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bimbobaggins69 · 9 months

Text

first time for everything…

virgin eddie munson x experienced best friend reader

summary: Eddie has been in love with you since middle school. But he’d never admit it, no way, he’d never ruin what you two have… once he turns 18 he’s unwillingly drafted into the war while you go off to college in New York. Once the war is over Eddie is sent back to his mundane life in Hawkins and you move back when your grandmother gets sick. As fate has it, you and Eddie find your way back to each other.

warnings: smut ahead, mdni 18+, angst, late 60s—mid 70s au, fem reader, no y/n, pet names (princess, sweetheart etc.), mentions of slut shaming, reader is looking for love in all the wrong places, jealous!eddie, mentions of war, mentions of dying, Eddie has ptsd, mentions of a loved one having only months to live, loss of a family member, loss of virginity, unprotected p in v sex, cream pie, fluff fluff fluff.

authors note: thank you so much to the nonnie that requested this, I’m sure it’s so different from what you had in mind but I got very inspired after watching Forrest Gump. (this has a happy ending) Also, the timeline here vs the actual Vietnam war barely coincide… so ignore that please. Thank you to my loves @take-everything-you-can & @corrodedcorpses for beta reading! <3

wc: 8.1k

1966

“Hey, what are you doing sitting over here all alone?” A boyish voice calls out from behind where you’re seated; up against an old oak tree with just enough shade to allow you to read the words in your book.

Middle school was rough and you kept to yourself, being the new kid and all. Making friends in Bumsville, Indiana turns out was way harder than making friends in Phoenix. This town was far too small and with the way you’d dress and carry yourself, well… that was clarification enough that you didn’t belong. But that was okay, you didn’t want to belong in a place like this, anyway.

“Just reading.” Your small bashful voice is such a stark contrast to how you are at home, in a place of comfortability.

“Yeah, I see that… whatcha reading?” The mystery voice now no longer a mystery as he steps out from behind the tree, his worn and tattered converse step closer, causing you to look up, meeting a familiar set of brown doe eyes.

He wasn’t in your class but you had seen him a bunch, throughout the halls and at lunch.

He seemed to be the only interesting person in this hick town.

You pick your pink book up, allowing him to read the title, which he does out loud to himself.

“Valley of the dolls.” He says curiously. “What’s that about?”

The book looked far too girly for his taste, but as long as it gave him more reason to stand here and talk to you, he’d indulge.

“Wait, let me guess… something about dolls?” He smirks, while taking a seat on the fluffy grass, beside you.

“No actually, it’s about three best friends who live in New York, they’re struggling to get by so they decide to make their mark in show business, but shit just kind of spirals for them and well it’s not a very happy ending.” You fix your bookmark in place before closing it and placing it into your backpack.

“Oh, also ‘dolls’ is just another word for drugs.” You say with a shrug of your shoulders.

Eddie stays silent for a moment, before he looks over to you, hands nervously picking at the grass below him.

“Mmm, sounds interesting… guess it’s true what they say, not to judge a book by its cover.” He says with a shy smile.

1968

“Would you scoot over!” You screech, while shoving your elbow into the frizzy haired boy, practically sitting in your lap.

You and Eddie had been inseparable best friends, since that very interaction under the big oak tree. You were both immediately drawn to each other like a moth to a flame. He agreed, you seemed to be the only interesting thing in this hick town.

“It’s my couch, woman!” He screeches back, playfully pushing your head out of the way.

“Fine, I’ll just sit on the floor.” you scoff before scooting your butt down from the couch, plopping onto the scratchy brown carpet. You roll your eyes when Eddie decides to dramatically fling himself across the whole couch, as if he’s been waiting for you to move your ass this whole time, the jerk.

“Hey, did I tell you Billy asked me to go to the drive-in with him?” You say as your eyes remain on the television set, hand mindlessly grabbing for the popcorn bowl placed on the coffee table.

You miss the way Eddie visibly swallows, and the way his fists tighten on the material of his jeans.

“Um, no you didn’t.” He mumbles, as his longing eyes burn holes into the back of your head.

“Yeah, well he did.” You take a sip of your Pepsi, washing down the kernels of popcorn stuck to your tongue. “Do you think he’ll wanna go all the way?” You ask Eddie before taking another sip.

His eyes widen into saucers before he begins wiping his clammy palms against his clothed thighs.

You’d never talked about sex with Eddie, maybe about some girls he thought were cute and vice versa, but never sex.

Ahem, he clears his throat before he speaks. “I don’t know, but he’s a guy so I wouldn’t put it past him.” His doe eyes, usually so full of light now droop like one of those precious moments dolls.

He begs the universe for you not to look back at him, he knows as soon as you do you’ll be able to read him like a book.

You’ll know you’re breaking his heart.

“Yeah, I don’t think I’m ready though.” You say, before grabbing another handful of buttery popcorn.

“Then you shouldn’t do something you’re not ready for.” Eddie says with a deep breath of relief.

“But I mean, I kind of want to just get it over with, I don’t buy into the bullshit of ‘waiting for the right one’ it’s such horse shit, and is only a thing because of the patriarchy.”

Eddie so badly wants to say: I’m the right one, lose it to me.

But he could never put his heart out there like that, to inevitably be stomped on. He knows you’d never purposely break his heart, but he also knows he’s in love with someone that couldn’t possibly feel the same way for him, and that’s just something he has to live with.

Even if that means sitting on the sidelines while boys come and go. He knows he’ll always be your number one…well until you fall for some douchebag after high school and realize Eddie’s just your friend, and is eventually replaced when you decide to get married and have said douchebags, douchebag offspring.

But he’ll place that in a box in his mind to deal with later.

1970

You lost your virginity to Billy the night he took you to the drive in.

Those feelings of being wanted and loved, although just for that night sent you on a high you thought you’d never come down from.

Your freshman year, you went on lots of dates, slept with lots of undeserving guys and although those feelings never followed you home, you felt as though it was worth it to just feel them if even for 5 minutes.

You were playing a dangerous game, especially in a small town where word of your promiscuity would travel faster than a forest fire.

And although Eddie had begrudgingly heard the rumors in the locker room and in some of his classes, he never looked at you differently, never judged you.

He’d stick up for you every time, although that led to plenty instances of him getting the shit kicked out of him. He already had a target on his back, being the freak and all, but he didn’t care, no one was going to disrespect you, not in his presence, anyway.

His feelings never seemed to fade, his heart still beat for you no matter who you gave yourself to.

Of course Eddie wanted to be your first, but you were right, it is a social construct in order to make women more subservient to men, Eddie was a feminist afterall.

“Aw, did you wait here for me?” You ask as your hands clutch your trapper keeper to your chest.

Eddie was leant up against the brick wall of the school, the right sole of his shoe was flush against it, knee bent as his skin protruded from the hole in his jeans. A lit cigarette dangled from between his lips, a habit he had just picked up from an older boy that lived in the trailer across from him.

“Well duh, now that that asshole you were seeing isn’t driving you anymore, I thought we could walk together.” He mumbles before taking a puff of his spliff.

“You’re so sweet to me.” You smile before snatching the cigarette that now blazed between his ringed fingers, you take a quick inexperienced puff before passing it back.

He smirks while taking one last hit of his cigarette before tossing it to the floor and stomping it out for good measure under his beaten and written on converse. He’s glad the action has given him a chance to get a good look at you as you walk ahead of him, it was his favorite thing to do when you’d both go on mindless strolls.

“You look pretty today.” The compliment slipped so easily from his lips.

You turn around to meet his eye, walking backwards rather uncoordinatedly.

“You look pretty, too.” You say with a wink, before turning back around.

Eddie was none the wiser that day, when your face flushed for him the very first time.

1971

“Eddie! Put me down!” You shriek as you kick and flail, the water from the pool splashing around and creating tiny waves for the other swimmers.

“Never!” He says ironically before throwing you into the far end, his maniacal laugh can be heard from under water.

“You’re such a dick sometimes, Munson.” You say as you swim to the steps, hoisting yourself up and out of the community pool.

You’re in a little red bikini and the way your hips sway has Eddie mesmerized.

You sit on one of the lawn chairs, drying off under the beaming sun.

“Hey, is this seat taken?” Your eyes shoot open, falling on two round pools of honey.

“Um no, not at all.” You say as you give the boy a shy smile.

“I’m Steve.” He says as he takes a seat in the chair closest to you.

“Hi, Steve.” His name felt like sex on your tongue.

Eddie watched from the pool as you and Steve got acquainted, he wanted to punch himself for practically pushing you into the arms of another guy.

He couldn’t sit here and watch you laugh at this asshole's jokes, he had to get out of here.

1972

“Why am I so hard to love?” You cry out, mascara running down your face, as your head is placed in your best friend's lap.

“You’re not hard to love!” He says before tucking a piece of stray hair behind your ear, and thumbing a tear off the side of your cheek. “You just keep picking the worst douche canoes available.” He says with a small chuckle.

“I thought Steve was different, he really acted like he cared about me, ya know?” You sniffle as your manicured fingers play with the fringe of Eddie’s jeans.

“Yeah well, those jock assholes will tell you anything to get in your pants.” Eddie says with a tick of his jaw.

“You’re right, I should become celibate or something… I’m just so tired of letting these assholes take from me, without getting anything in return.” You murmur with another sniffle.

Eddie liked that idea, you being celibate.

For your own good, of course.

1973

“Oh my god! Can you believe we’ll be out of this shithole soon?” You eagerly say, as you walk up to your best friend's locker.

The glum look in his eyes does not go unnoticed by you.

“Hey Eddie, what's wrong?” Your eyes examine the slump of his shoulders and the bloodshot red in his eyes, although that could be from him smoking during lunch, but the puffiness underneath tells you otherwise.

He slammed his locker before making his way towards the double door exit, not even stopping to take a second look at your stunned face.

You run after him, launching yourself between Eddie and the door of his van.

“Eddie, talk to me, what happened?” The urgency in your voice makes his eyes begin to water, again.

“I got my draft letter yesterday after school, they’re sending me to fucking Vietnam.” His eyes don’t meet yours, they can’t or it’ll make this all so much worse.

“Eddie, I’m so sorry.” Your lip begins to quiver at the thought of Eddie in a foreign place, getting bombed and shot at. “Ed’s, I-I…” you’re not even sure what to say, how to make him feel better, you couldn’t even if you tried. For the first time since you’ve known him, you were unable to comfort him.

“I gotta go.” He says before smoothly stepping around you and getting into his van, his wheels peel off leaving tire tracks on the tarmac.

You knew Eddie wasn’t mad at you specifically, he was mad at the situation. You and him had talked about running off together and getting out of this podunk town so much it had become a common topic when you two would hang out. You had agreed to get an apartment, you’d go to college while he got a good paying job with his diploma. But that dream quickly went down the drain when he got his draft letter in the mail.

All he wanted was to be with you, wherever you both decided to fuck off to, but now you’d be going alone, and he’d be sent off to a war he could potentially die in.

Class of 73’

“Give it up for the class of 73’!” Principle Higgins shouted into the mic, sat on top of the wooden podium.

You and Eddie's eyes had met a handful of times during the ceremony and every time they did, a lump would form in your throat at the idea of this being it for you two.

Everyone clapped and whistled as you threw your green tasseled hat into the air with Eddie and the rest of your classmates.

You make your way into the crowd of parents and friends ready to congratulate their new graduates.

“Congratulations sweetheart.” Uncle Wayne says, while wrapping you up into a grizzly bear of a hug.

“Thanks Wayne.” You say with a bashful smile. “Where’s eddie?” Your eyes scan the crowd as you look for your favorite curly headed freak.

“Oh he’s around here somewhere.” Wayne softly smiles as he gives your back a small pat. “I'm gonna go talk to Ms. Duvall right over there. I’ll see you later, kid.” He says with one last heartfelt smile.

You nod your head in understanding before you go right back to scanning over the herd of people.

“Hey you.” The same voice from that day under the oak tree, calls out from behind you, well you had to admit it was a little more manly now.

You turn around quickly on your heel, eyes meeting your favorite pair.

“Hey.” You say with a bright smile, your heart begins beating a mile a minute, with feelings settling into your stomach that you weren’t quite ready to assess.

“We did it!” Eddie says before grabbing the back of your head, fingers sliding through your hair as he pulls you into a warm hug. The side of your face resting on his chest makes your stomach flutter so hard you think you might puke from the nervousness he’s is stirring within you.

These feelings were too new and they scared the shit out of you.

“So you ready for New York?” He asks with a melancholy smile.

“Honestly? No, not really.” You say muffled into his chest before you pull away to look at him.

You weren’t ready to start a life without your best friend.

“When do you leave?” His hand continues to slide through your hair, making your stomach flip upside down.

“In a couple days.” You murmur before swallowing hard, now unable to meet his eyes.

“You’ll have a good time, meet some cool people.” He’s trying to pretend his heart isn’t breaking but the look in his eyes is not lost on you, your heart is breaking too.

“I couldn’t ever meet anyone as cool as you.” You whisper as your glassy eyes now meet his.

He smiles albeit a weak one, but he wishes those words were true.

“You staying celibate through college?” He joked, giving your arm a little nudge.

“That’s the plan, but who knows.”

The implications set Eddie’s stomach ablaze in the most painful way.

If I don’t find someone, fall in love and replace you.

Fuck the government for choosing him to fight in a war he didn’t even believe in. He could’ve been getting ready to leave with you, maybe even get the chance to finally tell you how much he’s been in love with you ever since he sparked up a conversation under that big oak tree.

There was no way he could tell you that now, he’d hate himself forever if he knew there was any chance you could’ve been his for all these years. It’s too late for him now.

You had stayed with Eddie that night, your stomach was in absolute knots just thinking about leaving him, you needed one more night with him, if this was the last chance you’d get to ever see each other again, you needed it. Just for tonight.

You spent most of it in each other's arms, crying and replaying your favorite memories and then crying some more.

He had confided in you, told you that if he died while overseas he’d die a virgin.

Eddie was never open with you about girls that he was seeing, you had assumed he’d had sex with at least one. The shock on your face was enough to make him want to cower away in embarrassment.

You’d both thought about making love to each other that night. You so badly wanted to be his first, get to have him in that way before life ran its course, but you just couldn’t. You knew it would make leaving each other that much harder, and fuck was it already so hard.

1974

College in New York was chaotic to say the least, life was so fast paced, it had taken so long to get accustomed.

And with your new fast paced, busy life, it left it close to impossible to sit down and write letters.

You and Eddie hadn’t spoken in almost a year.

Then there was Brendon, a guy you had met in your economics class. He was nice, he treated you better than you’d ever been treated but it just never felt right. It was almost as if there was a wedge, something in between you two making it impossible for you to fall in love. Someone.

August of 75’

You had gotten a rather urgent call from your grandpa, glumly notifying you that your grandma was sick and only had months to live.

You’d taken the first flight out back to Hawkins.

Your grandparents were all you had, you couldn’t stay in New York knowing you’d never get to see your gram gram again.

You had worked so hard these past two years, but in the end you had decided family came first. You would take a year off from college if it was required, just to help your papa after gram passed.

Walking out of the airport and into the warm summer sun of Hawkins was bittersweet.

This is the first time you’d be here while Eddie wasn’t. There wasn’t a moment that passed where you didn’t think about him. You questioned whether he’d be mad that he didn’t hear from you after all this time, or even care at all.

More than anything you hoped he was okay.

You never kept up with the news and what was going on over there. It was too much, too real.

September of 75’

Your gram had passed three weeks after your arrival back in Hawkins, you had done your best to stay by her bedside as your papa got things arranged for her eventual funeral.

You were numb for the first couple days until you had eventually broken down and sobbed for a good hour and a half.

The thought of losing Eddie made the tears fall even harder. You loved your gram but you were in love with Eddie, you knew that now. If he didn’t make it, you didn’t know how you’d handle it. How you’d ever move on.

You could kick yourself for not writing to him, at least to ask if he was okay.

What if he thinks you don’t care about him now? You’d hope he’d understand that college was so busy for you.

21st of September 1975

Grams funeral had been lovely, a celebration of her life with her closest friends and loved ones.

The funeral house was a quaint little tudor style home. Her pictures had been displayed beautifully among a table of red roses.

You cried when the funeral director had closed her casket for good.

25th of September 1975

You had spent your morning and afternoon cleaning your grandparents house. Your papa left on a fishing trip, said he couldn’t be in this house any longer.

You understood how he must be feeling, stuck in a place that holds so many memories of you and the love of your life, that would be hard for anyone.

You decide to order a pizza and watch a movie after your warm shower.

You slip into a pink nightgown that sat just above your knees before making your way towards the bathroom to brush your hair and teeth. Just as you were flipping the light switch off and walking out into the hall the doorbell echoed throughout the house.

They sure do deliver pizza fast

You thought to yourself as you counted the money in your purse that had been sitting on the entry table.

“Wow, I just placed my order ten minutes—” the words die on your tongue as you swing the door open. Standing there on the front porch in a Black Sabbath shirt, blue jeans and shorter hair than you were used to, was Eddie.

Your Eddie.

He looked almost as stunned to see you, as you were to see him.

“Hey, I thought you’d be back in New York by now.” Eddie assumed as his eyes took in the expanse of your body.

“No, I uh I decided to stay.” You utter as you nervously play with the hem of your pink gown.

Your action pulls the dress up higher on your leg, exposing more of your upper thigh.

Eddie’s eyes shoot down to the area before looking back up at you.

“I came by to give my condolences to your grandfather.” He says with a sad smile.

“Oh yeah, he won’t be back for a couple days.” You respond, finally dropping your gown before smoothing it out with nervous hands.

“Well, my condolences to you.” He says with a far off look in his eyes.

This man standing here is so different from the Eddie you once knew. His posture is immaculate, his arm and legs stiff as stone and the brightness of his eyes now dull and almost nonexistent.

“Do you wanna come in? I ordered pizza and I was gonna watch a film.” You say with a hint of desperation.

“I uh, I shouldn’t. I should go.” Eddie says before he begins to walk away, he stops in his tracks and shoots a glance back at you.

“Why didn’t you write to me?” Eddie’s face is so stoic you can’t tell if he’s sad or just curious.

“I wanted to, Eddie. I was just so busy—” you begin but Eddie doesn’t want to hear anymore.

His black boots carry him back to his van. He can’t stand there and listen to how you’ve moved on, or had the time of your life in college and forgot about him.

2 days later

You had been beating yourself up for what felt like days.

He had every right to feel the way he did, to be mad and angry. You couldn’t blame him for that.

But you’d be damned if he didn’t at least know these feelings you’d been harboring for him.

You were both home now, nothing was holding you back from finally confessing to Eddie that he’s who you want.

You decide to bake a cherry pie, before getting ready and heading over to forest hills.

You would get on your knees and grovel if it meant Eddie would forgive you. Just because you didn’t write to him didn’t mean you didn’t think about him everyday. You couldn’t count how many nights you’d lay in bed touching yourself to thoughts of him, you hadn’t even gone all the way with Brendan, you couldn’t. Not with Eddie at the forefront of every thought you had.

You pull up to the familiar trailer, not much has changed aside from far less beer cans littering the ground.

You walk up the steps, pie in hand as you knock one, two, three times on the dingy white door.

“One sec.” A familiar voice calls out from the other side.

The door swings open, Eddie is standing there shirtless. The only article of clothing on his very toned and muscular body were his old Hawkins high gym shorts. You were pretty sure he’d never actually worn them in high school.

His face looks even more stunned than when he showed up on your doorstep a couple days ago.

“What are you doing here?” The look on his face was hard and impossible to read.

“Eddie, please just let me explain myself. Can I please come in and talk?” You held the pie out to him as if some kind of peace offering.

“Is it cherry?” He says with absolutely no emotion.

“It is.” You confirm

There’s a long pause before his voice gruffly retorts

“Fine.” He moves out of the doorway allowing you to walk through, your bodies barely rub together as you pass but shockwaves are sent throughout, you could feel them all the way down to your toes.

You set the pie down on the yellowing countertop.

Eddie digs in the cabinets for a knife, two plates and two forks.

The gesture makes you smile to yourself as you sit in the little two seater kitchenette.

Eddie cuts the pie, setting your plate in front of you, while he takes the seat closest to the telephone hanging on the wall.

“So go ahead…” Eddie says with a mouthful of your cherry pie.

“I’m so sorry Ed… I had almost no time for anything, New York is so fast paced and chaotic, I really had no time… but I thought about you constantly.” You admit as you lightly stab your pie with your fork.

“I thought about you, too.” Eddie whispers, your eyes find eachothers before he looks away, taking another bite of the pie. “This is really good, thank you.” He says with another mouthful.

Usually you would be disgusted by a man talking with his mouth full of food, but with Eddie you couldn’t help but find it endearing and cute.

“Yeah, it’s the least I could do.” You say before finally taking a bite of your own.

“So how have you been?” You were almost afraid to ask such a question, after everything he’s gone through, everything he’s had to see.

“I’ve been good, just getting back into the groove of being home, ya know.” He says with a smile that has yet to reach his eyes.

“Yeah, I do.” You murmur before standing up and walking to the sink to wash your crumb filled dish.

Once it’s dried and put away and you’ve repeatedly gone over the spiel in your head about how you want to confess your undying love to the man seated a couple feet away, you turn around, eyes meeting him as you realize his chocolate browns have been on you this whole time.

“Eddie, I need to tell you something…”

He stands from his seat, bringing his plate to the sink, carelessly dropping it in before he turns back to face you.

It’s like he’d grown a whole foot, he was towering over you now, looking down at you with those doe eyes you’d so often thought about.

“What do you need to tell me?” He whispers as he steps closer to you, his black boots kissing your brown wooden clogs.

The words almost die in your throat at his close proximity and how fast your heart is hammering in your chest. You wonder if it could be heard from his place in front of you, surely if he stepped any closer it would be.

“I’m in love with you, Eddie.” Your eyes dart across his handsome face meanwhile biting at your lip out of nervousness as you wait for him to say something, anything.

He exhales a deep breath as his shoulders drop into a relaxed state.

“Fuck,” he huffs before pulling you into a tight hug. “I’ve been in love with you since I met you, sweetheart.” His voice is muffled by your neck as he rests his head on your shoulder.

You pull away, grabbing his face with your small hands. You look him in the eyes before you begin speaking—

“I’m so sorry Eddie, I’m so sorry for everything. I should’ve known that you were it for me. It just took me a little longer, but I promise I’m here now.” Your foreheads meet as tears run down your cheek, “I’m here now.” You repeat.

“I love you so much, princess.” He whispers before he’s pulling you into a tender kiss, that soon grows more and more needy.

He slips his tongue into your mouth and they simultaneously glide together. You can taste the salt from the tears that have fallen onto both of your lips. It makes the kiss that more meaningful.

“You still celibate?” Eddie asks after breaking the kiss. His smirk tells you he’s joking, but you don’t care, you need him. You’ve waited too long for this.

“I didn’t have sex in college, not even once.” You admitted before kissing his lips again, “I’ve been waiting for you.” The longing look in Eddie’s eyes flash to something that could only be described as hunger.

Without another word, he’s picking you up by the back of your thighs, your legs instinctively wrap around his muscular hips. He’s so strong, the throbbing between your legs gets even worst at the thought of him fucking you just like this.

Eddie made his way down the hall to his old room, you took a glance around noticing most of his things in boxes meanwhile more of Wayne’s things have moved in.

“Are you moving?” You ask curiously.

“Yeah, I got my own place. I’m moving in tomorrow.” He says before softly throwing you on his mattress. “Wayne sorted it out for me while I was…away.” You notice the stiffening of his body immediately, as if even thinking about where he’d been causes such inner turmoil.

“C’mere baby.” You murmur with a saccharine grin, his eyes light up at the pet name, causing your insides to flutter.

He slots himself between your legs, his muscular arms now fisting the bed while your head lays caged between them.

You can feel the way his body slightly trembles.

“It’s okay Ed’s, it’s just me.” You whisper into his ear sending shivers down his spine.

“Just you is a big deal to me, sweetheart.” He smiles before rubbing the tip of his nose against yours.

“I want you to make love to me, Eddie.” You say as you push his shorter hair back to get a better look at the face you've missed for far too long.

He groans before dropping his head to your shoulder.

“Fuck, I want to baby, I really do. But I-I have no idea what I’m doing and you’re you, ya know? I’m gonna make a fool out of myself, and I just can’t do that, not with you.” He lifts his head up to study your face before he begins gently rubbing his nose on your cheek, he places light kisses to the area before he places a sweet kiss to your lips.

“I don’t care, I want you… you don’t even have to do anything, I’ll do it all.” You say before placing kisses of your own across his face. “I need you, Eddie… I’m so wet for you, baby.”

“Jesus, you tryna kill me, woman?” He playfully snarks before blowing a raspberry into the side of your neck making you giggle and squirm away. “Okay yeah, I'm ready.” He admits as his beautiful doe eyes meet yours, he holds your chin between two fingers before sweetly kissing you, again. “I’m so glad it’s with you, sweet girl.” He whispers into your lips.

“I love you.” You whisper back

“I love you.” He feels like he’s in a dream, like one wrong move and you’ll slip through his finger, again.

“Lay on your back.” You bashfully demand, you weren’t used to being the one in charge when having sex, but for Eddie you’d do anything.

Eddie gives you a pointed look as his eyebrows raise high on his half concealed forehead.

Your feet hit the brown scratchy carpet before you’re turning around to give Eddie a little show.

Maybe stripping for him will give him a little more confidence, or it’ll probably just make him really horny… either way was fine with you.

Eddie continues gawking at you in wonder, still a little clueless as to what you were doing.

Such an innocent boy.

You begin to remove your blue jean button up vest, slowly unhooking each one by one.

Eddie catches on after the first button, a devious smirk slowly forms onto his face as he lays back with his head on the pillow. He dramatically swings his hands behind his head and crosses his legs as he enjoys the show.

“You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for this, sweetheart.” He beams with a wink.

You finally get down to the fifth button before slowly opening it and exposing your bare breast to him.

His eyes widen with shock and his body stiffens along with the member in his gym shorts.

“Holy shit.” He whispers before sitting up to get a better view. “You weren’t wearing a bra this whole time?” His cheeks burn with excitement and nervousness. He flicks his tongue out to wet his pink plump lips before beckoning you closer to him.

