✩ hi there ! you can call me tilly (she/her, 21+). i'm usually on this hellsite for rp and simblr, but i finally made a blog for my silly pookies to write/save fics of them lmfao. boyd is my main squish and steve murphy is my controversial older bf <3
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Pairing: F!Avengers!Reader x John Walker (undefined but established relationship)
Word Count: 3.4k
Warnings: Smut, P in V sex, creampie if you squint, mentions of alcohol, Walker gets jealous, Reader is written to be a bombshell, relationship built off of banter, Walker is a certified yapper.
Summary: Valentina has put you to work for the first annual New Avengers gala, smiling for donations while the rest of your team is unaccounted for. You catch Walker looking, leading you both into hot water.
You're tense. Maybe it's your dress. Too tight around your body and too exposing around the neckline. A beautiful red with a tiny shimmer, chosen at Valentina's behest. Something about bringing out your eyes, and definitely nothing to do with the fact that it's cinching your tits to your throat. When you first tried it on back at the tower you hadn't noticed; simply nodding along to make her happy, but now it's all you can think about. Keeping to your pillar, you wait. One step closer to the middle and you'll become live bait. A beacon of bare skin and high heels. The suits around you only make you feel even more like a sore thumb; a sea of black and white only accentuating the scarlet fabric adorning your form.
Tonight is a celebration of the team's few successes now that it's been a full year since you had all become 'the New Avengers'. Or in other words, the biggest charity gala Valentina's managed to host yet. Hiring out The Glasshouse for the evening for any guest who paid the right price to enter, she had spared no expense in making the perfect venue for schmoozing. An elegant live orchestral band and an open bar was hard for anyone to say no to. While her greed didn't sit right with you, it did also get the tower an indoor pool. At least tonight she'd given the team her word that the earnings of the evening would be going to the New York repair fund. That is, as long as the team did a good job earning the donations.
The team you seem unable to find. Bob is a given, he's probably dipped after one look inside the premises. Alexei? Valentina could have lost his invite. Congressman Barnes has already said he'll be late. Maybe the girls are like you, avoiding the main action before the piranhas in rental tuxedos strike. Your lips stay pressed together, thumb gently gliding over the rim of your champagne flute. An unfortunate truth of the matter is, if no one else is willing to to the work of flirting out some cash, you've got to step up.
As you scan the hall for your first target, you actually spot Walker. In truth, you'd forgotten about him– or at least forced yourself to. He's relaxed, lingering by one of the pillars with a drink in his hand. While usually his machismo would earn a gag, you can't help but admire the way he looks tonight. Broad shoulders squared off in a nice suit. Nicer than any he's worn– not that you're keeping track, but it's nice. No gaping, no pulling, perfectly tailored to outline the muscles you claim not to notice. Fake smiles and small talk isn't something he stands for, but by now you know attention is something he craves on a platter.
His drink is for show, obviously. It's not like he needs one. He doesn't need liquid confidence if his whole existence is built on exuding it. There's enough of a group around him to tell he's making good conversation. Maybe he's sharing a war story or two. Whatever it is, he’s working the crowd like a pro. All white teeth and sparkling eyes as he boasts about his history. Each word from his lips draws the pompous laughter you can't stand, but his smile captivates you enough to keep looking. The sight is mesmerizing enough you almost don't catch the throat clearing to your left.
"Hello?"
It's a man. On the shorter side, in a suit that gapes at the lapel. While you don't bother flicking over his entire build, you can tell he doesn't fill out the pant legs, either. A tight smile graces your face– No, it doesn't meet your eyes. You hope he can tell. You hope he sees how there's absolutely no twinkle in your less than adoring stare, but he doesn't. The man stands, watching you expectantly as you blink. All too quickly are you reminded of why you're there in the first place. Schmoozing. Relinquishing your tight lipped smile, you extend your hand.
"I'm sorry, I was lost in thought." In an instant, the charm is on. You tilt your head just enough to look interested, smile finally finding your gaze as his hand meets yours. "I'm–"
"Oh, I know who you are."
Of course, by now, who doesn't? Your face has only been on the news every other week. In magazines and on billboards. Valentina doesn't pull any punches when it comes to marketing, does she? As the man takes your hand you can't help but notice his limp shake. Thankfully, he doesn't seem to notice you scrunch your nose.
"I'm a big fan," He begins, lightly out of breath as he adjusts his tie. "Of the new Avengers, and of you, specifically."
Of course he is.
"Really?" You tuck a stand of hair behind your ear, maintaining the façade of interest with a pearly smile. "I'm flattered, and you are?"
The man, whose name you forget instantly, goes on, and on, and on. You placate with sweet smiles and the odd giggle. His whole life story is recounted through monotonous tones, occasionally cut through with a frankly atrocious snort. Public relations or not, you need to get away from this guy. It's at that moment; while you're tracking the room for an escape, do you realize that Walker is watching you. His tongue is pressed into the inside of his cheek, icy blues narrowed at your stiffness. You revert your gaze back to the man to offer an answer to a question he clearly just asked.
"Yes, definitely," You nod, placing a hand over your chest as if truly taking it to heart. "Absolutely, I–"
"You'd like to?" The man is practically beaming.
"Excuse me?"
"Horseback riding, with me, yes?"
You bite the inside of your cheek, eyes widening in regretful horror as his words hit your ears. Gazing at Walker has landed you in a thousand and one awful places, but this might just take the cake. Horseback riding with some short ass with a comb-over is not your idea of a good time. As your mouth opens, desperately racking your brain for a kind way to put this man down, a different voice rings out.
"As much as our favorite bombshell loves horses," It's Walker. Thank Christ. "We don't have a lot of time between hero work for riding."
Within seconds, the shorter man is stumbling over himself– a red flush washing over his features. Riding. Yeah, you all knew what he was really asking for. Anger burns like acid on your tongue, which you swallow bitterly. Walker's euphemism crashes over like dead weight, forcing you to glare as the man bashfully excuses himself. All you offer is a wave, he doesn't give it back.
"Horseback riding." He repeats to you with a click of his tongue.
"He seemed nice." You shrug back, ignoring the steady relief flooding your system.
"Oh, I'm sure." Walker notes, and while he's not letting it show, his smirk is laden behind his words. "Too bad he's not your type."
"And my type is?"
"Oh, you know," He shrugs, that nonchalant little hunch of his shoulders that makes your lips twitch. "Tall, handsome, strong."
"A little whiny and full of himself, too?"
"Didn't realize you were Bucky's date tonight."
That earns a laugh. A real one; which you quickly cover with your hand as a few other attendees walk past. You can see he's reveling in it, Walker's eyes quickly lighting up as you catch your breath. Your cheeks flush. Curse his ability to make everything feel so warm.
"No, I think he's bringing someone else." You nod in acknowledgement.
"Oh really, so no date tonight, then?"
He has the audacity to ask as his hand ghosts over your hip. Not quite touching. Walker wouldn't dare. Despite the thunderous beating of your heart, once was enough. Anything more than once meant that whatever it was between you was something– something you keep telling yourself is nothing.
"No. No date, John." His first name burns on your lips. You catch his nose twitching.
