as his cheeks puff up, blowing out yet another deep breath combined with an explicit of some sort.
Steve takes one last look at the apartment, shoves the key in the ignition, and backs out of his parking space like his whole world hasn’t just flipped upside down.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
It’s nearing seven-thirty by the time Steve trudges in through the front door in his cut off tee and shorts, sweaty and hot, and still thinking about what took place in this said apartment hours earlier. The remainder of the school day had been a slow type of torture he’d not wish upon his worst enemy and then he had to go coach baseball in the sweltering sun like his whole body wasn’t already on fire.
You had occupied every square inch on his brain since he left the apartment earlier and at times it wasn’t even anything inherently sexual– it was just you. How he loved coming home everyday to you, how you knew what was wrong with him before he did sometimes, how you deserved to be with someone that could take care of you in a multitude of ways.
And the sight that greets him as he enters your shared home does nothing to eradicate the overwhelming infiltration of you in his mind. You’re standing at the stove, comfy clothes already on, humming along to whatever Fleetwood Mac song is playing on the radio, and the unmistakable smell of his favorite meal wafts towards him.
You turn around and the sight of Steve standing there startles you, causing you to jump slightly, then let out the prettiest laugh he thinks he’s ever heard, and it makes Steve’s heart do a traitorous thing.
He figured he’d make it all awkward seeing you for the first time after hearing and listening to what you were doing earlier, but it wasn’t the least bit awkward. It was like any other evening, except you were glowing more than usual, smiling at him like he’d personally given you those orgasms earlier and god as unhinged as it sounded he could only imagine what you looked like directly after sex.
Which now has his dick doing a traitorous thing instead of his heart.
“Hard practice?” you ask, eyeing how his biceps glisten with sweat and how he’s got his baseball cap on backwards to keep his hair out of his face.
“Yeah, hot as hell out there today,” Steve replies, trying not to notice how you don’t have a bra on, how the window AC unit that you insist on running on full blast has your nipples poking through the thin cotton.
“Well,” you start, before turning back to the stove to stir the boiling spaghetti noodles. “You’re in luck because dinner is almost ready and I’ve made your favorite. Should be done in a few, the chicken is broiling in the oven. I’m trying to get the cheese a little crispy just how you like.”
“I’m gonna go take a shower real quick then.”
You nod, not bothering to turn back to face him as you stir the sauce. “Alright, I’ll holler when it’s done.”
Steve hurries down the hall towards the bathroom and quickly strips out of his sweaty practice clothes, making sure to put them in the hamper because he’s not a slob, and then gets in the shower before he loses his mind.
The cold water does nothing to smother the fire that’s ignited low in his gut and he can’t believe you making him god damn chicken parmesan has got his dick hard again.
He really is a simple guy and the domesticality of it all does more for him than he’d like to admit.
Steve knows he’s got to do something about his not so little problem and so he lets his mind focus solely on you as he wraps his hand around his aching cock. His fingers gently squeeze around his shaft and on the first upstroke his hips embarrassingly buck into his fist with no control as his head tips back against the shower wall.
He fucks his fist with no abandon and when his thumb glides over his throbbing tip a broken moan slips out of him, bouncing off the tile and hopefully not out to the kitchen. His head is swarming with you and all he can think about is how pretty you sounded earlier, how he’d never expected you to be so loud, and it only makes him want to see how much louder you can get.
He thinks about how he’d love nothing more than to thank you for making him his favorite dinner later by going down on you. To thank you for taking such good care of him, because you do without even realizing it, and as much as Steve is a provider, the kind of person that takes care of others because it’s who he is. Sometimes he needs to be taken care of too, and you do it so well that Steve doesn’t even realize he’s being taken care of, and to him that deserves a mind blowing orgasm or two.
His chest heaves and he has to brace himself against the wall with his other hand as he continues to stroke himself, imagining it was your soft hands wrapped around him right now, and not his callused ones.
You consume him entirely and he finds himself having to bite down on the bicep of his extended arm to muffle the moans and whimpers that want to come alive and live within the four walls of this tiny bathroom.
He’s close, he can feel that sweet release sneaking up on him fast, and with one last stroke Steve comes so hard that he nearly draws blood from how hard he’s biting down on his arm, your name and profanities muffled against the tanned muscle. He paints the shower wall with his cum, stroking himself to damn near overstimulation, until he finally slumps against the wall behind him.
Exhaustion creeps in fast and he’s still trying to catch his breath when he hears a knock on the door.
“Steve! Hurry up! Dinner is getting cold.”
He swallows hard, heart nearly leaping out of his chest at the idea of you listening in on him like he had you, but he can’t let his mind go any further than that, can’t let you wait any longer. So, he rinses his cum off the tile wall and quickly finishes his shower.
When he joins you a few minutes later at the tiny table in the kitchen, his hair still dripping wet onto the old Hawkins High Phys Ed shirt he threw on, and you immediately tease him about having to reheat his own food, but then grab the plate anyways and toss it into the microwave for thirty seconds.
Summary : Feeling lonely was not something you ever expected could happen to you, but then again, so did getting better. And really, what could go wrong if you just tried that anonymous self-help forum your therapist had recommended?
Warnings : MDNI!!, strangers to friends to lovers (?), slow burn, reader has battled anxiety but is doing better now, reader has a therapist and a cat, descriptions of anxiety and panic attacks, fluff, very conversation-based I think, smut ('cause it's me, ay), reader being pervy, phone sex, masturbation (both f! and m!), descriptions of oral and sex, cum-eating if you squint, reader has a healthy relationship with her dad, no use of y/n. I'm gonna stop there because I don't want to spoil it too much haha
A/N : Hoooooly shit, guys. This is a pretty substantial fic and I had a lot of fun writing it. I don't know if I managed to render Travis well, but I'm still quite proud of it. I only have a few exams left and then I can write more hopefully, so I'm EXCITED. Tell me what you think of this monster!
WC : 16k :O
************
The sound of your door shutting behind you resonated loudly throughout your apartment. Finally out of reach from the world outside, your shoulders let go of some tension that you had harbored all day as they immediately started to hang lower. You dropped your bag carelessly on the floor next to the pair of shoes you had just taken off, before sinking further into your space.
A ball of black and white fur quickly made its way through your legs, rubbing its coat against your calves and purring. At least someone’s happy to see me.
You bent over and picked him up, scrubbing his chin lovingly. “Hey, Sergio. Had a good day?”
Sergio meowled quietly, nuzzling into your hand, before you dropped him back on the ground. “Let’s get you fed, big boy.”
Your routine quickly kicked in, familiar and grounding – feed Sergio a can of soft cat food, feed yourself whatever’s left in the fridge, get undressed, take a shower, put on comfy clothes, make a cup of warm tea, and settle in front of your computer monitor for the rest of the night. Easy. No place for your mind to stray. In theory.
Except lately, your carefully curated regimen was beginning to feel like it wasn’t enough. Which was deeply annoying, because you were making really good progress – you had found healthy ways to manage your anxiety, had gotten yourself a steady job that paid decently well even though it was boring, and you had finally started feeling like you were slowly getting your spark back. But there was still something that kept bothering you, so you decided to bring it up at your next appointment with Mrs. Grant, the social worker you were seeing. Well, Jenna, actually, since she had insisted you call her by her first name.
“I don’t know, it’s odd… I’ve always been pretty introverted and comfortable being alone. But lately, I’m doing better and all, and… it’s like I want someone to notice it? I guess I’m just starting to feel kinda lonely instead of just alone.”
Jenna hummed and nodded her head, her expression open as understanding flashed across her features. “Sometimes, people change. It’s not because you’ve been one way all your life that you’ll stay like that for the rest of it. It’s fluid, right?”
You thought about her words, and it hit you that you had talked about this before with her, but with your anxiety. One of your concerns in the beginning was that you’d always feel stressed out, that you’d never change. But you had.
You nodded, looking at the plant next to your seat that always felt safer to stare at when you spoke. “Yeah… It’s just, I don’t really know how I would even start to make friends. S’kinda awkward at my age. And I think I still have a long way to go in terms of healing and bettering myself.”
Jenna tilted her head slightly. “Hm… I hear you when you say it can be daunting. Have you thought of ways you could meet people?”
You shook your head. “Not really. I work alone most of the time, so I don’t really have any cool coworkers. And I don’t really go out.”
Jenna hummed again and shifted in her seat. “Let me ask you this. Do you want me to listen right now, or do you want me to brainstorm ideas with you?”
You loved when she checked in like that. “I’d love ideas,” you said with a slight smile.
Jenna nodded and took the time to think, looking up before her gaze landed back on you. “Well, there might be a way to start without much pressure.”
You frowned slightly. “Yeah? How?”
She saw how the hour was almost up in her peripheral vision before she spoke again. “There are a few local forums with strict guidelines that are basically support groups for people dealing with things like you do : anxiety, ADHD, self-bettering endeavours, you name it. Maybe it could be a way for you to talk to new people without much stake, and to share experiences.”
Your face relaxed, but you still looked skeptical. An online forum? Really? In this day and age? Still, you didn’t shut down her idea and you nodded faintly. “Yeah, I guess I could try.”
She scribbled the name of a forum on a piece of paper. “We’re gonna have to stop here for today, but here is one that I know of. I’m sure there are more but just make sure there are rules and stuff if you find some. It’s still the internet.”
The corners of your mouth lifted in amusement as you took the note from her. “Will do. Thank you, Jenna.”
She smiled at you as she got up. “Same time next week?”
“I’ll be there.”
****
The idea swam in your mind for a few days. A forum. It felt odd to picture yourself talking to an anonymous person while revealing the most intimate parts of yourself – your self-doubt, anxiety, loneliness... But at the same time, you couldn’t deny that it intrigued you. Maybe you could treat it as a practice run for the real deal. Maybe, in the future, when you meet someone cool at a pottery class or something, you’d look back on your forum chatting days and be glad that you took the leap.
It was that feeling that inhabited your ribcage as you finally got home. Your day at work had been gruelling, more demanding than usual.
Pick up Sergio, give him a few scratches, feed him, sort of feed yourself, shower, computer.
You looked around your purse and pulled out the slightly crumpled piece of paper that Jenna had given you. Your very own middle-of-nowhere-town’s self-help and mental health support forum.
You stared at the note, chewing on your bottom lip. “Let’s just check it out,” you mumbled under your breath before typing the name of the forum in the search bar of your favorite browser.
Not shockingly, it was the first result on the list.
You clicked on the blue link, before being greeted by a retro looking page detailing the rules and guidelines for using the forum.
Welcome! This forum is meant to be a space where residents of our community can anonymously talk to each other and offer support, advice and share experiences. Any use of this forum for differing purposes is prohibited and could result in a permanent ban. Here are the rules to follow :
Users must be at least 18 years of age.
Respect is of utmost importance. Any disrespectful interaction will get the user suspended.
This is an anonymous forum, meaning that any reveal in identity is prohibited to ensure the safety of all users.
If you witness any worrying behavior, please flag it to the site’s moderator in our contact info.
Thank you and start chatting!
God, even the welcoming message is kind of dorky. You clicked the ‘start chatting’ button and it took you to a page with three empty bars – username, password, and password confirmation.
You sighed and looked around your room for inspiration. You couldn’t put your name, because it had to be anonymous. You eyed the glittery stickers on your speaker until you felt Sergio’s tail brush the back of your knee. You looked between your legs with a smile.
Username : Sergio’s_Servant
You erased it immediately after seeing how insane it looked written down, cringing at yourself. “Oh my god, way too BDSM-y.”
Your gaze then bounced between the three different cups of water, coffee and juice on your desk. You tried again.
Username : HydratedCatMom
You snorted. “Sure, whatever,” you said as you created your password, not certain you could come up with anything better if you were to think about it longer.
As you entered the forum, the simplicity of it hit you first. There was a general chat that looked like it had been dead for ages – the last message on it went back to two years ago. The aesthetic of the whole site was overall gray with a bit of blue, very early Microsoft core. “Amazing,” you said sarcastically, already feeling like this was a complete waste of time.
You noticed a few more specialized or ‘problem specific’ chats in a menu to the left. You clicked on the one titled ‘Self-Help’.
Your eyebrows pulled together softly. You found a chat with a few three-year-old messages between two users named HarleyD123 and Smile2000. It seemed like a normal conversation – people talking about their problems and tricks they had found helped them. What really surprised you, though, was the last message of the chat – a five-days-old one.
HalfBaked_T : Hi! Anyone still using this chat?
The username made a small smile pull at your lips. You tilted your head, staring at the question like it was a puzzle you were unsure how to solve. On one hand, you could simply leave the site and ignore it. No one would know, you would find other ways to talk to people, no big deal. On the other hand, you could finally get out of your comfort zone and greet the person back. You would probably never even get a response, since it had already been five days since they’d written that, and you could at least say you had tried.
You started typing.
HydratedCatMom : Hey! I don’t know if you’ll see this but I’m here! :)
Before you could second guess yourself, you pressed ‘send’ and laid back in your chair, immediately grabbing your reusable water bottle to busy your hands. Simultaneously, Sergio meowled from his place on your bed, almost like he was congratulating you.
****
Ping.
Travis looked up from his book, brows furrowed and mouth frowning slightly.
“What the hell’s that?”
His feet fell from his work desk as he looked at the computer where the sound had come from. It usually stayed silent, so this was new.
He grabbed the mouse and clicked through the multiple opened pages – recipes, directions, questionable searches – you name it. Everyone that used this computer had a habit of never closing the pages because of that one time Travis accidentally pressed ‘X’ on one of Griffin’s searches and the latter blew up in Teacake’s face.
He finally landed on the page responsible for the sound – that self-help forum he had found while browsing for used books in the area – where he had written a message even though it had looked completely abandoned out of sheer curiosity.
His eyes widened when he saw someone had answered him.
“HydratedCatMom?” He chuckled under his breath, picturing a lonely fifty-something woman with six cats.
Still, he felt good that someone saw and took the time to answer him. He cracked his knuckles and buried his hands in his grown-out bleached hair, before he started typing.
HydratedCatMom : Hey! I don’t know if you’ll see this but I’m here! :)
HalfBaked_T : Woah, I really didn’t expect anyone to answer haha
You got the message relatively quickly, maybe a few minutes after yours, and it made you pause. You weren’t expecting it either. A warm and uncomfortable feeling bloomed in your chest, one that you were painfully familiar with. You started taking slow and deep breaths, speaking softly to yourself. “’Kay, you’re okay. You’re just talking to someone. It’s good. It’s what you wanted. It’s normal to feel anxious and it’ll pass.”
You stared at the screen before deciding to type.
HydratedCatMom : Oh! Me neither haha
It didn’t take long before you got an answer.
HalfBaked_T : Yeah, this chat is pretty lame
HalfBaked_T : Not that you’re lame for using it!
HalfBaked_T : I just mean it was literally abandoned
HalfBaked_T : And like, I’m using it so if you’re lame then I’m lame too
HalfBaked_T : Okay, sorry. I’ll stop now
You giggled to yourself as you saw the panicked messages pop up on your screen. Maybe the person behind the funny username was just as nervous as you were. For some reason, that made you feel better.
HydratedCatMom : Haha don’t worry, it’s fine. I am kinda lame
HalfBaked_T : Come on, I’m sure you aren’t. So… what brings you here?
You took a deep breath, leaning back into your desk chair and looking up at the ceiling. You wanted to be truthful, but you also didn’t know how much you were willing to say for a first conversation.
HydratedCatMom : I’ve been working on myself a lot. Anxiety and whatnot. And I wanted to try to start talking to people since I’ve been feeling like I don’t have that many friends. You?
You cringed a bit, but you stuck with it as you sent the message.
HalfBaked_T : Oh, I get that. It’s not really easy to make new friends
HalfBaked_T : I read a lot of self-help books. Did some stuff I’m not proud of and I’m trying to stand up for myself and think things through instead of just diving headfirst
Travis covered his mouth with his hand and rubbed at his jaw as he stared at his last message. Was it too ominous?
“‘Stuff I’m not proud of’, they could think I’m a freakin' murderer or somethin',” he mumbled when he saw that you hadn’t answered yet. He quickly started typing again.
HalfBaked_T : It’s nothing that bad, I swear!
HalfBaked_T : Just went to prison for a little while
HalfBaked_T : Damn it, I keep making it worse for myself
HalfBaked_T : Let’s just say that if your “friend” asks you to stay behind the wheel while they make a quick run into the gas station… don’t do it
HalfBaked_T : Basically, I’m too gullible and I’m trying not to be
He stood up then, a frustrated huff leaving him as his hands dragged down his face. “Can’t even shut the hell up via textin', man.”
It took a minute. A long minute where he convinced himself he had basically ruined his chances of having a conversation with the stranger.
But then, he heard the soft ping come through the busted speakers of the work computer again.
HydratedCatMom : Hey, I get it. I’ve made mistakes before too
Travis stared at your message for a while, blinking confusedly. He had not expected this unknown person to be so understanding, especially not about how their new pen pal was an ex-convict.
HalfBaked_T : You don’t mind?
HydratedCatMom : Not really. It’s not like I’ll meet you and if you’re trying to work on yourself, then I’m right there with you
HalfBaked_T : Oh, yeah. Well thanks for not freaking out :)
HalfBaked_T : And to go back on what you said, as for feeling lonely, I get it.
HalfBaked_T : Been cutting some bad influences from my life and I realize now that there haven’t been many good ones
HydratedCatMom : I can understand that. Sounds like we’re in a similar situation after all
HalfBaked_T : Yeah, I think so :)
Travis smiled at the screen, feeling weirdly content. “Well alright, HydratedCatMom,” he said to himself, slightly surprised.
You grinned too, Sergio now curled up in your lap as you petted his head. Maybe this forum thing wasn’t as bad an idea as you thought it was at first.
HydratedCatMom : I gotta get some sleep, but I’ll be back tomorrow, same time if you wanna keep chatting
HalfBaked_T : Yeah, that’s cool! I work nights and it’s pretty boring, so I’ll be here
HydratedCatMom : Cool, later then :)
HalfBaked_T : bye :)
As you shut off your computer, you were left with an interesting feeling inside your chest. The anxiety had dulled down now that you had actually taken the first step and chatted with someone. But there was still a slight buzzing sensation beneath your skin. Maybe a mix of the lingering stress and the excitement of talking to someone new.
It took you longer to fall asleep. Sergio was curled up behind your knees as you laid on your side – the melatonin pill you had taken a minute ago slowly dissolving under your tongue in an effort to try and jumpstart your sleepiness. Were you making a mistake? Was it a good idea to chat with an ex-convict? You weren’t one to judge people, and it didn’t seem like they had done a violent crime. But people lied all the time.
Thoughts kept bouncing around your head, but they started to make less and less sense. They blurred into each other until it was unclear if you were awake or dreaming, and then your alarm went off.
****
As Travis got to work the next day – or well, the next night – he waved off his coworker and settled at his desk. He immediately pulled up the forum.
There were no new messages. “Hm.”
He leaned back in the desk chair, his arms coming up so his fingers intertwined and cradled the back of his head. He talked to himself quietly. “Yeah, no worries. It was a little later when she wrote last night.”
He went to start typing but he stopped himself, tilting his head like a puppy. “She? Do I even know that? Oh. Cat mom. Right. Probably a she, but who knows.”
HalfBaked_T : Hello again? :)
About 45 minutes later, your reply came.
HydratedCatMom : Hiya!
HalfBaked_T : Had a good day at work?
HalfBaked_T : Assuming you work
HydratedCatMom : Yeah, I work :) It was okay, pretty boring. You’re at work now, right?
Travis wanted to ask you what you did for work, but he wondered if that was going against the forum’s rules, so he didn’t.
HalfBaked_T : Yeah, boring too
HalfBaked_T : So, apart from this, do you have any plans on how to meet new people?
HydratedCatMom : I’m not too sure, actually. I don’t have many coworkers, and I don’t really know where I’d start :/
HalfBaked_T : It’s so hard when we’re older, right?
HalfBaked_T : Like are we just supposed to go up to people and say hi?
HalfBaked_T : Like, I can do that. I talk A LOT. But people usually find it weird or off-putting I guess when they don’t know me
HalfBaked_T : Even when they know me too, to be fair
HalfBaked_T : They don’t really stick around
HydratedCatMom : I feel like if someone did that to me, it would be way easier haha I could just lay back and listen
HydratedCatMom : For me, going up to someone randomly is crazy stressful
HalfBaked_T : Oh I didn’t think of that! But yeah, with your anxiety and all that, I bet it’s hard
HalfBaked_T : We’d make a good team tho
HalfBaked_T : Like I start talking and you tell me when to shut up haha
Their reply made you laugh – a strong belly one – startling Sergio as he took off running under the bed. “Oh, sorry baby!” You bent slightly to see his shiny green eyes staring you down from under your unmade resting place. The forum quickly came back into your mind and pulled you away from your ungrateful son with an amused scoff.
“We’d make a good team tho.” You tried to picture it, but you quickly ran into a problem. You didn’t know who they were. What they looked like. You didn’t even know if you were talking to a man or a woman or someone that doesn’t define themselves as such. Your curiosity grew, but you were too shy to actually ask.
HydratedCatMom : Haha that would definitely help me actually
HydratedCatMom : You’re funny :)
HalfBaked_T : Thanks haha
HalfBaked_T : But I’m just a guy who talks too much
“Oh, so he’s a guy. Good to know, I guess,” you said quietly to yourself, popping another piece of chocolate into your mouth from the candy bar you had gotten yourself as a little treat earlier.
HydratedCatMom : I saw online that a good way to meet people would be to join a class or a club or something
HalfBaked_T : I guess that’s fair
HalfBaked_T : Cause then you know you at least have one thing in common, right?
HalfBaked_T : Makes conversation easier
You found yourself smiling a bit to yourself, enjoying having this exchange with a total stranger. It felt good to talk to someone that wasn’t your therapist and that you didn’t have to speak to for your job or for the sake of being polite at the grocery store.
HydratedCatMom : Yeah exactly
HydratedCatMom : Been thinking about joining this pottery class downtown. I walk by the studio sometimes and it looks fun, but all the people look so cool haha It kinda intimidates me
HalfBaked_T : Pottery’s cool
HalfBaked_T : I’m sure someone would talk to you :)
HydratedCatMom : IDK… I feel like everyone knows everyone else already and I’d just be kinda awkward in a corner lol
HalfBaked_T : Oh I get it, kinda like arriving in the middle of the school year and all the cliques are already formed so you have nowhere to go
HalfBaked_T : Valid fear
HalfBaked_T : But you would probably have to go in order to know, right?