You step between his spread legs and look down as Eddie is now eye level with your tits.

He’s only seen boobs in magazines and movies but yours are by far the best. He had a feeling when he used to watch you in that red bikini when you both would hit the community pool during the scorching summers that they were nice. He remembers the way your nipples would poke through the fabric and the way they’d bounce when you’d run away from him.

“Can I touch you?” Eddie asks as if you didn’t just beg him to fuck you.

“Of course.” You purr back.

Eddie quickly brings both hands to your tits gently massaging them before running a calloused thumb over the hardening bud. The action forces a moan from between your lips making Eddie’s eyes shoot up to yours. He wants to pull that noise from you as much as he can.

“That feel good?” He breathily asks as if he can’t believe you’re letting him touch you like this.

“Feels really good, ed.” you whimper before he’s grazing his other thumb across your peaked nipple making an even more erotic moan leave you.

Your body slightly jerks when you feel Eddie’s wet lips encapsulate your nipple, you look down to see he is already looking at you, looking at your reaction to the way he’s making you feel.

Your eyebrows furrow as you vigorously bite at your lip. The sight in front of you is a scene straight out of your wet dreams, the wet dreams that would play on an instant loop in your twin size bed in your muggy dorm room across from your god fearing roommate.

Eddie continues to lick and suck as his confidence grows, every thrash of his tongue sends a searing shock of electricity to your cunt.

You need him now.

“Lay back for me Eddie baby, let me finish the show.” You whisper as your nails softly scrape against his scalp making him groan with his mouth full, he pulls off with a pop leaving your nipples peaked and cold from the wetness.

“Yes ma’am.” He snickers before scooting back to lay in his previous position.

You completely remove the vest from your body, throwing it towards the end of the bed but it slips off and onto the floor.

You’ll worry about that later.

You begin making work at removing your matching blue jean bell bottoms, slowly inching them down your legs as teasingly as possible for the flustered man who lays just inches from you.

Once your jeans are around your ankles, you make hasty work at removing them before kicking them off somewhere to be dealt with later.

You stand there in your pink cotton panties as Eddie’s eyes travel along your body. He adjusts himself in his shorts before his eyes fall to your last garment of clothing and then back up to meet yours. You know exactly what he’s asking.

So you shove your thumbs in the cotton fabric and remove them albeit much faster than your jeans.

You stand upright before kicking your panties towards where your jeans haphazardly lay.

Once you’re fully exposed to Eddie he darts up on his elbows as his eyes take in every inch; from the patch of hair between your thighs to the soft skin of your legs to the way your hips curve. His aloof disposition is such a stark contrast to the way he’s losing his fucking mind on the inside; he’s on cloud nine, he’s thanking a god he doesn’t even believe in for allowing him to be here and alive for this moment, a moment he’s thought about way too often.

You slowly saunter up to the foot of the bed, ready to straddle Eddie’s lap before he’s placing his hand out to stop you. “There’s no fucking way I’m lasting more than thirty second if you’re on top.” He huffs with a self deprecating smile.

“That’s okay, we can go again later…you’ll eventually learn how to hold it, it’s really not a big deal plus this is about you anyway.” You smile reassuringly before he nods his head for you to continue.

The way you said ‘we can go again later’ alone almost made him cum, so he knows he doesn’t have a fighting chance in hell to last while you're bouncing all pretty on his cock.

Nevertheless, you straddle his waist, the hardness in his shorts already hitting your exposed clit so nicely, you couldn’t help but whine.

“Fuck, this is almost too much.” Eddie whispers before his hands shoot down to your waist as you give his lap an experimental drag of your core, along the soft cotton of his shorts.

“Are you sure about that?” You smirk before your hands fall to his painfully hard cock that is far too clothed for your liking.

You sit back on his thighs, dragging the material down his legs. He begins thrashing around trying to kick them off so desperately, you can’t help but to giggle.

“Oh is that funny?” He says in a stern voice that has you clenching around nothing. You definitely want to dive into that Eddie in the future.

Or right now.

“No, sir. I’m sorry.” You pout with a swift bat of your lashes.

Eddie’s jaw tightens at your words, he doesn’t know why that is turning him on so much but Jesus Christ, is it.

Finally, you look down to where Eddie’s cock lays against his lower stomach. He’s way bigger than you expected and so pretty, the prettiest one you’ve ever seen.

It twitches before your hand slowly moves in to grab it.

“Do you think you could last if I got a little taste of this perfect cock?” You whisper into Eddie’s ear, making the skin there tinge a reddish pink.

“I can barely last with your hand wrapped around me, baby.” He groans in pleasure.

“Okay, we’ll save that for later, too.” You wink, before you spit in the palm of your hand bringing the glob to Eddie’s cock as you stroke him, getting him nice and wet to easily slip inside of you.

“Oh my fuck-” Eddie grits before his eyes snap shut, the skin around them wrinkling as he tries to think of anything but your spit on his dick, as you rub him so expertly.

“I’m gonna put it in now, Ed…you ready?” You ask before he’s rapidly nodding his head, his eyes still held tightly shut.

You lift up, rubbing his wet tip against your already soaked pussy before it begins to breach your hole.

“Oooh fuck.” Eddie whimpers.

You begin to inch your way down slowly so as not to overwhelm him. You’re trying not to go too fast, too soon.

Eddie brings the back of his hand to his mouth and begins biting on the skin as a distraction to what’s going on in his lap. He still can’t look down, or it’ll all be over before it begins.

You finally sink all the way down to the hilt, which has Eddie whimpering and cursing below you.

You study his face and how in pain he looks.

“Hey, do you need me to stop?” His eyes shoot open at your question.

“Don’t you dare fucking stop.” Eddie huffs as if he’s out of breath. “Please baby, please keep going…you just feel so fucking amazing and I’m trying here, I’m really fucking trying.” His eyes quickly shut, again.

“Ed’s, open your eyes for me…you’re doing so good, just look at me please?” You murmur as you move closer to his face, rubbing at his scalp like you know he likes.

“I can’t.” He whispers.

“Yes, you can.. just look at me, wanna see you when you cum.” That pulls a growl from the back of his throat.

His eyes slowly open as he takes in the sight of you stuffed full of his cock. You begin to move, slowly grinding before you’re bouncing your hips up and down on him. Your tits jiggle with every move and now it’s like he can’t take his eyes off of you.

Your movements get even faster as you lean down to capture his lips with yours. It’s so sloppy and spit filled, making you clench around him. He gasps into the kiss before his hands are moving down to grab at the soft flesh of your ass.

He begins snapping his hips up to meet your movements, making him hit that spot so perfectly.

“Oh my god…right there.” You moan as your face falls in between his neck and jaw.

You begin to whimper as your unexpected orgasm washes over your body. Eddie doesn’t quite know what’s happening but he physically cannot hold on any longer.

“Oh shit, shit- I’m gonna cum.” His head falls back into his stain filled pillow, he bites his lip so hard he’s almost positive he’s breaking skin, before a groan so deep it almost scares him, leaves his mouth. He wonders if he should feel embarrassed but the proud look in your eyes tells him otherwise.

He didn’t even get a chance to ask you where he could cum, he just filled you up without even thinking. That thought made his dick twitch even though it was beginning to soften.

“You did so good, baby.” You coo before allowing him to slowly slide out of you.

Some of his cum falls out of you and onto his spent cock, making his cheeks redden in what you could only assume is embarrassment.

“It’s okay, I’m doing this new trial of this birth control pill that just came out. It's supposed to lessen cramps during that time of the month but it also helps to prevent pregnancy… so we should be good.” You say before giving him a peck on his bruised lips.

You make your way to the bathroom to clean yourself up before bringing a wet washcloth to clean Eddie, too.

His hips jerk when the rag touches him, making you giggle as he tries and fails to hide his bashful face from you.

You find it so cute how shy he’s being. You’ve never seen shy Eddie before, so this is a nice contrast.

He scoots over, making room for you to lay next to him, which you do after setting the cum filled rag on his night stand to be disposed of later.

“You’re fucking incredible, did you know that?” He asks before scooping you up in his arms and moving you closer to him. His arms wrap around your waist as his head burrows into your chest.

“Are you sure you're okay, Eddie?” You softly ask, not sure you want to breach the topic after you two have finally consummated your relationship.

“Of course I’m okay, why do you ask?” He looks up at you curiously, as if he’s surprised you’ve been able to read him so well. Although you always have been good at that.

“You just seem…different.” You whisper the last part before you feel him slightly tense.

“I’m-I just seen some shit, ya know? And it’s kind of hard to go back to your everyday life after witnessing some of the most horrific shit imaginable.” He can’t look you in your eyes when he speaks, he doesn’t want to see the pity that so often lies beneath the sympathy people have recently given him.

“I get that baby, I do…and I’m here, every step of the way, okay? Whatever you need, we'll do it.” You purr as your nails gently graze his back.

“I’m not going anywhere.” You whisper into his hair before you’re both falling into a post sex sleep haze.

October 1977

“Eddie, slow down.” You snort as your boyfriend eagerly speeds down Cherry lane, too excited to get to his mystery destination.

“Where are you taking me?” You ask, studying his face for any clues.

“You’ll see, just have some patience, baby.” He knowingly smirks, amused by your uncertainty.

Soon enough, you're pulling up to a light yellow single story house. It’s quite cute, with pink trim on the windows and flower boxes that sit on each window seal.

The grass looks like it’s been very taken care of, it’s almost too green.

Eddie flies to your side, opening your door for you.

You hesitantly step out, your black flats crunching on the orange and brown leaf riddled sidewalk. You’re still wondering where the hell he’s taking you or to who?

“Do you like it?” He asks with a beaming smile as his hand runs through his freshly grown out mane.

“I mean yeah… it’s nice.” You scoff, “who lives here?” You study the house again before looking over to Eddie for an answer.

“We do, sweetheart.” He gleams as he dangles a set of keys in his right hand, a huge satisfied smile adorns his face at your shocked expression.

“This is ours?” You blink at him as if maybe you’ve misunderstood. “Like, you bought it?” Eddie’s face just gets more and more excited with every fleeting moment you stand there in shock.

“Yes, we bought it.” He laughs before throwing the keys towards you. “Go check it out, baby.” You quickly catch the keys and make your way inside, body moving on autopilot as you’re still in shock.

As you look around you notice it’s a charming 1960’s styled, three bedroom house.

You stand in the doorway of the smallest room.

‘It’s perfect’ you whisper to yourself.

“That’ll be the nursery for babygirl.” Eddie says, sauntering up behind you to rub at your growing belly. “Do you like it?” He asks with a proud smile.

“I love it Ed’s, you did so good.” You fervidly muse.

“Let’s check out the backyard, I have another surprise for you out there.” He says before intertwining his fingers with yours and walking you through the house to the beautiful twin doors that lead you to an even more beautiful backyard.

Your eyes take in everything as you stand on the deck, this place is almost too perfect. You’re ready to pinch yourself cause you’re so sure you’re dreaming.

You look around and see a vegetable garden, next to that are gorgeous flower bushes. Whoever lived here before really loved this place as it was treated with the utmost care.

Your eyes continue to scan the yard before it catches on something that causes your eyes to water and your breath to hitch, it’s a big oak tree identical to the one you and Eddie met under.

But that’s not all, Eddie is underneath it on one knee, with a red box in his hand. The tears fall as you walk closer. Yes, this has to be a dream, there is no way this is my life, it’s too perfect.

Once you’re standing in front of your weeping future husband, you realize the ring he’s holding was your gram’s, a beautiful vintage opal.

You remember holding her hand as a kid and playing with it. You’d tell her how much you wanted one just like it, so you could be twins. You sob into your hand at the memory.

“Will you marry me, sweetheart?”

#divider by @v6que #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson angst #eddie x reader #eddie munson smut #eddie x fem!reader #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson fic #eddie munson x you #eddie stranger things #eddie munson #eddie munson comfort #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fandom #eddie munson x female character #eddie munson x reader #eddie x you

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aluciahaz · 1 month

Note

Sub Adam who had been a brat all day and reader punishes him by edging him and making him beg for forgiveness 🙏🏻

he would try so hard to not give in but once he does it's nothing but sobs and whimpers, begging his mommy to let him cum and to call him a good boy<33

LETS GO!! i have to admit this is super long, sorry!! i feel like my fics keep getting longer and longer cause i just start throwing a shit ton of metaphors for no reason 💀💀 im trying to work on shortening them!!

burns good

—adam x gn!reader (reader’s gender not specified but term mommy is used)

—includes: mommy kink, crying, overstimulation, multiple orgasms

“come on just—stop, ngh! stop fucking with me-EE!” he jolts as you touch his cock again with your feathery touch before writhing against the ropes that bind him to his chair.

it’s been an hour of this. and although his words may be sharp, you can tell he’s losing his edge.

“maybe if you used your manners, you wouldn’t be in this situation,” you spit out, grabbing his face roughly to force him to look up at you, fire still behind his eyes.

you’ll extinguish it soon enough.

“why would i need to? i’m a legend—AH! ha, fuck!” he shouts as a quick slap from your hand stings his inner thigh, making him shiver in pain, but his flushed face shows his true emotions.

“you’re a slut, that’s what you are,” you say with venom, and the shudder through his body showed that your words ran through his veins like fast poison. he gazes up at you in almost awed disbelief, unable to respond with a witty response.

“you love it when i treat you like this, huh? is that why you act out all the time? acting like an asshole just so i can put you in your place? answer me.” you seethe, your fingers digging into his legs until they bruise.

his bites his lip, not wanting to confess the truth. but he can’t lie. not when you’ve got him cornered like this.

“maybe—NGH! fine! okay—yes—i do it on purpose for you to—fuck—to do this shit to me! happy?” he admits, his back arching as you touch his cock once more, teasing adam with the finish line that’s so far away.

“good boy. see? that wasn’t so hard, wasn’t it?” you see his hips try and buck up from his seat and quickly move your hand away, enjoying the pathetic whine of aggravation from him.

“now all you need to do is say it nicer! come on, you can do it,” you say, smirking at his hesitation. but his uncertainty wasn’t due to your patronizing tone, no. he wasn’t collected enough to catch onto that.

it was the subtle praise. the encouragement. he did something right, he’s getting your attention. good attention.

it makes his head swivel in delight, and even though he’s reluctant to follow through with your request—his pride was on the line!—he opens his trembling lips, his shaky voice conveying a lovely message.

“i act out so you…you can punish me, and—hnn—so you can drive me crazy, i—i…” he takes in a deep breath as you watch him intently, smiling at his confession. it only spurs him on more.

“i need it, please—mommy, please!” he begs weakly, yet his eyes scream for your help. they shine with tears from overstimulation, but what’s more noticeable is the pitiful desperation in his look that overrides his crying.

you can’t help but want more. he was pretty rude this week.

“please what? use your words, baby,” you coo, watching him battle between his ego and desires. his small whimpers as he tried to figure out what to do were adorable, but soon, he looks straight up at you, the victor clear.

“please let me cum!” he begs, his voice crawling into a high-pitched whine. it’s desperate, it’s sweet, and it only makes you want to play with him more.

“oh, but…baby, you don’t deserve it.”

those words were enough to make him wail and shake in his seat, but the feeling of your breath right against his ear and your harsh punishment sent him flying into a true spiral of delirium.

“nononono PLEASE! i’ll be good i’ll—hic—be…” his arms push against the binds frantically, trying to break out of them to just do something. anything.

for a few seconds.

“AH! hm—ngh! fuckfuck—!” adam’s voice is almost non-existent with half of his words filled with the raspiness of pain and the airiness from unrequited yearnings as another lash runs against his leg, red blooming on his skin.

god, he wanted you so bad. he wanted you to touch him, to make him feel special, to just let him cum after what seems like decades. he needed you to help him because even without these ropes, he knew he would never be fully satisfied without your hands on his skin.

but he had to serve penance for his actions. no matter how sweet he wailed, no matter how much he writhed, he had broken a covenant of sorts between him and you. and he had to learn that yes, his unruliness will not be tolerated, even if he begs—

sorry is not enough.

so you keep getting him close to the gates of heaven, only for him to fall back down from seeing stars. each time, he would cry without fail, and each time, his attitude would crumble.

now, there is no hesitation when he pleads for mercy, there is no question as to whether he should follow what you say, and there are no thoughts of defiance corrupting his mind. he was as unchastely pure as one could be, following every sinful demand you say.

you call him all sorts of things. slut, whore, pathetic, giving him whiplash from how kind you were earlier. it makes him cry earnestly, just wanting any semblance of praise to feed off of; to taste the sweetness of love that danced between your words

“i need it—hic—i—please, please be nice to me! m-mommy, mm! i’m so sorry! imsosorryplease, i’ll be a good boy—please, stop being so mean!” he sobs, shaking in his chair as you refrain from giving him what he wants.

adam’s voice quivers, and his breath hastens. his eyes are lidded like he’s inebriated, and he is. he’s drunk off of your words, your demeaning, cruel, vicious words, and they only motivate him more to beg for your forgiveness like a sinner at church.

when you speak again, he feels like a weight has been lifted off his chest, the thorns of your piercing words completely burning away with the warmth of your blessing.

“you’ve been so nice to me for quite some time. perhaps you can be good after all,” you observe with a hum, watching his eyes sparkle with excitement.

“yes—yes i can!” he says frantically, trying to persuade you to do something more. to let his head soar into the clouds and get dizzy from the height.

there was a brief moment of pause as you pondered if you should give in to his pleas, but considering it has been a while, you don’t mind handing him a brief blessing. one that will slowly grow further and further, his brain distorted by the constant pleasure that you put upon him. until he cries and says he can’t cum anymore, and the overstimulation was making everything feel too much.

too good. too perfect. perhaps heaven was overrated when things like this existed. when you existed with your perfect hands running over his body, kissing his neck with delicacy and following it up with bites filled with carnal pleasure.

it was a thought that’s crossed his mind plenty of times. well, when he’s able to think. as you let him cum, your fingers now around his cock as he thrashes in his ropes, screaming and wailing as you keep moving your hand, his legs trembling as you ruin him so well.

“w-wait! wait too much—ngh—fuck! mommy, please!” he squeaks, his whole body shuddering with his sobs as he tries to collect himself somehow, but he can’t fight this sensory overload. not even with the experience of being the first man.

there’s a certain feeling burning inside of him. like a flame that was comfortably warm, yet was flickering too high out of the fireplace, signaling danger. but he can’t stop getting closer, even if it melts his ability to think in the process. the burn of lust was just too good.

he didn’t even try to fight the fire, not even caring about his appearance as he begs for you to both stop and keep going, unsure of which poison to drink from.

yet, as he was engulfed in the divine flames of your sinful blessing, he couldn’t help but feel a bit happy as he sniveled, his tears glistening against his skin. you were giving him so much attention. it didn’t matter that the pleasure was intertwined with pain, it was just a more direct sign that you had all your focus on him, and that’s all he ever wanted.

“ngh..i can’t—i c..can’t…” he says weakly, his voice practically fading into nothingness. at some point, his position changed to him lying down on the bed, still completely tied from limb to limb. but you thought that after cumming for the third time, he deserved a more comfortable environment for the rest of the night in order to soften the cruelty of your hands.

and although his voice is cracking at the seams, and his body is at your complete mercy, the mere action of you having him moved to the bed made his heart swell. it was that slight affection that made the sting on his thighs feel so nice, the almost overbearing heat of your body over his feel so loving.

“you’re doing so well. come on, just one more for me, baby,” those words were the sweetest things in the world. it made every red mark and each brutal remark worth it.

“mmn…okay—AH! mommy!” he keened, weeping as his legs jolted up just barely, too weak to even react properly as your fingers delved inside of him, quickly finding the spot that made him shiver all over.

“so—so much! i feel—i can’t—!” his eyes shut tightly as he cries, unable to put his thoughts into words. but you’ve been here time and time before, his words aren’t necessary to understand what he’s thinking.

he begs with his tears, says ‘i love you’ with the arch in his back, and screams that he wants to cum against all odds with the dazed look on his face, his eyes slowly opening to show a man who’s lost the inability to speak with words, but fluent in the language of bliss.

as he cums with a silent scream, barely anything coming out of his used cock, you watch as his eyes run to the back of his head. you watch how his whole body stiffens in a single moment before becoming limp, pleading for you to take care of it.

you can’t help but oblige, gently removing the ropes that bind him, kissing each angry imprint of love on his body, and whispering words of well-earned praise to your angel.

adam can’t cry anymore, yet if he could, he would, as being overwhelmed with love and care was just as intense as drowning in lust and desire.

he feels so vulnerable, yet he enjoys it wholeheartedly. it allowed him to get pampered like some sort of royalty. perhaps he should start doing this more just to get treated like this.

but when he suggests for you to call him ‘king’ the next day you put him back in his place, rolling your eyes in annoyance. he never learns, but he doesn’t want to. your lessons felt so good after all. why would he want them to stop?

tags: @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @mvskedxrtist @drlucichen @luciferspetduck

#hazbin hotel #dom reader #hazbin hotel x reader #sub hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel dom reader #adam x reader #bottom adam #sub adam #hazbin hotel adam

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hana-no-seiiki · 2 months

Note

cat villain reader my beloved. I'm so obsessed with it already. Please tell us more.

HAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHHA THEY ASKED FOR IT SO YOU CANT BLAME ME NOW F-

@sophiethewitch1 hi here’s your daily schizophrenic voice giving you even more mental illness

another short one cause im still lazy asf

I feel like a broken record just playing different flavors of the same oc/reader on my blog with the batfam i swear

tim is the only batfam member who figured out your identity prior to your own snooping

mostly because bruce’s identity was already aired out to your by selina and damian being his blood born son + appearing out of nowhere was a given.

as such it provided a lot of interesting scenarios

such as that one week where you were extremely active in your heists. like more so than the usual which was already a lot.

of course, you always tried to keep a sense of mystery as your cat villain self so asking you as robin wouldn’t have worked

so tim decided to approach you in class ( you were his senior or maybe even a young, fresh out of uni prof) and ask you why you seemed so…different or frantic lately

“oh. am i?” tim narrowed his eyes. it was so you to answer with another question, even as a civilian.

“sorry, i’m just really excited about this new limited edition robin figure of the new guy in the suit and—“

you proceeded to go on a ramble about your headcannons of the dude, saying how different and/or similar he was to robins of the past and ofc how much you admired him

this leads to his eventual downward spiral into depravation and horny

oh and unrelated to the boys, my headcannons for reader’s powers are as follows (mostly inspired from cat related cartoon characters)

invisibility/teleportation (from kitty chesire)

and cataclysm (from chat noir)

okay back to the boys

you and jason definitely had the biggest enemies to lovers arc out of everyone

like next to dick and damian, jason and you definitely hated each other’s guts

at that time you were dating dick and wanted him to stay as robin. pretty much in denial and anger, which led to you lashing out on jason.

at that time you still had hope for batman’s parenting skills and wanted jason to not take the opportunity he was given for granted

eventually you two found a lot in common and after a lot of deliberating and losing your mind with thoughts of “what ifs” and “but what about”s you broke it off with dick to pursue him

only to find out that jason was killed

people that knew you say you moved on pretty quickly. as if he was no more than a passing thought in your pretty little head.

but people like selina knew that out of everyone on this planet, the incident broke you the most

turning you into this near-empty husk, an imitation of what you were like

only filled with fear and anxiety

you would hurt people more, be more reckless

and boy do these men like playing savior to the fallen like you.

EXTRA:

i absolutely believe that as soon as you found out red hood was jason you two boned. like literally on whatever street/alleyway/battle you guys were in

emotions were high

and you two definitely cried the whole time im not sorry-

also you two always quote pride and prejudice lines at eachother

went from rabid dog that bit you several times to your goodest boy fr fr

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theemporium · 6 months

Note

🧸 lando with his daughters first heartbreak? 💞

thank you for requesting!🫶🏽

“She’s been in her room all day.”

Lando frowned, his elbows leaning against the kitchen counter as he watched you make your way around the room. “All day?”

“She came in after school and just ran upstairs,” you nodded as you let out a long sigh. “She wouldn’t even say anything in the car. Just dead silent.”

His frown deepened. “Do you think something happened at school?”

“Probably,” you guessed before you turned to your husband, a sheepish smile on your face. “Can you please try talking to her?”

Lando opened his mouth.

“Yes, I’m her mother but she adores you,” you interrupted before he had a chance, knowing exactly what he was going to say. “She’s been a daddy’s girl since day one.”

He puffed his chest out. “She’s my princess.”

“Go check on your princess then,” you said as you nodded towards the stairs. “And I’ll deal with the gremlins.”

Lando smiled cheekily. “Hey now, my boys aren’t gremlins.”

“They are, they take after you,” you retorted with a wink before you turned back to the dinner you were preparing for the family.

But you weren’t wrong. Since the day Evangeline Norris was born, she had her father wrapped around her finger. And just in the same way, she looked at her father like he hung the moon and the stars in the sky just for.

She was your oldest child, the first one to have Lando Norris sobbing in the delivery room when they put his daughter in his arms and welcomed him to fatherhood. And for reasons unbeknownst to you, Lando and Eva got on like a house on fire. From day one, they had been practically attached to the hip and had a bond that nobody could ever compare to, not even yourself.

So to come home and hear his little princess came home upset, Lando was more than concerned. He was holding himself back from spiralling, from burning down the world to know who made his baby girl upset.

Knock! Knock!

“Go away!”

Knock! Knock!

“I don’t want dinner! Leave me alone!”

Knock! Knock!

“Mum, I said—”

“Eva, honey, open up.”

There was a pause before a timid voice whispered, “daddy?”

“Yeah, I’m here, honey.”

It took less than ten seconds before the door to the bedroom swung open. Lando felt like somebody had caved his chest in when he caught sight of his daughter’s face, her eyes glossy and her cheeks tear-stricken. She had been sobbing. His little girl had been crying and now, she looked so lost and confused and upset and he just wanted to hold her in his arms and never let her go.

“Oh, Eva-Bunny,” he murmured before he wrapped his arms around his daughter and pulled her into his chest. It didn’t take long for her to break down into tears again. He guided her back into the room, closing the door behind them. He pressed his lips against the top of her head, his hands stroking up and down her back. “Speak to me, honey.”