"That's a shame." Walker clicks his tongue, shaking his head with a playful laugh. "All dressed up in that pretty red dress—"
"We're supposed to be chatting up the attendees, John?" You cut him off with an arched brow. "Not each other."
"Gave up on that plan the moment you started giggling over some prick with a comb-over."
There's no hollowing of his eyes or pout of his lip. Walker's nostrils flare, eyes darting back to the man he'd so easily ushered away. You watch acutely as his jaw clenches, gut twisting as you feel your cheeks burn. It's unfortunate how good he looks when he's mad. A traitorous blush flushes your cheeks as he leans in, breathing hot against your ear.
"Secret or not, I don't like sharing."
Walker makes quick work of guiding your hips, easing you through the crowd you'd both been ordered to work. It's clear Walker isn't phased. His long legs move you with urgency towards the large doors. It's not long before you're met with a near empty hallway. Within seconds, the hustle and bustle is drowned by silence, violins muffled by the closing door. As his eyes scan over every door, you finally figure out what he's planning.
"You're horny?" You sigh, trying your best to sound reluctant.
"Wow, that's forward." He pretends to huff, a falsely offended hand coming to his chest. "And here I thought we were trying to keep things–"
"Bathroom's that way."
"Perfect."
Even as he raises a hand in mocking surrender, Walker is still steering towards where you just pointed. The women's bathroom. Most likely cleaner than the men's; or at least, you hope, given that's where Walker's taking you. He might be focused on the door, but your focus is on your surroundings. One pair of eyes catching you both, and you'd never hear the end of it. Not from Valentina. Not from the world. Not from the team.
As you come up to the bathroom, you dart your head inside. With no one around, and each lock flicked to empty, your panic dims. Looking back at Walker, you nod your head. He follows. Quick to lock the door behind him, Walker seals you away from the rest of the world inside the pristine bathroom. There's no need for words. The way his hands grip at your hips is enough. He ducks his head enough for your noses to brush together, breaths mingling as you're pressed into the door.
To your surprise, he doesn't kiss you. Usually Walker is all in the second he can get his hands on you. But tonight, he hesitates; licking over his lips as his gaze trails your form. Through half-lidded eyes and fluttering lashes, he lingers.
"I meant what I said." He catches your confusion, and as your mouth hangs open to respond, he adds: "Your dress. Your hair. It's... You look good."
"That almost sounds sweet, Walker." Your lip catches between your teeth, sparkling eyes watching the blush grow on his cheeks. But then– a tentative inhale.
"I kinda don't have a condom."
"Jesus Christ." You groan, head lolling forward to press against his sturdy chest. For a moment, you had let yourself get lost in the romance; totally forgetting just who has you against the door. To make matters worse, you feel him laughing. His shoulders shuffling as he stifles the chuckle deep in his throat. "You said the same thing last time."
"I didn't have one last time, either." He huffs out the reminder.
That's all he says before he lifts you. Two big hands scoop behind your thighs hauling you up without so much as a grunt. Your hands snake around his neck, legs squeezing around his waist as you're brought to the countertop. Walker moves with a painful lack of hesitation, clumsy fingertips clawing the skirt of your dress up to your hips.
"Don't rip it." You frantically hiss, batting his hands away to pull the rest up yourself.
"Chill out." He rolls his eyes, taking the moment to fumble with his belt buckle.
He stands tall between your legs, belt hitting the floor with an echoing clank. Quiet. Pure silence lingers save for the strained breath– you're unsure whose it is. Even under the fluorescent lights, he looks divine. Suit jacket thrown to the side. Top button popped. Hair falling into his face. It's hard to think straight once you spot the sweat on his neck, glistening as his Adam's apple bobs. Walker clearly notices your breath hitch.
"Take it you're ready?"
"Yeah," You're shamefully quick with your answer, hands shifting to grip on his biceps. "Just don't come in me."
"Noted."
Dragging you right to the very edge, Walker keeps his head down. He can't help but be fixated on the way your drenched panties cling to your puffy lips. Two thick fingers sink into the waistband. For a second, you swear he's panting just from this. You might be, too. Walker drags them down, gliding it down the perfect slope of your legs until the skimpy lace is dangling off one ankle. With your slickness exposed to the cool air, you gulp.
"You're going so slow." You whine, bringing his head down to press a kiss to the side of his mouth.
"You're being too needy." He retorts, teasing a finger through your folds before kissing you sweetly. "She wants me bad, huh?"
You grab his hand quickly, gesturing to the door.
"I just don't want to get caught, John. Hurry up."
He pauses at the notion, brows raised as if he hadn't actually considered the repercussions. His ignorance earns a blank look. Your lips press together, holding back any usual bite just to move things along. Walker inches down his pants enough for you to catch a glimpse of of his downy curls.
"God, just give it to me." Your head lulls back, hitting the mirror.
"Told you." His lips curl as he grabs himself, nudging his shaft out from his briefs. It's already aching, throbbing in time with his heartbeat as he squeezes the base tight. "Needy."
You're about to bark a retort when he guides himself to your core. Any smart quip you could have made dies in your throat. Walker is a gentle man, easing the fat crown of his flushed cock against your fluttering hole. Panting breaths escape your parted lips. Then comes another whine as he begins to sink himself in.
"Easy," he soothes, free hand scrambling to the nape of your neck, "breathe. Didn't prep you, did I?"
You shake your head, wincing as his thickness stretches you wide. There's no burn— thankfully you're worked up enough for an easy glide. He's kissing you again, mouth engulfing yours as you take him deeper. His beard scrapes at your soft face. It doesn't stop you from chasing the kiss back.
"You feel so good for me." He whispers against your lips. Something in your belly twists at the reverence in his tone. Blue eyes sparkling, Walker gazes down adoringly. "So perfect."
Instead of responding, you kiss him. Tongues dragging together in a desperate exchange of spit. You and Walker slowly start to move. You're more rigid than he is, one hand in his hair, the other on his arm as you begin to grind your hips down. Walker, meanwhile, is everywhere. He chases the curve of your body; squeezing at your plump chest, tangling in your hair, whatever he can take in his hands as he thrusts up into you.
"John—"
"I got you."
It's slow at first, but even so, the sheer size of him is enough to punch air out of your lungs. His tip kisses your sweet spot every time his hips roll into your own. Unable to stop the pleading whines, you wrap your arms around his neck. Walker takes the hint, gripping at your sides to pull you into his grinding hips.
"Feel you squeezing me." He grins, teeth clattering against your own. "You feel that?"
"Stop talking." You manage to growl between panting breaths.
"You like it."
You do. It's obvious in the way you take him; fluttering walls perfectly engulfing his shaft with every slow drag, soft moans escaping you both. Feeling the heat pool in your stomach, you snake a hand down your torso. As much as you wish you could prolong it— the more time you spend building up, the more chances you could get caught.
Pressing two fingers onto your clit, you circle it feverishly. You can only hide your moan by buring your face into his chest. He's fucking into you with reckless abandon. His hands pulling you completely off the edge to take control of the rhythm. Again and again, the flesh of your ass slams against his thighs.