HydratedCatMom : Yeah, I guess so
HydratedCatMom : But I don’t feel ready yet I think :/
HalfBaked_T : That’s okay :)
HalfBaked_T : I could really take example on you and how you think things through haha
His reply made you pause and tilt your head. It was the first time someone had told you that what you considered a character flaw of yours could actually be a positive trait. Sure, thorough thinking and anxiety are two different things, but it is a fact that you don’t make rash decisions. You’re good at analyzing and trying to figure out what’s right.
The corners of your lips pulled up, and your cheeks reddened slightly.
HydratedCatMom : Never saw it like that actually
Travis’ eyebrows furrowed and created a shallow crease in the middle of his forehead, his fingers rubbing absently at the stubble on his jaw. Can she really not see that?
HalfBaked_T : Like what?
HalfBaked_T : Like a quality? Cause to me, it is
HalfBaked_T : I used to be a terminal ‘Yes man’, like anyone would ask me to do something and I’d just go for it, no questions asked
HalfBaked_T : And it’s been hard to try and settle down and ask myself if I actually should do it
HalfBaked_T : Maybe I don’t need to do this really dumb thing just cause someone asked me to, you know?
HalfBaked_T : Anyway, sorry, I’m rambling again. Basically, I talk way too much and think too little, and I’m working on it.
HalfBaked_T : So yeah. I find it impressive that it seems to come naturally to you
His strong hands gripped his thighs as he shook his head a little, feeling like maybe you’ll finally get bored of him and tell him to shut up like everyone else does.
HydratedCatMom : Well, I feel like it’s not all black and white. I can quickly start overthinking and trigger my anxiety, and I wish I could have some of your spontaneity. So don’t be so hard on yourself :)
His grip loosened, a warm feeling spreading inside his chest and making him relax slightly in the desk chair. His chin tucked gently into his zip-up Atchison Storage jacket, his teeth catching on the zipper.
HalfBaked_T : Yeah, I guess you’re right :)
HydratedCatMom : I gotta get some sleep. Same time tmrw? Only if you want, of course
HalfBaked_T : Yeah, okay!
HydratedCatMom : Night!
HalfBaked_T : Night :)
****
For about a week and a half, chatting with this anonymous guy became routine. You woke up in the morning eager to go to work, just so you could come back home and exchange messages with him. You both had started to learn things about the other – things that didn’t really threaten the whole anonymity of the site. He had learned your cat is named Sergio and that you love him very much. You had picked up on the fact that he likes to read horror books. The conversations became less and less about self-help and seeking advice, and more and more about talking to a friend.
And when you saw Jenna again, you told her all about it. She listened to you with a soft smile on her face, her head nodding gently. She could see your excitement at getting to know someone new, even if you kept saying it wasn’t for real.
“Why do you keep saying that?” She asked, head tilted. She didn’t sound accusing, just curious.
“Say what?” You tried to clarify, brows pulled in.
“That it’s ‘not for real’ or it ‘doesn’t count’?”
You broke eye contact with her, looking at the ground as you thought about it. “I don’t know… Well, I do. It’s the anonymous part. Like I don’t know him for real, you know? I can’t be friends with him if I don’t know who he is.”
You thought you were making sense, and she hummed and nodded as if you were. But then what she said made you see it differently.
“It sounds like you know him pretty well now except for his name and face. I feel like knowing someone like you do that man online is a better basis for friendship than ‘identity’.”
“Huh.” You looked at her with wide eyes before a soft smile bloomed on your lips.
****
SLAM!
The sound of your door forcefully closing reverberated throughout your whole apartment building. You tossed your bag on the ground, groaning loudly. Your clothes and your hair were dripping wet, creating puddles in your entryway as Sergio looked at you warily from around the corner of the hallway. Even he, your usually affectionate cat, didn’t want to come closer. What a shit day.
A few hours earlier, you had been driving home from work in the pouring rain. The water had been falling in long ropes and pretty much had made it impossible to see where you’d been going, even with your wipers at full speed. And even though you had been driving slowly, your tire still had managed to get snagged against something sharp and you had gotten a flat.
With no roadside assistance, and a father who had insisted you learn how to change a tire when you first left to live on your own, you had gotten out of your car and went to work. But even in perfectly normal weather, it would have taken you a long time. You had only done it once with your dad and that had been probably like 6 years ago.
So, by the time you were done and finally home, you were completely drenched and in a bad fucking mood.
You quickly got out of your wet clothes once you got inside your apartment and you placed them in your dryer. The warm water from your shower almost felt like it was nagging you – Oh, now you want to get wet? Stupid fucking water.
Once you finally got around to feed Sergio, it was basically time for you to go to bed. But you saw the forum page that you now always left open on your computer, and two messages were waiting for you.
HalfBaked_T : Hey Hydra! :)
You were usually the one who would write first because he knew you had to get home before you could chat. He had written that about thirty minutes later than your normal starting time. Fuck. Your heart broke a little, imagining this faceless man waiting for you to come online.
And then the other message, written about an hour after the first one, just really made you feel even worse.
HalfBaked_T : You there?
You quickly started to type, hoping that he hadn’t logged off for the night.
HydratedCatMom : Hey T! Oh my god, I’m so sorry I’ve been MIA, I got a flat and I had to change it myself and it was pouring rain outside, it took me like 3 hours
You didn’t notice how your leg was bouncing and your hand went to twirl that piece of hair at the base of your neck. You were anxious. You didn’t want to lose your friend.
****
The book was in his hands. Opened, even. But he wasn’t reading it.
The uneasy feeling that had settled inside him when you hadn’t reached out first kept festering as you continued to not reply to him. He worried that maybe he had been too intense – he had even skimmed over your conversations of the past few days trying to see where he could have gone wrong before he had settled on reading to stop thinking about it.
“Fuckin' hell, man,” he said under his breath, giving up and closing his book. His head lolled back against the headrest of the chair, his eyes fixing on a pipe on the ceiling. Everyone thinks I’m too much.
But then, ping!
He sat up so quickly that he almost gave himself whiplash, the desk chair protesting under the speediness of his actions. He rolled toward the computer and as soon as he saw your message, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
HydratedCatMom : Hey T! Oh my god, I’m so sorry I’ve been MIA, I got a flat and I had to change it myself and it was pouring rain outside, it took me like 3 hours
HalfBaked_T : Hey it’s okay! No worries
Play it cool, Teacake.
HalfBaked_T : It’s not like you have to talk to me haha
Stupid.
HalfBaked_T : Not that I don’t want you to!
HalfBaked_T : Jesus haha ok sorry
HalfBaked_T : I was just worried for a sec that you got tired of me rambling too much haha
Your heart unclenched as his replies came in. He’s not mad at me.
Sergio finally deemed you safe enough to approach as he jumped up in your lap. His tail brushed under your arm, and you gave him a few pets before you replied to the man you now referred to as ‘T’.
HydratedCatMom : No never. I felt so bad leaving you in the dark, I’m sorry!
HydratedCatMom : By the way, you keep saying stuff like that. Are you really that scared people will think you’re too much?
HalfBaked_T : Yeah, well they usually do
HalfBaked_T : In real life I mean
HydratedCatMom : Have people told you that before?
HalfBaked_T : Yup. All the time
And that’s all he wrote, like the topic being brought up was enough to make him self-conscious. You could almost feel him physically holding himself back from replying again.
HydratedCatMom : That’s mean :( Please don’t hold back with me, okay?
HalfBaked_T : Okay :)
HalfBaked_T : But don’t hesitate to tell me if I’m too much, I can take it I swear
HydratedCatMom : You’re not too much, T :)
HalfBaked_T : Well now I don’t know what to say lol
HalfBaked_T : But thank you Hydra :) means a lot
You went to bed not too long after, feeling exhausted from the whirlwind of emotions of the day. But even after everything, it was with a pleasant feeling in your chest that you found sleep. You were pretty sure you could call T your friend now. Jenna had been right, knowing someone’s real-life identity isn’t necessary. The thought made you smile.
At work, Travis was also smiling. Someone finally didn’t think that he was being too much. Granted, you had never talked to him in person, so you didn’t know what an unfiltered conversation with him truly looked like, but still. It had to count for something, right?
****
It was a week later – a week filled with sometimes insightful and sometimes boring conversation – when you noticed a new tiny red banner at the top of the site.
This forum will be shut down in 5 days, accompanied by an ominous countdown until then.
Your heart squeezed uncomfortably as you took in the news.
HydratedCatMom : Hey T! Are you seeing that banner?
HalfBaked_T : Yo Hydra! Yeah, I just saw that
HydratedCatMom : Damn haha
For a second, you weren’t sure how to feel. Chatting with someone online was supposed to be a way for you to break the ice of starting to meet new people. Surely, you had done that already, and you should be making plans to maybe join that pottery class you were thinking about. The forum was an experiment; it shouldn’t bother you that it was coming to an end. Nevertheless, you considered T to be your friend now. You didn’t want to lose that relationship just because this stupidly old website was now being shut down.
You had no clue how to voice that to him though. Did he see you as a friend? Would he think that it was weird that you were feeling attached to your friendship? You didn’t have much time to ask yourself all of those questions before he replied.
HalfBaked_T : I’m really bummed about that
HalfBaked_T : I kinda see you as a friend now, we’ve talked about so much stuff haha
HalfBaked_T : Sorry if that’s weird, I don’t know if you feel like that or not
HalfBaked_T : But yeah, don’t really wanna stop talking with you
A soft breath escaped your lips as they curved upward. The fact that he felt the same eased that pang of anxiety that had taken root inside your ribcage at the sight of that red warning.
HydratedCatMom : I feel the same, actually. I’m kinda glad you do too haha
HydratedCatMom : Maybe we could find a way to talk another way?
HalfBaked_T : Yeah!
HalfBaked_T : Don’t know how tho, they really push the whole anonymity thing
HalfBaked_T : Maybe we could find another forum?
You thought about his proposition and for some reason, it didn’t feel as satisfying as it should. It was an easy solution to your problem – find another forum, keep up the anonymity, keep chatting with your friend – Perfect.
So why was there that nagging feeling at the back of your brain?
HydratedCatMom : I mean, we definitely could. But I also just got an idea…
HalfBaked_T : Oh! Do tell :)
HydratedCatMom : Maybe it’s crazy and you can say no obviously
HydratedCatMom : Do you know Copperwood Park?
HalfBaked_T : Yeah, the one with the little ice cream shop?
HalfBaked_T : What about it?
HydratedCatMom : Yeah, that one :)
HydratedCatMom : Is it like totally crazy if I leave a paper with my number tucked somewhere and you could go get it?
The minutes ticked by with no reply from T.
Sergio was ogling you with concern from his perch on the windowsill as you started picking at the skin of your fingers – a regulating habit that you never quite shook off in moments of pressure.
You were halfway convinced that your proposition had scared him off into oblivion, and that he was not going to reply to you again, but then you heard the satisfying ping come in.
HalfBaked_T : Woah, kinda like those new escape rooms they got now
HalfBaked_T : I think they lock you in a cage and you’re like supposed to solve a puzzle or something just to get out
HalfBaked_T : Oh and they have all those horror-themed ones that look cool, you know?
You giggled softly as you read his oncoming messages, your hand lowering from the previous assault of your teeth on the raw skin.
HalfBaked_T : Anyway, I digress
HalfBaked_T : And sorry for the long reply btw, had a client come in which doesn’t happen often this time of night
HalfBaked_T : But, yeah. I’m down if you’re down :)
HydratedCatMom : Awesome! Do you know that green bench by the stream?
HalfBaked_T : Yeah! Smoked my first… “bad” cig there haha
You laughed at that, understanding the innuendo for ‘joint’ easily. You had noticed that T sometimes seemed to filter himself and his language, and you weren’t sure if it was because of the ‘respect’ rules of the forum or if he was just like that.
HydratedCatMom : lol
HydratedCatMom : I’ll leave it under it like tucked somewhere. On my way to work tomorrow?
HalfBaked_T : Sounds good :) I’ll pick it up on my way to work as well
HalfBaked_T : You sure you’re okay with that?
HydratedCatMom : To be honest, I am a little nervous, but I feel like we’re friends so yeah. I’m sure :)
HalfBaked_T : Of course we’re friends :)
****
Your hands shook gently as you gripped the paper, your feet carrying you toward the green wooden bench next to the little stream meandering through Copperwood park. The slightly nipping cold of the early morning wasn’t to blame for your trembling, though.
Your mind was racing. Were you really about to do this? Anyone could stumble upon it and text you. Was this completely stupid?
However, as the long seat took more and more real estate in your field of vision, you pushed it all down. You repeated to yourself like a mantra that you were going to be okay, and that you really wanted to keep talking with T in an easier manner. This was the solution for that.
You safely tucked the white piece of paper under the bench – in a little crevice in the wood that looked like it was made exactly for that – and then you left to go to work. A soft buzzing sensation accompanied you inside your chest for the rest of the day, but you decided to perceive it as excitement instead of anxiety.
****
The soft and calming voice of the woman narrating the self-help podcast abruptly cut off as Travis turned the key in the ignition. “Alright, let’s see this,” he said to himself, unwilling to feel too hopeful in case you hadn’t actually left your number.
His hands were buried inside of his work vest’s pockets as he walked from the small parking lot to the lonely green bench. After sitting down and fumbling around, he laughed softly to himself as he found the paper. He unfolded it and read the little note that accompanied your number.
Hey, T! This it it :)
A soft smile spread on his face at the sight of your handwriting. It was a little more crooked than what he was expecting, for some reason, but that made him feel more at ease with the whole situation. It made it more real.
He created a new contact in his phone named ‘Hydra’ before tucking the piece of paper safely in his pocket. He shot you a quick text as he made his way back to his car.
****
It was nearing the end of your shift – your feet were killing you and you were tired. You almost didn’t feel the buzz against your behind over the faint thrum of excitement that had followed you all day, even if it was dampening slightly now because of your sleepy state.
You pulled out your phone and saw a new message from an unknown number. The thrumming immediately crested and morphed into anxious fire as you opened it.
Unknown number : Hey Hydra, it’s T :) from the forum haha
You smiled brightly at your phone. If anyone had seen you then, they would have thought that you were getting the best news of your life.
Hydra : Hey! It worked! You should actually give those escape rooms a try haha ;)
You quickly changed the contact info to ‘T’, but seeing the ‘name’ box of your contacts app did rekindle that curiosity inside of you to know who you were really talking to.
T : Lol maybe I should, yeah
T : Would be kinda hard on my own though
It didn’t take long for you both to fall back into what had become so familiar until then. The only difference was that since you could just text normally without going through the forum, you didn’t limit your conversations to strictly at night while he’s at work and you’re about to go to bed.
Even though you had different life schedules, there was still a good eight hours where you were both awake at the same time, and it was often spent texting each other about everything and anything.
T : Saw a cat on my way to work
T : it was all black and white, super adorable and shit
T : (Attached picture)
T : Does it look like Sergio?
Hydra : omg it is cute! Yeah, kinda! But Sergio’s a little fatter
Hydra : (Attached picture)
Hydra : Didn’t realize I could finally show him to you :)
T : What a king haha
One night, you came back from work, you did your whole routine, and before you knew it, you were sprawled out on your bed, a glass of red wine resting on your nightstand. You picked up your latest read – a sort of sci-fi romance that had seemed cringe at first but then had quickly reeled you in and made you obsessed.
As for Travis, he had just woken up, a bit later than usual because it was his day off. He was resting on his back, staring at the ceiling, one arm tucked under his head as his other hand scratched lazily over his stomach. He was wearing a gray cotton shirt and sweatpants – his bedsheets tangled around his legs.
Without really thinking, he picked up his phone.
T : Hey :)
The gentle buzz on your pillow pulled you out of your imagination, a soft smile spreading over your lips as you put down your book.
Hydra : Hiya!
Hydra : It’s your day off, right?
T : Hell yeah it is
T : Already kinda bored though haha
T : That has to be a record, I’ve been awake for like 10 minutes
Hydra : And there’s nothing you wanna do?
T : Not really.
T : Don’t know what book I should read
T : Don’t wanna watch TV
T : Don’t really even wanna go to the gym
T : Kinda just wanna talk I guess
An amused snort escaped you, because of course. You knew how much he could go on and on, talking the ears off whoever was willing to listen. You felt like talking – or in your experience with him, texting – was a way for him to regulate himself, and you were more than happy to see him not filtering himself with you. So really, you didn’t mind all the double texting if it meant he could be himself.
Hydra : Well I’m not really sleepy yet, so go for it :)
T : Can I call you?
Your breath hitched. That was a line that you had never crossed. And even though you now both knew more personal things about each other – like how you were pretty close in age and on which side of town you lived – you had never actually spoken to one another, and you were still staying anonymous.
But it wasn’t like you didn’t want to. You really liked T as a friend – he made you feel listened to, he remembered things, he was funny… You were just really scared of having no security net while talking to him. Via chatting or texting, you could think about what you were going to say. You could replay and loop your replies in your head, type them out a few different ways before settling on the one that was a good compromise between being safe but also still sounding like you.
Whereas out loud, on a call, you couldn’t do that. If you didn’t know what to say, you had to stew in the silence and try to come up with something on the fly. And if you said something that came out wrong, you couldn’t just erase it and try again.
As if sensing your hesitation – probably because of how long he waited for your reply with no sign of life – he texted again.
T : We don’t have to, no pressure
T : Just sometimes I feel like texting is limiting, yk?
T : Like there’s so many things happening up there I wish I could write it all out but it’d be way too long lol
T : Anyway, forget I asked if it made you uncomfortable or nervous. I understand, I’m sorry
His words were like a soft blanket being deposited over your shoulders, making you feel more at ease now that you saw how he wasn’t pushing for it. After all, it was just T. And you’d be kidding yourself if you didn’t admit that you had been wondering what he sounded like.
You took a deep breath, your thumbs slightly clumsy as you typed back.
Hydra : Don’t be sorry! I’m a bit nervous, but yeah, you can call me if you want :)
T : Are you sure? I really don’t mind if you don’t want to
Hydra : No no, I want to, T
T : Ok :)
It took maybe fifteen seconds before your phone started vibrating rhythmically – bzz… bzz… bzz… You stared at it as the letter ‘T’ flashed on the screen. You swallowed thickly, letting out a breath and closing your eyes before you answered.
“H-…Hello?”
“Oh hi! Damn…” He let out a soft incredulous laugh. The sound of it made the tension in your body loosen gently.
He kept talking. “It’s ‘T’, by the way. In case you were expectin’ someone else to call or somethin’. And actually, now that I say it out loud, I don’t usually go by ‘T’, so you can call me Teacake.”
You giggled at the nickname. “’Teacake’? Like, is that your real name or a nickname?”
Being able to hear you for the first time hit Travis all at once. Oh, she has a nice voice, he thought to himself.
“No, yeah. I mean, s’what my friends call me. My real name’s Travis, but no one really calls me that. But I guess you can if you want to, I mean you do whatever’s good for you, y’know?”
Hearing him talk brought a smile to your face. He was talkative, like you had pictured he would be, but his voice was deeper than what you expected. He had an interesting drawl that you couldn’t quite pinpoint, too. It settled in somewhere inside you, maybe a little deeper than it should have, and it almost felt comforting.
“Travis… that’s a nice name,” You offered softly, deciding that would probably be what you’d prefer to use for him.
“Uh, thanks! What’s your real name?” He sat up in his bed and scratched his jaw. “Only if you wanna tell me, of course. I can keep callin’ you Hydra, no problem.”
You chuckled and before you even had time to think twice about it, you offered him your name. Maybe he was rubbing off on you.
He said it once, as if practicing how it fit inside his well-oiled mouth. “Mm, I like it. Suits you. Y’know, there was this girl I knew in middle school with that name. I think she was into horses. Used to run around the school yard pretendin’ she was one and stuff.”
You turned on your belly, a faint smile on your lips as you listened to him. “Were you friends with her?”
He settled back against the headboard of his bed, one hand coming up to absent-mindedly brush through his bleached lengths. “Nah. Kids used to make fun of her. I didn’t though. Always thought it was kinda cool that she just did what she liked. I dunno.” He frowned a bit and cleared his throat. “I don’t even know why I’m tellin’ you all that, sorry.”
You giggled softly. “Hey, Travis. You know you don’t have to apologize with me, right?” Your voice was gentle, filled with a care he rarely heard from other people.
“Y-yeah, yeah. S’just sometimes I go on tangents, and I realize only after and I worry people’ll get bored.”
You hummed in understanding. You had talked many times before about how it was a constant in his life, being told he talked too much and how he should learn to shut it once in a while. “I know. But I don’t think you’re boring.”
Travis smiled, a soft breath escaping his lips, the sound making its way to you through the phone.
It took a second, but you mustered up some courage and spoke again. “We make a good team, right? You talk, I listen.”
The joke was a safe one – a little running gag you both had developed while texting each other – but it still made you nervous.
Travis chuckled, and the sound felt like a weight was lifted off your shoulders. “Yeah, y’right about that. I uh- really appreciate you acceptin’ this, by the way. Callin’, I mean.”
“Yeah, well… I was pretty nervous but I’m okay now. I wanted to speak with you for real as well, just didn’t think I’d ever be ready.” The slight shyness in your tone made Travis’ expression soften.
“Well, look at you gettin’ out of your comfort zone.” The way his voice got slightly lower and laced with praise made the tip of your ears grow pink. “I know that’s hard for you, so… is it weird to say I’m proud? Feel like I know you pretty well but since it’s our first time talkin’ and all –“
The conversation kept going after that like it always did via text. Travis was doing most of the conversational heavy lifting – not that it bothered him or you – as he found new subjects to talk about and dove headfirst into them. What struck you amongst all of it was that even though he was quite vocal, he was also incredibly attentive. He always asked you what you were thinking, how you felt about certain things. He listened closely when you were speaking, hummed in understanding, asked clarifying questions when he needed to. He wasn’t merely waiting for you to stop talking just so he could keep going – which is something you had experienced in the past on bad dates – so it felt nice. He also remembered things you had said. It made you feel like you mattered, and the warmth spreading in your chest the more and more that first conversation trotted along had nothing to do with lingering anxiety and everything to do with simmering affection.
“…and I think that’s why butterflies spook me a little.” You caught a glimpse of your alarm clock through your now empty glass of wine – the display showing that it was well past midnight. You gasped softly just as Travis finished his sentence.