“It’s embarrassing,” she grumbled into his chest.

“Nothing is embarrassing to me,” Lando replied, pressing another lingering kiss on the crown of her head. “Tell me.”

There was a brief pause before she muttered, “Jack broke up with me.”

Now, Lando knew Jack. He was a good kid, but nothing special in his eyes. However, he knew his daughter was lovestruck the second she saw him. Eva had been over the moon to tell you and Lando about Jack, about the date he asked her out on, about all the kind things he said. Lando hadn’t liked it one bit but you always smacked his arm and told him it was bound to happen with Eva growing up.

But now holding his crying daughter in his arms because Jack upset her? Lando was ready to throw his scrawny sixteen year old ass to the wolves.

“Then he’s an idiot,” Lando stated bluntly because it was a fact. Nobody would ever be good enough for his Eva, especially not someone like Jack.

“It’s my fault,” she continued to cry into her father’s chest. “He wanted someone better like Stacy—”

“Nuh uh,” Lando quickly cut his daughter off as he pulled back, taking her face in his hands so she could look him in the eyes as he spoke. “Don’t do that. Don’t say stuff like that when it’s not true.”

Eva sniffled. “But it is.”

“It is not,” Lando stated simply as his thumbs slowly brushed away any stray tears. “Eva, honey, you’re one of the most amazing girls in this world. It’s Jacob’s loss.”

“Jack,” she corrected with a small smile before she shook her head. “And you have to say that. You’re my dad.”

“Exactly. I’m your dad, not a liar,” he said with a cheeky grin. “Honey, I know it hurts. It’s your first love, it will always hurt. But you deserve so much better than him and you’ll find it. You know how I know that?”

Eve looked doubtful. “How?”

“Because I’m you dad and I know everything,” he replied, grinning a little wider when he heard his daughter giggle. “But also because I know there’s someone out there who is gonna see just how amazing you are, see the perfect girl that I see. And he would never break your heart like Jamie.”

“Jack,” Eva corrected again with a snort before she tightened her arms around his waist. “Thank you.”

“Plus, what did you expect from a J name?” Lando scoffed as he held her close to his chest, one hand protectively placed on the back of his head. “Scum of the Earth.”

Eva giggled again. “Is that because Mum’s ex before you had a J name?”

“Maybe,” Lando replied indifferently. “Don’t tell your mother I swore in front of you, but he was a dick. He was your mother’s Jack. You’re gonna find your forever boy, it’s what my princess deserves.”

“I love you, Dad,” Eva murmured softly.

“I love you too, Eva-Bunny,” Lando whispered back.

#cece's slumblurb party #lando norris #formula one #f1 #lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #lando norris x y/n #lando norris fic #lando norris one shot #formula one x reader #formula one x you #formula one x y/n #formula one fic #formula one one shot #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 x y/n #f1 fic #f1 one shot

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xxbimbobunnyxx · 3 months

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18+MNDI (degradation, brat taming, dom/sub dynamics, pillow riding, facial, handjobs. Listen idk what happened… this stemmed from a thot I had bc of one of the nsfw asks @bimbobaggins69 sent me and my brain spiraled…)

“Look at her Stevie, look how pathetic she looks.” Eddie groans, the feeling of Steve’s large spit slick hand jerking his cock nearly sends his eyes into the back of his head. But he resists, keeping them on you.

“Oh she’s so fucking desperate… is that drool? Are you fucking drooling over our cocks right now baby?” Steve’s voice is condescending and there’s a lop sided smirk painted across his lips while he continues to fuck Eddie’s cock with his fist. His hips thrust in time with the other man’s hand on his own cock, his eyes also glued to you.

They have you sitting on the bed, straddling one of your satin pillow case covered pillows. Your body is completely bare while you desperately rub your wet pussy against the soft material. They’re standing directly in front of you, also fully bare, while they stroke each other’s cocks. Their hands run down each others bodies and they occasionally places kisses on each others lips, necks, shoulders. You want so badly to touch them, for them to touch you. Your eyes can’t decide where to look but they keep landing on their lips, and their cocks. You want them inside you so bad.

“Please.” You whimper, your hips continuing to thrust against the pillow. The soft material feels nice against your clit, but it’s not enough. You need your boys.

“Awww you hear that, Eds? She’s begging now. That’s cute.”

“Sooo cute, Stevie. It would be so much cuter if she wasn’t a fucking brat all day. Maybe then we would actually help her cum.” The long haired man taunts you.

“Right? She could be getting fucked by both of us right now but instead she has to watch and fuck her pillow like a desperate little slut.” Steve moans when Eddie picks up the pace of his strokes on his cock. A bead of precum leaks from his tip and you want nothing more than to lick it up.

“Too bad, her mouth looks so good right now. You really are drooling, huh? Just our dumb drooly little girl, so desperate to get off?” Eddie juts his bottom lip out, mock pouting at you.

“Yes, please, I’ll be such a good girl, please?” You’re so desperately turned on that you aren’t above begging, you’ll take anything they’ll give you at this point.

“Mmm… I don’t think so, princess. If you wanna cum, you know what to do.” Eddie snaps the fingers on his free hand, pointing at the pillow underneath you. His hips thrust into Steve’s hand, a moan you want to fucking swallow leaving his plush lips. “Oh fuck, that’s so good Steve. I’m so fucking close.”

You whimper as your hips pick up speed, subconsciously matching the pace of your boyfriend’s hands as they jerk each other off. Steve leans his head down so he can spit on Eddie’s already slick cock, you watch as he uses his thumb to mix it with the pearly white precum leaking from his lip. You weren’t sure before if you could cum like this or not, but how hot they look and they way they’re talking is quickly changing your mind.

“God, me too babe, fuck. Don’t stop.”

They’re so fucking hot. The way their forearms flex while they work each other with their hands, the beads of sweat collecting on their skin. Steve’s chest hair glistens and the hastily done bun Eddie threw his hair in is barely hanging on for dear life. You grab onto the end of the pillow, pulling it tighter between your legs, this new angle has the silk of the case hitting your clit in a new, more delicious way.

“Open your fucking mouth, baby girl. Stick your tongue out.” Eddie’s voice is strained, breathy grunts leaving his lips. You oblige, sticking your tongue out as far as it can go and looking up at them through your lashes. Your hips continue their assault on the pillow and you feel yourself getting close to the edge.

“Oh, good fucking girl, look at you. You’re so desperate. Just want us to paint you with our cum, huh? You’re so needy you’re gonna cum just from humping your pillow and watching us get off? You’re so pathetic baby.” Steve’s practically babbling now, his entire body shaking with pleasure. Eddie feels so good and you look so fucking sexy and it’s all too much. “I’m gonna fucking cum.”

“Fuck, me too.” Eddie moans.

You watch as their hands speed up, their bare chests heaving. Steve lets out a guttural groan and his body tenses as ropes of his cum shoot out onto your tongue and chin. Eddie follows suit, his own cum painting your tits. The sight of them coming undone for each other and the sounds they’re making combined with the taste and feeling of their cum sends you over the edge right with them. Your eyes roll back as your legs clamp shut around the pillow and a pornographic moan rips through you.

“Fuck. That’s so fucking hot. I’m about to get hard again just from watching that I swear.” Eddie swipes his thumb across your chin, collecting some of the combined juices and your eyes snap open just in time to see him licking the cum off of his digit.

“Dude. When are you not hard? Seriously. Baby, how are you doing? Wanna get cleaned up? I can make us all a nice bath.” Steve grabs your face in his hands, his eyes searching yours. He was always so gentle with you after you played like this.

“Mmm… that sounds nice and all Stevie… but I think I like Eddie’s idea of getting hard again a little more… then maybe a bath after?” You bite your lip as you look up at him eagerly. You still want them so bad.

“Fuck. Yes. What do you say, Steveeee? I think our girl deserves a little reward after she took her punishment so well…”

“You two are insatiable.. You’re going to be the death of me, I swear…..”

#eddie munson x reader #steve harrington x reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x fem!reader #steve Harrington smut #steddie x reader #steddie x fem!reader #steddie x reader smut #steddie x reader blurb #dom steddie #Dolly writes #I was truly possessed #you can thank half asleep hella stoned Dolly for this one

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rosicheeks · 1 year

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Rosiii I need an update please, how are you doing?

You’re so sweet 🥺

#update?????#on lil ol me?#trust me I’m not that special #I’m still in a funk tbh #and I still dislike him a lot #but I’m going to try and ignore him and all my memories and thoughts today #cause he’s not worth any more of my time #im just kinda done #I should get up and start my day #but I don’t really wanna clean tbh #all I wanna do is paint #but I can’t #and it’s making me so sad and mad and ughhhhhhhh #I need more hobbies #cause the fact that I can’t do my hobby right now is driving me insane #I miss painting #I miss spending the whole day watching movies and crafting and getting messy with paint #I miss it so much #I miss my old place #oh boy don’t get me started on that cause I’ll go on a spiral #I’m hungry but I don’t have anything to eat #I ate the last two eggs last night #trust me there’s nothing in that damn fridge #and I’m STILL waiting for my tax return (long story)#it’s not going to be a lot but it would still help A LOT #being negative in my bank account is not helping my mental state #I want to buy impulsive purchases #but I can’t even afford food #this is why I sleep for hours cause life is just too much rn #ask

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chronically-ghosted · 3 months

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go west, to the southern plains, go west to breathe (lover, share your road - part i) series masterlist | AO3 Link | prologue | part ii

chapter rating: T

word count: ~21K

chapter summary: at the end of the line, you make a business proposition to Joel Miller. He brings you and Ellie home to the last sanctuary left in this world in exchange for your skills. What you find there and what you find out about Joel Miller is not what you expect.

chapter warnings/tags: depictions of going hungry and poverty, sexual harassment, period accurate sexism, depictions of a sick child, reader depicted as skinny but due to lack of food not her natural body type (and this will change), allusions to domestic abuse, hurt/comfort, pining, the beginnings of a praise kink, let the idiots in love begin

a/n: shout out to the ever incredible @jennaispun for beta-ing the prologue and this first part!

“After a long walk in hell, I found you. You made hell feel like home, you made the flames feel warm. It’s true, you haven’t saved me but you were the closest thing to heaven.” — Maram Rimawi

part i:

Beneath the soot-gray fingertips of your gloves, the dust of the high plains sits coarse and heavy on the tattered, yellowing strip of paper. You hold it down flat as a brutish wind snakes up the empty dirt road through the center of Dalhart, grabbing hold of the brown dust that clings to everything — and tugs. Underneath your pale blue dress, with the hemline torn and the collar in need of stitching, your heart pounds as you read the small, almost guilty, advert:

Help wanted. Can pay.

Contact Joel Miller.

The promise of actual money should have had every able-bodied American scrambling to answer the advert, but by its place near the bottom of the announcement board outside of the country store, buried beneath slashed prices for milk and eggs and headlines out of Washington – it seems certain to be relegated into obscurity.

For all you know, this could be months, even years, old. Miller, whoever he was, could be long dead, or gone with the rest of the exodus to California. Or he could have gone the way of your “Uncle” Robert – a huckster, discovered too late; one of many who prey upon the desperation that sticks to the country like the acrid smell of smoke. Your hand shakes as you pluck the yellow card from the wooden plank. There is no contact number, no address. Another trick? Dust stings the corners of your eyes when you pinch them close, your breathing quickening, your pulse sharp in the sleeve of your ratty glove.

Oh, God, what are you going to do? What if this is nothing, just like Robert’s promise? What if there’s nothing here for you? What if –

A small hand on your forearm centers your spiraling thoughts. From beneath a faded blue baseball cap, two brown eyes peer up at you, firm and reassuring.

“You okay?” She keeps her voice low, just like you asked.

“Yeah, El–Ellie, I’m fine.” You squeeze her too-thin hand, your stomach toiling with guilt and its own emptiness. “Just figuring out what to do next.”

“Is finding and murdering this asshole Robert still off the table?”

You frown, your niece’s quick temper more from your dead sister than you. “It is. Now, I’m going inside to ask about this advert. Maybe this Miller still has a job or two open.”

Ellie’s eyes fall to the slip of paper in your hand, her aggressive scowl tightening into something that too closely resembles fear. She knows what’s at stake just as much as you do and you hate that that knowledge ages her youthful face.

“You stay close and don’t let anyone get a good look at you, okay?”

Ellie nods, already familiar with the routine, and scoops up your luggage case, her tattered satchel hanging off her other shoulder. She had been wearing pants long before reaching Dalhart, but it soothed you to think the eyes of cruel men passed right over her, their interest rarely in young boys.

A bell above the door tinkles when you open it, but by the dull, muted sound, it most likely has a few dents. Behind you, the afternoon heat follows you in, the sunlight illuminating the floating dust mites in the air. The door whines as it closes, brightening the inside of the store, where the mites settle back into the silver layer that sits over cans of tomatoes and peaches, linens, boxes of gum and cigarettes. Nearly everything sits untouched and unmoved, old dust settling between cracks and grooves, patrons not having enough money to buy something and the owner not having enough to change out stock. Struck still, frozen in a single, long exhale. The slow, creaking death of the economic system has reached Dalhart too. You shudder, suddenly cold as if in a mausoleum.

The further away from Boston the train took you, the further back in time you felt. Here, you are reminded of the old general stores of cowboys and pioneers. But maybe, that is exactly where you are: out of time.

A man in long white sleeves, coiffed hair, and perfectly round glasses, looks up from the wilted newspaper spread out over the counter.

“Can I help you?” His accent hails from the east, North Carolina most likely. However, his manners are not reflective of that famous southern hospitality. He looks at you like you’re a bad dream and it unsteadies you.

“Y-yes. I, uh, I’m hoping that you know a-a Miller. Joel Miller? I have his advert and I’m, um, I’m looking for work.”

The man’s thin eyebrow jumps mockingly. Aren’t we all, sister? But eventually, he shakes his head.

“Look, I don’t know what you’re doing all the way out here, but this ain’t no place for a young lady out on her own, job or no job. Where’s your husband?”

“Dead.” Your voice doesn’t waver, but then again, why would it?

The clerk’s eyes soften, if only slightly. “I see. But I’m sorry to say, there is no job here for you.”

Your mouth instantly dries out. “What do you mean? Where’s Mr. Miller?”

“He’s a mean ol’ sunuvbitch, livin' God knows where. Comes in twice a month for supplies and he’s back out into the prairie.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t see why that’s a problem –,”

“He ain’t fit for civilized life, ma’am.” The clerk drops his nose, eying you seriously over the rim of his black glasses. “Whatever he’s offering, you don’t want no part of it.”

“I think we’ll be the judges of that.” Beside you, Ellie drops your suitcase and it loudly clatters to the ground. “Thanks for the tip though.”

The clerk’s eyes widen – this is terrible behavior even for a boy – his mouth unfurling to give a nasty tongue-lashing, when you interject, your voice thick with pleading.

“I would just like to meet the man. Please, sir.” The clerk, like most men without scruples, can barely resist the sound of a woman begging. Those uncanny blue eyes find you again. “Has he come in recently?”

You can feel Ellie’s wicked sneer behind you, the clerk’s gaze switching between the unlikely pair in his shop. Finally, he shrugs. Who gives a fuck if one more woman goes missing?

“He’s due for a resupply.”

“How soon?” Your palm sweats under your gloves.

He narrows his eyes, evidently annoyed that a woman would reject his warnings. “Soon. We have a parlor in the back if you’d like to wait for him. But you have to buy something,” he adds vehemently.

You nod, unsteady on shaking knees as you walk towards the door in the back of the store.

“Thank you, sir. You have been so kind. We very much appreciate it.”

Any chance that the clerk finds you sincere is lost when Ellie wraps her knuckles on the counter as she passes.

“Buh-bye, dude.”

The parlor is small, dark, damp, and smells faintly of kerosene and leather. A woman, most likely the wife of the clerk you just annoyed, glares from behind a counter as you and Ellie walk in.

“Lunch.” Not a question.

Ellie looks up at you, eyes wide, fearful. You hadn’t let her see what is left in your purse, but she knows it’s low.

With your stomach in knots, you wouldn’t be able to eat anyway. You pluck out a dollar, bringing your total down to three dollars, and giving it to your niece.

“Order whatever you want.”

The beating heart of the blazing Texas sun edges downward across the open sky, falling, until it drops completely behind the harrowingly flat horizon. Purple erupts in its wake, the last pump of blood of a dying muscle, and nearly instantly, the temperature drops. You watch the explosive coronary of the sky from a table at the back of the parlor, your own pulse doubling the later it gets. You squeeze your hand between your thighs to keep your fingers from drumming uneasily on the table. But for once, Ellie doesn’t pick up on your nerves.

A dollar went farther out here and, as a result, Ellie is allowed her first big meal in months. Twice now, she’s nearly forgone the silverware to shove food directly into her mouth with her fingers, had it not been for your glares to remind her to slow down.

“This is slow,” she grumbles as she licks her bowl of mashed potatoes clean. Of course, half of what she ordered sits waiting for you, but you know she needs this meal more than you do – even if your rumbling stomach disagrees. You’d already had lunch at the train station; one more missed meal won’t kill you and less for you means more for Ellie.

Suddenly becoming a parent to a very opinionated fourteen-year-old girl was not something you had anticipated, and most times you figured you were doing it all wrong. The least you could do is give her everything you could.

“You think he’ll show?”

You tear your eyes away from the parlor door, blinking back into your body out of your cloud of thoughts. Ellie’s little hands grip the bowl, a white smear sitting on her bottom lip, her eyes dark as they watch you.

You grin as her pink tongue swipes up to lick her mouth clean. How easy you forget she’s only fourteen, with her loud mouth and provoking eyes. “Eat your food, Ellie.”

The words have barely left your mouth when the door to the parlor bursts open. Two men, clearly drunk and smelling of it, stumble in. This is the part where you wish you too could believably dress up like a man. Your pulse thrums in your neck like a heightened prey animal.

One pushes the other’s shoulder, smirking, and grunting something. His friend, also in a cowboy hat but half his size, nods and makes an unsteady line for one of the tables, while the other does his best to get to the bar.

The man at the table has light green eyes, overly thick eyebrows, and a flat mouth, loose with drink. He flops into a wooden chair and you watch as the Texas Rangers badge on his chest flashes in the firelight behind him. Your stomach tightens.

He stretches out, feet crossed over his ankles, limp hands crossed over his denim jacket, hollering at his friend and the woman working, who looks equally displeased to see them as she did you and Ellie.

Smirking, his eyes slide from the wooden bar top, over the back wall, and right onto you.

You watch as his gaze blurs for a moment, a film of beastial hunger smothering the color of his eyes. You can feel your pulse in your ankles now.

“Well, now, what do we have here?” The lilt in his voice calls out two unspoken words: fresh meat. Distressingly steady, he climbs to his feet, his hat tilted obnoxiously on his forehead. “Where did you come from, you pretty little thing?”

He saunters over, his thumbs stuck in his belt, the gun at his side snug in its holster. The grin on his face is hideous. You’d smack it off if you weren’t suddenly overcome by a debilitating fear. A look like that on a man is never, ever a good thing.

“Whatcha got there, Lee?” his buddy calls out from the bar, beard drenched in beer foam.

“I dunno quite yet, Knapp,” he says over his shoulder, his livid green eyes never leaving your face. He nearly folds in half to press his spider-like hands on the surface of your table, coming inches from your face. His breath smells like corn whiskey and cheap tobacco. “Guess I’ll have to find out. What’s your name, pretty thing?”

“Or she could not tell you her name and instead, you could fuck off.” Ellie’s scowl wrenches her mouth open, her knuckles white around her spoon. There’s a part of you that fully acknowledges and accepts that if given the signal, she’d scoop the fucker’s eyes out with the silverware right here. “We’re eating here, or are you too busy smelling like a fucking whiskey barrel to notice?”

As with most adults when Ellie decides to show her teeth, Lee stares stunned before the self-righteous anger sets in. Your heart stops for a moment when you think he’s going for his holster, but instead, he uses the flat of his hand to swat her hat off her head.

“Shut up, you little fucker, where’d you learn your fucking ma–,”

Ellie’s long hair tumbles down her shoulders, the baseball cap on the floor behind her.

Lee is stunned into silence once again. The parlor goes deathly silent.

It’s Knapp who sets off the explosive spark again. “Holy fuck, you’re a little girl.”

Ellie snatches up her hat, cheeks flaming red, but Lee’s hand grabs her wrist.

“A kinda cute one at that,” Lee sneers. He twists her arm and she yelps. Knapp at the bar laughs, his paunch shaking as beer sloshes over the side of his glass. The woman is cleaning something with a rag, turned away from the scene, her shoulders hunched to her ears. You’re on your feet, your hand on her purse. “What are you thinking, hm? Dressing this sweet little girl up like a boy?”

The trigger clicks and Lee and everyone else in the parlor freezes. The edge of your lash line is wet, fear rolling through you like fog on the bay. Your hand is steady, miraculously, but your voice isn’t.

“L-l-let–,” your voice cracks and you try again. You only have one gun drawn on Lee and you pray to whatever god is listening that Knapp doesn’t remember his. “Let her go.”

This small pistol is your last line of defense against those who would take everything from you. You couldn’t keep your sister safe, your husband didn’t want to be saved, but you’d die before you’d let anyone come within an inch of Ellie. You pawned off your wedding ring long before you ever considered selling this weight in your hand. You couldn’t physically win a fight but you’d be damned if you weren’t going to take someone out with you.

There’s more than one reason you never let Ellie look into your purse. You won’t make eye contact with her now.

Lee’s eyes harden into black flints in his head. “Yeah? You’re shaking like a leaf. You ain’t gonna do shit about it.”

He twists harder, forcing Ellie to her knees, his mouth smearing into a sickening sneer, Ellie’s cries loud – “get off me, you fucker!”

All you have to do is miss. Once.

Your arm shifts right and you fire. You meant to hit the floor, but instead the leg of a chair at a nearby table shatters, wood and smoke sparking into the air. Lee and Ellie jump, their struggle broken, but Ellie’s quicker, smarter. Hunched to avoid debris, they are nearly eye to eye and Ellie doesn’t hesitate; she jerks her head back and then launches her forehead forward – square into his flat nose.

The crunch is sickening and it turns your already empty stomach. Lee shrieks, releasing Ellie, his hands flying to his misshapen nose to staunch the river of blood pouring from his nostrils.

“You bitch!” he whines, voice wet and gummy as blood trickles down his throat, eyes watering. You hear a roar of anger as Knapp stands, no longer finding any of this funny.

“Get behind me, Ellie.” You snap, eyes on Knapp as he lumbers forward. She hesitates, looking like she’d like nothing more than to kick Lee up the balls, but obeys the closer Knapp comes. She slots behind you, eyes sharp on the squealing man on the floor.

“She broke my fucking nose, man,” he cries, face already purpling.

“Yeah, and don’t you forget it, you fucker!” She snarls over your shoulder. One hand holds your elbow, and the other brandishes her mother’s knife that had been at the bottom of her satchel seconds ago. Fuck.

Ellie Williams is not, and never has been, nor will be, one to deescalate a situation. Knapp responds in kind. His drunk fingers fumble with his holster, his face contorted with rage.

“Shootin’ at an officer of the law – you’re gonna hang for this, you thieving little c–,”

“Knapp.”

A fifth voice – low, deep, a mammalian bark that grinds the chaos of the room to a halt. The large man stalls, his engine snagged by the rough grain of that voice. On the floor, Lee lets out one quiet whimper as he cracks open a pulsating black eye.

In the glow of the firelight, you watch as beads of sweat swell on Knapp’s big forehead beneath his wide-brimmed hat. His wide eyes flash between you and the man who just walked in.

“M-Miller, the fuck you want?”

Your heart seizes in your chest. Miller.

Joel Miller.

You never thought your saving grace would come in the shape of a hulking, dark-eyed man.

A well-worn handkerchief around his neck, crusted over with dust, his broad shoulders stretch a denim work shirt, the unbuttoned collar loose and just as dirty. Worked-over hands, dry and brown as the earth, curl into fists at his side. Tight jaw, flared nose, eyes black, his presence expands in the cramped room, a leviathan cresting dark waves to command the roaring void.

“Back off, both of you.”

Knapp sneers, desperately tugging at some misguided sense of bravery, with sweat running hot and fast and smelly down the sides of his rubbery face. “Y-yeah, or what?”

“You fuckin’ know what.”

Knapp visibly swallows and lowers his pistol, hands trembling. Lee whines from the floor, his eyes open as wide as the swelling will allow, abject terror on his face as he stares up at Miller. Neither of them move.

A guard dog satisfied by the corralled sheep, Joel’s heavy gaze roves from the two men, across the room, to you.

His expression doesn’t change.

The weight shifts across the stiff planes of his shoulders, and he turns, leaving as quickly as he appeared. Beneath his thick boots, the wooden floor creaks and it rouses you. Your mouth is so dry you can feel the skin of your lips split apart.

“Mr. Miller, w-wait.”

He doesn’t.

With a single glance to the men still frozen in terror, you follow him through the now-dark and empty store. The cold desert air cracks hard against your overheated cheeks when you burst through the door, into the black night. The moonlight illuminates the threads of silver hair in his beard that the dark parlor hid. His fingers work slowly, unhurriedly, as he tightens the leather buckle beneath the wide girth of his off-white horse. It lifts its head as you stumble out onto the dusty road, its round eyes watching you with more interest than its rider. White ears twitch forward, a snort from the long snout, and Joel rubs the soft place between two giant nostrils without looking up.

“J-Joel – Mr. Miller, please, I need your help.”

“Already got it.” His shoulders flex and roll as he loads up another loose sack onto the rump of the horse, then tightens the securing belt. It snorts again and shifts on its hooves, its long tail flicking back and forth.

You shake your head, swallowing the hot rush of embarrassment. The wind licks at your ankles and you fight back a shiver, bringing a hand to your shoulder to warm the goosebumps. “No, sorry, I mean – I’m here to help you. I saw your advertisement and I was wondering if the position was still open.”

The buckle quiets. The dirt at his feet crunches as he faces you.