"'M gonna come soon, where do you—"
"In me." It's spoken through gritted teeth, your fingers grinding your pulsing clit with growing urgency.
"You said—"
"I'm not letting it get on my dress," Another moan, "John, please."
The rolling of your hips becomes urgent; rutting into his with a slap that reverberates off the walls. Walker's fingers dig into your sides hard enough to bruise. Your foreheads press together, both breathing too hard to speak. Walker's brows are furrowed, eyes clamped shut as his grunts pick up volume.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck—" He pants under his breath dribbling into his beard as his head lulls back. "Come on, wanna feel you."
Walker chokes back the sweetest moan you've ever heard.
"Please, baby. Come for me."
That's all it takes. A break in his gruff tone just to beg. Everything tenses. The fingers on your clit work in overdrive, sending you keeping forward until the only thing you see is white. Walker doesn't stop; thrusting erratically as he holds you tight. You whimper into his chest. Almost a sob as your orgasm hits.
"That's it. That's it. God, I can feel it."
Walker can't get anything else out. His fingers flex around your hips just before they grab. He rams your body into him, chasing his own high until finally, he seizes. Rapid thrusts die into weak rolls as he spills into you. Your chest heaves. So does his. For a super soldier, Walker almost seems painfully out of breath.
Silence. Well, save for your panting.
"You okay?" You manage to rasp.
"Yeah," He exhales, forehead grazing against yours. "We should get back out there."
His head gestures towards the door as he gives a reluctant smile, all the while his cock stays buried deep inside of you. You sigh in agreement. While you only move your legs an inch, it's movement enough for some of his release to bubble from where you're sealed around him. Walker takes that as his cue to pull out. Blue eyes immediately dart down. As no surprise, he's transfixed on the milky fluid dripping from your worked hole. You whine.
It takes a few minutes for the two of you to be presentable. Walker fixes your hair, and you fix the lipstick smear that had dragged into his beard. Your palms glide over his chest, adjusting the lapels of his suit before you give him a smile. He's beaming. Part of it you know is because you're wrapped around his finger– the other part definitely because of what's soaking through your panties.
"Ready to head out?"
"Yeah," He confirms, though he raises a brow, mischief already building back up behind his eyes. "You sure you can walk right?"
"Don't flatter yourself." You roll your eyes.
Just as you're easing the door shut behind you, the men's room's swings open. Out strides Bucky– fixing his own suit jacket. He spots you at the same time you spot him. A cocked brow. A concealed smirk. Bucky's eyes dart between you both before he can't hold in his laugh. Walker bites his tongue, you see it in the way his jaw clenches. Your own cheeks flush. Before you or he can speak, Bucky does.
"Glad I didn't miss anything important." He shrugs, the teasing quip mostly geared towards Walker's expense. The two exchange a glance before Bucky gestures towards the gala hall. "See you guys inside."
The two of you stand, watching Bucky swagger towards the main doors. Your mouth hangs open. Walker's tongue drags along his bottom teeth, brows furrowed.
"We're never living this down." You mumble.
"I doubt it." Walker inserts. "He had lipstick on his collar."
A/N: It's been a painfully long time since I've written anything for Marvel, and god, how much I've missed it! I have two more gala pieces in the works— One for Bucky and one for Bob. Stay tuned for those. Feedback is welcome, reblogs appreciated <3
goose is the only one who can dig me out of my grave, and it's reawakening my inner marvel whore. i have full body sweats. so honoured to have gotten the draft for this teehee. EVERYONE CLAP GOOSE IS WRITING XOX
sorry that you think my fictional ship is illegal. I actually consulted a fictional lawyer about it and he had a talk with a fictional cop about the fictional laws and then they both looked at me, and very seriously said "we'll allow it because it's hot."
part 1 (?). idk this started as a smut-shot idea, then a series, then a songfic for a hot minute, and now we're back to a series. maybe. originally supposed to just be you and ty fucking in the whataburger bathroom and now there's plot so. anyways you work at whataburger and formally meet ty for the first time. shit happens. you hook up. you meet his best friends. then a bird flies by and ty forgets. so... ty may or may not be the muse in sabrina carpenter's song "sharpest tool"…
✩ a/n: ty shaw my beloved. my pookie. my stupid. i have like 89318 wips to finish but i'm choosing to ignore them ok!
✩ word count: 2.8k.
✩ warnings: fluff/slice of life shit. originally supposed to just be you and ty fucking in the whataburger bathroom and now there's plot so, there'll be eventual smut later on oops. reader is afab, but minimal physique descriptors.
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summary: part 1 (?). idk this started as a smut-shot idea, then a series, then a songfic for a hot minute, and now we're back to a series. maybe. originally supposed to just be you and ty fucking in the whataburger bathroom and now there's plot so. anyways you work at whataburger and formally meet ty for the first time. shit happens.
it's another late night. joints like these don't simmer down when the sky blackens—they pick up. not like a bar, and you're grateful for that. last summer you spent your nights getting shitty beer spilled on you for the consolidating prize of an even shittier tip and unsolicited comment. your friends suggested you trade the dim lights and rowdy crowds for fluorescent lights and the locals, and you couldn't be happier.
the shaw's are in tonight, double-boothed, one side debriefing the last rager while planning for the next and the other recapping the rodeo they all came from. they fill the whataburger with family chatter that runs as deep as the roots of their family tree. while you're not from west texas, and have hardly lived here long enough to fool an old-timer, you've made a lot of progress adapting and adjusting to the shift in lifestyles from where you're from. you've burned through the awkwardness of sticking out, of learning the unspoken dialect, of knowing which hat to wear with which boot, of abandoning the use of your horn, of the inflation of “excuse me’s” and the “no ma’am’s, yes ma’am’s”—not that you've changed yourself completely. being decent isn’t rocket science.
you're just less of a sore thumb out here.
Late night crawlers flood in, and an out-of-state baseball team of senior leaguers disrupt the layout of the restaurant's tables to drag them across worn tiles. They stick out like a sore thumb. Hyped up after a big win (you can only assume they aren’t this ecstatic over losing), ramped up on the varying colours of syrup their tongues are stained with by gas station snow cones: you just know the exhausted coach-turned-chaperone approaching your till is going to unload a long order on you that will piss off the kitchen.
“Hi there, what'll it be?” You smile politely.
The man fixes his hat, rubbing the sandstone dirt and sleep from his eyes as he stares at a crumpled piece of paper that’s just as worn as he is. He's struggling to spew out a list of written orders that you're positive aren't actually on the menu board behind you. His eyes are stuck in a perma-squint, blinded from a hot day in the sun, so you offer to save his last bit of energy by extending your hand towards him.
“May I?” Finger points towards his list.
As if relinquished by God himself, the man parts with the paper with a heavy sigh of relief. “Take your time with 'em, dear.” He offers, pointing a tired thumb behind him towards the team. “Boys won't even notice.”
You give him a nod, chipping into your pot of that learned Southern Hospitality for him. The group is a mix of 13 to 16 year old's, dirtied uniforms, medallions around their necks, a trophy sat like a large paperweight on one of their tables, and smudged eye-black on their cheeks that's been lost to a day of sweat. They wouldn’t even notice if you handed them uncooked meat between two buns.