“You okay?” the concern in his voice made you chuckle.
“Y-yeah! I just didn’t realize what time it was. I should probably head to bed. Work tomorrow, y’know?” Your cheeks tinted crimson as you realized that you just spent around three hours talking to a man and that you hadn’t felt bored once.
Travis nodded to himself, his hand scratching his jaw as he felt slightly guilty for keeping you awake for so long. “Yeah, of course! You should go to bed. I’m sorry for keepin’ you up.”
“Stop apologizing, Travis. I… really enjoyed it.” The lilt in your voice betrayed your smile, and it made the corners of Travis’ lips twitch as well.
“Ah. Sorry. I mean, fuck! O-okay.” His whole face scrunched and he laughed softly. “I enjoyed it too. A lot.”
The hard enamel of your teeth pinched the inside of your cheek before you spoke. “Feel free to call me whenever, ‘kay?”
“Yeah, alright. I will. Goodnight,” he said as your name tumbled out of his lips like he had been saying it forever, even though he had just learned it three hours ago.
“Have a good day, Travis.”
As you hung up the call, you couldn’t shake the grin on your face. I have a friend, and I like talking to him, and it’s going well. But there was also an annoying little flutter deep in your belly. His voice had settled somewhere inside you, a place that hadn’t been reached in a long time. You didn’t think about it too much though, the exhaustion from the stress and excitement of talking to Travis for the first time catching up to you.
As for Travis, his off day was spent doing some laundry and going to the gym. And thinking about you entirely too much.
****
It took a couple of days before Travis dared to call you again, not wanting to be too much too quickly even though you had assured him time and time again that he would never be. And after that? It became routine once more, like it always so effortlessly did with him.
There was something special about the link between the both of you. However you chose to communicate, you made space for it in your lives almost seamlessly, like you had both been waiting to be rearranged just for this.
He called you when he got into work and you were just getting home. You called him when you were waking up and you knew he was done with work. It simply fit, even though you were on totally different schedules.
And the more and more you called each other, the more and more you started getting that fluttery feeling deep inside. It was almost reminiscent of your anxiety – the way it buzzed below your skin, occupied your thoughts and made you feel restless. But this feeling, you craved it. You didn’t want to push it away, you wanted to lean into it. You hadn’t felt this way in a long time, and the fact that you could still experiment it after you thought it wasn’t for you anymore, it was reassuring, in a way.
But as that sentiment grew fiercer, it did make you start to worry. Travis was your friend. The first one you had made in a long time. And you liked him. A lot. The last thing you wanted was to lose him because of your growing feelings for him. What if he doesn’t feel the same? I mean, he doesn’t even know what I look like. What if I’m not his type?
No, you couldn’t risk it.
So you settled for the next best thing. Calling him and answering when he called you. Talking about nonsense. Laughing. Just so you were able to get a little part of him – the most you could get.
It was about 11PM on a Wednesday evening when you got a voice message from him. You had texted him an hour earlier a question about a book he had told you he was reading that you were interested in.
Sitting on your bed with Sergio next to you, you pressed play on the several-minutes-long audio.
Oh god.
“Uh, hey! Just saw your question.” The sound of him panting. “Sorry, was at the gym. On my way home now. So, basically, it’s this guy who…”
The problem wasn’t the information he was giving you. If you could have paid attention to it, you would have found that he was being surprisingly helpful and explaining the plot of the book quite well without divulging any meaningful spoilers.
But you couldn’t pay attention to any of that.
Travis sounded out of breath, like he had just gotten off the treadmill a second before recording the message because he couldn’t wait any longer. It made his voice slightly rougher, and he kept huffing and puffing. He let out little oh god’s as he tried to catch his breath between sentences.
You immediately felt like you were burning up from the inside – intrusive images of what the faceless man could have been doing to make him sound just like that popping up in your mind.
You shook your head halfway through the message and restarted it from the top, trying to focus on what he was saying instead of on how hot he sounded saying it.
When you finished the message, you quickly shot him a thank you text for his explanation and told him to have a good day off because you were going to bed.
But as you turned off the light on your nightstand, your mind got plagued. You couldn’t stop thinking about how he had sounded, how it had ignited something in you. Liquid heat pooled low in your belly, almost making you writhe as you tossed and turned.
“Get a grip,” you told yourself. It didn’t feel appropriate to give in and touch yourself to the sound of your friend’s voice when what he had done wasn’t even sexual in anyway. You were not that much of a pervert.
****
Except you were, apparently.
Because the next night, while he was on the phone with you, doing his rounds at work, bending over to check the locks on the storage units and letting out huffs and grunts? The heat built back up way too quickly.
You couldn’t fight it anymore, and you thought you could be discreet enough about it. You put your phone on mute as he kept rambling, just so he didn’t hear you shuffle around while you took off your pajama pants and underwear. You winced at how wet you were once you made contact with your heated core, drawing slow circles over your clit.
“…oh, I was wonderin’ actually if you like bananas?” Travis asked, completely unaware of whatever was happening. When he didn’t get an answer, he said your name with a confused tone, looking at his phone to check if the call was still going. “You there?”
Your phone fell on your mattress as you scrambled for it. When you finally managed to grasp it and unmute yourself, you sounded flustered. “Y-yeah! I’m here, sorry. What was that?”
Travis paused next to a unit, his brows furrowing at the slightly breathless quality to your voice. “I asked if you like bananas. Are you okay? You sound… weird.”
You let out a nervous chuckle, your hand instinctively going back to between your legs but staying still. “I’m totally fine. Um, yeah. I like bananas.” You cleared your throat.
He tilted his head, unconvinced, as he leaned against the cold metal wall. “You sound… breathless and shit. You sure? Were you havin’ a panic attack or somethin’?”
The concern in his voice made you close your eyes and let out a long breath through your nose. God, he’s so sweet. He was very aware of your struggles and that attentiveness did not help how you felt for him. “No, Travis. I promise. Just… don’t mind it, okay? You can keep going. Why did you wanna know if I like bananas?”
He still didn’t fully believe you, but it seemed to satisfy him enough as he started walking and talking again. “Okay, well. I wanted to know because there’s this bakery on Sixth Street that has this insane banana bread with chocolate chips in it. I passed it last time I was comin’ back from the gym and basically undid all the work I had just done but…”
As he resumed his rambling, you started touching yourself again. You knew how ashamed you would feel after, but in the moment, all you could think about was Travis and how he sounded when he bent down and when he talked to you.
You stayed quiet, your eyes rolling back in pleasure when you changed the rhythm slightly on your swollen clit. You answered him when he asked questions, trying to sound normal, and for a while it worked.
At one point though, he had been talking on his own for so long that you forgot you weren’t on mute. Your fingers dipped lower and pressed inside yourself, your generous slick making it easy. A very soft “oh fuck” left your lips, but it was loud enough for Travis to pick it up on his end, making him stop dead in his tracks.
His mind was reeling. You didn’t sound like you were in pain. You didn’t sound like you were panicking. He stayed silent, his phone pressed to his ear as his breathing grew ragged.
The couple seconds it took for you to even register that he had stopped talking were enough for you to let a whimper slip out of your lips as you fucked yourself with your fingers.
Travis felt his cock twitch at the sound, his eyes round as pennies from confusion, surprise and arousal. He whispered your name – like a question he wasn’t sure he even had the right to ask – and everything finally clicked inside your hazy brain. Your fingers stopped. Your phone lowered from your ear as you saw the mute button. Unengaged. Fuck.
You didn’t say anything, your cheeks burning from embarrassment and shame. The way your mind had been glazed over with desire mere seconds before felt incredibly distant as the reality of the situation came crashing around you. Before you could even begin to form a thought, you hung up the call.
As you sat up in your bed, your hands started to shake. The room felt smaller and bigger at the same time. Your point of view was sinking further back in your mind as you started to feel far away from your body. Panic was sinking its sticky claws in your ribs.
What the fuck were you thinking? He heard you. You stupid, dumb – ugh! You probably just lost the only friend you were able to make.
The relentless buzzing of your phone managed to get you back in the present moment for a second, ‘Travis’ flashing on the screen in an almost taunting manner.
You considered declining the call and never speaking to him again. But then, that would be losing him and his friendship without even fighting for it. Maybe you could make it seem like what had just happened wasn’t what it so obviously was.
You took a deep breath and answered the call – courageous in a way you probably wouldn’t have been a year ago during the worst of your struggles.
“Oh my God, Trav! I’m so sorry, Sergio got spooked and he ran into my phone and I dropped it, and then I accidentally ended the call when I picked it up from under the bed, and –“
“Hey, hey… Calm down.” His voice sounded a little rough, but achingly gentle as he recognized the panicked tone in your own and reacted accordingly. “Breathe. In and out. Everythin’s ok.”
You were frozen on your bed. Why was he being nice? But before you could ask yourself more questions, your body started obeying his soft commands. Your ribcage swelled up slowly, so did your belly, before you let it all out through your mouth.
“There you go. You’re okay. Just keep breathin’, yeah?”
“Y-yeah. Sorry, Travis.”
You couldn’t see him, but he shook his head as he dropped to the ground from where he was leaning against the wall. “Don’t apologize. Are you okay?”
You swallowed thickly – your mouth dry as dust from the panic attack that Travis was helping you quash. “Yeah, s’just… I don’t know. Got scared.” Your voice sounded small and it tugged at his heartstrings.
He didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. The way your voice had sounded and the little whimper you had let out before you hung up had definitely cued Travis to what had been happening on your end of the call. He might have been clueless most of the time, but he wasn’t dumb. But he didn’t want to assume, and he felt like if it was what he thought it was, it probably wasn’t because of him. He had just happened to hear you. So, if you didn’t want to talk about it, then he would respect that, and the least he could do was comfort you.
He kept his voice soft. “Scared of what?”
You closed your eyes and let out a breath through your nose. “Messing up?”
“Messin’ what up?”
“This. Our friendship.” The admission tasted raw as it rolled off your tongue, your face scrunching up.
He let out a soft chuckle, almost as if what you’d said was the most outlandish idea he ever heard. He spoke your name gently. “You can’t mess this up, okay? M’not going anywhere. You’re like, such a good friend. Probably my best friend at this point, if I’m bein’ honest. You’re all good.”
His words washed over you like a warm shower soothing away your insecurity. “T-Thank you, Trav. Pretty sure you’re my best friend too.” A nervous little giggle escaped you, and he grinned at the sound.
You stayed on the phone for a few more minutes before he said goodnight and you wished him a good shift. Your heart felt full – not only had he managed to bring you down from a panic attack, he also had reassured you and not made you feel guilty for what you had done. And you were pretty sure that he had understood what had happened. What a man.
****
Maybe about a few weeks after the incident, Travis noticed something was off. Your replies were shorter and your tone was drier than usual.
You were on the phone with him one night while he was doing laundry – on his day off again – when Sergio managed to successfully launch a glass full of water off your kitchen counter after swatting at it for a couple minutes. Instead of laughing like you’d usually do, you groaned harshly and yelled a “Sergio!”
“Stupid cat, oh my god. Hang on, Trav.”
He could hear how frustrated you sounded while you cleaned the mess, leaving your phone on speaker on the counter. Once you were done, you shot a pointed look at Sergio and went into your room, shutting the door behind you as you fell back on your bed. You sighed loudly.
Travis spoke warily. “Hey, um… are you like, good?”
You scrunched your face in offense. “What? Course I’m good. Sergio’s just being a fucking idiot.”
“Yeah, yeah. I get that. But I’ve never heard you react like that to him. You usually just laugh. And you’ve kinda been short with me for the past few days. Not that I’m judgin’ or anythin’. M’just wonderin’ if there’s something goin’ on, y’know?” He sounded almost scared of your reaction to his observation, and you hated that you were making him feel that way.
The truth was that you knew exactly why you were being like that. You were pent up. Sexually. As embarrassing as it was to admit that. After that call where he had basically caught you, even if he hadn’t brought it up, you swore to yourself that you wouldn’t do it again. It wasn’t fair to him.
But Jesus, his voice still turned you on so fucking much. It was getting unbearable. You laid awake at night, replaying his voice in your head while refusing to give in to the urge to touch yourself, not wanting to be disrespectful.
It was wearing you down. But you couldn’t tell him that.
You let out a soft breath, willing your voice to be gentle. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure what’s wrong with me lately.”
The fact that you hadn’t scolded him for asking gave him more courage. “Come on. You must have a clue. You can tell me.”
You sighed, closing your eyes and raking a hand through your hair. “I’m just… pent up.”
“Pent up? What does that mean?”
You almost whimpered at having to explain it further than that. “Like… sexually? Frustrated? Ugh, this is humiliating.” You covered your face with your hand, feeling your cheeks turn bright red.
“Oh,” Travis simply said, feeling bad for pushing. But just as quickly, his brain kicked into solution-mode. “Well is there anythin’ you can do for that? Like touch yourself or somethin’?”
You groaned and he kept going. His voice sounded like a whisper as he asked himself, “what do I do when I feel like that?”, before he spoke more clearly. “Like, you could find a nice little video of somethin’ you like and just watch that and do it? I like-”
“Travis.” You sounded stern and he shut up at your tone. “I… tried and it’s not really working.”
He blinked rapidly, picking up his phone and taking it off speaker as he retreated back from his laundry to go to his room and sit on the edge of his bed. “Does it usually?”
You let out an embarrassed chuckle. “Yeah. Or sometimes I prefer reading about… sexual stuff. But I keep thinking about –“ You cut yourself off with a shake of your head. “Nevermind.”
“No, tell me. Promise I’m not judgin’.” He sounded so considerate.
“It’s complicated, Trav.” You didn’t know how much you could say without revealing too much. “Every time I try to, I keep thinking about this one person and I feel guilty because they don’t know and it isn’t fair to them.”
He tried to ignore the pang of jealousy he felt as he kept his tone soft. She doesn’t need that right now. “You mean, you think about them sexually and they don’t know that you do?”
You were basically writhing over the covers of your bed, cringing at the conversation. “Yeah. I feel like a pervert.” You let out a humorless chuckle.
The corner of his mouth pulled up in sympathy. “Mm. Well, if it’s any consolation, I don’t think that makes you a pervert or whatever. Attraction’s normal. S’okay to be attracted to people. And you’re single. I don’t think it’d necessarily be a bad thing to pleasure yourself while thinkin’ ‘bout them.”
You couldn’t stop the simultaneously relieved and surprised breath you let out at Travis basically giving you his blessing. “Y-you think so?”
“Yeah. I mean, I’ve definitely done that before. If what happens in your brain stays there, it’s not really a problem, is it?” Then he thought about it even more. “Actually, if you think the other person’s also into you, they might even find that hot.”
You felt a flush travel from your neck to the rest of your body – the now familiar arousal associated with Travis flaring up inside you. “Really?”
“Yeah,” he said simply.
“Would you?” The question left your mouth too quickly, and you froze. Before you could save face, he started talking.
“You mean like if I learned you touched yourself to me?” He let out a timid chuckle.
You were mortified. “No, I mean-“
But he cut you off, too busy nervously rambling now. “Cause, yeah I’d find that hot. I mean, I like you a lot obviously and I guess it’d be flatterin’ and all-“
“Trav.” You tried to stop him.
“…Honestly, I’d be kinda relieved ‘cause I’ve also been thinkin' 'bout you in ways maybe I shouldn’t have. But uh-“
“Travis.” You said louder, and he actually stopped talking. You could hear how his breathing got slightly faster as he realized what he had said. “I didn’t mean me specifically, but… I guess I still got my answer.” You let out a nervous chuckle as your thighs pressed together on your bed, the reality of Travis reciprocating how you felt making your whole body feel hot. Strangely, it also made you relax, the guilt starting to lessen.
“Fuck, I’m sorry. Holy shit, I didn’t mean – oh God.” He took a deep breath, his heart beating wildly like it wanted to rip out of his chest and hide under his bed. “Just… forget I said anythin'. That was creepy, I don’t know why I said all that. Stupid mouth-“
“Travis, Stop.” You smiled at his nervous recovery attempt. “It’s fine. You’re not stupid.”
He let himself fall on his back as he buried a hand in his hair. “I feel awful.”
You giggled softly. “Don’t, really. I… get it.”
His brows furrowed and his mouth turned into that little frown he gets when he’s confused. “You get it?”
“Yeah.”
“What do you mean ‘you get it’?”
You bit the inside of your cheek before you decided to just go for it. “I was talking about you.”
He frowned even more. “Okay. Now I don’t get it.”
You let out a nervous huff. “God, Trav. Earlier. The person I was thinking about.”
He simply nodded, even though absolutely no wires were touching in his brain. “What about ‘em?”
“I was talking about you! I keep thinking about you!” You said, a little frustrated from having to so plainly explain it to him. You closed your eyes forcefully, holding your breath.
“Oh.” The wires finally touched. His eyes went wide and his mouth formed an ‘o’ shape.
The silence was deafening as you uncomfortably shifted on your bed. After a few moments, you spoke, unable to tolerate it anymore. “Now is not the time for you to shut up.” But the joke landed flat. “Please. Say something.”
He let out a breath before speaking. “I… guess I wasn’t wrong.”
Now it was your turn to frown in confusion. “What?”
“I do find it hot,” he said, his voice dipping into that lower register that seemed to throw accelerant on the fire burning between your legs.
“Travis.” Your breathing grew ragged.
“And I kinda wanna hear you talk about it more.” His own breathing wasn’t normal either. His hand twitched from its resting place on the soft give of his stomach.
A breathless laugh escaped you. “I… can’t,” you said shyly as you felt a heated blush travel all over your skin.
“Because you don’t want to, or because you’re scared?”
“I’m scared.”
“Why?”
“You’re my friend and what if it’s weird-“
“Angel.”
Fuck, that wasn’t fair. The way the nickname fell so easily from his lips did things to you that were highly inconvenient and that did not help how hot and extremely bothered you felt.
He spoke again, softer. “You don’t have to, ‘kay? I just want you to be comfortable. But you’ve been a little off lately and you said how frustrated you felt and I just think that maybe it could help you, no?”
“Yeah, I guess.” You laughed a bit awkwardly. “Jeez, I feel like we’re back on that self-help forum helping each other out with our struggles, ‘cept this is way different.”
He chuckled with you. “Let me help, then.”
He sounded so soft and caring and entirely like him that you gave in. You repositioned yourself on your pillows, getting a bit more comfortable, as he pushed himself up to rest back against his headboard. I’ll just talk about it, no big deal, you told yourself.
“It uh… started when you sent me a voice message and you were getting out of the gym, so you were like huffing and puffing? And I realized that I liked how your voice sounded. I don’t know, is that weird?” You laughed, simultaneously embarrassed and relieved to finally be admitting it.
He grinned at the sound of your laughter. “Nah, not weird. And how did it make you feel?”
You swallowed thickly, thinking back to that night. You could feel your arousal pooling in your underwear at the thought of him all sweaty and strong and panting. You didn’t even know what he looked like and he had that effect on you. “Just… hot. All over. And… turned on.”
“Mm… yeah?” He could feel his cock chubbing up in his sweatpants. “And now, when you get in the mood… you can’t stop thinkin’ about that?”
Your hand found your bare thigh past the hem of your sleep shorts. “Yeah.”
He hummed, a sound that coaxed your legs to fall slightly open. “So you like the sound of my voice?” Even with how soft and – let’s face it – sexy he was being, the question came out a little disbelieving, like he couldn’t fathom that, for once, maybe someone actually found his talking attractive and not annoying.
You nodded before realizing he couldn’t see you. “Yeah, Trav. I do.”
“Shit, that’s… hot. Damn. Um… what do you think about?”
You whimpered slightly at the question, your hand cupping your still clothed core. You wanted to tell him all the dirty thoughts you had been having, but everything got stuck in your throat. “Um, I don’t know if I can say it.”
“W-want me to keep talkin’? I can say things I’m thinkin' about and if you like ‘em or not you tell me. How does that sound?” He asked gently, but noticeably getting breathless.
“Yeah, sounds good. Please.”
“Huh- fuck. Okay.” His fingers splayed on his belly as the very tip of them touched the waistband of his sweats. “How about… that I’m thinkin' about being over there right now?”
You let out a soft sigh, your eyes closing as you rolled your hips gently against your hand. “Mhm.”
He bit his bottom lip before continuing. “Maybe we would have gone out to dinner, or to watch a nice movie, and you’d have invited me back up to your place. I’d watch you as you’d lead me toward your room.”
The way he started narrating this like it wasn’t just sex but like it was the end of a successful date gave you butterflies. You smiled and let out a soft huff. “You’re so fucking cute.”
He chuckled a bit. “Let me get there. I’m paintin’ the scene, Angel,” He playfully reprimanded before continuing. “So, as I was sayin’ before someone interrupted me, I’d follow you inside your room while I was holdin’ your hand. I’d probably say ‘hi’ to Sergio on the way there.”
You giggled and it made him grin like an idiot.
“We’d close the door and I’d step really close to you, pressin’ you back against it.”
You sighed once more, your thighs pressing together as your hand started applying more pressure on your core. “Would you kiss me?”
Travis let out a shuddering breath as his hand grazed over his tented crotch. “Of course I would. S’all I can think about… I wanna know what you taste like. Your lips. Your skin. I’d trail down your neck while I’d touch you everywhere.”
“Fuck, Trav.” You gasped, your hands quickly hooking in the waistband of your shorts to take them off.
“Too much?” He asked, worried.
“N-no. Keep going, please.” You reassured, your hand finding the wet patch over your pussy.
“O-okay. I’d… take off your clothes slowly, lookin’ at you after every item fell off. I’d lay you down on your bed and I’d cover your body with mine.”
He didn’t even know what you looked like, but still, he had fantasized about it more times than he could count. He had imagined different body types, different colors and textures, and it always worked for him as long as it was your sweet voice that went with it.
He started putting pressure on his painfully hard cock, his mind still disbelieving that he was doing this, talking dirty to you, and that you were enjoying it. “I’d probably kiss you for way too long, grindin’ against you, before I’d… go down on you. Fuck, Angel. Please, tell me you’d let me taste you.”
You moaned as you finally plunged your hand beneath your panties and made contact with your swollen and slick pussy, your fingers expertly circling your clit just the way you like. “F-fuck, yes. You could… taste me, Trav.”
The groan that left his mouth let you hear just how turned on and desperate he felt. “O-oh God. Are you… touchin' yourself right now?”
“Mhmm…” You whined pathetically.