There are no trees in Dalhart, Texas. There are barely any clouds, no coverage. Overhead, the few buildings not yet folded up in the wake of the financial collapse throw shadows over his angular face, but you can still feel the trace of his gaze over you. A curious search, the investigation of scent.

Then he shakes his head.

“No.”

Your entire chest tightens. “Has the position been filled?”

“No.”

“Then why–,”

“I don’t need you.” He lifts up the third and final sack and you feel your hope being carried away with it. “Need a farm hand. You’re not the type.”

“N-n-no, I’ve worked on a farm. I-I’ve only planted seeds but I’m a quick learner and I–,”

“No.”

“Sir – please, I’ll do anything–,”

“Then go home.” He unties the reins from the wooden post and clicks to the horse. Its big eyes watch you as he turns them for the road. “There’s nothing here for you.”

You absolutely will not cry in front of this gruff stranger. Panic icing down your spine, you follow him on weak knees. In the wake leftover from the wheat boom, Dalhart is quiet as soon as the sun goes down. Empty of people, of light, of any sort of guiding hand, you try to appeal to the last human you’ve found at the end of the world.

“Mr. Miller, there must be something you need. I’m a hard worker, smart, you won’t have to train me at all. Please. I’ve been a housekeeper, a seamstress – a nurse. I —,”

The horse huffs when Joel pulls tight on the reins.

In the moonlight, all of his hair looks gray. Your heart plunges in your throat. You can feel your stomach trying to digest your spine.

“Done any work with kids?” He asks, after a moment.

His brisk question is not what you expected. You can barely hear him over the pounding in your heart.

“Y-yes. I’ve treated children before. A-and I was a teacher, briefly. I’m very good with children, actually.”

The scarred hand at his side tightens, flexes open and closed, the tips of his thumb and forefinger twitching over the other. Over his shoulder, you think his head tilts a centimeter towards you.

“You know what? Fuck this.”

Out of the shadows of the county store, Ellie tears down the steps, her face pink and her hair stuffed back up her ball cap. She loops her small hands around your forearm and tugs, her eyes like chips of bark, glaring hatefully at the man in the middle of the street. Faint dust churns beneath her faded sneakers.

“She’s fucking begging you and you don’t give a fuck, you old shithead!” She tugs again. In the flash of the moonlight, a glassy film has settled over her eyes. “C’mon, we don’t need him. We – don’t need – him.”

“Ellie, please!” You grab her by the shoulders, a soft hand in a swirling tempest, and she settles, her mouth twisted up in anger and embarrassment. She hates that you have to beg anyone. “Please.” Shielding her from him, you squeeze her shoulders. “I know, Ellie. I know. But I have to keep you safe.”

Ellie finally turns that hot glare at you, eyes damp. Petulant when terrified, your sister was the exact same way.

Fuck, Anna, it should have been me.

“She yours?”

Joel rests his weight on his left knee, fingers loose around the reins. He’s lowered the mask around his mouth. You snap your head up, your voice thankfully steady. “She’s my niece. She . . . I’m responsible for her.”

Below your palms, Ellie stiffens.

Fifteen feet from you, Joel nods, the muscle in his jaw tight. The horse huffs and he glares at it like it just yelled at him too.

“I’m not in the habit of pickin’ up strays,” he says as if that means a lot.

Hope springs in your chest and it snags the air in your lungs. “We’re not. I-I mean, we’ll work hard. Please, give us just one chance.”

“And you expect me to take on the both of you.” It isn’t a question, but his eyebrow arcs all the same. “That’s two mouths I gotta feed, ‘steada one.”

“She can have mine.” In the silence, you think you can hear the faint choir of crickets. You remember the tarantulas and centipedes that lived inside the walls of your husband’s prairie dugout, and your stomach twists. “Ellie can have whatever you give us.”

She makes a brief cry of protest, but you squeeze her shoulders. The sharp flair of his nostrils smooths and the corners of his eyes pinches, tilting his eyebrows up. He’s still glowering, but somehow, his expression has suddenly opened, just a crack.

And then he nods.

“Stay here a night. I’ll be back in the morning with the wagon.”

And that’s it. You have a job.

You’re so elated it takes a minute for his words to sink in. He turns back down the road, the horse's hooves clipping on the dry ground. You follow after him, hand outstretched.

“Oh, no, w-we can walk, it’s no trouble. Let me just get our things and–,”

“Too far to walk. And there’s things out in the dark more dangerous than those fuckin’ rangers.” He nods to the country store, eerily quiet. It sits, ugly, like a brown old frog. “There’s a hotel just up the road. It’s not much, but it’ll do for one night.”

“But, sir, we really can’t stay. I don’t – there’s no –,”

You stumble to a stop when those merciless dark eyes root you to the ground. The leather reins squeak when he tightens his fist around them. Again, you are under the impression of a dog sniffing out your scent for any deception, any treason. He takes you in, all of you in – your ratty gloves, your torn hemline, your tattered collar – and by some miracle, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, the groove above his nose softens.

Wordlessly, he reaches into his back pocket and takes out five dollars from a brown leather wallet. He offers it to you between two fingers.

Take it, his eyes command.

You do, with a shaking hand. You hate charity, you hate that you’re at his mercy –

But Ellie has a bed for the night. Inside, warm. Where, hours ago, she didn’t. You smother your pride and nod, gaze at the scar on his cheek that you only now notice at an arm’s length away.

“One night,” he says. “For you and the kid.”

You nod again because that’s all you really can do, his pity clutched in your fist and held against your heart.

Ellie scowls as he swings up onto the horse and readjusts his mask.

“What a guy,” she murmurs to you, her eyes still narrowed. Joel clicks his teeth, and the horse trots off into the dark, a lone man riding out into the featureless night.

Evidently still feeling slighted, Ellie sticks her tongue out at the denim back.

“Better keep that tongue in your mouth, kid,” he hollers before digging his heels into the horse’s flanks. “Liable to be chopped off like a copperhead.”

Ellie’s mouth snaps shut.

The money Joel gave you is more than enough to cover a room and another plate of food. You even spurge your own money on some small candy for Ellie, determined to give Joel back every cent left over and then some, once you’ve proven you can earn your keep.

For you and the kid.

You shake your head, lost in your own thoughts, the gnawing hunger in your belly satiated, as you pull back the covers to the twin bed. The metal frame squeaks as you climb in, your night dress thin and ragged as the rest of your clothes.

“C’mon, Ellie, time for bed.” When she doesn’t move, you stop rearranging the pillows and look at her. In her own white nightie (because she’d outgrown all her other pajamas), she sits in front of the roaring fire, her chin on her knees, and her arms wrapped around her shins.

She’s quiet - either a good sign, or a terrible one.

“Ellie, sweetie, we’ve gotta get some sleep. It’s gonna be a long day tomorrow.”

You watch as her narrow back expands and falls in one slow breath, her skin bright in the firelight.

She nods mutely and climbs into the space beside you. She rolls onto her side, away from you, her hands tucked up under her head, her knees curled up beneath her.

This is where Anna would know what to say. How to soothe this girl with so much awareness in a world that is raw to even those willfully ignorant. You can’t bullshit Ellie the way you can some kids. She knows too much. Seen too much.

You settle down next to her in the shadow of her shoulder. Your fingers hover, locked between the yawning gap of touching her and not touching her, when she finally speaks.

“Is this really going to work?” Her voice is quiet, soft, dust-covered and buried. “Is Joel really gonna . . . are we safe?”

You cannot bullshit Ellie Williams.

“I don’t know. I’d like to think so. I know you don’t like him, but I think we can trust him.”

She’s quiet again, only this time because there’s something she doesn’t want to say.

“Not like Uncle Robert – or Robert, if that’s even his real name. I’d never met the man in person, but I wanted – so badly – to believe . . .” You swallow, your own shame boiling your skin. “I think we’re safe with Joel Miller.”

The god’s honest truth.

She hears it in your voice.

Ellie tips back to look you in the eyes. She’s lost so much weight recently. “Yeah?”

You tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear, the ghost of your thumb across her cheek. She allows the show of affection. “Yeah, El. I do.”

You want to say: you can trust me. I’ll always take care of you.

But you know it would only come out hollow.

Neither of you would think it was honest.

She pulls away from your grasp, her eyes almost golden in the firelight. She nods and stares at the burning wood.

“Okay.”

“So . . . is your car, like, broken or something?”

You elbow Ellie and she sits up from hanging over the edge of the wagon. She frowns at you – what? – and you both glance at Joel at the front of the wagon. If the question annoys him any more than he perpetually already is, he doesn’t show it.

“Don’t have one.” He says to the back of the horse. The wagon rocks and sways over the clods of dust and stone in the road. “Never did.”

“Uh, why?”

“Cars break down in the dust storms. Short out. They end up being more trouble than they’re worth.”

Again, that half-centimeter turn, his tone implying what his eyes can’t, faced away from you. Ellie narrows her eyes at the back of his head. She wrenches her mouth open, fire in her eyes, but she catches you glaring, and her mouth snaps shut. Pouting, she chucks a lone pebble off the back of the wagon.

The sky is strikingly blue, bright as a livewire, the air warm and crackling with the early summer heat. Away from Dalhart, away from the collection of dust on every surface, dripping through every crack, you find the clarity and distance of the southern plains to be . . . unexpected. So careless and abrasive one minute, but then, in moments like these, it became hard to believe that nature could ever be so cruel as to make the earth rise up and swallow it all whole.

You swing your legs off the wooden edge, the sunshine warm on your knees. It’s no use trying to hide how badly your socks need darning, so you lean back and stretch your legs as far as you can, your face tilted towards the sky, the still air peaceful. This morning, you’d put on your yellow plaid dress, torn cotton lace around the sleeves that stop at your elbows. You tucked your hair up and pinned your straw hat to your head. It was a reflex, to present your most beautiful self to a man, even one you barely knew. By the way Ellie had rolled her eyes, she felt no such compulsion.

Demure, your mother always told you, you’re not very pretty, you’re not very bright, the least you can be is demure.

The wagon shudders, clicks, over the empty road and you open your eyes. Ellie is turned away from you, eyes out to the fields on either side of you. You don’t understand what she’s looking at, until you realize that’s exactly it: there is nothing to look at. On the other side of those loopy barbed-wire fences through cock-eyed posts, there are miles and miles of nothing but churned-over dirt. A lazy wind spins over a patch of emptiness, tossing clods and sand into the air, an aimless sadness as tangible as the dust itself. Phone lines stand, corroded and chipped, along the side of the road like tangible manifestations of a deadly infection.

“There’s no crops here either.” Ellie says, voicing loudly what you only thought. You can’t see her face but she sounds as stunned as you are. “What happened?”

You watch over her shoulder, eyes level with the earth bleached of all material, all life. With the drought, your husband’s field shriveled up in months, the cracked ground peeling away from the sodhouse in some places. You still have nightmares about waking up with grit between your teeth, choking and coughing up bloody chunks of mud.

This is desolation on an epidemic scale.

“Ask different people ‘n they’ll tell you different things.” Joel says in his slow drawl, the crackle of the earth soft beneath the wooden wheels. “No one really knows. But nothing like this happened when the buffalo grass was here, ‘steada wheat.”

“Wait, you were here before Dalhart?” Ellie twists on the wagon, leaning over the lip where Joel sits and drives the horse.

“My family was. Here before anything. My grandpa befriended the Comanche Indians and –,”

“You got to hang out with Indians?” Ellie nearly hurls herself over the edge of the wagon to try and look him in the eye. “What are they like – did they teach you how to shoot a bow and arrow – can they really ride horses like that –,”

“Ellie!” You want to grab her by her collar and yank her back into the wagon. “Not so many questions.”

The noise Joel makes is somewhere between a grunt and the word no.

“It’s fine –, “ he looks down at Ellie, still curled around the back of the seat, her eyes wide with a giant smile on her face. His ever present scowl doesn’t seem any deeper, nor does it deter her. Joel turns away again and in the sunlight, his hair is gooey, caramel brown. You stare at the dirt road while listening, the back of your neck hot. “They’re good people. Didn’t deserve what happened to them – to any of ‘em. But they taught my grandpa and grandma how to take just what they need, nothing more. But then everybody needed grain, offered money for cheap, easy labor. They poured in here, into the prairie, and in years, it became this. Folks blame the drought, but it’s more’n that.”

Ellie’s inordinately quiet. She knows exactly what your husband did to you, to your family, and now, maybe to the entire land.

“‘Next year’ people, they claim,” Joel continues, his voice deepening with anger, “‘next year’, things’ll be better. ‘Next year’ the rains’ll come. ‘Next year’ the wheat’ll return.” He shakes his head, boots creaking against the toeboard. “Anyone who thinks that is lyin’ to themselves. Anyone’s who’s been here, seen what’s here, for us it’s been –,”

“The end of the world.”

The silence that follows your words stretches long, an anchor dropped off the end of the wagon and rattling around the wheels. You swing your legs, fingers curling around a tear in your hemline. It wasn’t the first time you’d heard those words to describe the state of things. That’s what your husband called it and you believed him.

Evidently, Joel agrees. His wide shoulders taught, the denim blue faded beneath the boundless sky, he nods.

“Griiim,” Ellie mutters as she curls up and drops her chin on her knees.

You’ve been watching a single cloud chase the sun from the floor of the wagon when Ellie, silent for all of about fifteen minutes, lifts her head from her hands draped over the edge. Her eyes go wide, her ears pink from the sun, and says:

“Whoa.”

The horse huffs as you sit up, a soft wind snagging the loose hairs on the back of your neck, and your mouth drops.

Grass.

Fields of it.

The air is fresh, warm, and filled with the scent of living, breathing earth. Tipped with lush purple seeds shaped like paintbrushes, a sea of stalks bend and ripple in the cooling breeze, undulating like waves on solid ground. The wind is soft here, teasing, rolling through the tall grass, carrying the scent of growth and green in the air. You’re suddenly aware of how dry your mouth is, cracked and padded with dust.

“We left it be.” Joel offers simply, voice too gruff to surely be filled with pride. “It’s endured and survived, and so have we.”

Further back, you can see where the line of his property ends – a harsh division of paradise and purgatory – and marked to the north by a dip in the ground and even over the crunch of the wheels over the ground, you hear it: water.

A river. An oasis in a wasteland.

Ahead of the white tufts of hair on the horse, the road curves, disappearing into the sea of grass, but letting your graze drift up, you see an a-frame home, white like a lighthouse at the edge of a storm. The instant the home comes into view, Joel clicks his tongue, urging the horse faster – eager.

He leads the horse up through the road, through the grass, and on the other side, by the river, two cows chew up the green, oblivious. Beyond them, tucked behind the house is a barn. Low to the ground but wide, hunched like a fighter with a heavy center of gravity, it looks ready to endure and survive. As this entire secret world had.

Joel tugs the horse to a stop, the wagon rattles as it slows, by the wide porch of the a-frame. It sits also low to the ground, wider with a dark roof, held together with something black and smeared. You’re so distracted by the unique qualities of this house in the middle of paradise that you miss it when the door creaks open until you’re staring down the barrel of a shotgun.

“Who are you?” The voice behind the gun is deep, even if the barrels shake slightly. In the dark of the doorframe, you can’t quite see their face, only their short stature.

You see Ellie’s hand twitch towards her knife, which she now carries in her sock since the night of the county store.

However, Joel is less concerned. In fact, the boulders of his shoulders loosen, ease to simple muscle and blood. He makes a noise that on anyone else, it might be considered a laugh, a chuckle, but he isn’t even capable of smiling –

He slings down from the seat and pats the horse.

“Easy there, Annie Oakley, it’s just me.”

The shadow in the doorway stiffens.

“Dad?”

The shotgun lowered, the shadow staggers into the light. Brown eyes, just like his, scrunched against the blinding sunlight, a girl with the most beautiful head of curls blinks at Joel, her thin hand held up to shield her face.

“Hey there, baby girl.”

In a single leap, she jumps down from the porch but all too quickly, the smile slips from Joel’s face.

“Hang on, not too fast–,”

She stumbles towards him as best as the metal braces around her knees, down to her ankles, will allow, defiant and smiling, despite the beads of sweat that have swelled over her forehead. Joel surges forward, faster than you thought possible, and reaches for her, nearly on one knee.

“Slow down, please, Sarah.”

“Dad, I’m fine,” she huffs before tossing her arms around his neck. “I’m fine. Just – missed you, is all.”

You can’t see his face, but he straightens up still holding her. With one hand he flattens those curls to her cheek, and kisses the other.

“Enough to forget all the things I taught you about gun safety? You just tossed that thing aside,” he scolds fondly. She rolls her eyes as he sets her down.

“Okay, but if you didn’t know it was me, you would’a been totally scared, right?”

She watches as he chuckles, a deep, warm sound, but her own smile flatlines when she spies Ellie climbing down from the wagon. You ease off the edge, your lower half sore from the ride.

The girl, Sarah, narrows her eyes.

“Who are you?” She positions her body slightly in front of Joel’s. “And why are you dressed like a boy?”

Joel’s soft scolding – “Sarah” – is lost beneath Ellie’s scoff. She adjusts her satchel.

“Why are you dressed like Raggedy Ann?”

Her father’s massive hands clench down on her shoulders, Sarah’s scowl evident that she’s about half a second away from launching herself at Ellie, leg braces be damned.

“Now, let’s slow down here.” Joel’s deep baritone is light, but just as firm as his grip. If you knew him better, you’d think he is about to laugh, the lines around his eyes thick, while his mouth stays flat. “We got off on the wrong foot. Sarah, this is Ellie and her aunt. They’re going to be staying with us for a while to help out with your schooling.”

Those curls go flying, her frown now pinched in worry. Another girl caught between a child and adult – for the sake of their single parent, you notice, your chest tight.

“I thought you needed a farm hand. You were going to teach me.”

“You know you already read better than I do.”

“Dad–,”

“Miss here is also a nurse.”

“Oh. Oh.” She glances down at the metal braces as if she’d forgotten they were there. The skin on her knees is chaffed, rubbed pink. “She can . . . help me?”

Twin pairs of brown eyes settle on you, one hesitantly curious, the other aggressively determined.

You can, right?

Ellie’s staring at the braces, her gaze distant, heavy. She’d seen this before, but everything back then moved too fast. Back then, there was no time for braces.

Braces only help a small percentage of polio patients. The lucky ones.

You nod, your heart hammering under your chest bone. “Yes – yes, sir. I think with Ms. Kenny’s therapy, we might be able to alleviate some pain.”

Those eyes, exactly like and so unlike her father’s, widen.

“Really?”

You introduce yourself with your first name, pressing the crease in your glove between your nail and your thumb with your other hand.

“I’d like to try, Sarah.”

You suddenly understand that Sarah is Joel Miller’s most guarded secret, out here in paradise, paradise as the most beautiful prison in the world. He continues to stare at you from under thick eyebrows after Sarah moves away from him. Ellie, caught off-guard by her forward movement, takes a significant step back.

“I, um, got some marbles out back,” Sarah starts, thumbing over her shoulder, and every other word sounding like an apology. “If you wanna play.”

Ellie jerks forward, her eyes round with excitement, but stops. She looks at you.

“Can I?”

Soft when eager, just like her mother. So unlike you. You nod.

“Stay close, okay?”

You and Joel watch as Ellie and Sarah toddle around to the back of the house, Ellie quietly narrating every thought she has as she keeps pace with Sarah.

Those look actually really cool, you know?

Yeah?

Totally. Have you read Amazing Stories? You look like you could be part of the Space Family Robinson.

Who are they?

Oh, you’ve never read those!? Okay, so they’re a family who live in space and they go on these awesome adventures together to different planets and . . .

The farther they go, the faster Joel turns back to stone. His gaze lingers just a hint longer before those dark eyes pin you to the ground.

“You said you can clean? Cook?”

You nod quickly. “Yes, sir.” Guard dog Joel. Stocky pitbull, teeth long and wet Joel.

He tilts his chin towards the house.

“Kitchen’s in the back. I gotta clean up the wagon and the horse, then gonna tend the field. I’ll be back in a few hours, but Sarah knows where to find me if y’need somethin'.”

You nod again, but he misses it, turning away to unbuckle the horse. You slide your trunk and Ellie’s satchel off the end of the wagon and head into the shadow of the house.

The white clapdoor snaps shut behind you, followed by the softer snik of the screen clicking into its frame. Slipping the bobby pins out of your hair to release your hat, you take in the Miller home.

The air is cool. Dust motes float in the sunlight streaming in from the second floor over a staircase with wooden wainscoting leading away from the open front room. With a brief glance up, you can see the faded white walls of the upper hallway, some not-yet-seen window drawing in bolts of morning light that pierce the air in bullet holes. It’s quiet and it smells warm, like lace kept in the back of a drawer near a wall that faces the heat outside.

A blue two-seater couch faces a squat fireplace, with a Queen Anne table sandwiched between the two. Behind you, a large grandfather clock ticks and waits, a server waiting in the shadows with a watchful eye to report back to its master on the going-ons of the house. With only a cedar hutch, a few daguerreotypes, a smattering of books, the room is sparsely decorated, but kept clean and organized. You could see Sarah, a focused look in her eyes, sitting on the steps of the stairs and making Joel move and rearrange furniture over and over again until the room felt right.

Through a white arched doorway, you find yourself in the kitchen. The light sparks more brightly here, the sky a stark blue through the four square window over the kitchen table and above the sink, reflective of the sun. You realize then the house runs north to south at an angle, where there are limited windows in the walls on the east and west sides, thereby limiting direct sun exposure and, more importantly, heat. Both the kitchen and the front rooms had been built out of the line of the sun, making cooking and cleaning and living bearable without a painful glare.

A thoughtful and patient consideration.

Someone had attempted to add some levity with brown and blue plaid wallpaper around the cove of the dinner table, all the way to the other side of the room around the kitchen counters and stove. But unfortunately for everyone else, the wallpaper is hideous, only tampered by the off-white counters and cupboards.

The cupboards have glass doors, blurring ceramic cups and plates on the tops of the shelves.

It reminds you of the small apartment Anna and you lived in back in Boston, when it was just the two of you. It wasn’t much, but it felt sturdy, secure. Safe.

A door to the right of the stove has a latch, and you lift it and poke your head inside. A chilly darkness greets you, along with the scent of wet, deep earth. A basement? No. Not this close to the kitchen. Curiosity pulling you forward, you descend the sturdy wooden stairs, into the sunken darkness. You count ten until a draft licks your ankles. You keep going, one squeak of wood after another until - you touch soil. The heady scents of pine bark and peat moss soothe the air from where your feet press into the ground, fertility thick like mushrooms in the gut of a lichen-drenched tree. But it’s dark, too dark to make out much, barely your own hand in front of your face. With your fingers outstretched, as if you’ll bump into a gas lamp conveniently on the ground, you shuffle forward and almost immediately a cold chain tickles your face. You grab out of instinct and pull.

Nearly blinded by the light that erupts from an exposed bulb directly in front of your left eye, you stagger back, wincing, your footsteps muffled by the earthen floor. You blink through the tears as the secret at the end of the stairs finally reveals itself.

A pantry. A cellar.

At least twenty feet deep and ten feet high, with rows and rows, stacks and stacks, wood shelves cover nearly the entire length of the underground room. In between the rows, large barrels sit, quiet and sturdy, with bottles of vinegar and olive oil sitting on their rims.

You realize two things within seconds of each other.

This house has electricity. It stands above the ground, proud, independent, full of heat and light. So unlike your husband’s dark hole in the ground.

and

there is so much food.

Pickling jars. Seed pouches. Culled wheat. Cans of fruit and vegetables and eggs. Olives with squash and pumpkins. Crates of potatoes and half bottles of wine and syrup. Onions and carrots and spices and garlic.

A feast. Meals for days and days and days. The bounties of earth stored, safe beneath the ground, like a secret.

It’s more food than you’ve seen in years.

A hunger like you can’t remember having roars in your stomach out of nowhere and everything pitches to the right. The edges of your vision blurs, your shoulder knocking into stone wall, and breathing becomes a nearly impossible task. You turn, nearly stumbling up the dozen steps that have turned into a thousand.

The tacky memories that stick to the crevices of your dreams yawn awake, bringing with them dry mud in your mouth and thick salt to your eyes. Mud, dirt, dust – everywhere. In that stinking hut in the ground, the dust replaced your molecules, your atoms, until you too might blow away, until you are cracked and empty and dry. The static from the dust storm memories shoots down both of your arms and you sway on your feet. Your heart suddenly pounding so achingly fast, you have to drop your forehead against the flat surface of the closed door to keep the room from spinning.

You had forgotten what safety looked like.

You had forgotten what living could be.

You know the ringing sound of that gunshot is just in your head, it’s not real, but you shudder all the same, your hands curling into claws under your chin, your nails tearing up the white paint.

You’re here, not there. You are safe. Ellie is safe. That house and him have been entombed together under piles of dirt, with the bugs and the rot and the stench from the weak stove. Rivers of sweat rolling down the back of your neck, you beg yourself to stop shaking. You feel like cheap terracotta pottery – made from dirt, left too long to bake in the sun and made brittle; one good tap and you’ll shatter.

You breathe in and taste wet salt. Breathe out and cry – cry from the fear and the dread and the relief and the hope. God, that hope tastes worse than all the dirt in the Panhandle of Texas.

You cry and cry and cry until you don’t feel so brittle anymore.

Sunlight has struck copper, heavy, tangy in the mouth, when the back door opens and the house is instantly filled with the sound of girls’ rabid conversation. You step back from the stove, cheeks warm and arm sore from continuously stirring the rice and vegetable soup. It’s not as thick as your mother once made, but without milk, it would be nearly impossible to improve. You smile at the girls as they tumble in, more dust mite than human, whispering about some secret.

“Having fun?” You ask with a grin on your face as Ellie helps Sarah take off her shoes, already attentive to what a girl with her health concerns might need.

There’s an overlap of chatter as Ellie and Sarah both answer you and then, answer each other.

“Well, good,” you say, turning back to the stove, making sure the bottom of the soup doesn’t burn, “but whatever you got up to, it’s all over your faces so please wash up before dinner.”

“It smells real good, miss,” Sarah says as she hobbles over to the sink and starts rinsing off her arms and cheeks, while Ellie takes off her own shoes. “What is it?”