Retiring the man back to the tables, you stand a bit dumbfounded behind the till, wrinkled paper in hand. You tackle what you know can be universally translated to the Whataburger menu: a couple of cheeseburgers, an array of large fountain drinks, and an assumed order of a few dozen fries for everyone. Some burgers are a bit more elaborate than others—enough to make you scratch your head in silent problem solving. A few trips back and forth between till and kitchen resolves only a few items, but you're stumped on what a Big Boy could mean without any other context clues. Tempting a glance towards the rowdy boys, the coach-turned-chaperone looks contently defeated at the head of the tables so you opt not to bother him. Instead, in your quiet gaze finds a boy, not from the baseball team, clinging to the rims of the counter.
Round-faced and innocently sweet for someone his age, you recognize him as one of the Shaw's; the youngest, who you've sworn to be called El Stupido every time he’s beckoned by his family.
Perhaps it had an affectionate story behind it. You hope so, anyway.
“Got any more napkins?”
His voice breaks your concentration, and you eye the server station by the doors. The napkin box has been depleted entirely. You look back at the boy. His high and tight haircut has grown out into inch-tall spikes, but it seems to fit him better this way. Eyes drop behind your counter where the excess of plastic utensils, single-use seasonings and condiments, and napkins are. You set the paper of orders down to take more napkins than you'd normally give, thinking he might need a few extras anyways—from the way ketchup and mustard gathers in the corners of his mouth. Sliding them across the counter, you give the youngest Shaw another polite smile.
“My brother likes Big Boys.”
You blink.
“I—sorry?”
“Big Boys.”
You understand that part, you think, however your confused gaze prompts El Stupido to turn the crumpled piece of paper he's taken the liberty of holding around. A round finger points to a scribbled section. Salt from his french fries dusts the counter with every little tap.
“Big Boys? My brother Ty likes 'em.”
“Oh!—” You look towards the Shaw's. The empty seat besides the eldest brother reveals more of him in the booth. He's got an arm propped up against the wall trimming before the window, the other outstretched along the back of the booth where El Stupido previously sat. You’ve seen Ty around, outside of Whataburger that is, but nothing more than a familiar face around town and at the oil field ragers.
El Stupido, who seems to be anything but that from the way he nearly reads your mind, speaks up again.
"Wanna talk to him?"
You clear your throat, “Uh, no—I mean! No, that's okay.” A beat, “Do... You know what a Big Boy is?” There's no point in bringing his brother up here anyways.
The boy shrugs. Before you can stop him, he cranes his neck in a half turn, calling back to his brother.
“Ty!”
Fuck...
At the sound of his brother’s call, Ty breaks away from his table's conversation, jaw in a half-chew of fries.
“What?”
There's an awkward exchange of both brothers talking over each other, then another awkward exchange of silence when they both hold their tongues at the same time to let the other speak. Eventually, Ty shimmies out of the booth, large drink cup in hand, and walks up to the till. You would've liked to just figure out what you could substitute a Big Boy on your own, now that's become a whole thing, but the younger Shaw still grips onto the paper of orders in his hand—and now it's in Ty's hand.
“Holy hell… Who's order?” Ty sifts through the list, patting his brother on the back as if to dismiss him back to their booth. El Stupido doesn’t forget to thank you for the napkins, and you give him a gentle smile as he marches back to their family booth.
Holding the edge of the till, you point a loose finger towards the, now, pushed together tables and the baseball team riling up around its perimeter. “Tried to be as creative as I could,” You begin, looking back down at your screen of the orders. “Big Boy kinda stumped me.”
Ty puffs out an amused scoff, lips pulling to the side as he shakes his head. “Big Boy? S'just a double-decker, hon.” He thinks you'll know what he means. “Double-decker? Texy Top Floor? Mucho Meaties?”
You're even more confused.
He sets his drink down, motioning with his hand that you step back a foot as he hoists himself up and over the counter. Ty starts punching things into the till, moving his finger like a stiff piece of wood against the screen. Normally, you would've stopped him—you should stop anyone that brings themself behind the counter and starts fucking around with the cash register. But you hear a few of the cooks in the back holler something out, an inside greeting or something adjacent to it, that Ty reacts positively to.
“Used to work here.” He informs you casually, still punching his finger away against the screen as he eyes the crinkled paper of orders in his other hand. “Eons ago.”
“And a Big Boy is...?” You're looking for something you can actually understand this time.
“Two patties.”
“Ah.”
In his confidence, Ty crumples up the paper of orders and tosses it into the nearest bin. Whatever it is he put through to the kitchen: you're just going to have to trust him. The till beeps, and your eyes find the overhead monitor perched up on one of the inner kitchen walls behind you. It flashes with an entirety of items, some of which are detailed as two-patty burgers. Ty hands you a new receipt, still warm from the printer, something you can give the chaperone for a bill. “Bingo.” He chirps.
He retrieves his drink, stepping away with his lips to the half-chewed straw, slurping what's left of his watered down Coke among the ice cubes. “I've seen you before. Seen you a lot, actually.” He says.
“Your family eats here a lot.”
Ty shakes his head, molars chewing along the plastic of his straw. “I mean at the ragers.” He recognized you, too? “You was at the last one, right?”
The last one—and just like the one before that: it's the same old story. “Everybody goes.” You say.
Waving over the team's coach with the receipt in hand, you begin to punch in the numbers. The man waddles over, exhaustion still present in his bones and perhaps weighing him down more than when he first walked in. He's knuckle deep in his wallet, palming a fairly kind amount of bills as Ty remains quiet at your side, watching as you handle the team's payment. The man wipes his brow beneath the bill of his ball cap, nodding to the both of you, before he returns to the rowdy table of boys.
“...Nobody went.” Ty finishes, quietly and to himself more than to you.
—
You pick up the last tray of food to bring to the tables: stacked a few burgers too high, loose fries spilled over the lining parchment, and three towering Cokes bubbling beneath their plastic lids. At the bar, you've carried worse while handling far worse before. Granted, you had an entire bar top to divide you from the rest of the chaos and its patrons. So the shockingly cold shower of sticky cola comes as a rocking surprise when a catcher's mitt soars through the air, luring the boy closest to you to leap from his chair and check the bottom of the tray with his shoulder in an attempt to catch it.
He does. It’s a great catch, actually.
But now you're soaked.
Your sharp inhale of being soaked turns the Whataburger silent, and the ice cubes that haven’t slid into your top softly hit the linoleum tiled floors with a wet splat.
“Way t’go Greenwall! You got the burgers wet!” One of the boys shouted, causing a distressing collection of teenage groans to echo in your ears as they mourn their food—pissing on your state of being drenched in Coke, actually. The coach struggles to wind the team down, avoiding your gaze with a guilty expression torquing his features. The boy that shoulder-checked the tray looks over at you with a sheepish apology, handing you a singular napkin as a peace offering.