“Talk to me, baby. Tell me how it feels. Need to hear you right now.” His hand was now fully wrapped around the base of his thick cock, his sweatpants lowered just enough down his thighs to give him access.
His voice was steady, but you could tell he felt a bit insecure. It made you want to show him he was doing a good job.
You spoke through moans and soft whines as you started to circle your entrance, gathering your arousal on your fingers. “I’m… so wet, Travis. You’re… making me like this.”
He moaned in response, his hand starting to messily stroke up and down his shaft, smearing the precum collecting at the head and making it slick. “Holy shit. That’s… so fuckin’ hot. Oh my god. This is crazy. I… really wish I could taste you right now. Bet you taste so fuckin’ sweet, I just wanna bury my face between your legs and stay there while you pull on my hair, beggin’ me not to stop as you come on my tongue.”
The mental image he just conjured in your mind made your eyes roll back as you fucked yourself with your fingers, your other hand joining the fun by starting to stimulate your clit after you had put the phone on speaker to lay it down on your chest. “Oh, baby…” You whined. “I’d wanna… taste you too. Maybe I could, uh… ride your face while I – uh… fuck.“ You cut yourself off before you could say how much you wanted to suck him off, feeling embarrassed, even though you were practically having phone sex with him.
His hips bucked up, fucking his fist as he kept stroking it because of how stupidly horny you were making him. “Jesus, yes. Fuck, Angel, I wouldn’t last. I’m so fuckin’ close right now.”
“Me too, s-so close. Travis.” You moaned his name in bliss as the knot that was steadily building in your belly was starting to crest. You could feel how desperately your body – and your mind – needed the release, your legs twitching and shaking.
“Come on, babe. Give it to me. Come for me, wanna hear you fall apart. Please, Angel.” He was babbling – almost incoherent – his own edge starting to give way under his feet, ready to fall as soon as you did.
“I’m… com-“ The coil finally snapped in a wave of liquid pleasure – or it might have been more accurate to describe it as a tsunami – the intensity of it something you had never experienced before. It crashed through the weeks of tension and need that had accumulated in your limbs, loosening everything up as it ebbed and flowed. You didn’t even realize how loudly you had moaned Travis’ name until the sounds of his own moans and your name on his lips reached your ears through the phone.
“That’s it – oh my God, you’re so fuckin’ hot. I’m right there with you, fuuuuck.” He spilled all over his hand, some of his spend coating the coarse hair at the base of his cock and the softer ones of his happy trail. He kept stroking himself lazily even after his orgasm stopped, enjoying the sensitiveness.
You both stayed silent for a little while after, listening to each other’s breathing through the call. Honestly, you didn’t know what to say after getting the most world-shattering orgasm of your life from having phone sex. With a still faceless guy. That you didn’t even know worked where.
“Um…” You started, slightly awkward but determined to not let things get weird. “T-thank you for that. T’was… really good.” A soft laugh escaped you.
He chuckled with you as he finished cleaning himself up with tissues before throwing them in the trash. “Don’t thank me. It was… I mean, I profited from it too, obviously. Jesus…” He buried his hand in his hair as he laid back against his headboard. “You sounded so good. And I’m sober so I was like, really aware of it, and I could pay attention to it, and fuck…” his cock twitched again inside the reinstalled prison of his sweatpants as he thought about how you had sounded a few minutes earlier.
You pulled your fluffy blanket over yourself to hide your cooling skin. You laughed softly at how out of pocket the ‘sober’ comment felt. “Of course you’re sober. You’ve woken up like 2 hours ago.”
He chuckled but it was slightly strained. “No, I know. S’just… I’ve never actually, like… had sex while sober before. Not that I think we just had sex together or anythin’! But it was kind of the closest I’ve been to an actual sober sexual experience. I know it’s kinda weird, but uh… yeah. Thank you for that.”
Your arms started to feel like jelly at his quiet confession, and in that moment, it felt like he was handing you a part of him so fragile that all you wanted to do was to cradle him inside the palm of your hand and protect him at all costs. “Oh, I didn’t know that Trav. And I mean, phone sex is like, a thing. Which is what we did. I think. But we can not call it that if it makes you uncomfortable. Anyway, thanks for trusting me with that.”
He hummed before speaking. “R-right, phone sex. That’s what it was.” He wanted so much to see you in the afterglow of it all, especially now that he had admitted one of his secrets and that you hadn’t laughed at him. But he stopped himself from asking to see you, because that was what you both always did. What it was supposed to be like from the very beginning of your friendship. Anonymous. But now, with how he knew what his name sounded like coming from your mouth as you surrendered to pleasure, it was getting harder to pretend like he still wanted that.
He paused before he kept speaking. “It’s getting’ late, huh? I should let you get some sleep.”
You sighed, nuzzling yourself in your blanket. The relief from admitting your fantasies and finally releasing so much pent-up sexual tension hit you hard and made you sleepy incredibly quickly. “Yeah, okay. I think I’m gonna pass out in like three seconds.” You chuckled lazily.
Hearing you like that, all soft and pliant, tugged at something inside his chest. “Good. You uh… have a good night, Angel.”
“Good night, Trav. And thank you, again.”
“Don’t mention it. Sleep well.”
And with that, your phone hit your pillow as you drifted to sleep mere moments later.
****
Surprisingly enough, the next few days after that were like nothing had changed between the two of you. You still called each other way too much, and you laughed at dumb stuff together, and you had silly conversations that felt deep but really weren’t. Not that any of you cared about that.
“I’m telling you, Trav. I was waiting at a red light, and I saw the tree and it had no leaves, so I could see all the branches. And I thought to myself ‘woah, it looks like an upside-down lung’. And then I realized, trees are literally the lungs of the world!”
“Ohhh ‘cause of photosynthesis and shit? Damn… that’s kinda cool. You think they ever get breathless?”
“Heh, I don’t think that’s how it works. Oh! Hang on, my dad’s calling me.”
Your dad had called you because he had to take a business trip to your town, which was about three hours away from where he lived. He hated hotels so he had asked you if he could stay the night at your place. You had agreed on the condition that he understood that he was going to have to sleep on your couch. “No problem, Pickle. Just excited to see my daughter.”
The day that he was supposed to arrive at your place was your day off. It was the afternoon, and you were cleaning up your apartment to at least try to appear like you were a decent human being, when your phone rang.
The screen showed ‘Travis’ and you picked it up with a frown. He’s supposed to be sleeping.
“Hey, Trav. You okay?”
His voice came through low and rough. “I woke up and now I can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout you.”
Your breath hitched as you felt heat pool low in your belly. “Oh, really? Poor baby…”
The phone sex had now slipped into the whole dynamic of your relationship, another piece of the puzzle that seemed to fit a little to seemlessly. It was just casual. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.
He groaned and you could hear the faint sound of slicked skin being stroked. You could literally feel yourself soaking your underwear. He spoke again, his voice sounding completely wrecked. “Fuck, Angel. I keep thinkin’ about you ridin’ me, takin’ whatever you need from me while I tell you how fuckin’ beautiful you look. I want your ass bouncin’ on me while your tits are bouncin’ in my face. Fuuuck…”
As he was talking, you stopped what you were doing to strip your leggings and kneel on the couch to start touching yourself, holding yourself up on the back of it as if you were riding him. You moaned at his words as you plunged your fingers inside your wet cunt, your hips grinding against your hand. “Bet you’d feel so good deep inside me, Trav. I’d keep grinding on you ‘til I’d come so hard all around your cock, baby.”
He shuddered as his release crashed over him too easily, like he had been so worked up that the sound of you needing him too was enough to bring him to his peak. Warm ropes of cum painted the soft give of his belly as it tensed from his orgasm. He finally took a deep breath as his tummy relaxed, the endorphins starting to loosen his limbs. “Holy shit, Angel… Made such a fuckin’ mess for you.”
The image came to you like a revelation – you pulling him out of your sopping pussy so he comes all over himself, just so you can then settle between his knees and lick it all off of him before taking his spent and oversensitive shaft into your mouth and tasting yourself. It had you clenching around your fingers as you came with a loud cry. “Fuck, Travis!”
You collapsed forward against the back of the couch before sitting down on the cushions, panting softly.
He chuckled lazily. “Oh hi, by the way.”
You laughed with him. “Well, weren’t you a little desperate, huh?”
He scratched his jaw, his fingers nails catching on the slight stubble there. “Only for you, Angel. Literally couldn’t go back to sleep. And I knew you weren’t workin’, so…” It seemed to hit him then. “Oh, did I interrupt you doin’ somethin’? I’m really sorry if I did, I wasn’t thinkin’ clearly-”
You cut him off. “Stop, Travis. You’re fine. I was just doing some cleaning because my dad is coming for the night. Nothing too important.”
He let out a breath of relief. “Right! Your dad. Are you excited about it?”
You smiled as you got up and picked up your leggings to head to the bathroom. “Yeah, I am! Haven’t seen him in a while since moving out.”
He yawned, but you knew it wasn’t because he thought you were boring. It was just a time where he was usually asleep and now that you had helped him get off, exhaustion was starting to pull him back under. “That’s good then, you can do a little catch up.”
“Mhm. And you should catch up on some sleep, mister. ‘Fore you go to work.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He yawned again. “Just like hearing your voice.”
You melted slightly, your hand pausing around the edge of your shower curtain as you felt your stomach flutter with that unnamed feeling you both loved and tried to ignore. “Me too, Trav… Now try and get some sleep.”
“Night, Angel.”
“Night.” It was so easy for him to call you nicknames outside of your sexual activities, but it still felt awkward for you. Not because you didn’t want to, but because you weren’t sure you had the right to. And because you weren’t sure you’d be able to keep it casual then.
****
“You still got the tools I gave you when you moved here?” Your dad said, looking under your kitchen sink.
Your face scrunched up. Technically, yes. You still had them. But they were in a storage unit with a bunch of stuff that hadn’t fit in your apartment when you had moved here. Your dad had pulled you into a hug when he had first arrived and immediately spotted the leaking faucet over your shoulder. He had jumped into his ‘helpful dad’ persona quite quickly after that.
“Think I left them at the storage unit,” you said, as if it had been an accident when that happened. Truth is, you had no intention of fixing stuff around your place if you could either call your landlord or a handyman about it.
He gave you a disapproving look. “Then let’s go get ‘em, Pickle,” he said, already picking up his keys.
“Ugh Dad… Can’t we just stay in and watch a movie or something?”
“Come on. Just a quick drive, and then you’ll thank me when you won’t hear that awful dripping sound all the time.”
You sighed and gave in.
The drive over to the storage facility was surprisingly fun as you and your dad sung some classic rock tunes he used to make you listen to when you were just a kid. The windows were rolled down, the wind messing up your hair slightly, but it felt so good you didn’t care.
Once you arrived at your destination, you both got out of the car and headed toward the glass doors of the facility. The gray building gave you slight goosebumps – or maybe it was the humidity still clinging to the air from the small bit of rain that fell earlier. The asphalt was still dark and wet from it.
Your phone pinged as you walked.
Travis : How’s it going with your dad? :)
You typed up a reply as your dad opened the glass door for you.
You : Going well! We’re picking something up
You pressed send as you took in the large entrance, still very grayish white and industrial looking. About a few seconds later, you heard a buzzing sound come from the front desk.
Your dad spoke up as he saw the elevator. “What floor is it on?”
You took out the key and looked at the number on it. “It’s down to sub-level 2, I think-“
“Oh! Hey! I didn’t hear you guys come in. My bad, I was in the back.” The employee rounded the corner of the front desk, overgrown bleached hair bouncing a little as he jogged to reach you and your dad.
You stared at him completely frozen. You’d recognize that voice anywhere. How could you not, really? You had heard him talk, laugh, cry (almost) and moan for Christ’s sake. Your eyes immediately took in his face, the way his hazel eyes were soft and looked a little surprised to see customers. You observed how he seemed to have freckles and moles everywhere, how his stubble looked just perfect to give him that slightly unpolished look that fit him so well. Your gaze went down to his neck and the ‘Howdy’ tattoo etched there, shitty and scratchy like he had once described over the phone when he had gone in detail about his experience in prison. His voice cut back in through the ringing in your ears as your ogling reached the ‘Atchison Self-storage’ jacket he had on.
“…You guys coming to see your unit?” He looked at the tag attached to the key in your hand. “Sub-level 2, huh? My favorite. I can totally show you guys down there. I mean, I work here and even I get lost some time.”
He gave you a soft smile, and it made you clear your throat as a knot of anxiety immediately grew through your insides. You should have played it off. You should have denied his help and pretended like you hadn’t recognized the voice of the man you had accidentally started falling for. But the word was out of your mouth before you could stop it – a tell-tale sign his spontaneity was slowly influencing you after months of friendship.
“Travis?”
****
A/N : I'm sorryyyyyy for the cliffhanger hehehe should I write a part 2?
Taglist : If you want to be added or taken off, just comment!
kurts thin greasy hair was stuck to his forehead, sweat beading slightly as he panted against the pillow. his long fingers were curling into the sheets, his body tensing up before relaxing briefly in anticipation. “it’s so…” a whimper left his pretty lips. “it’s gonna be so full.. i can’t think straight” he was laying flat on the bed, offering himself completely.
his skin was hot where your fingers roamed, delicately mapping the soft skin of his lower back and the curve of his ass. you’d been prepping him for awhile now, thumb continuously brushing over the tight puckered muscle, it clenched instinctively at the contact before loosening. his skin was hypersensitive, fluttering under your touch. you applied more pressure, a circling motion over his skin with your lubed thumb. you were overwhelmed just watching him. when kurt told you he wanted you to claim him, your brain thought of many different ways. you were speechless when he told you by claiming, he meant pegging.
“you ready, baby?” your voice was quiet, but you couldn’t hide how excited you were. you watched his head bob up and down on the pillow.
“mmmmhm, wanna be yours.” he said steadily, he was trying his best to hold his control together, but you knew he’d be a mess once it started.
you pushed forward slightly, just enough for the tip of the dildo that was strapped around your hips and thighs to stretch kurts ass before you moved forward again. you noticed how it pressed against a new threshold of resistance. you watched kurts body tense up, then relax as the muscle yielded. your hands gripped the soft flesh of his hips before he began to take it so perfectly.
a sharp inhale that quickly became a gasp came from kurt “oh! oh fu- it’s cold” you were going in deeper slowly, letting his body adjust to the unfamiliar feeling. “don’t stop, please. need you.. to.. to own me”
kurts frame was stuttering against the mattress, his hips starting to involuntary grind desperately. his cock was leaking steadily, precum smearing in a thick puddle all over his sheets.
you were able to glide in smoother after a few minutes, his pliant body accepting and adjusting needily. you moved your hips in a slow withdrawal, before pushing the dildo in even deeper. a loud long moan fell from his lips as he cried out when he felt it push further inside of him. he was so fucking loud, just begging and begging to be used by you so thoroughly.
“kurtie… fuck- harder? you want more? gonna be such a good boy for me, aren’t you?” you were so turned on from watching him try to give himself any sort of release. you knew his cock had to have been aching and throbbing, he was so hard that it must have been painful.
“yesyesyesyes i can take it, give it to me. please i can take it. ‘m your good boy.” he sounded pathetically desperate. pleading for more, pleading to be filled entirely. you obliged, increasing the pace of your hips to thrust the silicone dildo in harder. his body was clenching and spasming, desperate sounds leaving his lips as he babbled incoherently.
kurts back arched up, the curve of his spine on full display as he offered more of himself to you. he was so beautiful, so yours, the sight made your head spin. your eyes roamed over the moles scattering his back.
kurt continued grinding his hips and arching them up for you, his cock throbbing and precum now smearing all over his stomach and happy trail. his movements became desperate as he got louder “mmmphhhh” was whined out over and over again before he spilled hot cum all over the mattress, soaking his cock and torso. his orgasm crashed over him like nothing you’d seen before, he was shaking and limp once the aftershocks passed.
kurt was a wreck, twitching and oversensitive with a dazed smirk on his face. his eyes quickly widened when you continued thrusting into him. he whimpered loudly “ah-ahhhh- it’s.. it’s so much now it’s…” his words dissolved into desperate whines.
“thought you said you could take it, hmmm?”
-
masterlist | taglist | rec acc
happy birthday izzy <3
♡ likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated. thank uu ♡
kurts thin greasy hair was stuck to his forehead, sweat beading slightly as he panted against the pillow. his long fingers were curling into the sheets, his body tensing up before relaxing briefly in anticipation. “it’s so…” a whimper left his pretty lips. “it’s gonna be so full.. i can’t think straight” he was laying flat on the bed, offering himself completely.
his skin was hot where your fingers roamed, delicately mapping the soft skin of his lower back and the curve of his ass. you’d been prepping him for awhile now, thumb continuously brushing over the tight puckered muscle, it clenched instinctively at the contact before loosening. his skin was hypersensitive, fluttering under your touch. you applied more pressure, a circling motion over his skin with your lubed thumb. you were overwhelmed just watching him. when kurt told you he wanted you to claim him, your brain thought of many different ways. you were speechless when he told you by claiming, he meant pegging.
“you ready, baby?” your voice was quiet, but you couldn’t hide how excited you were. you watched his head bob up and down on the pillow.
“mmmmhm, wanna be yours.” he said steadily, he was trying his best to hold his control together, but you knew he’d be a mess once it started.
you pushed forward slightly, just enough for the tip of the dildo that was strapped around your hips and thighs to stretch kurts ass before you moved forward again. you noticed how it pressed against a new threshold of resistance. you watched kurts body tense up, then relax as the muscle yielded. your hands gripped the soft flesh of his hips before he began to take it so perfectly.
a sharp inhale that quickly became a gasp came from kurt “oh! oh fu- it’s cold” you were going in deeper slowly, letting his body adjust to the unfamiliar feeling. “don’t stop, please. need you.. to.. to own me”
kurts frame was stuttering against the mattress, his hips starting to involuntary grind desperately. his cock was leaking steadily, precum smearing in a thick puddle all over his sheets.
you were able to glide in smoother after a few minutes, his pliant body accepting and adjusting needily. you moved your hips in a slow withdrawal, before pushing the dildo in even deeper. a loud long moan fell from his lips as he cried out when he felt it push further inside of him. he was so fucking loud, just begging and begging to be used by you so thoroughly.
“kurtie… fuck- harder? you want more? gonna be such a good boy for me, aren’t you?” you were so turned on from watching him try to give himself any sort of release. you knew his cock had to have been aching and throbbing, he was so hard that it must have been painful.
“yesyesyesyes i can take it, give it to me. please i can take it. ‘m your good boy.” he sounded pathetically desperate. pleading for more, pleading to be filled entirely. you obliged, increasing the pace of your hips to thrust the silicone dildo in harder. his body was clenching and spasming, desperate sounds leaving his lips as he babbled incoherently.
kurts back arched up, the curve of his spine on full display as he offered more of himself to you. he was so beautiful, so yours, the sight made your head spin. your eyes roamed over the moles scattering his back.
kurt continued grinding his hips and arching them up for you, his cock throbbing and precum now smearing all over his stomach and happy trail. his movements became desperate as he got louder “mmmphhhh” was whined out over and over again before he spilled hot cum all over the mattress, soaking his cock and torso. his orgasm crashed over him like nothing you’d seen before, he was shaking and limp once the aftershocks passed.
kurt was a wreck, twitching and oversensitive with a dazed smirk on his face. his eyes quickly widened when you continued thrusting into him. he whimpered loudly “ah-ahhhh- it’s.. it’s so much now it’s…” his words dissolved into desperate whines.
“thought you said you could take it, hmmm?”
-
masterlist | taglist | rec acc
happy birthday izzy <3
♡ likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated. thank uu ♡
pairing: teacake meacham/f!reader
wc: 4100
tags: travis will never shut up, very bad dirty talk (but he’s cute so it evens out), oral sex (f receiving), vaginal fingering, [unsafe] vaginal sex, face sitting, come eating
a/n: this is combining two very… well i can’t really say similar asks but they both mentioned teacake talking a lot during sex (different fonts though) so i combined them into one fic that has it all. by which i mean trying to get teacake to shut up with your pussy and it definitely not working. enjoy! (travis sure did.)
for @djob00bies and 🪽anon.
&&
It’s not that you zone out when Teacake is talking. He’s called you on it before, but that is not what it is. You swear.
When he gets going, really on a tangent, it’s like he’s a fucking hypnotist and his tongue is the pendulum.
You really try to take in what he’s saying, but he’s just so cute and charming that it’s not your fault that you just let yourself get wrapped up in the excitement he has for whatever he’s yapping about and just…forget to actively listen. Nevermind that you’d fail a pop quiz about it as soon as he stops talking一his little country drawl and the way he emphasizes his words with his hands, everything about the one-sided conversations you tend to have is your favorite part of your day.
So when he stopped abruptly and tilted his head to the side, you were shocked out of your reverie and focused on him again. He was smirking, looking down at your crotch.
“You good?” Teacake asked, and you blinked.
“Yeah? Why?”
“You’re, uh…” he tipped his head to the side, shrugging that shoulder. “Well you seem a little worked up.”
“What?” you asked, but now that you were tuned back into your body you know what he meant, what he must have seen. You were squeezing your thighs together. “I’m fine.”
“You were literally licking your lips staring at mine,” Teacake said, and he stood up from where he was seated perpendicular to you at your kitchen table. “Come on, pretty girl.”
“What?” you repeated, and he just reached for your hand, resting around a coffee mug that you forgot was there because you were too busy staring at Teacake’s mouth and letting your mind wander to what else it could do besides talk your ear off (affectionate).
“Ya want it that bad, I’m not gonna keep it from you. Let’s go.” He tugged at your fingers, and you rose from the chair, let him lead you down the hall. This was not usually how his daily summary of his shift at Atchison Storage went, but you weren’t going to complain.
“You can finish your story first,” you said, and he just chuckled.
“Oh, I’m gonna,” he said, pulling you around the door jamb into your bedroom. “Don’t worry, I won’t spare a single detail.”
You laughed a little, to yourself mostly. “Good.” You loved hearing Travis talk almost as much as you loved Travis himself.
Instead of continuing his story, though, he stopped pulling you when you were beside the bed, keeping his hand closed around yours, then reaching up to brush the backs of his fingers over your cheek. “God, you’re pretty,” he said again, and you smiled a little. It was his go-to compliment, and it never got old. He called you other adjectives: Gorgeous, beautiful, perfect一but “God, you’re pretty” was the first thing he ever said to you, by accident when you were strangers, and you sort of loved that a guy who talks so much on purpose and so deliberately, said the first words he ever said to you unintentionally.