“Something my mom used to make when the cupboards were bare.”

Sarah stills, the water rushing over her soft skin. Those inquisitive eyes are just as captivating, just as forceful as her father’s, but for entirely different reasons. She tugs the words out of you by the sheer, needling strength of her gaze.

“I mean – I found the cellar, the house is incredibly well stocked, but I didn’t see any preserved meat or dairy and I didn’t – I didn’t think your dad would want me poking around out back.”

Immediately Sarah softens and rolls her eyes. “Dad’s all bark and no bite,” she huffs. “We’ve got stored beef and cheese in an ice chest downstairs. I’ll show you around tomorrow.”

You smile and those brown eyes go warm in the coppery light. “Thanks, Sarah.”

“Bunch up, I gotta wash my hands too.” Ellie none-to-gently bumps Sarah with her shoulder to get to the sink but before you can scold her, Sarah swings back, using her precarious momentum, and pushes Ellie back. They both giggle. Something that’s been cramped far too long in your chest loosens.

“So, Sarah, tell me where you are with your schooling. Do you have books, diagrams?”

She thinks for a minute as she opens a drawer that leaves her back to you and takes out two, then four thin cloth placemats. She hobbles back to the table to carefully spread them out.

“I was up to seventh grade before the school shut down. That was about two years ago, so Dad’s been trying to make sure I don’t forget anything. He got me a Midsummer Night’s Dream by Shakespeare a while ago and made me read it out loud to him. He has me work on my letters every day – including cursive.” She adds, with a bright spot of joy cranking her mouth open. You imagine someone like Sarah would have beautiful penmanship. “He shows me around the yard, asking me to identify plants and animals, especially anything that might be poisonous. I don’t think he really understands it but he explains what happens when you add water to a seed and keep it in damp earth. Oh, and he has me help balance the books for the farm – what we made, what we sold, how much we have left, stuff like that.”

You smile at her over your shoulder as Ellie hands her bowls. “Accounting.”

“Huh?”

Ellie rolls her eyes. “It’s so boring, don’t worry about it,” she whispers conspiratorially.

“What your dad is teaching you is called accounting,” you say a bit firmly, eyes tracking your niece as she shows no shame. “It’s a very special skill to have, especially if you work on a farm or in a business. Do you like it?”

She nods rapidly, those cork-screw curls bouncing around her thin face. “Yeah! I do! I’m much faster than Dad when it comes to figuring out the sums and dollar value.”

In the front hall, the clap door creaks open then slams shut, heavy footfalls proceeding the man that makes them.

“Does that happen a lot?” you ask softly as Sarah sidles up next to you to peer into the pot.

“Where I know more than my dad?” Sarah smirks up at you, all devious youth. “More often than you think.”

A mini sun bursts from the ceiling as Joel flicks on the light switch and is almost immediately tackled by Sarah. The copper sun on the horizon finally, in the distracted moment, slips down and drags the night behind it. It’s purple twilight outside when Joel lifts his head from the embrace around Sarah’s shoulders to stare at the two strangers in his kitchen.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” you say brightly and you can almost picture your mother in the same exact position in front of the stove, stirring soup until her cheeks were pink, her hand resting low on her back, her tummy round and full in her second attempt to keep her husband’s rage diverted from her. It’s a boy, she promised.

The memory makes you so violently ill out of nowhere, you lose your appetite. But you persevere; you carry on and load up the bowls Sarah stacked for you. Ellie saves you from having to dislodge the prickly knot in your throat when she snags a bowl and eagerly yells, “get it while it’s hot!”

The arrangements from the stove to the table are a bit of a blur, the slick anxious weight from earlier today curling around your lungs again as you remember shadows in chairs like these, but so different from the flesh-and-blood bodies that occupy them now.

You’re dazed, a little light-headed, but not so much to miss the glance between Joel and Ellie. A junkyard puppy skirting the territory of an older watchdog, a bone in each of their mouths and dragged to opposite corners of the battlefield. Satisfied with the lines of demarcated territory that had been drawn, they call a temporary truce by eating in complete silence, until Sarah groans.

“Oh my god, this is better than it smells!” she hums, her mouth full of potatoes.

“Just wait till she adds chicken,” Ellie grumbles, mouth cupped open to keep from spilling. You watch her, a faint smile on your face, and the slippery feeling fades. When cleaning up, she missed a spot on her left nostril and you fight the urge to clean it with your thumb.

“There’s more.”

Your gaze snaps to Joel hunched over his bowl. The spoon that Ellie and Sarah have to both clutch in their fists to eat barely swings between his massive fingers.

Joel’s dark eyes trace down your nose, your chin, your neck, to where your hands lay flat on the table in front of you. Your own bowl and spoon sit on the counter behind you. You worry you might have upset him, with the way he’s frowning.

“There’s more,” he repeats, same tone.

“I'm sorry?”

He puts his spoon down and clears his throat, then nods to the pot on the stove. Ellie watches him out of the corner of her eye.

“I saw how much you made. If you’re hungry, you should eat.”

As though speaking a language only you could hear, he looks at Ellie the same time you do.

She frowns. “What? Is there something on my face?”

Sarah begins to giggle, nodding, when Joel starts again.

“You should eat. There’s enough.”

It’s like his eyes can see through your blue veins and clammy skin, to your yellow bones and clawing stomach. You choke on the mudball that’s been hovering in your throat for months and nod.

“Alright.”

You don’t know if you’re actually hungry – you can’t really remember the taste of warm food – or if you’re doing it just to appease him, but something about the heat of the bowl and solid spoon in your hand, it rouses you from this sinking you find yourself in. Your bones feel like jelly.

“How’re the fields, Dad?” Sarah asks with her big eyes, seemingly unaware of the layered exchange between you and her father, or kind enough not to address it.

He responds to her, his voice deep in the cavern of his chest. It’s an easy way he speaks to her, heavy with the seriousness she’s earned to be talked to like an adult, but gentle enough that for all his low grumbling, it comes out as a thick murmur. You find yourself listening to their conversation, their interactions, as soothing as music turned low from a well-tuned radio. Ellie is even roped in when Sarah tells Joel all about the Space Family Robinson and Ellie’s knife. “It’s really cool, Dad,” she says preemptively. “She knows how to use it and she’s really safe.”

“Well, if it’s really cool . . .” he fills his mouth with potatoes, tamping down the ghost of a grin on his lips around the spoon.

Ellie shuffles in her seat, her own hesitant smile glittering in her eyes, and with only minor prompting, she holds no prisoners when gleefully telling Sarah that she’s got the story of finding a mess of wriggling worms out by the back of the barn all wrong.

“Just keep ‘em outta my side of the bed, alright?” You grin at her, spooning another dribble of soup into your mouth. You’ve realized too much, too fast can just as easily twist your stomach so you focus on cradling a digestible amount of food – broth, potato, carrots – in the well of your spoon.

But the landscape beyond the silver lip has stilled. Both girls are happily slurping up the last bits of their meals, throwing quips back and forth, but Joel’s shoulders have locked up again, the bones of his wrists flat, a static alertness that you’re sure would travel all the way down to his ankles if he was standing up right. You aren’t sure if Sarah has picked up on the subtle change in his breathing – from the deep well of his lungs to shortened and shallow – but somehow you have.

You’re staring at him far too long.

Those thick eyebrows pitch down again. Beneath the loose button that pins your dress closed over your chest, you feel a swell of heat and you wish you were like Ellie, capable of making an easy joke – what, is there something on my face? The heat bubbles almost uncomfortably under his weighted gaze.

“I hate bugs,” you blurt out, desperate to give him what he wants, if only you knew. The girls glance at your sudden outburst. “I don’t like worms especially. I don’t mind straw beds, as long as they’re clean – I mean, I–I hope they are, the straw beds, not the worms.”

Another eternal second of being pinned down by Joel’s frown, this one decidedly less hostile, before understanding breaks open the harsh lines of his mouth and around his eyes. His eyes go wide for less than breath, then he drops his gaze to the bowl. His shoulders shift, muscle redistributing weight as he settles his thick forearm closer to the edge of the table.

Oh, that relief of muscle says.

“You’re not sleeping in the barn.” Joel says, head tucked down. At that, Ellie slows her ravenous eating and frowns at him.

“Then where are we sleeping?”

Joel lifts his head, a new, special emotion just for her tugging on his mouth: exasperation. “My room. You two in there and I’m takin’ the couch.”

Shame and embarrassment drip down over your skull, between your ears, like a cold, runny egg.

“No, we couldn’t possibly–,”

He shakes his head, eyes still on the split potato chunk at the bottom of the bowl. His hand flexes briefly and you think of it around the bridle of the horse.

“It’s not up for discussion.”

Beside him, Sarah frowns at him and you’d wonder how many times in her life he’s ever said that to her – if you could think properly over the roaring of blood in your ears.

“Joel,” you say, something syrupy under your tongue molding the words Mr. Miller into a tone you’d use for an old friend. “I can’t ask you to–,”

Hand flexes. The seat of the chair squeaks.

“You’re not askin’, I’m tellin’.” You’re still vastly underprepared for when those eyes - those deep, dark eyes - suddenly snap on you, as if your very presence commands his entire attention. You notice the dirt underneath his nails and around the knot of his wrist on the table. He’s filthy.

Quietly, with the surety of a dog slipping its snout between its paws, he cuts the last chunk of potato in half with the curve of his spoon. “The new mattresses’ll be here next week. We’ll make do ‘till then.”

The slurp of soup between his lips seems to signal the end of the conversation, but you can’t quite mash together your kaleidoscope-spinning impressions of the man across the table from you.

“Thank you . . . Joel.”

He nods, back teeth breaking apart the soft mush of the potato. He swallows and glances back up at you.

“It’s good,” he says, briefly holding his spoon aloft. “You did good.”

His words burst the choking bubble in your chest and warmth drips down your spine, splashing in the cradle of your hips. Hunger rises, but it’s a different kind of hunger. A growl of neglect. One you sometimes wondered if it was even possible for you to ever even feel.

Even while you were married to your husband.

You put your spoon down to keep your hand from shaking. The soup won’t feed this new churning hunger and, frankly, you don’t know what will.

You did good, he praised, parsed out like torn bread tossed across a black lake.

It makes you warm in places food never could.

The immediate next morning, you meet the sun early, eagerly. Eager to wake and rise and become so useful, you are intricately tied to this house; if you are removed, a vital piece of the land, the prairie is torn up along with you. Ellie sleeps softly next to you, curled up in the same position she was in the hotel bed, tucked in so tightly as if to take up the least amount of space possible. She sleeps, unbothered, blissful, and again you fight the urge to brush the hair that covers her sleeping eyes. You settle for tugging the beautiful quilt, with its stunning blue and red and green patches, up to her shoulders.

As you tie your dress up, your suitcase partially open and on the ground, movement from outside in the dawning pink catches your eye. A brisk shadow, those thick shoulders proceeding a taught waist are unmistakable as they move towards the barn. You stand, transfixed for a moment as broad hands slide open the barn doors, you hear a faint creak, and he disappears inside. The capability of those hands; the surety, where every action is deliberate and intentional – it makes something arc up your throat. A warm piercing that bursts through bone and muscle alike. Trembling fingers tug at the wilting lace around the cuffs of your dress, imagination stretching out into the dark morning, inspired by curious and impossible ideas of those hands.

Something – most likely Sarah next door – squeaks the floorboard and those tendrils of thought snap back as if someone had slammed a lid shut. You glance at the clock and make a mental note to wake up earlier tomorrow, to beat him to the kitchen.

You are also desperately eager to get out of the room where you can practically smell Joel on the walls. It’s simple, just like the rest of the house, but amongst the hand-drawn sketches of himself and birds (likely gifts from Sarah), the half-spent candles and well-read books, you find him in everything. You wonder, briefly, if the indentations made on the cotton mattress are from him or you – the scent of his hair in the pillow from sweat or soap.

The encroaching feeling that you don’t belong here in this house nearly swallows you whole as you dress in a room you definitely don’t belong in.

Joel remains a distant figure, a familiar shadow across the lightning horizon, long after you finish the eggs and toast. You consider perusing the pantry for blueberries or something similar, when Sarah comes down. Fresh-faced, dressed with the care most people reserve for church, she stumbles in, her braces clacking as she finds a seat at the table.

You notice a brief flash of pain across her face when you bring over a plate of food. She unconsciously rubs a circle with her thumb on her left knee as she picks up her fork.

“Pain today?” You ask, eyes on her knee, even though it’s obvious.

She nods, strained. “Just a little bit. But it’s nothing. I’m sure it’ll go away when it warms up outside.”

You doubt that is remotely true, but you let her hold the comforting lie. She doesn’t seem like the type to swallow pity with ease, and neither was Anna. You put on that detached but focused "nurse's" mask, your lips a straight line and brow furrowed, your voice slipping on something more commanding too.

“Let me see.”

Sarah blinks at you briefly, evidently surprised by your shift in demeanor but eventually, she obeys. She drops her fork and slides the chair back, the chair legs squeaking against the rough wooden floor.

You crouch in front of her, gathering up her ankle first and testing its mobility.

“When were you diagnosed?” you ask, as soft as you are firm.

“Never, technically.” She watches you and occasionally winces. You wonder how long she’s grown stiff like this. “The doc had left over braces that Dad bought before the guy skipped town.”

“So then how did you know it was polio?”

By her sudden stillness, you know this is the first time that word has been uttered under this roof in a long time. You lower her ankle, rising gaze meeting hers. Her mouth is pulled tight. You can practically read the familiar headlines as they scroll across her mind.

New Polio Cases by the Thousands

Polio Claims Life of Infant

Polio Outbreak: Thirteen Dead

“Not every case is serious,” you say, gently, using the word serious in place of fatal. You don’t want to scare her unnecessarily. But by her wide eyes, you know the word sits in her chest all the same.

“I know. And I know it can be made worse by moving too much. That’s why Dad’s always on me about resting and going slow.”

You return to your examination. Her skin is rubbed raw in some places by the braces. You remind yourself to ask Joel for some old sheets to make better padding.

“That’s not always true,” you say, shifting to her other leg. “Even though she was sore after, Anna often said she felt the stiffness go away after walking around the neighborhood block.”

Curious, Sarah tilts her head, those lovely curls swaying like leaves in a breeze. “Who’s Anna?”

Your skin around your eyes tightens – how could you be so careless with such a secret – when you hear feet thundering down the stairs and a second later, Ellie swings around the lip of the doorway.

“Is that toast?” She asks, eyes wide and hopeful. “If you got bacon, I’m gonna start kissing faces.”

You and Sarah exchange a small grin before you stand up right and Sarah returns to her own meal.

“No bacon today, but who knows what else is stored in the pantry?”

“Oh, fuck yeah,” Ellie exclaims as she slides into a chair, her own plate pilled far too for a girl her size. “Treasure hunt.”

You see the tips of Sarah’s ears go briefly pink at Ellie’s language but the muffled smile on her face hints at awe, impressed – so you let that one slide. A stream of light through the half-shut curtain tugs your thoughts outside, to the man literally toiling in the fields.

“Does your dad want me to bring him some food?” You ask, standing from the chair and glancing out the window. You can’t see him any more and for some reason that makes your chest go tight.

Sarah shook her bouncy curls. “No. He’ll come in and get it when he’s hungry.”

You didn’t like the idea that you weren’t going to be directly feeding the man who employed you literally to cook for him and his daughter.

“Does he like coffee?”

Sarah arches an eyebrow at you. “Yeah, he loves it. But I’ve tried for years to make it the way he likes and he always drinks it, but I think a little piece of him dies inside every time he does.”

“Then you must be a great cook too,” Ellie smirks up at her. In response, Sarah smiles impishly around a mouthful of eggs.

You hold that little bit of information about Joel - something you knew that he didn’t know you knew - close, like a dollar bill in your pocket. You drum your fingers, searching for memories of how Anna used to shoe-string coffee when you couldn’t afford a maker in Boston.

“Did you eat?”

Ellie’s voice tears your gaze from the window. Her plate is only halfway empty. Her fingers uneasily move the fork around.

“Yeah,” you answer truthfully. In fact, you are rather ashamed by how much you took, sitting at the table in the purple dark, before you remembered that you had to feed three other people. “I’m good, Ellie. Thanks.”

She nods, returning to her plate and shoveling two bites into her mouth without slowing down.

“What’s first today?” Sarah asks, her eyes bright. “I can show you my sums. We have a chalkboard in the barn.”

You smile at her eagerness to show off while Ellie dejectedly pokes at her remaining floppy eggs. She had never been one for school, another thing you found hard to relate to about her. Fortunately for her, Anna nor you ever had the time to be as diligent about her education as Joel had been for Sarah. And unfortunately for her, you intend to fix that as quickly as possible.

“I’d love to see them, Sarah, but would you mind showing me around the cellar first? Maybe there is bacon hiding down there somewhere.”

You don’t miss the small smile that creeps across Ellie’s face.

“Junk or keep?”

Sarah looks up from the tip of her stick dragging nonsense through the barn’s dirt floor, her chin flat in her palm, elbow on her knee. She frowns at Ellie holding up . . . something that might have been a tractor part at one time.

“I don’t even know what that is, so – junk?”

Ellie shrugs, tosses the piece back and forth in her hands, and then chucks it like a ball to the opposite end of the barn. It collides loudly with the wall and Flora, the white and black cow, lifts her head at the noise from her stable and lets out a low groan.

The entire barn smells of hay and animal but in a way that is warm, almost comforting. The two cows lazily munch from their troughs in their stalls, occasionally eyeing you as you carry items back and forth. It’s fortifying in a way only working outside and with your hands can offer.

You turn to her disapprovingly but she’s already back, elbow-deep, in the pile you had designated hers to sort. Sarah, to whom you suggested rest this morning, goes back to boredly drawing circles in the dirt. Even though she clearly hates the idea of being idle, you are surprised she takes your medical advice without any fight.

If you had successfully completed your duties as cook, now it was time to take on your other task as teacher. Sarah had a few textbooks, but mostly outdated and only one copy. You know trying to find a full library in times like these is laughably impossible, but there is nothing wrong with hoping for a blackboard. You’d made one before when the school district you tempted at didn’t approve new funding, and you feel confident you could do it again. Trouble is, you have nowhere to put it, much less set up a laughably impossible classroom for two students.

Until Sarah casually mentioned the unfortunate pile of junk in the back of her father’s barn, “taking up at least half the space in there.”

She wasn’t wrong.

“Yuck – is your dad a hoarder?” Ellie asks with slight disgust as she pulls up a stack of newspapers held together by twine. “Why does he even have this stuff?”

Sarah grins, delighted by Ellie’s prickly teasing. “This place actually used to be pretty organized. This was his space for a long time – where he went to think, or figured out what crops we needed for the next year.”

Her smile crumbles. “But, uh, then I got sick and now he doesn’t come out here unless it's for work.”

Ellie pinches the soft of her cheek with her teeth, nodding, her eyes downcast.

“So . . . junk?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

The stack of newspapers comes up to her knees and Ellie struggles, off-balanced, to carry it across the hay-covered floor.

You reach for it and she gives it to you gratefully. You take it with a smile; you never know what she’s going to appreciate or just see it regretfully as charity or pity.

“I think your dad is losing it,” Ellie says as she wipes sweat from her brow, shaking her head far too seriously. “Losin’ it, big time.”

Sarah giggles.

You drop the stack of papers in the corner, but when you let go, the string snaps and the papers spill everywhere. With a sigh, you kneel down and gather them back together, but not before a few headlines catch your eye.

Your heart twists.

Paralysis Takes Three Children

Join the Mothers’ March on Polio

QUARANTINE: POLIOMYELITIS

Why would Joel keep these? Everyone knew how devastating polio could be to children, even infants. Why would he –

Roughly dispersed throughout the article, sentences and phrases were underlined in blue pen. Sentences containing, “iron lung”, “bedrest”, “antibiotic” –

No cure.

Warmth spread out across your chest. Joel was looking for a way to treat his daughter, the only way he could in a town without a doctor: outside information. Something about this makes the space beneath your chest bone hurt so badly, you get a little nauseous.

Now you consider conserving these papers as if they are important historical documents. Behind you, where Ellie and Sarah are lobbying jokes back and forth, you see more stacks of neatly contained newspapers. He looked everywhere and found nothing.

You reshuffle the stack that fell, when you spot something else that hardens the warm feeling in your chest and makes it brittle.

Mob Over Breadline Kills FIVE

Experts Say There is No Way Out of This Depression

Mother of Drowned Children Claims She Did “What Was Best”

The rough floor hurts your knees. Eyes closed, you try to ignore the flood of images of what you witnessed in Boston, how desperate and cruel people became in Oklahoma. With each memory, your heartbeat pounds harder.

Red. Blood. Pink. Skin. White. Bone.

The riots got to be so terrible, but people were just hungry.

Ellie calling your name jerks you out of the sinking muck of memories.

“What? What is it?”

She eyes you with distant concern then glances at Sarah. “She wanted to know where you learned all this stuff.”

“About cooking, and teaching, and nursing,” Sarah clarifies. “I think I’ve read every book in our house probably four times and I still feel like I don’t know anything.”

“You probably know more than you think,” you offer as you scoop up the uncomfortable newspapers, easily switching tracks of thought to mute the swell of horrors from the rotting box in your mind. You leave them in the corner for Joel to do what he wishes with them and stand, dusting your dress off. “What do you call the process by which plants get energy from the sun?”

Sarah’s eyes brighten immediately. Where her body fails her, her mind is as sharp as a tack.

“Photosynthesis!”

“Good,” you nod, smiling. “And what’s the primary source of energy in animal cells?”

“The mitochondria!”

“Very good.”

Ellie sighs angrily from her pile and puts her hands on her hips. “I think I’m gonna make like mitosis and split, if we keep talking about all this boring stuff.”

Scorned for her love of learning a second time and already in a bad mood from the pain this morning, Sarah frowns.

“What’s your problem? Why do you act like school sucks? You had your mom teaching you –,”

“She’s not my mom!” Ellie snaps back, her knuckles white around a rusted bucket. “She’s just my aunt!”

“Yeah, well, I have an uncle I never even get to see!” Sarah stands up as smoothly as she can, but her knees and ankles are pink again. Her calves shake. “You’re lucky!”

Ellie’s teeth clench in the back of her jaw, lip curling.

You remember distinctly more than once having to pick Ellie up from school early because she’d been caught fighting and you take a step in her direction, even if Sarah could no doubt land a few solid ones in.

“And you’re–,”

“Ellie.” You know how rough Ellie can be. You remember the tone to take with unruly students, even if you don’t mean an ounce of it. “Don’t. Just let it g–,”

“Why do you always take her side?” That ire whips around to you. Loyalty, that was another trait her mother favored. Ellie’s shoulders roll forward, her fists clenched. “Why do you let her talk like she knows anything about us? About Mom?”

“I’m not taking a side, Ellie,” you say firmly, your chin tilted down to her. One day she’s going to be taller than you, you know it. “Both of you, this is enough.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Ellie tosses the broken bucket in her hand to the ground and storms towards the barn doors.

“You just like her because she’s a fucking dork like you,” she growls under her breath before shoving open the large square door.

It swings shut, the metal clattering against the wood. The brief stream of light filtering in is shortly swallowed up into the shadows again.

“I’m sorry,” Sarah says almost immediately, her brown eyes swiveling on you. Her skin is tinged a little lighter and there’s sweat along her hairline. With a fleeting flash of worry, you wonder if she’s in more pain than she lets on. “I didn’t mean it . . . I mean, I think she is lucky to have – but . . . I shouldn’t have said that.”

She drops your gaze and you think those dark eyes might be softer, wetter than usual. She plucks at the hem of her dress, her mouth twisted to the side.

Where Ellie explodes outwards, Sarah implodes inwards. You never could understand Ellie’s inclination to destroy everything around her.

You hand her a broom, with a smile on your face.

“Do you want to tell me about your uncle?”

She takes it slowly from you, eyebrows furrowed down. This is a look you are familiar with, even when it comes to Ellie. She is stuck between answering like a kid, getting it all off her chest to be free of the emotional burden, and swallowing it all to please the adults in her life.

You’ve also found Ellie tends to open up when she doesn’t have to look you in the eye. Sarah’s own gaze is stuck to the floor as she vaguely sweeps at the hay.

“We don’t talk about Uncle Tommy a lot,” she mumbles.

You focus on untangling an old bridle. “Oh? Why?”

“Dad’s still pissed at him for moving out to California. Said he left what’s really important for a bullshit dream.” Her eyes pop up, wide and shocked. “Sorry, that’s what he said.”

Despite your limited time with him, you can easily see how Joel Miller might take something like that personally, but you just store that away too, another breadcrumb leading the way.

“Why California?”

“It’s–,”

The barn door opens again and Joel’s shadow breaks through the almost painful white light. Behind him, Everett (the horse) snorts and huffs, pulling along the giant creaking plow, the air suddenly pungent with the smell of warm dirt, leather, and animal sweat. Joel murmurs something to the frothing snout and wipes his own forehead with the back of his arm, smearing sweat and dirt across his browline. He stops when he sees you two staring.

By Sarah’s wide eyes, it’s clear Uncle Tommy is a subject that is not often brought up in this house either. Joel frowns, but just as he opens his mouth, you interject – you know how to deflate a potentially angry man.

“We were just cleaning up the back of the barn,” you say, careful not to use words like junk or scrap heap. “I’m hoping to use the space as a school, for Sarah and Ellie.”

His gaze settles on you, like the dust at his feet.

“Mhmm.” His tone scrapes something low in your stomach.

“I’m sorry – I should have asked – I didn’t think –,”

“No, it’s –,” he shakes his head. His eyes catch Everett’s foamy nose and he pats it, noting the long sweaty forelock. “Smart. Next spring, we’ll come up with something better, but there’s no time now, with the harvest comin’.”

You nod, peeling off what you were going to say from the back of your teeth with your tongue. Joel casually drags his fingers through Everett’s forelock before stepping back to unhook the plow’s leather buckles. It’s when he shifts towards Sarah, looking to her, that he grimaces.

He put his weight on his right knee and it immediately caused him pain.