“Gee, sorry Miss.” He murmurs, unable to keep his bubbling giggles to himself as his teammates start their upchuck of jokes. Yes, you’re currently working. Yes, you’ve been practicing your Southern Hospitality since you’ve moved here. Yes, you’re not an asshole and you’re rather patient when you don’t need to be.
But, fuck…
Your mouth opens, tongue sharpened in preparation of a well-deserved lashing against the entire table for distributing the place from the moment they walked in—then for whoever’s bright idea it was to play catch and volley with a baseball glove across the damn restaurant.
“—Hey!”
That definitely isn’t your voice. Your mouth shuts, breaking away from your statuesque position since being doused in three large Cokes, your head turns towards the Shaw’s booths. Ty is leaned over the table, elbow drilled into the table, finger pointing firmly at the baseball team. You don’t even process what it is he’s saying as he’s scolding them, or the fact that his sisters had evacuated their booth to guide you into the restrooms.
You blink once, you’re staring at Ty caddle up and reprimand the tables of boys like he was wrangling wild horses—you blink twice, and you’re staring at your drenched reflection in the restroom mirror as the two girls are working like medic veterans to de-sodafy your uniform.
“God, it’s everywhere…” Paris says, dabbing down on your chest and shoulders with a handful of scratchy, brown paper towels from the wall holder.
KC clicks her tongue, plugging one of the sinks up with a wad of toilet paper before filling it with water and hand soap. “What an asshole, seriously.” You feel another pair of hands pull at your soaked uniform polo until it untucks from your belted trousers. The orange colour, now a murky brown. The girls work in tandem, pressing lukewarm wraps of toilet paper and paper towels against your skin, leaving you at their mercy of hurried attempts to get as much Coke out of your hair and off your skin before it becomes a sticky, sugary coating.
“She needs a new shirt, KC.” Paris says, pinching at your uniform top. There isn’t a section of threads that isn’t soaked. “Hey, when does your shift end?” She asks you.
“...Midnight—”
“—Oh my God, she’ll be stuck in this for hours!”
“Do you have another shirt?”
“She’s not gonna have another shirt, Paris. Ty only got the one uniform when he worked here, remember? He got that stupid barbecue sauce stain on it like… The second day.”
“Shit, you’re right…”
You listen to the sisters go back and forth until Paris finally bolts out of the restroom in search of—well, you assume a new shirt—leaving you with KC. She stares at your reflection in the dingy mirror besides you, idly pinching the ends of your hair with her wettened fingers, finding any sticky sections she might’ve missed from before.
“Don’t worry,” She begins, “Ty’ll whip those idiots into shape.”
Although you aren’t all that concerned about reprimanding the baseball team for this, preferring you could just teleport to your apartment, into a clean change of clothes, and end this evening instead: it doesn’t hurt to know that the boys were getting wrung out.
“Yeah…” You huff, finally looking down to examine your cola-drenched state and the Shaw sisters’ efforts in getting as much off of you as they could. “Hey, thanks.”
KC smiles, phone in hand. She’s about to say something when the restroom door opens and Paris returns with a balled up plaid shirt in her hands.
“Here, it’s Ty’s.” She says, extending it out towards you.
KC sticks her hand out, interrupting the trade as she sours her face. “What? Ew, no. She can’t wear that.”
“KC—”
“—Paris, it probably stinks.”
You take the plaid anyways. It smells like cologne and campfires, and maybe a tinge of sweat—but it’s dry. Paris guides you into one of the stalls, giving you some privacy to change as you swap your sticky uniform polo for Ty’s plaid. Paris takes your discarded shirt, wringing it out over the sink as a splash of Coke drips from the orange fibers. It isn’t until you walk out of the stall, buttoning up Ty’s plaid shirt on your frame when there’s a knock on the restroom door.
Both Paris and KC look at each other, a little confused as to who would be knocking.
“Mama?” KC tries.
“No.”
El Stupido’s gentle rasp echoes in the restroom.
“Can I come in?”
Paris transfers your wrung-out polo into the sink filled with water and hand soap, while KC gives you a look. You nod, shrugging a bit. You were decent now, plaid buttoned up. She walks to the door, pushing it open for their youngest brother to softly waddle in. In his hands, he holds a crumpled stack of the napkins you gave him earlier.
“Do you need these?” He asks, hoisting the napkins up before you.
Your eyes round and soften at his attempt to help. You take a few napkins from him, wiping a bit aimlessly at your neck—the majority of the mess had been cleaned up by now. Still you, give the youngest a small nod. “Thanks.”
Like clockwork, another Shaw rapts at the restroom door with a firmer knock.
✩ a/n: ty shaw my beloved. my pookie. my stupid. i have like 89318 wips to finish but i'm choosing to ignore them ok!
✩ word count: 2.8k.
✩ warnings: fluff/slice of life shit. originally supposed to just be you and ty fucking in the whataburger bathroom and now there's plot so, there'll be eventual smut later on oops. reader is afab, but minimal physique descriptors.
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summary: part 1 (?). idk this started as a smut-shot idea, then a series, then a songfic for a hot minute, and now we're back to a series. maybe. originally supposed to just be you and ty fucking in the whataburger bathroom and now there's plot so. anyways you work at whataburger and formally meet ty for the first time. shit happens.
it's another late night. joints like these don't simmer down when the sky blackens—they pick up. not like a bar, and you're grateful for that. last summer you spent your nights getting shitty beer spilled on you for the consolidating prize of an even shittier tip and unsolicited comment. your friends suggested you trade the dim lights and rowdy crowds for fluorescent lights and the locals, and you couldn't be happier.
the shaw's are in tonight, double-boothed, one side debriefing the last rager while planning for the next and the other recapping the rodeo they all came from. they fill the whataburger with family chatter that runs as deep as the roots of their family tree. while you're not from west texas, and have hardly lived here long enough to fool an old-timer, you've made a lot of progress adapting and adjusting to the shift in lifestyles from where you're from. you've burned through the awkwardness of sticking out, of learning the unspoken dialect, of knowing which hat to wear with which boot, of abandoning the use of your horn, of the inflation of “excuse me’s” and the “no ma’am’s, yes ma’am’s”—not that you've changed yourself completely. being decent isn’t rocket science.
you're just less of a sore thumb out here.
Late night crawlers flood in, and an out-of-state baseball team of senior leaguers disrupt the layout of the restaurant's tables to drag them across worn tiles. They stick out like a sore thumb. Hyped up after a big win (you can only assume they aren’t this ecstatic over losing), ramped up on the varying colours of syrup their tongues are stained with by gas station snow cones: you just know the exhausted coach-turned-chaperone approaching your till is going to unload a long order on you that will piss off the kitchen.
“Hi there, what'll it be?” You smile politely.
The man fixes his hat, rubbing the sandstone dirt and sleep from his eyes as he stares at a crumpled piece of paper that’s just as worn as he is. He's struggling to spew out a list of written orders that you're positive aren't actually on the menu board behind you. His eyes are stuck in a perma-squint, blinded from a hot day in the sun, so you offer to save his last bit of energy by extending your hand towards him.
“May I?” Finger points towards his list.