Cupping your face in both hands, he leaned down to kiss you and you let him in immediately, no hesitation, no pretense一just a smile on your lips as his hands dropped to your shoulders and then your arms, turning you slowly to the bed and sitting you down.
“So, like I was saying,” he said, and you couldn’t help but to smile as he pushed you back a little一you moved with him easily, letting him spread your legs as he kneeled in between them, reaching up to undo the button of your jeans, lifting your hips as he tugged them down. “Griffin brought in donuts for us this morning which, I believe, is because he wants me to do some more illegal shit for him.”
As he spoke, he worked the denim off your legs, removing your socks along with them, then rising to stand on his knees between your thighs. He placed one hand on your arm, the other reaching around to your lower back. He helped you out of your shirt.
“Can I take this off too?” he asked, once your shirt collar was clear of your head, reaching to let his index finger slip beneath the band of your bra, tickling you.
“Yeah,” you affirmed, and he slipped the hooks with just one hand. “Impressive.”
“I’m pretty good with my hands,” he said.
“Better with your tongue,” you snickered.
“Possibly true,” he said, sliding your bra down your arms and then leaning in to kiss your breasts.
“I had two donuts though,” he said, between kisses, sucking one of your nipples into his mouth as he spoke, so his words were a bit too muffled for you to really comprehend. “Vey w’r pr-y一mm一good.”
“Travis,” you said, laughing, smoothing his hair back over his forehead to look down at him.
“Mmn’ sayin’,” he said, pulling off of you.
“It’s really a miracle that I can understand you when you do that.”
“Talented tongue,” he said, sticking that very thing out at you.
“Prove it,” you said, and he just grinned up at you, his tongue peeking out just a little between his teeth.
“My pleasure,” he said. “Or yours, I guess.”
Teacake licked his lower lip and lowered himself back down between your thighs, hands splayed out on your legs as he pushed you open a bit further to accommodate him. He leaned in, letting his lips trace over your pussy, not really doing much with his mouth yet, but he did bring one of his hands over to rub two fingers against your slit, parting your folds and sighing softly when he felt how wet you were for him already.
“Wow,” he breathed, looking up at you from where you had settled back, resting on your elbows, looking down your body at him. “You’re so…” he trailed off, not lost for words (he never was) but choosing to stop himself, as he licked a long, thick stripe up your center. Your hips lifted off the bed, following him, as he held you open for him, revealing your tight little hole, and he licked at it again, just barely tracing his tongue over it before he pulled back, sighing.
“Travis,” you whined, but you didn’t mean it. He’d said he was going to finish his story, and you knew he intended to.
“Not sure what it’ll be this time,” Teacake said, curling one finger inside of you slowly, letting you take him in, even and easy. “Some stupid shit, I’m sure, it always is with Griffin.”
You tipped your head back, letting the timbre of his voice wash over you as he fed his finger inside your body, pulling it back out before pushing back in. His cheek was on your thigh, his eyes right on your cunt, as he teased entrance with a second finger.
“More?” he asked, and you managed to whimper out an “Uh huh” before he was pressing his second fingertip against you, stretching you on two fingers.
“I should’ve brought a donut home for you,” he said, and you groaned, squeezing down on his fingers as he spoke, as he scissored them inside of you to feel your walls quiver against him. He grinned up at you, though you weren’t looking. “You like that, huh, pretty girl?”
You snapped back to attention, because the pet name got through to you when nothing else he was saying really did, and you lifted your head, meeting his eyes.
“Yeah,” you said, nodding.
“Good,” he replied, leaning in to take your clit between his lips, and your hips bucked up into his mouth as he hummed around it. “Fuck, you taste so good.”
“Travis,” you whined as he pulled away.
“So sweet,” he said, and you felt him about to branch off on another verbal journey. “Sweeter’n sugar.” He took another pull off your clit, lowering his mouth to suck at your slit around his fingers, slurping at your arousal like it was the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted. “Better than anything,” he murmured. “Better than those donuts.”
You laughed despite yourself, because god, he couldn’t stop himself and that was what had made you fall for him in the first place. No filter, but also nothing bad to ever say一he was just pure sweetness and light.
“Shoulda brought one home for you,” he said again, then resumed his work, fucking you with his fingers and making sure to press up against your front wall each time he entered you with them fully. You were practically gushing around him, and each time your body shook, wracked with pleasure, he leaned down to lick at your cunt, taking his fingers so goddamn well.
“Travis, I’m一”
“Oh yeah,” he said, pulling his fingers out of you. “I didn’t finish telling you about Griffin yet.”
“We’re not talking about Griffin right now,” you hissed, but there was no venom in it, no malice whatsoever, because you were well practiced in tuning out anything that didn’t contribute to your orgasm when he had his hands on you.
“I was talking about the donuts.”
“We’re not talking about donuts either,” you said, snippy, but he only laughed.
“Just sayin’, you taste better.” He leaned in to suck at your clit, but pulled off of you just enough to speak. “Maybe I could make you the cream-filled kind and see how ya like that.”
“Travis!” you said, reaching down to push him away from you, because you were horrified but also laughing, and when you pushed his forehead back with the heel of your hand, you saw he was grinning just as wide as you were.
“Would ya hate it, really?” he asked, and you bit your lip.
“No,” you admitted.
Teacake shrugged one shoulder, tilted his head to the side like that was all there was to it. “Slide back, pretty girl,” he said, and you pushed yourself backward on the bed as he rose up to stand over you, tugging off the thermal henley shirt he was wearing and leaning over you, hands skimming up your thighs as he did. He made his way up to your hips, then your waist, finally cupping your breasts as he leaned fully over you, enveloping your bare body with his own, as he nosed his way in to kiss you, lips meeting yours in a chaste kiss that turned heated all too quickly, your arms wrapping around his neck to pull him down against you even though he was still half clothed.
He melted against your lips, eyes fluttering closed as he drank you in, quiet for a long moment, too long in your opinion, before he was mumbling softly against your mouth and you pulled back to hear him.
“Your lips are so soft, it’s just一they’re perfect,” he said, half to himself, really. “Like little pillows.”
“Oh my god,” you said, laughing, and he looked not nearly sheepish enough as he pulled back from you, grinning.
“It’s true!”
“You’re so weird,” you said.
“Maybe,” he replied, giving you one last peck on the lips before he pushed himself back upright, reaching down to his waist and undoing his own button and fly, pushing his pants down along with his boxers, baring himself now while you watched.
A smile was all that graced your lips, and he took himself in hand even as he watched. You heard him start talking again, thankful that it wasn’t about Griffin or donuts this time.
“See how you get me all worked up?” he asked, and you nodded, reaching down between your legs to touch yourself a little too, because while he’d fingered you, he hadn’t paid all that much attention to your clit, and honestly? It felt a little neglected. “You get me so horned up, I swear, everything about you just一god, you know?”
“Tell me,” you said, mostly because you just wanted to hear the low rumble of his voice, the way he mumbled his words, the cute way he spoke to you about anything and everything that crossed his mind.
“You’re just so pretty,” Teacake said. “Your eyes and your smile, your nose? It’s perfect. And the way your cheeks get all round when you laugh at me.” You giggled and he pointed at you with his free hand, even as he was still stroking his cock with the other. “That’s what I’m talking about.”
He stepped closer to the bed, leaving his bottoms in a pile on the floor, and crawled onto the bed, kneeling between your legs.
“And…” he started, his cock bobbing a little as he moved closer to you; you could see it hanging below him, under the small tummy he had. “These too,” he said, lowering himself down to let his lips trail over your tits, taking each nipple into his mouth in turn, sucking softly at them just to coax whimpers from you, to perk them up so he could trace his lips over them to tease you a bit more. “So nice,” he muttered, letting his tongue move over one pert nipple, pressing flat and hard against it, dragging it along with his mouth as he moved to the other side, but instead of licking over that one, he sucked it, teasing the tip with his tongue while it was in his mouth. “Reminds me of this one lady at work today,”
“Excuse me?” you said, actually a little stern, because it was one thing to talk about his boss or the donuts he brought; it was another to talk about a woman at work.
“No, just一she had all these dolls to store away.”
You blinked. “I’m not following.”
“Like… baby dolls,” Teacake said, gesturing at your chest like that made any kind of sense.
“I don’t…think I want to know.”
“Y’know, the kind you can pretend t’feed ‘nd they say ‘mama’ and shit,” he said, and as he did, he lowered his gaze to your body, looking down as he hoisted your legs up over his hips, before angling his cock against your slit.
“I’m still一” you began, but before you could say you were still fucking confused by whatever he was going on about, he’d pushed the head of his cock up against your slit and was now just barely breaching you, entering your wet little snatch in one fluid movement. “Oh god, Travis.”
“Anyway, one’a the dolls kept staring at me no matter where I was in the unit,” he said, sheathing himself fully inside you. He ground his hips against you a little.
“What?” you asked, absently, because now that he was in you all you could think of was him, nothing else, no stupid haunted dolls at the storage facility or whatever the fuck else.
“It kept lookin’ at me,” he said, reaching down to take hold of your hands, and instead of leaving you laying on the bed, he pulled you up to sit on his lap, holding you upright against him, his strong arms wrapping around you as he moved you bodily off of his cock, only to let you slide right back down.
“Travis一” you gasped, and he just chuckled.
“Figure it’s easier to have a conversation face to face,” he said, and you just whined, curling your arms around his neck and holding yourself tight against him, even as you rolled your hips above his, taking him in over and over, pulling off and letting gravity sink you back down.
He took your lips with his, kissing you again. He broke off the kiss but you didn’t stop kissing him, even as he talked to you.
“You feel so fucking good, babe,” he said, and you hummed quietly, nodding, as you bounced on his cock, his arms ringed around you, his muscles tensing up each time you squeezed down on his length. You were so fucking wet it felt like you were suctioned to his cock, not wanting to let him slip out of you, wanting to just feel full of him, wanting him to claim you as his own again and again, and each time you slipped back onto him, it felt like he was. “So wet, god, you’re fucking一soaking me,” he said, his tone amused because you were fucking him silly. “Gonna ruin the sheets.”
“Don’t care,” you managed, and he just kissed the corner of your mouth.
“You feel good too?” he asked, and you nodded, the tip of your nose brushing his before you kissed him again, and even when you did, he was still going. “You’re so good to me, pretty girl,” he said, kissing your lips between every couple words. “So good一to一me一” He punctuated each word with a kiss, and then you were biting at his lower lip, sucking it into your mouth as you rolled your hips above his, riding his cock.
“Travis,” you whispered, and even with just that one word he was off again.
“Gonna fill ya up,” he said, squeezing you tighter around the middle, holding you closer to him as he bucked his hips into you as best he could while kneeling, while holding you. You clung to him desperately. “Gonna do it, you like that?” You nodded. “Yeah, ‘course you do, I like it too, fuck, you’re just so一tight and一and wet, and一fuck一”
“Touch me?” you asked, and you weren’t sure if he even heard you because he was still going on, his lips brushing yours as he praised you. Your cunt was fluttering around him, your clit throbbing for attention, and his fingers smeared your arousal over your folds before he found the swollen bead of your clit and let his fingertips move over it, circling it slowly as you worked your hips onto him, grinding down against him, and it was like as soon as he got a hand on you properly, you were already gone.
“Oh, ok,” Teacake said. “Ok, that’s一yeah, you like that,” he said, and he wasn’t asking. “You got一really tight on me when I一” he trailed off, because you’d just clenched down on him again, your walls slipping around his cock inside of you and he took a sharp inhale. “Fuck, pretty girl, I can’t一won’t last if you一fuck一”
You weren’t able to keep yourself composed anymore一far from it. Your body had tightened, coiled like a spring, then snapped, your cunt pulsing around his thick length taking him in as deep as you could, your lips glancing over his as you tried to kiss him but missed, which was fine, because he was talking you through it.
“That’s it, pretty girl, feel so nice on me like that, right?” he said, his voice washing over you; you could feel it in his chest where you were pressed against him, and as he lifted his hips into you a few times, snapping them up into your tight heat, you felt him come too, deep inside you, just as you were coming down.
He just kept going, his body and his mouth.
“Fuckin’一hell, god, I’m fillin’ you up so一so good, so fuckin’ wet, both of us, just一just, so一god, you feel good,” Teacake was babbling through his own orgasm, the warmth of his release coating you on the inside, and you took a long, heavy breath while Travis let his hands move to your hips.
“Never get tired of feelin’ you, pretty girl,” he said, and you locked eyes with him, reaching up to cup his cheek with your hand.
“I never get tired of hearing you,” you said, and he looked momentarily like maybe he didn’t believe you, but smiled in the end as you kissed him softly. “But…I can think of something else you’re so good at.”
“What’s that?” he asked, squirming a little beneath you as his load oozed out of your slit, leaking down over him.
“Lie down,” you said, gripping his shoulders before pushing yourself up and off of him, some of his come rolling in thick rivulets down your thigh before you squeezed your legs together.
He licked his lip, smirking at you as he did, resting his head on his pillow.
“Really quick,” he said, “since, you know, eating is sort of the topic of the moment…” You watched him even as you moved closer to him on your knees, reaching down between your legs to try and keep his come from completely rolling back out of you, which felt filthy as hell but somehow still necessary.
“Yeah?” you prompted.
“One of the regulars told me about this new brunch spot we should check out,” he said, and you laughed, then lifted one of your legs over him to straddle his face, your cunt dripping with your fluids and his spunk just inches from his mouth.
“Maybe,” you said, a smirk playing at your lips; it was mirrored on Teacake’s mouth.
“I think it would be nnmf一” he said, but you’d lowered your pussy to his mouth before he could get the statement out, and without missing a beat, he had licked into you, his eyes slipping closed as he put his tongue to the test, really letting it delve into you, eating his own come out of you as you curled up over him, the fingers of one hand fisting into his hair as the heel of your other hand dragged down your front, playful fingers slipping through your wet folds yet again to tease your clit, the hard little nub begging for you to touch it, and so you did.
Teacake was still mumbling something, muffled against your cunt, and it just made you smile a little to yourself, even as you held onto him, even as you rubbed your own clit, your pussy twitching around his tongue.
“Mmn, mhn,” Teacake was trying to say, and you just pressed yourself down a little further onto him. “Mhm!” he hummed, actually giving you a thumbs up, and you just laughed because he was yours, and he was everything you could want.
His arms came up to curl around your thighs, holding you down against his face as he ate your pussy, the sloppy, wet sounds of his lips on your cunt only spurred you on, your second orgasm dangerously close as you let your fingers move purposefully over your clit.
“M-by,” Teacake said. “Lemme一mngh,” he said, pulling away before diving right back in before he’d even said what he’d wanted to.
“Tr-Travis,” you moaned, and then before you could really even warn him you were grinding yourself down on his face, your second climax hitting you as your legs trembled even in his hold, your full weight resting on him for a second. It only made him lick you more firmly, suck at your folds even harder, smack his lips as he pulled away just barely, taking you back in and nudging your fingers out of the way with his nose so he could suck at you there too. You curled your wet, sticky fingers into his hair and held him up against you even as he was still trying to speak, or at the very least was just moaning against you.
Spent, you fell back, your wet thighs on his chest, your cunt still spasming a little with aftershocks as you sat on his torso. He was mid-sentence as you fell away from his mouth.
“一won’t be as good as you,” he was saying.
“What?” you sighed, half amused, half exasperated, like he expected you to know what the first half of that statement had been.
“I was saying, however good that brunch place is, nothing would taste as good as you,” he said.
You looked at him, lips pressed into a thin line as you tried not to laugh.
“What?” he said. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
You didn’t reply一he would figure it out and tell you so in a minute一so instead, you just slid yourself down his body to kiss him, tasting the two of you mixed together on his lips, and as you pulled away, you only smiled as he opened his mouth and inhaled, readying himself to keep talking to you, his pretty girl.
⋆˚꩜｡summary: we're eating (eddie's ass) well tonight! (sorry)
⋆˚꩜｡tags/tw: no y/n, afab!reader, est. relationship, rimming, fingering (m!receiving), oral (m!receiving), cum play?, brief mention of f!masturbation, forced orgasm (i think?), i guess that's it?
⋆˚꩜｡wordcount: 2.3k+
⋆˚꩜｡a/n: written for my lovely @donchanoo <3 i hope this qualifies as gross!reader, and i hope you enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing it thehee<3
The first time it happened, Eddie brushed your apology off, like it hadn’t been a big deal.
The second time, he tensed up for a quick second and blinked heavily at the ceiling before an awkward, barely contained chuckle escaped him as he told you it’s fine, no worries.
But there you were, caught for the third time, as he sank his fingers into your hair and pushed your greedy mouth off from where it had just been glued to.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he panted, eyebrows pulled into a confused furrow.
You see, ever since Eddie and you had started dating, you’d grown more comfortable into your… kinks and fetishes, to say it bluntly. Over the past few months, he’d coaxed you to voice out all the nasty little thoughts that crossed your mind, always making sure you knew there’s nothing for you to be ashamed about.
But voicing out that you were desperate to eat him out? Telling him you wanted to sink your tongue in his tight hole, maybe even use a finger or two while you were at it?
Yeah, no. Some things were better left unsaid.
Except that, for the last three times — today included — you’d given him mind-blowing sloppies, served with some extra attention to his beautiful, warm and fuzzy balls, your tongue had accidentally slipped lower. Just a quick flick or two, less than half a second, but still long enough that he’d noticed it.
You immediately sat up straighter when he let go of your hair – scalp burning from his tight grip, chest heaving from having been caught yet again. A deep exhale left you as you slid your hands up and down his hairy thighs while searching for the words that just kept escaping you.
“Sorry, Eds,” you breathed out eventually, and dragged a hand through your hair. “I didn’t do it on purpose, I swear.”
Neither of you said anything after that. The silence lingered in the air between you – still thick and humid from everything you’d been doing up until then.
A dry lump suddenly settled in your throat, but you swallowed it down just as quick as it had appeared. Meanwhile, you were carefully making a selection of words before you opened up your mouth again.
You gave up eventually, feeling an uncomfortable warmth spread underneath your skin as you kept repeating the words in your head in an endless loop.
“Fuck,” you murmured after a while, and gave his thighs a soft squeeze that served more as way to anchor yourself than anything else. “I just…”
Eddie pushed himself up, supporting his upper body with his elbows propped against the mattress under him. He let his gaze trail over your face for a moment, finding a hint of doubtfulness — maybe shame? — swimming in your eyes.
He immediately brought one of his ringed hands to your cheeks, thumb brushing gently across your skin as he gave you the time and space you needed to gather your thoughts and feelings.
“I can’t stop thinking about eating you out,” you breathed out quickly, after deciding that ripping off the band-aid in one go was the best way to do it. “I, uh… yeah.”
Eddie was, like you’d expected, at a loss of words.
It wasn’t everyday that your super hot girlfriend of nearly seven months told you she wanted to eat you out.
Eat out your ass, to be extremely specific.
“It’s just… it looks so pretty,” you added quietly, flickering your eyes from his and instantly finding the puckered hole hidden underneath his taut balls. “Pretty and forbidden, and so inviting all at once.”
“Jesus Christ,” he breathed out distractedly, like his brain wasn’t done processing your words.
“Fuck. I know, Eds,” you whispered as you gently smashed a hand against your forehead and cringed at the whole situation. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t–”
“I… I’ll let you do it, on one condition,” Eddie softly cut you off, still blinking incessantly at your face, your own eyelashes moving as frantically as his as you stared back at him. “You let me fuck your ass, too.”
“A-are… are you serious?” you asked with raised eyebrows, while trying – and failing miserably – to get your heartbeat back to its usual rate.
“Not today,” he added quickly, and dragged a hand through his hair like it helped him ground himself. “Just… y’know.”
Neither of you said anything for a few seconds, too busy letting the thick air settle between the two of you as you both replayed the words that had just been exchanged.
Your fingers twitched against his thighs as an exciting buzz spread underneath your skin, straight down to your core.
“Yes,” you choked out, blinking heavily at Eddie. “Whenever you want, Eds.”
A cocky grin spread across his face as he brushed his thumb gently against your cheek, eyes lingering on the desperate glimmer that had settled in your gaze.
“Jesus, baby,” he chuckled and shook his head. “You’re really that desperate to eat my ass?”
“Y-yeah,” you breathed out lowly as you felt another wave of warmth spread across your cheeks. “Been thinking about it for ages.”
“Well, go ahead then.” He tapped his fingers against your cheek, cocky grin still plastered across his pretty face. “Eat me out, sweetheart. And make it worth my time, hm?”
Eddie gave your cheek a few more taps, each a little bit harder than the previous, heavy silver ring biting into your skin each time his digit came into contact with yours. A dark, humiliating chuckle slipped out of his pretty lips as he let go of your face and let himself fall back onto the bed again.
Before Eddie, there was no way you’d be found in the position you were in now: crouched down on the ground, hands twitching around his thighs as you lowered your head until you faced his pretty parts. And honestly? There was no one else you’d want to do this with.
Your nose brushed against the soft fuzz of his balls, breathing in the mixture of his natural scent, the faint cheap dollar store soap he used, and the slightly salty tang of your dried spit. You wrapped your fingers around his girthy cock and trailed wet, open-mouthed kisses along his balls until your slick lips met the milky white skin of his ass.
Finally, you were allowed to give into what you’d been waiting a long, long time to do.
A soft, content sigh left your lips as you continued giving him little pecks.
You continued placing messy, open-mouthed kisses along his skin, gently biting the plush flesh as you trailed further down. Sliding a hand down his thighs and under his knees, you gently pushed his leg up until it was propped higher up the bed, leaving Eddie spread open for you.
Digging your fingers into the fat of his thighs, you licked a fat stripe from his puckered hole to the base of his cock. Eddie’s legs twitched under you when he felt your slick tongue licking him before dipping in and out of his greedy hole, all the while you continued sliding your hand up and down his length.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathed out and sank his hands into your hair, pushing you deeper into his ass. “That’s it, baby. Eat my fucking ass out, hm?”
Your eyes instantly found Eddie’s head thrown back when you flickered your gaze away from his slick balls. His eyebrows were tightly pulled together, cheeks flushed and his pretty mouth hung open, swollen from all the times he’d sunk his teeth into his lower lip.
Low, desperate groans slipped out of his mouth, despite the fact that he tried his best not to let on how much he was actually enjoying it – maybe even more than you were.