“We could help,” you offer, eyes on his knee, his thick fingers rubbing into the muscle just above his knee cap. "Ellie loves being out in the sun and I can teach her how to plant–,”

“‘M fine,” he mutters gruffly, straightening up and wiping his hands on the cloth around his neck. “Sarah, go inside for a bit. There’s something she n’ I gotta discuss.”

His tone indicates this is not the time for eye rolling but she does it anyway.

“I’ve said for years that you need help, Dad. She’s just offering to–,”

“Sarah, inside. Please.”

Sarah scowls and drops the broom against one of the stalls. She hobbles out of the barn, first scrunching her nose up at Joel’s obvious smell, then muttering something about having to go look for the hell spawn. You finger the scrap metal in your hands, a fluttery nervousness growing in your stomach the closer Sarah gets to the door. With one more disapproving shake of her thick curls, she shuts the door behind her.

Everett nickers and paws the ground, eager to be returned to bed after a long morning of work. Light streams in gold from the slanted windows above the loft, separating the front stalls from the back of the barn where you stand, fidgeting. There’s no escaping the hot animal smell now, and it’s your turn to be intercepted by Joel.

Another apology is nearly out of your mouth when he speaks first.

“Do you know how to shoot a gun?” He asks, his mouth set into a firm line. In the half-darkness of the barn, you can’t quite make out his eyes.

You swallow against the encroaching dryness in your throat. “I-I have a gun. Keep it in my purse, o-only for emergencies and I–,”

“That’s not what I asked.” He shakes his head, tone soft, almost gentle. He glances past you to the stacks of newspapers you had moved into the corner, the ones about violence and pestilence. He rubs his fingers between the bridle and Everett’s thick hair. “Found a hole in the barbed wire fence today.”

You frown, the tension of his voice indicating a severity you are utterly unprepared for. “What does that mean?”

“Someone tried to cut through.”

A white hot panic lurches up your spine out of nowhere. Fueled by fear, you see the outline of your husband shambling across the propertyline and you go cold.

“W-why would someone do that? What are they after?”

His hand stills as every muscle in his body briefly tenses. Eyes dark beneath a tight brow, the tightness in his jaw is an answer and a threat all at once. He looks almost offended by your question.

You know exactly what they would take.

All you can do is nod.

Everett nudges Joel’s shoulder, impatient to get out of the harness, for that bath he so very much deserves. As though you had disappeared, Joel unbuckles the restraints, taking a brush to the gray coat as he goes. Maybe you’d misread that last signal and he thought he told you to fuck off.

You move towards the back door when his voice, timbre deep and low, stops you again.

“I’m gonna to teach you to shoot.” He announces to the lathered withers of the horse. “But you keep that gun on you, at all times, especially when you’re out with the girls. You got that?”

He pauses just as he slides the hitch off the horse's back, his arms covered in dirt as dark as the leather. It’s minute, the shift in his weight, but you suddenly realize he wants verbal confirmation.

“Y-yes. Yes. I’ll take it with me.”

The minutia shifts again, a lessening of tension across his broad shoulder, his thick back. He nods.

“Good.”

The aching need for him to say more, for that good to turn into you did good or good job – or good girl – it sparks so fast and hot inside of you, you think you’ll choke. Instead, you leave through the door on unsteady legs, jaw locked tightly shut.

You find comfort in the monotony of sewing.

Anna always scolded you for it, that you were “giving into women’s work.”

How are they ever going to take us seriously when you actually like doing this dainty shit?

But where Anna seemingly delighted in her mile-a-minute thoughts, you need an outlet – some way to settle, to ground yourself in the here and now. Furthermore, you could sew anywhere – on the train, on the bus, in a foreign house in the middle of nowhere where you were, again, dependent on the kindness of a complete stranger –

It isn’t sewing specifically that you enjoy. If there was another activity where your mind could detach itself from your body, you would have liked it too. Here, in this space of blank concentration, you separate further from yourself with every stitch you pull together. Here, you are not a sister, a housewife, or an aunt. Not a nurse or a teacher or a failed fieldhand.

Not scared of living or scared of your husband or scared that you’ll fail your sister over and over and over again –

For a handful of minutes, you are not scared and you are the closest thing to yourself you can possibly be. You think, as a child that might have been the closest you’d actually been to understanding your own wants and dreams and desires, but now it is through this act of repetition, of delicate guiding, do you find yourself remembering what it was like to exist unafraid, as thoughtless as a child.

You sit on the edge of Joel’s bed, eased into something vaguely like relaxation by the needle and thread in your hand. You’d found some old pillows in the barn earlier today and surprisingly the stuffing was still intact. After watching Sarah struggle today, you knew you couldn’t spend another second watching the poor girl hobble around on painful braces.

It’s twilight, the sun gone beneath a blanket of scarlet and indigo, everyone fed and full – the girls almost instantly forgetting their first fight in favor of a discussion about their most effective marble-flicking techniques – and you already have at least one leather-bound pad that is twice as thick as her old one. You grin, excited to share your creation to her. You wonder what Joel will say.

Through the wall over your shoulder, in Sarah’s room, you can hear the low murmur of their voices, as quick and fast as two co-conspirators. You can’t quite make out what they’re saying, but the words don’t matter. It is the high joy in Sarah’s voice, or the creaky laughter from Joel. They could be speaking in a completely incomprehensible language but the sentiment is unmistakable: you make me happy and I love you.

I love you.

The needle and thread stills in your lap.

You glance out the window, to a much smaller shadow in front of the barn as it cuts and darts in the blurry half-light. The silver tip of Anna’s knife winks in the glint of the light from the windows as Ellie slashes and digs in the open air. Alone.

In the late hours, in the hours when the veil between life and death felt so especially fragile, Anna made you promise that you'd look out for Ellie, to raise her as your own. To finally give her a childhood like the two of you never had.

You had done that. You raised her. She’s alive and healthy and fierce.

But would she find your sentiment about her unmistakable? Do you know hers as intimately as you knew your sister’s?

Do you make her happy when both of you are constantly reminded of the ghost between you?

Sarah’s chatter echoes throughout the dark house, disembodied and entirely untethered.

It’s one week into this new, adjusted life in a house you haven’t yet found a home in when the unthinkable happens.

A loud, wet cry startles you awake and immediately your hand flies towards Ellie, panic like ice in your jaw. Your palm touches her shoulder, but she’s already sitting up, eyes towards the door. She glances at you and from your stumble out of a dreamless sleep, you realize it wasn’t Ellie who made that noise.

It comes again, as sharp as a bone crack, and you both scramble out of bed.

Sarah.

Up against the far wall, in the corner where her bed tucks up into the corner, Joel holds her like a lion clutches to prey.

Giant, fat teardrops pour down the sides of her ashen cheeks, those bright eyes clamped shut, her mouth twisted in agony and she claws at her father’s forearm across her shoulders. His other hand is going white from her fingers crushing his in a bone-cracking grip. His voice is soft, firm, and fast in her ear, comforting and scared as hell, as she whimpers.

Every muscle from her thighs down is stretched taut. Every muscle unwillingly tightened, flexed, the chemicals in her brain battling the commands of the bacteria. The pain, as described in medical journals, is crippling.

Ellie glances at you out of the corner of your eye. Muscle spasms.

“Sarah, darling, how long has this been going on?” She’s trembling from the pain and exhaustion. You wrap your robe around you before kneeling down to inspect her — and you feel Joel’s glare nearly singe the skin from your face.

“Don’t touch her,” he snarls and pulls her closer. Sarah whines and buries her face in his shoulder, trying to stifle her sobbing to keep from shaking and causing more spasms. “She’s–,”

“I can help her, Joel.” Your training became a bulwark – strong, immobile – in moments like these. Maybe it was all an act but that first rush of hope that you could ease pain, soothe what hurts, made you feel like you were made of gold. You let that unbreakable shine pierce Joel’s gaze. “But you need to listen to me.”

Sarah squeaks and you watch his resolve instantly break. Shakely, he nods.

“Ellie,” you instruct over your shoulder. “Go start boiling water. There’s a pail out on the porch.”

She is out the door before you finish your sentence. She knows exactly what you need.

Help on the way, you turn back to Sarah, her feet twisted in grotesque contortions.

“How long has this been going on?”

“About ten minutes,” Joel grumbles. She squeezes his hand so hard you hear his knuckle pop. She sobs, open mouth, and he presses his cheek to her. He murmurs softly, “I’m sorry, I know, I’m sorry.”

“Is this the longest fit she’s had?”

Joel reluctantly nods.

“Sarah,” you say and gently touch her knee. She peels her eyes open, cheeks stained with tears, eyes wet with fear. “We need to loosen your muscles, okay? That’s what’s causing you pain right now. So, we’re going to use heat and pressure to do that.”

She nods, gaze solidifying with your every word, every word a new step out of the path of pain. Joel smooths her curls off her sweaty forehead, his own wide-eyed stare never leaving your face. You roll up your sleeves and curl up your hair off the back of your neck just as Ellie stumbles back into the room. She’s got at least five towels around her neck, and she’s red-faced and straining from keeping the pail of boiling water from spilling or burning her. She eases it down next to you and hands you a towel. Both of you each take a side and immediately tear the one in half.

Before you wore gloves, some sort of protection, but now there is no time. You hear Ellie inhale sharply, recognizing what you’re about to do a second before you do it.

You dip the towel into the steaming water, let it soak, and pull it out. You grit your teeth against the immediate burn on your palms, the trail of fire over your knuckles and wrists, as you squeeze out the dripping water, Sarah’s soft cries in your ears enough to push past your own pain.

Half-way between an inhale and an exhale, you think you hear your name.

Ellie already has another dry towel loose around one of Sarah’s legs. She glances at you, her brows knitted together.

Ready? She asks without words.

You drape the hot towel around her leg and Sarah yelps. She thrashes in her father’s arms as you wrap the towel tighter and tighter. Expecting Joel’s inevitable bark, a hard shove against your shoulder, get away from my daughter – but it never comes.

As soon as you tighten the towel as firmly as it can safely go, Ellie slides in next to you and begins to massage the muscles in her calves, her feet, her toes.

Sarah whimpers again, but the sound isn’t as sharp, pain-choked. Joel holds her tighter, as if her torso is also knotted and could be relieved with warmth.

On an inhale, you pick up the other half of the towel, drench it in boiling water, and wring it out with your bare hands. A silent prayer for lotion is fleeting as it drifts through the dense focus of your mind. You squeeze out the dripping water and wrap Sarah’s other leg, prepped again by Ellie. She watches you as you tug and tuck the steaming towel, her own focus as sharp as a tack, mirroring your motions as you knead and massage the muscles.

After a few minutes of faint whining, a couple of sobs, the room slips into an exhausted silence. Her breathing slow on his chest, Joel draws back her damp curls and finds her face relaxed, asleep. His mouth parts and the skin around his eyes goes slack.

Relief.

With a shudder, Joel knocks his forehead against hers, his thumb on her chin as if to feel her breathing. You look away, the moment so tender it shouldn’t be witnessed.

You realize then how badly your palms ache.

The towels have lost their immediate heat, so you unwind them. Ellie’s small hands overlap yours as she helps. For some reason, you can’t bring yourself to look her in the eyes. The both of you fall back into roles most comfortable to you.

The wet towels gone, you wrap her legs more tightly this time, slightly past the edge of comfort. You ease her back, flat into the bed, and some small part of you is aware Joel is letting you guide her. He slips out from behind her when you tuck her in, tight with another blanket around her legs. She could be exhausted for days after this.

“We’ll need to keep heat on her legs every thirty minutes, fifteen if we can manage,” you say as you fold up the damp towels. Joel hasn’t moved. Stares down at Sarah’s small body. “I’d like to keep a warming pan here, to have hot water on hand if she wakes up in pain again. When she comes out of it, she needs water and food. Have her eat it slowly, small bites at first.”

You remember a doctor at the hospital where you trained as a nurse give advice to a newer doctor: medical mysteries and illnesses are one thing. Nervous parents are something else.

You call his name and he doesn’t move.

You step forward, touch his forearm, and he blinks at you. He feels so remarkably solid.

“Joel. She’s safe.”

“Do you want me to go get more towels?” Ellie’s gathered the damp towels off the floor, her chest wet. She stares at Sarah’s bed frame.

“Get breakfast first. Then I might need your help later.” She nods, turns to go, but hesitates. Her mouth is pinched tight, eyes wide, looking for something to ground her, to calm the vortex that the adrenaline in her veins widens with each beat of her heart. She looks so . . . childlike.

She looks so much like Anna.

The momentary fortified strength shatters and you're afraid again. What do you say to comfort her? What would Anna say? Good job, I'm proud of you, thank you -

But then she turns away, carrying the dripping towels, and you lose your chance to parent.

Joel has curled himself into the rocking chair by her bed, so close his knee touches her mattress. He holds her thin hand in the cup of his two massive palms. His heel taps loosely, quietly against her rug, every possible outcome of this morning striking him in the chest with each drop of his foot. His face is a blurred, dark shadow, hanging between his shoulders.

To describe Joel in this moment, nervous seems quaint.

In silence, you gather up the tepid pale of water and exit the room, closing the door after you.

The rest of the day passes in haze, tendrils of sleep still between the cracks in your brain left there by the harsh break into consciousness.

You have Ellie feed the animals, and you start a load of laundry. The ratio of dry towels to wet is rapidly becoming unbalanced and you know after the initial attack is over, pressure is more important than heat. Sarah has barely moved all day but she is responsive and drinks water when she comes out of her deep sleep. You’ve made soup again – a heavy meal that doesn’t require much managing and can be easily re-served – and it gives you time to think. Sarah mentioned the doctor skipping town, that he had all but dropped everything and ran. You wondered what else might be in the doctor’s old shop. Morphine seemed too valuable to have been ignored in any ransacking, but often doctors kept a secret supply, unbeknownst to even most nurses for special cases or when supply was low. You think about that and stir the pot as the sun crawls across the sky.

With your head bent over the pot, something moves in the field outside and you watch with surprise as Ellie leads one of the cows, Fauna, out of the barn. Through the rippled glass, you watch her talking to the cow, her face scrunched up in concentration, and shockingly, Fauna appears interested, her big ears flicking back and forth. But Ellie leads her only a little bit from the barn, in the grass but visible from the house. She drops to her knees and takes out a wooden stake and a hammer — nevermind where she found those – and then ties Fauna’s lead rope to top of the stake sticking out of the ground.

Ellie wags her finger, her back to the window, her stance very serious. You smile to yourself and to Anna as she marches back inside and shortly returns with Flora, the other cow, to do the same. She gives them both a stern talking to, as evident by her hands on her hips, before turning back to the house. You glance down, knowing she wouldn’t appreciate it if you saw her babysitting the cows. It was what Joel did every morning – let the cows out to graze – but she did it in her own Ellie way: on a smaller scale and perhaps with a little more gentleness.

See, Anna, she’s all grown up.

By nightfall, both of you are exhausted. You don’t know how Joel manages to run this place by himself, especially with a sick child, but after one day, you’re ready to curl up into bed and never leave. Ellie looks like she’s about to face-plant into her soup, her eyes half-shut. You smile, stretching, before gently shaking her shoulder.

“Go to bed, Ellie. You’re exhausted.”

She blinks harshly, indignant and scowly, as you take both your bowls to the sink. “‘M fine. Just a lil’ –,” she yawns deeply, “sleepy.”

“You’re right. My mistake.”

“Besides, we got coffee coming, don’t we?”

On the counter, your make-shift coffee press gurgles, the cap steaming from the bubbling water over the grounds you found in the cellar. You eye her over your shoulder.

“You don’t even like coffee.”

“Yeah but you’re staying up, right? You and Joel?”

Neither of you had seen Joel leave Sarah’s room all day. Ellie eyes the ceiling as if she can see right through it.

“I’m taking him some food and a cup of coffee,” you say as you finish drying the plates. There’s a rigidness to your hands as you delicately lay the plates flat, unconsciously careful to keep them from making a sound as they touch. “But at St. Joseph’s, some of the nurses would offer to keep vigil, to give the parents a chance to rest.”

You know in your heart he won’t take it. You just hope he finds your coffee inoffensive.

But Ellie doesn’t respond. She sits still, staring at the ceiling.

“Ellie, she’s going to be okay.”

Those bright eyes fall on you. “You can’t know that.”

In your hands, you wind the damp towel between your fingers. They’re pink and still ache but the rough linen is a welcome distraction from the churning acid in your stomach.

“This isn’t going to be like last time,” you say, your hips against the counter. “Sarah’s infection is nowhere near her lungs. And she’s been responding to treatment.”

Ellie drops her gaze, her bottom lip curled between her teeth.

“Don’t say that unless you mean it. Unless you can swear to me.”

One of life’s simple truths: parents lie.

You recognize there is a part of her that wants you to look her in the eyes and lie. She’d be angry, eventually, if your lies were exposed, but in that moment, as she sits in an unfamiliar house, at an unfamiliar table, with you and this wretched ailment the only things she knows to be constant – she wants a comfort you can’t give her. You are not capable of parental truth.

“I can’t promise anything.”

She inhales, breathes shaky, and exhales, the spoon in her hand trembling. “I know.”

Hands full of a white, chipped food tray, you knock twice carefully with one hand like you had been trained to before opening the door. The lamplight has been turned on, but the room, blanketed in darkness and shadows, looks the same. Sarah sleeps deeply, if not well, her hand curled by her face against the pillow, her heavy storm of curls cradling her head gently. Joel watches her, as still and silent as the moon. His foot has settled, but now he breathes so slow he might not be breathing at all.

Of all the terrible things you had seen during your time as a nurse, witnessing someone like this is always the hardest. Feeling helpless is a sentiment you are all too familiar with and the thought of someone just sitting there and watching you with your grief makes your skin itch.

“Joel.” A formality, because those trapped in a cyclone of worry require a slow approach, easing a startled animal. “I brought you something to eat.”

Speaking, it lets him acclimate to your voice.

You set the white tray on Sarah’s dresser, a piece of furniture meticulously crafted. Like Joel’s room, there are books everywhere, but more animal drawings, some directly on the walls. Sarah’s brilliant personality expanded here, in the blues and pinks, not capable of being contained in a single body.

A body that seems so small and fragile in that little brass bed, while her father looms impossibly large.

“Joel.” Again, soft, but this time you put a hand on his bicep. Never near the neck, an older nurse warned you, that area is sensitive. His denim shirt is soft beneath your fingers, nearly bleached white from the sun and worn smooth from dust and dirt and wind. You think you smell churned earth and hot leather in the instant it takes you to kneel down beside him, your grip sliding from his shoulder to his forearm. With the other hand, you tip a steaming cup into his open palm.

“Sarah told me you liked coffee.”

Slowly, as though he had blinked and reality disintegrated and reformed around him, Joel’s gaze slides from Sarah’s waxy face, to yours, and then the hand on his forearm. The back of your scalp prickles, the bulwark of courtesy shaking, before you remember you’d done this hundreds of times, to people of all ages, men and women. He seems to understand this – a professional gesture – and he takes the mug from you. With an almost perplexed expression, he stares into the nearly black liquid, his jaw tight.

And then he drinks, without saying a word.

You think you might have heard a low rumble from him, a pleased groan as heavy as the plow in the barn outside, but the floorboards creak when you stand up, so you might have been imagining things.

“This tastes good,” he says bluntly, voice weather-beaten. You smile into the bowl of soup as you wave a hand over the steam to cool it down to something bearable. “How?”

Despite his monosyllabic responses, you take this as a good sign. Something tells you that you’ve made exceptional progress by getting him to talk at all.

“I got pretty good at making cowboy coffee, as my sister used to call it, before we moved to Oklahoma. You already had the beans in the cellar,” you say, shrugging as you bring the soup over to him. He eyes it warily, as if this is not the appropriate time to eat, as if his own suffering would make Sarah’s lessen.

You’d only ever seen that instinct in a handful of parents while in the hospital and it made something wide and warm press up against your chest bone.

So you don’t give him a choice. You push the soup into his hands with enough speed that he has to take the bowl or drop it entirely. He, like most people with common sense, takes the bowl. He has a second to frown at you before you turn away to Sarah.

“And I suspect they were hidden down there on purpose?” You ask as you take out another blanket from the basket beside her bed and flutter it over her legs. You remember stories about the women working with Elizabeth Kenny filling quilts with rocks or beans, anything with weight, and putting them over the affected limbs of polio patients. The compress soothed the ache.

Sarah snores gently in her sleep as her father behind you laughs, a soft rush of air from his nose, his mouth preoccupied with a half-grin.

“I try not to hurt her feelings,” he admits quietly. You hear the clatter of metal on porcelain as you fold and refold the blankets to carry more weight. “That girl is a lot of things, but good at making coffee isn’t one of ‘em.” He slurs around the soup in his mouth.

It’s hard to believe she’s only a year older than Ellie. They have both lost things, indescribable things at too-young an age. But where Ellie carries it in the grip of her hand around her knife, Sarah takes it on the chin.

Polio, a disease of freezing agony.

You wonder how much of Sarah’s inner world she keeps to herself.

Like with Ellie, you fight the urge to brush a lovely curl away from her cheek.

“You have a special girl here, Joel.”

You feel his gaze on the back of your neck and you drop your gaze from her pristine face, remembering it’s not your place to look at her like that. Not like how you want to look at her.

Not like how you might want to look at him.

Joel shifts on his feet, leaning forward to put the now empty bowl on the ground.

“I know.” By the strength of his tone, he admits to knowing that you see the bright light about Sarah like he does and so he lets you look. Your heart stutters at this silent transference and you grab blindly for that mask of noble duty.

“How has her breathing been?” You sit down next to her and pick up her wrist, feeling for that steady pulse. You relax slightly when it’s easy to find. The beat of it is a little faster than you would like, but it hasn’t woken her up.

“Good.” A disgruntled groan from the chair as he adjusts behind you. His voice is rich like molasses, dripping warmth down the knots in your spine. “Woke up here n’ there, like you said. Gave her food. Got her water. But she just went right back to sleep.”

“But she ate and drank?”

He nods out of the corner of your eye. You check the mobility of her joints and they seem to be back to their natural looseness. Whether she’ll feel strong enough to walk is another matter entirely, but it’s not good to worry him unnecessarily.

“That’s good, Joel. That’s really good.”

You smile at him and finally, finally, the corners of his eyes soften, his brows pluck up, and he breathes deep. The tension leaves his body the way steam leaves a lake in the hours before dawn, the cup of coffee resting on his thigh. His gaze falls from your face to hers, shrouded in shadow.

“She’s never slept this long after an attack,” he says quietly. “Always restless, pain flaring up. We once stayed up a whole day and night when it got bad.”

He shakes his head, clears his throat a bit as if the words in his mouth leave behind a mucky, sour taste.

“Thank you. For treating her properly.”

For doing what I couldn’t.

It’s true. But no amount of reassuring – I’ve just had training, you did the best you could – would dissipate that repugnant scent of guilt lingering in the air. You are forced to let it linger, unable to say a single damn thing that would mean anything to him.

As he finishes the last dregs of coffee, Joel unwinds his long legs from beneath the seat and his knees crack. Stiff joints after a long day of stillness, but immediately his fingers fly to that same spot he touched in the barn in that afternoon, his mouth tight from the unexpected flash of pain.

Immediately you kneel down, worried at the slight hiss he made, fingers inches from his thigh when he straightens.

“You don’t have to–,” he shifts as if he can pull away from your touch and stay seated. “It’s not that bad –,”

You frown at him. “Can the person here who has had actual medical training determine that?”

Something light flickers over his eyes, so fast it might not have been real, smoothing the lines around his mouth. Joel nods, glancing to the floor.

“Yes, ma’am.”

That single word almost splits your skull in half like lightning.

You are immediately grateful for the heavy shadows in the room. Your palms, smarting all day, are now blistering with heat. Mouth shut tight, you don’t trust whatever sits behind your lips, so you begin your inspection of his muscles. Thumbs down, you feel along the lines that lead down to his knee.

Hard, firm, you notice. Made solid by work and toil. A few of the bricklayers and farmers you’d attended to had muscles like these. Despite the rough denim and how unsettling it is to be this close to him, it’s easy to lose yourself in the methodology of the human body. You’ve learned to read sinew and bone and scar tissue like a map and you come to find that the topography of Joel Miller is mountainous.

“So, mhm, where’d you learn to make coffee?”

You thought the stiffness in his thigh was due to lingering pain, but when you look at him and his guarded expression, chin tilted into his chest, fingers tight around the bottom of the seat, you realize he is uncomfortable. He is made uncomfortable . . . by you. Something sharp pokes through a slot between your ribs and you sit up straighter, trying to make your touch even more clinical if possible. But what he says next, you aren’t sure if it’s genuine or genuinely meant to hurt.

“Your husband?”

You shake your head. “My sister, actually. Ellie’s mom. We’d trade night shifts when she was a baby. One of us would come home from our second job, and the other would leave for their first. Anna said she’d never have survived those first years without coffee.”

You can hear the question he wants to ask buzzing in his head, your thumb rubbing therapeutic circles around the inflamed area. But instead he asks:

“And you . . . you like coffee?”

You shrug. “I don’t think I ever slowed down enough to ever taste it in the first place.”

With Joel Miller, silence means a thousand things. It’s not the way he looks at you, but the way he looks into you.

“Anna always said we’d be fine, that two unmarried women with a baby could make it in the city. But I wasn’t so convinced. There wasn’t much time for something like enjoying the taste of coffee because I was always busy taking every job I could get.”

“Like treating sick kids.” He says it like he just found a piece of you off the ground and added it to a sprawling puzzle. He politely stares over your shoulder.

You swallow, throat tight. “Actually, um, Anna had it - polio - too. I took the job as a nurse to learn how to treat her from home.”

Those heavy eyes swing into you full force and you can feel your stomach roll and collapse against your spine.

“Every case is different, Joel. What I did for Sarah, it wouldn’t have helped someone like Anna.”

“But she died?” A third unwelcome presence.

“Yes. She went fast. There was nothing anyone could do to save her.”

There was nothing you could do to save her.

Your thumbs are starting to ache, but you don’t want to leave just yet. You want to sit and listen to his voice, even if it’s pitched in anger towards you.