As if relinquished by God himself, the man parts with the paper with a heavy sigh of relief. “Take your time with 'em, dear.” He offers, pointing a tired thumb behind him towards the team. “Boys won't even notice.”
You give him a nod, chipping into your pot of that learned Southern Hospitality for him. The group is a mix of 13 to 16 year old's, dirtied uniforms, medallions around their necks, a trophy sat like a large paperweight on one of their tables, and smudged eye-black on their cheeks that's been lost to a day of sweat. They wouldn’t even notice if you handed them uncooked meat between two buns.
Retiring the man back to the tables, you stand a bit dumbfounded behind the till, wrinkled paper in hand. You tackle what you know can be universally translated to the Whataburger menu: a couple of cheeseburgers, an array of large fountain drinks, and an assumed order of a few dozen fries for everyone. Some burgers are a bit more elaborate than others—enough to make you scratch your head in silent problem solving. A few trips back and forth between till and kitchen resolves only a few items, but you're stumped on what a Big Boy could mean without any other context clues. Tempting a glance towards the rowdy boys, the coach-turned-chaperone looks contently defeated at the head of the tables so you opt not to bother him. Instead, in your quiet gaze finds a boy, not from the baseball team, clinging to the rims of the counter.
Round-faced and innocently sweet for someone his age, you recognize him as one of the Shaw's; the youngest, who you've sworn to be called El Stupido every time he’s beckoned by his family.
Perhaps it had an affectionate story behind it. You hope so, anyway.
“Got any more napkins?”
His voice breaks your concentration, and you eye the server station by the doors. The napkin box has been depleted entirely. You look back at the boy. His high and tight haircut has grown out into inch-tall spikes, but it seems to fit him better this way. Eyes drop behind your counter where the excess of plastic utensils, single-use seasonings and condiments, and napkins are. You set the paper of orders down to take more napkins than you'd normally give, thinking he might need a few extras anyways—from the way ketchup and mustard gathers in the corners of his mouth. Sliding them across the counter, you give the youngest Shaw another polite smile.
“My brother likes Big Boys.”
You blink.
“I—sorry?”
“Big Boys.”
You understand that part, you think, however your confused gaze prompts El Stupido to turn the crumpled piece of paper he's taken the liberty of holding around. A round finger points to a scribbled section. Salt from his french fries dusts the counter with every little tap.
“Big Boys? My brother Ty likes 'em.”
“Oh!—” You look towards the Shaw's. The empty seat besides the eldest brother reveals more of him in the booth. He's got an arm propped up against the wall trimming before the window, the other outstretched along the back of the booth where El Stupido previously sat. You’ve seen Ty around, outside of Whataburger that is, but nothing more than a familiar face around town and at the oil field ragers.
El Stupido, who seems to be anything but that from the way he nearly reads your mind, speaks up again.
"Wanna talk to him?"
You clear your throat, “Uh, no—I mean! No, that's okay.” A beat, “Do... You know what a Big Boy is?” There's no point in bringing his brother up here anyways.
The boy shrugs. Before you can stop him, he cranes his neck in a half turn, calling back to his brother.
“Ty!”
Fuck...
At the sound of his brother’s call, Ty breaks away from his table's conversation, jaw in a half-chew of fries.
“What?”
There's an awkward exchange of both brothers talking over each other, then another awkward exchange of silence when they both hold their tongues at the same time to let the other speak. Eventually, Ty shimmies out of the booth, large drink cup in hand, and walks up to the till. You would've liked to just figure out what you could substitute a Big Boy on your own, now that's become a whole thing, but the younger Shaw still grips onto the paper of orders in his hand—and now it's in Ty's hand.
“Holy hell… Who's order?” Ty sifts through the list, patting his brother on the back as if to dismiss him back to their booth. El Stupido doesn’t forget to thank you for the napkins, and you give him a gentle smile as he marches back to their family booth.
Holding the edge of the till, you point a loose finger towards the, now, pushed together tables and the baseball team riling up around its perimeter. “Tried to be as creative as I could,” You begin, looking back down at your screen of the orders. “Big Boy kinda stumped me.”
Ty puffs out an amused scoff, lips pulling to the side as he shakes his head. “Big Boy? S'just a double-decker, hon.” He thinks you'll know what he means. “Double-decker? Texy Top Floor? Mucho Meaties?”
You're even more confused.
He sets his drink down, motioning with his hand that you step back a foot as he hoists himself up and over the counter. Ty starts punching things into the till, moving his finger like a stiff piece of wood against the screen. Normally, you would've stopped him—you should stop anyone that brings themself behind the counter and starts fucking around with the cash register. But you hear a few of the cooks in the back holler something out, an inside greeting or something adjacent to it, that Ty reacts positively to.
“Used to work here.” He informs you casually, still punching his finger away against the screen as he eyes the crinkled paper of orders in his other hand. “Eons ago.”
“And a Big Boy is...?” You're looking for something you can actually understand this time.
“Two patties.”
“Ah.”
In his confidence, Ty crumples up the paper of orders and tosses it into the nearest bin. Whatever it is he put through to the kitchen: you're just going to have to trust him. The till beeps, and your eyes find the overhead monitor perched up on one of the inner kitchen walls behind you. It flashes with an entirety of items, some of which are detailed as two-patty burgers. Ty hands you a new receipt, still warm from the printer, something you can give the chaperone for a bill. “Bingo.” He chirps.
He retrieves his drink, stepping away with his lips to the half-chewed straw, slurping what's left of his watered down Coke among the ice cubes. “I've seen you before. Seen you a lot, actually.” He says.
“Your family eats here a lot.”
Ty shakes his head, molars chewing along the plastic of his straw. “I mean at the ragers.” He recognized you, too? “You was at the last one, right?”
The last one—and just like the one before that: it's the same old story. “Everybody goes.” You say.
Waving over the team's coach with the receipt in hand, you begin to punch in the numbers. The man waddles over, exhaustion still present in his bones and perhaps weighing him down more than when he first walked in. He's knuckle deep in his wallet, palming a fairly kind amount of bills as Ty remains quiet at your side, watching as you handle the team's payment. The man wipes his brow beneath the bill of his ball cap, nodding to the both of you, before he returns to the rowdy table of boys.
“...Nobody went.” Ty finishes, quietly and to himself more than to you.
—
You pick up the last tray of food to bring to the tables: stacked a few burgers too high, loose fries spilled over the lining parchment, and three towering Cokes bubbling beneath their plastic lids. At the bar, you've carried worse while handling far worse before. Granted, you had an entire bar top to divide you from the rest of the chaos and its patrons. So the shockingly cold shower of sticky cola comes as a rocking surprise when a catcher's mitt soars through the air, luring the boy closest to you to leap from his chair and check the bottom of the tray with his shoulder in an attempt to catch it.
He does. It’s a great catch, actually.
But now you're soaked.
Your sharp inhale of being soaked turns the Whataburger silent, and the ice cubes that haven’t slid into your top softly hit the linoleum tiled floors with a wet splat.