A muffled moan escaped you and your eyes fluttered shut when you lapped at his ridged muscle, spreading hot, sticky spit across his rim like your life depended on it. Hesitantly, you removed your mouth from his ass to spit on the tight hole.
“Is this okay?” you asked softly, trembling as you let go of his thigh and brought your free hand to roam his ass, slowly trailing up until your fingertip rested against his ridged muscle.
“Y-yeah,” he breathed out, nodding frantically, and tightened the grip he had on your scalp.
Then, ever so slowly, you circled your finger against him before gently pushing the digit in. Low groans escaped you the moment you pressed in deeper. He’s so fucking tight. Eddie’s entrance squeezed around the tip of your finger, trying to suck you in further. He accidentally pushed his hips against you, taking another inch or so of your finger into his ass.
Semi-translucent, milky drops rolled from his leaky slit, painting your other hand in his pre-cum while you kept flicking your wrist. He twitched in your hold, desperately begging for more. Eddie shuddered, gulping with enthusiasm, when he felt your finger pull out and another thick glob of spit run down his ass.
“You want another one, Eds?” you asked teasingly, spreading your saliva with your tongue.
“Y-yes,” he nodded frantically, tugging at his hair. “P-please, baby.”
Eddie tried to close his mouth, catch his breath, but then his eyes fluttered shut and his eyebrows pulled into a tight furrow when he felt two fingers circling his rim.
A broken whimper escaped him, followed by a sharp hiss the more you pushed your fingers into him. You took his angry tip in your mouth, swirling your tongue around his slit and licking up every drop of pre-cum as you tried to distract him from the biting intrusion. You slowly stretched him out, moving your fingers in and out in gradual thrusts.
“You’re so tight f’me, baby,” you whispered as you pulled him out of your mouth.
The way you had Eddie clenching hard around your fingers had you moving your legs for even the smallest bit of relief. His toes curled tightly against the bed as you gave his cock a hard squeeze and brought your fingers back to his stretched hole. You angled your fingers just right, giving yourself enough space to slide your tongue in as well, drooling spit into his entrance while you kept pumping in and out.
“Mmpff, I-I’m–” Eddie moaned out, needy and broken, as he jerked his hips harder against your face. “P-please don’t stop, baby.”
His breath deepened, muscles tensed as he felt your spit roll down his ass until it dripped messily on the mattress under him. The anticipation was torturous, greedy hole clenching hard around your two fingers while you sped up the thrusts.
“Fuckfuckfuck. I-I’m s-so close, baby,” he whimpered, giving your face and fingers another hard jerk of his hips.
You had no option but to dig your nose into his fuzzy sack as he nudged you deeper into his ass, nice and warm and sloppy, just the way he’d learned to love over the last few minutes.
Eddie’s pretty cock twitched and spurted thick ropes of cum, trickling down the closed hand you still had around him, down his fuzzy sack until it finally reached your greedy tongue, still buried deep in his hole. Your name was moaned out brokenly, followed by desperate fuck’s and twitching hips that refused to let you go just yet.
You slowly brought your hand to a stop and gave his cock another squeeze before you let go of him. Your other hand, however, stayed buried deep in him as you kept pushing his sticky cum deeper and deeper into him — like he always liked to do to you and your pretty pussy.
“P-please,” he begged, shaking his head from side to side as broken whimpers escaped him. He tried pulling his hips away from you, only to push it back twice as hard, sinking back down on your digits.
“Oh, baby,” you mumbled against his sack, groaning as he gave your fingers a hard clench. “Just one more, hm?”
Tiny teardrops rolled down his face, disappearing in his dark brown, bouncing curls as he kept shaking his head. You ignored the broken whimpers that spilled from his pretty mouth, and continued pumping your fingers into him while you brushed the tip of your nose against his balls, giving the soft skin a few sniffs.
“I-I d-don’t–”
He buried his fingers into your hair, pulling harshly at your roots as he forced your mouth to stay where it was – half on his sack, half buried in his hole. It didn’t take long until a new wave — although smaller — of warm cum leaked out of his swollen tip and trailed down to your face as he cried out your name once again.
Eddie’s chest heaved up and down as his jelly-like legs fell on the bed – big mistake on his part, because that just made his ass pull your fingers in deeper.
“F-fuck. Fuck.”
He let go of your hair and reached for your wrist instead, pulling you out of his hole with a broken whimper. Eddie twitched and trembled as he tried to catch his breath, heavy lidded eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.
When he pushed himself up just enough to find your face, he found your cum and spit tainted fingers buried deep in your mouth.
The same fucking fingers you had just put in his ass.
You lapped desperately at the digits, eyes tightly shut as the room filled with muffled whimpers and loud slurping sounds. You slid your other hand down his leg, trailing it down and down until you reached your parted legs.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he groaned out, eyebrows pulling in a tight furrow. “Are you– are you touching yourself?”
“Mhmm,” you hummed quietly, mouth still preoccupied with licking your fingers clean.
Eddie dragged a ringed hand through his hair, pulling at his roots as another stream of curses slipped from his mouth. His big eyes blinked dumbly at you when you opened yours again. Mouth hanging low, he let his gaze drag down your naked body until he found your desperate hand buried deep into your pussy.
“You’re gonna kill me one day,” he whispered and reached for your waist with his trembling hands. “C’mere baby, lemme help you, hm?”
⋆˚꩜｡edit: just reread this before posting it. i’ve never eaten ass before. no idea if any of this makes any sense. might manipulate a man (my bf) to let me munch on some ass this weekend to figure out how accurate i was.
⋆˚꩜｡edit2: listening to alice in chains and aww shucks. missed opportunity to name this down in edw(a)rds hole.
description: you know those men that say "i don't want kids?" yeah, this isn't one of them. this is about eddie munson willingly attending tea parties in a feather boa and considering it the highest honor of his life.
pairing: stepdad!eddie x singlemom!reader
tags: stepdad!eddie, no y/n, girldad!eddie, so much fluff your eyes will water and your teeth will fall out, domestic fluff, zero plot all vibes, he is in fact the father that stepped up, rosie is his everything, she calls him dad, baby dad ain't shit, yes he lets her paint his nails and do his hair, oh my god this is the cutest shit ever, eddie is so girl-dad coded
TW: slight angst, tooth rotting fluff
WC: 7.5k
A/N: requested by my dearest @bitterestwillow hope you enjoy queen <33
(soft girl-dad eddie is my apology after "I Told You Things"). this shit made my eyes water and my feet kick the entire time while writing. i know having a kid isn't everyones ff cup of tea but i promise, it's worth it. let me know what you guys think :)
reblogs are always appreciated, friends <33
“Excuse me, sweetheart,” a voice from behind stops you mid-step.
You look up from the sea of plumbing fixtures with a sigh already halfway out of your chest, one hand gripping the shopping cart while the other clutches a list that might as well have been written in another language. PVC elbows. Pipe thread tape. Half-inch coupler.
Somewhere between watching a three-year-old full-time and trying to keep a roof over both your heads, you'd apparently become the designated handyman too.
You turn to find a man with long curls spilling over a faded Metallica shirt and a worn flannel rolled up to his elbows, exposing an array of tattoos.
He points toward the floor, "I think these are yours."
Your eyes immediately drop to the little cardboard box of screws that had apparently slipped from your arm, scattering across the concrete. Before you can bend down, he's already crouched, gathering them one by one.
"Oh my God, thank you," you mutter, already embarrassed. "Today's just... one of those days."
He stands, holding the box out to you. "Trust me, I have a lot of those."
Before you can answer, the tiny voice from your shopping cart pipes up.
"Mama forgot apples."
You look over at your daughter, whose legs are happily swinging from the front of the cart as if the world isn't actively trying to kick your ass.
"We're not at the grocery store, bug."
"I know."
"So..."
"I still wanted apples."
The man snorts, trying to hide it behind his hand, and you can't help smiling despite yourself. He glances at the collection of fittings in your cart before looking back at you.
"So... you remodeling your house or planning on flooding it?"
You hold up the wrinkled list. "My kitchen sink won't stop leaking."
He nods once. "And you got sent here with that list?"
"My landlord told me it'd be an 'easy fix.'"
His face immediately says everything. "Oh..."
"What?"
He scratches the back of his neck. "I mean... no offense to your landlord, but he's either lazy or doesn't know what he's talking about."
You laugh, genuinely this time. "Could be both."
"Probably both."
He steps beside your cart and gently picks up one of the connectors you'd grabbed. "You don't actually need this one."
"No?"
"Nope."
He swaps it for another. "And this thread tape is garbage."
"It is?"
"It's the cheapest stuff they make."
"I picked it because it was the cheapest stuff they make."
He smiles. "Fair enough."
For the next ten minutes, he walks beside you through the aisle, explaining everything in terms that actually make sense instead of sounding like a repair manual. He never talks down to you, never makes you feel stupid, just casually points things out with an easy patience that surprises you.
Your daughter has apparently decided he's the most fascinating person she's ever seen.
She leans over the cart. "Mister."
He looks over. "Yeah?"
"I like your hair."
He instinctively reaches up to touch it. "Thanks."
"You look like a lion."
You slap a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing.
He pauses for a second before grinning. "I've been called worse."
She nods thoughtfully. "I have a unicorn."
"That's awesome."
"It's pink."
"My favorite color."
Her eyes widen. "No way."
"Way."
She gasps dramatically and immediately begins digging through the pile of toys she'd somehow accumulated in the shopping cart.
You rub your forehead. "I'm so sorry."
"For what?"
"She adopts people."
He glances down at the little girl now proudly presenting him with a stuffed dinosaur that has clearly seen better days. "I'm being recruited?"
"I'm afraid so."
He accepts the dinosaur with complete seriousness. "An honor."
Your daughter beams. Mission accomplished.
After another few minutes, he places the final item into your cart. "There."
You stare at the contents. "So... this should actually fix it?"
"Should."
You hesitate, then smile sheepishly. "You don't happen to know how to install it too, right?"
The words leave your mouth before you can stop them, and you immediately regret them.
"Oh my God, forget I said that."
He laughs. "No, actually..." He rubs the back of his neck. "I do."
"You do?"
"Spent enough years fixing my uncle's trailer. Not licensed or anything, but I know what I'm doing."
You study him for another second. "And what's the catch?"
"The catch?"
"Nobody just offers to fix a complete stranger's sink."
His eyebrows lift. "I wasn't exactly offering."
"No?"
"I was kind of waiting to see if you'd ask."
You laugh. "So now that I have?"
He pretends to think. "Hmm..."
Your daughter kicks her feet again. "Mama makes yummy grilled cheese."
He looks at her. "She does?"
She nods emphatically. "And tomato soup."
You cover your face. "Honey..."
She points at him. "He can come over."
He immediately raises both hands. "For the record, I support stranger danger."
"He doesn't look dangerous."
"I appreciate that very much."
She studies him another second. "You got nice eyes."
His ears actually turn pink. "Thank you."
Then she sticks out one tiny hand. "I'm Rosie."
He shakes it with complete sincerity. "I'm Eddie."
She smiles like she's known him forever.
You don't know what possesses you to trust him. Maybe it's the way he talks to your daughter like she's a real person instead of a nuisance. Maybe it's because he's spent the last fifteen minutes helping you without expecting anything in return.
Or maybe it's because, for the first time in what feels like years, someone looked at you and didn't see a burden. He just saw you.
"So..." you say carefully. "If you're sure..."
He shrugs. "I'll fix your sink."
"And if it turns out to be a bigger problem?"
"Then I'll tell you honestly."
"And if you can't fix it?"
"We'll order pizza and pretend we never touched it."
A laugh slips out before you can stop it. "That's a terrible plan."
"It's worked for me before."
Rosie is already nodding enthusiastically. "I like pizza."
He leans closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "I think she's on my side."
You smile. "I think she’s usually on the opposite of mine."
Neither of you could've known then that the sink would be fixed in under twenty minutes. Or that he'd stay another three hours because Rosie insisted on showing him every stuffed animal she owned.
Or that he'd come back the next weekend because she'd proudly announced she wanted to show him her coloring book.
Or that months later she'd accidentally call him "Dad," clap both hands over her mouth in horror, and burst into tears because she thought she'd hurt his feelings.
And years after that, if anyone ever asked Eddie Munson when he met the love of his life, he'd grin and tell them it happened in the plumbing aisle because a stubborn little girl needed apples and her exhausted mother didn't know the difference between a pipe coupling and a garden hose.
2 years later…
By the time you pull into the driveway, your shoulders are aching from wrestling grocery bags in and out of the trunk, and your patience has been thoroughly tested by the woman in front of you at the checkout who insisted on writing a check in the year 1998.
You manage to hook three bags over one arm, another two over the other, and nudge the front door closed behind you with your hip.
The house is quiet for approximately three seconds, then you hear it: a tiny burst of giggling. Then another. Then Eddie's voice, dramatically lowered into what can only be described as a very serious royal accent.
"I'm terribly sorry, Your Majesty, but Sir Teddy Bear has informed me that the strawberry scones have been stolen by dragons."
Rosie's gasp is so loud you hear it from the foyer. "No!"
"I'm afraid so."
"The pink dragons or the green ones?"
"The pink ones."
She sighs dramatically. "They're always doing that."
You quietly set the grocery bags on the kitchen counter before peeking around the corner into the living room, and your heart almost physically stops.
The coffee table has been pushed against the wall, a floral blanket spread neatly across the rug with every stuffed animal Rosie owns arranged in a perfect little circle. Tiny plastic teacups are balanced precariously in front of each guest, alongside mismatched toy plates covered in invisible desserts.
And sitting right in the middle of it all...is Eddie.
He's cross-legged on the floor, his long curls pulled into two horribly uneven pigtails secured with glittery pink scrunchies. Rosie has somehow convinced him to wear a feather boa, an oversized plastic pearl necklace, and a paper crown that's hanging halfway off his head.
He still has a black band tee and jeans on, of course. The tiara somehow makes it look even cooler.
Rosie notices you first. "Mama!"
She jumps up and nearly spills an imaginary cup of tea all over herself before sprinting toward you, wrapping herself around your legs.
"Eddie's having tea with us."
"I can see that."
She beams proudly. "He knows all the rules."
You glance over at him as he lifts the tiny plastic teacup with absolute dignity. "I've been informed that my pinky needs to stay out."
Rosie immediately corrects him. "It stays up."
"My apologies."
He raises it another inch. "Better?"
She nods approvingly. "Much."
You can't stop smiling. "What exactly am I looking at here?"
Rosie grabs your hand and starts dragging you toward the blanket. "We're princesses."
Eddie quietly adds, "I'm Princess Sparkles."
You bite your lip so hard it almost hurts. "Princess Sparkles?"
He nods solemnly. "I wasn't given a choice."
Rosie immediately spins around. "You picked that one."
He freezes. "...I was given a choice."
She points a tiny accusing finger at him. "You said it was the coolest one."
"It was."
"You said sparkles make everything better."
"They do."
"So you wanted it."
He looks over at you with complete resignation. "I have no defense."
Rosie climbs right back onto the blanket before patting the empty spot beside her. "Mama, sit."
You carefully lower yourself onto the floor, smoothing your jeans beneath you. Immediately, Rosie starts pouring from an empty plastic teapot into your equally empty cup.
"This one's raspberry."
You take a sip with complete seriousness. "Oh my goodness."
She smiles. "It's yummy."
"It's delicious."
Eddie clears his throat. "If I may..."
Rosie nods graciously. "You may."
He lifts his cup. "I detect notes of raspberry with... perhaps a hint of gasoline."
Rosie frowns. "No."
"No?"
"No gasoline."
"My mistake."
She leans over and whispers loudly enough for everyone to hear. "It's strawberries."
He nods in understanding. "Ah. An excellent vintage."
She looks unbelievably proud of herself.
The tea party continues for another twenty minutes, complete with imaginary cookies, a lengthy debate between Bunny and Mr. Dinosaur over proper table manners, and Rosie insisting everyone sing happy birthday to a stuffed giraffe whose birthday appears to have been invented on the spot.
Eventually, she crawls into Eddie's lap without thinking, settling there like it's the most natural place in the world. He absentmindedly smooths a hand over her hair while continuing an entirely serious conversation with the stuffed giraffe.
"And how old are you turning today?"
Rosie answers for it. "Six."
"Oh wow."
"But not really."
"Oh."
"It's pretend."
"Right."
"You're bad at pretending."
"I'm learning."
She reaches up and gently fixes one of his crooked pigtails. "There."
He smiles. "Thanks, sweetheart."
Your chest aches. Not because of anything dramatic. Not because of all the nights you sat awake wondering if Rosie would grow up wondering why she wasn't enough for someone to stay. It aches because she no longer wonders.
She has Eddie. The man currently accepting fake tea from a five-year-old with the same reverence most people reserve for expensive wine. The man wearing a plastic tiara without a single complaint. The man who never once made her feel like she wasn't his.
He catches your eye from across the blanket, so you smile at him softly. He smiles back.
Then Rosie reaches up and shoves another glittery necklace over his curls. "There."
He looks down. "What does this one make me?"
She grins so wide her cheeks puff out. "My daddy."
Silence settles over the room for just a heartbeat. Eddie doesn't hesitate; he just looks up at her with the gentlest expression you've ever seen and presses a kiss against the top of her head.
"My favorite title I've ever had."
Rosie simply nods like that was the obvious answer all along before returning to her tea.
By the time Rosie is tucked into bed, complete with three stuffed animals, one bedtime story, a glass of water she absolutely won't drink, and a solemn promise that you'll check for monsters under the bed even though she's well aware monsters don't exist, the house has settled into that quiet only late evenings seem capable of producing.
The dishwasher hums softly in the kitchen. The television is on low volume, neither of you really paying attention to whatever old movie is playing.
You've long since changed into one of Eddie's old shirts, sleeves swallowing your hands, and he's stretched out on the couch with his legs kicked over the coffee table, one arm lazily draped around your shoulders while the other balances a bottle of beer against his knee.
You're tucked comfortably against his side, your own beer untouched for the last fifteen minutes because somehow you've become completely distracted tracing absentminded circles against his forearm.
Neither of you says much; you never really have to. Comfortable silence had become one of your favorite languages together. After almost two years, it isn't awkward anymore; it's simply home.
Eddie presses a kiss against your temple before taking another sip of his beer. "Can I ask you something?"
You tilt your head up. "When have you ever waited for permission?"
He grins. "Fair."
He looks back toward the television for another moment before his expression softens. "You don't have to answer."
Your fingers stop moving.
"But..." He shrugs. "I realized the other day I don't actually know what happened."
You don't have to ask; you know exactly what he means.
He keeps his voice careful. "Rosie's dad."
For a second, all you do is stare at the condensation rolling down your bottle. It's funny. People assume single mothers talk about it all the time. In reality...you spend most of your life trying not to.
After a quiet moment, you let out a slow breath. "I was married."
You feel Eddie's arm tighten ever so slightly around your shoulders, but he doesn't interrupt.
"We got married young."
You smile faintly, though there's no humor in it. "I thought that was what you were supposed to do."
He stays quiet.
"So we got married, got an apartment together, talked about vacations we'd never actually take because money was always tight."
You laugh softly. "We used to argue over whose turn it was to buy toilet paper."
Eddie smiles. "The truly romantic stuff."
"The glamorous side of marriage."
Your smile fades. "When I found out I was pregnant... I was terrified."
You look down at your hands. "I remember sitting in the bathroom, staring at the test, thinking there had to be a mistake."
"And then?"
"And then I got excited."
Your voice comes out almost embarrassingly quiet. "I started making lists. I looked at baby names. I started clipping little nursery ideas out of magazines. I remember standing in the grocery store crying because I walked past baby socks."
A tiny laugh escapes you. "They were so little."
Eddie reaches over and quietly intertwines his fingers with yours, and you squeeze them.
"I couldn't wait to tell him."
You stare at the floor.
"He didn't cry. He didn't smile. He just looked at me."
The silence stretches.
"I remember asking him if he was okay. He just stood and told me he'd be back later."
You swallow. "He wasn't."
You blink a couple times before continuing. "He started coming home less. He worked late. He stopped touching me. Hell, he stopped looking at me."
Your voice remains remarkably calm. "I found lipstick on one of his shirts."
Eddie's jaw clenches.
"I asked him about it." You laugh quietly. "He told me I was hormonal."
"A month later, he asked for a divorce."
Eddie finally looks down at you. You don't look angry anymore; you just look tired.
"He actually used the words..." You smile bitterly. "'I think we've grown into different people.'"
He says nothing.
"So I signed." Your thumb rubs absentmindedly over the bottle label. "A week later he moved in with someone else."
"A girl barely old enough to drink." You let out another humorless little laugh. "My mother called it trading in for a younger model."
You look toward the ceiling. "I think she was trying to make me laugh."
"Did it?"
"A little."
Your eyes drift toward the hallway leading to Rosie's room.
"He never came to appointments. He wasn't there when she was born. He didn't call. He didn't write. He never met her."
Eddie's entire face has gone still. "He knows about her?"
You nod once. "He just... didn't want her."
The words hang in the room. Simple, matter-of-fact. Far crueler because of it.
You shrug one shoulder. "It took me a long time not to think there was something wrong with me."
Your voice cracks for the first time. "Then I worried there was something wrong with her."
Eddie turns immediately. "There isn't."
"I know that now."
"But at three in the morning with a newborn who won't stop crying and bills stacked on the counter..."
You smile through watery eyes. "You start asking yourself questions you know aren't true."
Without saying a word, Eddie reaches over and gently takes your beer from your hand before setting both bottles on the coffee table. Then he wraps both arms around you, like he's trying to hold every broken piece anyone else ever left behind.
You bury your face into his shirt, and he presses his cheek against your hair. After a minute, he quietly says, "Can I tell you something?"
You nod.
"The first day I met Rosie..."
You smile despite yourself. "The hardware store?"
"The hardware store."
He chuckles softly. "When she held out that stuffed dinosaur and told me his name was Mr. Pickles..."
You laugh through your sniffle. "It was Mr. Sprinkles."
"Oh." He grins. "See? I wasn't listening."
"You absolutely were."
"I wasn't."
"You were."
"I was busy because this tiny little person had just informed me that dinosaurs eat grilled cheese."
"They do."
"They absolutely do." He kisses your forehead. "I remember thinking..."
"...that if I ever got lucky enough to have a kid someday..." His voice lowers. "I hoped they'd look at me the way she did."
You close your eyes.
"And then I kept coming over." Another kiss against your temple. "And somewhere along the way..."