But it’s not. His next words come out soft, if not a little bit disbelieving.

“Where did you come from?” Joel asks. “You said the city, Oklahoma. How’d you end up in fuckin’ Dalhart, Texas?”

You use your elbow on the thicker muscle up his thigh and he tries very hard not to wince.

“We grew up in Boston. City girls all our lives. We had big plans of catching the bus line and going all over the country, just the two of us, but then Anna got pregnant and overnight, everything changed.”

He nods, knowingly. You add that to your own Joel Miller mosaic.

“I met the man I’d marry while I worked as a maid in a motel. He was a banker, or so he told me, and he wanted to whisk me away. We were three months behind on our rent, so I told him yes, I'd marry him after knowing him for a week — as long as I got to bring Anna and Ellie with me. All he talked about was money, so I thought he had it. What he did have was enough to get us to Oklahoma, buy some farm equipment for the wheat boom, and then lose it all in a handful of years.”

“And then we lost Anna. We lost my husband. I went back to trying to find a job in town with no jobs.” You pull your hands back, the deep tissue of his thigh flushed with blood from your therapy, and having nothing more to do, little more to say, you drop them into your lap. “Just after we missed the payment for the equipment for the second month, I got a letter from a man claiming to be my long lost Uncle Robert. I hadn’t eaten in three days and Ellie just got tagged by the police for shoplifting. I sent him a letter back and he said if I sent him our last twenty dollars he’d get us set up in Dalhart where he had a successful car dealership. I did and he didn’t and if you hadn’t picked us up, I don’t know what we would have done.”

You sit with the hot truth of it and he sits with the both of you. It’s silent in a way that only a house in the middle of nowhere can be. Sarah stirs in her sleep, her legs rustling the sheets, but doesn’t wake up.

“You don’t have to do that here, you know.” He straightens his legs, just as quietly as the rest of the house. He crosses his arms over his chest and you think about the muscle just under his forearm, thick and immobile as sea-drenched rope. “Not eat . . . for Ellie’s sake. There’s enough for you and her. Always.”

You think of the cellar with its soft dirt, cool air, the endless rows of stored fruits and vegetables and meat, buried like a still-beating heart beneath the dust-whipped house in a paradise on the prairie.

“But I understand the inclination.” With you on the ground before him and Joel leaning forward, elbows on his knees, his broad back arching under the stripe of white moonlight, he looks at you.

Really looks at you.

Like recognizing like.

A passing in a distorted mirror that might be me but it’s not but I think I know you all the same there is a thing just like me out in the world and it sees me.

Slowly, hesitantly, as if he’s afraid you’ll bite, he reaches forward and takes your wrist from your lap. The calluses on his thumb brush roughly against the knot of bone as he twists your palm upward. Pink, too pink, a stinging color, even in the low lamplight. Joel works his jaw back and forth, staring at your palm with weary concern, as if it told him things he didn’t want to know.

His gaze lifts and your fingers curl instinctively in. He’s trying to make you look and you don’t want to. He sees your sacrifice and you don’t want it called that, there’s certain nobility in sacrifice, in a sort of suffering for other people, but it’s not sacrifice if you go willingly and despite you not wanting to look, not wanting to put a name to it, not wanting to take up any space at all, he looks at you like he, a man as broad and wide and powerful as he, is grateful.

For you.

Every bulwark inside of you, every foundation that you had built yourself because you never had the chance to grow hearty roots somewhere permanent, rumbles. Shakes, beneath a single solitary, rolling earthquake. A landslide of earth behind the strength in his eyes.

“For her, for Sarah, I’d do the same,” he says.

For her. For the children in your lives.

Do you even like coffee? All you know is how to make it. What would you do with it if you did? If you liked coffee? If you loved it.

If there was someone outside yourself and Ellie to make you coffee simply because you wanted it. Because you were in a circle of people for whom people would do things for. For her. For you.

The heart of Joel is like coffee: dark but warm.

Your wrist slips between his fingers, finding refuge again in your lap.

“I know.”

You wonder what it would be like to be within Joel’s circle of people for whom he does things. To be given coffee, just because you want it.

You bet it’s warm.

You stand up, collect the empty, used things, and wish him a good night.

A noise and sunlight startles you awake. Your eyes tear open, hand flat on an open pool of sunlight in the center of the mattress, head twisted and knees bent up by your chest. In your sleep, your body twisted itself into a Gordian knot, unable to escape the dreams about the cellar ground turning into coffee beans, and the cramped bloodflow leaves you disoriented until you can roll onto your back and remember where you are. The smells that surround you.

You hear the noise again and you think of Ellie and in that instance where complete consciousness returns to you, the weight of her is gone. Literally.

Ellie is not in the bed beside you.

The room’s brightness is suddenly too bright, the clear, electric blue sky too blue – it’s too beautiful and it lulled you into a sense of comfort. Stupid, so stupid. You ignore the warm floorboards against your bare feet, the faint birdsong from outside, as you rush towards the source of the sound, towards Sarah’s bedroom – oh god, I was wrong it’s too late it took her in the night and I –

The sound you do not recognize, the sound you could not comprehend while buried in dreams and memories, is the sound of laughter. Loud, full laughter.

The brass bed creaks as Ellie uses the mattress to fling herself into the air. On the other end, just as determined to reach the ceiling, is Sarah. Hands outstretched and reaching, her legs bend and flex and propel her up and up. Every time she gets within a handful’s reach of the ceiling, Ellie’s laughing, cheering her on, and then it’s her turn, Sarah giggling as Ellie’s face scrunches up as she reaches out towards the blue sky on the other side of the roof.

“Oh, hey!” Ellie says, pink-faced and causal, half-way out of breath. Sarah spins, mid-way through a jump, her eyes bright, sweat peaking on her brow line. “Sarah bet – I couldn’t touch – the ceiling — so we’re taking turns – loser has to shovel – the barn!”

You watch, dumb-struck, as the bet continues, the girls laughing and criticizing each other and offering techniques as they work in tandem to fling the other one higher. Sarah is flush with vitality, with life, with a dewy glow reserved for spring mornings when the earth stretches awake after the death of winter.

And Ellie . . . she looks her age.

The earth has shifted beneath your feet, while you were sleeping, and a seedling has been planted, the dawn of something new, something fresh and utterly unexpected. You can feel it in your bones. Hear it in their laughter.

“Not a bad thing to wake up to.”

Joel, arms crossed, eyes soft, leans up against the door frame, blue striped pajamas low on his hips, a thread-bare white undershirt cupping his biceps. He eyes you from toe to head and stops when he meets your eyes. You wonder how long he’d been standing there – if he too woke to noises he couldn’t explain, rushed in here, and found something miraculous.

The smile crinkles his eyes as it unfurls across his face.

“I haven’t heard her laugh like that in a while,” he says quietly, head tilted towards the bed, as if there could be any other meaning. “I owe you one.”

You could say the same thing about Ellie.

There’s the line, the boundary of the circle to the place of being warm. He’s not cleared the way for you, not invited you across, but he’s shown it to you. You can see it, feel it, and know what it takes to get there.

Your smile blooms. The girls’ laughter rings throughout the house and into the sunlight.

But, outside of paradise, away from the river and the white a-frame house, from the horse and the cattle and the long strands of prairie grass, where there is not enough to eat and the earth is in its death rattle, the wind blows. It swallows up dust, and dirt, and fine sand, gluttonous. It swirls and pulses, agitated and restless and seeking violence. Spinning with the power to blind with a single whip of dust, it spins up over the earth in its death rattle, where there is not enough to eat, towards the prairie grass. Towards the horse and the cattle. Towards the river and the a-frame.

Towards paradise with the promise of total ruin.

END OF PART I

series masterlist | AO3 Link | prologue | part ii

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you-have-a-metal-arm · 3 months

Text

Don’t You Ever Leave Me, Don’t You Ever Go.

Pairing: Bestfriend!Bucky x Bestfriend!Reader, Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 0.7k (723 words)

Trope: Best friends to lovers, hurt and comfort

Warnings: Toothrotting amount of fluff, nightmares and insecurities, mentions of Steve, and… I think that’s it?

Summary: Bucky wakes up from a nightmare, and you are there to comfort him.

Author’s Note: Please do not copy or translate my work. I appreciate every feedbacks! Thank you for reading!

**gif not mine

“Please… Please leave me alone...”

You heard a soft murmur followed by multiple screams from your room. It was coming from the other side of the hallway, exactly where Bucky’s room was.

‘I thought he was getting better…’

You thought to yourself because your best friend’s night terror hadn’t woken you up for over a week by now. But, oh boy, how wrong you were. As soon as you heard him starting to hyperventilate, you ran to his room.

“Bucky, hey, wake up.”

You shook him to wake him up, but it was no use. He was in deep sleep even though all the monsters were messing with his head.

“Bucky!! Please, I need you to wake up.”

You said with a more demanding tone while shaking him harder than usual. He woke up, sweat dripping down all over his face and his hands frantically shaking as he tried to touch you with his hands.

“Another nightmare, huh?”  You asked him with a gentle tone, hoping it wouldn’t startle him.

He just nodded in reply and looked away from your face. He was too scared to look at you and see the hurt in your eyes from seeing him so messed up. But you took Bucky’s face with two tiny hands and gently tugged him to look at you.

“Buckaroo, what’s wrong?”

You asked, knowing he wouldn’t open up.

“Nothing”

He replied, as you expected.

“We promised Bucky, remember? We promised each other that we’d tell each other whatever was happening in our heads. And I promise you I will never judge or leave you for anything. I promise.”

You whispered, keeping eye contact, hoping he could feel your honesty. He just nodded and smiled to assure you he was okay. But you could see it from his eyes that he wasn’t. After all, you two have been each other’s soulmates for the past three years. So you quietly hugged Bucky’s torso, and to your surprise, Bucky gently laid his head on your chest, feeling your embrace with every nerve of his body.

“You aren’t going to leave me, are you?”

He whispered so quietly yet rapidly that you almost couldn’t hear it.

“What do you mean?”

You asked in confusion.

“You’re not going to leave me… Right?”

“Why would I ever leave you, Buck?”

“‘Cause you will someday find a true love, and you’ll leave me for them, just like Steve did.”

You knew Steve’s absence made Bucky fall into his dark thoughts again, but you didn’t realize he was suffering this much. You felt so bad for him that you left him with his mind running all over the place, spiraling with all kinds of scenarios that would never even happen.

“Bucky… I love you.”

You told him while you were massaging his scalp.

“Don’t say that. You’re saying that to make me feel good.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re only saying that to make me feel better, right?”

“Buck… we’ve been telling each other ‘I love you’s for about two years. What are you talking about?”

“I love you, but it’s- it’s different.”

“What do you mean it’s different?”

“I- I- I love you Y/N, and it’s a feeling I’ve never felt before- it’s like butterflies- it’s like someone is drawing inside my stomach when I look into your eyes, my heart flutters, and I can feel my face turn red, and I know that’s not what you should feel to your best friend, and I’m sorry- I’m sorry that I’m ruining this whole thing up with the stupid little feelings… God… I’m so sorry.”

Your brain instantly clicked as you heard him sob in your arms. You gently cupped his face, and you softly kissed his lips. You felt Bucky getting all tense, but a while later, you could feel Bucky kissing you back, pulling your hair fondly. To you, he smelled like peppermint and salt, probably from sweating from the nightmare, and to him, you smelled like strawberry.

After you broke the kiss, you two started grinning as if you were a child again.

“That was… good.”

The both of you stated together.

You held Bucky into a warm embrace, hugging him from behind. Playing with his hair and whispering sweet nothings. That night was the best sleep you two have ever had in your entire lives.

—————————————🦾—————————————

Thank you for reading 🖤🖤

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eideticmemory · 7 months

Text

ALONE TOGETHER | SPENCER REID

A chance meeting on a dating app spirals into an odd type of…friendship? Relationship? Who knows, but it means a lot to you.

Word Count: 8.6k

Warning/Includes: Excessive smut, fluff, 7 year age gap.

You are so sick of crying. You are nauseated from lying in bed, staring at a ceiling fan that does nothing but spin. You’re angry. You’re restless. You’re impulsive. And it is this impulse that takes you on Bumble, but more specifically, makes you set you preferred range between the ages of exactly twenty-eight and forty. You think, I just need someone to pay attention to me. You think, I need someone to make this go away because I just can’t.

Old men are gross, but they like you. They just can’t get enough of you. You’re flooded with hundreds of admirers, but you rarely match with any of them. You swipe. You swipe again. Again and again and it is with the teeniest, tiniest little bit of hope that you wish for someone to take your breath away. You wish for a man with a pretty face and kind eyes and a name that sounds nice when you say it with a moan.

And there he is.

Spencer. Age 30. 5 miles away.

You actually gasp.

You swipe right and it is a match!

You gasp!

It’s up to you to make the first move. There’s prompts you could send, questions you could ask, and just down the street, Spencer, who has just landed back home recieves a message only saying -

Hey :)

He immediately covers the notification on his phone as he exits the jet. When he swiped on your profile, truthfully, he didn’t expect a match. Let alone a message. So in less than three seconds, he becomes anxious and flustered and cannot stop shaking his hands because he can’t feel his fingertips.

He waits until he’s alone to message you back. He has no idea what to say, no idea if you’re even still interested, but down the street, you are lying on your belly and kicking your feet and you get a reply -

Hi, [y/n] :) How are you?

It’s not a lot but Spencer feels like he’s going to pass out.

You squeal, cover your mouth and type: Good! How are you?

And Spencer doesn’t even know how to answer the question. It’s not a hard question, it’s not a trick question, but he can’t figure out what to say so he stays objective.

I’m okay. I’m leaving work now.

You furrow your eyebrows, A little late, isn’t it?

He chuckles under his breath, Kind of early for me, actually.

Here, is where you decided to get bold. You make the decision before you even figure out what to say. How to say it.

I’m sure you’re worn out from a long day. Was hoping I could see you tonight. If not, maybe another time?

And aside from the millions of things that rush through his head, that are always rushing through his head, the first thing he thinks is: Oh, god, I wish Morgan were here. Although Spencer’s a little mad at him at the moment, he knows Morgan would tell him what to say. But no one’s here. It’s just him, pacing the empty halls of the bureau, a satchel with tums in it, and a pretty girl trapped inside his phone that wants to see him in person.

He types and he goes back, he types and he goes back, and then he asks, Do you like coffee?

You smile as you type, I love coffee.

So he has you meet him at this coffee shop in town. You stand outside, cradled in a cozy jacket, your hands stuffed in your pockets. Spencer sees you before you see him. And anyone with common sense would’ve walked up to you right away. Except, Spencer doesn’t really have common sense. He’s worried that you’ll figure that out. Still, he walks over to you and you’re only alerted by the sound of his timid footsteps. You turn to him with a grand smile and he immediately forgets how to breathe.

“Hi,” you greet him, holding your hand out. “Spencer?”

He looks down at your hand and then back at you and then back at the floor and your brain goes: ???

“Are you…not Spencer?”

“No, no, I am. Me…Spencer, yes. I just…I don’t like to shake hands.”

“Oh,” you retract, hold your hands behind your back.

“I mean not that there’s anything wrong about your particular hands. They’re just dirty- Not! Not-you’re not dirty, I know, you smell really good. I…” he stops, takes a breath, “The number of pathogens passed during a handshake is staggering, it’s actually, uh, safer to kiss.”

You tilt your head at him for two reasons. One, because you cannot believe he just used the word pathogens in casual conversation. And two, because you take his fun fact as a challenge that is readily accepted. You step towards him, slowly, because with the way his eyes go wide, it looks like he might run away. He grips onto the strap on his satchel so hard that his knuckles turn paper white. He goes cross eyed trying to look at your face as you lean in. And with a tiny smirk on your face, you press your lips to his.

It’s kinda, awkward. Spencer stays frozen in place and you mush your face into his and he doesn’t start to lean into you until the last second.

His face has gone bright red and you smile and say, “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice t-to meet you,” he stutters.

You look around, “What is this place?”

“Oh, um, it’s, uh, it’s a coffee shop. It’s also a library. It’s, uh, it’s open late and I come here a lot when I can’t sleep.”

“It’s cute,” you smile.

He holds the door open for you and buys you a latte and you two sit at a table by the window. You sit in silence for a minute, neither of you really sure what to say and then when you do go to speak, you do it at the same time. It cuts the tension and you both laugh.

“You go first,” you tell him.

“I, uh, I was just going to ask if you’re from here?”

“Oh, oh no, I just moved here for med school. I’m in my first year at Georgetown.”

“Oh! Nice. That’s cool.”

“Yeah, it’s alright so far. We’ll see how I’m doing in the spring.”

“I’m sure you’ll do great.”

You smile, “What do you do? What has you getting off work so late?”

“I’m, um, I’m a profiler…for the FBI. I, uh…”

“Analyze criminal behavior,” you nod. “Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard of that. I love forensic sciences.”

He can’t help but smile at you, “Yeah. It’s tiring but I like it,” he shrugs.

The conversation goes dead again and you sip on your latte, “Should we…should we just keep asking each other questions?”

“I guess so.”

“Okay, I asked the last question so it’s your turn.”

“Um…” he ponders. “What’s your favorite color?”

You snicker and he instantly puts his face in his hands out of embarrassment. You giggle, “My favorite color? Seriously?”

“I couldn’t think of anything else,” he shakes his head, smiling, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Blue. You?”

“Purple.”

“Ooh, that’s a fun one.”

“I like it. Okay, your turn.”

“Okay, um, what’s your biggest fear?”

He raises his eyebrows at you.

“What? We got the favorite colors out of the way.”

He nods, agreeing, “Having nothing to show for my life.”

You nod, “Same. Your turn.”

“Why do you want to be a doctor?”

“Oh. You got me with that one. Um…because I’m not squeamish and I’m good under pressure and I want…to make a difference. Y’know, actually do something with all this ambition. Aaaand, I’m good with anatomy. I’m good with people. I like medicine.”

“Did you say all of that in your interview?”

“That’s two questions…” you grin.

He chuckles, “You can ask me two.”

“No…I told them what they wanted to hear. And admissions doesn’t wanna hear that you’re doing this for yourself. They wanna hear that you’re selfless, Mother Theresa, Princess Diana selfless.”

“And you’re not selfless?”

“That’s three!”

“Okay, okay, your turn,” he laughs.

“How’d you get into the FBI?”

“Um, about 8 years, 11 months and 3 days ago, I attended a lecture on criminology hosted by some members of the BAU. I…became fixated. I wanted to join. I wanted to make a difference-“

“Oh now you’re just copying me.”

He chuckles, “I applied and, uh, yeah.”

“That’s so cool,” you tell him. “So you’ve been working there since you were…22?”

“Yes.”

“How did you become a profiler at 22? It takes forever, I thought?”

“That’s three!” he laughs.

“Oh, c’mon! You can’t leave me on a cliffhanger here.”

“I, um, I graduated college when I was 16. Had my Phd at 20. I’m…not the fittest guy so I skipped a lot of physical assessments.”

“16?” you gasp.

“That’s four!”

“20?” you shout. Emphasis on the ???

“That’s five!”

“Oh, no, nuh-uh, forget that, you’re filling me in on this.”

And so, he does. He tells you everything. About the eidetic memory and the IQ of 187 and you just sit there in awe. You fire questions at him and the last one is, “What’s…” you type in your calculator. “34 times 106?”

“That is a different genre of question.”

“But what’s the answer?”

He sighs and shakes his head, “3,604.”

You look at the calculator and he’s right and you gasp, “You’re a fucking genius.”

“That’s what I’ve been told.”

“Are your parents geniuses?” you ask.

“My dad is a…” he pauses. “I guess the colloquial term is deadbeat?”

You burst into laughter but quickly cover your mouth. That’s not funny. But Spencer is smiling.

“And…my mom is…smart. Yeah, she’s a genius.”

“Is she…dead?”

“What?”

“You just got, like, super sad there.”

“She’s not dead. She, uh, she has schizophrenia.”

“Oh. I’m an asshole.”

“A little bit,” he chuckles. “But, I’m-I’m not sad…she’s been that way my whole life.”

You can see on his face that it’s a sore subject, so you say, “Okay. Your turn. Ask me a question.”

And he wants to ask something that will get you talking. Something he can poke around like you have at his brain.

“Who is…” he starts. “Your very best friend?”

He asks this as you’re taking a sip of your latte and you very suddenly slam your cup down on the table.

“Whoa,” he says.

“Sorry.”

“No, no, I’m…I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

“I haven’t spoken to her since I moved. Any of them. I…we…we had a disagreement.”

Spencer studies your face, “How many friends are we talking about here?”

“Three,” you spit out. “Three. I’ve had the same three friends since I was twelve and I’m not talking to any of them.” Your hands shake around your mug and you clear your throat, avoid eye contact.

Spencer feels so bad for dulling your light that he doesn’t even know what to say. He knows it’s an illogical guilt, but a strong and pulsating guilt nonetheless.

He watches you take an anxious sip of your drink and he sighs, “Today’s my birthday.”

You almost spit out your latte, your hand flying to your mouth, all of your own thoughts and worries dissipating as you look him in the eye, “You’re…you’re kidding?”

“No.”

“You’re joking. You’re just saying that to distract me. A psychology trick.”

“As of…” he checks his watch. “Twenty-three hours and ten minutes ago, I’m thirty,” he can hardly say it. “Thirty years old.”

You sit for a moment. You realize your mouth is wide open so you close it. You realize your eyes are wide so you shrink them. You stutter, “You’re…not kidding?”

“No. I’m thirty, and I…worked a case for days straight and…and it was awful and we were too late and…I’m scared I’ll sound self-centered…”

“And…” you encourage him.

“And…it wasn’t enough. The case. The chaos. It wasn’t enough. I hoped…I hoped it would help. That I would…that I would get so lost in the rush that…that I’d forget I’m having an emotional crisis. I don’t know how to be thirty. I don’t know how to be an adult. I’m a child progidy…I’m a child prodigy and now I’m thirty so, what does that make me? What am I now?”

The question hangs in the air because you cannot answer it. You just reach across the table, put your hand over his, and trace his knuckles.

He releases a long sigh, “I’m having an emotional crisis and I’m thirty and my-my team…my friends…my family, the closest thing I have to a family…they, um, they forgot. And it was…it was a really bad case, it was a really tough case and it was enough for them to forget. But not me. It wasn’t enough for me.”

He lets you take his hand in yours, your pathogen ridden hand, and he can hardly look you in the eye.

“Hey…” you whisper.

His eyes flicker up to you and he looks so sad.

You give him a small grin, “Let’s get out of here.”

He lets you drag him outside into the cold air and the two of you stand under the soft light.

“Do you drink?” you ask him.

“Um. No. No, I used to do drugs so I’m scared if I drink, I’ll forget to…not do drugs.”

“Oh!” you raise your eyebrows. “Okay, fair enough. So, no weed then?”

“I…” he laughs. “You do know I’m a federal agent?”

“Ah! So scary!”

He cackles, “No marijuana.”

“Marijuana,” you roll your eyes, “Okay…okay…” you look around and the city is asleep. It’s cold. Another block over, there are clubs and people fighting the weather for a chance to party. Spencer does not want to party. “Okay, my place?”

He looks at you, “What are we going to do there?”

“Have a birthday party!”

“I don’t want a party…”

You pout, look around, “Do you want a donut?”

He nods.

You grab a couple donuts from a late night bakery down the road and you drive him back to your place. He grips onto the door as you whip your car into another lane, his breath trembling.

“Dude, chill out,” you tell him. “I’m a good driver.”

“Good…in the way that tsunamis are good waves.”

You look over at him and your eyes lock and he smirks at you. It has you so flustered that you’re quiet for the rest of the drive.

You let him inside your apartment and close the door as you two step into the entryway.

“Okay, wait here,” you tell him, quickly taking the donuts and taking off into the kitchen.

“What? Why?”

“Just wait!”

He can hear you banging around, drawers opening and slamming shut. Things falling to the floor. You muttering, “Shit!” under your breath. You rush by him and into the living, so quickly that his brain can hardly process it.

“Okay!” you call. “Come in!”

He slowly steps inside, a bit anxious at first, but then he sees you and his shoulders relax.

You finish lighting the last candle and look up at him, throw your hands in the air, “Happy birthday!”

His face breaks out in this great, big smile and he can’t help but laugh. It’s not much. One single glazed donut with chocolate, sprinkles and candles on top.

“Three candles?” he questions, stepping over to the coffee table.

You stand beside him as he sits on the couch, “Well, yeah, three because three and then none because zero. Three zero. Thirty!”

He furrows his brows, “Actually-“

“Hush,” you cut him off, putting your hands on his shoulders, “You gotta blow out your candles.”

So he goes to blow them out and you shout, “Wait!” and his heart stops for a second. “I have to sing the song?”

“Oh, no, really, I don’t need the-“

“Haaaaappy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…”

He covers his face to blush and laughs into his hands.

“Happy birthday, dear Spencer, happy birthday to you! Mwah,” you kiss his cheek. “Now make a wish!”

“Okay, I wish-“

“Whoa, stop! What are you doing? You can’t say it out loud, it won’t come true.”

“Well, actually-“

“The candles are melting.”

“Yep, right,” he nods. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, makes a wish and blows out all three candles.

You cheer and clap your hands. You go to remove the candles from his donut and stop, “Oh. Should I? Can I?”

“You’ve already touched it. I think, uh, that ship has sailed.”

You take out the candles and sit down beside him, “Should I have picked it up with my mouth?”

He giggles and picks up his donut, holds it out to you, “Cheers,” he smiles.

You pick yours up from the table and touch it to his, grinning, “Cheers.”

As you eat your donuts together, you can’t help but watch him. “I hope this made your birthday a little better.”

He shoves the last of his donut in his mouth and the corner of his lips is covered in chocolate, “It did,” he says with a full mouth.

You chuckle and lean in, wiping the chocolate from his lip with your finger and sticking it in your mouth.

He watches you, chewing slowly until he swallows and clears his throat, “Is this…is this weird to do with someone you just met on bumble? Genuine question because I have no frame of reference.”

Your mouth turns up in a small smile. And you nod. Slowly, quietly, “Yeah. Yeah, it’s a little weird. But I’m having fun.”