“Way t’go Greenwall! You got the burgers wet!” One of the boys shouted, causing a distressing collection of teenage groans to echo in your ears as they mourn their food—pissing on your state of being drenched in Coke, actually. The coach struggles to wind the team down, avoiding your gaze with a guilty expression torquing his features. The boy that shoulder-checked the tray looks over at you with a sheepish apology, handing you a singular napkin as a peace offering.
“Gee, sorry Miss.” He murmurs, unable to keep his bubbling giggles to himself as his teammates start their upchuck of jokes. Yes, you’re currently working. Yes, you’ve been practicing your Southern Hospitality since you’ve moved here. Yes, you’re not an asshole and you’re rather patient when you don’t need to be.
But, fuck…
Your mouth opens, tongue sharpened in preparation of a well-deserved lashing against the entire table for distributing the place from the moment they walked in—then for whoever’s bright idea it was to play catch and volley with a baseball glove across the damn restaurant.
“—Hey!”
That definitely isn’t your voice. Your mouth shuts, breaking away from your statuesque position since being doused in three large Cokes, your head turns towards the Shaw’s booths. Ty is leaned over the table, elbow drilled into the table, finger pointing firmly at the baseball team. You don’t even process what it is he’s saying as he’s scolding them, or the fact that his sisters had evacuated their booth to guide you into the restrooms.
You blink once, you’re staring at Ty caddle up and reprimand the tables of boys like he was wrangling wild horses—you blink twice, and you’re staring at your drenched reflection in the restroom mirror as the two girls are working like medic veterans to de-sodafy your uniform.
“God, it’s everywhere…” Paris says, dabbing down on your chest and shoulders with a handful of scratchy, brown paper towels from the wall holder.
KC clicks her tongue, plugging one of the sinks up with a wad of toilet paper before filling it with water and hand soap. “What an asshole, seriously.” You feel another pair of hands pull at your soaked uniform polo until it untucks from your belted trousers. The orange colour, now a murky brown. The girls work in tandem, pressing lukewarm wraps of toilet paper and paper towels against your skin, leaving you at their mercy of hurried attempts to get as much Coke out of your hair and off your skin before it becomes a sticky, sugary coating.
“She needs a new shirt, KC.” Paris says, pinching at your uniform top. There isn’t a section of threads that isn’t soaked. “Hey, when does your shift end?” She asks you.
“...Midnight—”
“—Oh my God, she’ll be stuck in this for hours!”
“Do you have another shirt?”
“She’s not gonna have another shirt, Paris. Ty only got the one uniform when he worked here, remember? He got that stupid barbecue sauce stain on it like… The second day.”
“Shit, you’re right…”
You listen to the sisters go back and forth until Paris finally bolts out of the restroom in search of—well, you assume a new shirt—leaving you with KC. She stares at your reflection in the dingy mirror besides you, idly pinching the ends of your hair with her wettened fingers, finding any sticky sections she might’ve missed from before.
“Don’t worry,” She begins, “Ty’ll whip those idiots into shape.”
Although you aren’t all that concerned about reprimanding the baseball team for this, preferring you could just teleport to your apartment, into a clean change of clothes, and end this evening instead: it doesn’t hurt to know that the boys were getting wrung out.
“Yeah…” You huff, finally looking down to examine your cola-drenched state and the Shaw sisters’ efforts in getting as much off of you as they could. “Hey, thanks.”
KC smiles, phone in hand. She’s about to say something when the restroom door opens and Paris returns with a balled up plaid shirt in her hands.
“Here, it’s Ty’s.” She says, extending it out towards you.
KC sticks her hand out, interrupting the trade as she sours her face. “What? Ew, no. She can’t wear that.”
“KC—”
“—Paris, it probably stinks.”
You take the plaid anyways. It smells like cologne and campfires, and maybe a tinge of sweat—but it’s dry. Paris guides you into one of the stalls, giving you some privacy to change as you swap your sticky uniform polo for Ty’s plaid. Paris takes your discarded shirt, wringing it out over the sink as a splash of Coke drips from the orange fibers. It isn’t until you walk out of the stall, buttoning up Ty’s plaid shirt on your frame when there’s a knock on the restroom door.
Both Paris and KC look at each other, a little confused as to who would be knocking.
“Mama?” KC tries.
“No.”
El Stupido’s gentle rasp echoes in the restroom.
“Can I come in?”
Paris transfers your wrung-out polo into the sink filled with water and hand soap, while KC gives you a look. You nod, shrugging a bit. You were decent now, plaid buttoned up. She walks to the door, pushing it open for their youngest brother to softly waddle in. In his hands, he holds a crumpled stack of the napkins you gave him earlier.
“Do you need these?” He asks, hoisting the napkins up before you.
Your eyes round and soften at his attempt to help. You take a few napkins from him, wiping a bit aimlessly at your neck—the majority of the mess had been cleaned up by now. Still you, give the youngest a small nod. “Thanks.”
Like clockwork, another Shaw rapts at the restroom door with a firmer knock.
Pairing: Steve Murphy X F!Reader
Word Count: 1.8k
Warnings: 18+, Swearing, smoking, mentions of drinking, a little bit of angst, mentions of infidelity
Summary: After talking with Javier, Steve decides to visit your apartment.
Steve spends hours after his shift aimlessly driving. He hits up a bar, two, actually, plying himself with enough booze for his hands to stop shaking. By now, his hair is untamed, free from his strict comb and gel routine to curl onto his sweaty forehead. The car idles on a familiar street, his white knuckles unwavering from the steering wheel. Steve keeps his focus on the flickering street light. On. Off. On. Off. On. Off. It's continuous blink casts a glow on his face, only to revoke it a minute later. Tiny numbers on his dashboard tell him it's just struck midnight. Too late to be here, and yet, here he is.
Steve parks outside your apartment.
When he finally gets out, he stops. Staring. Cold concrete wrapped in stucco. Locked door keeping him on the stoop. The door buzzers are staring him down, laughing in his face as he grinds his jaw. He’s two cigarettes down. Smoke plumes upward after every drag. He missed you in the office; you having left before he returned. Maybe that made it easier. No prying eyes to watch him flounder. No listening ears to hear him grovel. Though, it’s also worse. This apartment was the foundation of his undoing. Ground zero for the lingering pit in his stomach. As the moon peeks from behind the building, Steve sighs. His large palm drags sweat off his brow. How long is he going to stand here, ogling?
“Christ.” He mutters under his breath, flicking away the final dashes of ash. “Fuckin’...”
The screen door rattles, forcing him to brace against the brick. Calm, cool, reserved; portraying himself as everything his thunderous heartbeat denies. As it clatters back shut, Steve watches an unfamiliar figure exit. Another resident. Thank Christ. God knows what he’d say if you came out to catch him lingering. His eyes trail upward, darting between the cracks in the building until finally resting on your open window. Lights on. Music playing. He rubs at his nose, clearing his throat before finally pressing the door buzzer. It rings out loud and clear, almost reverberating into the street.
Too loud for you not to hear it.
And yet, you don't answer.
Steve is about to press again, certain that it is, in fact, your window, and you are in fact home. After carpooling so many times, of course he's certain. Every crack in this wall is burned into the back of his mind, every water stain and every speck of mold, too. So much of his focus while dropping you off was spent on these walls, all so he didn't look at you. Though, clearly retaining the bumps in the stucco couldn't quell his attraction for long. After all, the whole reason he's here is because it couldn't.