He shrugs against you. "...I stopped imagining some hypothetical kid."
"It was just Rosie."
You feel your throat tighten and he smiles into your hair. "I don't know the first thing about biology. I don't care whose eyes she has. I don't care whose nose she has. I don't care who signed what paper or what his last name was."
He gently tips your chin up until you're looking at him. "I've been hers since she handed me that beat-up stuffed dinosaur."
You can't stop the tears anymore, and he wipes one away with his thumb.
"And for the record..." His voice is impossibly soft. "The biggest idiot in Indiana walked away from you."
He gives you that crooked little grin that still makes your heart flutter after all this time. "Worked out pretty great for me, though."
You laugh, sniffling. "Yeah?"
"Oh, absolutely."
He starts counting on his fingers. "I got the prettiest girl I've ever met."
You roll your eyes. "Mm-hmm."
"I got a kid who thinks dinosaurs eat grilled cheese."
"They do."
"They absolutely do."
"And..." He leans over to steal a quick kiss. "I got invited to tea parties."
"A real privilege."
"The highest honor."
You smile into another kiss. Then he rests his forehead against yours and murmurs so quietly you're not sure he even meant to say it out loud.
"I didn't step up because someone else stepped out." His thumb brushes your cheek. "I stepped up because I fell in love with you."
"And somewhere along the way..." His smile softens into something almost impossibly gentle. "...I fell in love with her too."
You don't answer; you just lean into him until he's practically swallowing you whole with one of his hugs.
The familiar rumble of Eddie's van pulls into the driveway just as Rosie finishes painting approximately half of your thumbnail and almost all of your finger.
She leans back with a look of absolute pride. "There."
You hold your hand up to admire the aggressively uneven layer of bright pink polish coating your nail and cuticle alike. "It's beautiful, bug."
"I know."
She nods very matter-of-factly before dipping the tiny brush back into the bottle with all the confidence of a seasoned professional and absolutely none of the precision. The front door creaks open a second later.
"I'm home!" Eddie calls.
Rosie's head whips toward the foyer so quickly she nearly launches the polish across the living room. "Daddy!"
She abandons your half-finished manicure entirely and hops off the couch, bare feet slapping against the hardwood as she sprints toward him. You hear him laugh before you even see him.
"Whoa, whoa, easy there."
You round the corner just in time to see Rosie wrap herself around one of his legs. Eddie looks exactly like he always does after work at the shop.
His curls are tied back in a loose bun that's already halfway fallen out; there's grease smeared across his cheekbone and forearms, his old band shirt is stained with oil, and his jeans look like they've survived some kind of explosion underneath a car.
He crouches down anyway. "Hi, sweetheart."
She immediately wrinkles her nose. "You're dirty."
He looks down at himself. "...Little bit."
"A lot bit."
"Maybe a lot bit."
She reaches up and pokes a streak of grease on his arm with one tiny finger. "Ew."
He gasps dramatically. "Excuse me? This is artisan-grade mechanic seasoning."
"It looks yucky."
"It probably is."
He scoops her up anyway, careful to keep his hands away from her clothes as much as possible before carrying her over to where you're standing. His tired eyes immediately soften the second they land on you.
"Hi, pretty girl."
You smile. "Hi yourself."
He leans down, stopping just short of kissing you. "I'm gross."
"I noticed."
"You sure?"
You grab the front of his shirt and kiss him anyway, grease and all. When you pull away, he looks almost offended. "I literally smell like motor oil."
"And?"
"And you kissed me."
"I happen to like motor oil."
He grins. "Liar."
Rosie wedges herself between the two of you. "You both smell funny."
You snort. "Thanks, Rosie."
"You're welcome."
Eddie presses a quick kiss to the top of her head. "I'm gonna go shower before I contaminate the entire house."
She watches him head toward the hallway before suddenly remembering something incredibly important. "Wait!"
He turns. "Yeah?"
"I'm painting nails."
His eyebrows lift. "Are you now?"
She proudly holds up the tiny bottle. "And after Mommy's..."
She points directly at him. "...I'm doing yours."
He looks at you, and you very helpfully shrug. "I don't make the rules."
He presses a hand dramatically to his chest. "I've been selected?"
"You have."
He smiles at Rosie. "You got black?"
She blinks. "What?"
"Black nail polish."
She looks down into the little plastic basket of colors before digging through every bottle with increasing concern. "No..."
He sighs dramatically. "Of course."
She brightens. "I have sparkles."
He looks at you, and you bite your lip. He already knows he's doomed. "Well..."
He says carefully. "...dealer's choice."
Rosie gasps like she's just been entrusted with the nuclear launch codes. "Really?"
"Mhm."
She nods once with complete seriousness. "I know exactly what to do."
You exchange a look with Eddie. He mouths, Help. You smile sweetly. Absolutely not.
Twenty minutes later, he's freshly showered, hair still damp around his shoulders, wearing an old pair of gray sweatpants and one of your favorite oversized Sabbath shirts. He sits obediently on the living room floor while Rosie carefully arranges her entire nail polish collection around him. You curl up on the couch behind them, pretending to read while secretly watching everything.
Rosie picks up one bottle, sets it down. Another, sets it down. Then…she finds it. The brightest, loudest, most offensively glitter-infested neon purple imaginable. You physically have to cover your mouth.
Eddie eyes it suspiciously. "...That's the one?"
She nods enthusiastically. "It's princess purple."
"Oh."
"And sparkles."
"I see."
"And hearts."
"I can... also see that."
"And glitter."
"I definitely see that."
She beams. "It's pretty."
He looks at her, then at the bottle, then back at her. Without another word, he extends both hands. "Do your worst."
Rosie giggles so hard she almost falls over. For the next half hour, she paints with absolute artistic freedom. The polish ends up on his fingers, his knuckles. One suspicious streak somehow appears halfway up his thumb.
She pauses every few minutes to inspect her work before adding another layer. When she's finally done, she grabs both of his hands and holds them up proudly. "There."
Eddie examines them with complete sincerity. "...Rosie."
She waits expectantly.
"I think these are the coolest nails I've ever had."
Her entire face lights up. "Really?"
"Oh yeah." He wiggles his fingers dramatically. "I've never looked more fabulous."
She immediately launches herself into his lap for a hug. He catches her without hesitation, wrapping one arm around her while being careful not to smudge his fresh manicure. You watch them from the couch, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.
Rosie pulls back just enough to admire his nails again. "I made you pretty."
He gently tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. "You always do, sweetheart."
She yawns a huge, sleepy little yawn, the kind that scrunches up her whole face. Eddie notices instantly.
"You getting tired?"
She shakes her head, then yawns again. "No."
"Mhm."
"I'm not." Another yawn.
He smiles knowingly. "Sure."
She curls herself against his chest anyway. Within maybe three minutes, she's completely asleep. Eddie looks over at you, careful not to move too much.
His hands are still decorated in violently purple glitter polish. His stepdaughter is slightly drooling on his shirt. His hair is still damp. He looks happier than you've ever seen another human being.
You quietly reach over and lace your fingers with his. He glances down, then back at you.
"So..." You whisper. "You gonna keep the nails for work tomorrow?"
He looks at his hands, looks at Rosie, looks back at you, and smiles. "Absolutely."
"You know the guys are gonna make fun of you."
He shrugs. "They can."
You raise an eyebrow. "They won't bother you?"
He looks down at the little girl asleep against his chest and gently kisses the top of her head.
"I'd let this kid paint my entire face green if it made her smile."
He glances back at his sparkly purple fingertips. "As far as I'm concerned..."
He wiggles them proudly. "...these are the coolest damn mechanic hands in Hawkins."
The house has long since gone quiet.
The dishes are done, the lights downstairs are off, and somewhere outside, rain taps softly against the bedroom window. The fan hums overhead, filling the room with the kind of gentle white noise that always seems to lull everyone to sleep.
Rosie had insisted on one extra story tonight. Then one extra hug. Then one extra glass of water. Then one extra kiss for Mr. Sprinkles. Then another for herself. If you give a mouse a cookie, or whatever they say.
By the time you'd finally pulled her bedroom door closed, she'd already been halfway asleep.
Now you're curled beneath the blankets with your head resting on Eddie's chest, absentmindedly tracing lazy circles against his side while he combs his fingers through your hair. Neither of you is talking anymore, the exhaustion of the day settling comfortably over both of you.
His lips brush the top of your head. "You asleep?"
"Almost."
"Liar."
"Mhm."
"You drooled on my shirt."
"I absolutely did not."
"You absolutely did."
You smile into his chest. "I think you're making things up."
"I would never."
"You literally convinced Rosie last week there were raccoons that delivered pizza."
"There could be."
"There aren't."
"You don't know that."
You laugh quietly, the sound muffled against him. "I love you."
He doesn't even pause. "I love you more."
"You can't prove that."
"I can."
"How?"
"I made you grilled cheese with the crusts cut off yesterday."
"I didn't ask you to."
"You didn't have to."
You shake your head, smiling to yourself. You don't know how much time passes before a tiny knock sounds against the bedroom door. Three little taps, then another.
Then the knob slowly turns. The door opens only wide enough for a small face to peek through. Rosie's eyes are watery; her little bottom lip trembles when she spots the two of you.
"Mama?"
Your heart immediately softens. You sit up before she's even finished speaking. "What is it, bug?"
She clutches Mr. Sprinkles tighter against her chest. "I had a bad dream." Her voice is so quiet you almost don't hear it.
You hold your hand out. "C'mere."
She doesn't hesitate. Bare feet shuffle across the hardwood before she climbs onto the bed, crawling right between the two of you without so much as asking permission, as though she'd done it a hundred times before.
Maybe she has. You immediately pull the blankets over her little shoulders while Eddie scoots closer from the other side, making sure she's tucked safely between you.
Rosie simply curls into your side, one hand reaching across until it finds Eddie's sleeve. She hangs onto it tightly. You smooth her hair back from her forehead.
"Wanna tell us about it?"
She shakes her head. "It was scary."
"I know."
"There was a loud noise."
You gently rub circles against her back. "But you're here now."
She nods once, then another sniffle. "You guys are here."
"We are."
"And we're not going anywhere."
She wiggles a little closer until she's practically glued to both of you at once. Eddie quietly reaches over and tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear.
"You know what's nice about bad dreams?"
She looks up at him with sleepy, curious eyes. "What?"
"They end."
She thinks about that. "They do?"
"They always do."
"And then you wake up."
She nods slowly. "I woke up."
"You did."
"And then I came here."
"You did."
"And now you're with us."
Rosie looks down at Mr. Sprinkles before whispering, "He got scared too."
Eddie leans over to inspect the stuffed dinosaur with complete seriousness. "He seems pretty brave to me."
"He was pretending."
"Oh."
"He didn't want me to be scared."
Eddie smiles softly. "I think he did a pretty good job."
Rosie considers that before giving the dinosaur a little kiss on the nose. After another quiet minute, she yawns. One of those enormous little yawns that seems far too big for someone so tiny.
You can't help smiling. "Tired?"
She immediately shakes her head, then yawns again. "No."
"Mhm."
"No."
She curls up even smaller anyway, one hand still tangled in your pajama sleeve now, the other resting against Eddie's arm.
You feel Eddie's hand find yours over the blankets, his fingers lacing through yours without a word. Rosie's eyes are already drifting closed. Just before she falls asleep, she mumbles something so quietly you almost miss it.
"I'm happy."
You glance across at Eddie, and he's already looking at her.
"What made you think of that, sweetheart?" he asks softly.
Her eyes never open. "I like when we're all together."
Your throat tightens instantly.
She nestles deeper beneath the blankets. "I like my home."
A few seconds later, she's asleep; completely, peacefully asleep.
You and Eddie don't move; you don't dare. He looks over at you in the darkness, and there's something in his expression that says everything words can't.
You reach over the little lump of blankets between you and rest your hand against his cheek. He turns just enough to press a kiss into your palm.
this shit actually made me ugly cry from pure content
please could you write anything fluffy for gator 🙈
oh how i love love love soft gator. here's a lil blurb of him and his gf who is not a morning person <3 0.7k
“Motherfucker.” Gator mumbled to himself, hand reaching out to grab his phone on his nightstand, hand slapping around until he found it.
6:30 AM. He had 30 minutes to get to the station.
He turned off the alarm before setting it down. Turning his attention back to you, where you were wrapped around him. There was already a knit look on your face, your sleep also disrupted by the ringing.
He let out a little breath, giving a few soft lazy pets along your head.
As he began to shuffle and try to move out of your tangle of limbs, you mumbled something he couldn’t catch. A whine.
“Just a few more minutes.” You grumbled, pressing your face into his chest.
You were far too sleepy to put up any actual effort to keep him in bed, so latching yourself onto him would suffice.
Because you’re the only one who gets to see him like this in the morning. No dumb camo pants or slicked back hair.
You get to see him in all his glory with the warm dew of the sun shining on him through his thin window blinds, his hair messy and falling in front of his face, wearing nothing but his boxers, his warm freckled body laid right next to you.
A sleepy handsome mess.
“I gotta be on time to work, can’t come in late again. My boys at the station still won’t let me live down the day I came in rushing with my badge backwards.”
“Not my fault you were rushing.”
“I was rushin’ because someone wanted me to stay in bed for an extra five minutes.” He said in a hushed tone, craning his neck to get close to your face, acting like you were a petulant child. You were acting a bit like one in all honesty.
You let out a "hmph" resting your chin on his chest but keeping your eyes shut. Obviously you couldn’t see it, but you could hear the shit-eating grin he had on.
“Y’know by the time I’m halfway through my shift you’ll finally be gettin’ out of bed.” He teased, pinching your thigh. You squeaked, jolting a few inches back from him.
You were defeated, you let him slip out of your arms. As he removed himself you turned over on your other side so your back faced towards him, grumpily pulling the sheets over you.
An amused huff left him, you heard it. You snuck a few glances at him as he got ready for work, slicking his hair back, slipping on his vest and strapping the gun holster to his thigh and putting on that leather jacket he loved.
He knew you were staring.
His boots thudded against the floor as he walked to your side of the bed, having to crouch down to get to your eye level.
You stared at him, pout still evident on your face. Purposely.
“C’mon, don’t be like that.” He sighed, laying his elbows on his legs and letting his hands hang between his lap. You shuffled down in bed so you were able to pull the sheets over your shoulders completely.
“You still gonna be poutin’ by the time I get back?” He reached one hand out, pushing some tangled hair out of your face.
“‘M not pouting.” You mumbled, shuffling further. The sheets were covering up to your chin.
“Uh huh.” He said with that stupid smug look he’d get when he knew he was right. He let out a deep breath as he stood up, slipping his hands in his pockets. “Maybe on the way back I’ll stop by that little cafe you like. Get a hot chocolate or somethin’.” He dropped his head to his shoulder, pretending he was only thinking out loud. Like he wasn’t trying to swap out your grumpiness with a treat.
You would not give into temptation. You would stay grumpy all morning.
“With whipped cream. Oooh, maybe even get some cinnamon sprinkled on top.” His eyes moved back to you, narrowing.
You bit your cheek, twisting your lips. Defeat has never sounded so delicious.
“Make sure it’s still warm by the time you get back.” You told him blankly, closing your eyes.
Gator kissed your forehead along with his response.
⋆˚꩜｡summary: eddie hates your pizza order, but he doesn't hate you<3 based on this request sent in by anon<3
⋆˚꩜｡tags/tw: explicit content +18 only, minors do not interact, no y/n, she/her reader, , best friends to lovers, mutual pining for yearsss, idiots in love?, love confession, domestic fluff, oral sex (f!receiving), fingering (f!receiving), unprotected piv sex (don't do this, you'll get pregnant and die), creampie, eddie cums too quick<3, emotional intimacy, marijuana use, alcohol mention
⋆˚꩜｡wordcount: 6k
⋆˚꩜｡a/n: dear anon, i took some creative liberties bc it wasn't flowing as well as i wanted it to, sorry it isn't as filthy as i usually make 'em </3
Final exams finished and passed – thank God – you were finally able to go home for the summer.
You had taken it upon yourself to put all your faith into the godforsaken – although very loved – hand-me-down car and make the four hour drive all the way from Springfield, Illinois, back to Hawkins, Indiana, before your parents even had the chance to think about coming your way instead.
It had absolutely nothing to do with missing a certain 5”10 metalhead who proudly called himself your best friend. Nope, absolutely nothing at all.
You hadn’t called anyone ahead of time to tell them you’d be back home for the upcoming twelve weeks – not even Eddie – simply because you didn’t have the energy to make family plans and empty promises of catching up with old classmates you didn’t like just yet.
Tilting your head to the side far enough for it to crack loudly, you flicked the turn signal when the weather-tattered Forest Hills Trailer Park sign came into view. You exhaled softly as you slowed down enough to turn right, the crunching gravel and uneven ground beneath the tires rocking the car from side to side until you finally pulled up in front of the Munson trailer.
You turned off the engine and sank further into your seat as the last four hours of driving without stopping finally caught up to you. For a moment, you simply stared at the wooden porch, already dreading the aching trembles that would settle into your legs the second you got out of the car.
Eddie’s van sat parked beside the trailer, confirming he was home and that your surprise wouldn’t be ruined by him spotting your car.
You pulled the key from the ignition and pushed the door open before flicking through the abnormal amount of keys on your keychain until you found the copy he’d given you years ago – perks of being best friends for almost two decades.
Not bothering to grab your bag from the passenger seat – you’d probably make Eddie do it later – you pushed the car door shut with your hip and headed up the steps leading to the front door.
Eddie blew out the earthy smoke of his joint as he glanced at the kitchen clock with furrowed eyebrows when he heard the muffled noise of clinking keys followed by the soft click of the lock.
Wayne had left for work less than an hour ago. There was absolutely no reason for him to be coming back already.
You lazily pushed the door open as a tired sigh escaped your lips before crossing the threshold.
The joint between Eddie’s fingers nearly slipped from his grasp when he dragged his gaze away from the clock and towards the door, finding you instead of Wayne.
For a second, he genuinely wondered if the weed was making him imagine you.
His big brown eyes widened ever so slightly while his eyebrows disappeared behind the frizzy bangs that had escaped the messy bun he’d thrown his hair into hours ago.
“Fuck off,” he mumbled after a solid thirty seconds of staring at you like he’d just witnessed some kind of miracle. “What the hell?”
The cursed welcome-home greeting – so uniquely Eddie – made the corners of your mouth curl upwards as you kicked off your shoes.
“Surprise,” you murmured tiredly as you stepped over to the kitchen table, snatched the joint from his fingers, and dropped into the chair beside him.
The trailer hadn’t changed a bit since you’d last stepped foot inside nearly five months ago. The wallpaper was still ugly and yellowed from years of cigarette smoke, and the AC still made that annoying rumble as it struggled to cool down the place.
“The fuck do you mean surprise?” he asked, blinking a few times as he tried to process the fact you were sitting in his kitchen and not a whole state away.
“The meaning of surprise hasn’t changed as far as I know, Eddie.”
He leaned back in his chair like the extra distance was necessary for it all to sink in.
Then, slowly, the disbelieving chuckle escaping his lips turned into full-blown maniacal laughter as he shoved back his chair and practically launched himself at you.
“Holy shit, you are home!” he exclaimed as he wrapped his arms around you so fast you nearly choked on your drag.
“Yeah, yeah, I love you too,” you replied between coughs, forcing yourself to ignore how the weight of those words spread warmth along your chest.
“I’m ordering pizza to celebrate,” he mumbled against your hair before finally loosening his grip.
He was already halfway to the kitchen when you furrowed your eyebrows and took another drag of the joint.
“Do you even have money?”
Eddie grabbed the yellowed menu from the fridge and clicked his tongue as he shot you a look.
“For your information,” he deadpanned, pointing the menu at you, “I have been saving up money to come visit you.”
Your eyebrows shot up.
“You?” you scoffed out. “Saving money?”
“I can be a responsible adult,” he replied, sounding personally offended.
“Sure you can, buddy.”
Eddie rolled his eyes as he sat back in his chair and pushed the menu towards you.
“Pick what you want.”
“The fuck are you giving me this for?” you asked, immediately sliding it back across the table. “You know my order.”
Eddie looked at you for a moment longer than necessary before his gaze dropped to the joint resting in the ashtray. He picked it up, lit it, and took a long drag.
“You don’t wanna try something a little more socially acceptable?” he asked, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Margherita, maybe? Like a normal person?”
A groan escaped you as you sank lower into your chair.
“I’m not even home for ten fucking minutes, and you’re already torturing me.”
“You’re the one torturing me with those taste buds.”
That pulled a tired chuckle from your lips before a yawn overtook it instead. Your eyebrows furrowed slightly as you covered your mouth with the palm of your hand.
Eddie’s grin softened at that. His gaze drifted over your face, lingering on the faint bags beneath your eyes and the slow blinks that had far more to do with four hours of non-stop driving than the joint you’d stolen from him moments earlier.
Without a word, he stood up and disappeared down the short hallway towards his room.
You’d learned a long time ago to let Eddie do whatever weird thing he was about to do instead of wasting your breath asking questions.
A minute later, he reappeared carrying a clean towel and a chance of clothes. Holding them out to you with one hand, he brough the joint back to his lips with the other.
“Knowing you,” he started before slowly exhaling a stream of smoke, “you left all your shit in the car for me to deal with.”
Your gaze dropped to his ring-covered hand before lifting back to his face as a smile tugged at your lips.
“You’re the best, you know that?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, echoing your words from earlier. “I love you too.”
You hesitated for a beat, something about the earnestness in his voice catching you off guard. Before you could dwell on it, you blinked once, then again, and reached for the clothes and towel in his hand.
“You better not mess up my order, Edward,” you muttered as you headed towards the bathroom.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, princess.”
Thankfully, Eddie had not, in fact, messed up your order.
The heart-attack-inducing pizza topped with double pepperoni, white mushrooms, extra red onions, and a generous drizzle of pesto – much to Eddie’s eternal horror, despite this having been your order for years – was absolute heaven after months of suffering through one-star college-town pizza.
The TV hummed quietly from the living room, forgotten somewhere between slices of pizza and the overwhelming exhaustion that came with four uninterrupted hours on the road. At some point, the two of you’d migrated to Eddie’s bedroom instead, trading the uncomfortable kitchen chairs for the familiar comfort of his unmade bed and cluttered floor.
Somewhere between yawns, giggles, and marijuana smoke, the simmering heat of Eddie’s body had slowly found its way towards your side of the bed while you relished in the comfort and familiarity of his old mattress.