“Me, too.”

You look around, awkwardly rolling your next words around your head until you can say them out loud, “Do you…wanna do something that’s…not weird with someone you met on bumble?

His raises his eyebrows at you, “What’s that?”

You take a sip of water, eyeing him in your peripheral and set down your bottle. You lean your body into his and this time, Spencer is ready. You catch his mouth on yours and he kisses you back, even though his heart is racing under your palm. Your hand travels down his chest, over his tummy, and to the hem of his pants.

His breath catches in his throat as you kiss his neck, “What…what are you doing?”

You pull away and undo his pants, taking his cock in your hand. He whimpers and his body goes limp and you furrow your eyebrows at him, “It’s your birthday?” you explain. And then you kiss him again.

His neck. Down to his chest. Down to his tummy. And Spencer watches you drop down to your knees in front of him and he goes, “Oh, my god,” and he only says it once but his brain keeps going: oh, my god, oh, my god, oh, my god, oh, my god, oh, my god.

“Is…is this okay?” you ask.

But he can’t talk! He can hardly breathe! You’ve got his dick in your hand and he’s looking at you with these wide eyes and you look perfect and he’s just worried that he’ll bust all over you before you get a chance to do anything. So, he nods. He nods and nods and nods and leans his head back.

You smile and with a few pumps of your hand, his whole body tenses up. He grips onto the couch and struggles to breathe. Then your mouth is on him and he goes limp. Dead weight, not a feeling in his arms or legs or chest, just the warmth of your mouth around his cock, taking it all the way to the back of your throat. His nails scratch at the fabric of the couch and as undignified as it feels, Spencer gets noisey.

You bob your head, up and down, in slow and sticky motions, swirling your tongue over his tip and a loud moan burst from the back of his throat.

“Oh…oh, my god,” he pants.

You move your mouth on him and run your hand up his tummy, feel it heaving up and down in your palm. He nearly breaks a nail on the couch so he grabs onto your hand, squeezes it really tight and groans. The sounds he’s making are so whiny and breathless and sexy that you have to squeeze your thighs together before you go leaking down your legs.

His other hand takes hold of your face, caressing your cheekbone with his thumb. You lean into his palm a bit but you keep your pace, letting him hit the back of your throat, feeling him twitch between your lips. You look up at him and all you can see is the veins on his neck, his jaw clenched tight. His fingers slip through your hair, over your scalp and you hum, but just quietly.

The soft touch encourages you to speed up just a bit. His whole body trembles as you take the base of his cock in your hand and jerk him in unison with your mouth. It overstimulates him immediately and he yells out, gives your hand another tight, tight squeeze.

“Oh-oh, my god, [y/n],” he moans, and you squeeze your thighs tighter.

He doesn’t ever want this to end. And so he fights the fire burning in his belly with everything he’s got, but he knows it’s useless. You’re too good. You’re so good.

He lifts his head and looks down at you, his face red all over and his eyes locked on yours. He holds your hand against his chest, caresses your face softly and lets out these soft, desperate whimpers. His body tenses up, leans towards you a bit and his jaw hangs wide open with very little sound coming out. He gives you this look, maybe a little warning, and then he’s gripping onto your hair and hunched over your body, filling up your mouth and whining into the air.

You put your hands on his waist and keep him in your mouth until he rides it out, falls back onto the couch.

You tower over him, wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and put your hands on his shoulders, “Good?”

“Yes. Wow,” he pants. “Thank you.”

“You’re so welcome,” you smile.

He huffs and he puffs, yet he can’t seem to catch his breath. “You know…” he breathes out. “That entire time…I actually forgot I was thirty.”

You burst into laughter and put your forehead to his, your giggles mirroring one another’s.

Spencer fixes his pants and huffs, “Will you…will you lay with me for a second?”

Your heart melts a little. You climb onto the couch, taking a seat beside him and swinging your legs over his lap.

And you sit like that. For hours. Talking until it’s no longer Spencer’s birthday and he’s just…thirty. You try your best to convince him to stay the night. He declines. And he declines and he declines.

Then he falls asleep in your arms.

In the morning, he wakes up alone and for a one whole minute, he forgets where he is. Then he remembers you and he goes looking for you and finds you in the kitchen.

“Oh,” you smile, “Hi, you. Breakfast?” you hold out the box of cereal that you’re eating out of.

He glances at the box and then back at you and he stares.

“What?” you ask.

“I…” he trails off. “I thought…I thought I dreamt you. For a moment, I thought it all was a dream.”

You tilt your head at him, “I’m very real.”

He chuckles, scratches the back of his head, “And…and the…the…”

“Blowjob?” you laugh. “Yeah, that was real, too.”

“The donuts?”

“Yes,” you laugh. “All of it.”

He continues to stare at you, this soft smile on his face and you hold out the cereal again. Shake it around.

“I’m okay,” he chuckles, stepping over to you. “I should…I should probably get going.”

“Oh, but why?” you whine.

“Because I…need a shower,” he laughs. “And to brush my teeth and lay in bed until I get called in again.”

“Yeah, I should probably start preparing for my lectures this week, too.”

You stare into his pretty, pretty eyes and you set the cereal down, hold his face, “You’re not gonna ghost me are you?”

He furrows his eyebrows, “Ghost you? What does that mean?”

“Oh, I forgot you’re old,” you laugh.

“Stooop,” he whines. “Stooop.”

“Ghost me. You’re not gonna go radio silent? You’re not…not gonna act like this never happened? Like I don’t exist?”

And Spencer instantly thinks: I don’t think I’m ever going to leave you alone. But instead of vocalizing it, he strokes your waist and he says, “No. Of course not.”

And he really meant that.

The next time he got called out on a case, he let you know that he’d be gone for a while but he’d be back. And he’d really, really like to see you when he’s home. He tries his best not to text while working, but when he’s laying in a hotel bed, unable to stop thinking about you and what you’re doing, he opts for a phone call.

“Hey, Sherlock,” you greet him. “Crack the case yet?”

He chuckles, “No. Almost. I wouldn’t be surprised if we were home in a few days.”

“And then you’ll come see me?”

“Yes,” he nods. “I’ll come see you.”

“Good.”

“What about you? How’s your journey to being a selfless doctor going?”

“Terrible. I missed like half of my lecture this morning because I blew a tire on the way.”

“Oh, no, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, just hit a pot hole and swerve a little bit but it’s not my first time.”

“Oh?” he nods. “That’s…not good,” he laughs.

“I survived. I’m tough.”

“Yeah, you are, aren’t you?” you can hear the little grin in his voice.

You bite down on your lip, “Okay, tell me what’s going on there. Serial killer? Kidnapping?”

“Confidential.”

“Booooo!”

“Okay, okay,” he laughs. “Um, a couple days ago a body washed up on the beach and…”

You talked until you both were nearly asleep. In the morning, Spencer rolls out of bed and the lack of sleep hits him like a truck, but he thinks about you and your sleepy, soft voice and he smiles. He smiles out the door and down the hall and Morgan strides up beside him.

“Morning, kid,” he says.

“Morning!” Spencer replies and Derek eyes him because it was just sooo cheerful.

Derek bites his tongue for a moment, but is incapable of doing it for any longer so he asks, “Who were you on the phone with last night?”

Spencer trips over his feet at the question and stutters, “O-oh, me? Me? I wasn’t talking to anyone.”

“Mmhmmm,” Derek hums.

“No. N-nope, just the voices in my head.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

Spencer comes back home on a Thursday and immediately hops on foot, on a train, to get to your apartment. You open the door for him and pull him inside, taking him in a big hug.

“Hi, you,” you whisper in his ear.

“Hi,” he snuggles into you.

“I made dinner. Pasta. It’s the only thing I know how to make, but there’s plenty. You hungry?”

“Yes,” he nods, pulls out of the hug. “Thank you.”

He goes to walk into the kitchen, but you grab his hand, “Hey, wait,” and you throw yourself into his arms and take him in a long kiss. He grips onto your shirt and goes weak in the knees, smushing his face into yours.

You step back, “Okay, now we can eat.”

He mumbles something incoherent and walks into the wall and you laugh, putting your hands on his shoulders to guide him into the kitchen.

The entire time that you two are hanging out on the couch, his arm around your shoulders, you can feel him looking at you. The one time that you catch his eyes, you lean in for a kiss and he is much more forward when it comes to kissing you back. He pushes his body into yours and a soft moan empties from your lips. It gives him enough courage to drop to his knees in front of you.

“Whoa,” you exclaim. “What are you doing?”

“I…well, I…I wanted to do this for you and I’m ready, I researched it.”

“You…researched how to eat me out?”

“I just want to return the favor.”

“But it’s not my birthday?”

“Is that a…requirement, or?”

“No,” you laugh, cover your face, “Okay. Okay, show me what you learned.”

And so Spencer disappears under the hem of your shirt, pushing it up your thighs and grabbing onto the thin straps of your underwear. He pulls them off your legs and you chuckle as they fly off. His face flushes bright red and he gives you a soft smile, taking a deep breath before he leans in and kisses your thighs. You hum under your breath, spread your legs for him out of instinct.

He’s very timid at first. Peppering gentle kisses on your hips, teasing his tongue on your clit. Then your back arches, his face falls into you and all the notes and research just fall right out of his mind. He wraps his arms around your hips and moves his tongue in this rhythmic up and down motion that he can tell you love so he keeps at it. And at it and at it, stepping off with a sharp suck that makes you yelp.

You rest your head on the couch, licking your lips because they’re so dry from your gasping, your constant moaning. You grip onto his hair and moan his name, only twice because you’re losing your breath. His fingertips press into your skin, spread your pussy open so he can bury his face in you.

Your body starts to twitch and tremble, your toes curling into themselves so tightly that it cuts off circulation. Your voice is high and whiny, growing louder by the second. Spencer feels your thighs tighten around his face and he knows now is not the time to let up. He swirls his tongue over your clit and you tighten your grip on his hair, straining your throat from moaning so loudly. You try to say his name, one last time, but then your back is arching off the couch and your orgasm washes over your entire body. From the tip of your head to the tip of your toes.

Spencer wipes his mouth off with your inner thigh and stands up looking so, very proud.

“Fuck,” you laugh. “What did you read?”

He cackles and gives you a wet kiss on the cheek and then the lips. Immediately after, you push him down and suck him off and as he holds you afterwards, he breathes off, “Remind me to return the favor again.”

“Oh,” you giggle. “Believe me, I will.”

The next few days, you two are inseperable. He spends two consecutive nights at your place, bitching and complaining and listening to each rant for hours at a time. He helps your study for your next exam. It’s not until he gets called out again that real life creeps in. It’s the first time goodbye is really hard.

You joke over the next month that he should just move in. This constant pattern of fly out, fly in, visit and repeat is a lot of run around.

“You’d get sick of me,” he replies.

And you hold him real tight and shake your head, “Never.”

When he’s on his next trip and calls in the middle of your lecture, you only step out and answer because a feeling in your gut tells you something is very wrong. Spencer never calls in the middle of the day. He’d never want to inconvenience you. But, today, it has to be you.

“Hello?” you answer.

“[y/n]? Hey…” he huffs.

He sounds distraught, like his chest is tight as he speaks and you take a seat on the floor, “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I’m…I think I’m having a panic attack. I think…I think I’m dying.”

“What? What happened? Honey…”

“Just tell me something to calm me down, anything. Anything. Please.”

“Um, um, um, uh,” you sutter. “I think we should have sex.” As you say it, someone walks by giving you a dirty look and you shake it off, wait for Spencer’s response.

His breath has slowed, but just a little, “Oh…that works.”

“Yeah,” you clear your throat. “You know, I’ve just been thinking about it. A lot, aaand yeah, when you get back, I-I think we should do that.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” you whisper. “Do you wanna tell me what happened?”

“When I see you,” he says. “I know you’re busy and I should get back.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Glad I could help,” you laugh. “Call me back tonight, okay?”

“I will. I miss you.”

You smile to yourself, “I miss you, too.”

When you hang up, you’re happy and giddy, grinning to yourself like a fool. Then you look up to find the same person from before, whispering with their friend as they watch you.

You roll your eyes and shout, “What the fuck are you looking at?” and you walk back into the lecture hall.

The day Spencer tells you they’re flying back, you start preparing. Shaving, showering, spraying on some nice perfume. You walk around your apartment in a silky, short nightgown, lighting candles in the hall and all over your bedroom. When you’re content with the atmosphere, the only thing left to do is wait.

And wait.

You check your phone several times and when there is still nothing hours later, you think it’s time to blow out the candles, lay in bed and cry. For a moment, you feel so stupid and confused and angry that you almost throw a lamp at the wall. Then there’s a knock on the door.

Spencer stands there, immediately saying, “Don’t be mad.”

“Too late, I’m mad,” you snip, turning away from him.

He lets himself in and grabs your hand, stutters when he finally notices your nightgown, the candles, “Oh. Wow. You did all this?”

“Spencer!” you whine, crossing your arms.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I…I bought you a donut,” he holds the bag up to you. “Your favorite. I’m so sorry, please don’t be mad. Not tonight. Any other night but tonight, please?”

Maybe if he wasn’t so good at the kicked puppy eyes, you could’ve held out a little longer. But you’re happy he’s here and your horny and this is happening no matter what time it is. You snatch the bag from his hand and just as quickly as you drop it, you pull his body into your, gripping his waist, your mouth open on his.

He trips over your feet as you pull him down the hall and into your bedroom, the two of you tangled up so tight that you collapse on the bed in one big sweep. He falls on top of you, between your legs, kissing you hungrily.

“Wait,” he huffs, breaking the kiss. “Wait.”

You stare up at him, his face only visible due to the candles, “What is it? Did you…already?”

“What? What? No,” he laughs. “I just…uh…um…I’m not an expert at this. I…I don’t…I’m not experienced in this area and I will do everything I can to make it good for you. I just don’t want to disappoint you.”

“Aw,” you whisper, caressing his face. “Take your clothes off.”

“Huh?”

“Spencer. I’ve been thinking about having sex with you since I first saw your picture on bumble. Now it’s happening and you were late so we gotta catch up.”

You pull him back in for a kiss and reach between your bodies, undoing his pants so you can grab his cock. He gasps and moans into your mouth.

“Don’t overthink it,” you mumble, staring in his eyes, “Just do whatever you want to me.”

He moves his hips forward, stroking himself with your palm and whimpering against your cheek. He starts to kiss your neck, gripping onto your waist, bunching up your nightgown in his hands. You push his shirt up his waist and he quickly pulls it over his head, catching you in a kiss as soon as he can.

“Can I take this off?” he pants, pinching the hem of your clothes. And you sit up, allowing him to pull it right over your head.

His eyes rake down your body, lingering on your breasts, “Can I…?”

“Oh, god, yes, please,” you nod and lay back on the bed, holding your hands above your head.

Spencer chuckles and leans down, taking your nipple into his mouth ever so gently, swirling his tongue around the hard bud. You purr, grab a fistful of his hair, and lick your lips. He presses his body weight onto you, holding your other breast in his hand and sucking on your skin.

“F-fuck,” you moan. “Spencer…”

And he moves to the other side of your chest, now more confident, now unstoppable, flicking his tongue on you so fast that it makes your body twitch. He kisses down your tummy, looks up at you as he slides your panties off, kisses on your thighs. He knows how to do this. He’s good at this, per your review and when he puts his mouth on you, the most broken, whiny little noise falls from your lips.

He hums between your thighs, holding your hips tight and flush against his face. With your moans rattling around his skull, he loses all inhibition. He works his tongue on you slow, methodical, in all the right places. You give his hair a soft tug and he grunts, his hand trailing up your waist. You brace your hands on his biceps, squeezing them between your fingers, sighing out his name.

You hook your legs over his shoulders, tightening your thighs around his face, moving your hips up and down to feel his tongue gliding. Wet and sticky like he’s drowning inside of you.

“Oh, god,” you moan. “Yes, Spencer, yes, yes.”

He moans under his breath, quickening his tongue, clamping his hands down on your thighs. You pull at his hair as your back arches off the bed and your legs tremble around his head. He gives your clit a sharp suck and you cry out, gripping onto his hair at the scalp. And when your voice gets so high and whiny that it could break glass, he knows you’re close and he spreads your pussy open, works his tongue on your clit and doesn’t stop.

Your body tenses up and you hold him tight, tight, tight, crying out his name, your breath catching in your throat. And when you come, you collapse with a long and drawn out groan, shoving your fingers in your mouth to catch your breath.

You instantly reach over to the nightstand and grab the condom that’s been waiting all night to be used. Spencer brings his face back to yours and you kiss him instantly, grinning when you feel him pushing his pants down his legs. He lets you roll the condom onto his hard, leaky cock and asks, “Do-do you wanna be on top?”

“No,” you shake your head, wrap your arms tight around his waist. “Stay on top of me,” you say against his lips, “I like it.”

“Okay,” he nods into a kiss with you and settles between your legs. You help him align, you kiss his neck and hold him close as he pushes his cock into you. The both of you gasp, your noses smushed together. “God…” Spencer moans. “You okay?”

You nod, “Mhm. Are you?”

“Mm…” he hums. “Trying not to explode.”

You two chuckle, catching each other in yet another hungry kiss as Spencer starts to move in and out of you slowly. His breathing in low and jagged, hot against your face. He’s so gentle with you, pushing into you with little pressure and caressing your face.

“H-harder…” you pant. “You’re not gonna break me, I promise.”

So he plunges into you a bit harder, a bit deeper and you gasp, “Harder.”

He obeys and angles himself above you, watching your face as he pushes into you with the right amount of force. You moan, your eyes rolling back and your head along with it, “Oh, fuck, yes. Like that.”

“Yeah?” he repeats the movement, his moan blending in with yours.

“Yes,” you nod. “Yes. Yes. Just,” you reach down and start rubbing your clit. “Fuck, keep going.”

And he does. He focuses on keeping his rhythm, slow, but intense, the bed squeaking everytime he moves his hips into yours. You gasp against his lips, wrap your arm around his waist, your hooded eyes focused on his. He runs his hand over your hair, whimpering to you, melting into you, and taking short breaks to keep himself from finishing too soon.

Your fingers get cramped and soaked from the incessant rubbing on your clit but it’s like you can’t stop. Spencer leans in to kiss your neck, his hand absentmindedly running up your ribs and gripping your breast. You hold onto his hair and groan into his ear, his low and breathy moans vibrating against your skin.

“F-fuck!” you cry out as he slams into you. “I’m gonna come, don’t stop. Fuck, please don’t stop.”

But he does, only for a moment because the dirty combination of your voice and your hand tugging his hair and your pussy tightening around him, he’s dangerously close to bringing this entire thing to a premature end. So, he pauses. He takes a breath and he pounds into you. Even slower, over and over and over, watching your face closely, watching you fall apart.

“Oh,” you whine, your fingers quickening on your clit. “God, Spencer,” you moan and then body trembles, tensing up underneath him as you come so hard that you lose your voice. He grunts, falling into a sloppy kiss with you and following right behind you, his body suddenly going weak as he comes, his entire weight placed upon you.

Spencer collapses beside you and instantly pulls you into his chest, squeezing you in his arms and peppering your forehead with kisses. “How was that?” he asks, looking down at you. “Was that good for you?”

You touch your fingertip to his chin and smile, nodding, “Oh, yes.”

“Good,” he hugs you. “Good, good, good. For me, too.”

You smile into a long kiss with him and giggle against his lips. Lying there, your breathing falls in sync and you trace the center of his tummy, sink into the bliss.

“They, uh…” Spencer starts. “They remembered my birthday today. That’s why I was late, they threw me a party.”

You glance up at him, but only for a moment and then you put your head back on his chest. “Oh.”

“It was nice,” he shrugs. “It was fun, but the whole time, I just…thought about you. I thought about how angry I was that they’d forgotten at all and how…how you just made everything so much better,” and he tilts your head up to say this next part directly to you, “You always make everything so much better.”

And as you stare into his eyes, the corners of your mouth turned up ever so sightly, your eyes start to water and your lip starts to quiver.

“Oh,” he softens. “Oh, no. Nooo. Are you crying?”

“No,” you shake your head. Then you put your face in your hands and nod, suddenly sobbing.

“Oh, no, no, [y/n], no, I’m sorry. Did I say something?”

You shake your head.

“What is it? What-what just happened?”

“I-I-I-“ you stutter. Lifting your head from your hands, you cry, “I-I just wish I could tell my friends about you.”

He frowns and takes you into a tight hug, rubbing your back and kissing the top of your head, “I’m so sorry,” he whispers to you. “Oh, [y/n], I’m so sorry.”

And because he’s never really seen you cry before, his only thought is to ask, “Do you-do you want me to go down on you again?”

You look up at him, your lip poked out in a dramatic pout and you nod.

“Okay,” he says, climbing on top of you and wiping the tears from your face. “I can do that for you.”

It works. It leads to more sex. The two of you don’t go to bed until the sun has nearly risen and don’t get up until well in the afternoon. Spencer thinks you’re using his dick as a distraction and you fear there’s no respectful way to say: I just can’t get enough. He gives you a few days and nights worth of it and still, it’s not enough.

He’s actively trying to get inside of you when he gets called into work. He’s on top of you, between your legs, pushing his tongue into your mouth when his phone goes off. He pulls away to check it and you whine, “Nooo, noooo, don’t goooo.”

“I have to. People are dying,” and as he speaks, you kiss his neck, touch your tongue to his jaw and he moans, “Oh, god,” before he can stop himself. “[y/n]….”

“Just-stay. Stay. They can save one day without you, can’t they?”

“Actually, I don’t think they can.”

“Ugh. You and your big, useful brain. I’m sick of it.”

“I’ll be back,” he gives you a kiss.

“Nooo, stay,” you hold him tight so he can’t move and he busts out laughing.

“I have to go, I’m sorry.”

So he showers and gets dressed and you sit on the bed pouting the entire time. He comes out of the bathroom and frowns, matching your pissy and childish expression.

“I will be back,” he tells you as he takes a seat on the bed. “I always come back.”

“I know, I know, I’m just being dramatic. Let me be dramatic.”

“Okay,” he chuckles and gives you a kiss. Nuzzling his nose against yours, he whispers, “You should call your friends.”

You instantly recoil and he puts his hands on your shoulders, “Okay, okay, I know. I know. But I think it’s time. You need them. They need you. You’re an easy girl to miss.”

You roll your eyes and he sighs, kisses your forehead and squeezes you in a hug. “Call them,” he says and then he leaves.

You sit there for a moment, ponder on his words. Ponder on the entirety of the past few days, past few months. You pick up your phone. You stare at it in your palm. You dial your friend’s number and though you don’t expect an answer, she picks up with a, “Hello?”

You take a deep breath, “Hey…”

When Spencer arrives at work, he finds himself heading up the elevator with Morgan who is so completely and totally normal that Spencer thinks he can smell the sex on him. He watches Derek from the corner of his eyes, fidgeting with the strap of his satchel and shuffling on his feet.

Suddenly, Derek smashes the emergency button on the elevator and brings it to a halt. Spencer falls back and grabs onto the wall.

“Why-why-why did you do that?” Spencer stutters, his pulse starting to rise. “Why did you do that? You remember what happened the last time you messed around with the elevator? Turn it back on.”

“Not until,” Derek says, turning to him. “You tell me whatever it is that you’re dying to tell me.”

“I’m…I’m not dying to tell you anything. I’m just scared of dying.”

“Pretty boy. I step in the elevator, you start sweating. I act like I don’t notice, you’re giving me the side eye up four floors. What’s up?”

Spencer closes his eyes and shakes his head. Then he stands up straight. Then he falls back again.

“Kid?”

“I’m…” Spencer starts. But he can’t finish. “I’m…” He thinks he doesn’t know what to say. Key word: thinks. But there’s only one sentence swirling around his brain and he has to say it, but he doesn’t want to say it and so he bites his tongue. He shakes his head and then looks up at Derek, “I’m having sex!”

And he says it with such a whiny voice that Derek can’t help but laugh. Visibily.

“I knew it,” Derek says. “You’re shaking in your converse to tell me that?”

“What? What do you mean you knew it?” The response sobers Spencer up a bit, his anxiety weakens just enough so he can figure out why Derek is laughing.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed you walkin’ on in here everyday with a lil’ extra pep in ya step,” Derek chuckles. “You’re not that sneaky, kid. I knew there had to be someone.”

Spencer sighs, lets his shoulders relax. “It’s-it’s not that big of a deal. It’s just…sex…lots of sex. Lots of really, really good sex. I think. I think it’s good. It…feels good, seems good. I don’t have much to compare it to but, um…yeah…”

“My man,” Derek laughs and Spencer breaks a smile. “Who’s the lucky lady?”

Spencer smiles wider, “[y/n]. She’s gorgeous and smells good and makes me laugh and I…don’t feel weird around her she makes me feel so unbelievably not weird and y-yeah, she’s a little bit younger but I hardly ever notice.”

Derek puts the elevator back in motion, “How young are we talkin’ here?”

“Um, she’s twenty-two.”

Derek replies with nothing more than a whistle and Spencer rolls his eyes, “Stop.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You said plenty.”

The elevator dings and they step off, Derek swinging his arm over Spencer’s shoulder, “Don’t worry, pretty boy, we’ll get you back to your lady soon.”

And Spencer laughs it off but in his head, he’s thinking: yes, please.

It’s the first week out of town that Derek is suspicious every time Spencer checks his phone. When the case starts to get heavier and harder, Spencer missing a few of his nightly phone calls, you worry. You can’t help it. He texts you when he lands and it’s stupid how wide you smile.

Library? he texts.

Y: Literally on my way.

You approach each other at the front doors, and from far away, you can see the bags under his eyes and the hunch in his shoulders.

“Hey, you,” you cradle his face in your palm. “Tough week?”

He leans into your touch, nodding and closing his eyes to take a moment and reset. When he opens them to find your face, illuminated by the light, he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you in for a kiss. You giggle against his lips and your leg lifts behind you, almost uncontrollably.

You smile at each other and Spencer asks, “Do you like coffee?”

You cackle, “I love coffee.”

He holds the door open for you, asking, “Hey, what do you think about meeting some friends of mine?”

You smile, turn to him, “I was just about to ask you the same thing.”

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