Even after his mind wanders astray, you don't come. His adam's apple bobs in his throat, swallowing his pride in thick gulps as he looks back up to your window. Lights still on. Music still playing. Steve feels his fingers twitch. Maybe you know it's him. Maybe you don't want to see him. It's not like he can blame you. A married man shoving his face into a colleague's pussy isn't exactly grounds to pursue more conversation. His gut twists. You're not just a colleague, are you? He doesn't want you to be, he knows that much.
Sucking in a breath, Steve shakes his head. Javier's shitty attempt at a pep talk courses through him. He needs to talk to you. His finger hovers over the button, gently nudging at the dome until the clear sound of curtains shuffling come from behind. Without looking, Steve feels it. The same shift in the air when he first saw you in the office. The same weight from when you first smiled from the passenger seat. He turns with urgency, head snapping around just in time to watch you pull the curtains back.
"Do you know how late it is?"
Your voice is like a balm. Every ache in his chest and shake in his hands rapidly dissipates the second your silhouette comes into view. Sure, you sound pissed, and your brows are furrowed with that familiar little crease, but its you. Steve feels himself exhale, a breath he didn't even know he was holding comes with shaky release. His last cigarette is flicked into the topiaries, freeing his hands to seemingly pause. In a pure freeze response, Steve lets out a breathy laugh.
"Steve, what do you want?" It cuts through the rose-tinted fog, your voice settling like ice in his fuzzied state. Steve shakes his head ever so slightly, clearing his throat before calling out to you.
"I wanted to talk!" His voice echoes in the empty street. When you simply stare, he continues. "You know, about the other night?"
"So," You gesture towards him from your spot in the window. "Talk."
"I was thinking I could come inside?"
"Here is fine." You call back without a hitch in your voice.
"That's not fair."
"I think it's perfectly reasonable."
A stand off. Steve stands on the steps of the ground floor, gazing up with pressed lips while you stare him down. He told himself this would be fine. That he'd understand if you were angry. If you were cold. Yet now that you're actually being angry and cold, Steve can't help but feel his jaw twitch.
"Seriously?"
"I'm not buzzing you up, Steve."
He scoffs, smearing his sweaty palm down he jean pocket as he turns to look away. Steve knows he can't blame you. He'd do the same. Shit, he was doing the same until tonight. Rolling his jaw and crinkling his nose, Steve clears his throat.
"Alright, alright, fine." He waves his hand in indignation, sucking in a breath as he chooses his words wisely. "I shouldn't have stopped talking to you. I should have told you I called Connie back. I should've–"
He stops, the sparkle fading in his eyes when he catches you not buying it. His solemn acknowledgement was doing a whole pile of nothing. Judging by your scowl, it was actually making it worse. This was half-empty, only a part of the real truth between you.
"Okay, okay–" He steps back, getting a clearer view of your window as he tries again. "I was scared. I freaked out. Because–"
He pauses.
"Your pussy was the best–"
You've never buzzed someone up quicker in your life. Finger slamming the entry button as the warmth creeps up your cheeks.
You both end up in your living room. Steve leans against the dining table, silent, as you perch on the couch. That couch. At first, Steve doesn't know where to look. You aren't much better, keeping your eyes on your hands until finally the silence feels too heavy.
"You didn't talk to me."
"Talk." Your eyes don't leave his wedding ring, nose twitching in disgust. At yourself or at Steve, you aren't sure, but either way, it's pooling in your stomach.
"I want to apologize." Steve states again, the incriminating hand smoothing down his open shirt as he clears his throat. "To... figure this out, between us."
You scoff, drowning out the lump in your throat by hissing it back. Steve shifts his gaze away from you, and you do the same. The peeling wallpaper suddenly feels easier to look at. Wallpaper doesn't play peekaboo with wedding rings. It doesn't blank you after one of your better nights either. You swallow.
"Okay," You acknowledge before the bitterness can truly settle in. "You could have done this sooner?"
"You didn't talk to me."
"What was I supposed to say?" He huffs, "Hey, sorry, my not ex-wife came back?"
"So she's not your ex?"
"In this context, I don't know"
"In this context?" You bark through a scoff, teeth almost bared.
You watch as Steve swallows, blinking away the frustration that burns in the corners of his eyes. His jaw clenches, muscle flexing through his scowl. A quick set of paces later, Steve returns to lean against the table.
You watch him recoil, coarse hairs of his mustache shifting under his heavy exhale. Steve drags the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows before dragging a palm over his face. Silence floods your living room, nothing but a dull hum of the refrigerator filling the void. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, Steve sighs.
"After the shit with Carrillo, I asked for her to come back."
"And she came back. Your marriage is saved."
"Can you stop with the sarcasm?" He pleads, pushing himself off the dining table, both hands gripping at the sweat-laden strands of hair. "She's not– We aren't–"
Steve's are darker, now. Face gaunt as you catch him clenching his jaw. Something in the air changes. It's heavier. As if his guilt is bleeding out from every pore and chaining you to the ground.
"She's... aware that I've slept with prostitutes." He mumbles, more ashamed of telling you than he ever was with Connie.
"Oh, charming."
"Stop it."
"She knows about it. She knows it's stress relief. She knows its got nothing to do with emotions. But you?" He points his finger. Accusatory. Aimed right at your chest. "You fucked me up."
He doesn't let you speak. As soon as your mouth opens he rips up from his perch, tearing forward just to stop. His face scrunches, as if his thoughts are flashing too fast to find the words.
"I fucked you up?"
"Yes! You fucked me up!" His voice carries throughout the apartment, no doubt seeping through the walls of your neighbors. "Even before the other night. You got in my head. Every time you were in my car I could smell you. For days I'd smell you, and think about your stupid face."
"I started thinking about you all the time. Everywhere. Dumb little shit that I used to think about with Connie. Your smile when I looked at flowers. That stupid laugh you do when we got good info. Your face in the fucking sunset. Suddenly it was you." He gets it out through pants, chest heaving as the confession keeps coming. "The other night wasn't some freak accident. Or some moment of sobriety brain fog. It wasn't. Not to me, anyway."
"You think of me." You nod. The bitterness has left you. His confession ringing in your ears and stinging your eyes. "When you fuck your wife you think of me."
"Steve-"
"So yeah. I freaked." He rubs at his nose. Two thick fingers smearing as he sniffles. "I thought at least you'd get out of my head. Now every time she touches me, I–"
"Our marriage was failing already. It's not like–"
"But you're still married, Steve."
"I know." He rasps, throat raw. "I know."
Both of you sit in silence. Glassy eyes and grimaces, as if you're both looking in mirrors. Steve looks at you. You look at him. As hard as your chest aches, you can't give in.
"You're still married, Steve." You repeat, giving him a gentle shrug.
IT’S HERE. MY FAVOURITE FUCKING THING IS HERE. dialogue got me fucked up. steve got me fucked up. goose got me fucked up. i need steve to tell me my pussy was the best- in the middle of my street too.