You were in the middle of telling him about something stupid and annoying that had happened at college a few weeks ago when he reached up and gently smoothed a loose strand of hair away from your temple. His hand drifted lower until it found the ends of your hair, absentmindedly curling a strand around his finger like he always did. You shook your head as you tried to remember where you’d left off before the story abandoned you altogether.
Before you could come up with anything that remotely resembled a coherent thought, Eddie let go of your hair and allowed the strand to fall softly back against the pillow.
“You tired?” he mumbled after a while.
Propping his head up on the palm of his hand, he looked down at you.
“Kinda,” you admitted with a slow blink.
The warm glow of the nightstand lamp spilled through the room, painting amber streaks and dramatic shadows across the little things that made the space so uniquely Eddie. The guitar leaning against the wall. The cluttered dresser. The faded band posters that somehow still managed to hang on despite years of being held together by tape and stubbornness.
Its reflection danced in his eyes, though there was something else swimming beneath it – something you couldn’t quite place.
“It’s pretty late,” he said, flicking his gaze towards the red numbers of the alarm clock. “We can just sleep if you want.”
“Nah.” You shuffled closer onto your side and tucked your arm beneath the pillow. “Wanna talk. Missed this.”
For a moment, something softened in his expression.
As soon as it appeared, it was gone again.
“Of course you did,” he replied with a grin. “It’s impossible not to miss me.”
You rolled your eyes, absentmindedly fidgeting with the comforter beneath your fingers before another yawn escaped you.
“That’s it. Let’s get you some sleep,” Eddie mumbled as he pushed himself upright.
He tugged the comforter free from where it had become tangled under the two of you before giving it a quick shake and draping it back over your bodies. The bed creaked and groaned beneath his weight as he settled back against the mattress, fluffing his pillow before getting comfortable.
Then, without thinking anything of it, he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you closer until you were practically sprawled across his chest.
You ignored the small sigh that slipped from your lips when your cheek settled against the inked demon head stretched across his chest.
“You comfy?”
“Yeah,” you murmured. “Can you do that thing with my arm?”
A crooked grin tugged at Eddie’s lips as he looked down at you. “You’re spoiled, you know that?”
There was no bite to the words as his fingers found your forearm, lazily tracing soft spirals against your skin.
You hummed contentedly. “And whose fault is that, hm?”
Eddie knew damn well whose fault it was – his fingers always found their way into your hair whenever you were close enough, his wallet somehow opened a little easier whenever you tagged along to the arcade, and every piece of good news was shared with you before he’d even thought about telling Wayne.
Something tugged softly at his chest.
He ignored and chuckled under his breath instead.
“What if I wanna be spoiled for once?”
“Then I’ll spoil you rotten,” you replied without hesitation.
Eddie fell quiet. His gaze lingered on the wall opposite of the bed while his finger continued tracing lazy circles along your arm.
Then, ever so quietly:
“Can you scratch my head?”
Sometime in the last few minutes, your eyes had drifted shut in the quiet stillness of the room. you blinked them open slowly, trying to adjust to the warm glow of the bedside lamp.
“Yeah, of course,” you mumbled, the corners of your mouth curling upwards. “C’mere, big boy.”
Eddie’s fingers stilled against your skin before he uncurled his arm around your frame.
You pushed yourself a little higher against the headboard and stretched out your arm for him. Eddie immediately shuffled closer and carefully rested the side of his head against your bicep.
“There he is,” you teased quietly, threading your finger through his hair.
He smelled like the cheap sandalwood and pine shampoo Wayne always bought from the dollar store, lingering traces marijuana smoke, and something else entirely – something that was uniquely Eddie. His curls were frizzy and probably held more knots than he’d ever willingly admit to, but you didn’t comment on any of it. You simply worked your hand through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp as quiet, content sighs slipped past his lips.
“Hm,” he hummed, practically melting beneath your touch. “Yeah, you’re definitely gonna have to spoil me more often.”
A low chuckle escaped you as you brought your free hand up to his curls, carefully teasing apart a few stubborn knots before they could snag.
“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”
Blinking slowly, he tilted his head just enough to find your gaze already fixed on him.
For a moment, Eddie was certain he’d never seen you look at anyone the way you were looking at him.
“Your future boyfriend’s gonna have a hard time competing with me if you keep looking at me like that.”
The words left Eddie’s mouth before his brain had the chance to catch them. An uncomfortable buzz immediately settled beneath his skin.
Your hand stilled for only a fraction of a second, but it was enough for him to notice.
Silence settled between you. The space separating your bodies was practically nonexistent, yet somehow it suddenly felt heavier than it had moments ago – not awkward, just… different.
Then, slowly, the smile that had slipped from your face returned, spreading a familiar warmth through his chest.
“There’s no competition, Eds.”
Your fingers resumed their gentle scratching, as though you hadn’t just ripped off a bandage neither of you had been brave enough to touch for years.
Eddie felt his pulse stumble. “What?”
“In fact,” you continued, completely ignoring the disbelief in his voice, “there never has been.”
He broke his gaze away from yours and furrowed his eyebrows as he swallowed.
“Stop…” he trailed off, trying to lean away before immediately giving up. “Don’t say stuff like that if you don’t mean it.”
You opened your mouth before closing it again. For a moment, you simply stared at him, his words hitting you like a punch to the chest.
“Of course I mean it,” you whispered.
You let go of his hair and dragged a hand through your own before flicking your gaze towards the yellowed stains on the ceiling.
“I always carry extra cetirizine whenever we hang out, just in case we run into a cat,” you continued quietly. “And I know the real story behind the scar on your chin even though you’ve never told me.”
Eddie’s frown deepened while his entire body went still beside you.
“I know you skipped an entire week of school when Cliff Burton died but told everyone it was because it was the anniversary of your mom’s death,” you continued. “You say you hate broccoli, but you always eat it when I make it.”
A soft sigh escaped you before you swallowed and finally looked back down at him.
“I was prepared to stay best friends forever and be miserable about it,” you admitted quietly. “I figured that was better than losing you.”
The room fell silent. Eddie stared at you. Not moving, not speaking – just staring.
His eyes darted across your face as if searching for the punchline. For the moment you’d laugh and tell him you were kidding. For the moment he’d wake up, for anything that made more sense than this.
But there wasn’t one – there was only you.
The faint bags beneath your eyes, your nervous smile, your shaking hands tangled in his curls.
The look in your eyes he’d been trying not to think about since you’d told him there was no competition.
“Jesus H. Christ,” he whispered.
Your breath caught. “Eddie–”
“I’ve been in love with you for fucking years.”
The words sounded almost pained as they left him – like he’d been holding them back for far too long.
For a second neither of you moved again. Then Eddie surged forward before he could lose his nerve.
One hand found your jaw, while the other buried itself in the comforter.
And then his lips were on yours.
They felt like silk, and his breath was warm against your skin as he let our a ragged exhale, spreading heat from your cheeks all the way down to your chest.
Your eyes drifted shut as you pulled him closer, unable to stop what he’d started.
A shiver ran down your spine as your senses became overwhelmed by everything Eddie – the shirt he’d loaned you hanging from your frame, the earthy scent of his shampoo, the familiar weight of his hand against his cheek, the nervous drumming of his fingers beneath it.
When he finally pulled away, his eyes slowly opened and found yours. They lingered on your face as though he was trying to memorize every detail while desperately attempting to get the fireworks in his chest under control.
“Fuck Springfield,” he mumbled after a few seconds, apparently incapable of surviving a vulnerable moment without cracking a joke. “I’m kidnapping you.”
A laugh escaped you. “Kidnapping isn’t very boyfriend material, Eddie.”
“Boyfriend, huh?” the words sounded almost disbelieving coming from him. “I like the sound of that.”
“Good,” you replied with a grin. “Because you’re not getting rid of me that easily.”
“Obviously,” he scoffed. “Do you know how hard it is to kidnap a college student?”
You barked out another laugh, the ugly kind that made your stomach hurt and was reserved for him alone – and pulled him closer again, threading your fingers back through his curls. The frizzy strands felt soft against your fingers as you resumed scratching his scalp.
Eddie couldn’t seem to stop looking at you. Like he needed the constant visual confirmation that you were still there, still real. His gaze carried a quiet sort of electricity now, something warm and disbelieving all at once.
Slowly, he tilted his head forwards until his forehead rested against yours, his thumb brushing softly over your cheek.
Then he leaned in and kissed you again. He pulled you into his chest and rolled the both of you until his back laid flush against the mattress.
A sound that was half groan, half disbelieving laugh escaped him against your lips. His fingers tightened slightly against your cheek as he kissed you slowly, almost teasing at first, though there was something else underneath it now; something desperate, and that had been waiting for too long.
You hooked a finger around one of his curls and gave it a gentle tug when a quiet sigh slipped from his lips. All the frustration had been building between the two of you for years slowly found its way into the kiss.
Neither one of you seemed willing to be the first to pull away. But when you finally did, both of you were breathing a little harder than before.
Eddie’s eyes looked darker beneath the amber glow of the bedside lamp, his lips slightly swollen from kissing you. For a moment, he simply stared like he still couldn’t believe any of this was real.
“Please tell me you want this,” his words came out rough and breathless, his chest rose and fell unevenly beneath you as his eyes searched your face.
A soft, disbelieving scoff escaped you while you glanced away for a second before looking back at him – back at the man you’d spent years trying not to fall in love with.
“I’ve wanted this for years,” you whispered.
Eddie didn’t answer right away. Instead, he let your words settle between you while his eyes continued searching your face. The longer he looked, the more ridiculous he felt. The faint shadows beneath your eyes. Your messy hair. The unmistakable affection swimming in your gaze that, apparently, had been there all along. How the fuck had he missed it for all these years?
“Good,” he said after a moment. A mischievous grin was already spreading across his face before the word had fully left his mouth. “Because I really wanna eat you out.”
A loud, undignified snort escaped you. Your head tilted back as laughter burst from your chest.
“Jesus Christ, Eddie,” you wheezed.
“What?”
He tried to sound defensive, as though laughing at the words that had just left his mouth was the most offensive thing you’d ever done in all the years he’d known you. But the act lasted all of three seconds when his lips pulled into a pursed smile before giving way to a chuckle at your disbelieving expression.
“Just being honest here, sweetheart,” he replied quietly. His thumb brushed absentmindedly against your waist. “Since we’re confessing and all that.”
You were still trying to catch your breath from the kiss while his ridiculous words continued echoing in your ears.
You brushed a stray curl away from his eyes and made a mental note to trim his bangs the next chance you got.
Reaching for the back of his head, you gently pulled him closer. A soft sigh escaped you when your lips met once again.
Something in Eddie seemed to snap the moment you kissed him back. Slowly, he rolled the two of you over until your back met the mattress again, bracing himself with one arm while the other remained firmly around your waist. The bed creaked beneath the shift in weight as he settled between your legs.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he mumbled when he finally pulled back for air.
His thumb continued brushing softly against your cheek as he shook his head in disbelief, as though he didn’t quite trust himself with the affection spilling from his mouth.
“You have no idea how much I want you,” he admitted quietly, his eyes flickering between yours and your lips. “But you’re tired, and–”
“I want this, Eds,” you whispered, and slid your hand from the back of his head to his cheek, cradling his face gently.
Eddie’s gaze finally lifted from your lips to your eyes.
“Are you sure?” the question came out softer than before. “Because it’s okay if you don’t.”
A disbelieving laugh escaped you – sometimes he could be so ridiculously stubborn.
“How many times do I have to say it before you believe me?” You stole a quick kiss before he had the chance to answer. “I want this.”
Whatever had been holding him back finally snapped once and for all when he leaned in again, his lips finding yours like he needed your kiss to breathe.
His fingers twitched against your cheek before they slowly trailed down to the hem of your shirt. A warm breath escaped him when his fingers skimmed over the skin of your hips, leaving goosebumps in their wake. The gentle grip you had on his cheek faltered for a brief moment as he started tracing soft circles beneath your shirt, like he was trying to memorize every inch he could reach.
You parted your lips when you let go of his face entirely and brought your fingers back into his curls. Eddie stilled, and his thumb pressed a little harder into your hip when he felt you give his hair a tentative tug. A shiver ran through him at the touch, and he slowed the kiss just enough to catch his breath before he finally – almost hesitantly – pulled away.
“Can I…” the words died on his tongue as he swallowed hard and opened his eyes.
His fingers drifted back to the hem of your shirt, giving the fabric a small, uncertain tug. It took your brain a split second to catch up before you gave him a shaky nod. Eddie swallowed again and nodded back – though it seemed like he was doing it more for himself than for you.
Slowly, he pushed himself upright until he was kneeling between your legs. His hand slipped beneath the fabric and gently lifted your shirt over your head.
Heat instantly rushed to his cheeks, tainting his milky skin a bright pink, as you pulled your arms free from the sleeves, but he didn’t let his gaze wander. Instead, his eyes stayed fixed on yours, still searching for even the smallest hint of hesitation.
Eddie’s heart pounded wildly in his ears as he finally dared to let his eyes trace the delicate curves of your collarbone, down to the swell of your breasts. With shaking hands, he gently caressed your sides as he marveled at how you reacted to his touch. Goosebumps rise in the wake of his fingertips, your nipples hardening in the cool air.
“Fucking beautiful,” he murmured reverently, barely above a whisper.
His fingertips danced along your sternum, circling each breast with agonizing slowness. You arched into his touch, a soft gasp escaping your parted lips when he dipped his head and pressed feather-light kisses along the valley of your cleavage. Your fingers pulled at his hair, urging him closer.
Eddie cups your breast almost hesitantly, brushing his thumb over the sensitive peak. At the same time, he captured the other nipple between his lips, and flicked it teasingly with his tongue. Emboldened by the sharp gasps spilling from your mouth, your body arching off the bed and into his chest, he sucked harder and grazed the hard peaks with his teeth. He moaned against your skin, lavishing you with devoted attention as he switched between them, alternating between licks and nibbles until they glistened with his spit.
Your hips roll restlessly beneath him, seeking friction. He let go of your breasts and trailed open-mouthed kisses down your stomach, pausing to dip his tongue into your navel – the little shit shot you a little grin when he did so, always one for the dramatics. Lower he went, until he finally reached the waistband of the boxers hugging your hips. Slowly, almost torturously, he inched the fabric downwards, exposing more than he’d ever seen of you.
His breath hitched as something urgent and hot coiled in his core. Eddie curled his hands around your thighs, softly pushing them further apart until his gaze found your slick folds. The heady scent of your arousal filled his nostrils, making his cock throb almost painfully under his boxers.
“Gonna make you feel so fucking good,” he mumbled almost absentmindedly, and trailed one finger through your wet slit. “Fuck, can’t believe you’re letting me do this.”
Eddie then locked his eyes with yours as he lowered his head, holding your gaze. His plush lips grazed your clit, pulling a sharp exhale from you both. He lapped softly at your pussy, savouring the way you tasted and ingraining it into his tongue. You pressed him closer, nails scraping sharply against his scalp and fingers tugging harshly at the curly strands, desperate for more. The silent plea you gave him was more than enough, and he sealed his mouth over your slit and thrusted his tongue inside, fucking you steadily as he all but slurped at your essence.
“I– Fuck,” you breathed out as Eddie trailed a thick lick back to your clit, and softly pushed a finger into your pussy. “Y-yes, just like that.”
A groan escaped him when you fluttered around him, drawing him in deeper. He pumped his digit lazily, curling it to stroke that secret spot like he’d done it times and times before, making stars burst behind your eyelids. His tongue swirled mercilessly around your throbbing clit, lashing and flicking it with practiced precision.
He couldn’t remember when he’d closed his eyes, but when he opened them again, he found you with your head thrown back, your lips parted in a small circle as your chest heaved up and down. He added another finger, stretching you open deliciously slow as you writhed mindlessly underneath him.
Your legs trembled around his face, your feet accidentally brushing against him when your toes curled until suddenly, he withdrew completely, denying your release.
“No, no, no,” you whine out, your eyebrows pulled into a tight furrow. “Fucking hell, you’re such a fucking di–”
Eddie silenced you with a filthy kiss, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. You returned the heated kiss fervently, licking into his mouth and letting your slick tongues intertwine.
Pulling away again, Eddie gazed down at you with molten brown eyes, a grin spreading across his kiss-swollen lips.
“You taste even better than I imagined,” he murmured, ignoring the curses falling from your mouth.
Like he needed to make his point, he dove back between your thighs, and latched his lips onto your clit like a man starved. He suckled forcefully, flicking the swollen nub with rapid strokes of his tongue.
“Eds–” you whine, desperate to finally get the release he’d taken away from you moments ago. “Fuckfuckfuck.”
Just as the wave of ecstasy had found its way back to you, Eddie drove two fingers into your clenching slit, pumping vigorously as he kept sucking. Your juices gushed on his chin, back bowed clean off the bed as wave after wave of mind-melting bliss crashed over you until you collapsed bonelessly against the mattress.
Eddie watched raptly as you came undone, a broken groan slipping from his lips, completely transfixed by the picture in front of him – hair splayed wildly, skin gleaming with a sheen layer of sweat, mouth agape in ecstasy as a broken moan slipped from your lips. Pride surged through him knowing that he did that, that he unravelled you so thoroughly like he’d had wanted to do for so long.
He gave you a moment to come down, and placed a tender kiss on your inner thigh before crawling up your body. He settled between your limp legs, nestling his aching shaft against your slick entrance. Capturing your lips once more, he kissed you deeply, conveying without words every feeling he had ever pushed down over the years. You looped your arms around his neck, and pulled him impossibly closer as you ground up against him, frantic with need.
“Can’t believe you’re all mine,” he mumbled against your lips.
He reached between you, and tugged his boxers down just enough for his cock to slip out and gave himself a desperate tug, then another, and guided himself to your dripping opening. You felt hot and tight around his swollen tip as he prodded insistently at your slit until finally sinking into your slick pussy. A breathy encouragement of his name escaped you as he sank himself deeper into you, groans spilling from his own lips at the feeling of being fully sheathed within your walls.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he grunted sharply as you locked your legs behind him, and pulled him impossibly deeper until he was buried to the hilt. “You’re so… I don’t think I’ll last long, sweetheart. Fuck.”
Eddie hissed sharply when he felt your nails dig into his shoulder, and pressed his clammy forehead against yours as he took a moment to let you adjust – although he probably needed the moment more than you did.
Electricity zinged up his spine at the delicious pressure engulfing his aching cock, and he set a deep, driving rhythm as he rocked into you with purpose. Each slow, yet powerful thrust punched the breath from your lungs, his heavy balls slapping at your ass as he drew broken moans from your sweet lips. Eddie’s hand roamed greedily, squeezing and kneading every supple curve of your body as you met him stroke for stroke, clinging on for dear life as the knot deep in your stomach wounded tighter and tighter.
His ears twitched with every hitch in your breath, every shiver that ran down your spine, every time your nails dug a little deeper into his milky skin, like he desperately needed to memorise every little detail of how you reacted to him.
“Where do you want me, baby?” he pushed himself off of you just enough for his gaze to find your closed eyes, furrowed brows and mouth lulling open.
“Fuck, Ed-Eddie,” you moaned out as he gave you another hard thrust. “In– mhm! Inside, p-please.”
“Jesus,” his hips faltered when your words reached him, but he picked up the pace again just as quickly. Every roll of his lips was deliberate, insistent on drawing out every breathless whimper and broken moan you had to offer. “You can’t just say shit like that.”
“P-please, Eddie,” you breathed out, and opened your eyes, blinking a few times until his face came back into focus. “I want it, please.”
Eddie gave you three last hard thrusts before his hips halted, pulsing hot seed directly into your spasming core. You followed right after, clamping down on his spurting cock as you shattered around him. He collapsed on top of you, burying his face in your neck as he tried – and failed – to catch his breath. The two of you had become a tangled mess of limbs and heavy, ragged breathing.
“I don’t– Jesus,” he breathed out after a moment, the words muffled and low. “I don’t think I’ve ever came that hard.”
His breath steadied after a few more seconds, although his heart still pounded loudly in his ears as he pushed himself up just enough for his eyes to find your face. His gaze softened immediately at the sight in front of him – you licking your dry lips as you blinked lazily up at him.
But then he immediately groaned and cringed at himself.
“Ah, fuck,” he mumbled as he fell forwards again, nearly suffocating you.
You hummed softly in confusion as you let go of his shoulder and dove your fingers back into his messy locks. You pull a low, satisfied sigh from him as your nails scraped gently against his scalp.
“Can’t believe I came before you.”
A low chuckle escaped you before you could stop it. Shaking your head, you whispered something that sounded an awful lot like idiot under your breath.
“I couldn’t care less, Eds,” you managed to say after you’d finally gotten your laughter under control. “It’s not gonna make me love you any less.”
Eddie stilled above you, like your words had hit him square in the chest. His breath caught, and his fingers twitched against the sheets beneath you. For a moment, he kept his face hidden into the crook of your neck.
But the tension melted from his shoulders as quickly as it had appeared. He leaned back just enough for his lips to find yours again, slow and careful.
“I fucking love you too,” he mumbled against your lips.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes glimmered beneath the low amber light of the bedside lamp, his expression softer than you’d ever seen it.
“Yeah?” you asked with a bashful smile before something else crept into your gaze. “Even my dubious pizza order?”
Eddie snorted. “Yeah, even your dubious pizza order.”
“Good.” A grin spread across your face. “Because I could really use another slice after all of this.”
He stared at you for a long moment, blinking in disbelief.
“We just confessed our undying love, and you’re thinking about pizza?”
“Don’t pretend like you couldn’t go for another slice too,” you chuckled.
Eddie hissed lowly as you accidentally clenched around him, and softly pulled out his softening cock out of you. He shook his head, though the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth ruined any attempt at looking annoyed. He pulled his boxers up his hips and, without another word, pushed himself off the bed and disappeared down the hallway.
Not even ten seconds later, you heard the fridge open and close, followed by the soft sound of footsteps making their way back towards the bedroom. Eddie appeared in the doorway with the pizza box in one hand and two cans of beer balanced in the other. He dropped both at the foot of the bed before helping you sit up, trying his best – and failing – not to stare at your chest.
“You hate eating in bed,” you pointed out as he pulled his eyes away from your naked frame, and flicked open the pizza box.
“But I don’t hate you,” he mumbled in return, passing you a slice.
For a moment, all you could do was stare at him.
A soft smile slowly spread across your face as you took the slice from his hand.
